rudedogchew: February 2012

the linear mind of the male belly dancer

Kondor 1

Anyplace 1984

My G.G. handed me a jet-black Chinese SKS (he called it “Florence”) before he asked the question: “Have I ever told you the kind of man your Great, great, great grandfather was and will always be?” Truth be told. I was six when my G.G. started the glorious sessions of ancestry folklore every night of my childhood before I visited the cousin of death. I had my own concrete moral and ideal visualization of my fearless ancestor but I loved my G.G. so much that I indulged him whenever he wanted. I turned my head to nod at my G.G. to continue as he grabbed a seat on the thick summer grass. My right thumb attached to the fingers holding the hand-grip from hell clicked the safety on—family history first. I put the fully loaded automatic hand cannon on the thirty-nine inch diameter oak stump that was neatly located twenty-seven meters from our target. My G.G. begins:

“He was the kind of man who respected the word itself—RESPECT. Respect the man and you may live another day above ground. He did not look for trouble but trouble did find him. He was the kind of man who watched a Shaolin monk as a child teach his students in the middle of a dusty landscape without interruption. He was the kind of man who did not except truth; only knowledge. He was the kind of man who drank a bottle of Bourbon to forget that he too cannot live forever. He was the kind of man who kept an eye on his enemies and a closer eye on his prescribed friends. He was the kind of man who killed his enemy with a knife before they could draw their pistols. He was the kind of man who spoke in fable and prophetic rhetoric unlike anyone. The man’s questions were the answers for many who were witness to his aura. He was the kind of man who backed down from no creature and the idea of being outnumbered only fueled the fire of

invincibility that he possessed and unleashed anywhere necessary. I cannot tell you how proud you should be to be a part of his bloodline!”

My G.G. paused in thick silence and my thoughts were stuck in the glue of reminiscence. I turned back around to the red oak stump and picked up the fully loaded SKS. The safety button clicked off where my thumb was and I fully braced myself as I aimed towards the target. I didn’t remember unloading thirty rounds of steaming metal slugs into the preferred target. I instead drifted off into thoughts of my ancestor as I blew a foot diameter whole in the side of a washing machine. “He was the kind of man who would have died for you” said my G.G. as the bluish smoke flowed from the barrel of my empty hand cannon and into the same atmosphere that once filled the lungs of my ancestor.

***The Linear Mind of the Male Belly-dancer***

1800 something

All that is heard before the blade of Jesus’ stiletto pierced the chest bone of another victim is silence. The victim deserved his sentence. Lewdness and sneak-thievery were his crimes of passion. Time stood still as the blade tumbled through the emaciated desert air. The sharp stainless steel blade made a slicing noise with every somersault toward flesh; bone, and warm blood. The accuracy and power to which the thirteen and a half inch dagger is thrown is from a distance of twenty seven feet. Jesus gave his drunken victim a chance to step outside into the dark blue desert sky so the performance in the local tavern would have no distractions. Jesus let the reprobate have a pistol instead of a precision blade. The blade shone like a mirror with a soul reflection.

Jesus and the dead man walking each took fifty-four paces back from the other. As Jesus walked backwards he chuckled to himself and remembered the time a Shaolin Monk told him, “Walking backwards is only good for losing weight” then he would slice his finger across his throat and smile. The soon to be dead man stared intently into the eyes of his savior for what seemed like an eternity. Jesus goes into the mind’s eye of his victim—his curse—and . . .

In a flash the arm of Jesus moved with the speed of a cheetah and the inertia from the steel blade sank into the gunslinger’s chest. It happened so fast that the victim did not have time to raise his pistol and instead shot himself in the leg. Bloody chunks of femur and virtue leak from the back of the leg. The earth toned desert street turn red with redemption. The man fell to his knees regurgitating blood and steel residue. The dead man’s forward motion from standing-to kneeling-to supine was one fluid motion of demise. He had fallen forward onto the white marble. The handle stuck into the soft desert street and held the dead man’s upper torso off the ground a bit. The tip of Jesus’ blade poked through its dying victim’s back. The blade had sliced through the man’s denim shirt as it partially exited through the upper back—but only three inches. The tip of the blade was shiny and innocent but the dull red color of flowing blood soaked the guilty desert sand below.

