Forty some hours: T-minus 12.5 and Counting.
Continued from previous entry.
Teddy heads home at 3:30 pm on July twenty-fifth, 1962.
Approaching Scranton and Meyers avenue, pausing for a moment, heart thudding about, he turns onto Meyers. Less than a tenth of a mile he hangs a sharp left toward his alley. Stopping diagonally from his garage, stepping out, he gazes down the alley. He sees children playing about, their laughter, pausing a moment to take deep breath into lungs without mill dust.
Opening gate to garages right, opening gate, walking. Cornering left, saying hi to Heidi, who happily says: “daddy! Love you!.” Smiling fully, opening the garage door, he walks.
He pulls, parks his car to the garage. Killing engine as he exits it, smelling exhaust, so happy to be home again. He locks the back doors which cover his vehicle.
He greets his wife and she embraces him.
Good to be home.
They ate dinner. Much later than planned on as Ted made meatloaf.
As he prepared his specialty, he took off his work-shoes. This event was most spectacular. Flies would fall from the sky, dogs would heave guts and children would run to escape that which held in leather work shoes became unleashed. Foul!
Going to sleep after tucking daughters to bed.
Smoking L&M’s together privately, black and white TV to the beds right side, showing ‘snow‘. Fully swollen belly, arms extended, hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.
The orange glow from cigarette inhaled cast images of smiles and frustration.
“I love you, “ Ted says to Mari, taking her closer and she grasps him to her.
“I love you, too!” Mari, feeling about to burst, exhausted in every respect, wishing for peaceful sleep in her mans arms. Drifting off slowly, certainly, descending into dreamland.
RING RING RING! Goes the alarm clock, its clackers rebounding quickly from left to right, nailing 2 inch bells, awakening the dead to rise.
Teddy awakens, kills the clock, listening to sound of Mari’s snoring.
Standing, pulling on fresh pants, reaching towards yesterdays trousers, placing right hand into pocket taking change and dollars from it. Left hand taking fresh undershirt, covering it with a white button-down, staring blankly at a mirror, he slowly turns and heads toward the hallway. Three quarters down the hall, as he has walked over a thousand times, he firmly plants his right small toe into the chimney jog: Shiiit, he mutters, loud at first, much softer at its end.
Reaching the bathroom, flipping a switch, he takes razor into hand. Shaving.
Mari is dreaming: Standing in a field of industrial waste, looking toward vivid sunrise of ever changing hues of blues and greens. Longest of dark hair blowing in light breeze as her forehead begins to sweat. Looking left over Clark Field, alone, lighting an L&M, taking in the tobacco and morning air. Nostrils paying no mind to the heavy smell of the Coke Plants odor of rotting eggs and burning hair.
Soundly into Dreamland, she walks into the oddest of sights greet rational memory.
Colours change, smells take on new meaning, sounds seem so distant….
This day goes on as they have so many years before.
Mari does for her children and parents.
Teddy works his job, though somewhat absentmindedly now.
Blue hat man approaches Ted: “you got a call. You need to take it,”
“Whu, what do you mean?”
“ what the fuck do I know, I’ a driver from Dworkin. I was asked to tell you you have a call.”
“Thank you, “ Ted says, excited, handing this man a five to spend in the canteen.
It is 1:50 pm, July 26 1962.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note: As this gets closer to the heart I can only say this: I am thankful for the opportunity to express things once again.
Sorry this entry is so short.
Mark William Darus: 07262012
This site is to inform people about the 4% of our population that are nonviolent-Psychopaths. It will also go into areas of those suffering various and serious mental illness' that share the Earth with all of us. Going into areas of human depression, hopelessness and happiness seen over time. Email me: Socialsniperzzz@gmail.com Or find me as Mark William Darus on FaceBook with questions or concerns.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Forty some hours: Vaginal expanding: Countdown.
Forty some hours before: Countdown.
She so wished to have this one thing in her life.
Impatiently sitting, smoking cigarettes exhaling large plumes casting white clouds hovering before her. Long dark hair waterfall-like tumbling over slender shoulders, strong determination displayed on facial expression holding high cheekbones.
Drinking her black coffee, staring blankly into familiar space of her kitchen, eyes meeting that of her moms.
“Damn it, mom! When?”
Taking a lazy swig of vodka, her mother firmly says: “When it’s time, Mari.”
This July was very hot, indeed, much hotter than most.
Picture a time before Air Conditioning made all things as equal as gas heat in a Northern winter. Think of this simple fact of life: In the winter, you can always add more clothing, more barriers to protect from the cold. In high summer, in Northern climbs known then, you could only take off so much without shedding flesh. During this time, AC was not so expended in average life in the USA: new technology that only went toward the rich.
9AM in the morning, Mari’s older children rushed the kitchen, hair flowing madly about, eyes wide and happy. “Is it time, mom?” they asked in the sweetest sound of a duet.
“No! Nothing yet. What do you want for breakfast?” Mari asked, resigned to a simple belief that ran her life.
Holly and Heidi spoke in unison, excited: “Eggs and bacon, Mom!” The younger asked for French toast as an afterthought, her older sister giving her a shove with left elbow. “well, pancakes would be good, “ she said, correctly her stance at her sisters nudge.
Laughing, her mom having had several three-shot glass of vodka, asked: “can I help?” Grey, poorly died hair over scrawny bones turning inebriated glance toward the Frigidaire.
Standing, Mari, shifting body with the weakest of equilibrium to correct imbalance continuing each day with much annoyance, “I’ll give you the eggs to scramble, mom.” Aiming bulging, pulsating, frame to the right as it involuntarily goes toward the left, she meets the fridge.
Daughters in the pantry, scuffling about, clanking plates and silverware. Smiles on the faces of daughters ages 3 and 8. Dog barking in background from a small yard where grass would never grow.
Outside: Sunny warm morning threatening toward the hot. Thick air smashing down, long before there was a thing called the ‘pollution standard index’ or the EPA. Graphite married with industrial waste would fall in the tiniest of particles. So much so like nuclear fall out fell on Prypiat without the immediate urgency to leave. Being ignorant at this time, theirs was no disgrace as they simply did not know. No one did to be truthful.
Handing her bombed mom a whisk, nine eggs and stainless mixing bowl, “have at it,”Mari spoke, sounding less aggravated than before.
Taking a deep inhale, pulling a pound of sliced smoked bacon from the fridge, she aimed herself toward the cutting board in the pantry. Sharpest of kicks nailing her, left jabs, faltering, countering to her right.
“Whoa, mom! I got you!” her eldest daughter corrects her with steadfast arm.
“Thanks, Holly, “ she said, more like a tone of afterthought at her own lack of control than of one in sincerest thanks.
Hastily grabbing another mixing bowl with her left hand, sending right hand to the upper shelf to take the Bisquick mix and slamming it down on white-pearled counter top.
Water, some milk, an egg, stir with fork for ….
Dutifully doing this, forgetting and not caring how many strokes she had either gone too far or not enough. Bowl in hand, angry, defiant face, she pushes toward the stove.
Pulling ironware from the bottom broiler area, it being heavy and her mentally telling its heavy weight: Fuck You! Damn you! I can still make breakfast.
“Would someone get me a slab of butter from the fridge, please?” Taking control of her ever-changing faculties, Mari’s voice, always holding an even tone and cadence with each word spoken.
“Okay, Mom! I will!” Holly’s voice and eyes matching tonal excitement did as asked. Her long hair bouncing about wildly with her determined movement pushed her.
“Thanks, Holly.”
Butter melting slowly on 14 inch iron skillet to the forward right burner and thickly sliced bacon meet.
HISSSSSSSSS, POP! POP! HISSSSSSSSSS. Popopoppopop. HiiiiiiiiiSSSSSSS!
Glorious smell, when smoked pork entreats a morning.
Sighing, Mari heads toward the pantry.
Holly stands quickly, seeing, sighting, knowing.
“ I’m okay, Holly,” her back to Holly, knowing her eldest most well, smiling with pride. Pulling a bigger mixing bowl from the shelf to her left.
“Here you go, mom!” an 8 year old Holly hands her mother a roll of paper towels.
“Thank you, “
\ KICK-THUD-LEFT then RIGHT.
Body shifting, correcting, maintaining. Frustration, aggravation and an utter look of: Fuck It shines on Mari’s face.
Pulling several hunks of paper towels and placing them in the mixing bowl, she looks at the popping, sizzling bacon.
Mari, doing as she has for so many a summer morn since she got married, wonders, what is her steadfast husband, Theodore, doing right now.
