tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87491027048708136552023-11-15T07:33:32.529-08:00Our Man JonesyMethanol-marinated musings of me, methodically mad man. Meet my made-up memoirs.
Merci.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-128703565046481742012-02-18T12:26:00.001-08:002012-02-18T12:26:46.721-08:00SalesmanThere's a man, sitting in front of me, head shaved down to a central fire-red line from forehead on back, dyed to an unnatural extreme. He's wearing a filthy cloth shirt, covered in what looks to be the end of other people, in all types of little pieces. And he's looking at me, eyes shining with a kind of rapacious curiosity, as if ice could be imbued with the sense to be fascinated. Stubble on his face is uneven, at angles, like it's been cut with scissors, and quickly. Combat pants and boots coated with equal amounts of grass stains, mud, and far worse beyond. My eyes are only just coming to terms with the poor lighting, and I don't think I want to be able to identify much of it.<br /> He speaks, not waiting for a sound or encouragement. Not that I can produce either, with what looks like, from the bottom of my eyes, a strip of duct tape over my mouth.<br /> “Did I ever tell you how much I love it here? Have I ever told you? Maybe? I love every thing about it, even the things I hate, It's just so fucking great. I love it.” There's a brief whisk of his wrist, and there's a cruelly sharp knife in his hand before I can blink. He points it at me, smiling, and then touches it to his cheek, pensive, before the hand holding it descends to his lap. “I mean, you look at a place like this, and I don't know how the locals can stand it. They've got a poor frame of mind, man, a poor frame. They need to be more like me, I mean, fuck!” He stands up, knocking his chair back. I can barely see where it clatters to, the bare bulb that lights the room only hints at the barest of shadows. But this guy-- I can see too clearly. “And you know, I can't get angry at them, I can't. I mean, I do, but I can't, I shouldn't. They just need-- they need adjusment. Yeah. That's what they need.” The knife, again, goes to his cheek. He starts scratching, not so much pensive as absent-mindedly. “But you don't know what I'm talking about. You're just off the boat, right? Make the world a better place? Right? Fuckin' little white coat and pills and fuckin'-- tinctures and shit to coat the lining of this acid-filled place.”<br /> He begins prowling, and he's nicked his cheek with the tip of the blade, but hasn't noticed. “Yeah. Acid-filled. Like a stomach, right? Stomachs have acid, all this corrosive stuff to make life easier. Break down to build up, that's what it's for. I guess I can sympathize. Acid.”<br /> I nod, not knowing what else to do.<br /> “Acid. I remember, once--” he looks back and then sets up the folding chair again, flipping it to sit with its back to me, him sitting with his chest resting on the back, akimbo. He turns points his middle and index finger, gunlike, at his head, “I shot this guy, right? Not in the head, in the stomach, I shot him through the back, through his ribcage, I think. Bullet went in and carried out more on the other side, tore a hole the size of, like, a teacup, where it came out. The worst fucking kind of smell you ever had hit your nose. Like something that comes out of the 'fridge after the power's been out for a week, but, like, instantly, you know? Fuckin' reeked. Haha- fuck-- never managed to get that smell outta the carpet he spilled out onto. All these little scraps just, y'know, melting into... Like, like the way your hands get when you douse 'em in bleach-- just wet, slippery, like, your skin can't make its fucking mind up whether it wants to get off or stay on. Break him down or try to build him up.”<br /> He stands up again, and puts the knife back in its sheath. His cheek is bleeding with a slow, steady trickle. “All that life leaking out of him couldn't make up its mind either. Instead, just went and ruined my fucking carpet. But I bought another one. And you know, it was all so cheap.”<br /> There's a laugh, deep, throaty, and booming. “Fuck, man, that's it. That's what I love about it here. It's all so goddamned cheap. I can't even remember why that guy needed to have that bullet in his belly, but I'm sure there was some good kind of motivation, y'know? But there's no need for a why here, wasn't back then, and there's no need now for me to, ah, y'know, elucidate a meaning, or whatever, now. It's all so cheap.”<br /> Pain isn't enough to make my brain go for those endorphins that will calm everything down, take the edge off. I'm on an edge, tied to this chair, slowly waking up to the bruises and cuts, slowly waking up to the likelihood that those aren't going to be the last. The likelihood that I'm not going to make it out of here at all. <br /> “So cheap. So I can't be angry at him. I don't think I was at the time. I mean, fuck, that carpet, I got another. Same price. Same price, the entertainment he bought me.” There's a gun, now, a dark gleaming under the bare light. “That's what I love here. Everything is so cheap. These, all these--” He thumbs out the release for the clip, deftly catching it as it falls out, his other hand then beginning to pop out bullet by bullet of ammunition. “Not even dollars, not even pennies. Nothing like what you'd have to pay back in the city, man. They grow crops of these here, and each season is richer than the last. There's a market, too, man, there's people selling this shit by the barrel, maybe just hoping that by being sellers, they won't be buying something far worse, be on the receiving end of their products.<br /> “I can't believe it, here, why you'd stay at all if you didn't have this understanding that I have. How these people sell what you can pick off the ground for free. How you can buy someone's life so cheaply and sell it in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, you don't even have to pay.<br /> “Yeah. Carpet costs the same as a man: one bullet. One bullet at the right time. Maybe when they answer their door, maybe when they're down on their knees, begging for the safety they ain't got. They don't understand, like I do, how that cheap little bullet is all they're worth. I mean, fuck, some people, a lot of people, as a whole, around the world, they know. They know that if they pay for that little chunk of powder-propelled lead, they're buying a change that binds.”<br /> There's a grin of yellowing teeth. Icy eyes again settle on me. “Like you're bound now. Like you could be changed now. Think you didn't come cheaply?”<br /> Sweat covering my forearms doesn't leave me enough lubrication to try and slip through the rope without losing skin. Life or limb is the encroaching decision, a coin-flip waiting to be called. Like he'd been sitting, the back of my own chair is against my chest, my hands tied together around it, a line of rope running down to between the ropes below. The ropes below that tie my feet together to the chair's back legs, together. My shirt's sticky enough to almost glue me to the chair-back. I can feel down my back, there's enough flowing down into the seat of my pants to stick me to the bottom of the chair there, too. <br /> “You come to the lion's den, chico. You come selling nothing, just walking in on your little dreams of goodwill among men and that shit? Hah, you guys kill me.” He grins, tossing the empty clip to the ground, and in a gesture, snapping another into the gun. There's the sound of the slide swinging forward with a click. In the movies, that's how they tell you the gun's loaded, ready for use. Ready to be used on me. That's what he's telling me. “You kill me, I say that, but nobody can. I kill me. I'm doing it slowly, surely, deliberately, and with that calm fucking kind of crazy that you see so viciously poised in front of you, man. Nah, crazy, that's me. Now, insanity, insanity's the thing that's got this whole goddamned continent soaking in clotting seas that they never stop filling. Insanity is their sanity, and that makes anyone who's crazy the only lucid ones around.”<br /> He's up, walking, that little cut dripping down his chin, drip by drip between the stubbles of hairs, little dime-sized blots collecting on his shirt. Little spots on the carpet. He's behind me, now, and there's a small chuckle. A drop lands on my shoulder, and I feel the prickles of hair next to my ear, a hotness of breath. I feel a circle of metal pressed suddenly against me. The gun is pressed to my back, left side, lower part of the ribcage.<br /> “Did I ever tell you-- how much I love it here?”our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-35151205280985367532010-10-28T15:36:00.001-07:002010-10-28T15:36:41.576-07:00Driving on a FridayAnother lovely morning birthed. Okay, so that was a lie on at least one count, thought Lenny, fingers digging into the few itchy locks left on his head. If it had been a birth, it'd be the kind of birth that worries. A blue baby, hypoxic, suffocating. Much like the city at this ungodly hour, a lack of screams was more worrying than anything else. Cynicism, chalk it up to years in a yellow cab, with the back of your neck and the seat slowly exchanging color with one another.<br /> Chrissakes, it was still dark out, and they call it a morning. <br /> Christ? That was one to bother the rabbi with-- would that still count as an expletive? As far as the light blasphemies went, it was probably Lenny's favorite, barring the occasional bacon-burger with melted cheddar. In either case, he was pretty sure these things would be glossed over in whatever post-death judgment awaited him when they'd point out that he usually drove the cab all through the weekend. <br /> “What can I say? I tried to make it Kosher, you know, for the Sabbath. I tried, I did, but you guys shoulda laid out something in the Torah about whether or not automatic transmission was on that 'thou really shouldn't'th' list. I at least get partial credit for never learning stick, right?”<br /> That was how he imagined it'd go, with him throwing up his hands, laying thick on the charm. He was pretty sure the G-dash-D would be one to let the schlepping slide for a kidder like Lenny. What's a Jew to do when gas prices are what they are? Maybe, and I'm not trying to complain, but maybe if you'd put the Promised Land in a little further in-land closer to some of that goopy black you instead decided to our neighbours who ain't so fond of us, maybe then a guy could rest easy on the Sabbath. I mean, sure, our guys cracked the atom and made with the power plants, but you could have at least put a little bit more effort into giving us some of that good stuff, that most liquid of assets. Oy.<br /> “Look at you, you're falling asleep back there! You want I should get you a nice pillow and some warm milk?”<br /> The fare, some college-age gunking up the window with an indistinguishable facial oil of some description. His eyes flicker. “Mmmmuh. Need... sleep.”<br /> “Don't be roused to articulation, now, my friend, I wouldn't be able to handle it without having a nervous breakdown. Inadequacy. Not that it's a bad thing, mind you, it's a sentiment that brings people together when combined with that right amount of pity. I know you haven't met my parents, but it's gotten them through hard times, y'know, the kind that really only started after I came along.”<br /> The kid peeled himself from the window, and it was difficult not to immediately think of the sound that comes from undoing velcro straps. “Need sleep. Doctors say we're not getting enough, or something. I'm all for that.”<br /> “Doctors oughta know better. Sleep's only really something for the really young and the really old. Sure, you fall into the former category, and I myself am approaching on the latter like my mother at a chinese buffet, but we are still part of a category that exists solely as a caffeinated milieu that runs from dawn until dusk and then puts a few more hours on the punchcard to cover the incidental expenses you're doomed to bring up because in the end, you just had to have another dessert because not only does it taste so good, but you come from a family where your mother convinces you're anorexic until you're starting to put more on the plate than can be reasonably lifted by the average athlete.”<br /> “Ahuh.” <br /> Traffic was slow, dull, molasses moving up-hill in the tundra. Over the dashboard was a sea of assholes who'd neglected to turn off their turn signals. Honking one-upmanship felt like a necessary pursuit to avoid the urge to put four on the floor and ten grand's worth of repairs into the bumper in front of you. <br /> “Trust me, you get enough to do once you're my age. You don't get to be tired, not a bit. You're too exhausted to be tired. Don't listen to them, what they say, it's the perfect example that two wrongs make a right.”<br /> “Or a left-- at the lights-- the, uh, the ones behind us.”<br /> “C'mahn, that thing was more jammed than a peanut-free PB an' J. Only way we could get it moving would be to do something terrible with something sharp and throwable, and I'm dressed in my good shoes today, so I'd rather not resort to something so litigious at this early in the morning.”<br /> The student shifted back into his seat, eyelids protestingly halving his already glazed-over sockets. “If it's too early, you really should get up at a later time. More sleep.” <br /> Smug little schmuck. Way to win an argument and make me feel inadequate. <br /> “Christ!” Grinned Lenny, but it probably didn't count. Probably.<br /> Just another morning.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-43879989638635817002010-10-03T23:10:00.001-07:002010-10-03T23:10:45.666-07:00After-school Specials“What seest thou else in the dark backwards and abysm of time? In Shakespeare's work, elements of prophecy and vision are recurrent themes, often punctuated by impending darkness to set the mood. One can imagine that the sinister nature of these predictions was all-too-real for Shakespeare's time, where faeries still lit lanterns in the still night, and witches plotted strange and unnatural alchemies. The dark and frequently cynical message of Shakespearean prophecy works with the paranoid tremors of the day, where anything outside of Christendom was foul magic indeed. Thus, any use of it must somehow be justified. In the case of Macbeth, the faith that the titular warlord has in the witches' fortune is his undoing, as he is still ignorant of the clear anathema demanded by interruption of nature's course (having committed regicide). One must not ignore the urgings of the supernatural, as they do tend to be entirely correct, but again underlined is the often dark settings of any words of prophecy. A seer warns Caesar of his impending death at the Ides of March; A ghost tells of murder and betrayal at the hands of a certain uncle-cum-king of the Danes; a coven of witches push on a nobleman the expectation of royalty and invulnerability, provided that the deal is sealed in blood. Even the more benevolent use of magic has sinister undertones: consider the vile Caliban that the magician Prospero has restrained. <br /> Anathema is just as constant: Brutus, Macbeth, Claudius, etcetera, all meet their ends for having consorted with unnatural prophecy. Even the great Prospero burns his books, washing his hands of magic once and for all, and in this case, the appeal to the audience is explicit as in his parting words Prospero asks for the indulgence of their benevolence...”<br /> My eyes are heavy as I read this last sentence. “Not a bad start,” I write, “but it needs more focus. Your use of language is deft, and this makes for an intriguing introduction to your essay. Just be careful to stay on track! It remains unclear as to whether you're talking about magic, prophecy, or simply attitudes towards witchcraft in Shakespeare's time.”<br /> The pronouncement is already bleeding through the page in appropriately red ink. I've made my mark, given my opinion, and have made the opening blows for him to start trimming the fat from his essay. A sigh escapes from my lips. I am the Grand Executioner of rhetoric, but even this righteous work is making my eyelids heavy. <br /> “Mom?”<br /> “Mmm? What is it, honey?” <br /> That sweet little face looks up at me like I'm a work of art wrapping a visionary-mastermind. I can't tell if she's looking cute like this on purpose, or whether she's just incidentally showing off my impacts as Number One Mom. Ever. I have as much written on my coffee mug. <br /> “I'm done my homework. Can I watch the TV?”<br /> “You're done already?”<br /> “Ahuh!” Her head bobs, wiggling around those lovely little bangs.<br /> “Well, okay, but only until Daddy gets home. Then you wash up for dinner, right?”<br /> “Right!” <br /> Oh, honey, you're going to be a heartbreaker when you grow up, like it or not. You know I can barely refuse you as it is. So innocent and full of some of that happy fluff that too many of us adults need to be stuffed with. We're so empty next to you, sugar. Momma loves you so much.<br /> She's in the other room, and has already flicked on one of those 24-hour kids networks, you know the kind: less eyebrow-raising content for parents. God knows we need some kind of distraction for those little minds now and then, and having TV babysitting your kidling lessens the guilt if they're getting in some of that ostensibly wholesome educational programming. <br /> I have to smile. Not that she keeps one off of my face every time she flashes that cutesy thing she does with her eyes. I did something right.