-Caveat Lector- from: http://www.zolatimes.com/V3.21/pageone.html <A HREF="http://www.zolatimes.com/V3.21/pageone.html">Laissez Faire City Times - Volume 3 Issue 21 </A> ----- Laissez Faire City Times May 24, 1999 - Volume 3, Issue 21 Editor & Chief: Emile Zola ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Deliberate Death of An Anarchist a story by Don Lobo Tiggre I used to be non-political, you know. Politics was such an incomprehensible mess, and nothing I could do would change anything anyway. I mean, I was just one guy, right? Of no importance to anyone outside my family and a few friends. If a movie star like Robert Redford couldn’t make much difference, I sure wasn’t going to—so why bother trying, or even thinking about it? I had important things to worry about, like why I was always one of those ‘nice’ guys with lots of girl friends but never any girlfriends. I had average all-American good looks, and was easy to talk to. Understanding. Supportive. I was non-threatening. And non-interesting. Beats the hell out of me why so many girls latch on to guys who treat them like shit…and then come to guys like me for a shoulder to cry on. Well, I was tired of it. I wanted some action! So, on an exceptionally clear sunny day, without a cloud in the sky—not that it mattered—I took a deep breath of fresh air and decided to go to a dance-bar downtown that evening, one that was rumored to be a real meat market. I ought to be able to find somebody to have fun with… But deciding to pick up a girl and actually doing it are not the same thing. I wasn’t sure what I’d do once I got inside the bar. Maybe if I found a pretty girl and treated her like shit, I’d score. On the other hand, I couldn’t just walk up to a total stranger and start mistreating her, could I? As it turned out, I didn’t have to do anything. I’d barely gotten a drink and headed toward the dance floor when a girl walked right up to me, motioning toward the dance floor with her hand. I can tell you she was gorgeous, but what will that mean? She wasn’t like a centerfold, her beauty wasn’t voluptuous like that. It was…more…lithe. Fit. Energetic. It was in the way she moved as much as in the way she looked—which was hard to tell for sure anyway with the flashing lights and all. But she radiated a kind of power that numbed my will. She seemed so alive! It was hard to hear anyone over the gut-pounding music, but I thought I heard her say, "You’ll do." "Do for what?" I asked. "Don’t ask. Just dance." She took the drink out of my hand and casually tossed it under a table as we passed on our way to the dance floor. It was weird. Not an accident. And she didn’t look drunk. She just didn’t care what happened to the glass. After gyrating to the latest sounds for a while, she took my hands and put them on her body. The firmness beneath my fingers flowed as she moved. Now, this was no slow dance—in order to avoid bouncing the wrong way and hitting her, I had to wriggle right next to her, matching every move. It was the most erotic experience I’d ever had: I could feel her rippling beneath the silky fabric of her dress, the hardness of her buttocks grinding against my pelvis. She had to have felt my sudden erection, but she gave no sign of it, unless perhaps it was to grind harder, faster. The smell of her sweat mingled with my own muskier smells. It was impossible to stop her. It was a good thing no one could hear me groan! I don’t know how long that lasted—my sense of time got all distorted. Eventually, she twirled out of my embrace and pulled me toward the door with a gentle but utterly unstoppable tug of one hand. Leaving the bar by a back door that led to a parking lot, I found that the clear day had turned into a crystal night and the cool night air slapped me, like a doctor encouraging a newborn to take his first breath. Only, I didn’t know then that I was about to enter a new world, even as she was leaving it. I took a deep breath and looked up... The stars! I couldn’t recall ever seeing so many stars before. "So many!" I said it before I realized I was whispering out loud. She looked at me oddly, perhaps surprised that I could take my eyes off her long enough to notice the sky. "This parking lot has no lights, and the building is blocking the few street-lights that are in front of it, so the stars are not as washed out as they’d usually look from within a city. It’s that, and because the moon hasn’t risen yet." I looked back at her, more surprised than she. She didn’t look like a science student. Or a book worm. Long dark, wavy hair, generous but not exaggerated curves, full lips and huge eyes. She looked more like a model, except that even though she moved gracefully and had delicate hands with fine long fingers, she didn’t wear any makeup. She also had, I could see now in the steady starlight, a faintly curving scar on her left cheek. It was thin and long, folding back over itself. And there was something deliberate about it, almost