Ilan Moskowitz is a minimum wage renaissances man from Tenafly, New Jersey. Under-appreciated and
unrefined, his work is likely to stick in the back of your throat like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich long
after reading it. When not working deep fryers or sweeping movie theaters, Ilan manages and plays in
Purchase New York’s blues/reggae phenomenon, The Wendels (www.myspace.
com/thewendelsarereallycool), as well as the eternally lifted Dub Sack Dynasty (www.myspace.
com/dubsackdynasty). Both bands are currently working on their debut full lengths and playing seedy clubs
near you. To contact Ilan, you can emails him at ilan.moskowitz@purchase.edu
unrefined, his work is likely to stick in the back of your throat like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich long
after reading it. When not working deep fryers or sweeping movie theaters, Ilan manages and plays in
Purchase New York’s blues/reggae phenomenon, The Wendels (www.myspace.
com/thewendelsarereallycool), as well as the eternally lifted Dub Sack Dynasty (www.myspace.
com/dubsackdynasty). Both bands are currently working on their debut full lengths and playing seedy clubs
near you. To contact Ilan, you can emails him at ilan.moskowitz@purchase.edu
Merely Juristic
Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad was a 1886 United States Supreme Court case resulting in corporations being
recognized as "juristic persons" - legal beings protected under the constitution.
That was over a hundred years ago, this is today...
They're trying to blast me out like Noriega. Thankfully, their weapon of choice is elevator muzak, one of the few genres I can
actually stand; it's so soulless.
Needless to say, I don't understand much about music, or anything else for that matter, all I know is what's in the best
interests of my shareholders. I can make anyone who owns a part of me a lot of money, no matter what the cost. That's why
they're coming to get me, coming to tear me limb from limb.
It wasn't always like this. Heck, people used to love me before I became one of them, before the Supreme Court made me a
real boy. I wonder if Pinocchio ever had this much trouble?
Bam! A makeshift battering ram crashes into the mansion's front door. Bam! Bam! Bam! It continues, each time spraying
more and more splinters across the cold marble floor. At least they aren't using their torches to set the place ablaze. That
would ruin the resale value.
The speakers outside have begun playing a homogenized rendition of "Sympathy for the Devil". I can't help but appreciate the
irony, and were I able to laugh, I probably would.
"Give yourself up, we have you surrounded!" a voice shouts through a bullhorn, though such actions would be detrimental to
my shareholders, so I stay where I am. Were I capable of worry, I'd probably be pissing my pants right now. But as I have
neither a need for emotions nor trousers, I'm feeling alright; same as I ever did at least.
To call me a nihilist would be a waste of breath. I'm simply incapable of feeling anything. This is why I sit here alone; no one to
save me, while a ravenous lynch mob sharpens their axes down below.
My shareholders have all gone into hiding at their beach resorts, unable to be reached for comment by the liberal media. By
now they've all liquidated their assets and transferred their investments to mislabeled Swiss bank accounts to save face. This
was my advice, as it seemed the most logical.
The mansion door has just broken open and I can hear them looting the rooms. The furnishings hadn't set me back much, so
I don't mind. This is what we call an "acceptable loss."
Now I hear them racing up the stairway, coming closer and closer to the master bedroom. I've never used this room for much
before, but now I find it makes for a reasonable sanctuary against those scorned by my actions; a veritable cross-section of
past employees, grieving families, and grossly dissatisfied customers hell-bent on having me dance a hempen jig.
It's not my fault that my public apologies were all so empty, it's theirs for expecting remorse from a creature they knew was
incapable of it. I just acted according to protocol. What more could I do? I know how to make money and that's about it.
CRACK! An Axe smashes through the bedroom door and hundreds of unseen faces behind it cheer. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Soon it will be no more than a pile of toothpicks. Five hundred dollars down the hole, but that's just chump change when you
deal with the amounts that I do.
