- 30 Mar 2004 10:00
#138523
this is kind of long, and i know how much it resembeles fight club, but thematically it's very different. so uh yeah, here's my unfinished work.
Just Another Hobby
They should be here in about a half an hour. I know they’re coming. I had seen the memo before they did. Twenty armed F.B.I agents, in cars, in vans. I might as well be caught in the act, if it’s not going to be fun for me it should at least be fun for someone.
And I have been a very bad boy.
Page twenty-one: Napalm.
To make napalm all you really need to do is take some gasoline and make it into a gel. You can do this in one of several ways, the most common of which is to use 2 cups of gasoline and pour into a bowl. Then add either Styrofoam or packaging peanuts, the little “S†shaped things they Fed Exed you with the herbal pills you ordered on the internet to help you sustain an erection. You add these to the bowl of gasoline until they have fully absorbed the gasoline. You are now the proud father to a gel called napalm, a gel that can help you disrupt the quiet, secure lives of anyone who has wrapped them selves in comfort and possessions.
And this is what I am doing at three o’clock in the morning in the basement of some derelict house on the outskirts of industrial zone of the city. Right now I live with some squatting punks. I used to just live with some homeless people in another house, one without a basement. I left because my “roomies†constantly complained about the smell. Punks won’t give a shit about anything you do as long as you tell them you’re an Anarchist.
I am not an Anarchist. I am not a Terrorist. I am not even some kind of self-proclaimed revolutionary. I am a disrupter.
It’s not a political Agenda, or a social movement. It’s a hobby.
A hobby like smoking is a hobby
I started my hobby a little over a year ago –no- I stopped fantasizing about my hobby a little over a year ago.
Before this mayhem trip, before I sold all my possessions, before destroying property, before all of this I was just an insomniac with a computer. I went to school four times a week studying computer science; I was a hacker.
When I wasn’t at school I worked at the movie theatre. I told people I was a projectionist, but all I really did was clean the theatres. The closest I ever got to being a projectionist is when I would sneak up to the booths on my break, or whenever, to read a book. They were usually for school, either that or a computer manual, really just more hacking material.
McDonalds used to have regular light up signs. Just some painted clear plastic in front of a fluorescent light. Now a days they have these new video monitors that display the menu, among other things. For the longest time I dreamt about hacking into their computer system at lunchtime. At this hour there would not be enough time for anyone to hide the fact that the usually video of the new McSomething had been replaced with a glorious display of hardcore pornography. Nothing too gross, no rape or bestiality, just your standard porn. This is what I dreamt at night, this was my wet dream.
Just like how I told people I was a projectionist when I told people I was a hacker I lied. What I really meant was that I knew how to hack into a computer. The only time I actually hacked into a computer that wasn’t one of my friends was on New Year’s eve. As you can expect I was, like the rest of the people in the small apartment I rented with some classmates, drunk- incredulously drunk. All I did was replace a bank’s desktop of one hundred-dollar bills with two men fucking donkeys. I was so drunk it gave me an erection.
This was when life was boring. Before my hobby, before I burned down the chip factory on 34th.
Before all this I was an insomniac – well no, I chose not to sleep. Instead of making explosives and thermites, I sifted through the thousands upon thousands of pages that people post on the Internet and expect no one to look at.
You wouldn’t believe the things people will dedicate a web site to. One website detailed every fight this guy from England had with his German girlfriend while another posted pictures of all the cars he had gotten the opportunity to copulate with. Those are the things I dedicated my sleeplessness to. Someone had to look at them. After a while of doing this you will eventually come across something interesting. You may eventually find nude pictures of that girl in your office or you may find a distributor of the rare and expensive collectibles I break into your house to steel so I can put them in the middle of your street arranged into a pentagram. I eventually stumbled onto a degenerate text file of the Anarchist Cookbook. A degenerate copy isn’t necessarily a bad thing. What it meant was it was newer with, hopefully, newer, more accurate, and, most importantly, safer concoctions. From here I looked for more detailed instructions for delinquency.
Page five: The Art of Lock Picking.
There are many ways to pick a lock, ways other than brute force. Picking a lock is a lot like hacking a computer, which was the original allure of the art. When picking a lock you take advantage of flaws in the design of the lock. But first you need a pick. You can make a pick with an Allen wrench and a Flathead screwdriver. Both of these need to be small enough to fit in the lock at the same time. File down the edges of the Allen wrench so it won’t snag in the lock; after you smooth the surface bend the handle so it is no longer a 90 degree angle. A preferable angle is about 15 degrees. Now you have your pick. The trick is to put enough pressure on the lug of the lock so that when you push the key pin up, it will lock into place and you won’t need to worry about it. Do this one key at a time and you will have picked yourself a lock. This provides many opportunities.