as though it were a decoration. I didn’t have too much time to wonder about it, though, as she turned and pulled me along behind her. She didn’t actually tug me with her hand; she just turned and led the way through the parking lot, knowing that I would follow. I followed. Her car was a brand spankin’ new Mazda RX7, lithe and ridiculously powerful for its size. Just like her. It unlocked as we approached, and I inhaled that ‘new car’ smell as we dropped in to the low leather seats. The sound of the motor cut quietly through the stillness inside, soft, smooth, and sharp. She said nothing. This was getting really weird. I mean, I wanted her—wanted her in the worst and best way—but this kind of thing never happened to me. Why had she chosen me? What was it I’d "do" for? An urgency grew in me to find out more about what I was getting into, but I’d already asked her that once, so I asked her what her name was instead. She snorted, managing to express contempt and amusement in a single sound. "Doesn’t matter." "It does to me! I’d like to get to know you." "You’ll never get to know me." She said it without anger, without any feeling at all. She simply said it as though it were in the same class of scientific facts as those that determine the brightness of stars. "But, if you don’t ask questions, you’ll get what you came for." I barely stopped myself from asking how she knew what I came for. That would have been a question, after all, and I couldn’t pretend that we both didn’t know what I’d been looking for. What I still wanted. I turned and looked out the window and watched the lights along the highway blinking past. They weren’t blink, blink, blinking the way I usually saw them, but blinkblinkblinking. I leaned over to get a look at the digital readout of her speedometer—the glowing numbers were easy to read. They were moving fast: 110...111...112... "Holy shit!" She glanced over and laughed—not a chuckle, nor a polite titter, but a full-throated roar that rang in the car like a gunshot. Then she floored it. The engine revved and the acceleration was firm, even from that starting speed. The lights now streamed by and I refused to look at the speedometer any more. I just gripped the seat and tried to remember to breathe. And wouldn’t you know it? Not a single cop to be found! After a while, she eased off the gas, and the car glided off the highway and down an exit ramp. She parked in front of a row of shops in a part of the city I’d never been to, but by that time I was beyond even wanting to ask questions. We got out and she led the way to a door that opened onto some stairs that led up from between two shops. A second door at the top of the flight had some kind of electronic lock that opened silently as we approached. To the left, a short hallway opened onto a living room that turned its lights on when we passed through the upper door. To the right, another short hallway opened onto a yawning blackness. She turned left and for the first time I was not drawn immediately to follow her. The cavern on the right drew me in, as though calling me with her own voice. I’m normally very sensitive to other people’s property, to their privacy, but I couldn’t stop myself… The walls of the right-hand passage fell away and I was venturing blindly out onto a hardwood floor. My steps echoed. I started to feel in front of me with my hands, expecting to find a wall, hoping for a light switch, when the lights turned themselves on—I’d reached the center of the room. It wasn’t like the brilliant glare of headlights that can stop you in your tracks, but I was immobilized just the same. In fact, the lights were all aimed away from me. They were aimed at the walls. There were eight of them—walls, that is—each a flat unreflective black that almost forced the eye to focus on the painting centered in each of them. I can tell you that the paintings were exquisite, but what would that mean? I’m no art connoisseur—hate museums, actually… But these! They made me feel. They made my lungs ache and I found it hard to breathe. The one I found myself staring at first was a starscape in a silver frame. The black of the void was so empty, I could feel its cold. The pinpricks of the stars were an exercise in purity. And the main feature! It was a star caught in the throes of death, its core collapsing right out of the universe, as its outer layers blew out into space, scattering the ingredients of life into the cosmos. The next painting to the right was just as luminous, but this time the heavenly bodies were human. The canvas showed two of them, entwined, with arms and legs caught in a frozen wave that blazed with erotic power. The bodies were sleek and fit without being too built up. And, while the details had been rendered with photographic realism, the lovers positively glowed a warmth that telegraphed a giddy mix of vigor and love, straight to my solar plexus, instead of my groin. Turning to the right again, I saw a family