Thursday, November 24, 2011

Chapter 5: BIG BRIDGE (Excerpt from Killer of Killers)

It's morning and the sky is pinkish, the tear in the sky orange and speckled magenta. It is magnificent. I can't remember my dreams. I've apparently been sleeping against a mossy tree for some time. Next to me is my supplies, the double, knife and mutt included. Dillinger is just awakenening as well, with the necessary routine of yawns and stretches. Flashes of last night and the fake young girl. A smile overwhelms my face. I gently push my hand down my jeans and feel that I'm still a touch touchy. Dillinger looks hungry, so we eat some more of the jerky. I take in a deep breath and am hit with the urge to snuff. I like it best in the early morning. The colors keep willowing as they burn brighter and brighter. The witch or the young girl is gone. The fountain is dried up and deeply cracked. Vines are dead. Woofers patrolling in the distance. Two seperate packs from the howls. Dillinger looks into the expanse, standing proudly, wanting to know more about what he hears. I snap out of my daze and stand up ready to push ahead to Tully's.

Two tucked toots as we further ourselves.

The rest of Chinichillia Vento is calm, only the horrible birds to edge me. They drift along with their nightmare mouths and they look at you from their high perches as you pass. Screaming to alert the others of a weakness or threat of any sort. They always seem to be smiling. They are the top of the food chain around here.

I make it to the big bridge before the pink has even redened. The tear blemishes the natural sky like a captured flicker of fire, by now stretching across half of it. It's been a time since the last tear, maybe it's stopping.

The big bridge is scattered with burnt-out autos with their melted rubbers. Searching them would be pointless. I'm uncomfortable being in the open like this, so I'm walking briskly. The air is crisp, cutting in from the sea. Dillinger is practically galloping, he's excited to see so much water. He loves to swim. I hate this bridge because there might be snipers, or bombers. I remember snorting two squares of some of the dirtiest brown snuff I ever had under another giant bridge with Ramananda. I was never scared with that kid around. I wish Ram was still alive.

Dillinger stops to lift his leg and it strikes me as a good idea. I watch my stream of piss break apart on it's descent down to the bay. The drop-off dizzies me. Down in the water I can see a massive figure swaying along rythmically. I see hundreds of fins that run in parallel lines. Electricity is bouncing all over it in subtle hops. It lets out a deep moan that shakes the world and another responds somewhere far away. From the piece of it I can make out I'd say it's bigger than this entire bridge. Dillinger is squeaking at it. I tell him we need to keep moving and so we do.

I pass families of the melted, some with melted dogs. I always feel worse about the dogs.

Almost to the end now a large man steps out at the end of the bridge with an axe over his shoulder. With him is a bald woman with an uzi trained on me. I think these two will underestimate me, so I continue towards them without slowing. When I am within twenty feet the large man yells, "HAULT!"

His voice booms through the air. It made Dillinger sit down in place. I remain motionless. He continues, "everything you've got son, or your going over. The mutt as well."

Whether he means the mutt goes over the edge as well or he wants me to hand over the mutt as well I don't know. Both ways, I respond, "how about a fair fight instead. Winner stays on the good side of the edge. I promise not to hurt your betty, if you lose fair."

The man is a touch shook by this. He and his betty look at each other for a moment. She jerks her head back to eye me, the uzi still locked in place. She has metal-spiked eyelashes around big violet eyes. They're saying she might hop the buzzer on me. He puts the ax in between his legs and spits on his hands before saying, "you've got a deal son, toss that double down slow and any other guns you got. What's your fair weapon?"

"My mutt."

The man looks to his betty once again but this time she doesn't look back. He says, "that's fine by this one. When I kill him you'd better not run or reach. I'd hate to have to put this ax into your back."

I lay down the double and my pack. I lift my shirt and do a quick spin to show that there is nothing in my belt. But there is a bulge in my back pocket that they miss.

"Don't worry about that. Tell your betty to put that uzi on the edge. That gives me a fair chance at my double if she should feel vengeful when my mutt kills you."

He knods and she places it on the edge next to her after a flicker of resistance. I can see that she knows she'll get to the uzi before I reach the shotgun.

He stretches out his huge tattooed arms and then loudly pops his spine. He takes a swing and then twirls the handle in his hand, "Whenever you two are ready, son."

I kneel next to Dillinger and look into his brown eyes. I whisper, "throat" and clasp my hand onto my throat to signal. Then I point at the man. Holding his collar I ask the man if he is ready to die. He raises his axe and focuses on my mutt. The axe is lightly swaying, hovering over his shoulder. His betty looks a finger nervous. Dillinger is bucking as I hold his collar. He is growling his raspy shrill. Foam drips to the ground. Almost every time Dillinger lunges the bald betty jumps slightly. I continue to hold my mutt back. A line of sweat begins to drip down the man's red face. Bald betty clenches her fists. The siren in the distance starts up. I start to laugh at them. My veins are pushing, clearing off the walls. My heart is laughing too. What a spectacle for us to share!

"Let the fucker loose already!"

I continue to laugh. Tears run down my face. I am laughing. It feels rockets. I am full with glee. Most thrilled with what has become of the morning.

She yells, "Let him loose!"

The man is showing his teeth trying to remain focused on the mutt as he's becoming eruptious with my behavior. I stare into his eyes. They are small for his head. He breaks his focus and looks at me, with those tiny eyes, to yell, "Let your-" He stops his plea as Dillinger is suddenly bursting towards him. The betty screams as Dillinger closes on him fast. I catch her in the side of her face and she flips over the edge, taking the uzi with her. The man looks over in time to see her legs disappear in an instant and tries to scream "NO!" as Dillinger shoots, ripping out his throat in one brutal tug. The man looks at me astonished, still trying to scream with blood spouting out of his exposed throat. He drops the axe and collapses to the ground, with a fading gargle. Dillinger proudly trots back to me still holding the flap of skin and I kneel down again, giving him another piece of the salted meat. I give myself one of the suckers, lime.

I decide the ax is much too heavy, so I toss it over into the bay. I can't believe she nabbed the uzi on her way over, I thought it was mine for sure. The man has a box of matches, which is tizzy, because I'm almost out. That's it though, nothing else of use. Twenty one pistol bullets now. I replace the empty. Flick that shell and the ones from the park off the bridge one at a time wondering how many people I've killed. I ruff up Dillinger's fur for a moment and then continue across the bridge into Prittsco, pondering my chances of scoring.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Morning Commute

The morning commute brings out the truth
The selfishness
The bitterness
That one feels when put at odds with the rest of humanity
at a disadvantage

New Article for Working Class Magazine

This is an article I wrote about my friend, the incredible artist Brandon Friend, which will be in the November issue of Working Class, the Boy issue. Check it out: