Chapter 1
Being a delinquent isn't a choice you make, it's simply who you are, like it or not; written in your DNA, and to deny the behavior is, well, just stupid. Like a gay guy having sex with a woman stupid. Sure, it's possible, but c'mon, who are you fooling? How long do you live that lie until you look in the mirror one day and suddenly shrink in your shoes because you loathe the phony facade staring back at you. Go ahead, take a good, close look. Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.
That's right, you see 'him'. You see the man in the mirror looking back. Looking back and laughing. Laughing at you. Laughing at the pathetic loser you've become; the spineless jellyfish that spends his days cowering in the shadows of his own lies and denials.
That's what you see. You see the truth.
And sure, you don’t have to look him, the man in the mirror. Just turn away. Turn your head and pretend you never saw him. You can even run out of the bathroom, slam the door shut, and hold it closed. You can grab a chair, even, and wedge it under the doorknob – do anything – to avoid the man in the mirror and the ugly truth he brings.
That’s right, run from it. Run and hide. Afterall, that’s what most people do. Most people would rather spend their life living a cowardly lie than to own up to who and what they are; choosing, instead, to live each day behind a mask of self-delusion.
But you know what? You can try to run and hide from it all you want, but it won’t do you any good. Why? Because it’s still there, all the ugly truth. It's not going anywhere. Still there, still waiting for you. And the man in the mirror? He's there, too. And he'll still be there the next time you decide to shave, pointing at you and laughing that demonic laugh of his.
How do I know all this?
I don’t.
I was just babbling, trying to make the story more interesting. But for those of you who just read the babble and said 'Oh my God! He's talking about me!', some friendly advice, my friend: be what you are, dude. Just own it. Just let go and give in, is all I'm saying. You're a homo? Then dress like Liberace and flame away. You're a thief? Then be the best thief that ever was or will be. Like wearing women’s clothing? Then get a leather mini and some fishnets, and strut that stuff.
And if you're a retard? Well, then just be a retard and deal with it. Trust me, your life will be better for it (not really, but you're a retard and won't remember what I said, anyway).
Look, all I’m saying is this - we are who we are, warts and all. And if you’re one of those people that can’t handle the wart part, you're not without hope. Mostly, but not completely. You have options. As I’ve already mentioned, you can simply choose to ignore him, ignore the man in the mirror. Just never look at him, simple as that. Problem solved. In fact, make a vow to never look in a mirror again and just do what everyone else does, live the lie. Let laughing man get his entertainment elsewhere.
And many people do just that. They avoid mirrors. But the problem here is, well, we all know who you people are. We know who's living the lie. May as well have it tattooed on your forehead.
How do we know?
Easy.
Because you're the guy who walks into work every day with toilet paper dots on his face. The ones you put there to stop the bleeding from this morning's shave, just part of the price you pay for living without the benefit of a mirror.
So you see, you're not fooling anyone, no one but yourself. And you know it. Deep down, you know that nobody's buying the charade. Still, you're quite content to live the lie as you walk into work and make your way to your desk, always careful to keep your eyes straight ahead, never looking to one side or the other so you don’t see ‘it’. Don’t see the stares as you pass, the cupped hands whispering 'My God! Why doesn't he just own it while he still has a face left!'.
And I gotta tell ya, my friend. In the break room? Standing around the coffee pot? They're all laughing at you. And the man in the mirror? Yep. He's there, too, laughing right alongside them between sips.
Yeah.
What a loser.
You know it, I know it - we all know it.
Which is why the only thing that will have sex with you - your girlfriend - has an inflation tube on her neck. And even she laughs at you. That's right, when you're not home, while stuffed under the bed, or tucked away in the closet hidden behind some clothes. She laughs at you, too.
I mean, c'mon. Didn't you ever notice that she's the only blowup doll you've ever seen that looks that way? With that look of utter disgust on her face? But the thing is, she didn't look that way when you bought her. Which is why the guy at the adult bookstore refused to refund your money yet again...
"Look, pal, this is the third one, now. I could maybe write the first two off to something weird, like maybe I stored them too close to the heater or something and it deformed their face like that, but three? No way. I don't know what you're doing to these things, but I think it’s time you take your business elsewhere."