The revelation of the kill is a satisfied addiction and as Jesus walks toward the bleeding corpse his heart thumps. He checks the pockets of a man who had no use for money. The victim is as still as road-kill from a wagon wheel—respect the serenity of the dead always. Jesus rolled his dying target over and grabbed the white marble handle that balanced his precision blade and tugged. The blade was stuck in the sternum and could not be dislodged. Like the samurai, Jesus’ weapon was his soul and had to be removed from the warm corpse—because a blade is set if the corpse cools. More monk rhetoric from Jesus’ childhood: The monk, who is fluent in the morals of bushido as well as the martial arts and makes his own weapons. He believes the blade to be an extension of himself and therefore only wants the finest steel—it was like a mirror—cold steel in a cold corpse is blasphemous—no honor in this—just bad memories.

It is almost time for Jesus to perform in the local tavern—a kind of performance that did not exist as a genre then. He takes a second to repent:

He whistles for his horse. As his horse, Butternut, clip-clops toward its master, Jesus quickly ties a rope to the end of the marble handle attached to a rotting corpse. He then ties the other end of the rope to the browned Corinthian leather saddle atop Butternut. The victim had a healthy skeleton. The chest plate squeezes the steel between its marrow—three men could not have pulled out that knife! Jesus takes the dead gunslinger’s pistol—still five shots left—and walks behind Butternut. He prays the pull from his faithful horse will dislodge the blade. Jesus stares into the sky for a small eternity. He then takes the pistol and points toward the endless violet sky and shoots once into the air. Butternut does not move. The crowd is disillusioned at the sight of a horse tied to a dead man. Even more peculiar for the crowd is the man shooting into the air. He shot twice more and the horse still did not move. By this time an even larger crowd has turned into most of the town. This meant that no one was watching the troupe inside the tavern—steeling an audience, thought Jesus, especially when he was not performing in the first place is disrespectful. Enough! Jesus quickly grabs the double barrel eight gauged shotgun from his saddle bag and fires both barrels into the air. Butternut jumps three feet into the air and takes off towards the open desert. The backwards thrust from the shotgun throws Jesus against the collecting onlookers. The bystanders do not help Jesus to his feet. They instead back away and let the assuming performance unravel. The slack of the rope tightens and Jesus stares at the marble handle of the blade hypnotically. A loud snap is heard as the rope yanks the marble handle and unfortunately the dead gunslinger, as well. The crowd gasps as Butternut drags a dead man out of town leaving a trail of dust and death behind. The townspeople begin to clap and cheer; men throw their hats in the air. This surely is part of the show, they surmise.

Jesus was a male belly dancer in the early 1800’s. He traveled from town to town with a young troupe of beautiful female dancers (the dancers that the crowd should have been watching instead of a senseless showdown outside). Jesus loved his costume and his dancers. He would be the first one to admit he needed to work on his physique, but it did not discourage him when he performed in front of twenty seven drunkards who were just looking for a reason to be pissed off. Confrontation is his salvation. One must remember in the early 1800’s the Wild West was just that—wild.

It was difficult for Jesus to keep a troupe of dancers. Many of the dancers were young girls in their teens that had to leave home because of plague stricken parents. They are lost sheep in a desert of wolves. Jesus would enter a town and see the soil from buried parents on their hands. No one stayed long with Jesus. Tormented souls always seemed to find him in every town.

Jesus was known to be very fast with a pistol and a shotgun. But the weapon of choice was a beautiful weapon of steel; white marble, and animosity. He could throw the marble handled blade and split a flea’s eyelash where it sat without placing a scratch on the dog. For those reasons, and those reasons only, Jesus flaunted his gyrating midriff with little worry about his own self preservation. Jesus’ performances never went without incident. There was always a group of hombres that thought men who belly danced should be hanged from a hook and displayed in the town square. The Heckler Brothers had done that deed before. A definition of a real man, in their tunnel vision, read best with hatred and jealousy. If someone is superior—eliminate them. In a small saloon outside of Laramie that attitude ended very quickly for the two brothers who made fun of Jesus’ costume.

As Jesus walked on stage, the Heckler brothers (R. I. P.) barked at Jesus and asked if he had a boyfriend he wore that dress for. Jesus noticed the Hecklers put their hands on their pistols when they spoke. He sensed their hostility—it smelled like sin. He knew the two brothers were there for one thing—his head!

“I offer no harm unless harm is given”—more monk rhetoric. Jesus knew these men were not meant to see tomorrow.

Jesus was very excited to perform. Not only had he loved to dance, but it was the first time he had danced to African drumming. One of the new dancers, a very beautiful black girl, had suggested the drums. The mocha beauty numbs the pain of previous loves gone by. Now, Jesus did not want to worry about the evil intentions between two idiots while he vibrated his pelvis to the thunderous hands of the chocolate beauty—he just wanted to dance! Why was he forsaken (with every dance)?

