| Maybe. 2011-04-08 20:06:12 ET |
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Maybe the car wasn't starting because the engine was missing? But it had moved just hours prior though Brother Covet wasn't around right now. No, I had to remind myself, he wasn't around any more. One minute he was here, talking to us with his large grinning skull pendant hanging from his chest like some neo-voudoun Flava Flav and then the next minute he burst into a firework splatter of blood and insides and we realized that his paranoia about trigger happy government snipers following him was correct. I like to wish that his final words would've been "I told you so" but life doesn't tend to be that clever. And yet cars aren't supposed to be able to drive without an engine but here we were, over three thousand miles from our starting point. Man, numbers seem so much bigger when you write them out.
This was Brother Covet's car. Maybe that was it. I never accepted it as my own even though BC had said numerous times during the course of the trip to treat it as my own. So I finally got behind the wheel and did and, what do you know, it purred and rolled over. Well, the engine rolled over. Except there was no engine. It looked like the engine was ripped out years ago.
I called her over and told her to get into the passenger seat and not to ask me how I did it, how I fixed the car. I didn't know myself.
She got in with her plaid skirt and plaid blouse and beige shoes, buckled up, and just sat there. First looking at me and then, as we started driving off, at the road ahead.
Sometime later we heard what we took as sniper fire coming from up and over the hills behind us. We didn't think that they were shooting at us but we didn't stop to find out.
We drove for a few hours but it soon started getting dark and with the new moon I had a hard time navigating in the dead of night so I pulled over and we reclined in our seats and slept.
I woke up next to a corpse. I didn't move as I thought that she had been shot while we slept and that it was the shot that had woken me. After hours of forced immobility I took a chance and looked away from her body. Other than a rustle of leaves in the wind there was no change in our surroundings. In my surroundings. Mine. I was the only one left. I realized that she had been sicker than I thought and the sickness had finally taken her. Or maybe it was the lack of treatments now that Brother Covet was dead. And now they both were. I never found out her name.
I stuffed her into the trunk next to what was left of Brother Covet. I decided to give her the same funeral as BC. To dump her into the water off the bay area in San Francisco. BC wanted to go like that. Now she'll share that fate.
The engine-less car drove on.
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| Just. 2011-04-08 17:40:42 ET |
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It's just that time of the year again. The time when you can go into any bank and ask for a safety deposit box. And you go into the vault and you pick one out and it's on the bottom row. So you open it and there's a hole and you climb in and enter it like a cave in the earth. And there are these metal rungs that serve as a ladder.
And you climb down.
A wind blows and you feel bits of sand fall on your face and you realize you're looking up but there's no more light and you remember…
You were sleeping when you rolled over and fell off your bed. You realized it was your bed although you didn't remember ever sleeping in it before. This wasn't even your room nor your house. Come to think of it you weren't even sure of how your house even looked like though you were sure that this wasn't it. Quickly you thought of the concept of home but no image came to mind. Just that fluid pseudo-concept of home.
"Well, no matter!", you decided, "Time to go downstairs and make myself a sandwich!"
You weren't sure to whom you were speaking to but you were not sure that nobody was listening. Come to think of it maybe everybody was listening. Maybe everybody was watching. Maybe this was a set for one of those online webcam vids. Maybe. Probably not though.
How weird it is not to panic over such a situation, you thought.
Anyways, it was time for sandwiches.
You made your way down the stairs. The wooden stairs covered with green carpetting. You realized that marble stairs would've given this place a bigger touch of class but such an expense could not be justified by… by whom? Who approved expenses?
And now you were in the kitchen. With its retro kitchen fridge. You grabbed the handle and pulled the fridge door open. Inside the fridge, opposite of you, was another door. You opened it as well. Green grass on the other side. You found yourself standing outside a large, round house fashioned out of adobe. You had…fallen here? How does one fall out of the front door anyway? Down and out?
