Noah Cicero - The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. I

The song ends.

I ask her for another one.

She repeats the process.

My hard-on remains.

While she dances for me.

I forget everything.

All my suffering is gone.

I have a total moment of peace.

Tranquility.

Serenity.

Harmony.

The dance is over and I’m left blue-balled.

I give her ten dollars and she goes on her way.

I look over at Jimmy.

“I love being human,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s great.”

“Let’s get drunk.”

“Okay.”

We get the bartender to bring over shots.

We suck them down.

We sit smiling at each other.

We don’t care about a damn thing in the world.

We order more beers.

“Remember September Eleventh?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“I woke up and saw the towers destroyed on television.”

“That’s quite a thing to wake up to.”

“No shit.”

“I got drunk that day.”

“I only remember the morning.”

“I only remember the night,” Jimmy says.

“I went to school that day. It was like chaos on campus. I couldn’t believe it, America was attacked.”

“I spent the night at the bar, I got so drunk. I remember pissing in the urinal, crying for America.”

“I cried that night too, I couldn’t help it, I was scared,” I say.

“You knew after that day, America would be changing.”

“America has turned into an Arab-killing monster.”

“I didn’t want to be in America anymore after that day. I wanted to leave the country, but I never did, I stayed right here. Fighting the American war.”

“Someday America will fall like Rome.”

“America is Rome.”

“Bush is Caligula,” I say.

“I feel bad for those young kids fighting in this war. They don’t know why they’re there. They don’t have a clue what’s going on. It’s not their fault they’re not intelligent enough to not take orders.”

“But that’s who they are, they’re people who take orders.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I’m happy that I’m in a strip joint at this moment. There’s no better place to be for the beginning of a war.”

“Yeah, it was a good idea to come here,” Jimmy says.

“I’m not happy to be alive at this moment. There’s something disagreeable about being American and human at this moment.”

“I feel really discontent. Like there’s something I should be doing. Like taking part in an anti-war protest or being over there in Iraq killing people. I don’t know which one, but I feel like I should be doing something instead of getting drunk in a strip joint. But this is all I can do to support my country.”

“Maybe we should sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“No, fuck it.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe we should pray.”

“Okay, let’s try it.”

“How does one pray?” I say.

“Don’t you have to believe in God to pray?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you do.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Well, what should we do?”

“Let’s get more lap dances for the troops.”

“That’s a great idea.”

We sit there frowning.

The redhead and China come back over.

We get more dances.

We both get hard-ons again.

The girls walk away.

We sit there rotting.

As we get older we are slowly learning.

That we can never control our environment.

That we are powerless.

That no matter how hard we try.

Nothing will ever get accomplished.

But we’re like all humans, and we keep on trying.

It’s compulsive.

It’s human to be human.

We are like all artists and we think that if we create the perfect piece of art, that suffering will stop, that the human war will end.

But it won’t.

The human war is ceaseless.

As long as there are humans.

There will be war.

We don’t get along.

That’s why we drink.

Because we can’t stand other humans.

Alcohol makes people tolerable.

Or very intolerable.

For violent drunks.

I think I’m going to spend the next couple of weeks drunk watching war coverage.

I’m going to sit drunk.

Watching the false reports.

And bullshit.

My friends will tell me I’m stupid for watching it.

But I won’t care.

I’ll watch anyway.

I will unwillingly succumb to the media.

Media.

Media.

Media!

The media controls us all.

Without the media there is no civilization.

Someday I will kill the media.

I’m going to kill it with a kitchen knife.

You watch.

It’ll be historical.

Mark Swift kills the Media on November 10th, 2022.

Civilization will collapse.

The monkeys will break out of their cages at the local zoo and take us over.

Then there will be the monkey wars.

America will lose.

Because Russia will sell helicopters to the monkey warriors.

We will all die.

It’ll be great.

Everyone dead.

Lying all over the place.

It’ll stink.

But the monkeys won’t care.

They won’t even bury us.

They’ll throw us all in the ocean.

And let us rot.

Absurdity.

Jimmy and I head to the bar for crapieoke.

Crapieoke is karaoke but with drunk kids in their early twenties and late teens at a piece of shit bar in Youngstown.

In the car I listen to the war reports.

It sounds sinister.

Death.

Bombs dropping.

Blowing up.

Then rubble.

I wonder what my children will think of this war.

Bush is a madman.

He doesn’t care about anyone.

He and Nixon could be best friends.

America, when will you vote for a decent person.

I’d like to ask America a lot of questions.

But I don’t even think they know the answers anyway.

I get to the bar, and go in.

The bar is on a shitty back street.

I go into the bar and stare at all the freaks who go there.

All the outcasts from Youngstown and Warren go there.

Goth kids, punks, indie kids, painters, skateboarders, and musicians.

A bunch of shitfucks basically.

I go and sit at the bar.

I order a Black Velvet and Coke.

I sit there in my own world, enjoying the view.

The war isn’t on the television; it’s some comedy show.

Everyone is laughing hysterically.

I’m in my own personal hell.

I rub my eyes and shed a tear.

And then Missy comes over and sits next to me.

Missy is this beautiful short-haired brunette.

I love her dearly.

She’s a painter and reads Rimbaud.

If she would allow me, I would marry her.

“What’s up Mark?” Missy says.

“Oh, nothing, getting drunk,” I say.

“That’s all one can really do in this time of crisis.”

“You got that right.”

“But I don’t want to talk about the war. I can’t handle it.”

“I can’t handle it either.”

“Today is my last day at work,” Missy says.

“Why, what are you going to do for money?”

“I have another job working for a make-up company. I sell make-up to old rich women for thirty dollars an hour.”

“That sucks.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“I hear you graduate this year. What are you going to do for the big job?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah, I don’t care, I don’t even know why I got the degree. It’s a fucking painter degree. What can I do with that?”

“Go to New York and be a star,” I say.

“Fuck New York, I’d rather stay here and be a big fish in a little pond.”

“But you’ll never make the money you could in New York.”

“I don’t want New York, I like my life in Youngstown.”