The saloon was like any other—soft wood held together by dust, railroad spikes, and manure. There is a skylight above the tiny stage inside where Jesus shall dance. All the internal accoutrements were surrounded by three legged tables made of sawdust and chairs that could not relax. The bright desert atmosphere falls through the skylight and onto Jesus and the chocolate beauty. There was a bar of sorts. The bar of sorts was long and straight and made of slate stone. There was one long mirror hanging parallel to the wall that the barkeep was usually leaning against. The dead calm mirror was spotless. The barkeep has no reflection. The walls and ceiling were the color of fresh cut pine. The smell of gunfire and booze mixed with burning tobacco added to its allure.

The reflection from the glorious mirror in no way distorted the true beauty of the drummer. The sound of her African drums hypnotized and mesmerized the audience. Every beat of her drum flowed into the next. Every beat made its own sound but melted together as one. The stale, smoky; desert air that filled the tavern was thick and hot. The sweat beaded all over the chocolate beauty’s skin. Her hands moved faster and faster as Jesus tried to keep up with every beat. Jesus’ hips had never moved like that before. He watched sweat drip off the chocolate beauty’s lips onto her glistening hands that pounded the drums. The crowd cheered and cheered as the dancer and the drummer became one. It was by far the best performance Jesus had done and the most intense. Jesus allowed his body to take over his mind and the drummer to take over his heart.

The two women seated between the Heckler brothers whispered in each others ears as they felt each pelvic thrust of Jesus’ dance repertoire violate their femininity. Jesus noticed the two women gawking and sensed that something less than good was going to happen. He watched the brothers anger build with every word whispered by the two girlfriends.

Jesus had only a throwing star, given to him by the Shaolin monk, underneath his blue sequin head band. Jesus usually had a compact nickel-plated three-shooter strapped to his left outer thigh, but had given it to the drummer for protection on her first performance. The three-shooter saved Jesus more than once. The shape of the little gun looked like one half inch tube on top of two. It was called a three-shooter because it had three barrels—the Holy Trinity. Jesus modified the gun so all three chambers unloaded at once, if necessary. One time it is. One evening after an uneventful performance Jesus spotted The Horse Killin’ Triplets headed towards Butternut! Death oozes toward the horse.

The Horse Killin’ Triplets were each born with a separate handicap. One was deaf. One was dumb. One was blind in one eye. All were rotten and loved to kill anything resembling a horse. Bizarre indeed, but they were separated from their parents when they were only three. The hatred for horses is a mystery but the legend of the three is known throughout. Their parents were self proclaimed wizards. They believed to become closer to the Archangel of witchcraft the firstborn must be sacrificed at age three. In this case the firstborn was three in one; obviously a sign of their power, thought they. The rotten age of three came upon the trio. The witch parents gathered the brothers, rode up a mountainside, and dropped the three year olds off in the middle of the woods like a package. . .

The Triplets were at a distance of discomfort from Butternut. Jesus attentively whistled for Butternut to move. The Triplets were no more than thirty-nine paces away from Butternut with knives in hand as visions of death and carnage resonated in their skulls. Jesus whistled again but the horse did not budge. The Killers lunged toward Butternut. The unholy trinity seemed to float above the ground and had reached a distance of three paces from the horse. Jesus aimed and fired all three chambers of the three-shooter. The noise of the pistol was sinful. The sound made the Triplets stop in their tracks as three airborne metal slugs prepared for bloody penetration. The slugs gently tore through the Adam’s apple of each. The three landed on top of each other in a small puddle of their own blood and sin. Pray their parents are dead. Jesus shook out

his wrist. The three-shooter packed a punch on ignition. Aiming was futile. Jesus stared at his faithful servant Butternut—still alive! He ran up to Butternut and muttered, “Lucky horse! I was aimin’ for you.” Butternut deserved to die with some dignity. A mercy killing by one’s master was far more dignified. . .

Suddenly the Heckler brothers leaped up from their chairs and pulled their pistols. Jesus was two steps ahead of the drunken brothers and already released a throwing star tucked under his blue sequin headband into the thick and smoky air of the tavern. The star stuck in the eye of the younger brother and drumming was replaced with gunfire. Jesus watched the older brother fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes from the hole in his forehead. Jesus thinks he hears two pistols firing simultaneously. Another shot was heard and the younger brother fell on top of his deceased sibling. Jesus snapped to and saw the drumming black beauty fall to the floor. He had heard three shots, because there laid a dying black woman.

