The Freedom Bison Train

The following is a true story of an event occurring three-years ago on Northern’s campus. Many of your faculty probably remember it and would like to forget the misfortune of ever being involved with it. It is told firsthand through the delusional eyes of my third cousin on my mother’s side where there is much mental illness. Many of them suffer from severe paranoia that gets worse with age as well as grandiose illusions of their importance in society. I submit it to you in the hopes my cousin will quit calling me and asking me to, something he does thirty-seven times a day, which in his mind is done to keep him safe in the cosmos because it looks more kindly on prime numbers. He also insists I submit it to act as a buffer for him from the “satanic fallout” still looming over the “Ivory Tower,” otherwise known as the Campbell Building.

I have told him repeatedly that his story is not well-suited for your university’s publication, to which he responds by assuring me it is not a story but a finally tuned, literary essay. He also assures me his cat is actually a chicken and monkeys have cloven hooves. And if by chance I persist in disagreeing he screams and howls into my ear. I’ve censored the words so vulgar they turned my stomach and have done as much as I could to impede his high aspirations of appearing in your biannually. I have told him his unattractive words are more appropriate for back alleys and militia groups than a respectable publication like yours, to which he also responds by screaming in my ear.

I would also like to let it be known that I have the utmost respect for literature as it is, or as my cousin believes, it was. Although I am a biology student at this college, I try to stay as well versed in the arts as time will permit. The greats of literature are so because they are geniuses, and those not dexterous of mind should never hope or try to imitate them. They are better than me and my cousin and most the world. They see more clearly than the commoner and have better stories to tell. No good has ever come of delusion. I think that to print this would be an unconscionable act towards society and disrespectful to tradition. The only reason I send it is so, as a good Christian, I can tell my cousin you did not except it with a clear conscience. What I have to say to you is a truly sick man wrote this. I don’t think it should ever see the light of day, and I wash my hands of the entire thing.

Sincerely,

Dolph Sampson

Double $#%#er, monkey, sausage, freckle legs!

I apologize most heartily for that outburst; I had to check. By now you no, know, which one, know, yes, of the people you aren't that stand in, and by in I mean inside, the Ivory Tower of Satan's control.

The end tells me that the means of the beginning lies in that ivory atop the heel, hill, in no other place but that one, this one, no, know, no, that one, in the canister, know, no, copy machine room of the Scandal Building, no, Campbell Building. I didn't see it before because I was on the fart sauce, know, no, medication, yes, and it made me to not see the secret door behind the broken hymen, whoops, I mean far east corner copy machine where was kept the one who ruled the way of the tampon, know, no, the way of the written language.

YAHTZEE!

Now I lay claim for clarity, for your viewership, my story, because you are obviously, I guess, test passing of the flarin filth. For absolute secrecy, as not to be caught by them who sit in the Ivory Tower, I implore you speaketh the sleep of ages, and no, know, it's no, I mean yes, speaketh the sleep of ages. Resonate in the following order, and you will find humility in your greatness when it is spoke each time faster of threes in such being like an orange cut in three-inch segments.

Now that you are what the prisoners in prison in position of presidency call “me bitch I tell,” I begin my story.

On this floor, in this place, behind the northeast copier, not the southeast; if you concentrate on the southeast it is simply to fool, full, fool you; so again, in the Ivory Tower, on the second floor, in the copy room behind the southeast, no, know, no fool, the northeast copier, is the secret doorway that kept us down and told us what we must do to be beautiful. For the longest time I couldn't see; the copier on the southeast fulled me, fooled me, yes fooled me.

Blinded not was I by the powerful brain of a still live Robert Redford, but the brain of an Englishman, not the brain but the body that those...excuse me; I mean brain but not body; that was a test. They answered to the brain of an Englishman name of William Shakespeare's Cousin, not William Shakespeare, cause Speare could see and would not let in rule things disintegrate to what they've become. But his cousin's brain was kept alive, and it was a crazy abnormal brain, but of course you realized this several weaks, weeks later, I mean earlier, while sitting on the crapper constipated much as the situation of literary beauty.

