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Phillip Morris

5. Use the tools at your disposal. Creating with Principles Phillip Morris Prose

Strongman, Kicker, & Lucy

Written by Phillip Morris

Strongman is strong, Kicker is a steam-powered horse that can fly, and Lucy imagines things. Strongman is really a boy about to be ten, Kicker is only real because Lucy imagined him up, and Lucy really is just a nine-year-old girl. Strongman’s real name is Jake, Kicker’s real name doesn’t exist, and Lucy’s real name is Lucy.

Jake and Lucy are orphans.  Kicker is, by definition of being a figment of Lucy’s imagination, an orphan as well. They are troubled children that try not to cause too much trouble. But they are runaways from their foster home so by definition their life is trouble. 

Jake’s parents might not be dead. They might just be in big jail far away, he tells himself that often. When they went to jail they often went together because when they sold drugs they did so together. That meant that Jake was often left alone. He would be sent to his treehouse, that’s only a  wooden platform, whenever anyone came over so no one knew he was alive besides his parents. Not the methheads or the cops, at least not until they broke in looking for drugs and caught him stealing food respectively. They each found out why Jake called himself Strongman. Though the cops had the benefit of having a taser.

For bureaucratic reasons, Jake had to spend the three-day weekend in jail where he was forced to be a strong man among grown men. Afterward he was sent to a foster home too full of kids.

Lucy’s parents are dead. She knows this for sure because she imagined her Dad burning to death one night while he was in bed with her mom. Afterward she too was sent to the foster home too full of kids.

Jake, Lucy, and Kicker now live in Jake’s parents’ house on a hill, outside of town, overlooking the undesirable buildings that lower property values, like the county jail. Well, Jake and Lucy live in the house, Kicker lives outside where there’s all the grass he can eat and a big tree he can sleep under. 

Lucy could imagine her and Jake in a bigger house but jake was afraid his parents wouldn’t come home if they couldn’t recognize it. Lucy is happy enough to imagine the house has a big blue pool on the lawn that matches the house. 

When they need food, imagined food won’t do. Lucy forgets what they ate at some point and the food disappears before it’s digested. Kicker used to disappear too, but after the fire, he became Lucy’s best friend in the world. That means that even when he isn’t on her mind he’s in her heart. 

Instead of imagining food, Lucy imagines she and Jake are grown-ups and takes Jake out grocery shopping or to restaurants around town. She pays with the money she imagines is in her purse. That money she usually remembers long enough for it to safely disappear into the bank. Sometimes she forgets sooner, but that hardly ever happens. 

Unfortunately, it happens enough that the cops track down the counterfeiters. When they get to the small blue house on the hill they only find Jake and Lucy. Kicker wasn’t imagined to be very brave and runs into the hills whenever strangers come, leaving only a trail of steam from the stacks on his shoulders. 

Jake tells the cops that his parents aren’t home which would be enough for the cops to leave them alone for a while, but one of the cops, for personal reasons, happens to pay attention to the missing kid bulletins and recognizes Lucy as being reported missing from the foster home. The cop would’ve recognized Jake too if the foster home’s owner cared about the boys as much as he did the girls, and bothered to report Jake missing too.

Jake doesn’t think to lie when the cop asks who Lucy is and says she’s his friend. Lucy doesn’t think to lie when the cop asks her name.

Jake is strong enough to stop the cops, but Lucy doesn’t want him to hurt good people and she goes along peacefully. 

For bureaucratic reasons, Lucy has to wait in jail until the foster home’s owner can get her. The cops at least let her wait in the yard because neither the male nor female inmates are out there.

 Lucy sits at the table in the yard and looks up at the hills. She can see the blue that’s Jake’s house and the pool and the tree beside it. She imagines he’s inside pacing, angry, wondering how to get her out.  

Kicker’s back though he’s not much help because he only ever wants to run away from trouble.  

Lucy imagines Jake going to the pool to relax but finds the water’s all gone. In rage and frustration, Jake rips off the ladder and breaks it into its constituent poles. The last pole in his hand, to his surprise, is no longer just a pole but a telescope. He uses it to spy Lucy sitting at the table in the yard of the jail waving at him. Then she points up. Above Jake is his treehouse which he goes inside of and when he looks out to Lucy again this time she’s making a throwing motion. Jake looks around for something to throw though he doesn’t know why or how it would help. Lucy imagines he figures out what to throw when he finds the spear with a long, long length of chain with the other end wrapped around the tree. 

That spear plunges deep into the ground in front of Lucy. The loud thud of its impact gets the attention of everyone in the jail. The cops yell at her as she grabs onto the chain and tugs it twice, in the universal signal that she’s ready. Jake yanks the chain back with all his strength. The chain flies into the treehouse hard and fast. It tears up the tree as each link hits and suddenly he’s afraid of what will happen to Lucy when she comes in. 