<br /> But! Back to the papers. Older young minds must be moulded into essay-writers of superlative quality. I live in hope. If I have to be cynical, it'd be to say that it's more to enforce some sense of literacy on these kids. Keep 'em in school.<br /> …Something whispers impatiently in the back of my head: “That's what you get for letting TV babysit 'em, huh? They don't know a book from a boulder, much less a raven from a writing-desk!”<br /> My brain is such a smart-ass sometimes. <br /><br /> Don't overdo it. My little star pupil here has some nice stuff down about the Bard's hocus-pocus, but he's missing a few details. Maybe it'll add to his argument?<br /> Maybe it'll throw him for a loop, make him do a re-write. Hm.<br /> “Have you thought about some of Shakespeare's comedies? Midsummer Night's Dream has some comparatively sunnier instances of magic.”<br /> The ink is on the paper. I've done it. I've made my verdict. It's a bait-and-switch approach to teaching: if the kid is smart enough to address that, he might come over with a stronger essay. Maybe throw in some of the disasters that happen with the spells, or some of that 'center cannot hold' jingle-jangle by magical mischief-makers.<br /> “But what if...”<br /> The voice is back, boxing my ears. <br /> “But what if he really is defeated by this? You specifically mentioned it, so he knows that he has to mention it if he wants a good grade!”<br /> So? I'm starting to feel the coffee leaving me, and I rub my eyes impulsively.<br /> “So-- if he can't fit it in, he'll give up and toss this away!”<br /> Voice is right, but it can't be helped. Sometimes, a bit of unnatural selection is needed. What doesn't kill us makes us better writers, right? <br /> Right, really happy endings for Poe, Plath, and that nice Mr. All-American novelist whose Grapes of Wrath turned out to be ball-bearings in a loaded shotgun fixated on providing a last meal at the behest of its owner. Oh, Hemingway, you cad.<br /> “So don't stomp on them!”<br /> I swat Voice away. I'm a teacher, fer Chrissakes. 'Kill with kindness' is hardly a guiding philosophy if you want a student to progress. Constructive criticism, on the other hand, is an indespensible tool in the ink-stained quest for truth, knowledge, and academic happiness. <br /> Rewrite, restructure, and he'll pass with flying colors.<br /><br /> Already later in my mind than it is in that 'real world' outside of it. Note to self: learn to control time. I'm massaging my temples over a mug of hot tea, thumb and forefinger working magic headache-healing semicircles on either side of my forehead. I'm in the doorway to the den, where Shawna's nice and hypnotized by Big Bird and Elmo. Go, learning box, go! Make my kid smarter for me while I do other stuff!<br /> Ah, she ain't doing half bad, I have to say, even if I'm a teensy bit biased in that regard. <br /> Well-put, clearly capable judge of character. You've earned another Mom Of The Year mug, and good on you for being so awesome.<br /> Why, thank-you, equally impartial part of me that congratulates my hard work as a mother. I think I will celebrate with a goofy smile and a bit of hot tea.<br /> “Ach!”<br /> “What's the matter, Mommy?”<br /> “Oop, nothing to worry about, honey, Mommy just forgot her tea was so hot.”<br /> I didn't need those tastebuds anyway. Stupid goofy grin. Stupid parental pride making me get blindsided by the thermal properties of microwave'd Earl Grey.<br /> “Okay, Mommy, just be careful.”<br /> Shucks. Look at Shawna give me some good motherly advice. She's a natural. The self-satisfaction, having survived a minor scalding, bubbles back to the surface, where it puts a probable smirk on my features. Kids: Clearly the best medicine.<br /> “Hey-hey, sexy lady.”<br /> The whisper in my ear, low and purring, is so sudden that I almost spill/scald myself again. I'm caught off-guard, and a little swear escapes my lips.<br /> “Shit, Stu! You scared me!”<br /> Fortunately, Shawna's too busy singing along with a number-reciting plush Dracula on the TV to have picked up on my misuse of the grown-up language.<br /> Stu's standing there, giving me a wide grin. “Sorry, babe. Thought you heard me come in.”<br /> My ass. He's not sorry, and I'm damn sure he crept up on me on purpose. I narrow my eyes, giving him the pouty you're-in-some-shit-now pucker. Don't giggle when he's looking at you like that, you'll never fake being pissed at him. <br /> “Guess I'm sleeping on the couch tonight, huh.” Oh, that's right, you know what's good for you. He pulls some puppy-dog face, trying as hard as I am to keep it straight.<br /> “Not a chance. I'm going to let this offense slide, but you'd better make it up to me.”<br /> This nets another grin.<br /> “You're too good to me.”<br /> I am. He pulls me close, and I get that eyes-closed rush when I'm in his arms all over again. God, I love him. I can only think of how he still does this to me. I breathe it in, getting a nice hit of cologne. Aw, shit. I've caught myself letting it slip. Old habits, right? Loving, forgiving me, checking for perfume on his clothes. Old habits die hard, dammit, but I'm trying, Stu. I really am. You gave me my life back.<br /> He doesn't sense my stiffening, and pulls away to greet our daughter on one knee and with open arms, the standard opening for accepting a flying daughter. She turns away from the TV, and her face lights up. Here comes the pitch...<br /> “Daddy! You're home!” She bursts from her sitting spot on the rug right into a chest. Like a spring-loaded man, he clamps his arms around her the moment she hits him at Mach 3. Kiss, kiss.<br /> It's a bad mindset that I've triggered. I had to hold myself back from glancing at his collar for lipstick, and now I'm trying not to think that it's only Stu who gets that kind of warm welcome. When did I last get to catch our daughter on the welcome-home kid-launching? Stu gets them all.<br /> Come on, it's not true, and you know it. Number One Mom for a reason, remember? Smiles and sparkles and hugs and snuggles, to say nothing of bed-time tuck-ins and kisses goodnight.<br /> “Number One Mom forever.” I murmur. And don't forget it.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-43605927744116950292010-07-24T11:05:00.000-07:002010-07-24T11:34:31.009-07:00The time's arrival was among those subtle enough where the day's sunshine simply slipped away to follow the tree leaves' escape some few weeks earlier. Breath would linger in the air so crisp without ever softening it. Nights grew and grew along the clock faces and sundials, simply swallowing up the soft light. For those with a certain affectation for the sun's luminescence, this would be problematic.<br /> Rebecca, on the other hand, had found pleasant substitutes to the apparent antidepressant effects of UV radiation. She had made the glorious realization that winter was a time whose delights were reserved for those who had contrast available to them. Appreciating winter was like a zoo, as, for the most part, the answer to that question, 'what would be easier', was easily grasped: Better to see close-as-glass the majesty and triumph of a pride of lions playfully batting at each other in the lazy sun, or better to be dropped straight into the dry season of the Savannah where the most available appreciation of a pride of lions would be strictly in the internal sense after that majesty and triumph devolved into an easy meal for capable lionesses. <br /> Yes, thought Rebecca, snow was a heap of lions burying any possible escape from the frank comforts of home. She was sitting in the perfect manner of a home-happy woman, gown and slipper-dressed, conquering a novel from her recliner. Her tabby, far from a lion, watched the swirls and strides of the vast winter squall outside, comfortably purring on Rebecca's outstretched legs. It was a sight that would make you curl your toes in bare joy for being on the right side of the glass dividing line. <br /> She sipped at her coffee, conspicuously adorned with a candy cane. Winter definitely was the best way to feel warm.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-6788884091968273942010-07-10T14:23:00.000-07:002010-07-10T14:42:24.602-07:00Quintessential <meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <title></title> <meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.2 (Linux)"> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Her own little island, an inverted pyramid of dirty and rock, twisted into a vague spiral shape by the gnarled roots of her tree, floated through the twilight with a leisurely ease. she had no boatman, nobody at the tiller, but it wasn't like there was any of that to be had, Direction, that is. She wasn't even sure she was drifting, or whether it was just the stars moving around her, twinkling wineglasses of quicksilver caught in a cloud that stretched as far as the eye could see.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Sitting on her back, in the shade of the tree (that wasn't really shading her anything at all, with all the brightness in a distance many times that of the old Earth to its sun), she wriggled her toes into the cooled grass, and watched the Everything go by. she didn't get tired or hungry, and the little island seemed to have mass enough to keep her feet sturdily anchored. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The things the cosmos had for her to see, innumerable but not uncountable, boundless as imagnation, were all there as surely as could be. For moments that stretched out to their very limits, she couldn't help shake the feeling that this was hers, that she was at the center, or that it had been made for her alone. But, on reflection, she concluded that this was a selfish thing to think. Who then would have have a chance to share it with? Surely it was as much theirs as hers (whoever 'they' were). It would be much better just to share in the beauty of it. Yes, definitely that. she'd still just keep her island to herself for now, as it was small enough, but everything else-- well, there was enough of it to go around.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It had rather been a while since she had seen anyone, really. It became difficult to tell how long or how far ago, or even when she'd come here and started drifting as she was now. She certainly didn't feel old, and although she really was rather young (perhaps 10), the unshakeable sense that she'd been around for millenia gave her little shudders. she'd get wrinkles. she'd start getting back pains and grow hair out of her ears. She'd start calling everyone 'Sonny' just to remind them how old she was and how young they still were, as if they needed the reminder. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> No, better to lie here in the grass for now.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She started wondering about the big things, and not just the ones in the distance. Big ideas that couldn't be so much seen or heard so much as thought about or pictured. Big head ideas. Just how long had it been? How much time had she seen and felt run through her fingers? She'd tried counting it out one by one, each single units of some grander measurement, but she kept forgetting the numbers. Just as much, it wasn't at all a help that she didn't always seem to be moving forwards in time, and strongly suspected that time would catch up on her when it felt sneaky enough to do so.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Forwards? Backwards? Upwards, maybe, or side to side. Worlds did loop de loops, or turned over on their head, and every so often, the long silvery stretch of cosmos rise and fell from her island's horizon as it pleased. Or maybe the island itself was twisting and turning while the universe stood still. It just became so hard to keep track of what wasn't moving when all around her the creeping swirls of star-stuff curled itself in and out of the velvet void.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> One day, she'd walked across her island, from one end to another. One hundred and twenty steps, in small strides. Sitting back afterwards, there was the satisfaction of knowing at least one constant. her island was one hundred and twenty steps long. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> After a time that may or may not have been longer than it was short, she jumped again to her feet, and walked the distance again, same as she'd done before, from the little patch of clover to the old root on the other side of the island. How good it felt, to march on top of her new finding! she wanted a trumpet and a marching band with streamers and baton-twirling acrobats, a fanfare of adulation for her one hundred and twenty paces, a journey like no other.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Only, as she came to the old root on the other end of the island, she twirled about, looking back at the clover. Something was amiss. Something was different. Ninety-two footsteps had taken her to the root from her starting point. Ninety-two? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> When she thought the journey would be like no other, she didn't think it would be in that sense!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> she sat down dejectedly onto her usual spot, plopping back onto her back with her arms stretched out and her hands behind her head. Ninety-two? Surely she'd stepped in different amounts. That must have been it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> In the pale light of a billion stars, each burning with flames long extinguished by the time they'd met her, she walked again, this time with one foot firmly after the next, heel to toe, toe to heel. Two hundred and sixty-three steps, her arms stretched out on either side like wings. Much better. Much more accurate. Another accomplished smile spread across her face. Wiping the stardust from her shoulders, she made her way back to the tree, whistling without echo. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> she heard it before she felt it, a curious warbling in an otherwise even whistle (she'd thought). Suddenly, she felt pushed back, and she fell to her knees. she sat there for a few moments, puzzled, before rising anew. No pushing, it seemed. she gave a cautious whistle, low and steady. It didn't change. She wiped her grass-stained hands on the legs of her jeans.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Hum!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A curious thought squirmed its way to the top of her neck, and she found himself dashing to the small patch of clover. Before she knew what she was doing, she was again putting one foot in front of the other, step by step, measuring out to the tree as before. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Three hundred and forty-two! </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> What?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> No!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She'd almost lost count, maybe she'd slipped a number or two in by mistake. she tried again, this time going to the clover. Three hundred and forty-two again. Drat!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A neat puff of pollen fumed up as she sat down in the clover, not knowing what to make of this, much less that, or even anything. Well, she did know what to make of some things, but this-- </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As if in anticipation, a blue-green cloud of misty being bloomed into view, and her frown was muted into a flat expression of enraptured appreciation. A sigh was followed by watery eyes, wiped away. It wasn't bad to feel so small when the elegant universe around her was so big as to never be completely seen. So very, very big, and all she had was her little island. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Brightness again, the soft glow of a countless minute dots of light over a dark blue mass that loomed forward. As it came closer (or she came closer to it), the dots separated into tinier pricklings, pinholes on a surface that became flatter and flatter before she'd even had time to count. she looked back, away from the engulfing place, and to the brilliant house of lights to which everyone and everything had been invited to stay. She waved at it in thanks.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What'cha up to, honey?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She jumped at the voice. “Dad! Don't creep up on me like that.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Dad gave a low smile, and her eyes twinkled at his daughter as he took a sip of coffee from the white mug in his hand. “I made plenty of noise as I was bumbling out here in the dark looking for you. I think you were just too caught up in whatever it was you were doing, which from your mother's point of view, is letting your dinner get cold.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Awww,” she pouted. “Can't I stay out a bit longer? I'm only slightly kinda hungry.” An angry grumbling at the statement announced the sudden betrayal by her empty stomach. Dad raised an eyebrow. “It's... It's just so nice out here tonight.” she looked up, and dad followed her gaze to the night's prism of shrouded colors. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “But it will be waiting for you when you finish your supper. Heck, you might even get to come out to it again if you eat everything on your plate.” said Dad, scooping her up off her feet without serious protestation. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I guess.” she said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You guess right, pumpkin. Now come on, let's go have some dinner, and then the universe is yours until bedtime. All yours, every last speck of it.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...Dad?” she asked, perhaps a little too close to her father's ear.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Yeah, kiddo?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It might be too much for just me. You should have some too.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Why thank-you. Count me in.” said Dad, who then gave her a big squeeze as they made their way back across the clover that dotted their backyard and into the waiting light of home. There were definitely a few things she could count on.
