Urban Law demands, first and foremost, that you be angry. Angry at what? Doesn't matter, just have a 'tude and direct it at everyone.
You have to have a girl or else you're gay, then cheat on her as much as possible to impress your homeboys much in the way you tried to impress people in High School. And we all know how well THAT worked out.
You need a dog, but not just any dog, you need a PITBULL, preferably with a thick metal chain and masterlock around its neck so everyone WILL know how manly you are by the dog you walk down the street. To add, your dog must sleep in the largest metal, wireframe cage you can afford to stuff into your impossibly cramped living quarters. This will help add to the desired scent of weed, dog piss, and frying bacon.
Yes, Urban Law mandates state you are only a man if you have a pitbull. Without said pitbull at the end of a sturdy leash, you are A BIG PUSSY.
The ghetto requirements go on to say your clothes must be two to three sizes too big, even if you're incredibly fat. your clothes must hang off you in childishly sloppy ways in order to properly mimic the prison dress that inspired the style because everyone in the ghetto knows if you're going to admire anyone it has to be a convict; current or ex.
Moving right along you need gold, around your neck, in your mouth, or on your fingers. Nevermind your children and their stupid need for food or the rent and cable bill being three months overdue...YOU HAVE TO HAVE THAT GOLD! At all costs!
Your apartment should be in the poorest possible condition imaginable without legally being declared a De-militarized zone. Your bedroom should have all your clothes on the floor mingling happily with plates of food, empty soda cans and beer bottles.
Speaking of beer, by ALL MEANS you should drink the poorest swill available on the market. This is key otherwise you will not have enough money left over from your government check to buy Blunts and / or Rolling Papers as well as a bag or two of Sour Cream and Onion chips and a pack of Newports. Newports are also key as no one in the hood smokes anything but.
The only time you are allowed to smoke a different brand of cigarette is when your pack runs out at 3 in the morning and your only recourse is to bum from your girl's pack and she smokes Virginia Slims.
You should have, in your roach trap of an apartment, a tv set large enough to blind people in space. ALSO, and this is of major importance, you MUST possess an offensively loud surround sound system powerful enough to shake the very paint from your hard working neighbor's, children's bedroom ceiling.
Your refrigerator should have nothing less than a half gallon container of milk, a four year old box of baking soda, some cheese, wonder bread, Kool-Aid, a six pack of cheap beer, and moldy lettuce in the Cripser. Eggs "stuck" to the holders on the fridge door are optional as are several packets of duck and soy sauce.
Which leads me to the next item on the list of Do's and Don'ts under Urban Law...
You must have a menu from every single take-out joint in the area. The list goes as follows:
Chinese
Pizza
Mexican
If you're feeling frisky and want to take one of your "ladies" out on the town then a sure fire way to win her black heart is dinner and a movie. By this we mean a bag of burgers from White Castle or a bucket of KFC and something from Blockbuster.
You may cap off this stellar evening with a bottle of White Zimfandel ($4.99 with sales tax) and a blunt just for you and her that you would of course roll yourself and as a romantic gesture...have her lick it shut.
What should follow is a fairly inebriated twenty minutes of poorly thought out, emotionally dead, unprotected sex, because let's face it...it just takes too long to find a condom and put it on. Besides, that's how babies are born.
Following the sweaty grunt fest should come The Sleeping / Snoring portion of the evening.
In the morning will come The Cereal, The Breakfast Blunt, orange juice (we need our vitamin C), and perhaps a morning beer to start the day off right. Then maybe we'll get to brushing our teeth and getting dressed in whatever's on top of The Pile.
Then it's off to the corner where we get to repeat the previous day's activities all over again.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Some thoughts about Lot's wife
Believe it or not I dreamt this up the other night and woke up laughing. If this winds up in an e-mail chain, someone stole it from me and I curse their armpits with a thousand fleas.
So in the Bible, Lot's wife got turned to salt right? That tells me she was white, you know...standard...salt, ok so bearing that in mind, what if he was married to a black chick.
Obviously she would've been turned into pepper.
Going on that tangent...married to a latina woman...Adobo!
A chinese woman...Duck sauce! That bitch woulda been TASTY!
married to an italian woman...Oregano!
married to a Jew...duck sauce...all they eat (NY Jews) is Chinese food anyway.
married to an Indian woman...Curry powder.
married to a Jamaican woman...weed.
married to an Irish woman...potatoes.
married to a Russian woman...vodka, yes a pillar of vodka. Fuckit, its the Bible...anything goes.
So in the Bible, Lot's wife got turned to salt right? That tells me she was white, you know...standard...salt, ok so bearing that in mind, what if he was married to a black chick.
Obviously she would've been turned into pepper.
Going on that tangent...married to a latina woman...Adobo!
A chinese woman...Duck sauce! That bitch woulda been TASTY!
married to an italian woman...Oregano!
married to a Jew...duck sauce...all they eat (NY Jews) is Chinese food anyway.
married to an Indian woman...Curry powder.
married to a Jamaican woman...weed.
married to an Irish woman...potatoes.
married to a Russian woman...vodka, yes a pillar of vodka. Fuckit, its the Bible...anything goes.
Friday, December 5, 2008
From the Archives
Digging through my closet for some work to hang up in my office space at home I found an old sketchpad, a huge ass 14x17 one, that I used to use and inside were some forgotten treasures from as far back as 1993. Amazing how some stuff can still hold up after so many years. I'm always chucking artwork every few years but the stuff that stays seems to really last. There are a few new pieces from the last few weeks mixed in as well. So here they are...
The Yin Yang Ninja was one of those things I created back in the early 90's during my Ninja Phase. I have no idea what the Chinese letters mean.
These characters, Omega 7 I created just a week or so ago. I've been watching a lot of new animation for kids on Saturdays and got inspired to do something straight up Superhero / classic comic book stuff. No grounding in reality, gritty goth crap which has become the norm in comics today but imagery / heroes geared for a young audience who would be real heroes. Symbols of strength and goodness. A nod to the Golden Age of heroes, spandex be damned!
VENOM. This was done originally as a tattoo design for a friend who chickened out and never got it done. I went all out on the anatomy and details and he pussed out, go figure.
Years ago I was commissioned to design some stuff for one of the guys from Jodeci (can't remember his name at all) who was creating a side group called Swing Mob. The final design was bought and is owned by him but I always liked these leftovers and kept them in case someone else wanted to have them tweaked for their idea.
This came as a surprise to even me. My dearly departed sister Melanie. I never thought I could ever bring myself to paint her image but it just happened unexpectedly about two weeks ago. No idea how I held it together while making it but I did. I try to draw strength from her memory and the Buddhist teachings I've been studying lately. I'll miss her forever but will carry her with me equally as long.
Somewhere around '91 I was commissioned to do some Pebbles n Bam Bam designs for a new line of t-shirts that hit the streets the same time as the first Flintstones movie came out. I was given a monster folder of P and B designs right from Hanna Barbara and had to learn how to draw them as if they were real. Had to learn the shape of the faces, their hands, etc. The trick was to make them "street" and hip hop without getting trashy. Some of you, if you bought Flintstones shirts back then, the hip ones anyway, were probably wearing some of my work. I don't have the ones the company bought off me but it was a fun gig.
Years back I was sketching various images of this Angel I'd dreamt of and studying his deconstruction. He went through many changes and some of them are lost or still hiding in my closets somewhere. At one point he became cybernetic. There's a lot of commentary on religion mixed in but I won't share that because it will kill the concepts in your head. You feel what you want from these sketches.
Another in the Angel series from way back in the 90's.
The Yin Yang Ninja was one of those things I created back in the early 90's during my Ninja Phase. I have no idea what the Chinese letters mean.
These characters, Omega 7 I created just a week or so ago. I've been watching a lot of new animation for kids on Saturdays and got inspired to do something straight up Superhero / classic comic book stuff. No grounding in reality, gritty goth crap which has become the norm in comics today but imagery / heroes geared for a young audience who would be real heroes. Symbols of strength and goodness. A nod to the Golden Age of heroes, spandex be damned!
VENOM. This was done originally as a tattoo design for a friend who chickened out and never got it done. I went all out on the anatomy and details and he pussed out, go figure.
Years ago I was commissioned to design some stuff for one of the guys from Jodeci (can't remember his name at all) who was creating a side group called Swing Mob. The final design was bought and is owned by him but I always liked these leftovers and kept them in case someone else wanted to have them tweaked for their idea.
This came as a surprise to even me. My dearly departed sister Melanie. I never thought I could ever bring myself to paint her image but it just happened unexpectedly about two weeks ago. No idea how I held it together while making it but I did. I try to draw strength from her memory and the Buddhist teachings I've been studying lately. I'll miss her forever but will carry her with me equally as long.
Somewhere around '91 I was commissioned to do some Pebbles n Bam Bam designs for a new line of t-shirts that hit the streets the same time as the first Flintstones movie came out. I was given a monster folder of P and B designs right from Hanna Barbara and had to learn how to draw them as if they were real. Had to learn the shape of the faces, their hands, etc. The trick was to make them "street" and hip hop without getting trashy. Some of you, if you bought Flintstones shirts back then, the hip ones anyway, were probably wearing some of my work. I don't have the ones the company bought off me but it was a fun gig.
Years back I was sketching various images of this Angel I'd dreamt of and studying his deconstruction. He went through many changes and some of them are lost or still hiding in my closets somewhere. At one point he became cybernetic. There's a lot of commentary on religion mixed in but I won't share that because it will kill the concepts in your head. You feel what you want from these sketches.
Another in the Angel series from way back in the 90's.
Friday, November 21, 2008
So Bizarre I had to share it
from Sky News in the UK:
Woman killed by her Husband's Coffin
Brazilian Marciana Silva Barcelos, 67, was on her way to the cemetery when the hearse she was travelling in was hit by another car.
The coffin was thrown forward by the impact and slammed into her head, killing her instantly.
Her husband Josi Silveira Coimbra, 76, had died the night before from a heart attack at a dance.
The driver of the hearse and Barcelos' son suffered minor injuries.
The accident occurred in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil's Southernmost state.
___________________________________________________________________
And yet I keep receiving e-mails from people in a legitimate panic about how many stores are closing and where. Someone in an e-mail actually said "We need Jesus to step in and fix this."
I couldn't imagine writing anything so stupid and clueless.
Jesus was simple and kind and wore robes which could be made from any stretch of material. Just grab some cloth and wrap it around your body. He didn't need Kohl's or Levitz or Bombay Inc.
Greedy, clueless Americans are getting their wake up call. Tighten your belt, live without that extra Blackberry, make something to eat at home instead of going out to Red Lobster five times a week.
Be glad you're not living in an area shelled several times a day by mortar fire. Be glad you're not forced to live your life without your sister or best friend anymore.
Be glad for what you have. Stores are closing...? And...?
Tell me about a real problem and I'll lend you an ear but this is nothing. This is necessary. People need to wake up and learn how to cope.
Shopping is not living, if anything its quite the opposite. It's hiding.