Thankfully Lucy imagines Jake stands ready to gently catch her. 

Police cars are speeding up the hill with their sirens blaring, but Kicker has learned to be brave and doesn’t run away. At least not until Lucy and Jake are safely on his back. Then he kicks off the ground and into the sky.


Phillip Morris is a Californian living in Rotterdam. When he’s not writing dry instructions booklets, he’s likely writing colorful short fiction. When he tweets it’s @lephillipmorris.

9. Know the limits of tolerance. Creating with Principles Phillip Morris Prose

Honorary Man

Written by Phillip Morris

Hello. Hey, I fucked up. I did something really stupid, but I did it for the right reasons. I kept my cool with the cops too. 

“I want my lawyer,” were the only words they got out of me from the street till now. Uncle Gabe, I did everything you taught me. Except that, except staying out of trouble. 

It started – fuck where do I start – A few weeks back. 

Professor Cole had really gotten into my head that day. We were covering enslaved people’s rebellions and at the start of class, he asked how many uprising we thought there were in America. I could think of Nat Turner and Harriet Tubman as fighting leaders knowing that there had to be many more I didn’t know. I figured about 100 uprisings. 

Uprisings, not just one enslaved person killing a slaver or running away. A whole community rising up together for a taste of freedom. 

So 100 seemed a good number to me at the time, but I was way off. There were over 250 uprisings. And you know why that wasn’t enough, why 250+ explosive revolts weren’t enough to make people say “Maybe it’s not worth the risk of getting my throat slit to keep black people enslaved.”? Because the slavers could almost always shut them down before they got out of hand. 

Most were spontaneous, unorganized, and would fall apart if the leaders were taken down. Shoot all the men, and the women will fall back to protect their children. Then take a few of the survivors to make an example of and they wouldn’t try again… Or and this to me is worse, some enslaved person suffering from major Stockholm syndrome would warn the slave owners ahead of time. What a job they’d have to do on you to make slavery seem better than even trying for freedom. In exchange for snitching they’d move up and sometimes be made an “honorary man” among whites for being a traitor to their people. 

Even if I had a kid I think I’d risk it. Even if –

Yeah, it’s a tangent but that’s what was in my head on the bus home. I’m not a fighter I know, but I felt like I’d have to fight. It felt like I was being a hypocrite though because right in this life I wasn’t even out on the streets protesting. Because what, an arrest would cost my scholarship?

Professor Cole said he would vouch for anyone arrested at a protest, but the provost and most of the board aren’t hearing it. There’s not even an African-American Studies department at the school. They wouldn’t care. 

This was all in my head when I missed my stop. And the next and the next. As if not lifting a finger to fight meant I shouldn’t bother lifting a finger to go home and study more, to graduate, get a job, get married, have kids, and send them off to college to continue going on doing nothing. 

If I was going to do even a small thing like getting off the bus I had to justify to myself why I wasn’t at a protest. 

I went to one. In the beginning when it was easy. You know that doesn’t count. It doesn’t mean much to just do the easy thing. 

My inaction needed justification. That came to this. Me here, arrested with a black eye, busted lip, and sore everything. Protesting won’t change shit because it hasn’t changed shit. People that are going to care already do. The rest… I don’t know what to do with the rest. I mean you can’t force someone to care. We already tried fighting them too. So what then?

That was as far as I got when the bus reached its final stop way down in San Pedro near the docks in some industrial part. 

“Hey son,” the driver called out to me. He was an older black guy with grey streaks in his beard. “Sorry, but you gotta get off here. I go to the depo.”

In the back of my head, I was thinking the bus would just loop back. He told me I’d have to wait for a half-hour for the next bus heading north, but “It would probably be better if you walked up to the main road to catch something sooner.”

I did start walking. Having someone telling me what to do made it easier to do something. Lethargy made me feel heavy and slow but I was moving. Until I saw a bar, which was just a bit further from the stop. With just a motorcycle out front and its windows layered with dust. I could afford a cheap beer on my budget and finish it in time for the bus, so I went in. 

I went in, sat at the bar, and ordered a beer. There were a couple of older guys playing darts at the back and the bartender, that was it. The guys looked like old bikers, add to that the bike out front and I figured I was in a biker bar, which I always imagined would look better than that. Cooler somehow. 

The bartender didn’t say a word to me, but he gave me my beer. 

No, I wasn’t there to start a fight. I really was planning to just kill the time with the beer.

One of the guys had gotten close behind me, so I could smell the cigarettes on him when he said, “You lost boy?”

