Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

Creative Works

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • #61
    Until The Last Drop


    There across the kitchen, funny man leaned on the refrigerator. Had a beard curling out his pale face. It was messy like husk, but, underneath, surely funny man had corn for laughs and sugar for some kind of love. After all, he talked with his wife, some short Korean lady. Of course, the glass blurred the image of funny man Wallace to me as it had since the day he placed me on this fiber-wood kitchen counter. Some square feet of yellow tile separated us. Us… Oh, this riot of a man would be the one to consume me!


    Grinded down from natural grains: corn, wheat, and rye and twelve years in the barrel distilling, and here funny man would consume what’s left of me. But there’s ways Kentucky Whiskey can eat back at a man’s brain, till he doesn't shave, till he doesn't work, or can't love, or can't drive, or can't walk a straight line, and it can chew on them wits until the man goes to brush his teeth or wash his hands and he lifts his pupils and, through that rectangle in need of Windex centering his reflection, he beholds the image of that which he thought himself to be consuming, consuming him. Or the whiskey can pull his little fuckin twelve year old Saturn, I heard him talking about, in front of a goddamn semi. Surely someone warned him before, and surely he told himself something like it’s worth the joy he gets throwing his head back with whiskey in his mouth till his guard rolls down and the air blows through his hair like wind.


    His image sunk closer to me like a man moving to the window after catching the eye of his investigator, but the glass distorted away his nose. With a move closer, I saw his nose, though, a wide bastard of a sneezer that needed a shave. I think his wife went to bed. He seized me by the neck and twisted my plastic lid, cracking the seal. Now I saw him, well. He wore reddish-brown shades, even at night. Glasses the same color as me. Ah, he poured me in a glass that fit his palm and then dropped rocks into my pool for his pleasure. He got me mixed with ice, and then I and the ice streamed down his throat and I into his blood. Most of me in the bottle, some in the bloodstream, I saw the world in sepia: the kitchen, the cabinets; his sunglasses colored them all the same as my liquid.


    Ah, the joy of slipping into a woman’s or a man’s memories and into their collective unconscious. I of course prefer the woman since she has a bit less tolerance, but this particular man is weak enough to really fuck with. Their sub-conscience is my favorite part; it’s where you see things they’ll never know and cause them not to remember the things they do. Here, I saw his grandfather of generations back, a small English boy in a sailor suit dress and with pigtail hair. He had a Victorian mother lifting up the hem of her dress and chasing him through the apple stands of the market. She really wanted badly to castrate this lad. With his mother determined to put a high pitch in that boy's vocals in order to put him on the opera stage, it’s a wonder funny many even made it to this earth. But here funny man stood in some real existence to be proud of. He was both of his ancestors, the boy in the dress and the Victorian mother. He wanted the stage like the mom and he rushed away from it like the boy. And some balls that boy in the sailor suit dress must've been proud to have spared, for all he did with them was run from the stage.


    Swimming in the blood and soul of this man, I felt some Irish tramping about, too; though his family didn’t pass that down to him. Make no mistake, Mr. Jameson, himself, owned a few more street corners inside this man than me, on this night. This fool was kicked out the bar some hours earlier, delighting in the Irish whiskey. The part of me still in the bottle picked up a blurry glimpse of him stumbling about the same four or five tiles of kitchen floor, singing Sinatra, “My Way,” like a fool. But this part of me that swam through his blood saw a guilt colored in sepia of a blonde woman in a dim lit room separated from him by the buffed up bar counter shine.


    “Sweetheart, even, the bar tender on the shift ahead of me told me not to serve you, and now—” the skinny blonde said.


    “Kassie, I’m not driving.”


    Her face surrendered a stance she’d surely been proud of, “Ok, but your friend looks perfectly fine, he better take care of you.”


    “The last thing I want is to make you feel forced. I just want the drink, if I may, a last one. If I may…”


    “Look, Wallace! I already told you I’m not comfortable serving you, and you’re not respecting me as your bar tender! You just keep pushing! It’s only two a’ clock and you’re already drunk! Two a clock, Wallace! If I weren’t a woman you wouldn’t be—


    “Kassie…”


    “It’s true! You and your sexist jokes.”


    I felt this man’s heart whipped. And it’d been whipped before. Still, a bar tender depends on tips and she’ll call a fella “sweetheart and baby,” kind of like a hooker does. Here she is calling him “Wallace.” With the courtesy put-ons of this so called relationship shed to the last piece of fabric, Kassie bared it all, including that she didn’t care for his humor, either. A tear rolled underneath his glasses. He said “Kassie,” cause he’d seen her with a goal of getting tips by having something to shoot the shit with the drunks with, villainize others. Drunk enough to walk stiff, but sober enough only to hold on to his last dignity, he walked out Vino’s before Vino, the local Italian hero, emerged to take the role opposite of him. It’s funny the way that goes, as soon as they have a person playing villain, any of those drunks at any minute could turn their behavior in for a white steed and could come galloping at him with a lance.


    But in this man’s—Wallace’s— blood I saw not just a villain made by the bar, but a true villain made by his doings. He’s a funny man, after all, and funny men make jokes and jokes infest the morality of those joked about. The racist ones. The homophobic ones. The religious ones. The sexist ones. He’d told a many of them and they infested like a hoard of bed bugs. Yeah, the folks laugh but on their pillow when they think about it, the jokes with all their legs crawl in their skin and humiliate them, anger them, make them question motives of funny men who spew bugs from their mouths into their beds. Cause who knows the motives behind a joke aside the joker? And dwelling in that man’s DNA, that night, I didn’t know if he knew his own.


    Even this Don Rickles… I’d spread across the country and been in souls of men and women, as they went on and on about Don. Everybody said he was innocent; Don was, no matter the nationalities he made light of with things he supposedly didn’t mean. Still at night, one man of Japanese descent that looked like this funny man’s wife must’ve lay in bed thinking of how Don called him out in front of everybody. He wondered in his soft pajamas, maybe just for a moment, did Don mean that shit about his slanted eyes. Has Don not gotten passed World War Two?


    I decided that night that if I could I’d kill this funny man before he killed me, it’d be a good humor to his time and age.