People are starting to come pouring through now, charging into the room brandishing pitchforks and torches. Dozens of
hands shoot out from the mob and uproot me from my chair. My head is smashed against every step as they carry my body
downstairs, but few seem to take notice, and those who do simply laugh in my face.
My phone starts ringing and so I wriggle one of my hands free from their vice grips to answer. "Unicorp, thank god I reached
you!" says the voice on the other end. It's Donovan Peabody, the man who owns the majority share of my right ankle.
"Sir, I told you not to call here" I tell him. "This is a really bad time."
"I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for us over the years," Peabody says tearfully.
"I did the best I could" I reply, incapable of returning his sentiments.
"You did more than that!" Peabody gushes. "You were... "
"Sir," I announce, vying for his attention, "It's really in your best interest right now to hang up the phone and pull the cord
from the wall before anyone can trace it."
"But Unicorp... " Peabody pleads. Before he can finish though, an angry culture jammer grabs my cell phone away and throws
it at the wall. From his mouth dangles a cigarette manufactured by "Carcinogens A' Plenty," a subsidiary of mine. A second
one sits protruding from a hole in his neck.
"YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?" he asks, raising an electronic voice box to his throat.
"A loyal customer is always appreciated," I reply, which gets me a swift kick to the face.
Before long I'm outside having a noose fitted around my neck. "This is faulty twine," I inform the executioner. "It would be
much more cost efficient to invest in rubber tubing."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he says, hitting me in the back of the head with his rifle butt.
As I look out at the crowd in front of me I can't see a single face I recognize, though this could have something to do with the
bodily deformities my products have been known to cause. Some of them don't even look human anymore, covered with
lacerations and malignant growths like lepers; in fact, a few of them are lepers now after that unfortunate incident in our
breakfast cereal division.
"YOUR SHITTY TATTOO INK GAVE ME LEAD POISONING!" shouts a woman at the head of the crowd.
"Sure did sell though," I reply, "cost next to nothing to make, too!" A large rock comes hurtling towards the gallows and
smashes into my ribcage. It's followed by a torrent of rotting produce.
"MY HUSBAND DIED IN YOUR COAL MINES!" another woman cried, this one with the slightest twinge of a southern accent.
"It's a good thing I didn't offer life insurance then," I reply, causing another rock to come flying. This one doesn't carry half as
well though and just barely manages to put a dent in my shin.
I look down at my watch and then back at the crowd; listing their grievances like this could easily take all night. "Excuse me," I
say to the executioner, "is there any way we could hurry this thing up? Time is money you know."
Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad was a 1886 United States Supreme Court case resulting in corporations being
recognized as "juristic persons" - legal beings protected under the constitution.
That was over a hundred years ago, this is today...
They're trying to blast me out like Noriega. Thankfully, their weapon of choice is elevator muzak, one of the few genres I can
actually stand; it's so soulless.
Needless to say, I don't understand much about music, or anything else for that matter, all I know is what's in the best
interests of my shareholders. I can make anyone who owns a part of me a lot of money, no matter what the cost. That's why
they're coming to get me, coming to tear me limb from limb.
It wasn't always like this. Heck, people used to love me before I became one of them, before the Supreme Court made me a
real boy. I wonder if Pinocchio ever had this much trouble?
Bam! A makeshift battering ram crashes into the mansion's front door. Bam! Bam! Bam! It continues, each time spraying
more and more splinters across the cold marble floor. At least they aren't using their torches to set the place ablaze. That
would ruin the resale value.
The speakers outside have begun playing a homogenized rendition of "Sympathy for the Devil". I can't help but appreciate the
irony, and were I able to laugh, I probably would.
"Give yourself up, we have you surrounded!" a voice shouts through a bullhorn, though such actions would be detrimental to
my shareholders, so I stay where I am. Were I capable of worry, I'd probably be pissing my pants right now. But as I have
neither a need for emotions nor trousers, I'm feeling alright; same as I ever did at least.
