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Fucking Crushed Alloy

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poisoned portobello. [23 Nov 2008|03:26am]
[ mood | Hopper Avenue. ]

PALOMINO. Kendall Payne, age 90 of Delroy Beach, lived in Palomino 40 years before relocating to Delroy in 1990. Kendall's husband of 83 years, John, passed away in 2005. She is survived by her sons, Sean and Jeremy Michael; grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Services will be held on Saturday at the Palomino Funeral Home on the Palomino drag.

. . . . . .

Carly was curled at the foot of the bed, shaking and sobbing. I could see the ripples on her back and remember briefly thinking to myself she needed to gain a little weight; but her bruises, having started to turn green, had made it impossible to think of anything else-at length. Her breasts were tucked under her legs, which were tucked inside her arms, and she rocked as she gently hyperventilated from crying.

I watched her with my hands under my head, and breathed deeply as if taking large drags off a cigarette. The air felt damp and the sweat beaded off my naked stomach and onto the sheets. I stared into the only light source in the room, a dim white light flashing from the night stand, possibly from an alarm clock. I heard Carly begin to speak,

"How... could you," she asks, her voice muffled by her knees. I sat up and leaned in to hold her. Startled, she pushed me back and began to cry for help.

"No no, don't do that," I spoke softly as I held her mouth shut with one hand and caressed her shoulder with the other, "You don't have to. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, baby."

She looked at me and squinted her eyes in disbelief. Tears were rolling liberally down her swollen and discolored cheeks and she whispered loudly through my hand, "You raped me."

A pressure came over me at that very moment. Draping my hands over my entire face, I began to cry, "I'm so sorry baby," I said, "I never wanted to hurt you. I've failed you as a husband and a man."

"What are you talking about," she had stopped crying all together and was now speaking accusingly.

By this time, there was a small pool of tears gathered at the top of my stomach and I continued to break down, "I've never been through anything like this before. The economy, baby. It's just so fucked up right now. I just don't know what to do anymore."

I stood out of bed and Carly rolled onto the floor. I gathered the sheets and threw them in the wash with bleach. I turned all the lights on on my way to the kitchen. I cooked Carly some eggs. I drew Carly a hot bath. I know I love and care for Carly. I know the economy has got to get better. I don't want anything like this to happen again.
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baseball bloopers starring demi moore [22 Aug 2007|01:21am]
I was flying out of Dallas/Fort Worth the next day, driving there from Houston to visit some old friends, never mind who they were. Entertaining my wandering mind, I read billboards on long stretches of straight interstate. Take It Easy was written in block letters across the side of a brick building, perhaps as a reminder to drive at a safe speed. Trees blocked the view of the houses while driving just before sun up. The radio stopped working a few clicks on the odometer ago, and it's always darker before the sun comes up. I caught myself beating quick tempos on my temple with my finger just to fight the sleep.

I saw some headlights approach, and was blinded momentarily as they signaled me across the median. I pulled into the median and cut the engine off. I had the Remington carbine behind the bench seat, placed the Smith & Wesson in my beltline, and the Colt Anaconda was always taped to the passenger door. As I walked over to the car across the unkempt foliage in the median, I drew the revolver with every intention of asking questions later. The block letters across the top of the stopped vehicles spelled out Take It Easy. I remember thinking the moon had gotten brighter. An antenna from a near tower kept blinking red, and it made the fog look like it having bloody contractions.

From my glove box, across the median, came some unexpected advice, “The gun he's got pointed to your head is much bigger, shit head.”

Interesting choice of words for a canary, I remember muttering, gun drawn and scanning the fog. The moisture beaded and made the grip of the gun unbearably cold to hold. I then recalled leaving my glasses hanging on the visor, clipped next to the throwing knives.

I doubled back to retrieve them. The canary started singing again, “What in the hell do you think you're doing? You done lost this already if you turn back now.”

What relevance does this have, bird, I remember asking, putting the gun back in my holster.

. . . . . . .

I pieced it together the night before presenting it to the jury. Some dude, probably molested as a child, fought some other dude, also probably molested, and they both end up shooting they's selves. Happens all the time. The better dude doesn't die, should he be hung for his involvement? My money's on yes. I'm the prosecutor.

Written for you. You can pretend you know who you are.
3 asphyxiations| post comment

My slow descent to madness begins... [11 Jan 2007|04:37am]
"Get closer," the captain is sitting on his throne as we all brush the decks, "I gotta tell you all a secret."

As we inch in, cautiously as we're used to his pranks that leave crew members limbless, he pulls out his pistol and shoots himself directly in the eye. Very little blood is introduced to the freshly brushed floorboards, the ball being lodged somewhere in his brain, or perhaps even mouth. I don't even know why I'm trying to write anything anymore. Elaine is cheating on me with a man--a richer, better looking man. She comes home at night smelling like cigar smoke. Expensive cigar smoke. She's got some great tits. I'm going to miss those when she leaves me for this prick.

Dear Elaine,

I have thought things over and I don't want you to leave me for that prick.

Who am I kidding? He's rich. This is her chance to leave her kids behinds, as she always intended from the day she squeezed Nick, our oldest, out. It's no dillema I'm in. The solution is obvious.

So you're saying she was dead when you got home?

It was the crew that killed the captain, not suicide.

Where were you the night of her murder?

How did they kill him?


Your story is full of holes.


I had every intention of killing Elaine that night. I confess to that. Arrest me for that. Try me for that. But I did not succeed in the murder of my wife. She framed me by committing suicide with the gun I had hidden from her and planned to kill her with. My story is NOT full of holes. THE CAPTAIN IS.

Here's the god awful truth, lovely. I love you. You are the most amazing entity I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon. I can see myself with you and you with me so clearly. But I can't for the sake of my sanity stand any of your friends. The person I am will not allow me near you with them around.

2 asphyxiations| post comment

no more good looking. [07 Aug 2006|10:39pm]
"The bubonic plague killed, like, hundreds of people," Tamara documents, sitting on the couch combing Josh's hair with her fingers.

"Millions, Jill, Millions," corrects Josh, staring at the fire.

Tamara rolls her eyes and playfully strikes Josh in the back of the head with a balled fist, "You've been calling me Jill all night. It's fucking annoying," she screams out to the imaginary audience across the lake, "and besides, it couldn't have killed millions of people. There weren't that many people back then," deep in thought, "were there?"

The two of them were boring the shit out of me. After watching Cleyne dematerialize and emerge seven times through the doorway, I decide to follow him outside.

. . . . . . .

Outside, Cleyne is pissing on Rita's passed out body. He looks back and acknowledges me with a mischievous smile before moving the stream across her face.

To my surprise, she doesn't move a muscle. Cleyne, bored, zips his pants up and starts walking towards me, "That Tamara is fucking dumb," He sings the word in a soprano tone and it makes me giggle childishly.

I've known and liked Cleyne forever. I've always looked up to him. I even had a crush on him in grade school. He has a talent for making people laugh. Ever since we were kids he's always gotten the girl and I've always sat in the stands cheering him on.

"And well, Rita... well you know Rita," says Cleyne

I nod and smile in agreement.

"Rita is dead."

Cleyne then takes off running into the woods.

I can see Rita's urine-soaked body and I begin to panic. She's not dead, I keep telling myself. Cleyne's just trying to be funny, but Cleyne doesn't have to try to be funny. I begin walking toward the body, then stop myself. I don't want to find out. Then I hear Cleyne's soprano voice singing across the night. She's dead, She's dead. It makes me laugh, and I walk over to wake Rita up.

I walk up to Rita, feeling sorry for her for being covered in piss. I see a purple gloss in the moonlight. In investigating further, I discover her lungs have been pulled out of her back through the rib cage. Every second lasts an eternity. I cannot collect myself when Cleyne is standing next to me. I cannot collect myself when Cleyne turns me around. I cannot collect myself when Cleyne pulls me closer. I finally collect myself when Cleyne kisses me.

"I fucking survived it, bro!" Cleyne whispers to the imaginary audience across the lake.

"Survived what, Cleyne?"

"This lake is really beautiful," Cleyne picks up a stone, inhales, and throws the stone and exhales, "fucking beautiful."


"We've been marching for so long. We'll have to wait for low tide to keep going."


"What?" He snaps out of something. I just don't know what, "Let's check on Jill... err.. Tamara and Josh. Think they're fucking?"

"They're always fucki--Cleyne! What the fuck is going on? Did you kill Rita?"

Cleyne rests his hands on his head and starts taking deep breaths, "I didn't kill Rita. The bubonic plague did. In 1338 A.D. Let's drop it for now, all right? I didn't kill her."

Somehow-perhaps it was the kiss lingering in my mind-with Rita's dismembered corpse no more than a few meters away, Cleyne convinces me to drop the subject and follow him back into the cabin where I fall asleep in his arms.
3 asphyxiations| post comment

For you. [03 May 2006|03:02pm]
I open the knocking door, expecting the postman with my array of international cheeses. I crack the door and find an empty doorstep. No postman. No cheeses. The semi-formal social is cancelled.

From the side of the door, as if spawned in a digitally-induced realm, a familiar body comes out of hiding before me. Her glasses masking any facial expressions on her tiny, delicate, face; Laura stands there with an undecipherable smile. The thoughts flooding my brain cells prevent me from acknowledging any type of emotions or even physical expressions I may have practiced, but as sure as the bottle was sucked dry on the coffee table, she stands there before me.

Perhaps going back to the events, I may have stood there staring at her for quite some time. Perhaps she may have come in for a friendly visit, maybe even discussed old topics and debates left unfinished in our untimely departure from one another. And maybe, just maybe, we temporarily soothed one another’s growing frustrations with a solitary, romantic moment of repair.

I blink. She’s still there. I blink again, then explode out of the door to grab her unwillingly inside the domicile. I pick her right off the ground by her porcelain arms, and if not broken by the time they hit the linoleum floor, they break when I come down on them with my knees while I close the peering door. She’s planted stomach first against the cold linoleum, she quivers in pain, but doesn’t attempt to scream until she looks back to see me holding her down. I can see her face drop, even through her mask, she fills her lungs with air and before she can fill the morning with cries for help, I have at her face with a balled fist, knocking her glasses clear off her face and leaving her with a red iris growing on her cheek bones. I hold her frail body up by her hair and converse with her through monologue while ripping her shirt to expose her back.

Don’t you fucking move, Laura. Make no mistake. You’re going to hurt. You’re going to hurt really fucking badly. So just shut the fuck up and let it happen.

She doesn’t cry. The only tears she produces are involuntarily ones from the bruising cheek.

I pretend she’s crying.

I bite at her spine and back, drawing blood every time. She lays immobile, perhaps in attempt to make me stop. Or maybe the poor slut likes it. I pull her jeans off without unbuttoning them. The course denim scratches her pale body as it’s peeled off her skin, leaving red tracks on her thighs and ankles. I continue yelling out the raping standards:

You fucking bitch!

Take that!

Take that, you fucking bitch!

She has her panties around her knees and, with my pants around my ankles, I pull my dick out of the pisshole of my boxers. I spread her buttocks and spit right directly on her sphincter before sticking my dick in the ass of her fragile body. She starts to cry immediately. I’m pumping in and out of her, breaking her, violating her, perhaps killing her.

She looks so good when she’s crying. I want her to love this. I want her to grab my balls while I fuck her ass. You don’t have total control over this situation. As ridiculous as it may sound, you have more control over what a girl does when you don’t rape her. I left my car keys in my pants. They’re really annoying me. Oh shit. I have a pack of cigarettes in my glove compartment.

. . . . . . . .

She’s been unconscious for about ten minutes when I retract my dick. It’s covered in blood and when looking down, I see there’s blood dripping down her crotch onto the linoleum. The wounds on her back have poured onto the floor and are crusting over. Her cheek is turning green, and stray hairs cover the entire circumference of the scene.

She loves the pain. She loves the pain. She loves the pain. Laura loves the pain. She loves the pain. She loves the pain.
6 asphyxiations| post comment

[04 Apr 2006|10:31pm]
Nina tells us all she can make the best eggs. We all gather around the kitchen counter in our panties, waiting to taste these delicious scrambled eggs she so like vouches for and shit.

After a life-threatening grease fire, which she like makes worse by throwing fucking water on, we lose all hope for eggs this morning.

"Are you sure you know how to make eggs?" Angela asks as she runs her fingers through her nasty-ass perm. She’s wearing like this oversized fraternity t-shirt (not her boyfriend’s). She’s majoring in Fine Arts or something, but everyone knows she's going to ditch college like a bitch to marry her rich boyfriend Victor. She gets up, looks at the small flame, then at Nina, flares her nostrils and casually walks to the cupboard to grab her hand lotion. Fucking bitch.

"Cunt," Nina scolds. "How were those pizza rolls you made last night, bitch?”

