Colonel Marlow.

Colonel Marlow, wake up.

Colonel Marlow, you’re shaking. Are you okay?

Stand up. There you go.

Good morning, Colonel Marlow.

Blue is the color of the season. Blue is the color of the smoking punk. Blue is the color of inescapable order and our fine stimulation. Blue is the color of my great survival.

This survival is dependent on routine. Nature’s predators take no detours, find no pleasure in trivialities; they eat to survive, they kill for power and for point, and they lose no sleep, toss and turn for no one. And many, myself included, have found the only assured way of survival is not in empathic mimicry, but in observational, factual, rational, and functional mimicry.

I am the lion of Los Angeles, fueled by your laughter, your anger, your banter, and your stagnation. Your eyes...the only way I understand is through observation. Your eyes...the sound of your inflection, the steadiness of your pace. Your eyes...the heart pounding in your chest, the grinding of your teeth, the infection in your skin. Your eyes, your eyes, your eyes...when I hit you against the floor, again and again and again and again...the crunch of your skull as your meat drips out, a concrete human stew. It is stimulation, it is animalistic, but it is pure, blue fascination. I am only me as much as you are you.

You may think you know me, you may think I am your friend, but I only want to get ahead. I only want to discover and survive. As much as I caress you, push you against the wall and pull your hair, and as lengthy as the satisfaction of the visit...I am only interested in myself. I am not your friend. I am not your co-worker. I am not your neighbor. I am not your brother. I am not your disease. And I am absolutely not your cure.

I am an infinitely hollow thing.

42nd street is darkest on Tuesday nights. I made sure of this before I decided on this removal. I make sure the locals, specifically the men (who my brotuhers call “taco benders”), are out of sight, lights out. The few who still dare to watch over 42nd are too preoccupied with their cigarettes and amphetamines to mind me, I’m sure of it.

Garbage lines the street, it feels ashy, cold, a kingdom to the less fortunate. But with nothing to fight and rule over (beyond the few walls sans graffiti), the homeless and the bums and the tramps and the other cretin overrun the place, debossing themselves into whichever cracks are the widest, wherever the repugnant water flows. I step over the breathing mound, careful to keep myself attentive to the task at hand, despite my mimicry kicking in and telling me to remove it. How easy it could have been to step on its head until it cracked, its blood spraying on me in an awesome wave. Or I could channel my inner Tovar and cover it in paint (they drown much quicker due to the thickness of the material, not to mention the toxicity of the chemicals), which is preferable if and only if you have the paint to match the street, a neutral Roycroft Pewter grey. But I continue down the street, past the barking dogs, past the twitching bottom feeders. My eyes lock with the apartment at the end of the street. This is where I will abolish the junky. Abolish the junky. Abolish the junky. Abolish the junky. I repeat it to myself in an incredibly steady fashion. I walk toward the gilded gold mine, full of the poor and sick, festering needles...burnt herbs.

They use it to lie on the floor and wriggle about, thieving wormy men and women, and whores. I almost slip on a pool of vomit on the way to the porch, but I regain composure, my boots are only slightly stained with the red and orange stomach liquid. Spinning...the sky is spinning...the house is red. No, it’s an apartment, not a house. There is no family, no children, no fireplace, no Christmas mornings. Only puss-riddled things.

Knock knock knock.

Knock knock knock.

No answer. I begin to kick the door, being sure to put my body weight into each movement, so as to not harm my back or shoulders.

“Who the fuck is it? Shut the fuck up!”

I continue kicking the door, until the hinges begin to buckle. Effortlessly, the door falls with in a beautiful collapse.

“What the fuck? Wendy! Wendy!...Wendy!”

I see his face. He’s one of them, his veins bursting with excitement, fresh off the snake.

“Who the fuck are you? You have any idea whose door you just kicked down?”

Black...a black man. This is not the man I am looking for, but he is a problem and must be dealt with, even if he slows the plan. It is only logical for me to silence the loud minority before I walk on down the hall and remove the true junky.

