Congratulations on Discovering the Illuminati!

You spend your days pinning pieces of yarn on to some maps you hang on your wall. It’s not that productive a way to live, but it keeps you busy and it keeps you entertained. Yarn, after all, is cheaper than cable, and times are tough all around nowadays.

Most of the time the shit you spin is so completely bonkers it could never possibly reflect the truth about reality. But today you’re going to make a number of connections related to the Illuminati, the secret society that secretly governs all of the things that happen in the world around you. You’re going to put some yarn on a map connecting where various homeless people around your apartment congregate and put a post-it note in the middle of all these yarn strings reading “Illuminati.”

This assumption will be based on the fact that the homeless people kind of stand around in the shape of a pyramid when you map them all out. This pyramid happens to be the shape of the downtown area of your city, but you won’t think of that because you’re a crazy person who puts yarn on maps. Your roommate won’t think much of it for the very same reason.

But tonight you’ll be vindicated, kind of. Tonight a bunch of homeless dudes are going to bust in on your apartment and hold you down by your sheets. They’ll surround you and remove their hooded sweatshirt hoods from their heads and stare down at you, their beards ruffled, their stench overwhelming.

“How did you know?” they’ll ask. You’ll stop thrashing when they speak, fear gripping you. You’ll try to hold back, but after only a few seconds your answer will spill out.

“I didn’t. I swear.”

They’ll look at you, then at one another, then at you again. Their looks will be cool, calculating, mercenary. You’ll swear they were eying you up, guessing your weight. How much meat they could get from cutting you up. Then one of them will speak.

“Interesting.”

They’ll share looks again, never glancing at you, never speaking a word. After a few minutes of looking at one another and smelling really, really bad they’ll turn their attention back to you and vocalize their thoughts.

“How would you like to be a member of the Illuminati?” they’ll ask.

You’ll shrug, which will consist of a very specific kind of struggle against the sheets that will remain drawn tightly against you. They’ll smile, an expression erupting simultaneously across all of their faces, black toothed gashes checkered with white. Then darkness will overtake you as the process begins and you’re inducted into the second most crestfallen secret society in the world today.

Congratulations on Discovering the Illuminati!

Congratulations on Riding in a Bentley!

You’ll be waiting on the corner with the money in a satchel tucked under your arm. It will be raining, just as you expected.

You’ll be alone, as directed. You’ll be dressed in a blue windbreaker, as directed. It will be doing very little against the rain, which will be seeping through the thin mylar and into the flannel shirt and cotton undershirt you are wearing underneath, purely of your own volition.

You’ll be there for thirty minutes, which is what you were told to expect, before a stylish automobile pulls up in front of you and rolls down its windows. You’ll try to remember what its called briefly, but once the script you have memorized begins you’ll forget all about models and makes and focus on getting your daughter back safely.

“Are you ready?” a voice will ask from inside. The light of dusk and the natural shadow of the car will combine to make the speaker invisible, but the voice, gruff and masculine, will sound vaguely familiar.

“Ready to party,” you’ll say flatly, just as you rehearsed.

The door will open and you’ll step inside, ducking awkwardly in. The car will heave forward before you’ve had a chance to secure your seat belt and the money will go flying across the floor of the car. You’ll curse and try to pick it up but the figure sitting next to you will push you back into your seat.

“Buckle up,” he’ll say, his face unsmiling.

It’ll take a moment before you recognize him. He won’t be wearing a stained white t-shirt or ripped jeans, his typical vestments abandoned for a casual suit, but it’ll be him, un-aged after all these years of obscurity. Andrew W.K. will be sitting next to you, pushing you back into your chair, carefully examining you for some sign of betrayal or anxiety. You’ll be completely floored.

“You’re Andrew W.K.,” you’ll say, mouth agape.

“Your daughter is fine,” he’ll respond. “Very safe. I need you to understand that.”

You’ll nod, dumbly. “Is it true you hit yourself in the face with a brick for that album photo?” You’ll blurt out, interrupting him as he details just where your daughter is being kept.

“Is that really what’s foremost on your mind here?” he’ll say, pressing his fingers against his temples as if he is stifling some sort of pain. You’ll look at him, confused for a moment, before you nod.

“Oh, right. My daughter. Good. Yeah. Good. That she’s good.”

Andrew W.K. will look at you. He’ll look at the admiration in your eyes, the complete lack of anxiety over your daughter’s kidnapping or her safe return and he’ll shake his head.

“Take the money back,” he’ll say.

“Huh?” you’ll ask, still staring at him, a million questions about his beard running through your head.

“Take it back. I’m keeping your daughter.”

“What?” you’ll say, your heart dropping a little. “Why?”

He’ll look you up and down and start collecting the money from the floor and stuffing it back into the briefcase.

“I no longer believe you’re fit to be a parent,” he’ll say, stuffing the briefcase into your arms.

You’ll want to ask him more questions, like is there any way you can convince him you are and is his house as cool as he is and what has he been up to lately, you’ve missed his songs about partying, but you won’t get a chance. He’ll signal the driver and the car will slow. Then the door will open and you’ll be dragged by a be-suited man back out into the rain.

Andrew W.K. will drive away then, without further contact or gesture, and you’ll be left on another corner, far from the neighborhoods you know, clutching a briefcase filled with money and secure in the knowledge that your daughter has finally found a good home.

Congratulations on Riding in a Bentley!

Congratulations on Deceiving the Woman Who Birthed You!

You’re a cowardly twenty nine year old who works data entry as an alternative to pursuing and potentially failing at a career in a field you care about. Your life is comfortable, if miserable, and you manage to hold on to a significant portion of your income by living with your mother.

At the age of twenty nine.

We don’t judge you for that. We’ve all been there. Sharon here in the office, for example, lives with her mother, and she’s thirty five. Sharon’s mother also has leukemia, but she still loves living rent free. In fact she’s gone on record that she’d let the bitch die if it wasn’t for the fact that she loves watching cable and being able to leave work at erratic hours without anyone questioning her.

But you simply want to avoid even the most minute responsibility. You’d be able to handle yourself just fine but as long as you live with your mother you have an excuse for why women don’t want to talk to you and an extra eight to ten hundred dollars a month in your pocket to spend on booze and notepads for your “novel.”

But lately she’s been getting sick of it. She’s nice enough about it, but she wants to retire soon, and enjoying her retirement is contingent on getting you the fuck out of her house.

You’ve been savvy to it, which means you’ve been avoiding her so that she can’t initiate that discussion which will end with you leaving forever. That means a lot of eating in your room and pretending you can’t hear her. But tomorrow she’s going to try to put an end to it.

She’ll be waiting for you when you return from your busy day typing names into a database at Kaiser Permanente so they can decide who to deny coverage to this week. She’ll gesture for you to sit as she sees you, but you’ll feign ignorance and try to walk by her as quickly as possible. When you pass her she’ll reach out and grab your wrist. Her grip will be just as strong as it was when you were a child.

“Honey,” she’ll say, dragging you down to a chair, “we need to talk.”

She’ll lay down that she wants you out of the fucking house by thirty. She’ll use that exact phrase, actually. But you’re no slouch. You had this covered.

You’re going to burst out weeping when she finishes, confessing your online gambling problem with tears in your eyes. You don’t actually have an online gambling problem, but some creative banking and a few hours of video poker should be able to keep you in free rent for another month and a half at least before she finds out what you’ve done and kicks you out for being a terrible son.

Congratulations on Deceiving the Woman Who Birthed You!