Jesus looked into the oval eyes of the drumming beauty and asked, “Tell me your name so that I may give a proper burial to the person who saved my life.” The cold and dark head with two glazed eyes lay lifeless in the hands of Jesus and whispered, “My name was Destiny.” Jesus held the woman in his arms as she fought for a few more tastes of life; it was delicious until the bitter end.

Jesus buried Destiny and kneeled by her grave. The desert soil stained his hands but the grave made them dirty. He had no dancers and his costume was gone. He had lost almost everything since he had to leave his last performance in such a hurry. The vision of Destiny dead in his arms stayed with him every mile Butternut galloped. Jesus hoped the next town was a peaceful one. He had plenty of jerky, beans, and gold coins collected from the saddlebags of the Heckler brothers. Dead men had no use for gold.

The sun set and Jesus was exhausted. This was as good as any place to stop for the night. It was a full moon and the view went on forever in any direction. Jesus laid a blanket on the cool desert ground and stretched out his tired beaten body. He had no idea where he was or how long it would take to get somewhere. Jesus did not sleep well that night. The cold chill of death crept along his spine until the first warm beam of the morning sunrise shone through his closed eyelids.

Jesus awoke with Butternut and his knife by his side. He had a restless night, but for some reason he felt well rested. A trustworthy horse and a good blade is all that Jesus needed in his life from now on, he decided. Jesus rode for two more days until he came to a small town. As the distance shortened between Jesus and the small town, a sign caught his attention. The sign read, “Welcome to Purgatory Falls. Please turn in any firearms to the office of Sheriff Heckler. Violators will be hanged.” A stern punishment, Jesus thought, but his guns stayed with him, as well as the “stiletto of death.” (He entered the town run by the notorious father of the two brothers killed at the last dance performance. Jesus does not believe what the scripture on the sign reads. How could he have ridden so many miles and ended up in the very town run by the father of the deceased brothers he killed?) Jesus hoped the hearsay that told of the brothers’ death had not found its way to Purgatory Falls.

The town was too quiet. Jesus rode Butternut through the middle of town with one hand on his knife and the other close to the double-barreled shotgun. He was ready for anything. Jesus dismounted from Butternut and entered the local tavern. There behind the barkeep hung a sign that read, “Welcome to Hell!” The barkeep was a skinny Chinese man who was blind in one eye. The blind eye was a result of being burnt with a cattle prod as punishment for staring at Sheriff Heckler’s wife. When Jesus came up to the bar to order a drink the Chinese bartender said something in his native tongue (“Beware of the dead.”) to Jesus and had already poured the double shot of Bourbon into an icy glass. The cold glass filled with spirits drew Jesus closer. That was the only thing Jesus drank. Snap out of it. Jesus knew if he had reached for the drink, it proved who he was. Bounty hunters were everywhere in these parts. One never knew who the Judas could be. Jesus scanned the little dive for any “extra-suspicious” looking hombres. Everyone looked suspicious. It was an attempted set-up by someone to get him killed. He knew he had to leave before someone figured out who he wasn’t. Jesus waved off the drink and acted like he had no money. Sweating, he walked backwards away from the bar until he was half way to the door when the end of a shovel smashed into his face with alarming speed. The shovel belonged to Sheriff Heckler; so did the pain.

“It is gonna feel good to hang this dancin’ piece of shit who took my boys from me…shoot his damn horse too” proclaimed the sheriff. Sheriff Heckler tied a noose around Jesus’ neck as he lay unconscious on the filthy tavern floor. Jesus’ nose was broken and his teeth were scattered all over the dirt floor. The floor was cold like a grave and so were the sheriff’s intentions.

III

Jesus is awakened by the sound of African drumbeats, or is it the pounding of his heart? The whole town of Purgatory Falls was there to witness his passing away. He was in the middle of town with a rope around his neck and a chip on his shoulder. He whistled for Butternut (one last time). The rope burned his neck as he exhaled with the shrill call of the domesticated and waited for Butternut to appear. He saw a cloud of dust in the distance and knew it was Butternut; the drumbeats of his heart accelerated with the horse. Jesus was stunned to see the Chinese barkeep atop the browned Corinthian leather saddle of his horse. The townspeople paid no attention. Every black eyeball was on the yellowed rope around Jesus’ neck. The Chinese barkeep rode Butternut through the crowd, bumping the bystanders out of the way, and up the platform where Jesus waited to be hung. None of the townspeople reacted. The barkeep had the “stiletto of death” in his hand; the cold steel sent a chill through the skeleton of Jesus. The barkeep took the knife in his right hand and sliced the dry rope right above the head of Jesus. A bridle was now around the neck of the belly-dancer. He was free but the noose still burned his neck. The burning awoke the senses of Jesus and he noticed the Chinese man who rode Butternut now had no eyes and the knife he held was the head of Destiny. Beautiful destiny! Jesus was free! No one tried to stop him. Jesus had to get to his horse before someone in the crowd. . . The Chinese man disappeared as Jesus ran through the crowd towards Butternut.

