Post by slumpy Post by slumpy Post by slumpy Post by slumpy
The year is 2024...an old man shuffles through a shiny-floored
corridor wearing pyjamas trailing a length of videotape behand him,
muttering under his breath - he quickly turns and looks over his
shoulder as if something or someone is there, a scared look in his
eyes - he mumbles one thing - "Jerry Boy..." - before shuffling on
"Mr Lifshine, medication time...Mr Lifshine...oh where's that silly
old fucker gone off to now ?"
"Well ya won't have far to look, Nurse, all ya gotta do is follow
that damned tape !" says another patient as Nurse Rachel reaches
for the keys - she knows exactly where he'll be...in the TV room,
trying to get his tape into the DVD-player in the corner again -
how many times must he be told ?
She remembers when he arrived at Sunny View for the Mentally
Bewildered and spent the first two years screaming through the bars
on his window. Now what /was/ it he used to scream...? Well it had
always sounded like;
"NOW KISS MY ZOGCRYPTION u FUCKIN' DINGBAT!!!" but nobody had been
able to translate it into English - not that he spoke with a very
He was such a lonely fat old bastard, she thought to herself, never
had /any/ visitors. Well there was one once, another overweight
ugly bastard called Brett, but Mr Lifshine just screamed "No, it's
Jerry-Boy, and he doesn't exist" and locked himself in the kitchens
where he ate 16 pounds of lard before anyone could stop him. His
only consolation were those little birds that perched on his
windowsill each day, and he'd feed them crackers, and he'd laugh
out loud, but, when asked why, would only say "Gates. He's hiding
behind them Gates again", before shuffling off.
She found him on the floor in the corner, with his video tape wound
all around him - they'd soon learned that if he was allowed to drag
this 'spaghetti' of tape around he would be quite calm, but once
they'd taken it off him and he sat on his bunk rocking back and
forth moaning "Where's it gone, Precious? Where's the Wereo,
where's the wideo, where is it Precious?" for six days until one of
the guards wanted to batter him. After he had the plaster removed
he was allowed to keep a bundle of loose tape with him.
"Come on, Mr Lifshine, you can't sit there all day", and she
started to help him up then realised what had happened.
"He's shit himself again, can you get the cleaning cart, the
restraints, and the electric shock generator please Nurse Baffles."
After he'd been cleaned up and they'd drawn lots to see who got to
zapp him with 10,000 volts, he was zapped. It usually took about 20
minutes to get the nostril hairs to catch fire, but with his body
fat he was in danger of frying internally so they kept it down to
15, just in case.
All he could say afterwards was "Moo-ha-ha Damon, Moo-ha-ha
Voivodka, I'm the King of Ontario, honest...." as he was dragged
along the corridor by his hair.
They kept an eye on him while he slept, knowing that he would wake
up shouting "Jam Jam Jam" as usual.
Later that night he did his usual trick of wandering around his
room proclaiming loudly to an imaginary audience "But it was me,
and only me, who pressed the record button why the whole World
slept...on Nytol". The other patients had complained, but they had
increased his dose to an almost lethal level and he didn't even
doze off, so they increased the patients' dosage instead. Tonight
he changed the routine a bit and started arguing with himself.
"Shut up you fat useless Cunt !"
"No, you shut up, kicks the ball, Noballs, Parrot Parrot, Rancho,
TAP TAP TAP, slappy, ticket stub ticket tour bus, timmy, Prescott
Bum!!!" "You deluded repulsive ugly wanker!!"
"Voivodka Lemons !!"
This went on until one of the orderlies went and punched him in the
eye, after which he curled up on his soaking bed and masturbated
while mumbling "John King, Brett Meisner, John King, Brett
Next morning Nurse Rachel unlocked his door and peered in.
"It's 50 years ago, 50 years today, Precious, I pressed the record
button while the whole World was sleeping...on Nytol...Caljam,
Caljam, where are you Wereoboy, where's the Nytol ?"
