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The Ox of Indecency

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It's been a while. I've said that a lot. [Aug. 15th, 2005|10:27 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
[Current Mood |I have to pee.]
[Current Music |Norah Jones]

Well. It's been a long time since I've updated this thingy. Which is cool. Means I'm getting around without internet. NO MORE DEPENDENCE! Huuzah for me.

Well, I'll catch you all up. All...one or two of you that care.

I moved out of my apartment. More like kicked out by my lame ass brother...Lost my mattress, my TV, guitar gig bag, a whole mess of DVDs and CDs and some food...I've been sleeping on my buddy's sofa for almost five weeks now without a pillow. Just a little sheet that barely covers me. FUN.

Moved in to a one bedroom apartment with two other guys for a while until we found a nice little two-bedroom a bit south of school. Moved in and got the internet, television and porn. All that good stuff.

Adam and Jordan are my new roommates. They're real cool guys. Nice fellers. Adam and I started a "band." It consists of two guys right now. But between us we have some nice song ideas that are sounding pretty nice. He wrote some lyrics that seem fitting too.

So. Um.

I wrote another story. This one's for my mom, so it's clean. I write on that and two other little stories beside it. It's pretty cool. Mostly ripping off Sin City's style with stupid ideas I have. But who cares, I surely don't. It's relaxing.

Swiss women are nuts hawt.

Murielle is an actress in the school right next to mine. I met her through Mike the keyboardist. ( He's Swiss too. )
We casually talk all the time. She's really awesome and cool. I went with her to watch some friends of her's play before she left for Swiss-Land a few weeks back. Before she left I asked her out. She said when she got back. Which....I'm hoping wasn't a lie. But, hell, if it is I'll get over it. There're so many other cool chicks in the world. But geez. She's gorgeous AND cool. AND FOREIGN! When she starts talking German I melt. It's so cool sounding.

Anyway. Besides that, nothing is up. I've gotten fatter. That's about it. I'm trying to change. And by trying I mean complaining and acknowledging I have a problem, not exactly doing anything about it. ( DAMN YOU QUIZNOS AND YOUR DELICIOUS STEAKHOUSE BEEFDIPS! )

Amy comes in two weeks to hang out while Dad is at the trial thing. Jordan and Adam talk to her all the time. In fact, just half an hour ago Jordan asked Amy to ask me to get a soda for him. All of this was done over AIM and Jordan was sitting well within earshot. Fun times...

I miss Pop. I miss Ma. Amy'll be fun to see. I miss Jake too. I never realized how much fun we had until I moved away. He's my very best friend in the world and I didn't even get to go to his birthday party...Which my little sister and mother threw for him. They baked him a cake. A CAKE. He's like my freakin' brother. It's awesome.

Anyway, my wrist hurts and I have to do some practicing. Have to learn some parts for my class tomorrow. Should be a blast....

If you could guess my favorite song, I'd give you whatever I could. But you'll never EVER guess it. You'd have to sing it if you wanted me to marry you.

And you don't count, Melissa. you already know and I'm already going to marry you when you're an old spinster and I'm an old wrinkled bastard.
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(no subject) [Jun. 22nd, 2005|05:31 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
img src="http://images.quizilla.com/G/gloomfairie/1046210011_Marybell1.gif" border="0" alt="You are Mary Bell.">
You are Mary Bell. At the ripe old age of 10 you
strangled a neighbor boy, afterwhich you carved
your initals into his skin. At his funreal you
laughed. Your next victim was a 3 year old. You
pushed him off the roof, resulting in a broken
skull. After he was found you went to his
mothers house and asked to see him, she replied
tha t he was dead. You smiled brightly and said
'Oh, I know he's dead. I wanted to see him in
his coffin."
You horrid little girl you.
-smacks your hand-

Which Imfamous criminal are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hahahahaha. Aw, little Mary Bell. As horrible as this sounds, I admire her. Not for the killing, but for just LOVING it. Because if you are gonna do something that horrible you might as well enjoy it! Tee hee!
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Been a while. [Jun. 22nd, 2005|03:50 pm]
The Ox of Indecency

click HERE to see what kinda druggie
you are!
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Elegie pour les Sadiques [Mar. 26th, 2005|10:13 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
Just like any other day. I woke up, bowled over on my side, sleeping in stale and some fresh batches of my own vomit. The taste was in my mouth and the stink was in my nostrils.

Just like any other day, I didn't know where I was. It wasn't home, that much I knew. The window only steps from me was covered with layers of dirt and grime. Barely any light from the street lights or lighted signs advertising naked women or liquor made it through.

Consciousness hit me like my mother used to; a chair leg against the back of my head repeatedly until I cried for mercy. I'd thought I was dead. Not the first time for that, but one of the most real ones.

The flames came back, I could even see them but they didn't burn like before. I still imagined the fall from the window. Everything had been so real. The Man's voice as he told me the awful truth.

But it hadn't been the truth. All of that was a lie. A disgruntled dream led astray by too many drugs and a shot of whatever the gunman had given me. I tried hard to believe that. It seemed probable, but that nagging apprehension found a place in my gut and wouldn't leave.

Long minutes of sulking finally came to a crashing halt. The door on the end of the room opened slowly and with a loud creak in the hinges. Reminiscent of a training crashing to a halt on tracks. Dull yellow light fell into the room from the door. A tall blond haired man stood there, dressed immaculately in a very fine fabric suit. He cast me a glaze through blue eyes and canted an eyebrow at me. The crooked smile made it all come back.

I hadn't been hallucinating in the bathroom. I could tell because my dick wasn't over 6 inches. I'd killed the black asshole and I'd run into that short gunman.

Who just happened to be one half of the Tourelle Twins.

There was the other half. A six foot and inches tall sociopath with a chip on his shoulder. Allan Tourelle. Youngest brother of the Twins. Obvious reason as any for a chip, eh?

Allan was the one you'd see at bars. He frequented the Pussy and other brothels. He'd trash rooms, hookers, bouncers. Anything that would make him feel better. He'd been brought up on charges of fucking up an eleven year old girl before. Apparently, he'd raped her a number of times after making her watch him kill her family with his bare hands. Girl's probably traumatized somewhere upstate while he gets off completely free.

Mingled feelings of fear and hopelessness coursed through my veins. The only idea I had was that he was coming in here to work me over hard. Hopefully my body could stand so many fights in just one night.

Allan smiled as soon as he caught my look. He'd probably seen it before on that little girl from before.
I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I didn't want him getting off in his drawers thinking he'd gotten the better of me.

We'd seen each other before. No introductions. Straight to business. I stood up with every ounce of strength I had left and faced him with my head just barely reaching his chin. I don't know what got me to thinking that that move would make it any less painful.

For what seemed like an eternity, he tossed me around as if I was the size of a doll. Allan grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my face into the wall, obviously wanting me to admire the wallpaper he'd put up. Must have wanted me to take a glance at the carpet he'd installed 'cause I was on the floor with a big boot on my chest.

It became worse and worse. But after all the punches, kicks, stomps and throws, I started becoming numb. Which made everything just slightly better than before. Slightly. Allan kept at it, stomping on my arms and slamming my back into wall after wall. I was dizzy. Couldn't tell you which way up was.

He must have had enough. He was panting and I was laying on the ground in a pool of blood that ran from a cut on my scalp and a broken nose. I showed him who the boss was. That Big Bastard just smiled and kicked me in the ribs one more time. I'm almost sure this time a rib gave a bit.

I had a floor-side view of his boots as he turned and left the room. Bits of my blood were on his nice shoes. Hah. I HAD won the battle. Hopefully they would stain and cause him nights of unrest. And as was becoming the norm...Everything went dark.

