PyjamaSam just didn’t enjoy cigars.

I had been trying for years to get him to indulge in the overpriced luxury with me, but he gently refused once again, standing his ground. Even though a capsuleer himself, with considerable wealth, he was too pragmatic to ever overpay for anything that wasn’t a necessity. Of course, his definition of what was deemed necessary differed from most. If it was technical gadgetry, or something he could use for many crazy ideas and pursuits, it was a must to have and would therefore be acquired regardless of cost.

I could respect that.

It was seldom that Sam and I got to enjoy any downtime together, but such was life. The fact we were able to enjoy each other’s company for a few fleeting moments was something I treasured, and as I sat with Sam in the comfort of my ship’s quarters, reading ‘fanmail’ and enjoying a few beers, our conversation turned to friendship and its inherent value.

I shared with Sam that I recently had this conversation with another longtime acquaintence, which led to asking one another why we were actually friends. In response, the other friend had this to say:

“Roc, you’re my friend because you make me laugh, shake my head. You’re a touchstone of reality that I need to base what’s right and wrong in the universe.”

I took that as high praise.

I put the same question to Sam. It seemed appropriate given the candor of our conversation, our longtime friendship, and the fact we didn’t get to catch up with each other as often as we used to.

Sam’s response?

“Well, you like huge cocks, and I have one.”

I shook my head, and we both laughed. Neither of us was well suited for touchy feely conversations, and that was his way of telling me to shut it up and have another beer, which I gladly did.

—

They wouldn’t let me sleep. I overheard them talking about sleep deprivation as a way of reducing my mental barriers, making me more susceptible to therapy and treatment.

They were so out of their league with me. I’d been through hell and back several times. I had frequent flyer miles.

They wanted to wear me down? They wanted to break me?

I just laughed some more, thinking of Sam, thinking of the good times, thinking of thick, veinous, totally inappropriate penii. I cackled until I wept.

You are delusional, Roc Wieler.
What gives you the right to affect the lives of others?
You are not a god, Roc Wieler.
Why do you feel it’s your responsibility to interfere?
You’re just like the rest of us.
You’re just one man.

I was restrained on a gurney, stripped to my underwear. I can see how that would immediately induce a sense of relaxation in someone. Numerous electrodes were attached to my body from head to toe, with wires running into various machines; completely soothing. Please, let me share with you everything there is to know about the inner recesses of my psyche. Right.

The rain continued to pour outside the only window to this room.

Rain. Pouring rain, freeing me from my sins, cleansing me of all unrighteousness. It didn’t matter now what they did to me during this interrogation, my mind was free from my body. They could call it a therapeutic session. They could say the drugs were to help monitor my heart rate as well as to help me relax. They could go to hell. I knew who they were. I knew who they were working for.

Our vehicle pulled up to the train station, angling for the passenger drop-off area. This area of the train station was currently under construction. The dropoff stretch was about 200m long, three lanes wide, but its entry was reduced to only a single lane. The idea, of course, was to drive the length of the dropoff, allowing other vehicles to file in behind you, maximizing the efficiency of the dropoff area.

Of course, in the rain, nobody wanted to get wet, and as such, the vehicle I was in was now stuck in the middle of an intersection two cars behind the entry of the dropoff because some idiot decided to park their car at the narrow opening while dropping off their passenger. The car directly behind them honked their horn, understandably frustrated. We were two cars back of that, watching the entire scene.

“People are idiots.” the driver of the car said.
“No argument from me.” I replied to her, already feeling my annoyance levels starting to rise.

Finally the idiot waved goodbye to his ride, then decided to flip his middle finger to the driver of the honking car, because, you know, THAT car is at fault here. Moron.

Something that staggers me is the bravado people have when relying on the laziness and/or fear of others. For example, what if the driver of the honking car pulled out a pistol, got out, then shot the finger flipping idiot? I wager he wouldn’t be feeling so brave then, laying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement.

Conversely, what if the finger flipper walked over to the honking car, pulled the driver out, and pommeled him to a bloody mess? The equation worked both ways.

People rely too much on their misreading of other people. It results in arrogance and ignorance.

My teeth were grinding apparently as my female companion commented, “Let it go, tiger. He’s not worth your time.”

I kissed her gently goodbye, deciding to exit the car where we were, already annoyed at the minor delay and inconvenience.

As soon as she had driven out of sight, I tracked down finger flipper, whom was now standing with a very tall Brutor, broad of shoulder, but not in good physical shape, though he might once have been.

