Fenris Badwulf, caring person

I return to my community in full measure the horse dung and spitting peasants that they force me to endure as I go about none of their business. And the best way to do that is community service, and I do mine in the for profit charity sector. I volunteer at a Suicide Distress Call-Center, of my own creation. I intervene, more efficiently, than does the clumsy, over supervised, state apparatus. And I have people of good character help me in this work. My friend Conrad helps me at the Suicide Distress Call-Center line I run as the methods seminar from intermediate fraud at the Fenris Badwulf School of Telemarketing Excellence.

Take Jack, for example. He first called in on the last full moon. He likes to steal coffee makers from houses. He masturbates to the smell of your fresh ground coffee. Now, Conrad had been discussing the summer of ‘69 back where he works (his day job), and the people there, some of whom had been present during that time as hippies themselves, so, inspired, he suggested LSD with Neuro Linguistic Programming could help our Jack. Sounds groovy, so we started on a path of healing for Jack.

The unthinkable thing about being a burglar, is finding something far worse than something worth stealing. Jack called me from his cell phone. He was quite scared. He blurted out that he was inside the house that had been agreed upon as a target for burglary. He had their stainless steel Ilsa of the SS coffee maker. He had rubbed himself down with coffee grounds. And then, reflected in a large hallway mirror, he saw the shrine. The pictures, who they were, the silver bowl, the incense, the small wooden box, and the letter opener. Just a shrine, but you do not want this sort of thing when you are sneaking into a house. Our Jack, fresh from American Culture 101 at the Fenris Badwulf School of Telemarketing Excellence, knew damn well who Atkins, Krenwinkel, and Van Houten were. And that he should not be in a place where there were three pictures of them, arranged in silver frames, around a gentle silver bowl, filled with rosewater. Perhaps it was the shaking beam of the flashlight from his quaking hands. I want to leave, he told me.

I told him to calm down. Lots of people have shrines to Manson’s witches. It is a normal part of a multicultural community and you should accept it. Take their coffee maker and go. It is very similar to Buddhism, only they wear more … burgundy, or black, than orange. Thnk of them as Kate Bush, not themselves.

I became more concerned when he told me the occupants of the house were returning. Was Jack capable of witnessing the inevitable police brutality associated with the murder that often follows a bandit, disturbed at work? Jack retreated to a broom closet in the kitchen. There he prepared to die.

He counted five voices before he lost his fear of talking again to me on his cell phone. Of course, they had brought home a baby, a human infant, fresh and kicking from some third trimester mill. The killed it, cooked it, and ate it. During this horror Jack freely vomited and pissed himself in fear. His ghastly observations from his hidden perch in the kitchen, came in slow fashion, as measured as the steps to put a roast beef in the oven.

Perhaps they really are a coven of witches, opined Conrad. I shook my head as I covered the mouthpiece. I was eating a chicken salad sandwich. Jack was witnessing a Manson family prayer dinner.

No, this is all a fantasy out of his subconscious, I said. The LSD is getting him to hallucinate. There is no way there are abortion clinics out there retailing into the baby meat and home sacrifice, quick serving baby meat market. Not a single 8 month, 3 week old foetus, still kicking, has found its way to some ritual in all the years and decades the left has allowed the abortion industry to thrive without the least safeguards, oversight, nor forethought. He is just making it up.

Conrad had ordered the Swiss Chalet chicken Party Wheelbarrow (sounds better in Mandarin, apparently) and was soaking his fries in sauce. The tax payers pay for it. On Fridays, we got a bottle of scotch. Now, Jacks’ fantasy world was making me hungry. Conrad and I put Jack on the speaker phone, then dug into the feast.

After dessert, the coven left to go to an art show. Jack came out, scraping off his own vomit and walking in sneakers squishy soaked with his own urine. He took some pictures of the feast. He demanded we look at them. Conrad ignored them, and stuck to the chocolate blueberry fudge sent as a Thank You dessert. For Jack, he had basically some dirty dishes and pots. I could clearly identify that they ate mashed potatoes, but obvious signs of roast baby, there were none, or not much. The bones were the wrong shape to be chicken, or pork, or beef. Whatever they had done, it was not a Christian thing to do, and so I better be a good Canadian and shut up and smile about it. I told Jack the same good advice. Jack took that good advice and took off, but he left behind a trail of spoor, and left a stain on his car seat. The witches of where Jack found them will be on their broom sticks, looking for Jack. We did not tell Jack, that. We just got him cleaned up, gave him a mind wipe with some LSD, and sent him out to sleep in his car for a few days, somewhere out there. If Jack cannot find himself, how they heck can the fantasy witches of his fears? I had made the situation better.

That is what I did to show that I care. Can you say as much? So when a telemarketer calls, you give them your money. You will feel less white guilt for slavery, if you do. And when you see women move in groups of three, be careful of witches. In this case, spun on Acid.

8 Responses to “Fenris Badwulf, caring person”

  1. Buck Says:

    This was quite good, Mayor. You are indeed a twisted… yet gifted… soul. I like that in a man.

    Apropos of nothing, I really was a volunteer at a community suicide prevention hot line once upon a time in the way-back. I’ll reveal one of the most shameful things I ever did in my life now, heretofore known to only a select few. A select VERY few. One of the other volunteers and I (we worked in pairs) took the phones off the hook for about a half hour one night so we wouldn’t be interrupted while we engaged in other (and MUCH more pleasant) activities on the floor of the center. It was worth it, in the end, and we consoled ourselves by sayin’ it was a slow night. Coz it was. Sorta.

  2. The Mayor Says:

    haha – that is the BOMB.

    I betcha you were extra cool and collected when the first call came in after your *encounter*.

  3. Andy Says:

    BUCK! What are you doin’ over here north of the border?

    And, why didn’t you tell us about this before, dangit?

    This is bitchin’ cool!!!

  4. The Mayor Says:

    Buck knows that by coming north like this that eventually a conversation about hockey will erupt.

  5. Buck Says:

    …eventually a conversation about hockey will erupt.

    Heh. And I’m secure in the knowledge that the Beloved Wings are well-positioned at the moment and are once again favorites to take Lord Stanley’s Cup back to Dee-troit. Canuckistan’s only hope resides out in Vancouver and they’ll manage to pull off yet another post-season collapse. It’s their karma.

  6. marc in calgary™ Says:

    yet another Van City collapse.


  7. J.M. Heinrichs Says:

    Hmmm …
    71 Vancouver
    66 Detroit
    54 Calgary
    Fortunately, Calgary is still ahead of Toronto.


  8. The Mayor Says:

    J.M. – those aren’t the hockey standings, those are the temperatures.

    Oh damn, we’re still in last…

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