When I first saw him, my heart skipped a beat. I had heard so much, yet knew so little. I took one gaze through those lightly-tinted glasses and saw the cold, calculating eyes of a cerial rapist. Yes, cereal. This was the kind of man who you let crash on your couch after a night of drunken bar-hopping and wake up to find straddling a bowl of cheerios with testicles lowered into the milk. Those eyes, those psychotic, menacing eyes. If only I could have stopped staring into them. They did not waver, blink, or dash around. They pierced straight into my soul, and I felt as if my mind was being read. I tried to offer up a complemantary statement on the man's robust and manicured moustache, but I felt doing so might unleash a latent and unspoken rage that would infect the demeanor of an entire city block. The power, the hold of this moustache. An overstatement of class, a clear indicator that the social status of this man surpassed that of most mortal beings, and that he was not afraid to project that through such an opulant display of extravagance. I tried to resist the pull and influence, but my heart told me to be strong and to stay the course. I inquired about obtaining a cigarette, even though I didn't smoke, and told him I would be much obliged. Nothing about his posture or demeanor changed, and his cold stare continued to bore holes of uncertainanty all the way to the back of my skull. I quivered slightly as my breath condensed in the cool night air, and then began to shudder as he reached into his front pocket. He did not pull out a cigarette, but a picture of my wife. And she was wearing his moustache...

Chapter 2
After I first encounter, I knew this Redshift guy meant business. He was not the kind for casual joking and cigarette sharing, and this was well established by his reputation. Not being able to get his infectious grin out of my mind, I began wearing several disguises and following him around on his daily routine. First, the local grocer for some donuts and coffee. I took the casuaul arabian business man approach as to not draw too much attention to myself. As he walked past me to the checkout counter, carefully balancing a donut and coffee and the latest copy of "Beaver" magazine, I cleared my throat somewhat forcefully, hoping to at least catch a glance. He seemed pre-occupied, distant even, and was completely unaware of my feigned chest congestion. I tried many disguises, and many coughs, but to no avail. He was completely oblivious even to some of my most forceful phlegm-parsings, and I began to think another approach might be more appropriate. Doing some independent research, I quickly gathered that DJ Redshift loathes the cinicinatti bengals, and as far as sports teams go, the are pretty easy to loathe. Feeling a little put off by his rejection of my quite obvious advances (practically coughing in his face), I tailed him to a local nightclub for a night of boozing, dancing, and a little of the ole "in 'n out" with an insecure fatty if none of my other prospects worked out. I had procured a bengals hat and jersey, some ganster sunglasses, and a half a gram of cocaine because, well, let's face it, I'm not the best looking guy out there and this night might take some persuasion. I slid past the bouncers (a couple benjamins lighter in the pocket), talked some half-ass sports talk with a few of the local patrons, and spotted my DJ. I walked in front of him, put on my shades, and stared into his eyes as hard as I could. I could feel the pressure on the back of my eyeballs, and let me tell you, I have never looked so hard at anything. I knew he hated the Bengals and I wanted to strike the fear of god into his arrogant, dismissive, and elitist world. I couldn't hold his attention. Hell, I couldn't even get his attention. I began to think shoving him around a little might make him at least acknowledge me...

Chapter 3
I showed some restraint for a while. I mean this Redshift guy is the crazy one for not treating random strangers like old friends. I'm a nice person, and he should at least pretend we have known each other for years to indulge my fantasies. After all, my livelihood is dependent on the failure of this man. I spotted him at the beach. I coughed really hard and signalled for my trained dog to jump up in his lap. He had little or no reaction, so i finally went up and shoved him out of his chair onto the sand. Because my paycheck goes to shit if I can't get him acting crazy. He just laid in the sand for a minute, and then pivoted on his hip and sat up. He asked "what the fuck are you doing assclown?" YES!!! I had finally struck paydirt. I made sure my digital recorder/transmitter was working properly and that I got that on tape. This was something really useful, especially taken out of context. Oh boy, I was just wondering what to say to piss him off more. I uttered, "so how about those Bengals?" I could see this was working, his face had the expression of sucking on a spoiled lemon. Just then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, and hit the button to set off his car alarm, which was only 20 feet away. I saw that he was parked in the handicapped spot, and quickly turned off my recorder as to not ruin the context of this encounter. Speaking of context, a bunch of concerned pedestrians had gathered around the scene. They were asking ME all sorts of questions. What the hell did I do? This guy was flat out rejecting a forced friendship. I'm a great guy with Redshift's best interest at heart, what the fuck was their problem? The last thing I remember is the crowd helping redshift to his feet. I woke up to blurred starlight and a lifeguard telling me I can't sleep on the beach. The stinging feeling of the saltwater tide danced and prickled around my searing wounds. I stumbled to my feet and hobbled to a payphone. Shit, my pockets were empty. I looked around for anyone still out, what the hell time was it anyways? Just then, DJ Redshift appeared seemingly out of nowhere and placed a quarter in my hand, and disappeared back into the shadows. Running on pure instinct and adrenaline, I dialed the only number I knew by heart, 867-5309...