    And before anybody dare come to this louse’s aid, let me go on about the unthinkable of his actions. I knew what it meant this time of day when he put his plaid shirt on, his dark pants on, his wallet in his back pocket, his feet in his dress shoes, his gel in his hair, his badge over his neck, his scarf around his neck, his coat over it all. I’d been on that fiber-wood counter long enough to see through the blur him ready himself for work. Then dressed for work and all, funny man’s hand lifted me from the counter, his sunglasses looked a hard minute through the clear border that he knew he should not cross. But I convinced myself no soul lived on the other side of his dark brown shields when he consumed three, four, five, six glasses of me knowing he’d take me to work with him!


    Some twenty-four hours later, he started to do the same thing. He did a shot of me, and then his cell rang a “aint that a kick in the head,” ring tone. Wallace put it to his ear.


    “Hello?”


    “Hello, Wallace, it’s Julio.”


    “Hey, brotha. I’m just about to head to work.”


    “I’m off, today. Remember I told you yesterday. Just don’t do the hand off with Carmella, today. She’s going to email you the shift notes.”


    “Ok…What’s with the change?”


    “She still doesn’t want to talk to you.”


    “Wha-why?”


    “You upset her. Best thing you can do is apologize. You know she’s Catholic. And I know she seems crazy and like a—how do you say it? A ‘sloot?’


    “Slut”


    “Yeah, slutt. But she’s still Catholic, and she didn’t like what you said about Jesus’ cock. Anyway, I got to go. Just warning you.”


    Funny man paused and placed the part of me still in the glass back on the counter. I didn’t know what was richer to look at his opened mouth on the outside recalling his behavior or to look at the anxiety in his person recalling it. I loved the sub-conscience the best. I peeked in and Julio and Carmella colored in sepia sat in a triangle, just some carpet separating them from funny man, Wallace.


    “Oh when I see him, I’m gonna say well, who put that fucking tree in the garden? Blame him for your nail scarred hands! Yeah, throw the guilt right on his fuckin’ dad” Wallace sneered as Carmella’s dark eyes shrunk. Wallace went on, “Seriously what kind of dad puts the root-cause right there and then goes—goes to his kid, you go clean this shit up.”


    “You’d tell your hung savior that…” Carmella said shaking her head.


    “Now, that’s the dandiest thing I heard any religious person say, yet.” Wallace retorted.


    “What do you mean,” Carmella said.


    “How do you know he had such a massive cock?”


    “Que!”


    “I don’t think he was so hung,” Wallace went on with words that were as good as throwing a rope around his own neck, “If he was on the cross and naked—ya know they weren’t really wearing cloths, they were up there nude—but if he had such a hung cock, don’t you think it’d been distracting everybody when they should be thinking about all the guilt and grief and shit? Big dicks are like big boobs, you just can’t take your eyes off them long enough to be solemn.” Wallace paused and while Julio and Carmella sat in silence, Wallace continued on with his set, “I mean if he’s up there hung as fucking John Holmes, can’t you see Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea right now just staring at his goddamn massive weaner when trying to mourn. Mary looking right at it saying, “such a shame, such a big shame.’ Joseph seeing her saying, ‘for a Jewish woman you can’t keep your eyes off the pork, can you?’ Serious, Carmella, nobody ever told me he was hung before. No wonder that Roman said, ’surely he must be the son of God.’ He was looking at his goddamn massive rod!”


    And that’s all funny man, Wallace, could remember. What he didn’t hear as the memory stopped playing was one chuckle from Julio or Carmella, two devout Catholics. He just resolved he’d not take another drink of me till he got off work on that New Year’s Eve.


    When he returned to my vision at night, he seized my neck before even removing his coat or scarf. He had two egg-rolls in his mouth and slid me in there with their inners. He drank, like a sailor, shots of me. And his wife bounced in, gawking at him.


    “Don’t drink too much. We need to go to family’s for the party.” She said and exited the kitchen.


    From the kitchen tile to the bathroom, he hollered, “Just drinkin’ a few to loosen up!”


    He drank more until he stumbled and laughed and listened to Sinatra and yelled the lyrics over the reddish-brown visuals of disgust incarnating itself through Carmella raising her nose.


    “Take a shower, Wallace, maybe the bath will sober you. You’re drunk!”


    Wallace pushed the door open from the shower. He emerged naked with the shower head beating its song, still. I laughed from inside of him and laughed through the glass of the bottle. His wife took one glance as he left a puddle behind. “I’m going to the party by myself.” she said. “Stay here with your liquor!”


    All the judgments hammered down on him, Carmella’s, Kassie’s, and his wife’s. He grabbed my container and with his two eyes made contact with me. Through his shades restricting certain light, those eyes looked into my sepia shapelessness dripping down each side of the bottle back into myself. Then from the area some would counsel with liquid for a reflection, I gave up a vision. I showed him the funny man, both loved and laughed with.


    A real funny man, he wore a tux; his skin tan, his upper figure a triangle. He introduced himself saying, “Hello, I’m Wallace Carlson, and I’m an alcoholic.” He heard some laughing. He said, “Don’t mind that. To get off probation, I told them I’d say that in all my meetings!” He looked underneath his bowtie, and beneath the stage, on the other side of the spotlight, Chicagoans, old and young, male and female, fat and skinny threw their teeth out their mouths laughing.


    He opened for certain comedian, Rico Amore. He had a glass table underneath him with an astray on it. He coughed from the withering camel cigarette between his core couple of fingers and deduced himself a cool “Rat Pack” like smoker. A real Dean Martin, he laid his weight to his left hand leaning on the glass table, and said “What’s wrong with you delinquents? I tell you I’m an alcoholic and on probation and you laugh?”


    An old humped over bald head couldn’t open his eyes to a squint but smiled.


    Wallace went on, “this old man. This Harry Bowden relic up here is smiling? He said he hasn’t seen anything this wild since the 1920’s when he got mooned by a flapper!”


    The audience died, surrendering their last laughter.


    Amongst them, I sat disguised as a black man with a cornrow and in a tux. He looked in my reddish-brown eyes as I touched the laughs in my stomach.


