60 Countries visitors. Giving me hope in humanity.

               
                 In the Spirit of writing and sharing:


               As Psychopathy: Another Life grows I cannot go further without thanking the people of lands I had no idea I would reach. You have taken time from your lives to read what I and others have shared.
            All of you have done more for me than you will ever know. I stand now and salute all of you! In my own country some have emailed me, namely Catherine, Jonathon, Abigail, and wished to share their lives with us. Funny how I have only received four comments from the USA when they can post such anonymously. Paranoia much runs higher here in the USA.
         To the people of 60 Countries that have taken the time, I give you the greatest of thanks, sweat and diligence to your time given me and words expressed to me.

        This is to you!
        You have made a difference in my life.

　
       To the readers from:

USA
Russia
Ukraine
United Kingdom
Mexico
Brazil
Chile
Germany
Malta
Canada
Bulgaria
Sweden
Israel
Croatia
Greenland
Thailand
China
Malaysia
Belize
India
Norway
Latvia
Afghanistan
Slovakia
South Korea
Vietnam
Guam
Philippines
Japan
Cuba
Cherokee Nation <not sure how that worked>
Wales
North Korea
Switzerland
Austria
Trinidad and Tobago

　
Venezuela
Ireland
France
Scotland
Greece
Laos
Taiwan
Serbia
Finland
Algeria
New Zealand
Poland
Hungary
Guinea-Bissua
El Salvador
Democratic Republic of the Congo
Singapore
Yemen
Oman
Nepal
Iceland




         At no time in my life did I ever think I would have such a broad audience. I never thought anyone cared enough. Thank you for smashing the down side of my thoughts of humanity into the fucking ground.

         Amazing readers: You take me higher as I post.
         You of many lands, hatreds and bigotries you were raised with, you must think beyond this to email me and go further. That, to me, is big on your part.

         I hope I have kept my word. I always want to stay objective.
         I continually wish to give you all a safe haven to express your words, hopes and comments.

       I hope once again for all of us.
        Like some Beauty Pageant Contestant: I really would like world peace.

        Note this: You have all made me shed tears for your kindness in visiting Psychopathy: Another Life.
        Perhaps emotion is coming back to me after being long gone.

         Thank you!

Mark William Darus: 08122012

The Widow's Morning: by Ryn Cricket.

                                

                                       The Widow's Morning.
                                             by Ryn Cricket





        I can’t believe he’s dead. There his body lay in the coffin so peaceful, a little mangled, but masked well. I could only stare in disbelief and wonderment. It was so fast. One minute everything was fine, and then he was gone–just like that.
      “You know, he was such a good man.” a woman whispered in my ear. I didn’t know who she was, but I nodded.
     “I’m so sorry for you and the children.” I heard over and over.
      “How are they holding up?”
      “Lisa keeps thinking he’s outside mowing the lawn or working on the car,” I would reply. “But Lily is so young, I think she may have forgotten him already.”
      “It will get easier with time.” I heard more than anything. Did these very well-meaning people know how cliché they were? I mean I guess there isn’t much you can say in this situation. And I guess I didn’t know what I wanted to hear either.
      He was on his way to do “research” at the library when he had the heart attack. I wasn’t with him. He thought he just had the flu, but he also thought he was invincible and insisted on going anyway. He was always doing research, but never had anything to show for all those hours.
    “Who’s that girl?” I heard someone whisper to someone else. I looked around. I didn’t know her either. She looked to be about 17, but with brown frizzy hair, lipstick in a completely unnatural shade of pink, and blue eye shadow put on like someone in their 60’s. She didn’t look at me. No direct eye contact with anyone. She went straight to his body, cried like a child, and ran out in a scene.
      Whispers flew, like wild darts across the room. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Right then, it wasn’t my job to figure things out; it was my job to cry.
     “What is all this research about?” I asked him one time. “What is so important that you would rather spend these hours with your computer than sleeping with or talking to me.”
     All he replied was, “It’s none of your business.”
No one was surprised that his teenage son didn’t come, they haven’t talked in years, but when his teenage daughter arrived, with two close friends, she wouldn’t go near the casket. Maybe she was sad or scared. Maybe she didn’t want to see him like that.
      I was too busy getting hugs, and hand squeezes to go over and talk to her just then. She talked and giggled with her friends in the corner. Was she that removed from him, did she just not know how to show respect? I watched her through the people around me who were reciting the same things I had heard a hundred times already. All I really had to do was nod.        She still laughed and giggle and texted on her phone as if she were in a school hallway. Then she stopped for a minute, walked directly to her father, and it looked like she spit in his face. I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t that close, but then she walked past me with her friends right behind her, and nodded at me. I wanted to tell her I would call her, we would get together sometime, but I felt confined by well-wishers.
     As I looked around, I saw all my friends and family around to support me, and be here for me, and there was no one there that I knew, just to mourn him. Most of his family or friends didn’t even come, not to mourn anyway. It seemed proof enough for me that the thallium I put in his coffee that last week together was a good idea. At least my girls were going to get something.