chapter 4
Unfortunately on the end of this line was a fax modem. I quickly unhinged my jaw, clenched my vocal cords, and did my best to emulate the handshake procedure for this device. I was able to log in at a very low baud rate, but just enough to get through the login protocol and connect to a weather service to get the local weather. Shit, rain. Just then it began raining. Shit. Shit shit shit. This wasn't about the bad weather or my tattered dungarees or this phone call, it was about DJ Redshift. I bet his moustache smells like lentil soup. I hobbled down the road, my blood mixing with puddles of rain, accompanied by the yellow hue of the street lamps and the grey embers of the first morning light. I saw a flier with DJ Redshift's name on it, and I thought this would be the perfect oppurtunity to get to know him better. I waited through the day, the sun reddening my face and the seagulls making a mockery of my destroyed dockers with their poop. I was deep into the youth culture now baby, the listless yet carefree lifestyle of living only in one's pants and having the world as their playground.

chapter 5

After a good shave and perfuming, I decided to take this night back out on the town. I put on my best lipstick (rougey hot pink of course) and some shoulder pads and silky, blousey shirt. I filled my purse with assorted hard candy and condoms and caught the bus downtown. The neon lights were quite a thrill, I could feel my pussy getting damp as I approached the nightlife district. I felt as if I might find some bad casino with overly decorative high-traffic carpeting, but nickel slots were all I could afford after the last encounter. I could scarecly afford a game of Gauntlet at the local arcade, and street fighter II was just out of my league at two quarters a game. I caught a brief glimpse of a moustache boutique, and I thought I might try the clever and ironic angle by procuring a nice evening moustache. So many to choose from, a line of staches from classic world leaders, a 1930s movie star collection, soup strainers, the bad reverend, the 1970s motorcycle cop, the donut duster, waxed, unwaxed, thin and thick, my head was-a-dizzy with all the choices. I finally decided on the hitler, but with flavor saver and flanged edges as to not be TOO ironic. I clopped down the street in my slut pumps, bought a big juicy weiner from the local cart vendor, and was just wiping the assorted condiments from my stache when I heard the sound of what I thought were demons gnawing on a flesh castle. I knew this must be DJ Redshift. I paid the cover (in blowjobs) and walked inside to find something that was most certainly not DJ Redshift or of this world. Something of screaming jackals penetrated the wall of steel and nails coming through some enormously large speaker stacks. I immediately started my period and walked outside into the cold night air. I let a hobo with a cup of change fart in my mouth for bus fair back home. My quest to find DJ Redshift now seemed fruitless...

chapter 6

After humiliating myself with my utter lack of patience and taking any little quirky nuance from DJ Redshift as gospel truth, I began feeling distanced, but certainly not secluded. I began hitting up every bar and club in town to find my subject of interest. I had new investors, new goals, etc. I was quite frankly striking out. This man could pop up anywhere and do anything. Was he simply staying at home? Why would he do that with the city at his fingertips? There was something he was preoccupied with. There is quite simply too much money to grab out there. I hadn't had the luxury of following him home, as my attempts to whore myself out to trends simply fell through the cracks. I had to come up with a new approach, but quite frankly stumbled into writer's block. I couldn't come up with another persona to inhabit, no matter how hard I tried. I thought of sourcing some old trends from decades past, but at every turn of the way I stumbled onto cliche compounded by cliche, and it seemed each attempt at pursuing a culture to the limit fizzled and faded. Naturally I started thinking of my own culture. Parents, grandparents, great grandparents, and the generations long before. How I got here, where is the future when all I can see is the past. I was blinded by an infinitude of options; I could scarecly see anything to be. I staggered through an endless maze of hype and propaganda; each solution seemed dire. Taking just a bit of breathing room, some time to shave my pussy and aqcuire new wardrobe, I thought maybe the best thing was just to resort to the old standard man pants and a casual button-collar. I spent my remaining budget on a lead that DJ Redshift was 99.999397628% probable to be at the movies. I bought a ticket for each individual show at the local multiplex theaters for the day, and went around with all my stubs in a neat little binder. I went back and forth, all around town, and back again, and still I couldn't seem to find him. I was losing faith in my sources, my investors, and my own ability to forge a parasitic relationship with this individual. I just stopped for a minute, sat down for some food and drink, and decided striking up a nice conversation with friendly people might just be the best thing for my tired soul.

