Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Words for Mercenaries: Le Club Casanova Pt. One
Words for Mercenaries: Le Club Casanova Pt. One: "comment ca va?" How are you doing? Cajun: "Tout ko mwen c...
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Libation
 |
Cheers |
Do they have Aliester Crowley on tap?
I'll take Kansas City Boulevard
and pass on the trannies.
I'll take Miller
and I won't talk to your friend, Miller.
I'll swim in champagne
and play with the bubbles
like your mothers warned against.
I'll drink the father of stouts,
a Guinness, with your Dad.
I'll take Blue Ribbon. It's cheap.
Like your mother.
I don't expect to win anything.
I'll have a glass of wine
and smile when you're ablush...and red.
No, I won't pay for a tab and your drinks.
I don't have that many friends.
And I imbibe with circumspection.
I like to have one drink tastefully and leave.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Waiting Room
"Alone in the dark with nothing but your thoughts, time can draw out like a blade"
- The Shawshank Redemption
Jack sat twiddling his thumbs in a very constricting space, so constricting everything and his nuts shrank with it. The experience worsened by every step and the adage, "baby steps counts," didn't assuage the realities as he trudged closer and closer to his goal. He'd walked into the downtown police station, tripping on his own stride, trembling against a light breeze, and even managed in his mortification to emit a few sheepish, dainty farts. He eyed the facade askance and then very carefully trying to summon some self imposed relief before entering. It was an intimidating and ominous experience. The men in blue were no small feat. No one likes a cop by sheer instinct - not even a law abiding citizen like himself despite his recent inadvertent complicity in a crime. Suffice it to say he was fifty percent law abiding. The other fifty percent was subject to grey matter comprised of opinions, conjecture, and foregone conclusions the world over and unbeknownst to Jack who seemingly couldn't give a healthy shit or two on a well fed stomach.
He was greeted by officer Doyle, an affable man but equally stern given the circumstances. The chivalrous police officer opened the door for his ladyship to a gravely furnished space, to stale air, brick walls, a fiber wood table, a foldout chair, and bid him sit and wait with his tail between his legs, flaccid and just not very encouraging whatsoever. The room was smaller than an 8x10 cell. He sat in their for an hour staring into Styrofoam cup of coffee. It was no good. He looked for the characteristic swirl in the bean that says it's good. Any barista would tell you of the quality. Would a police station? Jack thought otherwise. He dipped his finger into it and was decidedly loathe to taste it. He did any way and flinched. He gingerly put it aside and stared up at the ceiling and from side to side at the walls. He could envision claw marks from desperate hands in this room, people with a hopeless case, officers having to pin down an irate occupant, interrogation, the works.
The reason Jack had arrived at his current state was because an association had purloined money from his account, only about eight hundred dollars, pocket change to most of his rich friends, but it was a matter of principle. For a starving sonofabitch with dreams it was a big chunk out of his savings. He heard the cops talking uproariously outside the room.
Doyle: "I don't see how this happened to the kid! He would have literally needed to give him the card. Jack in his eavesdropping understood that in fact he did give the oaf his card because he could legally obtain beer and cigarettes! It was an amateurish partnership at best.
Partner: " That's probably what happened. As a matter of fact I guarantee it."
The eaves dropping gave Jack no hope. He was getting the fear again. He folded his hands and drifted away. Doyle walked in with a grave expression. He held a prosecution form in his hand, his uniform had a straight gig line and everything. This man was a beast. Jack was going to be very careful about how he reacted.
"Kid, the way I see it, this bastard is pretty clever. Now, you have a choice. You can sign this prosecution form and put him away for ten to twenty years."
Jack wasn't anxious at the idea of condemnation. He trembled and inwardly debated. "I can't do it," he blurted out. The cop's countenance glazed over with a couplet of incredulity and exasperation. "Kid, don't be a damn fool! You can do this and save yourself."
"I can't condemn any body."
"Kid, the universe doesn't care about you much less the people in it! You have to take action in its despite. Kid, this person stole eight hundred dollars from you. I'm a father, a husband, and a full time police officer. I don't have anything like that in my bank account. You still have a chance! Take it ya damn fool and think about who you associate with from now on."
"No. I can't condemn any one."
"You condemn yourself!"
"No."
Jack pushed the sheet of paper toward Doyle who sighed and who was about to cut a fart he so tight. Jack knew that he could still get his money back from the bank. However, there were some holes in his story. He was to a degree complicit in a story he was going to forgo gracing the indignant officer. Doyle stared at Jack. If the cop didn't know better he would've slapped Jack like some self righteous cop in the throes of passion in an exaggerated movie or television series. Doyle handed him a second sheet of paper, the prosecution refusal form. Jack signed it with some alacrity and ran from the station with the wind beneath his ass.