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-24911780125025364802010-07-08T03:39:00.000-07:002010-07-08T03:42:16.265-07:00Spilled MilkHelene was no particular slouch in the looks department, though approving her in the looks department would be like approving a V8 engine in a bicycle. Best to play it honest and give her due credit for what would be in any appraisal a tongue-ejecting specimen of smoke and sex. Honestly? Such a thing to ask for with Helene. With perfectly toned legs that, as they say, go all the way to the top, the merest hint of acrobatic sexy-flexy more than just made a bottom half begging to be twisted and turned in a tumult of steaming potency, instead making it the men brought to the begging positions, sparing her knees the effort. Even without being US-legal a drinker, she was a punch-drunk knock-out stretch of coiled sleekness. Why she was working in the bar-- nobody knew.<br /> When she moved, it would always be as a pouring of muscle in every sense of the fluidity one thinks of with the words 'lithe' or 'mercurial' come out in your paper's yellowing crossword puzzle. Add a pair of wings to those heels she has a hidden stamina for wearing from one end of the evening to another, and she's suddenly a Hermes on the decidedly pink end side of the androgyny wall. Well, pink and black.<br /> The engineers would come in and make whispered jokes about getting the numbers on her curves, and sometimes she would smile at their barely suppressed premature ejaculations of calculus notation, spreading all along the edges of whatever writing paper could be found. And sometimes she would taunt a more literal reaction out of them by daintily picking up one of their rulers or protractors, holding it to her breasts, asking for measurements (it was never elaborated on who would be providing them).<br /> After all, it was all about fluidity: stalking from one dry spot to another, watering down whatever sobriety threatened to bollock the mood fuelled by cheap jukebox jingles and cheaper ethyl of varying quality, spills and splashes of conversation, blood, beer, vomit, laughter, song, urine, or unmanageable combination of most of them. The pub heaved and sighed, crested and waned, and Helene hopped about to treat the dry sores.<br /> It wasn't that Jason ever remembered the place as being nice, or fun, or even forgivably cheap, nor did he ever expect that it would get better, worse, or change in any particular sense. The point that it was a constant hodgepodge, predictable in its turbulence, a little chaos fractal generated by the simple equations containing the usual variables and coefficients for tempers, stupidity, pathos, and intake. Simple things, simple people, leading to something occasionally fantastic, usually if you zoomed out or waited long enough to see it. Oh, sure, bias in hindsight, maybe a little bit of cognitive dissonance where your memory decides to Stalinize every last image with an airbrush of nostalgia, attachment, or other crap-- still, the place was as it was and as it always would be, the firmament that came with the void and chaos just because there needed to be a place for people who, from the moment the first fermentation put the first protoplasm a good two sheets to the wind, had been giving the whole of Creation the finger. Ernie's Den earned that distinction, being a repository for all manner of assholes, ingrates, and fuckers with a reputation that could outdo Hades if only it were to get itself a proper mastiff guardian instead of the limp-wristed security that pretty much regarded the legal drinking age as a suggestion.<br /> That had been the initial appeal to Jason and Stan, who had moved beyond the faux maturity of the trendsetting cliques who drank (heavily sweetened) cappucinos, complained about migraines, and broached the octogenarian mode of thought in that they inundated one another with contempt for how the world was turning out under the leadership of people whose greed blinded them (preferring instead the visionary idealogues whose clear political and social iconoclasm were obviously the only reasons for their repression). By the time that the mid-stage teenagers had discovered the ether pit that was Montreal, flocking as they would to the buses and parents who would be wont to purchase summer homes in Dorval, Brossard, or else on the island itself, the two had already become afficianados of malt, hop hedonists of the snobbery of which would regularly further the divide between the Pabst-drinking pursuivants of the high-proof rush and the selectively consumptive have-nots who preferred the complex tastes of the brasseries to actually admitting that even heavy integration into the former group of swill-drinkers would not in any way get them laid by a woman of Coors-compromised critical faculties. So it was that Jason and Stan would grace the hormonal urges and demands of their newly de-alopecia'd genitals with the company of suds rather than sex.<br /> In moderation.<br /> Mostly.<br /> Ed's, the bar in question, was as much to them a part of their education as the classes they skipped out on to go there. They didn't just learn about throwing a punch (in Jason's case), or taking one (in Stan's), playing darts, or hustling at pool (again, also Stan's)- they made their own strides of maturity in deft contrast to their social superiors, most important of which was not the contempt of the popular groups, but instead a rich and fertile pragmatic cynicism.<br /> Of course, other lessons were learned, a necessity in the face of the fresh and screaming infant on their shoulders that was puberty, which could only be moderately stunted by immoderate consumption of abortive spirits, or perhaps by gorging onessself on engorging imagery followed by self-administered release motions. Nevertheless, despite the varying strategies to calm untested lust with a literal handful of strategies, the only clear resolution would be to actually go and divest themselves of their virginal charges.<br /> “Helene.” said Stan, one night, knee rattling worryingly against the underside of the table. He gripped his Pilsner with an intensity that might fling it out of an already sweat-filled space between hand and glass. “I totally need to fuck Helene. Oh, Christ, I need to get laid.”<br /> “Nobody fucks Helene. Not only is she more likely to lay you out than lay you, but you have to deal with the fact that she's a cocktease of lethal proportions. Picture a nymphomaniac who exudes venomous barbed wire from her skin. That's Helene.” Jason busied himself with overdue homework, already spattered with flecks of drying lambic, the particulate remains of which were a vague eyebrow-raising worry as to when the pub had last cleaned its taps.<br /> “Don't make me picture that, Jesus, don't you see I'm already jonesing for this?”<br /> “<span style="font-style: italic;">Boys</span>.” There was a stifled squeak from Stan as he only partially succeeded in reining in his sudden anxious terror. The glass did not make it, ruining a full page of Jason's scribblings, causing him to move in one motion to the backing of the booth and raising his arms and hackles to their full height, his mouth framed in a wordless 'O' of fury. “Another round for you?”<br /> Helene had a habit of flowing into the environment without being noticed. She had her lips curled in a canine demi-smile, and was dressed in her usual oil-slick dress that resisted the greasy anarchy around it to a level of remarkable endurance that was on par with her resistance to being worn down in heels. She flicked a mascara-rich lash at Jason. “Better get that blow-dried.”<br /> Jason, oblivious to the wink or at least feigning it to further punish the ham-handed unhanding of the hops (which was working, by any measure of the full-body stiffening of Stan), dryly said, “Stan, you can help me with that, can't you? Just purse your lips, huff, puff, and stop blowing down your damn beer.”<br /> Helene's canines exposed themselves further. “I'll get you a new one, Stan-man. Can't have you jonesing about like that.” She bent past a crimson Stan, bringing a suddenly produced washcloth in swoops about the table, mopping up the beer. This exaggerated the movement of her breasts, and with the barely measurable proximity that Helene was putting herself, a similar tinge to Stan's red crept up Jason's collar. Helene straightened up, slapping the cloth onto the dress that wouldn't even notice it.<br /> “I'll tell Morgan at the bar to set you up. Call me if you need me.”<br /> She slinked away in a writhe-inducing writhing, and Stan slammed his face down onto the table.<br /> “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Also:<span style="font-style: italic;">Fuck</span>.”<br /> Jason, however, was drawn to the one dry corner of his workbook, where appropriated ballpoint sounded out a local number. A 'call me' would probably have been superfluous, distracting from the point that the number had been given at all. “That's new.” he said. It wasn't. It was just Helene attending to the dry spots. A knowing smile crept about Jason's face. “Cheer up,” he said to the bruised ego sitting opposite him, head still in an unmopped puddle of flat beer, “You don't have to deal with barbed wire and venom.”<br /> Stan muttered a thanks steeped in sarcasm and followed with profanity. Jason tucked the number in his pocket without particularly announcing the motion. No point in being excessive about it. Well, even if such things promised to exceed... <span style="font-style: italic;">Well</span>. The pragmatic cynicism drifted into his now unflappable good humor. Virginity's loss, by the large, would already be humiliating, disgraceful, and probably forgettable. Better to go in being certain of that. Better still to have a fucking wonderful time doing it.<br /> “Well, blow me down.” said Jason, rather relieved at the prospect of dousing his ailing parts with something less volatile than booze.<br /> “Just shut up and get me my beer from the bar. I'm jonesing.”<br /> Of course he was.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-9451067219697760002010-07-07T14:52:00.000-07:002010-07-07T14:56:52.937-07:00Loco MotionIn an ocean of heat, he sat with the kind of sagging posture that, had he been any younger, would have been the immediate attention of a orthopaedically obsessive parent. Instead, he simply endured snide looks from people whose nipple-tuck beltlines instantly marked them out as bitter seniors. Boredly, Carlos’ eyes would flicker to the fifty-something in barely sufficient khakis, who sat opposite them with her legs simultaneously on top of the table and splayed out, giving a shudder-inducing view to anyone not yet overwhelmed by apathy. Her thighs seemed to drift and wander in the currents of the ceiling fans, and with the blank expression on her face, there was an obscene sensation of being winked at, if not beckoned. ‘Come out and play, nobody else is home!’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>If Carlos had marbles, he would have tried to flick one in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“How long until the train?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Six hours. “Reply hazy,” said Carlos, half-eyelidded to mask the frank magnetism of the flickering inner thighs. “Ask again later, but fuck off until then.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Tim stirred in his seat, having lost count of the Mississippi-seconds that had escalated into the realm of the exhaustively long. “Ffffffffffffuck,” he declared.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He pulled himself from the chair, hearing a small rip of leatherette chair as it sweatily tried to follow him, and ambled over to the ticket counter. A newspaper-reading attendant sat behind the inverted T of speaking space, presumably designed to minimized the less-welcoming effect of regular Amber Alerts in far-away counties, Terrorism Alert warnings, and the stern message that those who left their baggage unattended would be left to the overactively imagined punishments of a few uniformed and enthusiastic sadists with latex-clad arms greased up to the elbow. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Carlos had muttered earlier: “I always get the impression that the better part of the Border Patrol have done time. Who better to stop the rampant threat of terrorism than a group of gold-tooth fuckers with prison stars and cobwebs? Bin Laden will shit himself.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The teller, at least, looked calm and bookish, pen ticking out the day’s Sudoku while also attending to the consternations of synonym-finding in the crossword, a well-worn thesaurus at arm’s length further indicated the commonality of the hobby. Air conditioned chill poured from the bottom of the window, drenching Tim’s front with a ball-clenching shiver of envy. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Six hours.” The teller hadn’t even looked up from his paper, smirking only with an accompanying 9 in the centre square of his Sudoku. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Fffffffuck. Excuse my French.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Mmh. Dastardly prevention, six letters…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Carlos, on the other hand, had pulled his eyes from the peeking come-hither hairs, and concentrated his attention on the efforts of a pinched woman pulling back on the leash of a dog whose unfortunate lineage had probably been assembled from breeders who simply hated the well-being of other people. He couldn’t tell the exact breed, but it was almost certainly the kind that would make the most satisfying sound when crushed roundly beneath a heel, a sound that would, with equal certainty, be drowned out with the relieved sighs of everyone around. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>A mail courier came in, apparently celebrating a canid bastardization of Daddy-Daughter work day with the appearance of a black lab whose size and beauty was mentionable even in the absence of a comparative Snap-Crackle-Pop mutt such as the one owned (though the word was only barely applicable) by the pinched-looking woman.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“He doesn’t bite,” smiled the mail courier.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">The fuck he won’t</span>, thought Carlos. <span style="font-style: italic;">Chow down, if there is a God, the lab has a taste for mouth-sized mutts</span>. Silent thanks to a provably existent deity were whispered when the mutt launched itself at the lab with decibel-scale disregard for its own safety.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Come on, come on.</span> The sudden image of brain-atrophy’s general correlation to the degree of domestication materialized in the very front of Carlos’ prefrontal, aided by the lab’s three degrees of difference from its lupine counterparts.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Do the smart thing, do justice to Cujo and Cerberus and all those other wonders of your kind, o lordly lab.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The lab, however, pussified in the clear absence of its balls, backed off, the mail courier giving an obliging dogs-will-be-dogs look at the pinched woman.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Foofers does bite, I’m afraid,” said the desiccated dog-owner. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Fffffffuck.” Came the distant exclamation of Carlos.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Agreed.” Said Tim, neatly settling back into the welcoming slop of sweaty leatherette.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The clock ticked on with a mean-spirited disquiet. Crowds had come and gone in the face of false hope bursting up from the depths, before being dragged under again: “It’s going the wrong way.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Fuck’s sake. I just lost count of the Missisippis.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“You need to get a watch.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“You need to watch as I bang your mom.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Well, you are virginal enough to get a pity-poke from her.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“And that’s how you were born.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Only if you seesaw the blood alcohol levels of both party with the time involved. I’d say she’d need a new liver after your thirty seconds in heaven.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Heaven is right, man. Just love those Pearly Gates on her.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yeah, I like that, Biblical. I can see that you’re speaking from experience, getting that whole Rod of Judgment thing from those curly-haired cherry-bum cherubim over at the local hole of glorying.