Danny Boice’s Drug Induced Fever Dream – Journey to Trust
What follows is a bit is a blog post and analysis of said blog post that formerly could be found on the Trustify web site. The post was titled, “Journey To Trust, Part 1 -the man with the knife.” After I started posting links to the blog, Danny Boice must have thought it would be better if he removed it. It’s gone. Of course, I am a patron of the arts so I will try and restore this artwork.
The article, an incoherent, mix of Dashiell Hammett, Louis Carroll, Jim Morrison, and a 12-year-old, pre-pubescent boy, spending his 4th year in 2nd grade. This blog post had no place being published in an amateur porn web site, much less a “professional business-oriented blog.” But hey, Danny Boice paid a company hundreds of thousands of dollars to write a documentary about him and his wife. His company was going under and he wanted it to appear that it was still a thing so he just kept posting goofy content that didn’t belong there.
Let’s analysis this failed literary trash,
Journey To Trust, Part 1 -the man with the knife.
Fucker’s quick. He’s beside me and Jen in an instant, but I’ve still got him. My heart is pounding out of my chest and I can’t gulp air down fast enough. Dick-shriveling January cold burns with every inhale. I notice the feel of my pulse against my coat sleeve. Nearby, a boutique with hand-knit cashmere scarves in the window turns a blind eye.
Okay, that’s gripping… got my attention right away. Not a business blog and let’s see where it takes us.
This fucker is covert. He’s going to slash Jen’s throat, make her bleed out in the snow, make me watch, kill my baby’s mom. When I try to look at him head-on, he dissolves. That’s some ninja shit. Only way to see him is out of the corner of my eye. He’s not looking at Jen’s purse. He’s not the type to cook up something on a spoon or shoot something into a vein. Too much of a pussy. No, this guy is ice, pure winter. He wants the rush of cutting her. Wants to warm himself. Around us, suited government types double-fisting smartphones step over dripping slush and hurry past the Ralph Lauren boutique too preoccupied to see him.
Getting weirder… I hope there’s a point to this
Well, fuck that. I spin to look him in the eye—and he’s gone.
I stop moving. Scan up the hill and back down. Jen keeps walking, oblivious. Nothing. Vanished. I’m forced to move along like all the other zombies on the sidewalk. I don’t want to call attention to him, to me. I hiss in air between my teeth, lengthening my steps to catch up, trying to slow my breathing without Jen noticing. I don’t want her to see how badly I’m shivering.
Okay has someone smoked too much PCP? Where did the guy with the knife go? I thought that was the point of the entire post.
My navy shirt is sticking to me in wet slabs as iron puffs of breath consume the space in in front of me. Jen is walking, a foot between us. Not looking at me.
Navy shirt? What brand? Doesn’t Jen have Danny wearing Vineyard Vines?
Maybe she doesn’t get it. Can’t get it. It’s getting worse. I look around for an anchor. Jen is an anchor. Her coat is red, fresh as a robin, harbinger of spring. Spring, ring ring. The rest of the street is Gotham City grey, greyer than I remember Georgetown ever being.
“Her coat is red, fresh as a robin, harbinger of spring, Spring ring ring.” Isn’t that the lyrics to a Doors song?
My hands are in my jacket pockets, and I’m rubbing the slick lining between my thumbs and fingers, trying to start fires. I don’t want anything to touch me. There’s a layer of grime on this neighborhood and I don’t think anyone can see it. It’s too tidy, federalist buildings pointing at the sky, but they’re too sharp. The sunlight is all wrong. Should be hot yellow but it’s black as slush, fuzzy at the edges. Everything looks monotone. Wrong lens, wrong focus.
Totally going off the rails.
Don’t turn around. Do not turn around. Fucking be cool.
Don’t say, Fucking be cool, in a business blog! But wait, you just said it! Yes, but I’m different.
I look at Jen as I twist my neck and shrug my shoulder to unstick my shirt. I see her skin, pale as frost against the white snow. The amethyst circles under her eyes are accusing as any bruise. I did that. My words did that. The bastards reach out, throbbing, bruising tentacles, and they glom on. They bleed her out.
It’s getting worse.
Cars are bright colors flashing by me, speedy as stars shooting through tar.
Car. Car. Light.
Slowdown. Traffic. Chaos. Noise. Stop. Stop. STOP.
Caarr. C a a a rr. carcarcarcar carcarcarcarcarcar.
Okay, that’s enough… you get the point. First, there is no way that Danny wrote this. He doesn’t even have the mental acuity to look up the term mental acuity in the dictionary, much less use words like,
What was that Danny Boy? And why did you post it and then take it down!
Danny Boice went on to post 8 different parts of this meth-inspired, fever-dream… then took it down 4 weeks later. What the hell was that about, Danny Boice?