Bad, heavily laden air. Metal dust, contaminated steam and the worst man could create for production and living. Filling nostrils with the worst and deadliest before medical science and the EPA took over, decades far too late for most.
Teddy, as he was called by his men in the mill with profound respect, did as he told them.
Teddy bowled with some of them and would buy them rounds yet seldom drank with them.
“Ted! She there yet?” his friend, Frank Gartner asked him, passing through thick steel dust, beaming fondly toward Ted.
“Haven’t gotten a call yet. Getting long though.” Ted looked concerned. Looking a sheets of paper from the mornings run, not happy.
“What, Ted?” Frank inquired, smirk on face knowing where his friend was at this time in his life.
“Falling behind on production, Frank. I shou-”
“Ted!” he said, cutting him off. “We’re going to put you on Fire-Watch for a bit. Just cover the night shift and make sure nothing, no one, gets fried to a cinder. Company orders, nothing personal.”
“Yes, sir, “ Ted said, a sense of relief flowing through him. Mind not being on his game, concern toward the greatest love of his life, wanting nothing but to be with her, yet feeling he would fail her and his daughters by not working. Mixed directions, coming to a busy crossroad where green lights shined on all sides. Confusion.
Being one of the Company, a Marine, following orders. He went to Fire=Watch.
Finishing his shift, back-slapping his crew, his men, them wishing him luck as time reached critical mass. He left the mill, his other home, and drove to her.
Being without the amazing Fast food places of the here and now, mind wondering what he could do, he decided to cook tonight's meal.
Crossing over the Clark Avenue Bridge, the proud iron stance it held for over a mile in length going over the Cuyahoga and both J&L and Republic Steel plants. His Oldsmobile humming in 8 cylinder bliss with a four barreled carburetor saying “floor me to the firewall”, holding a steady 45 MPH. Crossing West Fourteenth street, single word, food thought, nails him: Meatloaf!
Heading to the West 14 Drugstore to get his Blood pressure meds, turning left at the first major intersection after crossing the bridge, he powered the Olds. After pulling into a parking lot that decades would become a Lawsons dairy, <anyone remember the commercials: Roll on, Big O! Nonstop Run for that nonstop Lawsons run! > Big O, being Orange Juice. Do you remember?
He parks. Steps from the car and walks to a drugstore so far gone from what we know today. Opening door, smell of mildew and various medications, sweets of candy, seeing huge blue, orange and green liquids shrouded in glass. Walking to the Pharmacist he’d known for ages, being greeted by him as Ted wasn’t a quarter way up the main isle.
“I got your medication, Teddy. Always glad to see you!”
“Thank you!”
“How’s the little woman?” truly excited voice states over high counter as the Pharmacists face cascades toward Teddy.
“Not yet,” Ted says in a voice somewhat unsteady. “not like the others.”
“She’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about a thing. God watches and protects.”
“You got any roses today?”
“For you and your good wife? Just a minute,” the Pharmacist disappears.
Looking idly over the three isles of various items ranging from Carters Little Liver Pills to Hershey Bars, unacceptable to mention female specific items (Period pads and such) to Coke and Pepsi beverages, Ted stands there, thinking of his loving wife and what he helped create in her.
Pharmacist, seeing his fondest of his patrons looking away, calls him, snapping Teds body in a 180 turn.
“My gift to your wife! And here’s your medication.”
Stunned, Ted looks and sees his friend not only holding him his bag but also handing him a bouquet of roses.
Looking, astonishment grasping face, “thank you! She will love these!”
"No charge on the Roses, Teddy."
Paying, turning , walking happily, walking to his car parked across the street.
` Teddy heads home at 3:30 pm on July twenty-fifth, 1962.
______________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note: This is the first part of a serious time frame entry to the BLOG I started on March three of 2012. It has a sound, not to mention profound sense of timing as the inspiration of its sender gave me a specific set of circumstances to follow to do it justice.
I so hope I can do this well.
God willing and strength granted me: I will, SO HELP ME, GOD!
Massive thanks to Dave Torres and his words, thoughts given, not to forget the Sender, for placing me these words that I could not vision and describe without divine inspiration.
Mark William Darus. Three Thirteen AM, July 25, 2012.
She so wished to have this one thing in her life.
Impatiently sitting, smoking cigarettes exhaling large plumes casting white clouds hovering before her. Long dark hair waterfall-like tumbling over slender shoulders, strong determination displayed on facial expression holding high cheekbones.
Drinking her black coffee, staring blankly into familiar space of her kitchen, eyes meeting that of her moms.
“Damn it, mom! When?”
Taking a lazy swig of vodka, her mother firmly says: “When it’s time, Mari.”
This July was very hot, indeed, much hotter than most.
Picture a time before Air Conditioning made all things as equal as gas heat in a Northern winter. Think of this simple fact of life: In the winter, you can always add more clothing, more barriers to protect from the cold. In high summer, in Northern climbs known then, you could only take off so much without shedding flesh. During this time, AC was not so expended in average life in the USA: new technology that only went toward the rich.
9AM in the morning, Mari’s older children rushed the kitchen, hair flowing madly about, eyes wide and happy. “Is it time, mom?” they asked in the sweetest sound of a duet.
“No! Nothing yet. What do you want for breakfast?” Mari asked, resigned to a simple belief that ran her life.
Holly and Heidi spoke in unison, excited: “Eggs and bacon, Mom!” The younger asked for French toast as an afterthought, her older sister giving her a shove with left elbow. “well, pancakes would be good, “ she said, correctly her stance at her sisters nudge.
Laughing, her mom having had several three-shot glass of vodka, asked: “can I help?” Grey, poorly died hair over scrawny bones turning inebriated glance toward the Frigidaire.
Standing, Mari, shifting body with the weakest of equilibrium to correct imbalance continuing each day with much annoyance, “I’ll give you the eggs to scramble, mom.” Aiming bulging, pulsating, frame to the right as it involuntarily goes toward the left, she meets the fridge.
Daughters in the pantry, scuffling about, clanking plates and silverware. Smiles on the faces of daughters ages 3 and 8. Dog barking in background from a small yard where grass would never grow.
Outside: Sunny warm morning threatening toward the hot. Thick air smashing down, long before there was a thing called the ‘pollution standard index’ or the EPA. Graphite married with industrial waste would fall in the tiniest of particles. So much so like nuclear fall out fell on Prypiat without the immediate urgency to leave. Being ignorant at this time, theirs was no disgrace as they simply did not know. No one did to be truthful.
Handing her bombed mom a whisk, nine eggs and stainless mixing bowl, “have at it,”Mari spoke, sounding less aggravated than before.
Taking a deep inhale, pulling a pound of sliced smoked bacon from the fridge, she aimed herself toward the cutting board in the pantry. Sharpest of kicks nailing her, left jabs, faltering, countering to her right.
“Whoa, mom! I got you!” her eldest daughter corrects her with steadfast arm.
Hastily grabbing another mixing bowl with her left hand, sending right hand to the upper shelf to take the Bisquick mix and slamming it down on white-pearled counter top.
Water, some milk, an egg, stir with fork for ….
Dutifully doing this, forgetting and not caring how many strokes she had either gone too far or not enough. Bowl in hand, angry, defiant face, she pushes toward the stove.
Pulling ironware from the bottom broiler area, it being heavy and her mentally telling its heavy weight: Fuck You! Damn you! I can still make breakfast.
“Would someone get me a slab of butter from the fridge, please?” Taking control of her ever-changing faculties, Mari’s voice, always holding an even tone and cadence with each word spoken.
“Okay, Mom! I will!” Holly’s voice and eyes matching tonal excitement did as asked. Her long hair bouncing about wildly with her determined movement pushed her.
“Thanks, Holly.”
Butter melting slowly on 14 inch iron skillet to the forward right burner and thickly sliced bacon meet.
HISSSSSSSSS, POP! POP! HISSSSSSSSSS. Popopoppopop. HiiiiiiiiiSSSSSSS!
Glorious smell, when smoked pork entreats a morning.
Sighing, Mari heads toward the pantry.
Holly stands quickly, seeing, sighting, knowing.
“ I’m okay, Holly,” her back to Holly, knowing her eldest most well, smiling with pride. Pulling a bigger mixing bowl from the shelf to her left.
“Here you go, mom!” an 8 year old Holly hands her mother a roll of paper towels.
“Thank you, “
\ KICK-THUD-LEFT then RIGHT.
Body shifting, correcting, maintaining. Frustration, aggravation and an utter look of: Fuck It shines on Mari’s face.