I could hear the door begin to open again. Silently I prayed that it wasn't Allan come back for round two. I just couldn't go easy on him again. This time I was sure to have spit on his pleated pants.

Delicate hands touched my shoulder, being so gentle and kind as they turned me from my stomach onto my back. My eyes opened into the dim light that had been cast into the room again. A blur was over me. All that I could tell was that it wasn't over six foot, massively malignant and wanted to put a boot in my cranium. I blinked through the bit of blood that was dried and caught in my left eye. I was just about to ask a question when it was answered for me.

"You look horrible. Aw, Casey, what did they do to you?"

That voice. So pure and so sweet. The one voice in this town that always would brighten my mood, no matter how horrible I felt.

"Sal..I'm still gorgeous, aren't I?"

She laughed softly and brushed my cheek with the back of her hand. The small, yet so tender embrace felt out of place. Awkwardly intoxicating and wonderful.

"Of course, Mr. Jones. In fact, more so than ever. I'm sure we could go find you a right woman just as soon as you stand up and walk out of here."

Her free hand rattled a small bottle of what I prayed to God would be pain killers. Sally elevated my head just enough for me to grab the bottle with my lips and start crunching down the pills. I didn't even bother to swallow, just began chewing on the pills as fast as I could.

The light was coming in and my eyes were just about adjusted. The pills would take a while to kick in anyway. Time for questions.

"How the hell did you.."

I stopped just as I looked up at her. Sally..Poor young Sally wasn't dressed in her usual garbs. Not her jeans and t-shirt and normal teenage girl attire. I saw..vinyl and pink hair and make up..Cleavage like you wouldn't believe. I would have gotten caught there if I didn't look at her eyes. The blood on her pronounced lip and the purple surrounding both of her eyes. Her left eye was almost swollen shut.

She smiled weakly and forced a laugh to cover any embarrassment or shame she felt. All a careful facade and act that was shaking on it's foundations.

"You would have been proud, Casey. I disguised myself as a whore and came in hoping to find you. It took me a while, but I finally found you and now we can go, okay? Right?"

She didn't need to say anything. I knew what had happened. And it only fueled my hatred for the younger Tourelle. Hitting and raping any other woman would have been fine. Not Sally. No, not Sally...
She helped me to my feet a moment later, trying to avoid any moments of outrage from me.

Down the hallway and towards the stairs, all the while Sally supporting the bulk of my weight. She stopped abruptly, almost spilling me down across the floor. She looked horrible, but past the bruises and swelling I knew she was crying. It tore me apart inside for some reason. I didn't like it. I wish it would stop

Sally looked at me through her swollen eyes and sniffed softly. In a barely audible whisper she said:

"Please stop him...Don't let him...I..know you're tired and sore..but..."

She moved me towards the door she'd stopped near. A door like most others. Beyond I could hear small whimpers and moans.

My gut told me it was Allan. And about right now there wasn't a demon in Hell or an angel in Heaven that was going to stop me from exacting my revenge on that bastard.

The pain killers mingled well with a solid supply of adrenaline. I pushed away from Sally just as graceful as I could. My hand reached around the door knob slowly, twisting it slow enough as to not draw attention to it. Painfully slowly, it took all of a minute to get the knob turned all the way. Finally the door swung easily open without a creak. Just open enough to slide through.

Luck was on my side. I was now in the room, in the dark, with the door closed behind me. Ahead of me was a sight I wasn't sure I could have prepared myself for.

This wasn't Allan's room. And it wasn't him sitting in the chair in front of the bed.

It was the older Twin. Michael Tourelle. Oldest, smallest, most despicable and the one that had shoved a gun into my neck at the 324 bar. Stories had always circulated about the eldest Twin. Everyone knew he had to be as sick as his brother. But few were certain he was a necrophilliac and dabbled in some arts of thaumaturgy. And flesh crafting. From what I could tell from the pentagrams and blood stained walls and floors, he probably was into all that devil worshiping stuff too. One sick puppy.

The two women on the bed proved everyone's theories. Two women lay on the bed, each of them weeping softly and touching the other's chest and crotch as Michael would demand. The women themselves were what struck me. All over their naked bodies were stitches. Long stitches around their breasts and stomach and face. They looked hideous. Just out of a bad dream. The parts they had were obviously not their own. Sewn on from someone else's remains onto them. They cried weakly and did as told, while Michael was in the chair with two surgical gloved hands smothered in oil. He was set about his dick like he was trying to break a his score on the Asteroids machine.

It was surprising none of them had noticed me. I was being quiet and stealthy, but..They were probably busy either masturbating or crying and touching their mutilated cunts.

Had I had a lunch, I was ready to give it back up. Seeing as how I hadn't eaten anything but painkillers in 18 hours, I had nothing to heave. But I had to put a stop to this.

I crept slowly up behind Michael's chair. Raising both my hands above my head, I struck them down securely on the smaller man's neck. Catching him off guard while he smoked his shaft with baby oil, he fell off the chair and onto the ground writhing for a moment. Just as soon as I reached down to begin the pummeling, Michael had a silenced Baretta up. He fired two shots but both slid by my side by about 3 inches. I dropped down on him and put a hand on the gun, wretching it from his lubed hands. His hands still fought to control the weapon as I pulled on it, finally getting it down low enough to his cheek and firing two shots through his head into the floor boards below.

Blood sprayed out of the wound, hitting the floor and all over the side of my face. As soon as I stood up, I saw the two mangled creatures on the bed looking at me with pleading eyes. I stared at them for a long moment before knowing what I had to do. In the most casual and quick way I could muster, I raised the barrel of the gun and fired one bullet into each one of their heads. Putting them nice and clean and fast. I probably was going to Hell for that. But I'm sure they are in a better place....Or something. Too much philosophy lately. I limped towards the door and swung it open quickly. Sally was waiting for me there. We didn't exchange a glance or a word, she just kept leading me towards the way out. Down stairs, through rooms, a window and then finally dropping down into a back alley.

The sky was dark over head. Clouds crowded for the best seat in the house as the down pour of the Lower City's history crashed down around our ears. In the rain, the dark alley was barely lit by the exposed moon light. Sally stared and me and I stared at Sally. Both of us ugly and beat to shit. But at the moment she was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.

My arms wrapped around her waist and I could feel her around wrap around my neck, pulling me close as she pulled me into a kiss with her big luscious and tasty young lips.

Had I been a romantic, the rain and the moment might have gotten to me.

After all that, I was still waiting for the thunder.
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"My Own Personal Hell." [Mar. 6th, 2005|10:58 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
You'll think of some funny things after a while of lying on your back in a hallway that smelled like cheap liquor and rice cakes. The ceiling was stained with fire scorches and other types of shit over the many years of lazy up keep.

My jaw ached. My knee did too. I was a mess. My mind made up excuses in my head trying to heal the wound that my pride had taken since the beating the little Asian had given me. I had been drinking and dizzy and the sun was in my eyes and my parents never loved me. I had enough excuses.

Even after I was ready to stand, I sat back and laid on the floor. No reason to move, I thought. Marissa was dead. Bits of her big brain all over her wall and the sheets of her bed. She'd been the last link to what had happened to Ron.

The drop dead gorgeous broad from my office wasn't at the club, where she'd told me to meet her. Maybe she'd skirted away, afraid that the brutes that had gone after Ron would come after her. Everyone was paranoid like that around here. People that had nothing to do with anything would run and hide at the first sign of trouble. Why? Because in this part of town, killing wasn't a sport or a means to an end. It was a hobby. Lots of people around here would kill you just to see what your skull was shaped like. A pit of constant fear and loathing. The Lower City wasn't far from hell. In fact, it might have been worse.

