Thursday, August 2, 2012

Directors Cut: Tommy full version with expanded conclusion.

           This is the Story of Tommy: Game of Hangman parts 1 thru 4.

                           I call this the Directors Cut. Some things may vary. I am thankful to write such without restraint.

                           Tommy: Full. Directors Cut.





                                     Tommy. Game of Hang Man .


Exiting his ever rusting once black mid-eighties Oldsmobile Sierra behind, coursing drunkenly down a dank alley that smelled of two nights of restaurant garbage and human piss. Rustling sounds of rats, mice and huge cockroaches like the hiss of voltage rising up a Tesla coil, growing louder with each step further.

Blinking 100 watt bulb fluorescent, shorting out and coming back, strobe lighting a descent to hell, Tommy goes deeper.

“Duhhhh-don’t go thhhhhar, “ some nicely suited man with stylish brown hair says to him. A voice of drug-annihilated uncertainty states. “donnnnn-g-therrrrrrrr.”

Tommy, taking grasp of this wasted man before him, smart black suit, tailored to fit, gold cuff links, and the words given.

He also took hold of the blood covering white shirt and purple and blue tie riding down and gravity and darkness created crimson hues descending to his pants.

He witnessed this apparition crossing his path, its words hitting his mind like hollow points, smiling as he stepped aside to not reach its flailing outstretched arms greeting/warning.

Passing fucked up socialite, breathing deeper, Adidas smacking thwonks on bricked alley, going further, sex sounds in many absurd forms, stink of pork gone south on this humid Amsterdam night. Flies, no ending of muffled buzzing flies ascending as he walked to the doorway he sought.

Above the doorway, vibrant black-lighted illumination on florescent walls read simple words: Your god gave up on. Shed all hope. Its door, cold grey metal reaching warmer colours with its slowly rusting bottom having no peep-hole.

Tommy grabbed its knob, turning it clockwise, and went forth.

Graffiti colours of blues, greens and the brightest of reds greeted him with their contrast against flat-black walls. Wasted and water-stained flooring meets each step.

Huge muscled man with bald head and sharp expression comes from Tommy’s left. Blocking, putting him in check. Sporting a Swastika with a rainbow above it, Tommy wondering if he’d met some floundering zone where Nazi’s meet Homo’s.

Steady mind, wanting something else, accepts and stops. Running fingers through slight black locks. Confident, self absorbed and hungry.

“Show me your dick, fucker!” the gay Ariana states with strength of tone and pitch. He places large left hand on Tommys right shoulder, clamping down like a misplaced Vulcan drop-zone, stopping him.

Tommy, obliging, unzips his fly freely. Shrunken penis falling from the fly of his faded Levi’s. Expression of facial continence as its weakness shown.

“Welcome to Amsterdam, American!” Nazi-Fag, sucking on a failing peppermint breath mint, motions Tommy into the grander reaches of this depressing hall to its steps leading up.

Inhaling deep the coming gloom, leaving smells of animal piss reaching whiffs of Super Hit and Jasmine ins cents enveloping him, taking him further.

Reaching final step to level showing bronzes’ high-priced ceramic tiles, he takes a 90 degrees to his right. Eyes fiercely like a kid first visiting a Kidz-R-Some, growing wider and wider still with each sight memory thru eyes could take in. Deepest of air he takes into nonsmoking lungs.

Redhead, dressed like New York secretary, flowing hair over deep blue suit coat covering pale blue shirt, with tight fitting black slacks toward stilettos. “Cash or Plastic?” Her voice is even and unyielding. She blackly wishes for better things for herself and her children.

Tommy hands her an American prepaid Walmart **********.

Approved! A positive sounds chimes.

She welcomes Tommy to Hell and opens the black door to her right.

Steel door opening, greeted with massive bass thumps smashing against his heart and sights of human thrashings and audible throes of abandonment and ecstasy.

Fiery eyed long haired blond females thrusting madly over flat males gasping harshly on stained pillows of yesterdays orgies. Moans in various stages of climax, rising, descending or content: smells of human scents via the ’private places’ secretions represent.

Tommy trips over a wasted brunette, his pale Levi’d knee landing firmly on her forehead soundly, surely leaving a bruise. She says: “sorry,” the most wasted of those that have lost both soul and body, truly and with complete sincerity, caring not as they no longer wish to be.

Strolling toward the stroking, fluorescent realms of the bar as images change with the most of decadent backgrounds of artists obscured thru history with modern videos of Rammstien and Martika romp.


Out totally of place and time, wearing a cowboy hat, throwing out a fake drawl, “ C’n I h’ves absinthe? “

Bartender in the most sublime James Bond tux says simply far better than most Americans,. “Please, Sir, say again”

Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!

“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’


Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….


AUTHORS NOTE: to be continued tomorrow….

Mark William Darus ; 07-14-2012





Tommy: Game of Hangman. Part Two.