When I first stopped my fantasizing I wasn’t malicious. I had no intent to damage anything; just to breach someone’s feeling of safety.
I planned it out for weeks, I practiced picking the locks, I typed out the notes, I bought the clothes. I even picked a couple of definite targets. All in the “safety†of gated communities.
Each gated community has a special fire and police code that is universal to the area, punch in the four digits in any of the keypads and you’re in. This is, of course, if you make the mistake of driving a car there. If you aren’t as dense as that all you have to do is jump a fence if anything. This wasn’t in any manual, I didn’t even have to find it on the internet. Just found it out when I was visiting a friends house who happened to live in one of these Gardens of Eden.
What I would do in the first months of all this was simple. At around 2 in the morning o would ride my bike to one of these neighbor hoods with about five to ten home made “Hallmark†cards in my pocket. I would then proceed to the first house on my route. Upon arrival at the designated destination I carefully pick the lock of what every car they had left sitting out. When the lock was finally opened I would take out one of my love letters and place it on their steering wheel. I would lock the car back up and move to my next target. I always wanted to be there in the morning when Mr. American dream opened his front door, kissed his bored wife good bye, emptily told his miserable children to have a nice day at school, opened the door to his new red 2000 phallus, the sports car that he parked in the street to puff himself up like a Tasmanian Devil in front of the neighbors, and find the card. I wanted to watch him sit down in slow motion, I wanted to see his confusion, I wanted to watch him read it, I was a voyeur for this kind of thing. I wanted to watch him as he read the card, I wanted to watch him mouth it out, I wanted to see his lips say:
“Good morning sir, I am writing this to inform you that I have broken into your car, and I can do so whenever it pleases me. As you will notice all your possessions are where they should be. Thank you, and have Great day!â€
I would get high off of this. I would get high the way a sex addict gets high. But like sex this becomes boring – danger, that is where the fun is.
Fun is something that has always come hard for me. At the age of thirteen the only fun I had known was lighting things on fire.
I wasn’t a pyromaniac; I was just a fire enthusiast.
If there were a way it could light on fire I would be there to find that way. I once almost went as far as lighting myself on fire, if I could have only thought of a way to do it with out killing myself in the process.
If you’re going to light your self on fire the trick is to wear a lot of clothing that has been soaked in lighter fluid or gasoline. This way the only thing that burns is the lighter fluid, and not your flesh. When you wear this barbecue suit you should also wear some kind of facemask to avoid having your face seared off, do this and keep in constant motion. If you stay still for a moment too long the fire has a chance to burn you. It’s best to have a pool nearby, or a friend who you can trust to not be intoxicated on anything fertilized by human feces. This I actually learned from the Discovery Channel.
It’s a good thing I didn’t know this seven years ago.
These were my hobbies then, trying to stay on the road to self-destruction for as long as possible. After a while even destroying yourself gets boring; you have to find a way to destroy other things. This is not what Freud meant by transference.
When we were kids we all loved breaking glass bottles, it was having control, it was having the power you didn’t have to control your bowel movements. When you get older this need becomes more prevalent. You go to work, you have to serve the same assholes who don’t know how to order. The people who try to pass off foreign money as US currency and bitch at you when you refuse to take it. The damn twenty some things who can’t ever decide what they want. And you have to serve these people with a smile, but after a while the only thing that keeps you smiling is the thought of what you would do to them if you only had the power. When you went to school you sat in a desk and listened to the droning, you listened to all the go no-where’s talk about fucking and drinking. And the only thing that could keep you from killing yourself was the thought of killing them.
Well I needed to destroy things – never people, never, not then - I wasn’t that sick. I needed to destroy things with style; I slaved over a way to use an Estes model rocket to make an efficient but cheap SCUD missile. The way I thought of it then was a small amount of plastic explosives with a tiny hole drilled at the very tip of the nose cone. In this hole would be implanted a thin metal dowel which would trigger the detonator upon impact. The only problem was how to get C-4. Not that I would have actually made it, not then anyway.
This all gets boring, like breaking into cars. The logical progression would be to start breaking into houses, and get a profit out of everything. It’s not about profit, it’s about what shouldn’t become a movement.
Page ten: Thermite II bombs.
Destroying property was the next progression. At first I kept with cars. By placing a block of high-grade thermite on the hood of a car you can melt right through the engine to the pavement. And if you made the thermite good enough you can melt right through the pavement. The best thing was, all you need for thermite is iron oxide (rust) and aluminium filings. And if you can find the magnesium strips to light it you can melt anything.