Angela is offended because she got drunk last night and totally burned a shit load of pizza rolls, “Bitch.”

Nina clenches her fist, “Slut.”

After like two fucking minutes of a bitch-stare-down, Angela, aiming for Nina, throws some lotion on the kitchen floor. Nina turns around and makes a jacking-off hand gesture to us. Angela, completely oblivious to the gestures, is now concentrating on rubbing lotion on her ashy-ass slut legs. Nina begins to cook her eggs again.

"Is anybody else… you know… hungry?" I finally ask; it ends up sounding loud and cynical and I feel bad about how it comes out. I’m in my panties.

"Uh huh," sighs the chorus of girls in their panties.

"Calm the hell down!" Nina screeches out of character, “Bitches!” We’ve obviously hit like a sensitive nerve or something. She flips out and starts throwing handfuls of margarine at us, some landing directly on Angela’s hand as she rubs lotion on her legs.

Dead silence.

A wave of giggles breaks the silence and Angela storms out of the kitchen, popping her chewing gum in her panties. She was so pissed.

Nina regains some of her composure enough to continue cooking, "They're like almost ready. Is everyone having their period," struggling to find a word, ". . .simultaneously . . . or something? I mean, shit." She's still a little aggitated.

While sitting down to eat, we all stare at the eggs in disgust. We’re all in our panties. Each girl, it seems, systematically flares their nostrils, sniffs the food, and looks away in protest. "Are eggs supposed to be . . . brown like that?" one of them asks, probably Denise.

"Ya'll can suck my dick!" howls Nina as she throws her utensils down and runs out of the kitchen in tears.
After like 5 minutes of staring at each other’s plates, we all leave the table in our panties to call our boyfriends.

For Ryan.
2 asphyxiations| post comment

Praying hands. [03 Dec 2005|04:42am]

DELROY BEACH, A memorial was held Tuesday for all 25 volunteer firefighters who lost their lives in the fire that consumed Delroy Beach's Hiatt Suites in November of 1997. In dedication to the men, Mercy Drive was closed off and the current crew of Ladder 82 paraded the shopping district in their new 450 HP Ladder Tower engine. Photographs of the deceased were adorned with flowers around the foutain in the plaza.

. . . . .

I kiss Claudia on the cheek while I call the elevator that opens directly into her penthouse. I board the elevator and notice she's still holding my hand and continues to do so until the door cuts her off. After I pop two Xanax and empty the remainder of my flask of Canadian whiskey into my can of Diet Coke, I realize there is dried semen on my stomach and I start pulling it off, ripping several hairs out in the process.

There are three black boys singing Christmas Carols just outside Claudia's building. I instinctly drop some change in a guitar case and start getting chills from my leaking penis.

I parade down the Palomino drag, stopping briefly at Estradi's to see if Paul is working. I don't see him right away, so I walk through the alley and to the staff entrance in the back of the restaurant. Paul stands with one foot against the building, a shadow towering over the Staff Only sign on the double doors, smoking the remainding drag of a cigarette. He sees me, stubs the cigarette out on the wall beside him and skips over to me with arms spread like a marionette. While in my arms, he reaches under my chinos, grasps my ass and smells the collar of my Prada jacket. Headlights blind us momentarily as Paul's relief pulls up to a spot in his Mazda, blaring Bon Jovi's take on a familiar Christmas tune. I regain my sight in time to see Paul roll his eyes far into the back of his head in disgust before the music is muffled and then cut off. Paul gives me a light kiss on the forehead and walks over to the parked car. I light a menthol and reach for my nonprescription Armani lenses.

I hear giggling and see the two walking back, Paul now holding a joint in his hand. I cap off my Diet Coke and extinguish the cigarette after two drags. Alejandro brushes past me and Paul now stands in front of me running his fingers through my hair, "It's going to cost a little more this time," he takes a large drag and offers me a hit while he exhails into the backlit alley.

"Do I get more this time?" I know the response and then wonder why I bothered asking the question. I attempt to withdraw it but he cuts me off before I can apologize.

"Not even close. You want this. For Christ, Phil, I can see your mouth watering. Go jack off if you want more from me, you fucking pervert." He kills the roach and steps on it and begins to walk back into the restaurant and I hesitantly hold his arm back while I reach for the Gucci wallet Claudia got me for my birthday on the slopes in Aspen last year.

Paul smiles and looks across the alley while he unbuttons the top button of his tuxedo shirt. "Not here," I say as I grasp his defined arms. I see the three black boys walking home with a now-closed guitar case. I see a middle-aged man bouncing a basketball with a missing arm, "Let's get on the roof this time. It's sexier."

"I don't know, Phil, I just got off a long shift," Paul begins to whimper, "I'm pretty tired, sweety." He makes a pouty face and bats his eyelashes before I pull out the Derringer and hold it directly against his prick.

"You will do precisely what I say at no cost tonight, Paul"

I can't tell whether his eyes are glazed over from fear or if it's just that he's high. I can't tell whether his lips are trembling because he's on the verge of crying or because it's cold outside. I can't tell whether he's turned on or horrified.

It's hard to read the rape victim.
3 asphyxiations| post comment

inner city kids. [01 Dec 2005|02:02am]

Still No Answers For Mysterious Death.

PALOMINO Despite a long search, authorities are still puzzled about mysterious death of Jill Bankheart.  Her body was uncovered in a trash receptacle directly across from her house in Palomino Wednesday morning.  Aside from several postmortem lacerations on her stomach, which authorities claim were more than likely caused by raccoons, there are no signs of struggle or foul play.  An autopsy is scheduled for Thursday and funeral services will be held for the 42 year-old at the Regency Funeral Parlor on Friday.


                                                                                         . . . . .


The Presidential address was better than I had anticipated.

The crowd begins pouring out of the train, and the depot is, again, filled with laughter and conversation. Radios are making a comeback, so it isn't uncommon to hear jazz and rock and roll on the airwaves from different, portable sources.

I reach into my coat pocket and clench a small pen knife. She falls to her knees as soon as she realizes her throat has been split. I watch as she attempts to reach for the fresh wound, and I watch as her pupils disappear into the back of her head. She hammers the ground and the sound resonates in my ears as I extend my arm and dismantle the second victim's arteries. He falls against the concrete immediately and convulses, tripping the third victim, whose face falls directly into the blade wet with a growing pallet of blood.

