The door bell rings and he thinks,"Oh, shit. I have no interest in getting that door. I should give the pizza guy my house key, so he can walk in and plop that freshly baked pizza on my lap and I wouldn't have to get up to do the exchange." He lurches his neck toward the front room. "It's open!"
The door handle rattles, but doesn't budge. There is a muffled response coming from behind the door.
He finally looks at the paraphernalia surrounding him on the comforter. "I'm coming!" He starts plotting his reluctant escape from his comfortable solace. "God, I hate moving all this shit. I hate getting out of bed." He screams"Hold on" to the front room to buy him some more time, then thinks, "I'll put the bong right here next to my pillow on the floor, so I know it's close when I need it. And the weed next to that, and the water glass next to that. I need a piss pan. I hate getting up to go to the bathroom. What do you call those things? Oh, fuck it. I don't want to think about that for too long. Here I go. Up and moving forward. Oh, my knees are week. Am I getting fatter? Who cares? Do I know anyone who would care? I don't. When's the last time I got up? I had to have taken a shit yesterday... I don't remember."
The door opens. "yeah."
"Large pepperoni pizza."
(sigh) "yeah, what is it? 17 something?"
"18.28 sir."
"...28? What the hell is that?" Cash is yanked from his pocket. Coins scatter all over the floor. The pizza man looks down. He's still holding the pizza.
"Don't worry about it. I'll vacuum it up later." (sigh) "Is 20 good? Of course it is. here."
The 20 dollar bill is shoved into the pizza man's breast pocket and the pizza is ripped from his fingers. the door slams.
"I just want to fucking lay down. I hate moseying across this carpet. This carpet is thick. It's tiresome to walk through. I should get thinner carpet. Should I get it changed? No, people would have to come to do it. I'm not going to change this shit myself. They'd probably need me to move the bed, though. Or, tell me to get off it so they could move it. Maybe I could get them to do all the carpeting around the bed and not worry about changing the carpet under the bed. I could just sit here and smoke and watch them work.
"The thought of all this is tiring me out. I'm just gonna lay down... put the pizza box over here and - ahhhh. let's see." he opens the pizza box. "Ranch! Damn. It's in the fridge. Damn. No ranch then... Napkins? Fuck it. I'll just wipe my greasy fingers on the other side of this mattress. If I have the energy.
"Damn that walk to the door tired me out. I'll just rest here a bit. My feet are cold. Fuck'em, I won't die if I leave them out for a little nap. I don't think I can handle tossing a blanket over them right now. My arms feel nice and sung under my chest. I've never felt so comfortable. If only my feet could be warm. I should get a maid. She'd cover my feet. Shit she'd probably rub'em for me and put some moisturizing lotion on them as well. I wonder if I could seriously find a cheap one.
"The pizza will go cold. Well, it doesn't matter. Cold pizza is never bad. it'll be fine. I'm just going to close my eyes here, and yeah.... that feels so nice. ahhh. Fuck moving forever. I just want to lay here and breathe. If i didn't have to get hungry or take shits all would be perfect. This is what I live for. This is perfect."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
This little human...
Look at this human. Look at how sad it looks. What does this little human really have to be sad about? Why is it so confused? Why can't it just lighten up like those around him? Why does it pout so when it's alone? What is the point of it doing absolutely nothing other than staring at a wall it'll eventually hit? Oh, how funny, it did hit that wall. See I predicted it. What a predictable little human. And look, it can't stop thinking about someone watching it. How funny. It's trying to prove to me that it's doing something to make me believe it's not paranoid that someone is watching, but can never rid itself of the constant watch it feels it's under. Oh, now it's trying to convince itself that it's not ashamed of doing things for itself, like masturbating, or looking at itself in the mirror, or choosing to read some political book that it'll never truly understand and only seems to be trying to retain morsels of information to repeat them as some banality in casual conversation. What is really interesting to this human? It's not apparent. I don't notice a pattern in hobbies. Or even a consistent schedule. It must be that it's interested in the fact or belief that someone is always watching it. Because look, it can't stop thinking about it. How sad. Look at all those other humans around it, just casually living their lives with out the constant fear that some non-existent higher being is judging their every move. Why is this little human plagued by that? Well, that's its own problem. I'll just sit back and watch and observe it self destruct into either tears or a desperate need of sleep with the hope of never waking up. How odd this human is...
Controlled Anarchy: reworked
I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come to her home and stick my dick in her. I don't say this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, to her - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That's what women like her want. That is what she is proposing. And that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. A condom might break, or better yet, she may have no condom, and neither do I - which won't prevent us from the act, and all I am to wonder is, "Who is this woman? She may leave me with a rash that requires constant application of cream. What number am I on her tally chart of men she's picked up from a bar and rubbed the crotch of?"
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Change of pace: noir-ish...
He watches her. "All too often?" he thinks often. It's Autumn. But that doesn't really matter here. Everything remains green. She rakes the front of her father's bank in a mini-skirt. All pine needles. It takes her an hour to rake the needles which could be a ten minute job with a broom. She likes being out there, he knows it. He watches this every Tuesday. And he hates himself every day that he does. Expecting her to be out there to perv on. "How absolutely horribly sad," he repeats to himself; holding his whiskey. He looks down at his drink and promises himself that he will go back to Coors Light.
Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.
He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."
He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.
"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."
He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.
Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.
Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.
Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.
He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."
He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.
"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."
He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.
Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.
Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Anything will help
Every time i have sex with my girlfriend I am always thinking of ways to get her fingers in my ass. I've tried directly addressing my issue. she told me to fuck off then stormed out. I went through painful withdrawals from a heroine stint I went on for weeks after she left, but she returned to me and I instantly quit. she made me promise never to ask her of that sexual favor ever again. She then told me of a tragic experience she had when she accidentally killed a previous lover through acts kinky sexual perversion. She couldn't place the actual cause of death but her finger was certainly inside his butt hole when he died. So, naturally, she partly attributes the blame of his death on her self and her desires to finger anything stinky and warm. I respected her wishes, but sometimes she catches me with my own finger in my ass during our love making. we don't speak of those rare occurrences. I forget to take her past into consideration when I attempt to satiate my longing for perverse anal stimulation. I don't feel good about having to hide that desire though. I love this woman. I want it to work out, but speaking of this intense desire of mine seems to push her away. It's like I can even tell when she sees me thinking about it. She looks hurt, but braves the moment of contention between us because she and I both know that what we have is more important than a little finger in my ass. At least that's what all the couple-counselors have told us. But she can't go to anymore of those, we've tried so many and no one seems to be able to help. She cannot handle exposing her vulnerable past to any new ears any longer. So, I've thought to ask you for advice. see what I might be able to do that doesn't include her direct involvement or participation. Anything will help. Thank you.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Controlled anarchy
I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come home and stick my dick in her. I don't write this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest, of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, for both of us - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That is what women like her want, that is what she is proposing, and that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. Makes me regret that I have wants to begin with. What's the point of wanting or desiring if you cannot act out according to your desires? Well, I have come to believe that I don't need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. Complacent maybe, but alive and suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy. Acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. It let's me live in the dreams of others. I have grown a group of friends I would have never would have given the time of day before. If this was before, I would have readily punched these "friends" of mine the face if I were to merely see them show their faces at a bar. Granted, I would've been drunk and on a war path for pussy, but I could have devised some justification to take a stand for some cause they were unaware they were offending somehow, and find the feistier one of the crew and taken him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining one's fighting out of pride or loyalty, laughing and guffawing at each impact. That to me was indulgence. That to me was life. I own everything.