It was at about this time that my actions started gaining attention from the media. It wasn’t like the arsonist that burned unfinished houses to protect the earth. What I did had no meaning, but it had so much potential for meaning. Once the newspapers and the television started reporting on all the mysterious property damage occurring in upper class communities around the state all the goddamn stupid anarchists started to latch on to it. Now, I have nothing against anarchists per se. But it’s the morons who think it’s all about chaos and disorder that piss me off. It was not chaos! It was a joke. I was not trying to overthrow “the systemâ€! I was just upsetting the balance and tranquility of people’s safe, happy, trite lives. The people who were more boring than me. It’s these fuck heads who started the F.B.I case file, these idiots were being arrested in droves.
I read the F.B.I case file too. The profile couldn’t have been more wrong. Well, that is to say, before I made some corrections. I mean shit if I’m going to have a file it should at least do me some service.
At the time I was safe, the punks hated the F.B.I more than I did, so I could rest assured that even if they did get arrested for something that they wouldn’t tell anyone I made bombs in the basement. The only way I could get caught is if I fucked up, which I of course did. More than just the chip factory, much earlier than that, I could get a bit careless early on. Car alarms went off, neighbors came home unexpectedly, wives cheating on their husbands while they should be out of the house. Most cases the police would end up thinking it was some minority; the rich never gave good descriptions.
Page Twenty: Hot Wiring Cars
Hot-wiring a car is one of the easiest things a person can do. The hardest part is getting in. Once you do that you break into the steering column and cross the two pairs of wires of the same color. In older models the standard color was red. Then you can take off to where ever you want. For me this was usually into another person’s driveway in the neighborhood. I called it Motor-Musical chairs. That was one of the most amusing things to do.
I eventually started stealing cars for more devious purposes. Mainly just running them into things. Storefronts were the best. They got the most attention and caused the most confusion. You read the headlines the next morning’s paper, “ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS CAR CRASHES INTO STOREâ€. For a while the newspapers thought that a drunkard crashed into the stores and stumbled away into the night. But what I really did was drive the car to the store of my choice, which was really just randomly picked by putting ads on the wall and choosing with a dart. When I got there I would find a decent straightaway, put the car into neutral, tie some rope to the gearshift, lock down the gas pedal with a plank of wood, and then pull the car into drive. The car would take a nosedive into full plate glass windows and computer displays while I pranced into the night.
This too brought along many copycat vandals, although many weren’t as smart as me and simply drove the cars into the stores themselves or tried doing it with a manual and got caught.
When people start dying it’s really hard to keep up your hobbies. But then again it makes it that much harder to stop.
Like a heroin addict I constantly had to up the danger. Bigger explosions, better thefts, burning crosses in front of synagogues. I eventually started leaving clues. The easier I made it for them to catch me, the more fun it was for me to try not to get caught.
After eight months of this it was winter wonderland for vandals and hooligans. With the night came the cold, and when the cold came, the people left. I could pull my vicious pranks with more privacy.
People never realize how much of a slob they are when they’re alone. When we’re alone we never clean up our messes, and I am no exception. I would leave things lying around the scene that I forgot about. I would read these things in the police report the next morning. At first it made me giggle, but when they started piecing things together I started to go back down my old road.
When some animals get caught in a hunter’s trap they will chew off their own limb to escape. It’s a good thing I’m not an animal … I chew off all my limbs.
Page seven: Solidox Bombs.
You used to able to buy solidox in any K-Mart. It’s exactly what it sounds like, solid oxygen, when you grind this up and mix it with sucrose (sugar) you have yourself one nasty surprise. Who knew the necessity to all life on earth could be so deadly. Solidox is what I used on the chip factory. Solidox isn’t strong enough to blow a building to its knees, which is exactly why I used it. The factory was a distraction, to make up for my touch to the FBI files. I figured that if I attacked a technological facility they would think I was some technophobe with bombs. It was the Unabomber that had given me this Idea.
In junior high, he was like an idol. Not that I liked what he did; I liked how he did it. I even gave an oral report to my English class about him.
The January snow fell like ash, from a volcano, from a cigarette. It made me tremble with calm. The factory on 34th was secluded by the industrial sense of isolationism. I didn’t even need to worry about being seen by a night guard. It was perfection that god couldn’t touch. It’s just too bad perfection dies quicker than the sunset. Everything had gone to plan, eight bombs placed in all the wrong places, almost thrown randomly. Actually the last three were. It was the hard work of one man that put all of my plans to shit.
- By wat0n
- By Negotiator
- By litwin