Leaving part one:

….Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!

“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’


Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….


“Sir, you must be more specific in your requests here. Pardon, sir, but you must.” Elegant, dark haired, handsome man of height spoke eloquently on.

I asked for absinthe, didn’t I? Did I fucker stutter? More nervous with each syllable, voice growing louder, the birth of sweat touching face. Just give me a Goddamned absinthe!

Bartenders smile growing broader, knowing far too well the road Tommy was going to travel. “Absolutely, sir! Your wish is my command!”

Tuxedo ed man slowly turns 180 degrees, tanned left hand taps on mahogany paneling in Morse code: D-D-D. d-d-d, D-D-D! Message of SOS releases magnetic hold and small door opens slowly, creaking over hinged release. Right hand grasping bottle of Tommy’s desire, a scantily clad redhead with sagging breasts and sunken nipples asks where the Ale Smith ales are. Motioning to his left toward neon vibrantly in greenish hues: ALE SMITH ALES.

Gracefully pirouetting toward Tommy, free hand snagging an overly tall shot glass, he begins to pour bluish liquid into it, deftly mixing other watery substance into it . Rising tall as the drink reaches safe crest, starring at Tommy, he lights it.

WHOOSH! Igniting proudly, flame changing colours as the arenas ever-changing lights touch it briefly.

“Here you go, Sir!. Absinthe, as you asked for. Enjoy!”

Hand taking flaming drink from evil-eyed Bond from Hell, eyes meeting firmly. Sincerest of handshakes thru glass from the giver of Guyana Grape punch to the soon poisoned.

Off to other concerns, Mr Tux leaves Tommy, exit stage left in quick fashion.

Do we do this, or don’t we? The drinks flame, as his body shadows it from back lit illumination, goes from blue to green to orange.

FOoooooooooooF! Flame blown out, three quarters of liquid left in tall, slender glass, lazily smoky vapor dissipating.

Let’s go to Hell!

Closed eyes, standing tall, shoulders broad, catches one last glimpse of himself in the massive mirror layered in its forefront with every type of alcoholic beverage known to mankind. He places glass to pink lips, mouth opening slowly to greet flavours not known. Body tightening, legs tensing firmly, back nearly arching in expectation.

Bottoms up! Slamming the glass down in exclamation. Holding in mouth closely.

Letting go and swallowing.

Tommy’s eyes open sharply as fluid takes over tongue. Eyes, pupils rapidly cart wheeling madly about, taking in a millisecond at a time as the drink courses down his lessening throat, final eye-to-eye with himself.

Let’s go to Hell.

Not so bad. Losing sense of self, failing at control, he quips as he does a 90 degree from the bar. Eyes taking in shades of keener darkness senses like that of a feline predator, seeking out with only instinctive hunger guiding him.

Bumping into a 80’s dressed male with spiky hair, Tommy embraces him and plants a kiss. Responding in kind, Flock of Seagulls dude reacts in kind, taking tongue in and giving same. Holding each other firmly, 80’s guy asks Tommy to pull back from him and gut-punch him.

Tommy, going with freeing mind and streaming illegal booze, grants him his wish.

Sort of, that is.

Staggering man of small embrace backs away, eyes locking to Tommy’s. He drops to his knees.

Dropping back, Tommy’s mind calculating best situation possible. He steps forward moments later and draws his right leg behind him.

90 decibel riffs, killer bass tones with spiraling light show arrays mating with dank smell of growing urgent, sexual sweat, pit odor and those direly in need of a douche.

Blood shoots abundantly as speeding foot meets face as the 80’s guy nose explodes as cartilage barely misses brain with impact. “th-tha-thanx, man. G-god! That wu-w-was fucKING AWESOME!”

Tommy, no reaction, no emotion, without raise in either heart rate or blood pressure, tests his luck on the dance floor.

Flashing lights in a myriad of colours and intensities, not holding grayish cheaply made plastic handrails, descending 40 steps to fiercely under-lit colored floor with writhing humanity over it, casting eerie images to the ceiling above.

Reaching bottom, but only on this floor, he with head held high meets wasted males and females head-on. He grabs a brunette by the back of the head and pulls her into him. Left hand gripping on right, though anorectic tit. Forehead to hers, drugged exaggerated eyes and minds melded, searching, bruising her as she takes hold of soft groin hiding behind cotton fabric.

Shayla pulls up on Tommy’s balls like one might a Bic from a table wanting to light a smoke.

Eyes meeting in the truest of mutual agonies only never to be known by those without drugs. Knowledge crossing unspoken wavelengths between them. She lifts his shirt up with her right hand, exposing flat and bare chest.

Never leaving her eyes. Her eyes growing in intensity.

Music pounding, imaging’s flooding colored.

Blood Red acrylic nails of her left hand slash his chest deeply, furrowing it, carrying flesh under them.

I love you! Gasping in ecstasy, Tommy looks at her. Body feeling looser than it has felt in ages. He reaches for Shayla.

