August 27, 2022

Soviet history includes the story of Lithuania around the time of World War II. Up to a third of the population died and had to be eaten by the other people. History is worth learning. We don't want to have any accidents here, and we have learned ways to avoid them. A lot of people feel the problem is things like national healthcare systems and decent public education. Russia has never been known for their healthcare.

When you cut corners and save a bit of money on property taxes, your property value will plummet. At the bottom of that hole, you are likely to be eaten. Almost a quarter of a million people died in the war in Afghanistan, altogether. More people than that already die on the streets of America every year.

Ask not what my problem is, bro. You're bad hotdogs waiting to happen. It sickens me.

August 25, 2022

I am a marijuana addict. If any drug should be legal, it should be marijuana. I just can't personally handle anything, and that's a separate issue. I'm also a tobacco addict. I just can't help myself. I'm also a caffeine addict.

Opiate overdoses in the US account for more American deaths per year than in the entire 20-year-long war in Afghanistan. Opiate pills are still cranked out by companies, made from poppies harvested in Afghanistan. The dealers at the bottom end up in prison. Plenty of jobs are available as prison guards and soldiers, why would anyone ever be a drug dealer?

My marijuana dealers and I might have conceivably ended up side by side in treatment. We're all still friends, no one gets angry about marijuana. It's a good drug to be legal if any drug is.

The leading cause of death in the US, however, is still heart disease. I will never end up in treatment alongside someone at the bottom who sells me tobacco or fast food, will I?

Mass shooters account for only a few hundred deaths in the US per year. I would appreciate if you all stop looking at me sideways. What's the issue here? You never encountered an honest white person before? I'm never going to be a mass shooter. I just always choose to throw down with the suffering underdog. Don't read my blog, go read Camus and the Soviet history of Cannibal island.

Don't make me come eat your candied ass and leave you alive to learn the lesson.

August 20, 2022

America is tanking. The national debt is still going up and up in an economy based on selling mostly bullshit to each other and buying things of arguable worth from other countries, measured in US dollars backed mostly by the greatest military the world has ever seen, which has a policy of training unfortunate poor people then leaving them homeless. There were far more deaths on the streets of America in the past year than the entire Afghanistan War combined. One of the objectives of the War in Afghanistan was to protect opium poppy harvesting rights for American Pharmaceutical manufacturers. Kids who don't serve in the military are often on one drug they don't need yet or another, watching TV shows that glorify crime and often depict human death at five minute intervals. The entire country has rallied to chase unusual people around on suspicion of all sorts of things. Mass shooters account for a few hundred American deaths per year, out of a population nearing 400 million. Tobacco is the legal drug, keeping poor people poor and sick but not affecting their ability to work as much as opiates, while heart disease continues to be the leading cause of death in America.

This isn't the time to give up hope. When this town floods, everyone gets together to pitch in, placing sandbags to keep the water at bay. America is flooding now. Almost all of us should be doing something radically different than we have always done. The people who are already at the very bottom mostly don't care if it all collapses. A few of them are crazy enough to keep trying to place cards in the collapsing structure, a few others are crazy enough to be lighting the cards on fire. Mostly, no one cares enough to be changing what they've always done, from those at the very bottom, to those at the very top.

We have no control over the past, it has already happened. We have no control over the future. In every moment we have only what's in front of us to do. It is past time for all of us to stop doing the same stupid things over and over, and do a lot more to help the current situation.

I'm not going to lie to you America, at this point fixing things will require a lot of thought and cooperation.

August 08, 2022

Who My Shadow Is

I had a dream recently that I kept waking up from, like the movie "Inception." I woke up in a cot right in the gas station, right in the aisles. They shook me awake, saying, "we're closing now, you gotta go home." The gas station was more like my home. A witch's haunted gas station. I woke up there several times, out of each nested dream. Finally I was getting home, walking up to the door. As I walked through my yard, I startled a deer. It jumped up and ran a few feet, then jumped into a strange military aircraft. The strange trained military deer jumped into a strange attack helicopter with a body bag for a cockpit. I startled it so badly that it flew away in a top secret military aircraft for deer.