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>And so on…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“How long until the train?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Three hours, but Carlos was giving out a band-saw snore, squeezed ass-to-neck inside the leatherette dividers along the bench, his bucket hat pulled over his clumped hair. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Ffffffuck. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Would sir care for a nap?” Asked the affable Stephen Fry Jeeves, conjured up from the air in a gentle poof of dulcet-toned English. Jeeves proferred a tray of imagined daiquiris, strawberry slush drenched in the humid sweat that if nothing else was sensible for the mirage’s setting. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’d like that, Jeeves, but more useful would be my time-control slippers.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Very good, Sir. I’ll simply inform the laws of natural temporal passage that you are not to be bothered. Would that be all?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“No, Jeeves- if you’d be so good as to modify my imagination’s output into something more… erotic, I’d be much obliged.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Also a very good choice, Sir. The usual able-breasted sophomore nymphomaniac line-up?” Stiff upper lip, eyebrows ever-rising into an unwrinkled and unfettered brow, Jeeves always understood without passing judgment. Or, at least, without passing judgment in a manner that wasn’t in some way drily tolerant a barb of disapproval.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Shirtless. And no bras, Jeeves, I will not abide that.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“But of course. I assume also that Sir will, once he has wiped off the ropy strings of excitement from his abdomen after the passing of that so-momentous occasion within the restroom’s cubicle, appreciate something to alleviate the injurious self-loathing?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“The Long Island Iced Tea- without the snark, Jeeves.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Your wish is my command, sir.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>And so on…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Uch, dude, you stink.” Said Carlos to the rejoining and unnoticeably flushed Tim.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Tim paid him no heed as once more he slapped into a chair unhygienically marked as his territory. <span style="font-style: italic;">Antiperspirant</span>, he thought, all the while waving a dainty pinky against the refreshing heat-hallucination cocktail, <span style="font-style: italic;">should have brought some of</span>.<span style=""> </span>Make a note to Jeeves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The magnetic cougar flaps across from Carlos had now been replaced with a lumpy figure swaddled in bandages in the area of a surgical brace. The man’s arm had been placed in a plaster cast set at an angle against his torso, propped up by a sturdy looking device that together with the other white wrap of gauze gave the curious sense that if the man were tipped sideways, the fingers on his broken side would drip tea. His eyes snapped open in time with a uni-tooth mouth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Came the wail from the oxycodone-deficient man, settling in for periodic repetitions apparently unnoticed by the apathetic tolerance of the observers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Two hours. Carlos pulled the bucket-hat down over his ears as far as could be done.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Fffffffuck.” Said Tim.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>And so on…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“How long-“</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“As long as my dick, cabron, so stop asking.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Hey! You’re right, it’s here!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Carlos leapt up with an implacable ferocity. “Oh, fuck! Yes!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Masses set into the neat lines of the queue-forming variety. Yips of excitement joined a burbling hum of grateful smiles.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Only three hours until we’re there!” cheered Tim.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Three hours? What?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Three hours!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Carlos squinted at the timetable on the wall. Slowly, his eyes screwed themselves together in some tremendous mental constipation to combat the shitstorm. “All the times are printed in military time. 24-hour clock. That arrival time is in the AM.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“…Fifteen hours.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The Unison, “Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuck.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-23030702684262901622010-06-29T02:20:00.000-07:002010-06-29T02:21:50.804-07:00Dreamt something betterThe covers are warm and inviting, and heedless of his redolence. They want only his lust for sloth, his naked embrace of textiles. It is so simple to collapse into them, taking mind to keep at least one orifice pointed gargoyle-like over the edge of the bed; a combination theory and experience has taught him the value of choosing the orifice most connected to his various breathing/life-sustaining parts. Semi-paralyzed in a sea of cotton and synthetic fibre, his mouth flops open and closed as much as could be expected from any such landed creature unused to the unyielding firmament. He can only just breathe, escalating to a wave and crest of hyperventilation. A joint actually moves, the precursor of total motionlessness. Dream, dream, dream... Bittersweet, as always, is the amber wave of memory that he plummets into.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Memories of the first, a title so well-deserved, bubble to the top, bringing words as gentle and soft as could be. Thoughts of her, next to him, warm with the gentle play of hands on hands and suggestive smoothing of her back- on a dare, almost, his hand might move next to her face on the carpet, a bold gesture for the secret prize of closeness, of having her warm breath fall gently onto his fingers. Remember the wide eyes when she looped up her foot to bring it around his ankle, playfully rubbing that in the mind turned to images of subtle games played under tables by winking lovers, socked toes darting furtively up leggings to caress bare calves-</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Her face, and body, a mirror image of his except in the broken symmetry where she had crossed over heel-to-heel, where his hand rested just moments away from her cheeks. Pale hazel eyes, always on him, glinting with bare appreciation-- warm embers of the usual fire, perhaps doused by an unusual sense of trepidation. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> “Jason...” It was intended as more than the whisper it came out as, evident in the way she kept parting her lips, eyes darting up and down his face.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> At this point, even a usual preference for risk-aversion would have dipped itself in purple, torn off its overgarments and gone screaming into a crowd of hungry dogs.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Hungry dogs, right.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> As an archer pulls the bowstring taut, so deliberate was his hand motion, fingers coming to rest on the angle of her jaw. Gentle, but firm, utterly driven. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> But it was unnecessary. His patience was replied to with startling immediacy, and as their lips met, an almost overwhelming distraction from the sudden trauma to his nose might have ruined everything. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Not now, not with that one moment. No time for the minor naggings of pain when his face was flushed with the sudden flare of their heat. </span><br /><br /> Here, he is almost pushed, in his dreams, to a finite regression, remembering those other 'firsts': fumbling and sweaty apologies for experience trotted out by a constant hormonal screaming. Then, it was all about making it to the next level, tasting for the first time that salty pinched flesh between trying-it-rough teeth. Then, it was spit and tongues, and the tickle of nostril-breath on your cheeks as, for the first time, you felt someone else's tooth enamel. Then, it was a time of shameful surprises that creep up on you before you're even aware of them, and the rest of the exercise becomes a disaster management scenario that only now can bring at best a wan smile of stupider times.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> But back in the first, that puncturing of overcast and cloudy memories by that wholly different need for the sun to shine, and having just that one moment to show you what the good days can look like, and what the best days might look like if you're lucky enough to live them for as long as you can. Fireworks in your head, scattering the stars. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> So you do what you can do, for anyone who shows you that bright side. You let them know how much they're needed, how much you ache for them and that it's built to a passion and a lust by even the littlest glimpses.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Pull her to, pull her on top. Pull her in closer and curl your fingers into her braided hair-</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> “God..”</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> And everything about her says 'yes'. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> And everything she has smiles as the first buttons pop out.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> And the only thing he wants is for her to see his face beyond the stupid 'oh' that is all he can manage in the cascade of skin as she falls to him, followed by the rush of his hands...</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> To see...</span><br /><br /> 'Cruelty, thy name is Consciousness, thou pigfucker' he rails, grasping and gasping on the suddenly-there linoleum tiles, his face plunged into the mercifully white toilet. 'You utter fuck.'our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-88099282299189189052010-06-27T11:45:00.000-07:002010-06-27T11:46:56.000-07:00Identification PleaseThe morning routine, pronounced usually with an emphatic 'rut-een' in the minds of most of the workers, settled in with the traditional rush of the coffee machine's dispensation of the morning's necessary allotment of stimulation mixed with refreshing mocha, the earnest creak of asses taking up residence in their appointed desk-chairs, and the unprotesting hum of monitors and terminals as they too were sped into their own awakenings. Fingers twitched with the false anticipation of trying to remember the passwords they'd inputted only yesterday. <br /> Someone entered his first dog's name.<br /> Another entered her birthdate.<br /> Another entered her favourite football team's mascot.<br /> Another entered in sequence the name of his wife, son, and daughter, compressed into a 12-character response.<br /> Yet another typed in his favourite Godzilla movie (simply and perhaps a bit unimaginatively, 'Godzilla' out of reverence for the Japanese original).<br /> Yet another rapidly entered in the name of a certain game show host, whose image was brought to mind whenever she attended to the intimate needs of her boyfriend. The conditioned response of this always made her hips shiver, and nobody could see into the cubicle to wonder why she would lick her lips and pout her jaw with heavy breath.<br /> Another entered an alpha-neumeric sequence that contained the maximum allowed number of characters for any permissible password. The illusion of unbreakable security that this gave was unbroken by the fact that it was so complicated that it had to be copied from a sticky-note attached to his monitor, helpfully prefaced with the heading “Password:”.<br /> Another entered his mother's maiden name.<br /> Another entered, with a dreamy look on his face, the song that had been playing when he'd lost his virginity, a rather unplanned venture involving a shuffled CD-changer that had happened upon his little sister's boy-band best-of. The dreamy look was nothing if not guilty.<br /> Another entered the name of his patron Saint.<br /> Another entered her dream car's make and model.<br /> The entire floor had progressed from a trickle of keyboard clicks from the chicken-typing lot whose newness was further announced by a refusal to plunge into coffee addiction, instead heading to their desks with an enthusiasm and desperation to make impressions that in itself would achieve the end of its life-span in a matter of weeks. Now, the steady resonance of inputs poured freely, an avalanche of the speed-typing veterans whose pupils firmly moulded into the picture of caffeinated concentration.<br /> Only one man still sat at his desk, oblivious to the city-enveloping sun that shone through one of the few windows. The one man who knew without error each of his floor workers' memoir, coveted as it had been to be the first willed recollection in the morning rut-een. It was a window into each character, compressed into a 5-20 character appreciation. Just as well they reminded themselves what they were working for, why they were here, imprisoned as much by their contractual obligations as by their earnest desires for their passions-- their passwords. Individual, unique, and binding. Employee identification, employee identity.<br /> And he alone would scrutinize them wordlessly. He would keep track of whether they would be kept in line by their dedication, or fall into unproductive distraction. His task, and his job: the watcher, the voyeur, the man who made it his work to oversee.<br /> The monitor flashed, demanding his input. <br /> “Panopticon.”our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-21418124738556843662010-06-23T22:14:00.000-07:002010-06-23T22:17:01.483-07:00Saturday in SowetoThe city pulsed into the hospital on a nightly basis, a collection of fresh scars, scabs, and throbbing masses that would bounce moans of pain off the sweat-covered walls from which the paint bubbled and chipped. A hell of humidity turned the air into a near-clotting fluid one had to wade through.<br /> Anticipation was almost enough to supplant the need for coffee- almost- as if adrenaline from the probable flood to come kept everyone breathing. But it was early yet, and so Roos Hoek filled her senses with the least offensive blend of Java available. Just one cup of it, no more or else caffeinated alacrity will turn to a set of nerves that won’t stop humming with activity, overcharged and out of control.Unsurprisingly decaf can’t be found fresh in the break room. The last jar is a cake of powder that has fused into a sweaty solid, bleeding oil and essence.<br />“How’s it?”<br /> Pieterzoon, already out of his scrubs and disquietingly clean. Blonde sweatless brows seemed entirely alien given the morning perspiration that clung to every other surface. “It’s them blerry payday weekends, eh? Ag man, I don’t envy you tonight, not at all.” He’d speak in English to be understood, heavily accented in English-Dutch inflection. Roos was, after all, only Dutch in name, and still blanked<br />whenever peppered with Afrikaans by conclusion-jumpers who saw just another Afrikaaner who spoke the language. Hell, she spoke more French than anything else, having only elected to take English to escape the bored townships of Provence. With that, she found herself in Johannesburg. Peachy. Be careful what you wish for.<br /> She tilted her head, shrugging. “It doesn’t help that Thabola and Mbosi are still out on holiday for another few days.”<br /> “Fok aye. You know those tits try to put themselves out of harm’s way on these nights by penciling in vacation time years in advance.”<br /> “Don’t be so cynical, man. They’re at the top for a reason. --And before you say it, that reason isn’t Mandela.” <br /> Pieterzoon dropped his eyes. “Whatever, girl, whatever.” A sigh. “I’m out for the shut-eye and peaceful recuperation. Say high to the dronkies for me, eh?”<br /> He brushed past her without another word, almost brusquely. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t, she couldn’t say, but dammit, why did everyone have to be so goddamned touchy about it.<br />Well, it’s not like they didn’t have a history of it, mmm, muttered her inner voice, now they’re just grumpy that the shoe is on the other foot. But nothing was that simple. Apartheid had switched to reverse racism, and the iron-clad oppression of bigotry had for a brief while been swept away, only to fall into a disjointed attempt to control a population discovering freedom without the gradual acknowledgment of its excesses. <br /> Hell of a way to start the day. Hell of a reminder.<br /> “Et merde,” she muttered to herself.<br /><br /> Saturday afternoon, and already temperatures were running high, a fever of cheers from everyone who'd slaved through the week with the expectation that they could now reap the rewards. Money, freshly minted, flowing opposite the stream of cans and bottles into plastic bags. The sun still breathing down peeling necks, thirsts were still being created rather than quenched. What better cure to the burden of thirst than with newfound libation? It was an answer that trickled into minds as the hours wore on and the boots came off, and by the time the horizon had pinched off the heat of day, liquid relaxation flowed freely.