I hear no one scream, but then realize the panic-stricken shreaks are more than likely being drowned out by the sustained ringing from the first kill. My coat becomes heavy with blood as I pave a path across the depot with the dead, still deaf to any new sounds. I feel a sharp sting on my shoulder and look back to see a uniformed police officer with a drawn revolver. As sure as I am that the gun is fired a second time, the bullet travels through my left cheek and out the opposite one, forcing me to retreat in pain as I went for the wrist of an infant in a stroller with the pen knife. I trip across the stroller as I map out my evasion. Finding no plausible escape, I surrender and fall to the depot floor, where I keep my eyes open and accept the blood loss will take my life.

I think myself dead until I regain my hearing as the police officer's foot steps near my fallen body to confirm the kill.  As he kicks me to my back, I have at both his thighs with a swift swipe of the knife.  He screams.  I then, in panic, embed the blade deep into his cranium and slip away through the tracks.

I leave my hat at the scene.


1 asphyxiation| post comment

forever cowboys [01 May 2005|02:36am]
She is, in actuality, the reason for my daft diet. I’m very sure it has been 3 hours since my last supplement shake. The packaging instructs to accompany the shake with a sensible meal, but wanting immediate results, I generally skip the meal.

My stomach stings as I attempt the crunches for the night, all the while trying to think of her and not the seven frozen pizzas I stocked in the ice chest last week.

My dreams intertwine most nights—brown-eyed giggles and slow rising crusts.

The phone rings, abruptly cutting off a vision of a pie so oversaturated with toppings they fall off the crust. I answer and am interrupted by Justin, who sounds chipper, as if he’s just been laid.

“Justin? You fuck, dude. What the shit are you thinking calling me at 3:47 in the god damn morning?” I rasp my voice enough to convincingly sound freshly awoken, a technique I don’t recall the exact moment I became an expert at.

“Feel like hitting up the diner,” Justin asks, “I’ve got a few items to go over with you before…” a pause of recollection, “Oh, wait. You’re not still on that diet are you?”

I answer with a long sigh, thinking of devouring a hamburger with a slice of melted provolone cheese and extra bacon. And marinara. Oh and pickles. And onions.

“You should really consider giving that broad up, Dale. She is half your age and I’m willing to bet she only goes for guys in bands.” The long hesitation on my part really angers him. I can feel it. “For fuck, Dale! You’re breaking my heart, you know. She doesn’t even talk to you. That cunt is sure pulling you through some obstacles, dude. By the balls, too. By the balls. By the balls.” He continues to repeat himself, raising the pitch in his tone every time.

I interrupt, “That’s not entirely true, bro. We talk on the phone like all the time.”

“Who calls who? Who does the dialing of the phone number? Does she even have your number, man?” Silence. “I’m going to throw up, Dale. By the balls…”

“Will you let me speak, asshole?” I grow tired of his lecture, “Fuck off, dude. Your wife left you for another woman. A beautiful. Gorgeous.”

“Shut up, Dale..”

“Breathtaking. Drop Dead model.”

“Shut up!”

“And you’re looking to take it out on the entire sex. I know what you’re doing, Justin, and you can suck my dick, you pathetic prick,”
His rebuttal is in the form of the click the receiver makes when he hangs up on me. Mentioning his ex-wife or job will throw Justin into a rage of sadistic hilarity. I feel a little guilty this time, however, seeing as he just read about Nancy’s affair with the model in People magazine. But again, I live to piss the son of a bitch off. The excitement returns briefly enough to accompany me to the bathroom, where I sit on the commode to take a shit. I catch a glimpse of myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. The thought of my protruding teeth wipes any smile I had on my face and my gut hangs over my package, blocking any god damn view. The left side of my head houses hair substantially longer than that of my right side, to allow for the disgusting comb-over. I wipe my ass, flush the god damn toilet, and avoid the mirror on the way out of the god damn bathroom. The only light in my apartment is that of a small halogen lamp resting on the endtable next to my large bed. The light shines on the answering machine and a stack of brochures, the top one reading So You’ve Lost Your Drive…, with a photograph of a balding middle-aged man looking into a mirror. In a drawer on the side of the endtable, I keep my latest manuscript, which I generally read portions of before going to bed. The thought of giving her a quick call crosses my mind, but I decide it might be a little late. I turn on my side and close my eyes, only to turn onto my back and ask again, should I call her.

I pick up the cordless and dial her number so quickly and so rehearsed that I’m embarrassed for a split second. She answers before my line even rings, bringing it to my attention that she’s been speaking with someone on the other line. “It is 5:12. What the god damn are you doing up so late?”

“Who is this?” she speaks sternly as if confronting her father.

“It’s Dale. Just wondering what you’re up to.”

“Dale? Dale. It’s 5:12, Dale. Why are you calling me?”

The incident has gotten me so embarrassed I don’t respond. I just keep quiet.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Dale.”

“Will you? Do you even have my number?” her rebuttal is in the form of the click her receiver makes when she hangs up on me.

My blood pressure has risen and I feel so restless I pick myself up from bed and decide to drink another supplement shake. I switch on all the lights I come across on the way to the kitchen, exposing all my literary awards, all my honorary PHDs, all my photographs with celebrated people, and all my letters from past Presidents. All reminders of how it used to be. Before the court dates, before the lawyers, before the judges. I’m so very tired. I’m a tired old man.

I leave the supplement shake blending while I scan the refrigerator for a snack. I pull out some celery and carrot sticks wrapped in cling film, and jog from the fridge back to the blender. I keep jogging in place as I pour out the contents of the blender into a sports bottle, jog back to my room, shut the halogen lamp off and notice the blinking red light on the answering machine. The caller ID flashes back the number I dial so many times with such ease. It’s her. I play back the message:

“Dale, I think you have the wrong idea about me. I want you to stop calling me.”

I walk back to the kitchen, turning all the lights on once more, this time preheating the oven to 425.
5 asphyxiations| post comment

conceived in liberty. [29 Mar 2005|10:48pm]
Known to all in Delroy Beach as Indigo Bob from the hit series Cowboy Cop, Barnum lost his battle to stomach cancer Wednesday morning, just three days shy of his 90th birthday. He is survived by his daughter Susan, 65, and wife Darline. A screening of Cowboy Cop will be held Saturday at the Fairgrounds Drive-In at the request of his surviving family.

. . . . . .

There used to be a bitch that followed me around on my morning routines-a mix breed no doubt, brown coat and green eyes. She would chase behind me, wagging her tail, while I road my bicycle to the post office. Then I'd stop at the butcher and pick up some ground chuck and fifty cents of scraps that I would feed her. She'd stray about a block or so from my house on Shepard Road and would pick up where I left her the next morning.