I woke up to the reality I live, day in, day out. I was hurt horribly by psychiatry in this area. We only have one psychiatrist. People I know who go to him sometimes say things like, "yeah, I like him a lot. He seems like he's a criminal like I am who really understands." He prescribed me Abilify, which I was on for most of my adult life. I didn't need medication, I never did. I still don't. I need real love, the type that cannot be found. I would join a monastery but I don't trust any of us not to fail me at this point. I told the doctor early on, "this medication makes me more anxious, it turns me into a nervous wreck. There will never be a benefit to taking it unless I do enough weird drugs to be so crazy I need it." He replied, "no, this medication can't make anxiety worse. It will protect your brain from the harmful marijuana." I said, "I don't believe marijuana causes brain damage. It's the other drugs potheads inevitably end up taking," like I did. We went back and forth about it until my mother fired him. One day he was so frustrated in session that he threw a pen. Then I went to the therapy mill, I was on abilify for most of my adult life. I screwed up a lot by feeling strongly that I was doing anything wrong by smoking weed, and that I was doing anything right by taking Abilify.

If I live on his taxes forever I am not in the wrong for it. America is tanking, though. The bourgeoisie is going down. That's me, too. I would be homeless otherwise and I would get no treatment to speak of, until I died young.

"I don't care if your world is ending today, because I wasn't invited to it anyway." - Marilyn Manson

You are rats, jumping from a sinking, burning ship, clawing at each other to survive. There will be a war. Let this system that failed so many of us burn. It will be bad for me, too, but if I stand alongside wickedness, even if it's in my own best interest, no one will be able to tell me apart. We could all move quickly, like I am, to salvage America. America is a good system. There are a lot of good things that should be salvaged, and good ways it could be done. Otherwise, let it all burn. This system has failed far too many of us.

August 05, 2022

Strategic Asshats

Captain Reynolds just needed a drink.  He just needed one drink.  The
world had been going to shit for too long, and now it was just a pile
of crap with houseplants growing in it despite the most parched odds.
Captain Skippy had been due to report back for over a week.  The
situation in the Middle East had reached a head when a creepy Muad'Dib
character over there had risen from the ashes of everything Holy and
started making horrific demands.  The situation was rapidly
snowballing into one deadly avalanche.  Far too many people were
following the crazy asshat now.  Far too many people.

Reynolds couldn't drink now.  There was too much at stake.  It had
become too much of an issue.

He was supposed to be on vacation going skiing, too.


PFC JJ Sanders had never wanted to do anything, per se.  He had always
wanted to be the happy husband of a happy wife.  He stood a little
under five feet tall, but he had always packed a wallop.  He was a
lover, not a fighter.  He had done his time and been honorably
discharged twice basically, happy to go.  It was nice to feel that he
had made it through nothing much, to a happier life with enough of a
pension and a good job, a bit more attractive, a bit more seasoned.
He always explained to people that he had made it out of it all with
flying colors, ranking on par with dirt, not lower than it.

He had fallen right into the perfect job as a ski lift operator,
selling weed to beautiful snow bunnies on the side.  Life couldn't be

Sanders' sergeant had gone insane.  He had also been honorably
discharged, a little before Sanders.  It had been one of the defining
factors in his choice.  Sanders had always missed the sergeant after
he left, and he had pulled as many strings as he possibly could to go
home too.  He knew a lot of what had happened to the sergeant, and a
lot of it seemed to add up.  JJ had been horsing around when the
sergeant had been toting a shell one day well in excess of his own
weight and dropped the fucking thing right on its tip, right on the
detonator.  The sergeant had screamed and literally crapped his pants,
but the shell didn't go off.

