The Ice Cream Man is Stealing My WiFi.

The Ice Cream Man Is Stealing Our WiFi.

      The ice cream man is stealing our WiFi. His van passes by late at night, stealthily, the jingle songs echoing throughout the High Desert luring defenseless kids away from their bedtimes. The last and only time I bought stuff from this ice cream man, on a different street than now, I never got a good look at the inside of the van to see if he was in reality the one stealing my WiFi. His hours in the summer are from five to eight o'clock p.m. And the only window to possibly see in is where the guy sticks half of his body out to take orders. His belly drooping over the side of the ice cream van. The windshield is foggy and there's a curtain dividing the front and back. I can hear the fans moaning away on the servers inside. At the top of the van is a cluster of antenna's and small satellite receivers and transmitters of various old relic brands and models. I know for certain this is the man trying to do something he'll regret.

      This guy, as he drives by, tries to intimidate me, staring me down to get me to catch the fear bug and run away whenever I see him. But I won't run. He has been doing this drive by nonsense everyday now for two weeks. He knows something about me, what I have, what I just recently added to my home. But how does he know something like that if he can barely keep his van from puttering out and dying on the side of the road. It doesn't appear advanced or technologically sound.

     My suspicion is that this guy is trying to get at my Bitcoin wallet, (with a hefty amount), through my WiFi, any backdoor he may find, (not going to happen). Inside my small one story home, in 90% of my living space, is miners working nonstop to rake in the coins. It's a fact that this entire block, and those around us in a specific range, are equipped with household bitcoin miners. Not at the amount I have built or at the level of sophistication my miners are, but at a modest size for smaller necessities, like groceries, or gas; never can bitcoin be used for home bills and medical coverage, that you have to work tirelessly for. But this BitCoin thing has become my new business, how I make a living at such a young age. And now this guy in his busted van, jingles blaring we all scream for ice cream, nonchalantly shows up and starts driving around my neighborhood, daring to attack me!

      I take it easy, and control myself, letting him make his move first. What he does is attract kids to stop him so he can have a clearer connection to his targets, a front porch approach. I know this dried out ballsack prays each day that a group of wild brats would stop him right in front of my place, just once. And today is just that. It's his lucky day! Right on my curb he stops and parks his van, knocking over my trash bins.

      I yell at him, “Hey watch it!”

     He does nothing but stare at me with his ugly wrinkled sun baked face, while carefully handing out two icecream cones to two little ones jumping to reach their treats.

      He shrugs mockingly, then disappears back into the belly of his van. A heavy, vintage looking, American flag blocks the view through the small ordering window

      I point at the trash bins toppled over in front of his bumper. I get the trash bins back in line at the curb, and whatever trash littered the street. The van begins to rock as the old man pops half his body through the window to deliver four more ice cream cones to four other kids hopping up to reach for them. In a brief moment I catch a glimpse through a slit of the opening of the flag partition, I see monitors, at the most, I count five. So this guy either needs a lot of eyes on just me because he thinks I'm armed and dangerous, or, there is other targets just like me that he's after. Maybe it's possible it's these kid's parents. And now there he is, watching me watch him. He won't try it. Even if he does, he won't get away with it.

    The street lights come on. The other children at the ice cream van has dwindled down to just four eagerly awaiting their frozen treats. The warm summer night is filled with electricity and smells of vanilla and chocolate ice cream. From inside my house I watch the ice cream man handing out the last two cones. Then, as he returns back inside his van, I see it idle. Then I flip the switch.

      A flood of light hits the front yard and the ice cream van. I see the van shake about as the old man jumps out the driver side door to wield a sawed off shotgun at my house. He lets a round go off, I hear it tear hole through the left wing of the house where the guest bathroom is located.

      “Your evil technology is enslaving us all, can't you see that? You devil scum!” The old man sends off another shot, for some reason at the same spot previously.

      “This is my business. You have nothing to do with my work here. Now go away!” I prepare my drone, Little One, for take off. It's sitting in a concave of my roof.

       I peck at the poor sighted old buffoon with pellets using Little One's Gatling gun. The old man desperately fires his shotgun at the night sky, hoping to land a shot.

      “I'll get you, you som'uva'bitch! And I'll take all of your wealth!” He tries to load his weapon as I send a signal flare from Little One. It alerts the right kind of attack.

      All the children that had just purchased ice cream cones from this ice cream man, they start to run up and throw their ice cream cones back at the old man. He cowers away, making the attempt to get into his van. But with Little One's newest modification I send miniature armed projectile capable enough to do as much damage as a hand grenade. It does the job just right. The kids cheer at the blazes and burning of out dated technology. The old man reaches towards the flames for any chance that he might salvage something of his gear. It's all gone.

      He begins to run off, into the night, down the street shouting, “I'll be back you suburban scum! The war is not over! And many others just like me will attack you and your street!”

      Well, he is right about that. This war will never end. So long as I keep doing good and climbing my way up the chain of power, there will be others, similar to me, and to this old man, that trying to sabotage and out climb me and anyone else getting in their way. My wallet is safe for now. I tell myself that as I watch a tall office building, at a particular window on the top floor; a silhouette of a man holding up what I believe to be binoculars. I turn back inside the house to get my binoculars, but it's too late to get a look at my peeping tom. He's been watching me this whole night. The trash bins, my drone, the anarchist children, the old man. This mystery fellow just might be who sent this babbling old idiot to attack me. Attack me will you! Send incompetents to do your dirty work, having me to react, well played. Now it's my turn. . .

      Then, with a screaming ring emitting from the my server room, an explosion erupts sending the bedroom door flying off its hinges breaking the window's glass. I run for the room just in time to see a black clad assassin looking agent man, making his way out of a properly cut hole in my wall. This entire event was a distraction, a veil tossed over my eyes so the real thieves could do their work.