I knew the line, everyone knows the line. What it means. And still, I didn’t think at all, I was on automatic smart-ass. 

“I’m not a boy, I’m an honorary man.” I wasn’t looking at him. I said it into my beer as I was taking another sip. 

“What?”

This time I turned around and said, “Today I’m an honorary man.”

I was really expecting, not a fight, but I don’t know, to exchange some dirty looks. But he wasn’t angry. This middle-aged pot-bellied man in a leather vest was almost smiling. He called to the other guy, “Gene, he’s an honorary man.”

“Well shit then,” Gene said as he walked across the bar, “we can get a drink together.”

Gene and Roger sat on either side of me. Roger something, Something with an S. I only saw it once on a package that arrived at the bar for him. They didn’t call each other by their full names.

Anyway, that first day things were chill. They paid for my beer and we shot the shit a bit. They did most of the talking. They talked about how they were thinking they’d have to kick my ass if I’d walked in to cause trouble. 

I told them I was just checking the palace out before I caught my bus.

“Lucky you found us H-man. There’s clubs out there that shoot first and ask questions later when they see a nigger.”

Those words exactly. It made my skin prickly and burn, but I kept my mouth shut. Thank fucking goodness the bus was due. I thanked them for the beer and bounced with things staying cordial. They told me to come back on Friday as I got up. I mumbled some assurance that I would as I walked out the door in time to see the bus pull off. 

I never ran so fucking hard or long in my life but I caught it at the next stop. 

How close had I come to dying? Where the hell did I end up? When I got home there was this anxious fight or flight energy running through me still. I mean it would be beyond messed up to spend my whole life staying out of trouble to only end up dying because I went into the wrong bar on a Tuesday.

I didn’t see any weapons on them. I wouldn’t have sat down at the bar if it was obvious. One swastika on the wall and I’d have noped on out of there. They had a confederate flag on the back wall I noticed on later visits, but it had a motorcycle in the foreground so that was the prominent feature. If I noticed that the first day it wouldn’t have raised red flags though. Bikers just have a thing for the confederacy.

That night I tried googling the bar. It doesn’t have a website or Facebook page, but you can see it on Streetview. In the pictures, it’s still a hole in the wall with a couple more bikes out front. 

Since I wasn’t finding anything that way that’s when I looked into the phrase “honorary man”. I was only getting basic information on public pages and I didn’t want to sign up for the private sites or Facebook groups and risk them tracking it back to me in real life. The gist of it is exactly what you’d think, black men in this day and age who would rather be on the white side than the right side in the coming race war. 

No, it’s older than QAnon. 

I did check with Professor Cole. He hadn’t heard of it being a thing to be an “honorary man” post-Jim Crow when black politicians and community leaders argued in favor of segregation in places like Mississippi and Louisiana. Whatever it took to move from the slave house to the statehouse. 

After that off the top of his head the only stories he had of black men willingly associating with the KKK/ white supremacists, they were doing so as a form of absurdist protest. To show the racists how absurd it is to hate someone for the color of their skin. Of course, they didn’t start out as friends hanging out. The black guys started as targets, but I guess they were numbed to racism having gone through it their whole lives. So it ended up that nothing that the racists could do to them really phased them that much. 

Threatening phone calls at night were met with “Hey johnny nice to hear from you.”

Burning cross on the lawn, “Thanks Johnny let me go get some hotdogs.”

Insinuations of grave bodily harm, “Ho that’s just what I need Johny. It’ll get me outta work this week.”

And you know, it did work. It’d take a while but it would work. Eventually, the ridiculousness of the situation would wear down the card-carrying members one by one. 

Professor Cole said he’d look into the honorable men more for me but I’d heard enough to put the idea in my head. Friday after class I went back. This time I stopped by home first to leave my school stuff behind and to let mom know I’d be hanging out with friends. She warned me to keep away from the protests because cops were shooting people in the head with rubber bullets. I’m sure she thought I was lying when I promised to stay away.

On the bus, I tried to make a plan and couldn’t come up with anything. You can’t plan to de-radicalize a group of angry strangers. 

Gene was there to greet me when I walked in. Along with Roger, Gus the bartender, and a new guy Sam. Sam did not look happy to see me. I joined them back at their table and as soon as Gene went to get a round of beers with Gus, Sam started grilling me. 

“Won’t the other coloreds miss you at the looting party?”

“I want to be as far away from there as possible,” I lied. Channeling the spirit of someone nothing like me I went on about how I was working hard, knowing my place, and how those other fucking blacks were fucking it up for me. How I was working hard to earn what they wanted to be handed to them.  Sam came around to me real quick once I opened my mouth and let the shit flow. It came out easily since I was just remixing lines from rallies that made the headlines. I’ve never watched a Trump rally all the way through but I can imagine why he’s so into them. I have never had an easier time getting someone to like me, except when I got Minecraft running on the school computers in elementary. 