    “This black fella is alright. Ya’ know I, like others, learned to appreciate black people by getting to know a black…a real dark one-my liver!”


    For Wallace, I, wearing the black man's flesh, fell from my chair, held my stomach, squirming and dancing about the carpet with delight.


    Wallace, stroked his handsome beard, his face felt ten years younger. Only he and Rickles could charm with this humor.


    “You know what’s worse about drinking, “Wallace reasoned, “It’s not the hangover. It’s the judgment you get. And I’m just talking about the other people at the bar!”


    He heard laughing and wailing.


    “No, I’m serious. The bar tender always has to be a hero. She’ll do anything to be the damsel that has to stand up against some drunken heel, just so the regular recluses that get out— ya know, get out just there— will rescue her. Maybe, there’s no bigger jerk that day than you and you’re behaving just fine, she’ll still tell ya something like ‘you’re drinking all this Irish stuff and it’s only two a’ clock. Two a’ clock, Wallace! Sweetheart, its daylight and you’re drunk, already!’ Are you saying if it’s ten a clock and dark, I can get just as fucked up as I want, but doing it at two is some kind of cardinal sin? I’m really ok doing the same shit but just in the dark! The worst part is when some drunk comes to her aid.” Then, Wallace slipped into his best drunk dialect. He stumbled on his words like Foster Brooks. “The drunk will say something like, ‘G-go ho-ho…You’re dr—drunk, and it’s only two a’ (hiccup) clock.’”


    A man in the audience squealed, it’s only two a’ clock!”


    Wallace fished his eyes in the pool of that which was left of me, while the dream of all admiration for him disappeared. I pierced back in his baby blues; first time I’d seen them without the glasses. This youngin’ could’ve been special: eyes to fuckin’ die for, experience not half bad for someone who only prepared seventy-four days in the nutsack as opposed to my twelve years in the barrel. But, then the bastard killed us both. He picked me up and I saw his tonsil doing the charlatan. The last of me slid under it. He spared me this long and now he took me. I burned his throat and pumped his blood to get back to his wife to that New Year’s party. He grabbed the keys to that unregistered Saturn of his, that 2001 oddity. He pumped the gas, still tasting me to the very back of his tongue, and went down the alley with them shades on and struggled to see anything right, left, or behind. Just an eight minute drive somehow took him to Perryville Road instead of anywhere near that party!


    Then, shit walloped Wallace’s brain; like did the Nazis understand their evil when they incinerated the children of Christ? And I realized he had some heart for somebody, at least. I felt something, too, that he'd never told a nine-eleven joke, a Pearl Harbor one, or a holocaust one. And, then, shit hit him harder, he had stranger thoughts about himself, his mother, and his grandmother and- and that's all he knew of her side of the family - but he thought of how all had been without siblings and he thought of how he and his wife had no children, while red stop lights and the green stop lights collaborated with the last drop of me. How could he consume me to the last drop? But when he did he didn’t know that I’d poke him in the eyes; make him not know red from green, and he kept going succeeding correctly at some lights and failing at others. And not me, but his own anger pushed the gas to eighty when he thought a red to be a green… A Volkswagen Beetle hit him from the left. He spun out of control, saw a large wooden pole, and some house lost its light. What funnier way to go for a funny man than to a punch bug. This soldier fell at little Germany’s doing.


    Wallace opened his eyes to my last vision for him. His crushed body hung to the left hill next to a man he thought to be Jesus, himself; but this Jesus had my reddish-brown eyes, as funny man's joke laughed back at him. This Jesus next to him had no loin cloth and hung heavier wood than the cross of Calvary itself, and this Jesus next to him heckled him, hailing “Fuck you. You’re terrible. You’re after all, a self-centered louse, a sexist sicko, an alcoholic illiterate. No redemption for you! No redemption for you! Ya see that ol’ thief on my right?” I turned my head right and said, “Later, me, you, paradise. You’re cool” I turned left again at funny man and said, “no paradise for you, motherfucker!”


    “Jesus” laughed, as he once said to a Peter, “When the cock crows three times you’ll deny me thrice. “ “Jesus” not known to be wanting or perhaps even homosexual measured for every inch of his cock twelve denials by a Peter. Wallace could hardly hear him, at first, over the embarking thoughts the ladies made of “King Jesus”’ rising bridge. Still, Wallace’s thirst for redemption caused him to look at “Jesus”’ lips over his chin and the bearing up wood. I, in my Jesus disguise, regurgitated the drug the soldiers forced in my mouth until it dripped down my chest and onto my fully erect twelve inch cock and inevitably from it. For a Jew, this “Jesus” paraded plentiful pork with wine and vinegar running down it. Still Wallace’s own jokes weigh too heavy, now, to make light of them.


    Funny man breathed and thirsted for life, or he thirsted for—even as desperate as it sounds— for the loneliness he experienced consuming me. However, his wrists' blood that mixed with me tapped the wood beneath them, again and again. As “Jesus” denied him redemption, the laws of “all good things must come to an end” denied him I. He exhaled, once more, next to the jokes that he’d never be forgiven for. His ancestors, the Victorian woman and the sailor-suit dress wearing boy, at last, ceased from their quarrel.
    Last edited by Benjamin Button; 03-03-2019, 05:29 PM.
    See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

    Comment


    • #62
      At the beginnings of a fantasy story.to depic the American border wall situation and the Russian probe. Would like to write it from a non political viewpoint with somewhat unique characters with their own perspectives...
      Last edited by Benjamin Button; 01-27-2019, 08:36 PM.
      See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

      Comment


      • #63
        I am horribly behind on my LOP reading but I do have Until The Last Drop on my list to read as soon as I find the time!

        The '92 Rumble! The Brain's Finest Hour!

        Comment


        • #64
          Man, the stuff you write reads like what Quentin Tarantino must dream. Trippy but awesome. Really enjoyed this one Benny, looking forward to what you're cooking up next.

          The '92 Rumble! The Brain's Finest Hour!