The sergeant had almost hit PFC Sanders, and he was known to be able
to throw a punch that would kill an Elephant.  Sarge had broken down
in tears, sobbing on JJ's shoulder.  He left for a while to get to the
bottom of what had happened.  When he got back he explained the whole
thing to JJ, but he was clearly driven insane forever after that.

The last thing Sarge had said to JJ was, "the rifling arms the sons of
bitches.  There's somethin' hinky about Skippy."

JJ knew Sarge had grown up homeless, been honorably discharged once
before, and been homeless again after that.  He loved that man.  It
was disturbing to see.


JJ's twin brother Spec.  Sanders, another Specialist, and Sarge had
been detailed to a strange task.  Big bro never should have even told
JJ, right?  How do you explain a wound like that, though?  The three
of them had been detailed to guard a vast field of opium poppies.  It
stretched on beyond the horizon.  It was a strange mission.  Sarge was
spooked.  The other Specialist was shaking like an electric dildo on
high.  Sanders didn't grasp what he wasn't getting.  Sarge was being
too careful, he thought, and it didn't make a single bit of sense.

Sanders took one round through the upper right part of his chest on
that mission, but all three of them lived.  Sarge is at the end.  The
other specialist went home to just do heroin forever, until the day
both his wife and mom died.


Reynolds was done with this shit, but he wasn't going to drink.  Not a
drop.  He was going to take Skippy's plane and clean up the mess.  He
marched up the nose of the fuselage of the ancient bomber, pulled out
his sidearm, and put two bullets in the place the man had insisted
that a fake nickname be painted.  "Damned".


JJ had enlisted a second time.  He needed to see Sarge again.  He told
no one, but he figured he had it all figured out.  They had lied to
him that he wouldn't be sent overseas again, but he had enough strings
to pull to get stationed at Mardi Gras.  JJ knew what he was doing.
When he saw Captain Skippy again though, his blood ran cold.  He tried
not to stare.  He knew his life depended on not staring.

It was great until the hurricane was coming in.  Everyone panicked.
The troops stayed to keep things orderly while panicking.  Civilians
disorganized rapidly.  It was chaos.

Someone was firing on them, right before the hurricane hit.  A
civilian took out the guardsman next to JJ with one shot to the head
from what looked like an ancient bolt-action, then froze in shock.  JJ
went to take him out, but his commanding officer stopped both him and
the dude to his left and screamed to leave the man.  Leave the poor
fucker alive.  The dude to the officer's left was going berserk.  He
stood up to deliver spent uranium into the open mouth of the civilian
standing there anyway but was gunned down first by another one.

Skippy was late to get them support.  He rushed them all to a
warehouse where they would be safe.  JJ was the first to figure it
out.  There were glowsticks everywhere and all the different drugs
anyone could have ever wanted laid out like a buffet.  They had been
left there to die.  Most of them were tripping too hard on something
to operate their fingers, much less any machinery, as they stumbled
down the nearly-empty streets of New Orleans right as the Hurricane
hit.  JJ survived it, and he just changed his name after that.


Reynolds was in the air with one poor sap on one gun in the shitty old
bomber.  It moved painfully slowly at the best of times.  He didn't
have to fly all that far, but he was done.  He was going to nuke the
entire fucking city.  Skippy had to be stopped.  Sarge was down there,
Reynolds knew it.  He felt sick, but at least he wasn't drinking.

Two jet fighters approached rapidly, adding to the radio chatter
screaming at him to come down.  This was it.  The gunner was so
reluctant to fire that when he finally did it only gave away which
position he manned.  The plane was going down over a snowy,
picturesque mountainside.

The captain would be damned if he didn't drop that bomb.  It was ready
to go but the plane was wrecked in the air.  He went to bomb bay,
looking sickened over the precipous of the open doors.  He kicked the
bomb hard.  It didn't budge.  He got on top of it and started
hammering at it with both feet, stomping on it, grinding his teeth.

