It Just Might Be

halloween!!!!!!!

keeptrucha:

hey peeps its halloween!

im a mummy this time around. So stoked on my costume,

homemade styles

my mom helped my kick fuckin ass with this

Singularity and Religion: If humans created religion for our own good, will religion exist in a post-singularity world?

Based on standard Christian dogma, which I must use as context since that is my upbringing, God is the creator of heaven and earth. That is to say, he, in an instant decided to conduct what many refer to as the “big bang,” and in a brilliant, yet possibly colorless flash, the entire universe was created. What came before that we’re left to wonder and fight over? I always assumed he (I’ll be using the masculine in this essay because I don’t like reading let alone writing he/she, nor care to be all that politically correct—after all this is an essay involving singularity where gender will presumably mean nothing) would’ve been much happier lounging by his own version of a pool side with beer in hand, drinking not from stress of the cosmos but from divine satisfaction. Drinking and relaxing in the warm reflection of himself (there’s not yet a Sun remember) instead of wondering whether “this whole universe thing” was such a brilliant idea and not just a spontaneous and irrational reaction to stubbing his toe on the uneven deck tile.

Billions of years later and God decides to take the fun a couple million steps further and, through divine intervention, impregnate a woman named Mary with his sole heir, Jesus. It seems God had changed his philosophy from wrath and scorn—it got boring—to love and salvation, through his only begotten son. And because of this we humans have an option to hang out by God’s pool after we die or get whipped along side abortionists, homosexuals and native Americans, in the pits of hell—a place long associated with overtaxing the body with boils and bad music.

Thousands of years (a whopping two to be exact) followed God’s son’s crucifixion at the hands of the hasty Jewish leadership, and now we’ve gone and decided God isn’t all that important. We’ve decided we can do his job not only for him, but much better than him. We’ve decided, unknowingly at first perhaps, but now we’re well aware, to create our own “intelligent” being on earth. Though I feel God and most of the animal kingdom, most notably dolphins and primates, might contest this simplification for they also, from time to time, show signs of “intelligence” and not just when tortured by animal trainers and therapists.

Humans are reaching a point, which futurists, scientists, and some of the general public without cool titles and degrees define as the singularity. I’m not a scientist or theorist or any (admirable) “-ist” for that matter but from what I gather the singularity is basically the point when humans have reached our technological event horizon. More specifically, we’ve created intelligence superior and savvy enough to usurp our own. Essentially, there’s no turning back.

But what will happen to us humans with our quickly widening gap of inferior intellect is anybody’s guess? Will the new “super intelligent” machines take over and self teach themselves without any necessity for their human creators? They are meant to solve their own problems after all and inferiority is traditionally seen as such. Presumably, they will be intelligent enough or will make themselves intelligent enough to solve such a pesky thorn in the side as inferiority. However, this could cause the same problem we humans, their makers, faced when we created these super intelligent machines in the first place. That is to say, fast tracking themselves to their very own singularity oblivion with an even higher intelligence, whatever that might be.

But that debate and story line are not my own. What I’m more curious about is what will become of religion in the inevitable post-human world. Since super intelligent machines will be created to compute, to advance our already advancing without comprehension society, they will not necessarily be created to care.

Isaac Asimov states in his Three Laws of Robotics that robots must be programmed to never harm or hurt their human creators. There are even groups such as the Singularity Institute for Artificial Intelligence, which advocates and lobbies for the importance of creating friendly artificial intelligence rather than just artificial intelligence.

But what of religion? Or more appropriately, will religion be used as the basic form of “good”—of “friendly.” Certainly the core belief of the three “great faiths” and others is peace and love. If we were to model an AI space shuttle pilot after Jesus would it not instinctually and philosophically be opposed to hurting others even if it must sacrifice itself? Unfortunately, history overwhelmingly proves that there are two sides to religion’s coin. We’ve witnessed the “good” in the acts of millions from all faiths who feed the poor and ease the suffering of the helpless in the name of their religion. On the other hand, it’s also inspired the Crusades, Inquisition and 9/11. 

To be safe, designers will most likely leave religion behind. They will choose to leave religion with humans. Which is probably all for the better since we can’t predict or plan whether passion will over take programming and machine armies of al Qaeda will incidentally be created. Therefore, when the singularity does come, and if you read enough material, it certainly will (and pretty much by the middle of this century), where will religion go?