Now I have these friends because they don't want me drunk. They don't want me dead. They don't really even want me. I'm just there. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same one as the last weekend. They really don't care. It really doesn't matter to them or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care, that would consequently spawn expectation of "catching up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke large cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it is appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it is appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured. I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from my neighbors cabinet. I reads "Amoxapine" (an anit-depressant) but I tell them it's diclofenac and that it is an instant relief for me. Only it isn't. It's just another lie. Smarties. I swallow smarties as my psychosomatic cure to suppressing all of my desires. If I can make it this far I can change my perspective to actually become engrossed in these activities, to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. My desires will shrink, and soon enough disappear. This will be my life. These will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. I may even mary one of these women on my arm. I will have a system and I will live it out until I die. I'm slowly loosing some indications that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaineous indulgences. I am slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior. Unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders and addictions and confusion I must purge before I can face another human. I'm loosing my ability to loose control. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, contoling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a diclofenac in down my throat almost by second nature now, but it does nothing other than save face. My eyes still swell and tear up. My every hair still tingles and my face warms with rushing blood. I think of painful harm I could do to everyone in these moments. I think of having sex with icons of purity; only to defile them. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migranes. This woman works at a cafe, sleeps at nine every night only to wake and do yoga at 6. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as being the guidance for all our pre-destined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: Attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and a neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle that gives her the courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to slam my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not any of the women on my shoulder at weekend parties. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly and why then, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. I take another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Now I have these friends because they don't want me drunk. They don't want me dead. They don't really even want me. I'm just there. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same one as the last weekend. They really don't care. It really doesn't matter to them or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care, that would consequently spawn expectation of "catching up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke large cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it is appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it is appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured. I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from my neighbors cabinet. I reads "Amoxapine" (an anit-depressant) but I tell them it's diclofenac and that it is an instant relief for me. Only it isn't. It's just another lie. Smarties. I swallow smarties as my psychosomatic cure to suppressing all of my desires. If I can make it this far I can change my perspective to actually become engrossed in these activities, to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. My desires will shrink, and soon enough disappear. This will be my life. These will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. I may even mary one of these women on my arm. I will have a system and I will live it out until I die. I'm slowly loosing some indications that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaineous indulgences. I am slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior. Unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders and addictions and confusion I must purge before I can face another human. I'm loosing my ability to loose control. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, contoling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a diclofenac in down my throat almost by second nature now, but it does nothing other than save face. My eyes still swell and tear up. My every hair still tingles and my face warms with rushing blood. I think of painful harm I could do to everyone in these moments. I think of having sex with icons of purity; only to defile them. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migranes. This woman works at a cafe, sleeps at nine every night only to wake and do yoga at 6. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as being the guidance for all our pre-destined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: Attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and a neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle that gives her the courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to slam my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not any of the women on my shoulder at weekend parties. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly and why then, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. I take another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Monday, March 16, 2009
feeling lonely
I saw this kid. Fat, tubby, little, smiley one. Holding an ice cream cone: a perfect mid western vacation photo. Looking at him I couldn't hold back a certain thought: "piggy little spoiled shit!" I surprised my self. I instantly turned all my focus to figuring why this thought had come to me. I had no Idea who this small child was, who raised him, what his interests were, what he laughs at, what makes him scared, how he acts during fits of extreme hunger, how he defends himself against criticisms, what he says when he considers himself witty, or how he perceives women. But for some reason this child beckoned my contempt. He seemed so confident with his ice cream. A shameless dull expression, thinking of nothing of worth, and staring, unselfconsciously, at air and the colors behind it. I could not understand how this child somehow possessed such haughty self-righteousness, and I could only wonder how this small person, this dwarf - not just in size but also, and more importantly, mental development - could have already discovered or conjured up a philosophy that was justification to such a self-implored stature or countenance with so little amount of years under the belt.
His face screamed ignorance. Screamed of accepting some bland assurance that exuding a vapid facial expression to parallel the lack of thought was somehow his shell of safety. And what amazed and disgusted me was the feeling of security surrounding him. Free from self-consciousness. Free from what I'm plagued to believe is one of humanities most prominent traits. I look at this boy. I shake my head at this creature. I do not relate to this thing. If I were to some how believe that I would soon or ever think that the thing I'm looking at now belongs in the same category of species as I do, I would need to condition this entity to grow a human condition I'm more aware of. I would need to break this boy. I would need to smack his ridiculous ice cream cone out of his chubby fingers and spit in his face. That would show him unexpected things like that do happen, and that maybe he should eat his ice cream a little more alert. Maybe next time he finds himself in another alien, blank, thoughtless trance he would remember being slapped. And that would give him something to think about. If I could see him in this moment of growth I might recognize that there is thought behind the ruddy soft skin of his obese face. Then I think I could relate to him. I could believe he's from a species that I ascribe myself to.
I don't often think about violence, but this little pink boy is taking me there. Taking me to place in my head that imagines acting out the need to perform some irrational occurrence that doesn't belong to a clock he somehow seems to tick to; to a schedule he abides by, a routine he performs, a television air time he prepares for, a predictable joke or a predictable meal in a predictable family setting, or a recent hit song from his father's radio; something that he might not all together expect but would certainly not be surprised by. I wanted to be that surprise that he never would have expected. I wanted to give this boy an instance of life that he wasn't expecting and was shaken by. Something that existed outside of his realm of understanding. Something he's never imagined experiencing. Something not a part of himself. Something he non-voluntarily received from a selfish vehement person who wanted to lessen this kid's self-importance and self assured security that nothing bad could possibly happen to him. Nothing God hadn't planned. I'm not even sure why God even came to my mind at that point, but, but now I'm sure this little boy inadvertently shot me the thought through his mannerisms. Mannerisms that mimicked the way people act when avoiding mingling after a sermon or at a church reception. People who believe they should be there when they seek nothing from the experience other than to occupy time. People I've despised. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of that type of community. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of the Lord. People that condoned the belief in these empty promises. People that solicited this belief. I thought to myself:
"Well, my little one, I will give you a little jarring when I slap the cone out of your hand and spit in your face. I can predict you will have two ways of interpreting this: one; that this "God," this strange enigmatic entity you subscribe to, well, he works in funny ways, and it is up to you and your closer confidants to define a meaning to draw from this experience; or, two; you could all together stop believing in God entirely, and be driven mad by endless surmises of what could possibly have driven such an act as reproachable as knocking your ice cream from your hands and spitting in your eyes. My angered grimace of loathing will stain your memory of that shock to your reality. You'll never understand how someone could hate you so much, but you'd be troubled by the thought that such hate exists. Our worlds merged and it wasn't in some congenial formality you've been acculturated to view how all interactions should take place or have a hint of to warm all involved with a sense of familiarity. A familiar awkwardness that is ubiquitously accepted from community to community, from state to state, country to country, culture to culture."
Our worlds merged and your sense of security was broken. Sense of familiarity; shattered. The moment is something I own alone. And I would pass on the awareness to recognize the ability to own a moment. Because we all need to. He didn't seem understand that. Didn't seem to know he possessed that potential. And I need to believe that we all do.
His face screamed ignorance. Screamed of accepting some bland assurance that exuding a vapid facial expression to parallel the lack of thought was somehow his shell of safety. And what amazed and disgusted me was the feeling of security surrounding him. Free from self-consciousness. Free from what I'm plagued to believe is one of humanities most prominent traits. I look at this boy. I shake my head at this creature. I do not relate to this thing. If I were to some how believe that I would soon or ever think that the thing I'm looking at now belongs in the same category of species as I do, I would need to condition this entity to grow a human condition I'm more aware of. I would need to break this boy. I would need to smack his ridiculous ice cream cone out of his chubby fingers and spit in his face. That would show him unexpected things like that do happen, and that maybe he should eat his ice cream a little more alert. Maybe next time he finds himself in another alien, blank, thoughtless trance he would remember being slapped. And that would give him something to think about. If I could see him in this moment of growth I might recognize that there is thought behind the ruddy soft skin of his obese face. Then I think I could relate to him. I could believe he's from a species that I ascribe myself to.
I don't often think about violence, but this little pink boy is taking me there. Taking me to place in my head that imagines acting out the need to perform some irrational occurrence that doesn't belong to a clock he somehow seems to tick to; to a schedule he abides by, a routine he performs, a television air time he prepares for, a predictable joke or a predictable meal in a predictable family setting, or a recent hit song from his father's radio; something that he might not all together expect but would certainly not be surprised by. I wanted to be that surprise that he never would have expected. I wanted to give this boy an instance of life that he wasn't expecting and was shaken by. Something that existed outside of his realm of understanding. Something he's never imagined experiencing. Something not a part of himself. Something he non-voluntarily received from a selfish vehement person who wanted to lessen this kid's self-importance and self assured security that nothing bad could possibly happen to him. Nothing God hadn't planned. I'm not even sure why God even came to my mind at that point, but, but now I'm sure this little boy inadvertently shot me the thought through his mannerisms. Mannerisms that mimicked the way people act when avoiding mingling after a sermon or at a church reception. People who believe they should be there when they seek nothing from the experience other than to occupy time. People I've despised. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of that type of community. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of the Lord. People that condoned the belief in these empty promises. People that solicited this belief. I thought to myself:
"Well, my little one, I will give you a little jarring when I slap the cone out of your hand and spit in your face. I can predict you will have two ways of interpreting this: one; that this "God," this strange enigmatic entity you subscribe to, well, he works in funny ways, and it is up to you and your closer confidants to define a meaning to draw from this experience; or, two; you could all together stop believing in God entirely, and be driven mad by endless surmises of what could possibly have driven such an act as reproachable as knocking your ice cream from your hands and spitting in your eyes. My angered grimace of loathing will stain your memory of that shock to your reality. You'll never understand how someone could hate you so much, but you'd be troubled by the thought that such hate exists. Our worlds merged and it wasn't in some congenial formality you've been acculturated to view how all interactions should take place or have a hint of to warm all involved with a sense of familiarity. A familiar awkwardness that is ubiquitously accepted from community to community, from state to state, country to country, culture to culture."