          Comment


          • #65
            there's even a word in Spanish to describe drunken guilt. In English I know no such word, but I try to describe it in its color, smell, taste, and feeling
            Last edited by Benjamin Button; 02-08-2019, 11:55 AM.
            See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

            Comment


            • #66
              I have a love/hate relationship with alchohol...what I want to hear is contrast and/ or in relationship with this story
              Last edited by Benjamin Button; 02-22-2019, 04:36 AM.
              See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

              Comment


              • #67
                The paint

                He lived in another era, and the paint itched a bit as it ran down his face. He carved an extra space around his mouth to show the bigger lips that acts before him showed. He turned his vessel upside down and emptied his talent and passion over the crowd. He danced and skipped. He sang on key but improvised, “my little mammie. The sun shines east, the sun shines west, but I know where the sun shines best.” The women swooned, while not an ounce of wrong intent proceeded from the bottom of Al Jolson’s stomach.

                Times have changed.
                Last edited by Benjamin Button; 03-02-2019, 10:42 AM.
                See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

                Comment


                • #68
                  The Shape of Iniquity


                  Act I


                  “A person who takes the shape of something else entirely is not a person; it is a thing,” Marlon Bottoms said, sounding his famous monologue in front of the Goodman Theatre. He turned from the audience and turned back again a foot and a half shorter. They gasped and murmured as the six foot two, chunky, clean-shaven, suit wearing man now trolled about the Masonite hardboard floor wearing skin yellow as sickness and bushy hair and eyebrows like a cave man and black lips like ink running from a busted pen.


                  His voice stayed close to Marlon’s but took on the mood of naivety mixed with pain that matched his eyes. “Hi, my name’s Orrick and this day was a bit different than some others in that something special happened to me at school but just the same as the others in that I just got home from school to see my Memmi.” He, then, humping over as if he carried a back pack, pushed back an imaginary door and made the clicking sound of its closing. “Memmi, I want to read the Bible. The preacher in the school chapel says God likes it. He said we can be like the angels. Today, they even did an alter call, and, Memmi, I just wanted to go up there—up there right next to Emmy in her shiny white choir robe and hold her hand and squeeze all the love right out of it!”


                  Marlon kept some masculinity in his voice but took on Memmi’s form when he turned right and grew a long tail and long grey hair, and then scolded with a hovering presence, “What’d I tell you about love, Orrick!”


                  Marlon turned left and became the child again and coward a few steps back. “You said it’s our weakest instinct.”


                  Marlon felt, coming from the theatre’s darkness, the crowd leaning in with wonder Then, Marlon was the mother saying, “And what does that mean?”


                  Then he was the young, shamed monster saying, “that I shouldn’t care what anybody thinks about me…”


                  Next, he morphed back into Memmi, saying, “So what are you going to never, ever do, Orrick?”


                  “Hold Emmy’s hand. Read the Bible. Pray.”


                  Finally, Marlon, as the mother cried, “now go get me some human to eat. I’m hungry for thighs!”


                  Act II


                  Marlon turned from the audience again and back towards them. He stood once more as the narrator. With not a hair un-gelled from the first act, he embraced the audience, once more. With hands folded behind his back, he said, “Young Orrick did read the Bible, though. And when he did, he learned of the human kind, too. He learned them to be born in sin and shaped into iniquity. In Norwich, Connecticut this scripture couldn’t be truer than it was for one Detective Jude Hawkeye. “


                  At what Marlon did next, the dark theatre responded with a second of silence that comes with a collective adjustment of the eyes to a new perception. And then the half of those seated who first grasped what they saw with “oohs and ahs” awakened the others. For what was seen was Marlon’s body narrowing, his three-piece suit turning to a long navy coat, his slick hair lightening in color and growing to a long unkept greasy look. And, alas, they saw without him turning from them, his face tanning, his nose widening, and a beard growing from his face!


                  He stepped forward in the light of the painted black stage. “Hello, all,” the man said with Marlon’s protraction but using another man’s deeper, slower Mid-Western plain way of speaking and using that man’s very soul. Marlon bellowed, “I’m Detective Jude Hawkeye, and this is Nineteen Ninety-Seven Norwich, the headquarters of gun manufacturer Wrangler and Rich. I just made the drive on my own dime from Chicago to here, seeking to avenge a series of murders and cannibalisms in my city. I’m chasing leads my department would never promote—leads as a skeptic, I never thought I would...


                  Without a backdrop of an elevator on stage, to the audience Marlon breathed life to the scene of Jude going up the sky scraper. He traced his finger up and down the many choices of floors and found his selection at the top. He pressed the air, as if it were a button. While looking down with his long hair opening to expose enough face to show a look as serious as a family income, he used his voice to create the sound cables make to lift the elevator. He made a ding as some passersby got off. He stepped aside for the invisible individuals and made another ding as the doors closed to allow him to continue his ascent. When Jude reached his selected floor, he moved through without struggle, as if he were the last person on.


                  When walking through the doors, he talked to the audience again. “Before I detail my visit with Harvey Whitman, CEO of Wrangler and Rich, I’m bound to uncover the lead that got me here. It kind of started coming to a head back in Chicago at the Hotel Monica when myself and a Broadway actress who I met at the ‘FM 98’ radio station had a conversation on the balcony over the view of Lake Michigan. He made a careful step forward and stood quietly while creating the sounds of waves and of wind with his mouth.


                  “You need a coat…” He said.


                  Then Marlon side stepped, shrunk three inches, and turned from being Jude to be a short haired blonde with luscious eyes and lips that looked up where Jude had been standing. With every trace of a woman but only with Marlon’s voice, she said “I like to feel the wind for everything it has.” They paused for a moment with only the sound of weather and water, coming from her mouth. The woman folded her arms to the cold. “So, if you think Sam Hansen is such a lunatic, then why did you come on his station?”


                  Marlon sidestepped to the left and he was, again, Jude watching over the lake. He looked ahead but let a smile for her betray the hardness of his shell. “To tell you the truth I didn’t know him, not a damn thing about him. I just wanted to get this case out. If I knew he just wanted to promote conspiracy theories—Kristina, what I want to know is how a such a talented, artistic person like you got mixed in with all his conspiracy theories!”


                  With a slide to the right from Marlon, Kristina looked at Jude with her blue eyes. “Don’t act like you know me. Don’t act like you know—every darn thing, either!”