I didn't bother to go back and search Marissa's room. Mainly because I probably couldn't stand seeing a friend of mine in such a state. So I left. Down five flights of stairs and out into the cool night air, back at square one with nothing and no one to guide me. And when that ever happens to me, it's a sign from above: Stop. Drink. Wait.

Silly superstition I had that when I was lost, I'd take a shot and wait for something to turn up. It hardly ever worked but at least I got a drink and some time to relax.

The Lower City never slept. There were always bars, cantinas, pubs or any other type of watering hole open at all times of night. A quick and quiet out of the way place was the 324 Bar. Named after it's address. Run by a guy name Dave I'd known for a while.

I sat at the bar, on the end near the door like I always did. Just in case I had to make a quick get away from a bad guy, or hop out on my bill. Dave got me my usual, didn't say a thing and retreated to the other side of the bar where a few young whores giggled loudly at his cheesy jokes. One of them had a wandering eye and the other had the physique of a 11 year old boy. Besides those three, there were a few tough guy kids sitting against the wall in the very small bar. I didn't pay them much mind. Just kids in leather jackets trying to be tough.

I sat with my first drink as long as I'd stayed with my first wife. Which wasn't long at all. The second drink didn't fair as well either. I turned a sidelong glance to the guy next to me. He hadn't been there a minute ago. Must have scooted down to have a chat. Maybe he was queer. I was flattered. Cause I didn't think I was that pretty. The guy spoke before I could, interrupting my drink with his gravelly voice.

"Y'hear 'bout tha owner of the Puss?"

Ron's death was probably the talk of the town. He was the owner of one of the best clubs in this dump. Everyone was probably scurrying to grab a piece of the sinking ship before it fell under.

"Yeah. Pity."

"Ehh. He 'ad it comin'. Flashin' all dat money 'round and buyin' all the other places. I'd buy the sons of bitches a drink, ifin' I figgered who done it."

"Yeah well, keep figuring, bub, and then let me know what you find out."

A mindless conversation with a drunk in a bar. It signified nothing, would lead nowhere. Everything I did anymore seemed to be just as relevant as talking to this asshole. The drinks were starting to run through me now. A trip to the little boy's room was in order.

I stood up and left a few bucks for the drink, turning and walking down the narrow isle that led to the back of the bar, through a door covered in shit and puke on busted hinges. The inside wasn't anymore glamorous that the doorway. It probably hadn't been cleaned in years. Who'd want to, or who could be paid enough to clean this place was beyond me. I found myself a urininal and preceded to introduce myself to it.

The door swung on creaky hinges, letting the noise from the jukebox outside stream in. Rocking type of music that was as grungy as it was definitively Seattle in sound. The door swung shut again and the sound of heavy footfalls filled the small bathroom. The sink turned on behind me and whoever was in there must have been washing grime from their hands with the brown water that left the sink faucet.

I should have guessed it. My luck has a funny way of doing things like that. Things that I should expect and should be careful of but decide against it. As I stood there trying to drain my snake over the urininal, a big set of strong forearms wrapped around my neck and head, tightening with no sign of loosening.

Piss was flying everywhere as this guy interrupted my bathroom fiesta. The man tightened his grip around my head and neck to the point of cutting off all my breath. I fought back in vain, but I was still weak from all the drugs and having been beaten by the little man in the hallway. About the time I started to turn blue was the time I snapped. All the recent happenings had piled up on my shoulders and crashed down around me. I was pissed off.

My flailing arms stopped. One hand tried to wedge some breathing space around my throat while the other grabbed firmly onto the closest and easiest thumb I could find, tearing it the opposite way that God had intended it to go. The man cried out and began to tighten the squeeze. That's when I got a foot up and pressed hard on the wall with it, forcing the man into the wall behind him. His back right into an archaic hand dryer. That moment was all I needed. The moment he hit, he loosened his grip and then I tore myself away, turning around and immediately starting with a devastating right hook into the man's jaw. A left followed that. I saw him recover quickly, this big black man, the man who'd sat beside me in the bar, and come in close to try and grab me again. I couldn't get my arms up in time, but my Pop had always told me to use my head.

So I did.

I lept off the ground just inches in the air and slammed the crown of my head into the jaw of the big man. I heard him scream, dulled by his closed mouth. I didn't stop, I was too angry. Getting shot at and getting surprised by two thugs in the matter of 30 minutes was enough to piss me off greatly. I kept swinging, pelting this guy in the face, chest and stomach. I had him beaten down, on the ground on the disgusting bathroom floor. I couldn't stop myself, a scary thought, but at the same time making me feel so free. I turned and put both hands on the hand dryer, pulling it from the wall with a loud grunt and turning back to the man on the ground, writhing from all the pain I was inflicting. I didn't have to, I'd already won. But I WANTED to. I wanted to take that metal box and slam it into his face. I wanted to feel and hear the cracking of his bones. As they gave way underneath the pressure and ferocity of the beating.

And so I did.

I didn't stop slamming that box into his face. I could barely recognize him when I started. Dozens of times in the face and neck. I just kept swinging. I didn't want to stop. So I didn't. The floor was covered with shit, and now a pool of blood. My face had the streaks of blood that would fly up each time I took the makeshift weapon and crushed the man's head some more. His skull lay in fragments, his brains oozed on the floor in chunks of flesh and hair. His body twitched all over periodically. Even then I felt compelled to attack him still. To kill him some more until even what was left of his nerves stopped responding.

I was panting, bloody all about the face, none of it my own. I dropped the dented dryer to the ground and stood up straight. Straightening my tie and the rest of my suit and long trench coat. When I corrected my posture was the moment I felt the cold barrel against the back of my neck. I heard a giggle and the cocking of a hammer.

"That was...brilliant. Magnificent. You, my friend, are a true artist."

I didn't know whether he was being sarcastic or just saying things to mock me. I didn't care. I was exhausted from decimating the corpse of the man who'd snuck up on me. The guy behind me with the gun kept giggling and then coughed to clear his throat. One of his hands reached out to the back of my head and shuffled around between my neck and my coat. He must have found something, I couldn't see what it was. I finally got a glimpse of it when he threw it down on the chest of the dead man before me. It was his tongue. I must have struck him in the jaw earlier and caught him off guard, causing him to bite his own tongue off. Had I still been infuriated, I would have probably been happy. But now I was back to normal. Or as close to normal as I could have been. The gunman continued.

"I wanted to see if you actually had the vision. The vision of a painter, of an architect or a musician. I see that you do."

"Well if we're getting so friendly, would you mind taking the gun out of my neck?"

"I cannot do that. You are so devoted to your craft that I'm almost positive that you would carve me into the same masterpiece if I didn't have this weapon. Even as I envy the resplendent scene you've just crafted, I must decline at this moment. Please, gentle lord, take off your coat."

The nudging gun in my neck was all I needed to follow orders. Even if he was a sick fuck. I took my long coat off and tossed it onto the dead body of the man I'd murdered. I could hear the man behind me shifting for something he had, and I could even hear his muffled gasp as I had covered up the body. It felt a bit nice to get out of that heavy coat and into my short sleeved shirt again. Only for a moment, before I felt the familiar prick of a needle sticking into my flesh. I could feel it withdraw only a moment later. And only a moment after that did I start feeling dizzy. I twisted around to look down at the skinny short man behind me with the gun. Smiling a cocky little grin, I recognized him immediately. I just prayed to God that I would die before I woke up again.