“Let go of me! What the fuck! Let go of me! Wendy! Wendy! Wendy! Call the police! Call someone! Call the police!”

Wendy desperately searches for a phone to call someone. Of course, I throw the black to the floor and grab Wendy, handcuffing her and stomping on her leg. I only stomp once, to make sure she cannot move herself, but no more.

The black attempts to grab my head and push it into the window, but I cunningly maneuver around him, shocking him with my taser, followed by a swift kick to the rib cage. He flops on the ground, as if the salmon fillet I ate last night had regurgitated from my stomach and onto the carpet.

Cayenne Pepper was the secret to the rub they put on the fillet, but it was accentuated with basil, thyme, just a smidgen of oregano, and (my personal favorite) white pepper. The Boiling Crab restaurant had it cooked for me to the perfect temperature, 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about twenty minutes, tender enough to melt in my mouth, but not too tender as to fall apart. As is the custom, I tipped the chef handsomely and made sure to profusely thank the kitchen staff. Every one of them spoke of how wonderful I was. Through the bathroom wall, I heard them speak of me as if I were an angel. Because of this, I assume I will be offered a discount on future purchases. Yes...the way the butter dripped off the fillet’s back--a highly stimulating affair. I was throbbing just thinking about it. God knows I would go back right now if I weren’t thrill-seeking. If only the junky and his black hadn’t gotten in my way.

With Wendy subdued, I grab the twitching, shrieking black and slam his head into the ground. I do it three times, twice to confirm his unconsciousness (and probable brain damage), and a third time for some personal enjoyment. Three times is not enough to collapse the skull into the face, but it is still a messy affair, as evidenced by Wendy’s reaction. She seems disgusted, but I assume she is more fearful for herself than for the black. She keeps shouting and shouting, no! no! no!

“No! No! No!”

Tears leak out her eyes. I taze her to shut her up, but she harbors a bold tenacity.

“The police are on their way! Raule called them! Raule called the police!”

I grab her cheeks and thrust them into the floor, breaking her jaw in the process. She screams herself red, her front teeth snap and fall on my boot. I scrape the pink chunks off and stand.

“I am the police,” I say in a villainous voice.

Previously, I had searched for the perfect line to say if someone were to threaten to phone the police on me. Certainly, it was a ripe opportunity to finally have said it. It took me months to practice that voice, though. Thinking of new lines to say, I walk down the hall and up the stairs, searching for the junky, whose footsteps slam above me, scrambling for a way out beyond leaping from his window.

And then silence. Roped into a game of hide and seek, yet again.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my earbud headphones, untangling them with outrageous finesse, before inserting them. Happy by Pharrell Williams--this is the composition I choose for the evening. The piece begins--and so do I.

Thump, thump, thump, the junky scrambles in his room. Thump, thump, thump, I walk up the stairs. I’m on a mission. Turning the corner, a few more steps, and I stare at the deer through the door, oozing smoke in my headlights. Struggling to open his window, he begins searching for objects to smash it with. I step forward slowly, as if I were the cold and calculating antagonist, the emotionless slasher, exuding perfect stoicness.

“You want money? Drugs? Take anything you want, please. Please, please, please, I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me. God dammit, please! Fucking please!” He cowers against the window, failing to break it in time as I stand over him. This man is an absolute, inexcusable failure of a human-being. And he knows it. I grab his neck with my hand (which is easily the size of his entire head) and drag him toward the bathroom while he scrapes at my arms, smacking around like the beer-battered fish he is. What was I supposed to say? Searching for a line, I finally speak (careful to seem emotionless and frozen).