Have you ever asked yourself who are these people; who are they that say this is art, that isn't, Stephen King is a hack, Hemmingway is great? Well it was the brain of a dead clay of William Shakespeare's Cousin on the second floor in the southeast, test mind you, corner of the Campbell Building's copy room behind the secret door, and it told the people there who are far too educated to know better what they did in fact enjoy; it told them that essays must be this way and stories that and a play is art writing but a screenplay isn't writing at all.

They put me away for having a mind that rambles; they put me away and got so angry because I had went to kill the brain behind the machine; they took me away and said very sternly, “The government is putting cheese in the water to constipate, and the head knows more then you, than you, and we’ll put a chip in your brain lest you take your lobotomy medicine more!”

VEX!! Your, you’re not offended anymore.

They gave me the drugs, but I have found the underneath of a tongue is a very large place, and back playing the part, mind you, of a so-called-sane-Ivory-Tower-William-Shakespeare's-Cousin-Satan-worshiper I again took up schooling, and again I came for the brain.

The fools, fulls, whatyamean sealed the door, and I needed a hammer. I knew, new, knew it was their, they're, there because of the chartreuse tinge of the glowing wall, and then, than, then brain began to tell me through the wall I am not worthy of feeling, because in part I am not as well versed in how to write essays as, oh, lets say an Ambrose Bierce.

“But I am not Ambrose Bierce, am not at all him! Why the $#%# should I speak or articulate as he, and in he, I mean that man would?”

He was mad at this, and right then a Dr. Whatsoever, it not matter as much you get the whatsoever as the doctor, comes a barging in fool, full throttle like a runaway fast machine of some kind or other.

“Phil has gone nuts again, and he is a cussin' at the brain!”

It was something to that effect, affect, defect, spleen, rectum that he/she (I have problems with such distinctions) said. I, my name being Jennifer at the time, was outraged. Addressed it as doctor, as I should, as Speare's cousin would dictate and still, steal, still, steel, still they get my name wrong. So I cold cocked the good doctor, Dr. Pepper, and don't think me violent, because by cold cocked I mean stabbed several times; whoops, how my fingers do travel; I mean cowered in the corner and asked for my mother's comfort.

“He was gonna kill the brain,” the doctor says, and they took me away again. And I didn't want to kill the brain; I don't want to hurt anyone but it seems, seams, seems the only way to make them listen, bloody screams, saying over and again, “CAN’T YOU SEE THE new, knew, new world?”

I wasn't to come back to the southeast, test, northeast corner where the brain was located anymore. They said it was my last chance before and that if I were to occur in spiritual, hologram (such as Star Wars), or physical form on that campus again the brain would have his, and by his I mean the brain's, henchman kill me fart sweet; I mean toot sweet.

God bless, quite a harsh diagnosis Dr!

That is when I got angry: having to stay at home cooped up like a bison put in a little bison cage, barely even big enough for the bison's body, and stinking of the bison's feces and urine, and a bison just can't hardly stand such treatment, let alone a human being, and not even a giant human eating bison from olden times would deserve such shoddy treatment. So like the bison I became outraged, charged the human's trains as they sped across the plains, and snatched up dingoes’ babies and ate them as to say, “here, now you know how it feels, fills, feels!” I was needless to say bison fighting mad, and I would be heard, herd, heard, like a bison howling at the moon before its inevitable extinction.

Speare's cousin was not afraid of me; I was of him; I peed freely in my pants, as a bison in his cage mind you, on the long journey to the northeast corner of the copy room on the second floor where behind the wall glowing chartreuse at times, amirillo at others, was the brain of William Shakespeare's cousin.

The henchmen were gone of the night I approached. Had they new, knew of my arrival they surely would of had up ultra sensors to here, hear, ear my distinct upper sphincter (not near the anus), but the element of surprise aided my almost bison-like freedom attack on what a person could write, and how it could be entertaining, if not entirely like, God forbid, Ambrose Bierce or that pompous ass Carlyle.