She shook her head in despair - 19 years of repetitive burbling and
talking crap. She wondered how long it had been going on before he
was admitted, the patterns were obviously fixed long before she
first encountered him.
He'd been arrested, for the third time in a week, back in 2004, in
Ontario, California. The first time he crashed his Cab through the
front of a roadside diner which was closed for refurbishment,
claiming he was starving, though investigations suggested he had
eaten only 20 minutes before, exhausting the local Macdonalds' stock
Two days later he was found in a Hotel room with three 14-year old
boys, after complaints about a terrible noise coming from the room.
He was said to have been standing on the bed playing air-guitar,
miming to Black Sabbath and screaming "Wereoboy, Wereoboy, *all
hail* the Wereoboy!!" while the three boys looked on terrified.
Three days later he was arrested and brought straight to the Asylum
after bursting into the Ontario Museum (from which he had been
ejected many times before, including 6 times in the past two days),
dressed in no more than a suit made of reel-to-reel tape, and
demanding his collection of memorabilia, which he carried in a
cardboard box, be shown as the main exhibit. His claim seemed to
centre around a rock concert that had been staged in the local area
thirty years previously.
She remembered speaking to the curator after Mr Lifshine's
committal, and he said "The man is dangerous, a total fruitcake.
He's been thrown out of the Museum six times, he threatened to
attack the Yukon exhibit, and we had to restrain him when he tried
to strangle the wax model of Paul Bunion. I have no idea what his
problem is, he just rambles incoherently and repeats the word
'Wereo' over and over. I've been here for ten years and he is a
regular visitor, though we have had problems with him in the past."
After his jam, he wandered into the garden, as he usually did, and
made his way down the drive.
Three minutes later he was back in his room. The security had been
alerted again, because he was climbing the front gates, screaming
"Gates Gates, where are the Gates? Gates at the Rancho, Prescott
Kong, Kong, where are the Gates ?" at which point he was zapped with
a cattle prod. Eight times.
"Are you a...*HiSsINZ*, precious ?"
"No, Mr Lifshine, I'm a nurse, you know that."
"You're one of those *HiSsINZ Starz* - I say you are so you must be
- I am Wereoboy -"
"<SECURITY / SECURITY>"
"I'm the WereoKing, GET AWAY FROM ME!! DON'T COME NEAR ME WITH *THAT*!!"
"Shut up, you fucking prick, and go back to sleep"
"Am th Wer boyyy....."
To prevent any further disruption or upset to the other patients,
Nurse Rachel arranged for Mr Lifshine to be moved to the basement,
where they could lock him in a store-room away from the rest of the
On the way back to the office, Rachel spoke to Doctor Bloo, who used
to treat him for his delusional behaviour, until he was injured when
Mr Lifshine fell off his chair (though witnesses say it was
deliberate) as he was walking past and was hospitalised with several
broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. "I never really had a chance
with him, he always used to scream and try to lunge at me when he
first arrived. He thought I was someone else, kept insisting my name
was Prescott Rancho and that I had met him before outside the Beacon
theatre and interviewed him. I don't think he knows who he actually
is, or anyone else for that matter. I have no idea what we can do
with him, he's a lost case."
Rachel drunk her coffee in peace, until she heard a scream from the
stairs, and as she ran towards the screams she had the feeling that
all was not well in the store-room. What met her eyes as she came
around the bottom step came as a shock.
"Wereo...Nytol...Wereo...Nytol...Kong Kong Kong..." came the moans
from the corner, but it was the state of Mr Lifshine that made her
catch her breath. It appeared that he had managed to eat through his
straps and had then proceeded to eat as much of the contents of the
stockroom as possible. Unfortunately the room contained not only the
entire stock of breakfast cereal, a few cases of jam and some dried
milk, but also the cleaning staff's equipment and chemicals, a few
cans of paint (and brushes) and a box of condoms.