“You did this to yourself, you fucking junky.” It is as if I am in a film, eradicating the scum of the street, one-by-one. I throw him into the shower, unholstering my gun and pointing it at him. Medicine cabinet--there has to be something in it...and sure enough…

“What do you want from me?” Surprisingly...the offender is calm. But he still quivers. I grab the heroin needle--still teeming with golden fluid--and jump into the shower. The screams! the screams! the screams! Fluids fly around, golden, red, pink! The needle strikes in and out of his forehead, scraping against his insides. In, out, in out, in out, in out. I inject the rest of it into this head and slap him around.

“Does that feel good? Does it feel good to get high, you asshole?” My lines are rhetorical, as he could no longer speak in his current state. Despite this, I continued. The skull is too strong and thick for the needle to enter, so I rise in the shower, until my head touches the ceiling. To make things more exciting, I swing my limbs to Pharrell Williams--I dance, just like in a feature film. I am the eccentric monster. Crunching of the bones...his head is flakey and his meat is rare. I stomp on him more and more while I clap along to the music, until he begins squishing on my shoes. Unholster my gun, shoot the thing, every bullet I have. Fiveteen rounds into the mound of junky flesh. Woooooooo! Yeahhhhhh! I scream into the night--the great azureal judicator! My badge is blackened by my pocket, but is squeals in the cotton. Los Angeles’ Removal Program has begun. Yes, I coined the term, but the outlook of eradication is good as far as I am concerned. Over the body I step, and out the door I go.

They’ll match the bullets in the body and find me! But don’t fear, they don’t investigate the junkies. It’s the perfect beautification (no, they wouldn’t call it a crime), my city deserves: the righteousness of the Program. No...they won’t find me, they wouldn’t dare. I exit the building.

The street is silent, as it was. Palm trees sway in the purple night, heroin strolls across the ground and up my leg and into my groin, emanating from the junky’s fortress.

Was I lucid? Could it be? Earbuds out. Police sirens! Rapidly approaching. I stood in the street as the sound bubbled. Louder. Louder. And louder. And how picturesque--the sun began to rise, blue against blue, a hiss of red and the smell of rubber. Their cars stopped in front of me. An officer stepped out.

“Colonel? Colonel, what the hell are you doing in this shithole at this hour?” I put my hands on my hips.

“Oh, you know. I was actually just listening to that new Pharrell Williams record. Have you heard it?

“Colonel...what’s wrong with you? Of course I’ve heard it! It’s fantastic! Have you seen the music video? It’s hilarious. But look, you better get out of here. Someone called in…” He stares in awe behind me. “Motherfucker...there he is! I found him!” He turns to me, “Colonel, you better get out of this place, it’s a fuckin’...madhouse.” The officer, Romero, runs past me with the rest of the squad. And wouldn’t you believe it...that homeless mound, the one I so recently stepped over, runs for his life across the way. Quickly piling on the man, they subdue him and eliminate him--a fine example for the Program. Even I, Colonel Marlow, feel a thrill. Blood shoots through my pelvis. Is this what excitement is?

My gullet is dusty. Stomach rumbles. A cheeseburger! This is what I need. After a removal or elimination, my body searches for its next need. My insides groan and wail. And nothing, with the exception of thrill-seeking, gets me trembling more than a decadent meal, the sweat-moving dream of food.

I wipe the blood off my hands and onto my uniform as the police cruisers pass me by. The homeless mound no longer rises and falls. Good riddance. If only I would eat the mounds, chew on their pink to fuel the removal, a perpetual source of energy for the cause. I would eat their meat. I would. But there...in the distance...prodigious, elite, greasy--The Golden Spoon, the only fine dining experience I can praise for its nuanced eroticism that makes me stiff stiff stiff. So greasy, greasy greasy. A magnanimous backdrop against the junky world. It is meant for me, for the Force, the Program, the Great Blue Wall of Silence--the Spoon fuels me, it drives my uniform and combusts my engine, it bellows from my cavities and dissolves in my acid, and in this world, in the colors my brothers and I reside in, that’s the thing of it: that’s how I am and what I desire--I am as blue as a Los Angeles cheeseburger; its American gold, my stimulant. A magnificent golden spoon stabs into a painted cheeseburger atop the building. I always get the same thing: sixteen cheeseburgers, no pickles (this ensures they make the burgers fresh). Eight of the burgers are eaten at the Golden Spoon, two in the parking lot, two in the car. The other four brought home and eaten before bed. This routine is my dogma, and no sooner would I insert a box cutter into the necks of my own would I douse the fire of my metallic religion. Those great god damned cheeseburgers, the only thing that opens my eyes. And so I walk inside.

