Back in 2007 those cuddly sweethearts at Thuglit.com published Another Place, Another Time and sent me a sweet t-shirt, here's a link to that issue, which is overflowing with great thuggish lit, as a matter of fact their archives will provide you with hours sick delights.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Whiskey (Previously unreleased, 1999)
This was the first short story I finished after moving to Boston.
There's no wind in the late May evening. The heat and humidity frustrate Lucy to the point of tears. She's propped her feet up on the windowsill, with the fan blowing the hot air around. She sips whiskey, and rubs the cool glass across her chest. Her thin sundress clings to her body like a second skin. A single bead of sweat runs down her neck, between her breasts, on to her slightly round belly, where undiscovered life has just begun to stir. She opens her eyes to the little clock/radio across the room, John's late. Probably stopped off at Abel's Lounge for a couple of rounds with the boys. She swallows the last of the whiskey and sucks on one of the two ice cubes. There's a salad and some left over spaghetti in the fridge. The thought crosses her mind to cook something, but it's just too damn hot.
Outside, in the empty lot next door, the little kids from the apartment below, are playing war. Their mother has been shouting out the window for them for over an hour, but they ignore her, making machine gun noises and yelling, "Ya dead! Ya DEAD!" But when the #10 bus arrives, and their father gets off, they run inside, dodging the large hands swatting at their heads.
A lone cockroach runs across the floor, heading for a crack in the wall, abandoning this apartment in search of food. Lucy drops her feet to the floor nearly crushing it. She pours herself another half glass of whiskey and adds two more ice cubes. She puts on a tape, and sways and dances back to the window, singing softly. Before she sits down, a black BMW cruises down the street, bass system thumping, rattling all the windows. Lucy grits her teeth and wishes for a bazooka.
There's only a faint glow of sunshine over the buildings as night begins to set in again. Steel doors rattle and clang, closing over shop windows. The smells from the pizza joint on the corner fill the neighborhood. Grave girls on the corner-tacky queens on the stoop. Cops prowl the streets, looking them all over real good. The homeless with their hands out to anyone who passes. Desperate Angels polishing their rusted haloes. Herds of look alike college kids heading for the T, to take them to their weedy clubs to dance to their hollow music. The Irish gang hangs around outside of Nick's Subs. The black gang hangs around the building where three of them live. The street divides them; they size each other up, trying to pose tougher than the other.
Lucy takes her drink out onto the fire escape, and leans over the rail. An easy, light wind kicks up, blowing her sweat-matted hair in her face. She pushes it back, looking at the black clouds rolling in. The man on the radio had said rain was coming. Maybe it will take the edge off this heat.
She looks around at all the little lives lit up in their apartment windows; watching television, eating dinner, talking, arguing, ignoring each other, reading, some inanimate, alone together, or just plain alone-Dejected, blue, broken, getting home from work, leaving for work, checking the paper for work, embracing, shoving, going over the bills, writing checks, loving, suffering. There are the bruised women, nervously smoking, fixing dinner for their men. And the broken men, drinking away the fear, longing for a woman's soft touch.
Lucy looks up and down the street, and then realizes the kids from downstairs are crowded on the landing below looking up her dress. She spreads her legs a bit to give them a better look, and smiles to herself, but she then feels guilty for probably encouraging them. She closes her legs and looks down at them and they bolt inside.
A rusted red Plymouth pulls up to the curb, where a scrawny, bleached blonde girl, in a leather skirt, and a torn green t-shirt leans on stair rails. She listlessly struts over, flicking her cigarette away. She bends down and sticks her head in the passenger window. She laughs loudly and gets inside. The car pulls away, as it passes the black guys, one of them yells, "Wear a condom!" All his buddies crack up and smack him on the back. Even the stone-faced Irish guys grin and nod.
Tension hangs in the air all the time now. Some fights have broken out between blacks and Irish, because this has always been an Irish neighborhood. A lot of people feel they are being squeezed out, but not just by the blacks. A lot of families use to live here, but more and more college kids have moved in, and the landlords have raised the rents so high. So blood has spilled; the Irish guys trying to hold on to what's theirs, and the blacks just trying to get a foot hold in the world. And nobody cries when a college kid gets the crap kicked out of him.
Lucy swallows a mouthful of her drink, choking it down hard, and shaking her head. A shiver dances down her body, and she opens her eyes to the ancient buildings, that must have been beautiful at some point, but now ugliness abounds. It is ugly, and it gets worse everyday. She misses the rolling green hills of Tennessee. The sweet, clear air, the openness of the land. She takes another drink at the thought of the way her mother cried when Lucy got in to her old boy friend's car, and she wonders, like a million times before, if her mother could ever forgive and let her come home again.
Down the street, around the corner, voices explode in a mad storm, a woman is screaming like someone has been murdered. "I'm gonna kill that bitch if she don't shut up!" They're trying to get the man to calm down and go back inside before someone calls the cops. But he don't give a fuck. Another woman yells, "Watch it!" And another women scream. Then men are in a panic, telling him to get the fuck out of here, why'd he have to go and do that, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Lucy's heart is pounding, as she leans over the rail, staring down the direction of the fight. Everyone on the street tenses up. A couple of the Irish guys run down the street. The blacks move down together, with more caution. Then the sirens start, and everyone goes running.