It was a good feeling to have his faithful servant beneath him, he chuckled to himself. His head raised and his vision spread parallel to the horizon. Jesus could see Destiny in the distance. She was alive! She is a dark angel. She motioned Jesus and Butternut to hurry. The desert air was cool and fresh as it flowed through the long black hair of Jesus. He could see Destiny with outstretched arms. Butternut coasted across the sands of time toward the chocolate beauty. The earth was crystal clear—Jesus could see for miles. Destiny awaited in the distance.

A few feet from the drummer, Jesus noticed there was a giant scar around the neck of Destiny and her eyes were vacant black holes. Those eyes fixed on Jesus’ throat made his neck feel like it was on fire. Jesus could hear the noise of constricting fibers around his neckline and the crack of tension. The burning sensation was breathtaking. His resurrection was over. Much respect to Ambrose Bierce

Chapter TWO. . . J e s u s the assassin

That story is entirely true. Jesus was an ancestor of mine. I know this because my great-grandfather would sit me in his lap and say, “Let me tell you about my great-great-grandfather…”

I always thought this to be a strange thing to tell a six year old before going to bed, but I loved it. I loved my great-grandfather as well. He was very spry for the age of seventy-two. My great-grandfather was a former bodybuilder in the fifties and sixties and still had a barrel chest that jumped when he moved his arms. I can remember my great-grandfather lifting weights with my uncle and me when we were in our teens. Great-grandfather always owned an exotic car as well. He was a cool guy and a sharp dresser. It was not until the age of twenty that I found out my great grandfather was a contract killer for a paranoid billionaire named Gregory Oxford Davis. Through the years my gramps eliminated the competition for Mr. Davis like a faithful servant without ever being injured, only to be killed by great-grandma herself. After fifty-four years of marriage and believing him to work for Prudential Insurance, Gramps told her the truth and she stabbed him with a kitchen knife until he was dead. It always seemed beautiful to me—living love turning to stagnant death. My gramps had so much love for great-grandma that he never tried to stop her, because he only knew how to give that love to her and not retaliation.

I guess it is in the bloodline of my family—the killing part that is—because here I sit in downtown Harrisburg, PA, waiting for a dead man walking to get in his car so I can drive up beside him at a stoplight and shoot him between the eyes; or walk up to him in the parking lot and do the deed, instead. And to pass time, I reminisce of my late great-grandfather and his unconditional love. The fact that I just gulped down two Bourbons on the rocks an hour ago at the local strip club makes me reminisce uncontrollably. I should not be drinking. I have trouble controlling my anger when I get the devil juice in me. I remember one time I was in some shitty little redneck town in northern Florida and I had just killed a seventy-year old man with a family, and I let it get to me. He reminded me of my great-grandfather. I stopped at a little bar that looked like a shack with a cardboard roof. That shack had some of the best bourbon I ever chugged. I was hammered. As I left the lovely establishment I walked out to my truck only to see a dead man walking taking a piss on my driver’s side front wheel. I became so enraged that I could feel every beat of my heart pound in my head like African drumbeats. I walked up behind the pisser and gave him a good swat to the back of his head. That got his attention. It also got him to stop pissing on my wheel—excuse the pun. The dead man walking turned around and head butted me. I was drunk and careless.

THE FIGHT: The head butt hurt my brain and sobered up my adrenalin. How dare that motherfucker. I was mad. I tended to blank out when angered excessively. I remembered next having a kung-fu grip on his throat and jerking my arm back as hard as I could. My hand went with my arm and so did a tennis ball size of throat meat from the pisser. I will never forget the stream of blood that shot across the parking lot. I do not like to kill for free—I didn’t then and I don’t now. My services demand respect. With respect comes money. Right? Or is it the other way around?

I will be getting twenty-seven grand and change when I eliminate this wheel pisser. I see my twenty-seven grand target walking to his German S.U.V. with a cellular phone attached to his ear and a big smirk on his face. I can only imagine what he is talking about on the phone. But, of course, he does not get in his monochromatic, white collar, penis-envy mobile, but instead paces and yammers on the phone. Hell, I’ve got all day. My ride is plenty comfortable. And it is American made. I have plenty of money saved. I could own any vehicle I wanted. I chose a big Chevy with a big engine. In my line of work I need something tough and reliable…mostly tough.