Shayla drops to her knees quickly, avoiding his arms extended toward her. No embrace, no, don’t want that at all, fucker!

Looking down, eyes glazed, mind wanting more absinthe…

Shayla pulls Tommy toward her.

She licks his stomach where his blood rolled down to. Taking it, sucking it in, tasting iron, moving toward his chest, elation, resurgence, hotter, more alive.

Cleaning him, rising to meet face to face, eye to eye. “Beat me, hurt me, lick my blood! Take me as I did you!.” Shayla’s look of ferocity shrouded with bloodstained white hair back lit morphing humanity behind her.

Tommy, obliging, leans toward her, pearly whites ablaze in colour, lowering himself toward her chest, wanting to take a bite from her chest, rebounds suddenly and gives her a right hand to the jaw, breaking it, giving her a moment of pure pleasure followed by months of pain.

Threading his way through undulating throngs of semi nude flesh in various stages of connections, Tommy seeks greater shades of pain through tainted pale hues.

Strong right hand connecting with an S&M garbed brunette, asking her, panting loudly.

What else is here?

The brunette, balancing a 24 inch circular tray of drinks, never losing balance. “Let me deliver these, Sir and I will step you further. One moment, please.” Passing him, passing no other words, knowing this man will grant bigger tip-age if she drags and gives dire warnings to what lay beyond this area.

Granted, Shayla’s warnings should be heeded, but men are stupid. She knows this and the greater she spins, placing her now nude body against them in some fucked sign of purity, will make them tip her further. She tells them what is beyond and its horrors.

They never listen.

Shayla reaches for him as she takes him to the doorway that only goes down.

Dying refrains of Creed’s Higher and purple to blue colours reaching this place he asked for, diving deeper, seeking what others feared to embrace.

Heart beating faster, second absinthe downed in a blink, confident, going down swinging.

“Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”

Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.

Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive’s Detroit Rock City echoing…

He opens another door…






Authors Note: End of Part II.

Personal note: Damn, even I did not know when I started this where it would go to this area. Knowing where this is going, grant me time to finish this.

Christ this is so falling to areas that take much in ability and strength on my part.

Mark William Darus 07162012.






Tommy: Game of Hangman: part III


Continued from Part II.


“Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”

Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.

Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive 2’s Detroit Rock City echoing furiously.

He opens another door…


Stepping into near darkness as he faces a jet black wall. Lost in darkness as the door slams solidly behind him. Standing there, pupils attempting to adjust, Kiss blasting louder, feeling Genes bass riffs pound against his chest and head.

His nose catches the strong scent of Channel #5 as a firm, slender fingered hand takes his right arm and pulls violently, guiding him.

Whoa, what the fuck?

Flashing brilliant light blasts directly at him, causing him to falter backward as his eyes feel on the verge of blowing their sockets. Another hand grabs his left arm to steady him.

Eyes gaining focus, he was walked toward a bar like he had never seen before.

Thirty foot long, deep mahogany colours bordered in five foot sections with blood red femur, tibia, fibula and humerus bones to accent it. Gas lit bluish flames ascending from shiny bronze tubes with skeletal hands holding the flame pots which were grounded by pelvic bone bases. Behind the bar were shelves ten feet in length, three layers high bordering the carnival mirror in the center on both sides with no liquor repeated with every style and brand known to mankind. Substances illegal in many countries, some in this country, and deadliest of moonshine from Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee. Crowning the massive array of alcohol was the fourth shelf. It spot lighted over 1000 beers from across the world.

Above all that was their mission statement: What ever you ask for, you will receive. What ever your desire, we will fulfill. What you see is what you get, so be careful what you ask for. We wish to please you and your evilest of black thoughts. WELCOME TO HELL!

“What please you, sir?” a gaunt pale man with deeply recessed eye sockets inquired with both confidence and raspy tone. Dressed in ill-fitting attire: fabric haphazardly tossed over him like thrift store clothing over a scarecrow.

Got any coke?

“Of course, sir. We always have that!” Leaning back from Tommy, opening a door below the bar, lift with the scrawniest of hands, producing a bowl brimming with white powder. Thinnest of lips parting, decaying teeth moving: “Suit yourself, sir. Here, there are no limits!”

Eyes like that of a vagina spreading beyond reach to give birth, Tommy reaches into his pocket to tip the ThinMan.

“Not at all, sir! Cannot accept with humblest of gratitude’s. Offense not intended, kind sir. We do things differently here and appreciate your patronage!” Ambling off stage left, taking two bottles and a syringe in hand, he treats a regular in the highest of professional manner.

Shit. Damn. Scar-facing it, he buries his head and inhales.

BOOM! BANG! Thudding of heart and exploding in thought, senses scream toward pinpoint clarity. Lifting head, seeing face in the carnival glass from the back bar, all is clear.

