Landis, Jonathan
JOURNAL ENTRY 05

Weeks go by and the T.O.G. Center is transforming from a clinical, whitewashed tomb into some kind of hybrid between a mental institution and a Hollywood nightclub. I'm slightly surprised by the first few celebrities: Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie... After a while, the celebrities almost outnumber the emotionally disturbed. My room goes from being a blank pocket of solace nestled away in this monolith to just another occupied area within the hive. The racket of conversation and construction haunts me every moment.

Nonetheless I've settled into a warm, comfortable rut. It seems no coincidence that Belial and his national upheaval struck at this moment in my life. Losing everything, I am much more inclined to follow his leadership. I'm free to do anything.

Shockingly organized, Belial and the Ziz run the center like a university. Applicants are logged in and assigned classes and schedules based on certain criteria like social status and psychological disorders. He seems to choose those with circumstances that amuse him in some way to take part in his own personal team. Being the first applicant and emptied of ethical clichés because of my wife's betrayal, I was an easy choice. A kindly, mentally disabled gentleman with a loyal pet ferret has also been chosen, why I'm not exactly sure yet. A ruthless and frightening man takes his place at Belial's right hand, and smaller odd jobs are filled with lunatics and cripples. The "Trash Of God," so to speak.

Belial visits my room one evening toting a small briefcase and finds me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Hi," he croons, scanning my room for signs of personality and finding none. "This your idea of sleep?"

"Sleeping proves..." I probe the inside of my cheek with my tongue. "Difficult."

"A pogo stick is difficult," Belial objects, still searching the room with his eyes. "Sleeping is natural."

I sit up in the bed. Through the doorway I see several glamorous women in our standard green institution gowns pass by, behind them a large Ziz pushing a medical cart.

"What's 'natural' is currently in transition," I point out dryly. Belial stops scanning the room for the first time to look at me, then erupts into laughter.

"You said it, Johnny Boy! That's what brings me here this evening. You'll recall that I have a special job just for you."

"Yes sir. You haven't told me what it is yet."

"Nor will I. yet. Can I count on your support?"

"Yes sir."

"Sensational!" He cheers, slapping his hands together, which make a scaly pop. "We'll need to get some women."

"Women?" I ask, nodding at another group of passing ladies outside the door.

"Yeah, you remember them, right? They break hearts and bend over in front of perfect strangers." He steps forward, nudges me to jog my memory.

"Yes," I sigh. "I remember. What do we need women for?"

"Phase two," he says plainly, staring at me as if I should know what that means.

"What was phase one?"

"Coprophagianity!" he cheers. "The belief-in-nothing-belief!"

"Right," I say, smiling genuinely. "And phase two?"

"Is especially juicy. And you, my friend, have been especially bruised by the vulva-toting pinkies. That's why you're going to be top cop on this one." He lifts the small briefcase and sets it beside me on the bed.

"We're hurting women?" I ask curiously but without objection.

"Hurting women?" Belial echoes in sarcastic outrage. He retrieves some documents and a stack of bright purple tickets from within the briefcase. "You're sick! We're not hurting anyone." He turns and begins to exit the room.

Once outside I hear him shout, "We're setting them free!" then cackle uncontrollably.