Mr. Davis, my boss, has an office with framed pictures of every man he had eliminated. There are hundreds of framed souls on every wall in the office. The office is Purgatory for the damned. Personally, I always thought it to be having a false sense of security when walls of the dead are displayed for all to see that go into the office of G. O. D. or Gregory Oxford Davis. I always wonder who Gregory Oxford Davis’ boss is. I do not care how powerful someone is, there is always a puppet-master. A good contract killer never asks questions about things that may get him killed. I only do what I am told, and that is it. Everything else must stay balled up inside my soul. Mr. Davis likes to have a picture of all my victims, and whatever the boss wants . . . one dead man is another man’s life-force.

I focus on the target. Who the hell is this guy talking to on the phone? I cannot stand people who are attached to cell phones like a warm teat from their own mother. People like this just love to have their senseless conversations of babble in public to feel important. Jesus Christ, now he is walking back inside his building. I had better take a quick spin around the block, so I do not get noticed by someone who knows the dead man walking, and later points me out in a lineup. I turn the key and listen to the warm sound of my 350 cubic-inch engine as it snaps to attention. I grab my remote control for my stereo system—that’s right, I have a remote for my truck stereo. I like to listen to music that brings on the apocalypse. My selection today is a crazy Brazilian band that is the definition of adrenalin music. I need the extra adrenalin rush before I do the deed. I love how some music heightens my desire to kill. The music sounds so good. Every beat flows into the next as I round the corner and head back to the walking, soon to be dead, twenty-seven grand pisser; nursing on his cellular teat. I had better turn down my music. I make sure my sleeves are down and my hat is on. I park my cherry red Chevy a short block away. I always have a remote for my door locks, because I have to do the deed and then leave the premises quickly, but not too quickly. If a cop is around it is harder for him to look at a walking man in a crowd than a running man. My great grandfather told me this. He also told me to never kill a police officer, because he is just doing his job. And the lack of morals approach shall only be used for the deed at hand. Accept what you are and hide it as long as you can. Use it in your work. Work stays with work and true life stays at home—one cannot exist without the other.

I should not be focusing on my beloved great-gramps. My thoughts must not exist. I go numb as I twist a silencer on my nickel-plated .38 snub-nose. The little pistol packs a wallop at close range. I’ve used this pistol to kill a lot of wheel pissers. No one can trace the bullets, or I should say slugs. I will never give my weapon up. Everything I use to kill with is homemade. I have my own machine shop where I do everything from the bullets to the weapons themselves. I have even made a knife out of titanium. It is the lightest thirteen and a half inch blade around, I’m sure. The fact that I make everything is why the bullets, and whatever else, are untraceable. I make a new barrel for each weapon that I fire, if it kills someone. Gramps also told me to never use a holster, because it is more to get rid of in an emergency. I need to be focusing on the weapon of death in my inside left pocket. I begin my inconspicuous walking toward the general area of the cellular teat-sucker who only has a few more seconds to live. Something feels out of the ordinary. My bourbon buzz goes away as a sharp and numbing pain shoots through my shoulder. I fall to the ground from a sniper round in my deltoid. I have been set up. I am pissed off. I grab the .38 from my inside pocket and shoot my intended target in the upper thighs. Two slugs in each leg always bring a man to his knees. He stays on his knees and begins screaming, “Kill him. Kill him!”

As the blood flows freely from my shoulder, I unload two more rounds into the cellular wheel-pissing teat-suckers forehead. As his skull explodes into bloody chunks of bone, I hear a third shot being fired. The sniper’s bullet pierces my chest-bone and goes through my heart. As I lay dying on the pavement the police arrive. I have to remember like gramps told me; police officers are just doing their job. A Latino looking officer runs up to my side and kicks my weapon away. The officer than asks, “What’s your name?”

With the last four breaths of air I have left before visiting the grim reaper, I mutter, “My name was Jesus.”