“Hey, Officer Marlow!”

“Chester! Great to see you,” I say. Chester was a red-eyed parasite who belonged at the bottom of a boot. Cheese leaked from his apron and meat lined his fingernails. Chester was one of life’s great patheticisms I had grown to nearly appreciate, but couldn’t help wanting to drown in the vat of french fry grease which he was the human embodiment of. I walk up to the counter.

“Just the usual, Marlow?”

“Oh, you know it.”

“How are things looking out there?”

“Eh, it’s not that bad tonight, but I did have to dispose of a few junkies. It was a bit messy.”

“How’s that Disposal Program going, anyway? You’re doing a great job, you’re practically my hero and stuff. Oh, that’ll be, uh, $9.67. I gave you the Marlow discount.”

“Here’s a ten, just keep the rest. And the Program is confidential, Chester, you know that.” I lean in toward him, “But between you and me, this city is going to be a bloody,crimson paradise. If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean, Marlow! That’s good to hear, good to hear. You want you receipt?”

Did he just ask if I want my receipt? Every time I come in here I tell him now, I have no desire to prove my cheeseburger collection to others. Chester’s geriatric adolescence is an embarrassment to both the young and the old.

“I want you...to eat it.”

“What?”

I speak slowly so he could understand me. “Eat my receipt.”

I stare at Chester in his greasy eyes with his little paper hat and tapped my baton on the table. And he laughs at me. He laughs. And I laugh, too. Was this appropriate?

“That’s a good one, Marlow. I could use the extra fiber, I guess.”

“Almost got ya,” I said, winking to him with incredible finesse, smoothly navigating myself out of the disgusting situation. The parasite laughed at me, the asshole! If I hadn’t already ordered, I would take him into the freezer, cut off his limbs and deep-fry them myself. The audacity and shamelessness of some people in this world truly fascinates me. I sit down at my table in the corner. Across the way, a television.

Commercials! Infuriating! Sickening capitalism bullshit. I guzzle down my next burger, as decadent as the first. On the screen is a man in a boat, he rows toward me, a concerned look on his face, his weathered palms cling to the wood. Waves pounding against his beard. A hopeless situation. But what were they advertising? What did they want from me? Boats? Beards? Raincoats? I focused carefully. It is essential to find out before I am told, that is the way it works. The mighty ocean slaps and chokes him, degrades him, tugs at his bristles and his teeth. But just as he loses his last row, his final piece of hope, the storm subsides--salvation. In the eye of the storm, in the eye of the almighty executioner, he sighs. A sun beams into his eyes. And then, a tentacle grabs his leg and rips him underneath. Floating up to the surface...his yellow hat.

Positively raincoats. Has to be. Or a motion picture? Perhaps it is a PSA on the dangers of sailing alone. And then, against midnight, mighty white letters appear:

PROTECTION, WHEREVER YOU GO.

EXCITEMENT, EVERY TIME.

Disgusting! A loathsome commercial. But my guess was rather astute. And then--yes! A news broadcast!

Welcome to UNN Nightly News, Channel 3, with your host, Daniel Agrippa!

Thank you for joining us tonight, I’m Daniel Agrippa. Our top story tonight: police believe they have found another body linked to the Black Angel Murderer. This would mark the 11th body in just six months. But federal investigators believe many of these victims may be attributed to a copycat killer, despite dispelling these rumors throughout the past two months…

A copy...cat killer? A copycat killer? I...I am absolutely...it’s essential...inconsequential….can’t think of the thought, grab my hand, smash my burger....copycat killer? My hand over my face, on my forehead….trembling, I tremble. Fuzzy eyes. White knuckles. Copycat killer? COPYCAT KILLER? Slam the table. Clench everything.