Ryn Cricket 06052010

Knowing it: Part I, by Mark S.Kourge.

                                        Knowing it. Part I.
                                        By Mark S. Kourge.

　
                Sometimes you just know a storm front is heading your way. The signs are always glaring to those with wits about them and senses wide open. Instincts should always be heeded, yellow traffic lights mean ‘stop hard,” and a totally unexpected visitor standing on your car whom you haven’t seen in decades means something.
            Leaving Walmart after picking up dog food and other sundries, he got into his car and fired her up. AC responding to slice humidity. Somewhat dizzy from standing too quickly after tying left shoe lace, forgetting his blood pressure meds, recently increased, could cause sudden drops.
        Clearing his head before engaging the transmission into drive, he pulls from the slot after looking both ways.
        It is after turning right he notices the visitor.
        He hasn’t seen one of these in decades and was floored at its presence. Hadn’t he just shared with both girlfriend and the best of neighbors his concern for their lack?
      Pulling into vacant parking space he grabs his camera, seizing the moment.
      Leaving his car, standing too quickly, head fills with whitish grey shades of fog. Shaking head from right to left with free hand pressed firmly against the side of his ride, the darkness and overhead lights develop clarity once again.
      Slowly climbing on the hood, aiming camera, he begins to take photos of the this wondrous event. The reddish beam from his Fuji S4200 nails it, flash quickly follows. Moment captured. Repeating this process further, snapping shot after shot, progressing.
       He thanks the grasshopper for showing him they are still alive and climbs back into the car.
       He begins to drive. Thanking god for this opportunity, he moves down the road toward I-480. Heading to the Sav-A-lot for milk and other needed things some 6-8 miles away, hitting 60 mph, hoping this visitor would find a nice future as wind sweeps it to other places.
       Minutes later, leaving 480 on SR 94, he wonders about the grasshopper while Twila Paris’ God is in Control plays through the speakers.
      Taking a silent knowledge of what this even means to him and how he interpreted it, smiling as he sang: God Is In Control.
      Thoughts sidelined momentarily as he sees some fool in a tricked out Royal blue Honda Civic run a red light at the intersection of Sr 94 and SR-176. Red and blue splashes appear from nowhere: Busted. Brief pursuit ensues. With little doubt, he’ll say he was sorry. It will be up to officer if he gets a ticket or not. No doubt, he made a mistake in judgment.
      Turning left, minding his ‘p’s and q’s’ <and where the hell did that term ever come from?> he keeps the speed limit in the half mile to the store.
        Hitting the overly bright fluorescence's bouncing off newly waxed flooring making pupils shrink to pinpricks, walking slowly down the small produce isle with red and green peppers, single onions and potatoes, celery and heads of lettuce. Not taking a .25 cent cart, willing to carry items with hands or a spare box, yet again, his eyes adjust to environment.
       Hip shot from absent minded shopper, pulling sideways, the brunette with long blue highlights quietly gasps in a voice like Amy Grant. "i'm so sorry..."
       Smiling, expressing no harm done, he compliments on her hair.
       Smiling back, she says her name.
        Saying his, watching her child anxiously shift about in the cart, he walks on.
       Milk coolers, taking 2% in right hand, remembering the Q-tip clones he needs to buy, he heads to that isle. Down an isle containing dog and cat food, kitty litter, leading to feminine hygiene products, deodorant. There’s the Q-tip type things. Taking a box of several hundred, strolling and bidding good night to all he encountered.
        He is Marmaduke, dog-walking to the registers, swaggering from side to side, happy face and contented.
        Single register open, getting in line…
         “No! You don’t not correct my kid, cunt! You bring this shit to me!” a blond with obvious signs of PIDs and low cut wife-beater top, bra-less, yells at a conservative lady in downtown suitable garb.
         “Sorry, you’re child  was climbing over the railing and standing on the Bud Light stack. “She could’ve gotten hurt! You didn’t notic-”
         “I got game on this, bitch! Don’t tell my kids a fuckin’ thing!”
          Stopping, turning, walking slowly to the screaming bleach baby momma.
          “Okay, seeing as how you told me to do so. How close would you like me to bring this to you? Four feet or three? C’mon, Ms Attitude, what do you want?”
         Haggard looking manager with wrinkled light blue shirt approaches, asking what the issue is.
         Confident in her stance, hand in her purse, pulling out and showing the manager her badge: it reading: Marilyn ********, Cuyahoga County Child Services.
       Another child of four begins to climb into the ice bag freezer as another tries to roll around the Encore frozen Turkey and Beef Patty $1.00 meals.
       He exchanges a glance with a man behind him, sharing words about things new and laughable. This man looks a tad worried.
        Thinking of the grasshopper and this occurrence, he begins to laugh with full voice straight from the diaphragm. Throttle open completely, as he’d learned from singing as a youngster in a Methodist Church choir, volume increasing, gaining notice.
         Diverting attention, dropping the gallon of 2% to shining floor, as he laughed louder and louder.
         Paying the tab with an Ohio Directional Card, hastily splitting to her rusted and ragged Plymouth. Kid services worker following like a hound from Hell, perhaps gathering license plate number, writing on 2 x2 inch yellow stick-its and white-blue plumes exit exhaust.
         Yeah, like that wouldn’t fail an E-Check he quips allowed, causing laughter.

