Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances
Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances: "'This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing..."
Associates and Appearances
"This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing time like some divine piston on its awesome downstroke. We've been at this for three days now - or is it four? Tweakers, lokers, slammers, coming together swearing eternal allegiance and undying love for one another only to wake up after the binge and realize you wouldn't piss on one of them if there head was on fire"
- Val Kilmer (Tom Van Allen/Danny Parker)
The Salton Sea
In the slippery convaluted firmament of drugs, under-the-counter or over-the-counter, legal or illegal, by proper design or falsehood, healthy or unhealthy, with legitimacy or illegimitacy, whether you got them from a friend's friend, or a flakey dealer you trust to show up more often than not, or some one who knows some one who knows some one else, they are never any fun unless you can do them a lot. They never any fun unless you can pursue them with reckless abandon. They are never any fun without exorbitant use, ignoring that universal instinctive feeling, the voice that bursts into the forefront of your mind imploring you to stop when you've had too much too fast.
There are times when the person can wake up after ignoring the voice. There are times when the person can't. It depends how far he's gone, how far he's pushed his luck with that one drug he likes so much and so often. He pops it in his mouth followed by a hearty gulp of liquid, he snorts it with a shortened straw or dollar bill in either nostril, he smokes it in a pipe from the headshop, he turns it into vapor and inhales the fumes from a light bulb, he rolls into paper, he melts into a spoon and injects into a previously blackened, ruined vein with a hypodermic needle, he even purchases it by the bottle in the whiles of legality from the liquor store, and hopefully he's smart enough not to drive. Hopefully he let's a friend drive him home, the friend asking himself how long he's been the responsible party and is that any fun at all? He does it for his friend in the hope that this friend will do the same for him. He chooses this over peaceful pursuits, he chooses this over the simple idea of entertaining a foray into peaceful pursuits on that Friday or that Saturday of Saturnalia at the peak of midnight.
Regardless of any type or fashion, any rigged statement of legality that only induces greater desire to do some thing one shouldn't, there is a universal truth that supersedes it all, that nullifies it all no matter how much rules from an outside source are set in stone. No matter how long some overly certified, overemphasized, self important rulemaker sits at a desk and materializes a sheet of paper with pros and cons, there is only one universal truth that stands between life and death. Edgar Allen Poe, some one very despondent, spiflicated, addicted, and very qualified once wrote, "Have we not in the teeth of our best judgment to break that which is law simply because we can?" Therefore any discourse or argument with the subject of legality must be eschewed or forgone for the sake of more thorough examination. Contrariwise the law is necessitated at times not by way of providence. Most of the time they are necessited when a body or bodies must be zipped up in a larg black bag and taken away. There is nothing prejudicial about the law herein. Just put your lofty notions about the law away for a moment, a small, innocuous elapse no matter how sharp or persistent a pang of ego strikes the turgid conflicting mental accumulation of your by-the-book morality.
The one universal truth is the voice we all have when things have become too much, when things have simply become insufferable and seamingly deplorable. There is nothing too difficult about escaping the path of a moving vehicle traveling at high speeds unless the person concerned is decidedly suicidal. When drugs are concerned there is more subtltey involved. The person always has the voice. Every body has the voice. Good people may dismiss themselves; they have it all the time and take it for granted. However, the voice, the conscience is always present. It's there effectually or it has become a neglected annoying moral excrescence of I-can't-I-should-I-will-I-won't-I-never-will. The voice is present in the ennobled rulemaker's head before he decrees or writes a statement of law. Therefore his very qualified thought is first and the law is merely a regurgitation. Yes, yes, it's so important. There there, you can't live without it. It's your drug. Just try not to do it too much too fast. We understand.
The universal voice is trying to get it's point across in a young man's head. His track veins wouldn't look any better if makeup were applied. His bleary, glazed, strained, bloodshot, and lifeless eyes are encircled with unwholsome patches of sleep deprivation. His drug has consumed him. Before it was just something he did. It wasn't a pastime yet. As he went the ratio shifted entirely and he could nothing else but support his drug. He was given to ennui and the distaste of anything beside. His ego was getting the better of him. The people he troubled himself with were his friends.
Friend is a loose word in extreme drug circles. Alcohol plays a different role, but may be just as pernicious and belied. The commonality that binds them is only the drug, not compassion or the virtues of friendship. After all, a dealer is there to sell you something. Friendship and business are mutually exclusive. The dealer doesn't want to be your friend, the very responsible one in charge of driving you home - bless his heart. Friendship therefore is for other people. It's not his thing whereupon friends become associates. A casual observer who doesn't know any better is decieved by appearances.
There is nothing prejudicial about drugs herein. They are fine by themselves. They are inanimate. One or two of anything can't be all that bad. The prim business ladies have their surcease of xanax, oxicodone, or oxicotton. It makes them feel better after clipping their wonderful legs on the corners of desks all day, after the encroaching pain of beautification and stiletto heals, getting things done in business for themselves or some one else. The buttoned-up businessmen may have those things too if they like or maybe just one whiskey neat. There is beer on days hot or cold, just good ol' marijuana for sensible people, both, or whatever and whathaveyou.
Bells are ringing in the young man's head, the voice is speaking, but he isn't listening that heedfully. He's been taking his drug too long for that kind of sensible fortitude. He sits alone in the bathroom of his functional apartment. This time his associates aren't there to associate with him. His friends are few or not at all. In any case he is alone and has internalized for some time. No loved one or member of his family has intervened too strongly at this point. He has the misfortune of interalizing when he ought speak up, cry out for the help we all need. He has internalized habitually and irrevocably for this the last time he takes the drug. First the ratio shifted. Then he surpasses the ratio altogether. He is a goner. He sits on the porcelain goddes with his kit at his feet. He tightens a rope or a belt around his arm for blood flow. Usually he taps at the needle pushing that spurt of excess out. Not this time. He fills up the needle with heroin. He aims for the blackened protuberant vein he's used the most. He punctures the vein highhandedly - no alcohol swab - and pushes the entirety of the heroin into his bloodstream.
He drops the needly any where and waits. The euphoria of the drug suffuses his body. His eyes swim in the back of his head. He has grandiose reveries and fantasies until...he- he starts to convulse and tremble. He foams at the mouth. He writhes and wriggles. He cries out. No body is there not even associates or appearances. He dies and that asy they say is history.
Some time after funereal goings-on a loved one may ask one of his friends why he didn't do anything to thwart this terrible death. The friend recalls great times doing the drug and special the other was when he did it too. The loved one is enraged after the fact asking, "why didn't try to stop it?!" The friend is stupefied, standing in mental paralysis, indifferent, apathetic, never really concerned from the get-go. He is an associate and the loved one is passed appearances.