      Emotions boil over as I try to grasp the situation. I put out the fire. I breathe, and remind myself, this is just half of it, remember; (the other half of miners and servers, is down below, in the basement that I designed myself.)

      I sit, and plan my next move.

Sightings of Extraterrestrial Life is My Job

If I write this will that mean your world will be safe?  Could these words be as loud as that gun that killed that boy?  Nah.  To this day I persist to be a fool, with only fool stories, abstract and simple and too normal to the naked eye.  Which reminds me, there's a story I once over heard in a crowded smoke filled Inn/bar.

The wood that the Inn had been constructed in has a mossy look to it, a wet, mossy look to it.  Touch it and it sucks back in like an out of water sea urchin barely visible to the naked eye.  The wall's alive.  Drinks are splashed around a bit and it is very likely to have been the root of this wall's vague, animate, ambiguity.

I touch and almost get caught.

As I order another Joker's drink with ice and mint, I hear this old beggar tell a wise tale, truly, and terrifyingly concise.  It started with the death of his best friend and long time companion, Dog.  It was a beagle, and it had died yesterday.  A careful eye into the old man's faded thin leather bag, one would see the body of the deceased, a flaky, stale foot protruding ever so obvious.  The beggar was dramatic in telling his story that many felt like it was just ramblings from a mindless drunkard.  Many of times has mindless drunkards stumble in ranting about their misery and doom; but, the man here, with a dead dog in his purse, this man has truth in his voice.

He claimed Dog was not fated to natural causes, but a hit and run.  This was not a normal hit and run incident.  This dog's estranged owner, carefully explaining what happened to everyone who'll listen, has been confessing a taboo in this town.  The thing is no one ever mentions for fear of being executed.  "Extraterrestrial Beings".  You are hung then burned for suggesting such heresy and nonsense.

But this old man, he tells and retells his story.

He says the aliens drove their ship straight into Dog.  From a dirt path they were on he saw the ship drop from above with ease, and glided its silver body down the path right at them.  The old man said Dog ran forward at it in an attempt to do as it was alive to do: guard its owner.  And it did.  The old mad could have been in the dog's fate, wadded in a ball, stuffed into an old sack.  The moment the ship hit Dog's body, it shivered and stopped in mid air.  It was flashing bright lights of all sorts of colors when the old man gathered Dog up and ran off without looking back.

"Why didn't you turn around to get a good look at this, "ship?""  Some drooling mongoloid says spilling drink all over the conscious floors.  The old man says, "I could hear it!  It made a moaning wail upward, it flew away, out of earth's bounds!"  But they all said he talks like a retard.  And the old man continues to tell the story.  I listen for a tenth time only to see if the old man slip up and tell it differently and maybe add something that wasn't there before, but he doesn't.  It only becomes more simple and shorter, word for word.  He leaves, never looking back, but he hears.

I get ready to leave but first I want to collect the story on a napkin, before the Joker's drink gets me tongue tied and gutter bound.  I write it all on a four by four inch newsprint napkin and I am highly satisfied with the job well done, when all out of nowhere, drink from a passerby heading to the trough, splashes from his weak gripped mug, all over the napkin.  The walls retort, but are whispers to the naked ear.  A violent crash comes from the back of the bar.  Heavy laughter erupts from the corner of the room.  Candle light flickers as I leave, as I go without drinking my Joker's drink for fear of losing the memory of the old beggar and his dog, Dog.  Hell of a story.  Hell of night.

Pondering While Walking in a Sleeping City (Remnants of a Last Night)

It Took Too Much Time to escape from the shackles of the corner I swore I'd uphold. By the light of the day there fell the best leaf formed before thine eyes only to dry out and fade in the faultless salt winds of West Coast tides, To become again that endless strength unwritten, A force to bend time plasticity and remedy all the wrongfully accused shot down dead, For holding up existence in our hands is to the ant mound under the child's thumb.
Purpose to find that everlasting place of thy before the last clash of lightenings devine rapturous cant! Spectacle laughter overlooked the clown in expensive gutters, Passing rhythm of cries from the bodies established foundation; Helping, helping, helping hands.
Why not smoke the cigarette if lit by a walking whore, Full of course with a camber galore, Brought about in design by the Gods themselves in heavens' brothels in favor of production of no communicating love, Has it always been like this or are we just killing each other for the fun of it by now? Either way the captain is running out of knowing ideas and gun powder snuff stuff.
Burning neon signs that make up the directions back home through thorough alleyways a borrower of a life wrote here. A door there to discover truth, a latch with key flipped on its side mounted in constrained gears to explore falsity; Pick if ever in doubt the one way You have reserved all along.

This here is a manufactured vessel now, whatever this grail is meant to be, This is a shout encased in a cell to threaten and trudge it's way into the embryo of the future where my place in whatever capacity and social adherence is created for me, All for the better.
Remind thyself of the path once observed in an act of foreseeing the light, Unremitting advises strung together while walking under hidden moonlight behind hotels and motels and banks and apartments and all high rise stretching from the sidewalk to the foggy skies.
Destiny a mere phantom archetype conjured up by ill advised voices and vices; But do not be intimidated by this, Do not be hindered by the wax shackles of a myriad of words in cheap symbology in constant developing; I say do not, but you do with it whatever you want, Start over again you hearty boys and girls if you must! This is an evolutionary revolution in fluctuation through springtime bringing forth new death and birth and wind and art and dirt and bird songs and love songs and hate in shadows allowing for calming peace at long last.

This is a moment of being; 

This is for the drinking dreamer; 

Awe, wonderful, 

All illustrious life!

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Who done it?

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