Humans, no longer at the top of the food chain, and no longer able to out think the machines will no longer continue their endless reproductive cycle and rule the earth. The machines will figure out a way to power themselves without the necessity of humans, leaving us to wonder what went wrong. But that’s the catch; nothing went wrong. It all went exactly right.

Evolution has never been a kind mistress. I can’t imagine the wooly mammoth, the saber tooth tiger, or any of pre-homo sapien “men” was any too happy to get handed their evolutionary pink slips. Of course, the theory of evolution goes that the time passing is so gradual, one’s unaware they’re on the way out while living in your current evolutionary state. The dinosaurs hadn’t a clue. Neanderthal man, even with fire, was aghast at the notion. Life continues and we can’t object. Unless of course you’re “intelligent,” or what “intelligent” beings will one day create, “super intelligent.”

We, being intelligent creations of God or whomever—even if it took him a couple million millennia to get us here—are in the unique position to be self aware of our own demise. The fact that every one of the “learning” channels i.e. History, National Geographic, and Discovery, are predominantly about the Earth’s, the Universe’s, and our very own life’s beginnings, but even more so, our inevitable crushing end, exhibits this.

In a way, our culture has not only accepted our demise but we seem pretty damn excited about it, so long as it ends in a monumental way. It’s not fun unless a black hole rips us in half or anti-matter inexplicably enters the Earth’s core and explodes us from inside out.

Christianity teaches that we are took look forward to this moment. It teaches us to be ready for this moment for Christ has returned. But I don’t believe human’s excitement over our world’s destruction is based on Christian scripture of the rapture. I don’t believe the general population is looking forward to God’s serpent headed, horseman lead judgment. I believe it has more to do with our shared ego that we’re the epitome of time and space and therefore all life will end under our reign. When in reality, our time will surely end, and though possibly during “our reign,” all life will not go along with it. Our creations, our very own manufactured evolutionary step, will invariably live on.

What does God think of all this messing about with his job? Unless he’s been asleep at the wheel for the last century he had to have seen it coming. He presumably could’ve taken the reigns and dashed us from this planet at any moment he saw fit. That’s assuming he has any issue with our advancements in the first place. I for one don’t think he does. Because it’s these actions he’s created. He’s not moving our hands and writing our mathematics and theoretical physics papers for us. He’s not telling us how to create the super intelligent machines that will finally lead us to our demise but he’s letting us do it for that’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s our evolutionary contribution. It’s in our nature to push our minds and our limits as far as we can. It’s why everything in our modern world exists as is it currently does. To stop every natural instinct humans have is impossible.

But doesn’t God fear he’ll be forgotten about with the next evolution of life? Isn’t God upset he’ll no longer be worshipped? The answer can’t be anything but no. God and the many hominid created religions are no more important than the death of those same religions when we’re gone. No more important than if religion doesn’t actually die with us. But he’ll not impose that religion on the next race of beings, super intelligent machines or otherwise. The super intelligent machines will come and with it they’ll create a world without religion, until of course, they do. Then God will sit back and watch the insanity unfold until they manufacture their own end of the world and race their race beyond technological sustainability as humans did.

Simply put, God just wants to see some action. Like sex, he’s gotten bored with the same old stuff. Watching missionary porn all day will make even the most virile erection grow weary. Like technology, the entertainment value of Earth grows exponentially less entertaining as each new evolutionary step occurs. Watching dinosaurs roar and dictators abhor for too long, will make anyone change the channel—even God.  After all, it gets lonely by the everlasting pool in heaven. Even if the beer and company are quality there’s nothing better than watching Earth spin around and around wishing it truly knew why.

How We Can Improve the Economic Stimulus Package Using Fallout 3 Level Building

After reading an article written by Amanda Ruggeri for US News & World Report, it’s becoming apparently clear that Obama and his advisors have done little if any Role Playing Game gaming in their lives.  How this glaring fault got past me, let alone the entire voting public on Election Day, is bothersome. How can we trust men or women to run this country who have never summoned an “Aeon,” purchased wares from a desolate but well-armed wanderer, or built a “Wonder?” Simply put, if you don’t know “Bahumet,” Neo or normal, you shouldn’t run a country. We could point fingers all day—blame EA Sports, Tony Hawk, and DDR—but to make positive strides for the future we must dismiss the bitter past, learn from our mistakes and find a solution.