playing in a huge pile of leaves. This image was also rendered in photographic detail, but the feeling it inspired was one of such joy and playfulness that I laughed out loud, just from seeing it. Perhaps it was the shock of extremes that multiplied the impact of the next piece: it was a form of surrealistic collage that told the story of those awful weeks in 1993 that no one will ever forget. The children, too young to wear gas masks, dying from massive concentrations of CS gas… The fireball surging upward over the church… The tanks flying American flags as they drove repeatedly over the corpse of a teenager… The flag of the Branch Davidian Seventh Day Adventists fluttering to the ground as the flames raged on and on and on, while the federal agents kept the fire trucks from Waco back… There were four more, as beautiful and terrible as the first four, but my gaze came to the girl first, standing in the entrance to the hall. Her hair, I now saw in the brighter lighting, wasn’t black, but a rich dark brown with red highlights—a contrast with her emerald eyes—and her scar shone whitely against her slightly olive skin in the concentrated beams. Arms folded across her chest, she communicated a fading annoyance with her posture, and her face registered some surprise. It was the first, but not the last time I saw her control of the situation slip that night. In that instant, I knew that she was the artist who had created the paintings, though how someone so young could have wrought with such ability and poignancy was beyond me to understand. She unfolded her arms and come over to me. "You weren’t supposed to see this place." She dabbed with her sleeve at a tear I had not noticed on my cheek. I couldn’t think. Nothing made sense. I forgot her command not to ask questions—but it wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t just her sex I wanted any more, it was her. "These paintings, they are you. They’re so full of...of...what was it they said about that sculptor? The agony and the ecstasy?" My words were bashing her tightly-gripped self-control. "Who are you? What hurt you so bad?" Her control slipped for a moment and she flowed around me, holding me tight. "You weren’t supposed to see this," was all she would say for a while. Then she sat me on the floor, right in the middle of her painful and joyful paintings. "Do you really care? Why do you want to know?" "I love you." Ridiculous, I know, but it just slipped out. She flinched as though I’d hit her, and raised her hand to slap me, as though I’d said something inexcusably rude. The she laughed and lowered her hand. "Don’t be silly, you don’t even know me!" "I know you painted these…these…emotionscapes, and I love the person who made them." The words surprised us both, lingering in our minds for a moment. We locked eyes for an uncomfortably long time. I was the one who looked away first. "All right, I’ll tell you." She took my hands and gave me another long and searching look. "But don’t love me. You can’t love me. No one can love me." These words also lingered, as though kept with us by the focus of the eight images around us. "I was wrong about you," she said. "You mean I won’t do?" I asked. She laughed. "No, I mean that you have already come to know me more than I ever imagined you would. It’s not why I brought you here." Another pause. "So tell me," I urged. A long pause. A flick of her eyes was all she could do to start. I followed her glance and saw that one of the remaining four paintings—the first, if you looked at them in order—was a rape scene. It was her rape scene. The slashed clothing revealed a body that I had come to know by feel as we danced; I knew it was her. This time it was not surrealistic story telling, but a single visual stab that pierced the heart. With an eye to detail that made my stomach churn, the image caught rape as it really is—not an act of sex, but one of subjugation. The knife at the throat, the multiple lacerations meant to disfigure, not kill… The blood dripping from her left cheek… The bruises already swelling… All these things, and more that I don’t want to remember, told of a desire to control: a desire for absolute power over another human being. I felt sick. I wanted to reach out and hold her tight, to hug her tenderly and soothe away the pain. But would she want a man to touch her, with the memory so recently refreshed in her mind? "Dammit, what’s your name!" She smiled. "Agora." I was caught off guard. "Agora? What kind of name is that?" "The only one you’ll get." She was back in control again. Friendlier, more open, but in complete charge of the show again. We sat for a while longer and the lights, which must have been rigged to a motion detector, switched off. She made no move to activate them again, nor did she try to pull away from me when I slipped my arm around her in the dark. Taking that for encouragement, I pulled her tight and held on as though I were the one who’d been violated. I