The grass was freshly cut giving it that almost-watermelon smell. Almost but not quite.
You walked forward, forward away from the house and you found yourself in a field with hilly plains. And on one of these hilly plains was a well. A wishing well. You dropped a dime into it and wished it well. As you walked away it grumbled to itself: "That's not how I work, moron." Good thing you weren't around to hear that little qualm. Some wishing wells have no to very little manners.
You kept on walking until you tripped over something buried lightly in the dirt. You moved the soil apart with your hands and discovered what looked like an ancient safe now half rusted. You dug it out and decided to keep it for safekeeping.
The banker looks at you and then at the small metal safe deposit box in your hands. He glowers at you with disdain like an unfriendly judge in the court of kangaroos. He doesn't smile but he does bother to ask:
"Is this what you're planning to use for safekeeping, sir? It's so past tense!"
You shrug your shoulders. Your choice is your choice.
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| Towers of Silence + some thoughts 2011-03-30 02:08:23 ET |
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So I think I'm going to resurrect my old lj to post weird stuff onto it.
Anyways..
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tower_of_Silence
[quote]The towers, which are fairly uniform in their construction, have an almost flat roof, with the perimeter being slightly higher than the center. The roof is divided into three concentric rings: The bodies of men are arranged around the outer ring, women in the second circle, and children in the innermost ring. Once the bones have been bleached by the sun and wind, which can take as long as a year, they are collected in an ossuary pit at the center of the tower, where—assisted by lime—they gradually disintegrate and the remaining material—with run-off rainwater—runs through multiple coal and sand filters before being eventually washed out to sea. The ritual precinct may be entered only by a special class of pallbearers, called nasellars, a contraction of nasa.salar, caretaker (-salar) of potential pollutants (nasa-).[/quote]
And a photo (NSFW):
http://www.si-la-gi.com/content/2008/si-la-gi_allpictures.html
Thank you, Reddit!
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| A song? 2011-02-21 05:51:58 ET |
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We like to party
With a case o' Bacardy.
In the Bacardy are the ashes of my grandaddy.
We hire hookers and sex them randy.
I stick the Bacardi into their panty
Now my grandaddy's ashes are getting it plenty.
Hooker calls me up next day and she tells me
"You into some weird shit, boy"
She tell me my grandaddy gone done her pregnant
When he was in that can o' Bacardi
Back when we was having that party.
I tell her to abort it she say that she can't.
I ask her why
She say
You can't abort ash.
I ask her what it's about
She tell me she has ash baby in her.
She say that when we party with a can o' Bacardi
That hold the ashes of my grandaddy
We shouldn't put him in no girl's panty
Cause he'll make me another auntie
Or an uncle out of ash.
I got a randi grandaddy
In a can o' bacardi.
I got a preggo hook-o with me on the line.
Don't ever party with a case o' Bacardi.
No no no.
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| Pulp 2011-02-19 08:12:30 ET |
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Don't know what this is yet...
***
He stepped out of the airport. Blone. Cheap suit, cheap leather briefcase, cheap fedora, cheap leather gloves, cheap aviator shades, and cheap black shoes.
He hailed a cab and got in. Told the bus driver to get him to a place in Astoria. He didn't have the exact address but he did have an intersection. He told the cab driver to step on it and informed him that he will be paying in cash and not by credit card. They sped off.
They stopped under an elevated train station in front of a deli. The man in the suit handed the cab driver the fare along with a fairly large tip. Not too large but enough to make the driver happy. He drove off in search of another fare.
The man in the suit looked around. It was still early evening and the sun had not yet began to set. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a cheap phone. Prepaid. Nokia. He dialed a number.