Light crept in through an open window. I could hear the cars running down the street, the kids and adults all talking back and forth as they pass my building.

I was back home. Back in my office. My eyes slowly adjusted to the surroundings. My desk, I must have fallen asleep there and dreamt it all up. Marissa's death, Ron's death, getting beat up by the Asian..And murdering that man in the bathroom.

All a dream.

I stretched my hands above my head and sat back in my chair, sighing a sigh of relief and giving a once over to my small office. I stared out the window to my left for a moment, with a genuine happy smile on my face.

When I turned back, I was staring straight at the man with the brass ring, who was sitting in a chair opposite of me now. He scared the shit out of me. He was wasn't even smiling anymore. And before I could even think of what to do or say, he took the words out of my head.

"That wasn't a dream."

His words and voice chilled me like something I had never felt before. His vacant eyes, black holes, endless universes unto themselves for me to fall into and weep. Staring back at me. I answered wearily.

"Ron..And Marissa. But.....Then I still have to find the murderers."

The man began to shake his head slowly, his smile returning and his laugh coming back.

"You've found him, spook."

I stared directly into the eyes of that monster before me..The eyes reflecting me perfectly back at me. I leapt up and back, slamming into the blinded window behind me. My hand sloppily grabbed at the gun on my desk, turning it towards him and his huge toothy grin.


I couldn't think of anything better to say in time. This was all too fast for me, I just had to react as it came to me. The man laughed and stared at me still, shaking his head. His voice became quiet and sinister.

"No. Us."

The world was a swirl. I lived in a Picasso that was fighting to become right again. I shook my head furiously and cocked the hammer back on my gun. Without thinking I began firing into the man. Nothing affected him, he just kept laughing and giving me more and more reason to hate him and want him dead.

I kept firing until I was out of rounds. I sunk back against the window and vainly threw the gun at the sitting man.

"It can't be. I had nothing..There was no way I could have!"

"Think about it. A woman, so impeccably amazing. TOO amazing. Gorgeous and exactly what you've looked for in a woman all your life, comes to you and tells you of Ron's death. Then tells you she'll meet you at the club. But she isn't there. Because she doesn't exist. You made her up so you could go on this little adventure. So you could catch yourself."

I shook my head and snorted. That woman had been real. I knew she had....Hadn't she?

"But what about with Marissa? You blacked out for hours on the hood of your car? And then when you found her dead body, the suspected killer was OUTSIDE the apartment?"

His words didn't make sense. What made even less is when I started recalling these moments. My mind's eye clearly showed me above Marissa, beside her on the floor, myself on a line while she took a swig of Colt and heated a spoon. Then kissing her and pressing against her body on the bed. Feeling her chest rise with each breath and moan. Then fucking her. Slow and sensual. At the same instant of pleasure, the look I saw in her eye, I could feel my hands grip the pistol and shove it into her chest, shooting her one time. Her breathing sputtered and she she screamed through a punctured lung. I shot her again, ceasing her screams. She writhed in pain as I fucked her. And when I was done, I shot her in the forehead.

Before the man could say anything else, I began remembering Ron. The booth with him at his club. Everything was shady. I could remember the music blasting and his screams falling on deaf ears. Cutting his flesh with a large knife. Cutting him. Tasting his blood as it splattered on my face and tongue. Letting him scream as loud as he wanted as I cleaved him completely asunder. Taking his organs out to show him what his insides looked like before he died. I had to show him. I kept him alive to show him.

"You fucking liar! You fucking...!! I did not kill those people! Motherfucking! Cunt! Bitch!!"

Words flew out of me. I had no idea how to react to this. There wasn't a book that explained how to react to finding out that you're actually insane and living in a dream world, murdering your friends for pleasure in the sickest masochistic way imaginable.

It couldn't be real. I knew God wouldn't let be become the monster the man said I was. My thoughts of my friend Marissa pierced me deeply. The thought of doing that to her was more than I could bear. And Ron..I had owed Ron.

It was too much now. After all this, I couldn't live. I had to stop it all. I had to stop the voices, I had to stop the grinning, laughing man.

I reached into my desk for the bottle of alcohol. I took a long swig and nearly puked it back up. I grabbed it by the bottom and slammed it against the desk top, shattering the bottle-style neck to get even more out. That's when I turned it up over my head, drenching myself in the high proof liquor. The lighter I'd always kept in my front pocket was out immediately.

I was out of bullets and there was nothing else I could do. If I had done all those horrible things I deserved the pain. If I hadn't, I still had to get rid of the voices and the horrible thoughts in my head. Regardless of what had happened, it was going to end right here.

The lighter flicked on instantly just as I pressed it against my soaked clothes. I was lit up like a christmas tree, as they say. Fire bellowed all over me in just as fast as I could imagine it would.

My skin melted like butter, my hair was gone in an instant. The heat was unbearable. I writhed and screamed out incoherently as I burned in the hell I deserved. The man had began laughing again, but I could barely hear him anymore. I didn't want to hear him. I wanted him to hear my screams of agony. To hear our demise as the fire tore away at the meat of my frame, finally boiling my brain. My legs propelled me forward, towards the window with enough force to propel me out of the 4th story office and towards the ground below.

In my last few moments, through the fire, I saw the faces of children and men and women. Some of them looking up, some of them not realizing the falling fireball about to crash into the sidewalk. I tried to tel them all how very sorry I was, but my lips had burned away and my tongue was useless.

My own personal Hell.
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"If I were Japanese, I'd know Karate too." [Mar. 5th, 2005|09:18 am]
The Ox of Indecency
The flash had blinded me. My life was a montage streaming through like a movie reel gone awry in my head. Scenes of when my mother beat the shit out of me and my kid sister. Of when she'd shot my Pop and then herself only moments afterward. Of when my fly was caught open and all of Mr. Latham's gym class got to see my one eyed snake it's all it's pre-prubescent glory. One of thousands of memories that I didn't want. Especially if this is my last meal ticket. The voice jarred me from my dramatic haze.

"Hurry up, you're burnin' up all my fuel."

The flash turned out to be a flame from a lighter, a zippo style lighter that I would have given a testicle for just moments before. Thankfully I didn't have to. I only had one left. I took priority and initiative, lighting my smoke before anything else. When I looked up, I recognized her immediately.

"Must be my luck. That makes three women who've snuck up on me in the past four hours."

"Must be my luck to have been one of those women.." The voice was sarcastic, but warm with a gentle laugh at the end of her quip.

Marissa was just as I'd seen her last, almost months ago now. Dressed in comfortable fitting jeans, a black shirt with a symbol on it that I couldn't recall seeing before, probably some band's crest, and thick rimmed glasses with short pretty red hair. All in all she was an litte indie boy's dream girl. She'd been in charge of the books here at the Pussy. Brains, looks and a lighter. She was my dream girl right then and there. I waited for her to sit down and light her own cigarette before starting in on the questions.

"What was he into that would get his head broke like this?" I could almost see her adjust herself in her seat and almost cringe at my poor english.

"Ron was into a lot of things. Quite a few of them illegal, as you of all people would know. It couldn't have been financial. I made sure all the bills and all the thugs were paid on time."

"So probably someone with a personal vendetta? Maybe a husband of one of the whores?"

"Maybe. Maybe a father of one of Sally's friends. Perhaps a rogue cop, maybe even the chef. I don't know. If I did know I would stay out of it."

That caught my attention. She'd always been subtle, and I rarely got anything from her, but right then...