I'd been living in my house for a little over a decade and couldn't for the life of me tell you what color it was, but it wasn't gray. I know it wasn't gray, not at first.

I grew to love the bitch like she was my own. I'd beg her to follow me home-I even bought three dollars of scraps for her one morning, but she left me at the same post like always.

Days would mesh together for me back then. My routine would keep me busy until I was ready to sleep at night, and I would always have trouble waking up the next morning. I felt busier with my routine than I did before I retired from the city. The only relief I'd get in the day was sitting with the bitch by the fountain in the park and feeding the pigeons the crusts from my ham spread sandwiches. That was only fifteen minutes of the day, mind you.

One morning I woke up and found my bike to be rusty. I think I would have remembered my bike rusting over time, but it seemed to have happened over night. It was hard to tell any difference between my bike and the dirty, rusted street lamp I had chained it to. I didn't let this disturb my morning, however, for I was only half awake, you see.

I pedaled past Plum Court and the bitch was missing, probably found something good to eat behind one of the dumpsters in the alley, I assumed. I found the post office to be deserted, save for a man mailing dozens of what looked like military uniforms. I bought my fifty cents of scraps from the butcher, but the bitch was not peeking her snout around any corner.

I attempted to go about my routine, which led me in purchasing an out-of-date newspaper, buying a half empty carton of eggs and vomiting after inhaling secondhand cigar smoke from a group of Irish mobster-types in the park.

I got home just after sunset. The street lamps had come on and I noticed the deep gray house. I don't remember my house ever being gray. Walking up the steps to the porch, I noticed a ball of raw flesh at my door-a disturbing sight of gore, regurgitated from the now gray walls of my house, it seemed. I flipped the corpse over to reveal the bitch's bright green eyes attempting to escape from a tiny exposed canine skull. The door smiled at me. It fucking smiled at me. And I began to bat it with a rolled up out-of-date newspaper. The door seemed to surrender and opened itself up for me, slamming it and claiming my left arm as I entered my domain.

The sun never came up the next morning, so I didn't bother riding up to the post office. The blood blanketing the hardwood floors began to shift the same rust color as the street lamps.

unchartered correspondence
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yet another renaissance. [29 Mar 2005|12:19am]
Corrine grabs my crotch with her hand while looking away. Surprised, I brush her hand away and scan the room to make sure no one has caught it. She looks up at me slowly, advertising a mischievous grin as she goes for my crotch a second time.

"Not here, Corrine," I panic, falling off my chair, attempting to conceal the situation but failing uncontrollably.

"Where do you want to do it?" She's still smiling, "There's a restroom outside."

"You can't be serious. You cannot be serious, Corrine," I continue attempting to free myself of her grip with no success. Her hand has now slithered its way past my belt buckle and her thumb is brushing my pubic hair aggressively, "Stop it!"

A woman turns around, and when discovering Corrine, offers her a sympathetic blank expression. As soon as the woman's focus turns back to the service, Corrine extends her middle finger towards her and exposes her tongue. Her left hand is now gripping my entire shaft and working it skillfully.

"Corrine! This is your father's funeral," I begin to panic once again, "I'm not comfortable, you know, doing this with a close relative of yours cold and dead not three feet away."

"Outside. Now," she leads me out of the parlor and out onto the main drag, where the other soldiers are waiting for any hint of a disturbance by the revolutionaries. A rooster crows in the distance and a man with one arm pedals his bicycle in front of us. The sun reflects off my medals and blinds Corrine for a moment before she closes her eyes and kisses me on the lips.

It is then that the first missile raid begins.
1 asphyxiation| post comment

little piece of chicken. [19 Feb 2005|11:10am]
There’s a wet stain on my khakis from coming on myself while talking to Nicole.

She notices and rolls her eyes. I reach over for the book I was pretending to look at when I saw her out of the corner of my eye, and realize I’m in the gay/lesbian interest section of the book shop. I’m so embarrassed I start to panic, calling myself an asshole and a motherfucker. Just as I collect myself enough to stop her from walking away, I hear something snap and then HEAD’S UP! A palette of reference books falls on Nicole, her body is literally folded in half and blood shoots out from under the palette all in a matter of a second. The palette is now flat on the floor, Nicole trapped underneath. She might not be dead, but I think I would have heard her scream by now if she wasn’t.

Oh shit.
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Soulful words are merry instruments. [17 Feb 2005|12:43am]
No… wait… no no….. wait. It’ll happen…. wait…. no no no!

I still don’t understand how I was the only one who could hear Harper scream at his self lockdown to sun up. It was explained to me-some about acoustics- by some computer hacker that been doin ten for drug charges. It was always the same, though: I’d hear scribbling and Harper cursing everyone’s name but the good Lord his self. We all thought he had a couple screws loose to tell the truth. Motherfucker’d done some hard time, I tell you, and he’d never said what it was he done to be here in the first place.

Last Friday we’s all pushin up iron and he came by’n introduced his self. Motherfucker’d been seein us around n shit for goin on 12 years now. Shit. You can never trust a white man’ll part his hair down the middle like that I used to always say. And he came by’n introduced his self to us. Harper Patrick.

It used to be he’d piss the guards off something awful. He’d stand there like a coon in headlights, crossed-eyed and in a daze. Always sittin like a yogi, with that dumb notebook on ‘is lap. He’d get an ass whoopin with that book, I tell you. Them guards would beat the hell from him and piss on his bed before lockdown. He’d cry like a child who’d lost his momma at the marketplace, I tell you. And then it’s always the same.

Wait… why the fuck not…. WHY.. THE FUCK… NOT?

Niggers came’n went in this place. Like always, really. It used to be we’d get about a dozen a week, about nine would survive the first week. That’s a tough motherfuckin week, I tell you. Niggers be thinking they all hard, come time to prove his self, the nigger tucks his tail between his legs like a fuckin lap dog. One in particular, his name was Toby, ooh Harper took a liking to that nigger.

Graduated from some high school I’d never heard of, did some time once before for raping a ten year old outside a bowling alley. Motherfucker followed her to the police station, trying to get a second piece. Dumb nigger.

Word around the prison is Toby was the only one outside the guards who watched Harper fry that got to see what was in that god damn notebook.

We fucking told you, Clyde, and you keep talking about that fucking notebook. We just want to know what happened on Wednesday.

It was that god damn notebook, I tell you. He dropped it before he grabbed the fence.

Why was he on the other side?