         Getting an fresh gallon of milk, paying for it and the generic Q-tips, he leaves the store. Secondary doors open, warm, humid night air meets him. Horn of a train sounds behind the San-A-Lot cries aloud, focused conductor, in faded overalls and brown collared cowboy shirt, left hand on the Dead-Mans-Switch, thumping it when needed, moves a million tons of product on.

　
                                         End of Part I.
                                    Mark S. Kourge. 08102012

　
==========================================================================

Don't be ignorant. This is Tennessee whiskey in Lorain Ohio.

                        Tennessee whiskey, drunk and Lorain Ohio.
                                           By Mark S. Kourge.

　

            Still flashing lights as the last band, Phantom Whore, smashes through the last chords of a song that come sunlight no one will remember. Feedback screeching from Peavey stacks, skinny lead vocalist cries: “YOU’RE MINE! I’LL KILL ANYONE BETWEEN US!”
           Over amplified and sounding miserable, the song finishes as house lights quickly take over.
          Instant sobriety collides with the eyes of the drunk. Dizzying, pupils going small, stunned. Mixed with massive amounts of embarrassment as the wooing see their fucked up minds view as a nite-mate crashing to dismal foolishness, so far away from their fantasy. This fantasy a result of bull-talk with friends and the hopes to get laid my hottie.
        Coin turned, 180 degrees, eyes of the ladies fully see the asshole that they have let buy them drinks for hours. Shared sweat and kisses on the blurry dance floor and bar area, too close to bathrooms with nonexistent ventilation. Smelling urine and shit, not minding as booze changes immediate priorities. Sucking on tongue, holding, telling lies.

        This bitch is a cow!
        Damn! His face is covered with zits.
        Was that tattoo a rose before she gained 150 pounds and it stretched?
         Are those purplish blisters on his arms Aids?

         Under the light that only the truly desperate experience at the closing of a bar, when all is as exposed as strolling nude through a shopping mall during Xmas shopping season. Like one who sheds all clothing during a Baptist revival, yelling Look at me!

       He looks at his friend Mike. He hair black and tidy, resembling Charlie Sheen in Wallstreet. “Where is she?”
      Mike, looking bewildered, asks: “Man, which one? You nailed two or three tonight?”
       Mike visibly upset and even he does not know which is worse: Being upset because his best doesn’t remember the one he wants him to find or that his friend got laid three times and he didn’t. Hasn’t in the last three months. Failing.
       “thuu one wit the hairrrrr,”
        “Fuck wad, they all had hair!” Grabbing his last shot from the bar, a quadruple Jack straight back, he places an arm around his bombed friend. Taking a meager swig, loving the taste of the Tennessee whiskey as it courses his tongue flowing down his throat.
         “This way, all closed. You go home now.” Ivan drones. Bouncer, 6 foot 2 inches, massive biceps and angled face adorned with jet black hair. Motioning, arms stretched, corralling, herding stragglers to the entrance/exit. Wanting them to leave quickly, he thinks of where he’d rather be. Safe place, tiny appartment with his wife and two small children. Place of love and quiet. Place without drunks to control. Place of peace.
         “fuuuuuuck, brah! Guh-geyet yurr meat-hucks offsa me, bitch!” He said this to the bouncer cornering him and aiming toward the door.
        Raising wasted arm to the massive body that held a shirt with a single word: SECURITY on chest and it being brushed off like a moths against a single candle-lit night.
       “He’s not himself, “ Mike said, barely able to hold his friend upright as well as himself as the bouncer countered. Stumbling, wondering why he still does this over and endlessly for this friend. He covers him.

        Leaving this riverside bar near Lorain Ohio, coursing a hood where peeps get blown away for much less than a bus-pass, walking arm in arm. Street lights overhead, every other one of them out: growing sodium glances on faces slowly with each footstep, rising and diminishing to shadow.

         People die here. They do so on such a regular basis that the Lorain Police call this region the Hall of Gods Justice. Kind of like: If you died here, you somehow deserved it. Maybe your past life, Karma, whatever: If you were fucking here and caught a bullet, you must’ve deserved it.

