Black Amethyst How would I declare my love? An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips. I tease her not with well wishes or misplaced bliss. Use my mouth to conceive New born testaments of belief. Shower her with words as soft as pestles; reds, pinks, greens; signify the mapped out lanes of her lullaby. As dreams come when there are many cares, so does the speeches of a fool when there are many words. An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips. The eye never has enough of seeing. Nor the ear it’s full of hearing love is sweet and it pleases the tongue upon repeating her lover is a loose vines of roses, resting between her breasts. How beautiful the darling! Their souls filled with longing.

According to Marcus Sakey, a charismatic writer for the Sun Proper of the Western Times magazine, brilliance keeps pushing the philosophy behind the universal Jungian Shadow-the suppressed thoughts and principal tendencies of every human being-how at times, it comes out through mediums, art, music, athletics, etc. Not a bad name for prison art-

“Thoughts were only thoughts, and these were held close.”

Reincarnation% a critical examination by Paul Edwards who I might add is an unbeliever- This desecration was published in 1996- he was born in 1923- no date on his death but I can assume being that it is 2015 that he is no longer with us and according to himself, he is nothing at all- not even a memory. This book just made it so, in the future, discussions, may not be had, to the unbelieving, for that is a war of semantics, that are as vain as the discussions had between Catholics and Baptists or Jews and Muslims. Hindus and Hare Krishna’s- I see no point; yet I do understand the need for Identification, just as much as I see the need of Vindication,

Preservation, Validation and Revelation. Above all Revelation, for without revelation one cannot revolutionize thought or elevate. His book was not a complete waste- just if one does not know anything or believe- why speak at all. I reflect of the dreams of my family, those, they achieved and the unfulfilled, and at times I, as the oldest, want to pick up where they left off because I believed in that way of life; In order to have in this world we must work for it and take it, because no one is going to give it to you. I believed that the American dream was real and I wanted to surround myself with like-minded people and it is wonderful to see the peasant educate himself to sit amongst the HAVES: but when you are from the Haves Not, that stench of the slums clings to you. It’s always apparent that you don’t belong: for now, my parents have nothing- No retirement- no friends- barely a religion and we know how gravity presumes to spiral things downhill: I used to have “it” all with no education as to how I had, “it” all, saving nothing but my pride. Again my fault, mind you, does this mean my family did not try hard enough, that I did not work hard enough? According to Society, yes; but this is also a society that allows the unbeliever to skate-by, keeping its citizens on life support and deludes it’s public into believing that the American dream was born on the 4^th of July and we are not exactly as we have always been, a penal colony. Only now, the peasants are allowed to oversee the other peasants. The long arm of the republic learned how to “foolycooly”, us, and no one stopped it. They just made fun and now we sing songs about it. Oh, how I should have joined the IRA, at least then they could have burned me. I will continue to fight the good fight not just write stories- I will live them.

~Authors notes on Black Amethysts

Honestly. I never wanted to write this story. For six plus years, privy to this draft, I’ve been bombarded with the responsibility of this tale and have felt as an artesian, inadequate in my ability to even begin. As stories go, I always felt I was too young to have a great epic to tell. The greek philosophers told stories to illustrate a point; the motif is why there allusions are remembered, it was never their ability to tell a good story but their ability to mold the minds around them by the stories they passed down. Artisans have been judged by their ability to teach and influence. Keeping this as my standard I always felt I came up…. this story, came up short. Then one day as I read a dissertation of 400 or more pages in the matter of a week I felt neither more informed or less influenced by the dictation as opposed to any other of, say 1000 plus pages and thought to myself, I am no less or more informed but quite satisfied that I had something to pass my time. Now if this particular writer can shovel out words of no purpose other than to entertain in the matter of a year and I can read it in a matter of a week, well then I should tell this story for no other purpose than to say I did it.

“Girl, you’ll be a woman, soon. Soon, you’ll meet a man and give him your heart and you’ll run away together. The only one who could reach me was the son of a Preacher man.”