- Val Kilmer (Tom Van Allen/Danny Parker)
The Salton Sea
In the slippery convaluted firmament of drugs, under-the-counter or over-the-counter, legal or illegal, by proper design or falsehood, healthy or unhealthy, with legitimacy or illegimitacy, whether you got them from a friend's friend, or a flakey dealer you trust to show up more often than not, or some one who knows some one who knows some one else, they are never any fun unless you can do them a lot. They never any fun unless you can pursue them with reckless abandon. They are never any fun without exorbitant use, ignoring that universal instinctive feeling, the voice that bursts into the forefront of your mind imploring you to stop when you've had too much too fast.
There are times when the person can wake up after ignoring the voice. There are times when the person can't. It depends how far he's gone, how far he's pushed his luck with that one drug he likes so much and so often. He pops it in his mouth followed by a hearty gulp of liquid, he snorts it with a shortened straw or dollar bill in either nostril, he smokes it in a pipe from the headshop, he turns it into vapor and inhales the fumes from a light bulb, he rolls into paper, he melts into a spoon and injects into a previously blackened, ruined vein with a hypodermic needle, he even purchases it by the bottle in the whiles of legality from the liquor store, and hopefully he's smart enough not to drive. Hopefully he let's a friend drive him home, the friend asking himself how long he's been the responsible party and is that any fun at all? He does it for his friend in the hope that this friend will do the same for him. He chooses this over peaceful pursuits, he chooses this over the simple idea of entertaining a foray into peaceful pursuits on that Friday or that Saturday of Saturnalia at the peak of midnight.
Regardless of any type or fashion, any rigged statement of legality that only induces greater desire to do some thing one shouldn't, there is a universal truth that supersedes it all, that nullifies it all no matter how much rules from an outside source are set in stone. No matter how long some overly certified, overemphasized, self important rulemaker sits at a desk and materializes a sheet of paper with pros and cons, there is only one universal truth that stands between life and death. Edgar Allen Poe, some one very despondent, spiflicated, addicted, and very qualified once wrote, "Have we not in the teeth of our best judgment to break that which is law simply because we can?" Therefore any discourse or argument with the subject of legality must be eschewed or forgone for the sake of more thorough examination. Contrariwise the law is necessitated at times not by way of providence. Most of the time they are necessited when a body or bodies must be zipped up in a larg black bag and taken away. There is nothing prejudicial about the law herein. Just put your lofty notions about the law away for a moment, a small, innocuous elapse no matter how sharp or persistent a pang of ego strikes the turgid conflicting mental accumulation of your by-the-book morality.
The one universal truth is the voice we all have when things have become too much, when things have simply become insufferable and seamingly deplorable. There is nothing too difficult about escaping the path of a moving vehicle traveling at high speeds unless the person concerned is decidedly suicidal. When drugs are concerned there is more subtltey involved. The person always has the voice. Every body has the voice. Good people may dismiss themselves; they have it all the time and take it for granted. However, the voice, the conscience is always present. It's there effectually or it has become a neglected annoying moral excrescence of I-can't-I-should-I-will-I-won't-I-never-will. The voice is present in the ennobled rulemaker's head before he decrees or writes a statement of law. Therefore his very qualified thought is first and the law is merely a regurgitation. Yes, yes, it's so important. There there, you can't live without it. It's your drug. Just try not to do it too much too fast. We understand.
The universal voice is trying to get it's point across in a young man's head. His track veins wouldn't look any better if makeup were applied. His bleary, glazed, strained, bloodshot, and lifeless eyes are encircled with unwholsome patches of sleep deprivation. His drug has consumed him. Before it was just something he did. It wasn't a pastime yet. As he went the ratio shifted entirely and he could nothing else but support his drug. He was given to ennui and the distaste of anything beside. His ego was getting the better of him. The people he troubled himself with were his friends.
Friend is a loose word in extreme drug circles. Alcohol plays a different role, but may be just as pernicious and belied. The commonality that binds them is only the drug, not compassion or the virtues of friendship. After all, a dealer is there to sell you something. Friendship and business are mutually exclusive. The dealer doesn't want to be your friend, the very responsible one in charge of driving you home - bless his heart. Friendship therefore is for other people. It's not his thing whereupon friends become associates. A casual observer who doesn't know any better is decieved by appearances.
There is nothing prejudicial about drugs herein. They are fine by themselves. They are inanimate. One or two of anything can't be all that bad. The prim business ladies have their surcease of xanax, oxicodone, or oxicotton. It makes them feel better after clipping their wonderful legs on the corners of desks all day, after the encroaching pain of beautification and stiletto heals, getting things done in business for themselves or some one else. The buttoned-up businessmen may have those things too if they like or maybe just one whiskey neat. There is beer on days hot or cold, just good ol' marijuana for sensible people, both, or whatever and whathaveyou.
Bells are ringing in the young man's head, the voice is speaking, but he isn't listening that heedfully. He's been taking his drug too long for that kind of sensible fortitude. He sits alone in the bathroom of his functional apartment. This time his associates aren't there to associate with him. His friends are few or not at all. In any case he is alone and has internalized for some time. No loved one or member of his family has intervened too strongly at this point. He has the misfortune of interalizing when he ought speak up, cry out for the help we all need. He has internalized habitually and irrevocably for this the last time he takes the drug. First the ratio shifted. Then he surpasses the ratio altogether. He is a goner. He sits on the porcelain goddes with his kit at his feet. He tightens a rope or a belt around his arm for blood flow. Usually he taps at the needle pushing that spurt of excess out. Not this time. He fills up the needle with heroin. He aims for the blackened protuberant vein he's used the most. He punctures the vein highhandedly - no alcohol swab - and pushes the entirety of the heroin into his bloodstream.
He drops the needly any where and waits. The euphoria of the drug suffuses his body. His eyes swim in the back of his head. He has grandiose reveries and fantasies until...he- he starts to convulse and tremble. He foams at the mouth. He writhes and wriggles. He cries out. No body is there not even associates or appearances. He dies and that asy they say is history.
Some time after funereal goings-on a loved one may ask one of his friends why he didn't do anything to thwart this terrible death. The friend recalls great times doing the drug and special the other was when he did it too. The loved one is enraged after the fact asking, "why didn't try to stop it?!" The friend is stupefied, standing in mental paralysis, indifferent, apathetic, never really concerned from the get-go. He is an associate and the loved one is passed appearances.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Case of Velda Blair
Velda Blair was Ozarkan, ex military, married, and in her golden years. She felt good besides bodily aches and was extra salty. She wasn't your usual woman. She had more hair and muscle in some places than her husband. She was something of a fierce and resolute troll, too unprepossessing for most men and tolerable enough for one. She had a good mane of jet black hair if one were to look at her from behind and willing to forgive her squinting or not when she turned around. Any jeering or gibing in regards to her unique appearance was water off a duck's back to Velda - bless her heart. Her constitution was that of solid rock.