Hear me out. Even if you haven’t a care for gaming, especially RPGs, hear me out.

The article’s main point is that the $787 billion stimulus package is being sold as “building a 21st-century infrastructure,” much like the massive interstate construction of the mid 20th century, when in actuality it’s nothing more than a face lift.

Since, “more than three quarters of the approved highway projects’ funds will go to repaving and widening roads, while less than 6 percent will pay for new construction,” the bill will only create short-term stop gaps rather than sweeping and sustainable changes for America’s infrastructure.

Essentially, the money is being spread so thin no one will notice and very little will actually “change.” Fear is driving the current spending spree. Not fear as petty as approval-rating nonsense. I’m certain Obama is monitoring his approval rating and doing all he can to keep it out of the red but the fear I’m talking about is more profound. Fear that America as we know it is seriously falling apart. Fear that at the end of his presidency we’ll be worse than we were at the beginning. Hard to believe I’m sure—how can we be any worse? That’s the point. Obama knows we’re nowhere near the bottom for the bottom could possibly be much deeper and darker than most Americans would like to imagine. This means everything and anything has to be immediate. Approving and spending and “stimulating” everybody back on track even if that track is, in the long run, fruitless. So long as the long run is far enough away for a better solution to (hopefully) come about.

How does this relate to “level building?” Surprisingly well. Because you can train/equip/unlock each character you control in the game, there are endless strategies to RPG games. For example: making one character great at defense and short-range weapons and another at magic and explosives. Still, one thing is common throughout—you level build on an “experience point” basis. Meaning you play the game, get points, and after you get a certain number you “level up.” Upon leveling up you get to choose new attributes for your character or improve on current ones. Fallout 3 is no different.

In post-apocalyptic Washington DC (too coincidently appropriate) the main character, in this case Rugger Goldblum (best name ever), travels the DC wasteland to (spoiler alert) get the necessary science, people, and goods to build a water purification plant. On his way he “learns” skills of your choosing such as: Lock Pick, Barter, Medicine, Science, Explosives and Big Guns. To learn these skills you’re given sixteen “attribute points” each time you “level up” to distribute, as you like. You’re also able to choose one “perk.” For example: +20% health bonus, +20% defense on armor, etc.

The specific perk that pertains to this article is called “Here and Now.” This perk allows you to immediately level up again and get another sixteen attribute points, giving you a total of thirty-two points to distribute all at once. This is important because you’re given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity as a player (president) to dole out a huge amount of points (money) and truly improve on your character (country) for both the immediate future (recession), and the long-term prosperity of the survivors (the American people).

With thirty-two points ($787 billion stimulus package) you can distribute them to all your skills—improve Medicine, Explosives, Science, Repair, Speech, etc. by one or two points—or give them all to a select few, which you want to greatly improve upon. The former seems plausible, after all no skills are left out, but by going this route you can’t help (stimulate) your character in the short term. This method won’t help your character in the long run either because you never end up excelling at a core group of skills. Instead, you’re a mediocre character and your accomplishments will be equally mediocre. For example, your Barter skill will go from thirty-four to thirty-six but you’ll get no more from those two points or that skill in the real world for it takes fifty points to unlock anything of value. Essentially you’ve spent two points on nothing and no time soon will you reap any benefits.

Take America’s auto industry. Among other failures over the last twenty years, GM also created too many different makes and models, spreading themselves too thin to excel at a select few. To make up for one failed model they created another one and another one. Each one less acclaimed or purchased than the one before. Finally even American auto loyalists fell off the wagon and went and bought an Accord or Camry.

I made this same mistake for some time while playing Fallout 3. I wasted nearly twenty points on Science and Repair and they never amounted to anything. But when the opportunity for the thirty-two point stimulus package presented itself I finally gave up on the “give to all theory” and improved instead on a select few: Lock Pick, Big Guns, Medicine and Explosives. This made the rest of my journey through the game a great deal more fruitful and in the end my world a great deal more prosperous. By leaving my Sneak skill alone and improving my Medicine I was able to heal faster and receive less damage when attacked. I just had to hide behind solid buildings rather than tall grass. Not that big of a sacrifice when the other option is hiding behind buildings and having low health. Obama could do the same with this opportunity.