<br /><br /> Already Roos was blinking hard in the haze of stale beer and belched curry as the starting wave came slopping in, dragged by fortunately sober friends who passed the time by blending in with the crowd, passing between themselves drinks with feigned covertness. But few took heed of the drunk and orderly when there were their counterparts to mind. The sound of a pleading spew of vomit from a teenager was as much a starter's pistol as she was going to get. <br /> Good evening, Soweto...our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-83908444190311765772010-06-17T18:37:00.000-07:002010-06-17T18:50:57.829-07:00A glint of something<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She marked the time with the patter of her fork, slow and seemingly purposeful chews separating each and every tick against the cheap china. She was out of uniform, so it was fine having her eat listlessly at the counter. A few of the regulars not convinced enough to buy cheap eats elsewhere would be all that would recognize her, given that was both the usual hostess and easily the prettiest worker at the rest (no doubt the two were connected), the rest of the workers seeming to have succumbed to the undesirable combination of affliction that comes when gravity meets cellulite. Lydia's only droop seemed the usual one around the edges of her mouth, not simply because of the feigned exuberance that put prospective customers in motion towards their waiting booths. Always, from management- 'Happy workers, happy customers, happy meals', even for smiles kept up by toothpicks.<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You'd better eat some of that, darlin'.” Said Catie</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It was true. While Lydia was the prettiest, it was in spite of, not because of, a rather rail-thin figure. The manager, were it not for Lydia's stalwart consistency, would have felt more genuine in whispering things about cocaine and amphetamine rather than that founded only in jealousy of the young girl's figure. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Trying.” Said Lydia.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The truth was that her mind was rather far away from there, lost to the endless discharge of precipitates from the asphalt arteries that burst into the diner with a disjoint of baseball caps, tattoos, and sad Middle America affectation that leads to premature droop and a sort of pansexual hirsuteness around the face and jowels. Wobbling chins and all-day breakfasts smothered in table syrup and served with crackling pig fat fresh off the sheet grill. Days wore you down rather than simply wearing on as might be expected. Little pills from the doctor, yellow tabs to treat the blue days, but more often than not they just left you with your mouth dry and your seat wet. A perfect match, perhaps, to the palms sticky with fake-maple sugar.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lydia could still hear her mother's voice, the strong Vermont can-do pout, “Table syrup, more the misnomer than you can imagine, little Liddy. None of that junk on the table, not on my watch, not ever.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The thought of this would make Lydia sink more towards her plate, towards the fries smothered in the alien vinegar rather than the common ketchup.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You wouldn't believe what we got today.” Said Catie, quite prepared to accept the possibility that Lydia would, in fact, believe it. “Some queer from New York comes in and asks for a veggie burger. Annie was serving him, and had to be shown just where on the menu it was! I tell you, I don't get those queers- they won't eat meat, but why? So afraid of eating their own, but they all look more like the beansprouts they eat to me!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lydia continued to dig her fork into the malt-and-bitter-smelling frenchfries, staring blankly at the little chips that would fly off from the crisp little strings. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “He got the dipping veggies, and we had to find a bottle of ranch dressing- just for him. He just returned it to us after the meal, said he didn't need none of it, said that we could keep it for other customers. Chef and I had a big laugh pouring that little shot of ranch back into the bottle!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Still, Lydia's fixation had dulled her to her friend- instead she found herself trapped in a thought that kept at her, growing in spite of attempts at ignoring it. Embers, she now thought, stoking her fries as if they were fires on the logs.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Exactly like embers!” Boomed Mom, glancing to and from traffic at the sporadic pirouettes of light along the highway-side. The bright orange gobs of fire that lept up from the tall grass and the cat-tails of greenery held her mouth open in a constant 'oh' of wondrous fascination. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Mom had pulled over some time later, where Lydia had danced about waving her hands exultantly in a rambling chase to catch a handful of fire. But Mom was quicker, and fast as quicksilver had a fistful of quiet light. It seemed to snore between Mom's fingertips, waxing and waning- and the gasp when she parted her hands to show the source... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lydia started up, the floor protesting the sudden movement of the chair she'd tortuously dragged along it. She smiled at Catie, who could only look back quizically. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What's gotten into you? You're all smiles. Weirrrrrd.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I,” announced Lydia, no small hint of confidence, “am going out to catch some fireflies.”<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">"You sure there's still enough light out?"</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">"That's exactly what I'm going to catch!"<br /></p>our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-10924786290861347402010-06-02T23:40:00.001-07:002010-06-02T23:40:58.478-07:00Mother, standing, walking a skipping child back from school, swinging a basket of food gaily in her off-hand. Peals of laughter mingling with peels of zesty tangerines, unraveled as they walked by fingers sticky with their juices. Mother and son, making faces with orange segments, confidently confiding in the other about the distance to be had by seed-spitting. She let him win, of course. His day out, her day off, the rest of the week’s inevitable toiling washed away in a little wooden crate of sunshine hidden among the rest of the produce.<br /> “Do they grow on vines, mom?”<br /> “Vines, dear boy,” came the voice of wisdom, still laden with Belfast-bereft-of-bombs. “Why, no. You’re thinking of grapes and tomatoes.” The boy wrinkled his nose at the thought of the bitter tomato, whose inclusion in his mother’s usual breakfast choice frustrated him almost as much as her repeated attempts to convince him that it was a fruit. Nothing as bitter and horrible as a tomato could be a fruit. “Tangerines grow on great trees in orchards. Like the way they grow apples and lemons and- and coconuts.” <br /> “Coconuts grow on palm trees! I learned that today!”<br /> “You’re right they do, m’boy. On big trees that grow out of the sandy soil like arms of giants buried in the sand.”<br /> “Arms! Wow!” The child paused, holding one cheek in a still-sticky palm. “So- that’s why they’re called palm trees, because they have a hand at the end of them?”<br /> She laughed. “That may well be the case. You’ll just have to find out.”<br /> “I will! I will!”<br /> The exuberance of youth, the constant energy and wide-eyed wonder piled on top of Vel-Cro sneakers, mismatched socks, and scraped jeans stained with dew and chlorophyll. Matching stains on the elbows and palms of his hands meant that he’d probably been spending another sunny afternoon face firmly pointed earthwards, watching insects climb the micro-metropolis of grass and weeds. <br /> “Can we get a tangerine tree, mom? I’d feed it and water it and climb in it.”<br /> “Alas, dear boy, there’s nowhere to plant it. We’ve no lawn to speak of, and no back-yard that isn’t covered in rock. We’d not only need to buy somewhere new, but also somewhere warm and nice for tangerines to grow.”<br /> “But why can’t we?”<br /> She paused for a moment, slipping in stride and suddenly tired. “Because we’re not able to buy things like that, dear boy, I’m sorry.”<br /> The boy paused, looking up at his mother, suddenly feeling like he’d said something rude or wrong, like asking grown-ups how old they were. It was an ache, having that kind of thing be so possible, that the simple things and questions could really hurt someone. Even the person who kisses it better can be so vulnerable to their own little collection of nicks and cuts. He wanted to ask if they were poor, but he felt with horrid certainty that this was another question that might hurt her, or make her sad. These things might have been as true as the little scrapes, but they could still hurt, and very much so. <br /> He grabbed her suddenly, little arms circling around her hips, face pressing into her abdomen. <br /> “What’s wrong? Jason, are you alright?”<br /> Their eyes met, a vertical stare. “I’m fine, mom.”<br /> “Well then,” she said, suddenly bursting into laughter, “that’s grand.”<br /> It was. Hand in sticky hand, they resumed their walk. But the thought lingered with Jason, having been confirmed: even grown-ups need someone to make it better. Maybe everyone does. Maybe everyone needs someone to be special for them, someone different from everyone who just calls them by their name, someone who says ‘dear’ or ‘honey’, or ‘buddy’, or best of all, Mom. Someone who knew more than just a stitched-on nametag on an anonymity-ensuring uniform- Not just Eily Connolly, but Mom.<br /> His mother kept her smile, and started to hum- “When Irish Eyes are Smi-liiing….”our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-79001482749909714362010-05-31T20:23:00.000-07:002010-06-01T00:10:09.363-07:00Dogmatic LawAnd ye, it came to pass that the Fellow became Steward of the palace, that heavenly kingdom so situated above the clouds and with the Divine miracle of Central Air. Humble he was, wearing nothing about the feet so that he could be constantly be in the divine presence of the carpeting, the linoleum, and the holy wood so-laminated that the Fellow would streak across it as did Tom Cruise before him in Risky Business. <br />And the Lady did say to him, "Guard well my kingdom in my absence, for I fly to realms of heady knowledge to convene with wisdoms great and powerful. I entrust in you the sanctity of this place".<br />And there was love in his heart that day as she ascended into a yellow carriage of brilliantly illuminated splendor (for the foglights had been installed). And he did lie in the bed, removing his socks to again touch the august glory of the firmament- the carpeting, the linoleum, and the holy wood so-mentioned as laminated. <br />But lo, a Despoiler was about the lands, slothful and cruel. With cloven paws and an arrogant parasol as a tail, he but basked in the radiance of his own glory, tracing his lineage back to the ancient clan of Shihtzu beasts. <br />But the Despoiler was in the kingdom, and the Fellow, not wishing to falter in his duties, did offer comfort and fine feasts. For a time, there was peace, but as foretold, that era came to a close some hours later, when the Despoiler befouled the firmament with his essence. <br />The Fellow, not wanting to re-don his flipflips and kneesocks, rose up in anger, hurling at the Despoiler a litany of abuse. But the Despoiler, above the petty threats of the Fellow, stared blankly on. The Fellow, again, not wishing to be negligent in his tasks, grovelled and mopped as he was want to do. For a time, there was contentment, but again as foretold, such things do not last longer than sitcoms, and there would be untold suffering abound.<br />A time of great thunder approached, and the Fellow, secure in the sanctity of the place, wavered not as the sky bubbled with anger, roaring at the arrogance to build a tower such as this and not sublet. The Fellow stood his ground, and turned once more to his studies. This was not well with the Despoiler, who instead took to the highest point in the realm that he could reach-- on top of the fellow. Subjugated, humiliated, the Fellow was the Despoiler's pillar as the latter shivered with rage, grimacing and bellowing at the thunder. Neither would relent, and the Fellow, diligent to his burden, muttered again to himself through the night.<br />Tired of their tirade, the storm left to other parts, and the Fellow, weak and deprived of rest, collapsed gratefully as the Despoiler dismounted for its own rest. <br />"I beg of you, Despoiler" said the Fellow, "Follow me to the gardens and expend your essence, for it cannot be spilled here, in this place."<br />But the Despoiler was very proud, and still rather miffed about the whole storm thing. Its cloven paws did not stray from the firmament, and the Fellow wearily resigned himself to the sheets.<br />It would not be long before the Fellow awoke with the start. The storm had returned to its adversary, the Despoiler, who glared angrily at the Fellow, conscripting him once more to the task of unwilling mount. But the Fellow, frankly less willing to put up with this shit, denied the Despoiler.<br />The foolishness of the Fellow was as great in magnitude as the fury and wrath of the Despoiler, who turned to the firmament in all his anger. The Fellow awoke once more to find the firmament desecrated beyond belief. The carpet befouled, the linoleum besmattered with filth, and the holy wood stained with vileness. <br />The Fellow wept, for he had been negligent in his duties. Against the might of the Despoiler, there was little reprieve. A great sadness filled his heart, as he turned from his studies to the comforts of the playwrites and muses of his imagination's theaters. The Fellow became enveloped in these musings, watching as the actors turned about on the stage. As if in a dream, a lofty being did turn his gaze onto the Fellow, and spoke in a harsh but powerful voice-- The Tucker.<br />"You doss cunt. You have forgotten yourself" said the Tucker, whose frail figure did not diminish his sense of command. "First time I've ever seen a massive poof overpowered by a smaller, more literal poof."<br />"But my Lord, I am but a servant, entrusted to the safety and protection of this place. I cannot hold against the Despoiler."<br />"Aye, ye winge-bag, not even the cacophony of your annoying voice would overpower the creature. But be not beholden unto him!" Thundered the Tucker, "For I, the All-Swearing Eye, shall kick so many shades of shit out of you that you'll be a whole new paint palette. Do yourself a bonny favor and discover you, a mere Fellow, has climbed the heady mounts of puberty and has grown a pair."<br />The Tucker was right, for when the Fellow placed his hands down his humble Jeans, he was met by the warming glow of courage, the overpowering if delightfully scented musk of which spurred him to action. The Fellow awoke with purpose, mustering himself for the task ahead.<br />Strange elixirs and ingredients were poured with foreign alchemy, implements were gathered from the far ends of the realm to combat the taint of the Despoiler. The Fellow stood, again bare-foot on the firmament, claiming his ground, defending his homeland.<br />For a time, there was great boistrousness, as the Fellow put himself and his alchemical'd tools to the firmament, renewing again the bounce of the carpet, the shine of the linoleum, and the proud sheen of the holy wood. The Despoiler watched as the Fellow moved with purpose through every cubit of space, marking the hallowed ground with purifying oils and lustrous pastes. Light shone once more through the realm, and for a time, it was good.<br />The Fellow had put down his tools, and had put himself to rest with a steaming bug of far-away Araby, and in his prosperity, grew blind to the sight of the Despoiler's encroaching presence.<br />Too late, the Fellow realized that he had erred most greviously, discovering that the Despoiler had befouled again all around them. Driven to his knees, the Fellow uttered a curse to the heavens-<br />"O most foul of beings! O horrid of sights! You who dumpeth under my place of feasting, within my sanctum of rest, my basket of linens runneth over with thy taint that runneth under and kind of beneath in this your Genenna, your Armageddon."<br />The Despoiler turned his piteous gaze on the Fellow, and with a silencing snuff, rolled over on his belly for tummy-rubs. <br />"No more, I say!" cried the Fellow, who turned with zeal to the thrice-tainted firmament. "No more!" <br />The Despoiler was unimpressed, and broke into a grin, knowing the futility of the Fellow's plight. All hope looked lost, when once again the words of the Tucker flew into the Fellow's heart- "Jaysus Christ, you pull yourself together or else I'll throttle you so hard you'll be talking like Freddy Mercury caught in his zipper."<br />With purpose, the Fellow rose from his obeisances, and grabbed at the Despoiler with all his might.