Tommy takes a walk from the sickest of majestic styling’s for a bar, toward Hells dance floor. Heavy Techno sounds of Orbital copulating with lasers, floods and churning colours of many shades clouded by dry ice plumes as shapes of semi and fully nude forms passionately move about.

At closer scrutiny, he sees that many are bleeding, under lit floor turning reds to blacks as pools grow denser every second.

YOU! Tommy yells at a tanned average looking brunette holding a straight razor with chubby left hand. I WANT YOU! Face tightening, veins standing thick in his neck. Ridged stance striking cocky pose, head cocked to the right.

“Take me then, “ gasping, hurling her body at Tommy. Flabby breasts heaving down, dark aureoles aiming toward bloodied dance floor. Barely able to see, yet smelling his Freshman status here, she locks in on him.

He, unchanging in movement, greets her. Grabbing her right breast strongly, his right arm pulls her to him: You gonna make me feel? You gonna make me go elsewhere? You gonna make me?

Smiling inches from his face, she plants her lips to his as her free hand grabs the back of his head. Smashing face to face as she digs heal of hand pulling hair on his head, drawing him violently inward. Teeth connect with teeth as they chew on one another, saliva faintly mixing with the taste of iron.

Moving his fingers to her nipple, he fiercely begins to yank as clamps tighter.

Moaning greatly, her eyes open to meet his, grabbing his shirt, tearing it from him in one deft movement. Expectations high, free hand goes toward the fly of Levi’s.

Feeling unwanted hand grabbing at him, thrusting in reverse, his right open hand smacks her fully to left side of her head. Tommy’s head turns to his right, eyes never leaving hers. DID I ASK YOU TO DO THAT?

Redness flaring on impacted area, causing obscure gradients of light as Hells arena radiates Slowly coursing back, she begins to smile at him. Nipples filling to complete erect splendor, she says with a voice of deep throaty desire: “Oh! You so belong here. Welcome home, Tommy!” She slowly reaches down to hips and slowly removes spandex pants.

Two black clad men push past Tommy in hurried fashion. Watching, Tommy’s head turn to his left. The men scoop a broken woman face down on the floor not far from him.

Gaunt bartender hands him an absinthe, fire burning atop. He disappears as quickly as arrived.

Blowing at flame, killing it, tossing head back, he swallows fully.

Mixing with cruising coke in body, nailing him firmly. Equilibrium. Head cleared momentarily. Tracking muscled men holding trashed female walking off, he begins to walk, telling the brunette to hold fast.

I’ll be back for you, she hears as her heart pounds soundly, knowing he’d return to her. He’ll return, he’ll return different for sure…

From about twenty paces behind, following, he trails the men dragging limp female in tow.

“Slam me, bro! Fuckin’ slam me, man!” some wasted dude sporting a Dokken jersey spat at him.

One blow given. Tommy felt this assholes nose crunch behind left fist guided surely. Dokken dude drops as cartilage nails brain. Soon dead, eyes rolling up in drugged ecstasy, life leaving, “m-m-man, that wwwwwuuuuz, grea…….”

Steadily forward, giving no glance behind, head held high, feet steady, moving.

Men in black push through a wide doorway, sans knob, merely an invisible panel on endless black wall.

Reaching it, Tommy pushes. Opening freely he is met by a bent over male with large tumor covering his back and neck. “Sir, do you wish to go here?”

Yes, he grunts as this shattered man.

“Very Well SIR! Enjoy…”

This voice echoes down cinder narrow block hallway with dripping iron pipes, some spraying white shots of hissing steam.


The two men stop, dropping body to the floor creating a flat splat sound on the wet brick floor. Man to the left of the body opens iron and steps away swiftly just before flames rush out to quickly recede.

Lifting lifeless female body, both push her toward the open hearth than backward several times. ‘Time to feed the boiler.”

“One, two….THREE.” They toss her into waiting fire.

Closer iron door, man to the right sees Tommy standing, staring, amazed.

“Hope this pleased you, sir.”

They walk past him, grinning, twin gazes of devils own.

Tommy blankly approaches iron door and opens hit.

Hearing hisses as body fluid evaporates, smell of burning hair with fat cooking. Burning.

Steam. Give me steam.

Dazed eyes, excited, his footfalls splash down the center of the hallway, quietly echoing softly against sporadic blasts of steam escaping.

Reaching clearly marked doorway leading him back, passing though, back to the dance floor.

She is waiting for him, totally naked, dark pubic hair above shapely legs trembling with desire. Eager, hungry eyes, goose pimples covering hairless arms. Wanting him.

I’m back. You don’t look surprised at all.

“Fuck me! Rape me!”

I shall, bitch.

“Impregnate me!” speaking more quickly with each syllable.

No Rubbers then. Yes! Are you bleeding down there?

“Yes. Oh, Yes!”

Seeing crimson stripes down her inner thighs, he throws her down to the floor.

