Monday, June 13, 2005

A Trip Into the Nether Regions: An Origin of Martin McFriend

Some time ago, when I was still new to the sprawl of Los Angeles, I made a stunning discovery that is partially responsible for my metamorphosis from a straight-laced white kid out of the Georgian peidmont to the subhuman creature you now know as Martin McFriend. Until that point, I had never been to the Hollywood Hills and it was only through Bob Seger and late-night television that my perspective had any realistic design.

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At the time, I was under the ludicrous impression that the Sky Bar was a cool place to hang out, and like a bovine lummox, I spent an evening on the patio, carrousing with other glamorous idiots. If I had it to do over again, knowing what I know now, I have no idea whether I would still have left my Koreatown apartment that night, but essentially, this is what happened:

I was invited to an afterparty in "the hills," and accepted with gracious drunken joy. It would be my first of many ensuing sojourns into that detestable world, but never would any top this one. In a Victorian manor of a house, I wandered the spiraling corridors aimlessly, peeking into rooms and spilling vodka where I tread. The place was dark, and so expansive that the masquerade in the main hall could scarcely be heard in many rooms. Then I came to a dim room with a low buzz behind the door.

Entering with virginal caution, I came face-to-face with a voluptuous gothic beauty, standing formidable and alone before me. I excused myself awkwardly, fearing I had interrupted something. After finding my way back to the balcony, I was stunned by the speechlessness of the gathering. No one said a word, choosing to mingle in silence, glowing faces trancelike in the sodium backlight from a row of neon bulbs.

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I made another drink and moved into the fresh air, feeling the sting of voyeur eyes on my back. I knew before turning that it was her, and as I tried to speak, I found my voice trumped by a rising wind from below the mezzanine. She said hello and moved close enough that I could smell her breath. Taking my glass, she drank greedily, dropping it to the floor when finished. I was spellbound.

She grabbed my hand and led me back into the labyrinth of stucco and brick, taking us down two levels and finding a plush bedroom with an another eerie organ hum to it. We sat, and she looked at me for awhile. After several minutes of this madness, ones in which I had trouble keeping my eyes from this freakish, sexual specimen, she said she wanted to share something with me. I nodded my assent, the first coherent communication I had managed in what seemed like hours.

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She pulled one of
these from a handbag and my soul was stretched thin in two tokes time. Then she began to whisper and weave tales of intrigue and death. Her words unglued my thoughts, and I found myself hypnotized by the speech.

One story of note involved an insidious plot to kill a man who had overstepped his marital bounds. It would be a quick, bloody stabbing and departure operation, an idea she got from Roman Polanski, who she claimed to telepathically commune with on occasion. Before long, I was woozy and she held my swimming head hard against her bosom, assuring me that protection was available from the coming swarm.

The intercourse came like a dream, of the psychedelic variety, and all I will ever remember about it was the horrible, unceasing drone of machinery and laser fire. When I regained consciousness, I lay alone in my own bed on a beautiful, smogless SoCal morning. I felt certain that I was still at the house in the hills when I last knew reality, but my acquaintance could not have been responsible for getting me home. I decided to forget about the whole thing, instead choosing to be proud to have fornicated with such a beautiful siren.

Two days later, while straightening up my room, I came across a frayed sheet of parchment. The handwriting was beautiful, and the words seemed to glide. This is what it said:

Scion of time, you must heed this warning. In the dark reaches of the mind, everyone possesses a subtle curiosity about mutilation, torture and death as a means of control. Most turn a blind eye, or subdue it with solid resolve and faith in their nameless gods. But it is within these buried thoughts of debauchery that people can find a gateway to alternative release. Regarded as witchcraft in some sects, or insanity on educated earth, a disassociation with worldliness carries with it arcane meanings. Behind smiles and handshakes exists a spirituality based on a greater respect for the ambrosia that is life, though it is attained only from destruction of the visceral.

The archons that control us line up in numerous factions. The sociopolitical earthlings who hold elected office represent only the crust of this manipulative hierarchy. True authorities wait much higher, and their agendas are more sinister. Consider the world of dreams, hallucinations, déjà vu, drug trips, near-death experiences and religious awakenings. These are the paper-thin planes through which this surreptitious yet stately lynch mob can be glimpsed, tinkering with humanity’s machinery. In waking life, the clues to its presence are glimpsed only with extreme delicacy.

Knowing this, I have uncovered a mass marketing campaign forged by these powers, and it has scared me to my bitter soul. Their efforts, which are kept at bay only by a distraction more powerful than their own society (I will later elaborate), aim to rule us for their own insidious needs. I can only say that we are being harvested to become soldiers for a cataclysmic battle, and our own social entropy is predominantly their device by which they both train and recruit the wickedest, most blood-savvy warriors. It has, to the best of my estimates, been going on since the earliest days of mankind.

So I tell you this with grave concern. You are in danger. My only gift is to give you a venerable contact, someone who can help you see the truth. Call her at WITHHELD. Her name is WITHHELD. God speed to you Joseph.


Not long after, I made the phone call. I touched base with the emmissary. I became part of the guild. After three years of cloistered study, I emerged safe and 'protected' as something new. Something more powerful in spirit, and ever-thirsting for more dark knowledge. I am now prepared for the impending war. I am ready to face stark pandemonium. I am Martin McFriend.

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"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." — Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

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