Lucy goes back inside and turns up the rest of her drink, and begins fixing another. Her hands are shaking and some spills on the counter. She cusses loudly, slamming the bottle on the counter, splashing out more. She leans against the refrigerator, realizing she is drunk. She gets two more ice cubes from the freezer, and takes her drink, leaving the spilled whiskey. She has to wonder, again, why she ever moved up here. She stretches out on the ratty old couch, and closes her eyes, taking deep breaths between sips. The loneliness of the apartment often gets to her in the worst way. She tries to fight it, by thinking about being wrapped in John's thick loving arms-His bourbon breath on the back of her neck, kissing her shoulders, running his rough fingers over her nipples. She sighs and shudders, and takes another sip. She sets the drink down, and hugs herself, burying her face in the back of the couch. She breathes deep his scent and chokes back the inevitable tears. The tape stopped a minute ago, but the songs still echo around the room, like a gentle kiss good bye, filling the air with blue despair.
A tear escapes and she sits up disgusted and knocks back the drink and cusses the clock and she cusses the phone for not ringing and she cusses Abel's Lounge because she isn't there. She's usually there with him, watching him shoot pool, and take everyone's money. She sits with the other girlfriends and wives, and they joke with the waitresses, and they all flirt with old Leonard, who works the bar. But the best is the dancing. She loves the way John grabs her hand, pulling her out of the booth, swinging her around, not ever giving a damn that there is no room for dancing. He has the devil of his youth in his eyes when he dances. Lucy pours another drink, and cusses him for not coming to get her, or at least calling, to tell her to come down.
When they met, they were both traveling down their own private roads to self-destruction. They found salvation in each other, and have since relied on one another to get through those long nights, when the mind wanders in to those dark corners where the hard memories are always waiting. And there are the ghosts who are always talking a line of shit about this or that. They'll taunt you like children holding you down and smacking your face. They know how to get at you, and hurt you, and make you turn on yourself and everyone else around you. There are all kinds of ways to shut them up, and you have to shut them up or you go crazy. You do anything for a little peace and quiet in your head; You drink, you snort, you shoot up, you slice your arms with razors, or whatever's handy, you get into punch outs at bars...And by morning, all's quiet, but you have a lot to answer for. Sometimes you're sitting in the county lock, or looking for a new job, sometimes you're sneaking out of a stranger's bed, and then there's the times you wake up strapped to a hospital bed, bandaged and sedated, tubes in your mouth or nose, doctors, nurses, and cops standing over you, asking questions rapid fire. And you can't talk about the ghosts or all the messed up things they've been telling you.
It wasn't love at first sight for John and Lucy. Simply two fucked individuals looking for another fucked individual to spend the night with. One night turned into five years, and they pulled each other through hell, and salvaged their lives- Love and understanding was the best therapy either one of them could ever have. The voices in the night are still there, they'll always be there, but they're a hell of a lot quieter now.
Raindrops tap the window, slowly at first, and then building; the windowsill is very wet when Lucy shuts the window. She watches the kids running inside, calling it a night, at least until the rain lets up. Vapid dance music is coming from next door. Lucy pours another drink and flips the tape. She sits down at the table and closes her eyes, slowly emptying the glass again. Side two stops and Lucy is snoring lightly.
The phone rings, and she wakes with a start, knocking her glass off the table. She stares at the phone in disbelief for a second, wondering if it really rang. It did and it does for a second time. She grabs it up and before she gets it to her ear she can hear loud music and laughter.
"Lucy! Whatcha doin', darlin'?"
"Mmm, oh, nuthin'."
"You wanna come down to Abel's? Ever'ahbody's here!"
"Yea, yea. I'll come down," she smiles with relief.
"Hey, I woulda called sooner, but I hadn't planned on being here so long, you know, and I wasn't paying attention to the time, then ever'ahbody started showing up, and..."
"Yea..."
"You know..."
"Yea..."
"Yea, so Heather's gonna pick you up!"
"Ok."
"Five minutes?"
"Great, I'll be ready."
"All right then, I'll sew you inna few!"
"I love you, John."
"I love you too!"
Lucy hangs up the phone, smiling widely, wanting to scream with joy, so happy, coming to life, and skipping across the room to the bathroom. She checks her face and brushes her hair, then slips out of her dress, and takes her jeans off the hook on the door, and gets her black t shirt out of the closet. One last look in the mirror, and she grabs her purse and keys, and runs out the door, and down the steps to meet Heather.
As she gets to the last landing, before reaching the lobby, and uneasiness falls over her, stopping her dead in her tracks. Someone is sobbing, stumbling, down there. Lucy waits in dim silence, breathing quickly, afraid to move, dizzy with drink. She slowly begins to descend the last flight of stairs.
She gets to the bottom, and sees the scrawny bleached blonde girl walking toward her, holding on to the wall for support. Her eyes are swollen and red, and her mouth is bloody. She walks with her legs close together, moving stiffly, bent forward slightly. She's holding her gut, and holding her skirt up. She's clutching a few dollars in her fist.