Instead of spreading everything so thin he could give large amounts to actually doing some good for the future of this country rather than the good for this month. Instead of giving a hundred million to this road paving or that street crossing, he could accumulate it and give it to a whole new infrastructure as he so blatantly attempted to sell this package as. But there’s nothing grandiose about these plans for America’s infrastructure. It can hardly be called a remodeling let alone a restructuring.

I’m a strong advocate of public transit. I think rail—local, regional, and long distance—should be expanded. Busses should run better and run more often, and bike lanes should be created in as many cities across the country as viable. Yet even with an outspoken stance against the car culture this country is mired in, I’m aware of the accomplishment of The Federal-Aid Highway Act. It spurred the creation of the largest interstate highway system in the world and the biggest public works project ever. That’s what we need now but this time with rail.

We need the dreams and ideas that brought us the 80, 10 and 95. There’s no reason that in fifty years the Eisenhower Interstate System can’t stand alongside the Obama Interstate Rail System as one of the greatest accomplishments of this country. If only Obama knew Rugger Goldblum and could see what America might one day become without some actual “change.” If only he knew a way to make America new, not just a little better, not just afloat for eight more years.

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov in Swim Trunks of Lamborghini Red

The sun was as big and yellow as he had remembered and the sand burned just the same, as it crunched and cracked under his feet wrapped in leather. The crunching stopped when he stopped and the leather soaked in the sun while twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov looked to the end of the world.

There she was in blue and white and wave. There she was in sparkling gloss. There she was before him. There she was forever. The ocean.

Vladimir gave her a scowl and continued to walk to the water pulling in the people around him, accompanied by the yells and yelps of children in swim trunks and obesity in tees.

“You do not scare me, Woman, you do not scare me at all.”

The rush of the waves sounded off and Vladimir scoffed again.

“Keep that up, Young Lady, and old man Vladimir will have to slap you around.”

She sounded off once more, and Vladimir smiled back.

“I shall make time for you soon, Sweetheart, but for now, I have more pressing matters to attend.”

The matters Vladimir was speaking of were those of the string bikini variety, laying on striped towels with bags of perfumed oils, vanilla and almond and orange, sand sticking to areas only a removable shower head can clean. Such small pieces of fabric and soft-as-skin lining adorned each and every one of their sun-stained bodies, shining in the gloss they bathed in. Vanilla and almond and orange.

Vladimir stood in his swim trunks, a short red number that fit tightly against his white thighs. He saw young boys running ablaze in trunks that reached their knees, but Vladimir thought such pieces were asinine and he couldn’t help but say so when one such boy from his school ran by.

“Why would you wear such things, Boy, why would you wear so much fabric?”  But the boy kept on running and laughing aloud in his coverage while Vladimir yelled after him in vain.

“How will the ladies know you’re interested, Boy, how will the ladies know you care?”

Vladimir sighed and gave up and Vladimir looked to his left.

Vladimir saw glossy brown and Vladimir became erect.

His towel had a red Lamborghini on it and he spent just enough time whipping it around and laying it on the sand that his new neighbor took notice.

“Your trunks match your towel.”  She was a tall number, not much of a body, skinny like many boys dream about, boys with long swim trunks that reach their knees, but not Vladimir.

Vladimir was a fan of the curves.  Hips and breasts and asses.  He had always said, “If I can find a set of thighs to sleep between, I swear I’ll never wake.” He put his hands on his hips and posed.

“Not much to look at, Lady. Too skinny for my liking, but then again, the man downstairs doesn’t seem to be complaining too much. Must be the smell. Oils and all. You got a pretty face though, I always like a pretty face.”

She didn’t say anything to Vladimir after that, just rolled on her stomach and closed her eyes.

“Maybe I was wrong. Your ass has more of a pop than I thought. It must have been the small breasts that deceived.”

Vladimir stretched long, pushing his erection out to the ocean, red and pointing, his rib cage obvious when he reached for the sky.

“Cover yourself up, Young Man, this is a family beach.”