I found a hammer outside as I near, and it was a special hammer, looking much as a rock would indigenous to that area. I had to pinch a loaf at that moment as fate would have it, and I did so in the bushes, and I looked very closely from the bushes to the shades on the grass. Their, they're, there were people in them, and it made me cry so hard because they had such interesting things to say, but the brain would not allow for it, because although they were interesting, even had merit, and were readily understood: the shadows didn't know how to punctuate, grammar was poor, their sentences weren't always pretty.

$%&dammit, how can we let true history die as we do?

I couldn't tend to the shadows then; I would speak to them when the brain died. So I took my hammer-key and unlocked the front door of the building, but the key was so unconventional. It worked perfectly well for my purpose, but it was unconventional, and it caused the Ivory Tower to scream an awful, loud, high-pitched scream.

I knew, new, canoe I was good as dead. The henchmen were coming, so I ran in and went to kill the brain in the copy room of the second floor in the northeast corner behind the copy machine where there was a wall sealed over a door that glowed chartreuse, sometimes amirillo. As before, I opened the copy room door with my hammer-key, and my hammer slipped, and I bleed, and it hurt, and I new, canoe it didn't matter because I would die that night in the screaming building. And the southeast corner copy machine not only asked, but shamelessly got down on its knees and begged, insisted me to see it for a while, but I knew, new, stew it was a trap; that it was as much a goose chase as searching for a flying bison when only normal bison and giant man eating bison have ever existed.

My friends needed me, and I absolutely shoe I was going to dice that day. I had no time to haste, so I threw away the copier in the northeast corner. The wall was chartreuse that day, the color of a strong camel, the bison that ate men’s natural enemy. And how befitting, because on this sorrowful morn I was not just bison mad; I was not man eating bison mad; I was mad as a herd, heard, herd of giant-imaginary-flying-man-eating-bison-mad.

I said, “Ain't you a son-of-a-bitch brain!” It said, “Ain't isn't a word my dear man.” And he said so mockingly, and he continued by saying that I had never gotten better then, than a C on any paper because I was not concise, used words like ain't, and my comma splices were horrid. Why could I not be more as Tolstoy or Maupassant? Their punctuation was flawless.

“I am not those People! I am Phil Thomas Kurtz, and I will live so not in vein, vain. If a light is red and no one is around than, then why not in God's name run the son-of-a-bitch?”

“Well I have never herd such pornographic language,” the wall replied.

“Do you mean heard or herd?” I shot back, and it was the most amazing thing happened thean, he didn't knowno. I could see it in his amirillo.

“Diagram this sentence,” I told the head. “I am a complete foolull!”

“I don't knowno how,” he screamed in tears. “Have mercy on me!”

“NO I WILL NOT!”

I smashed that great wall, and William Shakespeare's cousin's abnormal brain glowed bright amirillo, and I did the thing to destroy such an evil brain, the death of all such badness; I whipped out my magic sword and let it rain, shot forth the color of false prophets upon it. And it screamed, “I AM BUT A FOOLULL!” And thean it did, in more abnormal shape thean it even was in abnormality before, shrivel and die.

And now you understand, the sleep was good, and now you can come out. Repeat after me each time faster thean before in sections of three such as three-inch slugs garnished on a dinner-plate.

So I leave you a content bison on the prairie, and it is due to such brave urination as I have done in past that I can write as I have at all: free as Shakespeare, as the first man to carve in rock, and the shadows are free now too. And I see you Robert Redford; don't think you elude me; I see through the dark, black, granite walls of your fortress among the vast expanses of your large Wyoming ranch; I see you sitting on your stool constipated, wishing everyone else was, devising a plan to make it so. But do not underestimate the bison, the woolly plains creature that I am. I will do as my heaerd; I will charge the trains and take them over; shoot the meandering humans as they walk the plains trying to cage me; I will ride those rails to heaven and be free.