By the time Gene was back with the beers, the topic of conversation had changed to motorcycles. I’d mentioned how nice the tow bikes out front were and how I needed to learn to ride. They told me about the freedom that comes from riding them. 

“Full throttle on an open stretch of road is the closest you can get to flying,” Gene said. 

Roger missed it. Something about diabetes kept him from riding for years already. The bikes out front were from Sam and Gene… Gus drove a van most days because of the bar he said. So half the guys in this biker bar weren’t really bikers. More than half if you include me, which after that first Friday they sorta did. 

Even more surprising to me, race barely came up. I wasn’t expecting deep intersectional discussions but niggers, spicks, wetbacks, and fags were only ever brought up to take the blame for something bad happening, like mischievous gremlins in society’s gears, or when someone needed a punchline to a not at all clever joke. I wasn’t reminded all the time that I was black around them. Just in situations where someone had to submit, it was a given that it would be me. 

When Gus had a few and wanted to keep having a few more it was on me to clean up and work the bar. Gus is the only one that’s a heavy drinker and he tended toward the harder stuff. The other guys might take a shot but most of the time they stick to beers from the draft. 

Cleaning wasn’t so bad but when I was doing it they’d switch from putting their peanut shells into a bowl to dropping them on the floor. Or if they were a couple of beers in throwing them. Really throwing. Gene would be sitting at the bar chatting it up with someone and ejecting shells behind him so hard they’d end up under the pool table. 

Gene and Sam talked about their bikes and tips for riding but they wouldn’t let me practice on their bike. No nigger could drive their bikes. 

Gene said I was lucky to be raised above the rest, lucky enough that I got to ride bitch behind him when we went out shooting. I couldn’t ride in Roger’s Prius. Nope, I had to ride squished behind the bulk of Gene. He also insisted that I keep my arms wrapped around him so I didn’t fall off. I could be squeezed there for really fucking long rides. When they wanted to shoot something unlicensed we had to go out to the desert. I don’t know exactly where. I sorta disassociated whenever I got on the bike. Like I would check out mentally so I could know what my body was doing, but I wasn’t really a part of it. 

Why? Because of Gene. He would… adjust himself in ways that made me uncomfortable. At first, I thought it was an accident because it wasn’t like it was happening at the bar. Though it would happen every time he got me on the bike so that when it was time to ride I’d check out and go on autopilot. 

Those rides were up to that point the worst part of being in the group. I didn’t get sinister vibes most of the time. They were just toxicly confused men who needed an excuse to hang out. The drinking, guns, bikes, homophobia, and racism were the excuses. I started to like them even once I realized that, and could see past the bullshit. 

Over time Gus had me cleaning more so he could drink more. The guys might tip me if I was serving for a long time but it was never a formal thing.

“Boy go get us a round.”

“It’s getting messy, why don’t you clean it up?”

I was shocked by how quickly they seemed to trust me. A docile black man isn’t a threat it would seem. I can’t really say it was all an act either. It was so easy to fit the mold they made for me and fall into that subservient role. In a way, I could turn my brain off and relax. As long as I wasn’t uppity the world in that group was too simplistic to be afraid of anything. They didn’t have any expectations for me beyond submission. If an opinion was asked all I had to do was side with Gene. It was easy.

I never handled money though, and when a keg ran empty Gus changed it himself no matter how smashed he was. It was one of the times Gus was hammered so I was behind the bar, and I noticed a receipt for a drink order near the register. A small order for some “cervezas”,”sake”, and “negronis”. I’d been there several weekends and never saw much of a crowd. At most maybe a dozen older white people who I don’t imagine know what sake is. I figured Gus was using his liquor license to stock his personal supply at home.  

About a month into it Gene invited me to work around his house. Not invited, it wasn’t a question, but it’s not like it was a demand either. “My house needs some cleaning. Come by on Saturday.” It wasn’t a thing I could say no to. So I went, and I’d clean, and I met his half-Vietnamese daughter, Wenny. 

Yeah, I didn’t comment on it. His wife left him a few years ago. We left it at that.

Him and his daughter had a weird relationship, like really weird. I was treated like a gift to her or something like it. I assume she was the one cleaning and doing housework when I wasn’t there but when I was she would just sit around with him and complain about not having a husband. 

She is older than me, probably 30. Not cute and big. If Wenny really wanted a husband she’d have to move out of her dad’s house and lose some weight. 

