Revelator Book 2: The Hate Culture

By William Control

The terror of eradication, the destruction of morality, the dying yells of the man I have become and here I've made my choice. My decision to fall head first into oblivion. Fuck redemption. Fuck Lucifer. Let the syringe and bottle be my guide. Drowning in my hate for the culture that surrounds me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387189113

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Revelator Book 2: The Hate Culture

Revelator Book 2: The Hate Culture

Third Edition

Truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

-Lord Byron

To Jude

Forevermore

One.

Stranded on a claustrophobic island within my own head. The ghosts and apparitions from a seedy, bygone era are still lingering, jeering and knocking around like drunks without drinks. They suffer serious bouts of delirium tremens whilst shaking and whispering in the wind of my own madness. There’s nothing but the bones of old creatures lurking in the jungle rot. Demoralized are the limp limbs of crusty trees and for heavens sake, the smell coming from the east side of this plane is horrific. I’m a prisoner in an achromatic cubical, bolted down and strapped in, a wailing mental patient without a voice. A high-definition digital monitor plays a movie about two cops trying desperately to take down a drug dealer. I think one of them is psychologically unstable. I’m sitting on a cheap polyester seat that doubles as a floatation device just in case we crash-land into the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Safety first. This chair is horrific. The angle I am sitting in is tormenting my already broken posture. It doesn’t matter that I am in first-class. They want you to be as uncomfortable as possible. I believe the money spent engineering these seats was a waste. Or it’s a cruel experiment, an experiment on the intellect of the general public, on the patience of an involuntary recipient. Forever the lab rat I suppose.

I unbuckle my restraints and stand up to stretch my legs. The muscles groan at the stress of malnourishment. The cabin pressure is fucking with my equilibrium and as I make my way towards the lavatory marked unoccupied, I can feel the carpet underfoot shifting and boiling against my bare feet. Just like John McClane, I hate flying with shoes on. I have a Valium that I was able to sneak through security burning a hole in my pocket. Lucky me, I am so crafty sometimes. This toilet is going to be my sanctuary for the next ten minutes. Cramming into the tiny bathroom I pull the latch on the door behind me.

Locked. Secured. Alone. Relief.

Crushing up these pills proves more difficult than I had imagined. The slight turbulence we are experiencing is making it impossible to keep the chemicals into a nice neat little pile on the stainless steel countertop. Steady…. Steady. My shaking hands are anything but steady, and the scotch I’ve plied myself with isn’t helping. You’ll get there. I promise myself. Finally, they line up. Three perfectly plump rails of granular medical grade tranquilizers. Beautiful. I don’t need to bend over too far to reach them, my body is contorted in such a way that I merely need to crane my neck. Swoosh goes the first line into my sinuses. Burn. Chugga. Churn. Sniffing lines of Valium, what a waste. Beggars can’t be choosers. Each rail taken at a steady pace, nothing is lost. I can feel it beginning to release the dopamine or whatever chemical reaction occurs that creates euphoria. It’s enlightening, terrifying. I feel cheery, on edge and relaxed all at the same time. I’m the loser Superman, slower than a broken locomotive but able to drink large bottles of wine and absinthe in a single gulp. Kapow. Then I catch a glimpse of my tattered reflection.

It never ends with you, does it? No matter how far down the gamut you have gone, there is always one more thing to shovel into your face, or brain or bloodstream. When are you going to realize that losing your mind through drink and drug is but a symptom of your troubles? It’s the sneeze within the cold, the tumor…

Before the voice wraps up his redundant lecture I tell him to go fuck himself this time. I don’t want to listen to his bullshit. I’m done listening to his bullshit. I’m done with bullshit in general. This is it for me. I’m on my way to the old world, to the charred black tendons and dirty brick boulevards of London Town. My escape. My unilateral move towards a standing ovation and my ultimate demise. Here I come! My reflection staring back at me is grim. He is always grim and foreboding. I’m not surprised. My pupils have been reduced to pins swimming in the hazel ocean of my iris and I am driven mad with the guilt supplied by shame and the remorse of my burning loneliness.

I made up my mind in that cemetery with Lucifer. I drove towards the cliff of my own understanding, I can’t have Vivienne, therefore I desire nothing. Well, except one last run at oblivion, romantic and destructive. I want to end this turbulent life with a bang. Who doesn’t? The voice of Neil Young plays in my head like elevator music, soft and comforting. It’s better to burn out than fade away. Fucking elevator music.

Excuse me sir, are you feeling okay?

I’m back in the mental ward where everyone is drooling and watching their pint-sized monitors. A thicker lady stuffed into a dark blue pant suit is sitting in the seat next to me and has noticed that I am sweating like a stuck pig over an open fire. My hands are shaking worse than before I left for the lavatory. Her eyes are wide with concern; she’s probably just horrified at the sight of me, who can really tell?

I am, yes. Well, in a sense that all my personal issues are falling away because of the Valium I ingested in the bathroom a few moments ago.

I sniff. The drip in the back of my throat is gross; boogers and chemicals sliding steadily towards my stomach, marching with pride and taking a victory lap in my intestines before being absorbed into the filth of my bloodstream.

"But is anybody really Okay? I say. Does that even exist? Sure I can run two miles in the morning air, and drink a smoothie and feel okay, but that won’t negate the fact that I am falling apart, that I am fragmenting into pieces and generally, well, losing my mind."

I don’t think that was the answer she was looking for. All I have left is my honesty and I’m certain she didn’t want to hear it, especially since she has to sit next to this sweaty, jittering drug addict for the next eleven hours. Pity. For her.

I wish I had grabbed the book that was in my suitcase before leaving it with Hope, at least I would have something to occupy my drowning head. The channels are dry and I can’t take any more of this shitty cop flick.  Hope. What a strange creature, beautiful and terrifying. I’m not really sure what to make