Lucy runs to her, but the girl backs away, shielding her face, her skirt slides down her legs, there's blood in her pubic hairs.
"Honey, let me help you! C'mon, we'll call the cops!"
"No, I'm ok, just let me go, just leave me alone..." She pushes past Lucy, heading for the stairs, pulling her skirt up over her bruised ass.
Lucy nearly throws up watching her go up the stairs. A wave of fear spreads through her body. She turns around quickly, making sure there's no one behind her. She absently walks toward the door, doubting what she just saw. Heather is double-parked; she unlocks the passenger side door when she sees Lucy. Lucy collapses in the seat, pale and shaken.
"Damn, Lucy, did you see that girl?"
Lucy nods slowly.
"Is she all right?"
Lucy shrugs.
"Jesus, this neighborhood's going to hell."
The rain's coming down in buckets, and Heather's driving too fast. Lucy has both hands on the dashboard, praying they make it to the bar in one piece. She can tell Heather's already had a few; she's talking too loud and slurring her words.
"Straight to flippin' hell, you know?"
"Yea...Watch that truck!"
"Jesus, Lucy, you'd think I ain't never drove before! I saw the truck, you just need to relax, sweetheart!"
They park behind Abel's. The lot isn't half full, though it rarely is. Lucy gets out of the car, weak in the knees, thanking God for not letting them die. She takes a deep breath, pulling herself together, as she walks through the door, with Heather's arm around her shoulders. The band is playing "Chain of Fools"; Sarah is leaning on the guitarist with her gin and tonic while she sings. Lucy finds John in the back; he's dropping the eight ball in the side pocket, the boys slapping his back in congratulations.
Jason shaking his head, "No fucking way, man. C'mon, one more game."
"I've beat you five times now. Give it a rest before I have to take your whole paycheck."
Lucy takes his hand, "Are you gamblin' again?"
"Um, yea, honey, but I'm winning!"
"Well, all right then, buy me a drink, my man!"
"How abouts a dance first? Scuse me boys." He shines down at her with his big crooked grin that always makes her melt.
They pull each other close, and away from the others, into the corner near the small stage, as the band settles into a slow, dirty groove, the guitar coming through like a filthy thought. Lucy leans into John's chest, kissing his collarbone lightly, running her hands up and down his biceps, while he holds her hips tightly, kissing the top of her head, smelling her shampoo and sweat, feeling good to have her near.
The tears start, and there's nothing she can do about them. She doesn't want to do anything with them anyway, let them come, she has John now, she doesn't have to be strong, she can cry and let him take care of her. She shudders, with the night running through her, and she looks up with wet cheeks, sucking on her bottom lip, reaching up and caressing his face. He looks into her sadness, concerned, hurt and speechless. She looks down again, resting the side of her face against his chest. He pulls her to a booth, away from the band.
"Lucy, why're you crying? What's wrong?”
She shakes her head, while she tries to summon up the words. She opens her mouth and it comes in a flood; the loneliness, the neighborhood, the fear, her homesickness...She pauses before she tells about the girl, and thinks about her face again...And she thinks about how she felt the morning she looked in the mirror and saw just what that poor girl would be seeing in her mirror. John strokes her hair while she sobs.
Vicky comes around and John orders a couple of stouts. By now, Heather has told almost everyone about the girl, and a few have asked Lucy if she knew the girl.
Lucy shakes her head, sipping her beer, "No, I've only seen her a couple of times. She's pretty new around here."
People shake their heads sympathetically, "It's tough, ya know. You hear about that kinda shit happening, but it don't really get to you until it happens in your own neighborhood. Shit."
Lucy turns her beer up, and finishes it off. She looks up into John's hard face, with all it's premature wrinkles and scars, that he used to wear like a badge, testimony to a violent, hip desperation, but it doesn't mask the love and concern practically beaming from his face. She takes his hand, tracing over the lines, scars, and calluses, with her finger. Their fingers intertwine and close together. He pulls her hand to his lips, and kisses each finger, then holds it to his chest. The smile slowly returns to her face.
"You ok?"
She looks at him dry eyed, her head tilted to the side a bit, and the smile broadening. "Yea. I’m ok. It just all caught me off guard. It just tore me up. But I'm getting better." She nods, reassuring herself.
Vicky brings over another round, skillfully maneuvering around Blake who has dropped to one knee pleading, "C'mon, Vick, just one dance..."
"Sorry, Blake, I'm working!"
She sets the drinks down, and takes the empties. She smiles warmly, taps the table, and goes back to work, skillfully maneuvering around Hank, "Hey hey, Vicky, when are we going out?"
"I gotta boyfriend for crying out loud!"
John and Lucy look at each other; look into each other, knowing where the other is in their hearts and heads, without needing to say a word. Words have never been all that necessary with them anyway. When they're together all the ugliness and stench of the world fades away, the hate and rage fade away, but most importantly, the cold and loneliness fades away.
They drink their beers, happy, pushing death and rape and tomorrow as far out of their minds as they can. John settles up the tab, and they head home.