This new arrangement Gene put me in had me below her too. He’d have things for me to do, and she’d add to it. She’d also make comments on my body and Gene would egg her on. It was weird to start but it kept getting worse. then today, or no yesterday now, it just snapped. Everything snapped. 

I fucked up big.

Saturday’s routine had become I’d go there, clean, they’d watch, make me get them beers, then Gene would take me to the bar.

I don’t know how this was helping. Like I said I didn’t really go in with a plan. I was hoping it would come to me. In a way it did. Fuck no I didn’t tell Professor Cole what I was doing. I didn’t tell anyone. What would I say? I was going off to play the slave?

Anyway that day it took a turn. Wenny was complaining about being single and Gene said she just needed to get fucked. Then called me over and yeah…

No. I couldn’t. Physically I couldn’t. They talked loudly and as soon as he called my name I knew what he was going to tell me to do. My chest tightened up, my blood ran hot so my skin was burning all over. I was panicking but I kept walking into the living room. He told Wenny to drop her pants and she did. I could see on her face she was just as terrified as I was. She didn’t say a word, she just did it. She always had something to say but now she was silent. Not looking at anything or saying anything.

He told me to take my pants off next. I couldn’t. It happened so fast but I knew I couldn’t. Faking it was impossible. I was soft as fuck and that…. Then the thought of him seeing my dick and touching her with it makes me want to puke. I didn’t really think I just flopped down and started eating her out. That was easier for me. There were muscles I could move so I could go through the motions. 

He stayed in the room and watched. I could hear him groaning. I don’t know, my eyes were closed and I kept them shut until it was all over.

Wenny got up angry. Like fuming. She shoved me off, knocked shit off the shelves and table on the way to her room. She slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall. 

Gene stayed laying on the couch, eyes closed with his dick put away. I knew it was on me to pick up the mess so I did. As I was cleaning up I found this small silver ring with two snake heads one eating another. On the inside of the band there was a swastika. The whole thing was covered in soot. Some of it came off on my hands as I was handling it. There were layers of it, some so old they felt permanent. 

I thought about stealing it to take back to Professor Cole, or to the cops to prove Gene was part of a white supremacist group, but that didn’t seem like enough. What other proof did I have and what would be illegal about being a white supremacist if all they did was talk shit and drink?

So I didn’t steal it. When I had everything else put away I asked Gene about the ring. What else could I do besides carry on like normal? I said, “This looked important and I wasn’t sure where it went. I didn’t seem like something to just put anywhere.”

He was quite proud to tell me about how the ring had been in his family for a long time. It’s not that his grandfather was an original German Nazi or anything, but his father bought it off a guy that swore it was made from silver confiscated from the Jews at Auschwitz. It’s never been washed so the original soot is supposed to be from the Auschwitz smoke stacks. The more recent layers are from “remembrance ceremonies”.

He said, “Richard Anglin came out personally last year to thank us for supplying drinks and his was exactly the same so you know it’s genuine.”

He said those words verbatim but he almost said something else for drinks. I was trying to remember everything because I was certain I needed to end things so I never ended up back in that house. Here’s the major fuck up. I should have just kept my mouth shut and listened, but my mouth works faster than my mind when my mind has something on it. A single fucking syllable slipped out, “Who?”

I didn’t know who Richard Anglin was and I still don’t but apparently, I really fucking should have. Apparently, Richard fucking Anglin is the only white man alive capable of judging when a black or any other non-white had done something big enough for the cause to move up from animal to “honorary man”.

Gene called me every name in the book as he beat the crap outta me. Particularly a “lying fucking nigger.” He got a couple good hits in then transitioned to choking me out. All the way, I passed out. 

When I came to, I was in the back of Gus’ van. My hands were tied behind my back with a plastic zip tie. Gene and Gus were talking about what to do with me. Gus was saying Gene might’ve overreacted given my time with them and how I was one of the good ones. Gene said, “We can put him with the rest for now but we gotta put him in the dirt.”

I was panicking but I knew I couldn’t stay still. I had to get out.  Some of the places they went shooting were pretty secluded. No one but them would ever find me there. There aren’t any windows in the back of Gus’ van so the only light I was getting was through the partition. I could see their heads and the sky. I couldn’t tell where we were, but it didn’t feel like we were on a highway. Still, it felt like if I didn’t get out quick I was as good as dead. 

I couldn’t feel anything near my hands that could help get me out. Gus keeps the van fairly clean. I could hear some things shifting as he turned. Something metal was rolling near my feet. I caught it against the side of the van with my foot and pushed it up closer so I could contort my hands to grab it without needing to move my whole body too much. 

It was maybe a two-inch pointed screw! I gripped it between my fingers at an awkward angle because of the zip tie and started stabbing and sawing away at the plastic. The odd grip made my muscles start to cramp but I kept going. Just chipping away bit by bit. I’d flex my arms to try to break the plastic when I thought it was enough. It wouldn’t be so I’d go back to sawing and stabbing. It felt like it was taking forever.

I was sure I was going to die. My life wasn’t flashing before my eyes or anything. My thoughts focused on regretting that it would be in such a stupid situation that I did to myself. I never came up with a plan. Had I just not gone back it could’ve ended. They didn’t know who I was, they never asked any questions to get to know me. I could’ve just stayed home. 

I flexed again and the tie snapped. 

Now, the back of the van has two doors. One at the back and the sliding one on the passenger side. I chose to jump out of the side door as the van took its next stop and was lucky to only fall onto the pavement and not into traffic. I was immediately up and running. Behind me I heard the van doors open and Gene and Gus get out after me. 

We were in a residential neighborhood and I felt like if I kept to the sidewalk they’d get back in the van and chase me down that way, so I started hopping fences. The first one was a short chain link fence. One of them took out a gun and shot at me before they got over the first fence. I kept running and hoped over the next fence which was taller and wooden. I pulled myself over the top then pretty much fell on the other side. The other side was an alley with nothing to cushion my fall. Gene and Guys couldn’t get themselves over that fence. They were negotiating who would boost who over, that gave me a second. 

If I ran down the alley either way I’d be in the open and they could get some more shots off at me. That seemed like a bad idea. However, the fences between the yards were made of tall slats so they wouldn’t see me if I hopped the fence to a parallel yard to double back to the street. Then we’d be in the public and I could flag someone down. 

I went with option number two. I ran two houses down and then went over the fence into a yard just as someone struggled over the first fence into the alley. I bolted for the street planning to flag down the first car I saw. When I got to the sidewalk there was no traffic, but the passenger door of the van was open. Then I could hear the engine running and knew that the keys were still inside. I got to the door and slammed it shut just as Gus was getting back to the chain link fence. 

I never thought of myself as fast but from the alley to the van couldn’t have taken more than a minute. There was even time for me to register the look on Gus’ face as I slid into the driver’s seat and floored it out of there. 

I don’t know if he had the gun.

I went straight for a couple of blocks before it registered in my head that I was in San Pedro. Then it clicked that they were taking me to the bar to keep me in the basement until they killed me. My instinct was to run home so I orientated north and started driving in that direction. But it’s a long way home from San Pedro, especially in what was technically a stolen van. 

They didn’t empty my pockets when they put me in the back so I had my cell and I used that to preemptively call 911. But I hadn’t taken my foot off the gas this whole time so already I had run a couple of stop signs and a red light. By the time I connected with an operator, there was already a patrol car trying to pull me over. 

I couldn’t stop. If I pulled over I’d be a black man in a stolen van driving recklessly on a city street. I needed the operator to understand the situation. She just sounded so, I don’t know, fake. Like are you really listening to me asking for help or just doing your job. 

Then something else clicked. Like I said it was a long way home and having a growing number of cops behind me put it out of the question.

I would’ve stopped if the operator could’ve convinced me the cops would listen. Look at how long this took even before the cop part. I couldn’t have finished before they had me in the back of a patrol car or shot up the van. 

I had to keep driving and I couldn’t drive home, so I turned to the bar. I wasn’t sure there would be anything there to make my case, but I was certain no one in that bar was ordering cervezas, or negronis. If they were going to put me in the basement then odds were I wasn’t the first one. 

I was focused. I finally had a plan. I was as careful as I could be without stopping or slowing down enough that the cops could block me in. The sirens actually helped clear the way to get me there without crashing. Up until the end. 

Up until I put on my seat belt and drove the van right through the brick wall of that fucking bar by the docks. 

So now I’m in here for some bullshit that is just some property damage really, but all of them, all of them, everyone in that bar needs to be rounded up and locked up just like those people in the basement. 

It’s fine, I can handle one night. I actually don’t feel anxious, I feel good. I did something. 


Phillip Morris is a Californian living in Rotterdam. When he’s not writing dry instructions booklets, he’s likely writing colorful short fiction. When he tweets it’s @lephillipmorris.

2020 Pandemic Phillip Morris Prose

The Autopsy of Donald J. Trump

Written by Phillip Morris

After years of the media rarely mentioning his name, the 45th President of the United States was once again in global headlines, “Donald Trump Dead!” 

Trump was found dead in his cell while awaiting trial in New York. No official cause of death was given in the early articles, but reports of a bluish hue to his body suggested asphyxiation. Video surveillance of the hall outside his cell only showed guard patrols in the time between when his dinner tray was retrieved and when his body was found at breakfast. 