      “Wuhhhhrissss-sheeeeee?”

       “Give me fuckin’ minute, cunt!” Mike, getting closer to his car he spots her.

      She is standing there. Tall, leggy slender, alley glow from orange fluorescent casting erie glow. . Tight halter covering upper realms highlighting erect nipples and short butt hugging closure barely covering twat and such. She holds the strength of a crackhead desiring a fix, eyes attempting to lock and never able to do so, body shifting about quickly. At knifes edge, Tweaking.

          Mike approaches her slowly and asks her: “you want to party?”

       “Damn, whitebread! Whip the dick and show me you ain’t no 5-OH!”

      Doing so, sobbering, Mike caught the fragrances of this place: Foul odors of the massage pallor, spoiled broccoli and the small Chinese restaurant and the raw uneaten things they sold as tibs.

        Humid night in the city. All things seemed odd and most disgusting with echoing voices, horns blaring from ore freighters and crying children as a result of negligent parents.

       Mike, fly unzipped, displays his wimp penis, as he’d done times before.

      “Home’s, you got Vi-fuckin-agra?” Twisting hips about, casting needed, hungry, wanting expression at Mike.

      “No, uh, well, not for me. It’s, uh, shit, for my friend here.” He, right arm moving behind his friend, taking him toward the whore for her.

     Standing cocked, staring at the thing Mike showed her. I need double rubbers to do this fuckha.

      “what’s his name? Gotta know this, homes, I won’t take less than two-fiddy to do him.” Holding herself back momentarily, wanting to back off from this. Not knowing why. Feeling of unease filling her.

       “His names Julian. He wants to meet you. He’s asked for you,” Mike croaks. Shoulders drooping like many times before.

        “Show me the dollars, cocksucka!”

           Mike unfurling twenties and fifties like a fisherman casting to a great lake.

         She leads them to her realm. Well kept place south of rt 57 of I-90.

          Crossing the parking lot, Mikes friend oblivious to anything, he hears music of Thomas Newmans score from the Less Than Zero soundtrack. BOOPING the alarm on his imported mid-90’s Nissan Skyline with right hand drive. Walking over black-top, hot summer nights work steaming smoky breath after tiny rainfall, thinking: here I go again…

         Venturing into her apartment slightly off rt 57, she takes Mikes friend.

         He undresses and hits her bed, waiting for pleasure.

            A single minute passes in the oddest of time for her.

           Leaving her ground floor dwelling, looking for Mike. Eventually finding him laying his sweet car.

            “he passed out, that or he’sruckin’ dead, shit, fuck. Dead. Drag his ass away from here… I got kids and don’t wants chiiiiiidrens fuck to lands on m’ azz!”

       Pulling out his camera, Mike takes photos of his friend and various sexual poses he demanded of her for him to keep silent.

          Both parties succumbed, Mike holding the digitals.

           Maintaining cash flow.

            Taking his friend back to his wife, explaining once again how he’d had too much to drink. Her accepting this.

            Mike, with a line on many.

            Went about his way.

            Making a huge sum in their wakes.

            Blackmail?

          No, only the uneducated called this so.

          This, my dear, is called extortion.

　

　

            Written by Mark S. Kourge.

Coffee: by Mark S. Kourge

                                                    Coffee.
                                            By Mark S. Kourge.

　
            She stood before with a 10 inch Butchers knife and can Dairy Whip. Carrying an evil smile, slowly exposing her teeth as her ruby lips curled higher. Dressed in black latex and Kiss-like tall boots.
           She kicked me in the chest to further waken me. Hurting me, my eyes shot full open.
         “Which would you prefer? The knife or the whip cream?” Head cocking sideways, short blond spiked hair backlit as the eastern sun splashed through my bedroom window.
         Groaning slightly, “I cannot decide without coffee. I need coffee.”
         “oh, no, darling. You decide now!”
         Brain barely showing signs of thinking, I muttered, “whip cream then.”
        Unleashing the can, spraying me, not to mention my bed sheets, smiling greater still.
        “good choice, I’ll save some for later.

        She liked games like this. She was most sick and messed up in mind processes.
        She’d been abused at a very young age that never left her mind for periods greater than a few days at a clip. Not only growing up with abusive father, she had a seriously perverted aunt.