<br />"Go and seek the confrontation with the heavens and the skies that you so desire!" <br />And the Fellow did fling the creature with all his might. The Despoiler did soar, panting with rage, before realizing escape velocity was unlikely without continuing propulsion. Bellowing his last, the Despoiler plunged earthwards to the asphalt with glorious liquidity. Still on the ramparts, the Fellow breathed again, filling his lungs with the Central Air, turning to feast on the grapefruits and microwaveable meals that awaited him, the triumphant man. The voice of the Tucker again filled his ears "Ah, don't get so full of yourself, wee man. Time yet for you to actually start growing hair in places of manhood."<br />And for a time it was good, and when the Lady returned again, bathed in redolent splendor and heady perfumes, the Fellow embraced her and held her close. <br />"You have done better than any other, my dear" she said. "My firmament is whole and pristine, as evinced by the brilliant fluff of the carpet, the quiet effervescence of the linoleum, and the shine on the holy wood so mirror-perfect that I can see up your trousers."<br />They did embrace again, the Fellow grateful to retire to an evening of headboard-damaging wholesomness. The Lady smiled at him, smirking ever so slightly. "And don't look now, but I think there's a bit of a puddle over there."<br />With horror and dread, the Fellow turned against the Lady's wishes, seeing that the holy wood, beautiful enough to eat off of, was again befouled. A heavy breath, the last he wanted to have, escaped him as his eyes fell upon the culprit. Untouched, unscathed, the Despoiler sat as he always did, lolling his tongue and rolling his eyes with horrible glee. Turning on his back, the Despoiler beckoned as always, ravenous for the comforts of tummy-rubs. <br />There would always be a firmament, a place to put one's bare feet, a place from which to know the unchanging presence and eternal comfort of its support. So it was the Despoiler, and for a time, for all time, there would be.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-81614969905992023092010-05-30T00:39:00.000-07:002010-05-30T01:03:58.126-07:00KeenerShe has a straight-razor tattooed on her forearm, the first thing you notice when she dismounts the bike, despite her sweating, heaving form that would collapse had she not just undone the courier bag strapped around her. A regular at the café, she signals for her regular café only to glare with shark's eyes at the embryo of a barista who at first uncomprehendingly but now with more substantial intimidation buckling his knees, stares helplessly back. Stares at the straight razor tattoo. <br />The razor itself is open and obtuse, a small but visible rose carved into the handle. Sweat drips and canalizes from the slightest of furrows down its blade as she wipes a sticky black lock from her forehead.<br />The barista consults with more senior staff who roll their eyes at him and his little squeaks about the bike being in the store, about a patron dampening the upholstery with a certain unhygienic magnitude. Subtlety, while not his strong suit or a factor in the volume of his voice, fails to distract her from the contents of her side-pocket, an obscure tome, there mere cover of which gives less a poverty of fancy so much as a bittersweet richness of fact. It bleeds post-it notes, and she prepares another pad, ripping each into smaller segments arranged along the fingers of the hand that does not turn the book. Unnoticed, she's already laid out exact change on the table, no tip. China rattles as the midnight-black Java is put down beside her, with certain apologies muttered by a barista as inaudibly as his pride would want.<br />Look at her, rail-thin with exertion, ponytail out of the mess of the rest, a ring around her eyebrow that clinks whenever she pushes up her glasses. Neat nails trimmed to their beds by idle picking, that is by tooth or claw. She rubs her shark's eyes in the pre-caffeine haze, again flashing an ebony straight-razor. Her lips, the type that pour out of a jutting lower jaw, mutter the silent litany of text, pausing only to be flicked at by a page-herding thumb. Half-lidded eyes are wholly on the text, and the rest of her works at an automatic pace. <br />Stare, be entranced, lick your lips with the sudden burst as she sweats over you from equally occupying tasks, anxious as much for exertion as to keep pace and delay the inevitable. Her head thrown back, her shoulders shuddering. Her stirring in the morning in a bathrobe, her fingers tracing frost in a winter's pane. Her growing old to your left, as you grow old to her right, side by side on a patio nowhere in particular. Nobody else looks that way, nobody ever will. There is a fond little moment, a synchrony, your uniqueness, her uniqueness, coming together in a crescendo of thought and would-be memories. A little ball of yarn for you to bat around your belfry as your feet too work at an automatic pace to bring you home again smelling of coffee. <br />Years later, you cut yourself shaving, the thin dribble of blood demanding attention and treatment. But you're useless for at least a few moments, cut apart by a straight-razor girl in a café.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-28309425814053889352010-05-28T18:47:00.000-07:002010-05-28T19:10:45.266-07:00Cathedrals of knowledge, he snorts. How antithetical a notion. But even he must admit the notion to be relatively true: the roots of literacy in the West were carefully squeezed from the roots of religion. Such a pity it had to be retarded so early on by its fanatical devotion to the backwards foundations.<br />Still, just looking at the Gothic-inspired walls filled one with a sense of august passion for knowledge, even at the expense of being confused with the Augustine piety of the faith-hungry. There must have been some realization at some point when a learn-èd man of letters came forth and pointed out that building universities in the style of buildings constructed during the Dark Ages was at least moderately problematic. <br />Nossir, not so much. <br />He still giggled and goggled at the sight of ancient-era architecture, however it may or may not have once stood for historical precedent in its ivy-wrapped brick-chipped exterior, peppered by air conditioning units, antennae, floodlights, or artsy banners. Amusement came as much from the clash as from the appreciation of the novel thought's flourishing under stodgy clay and mortar(boards). <br />The Professor could only look back as earnestly into his office. Rather than the uniform backdrop of necessary and authoritative identical hard-bound volumes arranged not by subject but by color; aesthetics and image over argument and attestations. A depressing way to collect knowledge. His own collection was a perhaps-iconoclastic arrangement of paperbacks, a colorful array of diverse bindings arranged meticulously by subject, author, purpose. <br />Then line-up of student applicants for assistantships paid credence enough to such minor academic irreverence as to have a broad patterning in his own little library. Modesty might lead one to overlook a further flattering feedback from the gamut of students learning under him. Maybe modesty was a unique characteristic among his colleagues, too! <br />But enough self-adulation. Interviews to conduct, research to be done, and, ah, minds to mould. He brushed back a lock of graying hair, and opened the door to admire the equally admiring assembly of CV-bearing neonates.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-69771114474918246342010-05-28T01:59:00.000-07:002010-05-28T02:17:09.496-07:00PossibilitiesThe glass of red wine, the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray-- positive ID on any particular poetically inclined individual. A bit of a long shot from the Sartre-era clove cigarettes and vermouth, but still--<br />Distractions! Her nostrils flare with the anticipation of genuine arousal, genuine work, as her fingers glide across the keyboard without productive pressure. An inspirational glug of the Chianti follows, chasing whatever potential for creativity there is to be swallowed.<br />The window's open, of course, otherwise Mom would shit a brick at the cigarette smoke in the ashtray. Bad enough that Grandma did the whole Towering Inferno thing by falling asleep with a cigarillo gripped between a thoroughly disgusted pair of teeth on the 19th floor of a shitty apartment building. Moral of the story? Mom will get the nearest belt if she so much as gets a hint of the precious nicotine. <br />Shit, she thinks, flexing her fingers. So much to write, so little to say. Essays to write, CVs to embellish, and sweet little nothings to send to the over-sexed and over-spent boy-toys that litter the social scene. Boost some egos, make some connections, keep alive the chance that next weekend might be as fruitful as the last. A bunch of little dicks, leaping forward to the vague hint of wetter climates.<br />Right-- except for one. <br />She quivers a little at the hips, remembering how he cradled her with one hand beneath her head, and another on her breast, mounting her, riding her, bringing her to the crest. Oh, yes. The ones who genuinely gave a shit were always worth the top dollar beneath the sheets. The Chianti ratifies that statement, giving her a pink flush to compliment the general heat. Legs are rubbed together with a fervor of ostensible wholesomeness. Nipples taut, the rest with a distinct blush, she is still totally lost and without much to say. One nice night out of a hundred-- no, a great night. One to remember. <br />She clicks through, taking another drag on the cigarette, blowing the rest out the window- There was bigger, there was better, for sure, but there wasn't anything else quite like him. <br />She sits back, having discovered his email on a post-it that she's decorated with little hearts. Shit. What a blow to her cred. But worthwhile. Yes, he is. <br />She sits back, blowing imaginary smoke rings from the cigarette that's no longer there, thinking of something to say.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-56973103004197689452010-05-16T18:30:00.000-07:002010-05-16T18:59:15.965-07:00LingerShe sits, for there is little else she has the energy for, as it is enough to keep the thin fingers in place to hide her face from the sun. It still peeks through, too weak to scatter the dust in the folds of a skin thin as tissue paper. Her eyes can still make use of the light, but it seems dimmer every day. <br />The light has faded many things around her as much as inside her, she feels. Fortunate, perhaps, that the photographs do not fade as quickly as the memories do, the increasingly sepia tone of the black-and-white glossies holding time as it once was, when it was at its happiest and on her side. She rubs at her ring finger, touching sterling silver but not feeling its presence so much as a void. Absent thoughts of a husband now absent before his time (and before hers) bring the wayward hand back to its place over her face. It becomes as difficult to remember him as to realize she's forgetting him more and more each day as the sun fades this too into mere background noise.<br />Here there's background noise enough-- the scuttles and ruminations of undersexed and underappreciated widows who comprise the home's backgammon clique. Even if she cared to remember their names, she can't bring herself to remember more than the long-ago past that evanesces into the fade with disconcerting haste. Visitations from dwindling relatives offer brief warmth, though it seems too much a sort of mutual humoring, smiles and handshakes held up to still their fear of sharing her fate. So she sits, sleeping and thinking of that end sometimes longed for. Or at the least, a dream that will linger upon waking.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-78139953671335864072010-05-14T21:06:00.001-07:002010-05-14T21:06:27.583-07:00The hand that draws itselfTwo weeks. Fuck. Two weeks.<br />A lifetime of lifetimes, yet to the world at large, it’d only been two weeks. <br />Ugh. <br />Two weeks he’d been haemorrhaging caffeine, sweating spinal fluid out of every pore in an attempt to pull his mind into point fine enough to give simple literature a good shiv in the kidneys. Two weeks of filling whole pages with single repeats of expletives, or whatever verbal equivalent of diarrhoea his useless mind could drip out. <br />There was only so much legally available stimulant; so little that would be genuinely useful in generating anything resembling an original idea. Every waking moment, filled with (mostly) hallucinated blankness.<br />Paranoia hadn’t so much seeped in by this point so much as it had gushed and spurted obnoxiously- <br />“I’ve had a stroke, that’s it. My prefrontal cortex is turning into Swiss cheese from some kind of encephalopathy. I have cerebral malaria.”<br />He saw himself sinking into a depression of idiocy, awaiting a white straightjacket and the terribly un-PC red rubber ‘Retard’ stamp on all his health forms. “I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. Pick’s Dementia. I’m schizophrenic.”<br />Find something unique to say, stretch it until it’s taffy on the paper. <br />Write an original sentence. <br />He paused in a facsimile of concentration, writing that- “Write an original sentence.”. No, not an original sentence. NO- even worse- meta-fiction was the ultimate hackery. Fuck! FUCKING DELETE! <br />Stick with it, his atrophied writing muscles seemed to moan. Screw it. <br />Yes- hack writer. All there for him to write about. Yes.<br />He stretched, cracking his knuckles for the billionth countable time in the past—the past---<br />“Two weeks-“ he began. “Fuck. 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mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As we inch closer and closer to Southland, that delectable place where the pages curl under the constant assault on aridity, it becomes so much plainer, that warped image of the world. Look at the irrepressible verdure, the choking vines that rise dominant above even the highest trees. Here you will find that nature has found herself a kind of venomous attitude to her competitors, who slink back to drums of moonshine and the comfort of splendid rocking-chairs. Fine moss covers even the quick-moving, almost to the point of actively threatening and punishing slowness. The air is so thick with water that spores float from spot to spot in search of a more stable roost, before being overtaken by competitors. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Nature is surely no slouch, for it cannot afford it. It is the men instead who, having been beaten back, lick their wounds in the damp comfort of their homes. They have eked out only that so-desirable resting point that has come at a cost so great that the mere act of venturing outside has become a coming-of-age ritual, upon which presumable plumes of hair erupt from chests, and bosoms become plump with fertile advertisement.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Truly, the air is turbulent, and every house on land is a veritable house on the river, slowly drowning in a torrent of humidity and hazy heat (to say nothing of the creeping ferns and impetuous grasses that fall upon the unwary attempt to organize against the swampy chaos). <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Tilt your head (though beware not to have it fill with water), and take in the confident drawl that surrounds you. Breathe in the hops and the salt. Touch the thin layering of sweat that clings to every pore of every surface, be it skin, stone, or wood. Everyone exists in exhaustion from the fight. No wonder, then, of the smooth curves and grins that come as the sun wearily falls in the West, and people tip their hats to the end of the day. They can sleep as the night gives birth to a symphony of discord, setting the stage for the next living skirmish as the sun rises anew and challenges all to beat the heat for hours without rest. Southland lives and breathes and fights, and don’t you forget it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What changes there are, when the lights go out. What wilts under the sun changes in the cool damp of the night, almost chasing in its search for return to heat. Red lights and blue notes fill the air, itself becoming an expressly proofed libation, which the eager mouths quaff and gasp in with every passing breath. Raucous, raucous, and ruckus bloom noisily as the night trickles in, a constant celebration of life after sunlight. Standing ovations are heard, and not just from the hoisted shirts and taut jeans, or from the constant raindrop-sound of bead necklaces thrown at every bared celebratory organ. Beer taps flow from brass fountains, patrons’ desire to consume in a piston-fury of bobbing throats fighting with the overt demands for the piston performance of other important areas. The night throbs, croons, and stands erect for all to enjoy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-22884721847921424862010-04-25T07:41:00.000-07:002010-04-25T08:41:12.340-07:00Nowhere Man"Another pint of the black, please." he said, eyes half-lidded by a thumb and forefinger intent on drilling themselves into the sockets, like a fork going towards the inevitable electrical release.<br />"Hard day at the office?" asked the bartender.