Our worlds merged and your sense of security was broken. Sense of familiarity; shattered. The moment is something I own alone. And I would pass on the awareness to recognize the ability to own a moment. Because we all need to. He didn't seem understand that. Didn't seem to know he possessed that potential. And I need to believe that we all do.
Sweat
When I sweat i hate myself. I feel guilty for hating myself so much. I know I don't deserve such self-loathing. But I can't help it. God, I sweat so fucking much. Something I've never gotten used to. My hands get clammy when I touch women. When we walk and hold hands I can feel their grip on me lighten as if to air out the moisture. I then get nervous in that situation because of how aware she is of my sweating issue, or that she'd rather simply not be aware of it, yet can't go back to moments ago when she was under the impression that I was normal. And that nervousness makes my forehead break out with perspiration. Lifting my arm to wipe my forehead with my sleeve makes me aware that my arm pit is soaked and the sudden shift in pit hair alignment releases freshly formed beads of sweat that slip down my side and swim with the growing pools of sweat collecting from the tension of the elastic in my boxers.
Women get disgusted by the warm sweaty stain I leave on the sheets; that soaks in the mattress. A dull brown that looks as though it smells even if you took the audacity to sniff it and assured yourself it didn't. I ask to open windows when I assume a sexual opportunity may arise. When asked why, then - before answering her question - am told that her parents room is the window next to hers and she wouldn't want to wake them I'm instantly drenched with surprise sweat. I never knew her parents lived in this house with her. The place is a shit hole, and coming to that observation, I made myself shamefully sweat because I know that judging people makes me sweaty which only leads to the guilt. The eternal guilt. The thought of if makes my feet perspire.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Oh, the salient points of my life:
women, attention and good responses to my one act shows of attempts at comedy - and if I didn't succeed in my attempt, well then I think I would usually become outspoken about my self-awareness of the "unfunny" and then everyone can laugh at my attempt together, rather than ME having to take all the shame of the unfunny and rest it on my sulking shoulders.
Unfunny moments, or not well received punch-lines, are some of my favorite moments of life as long as they don't happen to me. But, somehow, they seem to sneak into my life - I don't know how they do it - and I need to somehow incorporate them into my idea of what 'the flow of life' provides us all. Then, and only then, will the "sublime" truly set in. If I am never taken off guard by my own mistakes, if I maybe even anticipate or plan for a drop in tone after an ill-delivered joke, I could then make the follow up joke that much more appreciated.
And it has been done. Oh, yes. It's a post POST modern style of humor that came along with Steve Carell.
Or, even earlier - and better - would be the completely uncomfortable and awkward/painful experiences of the relentlessly uncouth behavior in the original British "The Office." Which leads me to believe that Stevie C was why the show translated well in the states. Only, god damnit, there is no end to those friggin shows once they get a bit of notoriety. What season are we on now? 5? There are only two seasons of "The Office" in Britain. Can't we just accept that things need to die off? The British Office is so perfect. All the problems get addressed, every character is important. And it comes to a natural and nice ending.I personally love closure. Don't we all? Well, no probably not. People love to stretch things out, no matter how thin things can become; people love familiarity. Familiarity is the chocolate to the perpetual boredom we all subscribe to when we leave our mother's vaginal portal into consciousness.
I, on they other hand - and many others as well, for I am no alien and do not stand alone on this issue - love it when meaning surpasses the need to satiate our boredom through flashing images and familiar humor of the day (or whatever seems to be hip - which, then in turn becomes trite and over done just before it's wrestled down to daytime television for an even stupider audience and then finally the joke or sense of humorous taste finally leaks out to your grandparents who think they're catching up with the new generation by keeping informed by watching shitty day time television. And all you can do is grit your teeth and lie to them with encouraging eyes, making them believe that the two of you have bridged the unbridgeable gap of understanding in the vast ocean of differences between your two islands of influence and importance).
My need for closure and my dripping appetite for something new is the reason why I don't have a girl friend. I don't appreciate familiarity. It's not a cause for comfort to me the way I see it is for others. It's a cause for boredom and depression. This reoccurring theme of my life leaves me frantically scrapping the dry bowl of insp
iration for a salvageable morsel of originality that puts a smile in my mind and justifies my drinks in the evening. America's (or humanities) need to feel familiar is why I believe people can sit though five seasons year after year of the same dribble that corporate America is squeezing into minds as acceptable entertainment. The uglier and the more meaningless the better: the sole purpose of commercial entertainment is to keep the intrinsically high budget images of products stained in the mind; products that no one truly needs and that one would have to repeatedly replace because of cheap manufacturing. Products that if we DON'T buy, our economy has a anxiety attack.Our economy is at the point of failing because we've become utterly dependent upon these horrible exchanges of monetary value over heightening our aesthetic appearance by futher decorating the facade of having an image to uphold. And for what? Get a nice blouse for stating your class power or position. Make yourself stand out everyday with a new article of clothing designed only to have others want to have it, ask you where you bought it and - in the designers hopes - go and buy it for themselves. America is so completely impractical. What happened to self-sustaining? I should do that, maybe. I should make my own clothes and live by example rather than empty words of contradiction.
I cringe when I see a well-aged woman leave an overpriced salon with a smile on her face; knowing that in her shopping bag holds products that she could easily survive with out an
d which cost her a sum that could feed my poor ass for a week at least. I'm not saying I deserve her money, I just despise her choice of where she invested her money. Because that is what each purchase you make is: an investment. You buy a coffee from the evil incarnate Starbucks and you've directly invested in it's survival; in it's campaign to take over the world one industry at a time (Starbucks has a record distribution company, a film distribution company, clothing, and coffee accessories - read this article from 2006 [Starbucks adding movies to mocha] and look at how terrible this is going to be [Hanks finds room for 'Starbucks' film] - Tom Hanks starring in a Gus Van Sant film about 
"how Starbucks saved my life." GUS VAN SANT! - oh dear god, this film is probably being shot and and edited as we speak. I hate rags to riches stories, the last one I braved "Pursuit of Happyness" won't be the last, but it really shot a glob of stomach acid in my throat that I constantly have occurrences of every time I see a preview for a new Hollywood release).All the money in America isn't made by working. You'll never get rich by working hard. People in America get filthy rich by investing. Investing in advertising with the hopes that if enough people see it, they'll buy it regardless of the quality. The more it's in plain view of these consumers, and the more available it can be, which means it needs to be mass produced to up the accessibility and heighten the chance of selling enough to break even on the investment of creating this gimmicky product, the cheaper it needs to be to manufactured. Which only means the product can't be produced here in the states. One would have to actually pay minimum wage to the laborers if it was made here. That would be ridiculous considering t
his isn't a product to advance any humanitarian aspirations. No, no. This product only exists to bring wealth to the wealthy. So, how to grip, twist and drip every possible penny for the enhancement of very few bank accounts, usually on foreign soils to avoid high interest rates and taxation, leads to the unavoidable search for the cheapest labor possible. And thanks to Neoliberal think tanks leading to Neoliberal propaganda of "deregulation" to help failing foreign economies; our society, whether you care to know it or not, invests in exploiting lower wage labor, under no regulation, in foreign third world countries just in order to mass produce a possible hit sale among the retarded consumers who can barely see five feet before their faces.
No one thinks about why there are third world countries these days. "Oh," you may say, "It's because this is America and America is great. We're free. We're capitalists. They've got a bad dictator in place and/or their socialists." Well, if that is your reply I advise you to stick your head in a toilet full of your floating stool and choke on your feces and die.