"Think with your head, spook. The trail is clean. No one has any idea who would do this or for what reason. My advice to you is to smoke that cigarette, have a drink in the bar and head home. Ron is dead. That's all. No need to stick anymore necks out to get cut."

It was a threat, I knew it. She knew something and was telling me to back off, in as many words or so. It made sense. Marissa could put Ron's fortunes anywhere she wanted and no one would question her in the ensuing chaos. She might as well have a bag packed for Bora Bora.

"But why am I wasting my time talking to you? Don't answer that. It's a rhetorical question."

Marissa stood up after having schooled me with grammar and english. Her cigarette was dead and lifeless on the floor now. I still didn't say anything. Just sat there, jumping my eyes from anything that looked suspicious.

"I am leaving this hell hole. I have the money that Ron owed me..With a small Christmas bonus..And I'm going to Colorado."

"Colorado? You're trading hell for the north pole?"

"You would be that stupid to think that it's that cold there. I have family in Castle Rock that I'm going to stay with. But on the way, I'm going to Maroon Bells."

"Is that some kind of Indie Rock band that can't really play their instruments, but crank up the volume anyway?"

She snorted and rolled her eyes, turned back toward the way she'd come in, then stopping to look over her shoulder.

"It's a beautiful place right before you get into Aspen. There's mountains surrounding a beautiful reflecting lake. It's the most beautiful spot I've seen in my life. It's a release from staring at the smoke stacks across town."

I nodded and stood, following her as she and I made our way through the crowd in the club. Finally outside, after giving this Maroon Bells business a rough thought, I stopped and looked at her, through the rising smoke of my Lucky Strike.

"Moron Bell..Not much of a pretty name. But I can appreciate it, I suppose."

Marissa moved to object. I must have said something wrong. She backed down, shaking her head in disbelief. That's when she closed the small gap between us, looking straight up at me with a smile and pressing her chest against mine.

"You know..My flight isn't until noon tomorrow. We can go back to my place. I took what was left in Ron's stash of coke. Even have some even better stuff."

"Are you coming on to me?"

"I'm not that subtle am I? It's just..a girl has needs. And most the guys around here are WAY too big and I heard that--"

I cut her off with a groan and turned around with my hands dug in my pockets. Whore's had some loose lips, I swear.

"Aw, come on, spook, I was just kidding you! Be that way. But if you want some great times for no money, you know where I live." She laughed and laughed, a kind of annoying laugh as she turned around and started walking down the sidewalk back towards her place.

Alone again. Standing out on a corner near my car almost waiting for some overweight bald man to come get me and ask me what my price was. Oh, the other side, how ironic.

I finished off my smoke and sat on the hood of my car for what seemed like hours. The Pussy was still rocking and people didn't stop flooding in and out of the joint. Movie stars, whores, druggies all night long.

The man in my car with the grin and the brass ring kept staring at me. In his large absent eyes I knew that he was trying to tell me something. A clue? Maybe even the answer to all of this.

I didn't know what the fuck was going on anymore. That drop dead gorgeous woman in my office, Sally and Marissa. I didn'tk now who was real and who was on my side. Or if there were any sides.

My hands were frozen in the cool night chilled breeze. Purely from the time spent idle. My watch said I'd been sitting on my hood for 4 hours, thinking. It hit me like Mike Tyson would hit Robin Givens and then I was walking. Down the streets and streets and the short bus ride to Marissa's pad. She had a few things I wanted. Information on all of Ron's activities that had gotten him into so much trouble, a hot ass, and probably a kilo of cocaine.

The buzzer on her apartment building had been blown to shit long ago. The front door was as wide open as Oprah Winfrey's vagina.

The elevator bellowed strains and struggles against even my weight. And I wasn't that fat. Really. It chimed and out I went into the fifth floor. This place was a dump. But just as much as any other shit hole in the Lower City. Marissa's door was just right ahead. Knock knock.

The door swung open as soon as my knuckles touched it. She'd always obsessed over the door whenever I was over for a late night fix. Locking it twice just to be sure. Instinct took over and I grabbed the gun from my shoulder holster inside my long coat. I crept inside with all the grace I could muster on a coke downer and two cigarette dizzys.

The apartment seemed normal enough. Coffee table with a pipe and dirty syringe on the glass. I stopped there, my gun in one hand and to my side now, looking down at the lines on the glass. Three laid down, 1 and a half done. I turned away from the collection of pick-me-ups and turned towards the small nook in the corner, where Marissa's bed was.

Pools of blood had stained the off-white sheets. The blank look in her eyes as she stared at the ceiling told me everything I needed to know.

Marissa was dead.

The whole in her forehead, the one just above her left breast and the one in her gut. She'd been bleeding like a stuck pig. Almost undressed, she must have been caught off her guard. There was still coke hanging from her upper lip. Hair and make up was everywhere on her pillow and not on her face.

I probably would have cried. Should have. I always cried when a friend so close as Marissa died. Probably the drugs effecting my brain still. I could smell the bullet still, it hadn't been long ago. And the smoke in the ash tray was still burning. It's when I heard the stomping footsteps outside the room that I was back in the moment.

Someone must have followed me, or snuck up when I wasn't looking. Whichever, he was booking now, and regardless of the reason, I needed an answer. Out the door I ran, over the coffee table and slamming against the hallway wall. A small man dressed in black rushed down the hallway, gun in hand, firing blindly back at me. With minimal cover, the only thing I could do is hope he was as poor an aim as he was a dresser.

The man turned and fired more bullets my way, missing each time as he turned a corner and my view of him was lost. After checking that I didn't have anymore holes in me than usual, I moved forward, gun at the ready for that little bastard to poke his head out.

Just as I rounded the corner, something jumped out and slapped the bottom of my gun up, forcing the slide part of the .45 into my nose. I recoiled. Brilliantly, might I add. Falling almost all the way down to the floor with my own gun in my face. That's when I saw that little bastard. Asian fucker that brought his gun up right down toward my chest. While he was aiming, I broke one of the taboos of men's fighting and slammed my boot right into his crotch, then rose up while he was recovering.

Both of his hands were on his balls now, as if that would help them from stop swelling. As hard as I had kicked him, I doubt his testicles weren't shattered.

Now I had the upper hand. He'd lost his gun and was writhing in pain while fighting to stand. Cocky as ever, I leaned down to pick up my gun from the floor...And I got a shoe in the nose. I feel against the window sill on the side of the hallway, holding on for dear life so I didn't fall on my back again. As I sat there, that little fucker began to beat me with his feet, crying out Hyahs and all that other Oriental bullshit. I finally was able to fight my way to standing, only to get kicked in the stomach and in the knee.

I went onto my hands and knees, fighting for breath and strength when the little bastard kicked me one more time in the face, bowling me over, and then rushed down the hall towards the stairs. I somehow managed to find my voice and call out to him as he ran.

"If I were Japanese, I'd know Karate TOO!"

That's when the pain overwhelmed me and it all went black.

( Next Chapter: "Drugs are funny things..." )
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"The Scene of The Crime." [Mar. 4th, 2005|07:52 am]
The Ox of Indecency
The Old Pussy. One of the most happening places in the Lower City. Everyone who was anyone was getting his/herself some Pussy every night of the week. Movie stars, porn stars, pedophiles, rapists. The dregs rubbing elbows with fabulous. The kind of place you'd see four legs under the table and only one body above it.

It'd gone down hill. Ron's death had effected the place greatly. Most likely the bottom feeders and Ron's old biffs vying for position as top dog. When you have a monumental power struggle like that, things get cast by the way side.