Mr Lifshine had eaten all the jam, the condoms, a packet of scourers,
and drunk as much of the chemical mixtures as he could before he
started to turn blue, and vomited on himself. He had shaken all the
milk powder and cereal over himself, and the mixture had congealed
and dried into a thick crust. He continued to vomit, and drink the
last of the drain unblocker while the orderlies tried to get through
the sludge to him.
"Getaway Jerry Boy, *I'm* the king of the Internet, I'm the Wereoboy,
my store is *NOT* a cab, I'm prime location manhattan Wereoboy with a
message for the World..."
It was at this point that he farted, unfortunately following through,
sending a cascade of excrement and vomit-cereal mix across the floor.
"Yeah, that's about the only message /he'll/ ever give anyone" said
one orderly to another.
"I can't wait to get the hoses on the fat cunt, we'll beat this
fucker black and blue..."
"BUT I'M THE WEREOBOY ! I AM THE TICKET STUB BOY, THE NUCLEAR WARRIOR
OF THE TOURBUS COME TO SAVE THE WORLD WITH MY JAM AND ONTARIO DINGBAT
KONGISMS !!" screamed the pathetic blubbering mess in the corner, as
he received a crack across the skull from a broom, swung by Dr Bloo,
who had decided that enough was enough.
They attached nylon straps to his wrists and connected them to a
winch, dragging him up the stairs and only a trolley, which was then
pushed outside into the cold night. Still mumbling incoherently, Mr
Lifshine vomited again, and, with his skin still a deep blue, had the
hoses turned on him, still strapped to the trolley.
For two hours, taking turns to spread the fun around, they hosed him
down with ice-cold water, until he was also blue with cold. He was
then taken back to his room, chained to the radiator, and beaten with
axe-handles until the staff got bored.
Next morning he was quieter than usual. Still chained to the
radiator, still a deep shade of blue, he was given a jar of jam (they
had to go to the shops for it) and as he ate it, he said "I used to
be someone you know..."
Nurse Rachel was amazed - nobody had ever heard him string two words
together in a comprehensible way before.
"I used to be someone....I was a hero for millions....they never
really understood me, you know....I /was/ Wereoboy, and they just
didn't understand me, even when I proclaimed the power of the Nuclear
Warrior, the Pilar Of Fiore, and the California Jam, they still
laughed at me...."
"Who did ? Who laughed at you ??"
"Everyone. Doctor Bloo, Timmy, slappy, Hawkenballs, Werner Herzog,
Roger Glover, the driver of the tourbus...even Damonoballs and Vodka
laughed at me, stabbed me in the back....we told you they was
Rachel couldn't understand him. Nobody could, he was just rambling as usual.
"Where is the ticketstub ? Is Richie still playing ? Roger is my
friend, he used to give me interviews, but he wasn't really there,
*I* wasn't even there, the tourbus was there. I had a ticket stub you
know, but I lost it, lost my precious..."
He continued in the same way for the next three days, and his colour
started to change, becoming slightly more pink, turning him an
"Could I use the phone ?"
The staff had spent the past three days getting used to him making
some form of sense, though nobody could understand what he was going
on about. This latest request came as a shock.
Nurse Rachel was called, and she spoke to him quietly, in case he
suddenly lost it again.
"Who do you want to call, Mr Lifshine ?"
"John King. And Brett Meisner. They recognise the power of the Wereo
and the Nuclear Warrior, they love me! And Thteven, he was there!! He
was there when I pressed 'record' and became the all-powerful
Wereoboy, he is the Wideokid!!"
To humour him, they brought him a telephone, and connected him to the
staff room, where Johnny B and Captain Tripps were waiting for his
"Hello, John King's office, can I help you ?"
"Hey yeah, this is Wereoboy."
"This is me. Wereoboy. Pilar of Fiore, Nuclear Warrior, come to save
"And you want....what exactly ?"
"John King. He is a Wereoman."
