Monsters Burning Monsters

Monsters Burning Monsters

1

          I watch as Exotic Death was shredded, my latest book gone. Over half a year of emotion went into Exotic Death, and now I watch as it lay dying before me in a matter of seconds.
          This book, much like the two that came before it, Blood Pane and Son Murder, was gone from existence (besides the single copies I had of each one tucked under the bed). None of them passed the association of decency’s standards, Violence and use of language too mature for young readers.
          I sat alone in the chair where undoubtably many people sat, writers, musicians, video game designers, movie and tv writers. The list went on, and on, and on.
          The poorly lit room looked and smelled exactly the same way it did before. Dank, bland, melancholy.
          I slowly made my way across the hall when my story was finally ripped into millions of scattered pieces, much like glass when smashed with a bat.
          I came to the lady working at the front desk, filled with anger, it took me every inch of my strength not to smash her face in, a phrase I heard every time I came here.
          “Thank-you for destroying unapproved media or literature, the cost is 24 dollars, have a nice day.”

2

          I left the building with crushed hopes, and I made my way through the park, a place that relaxes me, and allows me to get to my apartment building faster.
          The overcast skies scared away most people from fun at the park. Yet there were always a few souls wandering about. One in particular caught my attention.
          A young girl of around 19 or so, was yelling at the Regulator, who was writing her a ticket, and I saw why the ticket was being written. The girl wore a short skirt, and a small tank top, which boldly had this to say in seif induced green marker
          “DON’T TREAD ON ME”

          I took a guess at what the ticket might cost, Subversive manner, unmodest dress, swearing, and lack of respect toward a government official.
The ticket probably reached into the four hundreds.
I continued to walk home.

3

          Home.
          I sit in my apartment, small and messy, but still charming.
          I checked the mail quickly junk, bills, ads, all the same things. I went to call my mother and tell her the news that my book was banned again. Until I glanced down at my feet. A small, plain white envelope laid there. I wondered if I had dropped any mail, but it didn’t look familiar.
          I picked up the white envelope to inspect it closer. It said nothing on the outside, no address, zip code, name, anything.
          I briefly considered that this could be a letter filled with anthrax or a small bomb, but those letters were sent to politicians and their families. Not struggling writers failing to put a third book on the market due to bans.
          Slowly I opened the envelope. And inside was a torn paper with scrawled writing.

“ You are invited to attend our party, for you were on Sam’s list. Bring a costume and be sure to bring a present God Bless.”

          Also on the paper was the address, but all I could think was how stupid these people were. Any idiot could tell this was a cover for secret underground for banned writers, Sam’s list, Uncle Sam and the list of banned media and literature. Bring a costume, cover your trail and keep it secret. The rest was to throw off any potential regulators who might get their hands on the letter.
          I was about to crumple the letter and burn it in the fireplace to hide the evidence, but then I stopped. Why not go? What else did I have to do, write another book that would get banned?
          I took a look at the address.

4

          The building was brick and blood red, the windows were dark and uninviting, and the yard was all but beautiful, brown patches made up more of the yard than the yard itself, the assorted nicknacks didn’t help either, gnomes, colored glass balls, and worst of all two Pink flamingoes.
          Despite the foreboding manner of the house, and the utter lack of lawn care, I still felt drawn to the house. Almost as if it called to me.
          I knocked on the plain, wooden door.
          After the first three knocking attempts I almost turned to leave, when to my surprise the door actually opened, swung almost off its hinges actually. And standing at the doorway was a short man that seemed to be in his mid -70's at least. Behind him though was another man of around 20 with hair that parted to one side and covered one half of his face.
          “Come on in Stanley, we’ve been waiting for you.”

5

          Later I found out the older man was Edward P. Gourse, a brilliant writer before ban time, one of the richest writers in the world, at least until the ban finally was passed by government. All of Edwards books were placed on the list, and out of the five that he wrote afterward only two were published, and little success followed those two. Now Edward was living off the success of his earlier novels.
          The other man, the one with his face half covered with hair, was also a writer as well as a musician, unfortunately his music wasn’t great, but his stories were incredible, filled with violence and angst, but in them were stories so well crafted he surpassed most others in sheer talent.
          They explained that this place was a secret writers underground, banned writers share their works, stories, and just hang out. People here were free from the downside of outside existence, in here you could say what you needed to say, while out there you had no voice and needed to speak.
          Here was the heaven in the hell, even if the hell forced peace and love. The heaven was the place that forces nothing, even encouraged violent stories, art, and music.
          Heaven or hell?