The rain has left the night cool, there's a breeze and an unusual calm. The clouds are moving out, leaving the moon shining bright. They walk slowly back to the apartment, his arm around her shoulders, and her arm around his waist, hugging each other close and tight.
The neighborhood is mostly dark; the only place still open is the Store 24. Many apartment windows only have the blue glow from their apartment windows. Lucy stops John under a streetlight, she wraps her arms around his neck, and their lips melt together under the yellowish light.
They both taste like whiskey and beer. They both taste good. "I love you" is said with a touch.
Just Like Hamlet Blues (previously unreleased, 2000/2002)
I originally wrote JUST LIKE HAMLET BLUES (aka HAMLET'S RECKONING) as song for my band The Hostiles, but since we were struggling with songs that barely cracked the two minute mark, I felt like it would be pointless to bring them six pages of lyrics for a song I figured would probably be about ten minutes long. So I stuck it in a notebook and rewrote it a couple of years later.
Been hot like this all week long. Air so thick you drink it. Town's being over run with vicious insects. They attack anything warm that moves. Blood thirsty little beasts. Barely anything moves until the whistle blows at the cotton mill. The men come out slow, heads low, round shouldered, red faced, slit eyed. Ol' Ben starts setting beers on the counter as the men shuffle in, silently, save for some moaning or sighing. Some stop under the ceiling fan, but it's not really helping. None of them look over at John Kelley, sitting in the corner with his boys, and some of the town whores from the other side of the square.
Kelley looks the men over carefully, seeing an enemy in every one of them. He knows his time is short, and he keeps one hand over his pistol, and the other on his glass of whiskey.
None of them have more than three beers before they shuffle out and home for their dinners. Their shirts cling to them like a second skin. Weighing them down so much, they can hardly lift their feet when they walk.
Those who see it, just shake their heads at the stray dog hobbling toward them. The bitch already half gutted with those damn bugs. One eye socket filled with a hundred of them. They're crawling out of her nose, mouth, and ass. The dog collapses in the middle of the street with a cracked whimper and a jerking belly.
It looks like something burning when the immense black cloud appears over the horizon, and begins blocking out the sun. The whole town stops dead when the ice cold wind shoots through, making all the men in their sweat drenched clothes shiver. Then comes the sound like a train or thunder, but it’s neither. People are coming out of their houses, lining up on Main Street. Drawn out by curiosity then rooted with fear.
There are cries of terror when they finally see what’s coming. Five black Cadillacs, taking up both sides of the highway. The town's people know what’s coming. The men are shaking in their boots. The women hold tight to their children, and pray for it to end soon.
The Cadillacs pull into town, blocking up Main Street. Men begin piling out, four in each car. Tom Kelley steps out from behind the wheel of the lead car, and scans the crowd, looking for him who he has come to kill. One of his men brings up Tom's gun belt. Tom straps it on, and caresses the ivory handles of his revolvers. He pulls his shotgun from behind the front seat, resting it on his shoulder. He stands regal, in his black silk shirt with the shining silver buttons, and silver bolo tie, black jeans and black leather boots with silver tips. His face is expressionless and pale behind his black shades. It sounds like shots when he walks.
Tom's gang is armed to the teeth. Sizing up the town. Casually walking back and forth with their machine guns, shotguns, rifles, revolvers, and so on. They don't pay attention to the whores from the other side of the square who slither up, weaving around the cars, rubbing up against the men in second hand dresses and ripped fish nets, giving off their scent, trying to entice the men to come back with them. The women caress the barrels of their guns, and flick out their tongues, winking, long eyelashes and heavy eyeliner, hiding the long dead eyes. But all they get are low guttural growls. The women shrink away, hissing, baring their teeth, back to the other side of the square, cursing the whole lot of queer-dirty-bastards.
Tom pulls a cigarette from behind his ear; it's lit for him. He puffs away staring down the street, at the young boy peeking out the door of Ol' Ben's saloon. The boy is frozen, mouth hanging open. Tom can see the boy's heart beating through his shirt. That boy is all that Tom can see right now. He's oblivious to the rest of the town that's pointing and whispering, and yelling for the sheriff, who still haven't shown up.
John is getting nervous looking at that boy hanging out the door. He's already asked him five times what the hell it is, and he still hasn't got an answer. One of the girls tries to calm John down by nibbling on his ear. She loses two front teeth.
The boy finally steps back through the door, he's white as a sheet, shaking, going for his pistol, and pissing himself. John doesn't need to ask him again what's going on. Every one leaps to their feet, going for their guns. Ol' Ben bolts out the back door, saying to hell with the whole damn place. The women run out the front door, and cop a heel as far back into their part of town, that they'll hardly hear anything that's about to go down.
Tom's gang is anxious. Locked and loaded, hot to go to work. They start heading for the saloon, but stop, when they realize he isn't moving.
Tom reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small locket on a chain. He opens it to a black and white of Penelope. He runs his finger over the photo, thinking of how she threw herself into the Mississippi River this very morning, while he burned down the plantation and fields. He put the locket back into his shirt, feeling nothing but a burning coal where his heart used to be. He starts to rejoin his gang, but notices the sheriff, with four deputies, and the preacher finally arriving. He flicks his cigarette at them.