         Leaving my bed, whip cream dripping down my chest and face, I walked toward my kitchen. Shaking my head, wondering how long I would let myself deal with this, I put on a pot of coffee.
        Following me, as if on remote control, she hesitated briefly at the entrance to the kitchen.
       Sitting on the stool by the island, looking at her. Light beginning to grow full as it filtered through my windows, bracing myself for what I knew would happen next.
       Looking at her feet, shuffling slowly, pouting.
       “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” she screamed, tossing the blade behind her putting yet another cut in my hardwood floor. Pulling off her latex suit, giving me full view of her amazing body, raw.
      Throwing herself at me, connecting firmly, knocking me off the stool, her arms clasped tightly, we hit the floor.
      Her lips pressed against mine, her breath giving tells of Eclipse Spearmint gum, covering my face with wet kisses.
       “you love me, don’t you?. Tell me you do. Please, PLEASE tell me so.” Panting, her body clamoring over me like a rock climber desperately reaching for Earth as they begin to fall. Her left hand finally grabbing at my groin.
      “of course I do. Don’t you know this by now?”
      “I so much like the taste of whip cream on a man! Tastes so much better than blood, don’t you think?” Her voice sounding more happy, less needy. Her body, her hands, moving less like a lunatic and more like a passionate lover.
      “Oh yeah. You know the only time I like to taste blood.” Kissing her slowly, eyes fixed on hers, my arms reaching around to hold her close.
      BINNNNNNNNGGGG! The Jonson-Freed coffee sounded, letting us know it was done brewing. Truly, this is the best coffee maker to ever hit the YBAOT Channel. The YBAOT standing for some obscure products company based in Canada. I thing the YBAOT stood for: You’d Buy Anything On Television. Even with contempt in my heart, it did make a great cup of joe.
      Standing, her panting, gasping, new wetness coursing down her great thighs. Fully erect, she extends me hand. “Let me help you up, my wonderful husband.”
       Up and having yet another bruise to add with the many others on me, looking at her beaming face.
      “I need a smoke, Izzy, “ I said. “you got any?”
       She turns and walks to the cupboard above the sink. Taking them with shaky hand, turning, she hands the Players with a Bic.
        Lighting, taking a huge inhale as I add the sugar to my coffee…
       “WAIT, LOVER! DON’T YOU EVEN MOVE!”
       Like a skipping record, I know what comes next.
       Shooting my cup of coffee with Dairy Whip, gleefully saying, “here’s your cream, honey.” Stepping back slowly, her glorious body causing me to have fullness of throbbing member.
       “Thank you, darling. You are so thoughtful.” I take a sip of my coffee. Tasting perfect, I gaze back at her with fond heart and sore bones.
       “Do you think I need help, my husband?” Showing a face of sincere concern she questions.
       Izzy is not my wife, but that’s okay. She thinks she is.
      “No, you’re fine. I love you just the way you are.”

       Author: Mark S. Kourge.

Toys: By Ryn Cricket

                                             Toys:
                                      by Ryn Cricket.



             Halfway home from work, I looked at the clock in my car. It screamed “4:45!” I was never going to make in time. Was he going to be pissed? Maybe he wouldn’t even wait. Fuck! I tried to get out of the office faster, but all these new employees decided that was the time to bombard me with questions.
            “I really have to go!” I finally told them. “I have an important appointment.” To which they all apologized as I literally ran out the door. Of course I wasn’t going to tell them it was an appointment with “Jack.” But then I never divulged my social life outside at work. That only caused problems. You tell them one bad thing, and it’s the only thing people remember, and then dwell on. Anyway, Jack was different. He held on to his own mysteries and only divulged small pieces of them like little pieces of chocolate that I was always honored to receive.
              He was a writer. So amazing with words. And even though I’m well-read, and well-educated, Jack would often use words I would have to look up when he wasn’t looking. He always picked the most precise words. I loved waking up to his little gift of words to start my morning, and talking to all hours of the night. Even on a work night, I didn’t want to stop or tell him I should sleep.
            My job was so full of pressure, and asserting myself at home was just tiring. There was no reason to exude confidence, when I could just let the power be usurped. It felt good to not have all that responsibility and just relax into a complete lack of power struggle. I certainly couldn’t do that with someone I didn’t trust. But he loves me. He shows me all the time. I could feel a smile coming over my face just thinking about his words, telling me how beautiful and perfect I am, telling me how much he loved and desired me. Maybe he had told other women that in the past, but he told me I was the one who was everything he had been waiting for.
           I am not going to make it! DAMN! I really will be the one he is waiting for if I don’t get home in time. I hate letting anyone down. And I will be so disappointed if he’s not there. Nights without him seem so dark and quiet. I wonder around looking for something to occupy me and sleep early waiting for the next day that he will enter.
          He sent me all this obscure music that I fell in love with, I don’t know if because I felt it was such a beautiful gift or if it was because I actually really like it. I made a CD collection and put it on my iPod, just so that it would provide me the soundtrack of my days.
          Finally! Pulled into the driveway, a little faster than anyone really should, left my bag –I’ll get it later. Ran in the house, went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to pee when I was with him, checked my hair and face, ran a brush through my hair, put on some lipstick. Ok, just the way he likes me. Went back into the living room, opened my laptop.
          “There you are, Alyssa!” he said.
          “I know. I was late. Work was crazy!” I began to apologize.
          “It’s alright. You’re here now.” He smiled.
           “Yeah but I hate missing any minute with you!” I said. He smiled at me again.
           Then he laughed. “We have our whole future together. What’s a few little minutes?”
          “That’s true.” I smiled and laughed back.
          “I know what you need, you understand my needs. We have quite a future, don’t we?” He said. “You’re blushing!” He caught me.
          “When can we actually meet?” I asked him. “I want to feel you so bad!”
          “Hold on a second, please…Ok, I’m back. A train ticket from me to you is just $69. I can be there anytime you purchase one. I see an interesting irony in that number.” He laughed.
          As we continued talking, I secretly worked on booking the seat.
          “You know, I could wait all day to talk to someone who is intelligent, beautiful and knows herself the way you do.” He said. I blushed again. I tried to look normal on the cam, so he couldn’t see what I was doing, or how happy I was about it.
         “I think, my lovely dear, you have charmed me into loving you!” I blushed again. I had the two screens open at the same time. I even got out my credit card, without him seeing.
         “It’s done. I bought it. You’ll be here Thursday at 8:30 pm. You’ll be here! WOW! In just a few days. That’s….78 hours, and 42 minutes! WOW! I’m so excited!”
          “You never cease to surprise me!” He laugh again, at what I thought was my over zealousness, but really, it was because he had had this exact conversation before. This was the eighth time he was able to convince someone to send for him this summer. Not only would he get laid, he’d win that $500 bet with Mark. Hell, maybe he’d even get to see that movie everyone’s been talking about.