Aside from the whimpering and gasps of two overly eager young adults in the back seat of the dusty brown 70’s Crown Vic the melody from the radio in tune to their wanton abandon or albeit they were in tune with the radio. Hot dismal heat suffocated the town and the car so that all knew the red dust of Texas to be more that an old Eastwood film and only made our two songbirds jovial that much hotter… “Ooo Callie ooo,” hmm, McNaire, hmm, Oooh, you best not bust dat tarn condom Callies and get me pregnant, or you’ll never hear the end of it.” Moans McNaire.“Hear the end of it, hell you’sa given me more than my fair share of it now sweets, now hush up before the song ends, I’m nowhere near through loven on you anyhow,” hmm. “When we get married, you can have me as much as you reckon.” She encourages “I reckon, you’ll be sores a might long time Cheri, cause your just too good to let go,” he purrs. “Do you mean that?!” she asks, half a plea, half a promise of more. “Do me not fit; I’d soon inside you as long as you let me.” Callie’s kisses McNaire savagely on the mouth, their tongues clinging to ecstasy, as each climax, the evening sun continues to suffocate their small space aiding the frustration and friction of the moment. Caramel skin upon caramel molto skin nails biting into soft corn bread fed haws and thighs made for riding bare-back clinging to His sweaty bare back made for one broke condom and sweet-sweet orgasm.

nine months later.

“What do you mean you’re not sure?! You need to come over and at least see him, I did not do this on my own and you said you’d be there!” screams an irate mom to be. “Ive been talking to my mom…and.” Pleads, a confused, father to be. “She hates me. We all know that but that does not mean you just, ugh, come over here, please.” Pleads a, promised hearted, mother to be. “How do you know HE is mine?” asks a justified father to be. “Screw you! You know what, don’t come over, I don’t need you—my mother—your mom or anyone, me and my son will be just fine without anyone.” Click beep, beep, and the sound of words and silence that will begin years of vindication and thoughts of what could have been.

The year is 2007. I’ve at this junction in my life done everything that qualifies a human being of the malechovonistic ego to be considered for the nomination of MAN; to say the least. Do you remember Breakfast Club? Every blue-blooded American does and honestly you can’t say you

passed an immigration test or an ASVAB unless you have. Do you remember the Basket-Case? Well, can any of you picture a man that could say he loved the image and Idea of the Basket-

Case –every pasty inch of her dandruff infested angels? She was angels, she did not have curves.

All blue blood angels like the ’57 impala. All angels; you almost imagine a Hump fry Bogart and Rayliota compilation, eh, that is much too flattering on my part, Hump fry Bogart and Johnny Depp may illustrate my off-beat nature better. Yeah, I’m that guy. Tall dark and handsome, here’s looking’ at you kid. The son of two modern day Bohemians that could not get enough of enlightenment to make sure look who’s talking remained an Anglo-Saxon thing. Not that I am mad at them or anything—I mean I am a good looking guy but to be born a peasant typically means I’ll die one. Those no matter how much we party like them- educate ourselves like them-eat like them or dress like them-talk like them, I’ll remain separated from my general peers because of three convictions from birth, I’ll never be made to let down. I’m considered dumber- I’m considered too dark to be handsome and all the generations after me male or female will be inferior as I am inferior to my betters. Our women will always be accepted, they are women, but the male will always have to fight for HIS; demanding a woman that can stand the heat. A few years before my Basket-Case reflection I was informed by my mother of the whereabouts of my biological father; prior to this moment I suffered not from an Identity crisis but from and overabundance of hubris from the overconfident delusion of knowing exactly where I stood in the world and where I was going. As a young adult, I felt certain I was ahead of the curve—in front of the eight ball by a long margin and that to seal the deal on my dreams my only obstacles would be of my own creating because no one else could slow me down. That is until…

“That man that is fighting a war with the American Army, and has raised you since you were four…” a tear eyed mother whimpers to a placid son. “Yes?!” the mechanical response of an intuitive mind. “He’s not your father,” the final decree of a vindictive mother. A smirk etches across my face because I am certain this is a bad joke coming from her lips, has to be another phase, like her obsession with eating healthy, reading self-help books, or tapping into the secret at the suggestion of Tom Cruise and Oprah. She is not laughing and the joke I made in my head about it is not funny either. “You’re serious, so no more life time movies for you.”

“Your real father called the other day,” she continues this dialogue like I did not say anything, he wants to meet with you…you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She says this like one of those new FDA advocated drugs where they tell you it’ll help in your life better than the last brand but may cause anal leakage. We are sitting in the sun-roofed patio of our middle class suburbohemian home. I am sweating from soccer practice. The stench from my armpits smells like grass and the glass table looks extra dirty due to my fingerprints. Responsibility demands that I meet this man, but my youth can care less.

“Sure, I’ll meet him, set up the day and I’ll fly out,” I raise up from the seat and walk to my mother—kiss her on the forehead—awkwardly squeezing her against me in comfort I feel she does not deserve. She looks up at me with her doe eyes, the question in her face long before the words come out. “I’m going to take a shower first and then eat dinner. There is nothing I can do about the situation right now, anyway, till you buy the ticket and I never knew the man before this day, I am sure it’ll make little difference on my future.” Logic dictates that I was correct; of course, my mother was a black magic woman and believed in the adage. “The sins of my fathers.” She truly hoped her ghosts would not haunt me.