War is how capitalism survives. And I jump to that conclusion because we've inadvertently devised this plan ever since we created this idea of "foreign policy." In the 70's we killed Salvador Allende. Then we instilled good'ol Pinochet. A man (or an empty shell of an entity resembling a man) who would obey when we wanted to privatize their public utility enterprises and began this wave of right-winged belief in the superiority of markets for resource allocation (that last sentence I shamelessly ripped from an article on Neoliberlization[download and read it if you really care]). In the 80's we cashed in on our "foreign aid" to Mexico when their economy was faltering by offering them a way out if they let us privatize state owned farmlands. We used their sacred lands for an exported product. This led to the Zapatista revolution: wanting us out and their government to put regulations on cruelty and pay in these privatized sectors, but the Mexican government's response was sending in Federal troops to violently react to the revolt which left many dead in battle in Chiapas. In the 90's we assisted China in deconstructing the solid Maoist economic structure and changed the countrys interest in being a socialist state to being more of a totalitarian state with less and less provisions for the majority. And now, caught in the fervor of this deregulation plague, Iceland
is so deep down an endless pit of debt that their not even being recognized as a country any more. They've been put down on a list with Al-Queda, Sudan, North Korea, Iran and others as a terrorist entity (pretty shitty situation: Iceland).So, if you support the idea of big pocket money moving mongers with cheap grins and even cheaper models of get-rich-quick schemes that crumble as soon as they've made their millions, have left the reachable world
and moved to tahiti with a wife who doesn't even speak his language, but just happens to be his daughter's age - which in some sick freudian way is what turns these perverts on - and makes suffer the thousands of people employed by his empty promise of job security who are left to flood the streets and degrade themselves by scrambling for barista positions at the local cafe, which - inevitably - will be (7 out of 10 times) a Starbucks (only to further the shame and mistrust of America these individuals have), then that only means you support what is inherent to this dream: War and our occupation of foreign countries to throw their economies off balance which will, consequently, lead them to ask us for aid. Our "aid" is shown by giving dictators, 
who (more often than not) we have put in place, a payment for allowing us the freedom to own any and every institution we believe will be most profitable at the lowest expense. We attempt to balance our wavering economy that drops and spikes according to corporate America's decisions or abilities to throw money at and buy out failing states' (governments') industries of production and impose on them less pay and no benefits with the intent to produce only exports. This method takes money away from the people of the country producing this "made-for-America" dispensable garbage because the products of their labor are not being sold to the community that produces them. There's no domestic economic stimulation from their efforts. The products are being sold over seas. The only people actually accruing profit from these types of governmental structurally altering exchanges are the government officials deciding to deride their state owned enterprises for the large chunk of change that comes from corporate America with the goal of privatizing to exploit.So, I guess another salient point of my life is trying to define what I hate so much. The deeper I dig the worse it gets, but I really don't believe that ignorance is bliss. I look at ignorant people and I just think, "ignorance is unattractive and destroying our sense of humanity. Why don't people read?"
Friday, March 13, 2009
a story for all to learn from
Let me share one of the single worst experiences of my life... and let's try to find some humor in my humility. 1st of all, and the least painful thing of the night I assure you, the woman to whom I may actually be attracted led me along all night long with rising anticipation of our actually meeting and exchanging fluids, pulled out of our plans at the last minute; leaving me to text nearly offensive/offended ambiguous messages that I knew were bad as soon as I sent them; cringing with regret. Then, due to the lack of love in my present state of mind at the time, i decided to text an ex-fuck buddy. Y'know, late night, usually these things are just a "yes" or "no" matter. But, when I send word that I'm interested in satiating her sexual appetite via text message and get no reply. 
I wait a minute, yet cannot wait another before I text her a very vulgar message regarding the fact I so badly want this woman that I illustrate how the use of her image in my sexually perverse vault of memories is very arousing while in the act of masturbation and have recently used it as means to a self satisfying end. I still get no response and nearly am at the point of accepting another disappointing evening of drifting off as I lay pouting reproaching myself that I am not exerting this frustrated energy in a creative way, when I am excitedly jolted to the vibration of my phone with an incoming phone call: my telephone screen displaying the name of my desire. I pick up and instantly hear, "who is this?"... "Uh, it's Drew," I say, thinking that my desire has recently lost her phone and in doing so lost my phone number as well - with my texts of sexual perversion coming at her from an "unknown" source. "Drew who?" is her response... "oh, fuck." I think, "did she block the memory of me out of her mind?" - "Drew - Drew" I say, as if repeating my name will job her recollection of me. "Drew who?" she repeats and I give her my last name which helps nothing whatsoever, if only further frustrates her that she can't place me, and frustrates me that I'm not being recognized. She informs me that she wants me to delete her number from my phone, and, then, finally realizing that this must not be the woman I am seeking - embarrassment rushes from my head to my toes. Sweat comes next, followed by apologies. We hang up. I stare at the ceiling wondering who the fuck that possibly could've been. I scroll through my phone again and find to my surprise that there are actually two different entry's of the same name of whom I was trying to reach. I've never noticed that before, and I've sent far more vulgar and explicit messages to the correct name that I'm astonished this mix up hasn't occurred before. The phone rings again. Same name, but, again, not the number from which I want to hear. "Hello?" I ask meekly. A stern voice with overt uncomfortable accusation blasts in my ear. It was the voice of a boss I once had in a not too distant past. "Oh, fuck," I say. "Drew, what the fuck?"
"Uh..." and I try to explain to him the mix up: that this other woman has the same name as his wife and I never meant for his wife or him to ever become privy to my disturbing sexual fantasies - especially one that mistakenly involves her and I'm certain offended the sleep she intended to get that night right the fuck out of her. He paused, shaking his head I'm sure and trying to purge his own fantasy of beating my skull against concrete, then asked, "Drew, are you OK?" Now... the majority of this awkward interaction has been an obvious mistake (at least in my eyes) but to be asked if my mental health was at stake here caught me a little off guard. "What? Yeah, I'm fine..." then I tried to assure him that I'm not crazy by going back and re-iterating my apologetic feelings and then delineated the steps that was the reason for this atrocity: last year he had asked me to pick his wife up from the airport and had given me her phone number to do so. That was the only reason her number was in my phone and I don't even think I used it that day and certainly haven't used it since. "OK." he said, "If that's what it was." Yep. That's all it was. Holy shit. I'm sorry." He sighed and hung up; then, I'm sure, had a very discomforting cuddle with his wife as he imagined what kind of an affair his wife and I might possibly been having. And I'm sure he needed her to reassure him that nothing of the sort ever existed. I'm sure they both lost a lot of sleep and I'm sure they're telling people whom I know how fucked up I am and I will forever be suspicious of those with in his circle of friends that they may know of this tale. I can only sit, grimace and write this out to lessen the complex feelings of anxiety and regret boiling in my head. That was horrible and won't ever be over until I either kill everyone who was involved in the story or myself. And I don't plan on doing either so, I guess I have to live with the embarrassment. Damn it.
I wait a minute, yet cannot wait another before I text her a very vulgar message regarding the fact I so badly want this woman that I illustrate how the use of her image in my sexually perverse vault of memories is very arousing while in the act of masturbation and have recently used it as means to a self satisfying end. I still get no response and nearly am at the point of accepting another disappointing evening of drifting off as I lay pouting reproaching myself that I am not exerting this frustrated energy in a creative way, when I am excitedly jolted to the vibration of my phone with an incoming phone call: my telephone screen displaying the name of my desire. I pick up and instantly hear, "who is this?"... "Uh, it's Drew," I say, thinking that my desire has recently lost her phone and in doing so lost my phone number as well - with my texts of sexual perversion coming at her from an "unknown" source. "Drew who?" is her response... "oh, fuck." I think, "did she block the memory of me out of her mind?" - "Drew - Drew" I say, as if repeating my name will job her recollection of me. "Drew who?" she repeats and I give her my last name which helps nothing whatsoever, if only further frustrates her that she can't place me, and frustrates me that I'm not being recognized. She informs me that she wants me to delete her number from my phone, and, then, finally realizing that this must not be the woman I am seeking - embarrassment rushes from my head to my toes. Sweat comes next, followed by apologies. We hang up. I stare at the ceiling wondering who the fuck that possibly could've been. I scroll through my phone again and find to my surprise that there are actually two different entry's of the same name of whom I was trying to reach. I've never noticed that before, and I've sent far more vulgar and explicit messages to the correct name that I'm astonished this mix up hasn't occurred before. The phone rings again. Same name, but, again, not the number from which I want to hear. "Hello?" I ask meekly. A stern voice with overt uncomfortable accusation blasts in my ear. It was the voice of a boss I once had in a not too distant past. "Oh, fuck," I say. "Drew, what the fuck?""Uh..." and I try to explain to him the mix up: that this other woman has the same name as his wife and I never meant for his wife or him to ever become privy to my disturbing sexual fantasies - especially one that mistakenly involves her and I'm certain offended the sleep she intended to get that night right the fuck out of her. He paused, shaking his head I'm sure and trying to purge his own fantasy of beating my skull against concrete, then asked, "Drew, are you OK?" Now... the majority of this awkward interaction has been an obvious mistake (at least in my eyes) but to be asked if my mental health was at stake here caught me a little off guard. "What? Yeah, I'm fine..." then I tried to assure him that I'm not crazy by going back and re-iterating my apologetic feelings and then delineated the steps that was the reason for this atrocity: last year he had asked me to pick his wife up from the airport and had given me her phone number to do so. That was the only reason her number was in my phone and I don't even think I used it that day and certainly haven't used it since. "OK." he said, "If that's what it was." Yep. That's all it was. Holy shit. I'm sorry." He sighed and hung up; then, I'm sure, had a very discomforting cuddle with his wife as he imagined what kind of an affair his wife and I might possibly been having. And I'm sure he needed her to reassure him that nothing of the sort ever existed. I'm sure they both lost a lot of sleep and I'm sure they're telling people whom I know how fucked up I am and I will forever be suspicious of those with in his circle of friends that they may know of this tale. I can only sit, grimace and write this out to lessen the complex feelings of anxiety and regret boiling in my head. That was horrible and won't ever be over until I either kill everyone who was involved in the story or myself. And I don't plan on doing either so, I guess I have to live with the embarrassment. Damn it.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
something twisted from a man you thought you knew
CINEMATIC DEATH ROW
INT. PRISON - DAY
In his new purple jumper, a very angry man faces the prison bars before him. A guard walks by the bars and exclaims:
GUARD
How you like the new jumpers?
