The Whitefish tapes

 Chapter 6 Induced and Reduced Puharick’s journal folds in my hand as I stuff into the outer pocket of my jacket.  As the rain hits me, the door on my van closes and I begin the push to the door of the Daylight Donuts on 3 rd .  Rain has never been what I want it to be.  Too unapologetic.  Too self-centered.  It fucking mobs me as I fight myself to show no interest.  It fucks my ankles, my neck, my hands and Puharic’s deeper meanings, now bleeding at first contact, and only half pretending to be unaffected.  I walk an extra ten feet to avoid hopping onto a slimy curb, and right about when I want to start swinging at the rain, I make it to an eve.  The door is off, lot a things changing, but too soon, too fast, too much change, Jesus, “pull” and it doesn’t even need to say it out loud.  Its destiny is distracted by a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader and a Bud Light Sticker from the 80’s and so much small Stickerage and Signage, and words, I cou...

Chapter 1 Parallax & Perihelion Demming New Mexico , 1985 I learned to properly worship Satan from a guy named Cole , in the mid-eighties, in a hotel room, in Demming New Mexico.  It was also the first time I paid for sex, and the first time I shot a man; both unrelated to my "dark mentor".  Some generational wind had blown his great grandparents across the whole of the US from an ocean between us and Wales, or Ireland and all the way up to a damned barbed wire fence in the southern New Mexican dessert, and there they stayed until the Welsh washed off and three generations worth came, bloomed, hungered and went, until poverty, and powerlessness was all that was left, that and Cole.  His lineage survived the Romans but was beaten by the welfare state, and now he barely shared a trailer with his sister and her progeny and just didn't fucking eat in favor of cigarettes and whisky.  We mostly stayed in my room at the Baker or down the street at the Old Mission Cafe ...