Russell Twyce

Part one of this vignette, ‘My name is Ivanka’ is here – How to make the world better

Love at first sight is a trite phrase that doesn’t even begin to manifest the exquisite passion occurring in a fluttering of an eyelid. ‘She was an exotic vision of femininity surpassing my notebook drawing, as the Mona Lisa outshines a kindergarten stick drawing in finger-paint.’ ‘Her eyes were liquid brown,’ Russell recalled dreamily, ‘as a lacquered walnut bar lit by flashing nightclub strobes. Shimmering ribbons of dark brunette hair, raced in tantalizing slow motion, like a torrent of chocolate running over rocks and my fingers yearned to be canoes, shooting the rapids of her tresses and bending the law of attraction.’

Search for Your Own Story

She looked at him but didn’t speak. She didn’t need to because her expression asked the question – ‘what do you want?’ Since she was also a proprietor of a coffee kiosk, her setting behind the counter similarly supplied the query.

‘I want you.’ Russell’s mind answered. ‘I want to see what you look like in the pale moonlight and I wish to know how to make the world better. I’d like to my tongue savoring the minty taste of your toothpaste as it explores the surfaces of your teeth.’ “Coffee.” He managed to voice.[private_Chevron]

She quickly prepared his order but before they could speak more, another customer arrived. And then another wanted coffee and a cookie. Whole busloads of tourists had been watching and photographing the intricate marching drill of the change of the guard, but now they wanted coffee to chase away the chill of the drizzle.

Russell stood apace from the counter, sipping his beverage and occasionally risking a glance at her. His eyes had worked like surveyors, mapping out the body contours hiding in her stylishly casual attire. Occasionally, her brown eyes flicked onto his, as she bustled efficiently about her work duties. And more patrons kept arriving.

‘My dreams tonight,’ he told her in his mind, ‘and perhaps for all of this month, will be of you. But my darling, our sweet fiction fated not to become truth.’ He had ruefully counted buses parked on the street and suspected she would be busy for some time. So long that he would seem as a stalker if he continued to wait. Russell silently toasted the girl’s elegant beauty, before finishing the dregs of his java and tossing the paper cup into the trash.

He trudged back to his tour bus and boarded with the excitement of going to a beloved relative’s funeral.

“The next stop on our search for stories might sound fishy,” the guide chuckled slightly, to give a useless hint for people to be ready to laugh, “but we have a date with the mermaid, in truth instead of in fiction.”

‘Thanks for rubbing it in’. He felt the unfunny joke was mocking him. Then as the bus began to roll away from the curb, he peered out the window a last time.

“Wait!” He yelled out loud. The girl was piling chairs onto the tables and closing up shop. But it was too late, the tour was continuing and he was stuck on it.

‘Why didn’t I linger just a few minutes more?’ He could now see that many of the other buses were seemingly just sitting unoccupied in the large parking lot. ‘My romantic search for a story has ended with my library card marked null and void.’

He hadn’t been enjoying the Copenhagen tour, but now he loathed it. He moved to the very back seat to be as far from the tedious guide as possible and for the bumps in the road to rattle the disappointment from his mind—it didn’t work.

Then the bus came to the final tourist attraction. Sitting on her cairn of rocks in the harbor, the little mermaid looked as forlorn as Russell felt. She was truth or fiction was he.

“Please shoot a poisoned dart into the tour guide’s neck.” He asked the statue. ‘That would be how to make the world better’. Her bronze skin was mottled green with tarnish: it looked like a jungle’s verdant glow on an Amazonian native. A passing seagull had supplied a wide streak of chalk white on her face, resembling a blowgun-wielding warrior’s tribal war paint.

The drizzle had turned to a sprinkle and then as the bus reached its end terminus, to a steady rain. Russell dejectedly stepped down and his shoe splashed into a puddle.

‘One soaked sock is an appropriate end to my day.’ He mentally remarked, and then he looked ahead. ‘But here’s a tour finish with sublime panache.’ The girl was there. I had manifested her there. She was standing in the alcove of a brick-walled building. The locked door behind prevented her from backing up far enough to gain a full sheltering under the stone lintel. Several droplets landed on the tip of her nose, making it twitch as a rabbit’s.

“My name is Ivanka.” She said as he approached.

“That doesn’t sound Scandinavian.”