The guard raps his nightstick against the cell bars.
ANGRY MAN
Fuck you.
The guard turns to him and through the bars jabs a bloody nose on the angry man’s face with the butt end of his nightstick.
The angry man falls to his knees. His hands try to keep the blood from escaping his face but it easily runs through his fingers.
GUARD
Fuck you child rapist mother fucker!
The freshly bloodied face of the angry man slowly lifts to see the guard commanding a subordinate to unlock the cell door.
GUARD (CONT’D)
We’re gonna show him the importance of appreciating the new bitch uniform-
(turns to angry man)
-bitch uniform. Because that’s what you are. My purple bitch.
The door opens. The subordinate stands back. The guard steps in with his stick raised.
The angry man turns his face to avoid it being struck and receives a blow on the shoulder. We hear a CRACK. No doubt that the bone is broken. The angry man let’s out an excruciating SHRILL of pain.
GUARD (CONT’D)
That’s a compound fracture, no doubt.
The subordinate chimes in.
SUBORDINATE
No doubt.
GUARD
Gimme your ray-gun, thing you got there.
The subordinate removes his tazer from his belt and hands it to the guard. The guard zaps the angry man as fast as he can get his hands on the tazer and the angry man slumps to the floor and convulses until the convulsions become more like quivers. And the quivers into stillness and deep painful breaths. His body now feels cold and he can’t seem to remove his eyes from the wall before him, yet he really isn’t looking at anything at all.
GUARD (CONT’D)
So, what you’re trying to communicate with all these subtle little tremors your pathetic shitty body is doing here is that you like your new purple faggy dinosaur jump suit you got on, there?
The angry man’s response is the same thing he was doing before he was asked the question: slightly shaking.
GUARD (CONT’D)
That’s what I thought. You love them.
The guard puts the bloodied butt of his nightstick in the angry man’s mouth. He moves the phallic butt in and out between the lips.
GUARD (CONT’D)
Faggy dinosaur suit... purple, yeah.
The warden enters and we hear his voice booming from behind the guard.
WARDEN
Staffer! What the fuck are you doing?
Staffer doesn’t seem to be bothered or surprised by the voice of the warden.
GUARD
Oh, I’m just... teaching a lesson on gratitude. But, the teaching is over now.
The guard jabs the nightstick into the angry man’s mouth one last time. This jab is too deep and the angry man gags.
GUARD (CONT’D)
And he’s learned to be more grateful for what we provide him.
When the nightstick slides out of the man’s mouth a stream of vomit follows.
WARDEN
Staff!
The guard stands.
GUARD
Yes, warden.
WARDEN
Get this man cleaned up. He’s being released.
GUARD
What, sir?
WARDEN
JUST FUCKING DO IT!
Spit shoots from the warden’s mouth and hits the guard in the face. The warden turns and leaves.
INT. PRISON - ADMINISTRATION WINDOW - LATER
We see the angry man with a plastic guard on his nose, band-aids under his eye, an eye patch, and a sling with an unnecessarily large wad of bandaging wrapped around his shoulder. His hands are cuffed but he’s still able to sign the paper on the table at the administration window. As he does this he manages a little smile.
The administrator behind the bars of the window leans forward to the angry man.
ADMINISTRATOR
They fucked you up, Stumpy. Fucked you up good. But, you’re a piece of shit, so I don’t give a damn. I just want to know why the god damn they letting you out? Someone on Row like you never sees outside these walls again. A piece of shit fuck like you. What strings your lawyer pull? Huh? Who’s dick you suck in you faggy purple suit, huh? Where you goin’? And quit smiling you pervert piece of shit faggot! Tell me. Answer me.
With the grin remaining on his face, the angry man replies:
ANGRY MAN
I’m gonna be in pictures.
The administrator immediately spits in the angry man’s face.
ADMINISTRATOR
Fuck you, you faggoty purple bitch faggot mother fucker ass-wipe cunt faggot! Be in pictures. A fucking snuff film maybe. Where they fuck perverts like you in the ass and then hang’em!
The angry man’s grin widens and we can see the dreams of stardom in his eyes
ANGRY MAN
Pictures. They’re letting me go and I’m gonna be in pictures.
INT. BACK OF VAN - AFTERNOON
We’re driving in the back of a van with all the windows roughly painted. Sunlight seeps though the unpainted slits on the painted windows and lightly touches on everything within. The riders shake and hop with the bumps on the road: two guards with the angry man, who has both his ankles and wrists chained.
The van stops and we hear the footsteps of the driver make his way around to the back. All eyes are on the door as it creaks open and sunlight floods in. Everyone squinting, they make their way out the door and onto a bridge in the middle of deep valley between dry-red rolling hills against a cloudless sky. It’s just past noon. It’s hot.
A feisty young director approaches them as he rubs his hands together excitedly. He directs his attention to the angry man.
DIRECTOR
How are you? Good ride?
The angry man doesn’t know how to respond. The director nods and just keeps talking.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
So, OK. The uh - end here, see?... You’ll just... Jump, OK?
The angry man takes a moment to soak in the sincerity of the director who’s staring at him, nodding his head and beaming at him with excited little eyes.
ANGRY MAN
Jump.
DIRECTOR
Yes. The girl is going to drive by you and let go of the scarf. The white one. The one of purity and of love for one another. She let’s go. And that’s when you "let go" as well... Your well of your will to live instantly dries up and in the crux of such a moment of disparity you turn to make the irrational decision of...
The feisty little director turns out to the deep valley below them and bends his knees with his arms out like a skier ready to take on the slopes. Then he mimics as if he were to lunge forward and plummet to the dry river bed bellow them.
ANGRY MAN
Jump?
DIRECTOR
Yes, exactly. Thank you. Dafney here will unchain you and... we need you to change into these clothes.
Dafney unchains the angry man and places a pile of clothes in his hands. The angry man looks down off the bridge.
ANGRY MAN
I ain’t jumping.
DIRECTOR
Yes. Yes you are. You signed to get out of prison to do this.
ANGRY MAN
I didn’t sign for this.
DIRECTOR
Yes you did. And now you will no longer be sentenced to die in an electric chair, but now you will be dying at the base of this valley. A vast distance below us.
ANGRY MAN
There’s no net?
DIRECTOR
No net!
The feisty director lets out a loud guffaw, clutches his belly and begins backing away.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
No. No there’s no net.
The angry man looks below him once more and then looks to the excited man backing away from him.
ANGRY MAN
You really want me to jump? You want me to change... suicide?
The director nods and rubs his hands together with pleasure.
DIRECTOR
And we’ll start filming when you’re ready. But remember only to jump after the lady drives by and releases the white scarf. Then you turn and -
ANGRY MAN
It’s not even that far!
DIRECTOR
Well, you better fall right then. We only have one take. Aim for your landing on your head.
The angry man drops his clothes and begins running away. But as soon as he steps forward a bullet ricochets off the cement at his feet. He stops and crouches, looking around frantically for the shooter.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
There are guns on every hill surrounding this bridge!
The angry man turns to face the director. Behind the director we see a man get out of a car and remove a cigarette from his pocket. The man looks exactly like the angry man; as if he were the angry man’s twin. The angry man squints with contempt.