I quickly approached the two, who were laughing and chatting, obviously friends and regulars on the train together.

“Excuse me.” I said, getting finger flipper’s attention. “Next time you go around giving people the finger, you really should make sure you’re not the one being an idiot.” I thought it was an open and honest, non-threatening opening statement. Apparently I was wrong.

“Oh, were you the asshole honking his horn?” finger flipper said.

“No, I was the one stuck a few cars behind in the intersection because you think you’re special.”

“Hey, everyone stops there.” he said. I was stunned for a moment. Everyone stops there. That’s really what he said. That self-same logic used by children when they want what some other kid has: ‘Well, everyone else is going.’

The immediate answer to enter my mind was universal: ‘And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that too?’

It revealed to me that I was dealing with an idiot child trapped in the body of a full-grown man.

Of course, while all of this happened in my mind, the two had turned to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed man-child at the elbow, firmly. I wasn’t done talking yet. And yes, I realize now that was a mistake considering how many witnesses there were, one of them already going to get security, though I was unaware of that fact.

“Excuse me. Why are you touching my friend?” the tall Brutor asked/threatened politely, while man-child yelled ‘get your hands off me’ or some such.

“I’m not done talking with him yet.” I explained to tall Brutor as man-child struggled to free himself from my grip, resorting to foul name calling while trying to shirk me off.

“You can’t just go around grabbing people.” tall Brutor said, trying to remove my arm from man-child without success.

“Just like he can’t go around being ignorant to people?” I asked, feeling quite smug in my little victory of logic.

I turned my attention back to man-child, who was cursing up a storm of frustration at me.

“Listen, I’m just saying think about what you’re doing when you do it.” I said to him.

“Fuck you, man. Quit yelling at me.”

Again, I was stunned momentarily at the juvenile mentality of the words being thrown my way. Quit yelling? Again, the immediate mental response that formed in my mind was ‘You think I’m yelling? I’ll show you yelling.’ Hmmm…

“You think I’m yelling?” I said with a smile. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Shit. That didn’t come out right.

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice asked.

I turned my head to see two special constables standing beside us. The more overweight of the two was the one whom had asked the question.

I released man-child, smiling slightly as he lost his balance, but recovered with self-satisfied victory on his face. I really wanted to wipe that expression away.

“No problem at all. I’d like to report this gentleman please.” I stated bluntly.

Lesser overweight constable raised his eyebrows. “For what?” Man-child had a similar expression of incredulity.

I had two minutes before the arriving train departed. It was an express train to obviously what was both of our destinations. The next one wouldn’t come for at least an hour.

It was exactly 8:10 AM.

I took a deep breath and explained the events of the passenger drop-off, fully expecting nothing more than for man-child, tall Brutor and myself to miss our train.

To my surprise, more overweight constable expressed his need to talk with man-child more about the incident. Tall Brutor asked if he could go, as he had nothing to do with it (how quickly bravado wilts in the face of authority), which I confirmed, and he was off to catch his train.

I assumed that I would need to remain, file a statement with the fat constables, and be delayed as well.

“Did you need my statement, sir?” I inquired.

“You’re good to go. We have enough to check the cam feeds. Here’s my card. Call me at your convenience if you think we require any additional information. Be safe and thank you for travelling with Pator transit.”

Pator.

You’re not a hero.
Do you really think you can make a difference?
Tell us, Roc Wieler, what drives you?
Why do you do the things you do?

My eyes snapped back to the reality of where I was. I could feel the drugs rushing through my system, leaving me with a feeling of disconnectedness. As a capsuleer, I was used to that sensation. I guess these “doctors” weren’t used to dealing with capsuleers.

I was aware of every ping of the machinery around me. I could hear the subtle strain of the leather against my wrists, as I flexed and relaxed my fists.

My throat was dry, but my voice held steady.

There was only one answer to all their questions that rang of truth. Only one answer that explained everything I did, and still do, in my life.

“Because I can.”

It’s interesting, in retrospect, to look back at the gaps between the entries in this journal and postulate as to what my audience must think of those absences. Were they intentional? Did nothing interesting occur? Does he not remember? My mind wanders down many pathways of thought on the topic.

In this instance, the answer was simply one of embarrassment, shame and mental anguish. To this day, they are still difficult memories to consciously bring to the surface and discuss, let alone write about.

