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Andrew Roller Presents
I WIN
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It would be nice to meet a human. Really nice. I walk your streets.
I look into your windows. I enter your homes and I sleep in your beds.
Sometimes, when I go into a house, I sleep with your daughter. SheÕs
just bones now, of course. White bones, with a little hair on top. Long,
stringy hair. ThatÕs how I can tell itÕs a girl.
At least I hope itÕs a girl.
Sometimes on your daughters in your houses the flesh is still there.
Partly, you know. The rest of her skin is decomposed, or eaten by dogs,
perhaps, or macaroni-like maggots. In those instances I let your daughter
sleep alone.
Except sheÕs not alone, in those cases. SheÕs sleeping with the
maggots.
I was reading a magazine article about you the other day. It was an
article written by you, and about you. Funny how you humans were always
so self-referential.
It said, ÒCompetition based on short-term outcomes certainly
produces odd results. Darwinian selection has resulted in all sorts of
bizarre and apparently wasteful strategies in nature; many have
contributed to the extinction of their practitioners over the longer term.
Over-large antlers, tail feathers, and maybe brains are part of this ever-
growing list.Ó
Yes, brains.
Kevin Williams wrote that in one of your magazines: The Economist,
May 8, 1999, pg. 6. Not that heÕll sue me if I donÕt mention him, of course.
How many years has it been since that issue came out? Fifty? A
hundred? Two hundred? ThereÕs no way of telling, now. At least not by
me. And I guess IÕm the only one left of you who counts, arenÕt I? Except I
donÕt count. Not back that far, anyway.
Yes, it would be nice to meet a human. Even Kevin Williams. Even
his lawyer, except I mentioned him, so I guess I wonÕt.
Kevin mentioned something else, from Ecclesiastes: Òtime and
chance happeneth to them all.Ó
Yes, humans, to them all. Even to you, as I can see just by looking all
around me.
Funny how AIDS never seemed to bother the trees.
I read something else. A letter. One of you writing to another of
you, about others of you. So self-referential. He wrote: ÒI canÕt even
walk out of my apartment without running into security within 20
seconds. DoesnÕt anyone know the meaning of ÔpedestrianÕ any more, and
Ôpublic streetÕ?Ó
I know. Yes, humans, I know. I took a shit in the street half an hour
ago. Right out in the middle of it, where I always do. The macadam was
warm and the sun was setting and I just crouched down and eased out the
olÕ load of poop. I was hoping perhaps the letter writerÕs security guard
would come along. But he didnÕt. Then I walked a little ways and the sun
was almost down so I just laid down myself, on that warm macadam, and I
went to sleep. When I woke up, later, the stars had come out. They were
beautiful.
ÒOh, man, whither goest thou?Ó Is that in your Ecclesiastes too?
Why did you leave me, humans? Why didnÕt you take me with you?
I had a mother but sheÕs dead now. Long dead. She died when I was
still little. Then I just took the world for granted. I thought the
shattered buildings had always been shattered. I thought the spent bullets
intermingled with the pebbles and fragments of concrete were just part of
nature. Natural objects, they seemed to me, created by the great God who
had forgotten you.
And me too.
Yes, when I was a child, the world was empty, and I thought it had
always been that way. It never occurred to me that the old bones lying in
the beds, or sometimes out in the street, had once been animated, alive.
You. Humans.
IÕve wandered your dark malls. They were lit once, but now theyÕre
just old. Old and empty. And dark. Decaying caves, with bodies.
IÕve climbed your cracked towers. IÕve stood on your bridges. Your
battered, falling bridges, watching the water below. It rushes past, alive.
Unlike you.
Ha. Are you believing all this shit? It makes it easier for me if I
tell it to myself this way, walking your empty streets. IÕm a child, born
after the holocaust. Or sometimes IÕm an alien, E.T. without a phone.
But I know damn well what happened to you. I killed you. All of you.
IÕm the cat with nine lives.
I woke up. Got outta bed. Ran a comb through my head. I took a mask
from the ancient gallery and I walked on down the hall.
Father, IÕm going to kill you.
And mother and sisÕ and the dog too. I never liked that dog.
Then I went to school. Wearing my black trench coat.
They couldnÕt stop me. I was well armed. Double-barrel shotgun,
TEC 9, plasma rifle in the 40 watt range.
I killed them in the halls, in the library, in the cafeteria. I hope they
enjoyed their last meal.
The SWAT team came, of course. They were fun. They couldnÕt stop
me either.
And then I walked back out of the school. You might say I dropped
out. Except they were the ones who dropped, and never got up again. I
dropped in and they dropped out.
Later, I found the silo. I got the portable nukes and I kept on going.
You called out the National Guard. They couldnÕt handle the portable
nukes but I could, with my portable nuke-armor.
It was a great game, while it lasted. IÕd rigged the game to have
endless lives.
But now youÕre all dead. And so I crap in your streets and tell
myself IÕm E.T. I sleep with your dead daughters. I even petted one of your
dead dogs, yesterday. It wasnÕt much fun.
No, itÕs not fun anymore.
I won the game, but now IÕm stuck inside it. Virtual reality sucks
when youÕre stuck inside it.
Somebody turn this fucking thing off!
Somebody, please.
Help, IÕve fallen and I canÕt get up. Except I havenÕt fallen. I rigged
the game to give myself endless lives.
I blew my head off this morning, with my TEC 9. It didnÕt help. IÕm
immortal, in my video game.
Somebody turn this fucking thing off!
The sun is rising. If I were a vampire it would kill me. But IÕm not a
vampire. IÕm 18, and IÕm stuck in my God-awful video game. Planet Earth,
itÕs called. ItÕs a very good simulation. It even has selected issues of the
Economist magazine. God knows who designed it.
And so now I walk the streets. I walk them when the macadam is
warm and I walk them when the macadam is wet, and itÕs raining. I watch
the sun rise. I watch the sun set. I look at the stars. I study the phases
of the moon, like some ancient tribal priest, except my tribe is all gone.
Come back to me, humans! IÕm tired of this fucking game!
Come back to me please. Speak to me. Shake my hand. ItÕs just a
virtual hand but IÕd love to have it shaken anyway.
Kiss me. IÕm tired of kissing corpses.
Yes, itÕs quite a game. You get to play Columbine High. Columbine
High all over again, by yourself. You donÕt need a friend. You donÕt need a
sidekick. You donÕt need anyone. You get endless rounds of ammo.
Kill them all. Let God sort them out. Kill the whole fucking planet.
Rig the game and give yourself endless lives. What a game! You can kill
and kill and kill. Keep right on killing. Keep right on going until all five
billion of YOU are dead.
And I win.
30
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