To call me a nihilist would be a waste of breath. I'm simply incapable of feeling anything. This is why I sit here alone; no one to
save me, while a ravenous lynch mob sharpens their axes down below.
My shareholders have all gone into hiding at their beach resorts, unable to be reached for comment by the liberal media. By
now they've all liquidated their assets and transferred their investments to mislabeled Swiss bank accounts to save face. This
was my advice, as it seemed the most logical.
The mansion door has just broken open and I can hear them looting the rooms. The furnishings hadn't set me back much, so
I don't mind. This is what we call an "acceptable loss."
Now I hear them racing up the stairway, coming closer and closer to the master bedroom. I've never used this room for much
before, but now I find it makes for a reasonable sanctuary against those scorned by my actions; a veritable cross-section of
past employees, grieving families, and grossly dissatisfied customers hell-bent on having me dance a hempen jig.
It's not my fault that my public apologies were all so empty, it's theirs for expecting remorse from a creature they knew was
incapable of it. I just acted according to protocol. What more could I do? I know how to make money and that's about it.
CRACK! An Axe smashes through the bedroom door and hundreds of unseen faces behind it cheer. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Soon it will be no more than a pile of toothpicks. Five hundred dollars down the hole, but that's just chump change when you
deal with the amounts that I do.
People are starting to come pouring through now, charging into the room brandishing pitchforks and torches. Dozens of
hands shoot out from the mob and uproot me from my chair. My head is smashed against every step as they carry my body
downstairs, but few seem to take notice, and those who do simply laugh in my face.
My phone starts ringing and so I wriggle one of my hands free from their vice grips to answer. "Unicorp, thank god I reached
you!" says the voice on the other end. It's Donovan Peabody, the man who owns the majority share of my right ankle.
"Sir, I told you not to call here" I tell him. "This is a really bad time."
"I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for us over the years," Peabody says tearfully.
"I did the best I could" I reply, incapable of returning his sentiments.
"You did more than that!" Peabody gushes. "You were... "
"Sir," I announce, vying for his attention, "It's really in your best interest right now to hang up the phone and pull the cord
from the wall before anyone can trace it."
"But Unicorp... " Peabody pleads. Before he can finish though, an angry culture jammer grabs my cell phone away and throws
it at the wall. From his mouth dangles a cigarette manufactured by "Carcinogens A' Plenty," a subsidiary of mine. A second
one sits protruding from a hole in his neck.
"YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?" he asks, raising an electronic voice box to his throat.
"A loyal customer is always appreciated," I reply, which gets me a swift kick to the face.
Before long I'm outside having a noose fitted around my neck. "This is faulty twine," I inform the executioner. "It would be
much more cost efficient to invest in rubber tubing."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he says, hitting me in the back of the head with his rifle butt.
As I look out at the crowd in front of me I can't see a single face I recognize, though this could have something to do with the
bodily deformities my products have been known to cause. Some of them don't even look human anymore, covered with
lacerations and malignant growths like lepers; in fact, a few of them are lepers now after that unfortunate incident in our
breakfast cereal division.
"YOUR SHITTY TATTOO INK GAVE ME LEAD POISONING!" shouts a woman at the head of the crowd.
"Sure did sell though," I reply, "cost next to nothing to make, too!" A large rock comes hurtling towards the gallows and
smashes into my ribcage. It's followed by a torrent of rotting produce.
"MY HUSBAND DIED IN YOUR COAL MINES!" another woman cried, this one with the slightest twinge of a southern accent.
"It's a good thing I didn't offer life insurance then," I reply, causing another rock to come flying. This one doesn't carry half as
well though and just barely manages to put a dent in my shin.
I look down at my watch and then back at the crowd; listing their grievances like this could easily take all night. "Excuse me," I
say to the executioner, "is there any way we could hurry this thing up? Time is money you know."
Ilan Moskowitz