The sheriff gets to him first, but before he can say anything, Tom jams the barrel of his shotgun under the sheriff’s chin. The sheriff's eyes bug out and he starts whimpering. Mothers hold their children tight, trying to cover their eyes. Something flickers behind Tom's shades, and the sheriff's neck disintegrates in a red cloud. The deputies back away, and then break into a run, before the sheriff's head has even hit the ground, landing between his own feet, as his body flops backwards.
The preacher is on his knees, shouting a prayer as another cold wind kicks up. Thunder shakes the land. Everyone can hear the rain coming in the distance. Still praying, the preacher leaps at Tom, but is caught by two members of the gang, who throw him back. He stumbles across the street, tripping over the curb, and eating a mouthful of dirt.
Tom cocks his shotgun, and looks around to see if any one else has anything to say. No one does, so he walks on, followed by his gang. Leaving behind a spent shell, that children tear away from their mothers and run for, then fight over, until they are pulled apart, and one small boy goes home with such a prize.
John and his boys are ducking around the windows and door, scared shitless, but trying not to show it. They hold on to their guns for dear life, secretly cursing John for being such a stupid bastard, for not seeing this coming.
Tom moves slowly down the middle of the street, surrounded by his gang, the mean wind blowing at their backs- Rain getting closer. Tom can see his daddy's ghost dancing in the dead oak in the center of town.
"Hey, John!" Tom shouts, as they near the saloon. "I promised you a reckonin'. I'm here to kill ya, John! My daddy says Hi!"
They line up in front of the saloon. Tom raises his shotgun. The men inside begin to loose their nerve outwardly. A wave of rain comes down over Tom and his men. The glass and wood door of the saloon explodes. The windows shatter. Fist size holes in the walls.
John's boys shoot back blindly, aiming their guns out the windows, but keeping their heads down, eyes closed. John himself has already crawled behind the bar, shielding his eyes from the exploding liquor bottles that come raining down on him. In the big mirror behind the bar, he can see Tom out there. He can also see his boys getting shot to shit. He can already smell Tom's cologne and whiskey breath breathing down his neck.
One of Kelley's boys stumbles behind the bar, half his head gone. He crumples on the ground, what's left in his head spills out over Kelley's shaking hand. He scoots away, pulling the hammer back on his pearl handled nickel-plated pistol, that his brother had given him. The only time the pistol was never fired was to strike his brother down.
One of Kelley's boys does a herky-jerky dance burning down with machine gun fire, sinking between barstools, without his face. Lucky shot takes out one of Tom's men; his head looks like a balloon bursting. Bits of skull and brain blind his cousin behind him. Another lucky shot tears the cousin's neck apart. Boy comes out surrendering, begging for his life. His chest explodes, and he tumbles back inside. One boy tries to run for the backdoor, but catches one in the back of the head. Spits his teeth across the room.
Tom steps up on the porch with a burning coal in his chest burning through his shirt.
"C'mon out, John. All yer men're dead."
Kelley wipes the sweat and tears out of his eyes. He keeps telling himself that he has to get out of this. He's not gone this far to lose everything. But another look in the spider webbed mirror at the carnage that used to be his crew tells him he will not get out of here alive.
The room is filled with smoke, the floor slick with blood, deadly with shards of glass and splintered bone. Tom loads fresh shells walking across the room. His men relieve Kelley's boys of their boots, guns, money, and jewelry. They ignore the frantic spirits whirling around the room, as they exit.
Tom thinks of his mother and scratches himself. He spots a bottle of whiskey and licks his lips. He fills a blood-splattered glass to the rim. First sip feels good. Second sip shatters in his hand. Bits of glass sticking in his lips. Blood running down his chin. A hole in his hand. He doesn't move. Kelley can see himself in those black shades. Tom's face has no expression. Kelley's gun drops to the floor. His mouth working with pleads. Tom brushes the glass off his mouth. With his good hand he reaches across the bar and grabs Kelley's tie. Pulling him across the counter and out into the street.
The town's people are huddling in the church praying and hiding from the storm. But when they see Tom dragging John Kelley out toward the center of town, splashing through the flooding street, they timidly follow.
Kelley is brought to his knees when one of Tom's men slaps him in the back of the knees with his rifle. Tom tells someone to pop the trunk…bring out the gifts. Kelley moans a woeful blues as they pull the familiar body of Tom's mother from the trunk. There is just a black crusty stump where her head should be.
Her head comes out next, carried by the hair. Tom takes it gently, and raises it to Heaven like an offering. He begins to speak, but instead brings his mother's head to his chest, before handing it to Kelley. Kelley takes it, and cradles it like a new born.
Tom pushes through the crowd and grabs the preacher.
"You have work to do."
He puts his arm around the preacher's shoulders, and leads him to where Kelley kneels. Some of Tom’s men are already preparing the rope in the dead oak. Others start dragging Kelley up to his fate.
