Remain Silent....Trust Me

Tea And Cake Or Death: A Savage Journey Behind The Mask

by Damien "DJ Genocyde" Cross

Winter of 1997. I'd been tearing my room apart in search of a notebook. The notebook had been full of my poetry, writings, musings, psongs, psayings and pnothings.

I must admit that a sudden surge of inspiration at the young age of 18 compelled me to nearly destroy anything at that point. I would dismantle every bit of the furniture in the bedroom I grudgingly shared with my younger brother trying to find the notebook. I simply couldn't find where it went. Finally, after calming down, I'd settled upon simply jotting down the information onto a notepad for later transcription.

The notebook had been my masterpiece, artistically speaking. Both inside and out were an assortment of macabre and hideous drawings and writings. Like some teenage necronomicon, that book was sacred to me and I'd be goddamned if some swine would put thier hands upon it and defile my inner sanctum. It would be the equivalent of rape and I certainly would not be in the least bit happy about it.

With the Christmas vacation having ended we returned to school and thus, everything began. This would be the end of my junior year...the next year I would graduate and now was one of the most bottom-line better years of high school. High Schools in small towns have bad reps and with good reason. There is no amount of prejudice greater than that of the small town mentality. When children are given the "You Want To Fit In Don't You/Just Be Yourself" doublespeak, the weak minded are easily eaten and the strong are dismantled in the time of one foolish action. Since early high school/late junior high, my peers thought me to worship some nonexistant devil. Despite the fact that I was raised catholic and had even attended the church regularly, I was seen as dangerous and my catholicism at the time, a sham of a cover. Looking back on it, I wondered if I had actually believed half of any of it. The whole assumption was based solely on the long hair I had at the time dyed black, my wardrobe consisting of dark colors and shirts with hideous beasts with more hideous nearly unreadable band logos all over them and a musical selection consisting of a steady diet of Metallica, Megadeth, Ozzy and Manson (who was one of the newer bands at the time) were not helping with my image problems.

During one of my classes the intercom came on.

"Mrs. Robertson?" the voice asked. It was Coach Bonin. Not only was he one of our many coaches, he was also our new assistant principal.

"Yes?" she answered.

"Send Damien to my office," he said. There was a hint of pride in his voice. Something in his tone said he would make an example of me. I heard necks cracking to look at me. I had done nothing wrong and now I was going to prove it once and for all.

Mrs. Robertson looked at me and in a moment of near telepathy, I got up and began the long journey to his office.

I took my time. If it was bad, I'd need help, I was sure. This guy was unreadable, he never smiled. His face was devoid of expression. He was empty. If it was good, I'd let him sing my praises and be on my merry way. Either way none of the other fucking bastards would share in it. My pain or praise, hell or high water, none of them would be a part of it...ever.

Upon arrival in his office, my heart sank into the depths of my ass when he presented the notebook.

"The writings and drawings are, well..." he trailed off, "Disturbing to say the least. Damien I think you may need help."

As I grabbed the book he slammed it to the desk, nearly taking my hand in the process. Now, any hopes he'd had of resolving this issue without full use of any resource from my end to drop it and forget it was officially over.

"I didn't say you could pick it up," he said. For the first time there was a sharp look in his eye. It was the look of someone who thought he could intimidate me and I was sick of this swine attempting this type of behavior, "I could call your parents for this."

"My dad's my biggest fan," I replied, "he's read everything I've written."

"Let's see about that," he snapped.

"Let's do!" I snapped back, "Only thing is I'm not just calling my parents in on this. Where did you get this anyway?"

"That doesn't matter," he said, "it's mine now."

This swine was going to claim my work. My pain, insanity, ferocity and every violent action put to words and imagery as expression to keep me from laying waste to insolent fools like this one.

I grabbed it again, and again, his hand came down on it...and my own hand, this time taking it to the desk and racking my knuckle upon the oak.

I grabbed his phone, called my parents, told them to contact John (my uncle, the attorney) and get up here quick...there was a situation only they could resolve.

Mom, unfortunately, was the first to arrive. My first ally in this matter proved to be a real duality and not geared in favor of me. Dad was the second, my most staunch ally and then John entered and I was asked to leave the room.

"Not a chance," I said, "there are some things all of you should know. Last year we had the incident where the rock struck me in the head from behind and all he could do, despite the fact that I was bleeding was bitch at me about an earring. He won't mention where he got the notebook and on top of that," I said, raising my hand which was now reddened, "we have a case of assault."

The room got quiet. Dad looked as though he had murderous intent towars this bastard in his eyes. Mom stared in shocked disbelief at my hand which hand been forced upon that oakwood desk and John looked to him after the viewing of my knuckles which had begun to swell a bit.

It was the second time I'd seen some form of expression to him. The predatory look was gone. The mask of a lion had crumbled to reveal the makings of a meek kitten. He tried all he could to collect himself but he knew what he had done. The sins of the past were combining with the fangs of today and they sought to destroy what had made a pathetic career.

John picked up the notebook, briefly flipped through it, handed it to me and said, "Damien, give us a few minutes with him."

To this day I still don't know what was said in that room. I remember seeing dad leaning over his desk through the window, angrily pointing a finger at him and what seemed to be John talking as he did in his own calm way as that bastard tried to make sense of the world which had just come undone for him. My mom sat by and let it happen. He'd been rendered impotent in one magic moment.

Once he shut the blinds, minutes seemed to take hours but once that eternity was up, my dad stormed out muttering something to the effect of "Fuckin Moron" with my mom in tow, attempting to calm him down. John came out a few moments later and took me with him out into the hall.

"I don't think he'll try anything else," he said. The man was so calm that giving him a valium would end his existence.

"If he tries anything else or he wants to sweep anything else under the rug," John said, "call me and let me know."

All of them had left after that. My victory came in getting that notebook back. I was sure he had tried to go predatory again but when confronted by an angered ex-marine having a bad day coupled with a calmly venomous family attorney, he was possibly cut back down to size.

One simple thing I learned from this; When you're being questioned by anyone in authority whether it's the cops, higher ups at some school, your next door neighbor. The Right To Remain Silent is just that...your right. You have nothing to prove. Let the burden of proof weigh heavily upon the opposition and if you're staring into the face of heavy adversity and you're sure they're bluffing, have an attorney present and don't say a word until that attorney shows up. Whatever you say, they'll use it against you...doesn't make a damn what it is, they'll do it. The Swine are in control and they are armed with mechanisms for legalized invasion of privacy. Call their bluff when you're absolutely certain that the chips are in your favor and fight razored fang and sharpened claw to ensure that the swine get what they deserve