Author: Ryn Cricket 2010

Marks life and world: Wish me luck! my story part two.

 

                                   

                     Where I live: part two.

　

                     Zombies dwell in my alley, often urinating and defecating behind my fence. Living in homes left after breaking through thin ply wall for a place to lay their heads, places with proud signage of Hanna Smythe Kramer Realty.

                      Crickets halted in their chirping as gunshots tear the night in half. .38’s, 9mm’s and hearty .12 gauge blast. Echo’s of the screaming bounce from houses on Scranton road. “Duck!” “¡golpee la tierra!” “땅에 파업!＂ in Korean.
                      The United Nation stating: Hit the fucking ground!

              A call to 911. The learned caller using the words: SHOTS FIRED! Knowing its quick response time from Cleveland Police, sirens heard in the distance. Coming from W. fourteenth, West 25, on Scranton from Metro General Hospital. Growing, growling as they grow closer. Stopping at the bleeding bodies on the sidewalk.

               Take statements, take pictures, take the bodies to the morgue.

                 Emotionless, doing their jobs and why not? If the had emotion, would they not go insane in their jobs?

            Fire crackers popping. Dogs barking, smells of car exhaust mixing with rap music threatening to blow a trunk lid with its bass volume.

           Let’s take a walk, you and I. My eyes, smells and sounds: Your story to read.

             Full dark.

         Opening gate. Night calling sounds of screams, moans and screeching tires and engines revving proud.

          Female form, gaunt, sunken eyes, dirty once pink halter smeared with coats of white, faded cut-off jeans. The smell of sweat and Wild Irish Rose. High cheek bones, ribs standing out, inner thighs exposing bruises in illumination from single alley street light.

         “Wuh-anna pardee?” A voice the worst of B-movies asks. Sincere though, her mind is gone. She is seeking another fix, remedy, temporary cure.

         Stopping on unsure feet, swaying, she yanks her halter up, desperate smile beaming, tits exposed. Advertising.

          “She be a sweet ride, bro!” a man speaks from the shadows of black locust trees. “She does it all! Mouth guzzles, cunt smack, anal. My bitch does it all!”

         “Fuck you, then!”

         Walking away further up my alley, away from pleasures found by others, cash for snatch, walking.

          Laughing and splashing in a pool, guarded by 6 foot fence. Living a shielded existence yet sharing the same space and doing it well, eyes wide open.

          Pot and bbq grow this night, granted it is Saturday, intoxicating scent.

             Passing a yard with semi stripped Buick Park Ave, crushing a fly on my left thigh, breaking stride.

            “Hungry, man?” a woman asks. Wearing a filmy translucent pink dress, slender right hand extended.

          Stopping, looking, taking extended hand in mine. Happy to be lured.

          Sure, be happy to!

         “C’mon, baby!”

           Mana live smashing from Peaveys. Good sounds. Known music.

            “Welcome!” “who d’fuck is dis?”

            “Shut the fuck up, assholes! I saw him. I take him into my yard. “

              Parking my ass soundly to a plastic chair, I smile at her. “sit down, relax.”

            Watching her, her body shifting in the dress, barefooted, strong calves showing rising from tiny feet.



             Handing me a plate of food, smell hitting me, hunger taking hold, I say: Thanks.

         “No sweat, baby. You’re not like the others. You have mind left to you.”