"I am afraid John cannot speak to you at the moment, he's fisting a
15-year old boy named Brian"
"But he can't be! Brian is *mine*! He is a Wereoprince!!"
"Well I'm sorry Mr Wereo, but you missed your chance in 2003 when they
realised your life was based on delusions and fuckwittery."
"Those *HiSsiNZ* know NOTHING!"
"Whatever, Mr Wereo, you are a fuckwit, and John King has asked that
you do not call again. Goodbye."
"But I am Wereo ? Don't you understand ?"
"Hi, this is Brett Meisner, I'm not around to take your call, y'know,
so if you want to talk to the King of all Rock and Roll, The King of
California Jam, the King of the Wereo, leave a message."
"Aaaaiiiieeeeeee!!!!! You bastard!! You stole my Wereo !! *I* am the
Wereoboy, *I* am the Nuclear Warrior, *I* am the Pilar of fire..."
<Brett picks up>
"Hey Scott, how ya doin ? Sorry about that answerphone thing, just
have to be careful who calls me nowadays, being so World famous and
so fuckin rich you wouldn't believe."
"You stole my Wereo!!"
"No I didn't. *I* was the one who pressed 'record' on an old
reel-to-reel tape deck,while all the World was sleeping, on Nytol,
*I* was the one who became Wereoboy, *I* was the one who taped the
Wideo, *I am* the King of California Jam."
"Not at all. I even have a guy here who was with me at the time, you
want to speak with him?"
"Hey Thcott, thith ith Thteven, I'm a fwiend of Bwett'th."
"Thteven! Thank God! They think Brett's the Wereoboy!"
"Well he ith, ithn't he ? Bwett wath the one that pwethed 'wecord'
while the whole World wath thleeping...on Nytol."
"Whaaaat ? You were with *me* when *I* pressed 'record' while the whole
"Fuck off, you athhole, Bwett *is* the Weweoboy and I *am* the
Wideokid, and you are thtill as deluded ath you were back in two
thouthand and thwee, before your /acthident/."
"But...I *was* the Wereoboy....wasn't I ?"
"No, Thcott, you were jutht a Fuckwit."
"Oh....are you sure, Thteven ?"
"Oh I'm thure, Thcott, I'm thure..."
"They said it would happen...."
"I'd missed the bus, the tourbus. and they told me it would
happen...they told me I was a fuckwit, I didn't believe them."
"Do you believe them now?"
"Mr Lifshine ?"
"No. I *am* Wereoboy. *I* am the King of California, the King of
Ontario, Moviestar, Publisher, Friend of the Stars and driver of the
"Lock him back up, he's a lost cause...."
Later that evening, he called Nurse Rachel to his room, where he was still
chained to the radiator, dressed in a duvet cover to keep his skin away from
the light, and anyone who might have asked awkward questions.
"I know the truth, it's right there in front of me, don't know why I didn't
see it before..."
"Tell me, Mr Lifshine."
"Well, it's like this - I *am* Deep Purple."
"Look at me! I *am* Deep Purple!!"
"Well you're a dark shade of mauve I suppose" said Rachel, reaching out for
alarm buzzer just in case.
"No! You don't understand! Nobody understands! *I AM DEEP PURPLE*. Cal Jam
was *ME awl* along!!"
"Calm down now, and I'll get some of those 'sweeties' that you like so
"No, it's OK, I understand now! I *AM* Gillandale Blacklord! I *AM* The
PaceGlover! Get someone important on the phone, I need to publish *now*."
"Sorry Mr Lifshine, the telephone has been taken away until thursday".
"But I must speak to my record company! They cannot exist without me! I *am*
the record company, I *am* everything! I have the key to the GATES for fucks
"Well that's as maybe, but you're staying chained to the radiator until you
calm down and go back to your gibbering nonsense."
All that day, he could be heard muttering to himself, sneaking looks outside
his room in case anyone was listening.