Tom turns to Kelley. "Now don't you pray for yourself, or anything, John. You don't deserve salvation. You hear? Preacher, you damn him proper."
The preacher nods his head spastically until his hat falls off.
A table was brought out from the saloon, and set under the dead oak. They hoist Kelley on to it, and put his head through the noose, they take the head away from him. Tom reaches up and grips Kelley's belt buckle.
The rain passes on, but the skies remain black.
"John, I burnt down the house and the fields and everything. Ain't nothing left. I reckon I'll be burnin' down this town next. No reason for that. Just gonna do it."
"Please! It was your mother! She put me…forced me…to do everything!..."
"Shut up!"
Tom grips the table with his good hand and Kelley's leg, the best he can, with the other. With out a word, he jerks the table over. Kelley's neck snaps. Body convulses. Bowels let go. Shit and piss run out the cuffs of his jeans.
Tom looks out at the crowd, then back at his men. "Burn it down, boys."
He walks through the crowd, ignoring their cries and pleads. He goes back to his car and slides in to the back seat. Sinking down. Closing his eyes.
One of his men looks in. "Where to next, boss?"
"We'll go west. Tell everyone...We'll go west."
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Suffer (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit 1996)
In 1998 I did a new edit of Suffer, because I had never been happy with either the '94 or the '96 versions that saw print in my high school lit mag, The Eclectic, and Destroying Lives. The '96 version was rushed and sloppy and I wanted to redeem myself by re-releasing it as a single backed with two vignettes. I never did this, because I moved to Boston and was sick of looking backwards. While this version is the most readable, their is still slop-I was a seventeen year old kid that wanted to write Batman comics and my literary heroes were Robert Louis Stephenson, Poe, and Clive Barker. The original Suffer came like a freight train after I had spent a night in trouble over something stupid and I was listening to Bad Religion and the Dead Kennedys with the deadline for the Eclectic the next morning. Something clicked, I typed "Saturday Night Holocuast" at the top of the page (DKs song from Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, which I later scribbled over and wrote Suffer, which was the Bad Religion album that was playing when I finished) and in about an hour I had poured out my heart and angst and created the most honest story I had ever done. I turned in the first draft the next morning and to my surprise it got in. This was pre-Columbine, by the way, which either makes Suffer cheap or poignant depending on your point of view. I feel like it deserves another pass, not because I think its great, but because it's from the gut and not bull shit.
At seventeen nothing is going right. The thrill of having a license is gone, because you have had a year to realize “license” does not mean “freedom” and there is still a year to go before you are legal and can escape the control of your parents. Graduation still looks like a distant shore and college might as well be mars. It’s virtually impossible to be happy at this age, especially when living in a small southern town where there is nothing to do except watch tv, smoke pot and die.
It is the fourth week of the new school year and the students are beginning to slip back into a regular schedule like good little zombies in training. Many of the kids are glad to be back, because they get to show off the new clothes and cars their mommies and daddies bought them. The jocks are indeed happy to be back, because they are about to be reborn on the holy football field. It’s amazing that in a town so religious that the sports events get a higher attendance than the churches.
School dances, kissing in the hall, pep rallies, homework, drinking, parties, fights, break ups-it’s all here, just like last year, just like next year. The same damn routine. There will be three or four drop outs, at least one pregnancy, and one serious sickness. Very predictable, very set. Almost seems planned.
The sun is shining brightly into Henry’s room. He rolls over trying to escape the evil light, but it’s too bright. He forces his eyes open and checks the cheap alarm clock on his paint smeared night stand. The face read 8:32. Late again.
Henry’s third tardy which means detention.
Grabbing the clothes closest to his bed he quickly gets dressed. Unopened school books sit ominously in the corner and that’s where they will stay-besides the fact that none of his homework is finished, he doesn’t want to have to make that long walk to school with anything other than his sketchbook and pencil.
He passes a mirror on his way out and sees how bad he looks and considers a shower, but who the hell is he going to impress with clean hair?
Henry would ask his mom to drive him, but she’s already left to go fuck whoever she’s fucking this week and dad lives two towns over and is probably already at work.
He hates his parents with a burning passion, lays awake at night dreaming of killing them. Always the disappointment, always the scapegoat. His mom has never let him get by a single day of his life without letting him know how much farther she could have gone in life if he hadn’t come along when he did. And dad just sits out there like a drifting iceberg, cold, slow, and unfeeling. Henry is an accident from a whim fueled by wine coolers and free time.
Walking to school is a bitch; not only is he tired, but it’s hot as hell and he hasn’t eaten much since yesterday morning. An asshole in a red pick up truck rolls by and calls him a faggot before he has even gotten off his street.
Tired, hot and sweaty, Henry arrives at school, checks in at the office, sees the principle, gets his three day detention notice and shuffles down the hall to second period. He slips in as Miss Spurrier is explaining the digestive tract. She fixes Henry with a glare full of contempt and disgust. He gives her his tardy slip and tries to shuffle to his seat.
“Where is your homework?” Her voice is like a rusty gate, Henry winces.
“I didn’t do it.”
“You haven’t had your homework all week. What is it that keeps you from completing your assignments?”