Maybe this will force people to start reading or going for walks.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Keep your windows open
I have never been drawn to organized religion, ever, not even as a child. I went to church because I had to but something about the entire process always felt wrong to me. Fascists will say it was my wicked nature or the Devil, but I know that's nonsense. I've done more good in my life than most of the religious devotees I've met in my travels.
Religion, the Catholic one in particular, is control. It does not offer freedom it offers rules and guilt and manipulation to keep you coming back and donating. Every so often they, the preachers, priests, and zealots of the world, throw in a "Be kind to your neighbor" to even things out but ultimately it's about seeing the world in a certain way and being trapped by your guilt and fear of supernatural judgment from an invisible force no one has ever seen.
I believe in the spirit of the individual because I've seen it, in my sister. I've seen a body with and without that spirit so I know it exists because of the physical difference between the stages.
The concept of God taught in church, and written about in the Bible is a Father, a protector, someone who loves "all his children" equally. He, according to Them, gave us Free Will.
So how can we have Free Will and yet be expected to follow doctrines and rules systems set up in a book by human beings who are obviously flawed? It's a contradiction. If God exists he exists within us good or bad. In the New Testament Satan was the main villain but he didn't exist as The Big Bad in the Old, God was both loving and wrathful in that one. He sent down plaques and struck people down with lightening and marked people for their crimes against their brothers...so like us God was both good and bad.
But that started to work against the church so they re-vamped "the word of God" and laid out the New Testament.
How can anyone re-write the word of God? It's God, his word is final, right? There should be only one book, but because the church has to keep up with an evolving society, thousands of years after mocking the existence of dinosaurs, for example, now they acknowledge their existence.
Why? Because intelligence keeps growing, people keep learning and the old lies cannot stand against new levels of knowledge.
Religion is control. It is an act of relieving yourself of any responsibility and dropping it in the hands of Tha Almighty. That is wholly irresponsible and childish.
God has a plan, God will provide, God will answer your prayers.
No He won't. No he doesn't. No he can't.
It's also said that God helps those who help themselves. But if you're helping yourself then you don't need his help. And if He's just waiting around for you to do for yourself then why worship him? Worship yourself. You do for you. You can't sit around waiting for an invisible man to come and magically fix your life.
The instant I decided to stop praying and looking to God for help and salvation I felt free of guilt. You figure if you are reaching out to some God to fix everything wrong with you and it doesn't happen then because of your religious upbringing, its your fault and you should feel guilty because something you did keeps God from you. So if we are powerful enough to keep God at bay then shouldn't we be powerful enough to change our own lives without guilt and needing a supernatural handout?
Catholicism is an enabling religion. It breeds dependency and selfishness and piety. It gives shelter to Know-it-Alls, and judgmental zealots who try to fix your problems while ignoring teir own in an effort to feel superior. They hide from their own flaws and bury themselves in yours because it is easier. there are pedophiles and perverts and murderers in that religion who simply blow off their own behavior by thinking that God will forgive them if they go to confession. If they simply talk to a priest in a dark room and recite the prayers he orders them to recite then all is well and forgiven.
Is God really that simple when humans are so complex? All you have to do if you kill or rape someone is say you're sorry? You don't have to improve yourself, teach yourself right and wrong, you just have to apologize?
That's what we tell children when they do something wrong. Say you're sorry, which is why religious devotees are always so childish in their arguments or debates. When they can't cajole you with their point of you they use threats and intimidation, or bribery. If you can't see the "wisdom" of their ways then "The Devil's gonna get ya" or "You'll find your REWARD in Heaven."
They'll do anything to keep the attendance high.
But every sermon ever tells you at some point that God will be there if you just give yourself over to him...give yourself over...releasing control over your own actions. Catholicism relieves you of responsibility so long as you attend church regularly and donate money.
What does God need with money? Isn't it the root of all evil? Yet on the dollar it still says In God We trust.
Which God, the Holy One, or the Financial One?
We are God unto our own private section of reality. Our little corner of the world is out universe, our temple, our church.So we must practice kindness and compassion and understanding unto ourselves before we can EVER hope to practice it in the company of others.
God is not in the Bible, he, It, She, Them, is in us, our actions, our hearts and minds.
Religion is control and that contradicts Free Will.
If we have free will then we have no business being in church, following religion and letting others tell us how to live.
So long as someone else controls what you do, say, feel, eat, wear, listen to, and watch...you're not living. You're not in control of your life and your out of sync with the universe and nature.
Think, feel, even if its anger or depression, feel them to the fullest then let them pass right through you like air because they always do. Anger never lasts unless you feed it, depression never lasts unless you feed it.
Doesn't it make more sense to feed happiness and compassion and understanding? Because they too will pass. They'll go away for a bit just like anger and depression but they'll be back, so in the mean time enjoy them while they are here, feed them and they'll stay as long as they can.
You can't take happiness for granted just like you can't take anger for granted. They have places to be, others to visit and can't stay as long as you like. You have to fortify your house until they return. Block your doors against depression and anger and open your windows so happiness can find its way back in. Anger and depression have to force their way into your home like bandits. Happiness and compassion wait for you to invite them in like welcome guests.
Be free on control and learn to accept things as they are meant to be in nature. The only thing you can ever control is yourself, the only thing you can ever change is yourself. You can't control the weather, life, other people. You can try but it will always fail. You can beat your dog into submission but will it ever love you? No. And one day it will look for a chance to turn on you because ;like us, it doesn't want to be controlled.
Teach, don't control, don't force.
Accept...and keep your windows open.
Religion, the Catholic one in particular, is control. It does not offer freedom it offers rules and guilt and manipulation to keep you coming back and donating. Every so often they, the preachers, priests, and zealots of the world, throw in a "Be kind to your neighbor" to even things out but ultimately it's about seeing the world in a certain way and being trapped by your guilt and fear of supernatural judgment from an invisible force no one has ever seen.
I believe in the spirit of the individual because I've seen it, in my sister. I've seen a body with and without that spirit so I know it exists because of the physical difference between the stages.
The concept of God taught in church, and written about in the Bible is a Father, a protector, someone who loves "all his children" equally. He, according to Them, gave us Free Will.
So how can we have Free Will and yet be expected to follow doctrines and rules systems set up in a book by human beings who are obviously flawed? It's a contradiction. If God exists he exists within us good or bad. In the New Testament Satan was the main villain but he didn't exist as The Big Bad in the Old, God was both loving and wrathful in that one. He sent down plaques and struck people down with lightening and marked people for their crimes against their brothers...so like us God was both good and bad.
But that started to work against the church so they re-vamped "the word of God" and laid out the New Testament.
How can anyone re-write the word of God? It's God, his word is final, right? There should be only one book, but because the church has to keep up with an evolving society, thousands of years after mocking the existence of dinosaurs, for example, now they acknowledge their existence.
Why? Because intelligence keeps growing, people keep learning and the old lies cannot stand against new levels of knowledge.
Religion is control. It is an act of relieving yourself of any responsibility and dropping it in the hands of Tha Almighty. That is wholly irresponsible and childish.
God has a plan, God will provide, God will answer your prayers.
No He won't. No he doesn't. No he can't.
It's also said that God helps those who help themselves. But if you're helping yourself then you don't need his help. And if He's just waiting around for you to do for yourself then why worship him? Worship yourself. You do for you. You can't sit around waiting for an invisible man to come and magically fix your life.
The instant I decided to stop praying and looking to God for help and salvation I felt free of guilt. You figure if you are reaching out to some God to fix everything wrong with you and it doesn't happen then because of your religious upbringing, its your fault and you should feel guilty because something you did keeps God from you. So if we are powerful enough to keep God at bay then shouldn't we be powerful enough to change our own lives without guilt and needing a supernatural handout?
Catholicism is an enabling religion. It breeds dependency and selfishness and piety. It gives shelter to Know-it-Alls, and judgmental zealots who try to fix your problems while ignoring teir own in an effort to feel superior. They hide from their own flaws and bury themselves in yours because it is easier. there are pedophiles and perverts and murderers in that religion who simply blow off their own behavior by thinking that God will forgive them if they go to confession. If they simply talk to a priest in a dark room and recite the prayers he orders them to recite then all is well and forgiven.
Is God really that simple when humans are so complex? All you have to do if you kill or rape someone is say you're sorry? You don't have to improve yourself, teach yourself right and wrong, you just have to apologize?
That's what we tell children when they do something wrong. Say you're sorry, which is why religious devotees are always so childish in their arguments or debates. When they can't cajole you with their point of you they use threats and intimidation, or bribery. If you can't see the "wisdom" of their ways then "The Devil's gonna get ya" or "You'll find your REWARD in Heaven."
They'll do anything to keep the attendance high.
But every sermon ever tells you at some point that God will be there if you just give yourself over to him...give yourself over...releasing control over your own actions. Catholicism relieves you of responsibility so long as you attend church regularly and donate money.
What does God need with money? Isn't it the root of all evil? Yet on the dollar it still says In God We trust.
Which God, the Holy One, or the Financial One?
We are God unto our own private section of reality. Our little corner of the world is out universe, our temple, our church.So we must practice kindness and compassion and understanding unto ourselves before we can EVER hope to practice it in the company of others.
God is not in the Bible, he, It, She, Them, is in us, our actions, our hearts and minds.
Religion is control and that contradicts Free Will.
If we have free will then we have no business being in church, following religion and letting others tell us how to live.
So long as someone else controls what you do, say, feel, eat, wear, listen to, and watch...you're not living. You're not in control of your life and your out of sync with the universe and nature.
Think, feel, even if its anger or depression, feel them to the fullest then let them pass right through you like air because they always do. Anger never lasts unless you feed it, depression never lasts unless you feed it.
Doesn't it make more sense to feed happiness and compassion and understanding? Because they too will pass. They'll go away for a bit just like anger and depression but they'll be back, so in the mean time enjoy them while they are here, feed them and they'll stay as long as they can.
You can't take happiness for granted just like you can't take anger for granted. They have places to be, others to visit and can't stay as long as you like. You have to fortify your house until they return. Block your doors against depression and anger and open your windows so happiness can find its way back in. Anger and depression have to force their way into your home like bandits. Happiness and compassion wait for you to invite them in like welcome guests.
Be free on control and learn to accept things as they are meant to be in nature. The only thing you can ever control is yourself, the only thing you can ever change is yourself. You can't control the weather, life, other people. You can try but it will always fail. You can beat your dog into submission but will it ever love you? No. And one day it will look for a chance to turn on you because ;like us, it doesn't want to be controlled.
Teach, don't control, don't force.
Accept...and keep your windows open.
Friday, November 14, 2008
One Room (part 4)
I have this tendency, when I'm betrayed, to go over the events that led up to my betrayal and try to pinpoint the exact moment when I got screwed.
So I don't make the same mistake next time.
I left the hotel room before Mind, that's one. I left her alone with my coffee, that's a big fuckin' two.
She refused my company on the hit against that corporate guy. Maybe that should be Two?
She took a cab regardless of my warning about the sniper that tried for me. It's obvious now. She knew she had nothing to worry from the sniper. That look on her face in the cab wasn't her being On. She was composing herself. Readying herself to si t and lie in my face, stalling me until whoever wanted me caught showed up.