Most days Velda loved life, raised her three daughters with an iron fist, worked hard, played hard, and tolerated her husband who tolerated her. Their tolerance of one another could be considered love, was a kind of love, but couldn't be analyzed with any satisfactory measure of precision. It baffled some and amazed others. It was inculpable much like the universe when delving too deep for illusory answers. The answers seemed tangible and explicable but disappeared as soon as they were grasped. However, their love seemed functional and indeed it was.
Most women do not like being called a bitch even when behaving as such. Therefore the epithet is ineffable. A veritable bitch must not be called a veritable bitch aloud. That is a privilege reserved for lesbians, Athena's warriors, and...and ah - trolls. Like most racial slurs and epithets, they are off limits to the tongue of any outsider who did not suffer the century-old rancorous history. Persons directly and egoically associated to the history may use these words freely amongst themselves if they so choose. Some are more polite than others having no particular interest in utilizing these words at all. However, any outsider is off limits regardless and may begrudge his neighbor these words to no avail. That is all.
Calling a woman a bitch is impolite, impertinent despite stark lack of feminine rank, and unthinkable. However, the man in question is most certainly an asshole and may be called so without equality between sexes. This is the way of things. Would Velda know this? Most words didn't matter to Velda. Many times she rose above them. She was a woman of action. In her erstwhile military days she was more fit and masculine than her gunny whom she rendered unconscious for yelling too much. When he awoke he was so impressed that he decided to forget the matter altogether and bestow upon her more befitting rank. She knocked him out again asserting her position in that she did not require anything from a man. When awoken he was so impressed that he gave her an honorable discharge and a couple of shiny medals to boot. He had never met a woman such as Velda Blair and would ne'er again in his lifetime. "I will amain see to it that ya don't," said Velda as there were no more Veldas in mass production on the planet.
Velda didn't mind being called a bitch when she conducted herself as such. What she found irksome and intolerable was being called a bitch behind her back. Her husband grossly erred when her back was turned one foreboding and seminal day. He called her a bitch and not to her face when engrossed in an argument loud enough for themselves, sparing their children's presence of course. Her daughters were eating breakfast at the table before school. She bided her time like a champion, patient and surreptitious. She waited for her girls to finish their dainty victuals. "Okayyy, girls," she chirped, patting them each on their jet black heads and behinds before sending them off to school.
Her husband was facing her still when she prepared him his eggs and bacon the same way she always did without complaint or rebuke. She loved him afterall, but she didn't have a clean shot and she was exceedingly patient. She washed the skillet till it shined like a mirror and spat smack in the middle of it for sportive affirmation. This was a good way to pass the time, waiting for him to finish his breakfast ere he dashed off to his construction job. She would later have to call his employer under the pretext of her husband being deathly ill and who would need at least two days to convalesce. Velda had perfected her slippery whiles over time. "Sir, he can't come in, and if your establishment has any respect for its employees, ya'll should just submit and heed my request." She talked to Elmo, the boss man of hers truly.
She continued aggresively keeping her tongue chaste, "He can come in his state if you want a lawsuit on yer hands."
"No no no," said the sheepish Elmo. "There's no call for that. Mr. Blair has always done exemplary work."
"I'm glad we agree. You tell that wife of yers I said hello." She hung up the phone and trudged back into the kitchen where her husband breakfasted. She always ate last and strangely she didn't seem to mind.
"Who's that," her husband said with his mouth full.
"Just my lady friend from across the way. She's comin' over for shots and Hearts later.
"Oh, well don't get too carried away."
"Ya mind yer own damn business. Just be sure to bring home my bacon, Pappa Bear. Besides, I'm put out by ya."
Her husband paid no heed and ate well never leaving anything on the plate. She enjoyed what a facile task it was to clean his dish. "Thanks, love" he said preemptorily giving her his plate. She said nothing, feeling no affection whatsoever for him due to his recent transgression and washed the plate. She kept the skillet at ready atop a counter space. She eyed it like a gun in a rack, her favorite and the one she used the most in battle. "Hellooo Darlin," she whispered grabbing it firmly off the counter and holding it at her side, drying it for an unusual, needless period of time. This estranged elapse was part of her machination for Hubbie. He turned his back and began to occupy himself. This behoved Velda and she was a speedy opportunist. She had a good balanced weight on the skillet. She tightened her grip on the handle, skin and sinues in a lithe and strong hand stretched soundly. She aimed for the back of his head. She thumped him good and layed him out. He fell quickly. She knew and was accustomed to how thick her husband's head was and hit him a few pounds shy of premature death. She could've killed him had she wanted to, but she loved him. Velda was a stout Ozarkan warrior, no more no less.
The frying pan hit his bald apex and put him down like a bull before slaughter, fast and hard. The clamor of the impact resounded in the kitchen for a brief moment. Consequently the frying pan was slightly cracked and dented down the middle. Velda thought better of herself and fetched a pillow to put under his head. She also reverently added an ice pack, dropping it lazily on a face with a gaping mouth and a tongue hanging out. She hung the trophy skillet where he could see if for days to come. He would mark and remember the day well.
When he awoke he apologized soundly and with some alacrity. He professed his undying love for her. She forgave him his transgression and bid him never call her a bitch behind her back again. He never called her bitch in any fashion after that. He kept a civil tongue in the kitchen and would tip-toe passed the trophy skillet with dread and remembrance. There is and will be no other case like that of Velda Blair.
Most days Velda loved life, raised her three daughters with an iron fist, worked hard, played hard, and tolerated her husband who tolerated her. Their tolerance of one another could be considered love, was a kind of love, but couldn't be analyzed with any satisfactory measure of precision. It baffled some and amazed others. It was inculpable much like the universe when delving too deep for illusory answers. The answers seemed tangible and explicable but disappeared as soon as they were grasped. However, their love seemed functional and indeed it was.
Most women do not like being called a bitch even when behaving as such. Therefore the epithet is ineffable. A veritable bitch must not be called a veritable bitch aloud. That is a privilege reserved for lesbians, Athena's warriors, and...and ah - trolls. Like most racial slurs and epithets, they are off limits to the tongue of any outsider who did not suffer the century-old rancorous history. Persons directly and egoically associated to the history may use these words freely amongst themselves if they so choose. Some are more polite than others having no particular interest in utilizing these words at all. However, any outsider is off limits regardless and may begrudge his neighbor these words to no avail. That is all.
