Metaphysic Storm

…takin’ two credit cards and an erotic part of one’s body and making a non-biodegradable meat sandwich. Then takin’ the plastic parts and moving them in opposite directions titillating one’s erogenous zone.

After running my first credit report and receiving the “very poor - fuck you” score of 505, I remembered some 15 years ago members of my family and a wife to be, convincing me it was a good idea to “get good credit”. I did what many of the youth were instructed to do and applied for a department store card, used it and paid it off. How wonderful it was to not have to carry a check book around. Lord knows I was buying a waterproof walk man cassette player with FM radio every other year. To think I would have to take some cash, out of my pay check, to the store: In God i trust Forbid.

The next logical step was to get a real meaty card, Master baiter capitol Uno. I got it and for many years had a grand old time, swiping it when I didn’t have enough cash on me and paying it off at the end of the month. Then, as life is prone to do, I ran into some trouble. I had just moved to a new city with a new Cat. I had the sweet bikes, computer, kitchen ware, etc. but no bed to sleep in. I contemplated buying a cheap bed but I’ve always considered a good bed a priority preventive health problem solution. I thought buying a $150 bed, that I would have to replace in 6 months, a waste and opted to hold my cash and charge an $800 bed to my fuck me card.

I was riding my bike 6 miles and crossing the Mississippi to work were my French employers and I had communication problems. Bruno didn’t like my German sourdough influence (A Self loathing Jew taught me how to bake) and failed to understand that the Jackson street ferry was not particularly dependable at the time. Even though I was a month away from moving uptown, were I could completely power my arrival to work, the Frenchman fired me because I was late (an he was jealous of my master baker Arian hands;). So there I was, broke, stuck on the west bank with no mototransport, constrained by the General de Gaul and ferry schedule. Yadda yadda yadda… I don’t remember what the hell happened. All I can remember for sure is that I went from kitchen to kitchen making next to nothing and was never able to get back on top of the debt I mounted. At the time I didn’t mind so much, in fact I actually enjoyed being on the bottom. Who needs to think of the Master when a flesh and blood pussy is humming away on the visco elastic spastic fantastic.

Soon enough, the free ride ended. I got a job baking on the American Orient Express, now known as “GrandLuxe Rail Journeys” and Cat herine and the two psycho kittens went their merry way. Unfortunately, the train and I didn’t get along very well. It was obvious that the American Orient used the coolness of working on the only Luxe train in North America as part of the compensation for the hell on earth working conditions. Had I not spent the time I had in New Orleans and known what a rich poor-city is, I might have sucked some rail, bent over and let the train right in my tunnel. And this was right after the terrorists attack on NY and Washington, which momentarily got me in the terrorist mind strategy set. Derailing passenger trains or explosives, I thought with some Spanish foresight, would be an incredibly rich target. Even more so when each trip pulls in a half million dollars: fuckin’ crazy foamers. (Foamers n. - the name given to people who foam at the mouth of any cool looking train.)

Well I still owed the capitol some money and I ran into more trouble in the lower French quarter. I missed a payment or two. My bed magically transformed from a NASA material into thin air and I was left to a Homosexually repressed sexual assaulting pig’s hand me down flee infested crippled spring mattress. My $800 bed quickly turned into 10 thousand dollars, with all the penalties and radically morphing interest rates. The intimidating letters and their requested amounts they demanded seemed impossible to handle with my remaining employment opportunities. Then I thought, ‘what do I have to lose if I don’t pay them the 9 thousand dollars I didn’t even borrow from them?’. For seven years I didn’t notice anything. They sent the letters. I threw the letters away. No debt police came knocking on my door to take me to debtors prison and I had no desire to take money from a corporation to do things I shouldn’t do anyway. If I could go back I would tell that pussy that “we’re sleeping on the floor” or she could go out and be mounted by another nut job.

I never thought that I would be interested in getting a job that my credit score would be a factor. Credit is an evil system; I don’t even believe in evil. Two years ago he lent me two thousand north American dollars to buy a mini van to travel around the United States and make paintings. I’ve just repaid him in full. I’ve been living off of nearly nothing, but have made it a point to pay him as much as I could, while still having a human half-life. He lent me the money because he knew it was a secured loan. I value him as a friend and wouldn’t bail on our friendship because things got tough. Master Card encouraged me an to acquire an unsecured loan and fell victim to my circumstances. They’ve harassed me, psychologically intimidated me and have demanded unreasonable amounts compared to what I borrowed. Then they sold me to collectors who belittle me by offing a “cut rate deal” to clear my credit up. I don’t want my credit “cleared up”. I don’t want credit ever again. Unfortunately, I want a job and hospital insurance, and that job is a public position which judges an applicant on their dealings with loan sharks. Bad Credit vs. Kønig - Charged with reckless endangerment of future employment. Guilty as charged.

The Nation Under Abraham Capitol.

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