_____
A year had elapsed and Jack heard no tell or smoke from the perfidious associate who swindled him. He was in the waiting room again, his room adjoined to those of his annoying room mates. He looked at his dinosaur of a Myspace account. No one ever left him any messages. He was about to delete his profile. The quisling left him the message:
Hey, man, I went to college, got my shit straightened out. I'm an EMT now and raising my three children in my own apartment. How're you doing, dude?
Jack felt pain and the want to forgive but he replied with aggression. He left the message:
"Hey, from now on your ass belongs to me. If I found out you're up to your old tricks, I'll brake your fuckin' legs my self"
Quisling: "No, I need my legs. Please let me keep them."
- The Shawshank Redemption
Jack sat twiddling his thumbs in a very constricting space, so constricting everything and his nuts shrank with it. The experience worsened by every step and the adage, "baby steps counts," didn't assuage the realities as he trudged closer and closer to his goal. He'd walked into the downtown police station, tripping on his own stride, trembling against a light breeze, and even managed in his mortification to emit a few sheepish, dainty farts. He eyed the facade askance and then very carefully trying to summon some self imposed relief before entering. It was an intimidating and ominous experience. The men in blue were no small feat. No one likes a cop by sheer instinct - not even a law abiding citizen like himself despite his recent inadvertent complicity in a crime. Suffice it to say he was fifty percent law abiding. The other fifty percent was subject to grey matter comprised of opinions, conjecture, and foregone conclusions the world over and unbeknownst to Jack who seemingly couldn't give a healthy shit or two on a well fed stomach.
He was greeted by officer Doyle, an affable man but equally stern given the circumstances. The chivalrous police officer opened the door for his ladyship to a gravely furnished space, to stale air, brick walls, a fiber wood table, a foldout chair, and bid him sit and wait with his tail between his legs, flaccid and just not very encouraging whatsoever. The room was smaller than an 8x10 cell. He sat in their for an hour staring into Styrofoam cup of coffee. It was no good. He looked for the characteristic swirl in the bean that says it's good. Any barista would tell you of the quality. Would a police station? Jack thought otherwise. He dipped his finger into it and was decidedly loathe to taste it. He did any way and flinched. He gingerly put it aside and stared up at the ceiling and from side to side at the walls. He could envision claw marks from desperate hands in this room, people with a hopeless case, officers having to pin down an irate occupant, interrogation, the works.
The reason Jack had arrived at his current state was because an association had purloined money from his account, only about eight hundred dollars, pocket change to most of his rich friends, but it was a matter of principle. For a starving sonofabitch with dreams it was a big chunk out of his savings. He heard the cops talking uproariously outside the room.
Doyle: "I don't see how this happened to the kid! He would have literally needed to give him the card. Jack in his eavesdropping understood that in fact he did give the oaf his card because he could legally obtain beer and cigarettes! It was an amateurish partnership at best.
Partner: " That's probably what happened. As a matter of fact I guarantee it."
"Kid, the way I see it, this bastard is pretty clever. Now, you have a choice. You can sign this prosecution form and put him away for ten to twenty years."
Jack wasn't anxious at the idea of condemnation. He trembled and inwardly debated. "I can't do it," he blurted out. The cop's countenance glazed over with a couplet of incredulity and exasperation. "Kid, don't be a damn fool! You can do this and save yourself."
"I can't condemn any body."
"Kid, the universe doesn't care about you much less the people in it! You have to take action in its despite. Kid, this person stole eight hundred dollars from you. I'm a father, a husband, and a full time police officer. I don't have anything like that in my bank account. You still have a chance! Take it ya damn fool and think about who you associate with from now on."
"No. I can't condemn any one."
"You condemn yourself!"
"No."
Jack pushed the sheet of paper toward Doyle who sighed and who was about to cut a fart he so tight. Jack knew that he could still get his money back from the bank. However, there were some holes in his story. He was to a degree complicit in a story he was going to forgo gracing the indignant officer. Doyle stared at Jack. If the cop didn't know better he would've slapped Jack like some self righteous cop in the throes of passion in an exaggerated movie or television series. Doyle handed him a second sheet of paper, the prosecution refusal form. Jack signed it with some alacrity and ran from the station with the wind beneath his ass.
_____
A year had elapsed and Jack heard no tell or smoke from the perfidious associate who swindled him. He was in the waiting room again, his room adjoined to those of his annoying room mates. He looked at his dinosaur of a Myspace account. No one ever left him any messages. He was about to delete his profile. The quisling left him the message:
Hey, man, I went to college, got my shit straightened out. I'm an EMT now and raising my three children in my own apartment. How're you doing, dude?
Jack felt pain and the want to forgive but he replied with aggression. He left the message:
"Hey, from now on your ass belongs to me. If I found out you're up to your old tricks, I'll brake your fuckin' legs my self"
Quisling: "No, I need my legs. Please let me keep them."
End
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