reached up to touch her scarred cheek, and it was I who couldn’t suppress a quick sob. "When I got back from the hospital," she murmured into my shoulder, the heat of her breath dampening my shirt, "I had a ticket on my car for being parked on the wrong side of the street on street-sweeping day. As you can imagine, I sure as hell didn’t feel like paying it!" She waved her arm wide and the lights came on. Her hand was pointing to another image. A composition depicting something that looked like a still from an old World War II movie about Nazi Germany, on closer examination, revealed uniforms from much closer to home. The painting was too disturbing to describe in great detail, but it stripped away the myth of ‘public defender’ and showed the basic nature of the police in America today: an instrument of force. "No!" I didn’t even want to think about what it meant. "Yes! I told them I was in the hospital and couldn’t have moved my car out of the way. They said it didn’t matter: the law is the law. I said that was ridiculous. It was wrong! They said that it wasn’t a matter of right and wrong, but of the law. I told them that I couldn’t possibly cooperate with a system that values rules over rightness; I wasn’t going to pay their fucking ticket!" Silence. "Then what happened?" "They arrested me." "They hauled you off to jail for getting in the way of a street-sweeper?" "Well," her back straightened and she tried to explain in a matter of fact tone, but her anger strained her voice, and her scar shown even more whitely. "When I didn’t pay, and I didn’t go to court, I was cited for contempt. And you’re damned right I held that court in contempt! I guess they knew that, because they didn’t knock on my door and ask me to come along nicely. They kicked it down at about midnight. They didn’t even shout ‘police’ or anything, they just stormed into the house, brandishing guns. My boyfriend thought they were burglars, or murderers, or something and went for his own gun. They shot him. Guess he was right after all." I just stared at her. Could a parking ticket really be lethal to anyone? There was no sign of a boyfriend anywhere now… It seemed too horrible to be true, but she stared right back without blinking. It had to be true—where else would she find all the pain to distill and mix in with her pigments? The lights went out again. In the dark again, she whispered, "That’s not all." "You’re kidding!" "I wish I was!" I waited for a while. "What?" "When they finally let me go and the whole fiasco was over—they took the money for my parking ticket, fines, and court expenses from my bank account—I got a letter from the IRS." "No!" Silence. "Okay, tell me, but don’t turn on the lights, I couldn’t bear to look at what else you might have painted." "Apparently, while I was busy with all that, I forgot to make an estimated tax payment. As an artist, I’m self-employed, and have to estimate what my taxes will be and send quarterly payments to the IRS. Some computer somewhere, maybe because of my shiny new criminal record, decided that I needed to be audited." She paused and I shuddered. "They didn’t find anything in the audit—in spite of being an artist, I’m good with numbers—except that my payment was late. I told them that I’d been in the hospital, and then tied up with legal problems because of my hospital stay, and that it wasn’t my fault the payment was late. They didn’t care. ‘The law is the law,’ and everyone has to pay their taxes on time. If people could just decide to pay whenever they thought it was convenient, why, no one would pay and there would be no money to pay for police protection, street-sweeping, and other vital services!" I didn’t want to, but I had to laugh. "Like they protected you so well!" Then I stopped laughing. "Don’t tell me that you didn’t pay!?" "Not yet," she chuckled herself, "but they haven’t gotten round to trying to force me yet." She took my face in her hands in the dark, holding it firmly in front of her own. "But they will! Ultimately, right and wrong don’t matter to them, only brute force matters and they have more of it than I do. But I won’t let them win this time. I’ve liquidated all my assets—even sold this studio and transferred the car’s title to my sister! By this time tomorrow I’ll be flat broke, but it won’t matter; I’ll be beyond their reach." My head was reeling. It was too much, too fast... "Flat broke?" I didn’t understand. "But why? I mean, I know why you feel the way you do—everyone does—but...but... ‘Death and Taxes’ you know..." "Listen," she said, "you feel sorry for me, but you haven’t been through what I’ve been through. You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t imagine what I discovered." "And what’s that?" "I discovered that it’s all the same!" "What’s all the same?" "Government and Rape." "What!?!" "Government is rape." She insisted. Her body felt like stone, where my arm was still around her waist. "At least, the state as we