"Brett Meisner is gonna get it now. Brett Meisner watch out, precious. I
have contacts in the LAPD, you're getting a visit from those guys any
minute. And a SWAT team too. And the Internet Police...."
In the evening, he was woken up from his jam to see an old man in a white
coat. He'd seen plenty of those over the years. He thought he looked
"Mr Lifshine, this is Mr Michael Threat, he's a consultant lunatic
The words tapered off as he noticed the name badge on the old man's coat:
M.T. Threat....now where had he heard that name before ? Was this the man
who sedated him in Ontario the first time he was arrested ? Was this the
mugger that he'd killed in the back of his Storefront Taxi ? Maybe he was
one of the numerous people he'd made up over the years, but his face looked
"Now Mr Lifshine, I want you to tell me what the problem is ?"
"I thought I was the Wereoboy, and I *was* the Wereoboy and now I'm Deep
Purple and I still *am* the Wereoboy. I am a Nuclear War, King of The Kong,
and and and -"
"Ooookay....so when did you become..erm...Weirdoboy ?"
" *WEREO WEREO WEREO!!!* "
"Sorry, yes, /Wereo/."
"And what happened in 1974, Scott. May I call you Scott ?"
"I am the Wereoboy. Scott is Brett Meisner. On Nytol."
"So /how/ did you become Wereoboy ?"
"I pressed 'record'. I know I did, because I was *there*. So was Thteven. He
became the Widdy kid, and we ruled the World. I am the Pilar of Fire, the
Nuclear Warrior, the king of Kong."
"Record ? What did you record ? Why did it have a significant impact on your
He was brought a jar at the insistence of Dr Threat, and while he ate,
little pieces of gibberish were pieced together until Dr Threat had a
reasonable picture of the problem."
"So you taped this concert as it was broadcast over the radio, and assumed
the identity of this - Wereoboy ?"
"No! I was *awlways* the Wereoboy, and now I'm Deep Purple, can't you see ?"
"Who is Deep Purple ?"
"Roger Pacemaker. Lord CoverGates."
"Are /you/ Roger Pacemaker, Wereoboy ?"
"I told you *awlready*, I AM KING KONG, THE WEREOBOY, THE TICKETSTUB, THE
TOURBUS, THE FAT CAB DRIVER !!"
"Nurse, give him another shot up the arm please...now er...Wereoboy, let's
go back to your parents, erm..the Wereoman and erm -"
"DON'T TALK ABOUT THEM !! THEY LEFT ME *AWL* ALONE WITH THE RATS THE HOOKERS
AND THE WINOS...."
The sedative began to take effect. They had given up on the usual hospital
stock, and had recruited a member of the local zoo staff to take care of
this part of his medication. Although he specified in Bovine Anasthesia, he
usually worked with the Elephants and Rhinos, and marvelled at the
similarities between their respective physiologies.
"Yes, quite remarkable really, the same ratio of fat to brain, the same dull
look in the eye when they're going under, the same reflex patterns..."
"It's obvious that this chap suffers from a conflict of identities, and has
inflicted his suffering on others for over twenty years. His inability to
acknowledge a high level of fuckwittery has left him actually /believing/ he
is more than a useless fat lump of lard."
Nurse Rachel had been watching all this time, and wondered if the condition
"If this guy wasn't such an obvious Doofus, it might be worth it, but from
looking at his records, well he /was/ only a cabdriver, although we /have/
found documents, albeit written by himself, that he was a musician, actor,
film producer, writer, archivist...."
"But Doctor, he also claimed to be Wereoboy, King Kong, a Nuclear Warrior,
Deep Purple, Brett Meisner, Thteven...the list goes on and on..."
"I know, I'll take the casenotes back home and study them tonight, but I
can't see it being worthwhile. He is obviously such a fuckwit I fear there's
no hope at all."
A tip for the sad and deluded:
Unskilled and Unaware of It:
How Difficulties in Recognizing One's Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated