Another Excerpt from the book 20 Ways to Rape a Sheep by Victor Ulkin:

"Thousands of years ago in The Middle East, the birthplace of Civilization, young boys would chase sheep around town so they could kiss, fondle, or perhaps even fuck one if they were lucky.

Back then the government didn't care what the peasant boys did with their free time. This was the age before governments tried to be moral. 

Morality was left to the Church whom the government dutifully bribed to avoid harassment and garner support for military campaigns. God, it seemed, liked a good war as much as anyone. Especially if the other side had a lot of gold and non-believers. 

In these winsome days before modern democratic governments, the States main function was to keep the king's coffers lined with gold and hold glorious dinner banquets. Back then, the governments cared nothing for peasant boys and sheep and went about the strictly governmental duties of putting all honorable people to death and building monuments to themselves. It was bliss and freedom for all. Today's democratic societies have added another function to their repertoire, that of "moral policeman of the proletariat". They have outlawed enlightened entertainment and thus repressed one of man's strongest desires, the desire to lead a meaningful existence. 

Law is a foreign language that only the judge and jury speak fluently. The rest of us just plod through it like ugly American tourists on holiday in India. Law has no power over us except the respect that we give it. One day people will grow bored with Law and apathy and organize to birth the Pax Acidus, the time when no man's moral code is higher than another's. 

-End of Excerpt from 20 Ways to Rape a Sheep 

Victor was past his spotty aperture of adolescence, but he awoke nonetheless extremely uncomfortable with the not particularly unusual feeling of having a massive hangover.

Age 24 is a hard time to be alive- you don't give a fuck about society because you're still young enough to see there's not a whole bunch to like about it. Call it the mid-20’s breakdown. The one that killed Jim, Jimi, Janus, Moon, Kurt, etc..

Then Victor had the following thought: some people are in Amsterdam right now taking ecstasy and smoking the world's most killer grass imaginable. I am in Middle America going ape-shit. Is there no merciful God?

Victor rolled and smoked a nice joint half-mixed with tobacco and decided for lack of anything else to do he would go to a coffee shop and maybe write down some more paranoid ramblings and cruise for the mall for wayward high school chicks.

He stumbled outside with a cheese and mustard sandwich in his left hand and a red creme soda (sans Jim Beam) in his pocket. He stuck pretty much to this same routine every day. He would drag his IBM 286 laptop somewhere and write character sketches or dialogs for an hour or two before going to work at the Evansville Pizza Hut.

As Victor was walking towards the food court, he spied a group of young raver kids in the food court and approached them. When ravers spot one another there is usually a lot of kissing and hugging involved. A boy with shoulder-length hair named Aaron was so spaced out on E that he slipped Victor a little tongue with his kiss. The boy tasted like a girl and it made Victor think of Tobias, a young friend from Amsterdam. After they kissed they stared at each other, infatuated.

Tommy, the apparent drug dealer of the bunch, broke the ensuing silence before it got unbearable.

“ E-bombs, twenty five a hit. Blow the fuck up! ”

“What do you have? Capsules?”

“No dodgy shit. Press tabs. Mitsubishis. Very nice. One will get you into Heaven. Two will get you into Hell.”

Victor was impressed. Decent Ecstasy had finally made it to Evansville. “No thanks, man, I’m sorted right now. But give me your number just in case.”

They exchanged numbers and talked of the local scene. Most good parties were illegal, and thus busted. Victor promised to come check out a party and hang with them. The kids definitely needed guidance. No one should be selling drugs in the Mall. They should be out selling drugs to businessmen for $40 a hit and converting the heathens.

The kids complained loudly that they could not start a scene. But it was the same story all over the world. Safe parties routinely broken up by blue-breasted-know-nothing-donut-munchers. The squares don’t understand that there is nothing left to live for in the 90’s but rave.

Victor said his goodbyes to the mostly pimply crew and headed to work. Even though the kids were young and relatively under-educated, he loved them instinctively because he understood them. All they cared for was ecstasy, dancing, kissing, and good music. They were just like him when he was first in Paris. If he was to be trapped for a few months in Evansville, he might as well party and resume his hedonistic ways. Maybe some of the less pimply ones would even sleep with him.

Victor thought of the beauty of rave culture. It was open, loving, and new. He did not understand the other cultural sub-genres in America. Squares, geeks, metal heads, hippies, junkies, and religious freaks all seemed to be devoid of any positive aspects.

Victor arrived at work stoned and made a few pizza deliveries. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never really left Evansville at all. He felt like he had lived here his entire life, delivering saucy cheesy baked dough to people who worshipped cable television 8 hours per day. He hated delivering to the suburbs the most.

You would think that rich people would tip more than poor people but it isn't the case at all. Victor averaged two bucks a delivery from the trailer parks. Bankers in the suburbs could rarely be bothered to cough up more than a dollar and change. Nobody seems to give a shit what the pizza boys of the world dream about. They have no problem making big corporations rich, but when it comes to poor young guy who needs to make a living they turn a blind eye. Suburbs are the breeding ground for the living dead.

When Victor returned from a delivery, Earl Parker, the regional manager, was there waiting for him. He took Victor into the back room and sat him down. Earl had a burly moustache and sideburns with a crew cut of bleached blond hair. He sported the serious and somber gaze of an SS Officer interrogating a Jew. He told Victor if he didn’t submit to a drug test immediately he would be fired. He explained that someone had called and reported him getting high in his car.

Victor knew it was a lie, although he was stoned at that very moment. Victor always rolled joints so no one could tell what he was smoking on the road. Still, it was common knowledge that Victor smoked pot while he did deliveries. There was nothing he could do. It was all bullshit anyway. 

Victor told him that was illegal under the Constitution of the United States to make him take a drug test on the spot like that. The regional manager told him that if he didn’t take a drug test he would be fired. If he did take the drug test and failed, then they would turn the record over to the police and press charges and reckless endangerment. If he took the drug test and passed then he would forced to take a piss test at random intervals.

Victor decided it was easier to call Earl "Richard Nixon sucking off Ronald Reagan” and storm out the door into penniless freedom.

Adieu, à la hutte du pizza.