ANGRY MAN
Ernesto!
The director swings his head around and yells at Ernesto.
DIRECTOR
Get back in the car!
Ernesto lights his cigarette.
ERNESTO
It’s hot in there.
Ernesto has smeared make-up on his face that resemble the wounds on the angry man’s face. He has a nose guard as well, only Ernesto’s nose guard dangles from his neck.
DIRECTOR
And stop rubbing your make up.
ERNESTO
It’s irritating.
DIRECTOR
(looks into the van)
Betty, can you re-apply that immediately.
ANGRY MAN
Ernesto! Are you an actor now?!
The director shakes his head at Ernesto.
DIRECTOR
Great. You need to calm him down. Make him... make him feel that he’s doing this for his family. Or something. Helping out your career to replace the dishonor he’s stained your family name with.
Ernesto pushes the director out of his way.
ERNESTO
You fuck, Stumpy! I can finally do whatever the fuck I want to do with out you in my god damn way! You need to do this to salvage the broken family you left.
The director leans in and whispers in Ernesto’s ear.
DIRECTOR
Good. Good, give him ethics.
ANGRY MAN
You’re pathetic. What are you? Turned Christian? Turned “pure” and fucking turned me in? -to save your own ass. And now you’re trying to use me?! Kill me? For some death scene!
ERNESTO
Fuck you! You’re gonna die today! Might as well jump for the camera. And I’m gonna put it on repeat for Janey to watch over and over.
The angry man laughs.
ANGRY MAN
How’s your scared up girly? Still talking? Does she talk anymore? Is she still strapped down getting fed intravenous medication and staring at the ceiling? You go visit? Wipe her drool for her?
DIRECTOR
Oh, no.
Ernesto runs forward.
ERNESTO
Fuck you!
The director stands back and watches as the scene unfolds on the bridge before him:
Ernesto charges the angry man and the angry man faces him; ready for a fight.
Ernesto tries to strike first, but fails to hit his target.
The angry man ducks, then he shoves Ernesto in the chest with his undamaged arm.
Ernesto flails off balance over the edge of the bridge.
We hear his scream fall to the depths below.
Then the echo of the THUD reaches up to the bridge and confirms for everyone the inexorable death of Ernesto.
The director grabs his head.
DIRECTOR
NO!
A shot rings out and the angry man collapses on the bridge with blood pouring from his stomach. A pool of red grows rapidly larger in diameter beneath the angry man.
The director watches in horror. His astonished face turns to the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Did you get any of that?
The camera man shrugs and then continues on the lens mount he has exposed for cleaning in his preparation to film.
The director lunges at the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
AAAAAhhhhhh!
The director looks down off the bridge at the corpse of his dead actor.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Oh, shit.
He looks over the dead prisoner and notices the line of guards coming down from the hills surrounding the bridge. He looks back to the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
We’ve got to get this shot off.
CAMERA MAN
He’s dead already.
DIRECTOR
We have to finish this film!
The director turns on his walkie-talkie:
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Send the driver for a run, we’re doing a take.
WALKIE-TALKIE
Right now?
DIRECTOR
(to walkie-talkie)
One minute exactly. Get him ready.
(turns to camera man)
Can you be ready in one minute?
CAMERA MAN
Ready for what?
DIRECTOR
You're job, man. What do you got there in your hands? C'mon.
(pointing at the dead angry man)
We're gonna get this body at least falling off the bridge.
CAMERA MAN
Well, we’ll have to throw him off this side then, I don’t want to get his dead brother in the shot.
DIRECTOR
Good. OK. Dafney! Drag the body closer to the other edge of the bridge.
Dafney hesitates.
DAFNEY
But, he’s dead.
DIRECTOR
We all signed on! We all knew he was going to die! Now he’s dead. I never said this would be easy. Shot one was botched! That happens. We’ll compromise. You’re my AD. please, drag that body over there and- Don't cry. No. No. I really need your help right now. You got it? You can do this. It's all you. It'll be over in a second...
(pointing at the camera man)
Get an overhead shot. Right off the edge of the bridge. Make sure to get his limbs all flailing and all.
With tears in her eyes, Dafney begins dragging the dead body to the other end of the bridge. She leaves a trail of thick red scrapes along the way.
The camera man sets his tripod over the edge.
CAMERA MAN
Ok. Uh.
The director turns to the sound man standing near a van.
DIRECTOR
You working?
SOUND GUY
I’m ready. It’s hot as shit, let’s do it.
The director looks out to on coming shooters from the hills
The AD looks down off the bridge and wipes the tears from her eyes.
DAFNEY
We’re ready.
The camera man looks though his eye piece above the corpse.
DIRECTOR
Got your focus?
CAMERA MAN
If he’s falling, you don’t want me to be focusing on him here do you?
DIRECTOR
Can’t you just rack? You can just rack it as he’s falling.
CAMERA MAN
In one take?
The director motions for the sound guy to get closer. Then he turns to the AD. The camera man brings his eye back to the eye piece and licks his lips.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Push him.
(camera man)
Start rolling.
The AD pushes the body and it slides nearer to the edge. The camera can be heard fluttering.
CAMERA MAN
Rolling!
The body slips off the edge.
DIRECTOR
Got him in frame?
CAMERA MAN
Yeah, he’s bright purple.
DIRECTOR
We’ll change that in post.
The sound guy fiddles with his electronic box and head phone jack. Then,
SOUND GUY
I didn’t turn the recorder on.
We hear the echo of a distant thud. The director turns to the sound man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Really? This project was doomed from conception.
CAMERA MAN
I didn’t see him splatter either. He kind of went under the bridge a little. The breeze or whatever... I missed it.
The camera man takes off his hat wipes his brow and leans back from the edge. After staring at him for a moment the director snaps at him.
DIRECTOR
Well, can you get it now?
CAMERA MAN
How?
DIRECTOR
Just a different angle and film him and all the blood and all the splatter from there. We need it on film. Somehow. This is our ending... And I guess we can't do re-shoots, or ADR. Well...
The shooters from the hill arrive. The director directs his attention to them.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Who shot him?!
SHOOTER
Why’d you throw him off the bridge?
DIRECTOR
We needed him alive!
SHOOTER
He wasn’t dead. We shot him with a tranquilizer.
DIRECTOR
All the blood though...?
The shooters start giggling together.
SHOOTER
It’s goats blood. Filled up in his vest. We put it on him on the ride over here. We thought it’d be funny... give you a little scare.
(looks off the bridge then back to the director)
Who threw him off?
The shooters apprentice points over at Dafney.
APPRENCTICE
It was her. I saw it.
Dafney looks bewildered.
SHOOTER
I think we’ll be needing to take you along with us.
DAFNEY
(shaking her head)
No. Why?
SHOOTER
Well, we’re not sure, but it’s probably illegal what you did.
DAFNEY
He was a condemned man. Condemned to death.
SHOOTER
Yeah, but nobody said you could kill him.
DAFNEY
I thought he was already dead.
(turns to the director)
You told me to?
The director looks at Dafney then over to the judging eyes of all the shooters.
DIRECTOR
I don’t remember. It was all such a rush.
The shooter looks directly at the director and studies him.
SHOOTER
It’s better that you keep not remembering. My kids love your pictures. It would be a shame for you not to be able to make pictures on account of this.
(grabs the AD)
C’mon then.
DAFNEY
It was a mistake! I can’t -
The shooter slams the butt end of his rifle in the AD’s face. She waivers off balance looking up at the sky then she falls into the arms of the shooter’s apprentice behind her. She’s then hoisted over the apprentice’s shoulder and carried off.
SHOOTER
Alright then.
The shooter puts out a hand for the director to shake.
The director shakes it tentatively. They maintain eye contact.
SHOOTER (CONT’D)
Let me know if you can get me in to see this picture once it’s done.
DIRECTOR
Yeah. Sure. Bring your crew, we'll need help filling the theater. If we can even afford that. I'm sure we just lost all our funding. The uh- lead was just pushed off this bridge.
SHOOTER
I don’t want any of my men’s names on the credits you hear?
DIRECTOR
No, well. I don't have their names. I wouldn't mind the name of the person who shot the prisoner. Just for the court case. So... if you could-
SHOOTER
Alright then. Good day to you, sir.
The director looks around the shooter and sees his AD bouncing on the shoulder of the apprentice walking toward a van.
DIRECTOR
OK.
The shooter turns around and leaves the director and his stunned crew standing there to watch his exit.
The shooting team enter the van and take off down the road.
CAMERA MAN
What do you think they’re gonna say happened?