It turns out erections were frowned upon, but not being one for convention, Vladimir reached it out again, just enough to graze the old woman’s wrist. She flinched and pulled her arm back with a scowl.

“Do not blush,  Hag, this erection is not for you.”

“You should be ashamed, Young Man, do you not have respect for anyone?”

“I have respect for every oiled-up woman I see, and it is that respect which makes me erect. So please move along or I shall graze you again and you will not be so quick to move, for Vladimir Karlov is not ashamed of his arousal.

Vladimir Karlov is not ashamed of his manhood.” The hag moved along wanting to spit for she was moister then she had been in ages.

Vladimir surveyed a group of girls, bikinis every one, circled around a large blue cooler. The cooler kept getting opened and ice kept falling out.  Vladimir had found his match and he left the small-breasted girl and his red Lamborghini for the choicer meat within reach of the ocean’s spray.

He approached them squinting his eyes, blocking the sun with his forearm, the other holding strong on his hip.

“I couldn’t help but notice that the three of you weren’t as shiny as the rest of the large breasted women out here today. Is it because you have no gentleman to do the honors?”

A girl in a blue striped bikini and small belly button responded first. “We mostly like to apply ourselves.”

“And for those tough to reach spots, the back and inner thigh?”

“And for those I turn to her.”

Her friend was feisty, lots of hand movements, blonde hair in a ponytail and palm trees across her breasts. “For those she turns to me.”

Vladimir stepped closer as he addressed the dark haired girl whose eyes were silver and palms, white.

“And what about you, you must reach those places yourself?”

“I burn between my thighs and my back is always black.”

Vladimir could not remark on her back, but what she said of her thighs was true.

“I have soft hands, the softest in the world, and I will rub your thighs with oil, and I will rub your back, and no more will you burn red, and no more will you burn black.”

“Softest in the world?”  The silver eyes said back.

At the age of eleven, Vladimir Karlov, having just finished a walk with the Duke of Eli and his lovely wife, Isabel, a striking women who wore dresses made of a lynx and silk, was told just that. Before leaving the royals, Vladimir took Isabel by the hand and pulled her close.

“If I were but a Duke I’d kiss your every hair.”

And Isabel laughed and the Duke laughed and Vladimir stood holding her hand.

“Why Vladimir, you have the softest hands in the world,” she said, taking his other hand in hers, “the softest hands in the world.”

The following months involved daily back rubs and baths and the Duke disappeared into the night, for Isabel was indeed right.

The softest in the world,” Vladimir repeated and the silver eyes believed.

The oil immediately bronzed Vladimir’s hands as he applied it to the back of the women with silver eyes. Starting high, shoulders and neck, he moved with pressure and pace towards the small of her back and reaching ass. It reached like a monument and Vladimir paid extra attention to its upkeep. Funds for the arts and community beautification projects were down and he felt it was his duty to do his part to keep existing pieces in tact. He rubbed the oil in deep, displacing the back of the yellow bikini as he did so. He was soon as equally erect as her ass and he urged her to oil his as he was doing hers.

“You need not look far to see another like sculpture in need of an equal amount of upkeep.”

“Patience, Vlad, for you have not yet done my thighs.”

“A patient man I am, patient beyond your belief, but one man can be only so patient, one man can be only so enduring.”

“Endure, Vlad, endure, and these thighs will be yours to rub, again and again and again.”

Vladimir endured as best he could, red monument taunting the ocean and taunting his hands, covered in an almond glaze, dripping and dripping.

To endure I must have a drink, I must have a scotch.”

The friends opened the cooler and pulled out a jug of colored fluid.

“Take what you like, there’s too much for the three of us.”

“I drink nothing red.”

“It’s pink.”

“I drink nothing red or pink or blue.”

The silver eyes looked up. “If you’ll not drink it, you’ll not oil my thighs.”

Vladimir looked down, his member pleading for relief, “drink,” it said. “Drink and drink and drink.” Vladimir was not one to ignore his member, so he drank just as it requested and soon he had forgotten all about his red Lamborghinitowel, soon he had forgotten everything.

“Drinking the red stuff today are we, Vlad?”

“Had to do it, Henry, had no choice.”

Henry gives Vladimir a coconut, straw and umbrella, filled with red liquid, splashing over the edge.