Finally it released, and he tumbled out after it.  Far below, his
stomach dropped simply to realize it was falling right onto that
fucking ski resort.  He saw JJ far below gazing up at him.  His
spirits lifted instantly.  He was sure JJ had died.  JJ didn't look
all that confused down there.


Sarge had cornered him.  He had done it.  Skippy had always been a
fast talker, but there it was.  In a back alley no one ever came out
of alive, Sarge sliced Captain Skippy's face off with a machete.  The
nose of a velociraptor unfurled, popping out like a normal rubber
dildo under pressure in a can.  "Fuck," it said.


The nuke landed in the snow, buried all the way down to one fin
sticking up.  The piece of shit didn't come close to denotation.  The
captain bounced off of it and landed at JJ's feet, everything in his
right leg shattered and shredded up to just above the knee.  He didn't
go into shock or anything.  JJ was there already, tying the
tourniquet.  He did an extremely good job of it.  The profuse bleeding
stopped.  Most of the snow was white.

He knew Captain Reynolds well enough.  He said cautiously to the man,
"did you know alcohol withdrawal can literally be fatal sometimes from
the shakes alone?"

August 02, 2022


When Protagonist was a little boy, he hated eating bugs.  His mother
would say to him, "eat your bugs, Protagonist.  You can't get big and
strong if you only eat vegetables and never eat your bugs." He hated
bugs, though.  He would eat one and dump the rest onto the ground when
she wasn't looking.  He did get bigger and bigger, but he was never
the strongest.  He was probably the smartest, except for maybe one boy
a few years older than him named Adam.  Protagonist always looked up
to Adam.  As they grew up, Adam was the first to notice women.  Adam
always had bad taste in women.

Protagonist knew how to pick his favorite woman, but he was always a
little bit crazy.  The young men would rough each other up, never too
badly, to impress the women.  No one ever roughed up a woman.  Adam
and Protagonist were never in competition for a woman's heart, but
Protagonist always told him that he thought that was unfortunately due
to his older friend's choices.  The two of them were sort of known for
their odd choices sometimes.  Adam was quiet, people said he would go
on to become very wise.  Protagonist was crazy.  He ate too many

Protagonist always liked the same woman, from the first time he
started noticing women.  She was a woman named Love.  Love was crazy
in her own way, always going along with Protagonist's worst ideas.
Protagonist always took the lead, but she never protested, no matter
how crazy as it was.  Adam tried to keep an eye on them.  Some times
were harder than others.  No one likes to eat bugs.

Sometimes the king came and ate people.  Times like those were
horrible.  When the king was around, people's true colors always
started to come out.  During one of those times, a man as old as Adam
tried to rough up Protagonist for Love's affection.  Protagonist felt
beaten before the fight began.  He knew he stood no chance.  Love
wouldn't have had any interest in any other man, just like Protagonist
wouldn't have any interest in any other woman.  Protagonist wasn't
thinking about that though.  The older man wasn't a good person.

Protagonist had clearly lost the fight, and was struggling, pinned on
the ground, when his hand touched a large, sharp rock.  He picked it
up and bashed it into the other man's head.  The man collapsed, blood
coming from his head.  Protagonist got to his feet, shaking and
elated.  He had hit the man so hard that he was asleep.  No one had
ever thought to do something like that before.  The other man didn't
wake up, though, like an old person going to sleep for the last time.
Protagonist felt as evil as the king, and wept.  Love couldn't console

Protagonist never felt right again.  He obsessed about it.  He wanted
to do it to the king.  Love followed him, and they prepared to fight
the king.  The dug holes with sharp rocks in the bottom, got sharp
rocks ready, and they took the fight to the king's home.  It didn't
take long for him to arrive.  He bounded up to get them, and
Protagonist wasn't even afraid.  He shouted at the king in defiance.
The king came up to the hole, but he stopped.  It wouldn't be that
easy.  Protagonist and the king circled the hole towards each other.

The big rock was no match for the king.  He hit Protagonist so hard
that he flew, blood coming from his side, and started walking towards
him.  Then he stopped, turned around, and bounded over to Love,
smashing her to death instantly, and roared.  Protagonist ran up
behind him and jumped on his back, beating him to death with a sharp
rock into his head, over and over.

It came at a great cost.  Everyone came and ate the king like a giant
bug, just like Protagonist had said.  Adam stayed with him to the end,
as he bled to death.

August 01, 2022

It's too hard to write good stories without any badguys in them. Therefore, I am hereby changing the purpose of my blog. In light of recent global situations, I am assuming command of all Earth military assets. You have all been reassigned to diplomatic envoy duty. I do not enjoy micromanagement. Do not fail me again.

July 24, 2022

I am my own best advocate

The other day I woke up grumpy. I was planning to quit smoking tobacco that day and quickly realized it just wasn't the right day. I got myself out of my grumpiness, talked to some people, did some things for myself, and felt much better for the rest of the day.

When I first woke up, however, I made a bit of a scene in a chatroom. I did notice that the county Sherriffs were hanging out by my place a lot throughout the day and even gave me a friendly wave later in the day. In the chatroom I did say, "if surveillance capitalists want to scoop me up in their dragnet, I want to build bombs. Fair is fair."

I didn't mean monitoring chatrooms, that makes perfect sense to me. I meant violating the law to break into my personal computer systems without my authorization. Monitoring social media activity and responding to disturbances of the peace makes perfect sense to me, I applaud that kind of responsiveness. Breaking into computer systems the same as criminals do, however, is still a crime. When law enforcement does that kind of behavior just because criminals do it, they have made themselves also criminals.

If someone breaks into computer systems in an unauthorized manner, breaking the law, should they go to prison for it? Maybe, maybe not. When human beings do enough damage to the rest of the human world, the way society behaves is to take away their security, freedom, and sometimes even their life. If someone breaks in and reports the problem, however, I would be inclined not only to forgive the crime, but to pay the perpetrator money for helping me fix the problem.

When I believe everything I think inside my own mind, despite most of it being incorrect, I can't interact with the rest of the world properly. I get the diagnosis of insanity, I go in for help, I get a drug I take daily to help me interact properly with the rest of the human world. If the rest of the human world believes everything they commonly think, despite most of it being incorrect, they are delusional, mentally ill.

The house I live in was built by a blacksmith, my great-great-uncle. I basically live inside of a historic landmark. It's pretty awesome. He decorated the inside with his own wrought ironwork. Some of it is pointy, but they aren't meathooks. They're horseshoes for luck, decorations, beautiful craftsmanship. People come in here to install internet or do plumbing, and I wonder what they think more than I should. I don't know what other people are thinking, I only know what I'm thinking. Are people afraid of me?

The Bible tells us hundreds of times not to live in fear, anger, and negativity. I have been a person who lived that way, so I understand the mentality. It's not how I choose to live today. As an American, I value my right to convert to Christianity or even Islam, though I have no intention of ever doing so, not at this point. I will tell you who I really am.

One day I opened my Bible, the bookmark was on the cover page of the New Testament. A spider was sitting there and crawled out. I had a problem with spiders inside my house, even sometimes biting me occasionally. In the Old Testament, spiders are a symbol for focused hard work. A spider works hard on what is in front of it to do, accomplishing each task with focus. Spiders are rewarded for it, living in the highest corners of even the palaces of kings. In the New Testament, spiders wove a web of protection over the mouth of the cave where the Savior was put after being taken down off the cross to later be resurrected. I handled my spider problem pretty well by picking up each spider one by one, taking them outside unharmed. My cats did get some of them. That's who I really am, and I am rewarded for it. Most people have to operate on faith, they either get to believe God exists or believe that God doesn't exist. I get to have the reward of God showing Himself to me, so I don't need to have faith or shaky belief. I get to know it for a fact.