Pulling several hunks of paper towels and placing them in the mixing bowl, she looks at the popping, sizzling bacon.
Mari, doing as she has for so many a summer morn since she got married, wonders, what is her steadfast husband, Theodore, doing right now.
Bad, heavily laden air. Metal dust, contaminated steam and the worst man could create for production and living. Filling nostrils with the worst and deadliest before medical science and the EPA took over, decades far too late for most.
Teddy, as he was called by his men in the mill with profound respect, did as he told them.
Teddy bowled with some of them and would buy them rounds yet seldom drank with them.
“Ted! She there yet?” his friend, Frank Gartner asked him, passing through thick steel dust, beaming fondly toward Ted.
“Haven’t gotten a call yet. Getting long though.” Ted looked concerned. Looking a sheets of paper from the mornings run, not happy.
“What, Ted?” Frank inquired, smirk on face knowing where his friend was at this time in his life.
“Falling behind on production, Frank. I shou-”
“Ted!” he said, cutting him off. “We’re going to put you on Fire-Watch for a bit. Just cover the night shift and make sure nothing, no one, gets fried to a cinder. Company orders, nothing personal.”
“Yes, sir, “ Ted said, a sense of relief flowing through him. Mind not being on his game, concern toward the greatest love of his life, wanting nothing but to be with her, yet feeling he would fail her and his daughters by not working. Mixed directions, coming to a busy crossroad where green lights shined on all sides. Confusion.
Being one of the Company, a Marine, following orders. He went to Fire=Watch.
Finishing his shift, back-slapping his crew, his men, them wishing him luck as time reached critical mass. He left the mill, his other home, and drove to her.
Being without the amazing Fast food places of the here and now, mind wondering what he could do, he decided to cook tonight's meal.
Crossing over the Clark Avenue Bridge, the proud iron stance it held for over a mile in length going over the Cuyahoga and both J&L and Republic Steel plants. His Oldsmobile humming in 8 cylinder bliss with a four barreled carburetor saying “floor me to the firewall”, holding a steady 45 MPH. Crossing West Fourteenth street, single word, food thought, nails him: Meatloaf!
Heading to the West 14 Drugstore to get his Blood pressure meds, turning left at the first major intersection after crossing the bridge, he powered the Olds. After pulling into a parking lot that decades would become a Lawsons dairy, <anyone remember the commercials: Roll on, Big O! Nonstop Run for that nonstop Lawsons run! > Big O, being Orange Juice. Do you remember?
He parks. Steps from the car and walks to a drugstore so far gone from what we know today. Opening door, smell of mildew and various medications, sweets of candy, seeing huge blue, orange and green liquids shrouded in glass. Walking to the Pharmacist he’d known for ages, being greeted by him as Ted wasn’t a quarter way up the main isle.
“I got your medication, Teddy. Always glad to see you!”
“Thank you!”
“How’s the little woman?” truly excited voice states over high counter as the Pharmacists face cascades toward Teddy.
“Not yet,” Ted says in a voice somewhat unsteady. “not like the others.”
“She’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about a thing. God watches and protects.”
“You got any roses today?”
“For you and your good wife? Just a minute,” the Pharmacist disappears.
Looking idly over the three isles of various items ranging from Carters Little Liver Pills to Hershey Bars, unacceptable to mention female specific items (Period pads and such) to Coke and Pepsi beverages, Ted stands there, thinking of his loving wife and what he helped create in her.
Pharmacist, seeing his fondest of his patrons looking away, calls him, snapping Teds body in a 180 turn.
“My gift to your wife! And here’s your medication.”
Stunned, Ted looks and sees his friend not only holding him his bag but also handing him a bouquet of roses.
Looking, astonishment grasping face, “thank you! She will love these!”
"No charge on the Roses, Teddy."
Paying, turning , walking happily, walking to his car parked across the street.
` Teddy heads home at 3:30 pm on July twenty-fifth, 1962.
______________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note: This is the first part of a serious time frame entry to the BLOG I started on March three of 2012. It has a sound, not to mention profound sense of timing as the inspiration of its sender gave me a specific set of circumstances to follow to do it justice.
I so hope I can do this well.
God willing and strength granted me: I will, SO HELP ME, GOD!
Massive thanks to Dave Torres and his words, thoughts given, not to forget the Sender, for placing me these words that I could not vision and describe without divine inspiration.
Mark William Darus. Three Thirteen AM, July 25, 2012.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Colorado Theatre Killings: Let's goto the movies.
Let’s go the movies: Colorado, USA.
First showing of Newest Batman incarnation ends in death.
Fire door alarm opened, never notifying anyone of its breach.
Serious FLAW!
Sitting back, new movie spinning from reels.
Cola being drank, Raisonettes, Goobers and SnowCaps munched.
Heavy butter applied to low grade popcorn smells fill this theatre.
As such things have done millions of times before across our shrinking planet.
Let’s look at what we know:
James Holmes, 24 years old, college graduate rising toward a PHD in Neuroscience. College Prof’s call him the ’top of the top’. He studied Psychology and was writing a paper on a theory of ‘What we Are?’ <<< I ‘ll get to possible meanings of that later.>>>
He started buying firearms perhaps two to three months before this. These purchases were passed by United States checks, therefore approved.
He did everything legally in his endeavor, going about the proper steps. Taking time with patience and knowledge of how things work.
Knowing his end and getting caught, setting booby traps in his apartment on huge scale. Dressing in Joker garb, car parked near an exit, ticket in hand. He enters this Colorado cinema.
Fully armed, tossing smoke grenades to an audience soon to descend to real chaos, fully armored.
Smoke blanketing, images of the movie on cloudy display obscured. Opening fire.
Crowds first stiffen, shocked, inhaling deeply whiffs of butter and smoke.
Through screams matching the fire of his semi-automatic weapon rise above. Second thing happening, the shocked drop to the floor for cover. Hearts running amok, blood pressure nailing levels of personal unknown capabilities.
Stage three, Run for your life! Fight of flight in the greatest of experience.
The mass of viewers head down the four isles seeking EXIT. Smashing against, colliding with, trampling over anyone between them and their salvation.
Perfect line of fire.
Aiming down a single isle, semiautomatic loaded, humans clamoring for safety.
Leveling, releasing a fifty round burst.
Bone, skin, shoulders and life itself colliding with hunks of iron, smashing, last air passing through lungs.
Panic in the most electric of moments.
Firing weapon. Killing and maiming. Killing and Maiming.
To quietly leave and wait for the Police to grab him.
And to the tell the officers that he booby trapped his apartment.
___________________________________________________________________________________
So many questions and the sincerest of answerer's will never be granted.
He wasn’t bullied by any account. Had one speeding ticket and a stellar educational background.
Yet he somewhere down the road, acquired weapons, ammo and body-shield protection. The United States FBI labeled him as brilliant. I would argue this. If he were truly brilliant wouldn’t he have had a perfect exit strategy? He acquired his weapons legally.
The sincerest of insane don’t willing give themselves up. They also don’t Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid romp out to a Bolivian type army to get gunned down. The truly insane simple eat one of their last bullets.
By contrast, look at Columbine and other such events. These killers were made from years of being bullied. Not justifying this by any means, but such events did have some motive attached to them.
The Theatre in Colorado had no such things.
What made this 24 yr old male do what he did?
Speculation will abound on all networks as they clamor for deeper insight, producers aiming for huge ratings, scooping others, death for profit.
Welcome to the United States! We will turn any and all tragedy into a profit making venture. BECAUSE WE CAN!
James Holmes event eclipses me in the purest of life.
Lives were taken hugely. Birthdays shattered and scarred.
Yet, why did this happen?
I may eat my words on this: Did he do this to be the number one spree killer in the United States?
So much unlike predator serial killers like Bundy, Rameriez and Chikatilo, he did this as a singular showing in huge proportions.
My question is this: Will the United States find some absurd way of throwing this to some other country as as act of terrorsism?
I remember 911. the madness that took hold in my land. I remember the paranoia gripping many white persons to look twice at every corner store or 7-11. Casting grim shadows on those that had served them kindly for years. Posters crossing freeway overpasses exclaiming: Kill
All Arabs!
To find out several years later that my pwn counrty, the United States welcomed the and funded the very group that supposedly caused 9-11 to happen?
So many finanical ties between the SR Bush Admin and the Taliban and other areas of the same countries we waged war on.
Again, I sadly say this: Who, as a people, really give a fecal matter about who gets killed so long as it does not affect us in our day to day lives. Blindly believing free flowing media, hunkering down like frightened gerbils we hide.