                  “C’mon!” Marlon said as Jude facing where Kristina would be standing. He made fun of Sam with a Texan accent, “My name's Sam Hansen and let me tell you folks what’s happening here. The shapeshifters have infiltrated the city of Chicago. That’s why we got this crime rate! That’s why we got people shooting each other for no reason! That’s why we have these people eating each other!”


                  And as Kristina, Marlon said to the now invisible Jude. “You have any better ideas, Detective?” She smiled with eyes looking tired and traced her finger down what would be Jude’s upper torso.


                  As Jude, Marlon turned ahead and pulled out an invisible cigarette and put on a struggle against the wind to light it. It felt like his fight against where the facts led him. He put his arm around the air that was now Kristina. “That Sam guy yells like a crazy man, makes up crazy horseshit. Don’t you think he just wants attention... That's why you go on about him so fuckin’ much! He’s like you. You have to have an audience, to feel accepted…”

                  As Kristina, Marlon pushed Jude off. “I keep telling you. You don’t damn well know me!” She pulled the imaginary doors apart and walked from the balcony to the room.


                  As Jude, Marlon went about smoking, saying “I guess it’s better to walk off the balcony from that end… And Kristina was right. I didn’t know her. But she didn’t know me either. During our fling, she accused me of having an easy life. Fuck her! I was raised by alcoholics and didn’t do school social events when I grew up. Except that one time. My first girlfriend, Becky Sands, talked me into attendin’ one of the basketball games, our team, the Jaguars played. This tall clean point guard for our team, Joel Conner, made the steal, dribbled the ball down the court, made the pass that led to our team winning.


                  Ha! “Our team.” Other than that night, I don’t know or give a fuck about how the Jaguars did. I just remember her saying,” and Marlon’s voice went to a high-pitched teen girl. “Oh, look at Joel’s dad out there hugging him. Why don’t you play sports like Joel, Jude?”


                  When she tried hugging me, I grabbed her wrists to refrain her. She told everybody I squeezed her, that I hurt her. I knew what my dad smelled like when he came home, the nonsense that came out his mouth. I knew I’d never be fuckin’ Joel.


                  And things didn’t get better with me and Kristina or me and any other woman than they did with Becky. Fuckin’ Kristina said I didn’t know her. Damn right, I didn’t know what a conspiracy theorist she was; that she was a member of the goddamn NRA, or that she was a republican that wanted to impeach the President. But she always carried that dramatic tone with dramatic words—that tone and those empty words. Marlon’s voice went from Jude’s to that of Kristina as he mocked her, saying “to assume the intent of another’s heart is to admit the shortcomings of yours. You’re insecure, Jude. Just go. Go make yourself a hero!”


                  “Jude” looked at the audience while tapping his invisible cigarette against the invisible rails of the balcony. He turned about and stepped forward on stage, presumably towards Harvey Whitman’s office. “Now, you can imagine I’m a man with an ego, but one thing bigger is this: facts. I wouldn’t be good at what I do, if I didn’t follow them. There was a series of cannibalisms in my city. One survivor testified of being chased by two things with ski masks and pepper spray in Chinatown outside Walgreens at 3:00 am. This strong Korean lady got away with all her flesh but some of her upper arm she lost to a bite. She had hairs from her attackers left on her. Forensic tests showed these hairs didn’t belong to human or animals known to us. The bite, also, was other worldly they said. But we found surveillance from a supermarket of humans, a mom and son, in trench coats buying the masks and the pepper spray.

                  The Korean woman said she saw what looked like yellow skin. These cannibals are mother and son, sophisticated but animalistic, mankind but beasts? Long after Kristina left, her theories stayed with me and so did her contacts. One contact being Mr. Whitman and one theory being that of a secret bullet manufactured at Wrangler and Rich, a bullet made just to undo shape shifters.


                  To be continued.
                  Last edited by Benjamin Button; 03-10-2019, 06:49 PM.
                  See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

                  Comment


                  • #69
                    Originally posted by Benjamin Button View Post
                    The paint

                    He lived in another era, and the paint itched a bit as it ran down his face. He carved an extra space around his mouth to show the bigger lips that acts before him showed. He turned his vessel upside down and emptied his talent and passion over the crowd. He danced and skipped. He sang on key but improvised, “my little mammie. The sun shines east, the sun shines west, but I know where the sun shines best.” The women swooned, while not an ounce of wrong intent proceeded from the bottom of Al Jolson’s stomach.

                    Times have changed.


                    These little bits are better than your longer writings. At least for me. I prefer shorter stuff, though. Take that as you will...

                    Comment


                    • #70
                      I love your stuff Benny, the long and the short.

                      I actually think about Al Jolson sometimes, mostly when he's referenced by a show old enough to have the point of reference and not feel ashamed of it. I think about changing values a lot when engaging with older books/films. It's easy and sometimes right to condemn things from a different time, but it's harder and more important to understand them. I do believe Jolson had no ill intent, at least from what I know about him. Whether he did subtle harm despite his intention is less clear to me.

                      The longer piece is stranger but just as interesting, you know I'm a sucker for a shadowy alternate world, both like and unlike our own, glimpsed darkly through small, dirty windows. Very much looking forward to the second part.

                      The '92 Rumble! The Brain's Finest Hour!

                      Comment


                      • #71
                        Meandi....yeah it's easy to pack a big punch in a short piece. But the bigger pieces keep me away from the real big punches (trouble)..I just re-read my bigger one and aside from a couple cringeworthy errors, I was happy with it.

                        Mizfan,

                        Thanks, Al Jolson was in a time that he may have done some indirect damage but from all I've heard he did more good than harm...black people were treated horribly then and he took a stand for them in more ways than one....kinda, backwards the way we think of it now...we just see the blackface, the world they lived in then, they couldn't afford to focus on that.

                        I think it's a bad thing, but people who go back in time to judge miss the point.
                        Last edited by Benjamin Button; 03-06-2019, 03:23 AM.
                        See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

                        Comment


                        • #72
                          Indirect damage is such a bitch, ain't it? I guess we all do it sometimes. Missing the point is also very popular these days...