“I’m Czech.” Ivanka replied. “Ah.” He made the sound seem as knowing as possible, as if he fathomed perfectly how her being Czech in Denmark held significance. ‘That means just about nothing to my search for stories, but ‘ah’ augers better for my prospects than ‘huh’ would.’[/private_Chevron]

Law is a lion

A social order fiction for your search for stories

A psychopath had positioned himself at booth selling briefcases. He had bought a few dozen cases and then had a couple of posters made up, that suggested he was as a legal needs marketer. Using a fictional company name and the logo ‘Law is a lion’, the killer had rented a space at a lawyer’s seminar. Along with cases and brochures, he had smuggled in some weaponry.

When the show was at it’s busiest time, on Saturday afternoon, the psychopath put a placard on his ‘Law is a lion’ table reading ‘out conducting business’. [private_Chevron]Then he took out his guns and mingled with the conference attendees. And fifty-three people died in one of the worst mass murders in history. After expending all his ammunition, he set his small arsenal aside and sat patiently waiting for the police to arrive to reestablish the social order.

“Law is a lion.” He said to the first policeman. “These lawyers heard the lion roar.”

The swat team responded with a Miranda warning, while roughly cuffing him.

“Law is a lion.” The prosecutor repeated. He had responded immediately to be in full participation during the interrogation. “What did you mean by that?”

“I suspect you’ll be intelligent enough to figure it out.” The psychopath responded. The killer then proved cooperative by answering all the detail questions of where he procured the guns and how he set up for the killings.

“Why did you kill lawyers?” The state’s attorney asked.

“I didn’t kill anyone.” The murder said with an impassive face. “I evoked the lion’s roar and the law murdered it’s own. I deemed it appropriate to use lawyers. The law is a lion and lawyers are lawyers. The law lion bit down hard on its own tail.”

“Hundreds of witnesses saw you in your act of murder and nobody but you reported the presence of any escaped zoo animals.” The prosecutor scoffed. “I recommend strongly, that you call a lawyer, but you’ll end up as a caged animal anyways.”

“Of course you would feel that way.” The psychopath mocked back. “Because you’re a lawyer. I neither need nor want a lawyer representing me with untruth.”

“You allegedly committed the heinous murders and either with or without a lawyer, you’ll be spending the rest of your life in jail.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” the psychopathic killer repeated, “and you’re more than welcome to put me to a polygraph test.”

“The results would be suspect. Psychopaths are purportedly able to beat them.” “Why do you suppose that is?” “Psychopaths are generally of above average intelligence.”

“And do we out-think the machines?” The killer laughed at the absurd statement. “I’ve read extensively on psychopathic traits and frankly, you know next to nothing about us. Truthfully, I suspect you do know more but you’re repressing it because our ‘above average’ intellects have told us something that you don’t want those of lesser intelligence becoming aware of.” The psychopath leaned as far forward as his restraints would allow and he whispered. “The law is a lie and it’s why psychopaths commit crimes. But the psychopath never actually hurts the victim: he breaks the law and the law then forwards the harm on. That’s how the lion law works.”

“In your mind,” the prosecutor guessed, “the law is lying and that sounds similar to ‘lion’. I’m supposing that your saying ‘lawyers are lawyers’ was meant as ‘lawyers are liars’ because those two words also have a similar sound.”

“I knew you’d be smart enough to figure it out.” “A court seeks for truth.” “Horse manure!” The psychopath snorted. “Your law court will be determining if I broke the state’s law against murder, multiple times. And breaking the state’s law in protest is precisely what my full intent was. If I could’ve spectacularly broken the law without people dying, I would’ve preferred that, but the murder law requires a human sacrifice. The law should stand in the docket with me: if law wasn’t deemed to exist, then I wouldn’t have broken it, and those who died would still be alive.

“Anarchy is the alternative to law!”

“That is lion law’s biggest lie!” The psychopath resolutely said. “A social order keeping philosophy that isn’t rooted on lies, is law’s true alternative. Psychopaths are the vanguard of an army of truth that will tack the law’s lying lion skin to a shed.”

[/private_Chevron]

I won’t offer a brief description of this truth or fiction story because at only five paragraphs and 353 words, the fiction story might be shorter than a truthful description. Haha. I hope my humor in this work showing the relationship between politicians and the people satisfies your search for stories for today.