My burgers must be left behind this time and this time only. I get up. I walk away. But there they sit, alone, gleaming, missing me, wanting me, wanting to be inside me. But I have to go. All I have worked for and now this...a colossal fuck up that cannot be ignored or set aside. Legacy is at stake. I have to find this man. This man is my antichrist. This man is my bleeding abscess. This man will be my climax, and I will kill him. This is why I am here.

“Colonel! Colonel! You forgot your burgers!” Chester waves after me as I walk the parking lot, his acne dripping fine French grease, reflecting strangely well against the midnight black asphalt. “Colonel! Your burgers!”

That clumsy bastard. I stop, but do not turn around:

“How...am I supposed to eat my burgers when there is a copycat killer on the loose?”

“Who’s copying you, Colonel?”

I turn around.

“What did you just say?” My shoes thud as I walk toward him, “What did you just say to me?”

“I said, who’s copying who, Colonel?”

Hearing things...hand over forehead. It hurts. I ache. What is wrong with me? Who am I?

“Are you okay, Colonel? Mr. Marlow? You need some water?” I hustle away and holler back to him.

“I’m fine... I just...I just have to find my apartment. I’m fine. Go back inside.”

“Go back inside. Go back inside. Go back inside.”

Chester repeats the words again and again...louder and louder. But I don’t dare look behind me. His voice echoes through my stomach and it pains me. I wish I could eat his words. Walking quickly through the city streets, I...can’t remember. Did I drive? Where is my car? A hand falls on my shoulder and spins me around. A diseased man stares at me, his jaw hanging half off, obscured by the darkness around him, his skin seems to...melt off. And so tall...so tall...he grins with infinite razorblade teeth and repeats it, again and again, lifelessly, as if he is convincing me:

“Go back inside, Colonel. Go back inside. Go back inside. Go back inside. Go back inside.” My gun! My gun! My gun! I reach for it, but it won’t budge. No matter how hard I tug.

“Wake up, Colonel. Just wake up. WAKE UP!.” Just as I finally pull it out and shoot….nothing. Predictable. My sanity is fading...but I at least I recognize my downfall. I have to stabilize. I breathe. Breathe...breathe.

I am Colonel Marlow. And I am a human-being.

Then from across the street, I see...I see a flowing river of blood. It reaches my shoes. My bullet had collided with a man. A white man. A young white man. He kneels over, gurgling, staring at me, his eyes bulging from his head...Get yourself together, Colonel. Walking over, I know what has to be done. I stand over him, put my boot on his head and shush him. It’ll all be over soon. It’ll all be over soon. On the count of five and the boot goes down. All’s well that ends well, my innocent young friend. But are you innocent? Most of you aren’t. Maybe you deserve this. Maybe you deserve to have your skull crunched by my boot. What does one think in the last five seconds of their life? I often asked myself this. But now was no time to be existential. A man’s life was under my feet. Five...it’ll all be over soon. Four...accidents happen. Three...nobody is innocent. Two...I lift the boot--

Crunch. He is gone. He is relieved of his suffering. Whether he deserves wings is not of my concern, but rather if he deserves to suffer. This time, no. Fifty dollars in the pockets...a necessary civil forfeiture. I scrape my boots on the sidewalk and continue onward toward my apartment: the last red building at the end of 55th street on the corner of Manhatten Avenue. There it was in the distance, erect and flowing with the blood of a thousand American workers who built it with solidarity, courage, and determination. Never would I be more proud to live anywhere else, save the majestic purple mountains themselves. My building bleeds on me, and I feed it all the blood and juices I do and may procure. I was home: my ventricular paradise.