Blue Dog Days
John Gerrick felt he was different from others. Not just physically, but mentally too. Sure, he was short, four feet eleven inches to be exact, and yeah, he had a birthmark that looked like some sort of clash between the Star of David and the Holy Cross, complete with the outline of someone crucified on it. When he was born, the doctor that delivered him was giving him a good once-over, and noticed the unusual birthmark. He screamed out in fear, and promptly passed out. This was surprising, but it was even more surprising when he hit his head on the tile floor and immediately died. John often bragged this story to anyone and anything that would listen in the Lost Friends Tavern down the street from him. He would start off by showing the birthmark, and then laughing crazily as he struggled to get the story out of how he had put "that unfortunate bastard into eternal sleep when he was just waking". John smoked too much, drank too much, and spoke out against the world too much. The reason he felt he was emotionally different from others was because of his feelings, which did not agree with anyone elses feelings. For example, one hot day in July, the only thing you could find on television was reports on the two teenagers that had gone into their high school and killed eighteen people. That eighteen included themselves. Everybody was expressing their sympathies for the families of the sixteen murdered. John Gerrick sat in his chair, listening to the television, and muttering to himself how stupid people were. He laughed, and thought it was deserved of the sixteen people. The two teenagers had been picked on constantly within the high school, and supposedly could not take any more. He felt that since the teens had been pushed past their limits, their reaction was justified. For every action, there is a consequence, hed always tell people. Some people would consider John crazy. Others, a minute few, would find him realistic. By occupation, John Gerrick was a politician. However, he had not worked in the last thirteen years of his life, not since he was thirty-one. That was when he fell into a large sum of money from a relative he had never even met. The old bird dropped dead, and in the process dropped him about nine million dollars. Before that, he had been Mayor of Shelbyville. When he was lucky enough to inherit all this money, he promptly quit his job as Mayor and was quoted in the Shelbyville Times as saying "I could give so little a fuck about this town and its residents.". Of course the Governor screamed and hollered about Johns profanity and dishonor towards his community. John just shook it off. Anyways, to get to the point of this whole story, Johns dramatic change in life came about in 1995, when he was forty-four. He was still living nicely even thirteen years after the inheritance. This is when John Gerrick became Stephen Hiltmore, a radical political writer that was immediately hated by everybody and anybody. He was not in the business for the money, however. Hell, he thought. I dont need the money, Ill just write my opinions (disguised under the facade of a fictional story) and hope people will support the ideas (truths) I show them and hopefully they will protest the government. Of course, I will be called an instigator and a Benedict Arnold, but who cares? Who will know Im Stephen Hiltmore? The first book that was published was a nice novel called "Please Accept My Blue Dog". This story was about American social classes and how they were constructed. The foundation was based on judgmental thoughts, lies, and greed. The plot revolved around a man named Louis Clayman who was born into poverty, but tried all his life to be accepted by the "higher society". When he finally realized he could never be accepted by this elite group, he gradually lost his mind and commenced to go to a "richie party" and spike the punch with two hundred kilograms of phenobarbitol, which is an anticonvulsant and fatal after forty mcg/ml. There were about one hundred people at this gathering, and the punch was enjoyed by all, mostly because Louis kept on commenting on how good the punch was. Louis had about one half hour before the phenobarbitol would work its magic, so he just sat back and relaxed. Then he had a couple glasses of the wonderful concoction himself. He was finally going to be equal with these people. The book hit the market on July 6, 1995 and was getting reviews on July 11, 1995. The New York Times said it was "an atrocious piece of propaganda that should be banned from all libraries and book retailers.". Stephen Hiltmore was certainly one sick individual, commented the Washington Post. Siskel and Ebert even gave it "two middle fingers - pointed directly at Stephen Hiltmore!". John found this hysterical, truly amusing. He would also comment on how much he hated that Stephen Hiltmore to the regulars at Lost Friends. Nine months later, another Hiltmore novel emerged from nowhere. This one was shunned even worse than "Please Accept My Blue Dog" had been. "Love Not For A Wonder" was an outright attack on organized religion, specifically Christianity. The book takes place in the jungle, where the mythical god (Stirch Sejus) was being blindly worshipped by the various animals. A young mouse, Gealis Tiseath, goes on a quest to find Stirch Sejus. It turns out to be a quest deeper than the Pacific Ocean, uncovering stories of prejudice, deception, and falsities. In the end, Gealis finds Stirch Sejus, in a birch tree. He realizes that the bark was the wonderful stories that had blinded the jungles residents for so long. Underneath the bark was the true