III

As I leave my body and enter my death, I see someone in the distance. The distance from which I can see is unending. My eyesight is perfect in every way. I feel so clean and pure. The never-ending distance between the stranger and me is decreasing. My understanding of myself is increasing. I feel strong. Every joint in my body moves as smooth as silk. The sniper-wound on my left shoulder is gone. A vision of my abusive parents smacks my soul senseless. My wounds, the horrible wounds from my death, were nowhere in sight—my perfect sight! I can now see the stranger is a woman. She is so far away, but the distance grows shorter. My fingernails are gone. My fingers are fabulous phalanges of soft skin, with bones of stainless steel underneath. My finger tips are so smooth, like chocolate heating to a boil. I see the stranger has a face of an older woman. She is so far from being near, but the distance is less. I realize that I have no clothing on. My body is smooth and solid. My teeth feel like titanium. My genitals are no longer. By no longer, I mean there is nothing there. Those Ken-dolls are no joke. Little do people know that their children might be playing with the model for a dead man’s walking soul? I have nothing but life in my lungs—eternal life? The old lady is looking less and less attractive as the distance shortens. I guess the angel wings do not appear for awhile. My tattoos are gone. The Chinese symbol was a dark blue, and it covered one side of my chest completely. My Gemini tattoo on my lower left forearm exists no longer. I look back up from where my tattoo was to the saturating odor of death. The stranger is standing in front of me. The cold chill of death creeps up my spine. The stranger is black and rotten looking. Purplish–brown liquid spews from her mouth when she speaks to me. Her hair is now bright red and flaming. Her voice rattles my cold spine with every word. The language she speaks is incomprehensible. What language is it? The white ground beneath me is suddenly an open grave filled with rotten corpses. I sense deep in my heart that these are my wheel-pissers that were first-hand witnesses to the deed. I sense the rotten blood-spitting, flaming-haired, grandma from hell, is just that—my great-great-great grandmother. She was the wife of my belly-dancing ancestor. Why don’t I know anything about her? The rotten looking flaming haired woman, who is an ancestor, continues to point at the grave and spit death in liquid form. I hear a woman’s soothing voice say Gregory Oxford Davis. I turn my head to the left. I turn my head to the right. The rotten corpse screams the word destiny. I am human, again, and bright-red blood streams out of my chest. A beautiful black hand rubs across my bloody chest, as I awake from my dream in a pool of my own blood. I am about to die. I do not think I will get a chance to see my great-grandfather and listen to his stories once again. I know I am not going to a good place. My picture will now hang on the wall of Gregory Oxford Davis. The framed picture is my soul.

C H A P ter 3

( three )

“So what do you think so far?” I ask.

“What a wonderful beginning, it is like a movie!” says a regular customer to the coffee shop.

“Well, it is what I want to do one day—make movies. . .”, I say as I hand a triple mocha breve latte to the outstretched hand of a customer, whose name has slipped my mind. I am really bad with names and I am too embarrassed to ask.

When I see someone read my work and have a noticeable reaction, whether it is positive or negative, I feel high. It is the cheapest drug around. It is an escape from what most people call reality. I think life has not even begun. Reality is a delusional concept that was man-made to keep the human race subservient. I am a barista by day and a self-indulged narcissist at night. I am a master at the art of espresso drink making. I have seduced women with my caffeinated concoctions.

I do not drink alcohol, nor do I frequent the bar. My only social venue is the coffee shop in which I am a slave to. Sometimes toward the evening hours it becomes slow-paced. I turn some Augustus Pablo reggae on the house speakers and head to the back to smoke a bowl. It is my only vice. I quit booze, cocaine, pills, and whatever else there is that does not involve needles. After the puff-puff, I medicate my bleeding eyes with some Visine. I turn the hot water on and throw it on my face. I wash my mouth out as well. I feel much better, and I am ready for a few more hours of work. I walk out to the front. I am a little too stoned. I hope that it does not get busy.

An adrenaline rush shoots through my body as I watch who slides inside the coffee shop. It is “Crazy Mimi”. This girl is sexy and trashy at the same time. She has the flattest midriff I have ever seen, and she loves to show it off. She has on shorts, which look like two pieces of denim dental floss tied in a knot. She has legs that go up to the ceiling. Her hair is a long wavy mess. Her teeth have a tinge of green in them, but her face is beautiful. She loves to manipulate men with her pussy. She looks right through me and walks behind the counter where I stand.

“Can I have an avocado?” she asks in a childish voice.

This chick loves the avocado. I cut one in half and remove the ping-pong ball size pit. She likes to have me fill the void where the pit was with lemon juice. I cannot wait until she is done with her beloved fruit, so that I can fill another void for her.

Mimi quickly engulfs the avocado and then asks for a cup of French-Sumatra house coffee.

“How about a kiss, first”, I say, trembling with excitement.