Walk your road, I will walk mine. I pass no judgement for your thoughts. I do not care how you view or read mine. You have an opinion and will always respect this.
Like some bleach blond anorexic bitch in a Miss USA pagent: I WANT WORLD PEACE.
Mark William Darus 07212012
First showing of Newest Batman incarnation ends in death.
Fire door alarm opened, never notifying anyone of its breach.
Serious FLAW!
Sitting back, new movie spinning from reels.
Cola being drank, Raisonettes, Goobers and SnowCaps munched.
Heavy butter applied to low grade popcorn smells fill this theatre.
As such things have done millions of times before across our shrinking planet.
Let’s look at what we know:
James Holmes, 24 years old, college graduate rising toward a PHD in Neuroscience. College Prof’s call him the ’top of the top’. He studied Psychology and was writing a paper on a theory of ‘What we Are?’ <<< I ‘ll get to possible meanings of that later.>>>
He started buying firearms perhaps two to three months before this. These purchases were passed by United States checks, therefore approved.
He did everything legally in his endeavor, going about the proper steps. Taking time with patience and knowledge of how things work.
Knowing his end and getting caught, setting booby traps in his apartment on huge scale. Dressing in Joker garb, car parked near an exit, ticket in hand. He enters this Colorado cinema.
Fully armed, tossing smoke grenades to an audience soon to descend to real chaos, fully armored.
Smoke blanketing, images of the movie on cloudy display obscured. Opening fire.
Crowds first stiffen, shocked, inhaling deeply whiffs of butter and smoke.
Through screams matching the fire of his semi-automatic weapon rise above. Second thing happening, the shocked drop to the floor for cover. Hearts running amok, blood pressure nailing levels of personal unknown capabilities.
Stage three, Run for your life! Fight of flight in the greatest of experience.
The mass of viewers head down the four isles seeking EXIT. Smashing against, colliding with, trampling over anyone between them and their salvation.
Perfect line of fire.
Aiming down a single isle, semiautomatic loaded, humans clamoring for safety.
Leveling, releasing a fifty round burst.
Bone, skin, shoulders and life itself colliding with hunks of iron, smashing, last air passing through lungs.
Panic in the most electric of moments.
Firing weapon. Killing and maiming. Killing and Maiming.
To quietly leave and wait for the Police to grab him.
And to the tell the officers that he booby trapped his apartment.
___________________________________________________________________________________
So many questions and the sincerest of answerer's will never be granted.
He wasn’t bullied by any account. Had one speeding ticket and a stellar educational background.
Yet he somewhere down the road, acquired weapons, ammo and body-shield protection. The United States FBI labeled him as brilliant. I would argue this. If he were truly brilliant wouldn’t he have had a perfect exit strategy? He acquired his weapons legally.
The sincerest of insane don’t willing give themselves up. They also don’t Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid romp out to a Bolivian type army to get gunned down. The truly insane simple eat one of their last bullets.
By contrast, look at Columbine and other such events. These killers were made from years of being bullied. Not justifying this by any means, but such events did have some motive attached to them.
The Theatre in Colorado had no such things.
What made this 24 yr old male do what he did?
Speculation will abound on all networks as they clamor for deeper insight, producers aiming for huge ratings, scooping others, death for profit.
Welcome to the United States! We will turn any and all tragedy into a profit making venture. BECAUSE WE CAN!
James Holmes event eclipses me in the purest of life.
Lives were taken hugely. Birthdays shattered and scarred.
Yet, why did this happen?
I may eat my words on this: Did he do this to be the number one spree killer in the United States?
So much unlike predator serial killers like Bundy, Rameriez and Chikatilo, he did this as a singular showing in huge proportions.
My question is this: Will the United States find some absurd way of throwing this to some other country as as act of terrorsism?
I remember 911. the madness that took hold in my land. I remember the paranoia gripping many white persons to look twice at every corner store or 7-11. Casting grim shadows on those that had served them kindly for years. Posters crossing freeway overpasses exclaiming: Kill
All Arabs!
To find out several years later that my pwn counrty, the United States welcomed the and funded the very group that supposedly caused 9-11 to happen?
So many finanical ties between the SR Bush Admin and the Taliban and other areas of the same countries we waged war on.
Again, I sadly say this: Who, as a people, really give a fecal matter about who gets killed so long as it does not affect us in our day to day lives. Blindly believing free flowing media, hunkering down like frightened gerbils we hide.
Walk your road, I will walk mine. I pass no judgement for your thoughts. I do not care how you view or read mine. You have an opinion and will always respect this.
Like some bleach blond anorexic bitch in a Miss USA pagent: I WANT WORLD PEACE.
Mark William Darus 07212012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Tommy: Game of Hangman Part III
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!”
He releases a low growling sound.
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.
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!”
He releases a low growling sound.
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.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Three words given to me. Make me a story. Fiction. You rate this entry.
Three words asked of me to write about.
This was a result of someone pushing me where my mind is concerned. I told her give me just three words and I will close my eyes and give you an area, smell and sounds and give you a nicer dream.
Laying with her naked in bed, she sitting up and smoking a cig, she told me three words: Rope, spaghetti and turtle.
I gave her a tiny story she seemed happy with. This grew from that:
_____________________________________________________________
Annie awoke late afternoon on a stiffling, humid Saturday. Head throbbing from far too many whiskey sours and singing Shanya Twains tunes in her husbands bar with friends that lay wasted across her tan livingroom floor and dining room.
Smelling bacon in the distance like a mirage to the parched, instinct guide her to the kitchen.
Has snoring ever seemed so loud, she thought, placing slender palms to sides of her head.
What in the name of god did i drink last night, greying longish brown locks falling over shoulders,
Seeing his woman before him, never failing to get aroused by her pressence in front of him regardless of the decade plus they'd shared. Seeing her screwed up eyes and twisted face, asking her: " you got something against bacon?"
Please, lower voice.... stupid, yes, but did you m-make coffee?
Sitting on stool, puke not far from her throat, she eyes nearest wastebasket and its proximity
Husband at counter, cutting veggies to make omlets, tosses carelesly from blades edge a shard of celery. It hits to floor softly.
Peering out from under molding counters home, Tamara, seeing food for her children, weighs the odds. Sharp claws useless against tiles floors, both tail and neck extending, waiting to make her move.
Man embraces woman cradling head.
Scurrying out to grasp the shard of celery, reaching and biting hard for purchase, tiny eyes darting in all angles, heading back to home.
Children fed as the only pond around here is in the basement of these humans.
Hours later, hangover lesser and lesser pounding at temples, Annie hangs laundry on this hot Iowa day over flimsy clotheslines . Wearing sunglasses, more to elevate direct sunlight but more to kill last nights booze grip on her.
Her husband, wearing tight sweat covered blue tank top sees her from a distance. Gazing fondly at Annies erect nipples, knowing them well, endlessly wishing to kiss them more and more, love and emotions undying, each day, week, month or year. He walks towards her with both fire in his eye as his groin engorged.
Approaching her, knowing what he wants, she shuts him down flatly: Don’t even think about it, bucko! We got your family coming over here for dinner in no time and I have to cook. Tossing him a glance of possible later events if he helps her, she cocks her average body in ways inviting.
Later, family arrives and children begin to play about.
Laughter of children and adults intertwine harmoniously over subjects obscured by age and experience. Embraces whole heartedly felt, smiles shared, eyes meeting.
Annie says loudly, proudly : I did say bring a dish. All I made was Spag and Meatballs. Hubby’s got the beer and booze ready. There are two changing tents CLEARLY marked Male and Female for changing for the pool.
Chuckling, Annie states, At least wait til the kids sleep in tents before you people go nude in the pool. Be kind before you need to rewind…
Her husband sister yells, not even having so much as a beer yet: “Where’s the music?!?!?!?!.
Knowing his sisters whiny voice, he ’s hit’s the PLAY button: Milliseconds later, V V Brown’s Shark in the Water blares from JBL’s enveloping the massive deck, huge Jacuzzi and pool.
“Can I do anything? “ Gwen, Annies sister, asked her. Opening plate glass patio doors, smells of garlic, butter and onions holding her nose.
Hugging her sister a second time. Emotions higher, warmth rising, feeling more homeward with each passing second. Annie said: Thanks. You can watch the kids in the yard. Watch them around the tire-swing. I told him I worry about the rope…
Sister nods, Men are assholes.
Sisters embrace again. Tender moments exchanged.
Albeit slightly so before fierce instability takes hold.
Afternoon brightness romping quickly to lesser shades as strong yellow sunlight, like western gunfighters so eagerly ride horses, heading east to darkness.