Calling a woman a bitch is impolite, impertinent despite stark lack of feminine rank, and unthinkable. However, the man in question is most certainly an asshole and may be called so without equality between sexes. This is the way of things. Would Velda know this? Most words didn't matter to Velda. Many times she rose above them. She was a woman of action. In her erstwhile military days she was more fit and masculine than her gunny whom she rendered unconscious for yelling too much. When he awoke he was so impressed that he decided to forget the matter altogether and bestow upon her more befitting rank. She knocked him out again asserting her position in that she did not require anything from a man. When awoken he was so impressed that he gave her an honorable discharge and a couple of shiny medals to boot. He had never met a woman such as Velda Blair and would ne'er again in his lifetime. "I will amain see to it that ya don't," said Velda as there were no more Veldas in mass production on the planet.
Velda didn't mind being called a bitch when she conducted herself as such. What she found irksome and intolerable was being called a bitch behind her back. Her husband grossly erred when her back was turned one foreboding and seminal day. He called her a bitch and not to her face when engrossed in an argument loud enough for themselves, sparing their children's presence of course. Her daughters were eating breakfast at the table before school. She bided her time like a champion, patient and surreptitious. She waited for her girls to finish their dainty victuals. "Okayyy, girls," she chirped, patting them each on their jet black heads and behinds before sending them off to school.
Her husband was facing her still when she prepared him his eggs and bacon the same way she always did without complaint or rebuke. She loved him afterall, but she didn't have a clean shot and she was exceedingly patient. She washed the skillet till it shined like a mirror and spat smack in the middle of it for sportive affirmation. This was a good way to pass the time, waiting for him to finish his breakfast ere he dashed off to his construction job. She would later have to call his employer under the pretext of her husband being deathly ill and who would need at least two days to convalesce. Velda had perfected her slippery whiles over time. "Sir, he can't come in, and if your establishment has any respect for its employees, ya'll should just submit and heed my request." She talked to Elmo, the boss man of hers truly.
She continued aggresively keeping her tongue chaste, "He can come in his state if you want a lawsuit on yer hands."
"No no no," said the sheepish Elmo. "There's no call for that. Mr. Blair has always done exemplary work."
"I'm glad we agree. You tell that wife of yers I said hello." She hung up the phone and trudged back into the kitchen where her husband breakfasted. She always ate last and strangely she didn't seem to mind.
"Who's that," her husband said with his mouth full.
"Just my lady friend from across the way. She's comin' over for shots and Hearts later.
"Oh, well don't get too carried away."
"Ya mind yer own damn business. Just be sure to bring home my bacon, Pappa Bear. Besides, I'm put out by ya."
Her husband paid no heed and ate well never leaving anything on the plate. She enjoyed what a facile task it was to clean his dish. "Thanks, love" he said preemptorily giving her his plate. She said nothing, feeling no affection whatsoever for him due to his recent transgression and washed the plate. She kept the skillet at ready atop a counter space. She eyed it like a gun in a rack, her favorite and the one she used the most in battle. "Hellooo Darlin," she whispered grabbing it firmly off the counter and holding it at her side, drying it for an unusual, needless period of time. This estranged elapse was part of her machination for Hubbie. He turned his back and began to occupy himself. This behoved Velda and she was a speedy opportunist. She had a good balanced weight on the skillet. She tightened her grip on the handle, skin and sinues in a lithe and strong hand stretched soundly. She aimed for the back of his head. She thumped him good and layed him out. He fell quickly. She knew and was accustomed to how thick her husband's head was and hit him a few pounds shy of premature death. She could've killed him had she wanted to, but she loved him. Velda was a stout Ozarkan warrior, no more no less.
The frying pan hit his bald apex and put him down like a bull before slaughter, fast and hard. The clamor of the impact resounded in the kitchen for a brief moment. Consequently the frying pan was slightly cracked and dented down the middle. Velda thought better of herself and fetched a pillow to put under his head. She also reverently added an ice pack, dropping it lazily on a face with a gaping mouth and a tongue hanging out. She hung the trophy skillet where he could see if for days to come. He would mark and remember the day well.
When he awoke he apologized soundly and with some alacrity. He professed his undying love for her. She forgave him his transgression and bid him never call her a bitch behind her back again. He never called her bitch in any fashion after that. He kept a civil tongue in the kitchen and would tip-toe passed the trophy skillet with dread and remembrance. There is and will be no other case like that of Velda Blair.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
American Pie-ism
A film entered the media and the populace in 1999. It was a comedy for teens and all who could laugh for the sake of good stupid fun without necessarily reenacting any of the content therein. The film received praise, love, hate, and censure concomitantly as any film has, does, and will.
The part of the population who would enjoy it did enjoy it. They laughed and talked about it with affection in the subsequent groups who developed quickly and had hap to speak of it between or after any other conversational topic. They did not expect any actual recurrence of the content in the film, most notably the image of a horny teen humping a warm, delicious, steaming pie with his father eventually walking in and seeing the whole mess.
People watched the movie, liked it, and all was well. Nothing happened to disorder any one's mind beyond or pior to the ever present disorderment the world over. The film came out, it was received, it was rejected, the furor subsided, and lingers still some where some how. Would any one daringly imitate the content of American Pie?
We must first make an interrogative stab of some kind. Where would something terrible and preverse ensue which parallels the content - more specifically the scene consisting of pie buggery - and cause a great deal of social tension toward an act so utterly disgusting, depraved, and reprehensible? By a short process of elimination we arrive at a solution. The actor, Jason Biggs, was attempting intercourse with a pie which was successful. Pie is eaten therefore it is food. As with anything we ingest we arrive at better locality for such a wanton, fell, and controversial misdeed. We arrive at the kitchen. How do we know who our perpetrator is?
We must make another interrogative stab in the dark. We will take a cook. He's probably not as scrupulous as other cooks in some areas and absolutely unlikable in others. He has a sickly basement pallor from his mom's house, incurred by weeks of straight video games his in his dank, tenebrous hole of privation and inactivity. He has black under fingernails he doesn't clip. His person is slovenly. His hair grease could be peeled away with a butter knife. He smells like the squalor of the basment, his preversions, and the flatulence of sandwiches comprised of mustard, garlic, and bologna. He has probably watched American Pie and liked it. By a short process of elimination, we arrive at our perpetrator. He is the man for the job. He is the elect candidate for he his just disgusting enough to do what the other man will not do. Viola!