I can't believe I let her drug me...again. We'll have serious words later. She can fucking forget Valentine's Day this year.
Ok focus, where am I? Figures. Usual bare stone room, one small ass window way up high, maybe eleven feet. A twin sized mattress on a box spring, one single 60 watt with a pull chain, solid steel door with a rectangular slit halfway down the middle.
Not even a goddamn teevee. Just once I'd like to wake up after an abduction in a nice room with satellite teevee and a queen sized bed.
Water. I hear water dripping inside the walls. Why's that important?
Footsteps outside the door, but they continue past.
Lightbulb's too high to reach without a ladder, like the window. Won't be getting out that way. Window's barely big enough for a kid. Basement? Factory cellar? Evil underground lair on a remote island owned by a rich madman?
Naaaah, this doesn't look like a basement.
Feels like standard cuffs holding my wrists behind my back. Like that's a problem. Need something small and metal to pick 'em though. They took my fuckin' jacket. I love that jacket.
Getting to my feet is no big deal. The hell is in my shoe? Feels like a pebble or something.
I start to toe my right shoe off when the cell door swings open and some big ass Samoan thunders in and knocks the wind outta me without a word. I hit the ground again and he leaves. I hear several locks fitted back into place. Six of them. Didn't hear them when he entered. Probably watching me from some hidden cam.
Shit. I think he bruised some ribs. Asshole. Fat boy's gonna have to die special when I get out.
The floor's cool enough to pass out on for a few.
I hear water dripping inside the walls and the barely audible hum of the light bulb above but no other electronic noise. More than likely no cameras in the room. So how did fat boy know to come in? Or was it just a random check meant to throw me off and keep me worried? C.O's do that in prison. Lame trick.
Enough resting.
Back up on my knees. Better to keep my feet hidden from view of the door and work my shoe off. Something small and metallic clinks to the floor.
Check the door, listen for movement. Nothing.
On my back and wriggling towards the sound of the little metal thing until my fingertips come across it. A nail, about an inch long. Simple little nail.
The water dripping makes me think of her in the hotel room drinking from a cup.
Mind. Sneaky bitch. How far ahead had she planned this? Turned me in for the money and left me a way out. She knows me. Still, she's not girlfriend material.
A nail.
Picking the cuffs is about as difficult as turning a doorknob. I keep my hands behind my back regardless, and wait.
No idea how much time passes. Got bored counting Mississippi. Lost track after seventy-five.
Big Samoa storms in again. I take his legs out from under him with one kick. He cracks a tooth on the floor. I shove the cuffs in his mouth and stomp on his neck. It snaps, he chokes, not sure which happens first.
I save the nail. Tuck it into the Change Pocket of my jeans.
No gun on him. Hundred-ten bucks in his wallet, ID says he's called Manni Kahulea from Jersey. A Hawaiian from Jersey? Whatever. Ring of keys on a belt loop. Take those. Decent sized knife in a sheath on his boot. That'll do.
Out in the hall there are six other rooms like mine. Stone walls, 60 watts spaced evenly apart on the ceiling. Cobwebs, sound of dripping water. Which way is out?
Stairs at the far end. Might as well.
I can hear footsteps and voices from the foot of the stairs. Sounds like two guys. I creep up, knife ready, until I can see them without them seeing me.
Four guys. Two are staring at past a rows of windows at a clear blue sky while the other two are in the center of a sunlit room bullshitting about women. A seagull sails by one of a dozen windows. Must be a beach nearby.
Soooo, two with their backs to me and two in my line of sight. They've got MP-5's and 9 Millies on their hips. And me with a fucking knife. Khaki uniforms. Military, but who's military? Not Army or Marines. The caps make me think of South American militia, like Hollywood militia from some generic Latin American country. If this were a movie they'd all answer to some guy with four stars and a thick mustache and cartoon Spanish accent. Probably a scar from an alligator fight he had as a youth.
The two talking shit about who they claim to have fucked look like buddies. One's built like a linebacker, all neck and belly. The other one's my concern; short, lean, feet planted firmly apart. He's battle ready. The other one's just muscle, probably owns either a T-Bird or a giant pickup. Sounds Southern so throw in a Confederate flag somewhere in the house he inherited from his parents and we got us a Good Ol' Boy who's used to beatin' on guys smaller than him in bars for fun.
The short guy could know martial arts or be some kind of Eclectic fighter, like me. He'll be a problem. The two with their backs to me watching the skies are bulky six footers. Brawlers or boxers, nothing to write home about. Boxers ain't shit in street fights so we watch the little one.
At the other end of the room there's a door. No choice but to go through this one. So who dies first? Gotta be Short Man. If he's the fighter he seems to be he can keep me busy long enough for the other to pop rounds and my t-shirt ain't bulletproof. Wonder if one of them is my shoe size? Gonna have to lose mine. Too slippery. Socks gotta go as well. Haven't fought barefoot in a while. Fuck.
I dip back a few steps as The Linebacker and Shorty wander in my direction. With a gun I could take all four down before anyone knew what to do.
Back to the wall I hold my breath as Shorty stops a few feet above me. All he's gotta do is glance down and this could be over in a second.
Linebacker's yapping. "...got new wheels on my truck last week, some serious fuckin' huge ass mags..."
Fuckin' knew it.
"Yea, how much you pay for the set?"
"Got a sweet deal from a buddy o' mine from high school. All four ran me hunnert twenty bucks. Hunnert-twenty for 20" rims man!"
Wonder if he fucks his cousins regularly?
Shorty; "Shit that is a good deal. I seen some twenties in a magazine, set of four, for two-fifty."
"Naw man, you come see me when you need some new wheels an' I'll introduce you to my boy!"
Scraping of bootheels on the ground. Their voices sound further away. Their backs are to me.
Linebacker: "So where the hell's Manni anyway?"
Shorty: "He went to check on..."
I hurry up the stairs, barefoot, reach out, and slash Shorty's calf open. He screams and falls backward as Linebacker fumbles with his weapon.
"Shit, Carlos, fucker's loose!"
Carlos swallows my knife and I snatch his rifle out of the air.
Linebacker cocks his a second too late and takes six shots to the chest.
I slide past him as the other two turn to fire at the wrong spot. Their fire is wild, unfocused, nervous. These guys are grunts and poorly trained ones. Whoever bought them paid for height and body mass rather than skill and training.
Carlos, Shorty, is gurgling behind me. Linebacker's bleeding out fast, eyes already glassing up and pinned to the ceiling.
The two by the windows die with holes where their noses used to be, brains sliding down glass, salty ocean air pouring in from behind through the shattered glass.
A slug in Carlos' brain pan stops that damn gurgling.
Ok now, let's see who wears an eleven...
Best I can do is a ten. Figures. Fuckin' big goons with little bitch feet. Another MP-5 or two makes up for the water blister I'm gonna have later.
Quick glance out those windows. A beach, an ocean...get the fuck outta here? I'm on a remote island? This just gets better an' better.
Carlos' keycard opens the door at the far end of the room.
Metal hallway. Harsh white lights lining the ceiling. Tubes and cables running in and out of the walls on both sides. This must lead to the evil leader's inner sanctum. Fuckin' ridiculous.
At the end of the hall a lift opens on its own. So I was being watched after all. Then whoever's on the other end of the camera knows what I can do. This was an audition. I hate auditions. Don't do them. Probably wanna offer me some contract that means the world to them. Not the first time something like this has happened. Making me audition raises my fee.
And pisses me off.
The lift takes me up five levels and lets me out into a room big enough to park a small plane in. Of course there's a large desk at the other end with Mr. Big behind it. If he has a big mustache I swear I'll bust out laughing.
The walls are lined with monitors and armed guards. A few plants, some living room furniture thrown off center and panoramic windows round off Cliche Central. All that's missing is a fat white Persian cat.
I cross the room as casually as one might stroll through a park. The guards have their hands on their weapons like it matters.
Mr. Big turns around without a giant mustache or a fat white cat. He looks like an accountant. Business dressed delivery boy. The suit's cut to hide his fat but the extra chin fucks that up. Fat kid trying to look important.
He's not the Big Boss. He works under the Big Boss' Right Hand. No doubt about it. The unnecessarily large office clinches it. Must be two dozen armed guards around me and I think Fat Boy's sweating. A few steps closer tells me he is.
"Vendetta, a pleasure to meet you at..."
"Get to it chubs. What do you want?" I lay one of my MP's on his desk. He swallows. No one speaks to him like that. Not since high school I bet. Parents probably ignored him a lot. This guy's a joke and its pissing me off with each passing minute.
"I think you need to take a moment and soak in your surroundings."
"I'm on an island someone put you in charge of and ordered you to hire me after putting me through some bullshit field test."
No response. The Atmospheric Regulator hums. Leather boots creak behind me. I can feel Fattie's henchmen tense up. They're not used to hearing him spoken down to. I bet some of them like it.
"They said you'd be difficult."
I drop into the seat before his desk and cock the machine pistol in my hand. Every single guard cocks his weapon and draws down on me.
Fattie raises a hand quickly and stops them cold. Nice.
Obedient little bitches.
"That's good." I tell him. "You saved their lives."
Fattie eyes me indignantly. "Or yours."
"Doubt it. You got a name 'cause I keep calling you Fattie in my head. Your mom didn't name you Fattie did she?"
That pissed him off. Good to know.
"Michael Emmerech, and yes, I have an assignment for you. Your usual fee..."
"Has doubled." Four guards move into view behind him.
"Excuse me?" Emmerech looks like he's about to burst. Hard not to laugh. You'd think I'd stolen his fudge.
"That audition in the monitoring room...will cost you."
"Or...?" He's so pissed.
That changes quickly when I kick him in the balls and jam the barrel of my gun against his temple. Arm around his throat and he's my shield. The guards don't know what to do. Someone should talk to Human Resources about their Hiring Practices.
"You know the drill guys."
Emmerech nods nervously and rifles, machine pistols and semi-autos clatter to the floor.
"Good boys. Now everyone leave the room or I kill the guy that signs your paychecks."
Another nervous Emmerech nod and the room empties out in seconds. No one really gives a fuck about this fat asshole, but threaten their money and suddenly I'm the boss.
I let Emmerech go soon as the doors are locked. He's shitting himself.
"Well...?" I walk around his desk and sit in his big important chair.
He straightens his tie, swallows, and turns toward me.
And somehow, right before my eyes, transforms into someone I'm suddenly interested in. No guards in the room, no weapons to protect himself with, he looks focused, determined, and a little desperate.
"The assignment will take you to Bahrain. It's in the Persian Gulf, East of Saudi..."
"You got anything in sayyyy...Prague? France...? The Bahamas?."
He swallows and pushes on. "The Prime Minister; Khalifah ibn Sulman Al Khalifah, has twenty-three members in his cabinet. One of them was a drinking problem and took liberties with the wife of my employer while she was visiting Bahrain on business. My employer wants this man; Jidda Hamad Al Kahleed Bin Isa...eliminated. The man's dossier is on a Memory Stick in the top left drawer of my desk."