Poor Puss. I'd been done up in lights and pearls last I'd been here. A perfect example of it's name sake. Like a damn fine peach. Now it was more like the Old part. A rottweiler eating a bottle of mayo...Heh. I crack myself up sometimes.

My car was an extension of my office and my outrè mind. The interior was all dark fake leather with a matching smell. Like a school bus. Sans the stink of little boy farts. The brass ring was the only light in the car, besides the glow of my cigarette. The man was back there, grinning manically still, grinding and gnashing his teeth to the point of distraction. He threatened inane advice with his eyes. It was like a perverse version of Driving Miss Daisy. Except I didn't like black people, and that thing in the back was probably repressed childhood memory about Mommy not giving me enough apples and too much drano.

You never walk right into a place. One of those little quirks I'd developed after many years of alcoholism, drug abuse and walking around in public places with my fly down. That and the fact that I forgot where I left the door handle added to the reason to stay put in the car.

The Pussy was right in front of me, filling my entire windshield. They served food at the Pussy and from where I sat out back, you could smell right into the kitchen. Ah, must be that time of the month. Tuna caserole night.

Sitting in your own vomit is sure enough a reason to get your ass up out of your seat and get to work. I'd forgot how bad The Pussy's Tuna smelled and I caught the bad end in my stomach, sending all those ding dongs and ho ho's up from the night before.

I left the man in the back seat, easing his troubled mind and reminding him I'll be right back. With the brass ring and the depths of my mind back in the car..Not to mention the ding dong/ho ho vomit..The world shifted back to it's normal look and feel.

The inside of the Pussy was warm. Muggy. I could still smell that tuna in the back. The place wasn't crowded, but I still felt a pang of saddness for this place. Used to be that only a select few came here every few nights. Now, anyone and everyone was in the Pussy any night. It was a damn shame.

The lights were low, and the bartenders were hard of hearing. I didn't get my drink. But that's alright. I was still feeling the mescaline and pain killers. Rave dance music filled the joint. That shitty stuff that was made by a kid in his garage with only a small knowledge of music. The kind of song that went on for 45 minutes just looped and looped. Even hammered and stoned I couldn't stand this crap. What happened to the goodies? The oldies? Call me lame, or out of touch, but I thought kids today still listened to Uriah Heep and Nelson Schmelson.

The broad was nowhere in sight. Probably in a back room with four guys. Doing the nasty everyway they could in every fashion. So much for meeting her here.

The corner room was closed off with a velvet rope. No way I was getting past there. That was probably where the murder happened. Ron always did like sitting back there, playing hide the sausage with his niece's friends. I could still see him there, grinning that ugly grin he had in his red zoot, one hand down a chick's shirt and the other hand on a cigar.

It hit me like a 12 year old pre-teen girl resisting against a grizzly old man that was trying to get some hoochie. That familiar sound of Coltrane coming from that same box that Ron used to sit at. He'd always been a Coltrane fan. Saying that he actually had taste over guys like Davis and Parker. I didn't know what to say, I was still listening to a borrowed N'Sync CD.

Intrigued and with no help from the bartender, I made my way towards the velvet rope, strategically putting one foot over it at a time. The first attempt wasn't so bad. The second time, though, I was over that blasted rope and into that private box.

The smell of blood was pungent. Mixed with the tuna smell that filled the pussy and my deodorant, I had no idea how I was going to keep it together.

They'd moved the body at least. From the look of all the blood rushing around, there couldn't have been too many solid pieces of Ron left. The table had a hand print, covered in blood streaking down. A dying gesture, no doubt Ron's last move before it all blacked out like the eye of a woman who didn't know when to shut up.

I sat down in one of the chairs that wasn't completely covered in blood and stared at the scene. I was waiting for those detective instincts to kick in and tell me that terrorists had something to do with this..Nothing came. It wasn't all a waste of time. There was cocaine left in lines on the table. And well..No one was using it. Nothing was coming from this spot, or anywhere else in the Pussy, I'm sure.

I was driving that train. High on cocaine. The next words were completely ripping off an old tune who's "artist" I could even recall.

"Casey Jones, you'd better watch your speed."

The voice made me jump, gun out of the holster and everything. Unfortunately, in my stupor I couldn't get a proper hold and the gun sprang onto the table, facing me. The voice giggled. Through the dark, I could see the outline of someone. A woman, from the voice. Champagne shoulder length blonde hair. She didn't wear a mink coat like the broad before. Much too sensible for that. She'd always been a bit precocious.

"You scared the shit out of me, kid..And the fact that you even know that old song really freaks me out too."

Sally had the best youthful giggle you could imagine. Barely all of 19 years old, Sally was Ron's niece. She'd bring loose friends to Ron for money. I didn't know whether she was a druggie or a crackwhore, or what she did with that money. No one really did.

"I heard it on the radio just the other day. Got me thinking about you, Casey Jones."

She had a smile that would light up the room and make you forget about having a terminal illness, or a small dick. Sally was just that adorable. She slid easily from over the rope and sat down on the chair next to me, tossing locks of radiant hair over a shoulder while she looked at the gun and the bloody mess.

"My name isn't Casey Jones, Sally."

"I know that. But I don't like your other name and you remind me of Casey Jones from the song and the hockey player from the Ninja Turtles."

She giggled and nudged me in the shoulder. I had to smile. She always did brighten me up. When wife number 1 and 2 left to be with wife number 3, she brought me out of the dumps with her happy -go-lucky attitude. As much as I'd have loved to sit there and bullshit with her, I knew I had things to do. I nodded towards the mess as I grabbed the gun I ...er..skillfully tossed at the table.

"Sorry about your uncle. He was a good guy."

"No he wasn't. He was a rapist, a sadist and a masochist. All the qualities in a father figure a growing woman needs, right?" She snorted, so uncharacteristically.

Sally's father had been shot up, for fucking the wrong woman in the wrong bed. Honest mistake, he said, he was lost and thought he was in his house.

"True. I just didn't want to seem like a complete prick. How're you holding up, by the way? Now you have no one to pimp your friends out to."

"I'll find others. Maybe in the Upper City. Or maybe I'll just move on with a hobo stick and a pocket full of dreams."

"Smart ass. How's school?"


"Kids your age DO go to school, right?"

"No money for college."

That was hard to believe. She had access to Ron's massive accounts, and had a pretty decent gig running as a pimp to her friends. My look must have given my thoughts away.

"All that dirty money goes to paying for the house for my mom and brothers. I wanted clean money to go into my college fund. It almost seems cheating to do it otherwise, you know?"

I had no idea. I'd never been to college but for two French classes. And they didn't teach anything you needed to know about landing French women or any other kind of broad. I just nodded and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from my front pocket, offering her one as a gentleman would do. Shaking her head, I continued to smoke my own. Luck Strikes, the kind that would kill you, for sure. And that's what I was going for. Plus, I was a very big fan of Walt Disney.

"I think you should lay low. Or even head out of town for a while. If this happened to your uncle, who knows if they'll come after you too."

"Aw, Casey Jones, are you worried about little ole me?"

She was one of the only honest human beings left in this hell. She was also cute and a friend of mine's family. Of course I was worried.

"No. I just don't want to have to look at two murder scenes."

Apparently, I never was able to put what I thought into words. It just came out mushed together. At least I didn't start murmuring things about parakeets. Now that's just fucking crazy.

Sally shifted to stand up, and I knew I must have not said the right thing. I looked up at those big brown eyes she had and grabbed a hold of her arm. At least I think it was her arm. It wasn't. I immediately let go of her right ass cheek and put my hand back to my side.

"Hey. If you're ever in trouble or need a glass of something, come by my office. You know where it is."