Loving this, smile rising high in her face as she hits hard.

Taking his pants and underwear off, he kiss her breasts and moves slowly toward her crotch.

He begins to such on her vagina, sweat crossing brow. She watches the colours of Hell paint pretty pictures across him.

“I ask but one thing, Master.”

Left his bloody face from her snatch: And what’s that?

“ Please. Oh please,” reaching orgasm. “Please don’t take me back there.”

I won’t. Just do as I say.




End of part III

Mark William Darus 07192012

Authors Note: Fuck! At no point did I think this would go on as long as it has.

For Christs sake, this is based on an email sent that seemed short to me in length. In my sincere attempts to do what was asked of me this is going way further than I expected. This is labor, born not of love, but trying to write it correctly.

I wanted to finish this tonight.

No chance in hell. On to part IV.






Tommy: Game of Hangman: IV.


From last:

He begins to suck on her vagina, sweat crossing brow. She watches the colours of Hell paint pretty pictures across him.

“I ask but one thing, Master.”

Left his bloody face from her snatch: And what’s that?

“ Please. Oh please,” reaching orgasm. “Please don’t take me back there.”

I won’t. Just do as I say.

Heaving hips, knees upward, pelvis thrusting madly, Judas Priest thumping beats loudly, Eyelids explode open. Her pointed focus causes her to look Tommy squarely, eye to eye.

Fuck! No! Tommy’s mind hit’s a guardrail from the impact of her eyes connecting with his. Her eyes in perfect focus. His soul, open and exposed.

Feverishly pounding into her again and again to the beat of JP’s Out In the Cold.

Her moaning with every guitar riff KK Downing threw down, legs spread, heels digging into Tommys back.

Either by being wasted, in an odd place or just submitting to an absolute strangers dick entering her repeatedly, frantically, she tries to focus.

Looking up: Contorted face, black ceiling sarcastically flashed with a rainbow of colours. Lasers beaming blues and reds, sometimes making Spirograph logical shapes.

Ears, her ears, picking up screams not born of ecstasy so much as pain.

Focusing on him, her him, this him, with both hands, she draws him to her face.

Bolts of pain cut through the absinthe and coke as his hair wants to leaves him in expedient fashion, stopping joyous pelvic pumps. Stopping him dead in his tracks.

WHAT! What the fuck do you want, Bitch.

Gasping, reaching for air whole heartedly, pushing words with each exhale: “ W-w-w-we n-need t get th=th=thuu-the fuck outta HERE!”

Reading her, sensing urgency from the look in her eyes, he backs solid penis from her as he lifts further above and out of her.

Bent over, Tommy extends right hand to her.

Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here!

Taking his hand, muscles still twitching in mechanical movements, she stands on legs uncertain.

Standing, they square off to one another. Nude as birth, covered with many a road map given over years of use, seeing each other as their buzzes quickly fade.

Embracing, violently yanking each other closer, smashing flesh to flesh without sexual penetration. Heads drawing back, they share a kiss. Some insane kiss of innocents of knowing they do not belong here.

Smiling, embraced, they turn to leave. They begin to walk in unison, timing to a new song blaring from the JBL’s by JP: Locked In.

After several steps, Tommy stops and plants his hands firmly on her shoulders: STOP!

Doing as told, she halts soundly and turns toward him.

“what would you have of me?” she asks, sudden saddened fear hitting her face.

What? What would you do if I said we should stay here? Voice solid, steady, loud and aimed at her.

Without hesitation, she takes her opened right hand from her slender and shaking right hip and places it momentarily on the left cheek of her ass.

Taken by the strobe-lighted motion of her nice breasts, slow motion, lazy, intoxicating, brain slowing down. Mind movies taking shape.

Off guard, Tommy stands there, defenseless.



“WE NEED, HAVE, TO GET THE MOTHERFUCK OUTTA HERE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR THE BOTH OF US!” Hand stinging from the blow to his left jaw, wincing slightly, gaining ground of herself.

Yeahhhhh. YeAH, YEAH, WE DO!. Getting the reaction he had prayed for many a decade from any of women he’d known, responded with the speed of a bullet leaving the tip of a barrel.

Taking her hand left hand in his right, fingers mating between each other, he tugged her toward The Door that brought them here.

Walking across blood flooded floor, at places reaching 2 inches deep, thick smell of iron and sweat and a disco-ball tossing beams of light haphazardly, they made slow progress.

‘SHIT!’ Irina yelled. A hand clamped on her ankle. Looking down quickly, eyes going from the hand that stopped her, wrist to forearm, elbow the shoulder, to the face of something that had half it flesh removed, muscled bloodied half carrying a maddening eyeball fluttering about madly occasionally meeting her.

THWUNK! Tommy kicks it in the head causing it to release its grasp from Irina.

“uhhhhhUHHHHHHH!” Half-face whipping quickly in a 180, neck snapping.

“Thankyou, “ said as if a single word, she speaks.