It was, along with several porn DVD's, and some cigarettes. Straight porn. I pegged him for gay. Can't always be right.
"I told you the amount is double."
"I will make the arrangements."
"Now."
"So you will take the assignment?"
The look was enough to get him on my side of his desk rattling away on a microthin laptop.
"Done." He steps away and turns the screen toward me. He used the Canary Island account everyone knows. Everything was set.
"Anything else?"
He looked around the room then typed up a memo on Notepad and moved away from the screen.
"I need you to kill my boss after you're done in Bahrain. I'll pay whatever you want. No one must know...please!"
He plucked at his shirt collar and mopped his brow.
I raised an eyebrow and gestured at the deck. He typed some more.
"He has my family under constant watch. My children are kept under guard and we're allowed to see them only on the days he dictates. I know you don't care. I have money. Will you?"
He steps back and looks close to tears. I hate that. Don't even know who he works for but no one's beyond my reach. Double payday, who am I to say no?
I nod and step out from behind his desk.
I flip his suit jacket open and fish inside the pockets until I find his cell. He doesn't get it.
"I'll be in touch."
At the door I stop and ask;" How do I get off this rock?"
"arrangements have been made. There is a boat docked at the beach that will take you to Florida."
"And the gear I'll need?"
"Waiting for you in Florida." Emmerech looks uncomfortable behind his desk.
I step out into the hall and stare down several dozen armed guards. They look past me. I don't have to turn around. One nearest me nods at whatever Emmerech did behind my back and the guards form two perfect rows allowing me passage.
Ocean breeze was perfect. Small dock at the end of the beach with a powerboat waiting. Still couldn't believe I was on a remote island. Probably man made.
The boatman and I say nothing to one another.
The boat splits the ocean like a white arrowhead as we rocket towards Florida.
Fucking Bahrain.
So I don't make the same mistake next time.
I left the hotel room before Mind, that's one. I left her alone with my coffee, that's a big fuckin' two.
She refused my company on the hit against that corporate guy. Maybe that should be Two?
She took a cab regardless of my warning about the sniper that tried for me. It's obvious now. She knew she had nothing to worry from the sniper. That look on her face in the cab wasn't her being On. She was composing herself. Readying herself to si t and lie in my face, stalling me until whoever wanted me caught showed up.
I can't believe I let her drug me...again. We'll have serious words later. She can fucking forget Valentine's Day this year.
Ok focus, where am I? Figures. Usual bare stone room, one small ass window way up high, maybe eleven feet. A twin sized mattress on a box spring, one single 60 watt with a pull chain, solid steel door with a rectangular slit halfway down the middle.
Not even a goddamn teevee. Just once I'd like to wake up after an abduction in a nice room with satellite teevee and a queen sized bed.
Water. I hear water dripping inside the walls. Why's that important?
Footsteps outside the door, but they continue past.
Lightbulb's too high to reach without a ladder, like the window. Won't be getting out that way. Window's barely big enough for a kid. Basement? Factory cellar? Evil underground lair on a remote island owned by a rich madman?
Naaaah, this doesn't look like a basement.
Feels like standard cuffs holding my wrists behind my back. Like that's a problem. Need something small and metal to pick 'em though. They took my fuckin' jacket. I love that jacket.
Getting to my feet is no big deal. The hell is in my shoe? Feels like a pebble or something.
I start to toe my right shoe off when the cell door swings open and some big ass Samoan thunders in and knocks the wind outta me without a word. I hit the ground again and he leaves. I hear several locks fitted back into place. Six of them. Didn't hear them when he entered. Probably watching me from some hidden cam.
Shit. I think he bruised some ribs. Asshole. Fat boy's gonna have to die special when I get out.
The floor's cool enough to pass out on for a few.
I hear water dripping inside the walls and the barely audible hum of the light bulb above but no other electronic noise. More than likely no cameras in the room. So how did fat boy know to come in? Or was it just a random check meant to throw me off and keep me worried? C.O's do that in prison. Lame trick.
Enough resting.
Back up on my knees. Better to keep my feet hidden from view of the door and work my shoe off. Something small and metallic clinks to the floor.
Check the door, listen for movement. Nothing.
On my back and wriggling towards the sound of the little metal thing until my fingertips come across it. A nail, about an inch long. Simple little nail.
The water dripping makes me think of her in the hotel room drinking from a cup.
Mind. Sneaky bitch. How far ahead had she planned this? Turned me in for the money and left me a way out. She knows me. Still, she's not girlfriend material.
A nail.
Picking the cuffs is about as difficult as turning a doorknob. I keep my hands behind my back regardless, and wait.
No idea how much time passes. Got bored counting Mississippi. Lost track after seventy-five.
Big Samoa storms in again. I take his legs out from under him with one kick. He cracks a tooth on the floor. I shove the cuffs in his mouth and stomp on his neck. It snaps, he chokes, not sure which happens first.
I save the nail. Tuck it into the Change Pocket of my jeans.
No gun on him. Hundred-ten bucks in his wallet, ID says he's called Manni Kahulea from Jersey. A Hawaiian from Jersey? Whatever. Ring of keys on a belt loop. Take those. Decent sized knife in a sheath on his boot. That'll do.
Out in the hall there are six other rooms like mine. Stone walls, 60 watts spaced evenly apart on the ceiling. Cobwebs, sound of dripping water. Which way is out?
Stairs at the far end. Might as well.
I can hear footsteps and voices from the foot of the stairs. Sounds like two guys. I creep up, knife ready, until I can see them without them seeing me.
Four guys. Two are staring at past a rows of windows at a clear blue sky while the other two are in the center of a sunlit room bullshitting about women. A seagull sails by one of a dozen windows. Must be a beach nearby.
Soooo, two with their backs to me and two in my line of sight. They've got MP-5's and 9 Millies on their hips. And me with a fucking knife. Khaki uniforms. Military, but who's military? Not Army or Marines. The caps make me think of South American militia, like Hollywood militia from some generic Latin American country. If this were a movie they'd all answer to some guy with four stars and a thick mustache and cartoon Spanish accent. Probably a scar from an alligator fight he had as a youth.
The two talking shit about who they claim to have fucked look like buddies. One's built like a linebacker, all neck and belly. The other one's my concern; short, lean, feet planted firmly apart. He's battle ready. The other one's just muscle, probably owns either a T-Bird or a giant pickup. Sounds Southern so throw in a Confederate flag somewhere in the house he inherited from his parents and we got us a Good Ol' Boy who's used to beatin' on guys smaller than him in bars for fun.
The short guy could know martial arts or be some kind of Eclectic fighter, like me. He'll be a problem. The two with their backs to me watching the skies are bulky six footers. Brawlers or boxers, nothing to write home about. Boxers ain't shit in street fights so we watch the little one.
At the other end of the room there's a door. No choice but to go through this one. So who dies first? Gotta be Short Man. If he's the fighter he seems to be he can keep me busy long enough for the other to pop rounds and my t-shirt ain't bulletproof. Wonder if one of them is my shoe size? Gonna have to lose mine. Too slippery. Socks gotta go as well. Haven't fought barefoot in a while. Fuck.
I dip back a few steps as The Linebacker and Shorty wander in my direction. With a gun I could take all four down before anyone knew what to do.
Back to the wall I hold my breath as Shorty stops a few feet above me. All he's gotta do is glance down and this could be over in a second.
Linebacker's yapping. "...got new wheels on my truck last week, some serious fuckin' huge ass mags..."
Fuckin' knew it.
"Yea, how much you pay for the set?"
"Got a sweet deal from a buddy o' mine from high school. All four ran me hunnert twenty bucks. Hunnert-twenty for 20" rims man!"
Wonder if he fucks his cousins regularly?
Shorty; "Shit that is a good deal. I seen some twenties in a magazine, set of four, for two-fifty."
"Naw man, you come see me when you need some new wheels an' I'll introduce you to my boy!"
Scraping of bootheels on the ground. Their voices sound further away. Their backs are to me.
Linebacker: "So where the hell's Manni anyway?"
Shorty: "He went to check on..."
I hurry up the stairs, barefoot, reach out, and slash Shorty's calf open. He screams and falls backward as Linebacker fumbles with his weapon.
"Shit, Carlos, fucker's loose!"
Carlos swallows my knife and I snatch his rifle out of the air.
Linebacker cocks his a second too late and takes six shots to the chest.
I slide past him as the other two turn to fire at the wrong spot. Their fire is wild, unfocused, nervous. These guys are grunts and poorly trained ones. Whoever bought them paid for height and body mass rather than skill and training.
Carlos, Shorty, is gurgling behind me. Linebacker's bleeding out fast, eyes already glassing up and pinned to the ceiling.
The two by the windows die with holes where their noses used to be, brains sliding down glass, salty ocean air pouring in from behind through the shattered glass.
A slug in Carlos' brain pan stops that damn gurgling.
Ok now, let's see who wears an eleven...
Best I can do is a ten. Figures. Fuckin' big goons with little bitch feet. Another MP-5 or two makes up for the water blister I'm gonna have later.
Quick glance out those windows. A beach, an ocean...get the fuck outta here? I'm on a remote island? This just gets better an' better.
Carlos' keycard opens the door at the far end of the room.
Metal hallway. Harsh white lights lining the ceiling. Tubes and cables running in and out of the walls on both sides. This must lead to the evil leader's inner sanctum. Fuckin' ridiculous.
At the end of the hall a lift opens on its own. So I was being watched after all. Then whoever's on the other end of the camera knows what I can do. This was an audition. I hate auditions. Don't do them. Probably wanna offer me some contract that means the world to them. Not the first time something like this has happened. Making me audition raises my fee.
And pisses me off.
The lift takes me up five levels and lets me out into a room big enough to park a small plane in. Of course there's a large desk at the other end with Mr. Big behind it. If he has a big mustache I swear I'll bust out laughing.
The walls are lined with monitors and armed guards. A few plants, some living room furniture thrown off center and panoramic windows round off Cliche Central. All that's missing is a fat white Persian cat.
I cross the room as casually as one might stroll through a park. The guards have their hands on their weapons like it matters.
Mr. Big turns around without a giant mustache or a fat white cat. He looks like an accountant. Business dressed delivery boy. The suit's cut to hide his fat but the extra chin fucks that up. Fat kid trying to look important.
He's not the Big Boss. He works under the Big Boss' Right Hand. No doubt about it. The unnecessarily large office clinches it. Must be two dozen armed guards around me and I think Fat Boy's sweating. A few steps closer tells me he is.
"Vendetta, a pleasure to meet you at..."
"Get to it chubs. What do you want?" I lay one of my MP's on his desk. He swallows. No one speaks to him like that. Not since high school I bet. Parents probably ignored him a lot. This guy's a joke and its pissing me off with each passing minute.
"I think you need to take a moment and soak in your surroundings."
"I'm on an island someone put you in charge of and ordered you to hire me after putting me through some bullshit field test."
No response. The Atmospheric Regulator hums. Leather boots creak behind me. I can feel Fattie's henchmen tense up. They're not used to hearing him spoken down to. I bet some of them like it.