No one responds.
CAMERA MAN (CONT’D)
Is it our responsibility to report them for strapping the prisoner with a blood filled vest? I don’t think the vest was part of what we signed for.
DIRECTOR
I don’t know. I'll need you as a witness. You'll be my witness?
CAMERA MAN
I don’t think I want to get involved. But - I don’t know... Dafney... wow she really killed him.
DIRECTOR
On accident. Well, not accident. God, what degree of murder is that considered?
CAMERA MAN
Accident or not. He’s dead. She pushed him.
DIRECTOR
Yeah. Let’s go down there and see about this goats blood vest. Why the fuck would they do that?
INT. PRISON - DAY
In his new purple jumper, a very angry man faces the prison bars before him. A guard walks by the bars and exclaims:
GUARD
How you like the new jumpers?
The guard raps his nightstick against the cell bars.
ANGRY MAN
Fuck you.
The guard turns to him and through the bars jabs a bloody nose on the angry man’s face with the butt end of his nightstick.
The angry man falls to his knees. His hands try to keep the blood from escaping his face but it easily runs through his fingers.
GUARD
Fuck you child rapist mother fucker!
The freshly bloodied face of the angry man slowly lifts to see the guard commanding a subordinate to unlock the cell door.
GUARD (CONT’D)
We’re gonna show him the importance of appreciating the new bitch uniform-
(turns to angry man)
-bitch uniform. Because that’s what you are. My purple bitch.
The door opens. The subordinate stands back. The guard steps in with his stick raised.
The angry man turns his face to avoid it being struck and receives a blow on the shoulder. We hear a CRACK. No doubt that the bone is broken. The angry man let’s out an excruciating SHRILL of pain.
GUARD (CONT’D)
That’s a compound fracture, no doubt.
The subordinate chimes in.
SUBORDINATE
No doubt.
GUARD
Gimme your ray-gun, thing you got there.
The subordinate removes his tazer from his belt and hands it to the guard. The guard zaps the angry man as fast as he can get his hands on the tazer and the angry man slumps to the floor and convulses until the convulsions become more like quivers. And the quivers into stillness and deep painful breaths. His body now feels cold and he can’t seem to remove his eyes from the wall before him, yet he really isn’t looking at anything at all.
GUARD (CONT’D)
So, what you’re trying to communicate with all these subtle little tremors your pathetic shitty body is doing here is that you like your new purple faggy dinosaur jump suit you got on, there?
The angry man’s response is the same thing he was doing before he was asked the question: slightly shaking.
GUARD (CONT’D)
That’s what I thought. You love them.
The guard puts the bloodied butt of his nightstick in the angry man’s mouth. He moves the phallic butt in and out between the lips.
GUARD (CONT’D)
Faggy dinosaur suit... purple, yeah.
The warden enters and we hear his voice booming from behind the guard.
WARDEN
Staffer! What the fuck are you doing?
Staffer doesn’t seem to be bothered or surprised by the voice of the warden.
GUARD
Oh, I’m just... teaching a lesson on gratitude. But, the teaching is over now.
The guard jabs the nightstick into the angry man’s mouth one last time. This jab is too deep and the angry man gags.
GUARD (CONT’D)
And he’s learned to be more grateful for what we provide him.
When the nightstick slides out of the man’s mouth a stream of vomit follows.
WARDEN
Staff!
The guard stands.
GUARD
Yes, warden.
WARDEN
Get this man cleaned up. He’s being released.
GUARD
What, sir?
WARDEN
JUST FUCKING DO IT!
Spit shoots from the warden’s mouth and hits the guard in the face. The warden turns and leaves.
INT. PRISON - ADMINISTRATION WINDOW - LATER
We see the angry man with a plastic guard on his nose, band-aids under his eye, an eye patch, and a sling with an unnecessarily large wad of bandaging wrapped around his shoulder. His hands are cuffed but he’s still able to sign the paper on the table at the administration window. As he does this he manages a little smile.
The administrator behind the bars of the window leans forward to the angry man.
ADMINISTRATOR
They fucked you up, Stumpy. Fucked you up good. But, you’re a piece of shit, so I don’t give a damn. I just want to know why the god damn they letting you out? Someone on Row like you never sees outside these walls again. A piece of shit fuck like you. What strings your lawyer pull? Huh? Who’s dick you suck in you faggy purple suit, huh? Where you goin’? And quit smiling you pervert piece of shit faggot! Tell me. Answer me.
With the grin remaining on his face, the angry man replies:
ANGRY MAN
I’m gonna be in pictures.
The administrator immediately spits in the angry man’s face.
ADMINISTRATOR
Fuck you, you faggoty purple bitch faggot mother fucker ass-wipe cunt faggot! Be in pictures. A fucking snuff film maybe. Where they fuck perverts like you in the ass and then hang’em!
The angry man’s grin widens and we can see the dreams of stardom in his eyes
ANGRY MAN
Pictures. They’re letting me go and I’m gonna be in pictures.
INT. BACK OF VAN - AFTERNOON
We’re driving in the back of a van with all the windows roughly painted. Sunlight seeps though the unpainted slits on the painted windows and lightly touches on everything within. The riders shake and hop with the bumps on the road: two guards with the angry man, who has both his ankles and wrists chained.
The van stops and we hear the footsteps of the driver make his way around to the back. All eyes are on the door as it creaks open and sunlight floods in. Everyone squinting, they make their way out the door and onto a bridge in the middle of deep valley between dry-red rolling hills against a cloudless sky. It’s just past noon. It’s hot.
A feisty young director approaches them as he rubs his hands together excitedly. He directs his attention to the angry man.
DIRECTOR
How are you? Good ride?
The angry man doesn’t know how to respond. The director nods and just keeps talking.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
So, OK. The uh - end here, see?... You’ll just... Jump, OK?
The angry man takes a moment to soak in the sincerity of the director who’s staring at him, nodding his head and beaming at him with excited little eyes.
ANGRY MAN
Jump.
DIRECTOR
Yes. The girl is going to drive by you and let go of the scarf. The white one. The one of purity and of love for one another. She let’s go. And that’s when you "let go" as well... Your well of your will to live instantly dries up and in the crux of such a moment of disparity you turn to make the irrational decision of...
The feisty little director turns out to the deep valley below them and bends his knees with his arms out like a skier ready to take on the slopes. Then he mimics as if he were to lunge forward and plummet to the dry river bed bellow them.
ANGRY MAN
Jump?
DIRECTOR
Yes, exactly. Thank you. Dafney here will unchain you and... we need you to change into these clothes.
Dafney unchains the angry man and places a pile of clothes in his hands. The angry man looks down off the bridge.
ANGRY MAN
I ain’t jumping.
DIRECTOR
Yes. Yes you are. You signed to get out of prison to do this.
ANGRY MAN
I didn’t sign for this.
DIRECTOR
Yes you did. And now you will no longer be sentenced to die in an electric chair, but now you will be dying at the base of this valley. A vast distance below us.
ANGRY MAN
There’s no net?
DIRECTOR
No net!
The feisty director lets out a loud guffaw, clutches his belly and begins backing away.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
No. No there’s no net.
The angry man looks below him once more and then looks to the excited man backing away from him.
ANGRY MAN
You really want me to jump? You want me to change... suicide?
The director nods and rubs his hands together with pleasure.
DIRECTOR
And we’ll start filming when you’re ready. But remember only to jump after the lady drives by and releases the white scarf. Then you turn and -
ANGRY MAN
It’s not even that far!
DIRECTOR
Well, you better fall right then. We only have one take. Aim for your landing on your head.
The angry man drops his clothes and begins running away. But as soon as he steps forward a bullet ricochets off the cement at his feet. He stops and crouches, looking around frantically for the shooter.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
There are guns on every hill surrounding this bridge!
The angry man turns to face the director. Behind the director we see a man get out of a car and remove a cigarette from his pocket. The man looks exactly like the angry man; as if he were the angry man’s twin. The angry man squints with contempt.
ANGRY MAN
Ernesto!
The director swings his head around and yells at Ernesto.
DIRECTOR
Get back in the car!
Ernesto lights his cigarette.
ERNESTO
It’s hot in there.
Ernesto has smeared make-up on his face that resemble the wounds on the angry man’s face. He has a nose guard as well, only Ernesto’s nose guard dangles from his neck.
DIRECTOR
And stop rubbing your make up.
ERNESTO
It’s irritating.
DIRECTOR
(looks into the van)
Betty, can you re-apply that immediately.
ANGRY MAN
Ernesto! Are you an actor now?!