         Spanish rice, veggies, chicken.

          “You like to dance?” she asks when I am finished. Best home cooked meal in ages.

             Yeah, I do. I like Mana live.

            Swirling embrace, tastes of the night meeting breath, Mana, Helicopters and sirens. Meeting of the bonkers. Feeling her against me, mind spinning furiously, smelling rose fragrance in her hair. Dizzy.

          Welcome to the life on Scranton Rd, Cleveland USA and it bowels.

         Shoving me shot of Jose Cuervo, Holding it, waiting for her speak the toast.

          “¡Uno del camino!”

         “¡Sí! ¡Bebemos! '“ they shout.

          I down it flatly, raising empty shot glass. Greeted with handshakes and high-fives. Hugs from men and women alike.

          Gracious!



          Walking down the alley once again, leaving the comfort from new friend and hers, watching the growing shadow of me on asphalt interrupted abruptly.

           Skunk! Smelling skunk.

            Stopping, halting, ending movement.

              Sounds of chomping, licking chops, farts and belches.

              Eyes turning to the left. Feral dogs. They are eating their capture, that being a skunk.

               Diverting senses, sounds from above.

              “OOOOWWWWW! Give it TO ME!” female cries out open window. Reaching breaking point, orgasm or a convincing lie. “give it to me! Give it! FUCKER, GIVE IT, MAN!”

            A Cleveland Cop Car wails as it heads toward Metro Hospital.

            Looking upward: Stars meagerly shine through the light-pollution of this place, hazed.

             Moon clouded, its near full face showing us its grace.

            Rounding the corner of the alley, a place that once shined of sunflowers and hill billy car parts, now holding signs of the downtrodden.

          Facing some temple, it’s 7 foot galvanized steel fence, turning right again.



          To the field on the left with a huge steel pole that rose about two hundred feet up.

         Memory taking hold of me and this place.

          Oh, how we played tackle football here. This field of dirt and gravel. Dressed for protection: Wearing about two sweatshirts over two to three t-shirts and think jeans. Butting heads, arms reaching, sometimes stopping. Bloody noses and blackened eyes from impact. Sides facing off ferociously. Pounding each other to the pavement with each play. Beating the living shit out of each other.

        Those were the best of times.

          A time before a bloody nose meant assault with intent to over protective parents with a lawyer in their hip-pocket. Giving some kid a record and worse, a branding that would follow them.

       We of the field would band together.

         When we played baseball in this field, occasionally, a window would get broken. That being the single house at fields end. Owner, forever furious as another baseball smashed into his living room, charged us as we would say in tiny, before puberty voices high in pitch: “sorry, mister!”

         We’d pony up our change and walk with this man to Wojechs Hardware on Meyers and West Twenty Fifth to pay for it. Window replaced. No hard feelings. No sorrow. No lawyers.

            I have no memory as to how many times we did this, but we did it many times across many a wonderful summer day, across many a summer.

           Taking in the here and now of this place. Not much different now than it was then. Well, this is perhaps untrue. Children today play football and baseball in the video world. Forgotten are the real-world sense of the neighborhood kids hitting balls and smashing each other about. Safer, sure, no argument but what did that do?

          Maybe the best of football and baseball players today were the ones that chose to mash and thrash and say ‘Fuck it, Let’s rock, bitch!” In the last thirty years, I think this might be correct in the USA.



       A note that strikes chord to my heart: When I see kids, adults even, throwing a football or baseball, even a Frisbee, I gaze in awe. I park and watch and remember. Occasionally I approach them and ask to toss about with them. Touch of things firm in memory, touch of things past, touch of sanity long before everything spiraled out of control and got nuts.

         Garlic bread, melting mozzarella, melting butter, the stench of piss and shit, willingly greet me.



         Home.

　

          Cornering right onto Meyers avenue, passing a house and Vetranos. Strolling past the alley, heading to Tony’s Store. This place has always been known as Tony’s. I cannot remember how many nationalities have owned it over the last 4 decades.

         I used to buy Bazooka Bubble gum at a penny apiece when I was about 7. I’d get Cherokee Red pop, and they carried dots. < a wax strip that had multi colored dots, about an inch and half in width. I cannot remember how this was sold: foot, yard?>

        This was, when a younger conniving kid, would set up some new kid with Monopoly money and send him to the store to buy us candy.

         Back when, you would call this initiation to the pack.

         Today you’d label this conspiracy.

           Tony’s. One of the few places in my life that has not changed much.

            Yeah, there have been violent hold-ups, leading to homicides, the dying ending life on my neighbors front yard. Crimson, iron stenched snow cones on a snowy cold December night. My Woman, administering CPR, kneeling does she did as a nurse. Trying. Forgetting herself. Emergency Medical Services arrive, but she is dead. This woman just small months before had given birth.

          Going to my house, stopped once again by a hawker.