And then he throws you out.
Now I ask you, how pathetic is that? What kind of loser do you have to be when even sleazy porn shops don't want your money? Dude, that's as bad as it gets.
But you know, it could be worse. Imagine what would happen if blowup dolls could talk, like if they had a string you could pull...
"GET OFF ME! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, YOU CREEP! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME! I'M BEING RAPED! FOR GODS SAKE, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! CALL THE COPS OR SOMETHING! HURRY! PLEASE!"
And the next thing you know, you find yourself in a courtroom on trial.
Why?
Because legislation recently passed that added all kinds of new laws to the books, including sex crimes against the latest category of victims - blowup dolls.
And then there's the prosecutor - young, sharp, ambitious, and whose mission in life, it seems, is to make an example out of you…
* * * * * * *
"Your Honor, for my next witness the prosecution calls..." Checks his notes in the folder in front of him. "... Miss Anal Annie to the stand."
The bailiff walks to the witness pew, lifts the blowup doll from her seat, and carries her under his arm like a surfboard to the witness stand. He lowers her into the chair, and then holds her right hand on the Bible. She's sworn in.
The prosecutor stands on the side of the witness stand, slightly leaning into it with his forearm resting atop the railing. He fans his gaze out across the courtroom and, to his satisfaction, sees that it’s a full house today. He begins his questioning...
"Now, miss Annie..."
But he stops and backtracks. He wants to lose the formalities and make this as up close and personal as he can, so he asks...
"I'm sorry, may I call you by your first name?"
The bailiff pulls the doll's string…
"Of course."
"Thank you."
He starts over…
"Now, Anal, can you describe to the court what happened on the night of August 14th of this year?"
The bailiff pulls the string...
"Yes, I can. It was a first date, and for a while, everything was fine. We were sitting on the sofa sharing some wine..."
The bailiff pulls the string again…
"…watching some TV together and simply enjoying the evening. Then all of a sudden..."
The bailiff goes to pull the string again but it snaps and he's forced to make an improvised repair using some dental floss he just happened to have.
Meanwhile, the courtroom is left frozen in suspense with every eye wide in anticipation of what the witness will say next. And this includes the bailiff himself whose working as fast as he can to complete the repair. He finally gets the two ends tied together and gives the floss a pull...
"...it's like...like...he became an octopus or something. His..."
He pulls the floss again...
"...hands were all over me, everywhere. I tried to resist. I struggled as best I could to break free but..."
Pulls the floss again...
"...it was no use. He was just too strong. He just kept coming and coming, and finally, he overpowered me and pinned..."
Pulls the floss again…
"...me down on the sofa. That's when it happened. He began to...to...OH MY GOD! IT WAS HORRIBLE! JUST HORRIBLE..."
She breaks down into hysterics and begins sobbing heavily. The bailiff holds her hands up and she buries her face in them. The prosecutor consoles the distraught doll by placing his arm around her shoulder and handing her a box of Kleenex. After a few moments, she regains her composure somewhat and lifts her face from her hands. She grabs several of the Kleenexes, and with the bailiff's help, dabs her eyes and blows her nose.
The prosecutor continues...
"Now, Anal, I realize how difficult this must be for you, but we're almost done, dear. Just one last question."
She sniffles a few times and looks up at the prosecutor with her trusting, plastic eyes. He is, after all, her knight in shining armor, her redeemer, the man that will, once and for all, bring this whole sordid, nightmarish chapter of her life to a close. Because of him, she will once again have peace in her life.
She nods her head and awaits the next question.
The prosecutor bows his head and takes in a deep breath. He takes a moment to collect himself and prepare for what's about to happen next. This is it. This is where everything reaches critical mass, the crucial moment, the moment of truth. It is, in fact, the most important moment of his career. He lifts his head, takes a deep breath through his nose, and then gazes out at the courtroom crowd, looking at the collection of faces now glued to his every move, to his every word, confident that their duly elected prosecutor will bring this vile criminal to justice today. So he looks at them, the prosecutor does, at his electors, his constituents, and as he looks, he slightly nods his head as if to tell them ‘Yeah, I got this’.
And he does.
He is prepared, and he is ready.