She licks her lips and grabs my hips. She pulls me close as our tongues become entangled. Her dirty hands slide underneath my untucked T-shirt, and rub my chest. I flex my chest as both of her filthy hands pinch my nipples. I am flush. I am about to slide my hands under her shirt when the coffee shop phone rings. I let the phone ring one time as I unzip Mimi’s dental floss shorts, instead. She pushes her mouth against mine even harder. It almost hurts, but her soft lips make it tolerable. A second ring is heard as I begin to slide my hand between her shorts and her bare skin. Mimi does not wear underwear. Her skin is hot and moist as my hand goes lower between her legs. The phone rings a third time and I push Mimi away to pick up the phone.

As I say hello, Crazy Mimi comes closer again and begins to rub my chest. I recognize the voice on the other line, but the tone is unfamiliar to me. It is my Dad but his voice is monotone. I have not heard his voice sound like this since I wrecked my car into the neighbor’s garage. It was “dollar pitchers nite” at the local shit-hole and I still spent forty dollars. It was seven in the morning and I was still passed out in my demolished car. My Dad was leaving for work when he noticed, what used to be a nice Volkswagen Sirocco, embedded in the neighbor’s garage door and I was passed out in the back seat. The way my Dad’s voice crept up my spine with every scolding word left a lasting impression. This time the voice on the phone is worse. I hope my younger brother is alright. He is in the Army and is currently in Iraq. He is much younger than I, but we have become close in the last three years. He is a cool guy and I can’t wait until his military service is over so we can strengthen our bond.

“It is not good news. . .he was killed today in Iraq. . .an explosion of some kind. . .”, my Dad says as the cold chill of death creeps up my spine and into my heart.

I say nothing. I feel nothing. I am nothing. I hang up the phone.

I push what’s her name out the door and lock up everything. I turn off the lights and fall to my knees. The emotional river of confusion and uncertainty opens its dam and I burst into tears. I do not cry, often, nor do I like other people to see me cry. I think it shows weakness and lack of self control. I do not care about my theories on machismo at this point, I cry for my brother’s soul. The pain worsens with every sobbing yelp that I choke on. My brother is gone. He died in an unfamiliar place. Up until his death, he dealt with many near death experiences. He would always manage to call Dad at least once a week. It was a scary place to be—death was everywhere. My brother’s unit was always being ambushed by crazy radicals who did not give a shit about life or death. One more day gone by, meant one more day closer to leaving that chill of death that swept through the hot desert air of Iraq. It is tough to wake up everyday wondering if tomorrow will come. Today, tomorrow will not rear its ugly head for my bro.

I refuse to let that word bring me down—death. My mind wants to think of the future that will not be with my brother. That fucking five letter word, death, wants to keep me from becoming a better person.

Who the hell am I to think that my brother is not happy where he is now. He is hanging out right now with my great-grandparents, and my beloved uncle. They are watching me. Everyone important to me, who is no longer part of this brief existence, is cheering me on to make the most of what got taken away from them. They are all cheering. I must make every one of them proud of whom I am and will become. I cherish my memories and the time spent with my bro, but I refuse to think about the future without him. Instead I think of the future I will make for myself, because of him. I frame a picture of my bro in his Class A military uniform. The framed picture sweetens my soul.

III

I must keep busy. If I give myself any time to daydream I become filled with visions of my brother. I think about when he was six, and the little guy doing chin-ups. He took Kung-fu classes when he was young, also. I used to watch sometimes. I was always amazed at how such a little person could remember so many intricate movements. I was eleven years older than my brother. I used to change his diapers. I showed him how to play basketball. We made basketball videos, along with my even younger second brother. All three of us would wrestle for hours. One of my brothers would always get hurt and end up crying. That is how we knew when it was time to stop. I was much older, so I always got on my knees when we would “Kung-fu it up”. I must continue to write my story. I have dreams and aspirations of becoming a screenwriter. My brother is one of my inspirations. I will not let his untimely demise be an excuse for my shortcomings. I am still on this spherical concept of reality and nothing will bring me down. Destroy Every Arrogant Thought Hastily. My wheel-pisser is death. When it comes, I will be to busy lookin’ good, just like my bro who died with his battle dress uniform on, and Kevlar vest, helmet, eye goggles, and a big-ass machine gun in front of him.

The newspaper article reads, “Local Soldier Killed”. I cross out the word “Killed” and replace it with “Lives 4-ever”. I hold back my tears for another day, and focus on my screenplay.

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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

My motto la vida . . . huh?

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

HONKEYBALL. My favorite hardcore band of all times, that doesn't exist anymore.

6 Championships!!! Lebron? NO!

Twin Peaks returns(?)

Still the best car chase ever. No special effects; no stuntman; Steve McQueen did it all.

enjoy.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Gekko goes down

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Best John Carpenter film ever!

Work in progressive regression.

RDC RETURNS!