Work, art, jerking off sleep…”I don’t know.”
Disgusted, she sighs and points to Henry’s seat. He quickly moves down the aisle trying not to make eye contact with anyone, but one of the jocks shoots a leg out and trips Henry. He lands hard on his left knee and rises quickly with the laughter, limps to his seat and sits down staring at his desk, as the class drags on slowly.
There is a ten minute break between third and fourth period. The hall is buzzing with youthful energy; love in the air, a fight brewing, someone sobbing, drug deals in the bathroom, two guys going AWOL, and a freshman gets his shoes flushed in a toilet full of shit.
Henry moves quickly through the halls looking for his two friends Delia and Milton. Delia walks out of Mr. Armstrong’s Spanish class. She’s wearing cut off shorts, combat boots, and a tight white Minutemen t-shirt. Her hair is a beautiful red, purple lipstick and piercing eyes. She slings her army backpack over her shoulder and pushes through the crowd to walk beside Henry.
“How’s it goin’?”
“Shitty.”
“You missed the history test…”
“I know, I know.”
“Have you seen Milton?”
“No, not yet. Why?”
“He’s got a James Brown tape for me.”
They find Milton holding court with some people, talking shit as usual. He’s a real cool guy-a drummer who knows everything there is to know about everything. He’s sees Henry and Delia coming and throws down his books and grabs his cock.
“Come to Milton my children!”
The others leave.
Delia throws her environmental science book at him, barely missing.
“Where’s my tape you promised me?”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a 120 minute unauthorized duplication of the coolest tunes by the Godfather of Soul.
“Gracias, baby!”
“De nada, sexy. How’s it goin’, Henry?”
“Shitty.”
“Oh yea? What’s up?”
“I spent most of the night arguing with Martha and Steven.”
“You should kill your parents.” (Delia always has all the answers.)
The bell rings and it’s off to fourth period. For Henry it’s art, which should be the highlight of his day, but it’s not. Like everything else good in his life THEY found a way to fuck it up for him. The class is presided over by an anal retentive conservative bitch, Miss Ellis. She spends each class floating around the room harshly criticizing and disapproving, though the class is an easy A for any student who kisses her ass and does things her way. Neither of which Henry is capable of. Most people only took art because they didn’t want to take chorus, and this particular class was top heavy with jocks and cheerleaders, who gabbed nonstop throughout class.
All week the class has been working on self-portraits. Miss Ellis had asked the students to ‘be creative and put yourself in some new environment’. Examples; Bobby drew himself on the football field after scoring a touchdown, Jeremy drew himself playing his bass, Tasha drew herself picking flowers, and Henry drew himself hung by the neck, twisting in the wind while birds pecked away at his flesh.
“By now you should all have your projects done. I’ll go around and collect them.”
She scrunched up her rat face when she reached Henry.
“I’m not accepting that, Henry.”
“Um…Why not?”
“Because it is morbid! My god, Henry, you have so much talent and you waste it doing trash like this. It makes you look very troubled. I think you should talk to someone.”
Henry glances around at the snickering faces and Ellis’own paintings of flowers that litters the walls and looks up at her, making rare eye contact.
“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
She goes away. He stares at the unacceptable, morbid trash.
Lunchtime. The fight brewing earlier finally happens, but is disappointing. Short, no blood and the two assholes get three weeks detention.
Ninety one degrees and not a cloud in the sky. All the pretty boys and girls strutting around in their pretty clothes with their pretty friends.
Henry, Delia, and Milton sit on the hill by the band room talking about music and whatever, watching their soulless, pathetic peers walking around totally directionless.
“Aw, shit.”
Henry spots Jeff Clemons and his cronies walking their way.
Clemons is the school’s pride and joy on the football field; a good Christian, good student, and asshole alcoholic racist terrorizer.
“Hey look! It’s my fan club! Delia, why do you hang around these faggots?”
Because they have really big cocks.” (Delia rules the universe.)
“Oh yea? Compared to what? You wanna see a real big dick, come with me!”
Milton finishes his soda. “Hey, Jeff, I’d like to see a really big dick. C’mon whip it out! Impress us with your manhood.”
The guys chuckle and start to leave, Jeff gives Milton a hearty ‘fuck you, faggot’.
At the bell, the three head to environmental science, but once there, Delia realizes she left her notebook outside and goes back for it, but never comes back.
Twenty minutes into class, the teacher starts getting impatient with Delia and gets ready to send Henry to look for her, but then the school goes nuts. Someone saw something and told someone in charge who alerted some other people and the cops were called. Announcements were made for students to remain in class until further notice, but curiosity overcame authority and students, including Henry and Milton were spilling into the courtyard. Henry got through in time to catch a glimpse of Delia being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Henry makes a break for it, trying to get there before the doors are shut, but he’s caught by Mr. Armstrong.
“What’s wrong with her? What happened?”
“There’s nothing you can do, Henry!”
“What’s happened?!?”
Armstrong leads Henry out of the crowd and tells him in a low voice, “Delia was…assaulted.”
“…How?”