My writing, to me, is my writing, my imagination. Some of the stories I put on here are horror stories. The Bible does tell us not to live in baseless fear. You can come knock on my door any time, I would be happy to consider you a friend, and even show you this historic landmark I call home, even if you don't have a warrant, or even if you're a homeless starving criminal, and we treat each other with basic decency, dignity, and respect.

July 15, 2022

The definition of insanity is believing everything you think, despite vast amounts of evidence that you are wrong. I enjoy correcting people about this over and over until they finally hear me and I get a different result.

July 14, 2022

Fight World

Evan was always smart.  He had flunked out of college, only making it
through a year and a half towards a bachelor's degree in chemistry.
He had gotten A's in chemistry, A's in mathematics, and failed
everything else.  He couldn't spell, he had no sense of creativity,
history traumatized him, and he just had no interest in bullshit.  He
never had.

After college he had started making LSD.  He had gotten into it
towards the end of his time at college, and although most people
thought it was impossible to get addicted to LSD, Evan knew he was.
He had the knowledge, and he had no other drive inside of himself.  He
made his own unlimited amounts of LSD, all for himself.  He sold some
of it to get by for a while, going crazier and crazier.  He ended up
penniless, starving, out of LSD, living out of an old Chevy Nova.  He
was homeless in a rough city.  He had gone crazy and knew it.  It
scared him when he would talk to people, knowing that none of them
could tell how crazy he was.

Finally one day he caught himself going too far.  He was starving,
always chewing on his nails from the terror of how his life had
become.  He caught himself gnawing at his own hands until they bled
out of hunger more than anything else.  He knew it was time to turn
things around.  In the city there were places to go for help, always
overrun by the sheer mass of the thousands of people just like Evan.
He knew he would never be heard, he knew he would never get the help
he needed.

Worrying he would be shot for it, he stole enough gas to drive out of
the city, into the countryside, looking for help.  He wondered if his
car would even make it.  It did, he made it to a small rural town
completely empty of his homeless brethren.  He found food at a food
bank staffed by loving Christians, and he should have stopped there.
He was able to get enough to eat again, and living out of his car was
normal to him.  He was able to pass for normal enough, more scared of
himself than anyone else was.

He didn't stop there, though.  He started looking for psychiatric
help.  He never opened up to anyone, he just said he wanted a job.  He
just thought that was a normal thing for a person to say.  They could
tell he was on some kind of drug, but they asked stupid questions
about it.  They started there, giving him all the mental tools he
would ever need to stay off any drug forever.  The main thing that
allowed him to learn all of what he had to do was his own desire.  He
never wanted to touch anything again that would make him any crazier.
The therapists helped coordinate for him to meet with the man who ran
the local laundromat.  He cleaned up as well as he could, and went to
the laundromat to meet with the man.  He was more presentable than
anyone except Evan could have expected.  He knew he could present
himself well, if nothing else.

The job sounded good.  The therapists had said the man needed help
with a few odd jobs, and Evan would also learn from the man how to
repair appliances.  Evan didn't have the heart to make them feel small
by telling them he was perfectly capable of something like that
already.  Evan was a walking miracle of the human will to survive,
driving a miracle of the human will to fix a car that shouldn't be
able to run.  He hadn't even told the therapists his real name.
Watching them struggle to find a birth certificate that didn't exist
didn't make him laugh.  He didn't find anything humorous in it.

The laundromat had rows and rows of washers and driers.  He walked
past them all, gently touching them, happy to think about a new life
working for a good Christian man.  At the far end from the front door
were bathrooms and a large sink.  The laundromat seemed impressive.
It seemed well-kept.  It excited him to think about being someone
there helping keep things in pristine working order.