White skies, yellow sharp below, diving toward the terminator. Reaching reds, orange going into water off a lake as light blues grow to sharper/ darker to Royal blues finally ending in a black star filled night.
Splashings in the pool, fragrances of BBQ’d ribs, steak and chicken, adult laughter from bad jokes spread. T’Pua: Heart and Soul thumps from the JBL’s. Family dancing on the deck, on the grounds, nude in the pool and hot-tub.
This families children all accounted for, playing both video and board games in the AC’d family room.
Annie, seeing her Seiko hit 930 pm on this summer, staggered to close the gates to the grounds.
Bears and wolves were known to these lands.
‘Watch this, “ Annies husband said, tossing left-overs from the higher reaches of the deck to the left of the pool. Tossing head back, turning toward his heart of hearts, seeing his beautiful woman in full, though slightly in inebriated view: I love you, Annie!
Swaying hips, tilting head, slowly moving toward, wearing a filmy tight fitting shift, Annie smiling walks to her man.
People dancing on the deck, lit by Tikki’s flittering light, moving.
Annie grabs her husband by the his hips, yanking him to hers.
Smiling, firmly kissing him on the lips, sucking him into her.
As he does her. Loving her more and more with each and every tightened muscle she spends on him.
A childs cry shrieks killing all silence, cutting peace of this night like a chainsaw to a living rabbit.
Audible SNAP! Is heard followed by a THUD as Akron tire whitewall and tiny child hit hard, sundried Earth.
Dark hollow, no longer sleeping not protecting hers, Tamara awakens abruptly.
Crying? Is this crying? I know this!
She glances towards hers, sleeping deeply, soundly unbothered.
Safe. Mine are.
Leaving safe lands known, Tamara walks.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” broken child cries as night walkers, eaters cover the areas behind Annies house.
Twin lights strolling cautiously across the dark landscape , the eyes of night flesh eaters cornering, closing, homing in.
“Fuck IT! IT All TASTES LIKE CHICKEN!” a wasted guy named Felix says, tossing all the Spag and meatballs out away to the far right.
Slowly, painfully, watching wolves and bear go to the side, she grabs at the tired that gave up a child.
Child sobbing, broken bones, tangled in mesh twinning’s.
Tamara’s sharp teeth clamp on unpleasing flavored nylon rope.
Pulling toward her lair, eyes looking at fierce creatures that would take them both out. Holding purpose, staying the course.
Moving.
Slowly.
Much effort spent, close enough for humans to take from her.
Annie reaches and take the child in her arms.
Tamara cocks head, meets Annies eyes showing amazement.
Drawing backward, ascending deck stairs, reaching her husbands desired embrace. Let’s leave the Snappers alone. Okay?
Amazed, tears running down strong cheeks, : Anything you say, darling….
The End: MWD07162012
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Like a song mentioned in this tale: VV Brown’s Shark in the Water.
This is my first total writing with nothing but three words to create from and complete in over twenty years.
This is total fiction on my part and am thankful for the challenge.
Thank you, Gretchen!
Mark William Darus 07162012
Tommy: Hangman, Part Two
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!”
Tuxedoed 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 abase 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.
Like the Creed song: Can you take me higher?
Mark William Darus 07162012.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Tommy: Game of Hangman: part one.
Tommy. Game of HangMan for real.
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 cufflinks, 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 Arian 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 inscents 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 sound 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 strobing, 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
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 cufflinks, 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 Arian 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 inscents 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 sound 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 strobing, 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
Thursday, July 12, 2012
186 miles per hour, guardrail airborne to a pastures redemption.
186 miles per hour, guardrail airborne to a pastures redemption.
Serina’s tale of whoa.
Pissed at a family with plastic words spewing never ending doubts from twisted mouths. Serina walks away from her family, fighting tears, look of ferocity, eyebrows aimed toward her tiny nose. Walking past the counter area, where single diners would congregate, heading the front exit. Passing the sign that reads: Maximum occupancy: 126, opening the outer door, warm summer breeze calling her to her bike.
The Lenny’s Restaurant adjacent to the Clearstratus Mall, a division of Southfield Malls, like so many other Lenny’s. Exterior booths, some holding 6 people with interior tables seating 4. Tacky paintings of fishermen, vague sunsets and mountain ranges, mixing with odors of burnt onions, overcooked cheese sticks and bad coffee.
Leaving this, embraced by summer evenings diving sun sometimes covered by lazy clouds, sounds of frogs beckoning mates, crickets chirping. To her, these nature calls mean serenity.
Serina mounts her trusty friend.
Verrrrr-ROOOOOM! Her Honda CBR750R growls to life. Tachometer hitting just under 9,000 RPM’s, halogen headlight lasering s single intense beam spotlighting the side of worn Uhaul truck with a fading picture of some Great Plains scene.
Raising her airbrushed Deathshead helmet with strong hands over crew cut blond hair. Seeing surroundings, green eyes blazing, before shrouded by polarized glass. Firmly planted on head, motorcycle in neutral, right hand competently grabbing throttle.
Verrrrrr-ROOOOM!
RPM’s going high, releasing clutch, taking off. Losing control halfway through cornering left as her back tire hits engine oil on black pavement. Wobbling violently too and fro, sobering event, she corrects front tire aim and shoots true exiting the parking lot onto 4 lane highway traffic.
Tightly fitting royal blue striped legs, placed astride powerful engine slightly shrouded by Cobalt fiberglass bodywork. Matching leather coat covering arms extended, passionate hands meeting handlebars.
Skin and bone mating with metal and plastic in the truest sense of man and beast.
Stopping at a red light, heat of her lover rising, enclosing her from the only thing that never screamed back to her except in acceptance.
Red convertible Ford Mustang next to her in the right lane, macho man with receding hairline and bleach blond bitch with over make-upped face glance over at her. Not quite a GT, though sporting an 8 banger smaller than that of a 5.0, throws out a meager 5000 RPM gasp. Overly bassed thumps of Judas Priest FreeWheel Burning with raspy treble vocals fill this crossroad.
Firing back, she gives them a hearty 9500, its menacing pitch causing heads to turn from her in the left lane. She was always left-laner. Never curb lane, as that is for losers.
Serina, in her element, laughing: Obviously this idiot has no clue of thrust to weight ratios…
Mustang redlining. Macho man and bleach bitch looking excited like those close to orgasm.
Throttling hard on her CBR750R, exhaust shrieking into the night.
Watching traffic light going yellow to cross traffic.
Engines pitching higher and higher. Anticipation reaching a point of pure acerbating madness.
Their light goes Green.
Macho jumps ahead of her.
BOOM! Huge plume of white smoke quickly follows Mustang as a right side piston smashes through the intake manifold, nearly piercing its candy apple red hood.
Glowing green eyes meet her laughing face as she leaves the line at no more than 25 MPH.
Pulling up her visor to meet them with unshielded eyes as she passed them. Another one bites the dust, she thought.
Purring into the lesser roads of traffic lights encumbering, she powers on as night smells and blurring trees greet her in natures welcome.
Leaning sharply into tight corners, blasting down straight-aways, keen eye looking for State Patrol, never looking into her rear view mirrors. Never looking backward.
Except in her own mind.
Serina had pissed off many in her small years on this planet, causing their indifference toward her. Her past, like that of William Tecumseh Sherman’s scorched earth march: burning bridges, fields and homes but with the closest of people that cared for her in loving fashion, leaving them frustrated and fuming in her wake.
I try. Each and every day I try so help me god. I know I say the wrong things, fall back on yesterdays failures I never seem to learn from and speak harshly in some attempt to make them listen. Yeah, I understand them, I just don’t understand myself and why I do what I do. Repeatedly.
Why can’t someone just kill me?
Cooler air from the denser array of green trees and grass, escaping the asphalt jungle, its tarred surfaces and concrete boring landscapes, the summer heat they hold, descending deeper into woods she rides.
Shit! She cries, braking hard as she passes something to her left side.
Rear tire locking up, smoking rubber creating whitish vapor, swerving to a halt.
Parking her bike aways from the road, removing helmet, shaken, she begins to walk toward what she saw.
Nature making wondrous spenders of the night: that of rustling trees louder without the din of constant daytime traffic, barn owls hooting, faint low-pitched growls of raccoons. Smell of fresh pine and other wooded inhabitants with the river scents doing what do each summer night appreciated by so few.
Reaching what had caught her eyes, she gasped, eyes displaying both concern and sorrow.
Dropping to leathered knees, she sent her right hand to the smashed and dying deer before her.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH, the failing doe exhaled with increasing repetition.
