Stanley -- The Spirit of Evil

Part 4 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Cases involving people yielding themselves to evil —  body and spirit — are among the saddest to me. But that’s just because they always seem to go the same way, down the tubes morally and socially. But I’m resolved not to talk politics.

Is it wrong to hate evil? I’ve always hated evil. I got it from the Lone Ranger. He was a do-gooder in a world that seemed to have about 12 people. Himself, Tonto, and a few others. The others were evenly divided into two camps, the good townspeople/ranchers and the evil people out to cheat them because of the railroads, claims of gold or water rights. If it hadn't been for this same boring story week after week, I might’ve never learned morality.

And with me in the work of the Psycho Squad there’s always evildoers. Saddam Hussein wanna-bes, apparently, without land to conquer or nations to terrorize. They take their half out of the middle, acting goofy around people, breaking in, trespassing, often getting their jollies under the influence of something strong, booze or narcotics, so they’re only about half there, but it’s the half that’s entirely bad, the worst part. I'd love to run a full-page ad. A big picture of me surrounded with a description of my morality and how I got there. Then some earnest rage tearing people a new one, ripping them up one side and down the other, but ending with a positive plea, "Get with the program, you half-wits!"

In a typical day, the police often call me. It happens more often than I like, because my favorite cases don't involve evil but are just guys who forgot to take their meds and are acting out. I can get those straightened out right away. They go from shackles to home right away and adapt themselves quickly to normal. Five minutes of billing and I'm done. It’s the people who are objectively evil even when times are good that get me down. And someone — do-gooders unaware of my preferences — will call the Psycho Squad. We take down the information, then kick it around. “Does it sound dangerous? Is there someone else we can pawn it off on? Shouldn't we leave a guy that bad for the police? Take ‘em in, throw away the key? It’s not Stanley, is it? Tell me it’s not Stanley! Anyone but Stanley!”

You can almost spell Satan with Stanley if you bought another vowel. But Stanley must not know how to spell, because this loony bin reject half the time thinks he IS the Dark Lord. It’s a sad case. Looming large with his inflated ego. Which is essentially what Satan is, good boy gone bad, left the family and by inflation lacks the smarts to go back. I’m almost of the mind to quit feeding Stanley's ego, because there might not be much left. But if I could get him in a clear mind and explain to him the mythological elements of what he's doing — that he's a base idiot with a Big Idea personified — then he'd have some worries. With the spark of realization and a brick to the head, he might be normal.

This is an issue Hollywood could clear up. Every time they show one of these (ho-hum) Satan programs, run the disclaimer, “The following show is fiction. If you fall for it, the Psycho Squad will get you! They are bad ass and when they're done you will wish you were in hell!”

For The Love Of A Good Sore

We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!

One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.

You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.

Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.

Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.

A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.

Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.

Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something. 

Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.

The Hounds Of Hell

Re - lease the hounds of hell,
What the heck do we care?
What the heck do we care?
Re - lease the hounds of hell,
What the heck do we care now?

Then, after a fairly decisive victory, the hounds of hell having been released, the enemy having been chewed beyond recognition, blood and gore, and sorrow, sufficiently spread, mankind being somewhat worse for the wear but determined to turn over a new leaf next time ...

Call back the hounds of hell,
What the heck do we care?
What the heck do we care?
Call back the hounds of hell,
What the heck do we care now?