The perp works in a kitchen specializing in midway Italian. Hell, Throw some pizza in there and we arrive at the ubiquitous and cherished Hobart dough mixer. Some mixers are better than others, but they abound and are bullion in kitchens. Fools think everything in the digital age is good. Digital hobarts are not durable. Nine times out of ten old mixers with gears stand the test of time.
This cook is not fit to be seen. The rotund jolly jackass pours out of his chef's garb; he is unprepossessing as may have been previously ascertained. This miscreant is put in the back to avoid appearances. Only his mother can see him and who probably got slapped by a skittish doctor at his birth. He knows a thing or two about a simple dough recipe and can yield a product on demand. Not difficult even the product is second standard, which it most likely is.
We have partially constructed our character and our story. The scab is alone one day. He is rendering dough balls for the pizzas. He rolls them by hand. He is asexual as are worms and suchlike. He does not have the experience of the opposite sex nor the virtue of conciliating their affections. He is lonely and feeling uncommonly frisky.
He loses himself in a lewd reverie. The dough balls start to resemble tits. If pie is small-time action then dough is big love, having first arrived onto the counter from a huge heap mixed in the ubiquitous hobart. The heap must be cut into two or more smaller parts with a knife to make it easy to lift the dough out of the mixing bowl. The poundage is nothing to get cocky about, but it is considerably heavy. The perp knows this. His first batch is halfway in balls - tits - on the counter arranged in lovely rows. He is increasingly frisky. His eyes are fixated more and more on the heap of dough from his second batch. He rubs at his flaccid member and shakes it around to jump start it. This is foreplay to him. The batch finishes its mixing cycle, the dough stops spinning, and the music starts. Violins and opera melodramatically set the scene for strange romance. A torrid bead of sweat slides like snot down his forehead.
The perspiring oaf looks around for any undesirables, any body who would forbid him his love, this act of fruiting passion finally leading up to this perfect, beautiful moment. Finally his love like none other has arrived, the stuff of memories and stories. He looks around; no one seems to be watching. What luck, a feasible moment of grace for our perp! The opera is blaring ferociously, a baritone, a gut-level thunderous bass loud enough to shatter windows! A cloud of Cupid is hovering o'er him and the dough, only he's not holding a bow and arrow. He's holding a dildo and a rubber chicken with a sleazy grin.
The cook wastes no time. He pulls down his pants and goes at it unabashedly, making strange with the heap jutting out of the bowl and holding a dough ball - tit - on the counter. He grabs at is as if it would lactate. He moans his mother's name and smacks his own ass repeatedly for motivation. He makes an aperture in the heap wide enough for staying power. He starts slow and periodically scans the room for undesirables. His balls commense to slap the dough and his chode back and forth, keeping time with the opera. He gains speed and his eyes are hopelessly pinched shut in oblivion. He is soon found out, incriminated, and thrown out in some haste.
The chef arrives. He is standing behind the cook now at it like a fly to shit, his bare, red, and hairy ass shaking like jello on an unstable surface. He at first sees nothing. He is not an alarmist merely an authority figure. He looks up from his clipboard. The veritable pin he holds drops on the tile floor. His jaw drops abruptly like an anvil. His eyes well up with horror. He is aghast and at first paralyzed with a stupid look on his face. The guilty cook looks over his shoulder acknowledging his chef's sudden, disconcerting arrival. "Ooooo yeah, oh yeah, oooo - uh, fah - fuck! Sheeeitt! Heya chef, hahaha!" He is panting and perspiring in the heat of the moment, slowly withdrawing from the heap and relinquishing his vice grip on the ruined, deflated, flattened, sorry-looking dough ball. A wet hand print is sustained in an irrevocable indentation where he grabbed, pulled, and leaned.
The opera comes to a screeching halt. The chef comes out of his paralysis and wallops him with the clipboard across the jaw. He ties a knot of death at the end of his towel, stooping over the cook, who is shuddering and quaking, too stupid to pray. He swings his weapon across the cook's head, sending a spray of blood to the heap in the hobart. He pulls the fellow up fiercely by his scruffs and rolls, partially tearing the chef's garb. The chef brings him vigorously to his feet. Another wallop from the clipboard seemed a good idea. His rage goes unsated. He begins lambasting and then bludgeoning the fellow for good measure. He finishes punctually with a blow to the preponderate cook's sizeable belly. He drags him to the entrance and throws him to the street, God help him.
We have reached the end. What was seemingly inimitable in American Pie is subject to one-upmanship from a fellow braver than the film. Consequently the chef would have a heated and exasperating time with the clean up and no doubt submit the occurrence to an instance of ipso facto food costs. Did this really happen? American Pie happened, right?
The part of the population who would enjoy it did enjoy it. They laughed and talked about it with affection in the subsequent groups who developed quickly and had hap to speak of it between or after any other conversational topic. They did not expect any actual recurrence of the content in the film, most notably the image of a horny teen humping a warm, delicious, steaming pie with his father eventually walking in and seeing the whole mess.
People watched the movie, liked it, and all was well. Nothing happened to disorder any one's mind beyond or pior to the ever present disorderment the world over. The film came out, it was received, it was rejected, the furor subsided, and lingers still some where some how. Would any one daringly imitate the content of American Pie?
We must first make an interrogative stab of some kind. Where would something terrible and preverse ensue which parallels the content - more specifically the scene consisting of pie buggery - and cause a great deal of social tension toward an act so utterly disgusting, depraved, and reprehensible? By a short process of elimination we arrive at a solution. The actor, Jason Biggs, was attempting intercourse with a pie which was successful. Pie is eaten therefore it is food. As with anything we ingest we arrive at better locality for such a wanton, fell, and controversial misdeed. We arrive at the kitchen. How do we know who our perpetrator is?
We must make another interrogative stab in the dark. We will take a cook. He's probably not as scrupulous as other cooks in some areas and absolutely unlikable in others. He has a sickly basement pallor from his mom's house, incurred by weeks of straight video games his in his dank, tenebrous hole of privation and inactivity. He has black under fingernails he doesn't clip. His person is slovenly. His hair grease could be peeled away with a butter knife. He smells like the squalor of the basment, his preversions, and the flatulence of sandwiches comprised of mustard, garlic, and bologna. He has probably watched American Pie and liked it. By a short process of elimination, we arrive at our perpetrator. He is the man for the job. He is the elect candidate for he his just disgusting enough to do what the other man will not do. Viola!
The perp works in a kitchen specializing in midway Italian. Hell, Throw some pizza in there and we arrive at the ubiquitous and cherished Hobart dough mixer. Some mixers are better than others, but they abound and are bullion in kitchens. Fools think everything in the digital age is good. Digital hobarts are not durable. Nine times out of ten old mixers with gears stand the test of time.
This cook is not fit to be seen. The rotund jolly jackass pours out of his chef's garb; he is unprepossessing as may have been previously ascertained. This miscreant is put in the back to avoid appearances. Only his mother can see him and who probably got slapped by a skittish doctor at his birth. He knows a thing or two about a simple dough recipe and can yield a product on demand. Not difficult even the product is second standard, which it most likely is.
We have partially constructed our character and our story. The scab is alone one day. He is rendering dough balls for the pizzas. He rolls them by hand. He is asexual as are worms and suchlike. He does not have the experience of the opposite sex nor the virtue of conciliating their affections. He is lonely and feeling uncommonly frisky.
He loses himself in a lewd reverie. The dough balls start to resemble tits. If pie is small-time action then dough is big love, having first arrived onto the counter from a huge heap mixed in the ubiquitous hobart. The heap must be cut into two or more smaller parts with a knife to make it easy to lift the dough out of the mixing bowl. The poundage is nothing to get cocky about, but it is considerably heavy. The perp knows this. His first batch is halfway in balls - tits - on the counter arranged in lovely rows. He is increasingly frisky. His eyes are fixated more and more on the heap of dough from his second batch. He rubs at his flaccid member and shakes it around to jump start it. This is foreplay to him. The batch finishes its mixing cycle, the dough stops spinning, and the music starts. Violins and opera melodramatically set the scene for strange romance. A torrid bead of sweat slides like snot down his forehead.
The perspiring oaf looks around for any undesirables, any body who would forbid him his love, this act of fruiting passion finally leading up to this perfect, beautiful moment. Finally his love like none other has arrived, the stuff of memories and stories. He looks around; no one seems to be watching. What luck, a feasible moment of grace for our perp! The opera is blaring ferociously, a baritone, a gut-level thunderous bass loud enough to shatter windows! A cloud of Cupid is hovering o'er him and the dough, only he's not holding a bow and arrow. He's holding a dildo and a rubber chicken with a sleazy grin.
The cook wastes no time. He pulls down his pants and goes at it unabashedly, making strange with the heap jutting out of the bowl and holding a dough ball - tit - on the counter. He grabs at is as if it would lactate. He moans his mother's name and smacks his own ass repeatedly for motivation. He makes an aperture in the heap wide enough for staying power. He starts slow and periodically scans the room for undesirables. His balls commense to slap the dough and his chode back and forth, keeping time with the opera. He gains speed and his eyes are hopelessly pinched shut in oblivion. He is soon found out, incriminated, and thrown out in some haste.
The chef arrives. He is standing behind the cook now at it like a fly to shit, his bare, red, and hairy ass shaking like jello on an unstable surface. He at first sees nothing. He is not an alarmist merely an authority figure. He looks up from his clipboard. The veritable pin he holds drops on the tile floor. His jaw drops abruptly like an anvil. His eyes well up with horror. He is aghast and at first paralyzed with a stupid look on his face. The guilty cook looks over his shoulder acknowledging his chef's sudden, disconcerting arrival. "Ooooo yeah, oh yeah, oooo - uh, fah - fuck! Sheeeitt! Heya chef, hahaha!" He is panting and perspiring in the heat of the moment, slowly withdrawing from the heap and relinquishing his vice grip on the ruined, deflated, flattened, sorry-looking dough ball. A wet hand print is sustained in an irrevocable indentation where he grabbed, pulled, and leaned.
The opera comes to a screeching halt. The chef comes out of his paralysis and wallops him with the clipboard across the jaw. He ties a knot of death at the end of his towel, stooping over the cook, who is shuddering and quaking, too stupid to pray. He swings his weapon across the cook's head, sending a spray of blood to the heap in the hobart. He pulls the fellow up fiercely by his scruffs and rolls, partially tearing the chef's garb. The chef brings him vigorously to his feet. Another wallop from the clipboard seemed a good idea. His rage goes unsated. He begins lambasting and then bludgeoning the fellow for good measure. He finishes punctually with a blow to the preponderate cook's sizeable belly. He drags him to the entrance and throws him to the street, God help him.
We have reached the end. What was seemingly inimitable in American Pie is subject to one-upmanship from a fellow braver than the film. Consequently the chef would have a heated and exasperating time with the clean up and no doubt submit the occurrence to an instance of ipso facto food costs. Did this really happen? American Pie happened, right?
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Social Satire
Scenario 1.
There was only one man left upon the earth alive for one reason or another. There occurred a problem in that every one else who had the good fortune of surviving was a lesbian. That constitutes a frigthful quandary. He would not have enjoyment of breeding or simple coitus under such rigged conditions.
Scenario 2.
If one were gay and the last man on earth, he would undoubtedly and with much perturbation have more sisters than required by any reasonable measure.
Scenario 3.
A boy looks up to a gay man as his father. This is not an injustice. God, Satan, and guilt-driven Christian literalism have no place in the precarious unfolding of any life. However, the boy will realize the peculiarities of his situation and with good reason eventually adopt the man as his mother.
Scenario 4.
Two lesbians are stranded on an island, one male one female. There were no orgasms, no food, and scarcely any other provisions of any kind. Would she in spirit of a forced yet oddly convenient friendship administer fellatio thus satisfying him and for herself recieve a hot meal?
Scenario 5.
An amiable man graciously lent his sperm to all his lesbian friends. All of his children still address him by his first name, usually in passing, and applying no other title respectable or otherwise save that beginning with an ass and ending with a hole...and - and in that order.
Scenario 6.
Two Lesbians when in doubt utitilize a phallus of some kind. It is not a recourse; it is merely an enhancment and one unfathomable to any self-respecting male prospector. However, they have never required an actual penis having 20 fingers between them. It has never bothered a straight friend having one penis to himself.
Scenario 7.
Two lesbians, three jews, four gay men, five straight men, six cookie-cutters, seven dwarfs, eight meat heads, nine blacks, and ten latinos gather in a small space....Midtown house party.
There was only one man left upon the earth alive for one reason or another. There occurred a problem in that every one else who had the good fortune of surviving was a lesbian. That constitutes a frigthful quandary. He would not have enjoyment of breeding or simple coitus under such rigged conditions.
Scenario 2.
If one were gay and the last man on earth, he would undoubtedly and with much perturbation have more sisters than required by any reasonable measure.
Scenario 3.
A boy looks up to a gay man as his father. This is not an injustice. God, Satan, and guilt-driven Christian literalism have no place in the precarious unfolding of any life. However, the boy will realize the peculiarities of his situation and with good reason eventually adopt the man as his mother.