6

          After two months in heaven I became more distinguished in the underground community. I grew as a writer and my work to more control of me, the words flowed outward to the paper as if I was just a vessel receiving words from another plane of existence and putting that into my plane. My paper. For two months I wasn’t a slave, I was free to listen to what I wanted.
          Then heaven was gone.

7

          If I choose to go to the club that day, I would have been arrested and most likely killed. If I had gone to heaven today, I would have been dragged to the deepest circles of hell, the interrogation room, torture rooms, judging rooms, and death rooms, and those rooms if you were lucky, the real punishment would be a Camp Fredson, the highest security prison in the world, and the one that kept the worst criminals, Murderers, terrorists, and the people that crossed over the Ban line explicitly, the tortures there made you wish they would kill you.
          I thought with creeping nausea and a sense of horror that I could have been one of those caught. And I still could be caught if one of the others cracked under torture or interrogation. A list of the people they caught, my friends, was shown on the television screen. Edward and Stephen, the writer with the odd hair, were on the list.
          I looked at the name of other suspects that weren’t caught in the raid. My name wasn’t there. I was safe from the regulators for now at least.
          I could have been the one.
          I should have been the one.

8

          After that incident I began to grow out my hair, I also found another secret society, not just for freedom for oneself, this new underground tried to bring about a revolution. The writers snuck their works into the library aisles, musicians left Cd’s of their music lying in music stores, artists left their works in public, for all of Hell to see.

          I became another powerful member over time, until after the secret election. I became the president of the secret group, I knew our duty was to bring back true free speech. We wrote illegal messages everywhere, Bathroom stalls, walls, sidewalks. We tried to appeal to the people as well. Messages that were happy as well graced the likes of walls and stalls and streets.
          And soon one of the banned books became truly popular, the last book I tried to get published, Exotic Death, became popular between teenagers and adults.
          Unfortunately I became public enemy number one. Hunted by the same people that thought that by censorship the world would be a better place that people who want tolerance also wanted to control others by fear.
          I ran from them, but it was only a matter of time before I was caught and executed.

9

          I was working on an auto biography of my life, I hoped it would get to the public, but it was that day, I was caught working on chapter 22 on the biography of my life, I was in a small attic, I was thinking of going soon, but all those thoughts died when the first knock came, at first I thought I may have imagined it but again, knock, I got up slowly and picked up my auto biography, I opened the window and threw the unfinished book into the neighbors bushes.
          Knock, harder this time, but before they could knock down the door, I opened it. And there stood a team of 20 or so Regulators.

10

          I asked them as a last request for them to let me keep my hair from being shaved, it now looked as long as Steve’s, who was now a dying man of cancer inside the maximum security prison, Camp Fredson.
          I was one of the few men to choose to let people witness my execution, I also choose hanging as my method of death, I was the first to do that since the man in the 90's.
          I ate my last meal alone, I ate and read Stevens last book, when I finished I was escorted by two Regulators to the recently made gallows, And there stood the executioner complete in a black mask and cloak.
          The midnight sky seemed to swirl into a red haze as I proceeded to my death, at both sides of me people watched, waving angrily at me, throwing stones, the Regulators tried to stop them, but let them get away with most of it.
          I watched the giant fires scattered around the square, of course my books were in them, burning in the flames of there own hell.

11

          As I watch with the noose around my neck, my final moments at hand, I stare at the men and woman who came to see my death, they watch me in my last hour, and I watch them. They shout and yell, fists in the air. And the executioner asks me if I had last words.

“ Don’t Tread on me”

12

          The floor drops from under me, and I watch as the people who have come to see my death change. They become distorted, they become ugly and grow claws and teeth like knives.
          I struggle, and I watch, as the people grow dark and demon like. They continue to burn my books, and yell with their distorted faces.
          I spent My last seconds watching Monsters Burning my Monsters.