Tuesday night he been screamin, not more’n usual. But I hear him use the pencil eraser for the first time I could recollect. Then he started crying, but it sound like he was chewin on somethin or tryin to hide in a pillow or somethin.

Did you ever, at any time, ask Toby what was written in the notebook?

I’d already told you. Toby dead. Guards shot’m in the nuts.

For what?

Runnin his stank mouth off. Nigger really never knew when to shut up.

So, ok. Back to Tuesday night.

That’s it. Didn’t hear a peep from Harper til sun up. We had breakfast and then went out to the recreation field. The goofy motherfucker’s just walkin around, standin still, walkin around n standin still, smiling at all the guards. Nothin too unusual, I tell you. Until’n he stopped at the shell trail. He just stood there and lifted his arms n started waving them in like a S formation. Like this. And then he flew.

He flew-

He flew. I done told you he flew over the god damn fence. The god damn guards were too shocked to do nothin about it. He landed on the other side of the fence and broke down. He just started cryin like I heard him cry Tuesday night. And he dropped the notebook n grabbed the hot fence. He look straight ahead as he done it, too. He was determined to end it all, I tell you. You all said I get a extra sandwich today for tellin you all this, right?
1 asphyxiation| post comment

porcelain mule. [10 Dec 2004|11:48pm]
DELROY BEACH - Authorities are still looking for any leads linking to the murder of 17-year-old Lyle Cornigan. Lyle's body was found Sunday under an abandoned trailer, extreme lacerations to his stomach and skull. An autopsy of Cornigan's body is scheduled for Tuesday and officials claim they should have enough evidence to have a suspect. Cornigan was an A student and president of the Drama Club at Delroy High School. Friends and family are holding a ceremonial bonfire in his memory tomorrow at the beach. "Lyle was so sweet and innocent," says friend Janelle Trayk, "Why would anyone want to hurt him?" Services for Cornigan will be held after the results of the autopsy are revealed.

. . . . .

Our table at Estradi's faces the entrance. Sylvia watches the door and recites celebrity's names as they walk in.

"Bryan. That's Burt Reynolds." She's dressed well; Versace dress, YSL stilettos, "and he's with Christina Applegate."

I turn around to see a drunken Christina stumble through the door, almost taking one of the hosts with her on her trip to the Spanish tiles. "I wonder who she got to watch the kid while she's out," I sample the merlot, nod for the waiter to leave the bottle. He disappears into the kitchen as silently as he came. "Kids are cute," I say, "I don't want any," then looking back at Sylvia, "ever."

Sylvia crinkles her face and I almost kick her under the table, but a sharp pain tackles my forehead. I begin to feel it every time I raise my brow.

"...Bryan?" I'm interrupted, "Bryan, did you get in touch with Louis like you said?"

"Louis Yorba?" I say disgusted, "Why would I ever want to call that prick?"

"You told me You'd talk to him about casting Cray in Return of The Warriors?"

"Honestly, baby, I don't see how you can trust a guy named after a crustacean." I'm briefly distracted when I spot the crack of Christina Applegate's ass as she picks up a pack of Newports she dropped, "Besides, Joel Schumacher is pushing for an all black cast."

"Cray is black, Bryan."

"Cray is Puerto Rican. Hardly black, baby. Except for maybe those pubes on his head," as Sylvia gets insulted, a grin comes to my face and I feel the pain on my forehead again, "So talk to me, baby," I try avoiding the pain, "What roles do you have lined up?"

"Well, Lifetime is casting for a movie about the life of Janet Reno," as Sylvia begins her rant, I stare completely disinterested into the glass of merlot she has barely touched.

I try not to gesture with my face, but everytime she catches me drifting off I smile and cause the pain to return. I realize what it could be and I start to worry. I excuse myself in a hurry.

In the unisex room, two fags fight over a sedated teenaged boy sitting on the tile floor. He's covered in what I assume is toilet water. A model snorts cocaine off the sink next to me while pushing a groping Tom Sellek off her neck. I turn the faucet on and cup my palms. Splashing water on my face, I look up into the mirror. I look great, as usual, but examining further, I notice a whitehead in the center of my forehead. I gulp in terror and attempt to remain calm. It gets really quiet. I look around as I dry my hands on my Prada jacket.

The silence is broken when one of the fags storms out of the room crying and I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out a Marlboro. I light it, turn back to the mirror, and with the lighter still burning I go at the whitehead. The burning flesh on my forehead stinks up the restroom immediately and I see the whitehead boil before finally bursting into the mirror.

"Cool!" Tom Sellek yelps as he gives the model a quick kick on her backside. He walks over to me and I immediately feel uncomfortable. "Hey, weren't you at Janine Garofalo's birthday party last week?" He puts his arm around my wet jacket. I could swear he is trying to make a pass at me, "I think I may have seen you there.. er.."

"Bryan. And I can't say I was there," I offer disinterested.

"Yea," Tom giggles like a girl, "Neither was I," and a sudden worried look comes to his face. He takes a sip of champaign from a flute and takes a final look in the mirror, "Well hey, enjoy your meal, Bryan," He fixes his hair and lightly dusts his mustache, "I gotta go check up on Melanie."

"Enjoy yours.. er... Magnum."

Tom stops half way out the door of the restroom, preventing the crying fag from getting back in, "Don't... call me.. Magnum," He shivers annoyed and walks out.

The model starts throwing up blood next to me and I can see she has a great body under her dress. I wonder if she can even remember whose dick she sucked for that custom sequin dress. I turn around to piss, pull out my package and discover more tiny whiteheads on the tip of my prick. I burn them off in panic and go back out to Sylvia, who is looking impatient at the table.

I start to sweat. It's happening...

RZA and GZA are sharing tour anecdotes with Tori Amos when Sylvia and I migrate to the bar. Louis Yorba walks in with a dressed down David Schwimmer and Axl Rose. Axl Rose then immediately high fives RZA and orders a shot. Sylvia notices my burn mark, "Jesus Christ, Bryan. What happened to your forehead?" she asks as I take a seat.

"Some fag burned me with his cigarette, baby." I add, "Maybe we should go."

"Axl Rose just walked in, baby," she protests.

"You can go talk to that Sexually Transmitted Disease and I'll go back to the penthouse."

It gets really cold in the bar and the sweat on the sleeve of my jacket begins to frost. Sylvia pouts but picks up her Salems and Louis Vuitton purse and I follow her to the coatcheck.

After dropping her off at her beach house in Delroy, I drive back to the penthouse.