Stirch Sejus, a fictional character in a book meant to be found funny, but misunderstood by a few. This few spread these words (of wisdom?) to every animal in the jungle, telling them there was a better life after this one. The words went on for generations, and were told to every newborn chick and fawn. They then told their children the stories, and so on, and so on. Gealis realized this was all true of a birch tree, even the nature of the tree as it burned. When the tree is old and dead enough, it emits a sweet, delicious smell. However, if the birch is burned while it is moist and still partly alive, the smell is not so enticing. This novel also got horrendous reviews by every big magazine and periodical in the country. The Boston Globe said this book was "a vicious attack on the greatest thing this world ever had and will ever have!" USA Today proclaimed it to be "the most complete mockery and show of disrespect ever encountered!" This time, Siskel and Ebert gave yet another wonderful review to one of Hiltmores books. This time they gave the book "two swift kicks in the ass!" John however didnt give a shit because he was at least accomplishing one of his missions - he was bothering people with this. There were actually people out there who could not stop thinking about how evil a person Stephen Hiltmore was. There had been many editorials written already, people telling how they wished to see Stephen Hiltmore stand trial in front of the Supreme Court for treason. The only problem was no one had an inkling of a clue as to who he was, where he lived, or even his age range. One man, Theodore Gomerson, wrote an editorial to the New York Times in which he said he
wished to kill Hiltmore himself. He said the man was an utter disgrace to the United States of America and "should be shot in the face like the slimy, cowardly worm he is.". Normally, people would be afraid of a threat like this, however John had no interest in the editorial or the man. Really nothing much better to do with his time, John thought. Writing editorials to newspapers did nothing for you really, except get a few people on your side and get a lot more people on the opposing side. However, he was sure that this editorial had everybody on ol Theos side. Over the next two years, John Gerrick a.k.a. Stephen Hiltmore wrote a few more novels, his favorites being "The Perfect Blend", a novel denouncing racism and other forms of prejudice, and "Schoolhouse", a book on Hiltmores view of life. Then, in the year 1999, he saw another editorial, this one in the Washington Post, by that oh-so-lovable man Theodore Gomerson. Even over almost five years, the flame of hatred burned brightly within Theodore. Hatred for Stephen Hiltmore. This editorial was entitled "Love Not For A Traitor" (a playoff of Hiltmores book title) and spoke of how Hiltmore had degraded the country to his full extent, and did not deserve to live here, unless he was six feet underground. By now, John Gerrick had an amazing collection of papers written against him, and chuckled lightly while he cut this one out. "That makes one thousand, five hundred seventy-three articles written in hatred for our dear old friend, Stephen Hiltmore", John said aloud to himself. "Lord, oh Lord, what will he think?" He always amused himself while cutting these out and putting them in alphabetical order by author, in the big file cabinet he kept in his bedroom between the bedpost and the closet. About once a month, John would skip the Lost Friends Tavern and go out and get himself a twenty-four pack of Heineken. He would then go home, whip out a bunch of editorials to amuse him, and start drinking. Since he started writing, he had ceased watching television, thought of it as a contamination of the mind. He would go through about fifty editorials, two packs of burners, and three quarters of the twenty-four pack of beer. The last night he entertained himself in this queer but interesting way was on September 9, 1998, the night before the night he received the package. The "package" was addressed to a "Mr. John Gerrick a.k.a. Stephen Hiltmore", explained the FedEx delivery man. Say, was he the one and only son of a bitch who wrote those dishonorable, hateful books, the delivery man wanted to know. "No", replied John, nervously laughing. It was an inside joke between him and a friend, he told the delivery man. For the first time in a long while, John Gerrick was nervous. Who found out who he was? "I dont mean to intrude, but do you think I could trouble you for a glass of water?", the delivery man asked. "Oh no, come right in", John replied. "Have a seat."John went into the kitchen to get a glass of water for the man. As he reached for a glass, he noticed he still had the package in his hand. He was nervous, but extremely curious, so he opened the package, half-expecting it to blow up in his face at the slightest tear. Finally, drenched in sweat, he managed to get the package open. Enclosed was a folder. Upon opening it, he found to his surprise it was a biography of his life. This biography was so complete; it contained everything, including some incidents that John had even forgotten. He became so absorbed in the biography that he completely forgot about the FedEx man waiting for his water. He finally got to the last page and saw something that took his breath away: "Died September 10, 1998". "Excuse me." "Aaah!", John screamed. The FedEx man had come in. "Oh, Im sorr-". He saw the nose of the gun....BOOM! He dropped to the floor, and his blood sprayed on to the biography, on to the authors name - Theodore Gomerson.
Copyright © 1999 William Delaney |