“I can’t say anything else…”
Henry sees Jeff being put in the back of a police car and things become clear. He runs to find Milton and they take Milton’s car to the hospital. They’re not aloud in, and wind up sitting in the parking lot freaking out late into the evening.
The next day Delia goes home and Henry and Milton go to school and they are not surprised to see Jeff there. Everyone is giving him their support, what a tragedy that HE has been accused of RAPE! Even the local paper asks the community to give Jeff their prayer and support.
Delia goes to court two days before the homecoming dance. The bullshit trial begins and ends the same day and Jeff gets away with a stern talking to by the judge, but he doesn’t think such a bright young man should “have his future ruined over a mistake.” Delia’s mother can’t afford a real lawyer to fight this.
That same day Henry and Milton are dragged behind the gym and beaten mercilessly by half the football team. No witnesses.
They leave before lunch and swing by Delia’s house. Milton leaves Henry, staying just long enough to find out how the trial went. He leaves in tears. Delia and Henry sit in her room in total silence, listening to her mom sob and plead with various people over the phone.
Delia hasn’t been to school since the attack and hasn’t really been able to leave the house at all because of harassment from reporters, classmates, neighbors, parents, and even a couple of teachers and cops. Everyone blames her. Why are you tryin’ to ruin his life? Why don’t you admit you trapped him? Everyone saw how you were dressed. Poor jeff. I can’t imagine how he feels.
The next day, the sun rises and school begins. Knowledge is past on only to be forgotten by second period. Henry stays home. He’s got to make plans.
That night Jeff leads the team to victory in the homecoming game. Everyone cheers him. He’s received so many prayers the past several weeks.
It was half time when Henry was sitting in his room loading his father’s gun. His old man, weary from being badgered and dismantled by his wife burst into Henry’s room, because…well, because shit rolls down hill…but the sight of the gun in his son’s hands triggers something deep and primordial in him, fatherhood and fear.
“Henry! What are you doin’ with that?”
Henry didn’t even think. He just pointed, pulled the trigger, and BANG! Dad flew back against the wall, making one hell of a mess.
“What was that? What’s goin’ on?” Mom steps around the corner and gets her face blown off.
Henry runs out the back door with the gun in his pants and a pocketful of rounds. He doesn’t stop until he gets to the gym where the homecoming dance is being held. He replaces the two spent bullets and tucks the gun back in his pants and waits for the dance to begin.
Three insipid songs and Henry goes in.
…
School is closed all next week. Five are dead, including Jeff and Henry.
Henry squeezed off five shots, counting them, but not being able to focus on any faces after he got Jeff, so he wasn’t even sure he was hitting anyone. After the fifth shot, he stepped outside, looked up at the stars and put the gun to his head.
The community is in shock for weeks. Speculations run wild…drugs…Satanism…
Milton and Delia don’t go to Henry’s funeral, they stay at her place and listen to Coltrane and cry for their friend.
Three years later, Delia tells this story in a bookstore in front of thirty people. She manages to keep her cheeks dry, that time.
End
Thursday, December 01, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Another Day (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)
Another day with the sun shining
Another day getting her fix
Another day when he didn’t come home
Another day another unwanted life
Another day another body count
Another day another poor little rock star
Another day that’s barely alive
Another day when he couldn’t get it up
Another day when she just gave it up
Another day he still couldn’t see
Another day with dark clouds rolling in
Another day twisting in the wind
Another day praying for it to end
Another day another final farewell
Another day a newborn cries
Another day her body is sold
Another day smoking a bowl
Another day the cable is out
Another day fucked in the ass
Another day still black and white
Another day with less strength
Another day the condom broke
Another day another flat tire
Another day and the radio is silent
Another day the books aren’t burning, just sucking
Another day sitting beside her
Another day she’s not a whore
Another day six feet under
Another day another cross
Another day he’s laid off
Another day one more for the road
Another day I’m gonna die
Another day I love you
Another day I hate you
Another day let’s just be friends
Another day another burnt bridge
Another day he goes down
Another day more mind numbing videos
Another day another dollar
Another day she stands up straight
Another day dark towers fucking the sky
Another day another gig
Another day just another day
Monster Man (from Fight The Power...Or Fuck Off 1996)
Here I am. The perfect tool. Weapon. Insanity in a fishbowl full of gasoline. I destroy whatever I touch, because I can. You know I'm stronger than you this makes you lose sleep. So you hide behind politics, handguns, cigarette smoke, and tears. You created this. Short leashed dog, poked and prodded. Napalming your mind with your own ignorance and fear. Smashing your world. Smashing your face. I do my thing without thinking, you do that for me. I don't sleep anymore. I stay in my room looking for that secret place where demons comes from. I got ideas from the television. No more scratching at my throat kinda nights. This trip might end, but I want a mission, and for my child like innocence, you gave me one. I sit in the back of my closet, like a jungle, hiding with my shotgun, waiting for the enemy to stick his greasy head up out of the piles of dirty clothes and boxes, so I can splatter his brains all over the shitty flower pattern wallpaper. In my dreams I'm shooting kids, cops, and cats. I destroy, because that's what you need me to do.
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