Scenario 4.
Two lesbians are stranded on an island, one male one female. There were no orgasms, no food, and scarcely any other provisions of any kind. Would she in spirit of a forced yet oddly convenient friendship administer fellatio thus satisfying him and for herself recieve a hot meal?
Scenario 5.
An amiable man graciously lent his sperm to all his lesbian friends. All of his children still address him by his first name, usually in passing, and applying no other title respectable or otherwise save that beginning with an ass and ending with a hole...and - and in that order.
Scenario 6.
Two Lesbians when in doubt utitilize a phallus of some kind. It is not a recourse; it is merely an enhancment and one unfathomable to any self-respecting male prospector. However, they have never required an actual penis having 20 fingers between them. It has never bothered a straight friend having one penis to himself.
Scenario 7.
Two lesbians, three jews, four gay men, five straight men, six cookie-cutters, seven dwarfs, eight meat heads, nine blacks, and ten latinos gather in a small space....Midtown house party.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Harry's Bar: Hot Toddy
A musician with a cold
was playin' bold
in a malaise, in a mar,
tryin' hard at Harry's Bar,
to do what they told
with a gaze and a guitar.
Bartender says to him,
"You seem a trifle dim."
"Yes, and I'm dangerously trim -
I've come...come with a benign request
in search of hope on a whim -
but you must follow all of my behest."
"All that playin' by an ill man!?
We succor and serve Jameson,
American Honey, and Jack...Jah -Jack Dan.
You'll soon come back to fun
and tall enough for a nun."
"Well, could you add two lemons
and honey with cayenne pepper -
to exorcise the demons
and put flesh on this leper?"
"A hot toddy if my name isn't Ronnie!"
I've got all the that.
We'll render the toddy for your body,
a leper to be rosy, jocund, and fat!"
"There is the issue of the liquor
and we'll have to dicker -
I'll stop when you're quicker."
"Make it American Honey"
with a dash of mace,
and make it funny,
seering hot to scorch my face!"
And...make it, Sonnie,
if you want euphony in back in the place."
was playin' bold
in a malaise, in a mar,
tryin' hard at Harry's Bar,
to do what they told
with a gaze and a guitar.
Bartender says to him,
"You seem a trifle dim."
"Yes, and I'm dangerously trim -
I've come...come with a benign request
in search of hope on a whim -
but you must follow all of my behest."
"All that playin' by an ill man!?
We succor and serve Jameson,
American Honey, and Jack...Jah -Jack Dan.
You'll soon come back to fun
and tall enough for a nun."
"Well, could you add two lemons
and honey with cayenne pepper -
to exorcise the demons
and put flesh on this leper?"
"A hot toddy if my name isn't Ronnie!"
I've got all the that.
We'll render the toddy for your body,
a leper to be rosy, jocund, and fat!"
"There is the issue of the liquor
and we'll have to dicker -
I'll stop when you're quicker."
"Make it American Honey"
with a dash of mace,
and make it funny,
seering hot to scorch my face!"
And...make it, Sonnie,
if you want euphony in back in the place."
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Le Club Casanova Pt. One
For Natalie Paige Lyman, Miriam Tyndall,
and Cortney Layne Rudder
Creole: "comment ca va?"
How are you doing?
Cajun: "Tout ko mwen cho."
My whole body is hot...
see you in the glorious quagmire
Casanova is reputed to have invented the lottery among other things. He may have also invented sex.
"I have always love the truth so passionately that I have often resorted to lying as way of introducing it into the minds which were ignorant of its charms"
"As for myself, I always willingly acknowledge my own self as the principal cause of every good and of every evil which may befall me; therefore I have always found myself capable of being my own pupil, and ready to love my teacher"
- Giacomo Casanova
"New Orleans is a dying whore. Naked she sleeps on my floor."
"Vultures circle up ahead. This is the home of the beautifully depressed."
"Smoke 'em. Do what you must do. Wake up my baby now. Higher than moutains....look around, feast around the fields" -
Philip H. Anselmo
Down 11
People are still recuperating and rebuilding after hurricane Katrina (2005).
The bars weren't letting out at midnight in New Orleans even though they did - or rather booted- a bevy of bumptious and impish wags out onto the side walk just shy of the gutter. They were slightly contused and ruffled from an altercation with security, big, ferocious, and capable negros with an attitude you couldn't knock down with a hammer.
The boys coughed and harrumphed, helping each other back up to vertical advantages. They'd gotten a little too rough this night. The pool table was full and one occupant, a petulant self important busy body, wasn't being a good sport. Abetting eachother against a bad sport who couldn't pay his agreement wasn't paying off. So many moves on the table and they got into a skirmish which escalated into a squabble. The C. Club preferred an air of superiority though it didn't sustain their stay at the bar. The bartender saw, summoned trusty security, and thus the dismissal near the gutter of a cobblestone sidewalk on Toulouse St. out of some potential mark. Beautiful bodies deemed gutternsipes and cast out like the awkward Lautrec. It was humid and blood was slightly aboil in the glorious quagmire.
The boys dusted off eachother's pinstripes, straightened suspenders, corrected half windsors, scraped hard soles, and used a little spit shine for gibed hair product. There was Julian Giacomo -or Jack Jewels - the tallest and most earnest of the bunch, the leader. There was Pierre Rousseau, commonly known as Ruby to men and Jean Jacques to women, Jack's foreman. The rest were made up of staunch followers who did well in keeping up with the dress code. There was Danny Demarco, Don Juan, Alfi, and Oscar, or Ovid as he was proned to regurgitate philosophy in a situation trying to him alone and relatively simple to his cohorts. Four men total, an organized bunch, but they had expansive connections throughout the French Quarter and in-the-know locales throughout the city. In New Orleans there was a different kind of business underneath the swamps, a beguiling surreptitious creature, slithering like unto the Devil around the tree, offering forbidden fruit to any Adam and Eve, or to just rob Adam and swive Eve. There was a different kind of enterprise when the rest go to their jobs, Le Club Casanova.
The swains finished dusting themselves off by the frowsy gutter, sighing unanimously with inward, tacit compromise. Unlike the loser at the pool table, they salvaged a stout portion of resolve. They stood in a moment of silence, abreast of eachother postering like the fairest silverbacks ready to pound their magnificent chests, the city lights reflecting blue and silver off their glistening hair, the fog moistening their lapels. Julian Giacomo lit a cigarette and rubbed at his temple with two fingers.
"Jack," said the foreman, Rousseau, smiling like a tike trying to hide a fuming diaper.