A Political Campaign in Fiction or Truth
A very short truth or fiction story by Russell Twyce

“My government,” the left-wing political candidate, in a fictional land where truth in advertising laws had been expanded to include politics, shouted into a microphone, “will tax you unmercifully and hand your hard-earned money over to our campaign friends. We will enact some new legislation geared at further complicating average people’s lives with bureaucratic nonsense, but which will open up vast new revenue streams for lawyers. He was ahead in the political polls and didn’t worry too much about what he said. I solemnly promise that I will engage in costly boondoggles for no purpose but my own enjoyment. During my time in power, I’ll attempt to seduce as many young political interns into my bed as possible.”

The speech then droned on longer to outline more of the excesses and unacceptable behavior that we all strongly suspect is truly happening in the high seats of power. And then he passed the podium to his less than worthy opponent.

“My administration will sink to unheard of levels of depravity.” The candidate of the moral right wing party began. “I personally have a case of penis narcissism of epic proportions. To fully indulge my lusts, I’ll hire a bevy of expensive prostitutes to be my personal assistants. I’ll spend so much on myself and in lucrative contracts of questionable value to my political friends that my tax department will need to be relentless in resupplying the nation’s coffers. I won’t pay the slightest attention to what political polls tell me that people really want.”

“My government will table bills in parliament that are infinitely more heinous than any that my opponent has outlined. And,” the right wing candidate continued but then turned to grin wickedly at the other participant in the debate, “I’ll rescind this foolishness of requiring any semblance truth in our stated political platforms!”

The election result was a landslide victory for the right wing because that leadership hopeful had astutely realized that the common people much prefer a fiction they can pretend to believe is truth, to the stark truth they would like to think was fiction.

–The End–

Turn the truth of your life into the stuff of great fiction!

Secrets that get the girl out of the bar and into your bed…The Same Night you meet her!

What do you suppose the attraction would be to a site called nightclub supplies ned, when you were originally on a search for stories.  On a thought, you wouldn’t think a search for stories would take you to one that seems to have a marketing bent for promoting nightclub supplies, but there is where Ned is quite different.

Nightclub Ned is a fictional character who sells nightclub supplies but his real objective is in showing how to make the world a better place by teaching and using mind control and subliminal messages.

“What on earth,” I suspect you may be wondering, “could subliminal messages and mind control have in common with nightclub supplies?  For that, matter how are any of those related to the phrase ‘search for stories’ that is found in the title of this blog post?  And what is the attraction?”  Well, the answer might not be on earth at all but in the fictional real or even in the realm of attraction.

Nightclub Ned isn’t the only Master of Attraction

In ages past, a major way to pass values and knowledge on to a next generation was by using stories and fables that each had a moral.  I recall watching one episode of Star Trek: the next generation where Captain Picard was stranded on a deserted planet with the captain of an alien ship and the only way for them to communicate was to search for stories that exemplified the meaning they were trying to convey.  Jesus and other characters in the bible often spoke in parables that were simply vignettes that described a particular theme.  All of those reasons worked for the uses assigned to them because when people use their brains to think abstractly, as in supposing how the subject matter in a fable can applies to all people, they’re able to comprehend the material more acutely than one who sees the same lesson in a concrete form as an event similar to the story’s moral happens in real life.  In other words, though perhaps I’ve over-simplified for the brevity of this introduction, we humans are hard-wired for a search for stories and this natural programming runs deep in our psyche.  Mind control methods and subliminal messages exploit our own mental make-up against us.  And that’s a major reason why our world is a mess.  A good method of how to make the world better may be in a search for stories in our past that still have value today.

Nightclub supplies Ned will attempt to lightheartedly and humorously educate you on how mind control and subliminal messages work.  Under the guise of marketing nightclub supplies, and telling stories about Nightclub Supplies Ned’s attraction adventures with Smokin Hot Nan, I’ll be attempting to arm your thought processes to protect themselves.  Is that truth or fiction?  Is it a search for stories?  I sincerely and optimistically believe teaching people think free from outside influences an answer to the question of ‘how to make the world better’.

A search for stories is a pathway to avoiding mind control and subliminal messages. How to make the world better may be possible in truth or fiction might in nightclub supplies.  It’s for you to decide.

Russell Twyce wants to know how to make the world better so he is on a search for stories that are either truth or fiction. His search for stories will take him to the truth or fiction of his creativity and knowledge. Intrinsically, we all already know how to make the world better. It’s really easy. We all just need to search for stories of our own minds and experience and then judge honestly if they are truth or fiction. Those are “truth or fiction“, “search for stories” & “how to make the world better“.

Meet Hypnotism NOW!

On a search for stories, truth or fiction, on how to make the world better.