“Why am I here, Henry, why am I here?”

“Why, you’re here to calm your erection, you’re here to calm your manhood.”

“And I came here myself?”

“You came with a girl with red thighs.”

“But where did the girl go, Henry, where are those silver eyes?”

“They await your return, on a red Lamborghini she lies.”

Henry stepped back and Vladimir noticed he was wearing a grass skirt and coconut bra.

“You’re wearing a skirt, Henry, you’re wearing a bra.”

“I’m a bartender, Vlad, I aim to please.”

“This does not please me, Henry, this does not entertain.”

“But the women pay me mind, so I can not complain.”

Vladimir sees the girls look Henry over. Up and down and over again.

“They look not at my red trunks, Henry, they pay me no mind.”

“Then wear my grass skirt, Vlad, and those red thighs will you find.”

Red lips wetting, green grass hanging, and coconuts tied up in knots, Vladimir returned to cast a shadow over the woman with silver eyes. The beach was empty except for the two.

“I’ve come back to oil your red away and protect you from the sun.”

The silver eyes opened and pulled at Vladimir’s skirt.

“Are you sure you can, Vlad, are you sure you’ve drank enough?”

“My lips are stained fruit and my hands are ready to love.”

Vladimir stood with hands at hips, his belly and member protruding.

“Then oil my thighs and I’ll lay back.”

“I’ll oil your thighs, Silver Eyes, I’ll oil them.”

And the silver eyes laid back, and the red thighs spread wide, and Vladimir’s hands glazed again. Vanilla and almond and orange.

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov in The Girls of Sacred Heart

Looking at the stage, twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov felt the need to penetrate.

It had been some time, four days to be exact, since the overwhelming desire to take a woman had struck him with such force.  But standing there, gazing upon a stage of teenage thoroughbreds, he could do nothing to control himself. He tried biting his hand and closing his eyes, hoping it would take him away from such a place, to a library perhaps, with books and shelves and dust; but with the turning of each page appeared another girl and another bust, and he had to open his eyes before his bitten hand began working away at things less than acceptable for public display. Still, he thought, those thoroughbreds were doing nothing to ease the tension growing below his linen slacks, and he cursed himself over and over for having ever thought silk boxers were stylish.

The saleslady was a tall number with thick glasses. Her hair, a ponytail.  Her shoulders, slender. Vladimir Karlov was never one for thick glasses, but the way she took them off when she approached him, he couldn’t help but assume she screwed on instinct alone — a Himalayan monster, a Moorish beast.  Sight was nothing but a hindrance. He let her speak. He let her sell. Under her blouse was an interesting movement that occurred when she laughed, so Vladimir Karlov made her laugh and laugh. She laughed until Vladimir could hide his smile no more and had to be escorted from the property. Though unhappy with the purchase, he couldn’t help but respect the woman for processing his credit card while his hands were held behind his back and his pants at his ankles.

“Wool underwear and wool pants from here on out, Vladimir, no matter the heat, this bulge must be stifled,” he yelled aloud to the shock of a Mexican husband and wife who stared the same as Vladimir did at the stage, but without any protruding members below either of their waists.

The girls of Sacred Heart Catholic High School were on stage pulsating sexual with every scream of every horn and every slam of every drum. The music was louder than ever and so were those hips. Sure the husband and wife were watching without arousal, their daughter was probably on stage now, puffing out her chest in her Spanish dress, cut just low enough to see a birthmark at the beginning of her breast. Oh how Vladimir wished to kiss that mark, but not without permission of course, no, never without permission. She was a traditional girl, raised in a traditional house and those were traditional breasts and traditional hips. Of course he’ll ask first. He’ll say to the man holding his wife, “Senor, I know I am but a stranger, just another in a long line of men with the desire to court your daughter; but believe me when I say that only I, Vladimir Karlov, will pleasure your daughter the way such a daughter should be pleasured. Yes Senor, only I have the everlasting desire to kiss that mark, that dark brown mark, just atop her still blossoming breasts, and forever satisfy her every need. I know she is young, but Senor, is not the world also young?  Is not the world also blossoming? Do not hold back what is meant to be, Senor, do not hold back what is meant to be for Vladimir Karlov.”

He will curse.

He will yell.