"Wait a minute," he puffed heartily, exhaled, put out the cigarette, and then lit two a la Bogart for Rousseau and Demarco. Alfi and Ovid didn't smoke.
Julian Giacomo gave the two cigarettes graciously to his colleagues and resumed rubbing at his temple.
"Jack," Rousseau was becoming insistent.
"Don't annoy me. I'm trying to enjoy the moment." Rousseau sighed and tapped idly at his cigarette like salt and pepper.
"Damn fine job, " Demarco added. Jack remained retrospective in his own little bubble. Rousseau looked at the Demarco with a wry pratical countenance. The others leaned in attentively. "Sure, we didn't win the game" - Ovid interjected his usual quotative light,
""Either don't attempt at all, or go through with it.""
"Ovid again," Rousseau rolled his eyes. The others leaned in like credulous church ladies to a weak sermon. Oscar continued, "
""W must"" -
"Oscar, shut up," Julian wasn't having it. "Boys I love you all, but what did we win? Reach in those pockets, boys." They pulled out wallets which didn't belong to them. However, these men were steadfastly complicit and possession is nine tenths of the law. The wallets were fattened with crisp, jaunty bills and identification not their own. "Our compensation demands nothing short of Benjamin Franklin's. We can have our way with credit cards, but those are a last resort. " They flipped through the turgid billfolds, nodding their heads at Julian. "We're good, Boss," Rousseau's confirmation was well enough for all - even Oscar's Ovid - for which they secretly loved him. They made off with the booty. The victims exited in the bar with their arms folded and murder in their eyes. The loser, the bartender, and the two bouncers were utterly had by Julian Giacomo and his henchman.
______
and Cortney Layne Rudder
Creole: "comment ca va?"
How are you doing?
Cajun: "Tout ko mwen cho."
My whole body is hot...
see you in the glorious quagmire
Casanova is reputed to have invented the lottery among other things. He may have also invented sex.
"I have always love the truth so passionately that I have often resorted to lying as way of introducing it into the minds which were ignorant of its charms"
"As for myself, I always willingly acknowledge my own self as the principal cause of every good and of every evil which may befall me; therefore I have always found myself capable of being my own pupil, and ready to love my teacher"
- Giacomo Casanova
"New Orleans is a dying whore. Naked she sleeps on my floor."
"Vultures circle up ahead. This is the home of the beautifully depressed."
"Smoke 'em. Do what you must do. Wake up my baby now. Higher than moutains....look around, feast around the fields" -
Philip H. Anselmo
Down 11
People are still recuperating and rebuilding after hurricane Katrina (2005).
The bars weren't letting out at midnight in New Orleans even though they did - or rather booted- a bevy of bumptious and impish wags out onto the side walk just shy of the gutter. They were slightly contused and ruffled from an altercation with security, big, ferocious, and capable negros with an attitude you couldn't knock down with a hammer.
The boys coughed and harrumphed, helping each other back up to vertical advantages. They'd gotten a little too rough this night. The pool table was full and one occupant, a petulant self important busy body, wasn't being a good sport. Abetting eachother against a bad sport who couldn't pay his agreement wasn't paying off. So many moves on the table and they got into a skirmish which escalated into a squabble. The C. Club preferred an air of superiority though it didn't sustain their stay at the bar. The bartender saw, summoned trusty security, and thus the dismissal near the gutter of a cobblestone sidewalk on Toulouse St. out of some potential mark. Beautiful bodies deemed gutternsipes and cast out like the awkward Lautrec. It was humid and blood was slightly aboil in the glorious quagmire.
The boys dusted off eachother's pinstripes, straightened suspenders, corrected half windsors, scraped hard soles, and used a little spit shine for gibed hair product. There was Julian Giacomo -or Jack Jewels - the tallest and most earnest of the bunch, the leader. There was Pierre Rousseau, commonly known as Ruby to men and Jean Jacques to women, Jack's foreman. The rest were made up of staunch followers who did well in keeping up with the dress code. There was Danny Demarco, Don Juan, Alfi, and Oscar, or Ovid as he was proned to regurgitate philosophy in a situation trying to him alone and relatively simple to his cohorts. Four men total, an organized bunch, but they had expansive connections throughout the French Quarter and in-the-know locales throughout the city. In New Orleans there was a different kind of business underneath the swamps, a beguiling surreptitious creature, slithering like unto the Devil around the tree, offering forbidden fruit to any Adam and Eve, or to just rob Adam and swive Eve. There was a different kind of enterprise when the rest go to their jobs, Le Club Casanova.
The swains finished dusting themselves off by the frowsy gutter, sighing unanimously with inward, tacit compromise. Unlike the loser at the pool table, they salvaged a stout portion of resolve. They stood in a moment of silence, abreast of eachother postering like the fairest silverbacks ready to pound their magnificent chests, the city lights reflecting blue and silver off their glistening hair, the fog moistening their lapels. Julian Giacomo lit a cigarette and rubbed at his temple with two fingers.
"Jack," said the foreman, Rousseau, smiling like a tike trying to hide a fuming diaper.
"Wait a minute," he puffed heartily, exhaled, put out the cigarette, and then lit two a la Bogart for Rousseau and Demarco. Alfi and Ovid didn't smoke.
Julian Giacomo gave the two cigarettes graciously to his colleagues and resumed rubbing at his temple.
"Jack," Rousseau was becoming insistent.
"Don't annoy me. I'm trying to enjoy the moment." Rousseau sighed and tapped idly at his cigarette like salt and pepper.
"Damn fine job, " Demarco added. Jack remained retrospective in his own little bubble. Rousseau looked at the Demarco with a wry pratical countenance. The others leaned in attentively. "Sure, we didn't win the game" - Ovid interjected his usual quotative light,
""Either don't attempt at all, or go through with it.""
"Ovid again," Rousseau rolled his eyes. The others leaned in like credulous church ladies to a weak sermon. Oscar continued, "
""W must"" -
"Oscar, shut up," Julian wasn't having it. "Boys I love you all, but what did we win? Reach in those pockets, boys." They pulled out wallets which didn't belong to them. However, these men were steadfastly complicit and possession is nine tenths of the law. The wallets were fattened with crisp, jaunty bills and identification not their own. "Our compensation demands nothing short of Benjamin Franklin's. We can have our way with credit cards, but those are a last resort. " They flipped through the turgid billfolds, nodding their heads at Julian. "We're good, Boss," Rousseau's confirmation was well enough for all - even Oscar's Ovid - for which they secretly loved him. They made off with the booty. The victims exited in the bar with their arms folded and murder in their eyes. The loser, the bartender, and the two bouncers were utterly had by Julian Giacomo and his henchman.
______
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)