Hexastix V

Whoah, finally. I am able now. I am able to tell you about book V of the Hexastix. I ran my face under some cold water and washed my hands twice. Anyway, after I "defeated" all the tasks I was to undergo before admission to book V-The Justice Sticks I was thrown into some kind of trance. My recollection of what I experienced during this trance is confined to an informative voice. The voice was monotonous, yet hypnotic and easy on the ears. The voice began its monologue thus: Greetings believer and congratulations for your successful mastery of the five trials set before you. It is now time for you to partake in the knowledge of Hexastix: justice. Book V is always read aloud to the master of trials. It is accessible only to The First Voice of the Hexastix. We are no foolish pacifists. We take our culture very seriously and have no stomach for prejudice, ridicule, or violence. It is, however, perfectly justifiable to commit violence as an act of self-defense. If we are attacked, we do not stand and gape. HARK! Before justice is administered to the blackguard HARK I SAY!!! The Song of Allegiance to the Stick-people must resound before the deed, eye for an eye, but not to the point of stupidity.
                                             The Song of Allegiance to the Stick-people


Pity, pity, those that abuse us, for we are masters of a sacred valve: If that valve be beaten or ridiculed because of its nature, the perpetrator shall see hell. If you come upon us with weapons or blood-thirsty fists-these actions are returned in kind, but far more brutal as to express the exaggerated ignorance that crushes your skull and needles into your delusional brain.
CHANT:
"I've got my rights."
"I don't have to take that from you."
"Or do you not know that the sticks will judge the world?"
"I say this to your shame. Is it so, that there is not among you one wise man"
"You yourselves wrong and defraud"
"Now, satisfied with your iron fists and large weapons, you may feast upon the torment you have unjustifiably thrust unto the peaceful bodies and souls of my brethren and sister-en" 


Be careful what you say regarding the Stick-people.
Take care not to use physical violence, stupidly., against our minority.

Is this what you want?

Or perhaps this?

This is a possibility as well:

OR THIS?!

Sweet dreams! Ain't feelin' so superior? Tragic!
OR THIS!

Terrible cramping accompanied by a persistent sensation not unlike being stabbed in the balls.

Just quiet. Tact. Zip. It would make much more sense for you to genuflect before the invisible Father behind the stars than to use iron fists or any such advanced weaponry on my brethren and sister-en

DO YOU REALLY WANT THIS?.

  Hence the end of the fifth book of sticks-The Hexastix. Mind you, it is always unfortunate to have to take such stringent measures in order to preserve our dignity. The choice is yours. Think.

This information has been taken verbatim from the First Voice of the Hexastix. Watch yourself. Ignorance can kill you.

_Henry O'Malley

HAPPY-JACK-O-ME-HEADLESS-DOUCHEBAG.

 I was an exaggeration of myself for Hallow's Eve. Every Hallow's Eve 1989 to 1995. Cleared out all the good watering holes (the only five on Main St.) ten minutes tops. Art Studio. Evening. "Showing" of Jenson Donnelly's great artistic rip off of the Dada era. His "pieces" all had a main theme: "I am Not An Artist, I live on the prairie." Everyone gone. Five minutes. The mall. Bit longer. Bout' an hour. Exhausting. All those stores. Two-hundred-plus consumers.
Man in food-court: "FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK!"
Henry: "IT'S NOTHING MORE THAN HALLOW'S EVE ASSHOLE!!! TAKE SOME FUCKING EXAGGERATION!!!"

Punched in face. Four blows. Balding. Stocky. Ignoramus. Realized he could not ruin my Hallow's Eve. Pain in the ass. Eventually gone with the rest. Half-hour. Nobody. Nobody. Ruins my Hallow's Eve spirits. Not even Johnny Mathis. Not even Casey Sports-Tourette's bore me to death. Away he went from communal living room. Thirty-nine seconds. Vomited on crazy-man Al's snack. Al. Punched me in the face twice. Karate-kicked Casey in chest. White-coats. Here they come. Take Al out with syringe. My exaggeration wished him "HAPPY HALLOW'S EVE!!!" Twenty times tops. Big Dick's Titty Bar, testosterone nightmare, haters of man dancing through clenched teeth, EMPTY,  after my exaggeration passed through door and into the room of hard blockheads. Ten inch heel, medulla oblongata, then, gone in a flash, fifty-one minutes tops, blood on my face and to the "French" Cafe. "Great baguettes!!" "What is that?!!" Undigested food and horror, evacuation, twenty minutes tops (I had to use the bathroom-+ five minutes) hors d'fucking nerves! It's Hallow's Eve!!! Fun times! Starbucks cafe. Five shots of espresso. One latte. Large black. My exaggeration. No money. vacant. Fifteen minutes tops. Trepidating cashier. Too trepidized to dial the men in blue. "HAPPY HALLOW'S FUCKING EVE!!! HOORAY!!! No one rips me off on Hallow's Eve. $7.95 for a large black the size of (see picture). No way!!! You away!! Five more espressos. Two largER cups of black. Peaceful. Solitude. Sirens approach the almost empty cafe. My exagerration. Gone in a flash. "HELLO WALMART!" "HAPPY HALLOW'S EVE!!!" "ALL YOU GRACIOUS WHITE FOLK!!" Segregation is not extinct, trust me. "HOLY SHIT PRICK!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!"-some anglo-saxon. Confusion. Up and around the gimcrackin' aisles, forty minutes tops. My face, already battered, white man with surprising common sense, how to beat the battered? Would it make a difference? Hotel de Rich. Bejewelled fops. "Money spreads germs, don't you see!!!" Multiple misers. Faces knotted in disgust. Hotel de Rich. Deserted. Fifty minutes tops (busy night, lots of call-girls and married men searching in desperation for their clothes, not the call-girls though, they had the balls, quickly they exited, no tops). The Scene as well. Fetish ball. Hallow's Eve fiesta. Goth kids. Very serious. Lugubrious, the azure sky only brings me pain. Concerned. Low-threshold for the pure wickedness of my exaggeration. Startled cult of the space vampire. Disappear into the black night. Twenty-six minutes tops. Punk rock night at Lou Phlegm's. 'Bout forty-five mo-hawks. Chains. Spikes. Hallow's Eve. Shameful posers.  Received one blow from chip-on-shoulder-punker-pretense. "Take my blood, it's free!! All of it!!! Boo!! Boo!!! You can blow me all night!!!" Seventeen minutes tops. Goodbye. Punk is dead? Souns morbid. Kind of like HALLOW'S EVE!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! My exagerration with swampy blood eyes retires. Back to the cave. The bats there waiting with dinner. HAPPY-JACK-O-ME-HEADLESS-DOUCHEBAG!!!!! You never know when the gooneyman shall appear on Hallow's Eve. Oh dear.
Lex talionis,

Henry Thee O'Malley x 2,000