He walked back across the laundromat to wait by the door, looking out
the window at the most perfect main street of a town he could imagine.
A car went by only once every few minutes.  No one hustled, no one
bustled, no one treated each other like garbage, murdering for a $5
fix.  He looked up at a clock on the wall.  The man was a few minutes
late.  It didn't bother Evan, with a life like he had been leading.
He noticed a small stain on the tile floor by the window at the front
of the laundromat.  He fixated on it patiently.  He didn't know how
long he waited until the door opened and the man walked in.  Evan
looked at the clock.  The man was 22 minutes late, but it didn't
bother Evan.

They started talking, and Evan didn't miss a beat.  He had been in
college, he hadn't worked much.  He didn't mention hitting rock
bottom, eating the flesh of his own living hands.  The man looked at
him wrong.  Evan's heart sank, realizing the man intended to use him
like any of the grotesquely disproportioned prostitutes of whom men
like this drove into the city to occasionally murder.  Evan ignored
his instinct to fight or flee.  He had nowhere else to go.  The man
told him he owned a trailer park and wanted Evan to trim weeds,
complaining that no one seemed to want to work.  Evan looked him in
the eyes, concealing his thoughts of chewing on them.  The man
complained and complained, saying his trust had been broken too many
times before.  Evan understood, but he hated this man with a deep fury
and passion he wasn't even capable of showing anymore.

The first day he worked only about three hours total.  He could barely
hold the equipment.  He had been getting enough to eat, and all of his
weight had come back as muscle for some reason, but he was still very
weak.  The man was abusive.  He arrived late, making comments about
how he couldn't afford to chase Evan around getting him to work.  Evan
didn't waste time, he got all the weeds trimmed.  The man left, saying
he had wasted more time telling Evan what to do than he had worked.
The trailer park was full of people on drugs, waiting to move to the
city to be homeless.  Evan wondered if he should warn them.  They
looked at him like they wondered if they should warn him about the
landlord, but he already knew.

Evan waited at the trailer park for the man to return, after trimming
all of the weeds.  He waited about an hour.  Finally the man showed up
again.  Evan wasn't worried about waiting around, but when Evan
mentioned payment, and the man said, "well, you only worked a couple
of hours today," Evan immediately tendered his resignation.  The man
sighed dramatically and handed Evan a $10 bill.  They said their

Evan spent the money on gas, and stole the rest to fill his tank.  He
drove back the laundromat and parked.  He walked to a junkyard, snuck
in, and stole battered plates off another broken down Chevy Nova to
replace the current stolen plates on his.  He had done this time and
time again.  In the junkyard he also found two large steel plates with
plastic spacers to insulate them and hold them apart, plenty of wire,
and a large rectifying diode.  He went to a grocery store and stole a
box of baking soda and a box of tea candles.  He walked back the
laundromat, and by the time he got there it was dark.

He went into the laundromat.  No one was likely to be here, but the
man left it open 24/7.  That was perfect.  Evan didn't want to hurt a
single person, he never had.  He selected a drier and started pulling
it apart, getting the power cord off it still attached to a large
transformer to step down the voltage from 220 to about 50 volts.  The
diode would handle it perfectly.  He twisted the wires to the input of
the diode, and connected the DC outputs to one of each of the large
steel plates.  It was all ready to go now.  He filled the sink with
water, poured in all of the baking soda, and stirred it well.  He
dropped the steel plates into the sink, careful to keep the diode and
transformer out of the water.  He plugged it all into the wall, and
was pleased to not see a single spark.  The water started gurgling,
hydrogen gas and oxygen coming out of it quickly, rising to the
ceiling.  The water level was even dropping at a barely perceptable
rate.  Evan quickly adjusted the faucet to perfectly match the drop in
water, so that the sink would always be full but never run over.  He
had to be quick now.  He ran across the room to the spot on the
ground, next to the large window at the front.  The hydrogen gas would
reach that spot last.  He set a tea candle on the floor, lit it, and
walked quickly to his car.

He started the car, revved the engine, and peeled out back to the big
city, armed only with everything he would ever need to stay off drugs
for the rest of his life.  His future in the same old homeless life
seemed so much brighter than ever, just like the therapists had told