"They said you'd be difficult."
I drop into the seat before his desk and cock the machine pistol in my hand. Every single guard cocks his weapon and draws down on me.
Fattie raises a hand quickly and stops them cold. Nice.
Obedient little bitches.
"That's good." I tell him. "You saved their lives."
Fattie eyes me indignantly. "Or yours."
"Doubt it. You got a name 'cause I keep calling you Fattie in my head. Your mom didn't name you Fattie did she?"
That pissed him off. Good to know.
"Michael Emmerech, and yes, I have an assignment for you. Your usual fee..."
"Has doubled." Four guards move into view behind him.
"Excuse me?" Emmerech looks like he's about to burst. Hard not to laugh. You'd think I'd stolen his fudge.
"That audition in the monitoring room...will cost you."
"Or...?" He's so pissed.
That changes quickly when I kick him in the balls and jam the barrel of my gun against his temple. Arm around his throat and he's my shield. The guards don't know what to do. Someone should talk to Human Resources about their Hiring Practices.
"You know the drill guys."
Emmerech nods nervously and rifles, machine pistols and semi-autos clatter to the floor.
"Good boys. Now everyone leave the room or I kill the guy that signs your paychecks."
Another nervous Emmerech nod and the room empties out in seconds. No one really gives a fuck about this fat asshole, but threaten their money and suddenly I'm the boss.
I let Emmerech go soon as the doors are locked. He's shitting himself.
"Well...?" I walk around his desk and sit in his big important chair.
He straightens his tie, swallows, and turns toward me.
And somehow, right before my eyes, transforms into someone I'm suddenly interested in. No guards in the room, no weapons to protect himself with, he looks focused, determined, and a little desperate.
"The assignment will take you to Bahrain. It's in the Persian Gulf, East of Saudi..."
"You got anything in sayyyy...Prague? France...? The Bahamas?."
He swallows and pushes on. "The Prime Minister; Khalifah ibn Sulman Al Khalifah, has twenty-three members in his cabinet. One of them was a drinking problem and took liberties with the wife of my employer while she was visiting Bahrain on business. My employer wants this man; Jidda Hamad Al Kahleed Bin Isa...eliminated. The man's dossier is on a Memory Stick in the top left drawer of my desk."
It was, along with several porn DVD's, and some cigarettes. Straight porn. I pegged him for gay. Can't always be right.
"I told you the amount is double."
"I will make the arrangements."
"Now."
"So you will take the assignment?"
The look was enough to get him on my side of his desk rattling away on a microthin laptop.
"Done." He steps away and turns the screen toward me. He used the Canary Island account everyone knows. Everything was set.
"Anything else?"
He looked around the room then typed up a memo on Notepad and moved away from the screen.
"I need you to kill my boss after you're done in Bahrain. I'll pay whatever you want. No one must know...please!"
He plucked at his shirt collar and mopped his brow.
I raised an eyebrow and gestured at the deck. He typed some more.
"He has my family under constant watch. My children are kept under guard and we're allowed to see them only on the days he dictates. I know you don't care. I have money. Will you?"
He steps back and looks close to tears. I hate that. Don't even know who he works for but no one's beyond my reach. Double payday, who am I to say no?
I nod and step out from behind his desk.
I flip his suit jacket open and fish inside the pockets until I find his cell. He doesn't get it.
"I'll be in touch."
At the door I stop and ask;" How do I get off this rock?"
"arrangements have been made. There is a boat docked at the beach that will take you to Florida."
"And the gear I'll need?"
"Waiting for you in Florida." Emmerech looks uncomfortable behind his desk.
I step out into the hall and stare down several dozen armed guards. They look past me. I don't have to turn around. One nearest me nods at whatever Emmerech did behind my back and the guards form two perfect rows allowing me passage.
Ocean breeze was perfect. Small dock at the end of the beach with a powerboat waiting. Still couldn't believe I was on a remote island. Probably man made.
The boatman and I say nothing to one another.
The boat splits the ocean like a white arrowhead as we rocket towards Florida.
Fucking Bahrain.
One Room (part 3)
I could see into the cab when she pulled up. She was still On. Stiffness in her jaw, the way she stared straight ahead past the cabbie. Shades were up high. She was still processing, going over the kill piece by piece. We all do, the good ones anyway. Replay the hit over and over right after completion to look for mistakes.
Makes the next one go smoother.
By the time she'd stepped from the cab and spotted me It was Off.
She smiled and sat down behind her coffee and started sipping.
"How'd it go?"
"good. Easy. This is till warm."
"Had them re-heat it a few minutes ago."
"Always thinking." She grinned, tight-lipped, and set the cup back down."How many have you had while waiting?"
"One my second one." I took a sip.
"Got any smokes?" She set her gun-sized handbag down on the table and sipped more coffee.
"There's a machine inside. Want me to grab you some?"
"I'll pick from yours."
"Then I better head in and grab a fresh one." I stood up, cracked my back and walked inside the cafe with her smiling after me. From a distance you'd think we were a normal couple.
The waitress taking care of me grinned and waved from the end of the counter. "My shift's over. A new girl, Katey, will be taking over for me, 'kay?"
I nodded and waved back while pulling the knob for Newports. The machine clanked and dropped my pack indignantly into the curved tray.
Katey. I smacked the pack against my palm and headed back to Mind.
I lit hers first before we sat back and dove headfirst into chit chat.
Always starts the same. She tells me about a funny or difficult gig, I do the same, all the while trying to out do one another without being too obvious. Competitive fuck buddies. We chew through half a pack in two hours between laughs and advice and admonishments for sloppy kills and cavalier behavior during assignments. Somehow we work our way into arguing about hi definition sets and which is better and why men need huge flat screens and all that. Movies come up, recent ones and ones we love, then we argue about directors and overpaid, undeserving actors. We skim across political events knowing full well the media sprinkles bullshit all over their reports based on which corporation is pulling their strings. both of us have killed for one news station or another in our day. Then the classic Who Knows What's Hottest In Music Battle starts up and rages for another hour solid.
Three coffees into it I have to hit the restroom and marvel at how well she can hold her water.
The stall graffiti is standard gibberish promoting one band over another and insulting someone's mother or wife in the process. Turns out all mother's and wives involved in band promotion via bathroom stalls suck cock quite often. Amazing they can get any work done.
Back at the table Mind is lighting up another one my my smokes.I';m down to six.
"I'll buy you another pack." She grunts and puffs.
"I didn't say anything." My seat's still warm.
"I saw you check the pack."
"I didn't even touch it."
"Whatever. Like I don't know how fast you eyeball your surroundings. Please." She makes a circle in the air with the tip of her cigarette and a dirty bluish gray halo floats over her head.
I finish the rest of my coffee and silently swear three is my limit for the day.
"I'm sorry, Ven." She looks genuinely apologetic. That worries me.
"About what?" Then she gets all blurry. I glance at my coffee cup and the rest fills itself in. "Goddamnit Mind...again?"
Everything starts to darken. I feel light and hot and something heavy presses against my cheek. I think its the floor.
"I said I was sorry." But it sounds like a bear's saying it from a hundred miles away.
Darker now.
No wonder we keep breaking up.
Bitch.
Makes the next one go smoother.
By the time she'd stepped from the cab and spotted me It was Off.
She smiled and sat down behind her coffee and started sipping.
"How'd it go?"
"good. Easy. This is till warm."
"Had them re-heat it a few minutes ago."
"Always thinking." She grinned, tight-lipped, and set the cup back down."How many have you had while waiting?"
"One my second one." I took a sip.
"Got any smokes?" She set her gun-sized handbag down on the table and sipped more coffee.
"There's a machine inside. Want me to grab you some?"
"I'll pick from yours."
"Then I better head in and grab a fresh one." I stood up, cracked my back and walked inside the cafe with her smiling after me. From a distance you'd think we were a normal couple.
The waitress taking care of me grinned and waved from the end of the counter. "My shift's over. A new girl, Katey, will be taking over for me, 'kay?"
I nodded and waved back while pulling the knob for Newports. The machine clanked and dropped my pack indignantly into the curved tray.
Katey. I smacked the pack against my palm and headed back to Mind.
I lit hers first before we sat back and dove headfirst into chit chat.
Always starts the same. She tells me about a funny or difficult gig, I do the same, all the while trying to out do one another without being too obvious. Competitive fuck buddies. We chew through half a pack in two hours between laughs and advice and admonishments for sloppy kills and cavalier behavior during assignments. Somehow we work our way into arguing about hi definition sets and which is better and why men need huge flat screens and all that. Movies come up, recent ones and ones we love, then we argue about directors and overpaid, undeserving actors. We skim across political events knowing full well the media sprinkles bullshit all over their reports based on which corporation is pulling their strings. both of us have killed for one news station or another in our day. Then the classic Who Knows What's Hottest In Music Battle starts up and rages for another hour solid.
Three coffees into it I have to hit the restroom and marvel at how well she can hold her water.
The stall graffiti is standard gibberish promoting one band over another and insulting someone's mother or wife in the process. Turns out all mother's and wives involved in band promotion via bathroom stalls suck cock quite often. Amazing they can get any work done.
Back at the table Mind is lighting up another one my my smokes.I';m down to six.
"I'll buy you another pack." She grunts and puffs.
"I didn't say anything." My seat's still warm.
"I saw you check the pack."
"I didn't even touch it."
"Whatever. Like I don't know how fast you eyeball your surroundings. Please." She makes a circle in the air with the tip of her cigarette and a dirty bluish gray halo floats over her head.
I finish the rest of my coffee and silently swear three is my limit for the day.
"I'm sorry, Ven." She looks genuinely apologetic. That worries me.
"About what?" Then she gets all blurry. I glance at my coffee cup and the rest fills itself in. "Goddamnit Mind...again?"
Everything starts to darken. I feel light and hot and something heavy presses against my cheek. I think its the floor.
"I said I was sorry." But it sounds like a bear's saying it from a hundred miles away.
Darker now.
No wonder we keep breaking up.
Bitch.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
One Room (part two)
I turn the corner and the wall to my right spits up tiny chunks as white flashes blossom in the air around my head.
No report. Sniper. More angry whispers in the air and I use a dumpster for cover. Gun in my hand, I scan the rooftops across the street finding nothing. Vents kick out thick clots of steam effectively hiding whoever may be watching through a high powered scope.
I poke my head out, more silent shots. Bad move. I'm pinned. Think.
A large woman shuffles past. She makes a good shield. Gun to her head and she screams as I move us sideways down the block towards the subway. The sniper hasn't shot through her yet so it might be a good guy on the other end of that rifle.
I would've shot through her if I was after someone like me.
At the top of the subway entrance I let her go and take the stairs two at a time. The gun's tucked away before I step out in front of a Subway Uni. Young kid, twenties, on the other side of the turnstyle. I could take him out six different ways from where I'm standing, but I'm meeting Mind on Bleeker. An A.P.B would really fuck that up.
Flash my PWCard at the turnstyle sensor and pay my fare this time.
Train's better than a cab with a sniper following. Someone always tracks us down. No wonder we meet so infrequently. But she's worth it.