50 feet for The Door.

Judas Priest stop abruptly. All lights die suddenly. Blackness to all but the cat-people that possess extreme night vision. Non present in human form except to military visitors with proper equipment, usually dressed in Goth.

Tommy and Irina stop. Damn, he mutters to her softly, wishing not to draw attention.

“AAAAWWWWWWW! A ONE! ----------TWO! ----------A THREE! ----------FOUR!” a voice yells with the tone of a man speaking through some 1940’s steel mouth horn.

Flashpots blast like that of a KISS concert intro, high-lighting the dead and dieing. Still-motion pictures, a frame at a time, imprinting negatives to the mind with eyes closed.


Over amplified JBL’s begin a beat. “Ah-Ah-ah AH! Ah-Ah-ah, Ah-uhhhh!”

Debbie Gibson’s Only In my Dreams takes the room, fitting with the flashing images of this place like that of a size ten foot attempting to fill itself in a size two shoe.

This is not good, Tommy thought, drugs fading, clarity enveloping around him.


They ran to be stopped by a green haired chick in overalls and high heeled shoes. “No.” her husky voice spoke. “not so fast, Lovers.” She raised a machete and pulled back.

Irina left Tommy’s hand, ducked and rolled forward. Standing fast, right hand thrusting upward, nailed this bitch with a massive uppercut, sending her reeling back, machete flying off, slicing those that stood in its way.

She, coiling back, grabbed Tommy.


“only in muhhhhhhh dreeeeeaaaaaaams“: Debbie sang on.


25 feet from The Door,

Spoiled pork, dank and rotten, humid eve of a back alley.

Tommy about took Irina’s arm from his socket as her veered suddenly to this right.

This way! We gotta go this way!

“But the door is this way….”

That door is that way, but the way out is this way! Trust me!.

He kept her behind him, protecting her, as we waded in the shoulder high dancing blood covered throngs before him.

“SLAM ME! FUCKER, SLAM ME!” a zombie cried.

Hadn’t he killed this asshole once tonight? Mind rambling backward, snapping abruptly to the here and now. Shaking head and stray marbles, going toward the worst of stench.

15 from the smell.

“Where do you th-” a guardian of Hell tried and failed to complete as Irina’s foot kicked him to the nuts causing him to fall into a pit of spikes. “LOVING THIS! CUNT, LOVING THIS!” as his body was pierced through.

Sweating, the scent of the prey drenching Tommy and Irina’s nude bodies as they cautiously pressed on.

Mirror balls casting multicolored light everywhere, softening tones of Debbie coming to a halt.

10 feet.

“Whoa, Sir!” the brunette that took him stated in a calm voice. “Do you have a request of the DJ?”

Still walking. Tommy looked at Irina. There’s something to her. Something…

Okay. You got Boston’s Something About You?

“Why yes, Sir. Of course we do!” smiling she said. “Maestro, Jam it!”

Less than two seconds, a beckoning, single voice mixed with quiet guitars slammed into the loud signature sound of Boston.

Frenzied light splashing fluorescent vibrancy's surrounding all in Hell.

“….There’s was something about you---- brought a changer over me… It isn’t easy…. IIIIIIIII knooooooow… to believe in a man like me…….”

They broke into a run, passing the brunette, for some reason thanking her.

3 feet…

Closer and closer, each step like that in a B-movie where the bad guys just walk as you run and they still catch up.

Boston’s three and half minute tune, while playing fully, fading fast.

“Attempt to go no further!” a quartet with scratchy, hideous harmony like that of the Oak Ridge Boys of the damned proclaimed.

Four men dressed like decaying Mafia enforcers stand before them. Black suits, once expensive but no longer grand with maggots, worms and rats covering them. Gnawing, holding, tearing about the last of the fabric, chomping on what is left of their human flesh.

“Did you really think you’d leave here alive? Your guilt and your sins brought you here, didn’t they?”

Stopping again, blocked, final steps covered by something not undead but soon would be so. Tommy and Irina looked to their right and left. Irina turned toward Tommy, looking for something in his eyes and finding none. Futility setting in as he stared at the four.

“Aren’t you going to ask for our last request?” Irina said the four men, who now seemed mounted on horses. One carried a trumpet, leaning back to blow on it.

“Yes, Madame. We’re always happy to grant that. What is your wish?”

Fierce low voice, growling, but not screaming. Her body loosening, resigning, willing.

“Missing Persons: Windows, please,”

All light is gone, thickest of dark takes hold.

Hells DJ seeks, smallest of blue surrounds it. Probing.

Tommy hears her steady breathing as she pulls him close. They hug fast, death descending around them like a well deserved vacation.

Music and light begin to prance about. Synthesizers, guitars and an eventually squeaky voice rise in both volume and blinding flares of colours.

“something feels so strange tonight” Missing Persons sing.

Remembering her brothers love for some stupid thing the so richly believed in.