                          The '92 Rumble! The Brain's Finest Hour!

                          Comment


                          • #73
                            The Shape of Iniquity



                            Act I



                            “A person who takes the shape of something else entirely is not a person; it is a thing,” Marlon Bottoms said, sounding his famous monologue in front of the Goodman Theatre. He turned from the audience and turned back again a foot and a half shorter. They gasped and murmured as the six foot two, chunky, clean-shaven, suit wearing man now trolled about the Masonite hardboard floor wearing skin yellow as sickness and bushy hair and eyebrows like a cave man and black lips like ink running from a busted pen.


                            His voice stayed close to Marlon’s but took on the mood of naivety mixed with pain that matched his eyes. “Hi, my name’s Orrick, and this day was a bit different than some others but also just the same as them. It was different in that something special happened to me at school but just the same in that I just got home from school to see my Memmi.” He, then, humping over as if he carried a back pack, pushed back an imaginary door and made the clicking sound of its closing.


                            He said, “Memmi, I want to read the Bible. The preacher in the school chapel says God likes it. He said we can be like the angels. Today, they even did an alter call, and, Memmi, I just wanted to go up there—up there right next to Emmy in her shiny white choir robe and hold her hand and squeeze all the love right out of it!”


                            Marlon kept some masculinity in his voice but took on Memmi’s form when he turned right and grew a long tail and long grey hair, and then scolded with a hovering presence, “What’d I tell you about love, Orrick! What’d I tell you!”


                            Marlon turned left and became the child again and coward a few steps back. “You said it’s our weakest instinct.”


                            Marlon felt, coming from the theatre’s darkness, the crowd leaning in with wonder Then, Marlon was the mother saying, “And what does that mean?”


                            Then he was the young, shamed monster saying, “that I shouldn’t care what anybody thinks about me…”


                            Next, he morphed back into Memmi, saying, “So what are you going to never, ever do, Orrick?”


                            “Hold Emmy’s hand. Read the Bible. Pray.”


                            Finally, Marlon, as the mother cried, “now go get me some human to eat. I’m hungry for thighs!”



                            Act II



                            Marlon turned from the audience again and back towards them. He stood once more as the narrator. With not a hair un-gelled from the first act, he embraced the audience, once more. With hands folded behind his back, he said, “Young Orrick did read the Bible, though. And when he did, he learned of the human kind, too. He learned them to be born in sin and shaped into iniquity.

                            In Norwich, Connecticut this scripture couldn’t be truer than it was for one Detective Jude Hawkeye. “


                            At what Marlon did next, the dark theatre responded with a second of silence that comes with a collective adjustment of the eyes to a new perception, and then the half of those who first grasped what they saw with “oohs and ahs”, awakened the others. For Marlon’s body narrowed, his three-piece suit turned to a long coat, his slick hair lightened in color and grew to a long unkept greasiness. Finally, his face tanned, his nose widened, and his face grew a beard.


                            He stepped forward in the light of the painted black stage. “Hello, all,” the man said with Marlon’s protraction but using another man’s deeper, slower Mid-Western plain way of speaking and using that man’s very soul. Marlon bellowed, “I’m Detective Jude Hawkeye, and this is Nineteen Ninety-Seven Norwich, the headquarters of gun manufacturer Wrangler and Rich. I just made the drive on my own dime from Chicago to here, seeking to avenge a series of murders and cannibalisms in my city. I’m chasing leads my department would never promote—leads as a skeptic, I never thought I would…follow”


                            Without a backdrop of an elevator on stage, to the audience Marlon breathed life to the scene of Jude going up the sky scraper. He traced his finger up and down the many choices of floors and found his selection at the top. He pressed the air, as if it were a button. While looking down with long hair opening to expose enough face to show a look as serious as a family income, he used his voice to create the sound cables make to lift the elevator. He made a ding as some passersby got off. He stepped aside for the invisible individuals and made another ding as the doors closed to allow him to continue his ascent. When Jude reached his selected floor, he moved through without struggle, as if he were the last person on.


                            When walking through the doors, he talked to the audience again. “Before I detail my visit with Harvey Whitman, CEO of Wrangler and Rich, I’m bound to uncover the lead that got me here. Back in Chicago at the Hotel Monica, myself and a Broadway actress who I met at the ‘FM 98’ radio station had a conversation on the balcony over the view of Lake Michigan.


                            He made a careful step forward and stood quietly while creating the sounds of waves and of wind with his mouth. “You don’t need a coat…” He said.


                            Then Marlon side stepped, shrunk three inches, and turned from being Jude to be a short haired blonde with luscious eyes and lips that looked up where Jude had been standing. With every trace of a woman but only with Marlon’s voice, she said “I like to feel the wind for everything it has.” They paused for a moment with only the sound of weather and water, coming from her mouth. The woman folded her arms to the cold. “So, if you think Sam Hansen is such a lunatic, then why did you come on his station?”


                            Marlon sidestepped to the left and he was, again, Jude watching over the lake. He looked ahead but let a smile for her betray the hardness of his shell. “To tell you the truth I didn’t know him, not a damn thing about him. I just wanted to get this case out. If I knew he just wanted to promote conspiracy theories—Kristina, what I want to know is how a such a talented, artistic person like you got mixed in with all his conspiracy theories.”


                            With a slide to the right from Marlon, Kristina looked at him with her blue eyes. “Don’t act like you know me. Don’t act like you know—every darn thing, either!”


                            “C’mon!” Marlon (as Jude) said facing where Kristina would be standing. He went on with a Texan dialect, “My names Sam Hansen and let me tell you folks what’s happening here. The shapeshifters have infiltrated the city of Chicago. That’s why we got this crime rate. That’s why we got people shooting each other for no reason. That’s why we have these people eating each other!”


                            And as Kristina, Marlon said to the now invisible Jude. “You have any better ideas, Detective?” She smiled with eyes looking tired and traced her finger down what would be Jude’s upper torso.