<br />"Office. Yes." He put his hand down on the bar, rolling his eyes over to the barkeep opposite. Two ring piercings on his lower lip, a porkpie hat, horned rim glasses- not the most well-placed pub employee. Harmless enough to say the least, probably still lives with his parents. Maybe he just worked the slow nights. Like tonight- nobody around. Christ, all he was doing was cutting up limes, God knows why. Kid like him, probably a college dropout, probably a bassist in whatever music's been dead long enough to attempt a revival of. Easy to read. "What do I look like I do?"<br />"Ah- office... work?" The reply was earnest, at least. Very easy to read.<br />"I'll be honest. I've only worked two months in an office my entire life, and there's been quite the entire-ness to follow."<br />"Where do you work, then?" he asked, pulling the pint.<br />"What I've noticed is that people tend to assume based on what I order. I buy a beer, people assume I'm an office worker. I buy a scotch, people think I'm a lawyer. I buy a martini, people assume I'm a stock broker. Creme de menthe, I'm suddenly an arts dealer. Wherever I go, whatever I drink, it's always been a tough day at the workplace, whatever that is."<br />"So- where do you work, then?" he repeated, catching the last few drips.<br />"I work," and there was a moment's hesitation before he shrugged again. "I worked-- in the kind of business where it works to have people make assumptions rather than know."<br />The bartender gave a chuckle, serving the glass of beer. "Regular James Bond stuff, huh?"<br />"You'd be surprised."<br />The bartender's smile faded. "You're a spy?"<br />"Not entirely, but you'd, well, you'd be surprised." He reached into the pocket of the duffel bag on the barstool next to him, pulling out a thick deck of leather booklets. Casino-style, these were spread across the bar. It was a small foliage of colours- navy blues, blacks, maroons, greens, a red-- each decorated with an embossed coat of arms and above, a country name. A platoon of passports.<br />"Christ."<br />"I am, that is to say, I have been a professional nobody."<br />"I haven't even heard of half of these countries. Jesus, look at them."<br />"What's your name?"<br />"Malcolm." stammered the bartender, eyes still glued to the Tarot deck of nationalities. "And you're-- Ian Welles." He picked up another passport, flipping it open- "James Staffordson?" Another. "Collin McCreight?" Another. "Jan Pieters? What the hell-"<br />"Tonight's the night where I get to stop looking at myself in the mirror and seeing only the memorized details from my travel documents. I can't do it anymore, I can't stand not having a reflection I recognize."<br />"This one's empty. Your picture isn't in it."<br />"There's about a dozen of those. They've got the hologram sheet ready to slip over any Polaroid I put in there. The passport numbers will all check out. Birthdates across the board."<br />"Are you serious? These are ready-made fakes?"<br />"Fakes?! Hah." He put down his pint, the glass empty save for the lingering froth left to dry. "They're the only real ID I have. Describe me to a T. They're the least fake of the lot, identification for one Anonymous. The money, at least, is plenty real."<br />"Money?"<br />The man motioned to his duffel. "3.4 million in six different currencies, all small bills in unsequenced bundles."<br />"Shit!" said Malcolm.<br />"Shit is right. There's just been too much of it, and after twenty-seven years, I'm finally swimming back up to the surface to breathe some actual air." he said, dragging his fingers down the already worn grooves of his face. "There's finally a way out."<br />A dull thud brought sudden warmth across his chest. He looked down, finding the bartender's hand closed in a fist pressing into his chest. The smell of limes. The knife-- in the fist. Crimson spread quickly across his shirt, and he had the distinct feeling of falling into water. The heart, probably. The bartender's eyes were wide as plates, and he was breathing fast.<br />Finally a way out. "Do you- do you play in a band?"<br />"What? No!" The bartender's answer was high-pitched, frightened. Still, not as easy to read as he'd thought. Just as well. He sank inwards, tumbling to the floor.<br />Malcolm was half-way to the door, flicking the lights out as he went, the duffell swung over his shoulder with the cash and ready passports in it. A breath, eyes open and shut to acknowledge the reality, murder. No. Not that he could be caught now anyway.<br />He hadn't even killed anyone. Anyone at all.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-61821705682442826702010-04-23T10:53:00.000-07:002010-04-23T12:10:51.185-07:00Dance InvitationsA perfumed lady died tonight, that's what they tell me. That's why I'm out here in the miserable cold, some 'perfumed lady'. Well, points for vagueness. None for assumption. I mean, I could try to dispute that she's died tonight, but everything still looks and smells fresh.<br />The smell, at least, is unsurprising for the way she was described.<br />"Jesus. Freakin' Givenchy, huh." says the Lieutenant, flapping his hand to drive away the buzzing insects of scent at his nostrils. "My wife wears that stuff." The Lieutenant, who will be imortally known as 'Lefty' for his notorious cripping of three suspects' ('suspects', who are we kidding?) dominant hands to disarm them, looks about as well as someone who's crawled out of a rendering vat. If you pinched the flaps on his neck, they'd stay that way. The veins crawling up his neck look equally easy as targets, more tempting if you wanted to keep your thumb and forefinger in working order. His eyes are enough out of their sockets that he's a liability to the estate of Rodney Dangerfield. No respect, I tells ya's. "Well, I think now she'll have to switch to Dior or something. No heavy loss."<br />"No heavy loss." I murmur. I'm more of a stick-deoderant girl myself.<br />There's already a tent up surrounding the body, keeping the lookie-loos out, but keeping the scent of distilled ambergris (or whatever) inside. The same thought passes to Lefty. "Don't they make some of that stuff out of, like, mongoose balls?"<br />"Civets, I think. Odor sacs. Like skunks." I can still see my breath, even as I can feel the creeping moisture in the tent. The hot lights keep me from shivering and out of the cold. Still, I'm going to need a shower.<br />"Yeah. Skunks is right. Jeez, I'll stick to my Old Spice." He crosses over, looking down at her. A white dress stained brown by gutter water, pearls that look too good to be real around a neck that flows like ivory from head to neck. Blonde hair, golden with a single proud shock of gray unhidden as a front bang. She has the shade of red lipstick that could stop a man in his tracks, make him break into a cold sweat. Her nails, coiffed and perfectly aligned. I pick them up daintily with a gloved hand, scraping underneath for skin, dirt, anything that can tell us what happened.<br />"Civets. Why do I think of coffee?"<br />"Special type of coffee." I say, not looking up from her nails.<br />"Naw, don't tell me. I remember. The civets eat the coffee berries, and crap out the seeds, and those are used to make the coffee?"<br />"Bingo." I say.<br />"What, you found something?"<br />"Nothing. Just right about the coffee."<br />"She's meticulously done-up for someone who got done-in." Says Lefty. He's reaching, so I give him a smile. But she is, not anything out of place, except maybe a pulse. EMS didn't even bother. Heels unbroken, pantyhose without a nick or tear, and a little white dress whose only flaws have been produced by the inevitable fluids. Not pretty, compared to the rest of her.<br />"No cuts, no bruises. Nothing on her palms or knees to suggest she fell? Maybe she was cradled down. Maybe the same person who took the purse."<br />Someone's been keeping up with their reading list, even if Lefty's mystery assailant left the pearls. "Something like that." Presumption sneaks in, calling up a small list of possibilities, each screaming that this person looks too good to have hit the glass ceiling of longevity, propelled by natural causes. Dammit, stick to the evidence, or lack thereof.<br />Not even a blemish on the white skin.<br />Except one-- A tiny little dot on the ivory neck. Small enough for a syringe, I wonder?<br />Assumption! Stop it!<br />Assumption, but something to work on. Something to keep me busy for the rest of the night. As usual. Something to check.<br />"Looks like something."<br />"Something good?" he asks, leaning in curiously.<br />"Something-something." I snap off my sweat-filled gloves, reading a new pair. "Do me a favour? Cup of coffee?"<br />"Cream, sugar?"<br />"Black." I say. He lifts the tentflap, letting in a breath of blessed fresh air. Shit, but it's cold. "Lefty!"<br />"Yeah?"<br />"No civets."<br />"Picky." A smile, and it's easier to share this time.<br />The tent flap swings back down, and I'm left with the warmth and the wreaths of perfume. The scent is still strong. Definitely a stick deoderant girl.<br />New gloves are snapped on, and I recognize the Ella Fitzgerald on my lips long after I start whistling it- "These foolish things... remind me of you..." I stop myself, having unconsciously skipped the previous verse.<br />"Oh, how the ghost of you clings..."our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-29731565249064729442010-04-18T19:39:00.000-07:002010-04-18T21:21:34.713-07:00Sepia-tonedWhite light, splashes of red: all he remembers in a sea of fluoride yellow lights overhead. A constant pure tone of sound muffles the intruder scrabbling into his consciousness.<br /> "Fucking snap out of it!"<br /> The blur of muted awareness slowly resolves the surrounding image: Stan, hands at ten-and-two, sitting with his teeth almost at twelve on the steering wheel. His feet and legs are pushed into invisibility, presumably because he's shoving on the accelerator with all possible force. A cigarette is clenched by the filter in a pair of teeth that seem on the edge of sawing through it.<br /> His eyes dart to a black shape on the seat between them, back on Jason, back on the road. "Fucking nonce. Fucking little child. Hide like you always do. Plenty of room in that oversized skull of yours to pretend the world has forgotten about you." He snaps his upper body at the passenger seat for a moment, forcefully screaming and ejecting the cigarette from his mouth onto the floorboards as if it was propelled by sound alone, "WELL SURPRISE KIDDO BECAUSE IT FUCKING HASN'T SO SNAP OUT OF IT AND HELP ME."<br /> "You shot him." manages Jason, at last.<br /> "Thanks for joining the rest of us in reality, Professor Leary."<br /> "No, no, no."<br /> "No, obviously, no, but if you're going to go all soap opera on me, at least have the decency to coma-style rather than drama meltdown."<br /> "No, I mean no fucking joking, you shot and killed a man."<br /> "First time in twenty minutes you manage more than three words and you're restating the obvious. Thank-you."<br /> "FUCK YOU! YOU FUCKING SHOT SOMEONE AND THEY'RE DEAD!"<br /> "Genius science boy can't stand natural selection."<br /> "Oh, God, I'm going to be sick."<br /> "Yeah, religious now too. Amazing 180."<br /> "I'm serious, I'm going to throw up."<br /> "I ain't slowing down, and this car ain't getting any cleaner."<br /> "...Cleaner, what are you talking about?"<br /> "The gun, dumbass! Clean and disassemble the fucking gun! When I say 'help me', I'm not just asking you to join in on rhythm guitar! You're not even the fucking drummer, you're the Yoko Ono of my life, you useless prat."<br /> A glance at the gun, that black object on the middle seat. Jason's stomach twirls again. "Oh, fuck."<br /> "Glove compartment! Restaurant towelettes! Clean it!"<br /> It's instinctive, unsurprising given the orders being barked at him. Jason's mind screams with every ethical muscle in it as the pistol is wiped to a lemon-fresh sheen.<br /> "Jesus, I said disassemble it. You do that first otherwise you've got to clean it again."<br /> "You. Murdered. Someone."<br /> "Yeah."<br /> "So?"<br /> "So now I get to deal with it."<br /> "Like, morally?"<br /> "Chemically!<br /> "Oh, fuck!"<br /> "Pretty much, or we're the ones who're fucked."<br /> "WE ARE. BECAUSE YOU SHOT SOMEONE."<br /> "Yeah! And now we're going to take him to a warehouse, put him in a tub, and cover his body with nasty shit we're going to buy from whatever hardware supply store is open at this hour, and we're going to make sure that which is actually discernable from the rest of the human-juice-with-extra-pulp carries so little identifiable material that even identifying him as a member of the human race is going to be a miracle of modern science."<br /> Dry heave, the taste of bile. "No, not... Dammit... He's in the trunk, isn't he. I can't do this."<br /> "Negative nancy here, Jesus." Stan says, transferring a new cigarette into his mouth. "Fucking-we-will because if we don't, then we get to look forward to spending however long 'life minus time off for good behaviour' is in a room with two black guys named Jacques who have six inches and two hundred pounds on you in addition to the two feet of black-in-brown whenever you drop the soap."<br /> "You think you can live with yourself?"<br /> "Uh, yeah? Getting a group-gratuity charged to my ass pretty much pales in comparison to turning a fucker like that guy into soup."<br /> "What?"<br /> "--Even if I have to put up with your moaning about the human condition."<br /> "You monster. You vile and horrid waste of a human being."<br /> "Yeah, Mother Theresa you are."<br /> "I'm not a murderer!"<br /> "Y'know, I'm not asking you to go for the full colour set, but at least upgrade from black-and-white, and open your eyes. I'll make it easy on you and ignore for the fact that you've got a peddling setup, owned and operated."<br /> "People don't die from pot overdose."<br /> "No, but they die from everything involved in it. Just because we're taking advantage of the low-access high-payoff situation that came with the same brilliant logic as the Prohibition Era, doesn't mean everyone's going to be as business-oriented as us."<br /> "Business-oriented?! You KILLED."<br /> "My fucking reasons are better for keeping the body count low rather than just picking off every fucker with half an ounce, which is what those other animals are doing."<br /> "It's still not business if you're making a body count in the first place. When was the last time Wall Street had a Last Man Standing match at their IPO?"<br /> "Oh, right, capitalism is safe. Nobody's hurt when some Jew sells out the bottom line, moving millions of cash to the trading floor, thousands of jobs to china, and hundreds of domestic workers to the grave."<br /> "You aren't even a communist, yet I hear the same bullshit. What about fucking racism, huh? Worried we didn't get enough Jews the first time around?"<br /> Stan ignores this, "Capitalists kill human decency, Communists kill human rationality."<br /> "Holy God, you're a maniac."<br /> "Look. You wanted to be a doctor, right?"<br /> "Yeah."<br /> "Then you of all people should understand what's being done."<br /> "The point of medicine is to save people."<br /> "Fucking dictators in a banana republic that fly to wherever there's white doctors enough to get an actual surgery, so he can go back to getting the job done with machete-based population birth control long after the second trimester? That's medicine."<br /> "Rare cases! You think it's all Charlie Mansons rather than sweet old grannies?"<br /> "Same question, back at you: you think we killed a sweet old grannie?"<br /> "No, but--"<br /> "There's not a 'no, but', there's just a no. The reason it's a 'no' is because the sweet old grannies are the rare cases. Same effect, different methods: making the world a better place."<br /> "He wasn't anything close to a serial killer!"<br /> "You saw how far from the grannie side of the spectrum that fuck was. You can't even see that the whole morality scale was tipping when he was putting more than just his hand on the balance. You saw the piece. You knew it was either him or us."<br /> Silence.<br /> "Yeah, I thought so. Jesus, I have go through an entire Ethics textbook with you."<br /> "Doctors aren't intending to make the world worse, and most of them aren't in the business just for themselves. You're delusional if you're placing them on the same level with the badguys.<br /> "Listen to yourself. Itent is so irrelevant to the process. Look at the results. Hey- You want to think that all life is precious? Fine, go ahead, but you're just going to end up letting the wolves eat you rather than deny the mewling little bitches of a fresh supper. Sometimes you heal your good guys, but sometimes, you just have to kill the bad guys."<br /> Jason's glaring at Stan has become softer, more tired from the unrelenting tirade. "If you really think you're the best guy to tell the difference, Stan..."<br /> "Fucking-A, me and the Pearly Gates fucker. Now, let's go find some lye."our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-38599752799997317132010-04-18T17:29:00.001-07:002010-04-18T17:29:55.648-07:00Squamous WomanThe limp-wristed son comes in, a rumpled cocktail napkin sketch of himself. His face is stained with dust, his hair clings as a greasy wreath on his scalp. The comb-over is immediately unconvincing to the point of atrocity: thin salt-and-pepper strips that stretch over an otherwise bare and unfertile scalp. But it's not his purpose to impress, only to serve. And this, he does well, with a sort of curiously capable invertebrate grace.<br />This grace clearly fails above the neck. With a flutter of his flat lips, a piteous fart comes awkwardly out, "She will see you now." Jason and Stanley follow, after exchanging a glance.