She yells.


Snapping to, following her lead, the two hunker down as one and charge the four riders of someones apocalypse. Some willing to give up at the final gate before them and peace after a lifetime of pain, desperation and self made hells.

Slowest of motion with each step and action taking minutes more than seconds. Tommy remembering of a car accident he’d had years before. Impact, time slowing down to slightly less than a halt: painful memory, each grind of crunching metal, screeching tires and screams in voices warped tonal qualities down, to take hold of him.

“All I need is a window to look through. All I want is a window to look through…”

One of the death-riders, that holding the trumpet, meeting lips slightly. It made the try of the most valiant of first graders in their debut Xmas concert plays: “VRUuuuu’’’’mptptptptssssssppppppppppp!”

Horses freaked, tossing riders to crimson soaked floor.

Three of the four stand with horse between them.

Dead don’t fear the living. Dead don’t care.

What is the worst the dead can suffer?

There already fucking dead.

Siamese twins joined at the hip, Irina and Tommy slam them head on with power unknown to them.

Impact. Living souls smashing for the last dire sense of life.

Not quite enough. Staggering back, stunned. Regrouping.

Collective mind reeling for a solution. Flank? Not end around? A Joshua Chamberlain’s day=two charge at Gettysburg? What? Fucking what?

“it’s the only thing that I-Kk c’n do Annnnkneee wayh!” blasting out the loud speakers.

Got it! Tommy tells Irina as he reaches down, her hand tightly, nearing crushing fingers between his.

Silently she draws him closer, emotion through electricity hitting brain coldly. Tommy looking a fool, she calls a Hell audible: “Play The Who’s See me, feel me!

“Why, Yes, ma’am! Now!” proper English male voice counters her.

Fraction of a second later, her request cruises from the JBL’s.


The Who live from the late 70’s slam walls as it’s over reverbed guitar strains slam against painted cinder block walls.

I GOT THE BALL, COCKSUCKERS! Tommy screams, lifting back to throw.

HAIL MARY! He cries, tossing a severed head to the left of the three.

Instinct of males prevailing once again, the near dead guys dive for it like a football, clearing a path for them to sprint that through.


8 inches.

Panel wall before them. Freedom, sanity, escape just a spit away.

Roger Daltey yells about getting the stories, old analogue recordings distort from over amplified speakers of an older age..

Irina stops Tommy cold in his tracks.

“Look at me, asshole!”

Forlorn, sad, feeling every ounce of life a fading with a loss of her betraying him in final moments.

“Do you come here often?” Smiling, she shoves him through the panel that takes him to the stinky alley he’d aimed them toward.

She whispers, tears not felt in decades, ripping down her cheeks, to him, begging: See me, heal me…

Door closes with the firmest of metal grabs.

Being on the side away from Tommy, she is met like the jews of WWII branding them.

Falling to uneven red brick road, nose first hitting piss-mixed water to finally snapping and braking.

Stars. All he saw was stars in his eyes regardless of where he looked. Tossing his head viciously he began to scream: IRINA! IRINA! Irina! Irrrrrrrina, voice turning to sobs as he cried.

Finding his sobbing, limp body a day later, with weak stats, paramedics took him to Mercy General Hospital. Dehydrated, high tox screen, suspicious moles on his body. Unresponsive to family and friends.

Two days later, family and friends by his side, a nurse came into the room to change his IV and evacuate his urine bag.

Saying hi to his family, introducing herself to them. They greeted her with tired smiles.

Switching that which sustained Tommy, she whispered in the sweetest of tones.
“hut hut hike. You need a window, tommy?”

Pulse rate climbing, breath increasing, limbs tensing.

Eyes slowly opening. Brightest of white light without focus, blinding intensity.

The nurse watches the monitor and Tommy equally. Hope growing further as his stats come back.

Family watching him looking less like death to become and more like the living.

Whoa… Why can’t I see right? Okay, not as bad… Getting better and better…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Faster and faster the chimes ring for those coming back from the near dead, guiding them back for another round in the ring.

A silhouetted face, black against white tiled ceiling greets him with eyes not yet focusing completely.

“You’re back!” he hears, but cannot place its owner.

“Thank god!. I knew you weren’t done!” Ditto to him.

“Good! You ain’t dead. You can still pay be back….” This getting greeted with sour looks and a few gasps by those surrounding Tommy’s sterile hospital bed.

In the softest of voices, the nurse speaks to Tommy: “can you hear me?”

Shuddering about, fighting a world of illusion and pleasure in this limbo-land he’d come to embrace. Muscles cramping, body beginning to arch from heel to back of head.



Go the voice, you dumbfuck!

“Tommy, can you feel me?” kindest of wanting, she sends to him.

Going past blurry images of unicorns, nude babe-twins, free wheeling sexual pleasures.

Steadily walking faster past weak experiences of a life he no longer wishing for if living.