Can't use my cell 'til I'm topside so the grapevine's useless for three more stops. How many eyes are on me? How many on her? I gotta call.
It's probably too late to warn her already but she's sharp. If I dodged 'em then so did she. At this point Who is almost irrelevant. Japs, Wops, Kykes, Niggas, Russians...fuckin' take your pick. Between the two of us we've killed a dozen of each easy over the last year alone. They use us to keep each other in check then turn their coats inside out once we've served our purpose.
But this Age is Digital and everyone gets copied down somewhere, so a phonecall or two once I'm somewhere safe will chill this shit out.
Six train'll do me right. Two more to Bleeker. Lights flicker in a car that smells like sweat and urine. No one eyes me. Killer's can always blend in New York because we look like club owners.
Black is the new black these days.
Guy next to an old woman reading the paper has a gun on him. Thick jacket but I know what to look for. Not a cop, not a pro, just looks nervous. Chick across from him would be hot if not for the baby stroller, but then that's how she got the stroller in the first place.
Tired black dude with a big cardboard box between his legs. Could be a gift, or a home project, but the way he keeps eyeing people near him tells me its most likely a present. The pale patch around his ring finger makes me wonder if its for his wife or his mistress?
His shoes are too nice for it to be a kid's gift.
Nervous Gun Guy is getting off at my stop. The old woman turns another page and stains her tongue with ink as she licks a finger and folds the top corner.
Train screeches to a halt and I let Nervous Guy go ahead of me.
He goes right, I go left. Quick glance over the shoulder.
No wonder he's nervous. He should've never looked back at me.
We draw down simultaneously but he's untrained and his shot goes wild into a garbage can. I take his left eye out. Someone starts screaming like they're trying to compete with the gunshots.
I'm lost in the crowd topside in seconds. Man in black in Manhattan, yea, thanks for your cooperation sir or ma'am, we'll get this out on the wire right away. I'm sure this'll turn up no more than six or seven hundred suspects.
I dial Mind up soon as I cross the street. Guy in black on a cellphone in Manhattan, keep a look out. Makes me smile.
"Babe, you ok?" She sounds out of breath.
"Yea, yea I'm good. Close one though. Any idea who this time?"
"Not a one." I cross Bleeker towards Black Tom's. "But my money's against corporate."
"Why's that?" She grunts. Something heavy falls in the background.
"Used a human shield. Shots stopped right after. Got away on the train." The cafe is on the corner up ahead.
"Male or female?"
"What?"
"The shield. Male or female?"
"Oh, female."
"Definitely not corporate. Probably Feds or local PD?"
"PD more likely, SWAT maybe. Hey, I'm at the cafe. Gonna grab a table. You gonna be much longer?" I hear her light a cigarette. Means she's done. Does the same thing after sex.
"No, I'm on my way out. See you in a few."
"Take the train." I gesture at the waitress.
"Fuck that babe. Train's are filthy. I'll grab a cab."
"They had snipers, Mind."
"And...? You're still walkin', right?"
I grab a seat at a wrought iron table and order up two real coffees. She likes hers with milk. I prefer creamer.
"Yea yea."
"Then cab it is. Order me a..."
"Already here."
"See you soon." We hang up. I sip and light a smoke. Gotta keep my jacket on much as I don't want to.
Good damn coffee here.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
One Room (fragments from BLACK NEON Memoirs)
"Why'd you call me?"
Cigarette smoke curled around her limp wrist and moonlight slashed across her pale skin in thick black strips like a punishment.
"Why do I ever call you? Because you always come."
She never looked back, never took her eyes from the red neon outside the window. Cliche true, but extremely appropriate. She just smoked and gave me her shoulder.
"Why do I always come?"
"That's exactly why. You always cum." I rolled over and reached for my pack.
"That's almost witty." She flicked ashes into the tiny plastic ashtray on the bed near her pillow.
Our clothes were lost on the floor amidst angry shadows.
"No work?"
"Not today." She took my last cigarette. "You?"
"Corporate guy. Someone wants plans he has for some new car, or computer. I forget." The sheets hiss when she moves.
"Usual? Kill the guy, get the files, bring 'em home?" Can't remember if there's any Gatorade left in the fridge. She always dehydrates me.
"Pretty much your average Thursday." I follow her ass as she crosses past the foot of the bed and floats into the living room.
""Ey, check if there's any Gatorade left."
"I finished it last night." She calls back. "Why, did you want some?"
If I say Yes it'll look weak. "No, I'm good." The Desert Eagle is under the bed where I left it. Quick slide action to see if it's still loaded.
"You still using that noisy thing?" She pads over to the window sill with a glass of water between her hands. I rarely ever catch her without those damn shades. Green eyes like mine, but somehow brighter...sharper? Model thin body and that crazy short cropped hair that wants to go everywhere at once. You'd never pick her for a killer much less a great killer. She can turn it off and on as easily as I can.
Mind. Still don't know her real name. Doesn't matter. That's what she wants to be called then it's who she is. Whatever her mother named her is irrelevant. We all shed that skin if we're lucky. She's lucky.
"Want some company?" I roll onto my belly and rub the gun barrel along her thigh.
"For the corporate guy? Please. You can meet me for coffee afterward." She sips her water.
"So long as it ain't Starbucks." I cast the gun aside onto a pillow. It sinks in heavily, defiantly.
"What's wrong with Starbucks?"
"What right with Starbucks? Five bucks for a fuckin' coffee that tastes like shit? I tell ya for the same price you can have a whole can of Bustello. Real coffee."
"That shit's firewater, babe. Too strong. Makes me edgy." She sets the glass on the sill and pulls the blinds up letting as much Red in as possible. The room becomes a murder scene. Shadows become vicious, furniture looks all wrong. We definitely killed It last night.
"So where then?" I spot my boxers on the floor near the set. I can feel her watching me as I get dressed.
"You gotta shave that patch at the top of your back again, hon. You try Nair like I told you?"
"Tried everything."
"Get it lasered."
"Maybe." I slip my shirt on. Don't like being examined.
"Gonna shower and head out. Get this thing done. Where you wanna meet after?" She pauses in the bathroom door and eyes me from over her shoulder.
"There's a small place on Bleeker near Black Tom's Castle. Real coffee there."
"Such a class warrior." She closes the door but doesn't lock it. I wonder if that's an invite for Round Two.
I'm dressed already. Forget it. Tuck my gun behind my belt and grab my jacket. We don't do goodbyes. Not in this business.
The doorlock echoes in the hall even with all that cheap carpeting.
I'll see her later. Always do.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Come back to bite them
Obama just won the election and already racial outbursts from the whites who did not want a black man in office have begun sprouting up in various states like ragweeds. In Jersey someones Obama victory sign was stolen from their lawn and wrapped around a cross which was burned. In Texas racial graffiti was sprayed on a school wall. Online, at sites like Digg, members hiding behind their screen names are posting articles about violence in the military and making sure to point out the race of the criminals whereas the article they linked to Digg simply addressed the profession of the offenders.
The whites that didn't want the black man running the show are irate, seeing themselves as "losing Their country". They had no real issues with blacks and Latinos so long as a white man ran the show but now that placating attitude Red State whites had toward Latinos and blacks has shifted to outrage and disdain. Now that their hands aren't in control of the car they're overly concerned where the ride ends and their sense of entitlement is in jeopardy.
It still astounds me that a C student, ex-alcoholic, ex-cokehead could become President even after burying THREE corporations in a row. Obama is an Ivy League man, a lawyer, a senator, and now the president of the country. He's intelligent, savvy, charismatic, eloquent, and focused...something we haven't had since JFK.
In fact that's who Obama is to me; JFK and MLK in one body.
The Rebs complete disregard for the young, Latin, and black vote is what caused them the election more so than Sarah Palin's brainlessness. They're attitude is a prime example of the "patting the little Latino / black person on the head" mentality displayed toward us. Now that we've shown what our votes can accomplish, those types of whites are worried shitless and angry. To them its almost as if the pets have taken over the house and they don't know how to cope.
The student is destined to surpass the massa, que no?
No one thought Obama would win but we hoped. Most of us were sure the Republicans would fuck the election out from under us yet again the way Bush did...twice. For many like myself, had that happened this would have been our last election.
The Red Staters whose racism is pouring from their very pores in these new days may as well pack it up and move further into the South so they can feel safe.
Obama losing the white vote to McCain was not a surprise, the point percentage however was. The GOP got a huge wake up call this year and actually had the audacity to wonder how they lost the latin vote? As if they ever had it. Even the PC white guys who think they're "down" because they date black and latin women can't believe the power shift in the country now. They have to fake the funk now more than ever with a plastered smile on their drawn faces if they're to have any hope of getting through the next four years.
Their "love" for other cultures will be truly tested. I imagine next election, if there's a female candidate or a person of color, whites will pour out in record numbers just to make sure another Obama doesn't happen and they can get "their country" back into the right / white hands.
But for now we can hope Obama pulls out a few Hail Mary's and rights as many wrongs as he's able to after the huge dump Bush is taking on the white house prior to his leaving. He's making sure he passes as many last minutes laws as possible for him and his buddies before Obama takes the reins making things as hard for Barrack as possible.
But what those white people don't realize is that the "minorities" are used to struggle and overcoming huge, seemingly impossible obstacles so I'm sure Obama won't shake, crack, or falter the way Bush did when the planes hit. Obama won't stay frozen with a children's book in his hand in the face of a major threat.
That's not how we do. We cope because we've had to, because whites have forced us to be tougher than nails.
Well now its come back to bite them in their electoral asses.
One last thought, myself and about every other black person I know are incredibly concerned for Obama's life. Presidents lives are in danger on a regular basis but a Black President...? He's going to need triple the normal amount of security for all of the aforementioned reasons and a dozen others I won't even bother to go into now.
Every step he takes will reshape the ground beneath his feet.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
President Hope - Yes we did
Obama is the first president that's EVER given me hope. I've had none since losing my sister but watching him on screen EVERY TIME, fills me with a sense of being, of one-ness. Now I can dare to hope again, strive for change, have something to look forward to.
I get a chill just thinking about the Republican mess Obama has to clean up but can only imagine what race relations will be like in the future. A black president in my lifetime is awe inspiring.
The next big moment in my life will be the first latino president but that's gonna take another 10-15 years at least. We'll most likely have a female president before a latino. I don't think white america, well the McCain part of it, could take a latino president yet.
Racism is by no means done and over but it is in mortal danger and suffering from as huge wound. Bush got Obama elected, of that there's no doubt. His complete inability to lead and the incredible damage he's done to this country, from the automotive industry to the housing industry, is what got Obama elected by getting the public motivated to remove the cancer from the White House.
This was going to be my last election if McCain won. At least I don't have to move to Canada now.
There will be a lot more black faces in commercials formerly geared toward whites and the corporate media has already started tossing every black correspondent in front of the camera they can find. I also predict a rise in interracial relationships. I just hope the cats in the peejays get the message that they can be something more than a rapper or a basketball player.
Blacks have the ultimate role model now. I can't wait to see what he does next.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Facets
We only see two things in people; what we want to see and what they allow us to see.