She always knew not to take me too seriously. She just laughed wholeheartedly now, pulling her arms close around her and nodding.

"You take care of yourself, Casey Jones."

She gracefully stepped off. Back through the Pussy and out toward the door. I really hoped she would be alright.

No matter how much she said against him, I knew that the death of her uncle really hit her. That's why she'd come here. Why else?

All these thoughts were racing through my barely lucid mind again. Then finally an answer came. Another smoke. I had the Strike in my mouth, but I must have dropped the lighter when I pulled it from my coat pocket the first time. I vainly reached down and around the floor, past blood and bits of skull, brain and flesh.

Must be the drugs, but my ears weren't too good anymore. I didn't even hear footsteps. The last thing I saw sitting up was a bright flash of light right in front of my eyes.

( Chapter Three: "If I were Japanese, I'd know Karate, too." )
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"Yeah. I know Ron." [Mar. 3rd, 2005|10:25 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
The day was like any other day. Any other day that a television executive got tapped by a well placed poisonous dart. I'd read the papers, watched the shows. Mostly with a buddy of mine. A royal buddy. A real Crown, if you get my drift. The building crescendo wasn't necessary to tell me what'd happened. It was only a matter of time before some hot shot got his head broke for thinking a bit too right for his own good. The sirens and the screams echoed hollow in my ears. Dulled to me. Almost soft and dulcet. No doubt after half a bottle. After every sip the bottle seemed to get another inch further across the desk, until I was practically lunging. Never gracefully, either. But that wasn't my strong point anyway...

The ceiling fan was a cliche that even had me in fits. Constant, slow, painful circulation that filled the noir genre. It spun it's shadow down across the entire room, reminicent of a circus ride, almost. One that started out happy go lucky and turned into something sinister and evil. Like the room was spinning and the fan was perfectly stationary. Staring into voids created by my over active imagination and the Crown. The man with the brass ring and the alluringly creepy grin on his face. I can see him now. I always have. Standing in the corner, laughing at me as I stumble to my feet to get the booze from the cabinet, or the coke from under the floor board. I tried shooting him once. But the bastard was quick. Like lightining, I hadn't even seen him move. Bullet after bullet he kept his smiling face and that damn laughter. That fast bastard was beginning to piss me off. He should at least pay the rent owed on the corner he was standing ing..

You never saw that in the movies. Run of the mill personal struggles aside, Sam Shade was a solid guy. I could just imagine what he'd been thinking if he were here now, how he would deal with the brass ring and laughing man, the swirling dull colors and sounds of a small office on the poor side of town. Or even deal with the fact that I was out of whiskey. And I needed a fix. But no money and a lack of credit had a way of creating a road block on that. Like Shade, maybe a tall brunette would walk through my door. Trouble, but trouble bringing money. Money and tricylce ride after that dragon.

But I'm not Shade. And the only thing to have walked through that door in the last 6 months were beefy cokeheads and boozers. Landlords too. All three of them wanting me for one thing. And it wasn't my good looks. Hardly anyone knew I existed. 'sides the grinning man and the bus station whores. But none of them were customers. No one would need my expert services to hunt down hippies, fundies, or old child actors. No matter how good I was. And I was damn good. I still am.. Just as soon as I find my eagle hide slippers.

Maybe it was the drink, maybe the popper I'd had, or the drag of ether that got me hearing and staring at the door. It creeked and cried out in agony as if someone were twisting it's knob. No pun intended. Maybe it was the man with the brass ring, trying to get me to come out from the relative safety behind my desk..Always after me. I know he is. That damn grin, he has to think he's won. But I wouldn't let that bastard have me.

The taste of Crown was past. The dizzy it brought was still there. But now a new taste was on my tongue. Metal. Metallic taste that was so sweet you just had to suck on it for a moment. Like a popcicle. A popcicle made of metal. I didn't know if it was a dual-stick pop, a big stick, or what. I knew though, that it was made by the good chefs Mr. Heckler and his good friend Koch. Same calibre as the Colt in the cabinet. I don't know whether I meant that literally or figuratively or what. But about this time, tasting the steal bulk of a coppery bullet seemed to suit me just fine over this madness. Sweat poured over me, as the drinking would do. The drugs had taken effect. The man was laughing now..lauding that brass ring over me and grinning with his damn diego mustache...I'd shoot him if my gun weren't already in my mouth. I'll just have to shoot him after. Yeah, that's the ticket.

The door's knob creaked and bellowed in pain. One tap and then into that damn smiling bastard's big white teeth, yeah...

The door swung open easily, creaking and crashing to a halt against the wall. The release of pressure was welcomed, and the stale air was replaced by cool, air conditioned air from the hallway. Having sold the air conditioner for some mescal, I find the irony all too...ironyer. Everything was clear again. The man was gone..For now. The brass ring no longer so bright and alluring. The ceiling fan even seemed to stop at a reasonable speed.

Legs like a thoroughbred. Long and leading up to a fine mink jacket. White, almost popping her eyes out of her head with color alone. Bright blue ones that would chill a man to the bone..or fire his bone up. Either way. Long locks of dark hair, cascading in a genuine fashion over perfectly shaped shoulders, falling neatly around perfectly supported and contoured breasts. Ass like a ten year old boy....I mean...

Like one of those saints in all the Catholic churches, she was lit up. Aura, aureole, whatever you wanted to call it, she seemed to be the only color in the entire small room. Even the fan's shadows seemed less pronounced. For as long as I live and as long as I eat chili with extra salt and tortilla chips..I will never forget that moment.

She looked at me with that gorgeous face, licking red full lips before speaking up.

"A friend of mine told me to look you up."

I barely had enough time to pull the gun's barrel out of my mouth to respond..

"Remind me to thank this friend of mine."

She smiled. A smile that seemed to light up just the area around here. Not the dismal world she's unexpected dropped into. Her voice was that angels. Angels playing those harp things and running around with naked babies with wings.

"Don't go to all that trouble just yet. As I recall, he wasn't too pleased with you last I heard."

The black haired woman seemed familiar, but I couldn't place her. Maybe she'd been a whore I borrowed for a night and had married some rich kid and come back to gloat and show me the size of her rock and new breasts. She continued before I could inquire about this mutual friend of ours..

"You know Ron, sir?"

The sir was sarcastic. So was her small smile she wore went she said it. Canting her head in that cute little way from her spot in front of my desk, now seating herself in a chair at my eye level now.

Ron. Ron Oscar Rivendi. ROR, his tag that he stuck on anyone who couldn't pay the bill of his prostitutes, drugs, porn and collector's edition Barney DvDs. Nothing good had ever come from our relationship. I'd sincerely forgotten to pay some of his women and he didn't accept my excuse that we had fallen in and out of love in a matter of 15 minutes in the back seat of an 88 Carolla.

"Yeah. I know Ron. We go way back," I said. Smug and confident, hoping this broad hadn't heard any really filthy stories about me. If not, I had a chance to nail this bird. And oh did I need a nailin'---

"He would say the same about you. If he were alive." The broad's eyes teased me. It was like she was caressing my leg from 5 feet away. Like she had her hand in my pocket and was on a quest for buried gold hidden by an overzealous pirate. Like a banana peel, I reeled. Ron was dead? It didn't surprise me that much. He had been into some stuff he should have been in.

"Ah. C'est la vie, right? You play with fire and you light up your pubic hairs and folicles. Can't grow hair down there for 10 years even after the accident, right?" No. Not right. Maybe she didn't know how that story went. Maybe she'd been sheltered.