Chimes McGavern sits at the lobby talking about the score to a new indie film called Champagne. He sees me walk in, winks, and makes a hand gesture like a gun so convincing I hear a gun blast and feel it in my chest. Probably another whitehead I think to myself. "Love the Santa hat, Chimes," I offer as I call the elevator.

In the apartment, I undress before the automatic locks even take effect. I flip on the lights and catch my reflection on the full length mirror immediately. A rash has spread throughout my entire body. I panic and begin to cry, scratching at the red marks. I run my sweat-drenched hands through my hair, only to find I'm holding clumps of it when I stop. The remainding hair begins to gray right away. As I keep scratching my stomach, popping whiteheads with my now dirty nails, I notice my abs are disappearing one by one, replaced by a fat stomach.

I have no other soul to sell.
I refuse to grow old.
I refuse to be typical.

For Kelsey.
1 asphyxiation| post comment

She has no middle name. [11 Oct 2004|10:23pm]
Layne and myself made a cameo at the rave on Friday. It was at some swamplands out in Delroy. Most of the guys were there cept for Igloo and Rudd that are still on fraternity probation for the shit they posted on the internet. I got drunk and hooked up with this girl Tracy at the House/Trance tent. I think that was her name. She was Asian and had this weird cloke on. We went into the woods, did some blow, and she sucked my dick for fucking half an hour. Worst head I’ve ever received.

I got my new Technics tables in tonight. They are PIMP. My boy Trey is letting me spin at his bar this Thursday night (Word up to Trey) and then we’re going to have a late dinner at Estradi’s. I’ve never been there, but Bryan buses tables there and says he’s seen fucking Louis Yorba and Ted Danson eat there.

I’m out to rent The Day After Tomorrow. I saw it in the theatres, but it was hard to concentrate on the movie with Paula grabbing my prick so tightly.


. . . . .

Year by Year: Confessions of Steve Survain

Sundance Film Festival 1992

That year I had directed a few (seven all together) short films I detested. It was truly a dry period, not only for me, but for our production company, Going On 40. I was being represented by Garriscond at the time and he had me convinced that two of my films showed promise, so I entered them into Sundance.

The first was a very visual piece starring Santino Krokevik and Tyler Opel, two of my flatmates at the time. It was shot over a course of three days on location in Cincinnati. I believe Garriscond was drawn to the violent nature of the film, but come to no surprise, Sundance declined.

About a lifetime short of a masterpiece, the second film I entered was one I had cowritten with David Mamet in college. This is a little embarrassing to admit, considering David’s screenplay, Hoffa, had been made into a top grossing original motion picture that very year. That other film was also declined.

Garriscond invited me to Sundance despite the rejections and we went and established quite the friendship on that trip. He introduced me to everyone we came in contact with. I met all kinds of people from the industry, including Robert Redford. Yorba was also at the festival, Redford’s niece at his side.

Possibly the most uplifting encounter was with writer Roger Avary, who had written for Quentin Tarantino’s Sundance debut, Reservoir Dogs. We spoke at a cafe outside one of his screenings and he gave me pointers I still use when writing films today. He went on to adapt several Bret Easton Ellis novels and I always congratulate him on the accuracy of his work. People like Avary are few and far between. His sheer love and respect for film making allows him to speak to aspiring directors on an equal platform, in hopes that the next great screenplay will have risen from his inspiration.
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Frogs and Cats. The Squid's Pen. [11 Oct 2004|02:59am]
[ mood | A real cowboy, huh? ]

Her head looked down onto the operation, nailed to the hanging lamp, my only conscious light source. The street lights shone through the tiny outlook encrusted with decades of collected dust and arachnid’s webs. Scattered throughout the flat were papers, all penned notes kept from first year anatomy.

The first incision began at her sternum and traveled between her breasts and down into her lower left side. Then I retraced the incision, cutting into her right. The scalpel was an old one, smelling of an old trombone let out of its case to be played after being dormant in a closet. The oxidation engulfing the instrument was substantial. The thought of using such an instrument under sanitary conditions was appalling. But due to the quality and emergency of this surgery, I began hacking at her tissue like a mountain man sawing through lumber. The incision, in the end, made for a comfortable procedure. Both sides seemed to flap over the breasts and, with a little stretching, onto the dinette table, where I nailed them to secure the surgery would commence uninterrupted. Her body looked tremendous as it ripened.

I began labeling the organs accordingly with painted pins. The colored pencil sketches and diagrams were of no use, however. Her heart wasn’t exactly sky blue when I finally found it. I went at the body with a hose in hopes of simplifying the task at hand. All her insides turned a fleshy tan, with tiny burgundy puddles in the crevices. Each resembled the next, throwing me into a violent rage in which I unplugged every organ that could be unplugged. Some started bleeding, others just leaked out crimson water. The rage that overcame my insides set anchor until Jessica’s corpse rested in pieces among the wine cellar turned operating room. I stood in the vertex of the semi circle of sin I had created, winded and physically exhausted.

In my final wicked chapter, I paraded on her disentangled organs and marrow-splintered bones. I walked all over her like she walked all over me for so long. Her head still looked down upon the scene.

4 asphyxiations| post comment

Festivities at the Alamo. [08 Oct 2004|04:04pm]
The entire brigade held the decorated soldier down as he gasped for every breath. The puncture was expanding and contracting like a Gatling, perhaps because of the musket round lodged in his right lung. The bleeding was minimal up until the surgeon suggested-to prevent lead poisoning-that the ball be retrieved from the body immediately.

Johnston watched as the men took to his kid brother’s wounds with bayonets and skinning knives. Blood catapulted in spurts from the crowd of amateur surgeons surrounding the nineteen-year-old. His Union uniform once washed and smelling of linens, now held only by threads. It held a burgundy color, drenched in blood and creek water.

The older Johnston collected himself, and took to the creek to fetch more water for the trying operation. When in return, pushing his way through the Billy Yanks, he could hear his sibling’s cries throughout the camp. Looking upon his brother, who had survived so many battles in the war against the secession-who had established an officer ranking at eighteen-he saw a child. As the brigade hovered in panic above him, ashes from the corncob pipes blew into the wound. The camp reeked of grain liquor and horse manure.

With three fingers inside what was now a gaping laceration, the surgeon felt for the ball and pulled it out in its bloodstained glory. The boy bawled into the overcast night; the cavalry stallions neighed in rebuttal.