The director shakes his head at Ernesto.
DIRECTOR
Great. You need to calm him down. Make him... make him feel that he’s doing this for his family. Or something. Helping out your career to replace the dishonor he’s stained your family name with.
Ernesto pushes the director out of his way.
ERNESTO
You fuck, Stumpy! I can finally do whatever the fuck I want to do with out you in my god damn way! You need to do this to salvage the broken family you left.
The director leans in and whispers in Ernesto’s ear.
DIRECTOR
Good. Good, give him ethics.
ANGRY MAN
You’re pathetic. What are you? Turned Christian? Turned “pure” and fucking turned me in? -to save your own ass. And now you’re trying to use me?! Kill me? For some death scene!
ERNESTO
Fuck you! You’re gonna die today! Might as well jump for the camera. And I’m gonna put it on repeat for Janey to watch over and over.
The angry man laughs.
ANGRY MAN
How’s your scared up girly? Still talking? Does she talk anymore? Is she still strapped down getting fed intravenous medication and staring at the ceiling? You go visit? Wipe her drool for her?
DIRECTOR
Oh, no.
Ernesto runs forward.
ERNESTO
Fuck you!
The director stands back and watches as the scene unfolds on the bridge before him:
Ernesto charges the angry man and the angry man faces him; ready for a fight.
Ernesto tries to strike first, but fails to hit his target.
The angry man ducks, then he shoves Ernesto in the chest with his undamaged arm.
Ernesto flails off balance over the edge of the bridge.
We hear his scream fall to the depths below.
Then the echo of the THUD reaches up to the bridge and confirms for everyone the inexorable death of Ernesto.
The director grabs his head.
DIRECTOR
NO!
A shot rings out and the angry man collapses on the bridge with blood pouring from his stomach. A pool of red grows rapidly larger in diameter beneath the angry man.
The director watches in horror. His astonished face turns to the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Did you get any of that?
The camera man shrugs and then continues on the lens mount he has exposed for cleaning in his preparation to film.
The director lunges at the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
AAAAAhhhhhh!
The director looks down off the bridge at the corpse of his dead actor.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Oh, shit.
He looks over the dead prisoner and notices the line of guards coming down from the hills surrounding the bridge. He looks back to the camera man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
We’ve got to get this shot off.
CAMERA MAN
He’s dead already.
DIRECTOR
We have to finish this film!
The director turns on his walkie-talkie:
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Send the driver for a run, we’re doing a take.
WALKIE-TALKIE
Right now?
DIRECTOR
(to walkie-talkie)
One minute exactly. Get him ready.
(turns to camera man)
Can you be ready in one minute?
CAMERA MAN
Ready for what?
DIRECTOR
You're job, man. What do you got there in your hands? C'mon.
(pointing at the dead angry man)
We're gonna get this body at least falling off the bridge.
CAMERA MAN
Well, we’ll have to throw him off this side then, I don’t want to get his dead brother in the shot.
DIRECTOR
Good. OK. Dafney! Drag the body closer to the other edge of the bridge.
Dafney hesitates.
DAFNEY
But, he’s dead.
DIRECTOR
We all signed on! We all knew he was going to die! Now he’s dead. I never said this would be easy. Shot one was botched! That happens. We’ll compromise. You’re my AD. please, drag that body over there and- Don't cry. No. No. I really need your help right now. You got it? You can do this. It's all you. It'll be over in a second...
(pointing at the camera man)
Get an overhead shot. Right off the edge of the bridge. Make sure to get his limbs all flailing and all.
With tears in her eyes, Dafney begins dragging the dead body to the other end of the bridge. She leaves a trail of thick red scrapes along the way.
The camera man sets his tripod over the edge.
CAMERA MAN
Ok. Uh.
The director turns to the sound man standing near a van.
DIRECTOR
You working?
SOUND GUY
I’m ready. It’s hot as shit, let’s do it.
The director looks out to on coming shooters from the hills
The AD looks down off the bridge and wipes the tears from her eyes.
DAFNEY
We’re ready.
The camera man looks though his eye piece above the corpse.
DIRECTOR
Got your focus?
CAMERA MAN
If he’s falling, you don’t want me to be focusing on him here do you?
DIRECTOR
Can’t you just rack? You can just rack it as he’s falling.
CAMERA MAN
In one take?
The director motions for the sound guy to get closer. Then he turns to the AD. The camera man brings his eye back to the eye piece and licks his lips.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Push him.
(camera man)
Start rolling.
The AD pushes the body and it slides nearer to the edge. The camera can be heard fluttering.
CAMERA MAN
Rolling!
The body slips off the edge.
DIRECTOR
Got him in frame?
CAMERA MAN
Yeah, he’s bright purple.
DIRECTOR
We’ll change that in post.
The sound guy fiddles with his electronic box and head phone jack. Then,
SOUND GUY
I didn’t turn the recorder on.
We hear the echo of a distant thud. The director turns to the sound man.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Really? This project was doomed from conception.
CAMERA MAN
I didn’t see him splatter either. He kind of went under the bridge a little. The breeze or whatever... I missed it.
The camera man takes off his hat wipes his brow and leans back from the edge. After staring at him for a moment the director snaps at him.
DIRECTOR
Well, can you get it now?
CAMERA MAN
How?
DIRECTOR
Just a different angle and film him and all the blood and all the splatter from there. We need it on film. Somehow. This is our ending... And I guess we can't do re-shoots, or ADR. Well...
The shooters from the hill arrive. The director directs his attention to them.
DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
Who shot him?!
SHOOTER
Why’d you throw him off the bridge?
DIRECTOR
We needed him alive!
SHOOTER
He wasn’t dead. We shot him with a tranquilizer.
DIRECTOR
All the blood though...?
The shooters start giggling together.
SHOOTER
It’s goats blood. Filled up in his vest. We put it on him on the ride over here. We thought it’d be funny... give you a little scare.
(looks off the bridge then back to the director)
Who threw him off?
The shooters apprentice points over at Dafney.
APPRENCTICE
It was her. I saw it.
Dafney looks bewildered.
SHOOTER
I think we’ll be needing to take you along with us.
DAFNEY
(shaking her head)
No. Why?
SHOOTER
Well, we’re not sure, but it’s probably illegal what you did.
DAFNEY
He was a condemned man. Condemned to death.
SHOOTER
Yeah, but nobody said you could kill him.
DAFNEY
I thought he was already dead.
(turns to the director)
You told me to?
The director looks at Dafney then over to the judging eyes of all the shooters.
DIRECTOR
I don’t remember. It was all such a rush.
The shooter looks directly at the director and studies him.
SHOOTER
It’s better that you keep not remembering. My kids love your pictures. It would be a shame for you not to be able to make pictures on account of this.
(grabs the AD)
C’mon then.
DAFNEY
It was a mistake! I can’t -
The shooter slams the butt end of his rifle in the AD’s face. She waivers off balance looking up at the sky then she falls into the arms of the shooter’s apprentice behind her. She’s then hoisted over the apprentice’s shoulder and carried off.
SHOOTER
Alright then.
The shooter puts out a hand for the director to shake.
The director shakes it tentatively. They maintain eye contact.
SHOOTER (CONT’D)
Let me know if you can get me in to see this picture once it’s done.
DIRECTOR
Yeah. Sure. Bring your crew, we'll need help filling the theater. If we can even afford that. I'm sure we just lost all our funding. The uh- lead was just pushed off this bridge.
SHOOTER
I don’t want any of my men’s names on the credits you hear?
DIRECTOR
No, well. I don't have their names. I wouldn't mind the name of the person who shot the prisoner. Just for the court case. So... if you could-
SHOOTER
Alright then. Good day to you, sir.
The director looks around the shooter and sees his AD bouncing on the shoulder of the apprentice walking toward a van.
DIRECTOR
OK.
The shooter turns around and leaves the director and his stunned crew standing there to watch his exit.
The shooting team enter the van and take off down the road.
CAMERA MAN
What do you think they’re gonna say happened?
No one responds.
CAMERA MAN (CONT’D)
Is it our responsibility to report them for strapping the prisoner with a blood filled vest? I don’t think the vest was part of what we signed for.
DIRECTOR
I don’t know. I'll need you as a witness. You'll be my witness?
CAMERA MAN
I don’t think I want to get involved. But - I don’t know... Dafney... wow she really killed him.
DIRECTOR
On accident. Well, not accident. God, what degree of murder is that considered?
CAMERA MAN
Accident or not. He’s dead. She pushed him.
DIRECTOR
Yeah. Let’s go down there and see about this goats blood vest. Why the fuck would they do that?
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