A Juvinile Putty Shoot

The Springs Of My Bed

I fired up the amplifier.
I had wired it wrong and the shock of the ambient electricity filled the room. Static electricity arced between the follicles of my hair. My teeth and gums tingled wickedly.
In a sizzle, the electricity flooded the wires around the room and hit the speakers with a whump.. It threw a howling wave of feed-back across my auras and the lobes of my brain like someone tossed a bucket of paint in my face.
“IYEEEEEEEE!” came the disembodied scream of my harasser from the refrigerator.
“Be careful” he screamed.
The smell of copper filled the room.
I could taste it on my tongue.
For a brief moment, the man on the microphone had stepped out of role.
He had dropped the litany of my sins and pooped his pants.
I would pay for that, he assured me.
For two months I had been involved in a radio show that I could not turn off.
There was little to distinguish this involvement from a psychotic break, except for the fact that it wasn’t particularly creative, it was obviously scripted and had a goal. The individuals doing the 24/7 air shift wanted me to move. They would not let me sleep or work. It was constant. I couldn’t go to the bathroom without someone commenting on the size of the emission or the smell.
I had made the police reports. They had been noted.
Describing this situation had been a real challenge.
Especially since filing the lawsuit my advisories had told anyone that would listen that I was psychotic, mentally deranged, wacked out, disgruntled and maybe even dangerous since leaving the agency.
I hadn’t slept in two months and I needed a haircut.
I assumed the role of a lunatic without saying a word.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s crazy” the director would say when he casually called the police and local journalists to give them the heads-up. "Under the influences, if you know what I mean."
“He wets the bed, shoplifts and worships the devil.”
Coincidentally, things that he himself had as hobbies.
The police, people I had worked with for several years looked at me with weary eyes.
“Toxins” I managed to get out when I could talk about it. “The work place is dangerous. They cause brain damage.”
“Get over it” friends urged.
I could barely talk.
As the copper tanged my tongue, I realized that we had entered a new phase in the lawsuit.
Gone were the ideas of a civilized debate among colleagues.
The daggers were out.
I knew I would have to fight back to survive.
The enemy had invaded the home land.
They spoke to me from the springs in my bed.
I was involved in a juvenile putty shoot.