Mud and creek water replaced the blood pumping out of his wound, as his face grew blue. A lighter shade of blue, however, than that of the Union Army.

poison yourself
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MONOLOGUE 291 [12 Sep 2004|11:00pm]
How can it be so easy to squeeze a grape, but I can’t get myself to pop these fucking eye balls? I’ve been sitting here half an hour pecking at my face and all I have to show for it are slightly irritated eyes.. The floor is cold and uncomfortable. Sitting on my belt, I have to move to the side. Why would I accommodate myself for such an event where pain should not matter? I’m forcing myself to be more comfortable for the discomfort that may follow. Pressing lightly against my shut lids, my eyes give slightly. If my eyes were avocados, they’d be ripe and ready to eat. Physical pain acts as morphine for my mental pain.

Suddenly it’s quite literally clear. I cannot even see the darkness behind the eyelids.

No vision. Good news. Closer to silence.

So I keep pressing until I’m gripping my cheekbones, managed to scratched my way through muscle tissue and am brushing my thumb against my bare skull. Blood isn’t gushing, however. It’s just dripping down my face, somehow feeling warmer than inside my body.


I’m killing myself right, God damn it.
7 asphyxiations| post comment

Killing Spree. Two hundred dollars. [21 Jun 2004|05:45am]
Mom and Dad,

You are expecting me home in a few days, but the cadaver on the sidewalks of Rio De Janeiro is telling me I might be a little longer than originally anticipated. Brazil is beautiful. It's the filthiest city I have ever been in, but it's the kind of filth you have to admire. There are flower kiosks in every corner of the city, but even they cannot shield the foul air so fragrant with excrement from the alleyways and gutters.

I met a woman that went by the name of Astrud a few days ago. Together we saw the sites and she gave me her delicate hand to hold in mine for most of the afternoon. She was absolutely enchanting. When it came time to bid farewell, she begged me not to leave and allowed me to swallow her petite figure in my arms. We kissed for what felt like an eternity and I felt as if my whole life was simply preparing me to meet Astrud.

The love we made wasn't merely under the stars, but beside them. They adorned the sky in such a brilliant way that the light penetrated our nude bodies. I cannot for the life of me (appropriately enough) remember what happened in the following minutes, but came to the next morning in a pool of blood and a shard of industrial plastic embedded deep into my side. I cannot say Astrud was quite as fortunate as I, considering she'd basically been split in two at the neck. This is where the dilemma begins.

The blade that filleted my love's sweet neck carried my fingerprints.

I don't know who else to turn to with such a problem. I have been confined to a cell throughout the investigation. Superstitiously enough, growing out of a crevice on the floor of my cell is a flower far more beautiful than any found in the thousands of flower shoppess crowding the city.

Do not alert the royal family about my situation just yet. I'm at a loss for words and I don't even speak Portuguese,


1 asphyxiation| post comment

Lovely Principles. [06 Jun 2004|12:33am]
Year by Year: Confessions of Steve Survain


I was 14 and entirely engaged in capturing nature with a broken down Kodak Instamatic. My parents, bless them, had gotten it brand new when I was 4 because they saw talent in me. We lived in a two-bedroom trailer outside the Palomino city limits and my father had picked up an extra day a week at the quarries to make payments on the camera. It had been dropped, kicked, thrown, and beaten by my youth; rarely if ever scoring a photograph worthy of displaying on my mother's fireplace mantle.

I took to cinema during this time. A friend of mine had an older brother who would sneak us into the art of cinema class on Thursdays at the community college. It was here that I was exposed to directors such as Jacques Rivette and Luis Bunuel, of whose work I'm still in awe of. The films were usually quite surreal and brilliant. I would stare, breathless, at the screen while Manuel tried his best at laying the college girls. I'd come home, only to be interogated by my parents, who refused to believe I was chatting about French cinema with the college kids at the Big Room Cafe.

My photography got better. One of every three photographs ended up on the fireplace. My father added a second shelf and later a third. Times were getting rougher in the household and it lead to my father being fired from the quarries. We, as a family became desperate for any form of income; to the point where my mother started selling my photography to local coffee shoppes and jazz clubs. The attempt was brave, but was only good for purchasing rice at the Korean grocery store. Rice, after starving for weeks, became the best meal, then the common meal, then the only meal. Rice on Mondays tasted exactly like Rice on Fridays, save for every day it had less taste, less salt as we slowly ran out. My father would just lay in bed all day long, only coming out to read the paper from the day previous, which I would steal from the library every morning.

Manuel got bored with the cinema class, so I got bored with the cinema class. We started hanging around the music store in the Jamaican district and became acquainted with this guy by the name of Rawce.

Rawce had done time in every prison in the county of Delroy. He had been pinched for dealing drugs mostly. The police knew he pimped, but they could never get anyone to come forward. He was also very photogenic. Manuel and I would hang out with him just about every afternoon. And if I had my camera, I knew I was going to get some good shots of Rawce mistreating women. My mother hated the photographs, but that didn't excuse the fact that the cafes were paying twice as much for the photographs of Rawce than pictures of flowers and trees.

Then Taxi Driver came out.

Directly after my 15th birthday, I convinced my father to take me to see Taxi Driver. We took a bus to Palomino and stood in line for half an hour, only to wait in line again after purchasing the tickets. I had never seen so many people in one room before. I watched the entire film trying not to blink out of fear of missing something. At one point during the film, my father reached over to shield my eyes and I moved over a seat before he could reach me. Even today, I make my crews watch Taxi Driver at least once during production on a film. We got home from the movie and I still had visuals of the movie in my head. That night was filled with dreams of Robert Deniro kicking TVs over. Beautiful.

I had not touched my camera in a while, thinking of motion pictures, when Manuel came by the trailer and told me he had something to show me. Bring your camera he said. We walked toward the Jamaican district, where we met up with Rawce, who looked sort of pale. I looked back at Manuel and noticed he was pale, too. I followed both of them into a building and up some stairs, my camera wrapped around my neck. There, in front of us, was a girl I had photographed with Rawce before. I recognized her because Rawce's girls never changed clothes. She was curled up in a corner panting and reaching for the walls, same pale look on her skin. Rawce and Manuel then grabbed the girl by her arms and slammed her against the wet concrete. They started raping her, battering her face and ribs. I was terrified but couldn't make myself look away. They kept yelling for me to take pictures, which I did eventually. The look on her face after they were finished was both innocent and intense. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, all I could see were her pupils. Her clothes were torn to pieces around her naked body, which was discolored from the punches she had received. The only images I had to compare to her were pictures of defeated boxers in the paper. It was with the photographs I took that evening that I was able to buy myself a better camera.
6 asphyxiations| post comment

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