Oh, god! NO! Serina’s eyes shedding tears, stroking its head with sincerest of hearts to ease its suffering. NO! Damn….
Shattered doe, sad eyes shinning in full moon unclouded, meeting Serina’s eyes with fading night vision. Knowing, instinctively so, it was not alone now.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUHHUHHUHHUHHUH! Faster and faster, breath trying harder and harder to hold on to constantly slendering threads of life.
Falling tears like rain on a spring day reaching gushing volume, Serina’s heart falling deeper as this animal suffers on.
The doe’s crushed rib cage with once strong legs mangled, free flowing blood less and less with each fleeting pant. Thankfully, vultures sleeping, not circling to descend with hungry beaks darting at soon dead.
Words escaping quietly, softest of tones, whimpering a single prayer: Lord, take this deer to you. End its pain as someday you will do mine.
Stroking gently behind its ears, blond short hair casting halos to ceasing sight of the doe.
HUHUHUHUHUHUHUHhuh-huh-----huh-huh------hu… Final air spent, big brown eyes closing eternally, leaving this world forever.
Throwing herself to the dead animal under her, Serina lifting its head and holding it in her arms. Be at peace. Be at peace.
On her bike, placing helmet on head after calling 911 for animal control for no other reason than to not see the majestic animal to be eaten by predators. She fires up her Honda, leaving the scene as quietly as possible.
Miles passing endlessly over hours that reach brilliant sunrise in another State. Cornfields rising in colour, hay fields growing in gold hues, hints of morning dew meeting the steady purr of her bike. The moon vanishing as quickly as it greeted her.
Long straight line, yanking on throttle. The increasing whine of last gear ascending in tone. Faster and faster as the shebike pumped power.
Mind spinning endlessly of her latest travel took her beyond. No control over its thinking. Wandering soul, endlessly trying and falling short. Memories, damned memories and relations that like herself never truly change.
Box turtle trundling to pond on yonder side of road, seeking even temperature and good feeding ground.
Sound, blaring sound, louder and louder still. Hiding into safe harbor of its shell. The turtle pulls quickly in.
She hits to turtle at 186 MPH. Losing control in a very physical world, bike pitching and yawing massively, heaving her from its power.
Serina goes airborne, arms flailing out like an untrained bird in a massive crosswind.
Flying over wooden fence, barely clearing an electrified cattle holder, mind cart wheeling insanely.
Hitting Earth, bouncing several times as she slows down, leather friction translating to flesh with growing heat.
Fourth, fifth bounce? She does not remember until the final impact stops her suddenly.
Am I dead? Odd smells with no memory meet her as the sun mounts the morning sky.
Lying there, stunned.
Dying like the deer on the road hours earlier, feeling helpless.
“You took a tumble, didn’t you English?”
Serina, barely able to look up, taking stock of both limbs and life support. Do fingers move? YES! Do hands and legs work? YES! Neck broken? NO!
Dazed green eyes look up and meet the voice.
“My wife didn’t want me to put this here. Glad I did.”
Shit, she is smelling shit. She stands, not knowing how she can even do this after such an accident. A pile cow shit she has risen from, she glances down.
Looking at Mr. Yoder, an Amish man in traditional garb, realizing where she landed.
God, she thought. How am I still alive?
“You must be hungry, are you?” smiling all the while, happy for this miracle before him.
Starving! You have no idea…
“c’mon to breakfast then! No better food than my wife's here or anywhere else.”
Shaking less and less, she tells him thanks.
Do you need a farm hand? I’d like to work for what I eat.
“Farm hand? No. Got many for that. But you are welcome. If a hand is what you be, than God will make it so.”
Serina, months later, after working the land, feeling reborn again in a world she never dreamt of, contacting her family who would drive to meet her once again. Wondering what Serina is into now, they coursed the roads of farmlands and brick making companies.
Pulling onto dirt road, no major expectations but liking cheese very much. Brown clouds behind them like a smoke screen. “I’m gonna need a serious car wash after this trip!” Sister said loudly.
They parked and exited their vehicle/
Sheep BAHHING, tiny piglets snorting happily as they romped about, tails quickly wagging, cows mooing. Fresh bread baking, rich, full smells of handmade glory that nowadays never greet the urban world.
Serina, standing taller than ever before, runs to them as happiness fills her face, touches her eyes with arms outstretched to greet them.
Teary embraces. Her telling the story of her absence from them, the deer and landing where she did.
Feast, a grand feast of fresh beef, potatoes, raw goats milk and bread fill bellies as stories shared and hours pass like various fields rise rapidly in summer warmth and sunlight. Smiles and laughs creating accidental yet harmonious chords. Sharing without sarcasm.
Thanks given to Serina’s extended family, hugs given, happy faces exchanged.
Embracing Serina. Serina’s heart feeling sense of place, peace and acceptance from both worlds. Strong arms she gathers them, scoops them against her body.
Contentment: Family united as God wanted.
Thanking the Yoder family before they left, Mr Yoder walked to their car, adjusting suspenders as he always did after mealtime, long white beard moving with gentle breeze.
“ya English! Sometimes yuh have tfall into a pile of cowdung to come out smelling like a rose.” huge smile, raising hand in their soon departure.
Blank looks transcended into deeper understanding of an old saying. Ease and comfort meeting faces as the vehicles passengers truly to hold of its simple meaning.
Serina’s sister, driving away in a White Chevy Suburban, stared into the rear view mirror as her sisters image grew smaller, Serina wearing a pale blue dress with no accessories to display individuality. A sister she had prayed she’d meet and never thought she would.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note:
I cannot express thanks enough for the sharing to make this entry happen.. I still shake my head in disbelief after meeting the sister, Amish-adopting father and Serina on a too hot county road in SugarCreek Ohio in the summer of 2012.
Corn having a hard time climbing in drought conditions, yet cows doing quite well in fields brown grasses feeding, their milk making greatest of cheeses.
I broke bread and shared as they did with me.
Communion of differing lifestyles.
I think of the blessings my higher power has given me. I question not as it tells me to read emails, talk on the phone and take road <albeit, sometimes Rogue> trips.
This life's juggling does not come easy, but it is not without reward and it leads to Another Life unknown to me.
Highest regards,
Mark William Darus 07/12/2012
Serina’s tale of whoa.
Pissed at a family with plastic words spewing never ending doubts from twisted mouths. Serina walks away from her family, fighting tears, look of ferocity, eyebrows aimed toward her tiny nose. Walking past the counter area, where single diners would congregate, heading the front exit. Passing the sign that reads: Maximum occupancy: 126, opening the outer door, warm summer breeze calling her to her bike.
The Lenny’s Restaurant adjacent to the Clearstratus Mall, a division of Southfield Malls, like so many other Lenny’s. Exterior booths, some holding 6 people with interior tables seating 4. Tacky paintings of fishermen, vague sunsets and mountain ranges, mixing with odors of burnt onions, overcooked cheese sticks and bad coffee.
Leaving this, embraced by summer evenings diving sun sometimes covered by lazy clouds, sounds of frogs beckoning mates, crickets chirping. To her, these nature calls mean serenity.
Serina mounts her trusty friend.
Verrrrr-ROOOOOM! Her Honda CBR750R growls to life. Tachometer hitting just under 9,000 RPM’s, halogen headlight lasering s single intense beam spotlighting the side of worn Uhaul truck with a fading picture of some Great Plains scene.
Raising her airbrushed Deathshead helmet with strong hands over crew cut blond hair. Seeing surroundings, green eyes blazing, before shrouded by polarized glass. Firmly planted on head, motorcycle in neutral, right hand competently grabbing throttle.
Verrrrrr-ROOOOM!
RPM’s going high, releasing clutch, taking off. Losing control halfway through cornering left as her back tire hits engine oil on black pavement. Wobbling violently too and fro, sobering event, she corrects front tire aim and shoots true exiting the parking lot onto 4 lane highway traffic.
Tightly fitting royal blue striped legs, placed astride powerful engine slightly shrouded by Cobalt fiberglass bodywork. Matching leather coat covering arms extended, passionate hands meeting handlebars.
Skin and bone mating with metal and plastic in the truest sense of man and beast.
Stopping at a red light, heat of her lover rising, enclosing her from the only thing that never screamed back to her except in acceptance.
Red convertible Ford Mustang next to her in the right lane, macho man with receding hairline and bleach blond bitch with over make-upped face glance over at her. Not quite a GT, though sporting an 8 banger smaller than that of a 5.0, throws out a meager 5000 RPM gasp. Overly bassed thumps of Judas Priest FreeWheel Burning with raspy treble vocals fill this crossroad.