The Trump Re-election Campaign Committee called for an investigation into the prison kitchen staff. 

“Everyone knows kitchens are filled with Mexicans and radical-left Democrats,” Donald Trump Jr. said from the campaign’s headquarters in Costa Rica. He went on to spread suspicion among everyone with access to the former President, including the medical staff that attended to him during his bout of stomach flu and weeks earlier, and several Democratic members of Congress that never interacted with the President.

“Did they poison him?” Trump’s former lawyer Rudy Giuliani asked from his own cell in the prison’s psychiatric ward. “Did they hide needles in his diapers? I don’t know. You don’t know. There are a lot of questions about emails.”

Prison and DOJ officials were quick to rebuke claims of foul play and urged the nation to remain calm. They promised a quick and thorough investigation into the cause of death expressing confidence that if it wasn’t natural: “Then he did it to himself.”

Photos of Trump’s corpse spread like California wildfire online. His supporters scrutinized every pixel so even the most mundane details were woven into keystones of grand conspiracies. One theory that rose to prominence early was that he had been poisoned during a court appearance weeks earlier, but that his body was so strong that his only symptom was a lack of bladder control. Despite video footage from outside of the cell showing otherwise, the theory concluded with the assertion that a Soros backed assassin was hired to finish the job by strangling him..  

Trump’s opponents amused themselves by parodying the memes his supporters produced as evidence for their theories. A comparison of Trump’s trademark orange tan juxtaposed with his post-mortem blue was re-imagined as an action movie poster that was shared over one million times. 

The Trump autopsy was completed in less than a week. In a muted press conference it was announced that Trump’s official cause of death was a fungal infection that had gone unnoticed in earlier exams. The medical team that performed the autopsy quickly left the stage without taking any questions after stating the body would be cremated as a precaution. 

The mundane explanation did little to stifle the public’s curiosity. Just a few hours after the press conference an anonymous post appeared online claiming to be from someone who worked with the county coroner. 

“It was aliens that killed him,” the poster claimed. “I saw the body. They were crawling out of him. He was on his stomach so his butt was in the air and these yellow tendrils were coming out of his anus and moving in the air like vines looking for a hold. I didn’t see what they did to the body but they kept calling in more and more experts to examine it.”

What should have been dismissed as the ravings of an internet troll got picked up by the mainstream media and amplified. Leading another anonymous individual to publish an article in the New York Times that offered further details on Trump’s bodily invader. The Times verified the author was an investigator involved with the Mueller Report. 

As the author saw it, if Mueller’s focus was less narrow and his approach less conservative Trump’s infection could have been discovered years earlier. Misconduct by Trump from before the start of the campaign was all but ignored unless it was directly relevant to later criminal actions, which caused a lot of now pertinent details to be overlooked. 

An extensive investigation into Trump’s trips to Russia was whittled down to bare bones in the final report because failed business deals and evenings with sex workers were not considered relevant without explicit evidence that Russia was using them to blackmail him. 

“We couldn’t verify the existence of The Pee-Pee Tape, so we had to proceed as if it didn’t exist. However, we all believed its existence was likely, and we were certain the acts rumored to have happened, actually happened.”

According to the article’s author, that certainty came from the story of a housekeeper who worked at the hotel Trump stayed at in Moscow. She was not a witness to the events of Trump’s romp with the sex workers but she did clean up the aftermath. 

Initially the suite seemed to be in the standard state of disarray for travelling businessmen. The bedding needed to be laundered, there were roomservice hamburgers to be tossed, and left over drugs to be resold. What stood out as unique was that the chaise lounge was “absolutely drenched in piss.”

The housekeeper recommended the chair be sent for a professional cleaning, but her manager ordered that she clean it the best she could and mask the scent with perfume.

She did as she was told and thought nothing of it until the next week when she was again cleaning the suite. She noticed the chaise lounge had developed a yellowish tint and immediately panicked thinking the cleaners she used had damaged the expensive piece of furniture. 

She began scrubbing it again using only water and found that the cushions had also changed to be uncomfortably stiff instead of luxuriously soft. 

The housekeeper told the interviewer that she felt movement in the cushions, but she ignored it thinking it was only her imagination. Then a thin yellow tendril emerged from the fabric wiggling in the air like it was looking for her hand. 

She ran out of the room screaming that the chaise had to be burned. Her request was ignored until the entire cleaning staff one by one refused to clean the suite. When finally the hotel’s management inspected the suite with their own eyes the lounge was removed from the hotel less than an hour later. 

The anonymous author ended his article by speculating that the fungus was purely terrestrial in origin. Nothing the investigators uncovered could be related to alien visitors. To support his reasoning he cited numerous examples of strange fungi, including several fast moving varieties and even some that could control the behavior of small animals as part of their reproductive cycles. 

