The Soma Incident By David Caffee 2,928 words Richard Jenson had a thing for Jesus and crack cocaine. When he wasn't out on a binge somewhere rocking up he'd "find the spirit" again and give his life to God. But it was never too long before his ranting about the Bible and Christ would wear thin. His family and friends never ceased to disappoint him with their sins and their blasphemy. Tempation would find Richard again and he would curse his own weakness. The disappointment would drag on him and he'd seek relief. First it would be something simple; one beer, maybe a shot of whiskey or a pill. The next thing you know life would be one big party all over again. He wouldn't care about anything other than getting fucked up out of his mind and just feeling good. Family, friends, job, God, they were all secondary considerations when he held that crack pipe in his hand. *** "So I shot the bastard, so fucking what?!" I hear myself say, not really feeling the anger in my voice. Truth is I'm very calm right now. This is after the fact, the hard part is over with now. I just sit back and ride the rest through, I'll take whatever they say I've got coming to me. If this pig would stop riding me so hard I could almost relax a little. But that's not what they want, they have to keep you uncomfortable, not give you any time for your mind to rest and sort things out, no time to think. I'm on to their game. The same principle as any other kind of torture or mind-control, only the methods are different. The cop growls at me and gives me that, "You disgust me" stare that pigs always get when they're being self righteous. I could give a fuck what he thinks. If he had shot that motherfucker they'd give him some kinda fucking medal and say he was a hero. I blast the little shit and they throw me in jail. It's the same way all over, the system's set up like that, the rules are always different when your on his side of the table. "Let's go over it from the top once more." the other pig says very calmly. He must be the good-cop. "I'm tired of playing games with this prick, Leroy. He better give it to us straight this time." the bad-cop says to me, mentally adding the words "or else" I think. I'm not scared of that asshole. He's the kind of dumb-ass that thinks he can beat the whole world into acting the way he wants. So it starts over again with the lights and the uncomfortable chairs, handcuffs cutting into my wrists, the bad-cop screaming at me and the good-cop asking the same questions over and over again. They know I won't give them a straight answer. Not the first time, or the second or third either. But after hours and hours of sitting in that room with those pigs watching them drink coffee and look down at me like I'm some kind of rat living in their basement it'll start to hit me. Sleep deprevation is the first step towards mind control, continued discomfort, alternating reward with punishment and most of all repitition, these are the steps to driving someone so crazy that they will tell you anything you want. These pigs are working it on me, everyone has their breaking point, even me and I'm on to what they're doing. I've read about it in psychology and history books. The Russians, Germans, North Koreans, they all added their own two cents to the art of mind control. I've read the texts books on interogation that cops study from at the pig-academy, it's all the same as what the communists do to people, they just use kid gloves. I'm sitting here hour after hour and those two are starting to grind on me. I have to try hard not to hate them, hating them would give them power over me, I can't let them control my emotions. The good-cop is the worst of the pair, at least the other pig is honest when he tells me what a piece of shit I am. *** Richard Jenson rode the bus past the office building he used to work at on Telegraph Ave. By God, give me strength. I pray to you that I might turn the other cheek. I will not raise my hand against those whom have injured me. I hope you're listening Lord, I can't go on like this forever. I have no purpose in life, I just go from day to day like a cripple, struggling and forcing myself to do everything. I won't even eat unless someone else cooks for me, or else I just eat my food cold. I can't fight it any longer without you God. Evil thoughts keep coming to me and I savor them. God have pity on me, I am unworthy of my life. Jenson could picture the inside of the office building clearly. The front desk where the young office manager sat reading his car magazines and planning church softball outings. The back room where doughnuts were left out and the water cooler was kept. He could picture the tall blonde executive who tempted him with her long legs but never once spoke to him politely. That whore. He remembered a black intern who gave him rides home from work and never took life too seriously. He was jealous of that man because everything seemed so easy for him. None of those people treated me like a man. I was just someone who copied their papers and delivered their packages. In the very was the