He will stomp and strut and stare, but in the end he will calm. He, Senor, father of the girl with the mark atop her breast, will finally calm and understand, knowing all to well the truth that is spoken when Vladimir Karlov speaks.

“Thank you, Senor, your daughter Olvera Maria Marquez will bleed happy forever more.”

Vladimir Karlov stares as the dancing speeds up.

Looking at his wardrobe, Vladimir feels amiss, for nothing about him projects his love for the Mexican people, and nothing is further from the truth, with their dark eyes and dark hair, their wide hips and full lips, their skin as soft as skin, their ankles and wrists and necks, so slender so guided so pure.

Near the stage, Vladimir spots a vendor, so he races to him and purchases what he can. Money is exchanged in haste and Vladimir soon has a red, white, and green shirt, a large sombrero, a votive candle of the Virgin Mary, and a mini Mexican flag. He tears his shirt off and throws it to the ground, replacing it with the much larger colored cotton, then, with a slight adjustment of his hair; places the sombrero atop his head before racing back to his place below the stage. There, waving his flag and holding his un-lit Virgin, he watches the Mexican high school girls dance and dance, forgetting completely about his bulge that grows and grows.

Steps he doesn’t know. Steps he could never know. Seduction he can only hope to witness one on one, for in a group, it was alluring, but equally heartbreaking. There before him are the Sacred Heart Catholic High School girls. There before him is all he could ever desire. There before him is Olvera, and Grisela, and Gabriela, pounding and pushing, but not for him, never for him. They are doing it for their parents, for their prom dates, for their Jesus, while Vladimir stands there doing it for no one.

Vladimir drinks from his flask, but the taste of scotch makes him ill.

“No Vladimir Karlov, you will drink scotch no more!”

He runs back to the vendor and purchases a bottle of tequila, pouring out the scotch and cleansing the flask with its newest denizen. Never before had any other form of alcohol crossed Vladimir Karlov’s lips, but he drinks it down all the same. What was left in the bottle he gives to the vendor and they drink swig after swig together.

“I don’t drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don’t, Vlad.”

“I just don’t drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don’t, Vlad.”

“So when will the girls love me, Henry, when will the girls care?”

“Soon enough, Vlad, soon enough.”

“And what of my shirt and hat, Henry, what of my candle and flag?”

“The girl’s will love it all, Vlad, the girl’s will love it all.”

And the two drink down the alcohol while Vladimir suppresses it from coming up.

“It goes down smooth, Henry, smoother than I’d like.”

“It goes down nice, Vlad, it goes down just right.”

Another and another.

“You’re the expert, Henry, and I’m just a man, a man in love with your people. Now for Olvera Maria Marquez, which one is she?”

“The one in the Spanish dress, Vlad.”

“Oh, but perhaps she’s much too young, Henry. Perhaps I should let her grow. Her body is ready, but her mind’s of a child, who am I to corrupt it with such pleasure.”

Vladimir is yelling and Henry is smiling.

“She’s not too young, Vlad, her age is just right.”

“This drink is too smooth, Henry, smoother than I’d like.”

“The drink is just right, Vlad, just like I like.” Vladimir drinks until the flask is empty and wipes his mouth with his arm.

“I’m moving in on her, Henry.”

“Let me light your candle, Vlad, and then she’s all yours.”

Vladimir walks back to the stage, the Virgin Mary on fire.

“Look to me, Olvera, look to me down here. I can not dance, I can not spin, but boy can I kiss, boy oh boy can I kiss.”

The Mexican husband and wife watch as Vladimir speaks aloud to the girls on the stage, waving his candle and waving his flag, waving his bulge around.

“I’m here, Olvera, I’m here. I’m here to kiss your mark.”

Their dresses spin and swirl, a rainbow of red calves, white wrists, and green necks.  Mexico is alive and all the world needs to know. The girls stomp with the power only a high school girl can know, only a high school girl can yield. So much to care about, so much to cry about, and Vladimir wants them to cry no more.

“You there, all of you. All of you can be with me and never again will you cry. I will take you and pleasure you and never again will you cry, for I am Vladimir Karlov, I am Vladimir Karlov.”

But they stomped into the night and spun into the day and Vladimir watched alone, holding a flag that finally went still and a candle that finally went dark.