(The Houston Hobby Airport was constructed like most of the buildings in Texas—with Tornado and severe weather warranty. This means the roofing is always at bare bone construction and traffic is constant.) A two-hour flight remained uneventful, no pretty women—snotty nosed brats and under achieving mothers boarding a South West Airline that as I find my seat reminded me of a Grey Hound Bus with wings. “Where is the first-class section??” I ask no one—clearly this is how we insure social equality in present day America –All new airlines will maintain a comfortable inebriating atmosphere in a coach setting. The Beginnings of Socialism. I am not assigned to a window seat but I’ll be damned if I allow Granny-liver spotted skirts to be my only pleasant view on this trip. As I sit on the plane I contemplate why it is I’m so angry with everyone involved in this current situation. Aside from the obvious betrayal to be lied to always hurts, big lie, little lie, the thought of being deceived by those who claim to love us stings. Only this is minimal compared to my Pride. My sense of identity was encompassed in the idea that family heritage are all an individual has upon that bare bones of his death—that despite life’s victories and defeats is the individual is assured of his past he will be able to direct his future. But when everything you believe about yourself is a lie and you have been completely, totally recalled to the origin of ones beginnings—well you are no better than that reader who is forced to crack the pages of a story already digested. Forced to recall the beginnings of a character one already knows and affirms. Redundancy. One level above retard. This again having to prove to the world that I as a black man am indeed intelligent and that this failure of my parent’s part is not the social norm of that community—oh but wait it is–and indeed, I am a statistic. No there is nothing special about you or your birth you are a peasant and we all know what happens to peasants. They typically die, peasants. My mother married a military

officer in the early 90’s, since she was having my sister and he was the father, this sense of duty demanded he and her promiscuous ways, make an honest woman out of her—

Adopted me and fabricate a story of how he will and forever be my father. Now, be it, if I was not stuck in my own world I could have prevented this deception from taking hold of my mind. I was four, so sue me. All future verbal abuses and physical where not stymied from the insecurities of a black male who was infuriated by the fact that my red boned complexion and hazel eyes and

curly “good hair” where direct contradictions to his masculinity and that because of my off beat freckles, “beauty marks,” I was a little wench, that needed to be toughened up. No, I was a lazy,

ungrateful child that had a deceiving nature that could only be subdued with the whip. My need for my mother’s attentions was seen as weak and the Wesley Snipes doppelgänger was determined to train me for the New Jack City that we call the world. As the plane touched down at the Houston Hobby, I remained stoic to the situation. I was meeting a man-one no different than any other-just claimed to have some information about me that no one else was willing to be honest about. As I entered the boarding area of the Airport I received a text on my cell.

“Are you here?”

“Yes, just landed-about to retrieve my bags,” was my reply.

“Stay there, I’ll meet you and well just link up…” came the gabbled reply from the other end of the line. I did as he bid and there he was- A tall, robust, jovial man wearing Airport security uniform. Great he works for the airport. I wonder for how long—to think I’ve crossed his path numerous times on my trips back and forth and never thought hmm—we kind of favor each other. Of course, just because someone favors you, this does not mean you are kin- I mean with the same haircut and military bearing people used to think ….no they didn’t—it was just, I, that was deluded. Biology and logic dictate that this man in front of me is my father and because I see the truth for what it is I not only shake his hand and look him in the eye, I smile back and say, “Hi, so where to.”

“Omg, how do you do that?!” she exclaims through her astonishment, she has been talking to me but I’m so involved in her scent my mind is elsewhere.

“Do what exactly?”

“Where do you go when you are not mentally with me, I’ve never could just dip off like you do, to many distractions.” Her bare thighs are soft, her crotch is still fluffed from my tongue.

When we met, she was involved and so was I-I was the outsider but there, were mutual friends. She was an aspiring model- could have been wearing a black hefty trash bag and still would have turned heads. Mind you, under the beauty lie dormant The Basket-Case-the Frausa Balc of Craft through no fault of her own, I am Humphry Bogart and that is how I like them.

“Here’s looking’ at you kid.”

