Before the rise of “spitball” and the use of mind-altering hallucinogens shot on prickly pieces of steel wool through plastic straws, many Americans owned guns. Some believed that two centuries of democracy were made possible only when paranoia was kept at bay through the right to own a gun.
A sense of mass hysteria shadowed the land as many learned, upon applying for gun permits, that minor traffic violations were enough to cause the blemish of “mentally ill” to appear in databases in federally monitored gun shops across the land. Those deemed “mentally ill” by the FPB (Federal Psychiatric Bureau) were stripped of the right to own weapons.
The collapse of the world financial system led to chaos. The mentally sane– those who owned guns used them more freely—often shooting those who everyone knew did not own guns, and claiming the person was acting “crazy” and was cause of “self-defense.” There was no way the government could stop the slaughters, because nearly all of them were “first offenses.”
On Twitter, the abandonment of written text led to short bursts of sentences spoken only by humans with sane minds; their thoughts and actions beamed in real-time, uncensored, across an internet that very few could longer afford or be granted access to.
A new celebrity arose—replacing the need of reality television and non-stop news. Those with guns watched and listened, like a hunter calling in a turkey. With their intelligent phones in one hand and itchy fingers holding guns in the other, it was time to clean up the mess once and for all. When would the next execution on line take place? Don’t log out of Twitter or you’ll miss it! It was all they were waiting for– to watch history change in real-time.
American culture lost faith not only in churches, but a failing “Mental Health System” as well. Treatment did not cure and the system was a list of entitlement applications that would not end. It was a sure route to on-line fame to kill someone who was “mentally ill”.
Treatment of the insane rarely worked anyway, even for Jesus, who often used swine for the “conversion to sanity.”
Shawn Smith developed the spit ball concept while locked away in a psychiatric ward and receiving electroshock therapy. Nurses shaved his long braided hair—twists of African American strands that he had carefully bound together over the years while resting his head on his pillow awaiting sleep were simply clipped away, like the right to self protection.
The scent of African oils that he sometimes freshened his tough hair strands with filled the air of the psychiatric ward as his braids fell upon a shiny white, tiled floor. He cried when they shocked him for he knew he was not mad—just a little worked up about not having smoked pot in a while.
It had become as easy as issuing a parking summons to deem an individual “psychotic” and in need of such mind-altering treatments that Shawn was undergoing.
The pills he was ordered to take were enough already. Energy seemed to be pouring from his soul and out his legs long before transistors were attached to a now bald scalp.
What would the American Indian do in such a predicament?, the black man thought as his body convulsed under such weight and now there was real electricity pumping through him and not just the sensation of electrocution the pills had instilled.
“They’d use a fucking blow gun with poison,” he screamed before losing consciousness.
(To Be Continued Next Sunday)