       “You n-never had a b-low like me, huuuney!” Stepping out from behind Tony’s dumpster the palest of redheads comes forth. Anemic limbs covered with tattoo’s, stepping into street light full.

            Nipples fully erect in wet white wife-beater, aureoles dancing underneath it with each step she takes.

           Her hair, at least washed in the last several hours, catching light, displaying signs of life and vibrance. Breeze catching it, tossing it about, mating with illumination given.

       “Waddya say?”

          How much would you charge to just talk?

         “whuuuuu?”

        You got a pimp? How much to talk?

          Blank look, stunned, caught off guard. “no pimp. No man cn-trling me!”

             You hungry? You look like you are.

            “starving….”

           To my backyard, firing up a small grill. I cooked as one did for me hours earlier.

　

         We talked until the sun came up.

          Early morning birds doing their thing, small dew gracing the ground here on a rainless summer morn.



            Seldom changes here. If you keep an open mind, god does give some things most special. Sharing on the most human of places.

           I have been here for many decades. Having said that, even I need something more. I have been in this place far to long.

            Wish me luck!

Mark William Darus 08052012.

Identity Crisis: by Ryn Cricket.

                                               



                                                Identity Crisis.
                                        A work from Ryn Cricket:


–Not one of those
when you look in the mirror
and see your mother looking back,
No.
It’s when you look in the mirror
and don’t recognize that person
at all.
This is not the person I grew up with
When My four year-old says,
“Mommy, I don’t like your hair.
I miss your Rapunzel hair.
When will it grow back?
My wedding dress,
My claddagh ring,
my favorite shirt,
my underwear
are all way to big
to even be passable as baggy.
My cheeks aren’t full like a 20 year-old’s
but sunk-in like a 60 year-old with botox.
“Mommy when are your scars going to go away?”
“These don’t go away.
They were made by a doctor’s knife.”
I’m healthy.
I’m tired.
I’m recovering.
I’m cancer-free.
But who the hell is that in the mirror?

Author: Ryn Cricket  

                                   

Where i live: part one. Mark: Story one.

                              


                                What is it like where I live?

　

                     I have been asked this question for many months now.

               What do you see, smell and hear with each day? What?

　

        For Christ sake, people, do you think this to be simply put?

          Here goes: Crack eyed wanting bitch destined to meet dealer on alley’s left. Copters flying across sky, blades slashing the night like one with meaning.

           Cats growing, dogs barking, Zombies walking the alley behind my home. Twisted faces, bending in unnatural sense of bodily shape, threatening.

            Small wonder my lady left me after eight and a half years of living here.

               Smart, far smarter than me. My sisters split this years ago, yet had thoughts of her leaving me.

                 Her and I did not lose contact with her leaving.

                   Do you really want to know what it is like here?

　

                First of all: Sirens BLARE. Just down the road, about a quarter mile from one of the only County Hospital Emergency Rooms, I live.

              Helicopters, blades slicing gentle night air to shards of the dyings grip.



                 In the ER-World: Workers, Keepers of this Realm, nurses, facilities, and security sweat to hold all in place.

　

            Landing on under lighted pad, the Huey touches down, revs slowing, thwacking less gnats with each pass.

               More work for the ground crew.



            Heavy metal, Mariachi, Ice T, copulate like a bad marriage.

　

           Rival Factions embrace. Screaming high above all else. Arms taking in the ugliest of mankind.

         “Watch were you spit!” some jesus freak yells, intense brown eyes darting backwar.

       “this is bloodshed, man! Bloodshed. Hope you got ya shots…..”

        Got them all. Glancing at less maddening skies, concrete parking lot structure, taking in another night.

　

        “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” a child cries into the night. This child not being here from its own pain so much as its lack of parents thought before making it so.

       My world is not so much filled with assholes as it gets visited by the seasons.



     Let’s take this to me: If some totally fucked human asks me for money, by my house, will I give him/them, food. Yes.

      I will give them a listen toward their plight and sometimes fail like I did today.



　

　

       In the last 20 years: There have been over 15 homicides within 1 mile of my home and countless injuries.

         Family home is good and all.

          I want another life and think I earned this.

　

            Mark William Darus 08042012

　

　

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

　

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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.

　

　

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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.

“Ennnnnnnnnnnnnjoooooooooooooooy”

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.



WHOOOOOOSH!!!

SMACK!

“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.

MOVE! NOW!

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.

“MOVE!”

“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.



“HUT! HUT!……HIKE!”

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.

“HUHRRRRRRR, RURRRRR, MIIIIIIIINE, MYYYYYYYNE…HRRRRRRRRR!”

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.

Fighting.

Struggling

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…

Run, man, LET’S JUST FUCKIN’ RUN!



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!



“G-GIVE HIM Fuhhhhh. FUKING TIME!

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…”

Why?

“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.