The medications kept me sedated, docile, lifeless. My jaw hung open involuntarily, a steady fall of drool running down the side of my cheek, streaming over my shoulder to finally pool on the bed sheet beneath. I was in a straight jacket, thick leather straps tied down tightly over it, equally strong straps clasped around my ankles. My head was kept immobile as well by a final leather strap.

I had always liked leather and bondage until then.

I suppose I’ve jumped the gun a bit, leaving you wondering how I came to be in that condition. My apologies for that.

Since being admitted into that forsaken place, and realizing my mind was slowly slipping away from me, I had made it my primary objective to escape. I knew it was playing into the game the Amarr had setup for me, and that it would only further reinforce the smear campaign they had somehow engineered against me, but I had weighed every alternative and came to the same conclusion: there was no good way out of this one for me. If I stayed, awaiting evaluation, possible therapy, then verdict, I would surely go mad, possibly killing myself, possibly left to be a vegetable. That would mean the Amarr won. If I did manage to maintain my sanity and was dismissed to civilian life, I would be shot on site by Concord for any illegal actions against the Amarr, capsuleer status or not. Again, the Amarr won. The only remaining option then was to extricate myself from that unholy situation, forfeit my military career, and continue on as a fully licensed capsuleer, waging a one man war against the atrocities of the Amarr.

Two days prior to my new jacket I had made my attempt at freedom. The security here was quite lax, and the orderlies that opened my cell that day had not expected my sudden and aggressive assault. I had been a model “patient” since my admission.

It took little effort to crouch, punch the attaching joint of the knee from the side, watch the man collapse, stand to open palm the nose of the second orderly, then drive a hammerfist downwards across his chest, dropping him on top of his colleague, all before they knew what had happened.

I grabbed a handful of old mechanical lock keys, as well as the passcard of both orderlies.

By the time I had bolted for the nearest secured door, the alarm had been sounded. Other patients cheered, barked, screamed, spat phlegm, defecated, as well as many other responses to the abundance of stimuli, but I ignored it all, single minded in my desire for freedom.

My heart raced in my ears, my blood pumping fiercely in my veins. I would utilize all my power to be away from this place.

I was stopped at the first door. None of the keys worked, and the IDs I had swiped required a passcode to be used in conjunction with them.

It only took a few minutes before eight security personnel, dressed in full riot gear, came at me from both ends of the hallway, and regardless of how well I fought, I was subdued easily.

When next I awoke, I was in the state I described at the beginning of this entry.

I had fought the effect of drugs before. Part of me wondered if Vitoc had been mixed into the sedatives to slowly recreate the dependence that had nearly cost me my life many times in the distant past.

I needed to stay focused. I needed to draw on memories of strength and hope. It was the only way to overcome the demons that threatened to knock down the door of my mind.

I randomly sifted through my recollections, finally seizing on one that ironically left me in a far better mental place than I had hoped to be in.

It was a letter from a Caldari patriot, written when I was still a Capsuleer, as an expression of appreciation for the “Brutor Way of Life”, a fitness program & cookbook I had published during the height of my celebrity.

Hi Roc,

I just wanted to drop you a quick line to say thanks. Don’t know if this will actually get to you.

First off, I’m a big fan (and I actually grabbed a copy of Bio when you released it), and plan to pickup your second album, One Night of Roc, soon. I’ve always enjoyed following your exploits and adventures, whether through GalNet, or via local holonews. New Eden– it’s a richer place to hang out in because of your contributions and others like you.

My other ‘thanks’ is a bit less conventional. Two months ago, I read a piece about how you had progressed on your fitness goals in only a few short months. That really gave me some inspiration to start on an pretty intense fitness plan. Needless to say, it’s funny how big a change an hour and a half in the gym every morning and cutting out all the crap and junk food from a diet can make. I started on at 265lbs, and as of today, sixty days later, I’m 212lbs. I’m not quite back the shape I was in before trade school when I ran triathlons, but I’m more fit than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s given me the push I needed to start back into martial arts as well. It’s even inspired some of the guys I work with to get back into shape. I owe you one dude.

So I was thinking, if you’re ever in Caldari space (har har), and find yourself in the mood for a steak dinner, my treat, look me up. It’s the least I can do to say thanks – just forgive me if I order a salad instead of a baked potato…

Feel free to have Aura ping the hell out of me to make sure I’m not a stalker. I’m just another guy saying thanks to one of the few living legends we have in this universe.

All the best, and thanks again,
Garlon Das

Funny the things the mind latches onto for strength. Thanks Garlon.