Firing back, she gives them a hearty 9500, its menacing pitch causing heads to turn from her in the left lane. She was always left-laner. Never curb lane, as that is for losers.
Serina, in her element, laughing: Obviously this idiot has no clue of thrust to weight ratios…
Mustang redlining. Macho man and bleach bitch looking excited like those close to orgasm.
Throttling hard on her CBR750R, exhaust shrieking into the night.
Watching traffic light going yellow to cross traffic.
Engines pitching higher and higher. Anticipation reaching a point of pure acerbating madness.
Their light goes Green.
Macho jumps ahead of her.
BOOM! Huge plume of white smoke quickly follows Mustang as a right side piston smashes through the intake manifold, nearly piercing its candy apple red hood.
Glowing green eyes meet her laughing face as she leaves the line at no more than 25 MPH.
Pulling up her visor to meet them with unshielded eyes as she passed them. Another one bites the dust, she thought.
Purring into the lesser roads of traffic lights encumbering, she powers on as night smells and blurring trees greet her in natures welcome.
Leaning sharply into tight corners, blasting down straight-aways, keen eye looking for State Patrol, never looking into her rear view mirrors. Never looking backward.
Except in her own mind.
Serina had pissed off many in her small years on this planet, causing their indifference toward her. Her past, like that of William Tecumseh Sherman’s scorched earth march: burning bridges, fields and homes but with the closest of people that cared for her in loving fashion, leaving them frustrated and fuming in her wake.
I try. Each and every day I try so help me god. I know I say the wrong things, fall back on yesterdays failures I never seem to learn from and speak harshly in some attempt to make them listen. Yeah, I understand them, I just don’t understand myself and why I do what I do. Repeatedly.
Why can’t someone just kill me?
Cooler air from the denser array of green trees and grass, escaping the asphalt jungle, its tarred surfaces and concrete boring landscapes, the summer heat they hold, descending deeper into woods she rides.
Shit! She cries, braking hard as she passes something to her left side.
Rear tire locking up, smoking rubber creating whitish vapor, swerving to a halt.
Parking her bike aways from the road, removing helmet, shaken, she begins to walk toward what she saw.
Nature making wondrous spenders of the night: that of rustling trees louder without the din of constant daytime traffic, barn owls hooting, faint low-pitched growls of raccoons. Smell of fresh pine and other wooded inhabitants with the river scents doing what do each summer night appreciated by so few.
Reaching what had caught her eyes, she gasped, eyes displaying both concern and sorrow.
Dropping to leathered knees, she sent her right hand to the smashed and dying deer before her.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH, the failing doe exhaled with increasing repetition.
Oh, god! NO! Serina’s eyes shedding tears, stroking its head with sincerest of hearts to ease its suffering. NO! Damn….
Shattered doe, sad eyes shinning in full moon unclouded, meeting Serina’s eyes with fading night vision. Knowing, instinctively so, it was not alone now.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUHHUHHUHHUHHUH! Faster and faster, breath trying harder and harder to hold on to constantly slendering threads of life.
Falling tears like rain on a spring day reaching gushing volume, Serina’s heart falling deeper as this animal suffers on.
The doe’s crushed rib cage with once strong legs mangled, free flowing blood less and less with each fleeting pant. Thankfully, vultures sleeping, not circling to descend with hungry beaks darting at soon dead.
Words escaping quietly, softest of tones, whimpering a single prayer: Lord, take this deer to you. End its pain as someday you will do mine.
Stroking gently behind its ears, blond short hair casting halos to ceasing sight of the doe.
HUHUHUHUHUHUHUHhuh-huh-----huh-huh------hu… Final air spent, big brown eyes closing eternally, leaving this world forever.
Throwing herself to the dead animal under her, Serina lifting its head and holding it in her arms. Be at peace. Be at peace.
On her bike, placing helmet on head after calling 911 for animal control for no other reason than to not see the majestic animal to be eaten by predators. She fires up her Honda, leaving the scene as quietly as possible.
Miles passing endlessly over hours that reach brilliant sunrise in another State. Cornfields rising in colour, hay fields growing in gold hues, hints of morning dew meeting the steady purr of her bike. The moon vanishing as quickly as it greeted her.
Long straight line, yanking on throttle. The increasing whine of last gear ascending in tone. Faster and faster as the shebike pumped power.
Mind spinning endlessly of her latest travel took her beyond. No control over its thinking. Wandering soul, endlessly trying and falling short. Memories, damned memories and relations that like herself never truly change.
Box turtle trundling to pond on yonder side of road, seeking even temperature and good feeding ground.
Sound, blaring sound, louder and louder still. Hiding into safe harbor of its shell. The turtle pulls quickly in.
She hits to turtle at 186 MPH. Losing control in a very physical world, bike pitching and yawing massively, heaving her from its power.
Serina goes airborne, arms flailing out like an untrained bird in a massive crosswind.
Flying over wooden fence, barely clearing an electrified cattle holder, mind cart wheeling insanely.
Hitting Earth, bouncing several times as she slows down, leather friction translating to flesh with growing heat.
Fourth, fifth bounce? She does not remember until the final impact stops her suddenly.
Am I dead? Odd smells with no memory meet her as the sun mounts the morning sky.
Lying there, stunned.
Dying like the deer on the road hours earlier, feeling helpless.
“You took a tumble, didn’t you English?”
Serina, barely able to look up, taking stock of both limbs and life support. Do fingers move? YES! Do hands and legs work? YES! Neck broken? NO!
Dazed green eyes look up and meet the voice.
“My wife didn’t want me to put this here. Glad I did.”
Shit, she is smelling shit. She stands, not knowing how she can even do this after such an accident. A pile cow shit she has risen from, she glances down.
Looking at Mr. Yoder, an Amish man in traditional garb, realizing where she landed.
God, she thought. How am I still alive?
“You must be hungry, are you?” smiling all the while, happy for this miracle before him.
Starving! You have no idea…
“c’mon to breakfast then! No better food than my wife's here or anywhere else.”
Shaking less and less, she tells him thanks.
Do you need a farm hand? I’d like to work for what I eat.
“Farm hand? No. Got many for that. But you are welcome. If a hand is what you be, than God will make it so.”
Serina, months later, after working the land, feeling reborn again in a world she never dreamt of, contacting her family who would drive to meet her once again. Wondering what Serina is into now, they coursed the roads of farmlands and brick making companies.
Pulling onto dirt road, no major expectations but liking cheese very much. Brown clouds behind them like a smoke screen. “I’m gonna need a serious car wash after this trip!” Sister said loudly.
They parked and exited their vehicle/
Sheep BAHHING, tiny piglets snorting happily as they romped about, tails quickly wagging, cows mooing. Fresh bread baking, rich, full smells of handmade glory that nowadays never greet the urban world.
Serina, standing taller than ever before, runs to them as happiness fills her face, touches her eyes with arms outstretched to greet them.
Teary embraces. Her telling the story of her absence from them, the deer and landing where she did.
Feast, a grand feast of fresh beef, potatoes, raw goats milk and bread fill bellies as stories shared and hours pass like various fields rise rapidly in summer warmth and sunlight. Smiles and laughs creating accidental yet harmonious chords. Sharing without sarcasm.
Thanks given to Serina’s extended family, hugs given, happy faces exchanged.
Embracing Serina. Serina’s heart feeling sense of place, peace and acceptance from both worlds. Strong arms she gathers them, scoops them against her body.
Contentment: Family united as God wanted.
Thanking the Yoder family before they left, Mr Yoder walked to their car, adjusting suspenders as he always did after mealtime, long white beard moving with gentle breeze.
“ya English! Sometimes yuh have tfall into a pile of cowdung to come out smelling like a rose.” huge smile, raising hand in their soon departure.
Blank looks transcended into deeper understanding of an old saying. Ease and comfort meeting faces as the vehicles passengers truly to hold of its simple meaning.
Serina’s sister, driving away in a White Chevy Suburban, stared into the rear view mirror as her sisters image grew smaller, Serina wearing a pale blue dress with no accessories to display individuality. A sister she had prayed she’d meet and never thought she would.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note:
I cannot express thanks enough for the sharing to make this entry happen.. I still shake my head in disbelief after meeting the sister, Amish-adopting father and Serina on a too hot county road in SugarCreek Ohio in the summer of 2012.
Corn having a hard time climbing in drought conditions, yet cows doing quite well in fields brown grasses feeding, their milk making greatest of cheeses.
I broke bread and shared as they did with me.