                            As Jude, Marlon turned ahead and pulled out an invisible cigarette and put on a struggle against the wind to light it. It felt like his fight against where the facts led him. He put his arm around the air that was now Kristina. “That Sam guy yells like a crazy man, makes up crazy horseshit! Don’t you think he just wants attention? Is that why you like him so fuckin’ much? He’s like you. You have to have an audience, to feel accepted…”


                            As Kristina, Marlon pushed Jude off. “I keep telling you. You don’t damn well know me!” She pulled the imaginary doors apart and walked from the balcony to the room.


                            As Jude, Marlon went about smoking and said to the audience, “I guess it’s better to walk off the balcony from that end… And Kristina was right. I didn’t know her. But she didn’t know me either. During our fling, she accused me of having an easy life. Fuck her! I was raised by alcoholics and didn’t do school social events when I grew up. Except that one time— that one time my first girlfriend, Becky Sands, talked me into attendin’ one our basketball games our team, the Jaguars, played. This tall clean point guard for our team, Joel O’Conner, made the steal, dribbled the ball down the court, and made the pass that led to our team winning.


                            Ha! ‘Our team.’ Other than that night, I don’t know or give a fuck about how the Jaguars did. I just remember her saying,” and Marlon’s voice went to a high-pitched teen girl. “‘Oh, look at Joel’s dad out there hugging him. Why don’t you play sports, Jude?’


                            When she tried hugging me, I grabbed her wrists. She told everybody I squeezed her, that I hurt her. I knew what my dad smelled like when he came home, the nonsense that came out his mouth. I knew I’d never be fuckin’ Joel.


                            And things didn’t get better with me and Kristina or me and any other woman than they did with me and Becky. Fuckin’ Kristina said I didn’t know her. Damn right, I didn’t know what a conspiracy theorist she was; that she was a member of the goddamn NRA or that she was a republican that wanted to impeach the President. But she always carried that dramatic tone with those dramatic words—that tone and those empty words.” Marlon’s voice went from Jude’s to that of Kristina as he mocked her, saying “to assume the intent of another’s heart is to admit the shortcomings of yours. You’re insecure, Jude. Just go. Go make yourself a hero!”


                            “Jude” looked at the audience while tapping his invisible cigarette against the invisible rails of the balcony. He turned about and stepped forward on stage, presumably towards Harvey Whitman’s office.


                            Marlon in his Jude form, said, “now, you can imagine I’m a man with an ego, but one thing bigger is this: facts. I wouldn’t be good at what I do, if I didn’t follow them. There was a series of cannibalisms in my city. One survivor testified of being chased by two things with ski masks and pepper spray in Chinatown outside Walgreens at 3:00 am. This strong Korean lady got away with all her flesh but with only some of her upper arm lost to a bite. She had hairs from her attackers left on her. Forensic tests showed these hairs didn’t belong to human or animals known to us. The bite, also, was other worldly they said. But we found surveillance from a supermarket of humans— a human mom and a human son— in trench coats buying the masks and the pepper spray.


                            The Korean woman said she saw what looked like yellow skin. These cannibals are mother and son, sophisticated but animalistic, mankind but beasts? Long after Kristina left, her theories stayed with me and so did her contacts, a contact being contact Mr. Whitman and a theory being that of a secret bullet manufactured at Wrangler and Rich, a bullet made just to undo shape shifters.



                            Act III


                            When Marlon entered through the curtains, his steps against the Masonite floor could be heard. Not a clap from a hand welcomed him but the listening from every ear did.


                            With his hair still groomed in place, he spoke hitting every syllable. He said, “ladies and gentlemen, tonight you may have gathered that this performance is not from a man who does great impersonations but from a shape shifter who can become those he tells stories of.


                            What you don’t know is I am not a him. And I will be quite honest with you, for I know my bullet, the one born at Wrangler and Rich for my kind, awaits me. This bullet doesn’t bend for the bones of humans and it pierces those of shape shifters.


                            Go ahead, Jude! You have the approval of the United States government to do it! This is after all, your jurisdiction, Chicago! You took my son, now take me as well! But first I want you to know—know I wasn’t raised to love but my innocent son, Orrick, taught me to! All he wanted was to receive love and I learned to get that after you took him. And you, yourself, may need to know that lesson. For, you took a child who never—”


                            The sound of a gun went off. Marlon fell to the ground and turned into a wrinkled grey haired monster. Memmie, a yellow elderly beast bleeding black ink on a black stage, had spoken her last words which were, “a child that never had a chance.”




                            And I hope you all enjoyed this show tonight! I of course am Orrick Bottoms. I’m no true shape shifter, but I hope I made the monologue with each expression and sound feel as though I were!


                            Orrick inhaled the moment, the Goodman theatre, and the claps, while life on the other side of the curtain awaited the thing that he was.
                            Last edited by Benjamin Button; 03-18-2019, 03:26 AM.
                            See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

                            Comment


                            • #74
                              To Make Dormant


                              As Joy stepped through the sliding glass back door, the stone patio demanded her to lift her big toes. While acclimating against its heat she inched forward, using the sides of her feet. She took a breath at the sun, and while it breathed back at her she didn’t feel wrong for breaking her mom’s rule. “Joy Hicks, how many times do I have to say it, put your sandals on before you go out!” But her mom was only a few hours in on a long shift at Mercy Hospital, while she was on summer break. Then, she stared ahead at the feet of grass that separated the wooden part of the patio from the tall brown flora of the prairie.


                              When her eyes fixed on a man’s meaty back placed underneath his long hair and summer hat; above his vintage, crude stool; and in front of his canvas which set on thin, natural wood, she made a half turn back to the glass door. Her mother may look the other way at the little rules like sandals must go on before going outdoors, but she meant business when she said, “only talk to Herb if it’s an emergency. His ideas are miles of evil away from God, and just ‘not good’.” She’d say “not good” sometimes and “unhealthy” other times.


                              Through the glass, Joy saw her father’s summer hat and beard turn at her. “He’s not well,” she heard her mother’s voice say while he stood up.


                              “Hey!” He cried standing in his shorts and sandals. He looked pale in the outdoors and appeared about as unnatural with the prairie as a backdrop as a polar bear would. “Come here. I want to show you something! Come on, I could die of loneliness!”