know it shares the same essential characteristic with rape. They may pretend it’s about helping people by providing ‘essential’ services to the poor and ‘public goods’ to all, but the fact is that as long as people cannot voluntarily subscribe to a governance system—and choose to unsubscribe—it’s about force. Subjugation. Every quarter the blood-suckers had me bend over and present myself for them to mount. Well, I’m not doing it any more!" I could see her point and it paralyzed me. It made sense in a twisted kind of way, but what was the alternative? Anarchy? "I saw firsthand what the state is all about. When push comes to shove, it’s right and wrong—justice—that gets shoved out the window. All that matters is that the people who work for and who control the state have the brute force to make you comply with their wishes, and they will use it if you disobey them." She chuckled again. "The funny thing is that people actually know this already. They know it so deep in their bones that they don’t think about it; they just knuckle under. They set aside their own ideas of right and wrong, a sort of pre-emptive spreading of moral Vaseline, so as not to get hurt too badly. The state is nothing more than a Chicago-style gang that pretends to legitimacy when it extorts ‘protection’ money from its victims." "But... Everybody hates taxes. It’s just that we have to have government for some things!" It surprised me to find that I didn’t really believe this, even as I said—it was just something I ‘knew’ and hadn’t really thought about. She shook her head. "There isn’t a service government provides that hasn’t been provided by a private entity somewhere, somewhen. Disneyland provides every service a city does, and does so at a profit, working with people who choose to stay there as long as they can because the owners have made it a fun place to be. During our revolutionary war, when British power dissolved and an American government had not yet been established, most people carried on their lives just fine. There were plenty of other governance systems, like their own morals, their work relationships, and their churches. These all kept most things orderly on a daily basis." She softened a little and leaned more against me. "Of course we need governance systems, or we’d never be able to get along in society. I just don’t believe that those systems or society have to be based on force." "Voluntary government?" "There are examples of it in history. Anarchy doesn’t actually mean chaos, as most people think, it just means ‘not ruled.’ That’s what I want: not to be ruled. That’s what I’ve decided to be, for the rest of my life!" "How?" A light dawned. "Are you leaving? Is that why you liquidated your assets?" "Yes, I’m leaving, but I didn’t liquidate my assets so I could take them with me. I did it so I could spend them all down, so there’d be nothing left for the statist rapists to grab." "But where will you go? What place is so free that you won’t even need money?" She laughed at that. "To be free means that no one rules you, no one can force you, no one can violate your will—not that life comes to you free of effort! I’m not talking about going some place where all my needs will be provided for free. No manna in the desert for me. I’m talking about going someplace where no one will ever have power over me again." "Where?" "Unfortunately," she rolled her head so that her eyes pressed against my shoulder and spoke more softly, "there is nowhere left on the planet where anyone can go and get away from the statists. States claim every scrap of land and every ocean. Anywhere you could go, some state or another would try to force you to participate in its protection racket. It’s not like in the pioneer days when you could just move out into the wilderness and take your chances with nature and defend yourself against anyone who might try to violate you. No, there is no free place left on earth and you don’t need money where I’m going!" "Where then? Are you leaving the planet?" I knew that didn’t make sense, but it was the only thing that came to mind. I couldn’t keep an edge of sarcasm from creeping into my voice. "Did someone start taking passengers on rockets when I wasn’t looking?" Laughter again. "No, silly, I’m going to die." "What!?! You’re so young!!!" No laughter then at all. She took my hands in hers. They were very warm, almost feverish. "I am going to die tonight. I thought you’d do to keep me company until the time comes, but I didn’t know that you’d figure me out. I thought you were just some guy who wanted to party." "Agora, what have you done?!" That perfectly rendered image of her rape that had pierced my heart turned into a double-edged razor that cut me no matter which way I turned. "I made a pill with an extra thick, slow-dissolving coating. I took it before going out tonight. I don’t know for sure when it will dissolve completely, but I got the agent I used from a friend in the military—the