He looks at the witness and gazes into her trusting, but plastic eyes…
"Now, Anal, I ask you to look around the courtroom and tell me if you see your attacker here today."
She nods her head in compliance, but she doesn't need to look. She knows exactly where he is.
A pull of the floss...
"Yes, he's here."
"Can you point him out to the court, please?"
The bailiff grabs her arm and points it in the direction of the defendant…
"That's him over there, the man with the toilet paper dots on his face."
The courtroom explodes. The judge bangs his gavel...
"Order! Order in the courtroom!"
The crowd settles. The prosecutor continues…
"I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor. The prosecution rests."
The judge…
"You may step down now, Miss Annie. You're excused."
The bailiff lifts her from the chair, but there’s a problem. The emotional stress from testifying has caused her to spring a leak and she's lost air. So, instead of carrying her away under his arm like before, he simply slings her limp body over his shoulder and totes her off.
The judge then turns his attention to the jury...
"At this time, I would ask the jury to..."
But he's cut short. Outraged, the defense attorney leaps to his feet...
"But Your Honor, the defense hasn't been given a chance to cross examine this witness!"
Now it's the judge who leaps from his seat, his face burning red with anger. He thrusts his arm out and points the gavel at the insubordinate defense attorney...
"Why you insolent little worm! How dare you interrupt this court's proceedings! I find you in contempt! Bailiff, take this piece of garbage into custody!"
And with that, the bailiff places the attorney's hands behind his back, handcuffs him, and shuffles him out of the courtroom.
The courtroom itself is alive with excited chatter, having just been stunned by the drama that has unfolded. Again, the judge slams the gavel and calls for order, and again, the courtroom slowly settles down.
Once order is restored, the judge again turns his attention to the jury…
"Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted - at this time, I ask the jury to deliberate and decide a verdict."
A lone woman - obviously, the jury’s spokesperson - stands and addresses the judge...
"Your Honor, I think I speak for the rest of the jurors when I say that a deliberation won't be necessary."
She looks at the other eleven jurors who all look back at her, nodding their heads in agreement.
The judge leans forward on his elbows...
"Very well. What say you, then?"
The spokesperson clears her throat...
"We the jury find the defendant...DISGUSTING AND REPULSIVE!!!"
The judge cocks an eyebrow. He lets out a slight chuckle and leans back into his chair. He tells the juror…
"Yes, well, I think we all do."
He looks out at the courtroom whose snickering confirms his assessment…
"Still, I need your verdict."
Embarrassed, the woman reaches up and adjusts the bun on the back of her head...
"Oh, yeah. Sorry."
She then throws a steely glare at the defendant who stands to receive her decision. In a booming voice…
"GUILTY X 10!!!!! Oh, wait, can I say that?"
"Yes, you most certainly can. And, I might add, that I couldn't agree more. I'd like to thank you all for your service. The jury is excused at this time and is free to go."
He bangs the gavel.
"This court is adjourned."
He turns his attention to the defendant...
"Bailiff, get this pathetic maggot out of my sight!"
* * * * * * *
And that's it.
Game over.
Over because, for the next twenty years, you'll be locked in a cell with your new boyfriend, Big Willy. Or, as all the other inmates call him, 'big, black, 320 lb. of white rapist hating Willy’, who will, every day, for the rest of your incarcerated life, teach you all about the evils of being raped. And you don't even have to thank him. The pleasure is all his - literally.
And all of this, so very unnecessary.
Why?
Because you didn't take my simple advice and just own it.
And where did that get you?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
And that's the difference between you and I - I know what I am, and I own it.
I'm a delinquent, plain and simple. It's who I am, it’s what I do. Like I said, it's in my DNA, my destiny. And that's just the way it is, so quit sending me your pamphlets already. There are no late-night support groups, no twelve step programs, even, that’s gonna fix my brand of broken. No amount of counseling that's gonna cure my disease. And even if there were, I don't want it. I'm fine with who I am, and if I wasn't a delinquent by birth, I'd be one by choice. Just the way it is.
And for you, society at large, this is bad news. Bad, because sooner or later - in one way or another - I’m coming to a neighborhood near you.
My advice?
Be afraid.
Be very afraid.
