PsychoFiction

 

 

 

Vanity vanity, all is vanity. This can be understood in several ways. It could refer to an exaggerated ego, where a person thinks too much of himself. But, in the context of this it could be the belief in such a person that leads one to believe. . . well. . . Anything!

Everybody wants to get next to a happening guy. Psychology 101. If you can just touch his robe, you can be healed. You won’t, of course but occasional masturbation may not be good for the soul, but it is a good sleep aid.

Recently this has extended into literature. Time was when writers, publishers, and movie makers went through great lengths to make it clear when a story was just that. You’ve seen it. This work does not represent any person either living or dead. Now in point of fact nothing you see in a flicker picture is based on fact, not even the so-called “documentary,” which is always the opinion of the writer, producer, or director who try to influence the audience by insinuations, or if that fails, out and out fairy tales.

Billy the Kid died of old age in Hico Texas, Jackie Kennedy shot JFK in the side of the head for screwing Marilyn Monroe, and the assassination of Charlie Kirk was actually a hologram so Charlie could elope with Taylor swift. And don’t try to tell me most of you won’t buy those because you have already bought far worse than that

Aliens! Space creatures so sophisticated that they don’t even put windows in their flying saucers to look at the universe as they cross unbelievably long distances to come to where? Earth! For what? To go to some backwater town in Arkansas and look up some farmer’s ass! Do you know how many books have been written to “prove” this? The government even began to buckle and consider the possibility. And that’s a possibility if you consider how many intern’s asses various representatives “of the people” have scoped out. Why the leap to intergalactic solace is a small step for man and a great leap for penicillin.

But let’s get back to literature. Fiction vs nonfiction. Like I said the old rule did have a dividing line. Slowly that line began to blur. “Based on a true story,” was a good one. Hey! There was a real Davy Crockett. I saw him. He worked for Disney Studios. The ones that gave you a duck without no pants. He died at The Alamo after clubbing a couple thousand Mexicans to death with “Old Betsy.”

Now fiction? Katy bar the door. Star Wars. Zipping around the universe looking for Arkansas. Now here’s where the line blurs a bit more. At Star Wars get togethers, surviving stars of the TV series are paraded like real astronauts. I hate to be to first one to tell you, but Clint Eastwood never shot anybody either. Phil Spector did though, so there’s that.

But there is a new genre. I like to call it “Psychofiction,” because if you consume it without your Spidey sense set on full you’ll start buying the whole ball of ear wax. It comes with no warning label. Just balls to the wall story line, sometimes proceeded with some kind of rickety old news cast by some “bubble headed bleach blonde” that leads into a story about the disappearance of a school bus with twenty elementary age kids on it and it was found twenty or thirty years later, buried in some vacant lot, filled up with twenty skeletons.

Hang on . . . it gets better. As you might expect, the parents and cops were disturbed by this. Now, if you’re not disturbed by the loss of a busload of kids, complete with bus, you are one hard son of a gun to impress! There’s more. As the story progresses the FBI gets involved. But, after ninety days or so they, and the local authorities say, “Hey! It happens!” I crappith thee not!

Then, along comes The Lone Ranger, or Rangerette as the case may be, who, newly hired, hitting the department long about the time Skeltal-bus is found, and submits the theory that this all seems a bit odd. Surprisingly, her protests draw little attention. These kinds of things happen all the time in Screw All Georgia! We wrote it off as a mass runway years ago. Yeah, right! And Jon Benét was a suicide! I BELIEVE old Jews made a boat and sailed to America!

There was one empty seat on the bus. No bones. No DNA, touch otherwise, not even a trace fart. The missing one was a girl. Quiet kid. Kept to herself. But she had this notebook. Still on this bus. Water damage. All but the good parts that told about a cult that was taking these kids to Special Class every day for reprogramming. The bus driver never took them to school. And the school never noticed. No truant officer, no letters home. Nada. And when the kids got home every day the parents didn’t notice they had forgot how to talk. I mean, I know it’s Georgia but DAMN! Then one day they wuz jes gone! Raise smarter kids next time, right?

The lady detective banged her head on this outhouse door until her chief told her to shut the hell up and get back to speed traps. And the whole mess just fizzled out. Since I’d happened upon this on YouTube there were comments. Little things like I grew up there and this never happened got me thinking. Now I feel you must know that I had bought this story. Hook, line, and case notes. I did this because there was no notice this this was all poppy cock written by some housewife between loads of laundry. This is PsychoFiction. The bastion of Twenty-First century literature. Can you hear the voice of Pontius Pilate in the distance What is truth?  To this generation truth is whatever floats your boat, no matter how many holes are in it. And it doesn’t have to be blatant. Erika had Charlie killed because she was pregnant by her boyfriend. Now, c’mon! Send me all your AI proofs of them together. Tell me Trump’s the boyfriend. These are actual claims that I have read. And they have an audience. Remember the words of the Prophet Adolf Hitler: If you are going to tell a lie make it a big one and if you tell it long enough it will become the truth. Hell! At the council of Nicaea Constantine showed up and invented the Catholic Church.