end should be quick and painless when it comes." She bowed her head over my hands and kissed them, the movement causing the lights to come on again. In the stillness I could smell the soft floral fragrance of her shampoo wafting up from where her head lay on my hands, on my lap. "Maybe another hour." Her lips barely moved. "Agora, no!" I looked around for a phone. No wonder she hadn’t cared about getting a speeding ticket! "We’ve got to get you to a hospital!" "It’s too late. The pill has probably passed into my intestines now—it was very small. You couldn’t make me throw it up if you tried. And besides…" She sat up and looked straight into my eyes. "You wouldn’t want to violate my will, would you?" "I…" I was trapped. After all she’d been through, I couldn’t really try to force her to live against her will. But… She put her finger on my lips. "You can’t stop me. I’m free! No one will ever force me to do anything again. I am beyond violation!" She dabbed at my face again. "But there is something you can do for me." I just looked at her. "I’m not dead yet. Stop acting like this is a funeral: let’s party!" "WHAT??? No!!! Are you crazy?" She looked hurt. "Maybe, but if so, it’s my life and I can be crazy with it if I choose to. Are you going to try to force me into someone else’s idea of sanity?" "Of course not, but..." "Then make love to me. If there was any truth to that feeling you said you have, then help me spend my last moments in that wonderful feeling of sharing joy with someone I care about." She put her finger on my lips again. "Yes, I’ve come to care about you too." I pushed her hand aside. "Then stay, for me!" "You aren’t trying to make me feel guilty, are you?" I had no answer. "Good. You’ve not tried to use force on me yet, don’t start emotional arm-twisting now. I’m asking you: please?" "I... I’m sorry, I just can’t!" I held her tight. "Maybe I’m crazy too, but I love you, and I want to be with you! I can’t make love to you when all I can think about is you dying!" "Then," she disengaged my arms gently, "it’s time for you to go." "No!" "You’re not going to force your presence on me, are you?" "Of course not, but... Agora!!!" "I don’t want to end my life in tears. If you love me, and can’t be happy with me, then please go!" I wanted to stand to leave, but found that my legs refused to obey. The paintings surrounded me and pinned me where I was. I knew now that she had made them after her decision, I knew now the source of that hot needle of bittersweet aching that leapt from each one into the heart of the viewer. "The paintings..." She looked at them. "Shit! I didn’t sell them!" She stood and planted her feet wide, her fists upon her hips. "The IRS mustn’t get a penny from them; you must help me destroy them!" I couldn’t possibly. "Give them to me," I suggested. She paused... "Yes, you would know what to do with them..." She thought for a while longer. "I’ll trade you." "Agora, I can’t!" "Then please leave. I don’t want you to have to see what I must do." "I can’t do that either!" She wasn’t angry. She pulled me up by the hands and hugged me tight. "I do believe you are telling the truth. I’m sorry that you feel the way you do—I didn’t mean for that to happen. But, my last love, you must make up your mind, and you must do it now!" * * * When I called the police to come for her body, they said I couldn’t take the paintings, or anything from the ‘crime scene.’ Later, when I told the courts that the paintings belonged to me, they said that I had no proof, and that the paintings were valuable and would be used to settle the deceased’s tax liability. I told them that, with or without proof, the paintings were mine and that what they were doing was wrong. The bitch in black robes actually laughed at me! I used to be non-political, you know. Now I’ve seen the true heart of the state, and I’m pissed enough to do something about it. Why bother? Because Agora taught me that politics is only an incomprehensible mess if you believe the lies of those who gravitate to power. When you strip away the myth from the state, you find freedom. More to the point, you find that resistance is not futile; the state is just a system created by people—people addicted to having power over others—and it can be replaced. I have a mission now. I have a new life. The bastards may have taken the paintings Agora gave me, but I won’t let them take the life she gave me! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Don Lobo Tiggre is the author of Y2K: The Millennium Bug, a suspenseful thriller. Tiggre can be found at the Liberty Round Table. -30- from The Laissez Faire City Times, Vol 3, No 21, May 24, 1999 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Published by Laissez Faire City Netcasting Group, Inc. Copyright 1998 - Trademark Registered with LFC Public Registrar All Rights Reserved ----- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. 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