Communion of differing lifestyles.
I think of the blessings my higher power has given me. I question not as it tells me to read emails, talk on the phone and take road <albeit, sometimes Rogue> trips.
This life's juggling does not come easy, but it is not without reward and it leads to Another Life unknown to me.
Highest regards,
Mark William Darus 07/12/2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Giving up on a daughter: Dominoes falling.
Dominoes Falling.
Covering ass when all else fails
I looked out from the back porch of my house, all seems clear, opening screen door. Whiffs of morning, dewy air great with odors of dogshit. Man of near 50, balding and just above earlobes graying to brown locks, brown eyes behind tiny facial glass, ventures out to his backyard.
“yeah, fine, go to your job! What have I got: NOTHING! NOTHING! None of you taught me anything!” the brunette blond with various tats shrieked at him in unending statements as vloume reached fever pitch.
Good morning, Rachel, he met her yells with an even flow of tone and volume. Being down this oneway road many years now , wishing to just great a day in peace, he walks toward his dark grey Chevy Trailblazer after unlocking his failing back gate.
“Yeah, RUN AWAY! JUST GO!” a can, perhaps a branch gets heaved at his car by a slender 28 year old, his eldest daughter, hitting off his windshield, flying over.
Locking gate, he goes along his routine as he has done for over 17 years.
Rachels screams and hurlings becoming a thing of the past with each tenth of a mile his digital odometer clocks.
Buzz Lightyear, to here and Beyond, he quips, avoiding the crackheads with hard left wheel pulls, avoiding desperate humanity, diving in front of his truck, goes about his way.
Trailblazer steadying as he delicately rolls her back into groove, engine humming at 2000 RPMs, he rides toward his morning coffee fix.
Going thru his day, taking calls, aiding those in his job, helping callers with billings snafus or areas similar. Having one single purpose in this day: Get his daughter arrested before he loses everything he has ever worked for. He does this cold-heartedly yet with hopes his daughters arrest might bring about change for her.
He is a failure where she is concerned and can finally acknowledge this after over ten years of trying beyond her eighteenth birthday.
She cannot hold down a job, she cannot make appointments to Free Clinics to get help yet can get herself to the seediest areas of Cleveland to be the devourers that she thinks friends.
Stupid white badgirl wannable, continuously never learning and repeating past mistakes, much like her father that keeps having hopes she would someday learn, thrusting into blind alleys of that fading, happiest of dreams. She goes unfettered to lands of comfort.
As her father plots her downfall.
This man is stupid. One cannot say ignorant as everyone in Rachels family warned him and stopped consulting with her long ago on regular basis. He trundles through his day as he has countless times ago. Keeping some failing hope in humanity he continuously tried.
Realizing sincerest of failure, taking deepest of gulps of humiliating bitterness, he leaves work.
Thirty minute drive to place he needs to go, emotionlessly knowing what is best for his daughter.
Straightfaced, head held high, opening glass door, Gander Mountain hat on his balding head, he walks to front desk.
“Your business here?” an officer greets him with a voice less than that of some drone in a bad B-movie.
Wish to meet your watch Commander or better yet, a Detective. Man of too even tone and facial expression says to the Officer behind thick glass.
The drone says flatly: you here to report a car crash, dog barking? What?”:
I’m here to narc out my daughter.
“why,”
She’s selling pot to minors, smoking up with them and making the other side of my house little other than Meth-Lab_Central.
About two minutes passes by, a Detective walks out to greet him.
Knowing this man, they extend hands and shake.
What’s going on?
My daughter is both selling drugs, pot, or allowing them to be done on the other side of my house as they do so.
Good you came here. What’s the address?
Numbers and street name given, in emotionless tone.
Mark, some kid gave her up a day ago. Busted his sorry ass for shoplifting. Mark, I will note you came here and express your concerns.
Looking down at scuffed tile, Mark, said coldly: Just get her out of my life! I failed like others that stopped talking to her. They warned me and I did not listen.
Within a few days, Rachel made herself a target and was arrested.
Going to work without hindrance and slightly tainted conscious, he went to work knowing coming home would be less stressful.
Blue officer inquires why he trough his daughter in front of a bus.
Blank, dark to black eyes looking forward, coldly saying: Bus? Nope, tossed her ass infront of a freightrain off Bagley road.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Is this of personal vein or is it not. You decide.
I will not condone dealing to minors.
The worst kind of predator possible is one that makes the seriously younger have an addiction. Regardless of what that addiction is, they do deserved to be Narc’d on.
Mark William Darus 07092012
Covering ass when all else fails
I looked out from the back porch of my house, all seems clear, opening screen door. Whiffs of morning, dewy air great with odors of dogshit. Man of near 50, balding and just above earlobes graying to brown locks, brown eyes behind tiny facial glass, ventures out to his backyard.
“yeah, fine, go to your job! What have I got: NOTHING! NOTHING! None of you taught me anything!” the brunette blond with various tats shrieked at him in unending statements as vloume reached fever pitch.
Good morning, Rachel, he met her yells with an even flow of tone and volume. Being down this oneway road many years now , wishing to just great a day in peace, he walks toward his dark grey Chevy Trailblazer after unlocking his failing back gate.
“Yeah, RUN AWAY! JUST GO!” a can, perhaps a branch gets heaved at his car by a slender 28 year old, his eldest daughter, hitting off his windshield, flying over.
Locking gate, he goes along his routine as he has done for over 17 years.
Rachels screams and hurlings becoming a thing of the past with each tenth of a mile his digital odometer clocks.
Buzz Lightyear, to here and Beyond, he quips, avoiding the crackheads with hard left wheel pulls, avoiding desperate humanity, diving in front of his truck, goes about his way.
Trailblazer steadying as he delicately rolls her back into groove, engine humming at 2000 RPMs, he rides toward his morning coffee fix.
Going thru his day, taking calls, aiding those in his job, helping callers with billings snafus or areas similar. Having one single purpose in this day: Get his daughter arrested before he loses everything he has ever worked for. He does this cold-heartedly yet with hopes his daughters arrest might bring about change for her.
He is a failure where she is concerned and can finally acknowledge this after over ten years of trying beyond her eighteenth birthday.
She cannot hold down a job, she cannot make appointments to Free Clinics to get help yet can get herself to the seediest areas of Cleveland to be the devourers that she thinks friends.
Stupid white badgirl wannable, continuously never learning and repeating past mistakes, much like her father that keeps having hopes she would someday learn, thrusting into blind alleys of that fading, happiest of dreams. She goes unfettered to lands of comfort.
As her father plots her downfall.
This man is stupid. One cannot say ignorant as everyone in Rachels family warned him and stopped consulting with her long ago on regular basis. He trundles through his day as he has countless times ago. Keeping some failing hope in humanity he continuously tried.
Realizing sincerest of failure, taking deepest of gulps of humiliating bitterness, he leaves work.
Thirty minute drive to place he needs to go, emotionlessly knowing what is best for his daughter.
Straightfaced, head held high, opening glass door, Gander Mountain hat on his balding head, he walks to front desk.
“Your business here?” an officer greets him with a voice less than that of some drone in a bad B-movie.
Wish to meet your watch Commander or better yet, a Detective. Man of too even tone and facial expression says to the Officer behind thick glass.
The drone says flatly: you here to report a car crash, dog barking? What?”:
I’m here to narc out my daughter.
“why,”
She’s selling pot to minors, smoking up with them and making the other side of my house little other than Meth-Lab_Central.
About two minutes passes by, a Detective walks out to greet him.
Knowing this man, they extend hands and shake.
What’s going on?
My daughter is both selling drugs, pot, or allowing them to be done on the other side of my house as they do so.
Good you came here. What’s the address?
Numbers and street name given, in emotionless tone.
Mark, some kid gave her up a day ago. Busted his sorry ass for shoplifting. Mark, I will note you came here and express your concerns.
Looking down at scuffed tile, Mark, said coldly: Just get her out of my life! I failed like others that stopped talking to her. They warned me and I did not listen.
Within a few days, Rachel made herself a target and was arrested.
Going to work without hindrance and slightly tainted conscious, he went to work knowing coming home would be less stressful.
Blue officer inquires why he trough his daughter in front of a bus.
Blank, dark to black eyes looking forward, coldly saying: Bus? Nope, tossed her ass infront of a freightrain off Bagley road.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Is this of personal vein or is it not. You decide.
I will not condone dealing to minors.
The worst kind of predator possible is one that makes the seriously younger have an addiction. Regardless of what that addiction is, they do deserved to be Narc’d on.
Mark William Darus 07092012
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