The other end rang two times before it was answered. A female voice. Not young nor old. Anonymous. Sounding vaguely distorted. Slightly prerecorded. All the voice said was 2 words. "Please proceed." The phone's speaker beepd twice as the line went dead. The man made sure the phone was on silent and put it back into his pocket. He flipped the briefcase over so it was facing him and he quickly entered the comibantion for each lock and then, with a flick of the fingers on the 2 metal pads holding the attache closed he pooped the cover slighlty open. Reached in. Felt what he was looking for and turned the safety off. Then he pulled out his arm and closed the briefcase but did not lock it. Into the deli he went.
The clerk in the deli paid him only brief attention as the man in the suit went to the back to the milk section. Making sure nobody was nearby he slipped through a door maked "Employees only." He opened up his briefcase again and pulled out his gun. It was a good gun. A Bersa 380. He walked forward through the dim stock room and stopped at what looked like a broom closet. He had never been here before yet he walked with the confidence of a a native. A man familiar with his surroundings as if he had been here all his life. The only betrayal of this atmosphere were his eyes which twitched as they quickly looked around, taking in the scenes, feeding his intuition clues to let his main self do the job.
He walked into the broom closet. He walked through the broom closet. Out through the secret door in the back and into a secret den that must have been part of the neighboring building. The 2 people seated at a round table were playing cards. Sweating into their stained shirts. There were a couple of lowball glasses on the table. Filled with some brown liquor. An unmarked bottle of the same liquor stood on the side of the table. By the edge.
The man in the suit had his hand up already. The gun was cocked. The men playing cards were still holding their cards. Despite the sound of some spanish music coming from some nearby radio it seemed to all of the men thatthere was a blanket of silence surrounding the area.
It was the time and place where everything stops and rolls over. The second hand on the watch ticks once more and an event occurs in spontaneity and careful planning. Like a balloon swelling to the limit and then popping.
The Bersa coughed out 2 shots for one man. Then another 2 for the other. Then another shot each, straight to the head.
The man in the suit made a quick check of his clothes for any blood splatter. There was a s few spots but they only showed up as small dark stains on the cheap black suit.
He walked out of the room. Back through the broom closet, and then, with his hand in the briefcase through the "Employees Only" door and then past the clerk and then back out into the street where he locked his briefcase and walked away, following the train tracks to the next station where he got onto the last car of the train. A few stops later he got out and began to walk forward until he reached the front of the station. Then he turned and made sure nobody was behind him. Then he got onto the next train and headed into Brooklyn.
At the last stop on the train he walked out of the station and kept walking. He was now no longer blonde having taken off his wig on the train and securing it in the briefcase. Walking past a mailbox his hand seemed to spasm and his briefcase fell to the ground. He kneeled to pick it up while simultaneously slipping his hand to retreive a door card attached to the underside of the mailbox with an adhesive. He palmed it, stood up fully, briefcase in hand, and kept on walking until he arrived at a Best Western hotel where he took an elevator to the 3rd floor and stopped by room 306. He swiped his card and stepped to the side. Nothing happened. He jiggled the door knob as if having problems getting in. Still notihng happened. Then he swung the door straight open with such force that it slammed an inner wall inside the room. Nothing. He stepped in and did a quick survey of the room before finally locking the door behind him and propping a chair against the door knob. He then pulled a set of black plastic bags from his briefcase, took off his suit, and placed the clothes into the the bags which he tied up tight. From within the briefcase he pulled out a pair of khakis and a t-shirt. He inspected them and lay them on the table in the room. He then inspected the alarm clock, set the alarm to 5am and collapsed onto the bed into a sleep deep enough for rest but light enough in order to not remain drowsy.
The sun was setting.
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| Thoughts on How to Fill Up my Wallet 2011-02-02 13:16:39 ET |
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So I'm thinking to myself... what if I take most of the things that I wrote so far and just make them into an ebook and sell it on the interwebtubes. Do you think people will buy it? How will I advertise?
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| An Introspective Lok Upon One's Self 2011-01-28 12:05:16 ET |
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Question:
Why do you write?
Answer:
Because the keyboard won't punch itself.
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