In your dreams Marty, in your dreams . . .

Marty lives in a dream world. A dream like something out of one of those illusion paintings that Karen De La Colostomybag sells.

He’s crafted a fantasy where nothing is really real – people and things are all known by cute names like “Marty” and “Mosey” and “Chiqs”, and where even the house they occupy has a name that suggests some exotic remote time and place in another world and conjures up images of Humphrey Bogart and really cool dudes and beautiful dames… romantic images of international intrigue, devil-may-care “adventurers,” and desirable women worth fighting for.

Hell, even the Heron gets named Oscar, to conjure up some glitz and glamour and sparkle for the dream.

The house overlooks the ocean where the birds and fish pop by to say hello every now and again while Marty and Mosey and Chiqs sit by the pier and talk to all their friends like WindHorse, Whisper, Wonderment and Wee Willy Wanker.

As a dream it kind of works, at least for that couple of dozen lonely, adrift souls who subscribe to his illusions.

It’s a dream where everyone and everything has nicknames to add to the illusion.

Marty plays his role down, not wanting to appear too much larger than life. That wouldn’t be “keeping it real.” But he sees himself as an incarnation of the very best of Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Ghandi, Luther and Mother Teresa all rolled into one super being whose quest is to rid the world of the very devil himself. And he keeps promoting that image of himself, in-between falsely humble mumblings of “aw, shucks.”

Surrounded by a handful of trusted Knights and Wizards, this modern day King Arthur (Arty for short) holds his daily court – not at a round table, but on a world wide web.

To his right is Smart Mike, the real brains of the operation whose crafty and witty reposts are only hampered by some serious head injuries suffered in an altercation he can’t rightly remember, and a preponderance for sleeping all the time. (Mike has his own dream, too, and Marty supports it. Mike dreams that he can actually spot outpoints.)

Beyond that is the gallant Sir Steve Hall, who, in the dual roles of Tintoretto and Jesus puts the Arty into Marty, and the Marty into Martyr.

Helping guide King Arty on his way are the philosophical musings of the great revolutionary Thomas Paine and the Master of Qual, Sir Lancelot Logan, who loyally wields his Acme sword in Marty’s defense unquestioningly, and of course there’s the court Jester, Falstaff Tolan, who made his name telling the same smarmy joke over and over again in different ways. But it madly amuses the entire court.

And in the backroom, Marty lives another dream. He is a master of intrigue, a Spy-Master coordinating a network of similarly noble freedom fighters who, through “missions under the radar,” trace and report the evil doings of Marty’s arch-nemesis. Heady stuff, that puts him up there with the likes of Sun Tzu, Gehlen, Marcus Wolfe, and Agent 86.

Anything but the drab, reactive reality that Marty can’t face.

The reality though is that Marty is a violent criminal who has physically beaten up numerous people, and spiritually hurt many more. He’s built a life based on pretense, and this dream, unfortunately, is just more of the same.

Mosey is an Iron Maiden and can crack walnuts between her breasts by simply flexing her pecs.

Chiqs is the ugliest dog you ever saw, with built in fucked up teeth.

Oscar is a flea ridden scavenger, that spreads parasites to the fish Marty and his unlucky guests eat. And his name is about as close as Marty’s been able to get to a celebrity.

Casablanca has an actual street address and is in a backwater in south “Tejas,” somewhere in the low rent end of town.

Marty’s network of “freedom fighters” are just other cowardly 1.1’s who are just as reluctant as Marty to live a life with clean hands. But they’re titillated that they’re living a life almost as covert and duplicitous as Marty’s. Marty of course is titillated that he has them fooled into thinking he’s “pro” Scientology.

Most of his “adventurous” devil-may-care friends are, in reality, chronic losers who are so charged up (having never really gotten case gain) that they are just a simple phrase or a look-in-the-eye away from a psychotic break, and yet another abuse episode they have to try and sweep under the rug.

Thomas Paine is in reality Haydn James, another woman beater, thief and coward who cannot hold down a job or walk past a turned back without the compulsion to stab it.

Steve Hall is high and paranoid all the time, whether he’s been partaking of the wacky weed or not, and no matter who he is channeling.

Don Tolan is another woman beater (strangler I should say) whose vicious joker-degrader fantasies are just as cringe-worthy as his physical presence.

Jim Logan is a serial tech abuser who was RPFed 4 times for out tech and has a long, inglorious history of non-enturbulation orders placed on him before he left the Church.

And of course, let’s not forget the beauties, Karen Krack and Vanna Bonta who think they are a pair of Sirens, but in reality are a couple of well frequented pensioners.

The list goes on, but the common denominator of all of these characters in Marty’s dream world is that the reality of each of them is far more degraded and pitiable than the dream image in Marty’s little playground.

I suppose with that lot for reality, one can hardly blame Rathbun for giving everyone nicknames and attempting to soften the blow.

No wonder he’s turned himself into a cartoon.

 

 

 

 

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