Liquidation Sale' the big sign read in red letters. I was in some old furniture factory, unnamed, brandless place. His mom was there, but she took off somewhere and he was now alone, wandering through the fields of old furniture. The rooms were cold and dead as concrete. 'Liquidation' signs held suspended from the walls above. The lights grew dimmer. The funiture grew older, more dusty, and more wondering would take place. His mom would find him later, after the historical triggering had gotten enough time to sink in. City: Courtney? 1998? Possibly 1999. Why were we even here? Why did we go to so many swimming pools that reeked of chlorine? We went to this one called the Austrian Chalet, and it used way too much chlorine. So much that his eyes stung a faded white shade after a $2.00 swim in the facility. There were some artistic murals of sea monsters on the wall, done in colored, chipped tiling. The hot tub and sauna were pretty good. He always got so hungry after a swim. Luckily, this was during the times of gradeschool, pokemon, warhammer, nice friends, and playstation; before the public exposure via low-paying fake jobs became annoying like mosquitoes on steroids. The young, pliable minds of apprehensive placeholder humans (though some were likely genuine) were far less obtuse than the overblown cancer-rage of old bastards who'd been so brainwashed into oblivion that not even a head transplant could save them from the bottomless waste bins of white supremacy.

Exposure to their toxic attitudes in later life would prove to be mentally acidic, especially the bloated fake physics man who stuffed beer cans up chickens at bbq's and waddled around on nuke day throwing bonfires for parasites. It even went so far as to blast dissonance from a 'pool heater' (sand filter) placed strategically close enough to the home to cause maximum annoyance. The purpose of this machine was to trigger bunker memories of manual air filters whose hand crank mechanism would have produced a similar racket. Dungeon master's perfect daughter, family, and other hapless extras took part in the charade, but all were seemingly blind to the pathetic desperation of the whole exercise. Fried chicken's lowest point might have been madly hobbling forward in an attempt to push one down the stairs, only to have his wildly ugly face punched in. But not to be forgotten was the angrily whispering, loudly door and cupboard slamming rage reaction of witnessing a gravity of work be reduced to redundancy, lies, and tricks. Oddly, both incidents resulted in the completion of manual labor projects. In the first case, a stairwell railing had been completed (it resembeled prison bars), and on the second, it loudly, obstinately taped together a cover over an open cubby-hole under the stairwell in a weak attempt to block the (simulated battlefield) smell of putrid sewage seeping through the loose, rusted metal cover into the exact area as one's living space.

Luckily, those days were over, but the junk still lingered in the psyche: chemical imprints of frustration, desperation, and failure clinging to neural micro-tubules of patterns rapidly changing to override their influence. One often noted how old patterns had to be remembered before being overwritten and modified for the benefit of clear consciousness. It was a welcome change, and now new bridges were being formed. It was now funny to remember the stale shaw coffee and awkward peripheral crypto-blacks planted in the workplace to report, no matter how artificial and contrived, predispositions to racial marginalization. Militant shill operations employing zion's scopolomine-induced drones and pseudo-gay fascist techniques had been applied much more freshly to countersignal feminism, but this had little lasting impact, and would soon be relegated to the dustbins of memory.