"We're not talking pubes and matches. Try bullets and knives." She was concise. Quick to points, no matter how rough they seemed...

"So you came here to tell me when his funeral is?"

"There isn't much of a body to lay to rest. I came here, because I want you to find the boys who did it."

I nodded as she talked, taking a deep breath when she finally finished and came out and said it. I sigh a lot. I probably sighed there. Noticeably.

"Listen..That's not really my line of work. Plus I'm not really in the right mind right now. Ya dig, foxy?" Maybe the pet name wasn't right at this moment. I should probably meet her parents first.

"Listen here, deadbeat pediophile. You owed Ron. And I'm collecting the debt. You either pay me what you owe him, or you can do this and I'll cancel the debt." Ron must have told her something. They'd never believe me. But I swear I had no idea those pictures were from a public elementary restroom. Not even sure if it was the boy's or girl's room.. It took a minute to respond. Mostly because the gun was clinking against my teeth still...I had to work on etiquette when I had guests.

The offer was good. And I needed a way out of debt. But I also needed those new Nikes. The ones that make you cop feels like Bryant and brawl like Artest. I really liked those..Maybe I could milk.

"Alright. But you pay my expenses. You feed me and keep Ron's goons off my back, deal?" Debating with women was like..well, debating with women. It's as if all the smarts were located in the one organ they didn't possess.


I had her right where I wanted her...She was squirming, I could tell. I always could tell. She was a bit tougher than most, but I knew what to say. I wasn't Casanova, but I sure as hell could kick Clark Gable's ass.



"Pretty please. With suger on top. I'll even buy you a new pair of shoes."

She stood up. I was certain it was to giggle with glee like all women did. And then slap a wad of cash on the table and run away in anticipation of those new shoes I'd buy her.

Not this one.

She strode lightly to the door as if walking on clouds. Her ass jiggled side to side just right. A practiced walk if I'd ever seen one. Still, there isn't anything that would really stop me from running across the desk and smothering my face in that jungle-rump. Delta Burke and Rosie O'donell at a chili cook off couldn't have got in my way.

"When you want to be a real live adult and not get your ass shot up in holes, you can stop by the club. I'll be waiting, sweetheart." She didn't even look back, just waltzed out. The aura went with here. The color in the drab world that surrounded him completely now. The fan, the grinning man and the glowing brass ring. Like a Piccaso painting reverting back and forth between the real world and his. Seeing this got me immediately to think of her offer..

I owed Ron for some things. Mainly not being a total prick and sending out a few of his goons to practice chiropractic procedures on my spine with a pair of brass knuckles and a galvanized pipe.
I owed Ron. And I was interesting in the broad. How could I not? I hadn't seen legs like that since that cross dresser's ball on Sunset the previous year.

Yeah...I know Ron. I also know I could use a drink. And Ron's club had the best and least watered down drinks in the entire city. Good enough place to start on a murder case as any.

( Next installment. The Scene of the Crime. )
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(no subject) [Mar. 2nd, 2005|10:35 am]
The Ox of Indecency
It's funny that you instantly deleted your comment. I mean, really, that was pretty clever. I wouldn't have even NOTICED it if I hadn't been trudging through the gutters of my e-mail this morning.

It's also funny that you make it seem like it was a two sided argument we had. That I was being a prick. Maybe I was. But I don't recall that I started it. I stated the facts and you became mad and said things about me that aren't true, just to be hurtful. I retorted, sure. What else could I do?

And so here we are now. After hurting my friends, one very dear friend numerous times, you tell me to stay the fuck out of it. There is no IT, bud. There is no staying in or out of it. There's nothing you can do to win back someone's trust after you've blatantly thrown it to the curb.

I'm not sure if I'm arrogant or not, I couldn't tell you. But I know that I'm not pissed at some little spat we had. I'm furious that you would care so much for a video game, or perhaps just being right, rather than your friends. Now, if you would have called me a mother fucker, or a cocksucker or anything like that, I would have gotten over it. But if someone, ANYONE, tells me that I don't know what I'm talking about when the subject is something I've dedicated my life to..That is an insult that I don't take lightly. I am a musician. Since I began, everyday, I would work on rhythm. It's not something that I don't know about. I KNOW it. I feel it. Because I've practiced it for days on end. So I KNEW that that didn't require any. Just hand and eye coordination. And then you get upset. You were being a prick, I responded.

That is such an insult to me you have no idea. Really. It kept me up at night, igniting my anger every moment that I didn't stop myself from thinking about it. That's how much it stung. It still does. It wasn't a "stupid argument," like you say. It showed me how much of a friend you were. Friends can disagree, and can call each other names. But friends don't insult each other like that. I even cooled down, and was waiting vainly waiting for you to contact me and apologize, hoping that you would because you were a brother to me all those years. I had some small measure of hope that you would, because Dustin and Melissa both told me that you wanted to talk to me. And you say that you wanted to. And you didn't. I didn't suspect you would, but there is always a chance, ya? I don't ever recall pushing away a person that was trying to make amends. I doubt I would. But you assumed..Assumed that I would just forget?

It makes me smile when you call me an arrogant dick head. I maybe a dick head. That's relative. I know a lot of people that would say I'm otherwise. But arrogant? Hardly. However, you are being a dick head. That pretty much isn't relative. That's truth. You did something to break your friends' trust. Something that really hurt your friends. That pretty much constitutes a dick head, if you think about it. But maybe our definitions of a friend are skewed.

I may not say it much. Or with as many pretty words or strained love that you and Katie portray. But that doesn't mean I don't love them. I love Dustin and Mel and Jake. My three friends that have never done anything to hurt me and I've never done anything to hurt them. If I ever did anything to hurt them, I would apologize, take the beating and let them decide. I wouldn't even have to say how much I care about them, they knew how much I cared because I was their friend. And if I did anything to hurt them so, I'd realize that I had no right to say how much I loved them because I had just done something horrible to them. And by doing so, I've ceased being the trusted friend that I had been before. But that's just me...

You say you've wanted to talk to me, say you wanted to be my friend...

You haven't said a word to me. At all. So as much as it sounds great that you want to make amends, you didn't. You didn't even try. With me, or with Melissa. A real friend wouldn't be such a coward.
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(no subject) [Mar. 1st, 2005|10:56 pm]
The Ox of Indecency
[Current Mood |grumpygrumpy]
[Current Music |Django Reinhardt : My Serenade]


It's recently come to my attention that people that care tremendously for others are predisposed to HURTING THEIR FRIENDS.

This in mind, I'm thinking that my mother will soon attempt to steal my money and that my grandmother will try to cut me with something sharp. My uncle was in the Army and I sure as hell hope he doesn't care sooooo much about me. Who knows what'd happen then...


That was sarcasm. For all you pigfuckers that fuck with MY friends. I don't give a shit HOW much you feel for anyone. What you say in your little fucking livejournals as an apology isn't even cutting CLOSE to what a REAL friend would do. Of course, a real friend wouldn't hurt the ones they care SOOOO much about by doing something bad by them.

Friends. Don't. FUCK. With their friends.

Figuratively. Even literally.

I think I'll cut the trend of apologies in fucking text by starting with an offensive rant ( in text ) aimed towards those that don't have the guts, the balls, or the honor to actually own up to their actions and apologize like real human beings and take what's coming to them.

I'd never do anything to hurt my friends. I never have. I never will. Because that's not how friends, REAL friends, people that REALLY care about others act. Regardless of how pretty your words or how beautiful the binding around them is, you drop the right to care about them when you hurt them.

A guy I knew once told me that he, "Expected a lot from his friends."

Which is really fucking ironic right now.
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