                              What more could be an emergency than death itself? She embraced the air and walked to her father. As she got close to him, she saw her own blue eyes from his pale face looking back at her, and she saw her own curls, though her mom had straightened her long, blonde locks.


                              She felt he’d gotten shorter or she’d been growing faster. But he didn’t say anything about that.


                              “This ecosystem has become dormant,” he said. “Not dead but dormant,” he clarified with the brown tall plants behind him.


                              They turned their attention to the canvas with strokes that’d begun mirroring the meadow in its current state. After some seconds of silence, the man her mother told her to call Herb broke it, saying “your mother’s a level three RN, she could be making more money in California or somewhere, you know. But she always said she can’t leave the prairies of Minnesota behind.”


                              Joy thought for a moment. It’d been awhile since being forced to communicate with Herb, but she felt obliged to offer something. She said, “mother also says Minnesota is still only a drop of the Heaven that awaits us.”


                              “Really? What does your mother tell you about Heaven?”


                              Joy took a moment but only could muster the most recent times her mother made her cry. She recalled asking her mom if their family would still be together, but her mom told her they’d all be like angels in a choir but no longer a family. She said in Heaven things were different and praising God would be the only thing that’d matter. What’s worse when she asked her mom if Herb would go, her mom would say “Herb?” It’s what her mom didn’t say that told her Herb couldn’t go. She’d answer the yes or no question with, “God has a plan for everyone. Or only God knows the heart.”


                              “She says things will be different.” Joy replied.


                              “Is that what you want?” Herb said.


                              “No, I want things to always be the same.”


                              “Heaven, painting, looking at ecosystems. It is all the same.” Herb said.


                              “What do you mean? Heaven is better than everything. And painting is something you learn. Looking at plants is just something—something anybody can do.”


                              “Why though do we imagine and learn and observe? What are we really trying to get our minds from?”


                              Joy thought about it but didn’t know what to say.


                              “From the time of your—Say, what’s your mother told you about that—birth?”


                              “She said it hurts more than anything I can ever think of. But once the doctor handed me to her and she saw me, she knew it was a miracle.”


                              “That’s what she told you, huh?” With just a sentence Herb seemed to lose interest. He sat back down and transferred a few more strokes of the of acrylic paint from the brush to the easel, creating shapes yet to form anything.


                              “You don’t believe her? Then, what's birth like?” Joy said with her shoulders back and her nose in the air. She said it in a tone that asked, “you got any better ideas?”


                              “I was there,” Herb responded. “No lights in the room. Strange faces of nurses and doctors in and out. The water breaks, then at first that pain—that pain you’ve only heard about cuts at your wife. First you joke with her, first she tries to keep a tough face. Then, you try standing and she stands in your arms. Then, you try different positions. The nurse asks, ‘is everything alright?’ How is it?’ She knows it’s not alright. There are pictures on the wall of pain at all its intensities from zero to ten, and you know your wife is at a fifteen. Then she cries, and the room is darker. From the shadows, her mother says a prayer over her. Finally, that which she’s been fighting to withhold emerges in screams, in curses, in angers, until her mother puts a towel in her mouth. Her mother prays. Still she cusses God, and her mother slaps her. She says she can’t go on... Joking no longer helps, standing up no longer helps, praying no longer helps. And it’s the wee hours of the morning. You haven’t slept, and your mind is going…Your wife is no longer a human speaking; for her eyes have stopped answering you back. She’s pain incarnated. Her mother is screaming over her and covering her mouth. It’s a freakin’ exorcism!”


                              “But what about the part where the little baby comes out, and the doctor hands you her.” Joy said.


                              “That’s the worst part. You see, I did something that day in ignorance. I had the internet. God, I could have googled it, but I just made a spur of the moment decision. When the doctor asked, I told her yes—” Herb’s stare was a blank canvas. “He went on. I told them, ahead of time, I’d cut the cord. I thought it’d be like a small hose or something. But when you came out, it extended from your mother to your naval several feet in the air. Purple and fleshy, it had veins, and blood on it. At the top of it you squirmed around and clawed at the air like a beast. Why then did you make a sound? The entire time your head was emerging, everything was silent but the sound of the doctor coaching your mother to push at the two-minute interval of every contraction and your mother yelling when pushing. But when you and that purple evil shot out it happened like lightening, and then you squealed and squealed over us and clawed at the air with your fingers and toes. You scratched at your own flesh. Then, they ordered me to cut it like we planned. I hadn’t slept and had endured contraction after contraction. Under that influence, I took the scissors off that bed of sharp tools that would be needed to repair a human after all the horrors. I took the scissors and cut some point after the clamp. When I did, the darkest red blood you’ll ever see in a lifetime poured from its opening.”


                              “Ewe, gross! What’s your point?”


                              “Well, the point is…That day we (me and your mother) not only gave life, but we gave death. You see, all things that are born must die. You’re not unincluded. While this horrific ritual of childbirth is seen as the joy of the recent future, maybe, more accurately, it symbolizes the inevitable that we humans keep cycling ourselves into."


                              Joy's eyes watered; she looked away.


                              After a moment's hesitation Herb said, "now, not to change the subject, but from my room I’ve heard your mother tell you not to come out here with your feet exposed. I won’t tell if you don’t.”


                              Joy wept, sorry she’d disobeyed her mother, as Herb went on contemplating how he could paint the story of the prairie that was once energized through photosynthesis but was now made dry and dormant through drought.
                              Last edited by Benjamin Button; 04-02-2019, 02:16 AM.
                              See the latest of my Ric Flair saga click here. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...acock-(Part-2) View my story inspired by colorful wrestlers I've come across in my fandom. http://lordsofpain.tv/showthread.php...-the-Challenge

                              Comment


                              • #75
                                Thought for sure I commented on that earlier one! Really enjoyed both of these Benny. The strangeness of the world in the first one, and of the man in the second one. You've got a knack for adding a powerful dose of other-worldliness to everyone you take on. All your stories take place in a place where nothing is quite right, a little broken, a little sad, yet still powerful and maybe a little beautiful.

                                Really appreciate your stuff, glad you keep posting it in here.

                                The '92 Rumble! The Brain's Finest Hour!

                                Comment

                                Working...
                                X