If you are reading this disclaimer, you have recently met a man, wait, a boy, child wait, NO a man! Name Ike. As a cautionary note, he:

-Might not remember you.

-Might begrudgingly remember you.

-You might not care if he remembers you.

Also note that he may have:

- Definitly said unsavory things in your presence.

-Snorted cocain of the bar or toilet.

-Bashed (insert: ethnicity, religion, politics, music, or gender).

If you feel the need to report his behavior please send message to Wetbrained@ikesalvador.com

Thank you for your understanding and we would just like you to know: Ike is a Nihilist, and no matter how hard you try to make him understand, or care, or feel bad... I must inform you it has not worked thus far. And furthermore attempts to dispose of this individual have somehow made him stronger, more diabolical, and hateful. So please PLEASE, proceed with equally as much demonstrative bullshit.

Don lives a simple life to some. A small 2 bedroom home, surrounded by other families one on top of another. All winding through the same space, but very much apart. Desire and reality hardly ever meet one another, while necessity and gratification seem to build the foundation. Everyone shares a general problem: dust. The lot out front is unpaved, as well as the roads beyond for that matter. It is a constant reminder of the mismanagement and impotence; appropriately of resident and government alike. Perhaps asphalt is unnecessary, and requires upkeep just to be a reflection of what it was. But it looks good on the next neighborhood over, Don is sure of that. The building is painted a vibrant green. At least at some point it was. And the trim is a nice red. The color is probably Don’s favorite part of the place. A picture on the window sill says so at least. Their faces wild with joy standing in front of the bright, and beautiful home of yesteryears. Alongside him, Tay, and their son. It was hard to not be grinning ear to ear when with Tay. The body took over and his mind could rest in their bliss.

Often the sounds of domestic violence, and fornication seep through the thin walls. If anything the layers of cheap paint and dust help muffle the vividness of it all.

As he exits the bathroom, the hum of the fart fan remains behind him, to rid the previous situation. From here his home is but a hallway to three rooms. The first of which, on his left, is his own. Don often finds him self standing in front of that space as if it was an empty fridge.

As he sat down, looking at the yellow tinged walls, one can’t help but wonder. Is this a matter of cigarette smoke clinging to the poorly gloss painted surface? Overtime, does the miniscule weight of these smoke particles build up and drag each other downwards. Never quite seems to reach the bottom. His attention shifts as he gets comfortable. The cold reminder of a room, and seat, less occupied. It feels lonely, yet secure. Don gets comfortable and his attention shifts upward. Perhaps it is a matter of his business being displayed on the roof like the contents of one’s head after inebriation and firearms. Why is everything so yellow in here all the time? The mystery almost seems to drip down upon him, but never does. Does shower vapor then reanimate, reinvigorate, and force a collection of smoke, and shit, to threaten rain? What keeps it clung to the generations of cheap paint? Something does. Why have we not figured an alternative? Like sheets. The walls should be sheets to be taken down and vigorously cleaned. But nothing changes.

"It's for the best nothing changes. At least not during this exact bowel moment." Don internalized.

“I need some new lighting in here,” Don mutters to himself.

That thought soon gets krinkled like a newspaper trying to find a can. Nature’s unrelenting starin takes over. The mission is clear. Why can’t the body take over more often. Life would be so much easier if the body would just step in more. Don now, mouth almost ear to ear, eyes squinting, sweating, face turning red.

“Why can’t more things be this involuntary?” He thinks, but does not dare speak.

One does not speak when the body takes over. Satisfied, he collects himself and reaches for the commonly silver colored handle. Poof. It’s all gone now, except the blaring reminder, on the walls, on the ceiling, and in the air.

I knew a scarlet bird in jaguar patterned pants.

It flew through the prison fence with ease, and skill.

I knew a scarlet colored bird in striped slacks.

It flew out a window with some trouble, but willfully.

I knew a scarlet bird in a blanket of admiration.

It flew into the sun for the last time, in tatered cloths.

I will always know my scarlet colored bird.

But I did not fallow it to the sun.

Quickly, even more so, frantically I shove the phone in my phanny pack and start sprinting for the back of the convention hall. While scanning for an exit, it is clear this place is riddled with eyes in the sky. Security cameras have been an after thought given the time's lack of technology, but clearly my futuristic insolence has been noticed already. And to some scrutiny given the intensity of the chase. They may have caught a glimpse as I snapped a photo of the current president's massive rally with an alien device, but something tells me they have been looking for this guy. The Secret Service members are gaining, gotta figure something out fast. Who knows the ramifications if my cover is blown? Exploding out of the building like the Koolaid man, I duck into a crowd of protesters. I start weaving through the masses of neon colored garb with little hope. Then it hits me strong. The familiar smell of my sister getting ready for a night out 40 years ago. It's a Guess perfume I haven't smelt in decades, the one that comes in a little black and white exclamation mark shaped bottle. Coupled with the blaring sound of Wham!'s "Wake Me Up", my senses collect this as a beacon of hope. The poofy hair and bracelet scene has been my cover for the last 9 months. This duo of freedom seems to be vibrating from a bar smack in the middle of the protest.

Finally with some sense of anonymity it's time for a breath once inside. The bar is quite full from all the day's excitement and is easy to disappear in. The young people have taken over this normally dark and dingy place. The room was painted with color for the moment. After scanning for a rear exit I feel at ease that i have a moment. I take a seat not far from my possible escape, and order a beer.

"Thank God for contingency plans." I think as I dial my emergency extraction number. "9 months of collecting data should be enough, and have been somewhat discrete." I quietly vocalize to myself, as if to give it some more weight... makes myself almost believe it. With the last sip of beer the call is placed to my team, and I'm out.

It's a strange sensation. Like getting electrocuted through your eyes and right through the back of your head. But home at last? I come to in the middle of a full sprint.

"What the fuck is going on!" As I clear my foggy mind. Similar looking men are half the distance of before giving chase. The world seems modern, or what I would perceive as my original time. Mashing the call button again as I sprint, frantically trying to place where I am, I exit the building. Duck into a crowd, it smells worse, like people that haven't taken very good care of themselves. "This is fucking insane" I think to myself mashing the button on the phone. Everything looks the same yet different. Out of the corner of my eyes I catch campaign banners for Reagan Jr. They look to be more of a reminder than a suggestion. "What is this modern world different than my own?" I think to myself. I ignoring my suspicion of how it came about. I really fucked up, it's clear, despite my false inquiry.

Boom, electricity right into my eyes and out the back of my skull. I am running yet again at full steam, and getting tired from the decades of sprinting. I drop to my knees in an even newer world, whatever that means, this can't continue. "I've lost" I think to myself. As that train of thought ends, I am obliterated by suited men. They tackle the fuck out of me, as if they've been chasing me for decades.