private office of Sam, the Chief Financial Officer who locked himself behind that door and made phone calls all day, he drove his brand new Catera around running personal errands and got paid a fortune for doing nothing. Richard found many reasons to hate working in that building, he found even more reasons to hate those people after he was fired. Not just those people, the ones like them, the people who sleepewalk through life without a care. They have doctors and therapists and support groups to help them with every ache and pain. They have no problems except the ones they make up, they cause problems for themselves and fuck up their lives in itty- bitty ways so someone can feel sorry for them. Richard once told the permanently stressed out, hyper-active Executive Coordinator that she shouldn't complain about anything. She felt her whole life was coming apart, she ran around constantly trying to beat a deadline and had no social life to go back to when she left the office. Her husband and her were seperated and her only connection was a bar buddy that she slept with when they both had time. Jenson said that she should spend less time working and give her heart to Jesus, God would give her life real meaning. She looked at him like he was crazy. I'd fuck that bitch so hard if I had the chance. She might not be pretty but I'd do it just cause she needs it. She needs a real man, a real life, not all this bullshit. God those people are so lost. Then there's the other one, the soft one, Angel. His heart ached at the thought of her, trapped inside that office surrounded by work and all those hollow people. Most of all he wanted to help her. *** Here we go again over and over the same story, twisting the details around just enough that they catch me on it. Then they'd asked why I said one thing this time and another thing the second time. I just say I was lying. Then they can't believe anything I say just because I'm a liar but they know some of it's true. It drives these pigs nuts, not as much as they bug me but it's a small revenge. *** Almost home now, jump off the bus, hit the ATM machine and find a dealer. There's always one on market street somewhere. I might have enough left for a twenty, maybe a fifty rock. That should last me until tonight, maybe all day if I stretch it out. Can't be too glutonous, my account's almost empty and I ain't paid for rent yet. Maybe Jimmy'll let me slide a few days..... *** Mr. Jenson got off the bus at the corner of Market and Sixth streets about 5:45 P.M. He walked home five blocks to the hostel where he lived and sneaked in through the fire escape. He nearly fell to the pavement as he climbed but finally managed to struggle his way up the side of the landing. His hands ached where the metal struts cut into his palms as he pulled his body up the outside railing. He walked up the stairs and went straight to his room. Using a pen knife he cut his rock into tiny chunks. He took out a thin metal tube and stuffed a peice of steel wool into it. Carefully he loaded the pipe with a few slivers and lifted flame to it. Gently he sucked in the smoke, greedily his lungs crunched down, rejecting the urge to cough the smoke out. He sat back and leaned against the side of his bunk bed. The muscles in his face relaxed and he closed his eyes. He did not stir again for about a minute, then he cut up more peices from the rock and smoked them in the same manner. His roommate, Christopher, came in a few minutes later and Richard shared a few hits with him. *** "Look man, I'm getting tired of this." "You're getting tired?" the bad cop says to me, "You little motherfucker, I'm getting tired! I didn't plan on clocking overtime today! Why don't you cut the shit?" "You want a straight answer?" I ask him knowing that's what they wanted. The question was just to piss him off. Both cops look at me blankly. "You sure you don't want us to call your lawyer back in here?" good-cop asks. I'd sent that asshole away in discust hours ago. Stupid public defender wouldn't argue my case anyway. He talked to me for five minutes and the words plea bargain came up. I can do better than that myself, I know how these pigs think, I can push their buttons better than he can. I say to them, "This is what happened, straight up. I came back to the room about 6:30 or a little later. Asshole was there smoking rocks again and talking to Chris about that office he used to work at. Motherfucker was obsessed with that place, talking about those people were the reason God had abondoned us and shit. Guy was fucking nuts. Anyway..... *** Richard and Chris sat in the room smoking crack until the rock was gone. After the third roommate returned, Christopher went to market street to buy another one. Richard threw in his last twenty dollars to pay for his half. Richard began to tell his roommate about a revalation he had on the bus earlier. The roommate told him to skip it and went about checking his things to make sure nothing was missing. Sure enough there was fourteen dollars missing from underneath his mattress. *** So I ask the prick