The same applies to this and every other blog out there. I'll lay money down that no one online anywhere is completely honest and open in a blog, but then maybe there is some ONE somewhere so desperate to be known that they'd tear themselves open and blog it out, but I can't. I need things to be mine and mine alone, I think most people do.
So what's a blog for? Just to get it out and clear your soul, or am I looking for people to notice me? I mean this is public after all. You don't need a password to read it and still I wonder why anyone would read what I write? Or do I hope they will?
Another good line I heard today was "Whatever you think you know about someone, is most likely wrong."
Facets, sides, layers. Are we the snowflakes They always talk about or hard, shiny diamonds? And which side is the right one? Or are they all the right one at one time of the day or another?
Sometimes the silence screams your secrets back at you, sometimes it holds you close like a lover, or best friend, and sometimes it completely ignores you and natters on about things that never happened, things you only imagine.
What do we really know, or rather who do we really know? I knew my sister, almost completely. With her passing however, I found one or two things in her personal things that made me laugh because I never suspected, but I kept my search to a minimum because in life I would never have gone through her things. Even after someone is gone they deserve their privacy. We should be content with what we know about a person...what they let us see. For me it turns out that is enough. I knew so much about her because she let me, not because I snooped.
And my knowledge of her is enough for The Silence. Most times it talks to me rather than yell, it makes me smile more often than cry when I think of her.
As the days go on, if I'm rested and well fed, I can handle facing life without her physical presence, but I still miss sharing with her, miss laughing and talking and watching tv and instant messenging and buggin her at work or being bugged by her when she'd call a dozen times from work because she was bored or found something funny online for me to check out...and I always did no matter what I was doing. I don;'t recall ever ignoring one of her calls even if it meant losing my groove while working on a piece.
I'd love to be bugged by her right now.
Facets, there were so many. With her I know I didn't ignore any of them, no matter what.
That makes it bearable because there's no guilt.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Backward "S"
Today marks one month since my sister Melanie passed away and I still can't believe I have to think much less write those words, but it's true and unfair and makes me angry and sad at the same time.
My mother wanted to have some sort of memorial that wasn't depressing or heart breaking as Puerto Ricans tend to have. Usually there's lots of tears and moaning prayers but none of that symbolizes the type of woman my sister was. She was a funny, witty, fiery ball of latina energy. A little Miss Independent, just like the Neyo song of the same name.
All sass but with a lot of heart mixed in. She liked things that were Goth just as much as she liked things that screamed DIVA IT'S SHOWTIME! She was a freestyle lovin', hip hop dancin', salsa swaying' metalhead diva chick born and bred in Brooklyn from her dark red hair to her toes. Born a blond with strawberry curls she chose the fiery hair color as a way to express who she was inside and we chose a tree with leaves the color of her hair to remember her in that manner, as the woman she made herself into.
My mother bought seven helium balloons earlier today which all happened to be heart shaped and read "I love You" on them. We gathered in the backyard around Melanie's tree and my sister Monique's best friend Iraida read Psalm 23. We even had a balloon with a long string for my furry partner Niko which he held in his teeth like a good boy.
Iraida read the prayer and we slowly released our balloons, even Niko let the string go when I told him to.
They raced to the sky in seconds, quickly topping the house and sailing off toward the park at the end of our street.
Monique's boyfriend, Greg, having the best set of eyes in the group spotted them sailing off toward Carle Place and we both estimated they'd be flying for a few hours or miles at the very least.
After a few minutes of watching them he noticed they'd formed into a backward "S".
Melanie's nick name was SassyBori, she loved Supergirl as I loved the Superman character more for what he represents than the comic itself. Strength, virtue, justice, integrity. On Melanie's Sidekick she had Supergirl as her wallpaper. Her middle name was Sonia (the same name as her absolute favorite aunt).
When she passed in the hospital, she seemed at peace, she went in her sleep looking like herself. An hour after we went back in with my uncle Edwin and aunt Marisol, the first ones to re-arrive on the scene after we made our heart-broken calls to the family. When they went in they asked us to come see her again because of her face.
45 to 55 minutes after she passed she had a Smile on her face, sure as I'm writing this and I have five witnesses to verify it wasn't my mind playing tricks on me. I remember leaning over her and staring right down into her face to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing.
Sassy
Supergirl
Strength
Sleep
Smile
Sister
The balloons forming into an "S" shape was significant to us to say the least.
Make of it what you will. It matters to me and that's enough for now.
My mother was looking up at the S with her hands to her face and tears in her eyes but they were different this time. They were surprised, shocked even, and definitely sad tears, but from my perspective they also seemed...satisfied? Sanctified?
S.
Terrance Howard and the Iron Man debacle
(from EW.com)
When a summer blockbuster grosses more than $300 million, putting together a sequel is typically as simple as throwing buckets of money at your stars and signing a few pieces of paper. That hasn't been the case with Iron Man 2. It took months for Marvel Studios to lock in director Jon Favreau for the sequel. And reports that Don Cheadle will replace Terrence Howard as Col. Jim Rhodes — a supporting character who seemed poised for a big role in the follow-up after he muttered ''Next time, baby'' to Iron Man's steel suit — hint that IM2 isn't quite as infallible as the superhero at its center.
Hollywood insiders believe the exit stems from Terrence Howard's difficult behavior on the set of Iron Man. But those with intimate knowledge of the situation suggest a far more dramatic backstory: Howard was the first actor signed to the film and, on top of that, was the highest-paid. That's right: more than Gwyneth Paltrow. More than Jeff Bridges. More than Robert Downey Jr. And once the project fully came together, it was too late to renegotiate his deal. It didn't help that, according to one source, Favreau and his producers were ultimately unhappy with Howard's performance, and spent a lot of time cutting and reshooting his scenes. (Favreau could not be reached for comment, while Howard's publicist says: ''Terrence had a tremendous experience working on Iron Man.'')
As such, when Favreau and screenwriter Justin Theroux went to map out the sequel they found themselves minimizing Howard's story line. Once Marvel learned that Favreau was thinking of curtailing the role, the studio went to the actor's agents with a new and drastically reduced offer — a number that's similar to what supporting cast members were paid for the first movie. The agents, according to sources, were so taken aback by this new figure — estimated at somewhere between a 50 and 80 percent pay cut — that they questioned it. Why did they blanch? Multiple sources say that Marvel execs never told Howard's reps that they had issues with the star's on-set conduct. (Marvel would not comment for this story.)
It's unclear whether Howard's team walked away first, or if Marvel ended the discussion at that point. Either way, the studio moved quickly to secure Cheadle and the story leaked out the next morning, Oct. 14. And alas for Howard, there will be no next time.
___________________________________________________________________\
Rumors of Howard's behavior have been around since before he became a household name. Personally speaking, I heard directly from a friend's cousin (hint - he's been in Lost, Oz, and The Matrix) that Howard is an asshole and even tried to steal said person's girlfriend during the shooting of The Best Man. So the ALLEGEDLY arrogant prick got taken down a peg, that's Hollywood. You pay pretty people insane amounts of money to lie on screen and they can't behave professionally then this is what happens apparently.
But I ain't one to gossip, so you didn't hear it from me.
More on my personal interactions with actors in recent months later.
A Hundred Souls
I've lived inside a hundred castles
made of fire smoke and glass
a hundred maidens danced for me
a hundred jesters made me laugh
a hundred courtesans held my hand
a hundred tyrants blocked my path
but still this crown it chafed me
its protection could not last
white gold burned my fingers
ice swords cut my flesh
dragon's flame scorched me
woflsbane tasted best
inside this fantasy
I'm craving
just one glimpse at truth
what's that noise, the gentle tapping?
is that rain upon my roof?
is that wind or someone raving?
howling, shrieking, screaming night
is this nightmare what I'm braving
while I'm reaching for the light?
nevermore
there is no raven
Poe has lost his pen
Ligea
fairest maiden
the dark has come again
and through me like some thunder
waiting for the lightening flash
hiding, sweating, flinching, praying
through the windows to your soul
I crash
tearing, clawing, tasting flesh
Rabid, son? I'm ravenous!
I always hunger, always thirst
wailing at the moon's dark curse
through the forest hear me panting
in your mansion sweetly ranting
I wear a mask made of Red Death
come strip away your last false breath
and pirouette
and sway and swoon
in your ear I sigh and croon
twisting child's lullaby
I know this game so well
an artist's hands have shamed me
and sent me straight to Hell
Lightening bugs make so much noise
when all you want is peace
famished, searching yellow eyes
thick grass hides The Feast
I'm overjoyed
I'm terrified
don't know what I'll do next
I'll heal your hurts
I'll scar your soul
or break your scrawny neck
tremendous gift
eternal plague
upon my raging mind
so satisfied when I create
that timeless, priceless Find
And I'll leave you all
someday
leave you sad and empty
my artist's hands all skin and bones
have tortured you a plenty
so masquerade, masquerade!
dance until you die
up on the hill in your big house
"Remember me", I'll cry
I've lived inside a hundred castles
made of fire smoke and glass...
made of fire smoke and glass
a hundred maidens danced for me
a hundred jesters made me laugh
a hundred courtesans held my hand
a hundred tyrants blocked my path
but still this crown it chafed me
its protection could not last
white gold burned my fingers
ice swords cut my flesh
dragon's flame scorched me
woflsbane tasted best
inside this fantasy
I'm craving
just one glimpse at truth
what's that noise, the gentle tapping?
is that rain upon my roof?
is that wind or someone raving?
howling, shrieking, screaming night
is this nightmare what I'm braving
while I'm reaching for the light?
nevermore
there is no raven
Poe has lost his pen
Ligea
fairest maiden
the dark has come again
and through me like some thunder
waiting for the lightening flash
hiding, sweating, flinching, praying
through the windows to your soul
I crash
tearing, clawing, tasting flesh
Rabid, son? I'm ravenous!
I always hunger, always thirst
wailing at the moon's dark curse
through the forest hear me panting
in your mansion sweetly ranting
I wear a mask made of Red Death
come strip away your last false breath
and pirouette
and sway and swoon
in your ear I sigh and croon
twisting child's lullaby
I know this game so well
an artist's hands have shamed me
and sent me straight to Hell
Lightening bugs make so much noise
when all you want is peace
famished, searching yellow eyes
thick grass hides The Feast
I'm overjoyed
I'm terrified
don't know what I'll do next
I'll heal your hurts
I'll scar your soul
or break your scrawny neck
tremendous gift
eternal plague
upon my raging mind
so satisfied when I create
that timeless, priceless Find
And I'll leave you all
someday
leave you sad and empty
my artist's hands all skin and bones
have tortured you a plenty
so masquerade, masquerade!
dance until you die
up on the hill in your big house
"Remember me", I'll cry
I've lived inside a hundred castles
made of fire smoke and glass...