Chapter 7
Still raging hunger, a need to find something. I thought if I could just become something more, something forward, that I could simply consume him. Devour every last parseable element, pull everything from what he was, until there was nothing but him, that I could subdue at least the urge to cyphen information. To what ends does endlessly pulling and falling and tugging on every last thread of thought lead? What fruits does it bear? What harvest does it reap? What seeds have I sown? That of the sourest fruit I can imagine, the bitterest withered demise? Grasping for trinkets and sparkles and bits of interesting rubbish in a rotten stew that's been on embers long extinguished by fearful creatures. Is there nourishment in a novelty? Can a soul survive on something so thoughtfully cursed? What part of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice to understand worship? A half a soul? A smaller fraction perhaps? So many questions and no momentum to find answers. My asbsolute fixation had led me astray, and all my conclusions seemed to come from myself. Having delusions of gnosis without conformation from the larger whole is a slippery path to no ends, boundless and bewildering. It was just this one undefinable thing that I was searching for at the end of the rainbow, and I feared that I couldn't actually define it until it was being defined and fleshed out. I had tried so hard to make definitions for all the things I once held sacred, but they fell like fancy glitter on a sparkling future ocean. THEN the acid kicked in.

chapter 8
After this long journey of trying to find DJ Redshift, I had nearly given up. I was internally bleeding from the injuries I had sustained from being a fucking moron, and the doctors said I had about 2 weeks to live despite the best treatment. I decided to spend my time just not thinking about it. Yeah this was my goal, meeting, even befriending DJ Redshift, but at this point I just felt that even the best attempt would just result in more heartache. I began looking for the things farthest from who DJ Redshift was (which I barely knew myself) just to pass the time and get my mind off of him. Hardcore porn, sushi, video games, anything that didn't remind me of him. Unfortunately something kept bringing me back. My obsession was not mutable, and always crept up in my mind despite my best efforts.
I decided it might be a good idea to get to know him, even if it broke my heart to do so. I began researching again, reading not only his blogs and media but everything anybody said about him. I started feeling like I knew him even less. Almost everything was gossip and rumor; girls were claiming to be his lover, artists claiming they had worked with him creatively, press saying they had the inside scoop on his most intimate of details. I wasn't even sure how he possessed so much prowess, there didn't even seem to be the slightest bit of substance to his existance once all the rumor and conjecture had been fact-checked and dispelled.
I felt like I had to do something drastic to get his attention. So I cut off my own dick and mailed it to him. That's right, if this didn't spark some kind of emotion in him nothing would. I didn't understand how he could be so stand-offish, I SAW the look in his eyes after all. This HAD to be real. What could be preventing me from getting to know him? I knew that mailing my own dick to him would probably inspire at least enough jealousy to get a rise out of him, and hell, I was on my way to the big paradise in the sky in a couple of weeks so what did it matter? This would be my final test of his character. He would see the size of my genitals, which had been kicked and punched and were now the size of grapefruits, and he would at least have to come communicate with me somehow about it.
Much to my suprise, there was really not much of a response. I had dressed up in a casual costume and barely struck up a half-ass conversation with him at a party, him not knowing who I was. It was mostly just me talking about myself and stuff that I thought was funny. I kind of thought some of his responses were funny, but really only for the novelty. The fact of the matter is that ME pretending to be somebody I'm not stifled any real interaction, and simply muted matters of the heart. I took it for granted that we were good friends, but only in vain really. I mean I had cut off my own dick and mailed it to him, and he didn't even have any clue that I was sitting there chatting with him. This was the most progress I had made, but at least I felt that I could die happy knowing that I got to joke around with him a little. THAT or a kinky threesome with him and some random pinup girl, which would never happen because I had cut of my own dick, and not just metaphorically. Plus I later found out that he wasn't really into random pinup girls, just liked looking at their pictures to pass the time and get his mind off other stuff. I really should have gotten to know him better before I cut off my dick I guess.