Unfortunately for the curious, Trump’s remains can no longer be studied directly because the day the New York Times article was published his body was hastily cremated. 


Phillip Morris is a Californian living in Amsterdam. When he’s not writing dry instructions booklets, he’s likely writing colorful short fiction. When he tweets it’s @lephillipmorris.

2020 Pandemic Phillip Morris Prose

The Pit

Written by Phillip Morris

A mass of people wait in a concrete pit open to the wind and rain the dim sun promises to bring. 

Most of the people are black and brown, though there are a few that could pass if they didn’t speak with such a heavy accent. More languages are known between them than there are people in the pit, and yet those in the pit almost never speak to each other. They remain stuck in their spheres of solitude.

There is just enough room for everyone to sit down on the bare ground. Only the smallest among them can stretch out straight. The rest must curl-up on themselves in dirt that’s dark and muddy from still sticking human waste. 

A young mother, is given room to lay with her weakly crying child next to a teen, too skinny and dirty to betray their gender, who scratches another tick in the wall. 

It’s been 124 days by their count. 

Some people came earlier, others came later. A minority were counting the days even before arriving at the pit. Fewer still don’t bother counting at all because all that matters is that this is the end. 

Beyond the wall, the sound of a monstrous machine grows louder. It’s engine roars and echoes inside of the pit. It sounds like it has the power to break through the concrete wall, instead, it stops just beyond. 

From somewhere out of sight a guard and his dog appear on the wall. 

Covered head to toe in blood-red armor the guard patrols unarmed. It’s only ever a single guard per pit, and even that is just for show, there’s little that needs monitoring. It takes four people standing on each other’s shoulders to send a fifth over the top. It’s only ever tried once per pit. Then it becomes clear to everyone below that they’ll never be faster than the lid snapping closed. 

The guard doesn’t need a weapon because his dog is always at his side. As loyal as it is fierce, this dog is the greatest weapon ever made through selective breeding, cybernetics, and genetic engineering. So much so, that no one in the pit can recognize it as a dog. 

Their dogs played with their children and protected their homes. However, this thing on the wall must be kept far away from children and all things precious.

The guard and his dog patrol the perimeter of the concrete pit. Its walls are thick enough that he and the dog can walk comfortably side by side. 

While the man’s on the outer edge, looking beyond, the dog splits its attention between the guard and the people in the pit whose gaze it greets with a growl in the back of its throat, even as they do their best to keep to the side opposite the patrol. 

Someone slips in the filth as the crowd moves around the pit and the dog snaps to attack position, barking loudly with its teeth full bare. The guard stops to look on as the person scrambles back into the throng of pitiful people. The dog reverts back to its perpetual growl.

The guard stops near to where the engine beyond the pit has been idling loudly. A signal from the guard and the engine kicks into gear, this time accompanied by the sound of hydraulics raising something large. 

The dog is barking again. Its joined by another, and another, and another, until its a deafening, terrifying chorus that drowns out all else before a heavy slab of metal slams onto concrete, releasing cries and screams into the mix, and masking the sound of thunder from the clouds bursting above. 

Then there they are, the screaming crying people, standing in the rain on the edge of the pit. Throngs of people. Brown, black, and white people. Miserable people, getting wet like those in the pit. Stopped at the edge, too scared to go forward though there’s clearly nowhere else to go as the guards and dogs corral them in. 

Too well trained to ever break the rules, the dogs snap at the legs, fingers, and toes of those on the edge. Close enough that they can feel the heat of the dogs’ breath, but never enough to claim they’ve been bitten. 

Those at the very edge and close to falling turn around. They use their arms and their pleas to hold the rest back. But there’s too many and their numbers are growing. 

The weakest go over, tearing open the floodgates, so the rest fall, push, or are shoved into the pit. The first to land are crushed beneath those that follow. Their blood mixing with the mud.


Phillip Morris is a Californian living in Amsterdam. When he’s not writing dry instructions he’s writing colorful fiction.

Contributing Creators Game Phillip Morris ROOTS - MAR/APR 2019

Generations: Lucia

Created By Ana Barretto, Vera Grosskop & Phillip Morris

 

Generations: Lucia tells the story of a Latin American woman escaping revolution in her home country by immigrating to the Netherlands in the mid-20th century.

The creators drew on personal experience to tell this story of the strength it takes to put down roots in a strange land. They hope to continue the game in future updates.

Click the image to play

Generations: Lucia was made for the Culture Arcade Game Jam organized by the Value Foundation and the Prince Claus Fund.

  *The game might not work properly on mobile devices.