about the money and he said Chris took it earlier. Of course if I went to ask Chris about it he'd probably say that Richard took it and the whole fucking thing would start over again. That's the way it is when you live with a couple of base heads. The two of them would sit there for hours getting cracked up and arguing with me about something they said they didn't steal. A couple bucks here and there, CD's, my Sega GameGear, all kinds of shit went missing over the months. I tried not to get too pissed about it, you know, they can't help themselves cause they're sick and all that. But that skinny little shit would sit there and "Praise Jesus!" this and "God Bless" that and all the time he was robbing me and everyone else just to get his dope. He'd sit there for an hour picking through the carpets to make sure he didn't drop a little sliver of crack, just to get that last hit. He pissed me off. So me and him started arguing about this money he stole and he told me it was alright and it was just a possesion and money wouldn't matter in heaven and he had seen the way and he was going to change his whole life. *** "You must understand! God has shown me the way from sin. I'm serious here, it came to me when I passed the old office. Bam! Right in front of me. That's where the real sinners are, not wretches like me but strong people who sit in their ivory towers and spit on the rest of us. They deserve His wrath, not the weak like me." I try to explain to him but his is blind like the rest of them. He thinks possesions are the meaning of life, not happiness. He despises me for my gluttony and he is right for that. I just can't help myself, the devil is in me, the call is too strong and the feeling....it ends all the pain. Chris must get back soon, I need the feeling to come back again. *** Richard's roommate went over and kicked him in the ribs and screamed at him. He shouted that he was tired of being robbed and tired of hearing about God. He told Richard Jenson that he didn't know anything and that he was just another idiot crack head. *** That motherfucker belonged in the god-damned zoo or something. Kept telling me, "You'll understand, you'll see, I'll make it clear as soon as I get my head straight. The good-cop asks me, "So what about the gun?" I tell him, "I usually kept it with me so the rocks stars wouldn't trade it for some shit. That day I was going to a job interview so I just left it there, going to the nice side of town Nob Hill and shit so it wasn't like I was going to get jumped or anything. Anyway, me and Rich kept going at it and going at it and I fucking kicked him and threw ashtrays and bottles at him and shit and he just wouldn't shut up. I fucking got tired of it so I jumped up on my bunk and lay down. When I did my foot musta dragged on the covers and shown where my peice was hidden. *** The moment I saw it Lord, I knew my purpose was clear. I had been searching and searching to find the meaning of my life and all I had been through. The drugs had clouded my brain and hate and self-pity had clouded my heart. Now I see clearly, as if my soul were wearing glasses. The gun, smooth and polished, I could almost feel the cold metal in my hand before I touched it. He is a fool, he thinks the gun is a tool to be used but know what it really is. The gun is power, power is what I have never known. My mouth went dry as I edged my way to his bed. I reached out my hand to touch it's handle. *** The roommate jumped up and planted a kick on Richard's face. Richard stumbled back, letting the gun drop to the floor.... *** I didn't know if he was going to steal it or shoot me or what. I kicked him and jumped out of bed. He said he needed it for something. He said his dad would pay me if I gave it to him, 'cept I knew his dad was dead. He grabbed at the gun on the floor and I busted his head with one of my books, I think it was Guerrilla Warfare, you know, Che Guerra. The asshole stumbled back against the door. He looked up at me like he was crazy, I mean he had like serious rage in his eyes. That was the first time I ever thought that guy could scare me. I mean, I always just thought of him as this pathetic old guy. *** Richard grabbed an empty bottle of Busch from the floor and broke it against the door frame. He moved forward, holding the broken bottle in front of him with clear intent. He lunged at his roommate. The other man dropped to one knee and grabbed at the pistol on the floor. Richard slashed downwards, cruelly driving the glass into his roommate's shoulder. The other man screamed in pain and brought the gun to bear. He fired once, hitting Richard in the stomach. Richard Jenson fell against the bottom bunk of his bed and lay there bleeding. His roommate stumbled to his feet and walked over to him. He fired the gun again. "So I shot him like two..three more times, I'm not real sure it's still kinda hazy. After that I went to the bathroom and tried to get my shoulder cleaned up but I couldn't reach it and it hurt if I moved my arm. So I just gave up and went down to the kitchen to get something to eat."