BARBED WIRE SMILE (2001)
I may have never loved you
this side of me
this dark pantomime with its backwards grin
barbed wire teeth, sockets where eyes never were
no windows there, just darkness
waiting
I can't lie, or laugh, or scream my way out of this
this struggle
to be what you're not
whole, alive, complete
I think of broken glass at dusk
like dirty, forgotten jewels
like tears
neither of which anyone wants
but not so useless when they cleanse
scraping away, washing away
until next time
sometime later
sometime so far away you forget how it felt to hurt
and maybe that's why it does each time
you have distance between hurts
enough time to actually think its healed
before the skin is broken once again
and there you are
waiting
patient and hungry
and smiling your barbed wire smile
this side of me
this dark pantomime with its backwards grin
barbed wire teeth, sockets where eyes never were
no windows there, just darkness
waiting
I can't lie, or laugh, or scream my way out of this
this struggle
to be what you're not
whole, alive, complete
I think of broken glass at dusk
like dirty, forgotten jewels
like tears
neither of which anyone wants
but not so useless when they cleanse
scraping away, washing away
until next time
sometime later
sometime so far away you forget how it felt to hurt
and maybe that's why it does each time
you have distance between hurts
enough time to actually think its healed
before the skin is broken once again
and there you are
waiting
patient and hungry
and smiling your barbed wire smile
Art and some other stuff
The Art Game is hard and most of the cliches that relate to it are true. Most people in your life won't give a flaming crap about what you do unless you're making a nice chunk of cash from it. Sad but true. So the most obvious thing about being an artist is you do it because you love it. Write draw, act, sing, paint, sculpt, direct...whatever. You do it because you can't imagine doing anything else. You do it because it satisfies you in a way nothing else can.
Sometimes the money is there and when it is it's amazing and you feel incredible for making money off of what you love even if half the time its creating some crazy thing for a client that never touches your heart. You dive in because it represents you once it hits the world either by web or magazine or what have you. It feels good for a bit then its gone.
With real art, not to sound to pretentious, its The Doing more than The Having. Most (but not all) of my work holds my interest for a couple weeks or so before it just gets stored online somewhere. The high of creating really can't be explained. The closest you might be able to come is child birth, but even that's pushing it because unlike children or people you meet, with art you get from it exactly what you put into it.
The next poster image, the next character design, the next comic issue idea, the next short story...that's what drives me. I'm as curious to see how my work will turn out as the next person. Inspiration can hit you anywhere...at home, on the street, in the toilet. Sometimes it wakes me up in the middle of the night and I stagger to my desk and scribble something that I'll hopefully be able to decipher in the morning.
And all of this can be artsy fartsy to some but its real. For way too many years I was trying to show everyone around me how much of an artist I was and how good I could be until one day I just stopped and realized I was creating for the wrong reasons. In my 20's I was trying to find the Hidden Meaning in everything, but not everything out there is deep or meaningful.
To quote Dudley Moore in Arthur; "Not everyone who drinks is a poet. Some of us drink because we're not poets."
You go to art high school, art college, then you graduate and really start learning. The school is just to get a foundation for research. College didn't teach me about art so much as it taught me how to research new techniques and the like. Art is from life, pain, travel, friendships, media, music. Real art anyway. It has to mean something to the artist or it won't mean anything to the viewer.
School teaches you hot to go on Auto Pilot and crank something out for someone that may mean very little to you but you want to get it done to the best of your ability. Trust me people, artists don't get a kick out of sketching you or your kids or your pitbull. We do it because it will hopefully bring some joy to your life, but no one ever thinks they look the way we draw them.
NEWSFLASH, your nose is that big, your chins are that many, and yes, your eyes are that far apart.
Learn to love what you are and the drawing will work for you.
There's not much out there, art wise, that I haven't done. I'm still dying to do a metal band's cover and work on a video game, and get my comics out there, but I stay hopeful and always looking for the right gig.
So here we are in 2008, that C student of a president; Bush has effectively driven the country into the ground and surprise, surporise, no one is really looking for original art right now. Can't say as I blame them. Money is booty tight and no one's feeling very adventurous. Times like these are when one of the most important tools in the artist's repotoir; the ability to cope, kicks in.
Being a freelancer means living by your wits and the tride and true mantra; Feast of Famine, rings in your ear like a fire alarm. Most 9 to 5ers spaz at the thought of losing their job. It's all most people know. Work, weekends you go out to eat and drink, maybe a movie or a show, vacation on some giant boat once a year or maybe hit Florida or Mexico, then right back to the routine in some dead end gig.
Crazy as it is right now, with money so tight, I still feel more alive than most of the people I know. I'm going through the grieving process after losing my sister and life is extremely difficult, but even my pain makes me feel alive. Tears burn and my stomach gets knotted and sometimes its all I can do just to get out of bed but once I fight through the sadness and the world comes back into focus, I feel, I do, I am. For a little while at least.
I lost my art for a few months. Lost my passion, lost my hope, but its crawling back into me little by little. In the long run its the only thing that will help me get through this, hence starting this blog.
The new art wil have pain etched in it. Sometimes you'll see it and sometimes not. But right now its my lifeline. My sister loved what I do, what I create, and was my biggest supporter.
So in her name I fight until I can do it for myself again.
Sometimes the money is there and when it is it's amazing and you feel incredible for making money off of what you love even if half the time its creating some crazy thing for a client that never touches your heart. You dive in because it represents you once it hits the world either by web or magazine or what have you. It feels good for a bit then its gone.
With real art, not to sound to pretentious, its The Doing more than The Having. Most (but not all) of my work holds my interest for a couple weeks or so before it just gets stored online somewhere. The high of creating really can't be explained. The closest you might be able to come is child birth, but even that's pushing it because unlike children or people you meet, with art you get from it exactly what you put into it.
The next poster image, the next character design, the next comic issue idea, the next short story...that's what drives me. I'm as curious to see how my work will turn out as the next person. Inspiration can hit you anywhere...at home, on the street, in the toilet. Sometimes it wakes me up in the middle of the night and I stagger to my desk and scribble something that I'll hopefully be able to decipher in the morning.
And all of this can be artsy fartsy to some but its real. For way too many years I was trying to show everyone around me how much of an artist I was and how good I could be until one day I just stopped and realized I was creating for the wrong reasons. In my 20's I was trying to find the Hidden Meaning in everything, but not everything out there is deep or meaningful.
To quote Dudley Moore in Arthur; "Not everyone who drinks is a poet. Some of us drink because we're not poets."
You go to art high school, art college, then you graduate and really start learning. The school is just to get a foundation for research. College didn't teach me about art so much as it taught me how to research new techniques and the like. Art is from life, pain, travel, friendships, media, music. Real art anyway. It has to mean something to the artist or it won't mean anything to the viewer.
School teaches you hot to go on Auto Pilot and crank something out for someone that may mean very little to you but you want to get it done to the best of your ability. Trust me people, artists don't get a kick out of sketching you or your kids or your pitbull. We do it because it will hopefully bring some joy to your life, but no one ever thinks they look the way we draw them.
NEWSFLASH, your nose is that big, your chins are that many, and yes, your eyes are that far apart.
Learn to love what you are and the drawing will work for you.
There's not much out there, art wise, that I haven't done. I'm still dying to do a metal band's cover and work on a video game, and get my comics out there, but I stay hopeful and always looking for the right gig.
So here we are in 2008, that C student of a president; Bush has effectively driven the country into the ground and surprise, surporise, no one is really looking for original art right now. Can't say as I blame them. Money is booty tight and no one's feeling very adventurous. Times like these are when one of the most important tools in the artist's repotoir; the ability to cope, kicks in.
Being a freelancer means living by your wits and the tride and true mantra; Feast of Famine, rings in your ear like a fire alarm. Most 9 to 5ers spaz at the thought of losing their job. It's all most people know. Work, weekends you go out to eat and drink, maybe a movie or a show, vacation on some giant boat once a year or maybe hit Florida or Mexico, then right back to the routine in some dead end gig.
Crazy as it is right now, with money so tight, I still feel more alive than most of the people I know. I'm going through the grieving process after losing my sister and life is extremely difficult, but even my pain makes me feel alive. Tears burn and my stomach gets knotted and sometimes its all I can do just to get out of bed but once I fight through the sadness and the world comes back into focus, I feel, I do, I am. For a little while at least.
I lost my art for a few months. Lost my passion, lost my hope, but its crawling back into me little by little. In the long run its the only thing that will help me get through this, hence starting this blog.
The new art wil have pain etched in it. Sometimes you'll see it and sometimes not. But right now its my lifeline. My sister loved what I do, what I create, and was my biggest supporter.
So in her name I fight until I can do it for myself again.
What the hell is MOGGG?
My sister and I were chatting via AIM one day. She was in her apartment and I in mine and we were basically gossiping about some dude I knew from the days when I used to promote club parties (freestyle music - you know Judy Torres, TKA, George LaMond) and I was typing over to her that I thought the guy was gay because of such and such. Well just as I was about to hit SEND, the guy in question spots me on AIM and sends a Hello.
Luckily I glanced up from the keyboard before hitting SEND or he would've received the message meant for my sister. With what I'd typed, there would've been no way to avoid admitting the message was about him. I would've been screwed and mega embarrassed.
I switched to the tab for my sister and erased the message and instead wrote OMGGGGG (an exaggerated "Oh My God") with a dozen exclamation points...or so I thought.
What I typed and sent in a hurry was MOGGG.
My sister responded with "????" WTF? MOGGG? What the hell is MOGGG?
I glanced at the screen and bust out laughing at my mistake as she called on the phone with "What the fuck is MOG?" which sent us into hysterics as I struggled to explain that so and so just popped up on AIM and I almost sent this huge paragraph of dirt on him TO him. This made her laugh even harder.
From then on, whenever something extremely funny and bizarre happened, the kind of thing that made one eyebrow go up all on its own, we'd look at each other and say "mog", in this deadpan monotone, and bust out all over again. It became one of those things only she and I shared. A public yet simultaneously private word that always made us laugh and instantly placed the event in question into the "What the fuck?" category of our Life Cabinet.
So MOGGG means; "a little confusing, a little funny, and something for long lasting memories."
Luckily I glanced up from the keyboard before hitting SEND or he would've received the message meant for my sister. With what I'd typed, there would've been no way to avoid admitting the message was about him. I would've been screwed and mega embarrassed.
I switched to the tab for my sister and erased the message and instead wrote OMGGGGG (an exaggerated "Oh My God") with a dozen exclamation points...or so I thought.
What I typed and sent in a hurry was MOGGG.
My sister responded with "????" WTF? MOGGG? What the hell is MOGGG?
I glanced at the screen and bust out laughing at my mistake as she called on the phone with "What the fuck is MOG?" which sent us into hysterics as I struggled to explain that so and so just popped up on AIM and I almost sent this huge paragraph of dirt on him TO him. This made her laugh even harder.
From then on, whenever something extremely funny and bizarre happened, the kind of thing that made one eyebrow go up all on its own, we'd look at each other and say "mog", in this deadpan monotone, and bust out all over again. It became one of those things only she and I shared. A public yet simultaneously private word that always made us laugh and instantly placed the event in question into the "What the fuck?" category of our Life Cabinet.
So MOGGG means; "a little confusing, a little funny, and something for long lasting memories."
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