<br />The room is deliberately ornate, but has seen better days. It's the Rome that has long forgotten it once had an emperor, an emperor who made the great and terrible armies of the world rise and fall with mere monosyllabic utterance. The Matriarch sits alone on an equivalently aged high-back chair. Its upholstry is torn in places, and its once-white has become a permenantly nicotine yellow. The air is thick with smoke of an almost incense quality.<br />She sneers at them, extending her curled talons to beckon the pair over.<br />"Who are these, Alfred?" She asks, sibilance cutting through the fumes.<br />"This is Shaver and his associate, ah..." The son looks over at Jason, a trifling detail. "...and his associate." Jason doesn't bother to correct him.<br />The Matriarch lets her eyes wander over their forms, and not kindly. Jason can make this out despite the haze of tobacco. The woman is a bitter immortal from a past that left little room for error, trust, or compassion. Cold-blooded, but seldom out long enough to let herself be warmed by the sun. She is a perpetual leer that only pauses in expression to take a drag from the pearl-handled cigarette holder.<br />"Opprobrious little shit." comes the hiss. "You waste my time with your presence."<br />"With respect," starts Stan--<br />"Respect? What do you know about respect? You earn respect. You show up on my doorstep, you'd better not be some little two-bit pusher trying to get my favour. You're a frotteurist, a jaywalker, a loiterer. Why, if they caught you tomorrow, which they would do easily, you'd be nothing more than an effortless misdemeanor."<br />"About as well as I'd hoped." mutters Stan. "'Opprobrious', my aching ass. Wonder which orifice of her word-a-day calendar she pulled that one out of."<br />"What was that?" She snaps. Jason twitches. Barely looking at him, "Your 'associate' of a delicate disposition, hmm Shaver? If you really are relying on the frangible types, I have to bother why you're in this line of business in the first place." Another twitch.<br />"Alfred, be a dear, show these little entrepreneurial miscarriages to the door."<br />"...Like glass." says Jason.<br />"Like <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span>?"<br />"Frangible. You think we're fucking glass, don't you. A little cubic zirconia."<br />Raised eyebrows, or in her case, the reptile analogue. "You esoteric little junkie--"<br />"Glass, you said. Useless, fragile paperweights, and sure you can break it. But if you try, you don't realize how fucking dangerous it becomes-- a thousand little fragments, invisible little pieces of ugly glass waiting to find their way into your skin."<br />"Threats?"<br />"You assume you've got glass, little knock-offs from the street-side vendors. Can you tell it from the real thing, though?"<br />"Experience doesn't lie, little man. I did more to pass the time than just get old."<br />"Compare it to your collection, and you realize you've got to dust off and polish the old rocks you left in the dust ages ago. The pieces that have grown old without getting value. You're an expert, maybe, but you're going to turn down a new piece without major investment, a shining young addition, without thinking that it could be worth more than you imagined?"<br />"Fucking idiot." Stan mutters- "You'll forgive me m'am. My associate--"<br />"Wasn't properly introduced." she purrs, the sound of which is matched by a spreading cut of what might be a smile. "Now that I've seen the stones, I think they might be worth holding on to."<br />"Mother, you're certain?"<br />"Don't mind my little Alfred. He's been simpering ever since the pre-emptive coat hanger missed him." No response from the son other than the minutest of pouts. She silences the unutterable complaint with a bat of her eyelashes. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Gentlemen</span>... You were going to tell me about business, if I recall."<br />Jason shivered again, his body hitting the end of its codeine as hard as her lingering gaze at the-- prized stones. <span style="font-style: italic;">Start of a beautiful friendship, I'm sure.</span>our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-9499878131707484262010-04-13T07:55:00.000-07:002010-04-13T10:03:23.261-07:00Capsule."This is a great pleasure, sir. I love your work-- it's inspirational."<br />"Most people love it." he replies, eyeing the elevator's digital readout with vague impatience. The concierge, a shiny and waddling coconut of a man, touches his beard-<br />"Just imagine! Me! Talking with the legendary writer. A Nobel laureate in literature! Three Academy Awards in as many nominations!"<br />"Two." Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five... He eyes the camera, wondering just how likely it is that he's being recorded for the benefit of future generations. He shuts his eyes and sighs inwardly. His hands are set on the luggage he refuses to have carried for him, preventing him from massaging his tired face and eyes.<br />"Ah, yes, but the third is a sure thing. I wager you'll not need to cross your fingers. The world is abuzz!"<br />"The premier isn't even for another three months."<br />"And in our own downstairs cinema, no less! Oh, these are such bright times, and not just for the hotel, not just us. You're starting a revolution in literature, sir- My son, in university, is taking a course based solely on your work!" The concierge shudders, a rupturing boiler of enthusiasm. Well, one can definitely feel the hot air.<br />...Thirty-three, thirty-four.... Ding. The microwave oven pops open onto the penthouse floor, home for the next three months.<br />"Allow me, please, sir!" Bubbles the concierge. Feet barely visible under him, he glides across the carpet to the ornate double door, whipping out a white access card and sliding it through the reader. The denial-red turns to a more peridot-green of acceptance, and the locks click open. "Your card is already inside, sir. There is one on the bedside table, and another on the bar counter. Your food has also been delivered---"<br />"Good."<br />"---The, ah, manifest is on the refrigerator." The author maneuvers into the room, side-stepping the babbling hospitality employee. "So glad to have you with us, sir. May I help you with your bags? Get room service perhaps?"<br />"No." he says, sealing the man outside with a slam of the door.<br />Through the timber- "Ah. I look forward to assuring your enjoyment of your stay in the next few weeks, sir. A most productive day to you."<br /><br />First order of business. He walks over to the fridge, ripping off the list. Twelve cases bottled water for rehydration, six cases instant ramen for starches, four bottles complete multivitamins for probable malnutrition, six bottles orange juice for colds, six of vegetable-clam cocktail juice for taste, twelve boxes generic soda crackers, four two-litre jars crunchy peanut butter, six cases graham crackers (no marshmallows or chocolate though), one case frozen fruit punch concentrate, six cases energy drink, twelve pounds unground coffee in a sealed container, two-litre container each hummus and baba ghanouj, twelve packages of pita bread, six loaves of whole-wheat bread (six more in freezer), twenty rising-crust frozen pizzas (ten deluxe, five three-cheese, five pepperoni), six jars green stuffed olives, six jars pickles, four pounds cured salami, seven pounds each havarti and pepperjack cheese...<br />Good.<br />Second order. He reaches into his knapsack, producing a cordless drill and a small box of screws. Forty-five minutes of work later, and the double-doors now have periodically spaced screws driven in at forty-five degree angles. The door barely jiggles when he pulls the handle. The drill is set aside. Mental note to dig out the charger at some point in the next few days.<br />Good.<br />Third order. The freezer's ice tray is dumped into the bathtub, which is then filled up with cold water, to be used as needed; the requested case of detergent soap is next to the requested washboard. He only has the one set of clothes anyway, of which only the jacket has been hung up in the closet, to be re-adorned in three months' time. His shaving kit is also emptied into the bathroom: straight-razor, strop, barber scissors, aftershave too noxious to imbibe, and a brush for soapy water. A small case of aerosol freshener has been provided, pine-scented, but he suspects he'll grow oblivious to scent after the first week. Still, he is appreciative of the earlier mental note to have added toothpaste, toothbrush, and moisturizing shampoo to this session's shopping list.<br />Good.<br />Forth order. His knapsack is opened, producing a small stack of his agent's cards in the event of interruption. An impressively sized bottle is also fished out, white child-proof cap on top of a dull crowd of round orange pills; amphetamines by prescription (somebody's prescription, anyway), to be used in event of loss of clarity, gain of lethargy, melancholia, etcetera. Writing utensils: one heavy Webster's Concise English, a hand-held Wikipedia device, and a Roget's Thesaurus, followed by a small pile of yellow highlighters, red/black pens, seven cases of Silk Cut cigarettes, a bottle of lighter fluid, and a pound's worth of sticky notepaper. The foldable whiteboard is pulled out onto its stand along with its dry-erase offspring those non-permenance has been triple-checked to avoid a repeat of last time. Mental note to go back to chalk, and simply bring a respirator mask.<br />Good-- no, the phone rings.<br />"Mr--"<br />"Yes. What?"<br />"I'm very sorry to--"<br />"--have to call me, because I left specific instructions not to unless it was my lawyer, my agent, my wife, or the improbable apocalypse."<br />"Yes, sir, very sorry. But guests were complaining about what sounded like drilling sir, and we aren't renov--"<br />The phone is slammed down and unplugged. Mental note to slip lawyer's card under the door. As per the memo to his lawyer, agent, and wife, the phone would be available from 8-9 pm and on a first-call-first-serve basis (primarily because the wife tended to get home at 8:30 at the earliest). A fax machine is available in the closet, to be plugged in if absolutely necessary.<br />He returns to the bag. One copy Through the Looking-Glass (Illustrated), three hundred-fifty doses of (approximately), soaked in LSD beforehand. This he puts in a resealable bag in the freezer, in addition to a rusted electrical shaver, an unread aluminum-foil-covered copy of Dianetics to which a veiny Barbie-plastic dildo has been superglued, and a small signed photograph of Elvis. Thusly, less emphasis is placed on a suspiciously chilled copy of Lewis Carroll's book in the face of a more probable eccentricity/raving insanity. This is on suggestion of his previous mental note to only bring the clothes he wears. It makes things more easily defensible should it come to that. Hmmm, he sniffs. Mental note to include Old Spice in next session.<br />Good. Great.<br />Three months to write and nothing else of the outside world, which would be induced to frothing with the teasing churns and whisks of his publicists. The artists, the coffeehouse intellectuals, the bead-wearing psychologists, the greasy programmers, the desperate schoolteachers, the impressionable teens, the armchair readers, the paranoid bloggers and limp-wristed philosophes: all hip-twitching in anticipation of the next climactic product.<br />Well, to it, then.<br />The last item in the bag is removed, an oiled and ready electrical typewriter. Ink ribbon enough for a thousand pages, with two litres of black as a standbye refill with a fountain pen. Two thousand sheets of bleached letter-sized, and six yellow pads of lined tear-off paper stand ready for the drawn-out prodding of the abusable/disposable pens.<br />He sits on the leather sofa, unintimidated, and cracks his knuckles with vague anticipation. Words run to the tip of his tongue, where they dangle pregnantly over the waiting script. Outstretched fingers find their way instinctively to the home row on the keyboard, waiting for the mental gunshot to set them on their way. An entire skyline beams at him through the suite's window, where the sun leans with tired redness on the end of the day. Opalescent light streams through, and his mind is filled with the fire of it.<br />Only- there are sounds of fire--<br />He glances up, startled by the sudden klaxon.<br />"Oh, shitshitshitshit."<br />At the window, he cranes his neck around, finally spotting a black outrush of smoke from below, maybe ten storeys?<br />"Fuck! Fuck!"<br />A rush-charge of the door, shoulder-first, sends him rebounded and flying back. He screams out in pain, a dull shriek of a thing. One arm tears off his shirt, sending buttons flying, and revealing the swollen redness where once there had been an s-curve of left-side clavicle. Even twitching of his off-hand elicits a ripple of pain. Jumping to his feet almost knocks him down again with the dangling of his arm. He stabilizes it by ramming his left hand into his pantline, pulling the arm's slack tolerably taut. Options, options, options, there has to be something--<br />The drill! "Ah, no, nonono, fuck!"; There are too many screws to attend to. Ah- the hinges, definitely detachable, definitely doable. Biting down on his collar to distract from the disabling shoulder pain, he flips over the drill-bit to the flat-head, and depresses the trigger.<br />Mental note to dig out the charger. The drill bit sluggishly and impotently whirs a half-radian before coming to a dead stop. Oh.<br />No. Of course not. Goddammit.<br />The drill slips from his hand. Smoke begins to creep, in childish grasping tendrils, underneath the door. Only faint sounds of sirens from the streets. It's too late.<br />Jacket from the closet and sleeved on the good side, he pulls the Lewis Carroll from the refridgerator and tears off a pulpy mass of the porous paper, barely chewing before he swallows. He chases with a bottle of distilled water.<br />The bathtub's ice water is almost invitingly cold through the shivers. Pitch blackness is all that can be seen in the closed little bathroom. Freezing water burns and saps at his body, leaving only the shoulder even slightly comfortable. Burning pizza, mixed with refrigerator coolant sneaks into his olfaction, and he submerges everything but his lips. Hypothermia, hyperthermia, falling masonry: the end is imaginable. Breathing slows against the efforts of his cold-collapsing lungs as his neurochemical fail-safes start up the end-of-life experience spiked with hallucinogen and sensory deprivation.<br />Mental note to...<br />But there is nothing.our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8749102704870813655.post-88265529876563315962010-04-11T08:16:00.000-07:002010-04-11T09:12:41.288-07:00Bawdy afternoonAnother lovely day on the famously named avenue, you could almost make out the sun from the thick London Fog. Two Ladies of Ill-Repute stood at the corner, on Cobblepot, announcing their wares to all the passerbyes.<br />"Another luvly day in the East end, eh." remarked Janie, straightening her frock.<br />"Innit." said Ann, less enthused.<br />"Care for a dance, luv?" called Janie, pursing her lips at a university boy, who blushed and walked on. "Bloody pasty-faced gits." She turned to her friend "Whot's in you, then luv? Y'got a bit of the frown-- Fancy a bit of the lovely stuff, guv? Pah!"<br />"S'the problem, nothin's in me, no-one's in me. Nobody's buyin'."<br />Janie looked over at her. "Everybody buys, luv. London was built on love, but it did well in that they made a business of it. This-- s'a patriotic duty, innit."<br />"Naw. S'a country because we got all them darkie countries overseas. Funny types, they are."<br />"Ooooh, eh. Should 'ave seen this one chap the other day. Skin black as the ace of spades. Took Marie for a poke down by Carriageside, said 'ee 'ad a pant-stick the size of an arm. Bloody sailors are bad enough in their appetites, doesn't 'elp that they've got a walkingstick tackle."<br />Ann shivered. "Hell. I'll take the tinies from Whitechapel any day over that. No need for a week's funny-walkin' for a few pence."<br />"Bawdy and bob-tail for the young gentleman?" called Janie, again with no success.<br />"Slow day, ladies?"<br />The pair turned, finding themselves in the company of the wag Keating.<br />"Bloody 'ell."<br />"Oh come now. S'lovely an afternoon." said Keating.<br />"'Lovely' don't make a penny-dripper of an afternoon. All these university dandies, none of them fancy a fine quim like ours?" asked Ann ."Even a Corinthian fellow like yourself don't feel the itch for it."<br />"Aye, bloody right. Bloody book-types fawning over the latest monkey bits that they forget the fairer sex. Must be all busy tossing off over an ape-thing."<br />Keating grinned. "Oh come off it. Not only is old Egypt back in 'er Majesty's hands, but lovely Mr. Darwin, rest 'is soul, has given us the truth of our nature. Surely everyone from the House of Lords to the laced muffins of Gropecunt Lane can see the value of it."<br />"Well, you tell that Mr. D that perhaps 'ee was a monkey's son, but I'll stick by Old Adam."<br />"You'll see, you'll see. Took a while for the Italian fellow to tell the Earth from the Sun, poor sod." He doffed his hat to the two. "Give my best to the grinders, ladies, and have yourselves a lovely 'after."<br />"Cheeky sort." muttered Ann.<br />"Limp, morelike. Thought it was a buy for sure." said Janie.<br />"Should've said your grand grandfer was a lemur. Would've got his bones up."<br />"That'll be the day!" laughed Janie. "That'd be the day."our.man.jonesyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14547982672238125448noreply@blogger.com0