Running now: passing booze and drugs giving no regard for them….

A voice. Voice…


Single thing guiding Tommy, One song.

Her Voice.

Listening to you, I get the music.

Following you, I’ll climb the mountains

I get excitement at your feet….


His hands come to life, ripping out IV’s, pulling tubes from his throat. This causes a shock to pass through all but his attending nurse.

Staring at blank grey wall, mouth dry and threatening dry heaves from stomach.

Seeing the words: PUSH OUT IN CASE OF FIRE in white letters backgrounder by fire engine red.

He turns his head toward his left. Gaining more of his senses every second.

“from you, I get the story” Irina says looking down at Tommy as she begins to cry.

Meeting her eyes, coming back to another reality, arms going for her as hers plunge toward him.

I. Iiiiiiiiiiiiii I. Throat far too dry to speak, frustrated, hurting, trying.

Taking a Dixie Cup of water, leaning toward him, eyes never leaving his. She first takes a sterile cloth, dampens it and places it to his dry lips.

Wanting her lips, her, against him, and for the first time in his life understanding patience, he should just goes with the flow. Wishing as much for air as his body to be meshed with is hers in any respect. Mind spiraling from the blackest of hues to the brightest of future splendor.

Tomorrows of a brighter day.

Gentle hands tipping cup to place a few drips of water to him. Smile coursing her face sublime. Hopeful eyes, firing at his in hopes of some sign of life she’d wished for.

Back of throat feeling less parched, coming back to life, taking time.

Thank god, I’m not dead yet….

“Touch me,” Irina sobbed looking at the only man that made a difference in her miserable life.

Feel me, Tommy said, barely audible voice, scratchy, spoke. This is the only thing that gave him any area of worth. Mind running back to the terminator that made a difference to him, “Just don’t take me back there, Please.”, he remembered her begging him.

Anesthesia fading as it does, mind powers going beyond areas of both medicine and religion.

Coming out proud with the mental feet of one learning to stand for it first time.

Amazed by some of family and friends, flabbergasted by others at what happened next.

Tommy’s hands grabbed Irina by her shoulders as she jumped on him, thrusting hands around him against the bed.

Irina’s arms closing around Tommy, probing under him, soundest of embrace of a longing hug. Tears falling from her as he begins to shake and stir, throb and shake, come back and be reborn.

Simultaneously embracing. Loving. Intertwining once again.

WHERE’S THE GODDAMNED WATER???? His mind hearing, unable to say anything to guide this woman to him, rage, desire and the hurt of not reaching her ever again.

Feeling body lift just below neck and shoulders swell for no reason.

Lost, darting eyes moving about frantically.

Irina’s steady pupils waiting for Tommy’s to meet hers with the patience of seasons changing. Time dragging out in slow motion. Painfully by those in waiting for a birth to encounter their lives. Time does as it does.

Mere inches apart in facial being, her limbs cover him as he covers hers, surrounding, engulfing, making two to become one.


Slender shreds of time pass: …the forecast for the three days…. Mates with a map of the tri-state area of Michigan, Ohio and Pennsylvania…. Thunderstorms in most area, followed by light drizzle….

Flat screen shining blue backdrops of TV against the loved ones of Tommy. Fighting to gain to control as he regains and fights once again for life.

Feeling hands, arms, impulsive yanks at her body attempting to pull her madness away from him. Irina blindly shoots elbow out to connect with those stopping her.

SNAP of a nose.

Thunk of a dislocated elbow.

Shot to the neck, GASP!


Family backing off as if shot with a million volts of power. The Christian and others treating this with similar credence. Allowing things to simply be….

You pushed me through the panel…

“Of course I did. I love you, Tommy.”

But you didn’t come after me.

“I did, just after I saw you pass out. I had to make sure you’d be safe. You could not know me then…”


“Had I picked you up from the pavement, would you really have appreciated the simple sound of a voice?”

No. I wouldn’t have.

“the smells of oil mixed with voltage cars of olde. C’mon, dig deeper, Tommy”

Remembering back to when he was seven, a family Amusement park closing and his crying eyes wondering why. Olfactory memory colliding with rational thought, slam Tommy to the closing of Euclid Beach Park in 1969. Sweet fragrance of popcorn balls, salt water taffy mixing with finality's as smells of oiled track, Laughing Sal and the trampling of children running about create a final chord of happiness of soon lost shared thru generation happiness.

My Mother! My Father! Sisters. I remember….

His world, warping slowly at first and firmly hitting home.

Tommy looks at her with sterile eyes.

Holding him stronger still…

Irina never leaving him at all.


“I’m not going anywhere from you. Ever. But you are totally fucking rude. Your family and friends are here.”

Irina, this is my family. T-tuest of friends are family. Meeeeeaaaan uhhhh.

Kissing him as gently whispered the words met his ears, his family cheered.

Welcome Home.

Tommy’s life changed.

The End: MWD 07292012.