“I’m with you-believe me-I’d be blind not to be into you, I was just contemplating on how I made this happen.” “I’m sure it was all the Mulan Rouge quotes.” Or it could have been the fact that it was supposed to only happen once but I could not get enough. She was everything Noir of my soul, the affirmation of my existence. Molto like my mother, long wild hair and legs that ended in smooth ankles that supported her size zero 5’7’’ frame; the strut of a gazelle and the impish need to sex me whenever the call demanded. “I’m a nymphet.” She admits after our first extravaganza “Good, because I could not see a one night stand being successful if you were not into it.” Comes the smirch remark of contempt. “No, I mean it is a sin to sleep with you because we are not married and worse off because I cannot see myself not wanting you.” “I’m going to rot in hell if I can stop myself.” She wails. Growing up in a religious family these words are not virgin upon my ears and seem to be the continued motif of the Southern Baptist African American women, what I did not know then and took for granted until this reflection is the fact that she whole heartedly believed this diagnosis of her issue and her continued fornication with me was not a reflection of her weak will, against me, but my evil nature. This as well is how upon concerning my son had the gall to say, “You’re a good man, but we simply cannot work.” To this day, I am made to wonder how it was I allowed her to invade my wall. That place I go to escape what is around me. Months before I accepted her invasion of my piece of mind I was warned about this free loving world by another supportive advisor whom for this story we can equate to an employer, considering I lived on their farm and worked for room and board. Upon my visit that soon became few and far between; the Matriarch of this family would grace me with her wisdom of the world. Undoubtedly because she wished to swallow my essence with her mouth but I would ignore her advances and passed them off as grandmotherly affection; for as her husband claims, “A diamond in the rough.”

“That institute is no different from any other institute and honestly I do not believe you are ready for it. This move to leave us I find to be premature and you may fair far better if you stay with us a while longer, at least until you are finically stable.” She coos “It is practically paid for, if I maintain my academics the institute will pay for it,” Comes my assurance. “That aside the men of state that claim to be learned and educated will harp upon your naiveté and deem that there is no god, that anything you believe is a fabrication and that if you can’t see it, hear it, touch it, it is not real, how would you answer them?” she asks almost pleading.

“If a tree falls in the forest and you are not there to see it does it make a sound?” Comes my whispered reply.

“You are indeed a philosopher and a scholar and banter is always fun with you, but truly, you will be surrounded by women, whores no less and I want to make this perfectly clear, simply

because a woman throws herself on you does not mean she is good enough, honestly a woman of the age of seventy can get you in the mood as good as any women; It is the woman that God chooses for you that you should be concerned with. Not just any old floosy.” Her exhaustion is evident.

I always found this conversation entertaining because at the time I was courting both her daughter and desperately wishing to conquer her grand-daughter of twenty-three. Both of which who were beautiful and would fit the mold of Basket-Case.

“I can assure you I will not waste my intellect on the easily deluded.” Honestly this older woman, upon reflection of this conversation would have slept with me as well if I was not so

young minded. I honestly felt a woman past the age of 59 to be beyond reproach and in not way should or could be interested in me-Humphry Bogart was not claiming any set religion or political standing. No telling how old, the Matriarch was but I never asked and was always taught it was rude to do so.

“Come massage my neck please, sitting upon here and stamping these envelopes creates a terrible cramp in the shoulders.” Innocent enough, dutifully and keenly I kneed her shoulders and neck with fingers unaccustomed with the touch of a woman and more accustomed with day labor with an axe or barreling hay stacks. She purrs regardless and the trust that is developed through this scares me because of further experiences with the woman.

“If you must make a call you are welcome to use the phone at any time.” If I had known that meant while she was in ear shot at any time I would have declined. It was never a problem until

the inconvenience of only being able to reach my mother or loved ones when the sun went down and because my family kept uncouth hours I knew I could reach them at 10:00 pm I just did not know that this Presbyterian protestant family believed in going to sleep at 8:30pm and anything past 9:00 pm was witching hours. God, forbid I made a call at midnight I can

only imagine an uncomfortable situation of the woman standing before me in her night gown as I am engaged in an informative conversation with my mother, turning into the shrilling report of infidelity and sacrilege and a glass of warm milk dunked on my head due to my inconsiderate nature of keeping her awake with my nightly shenanigans. I was more than intrigued by her

behavior when in future visits I carried my own phone and would search in vain for a signal on

her back patio, and she would peer from behind the curtains, curious as to what I was doing out there, not letting her in on my thoughts or secrets, to this day I don’t understand how someone

can live in the country hills of North Carolina with no ligament internet connection, cell phone coverage, television cable and a reconstructed 20 wide trailer and claim to have found spiritual clarity. She did and I always thought her to be a sweet old lady with an amazing amount of spunk.

“When you begin the bath water, do not forget to put in the family salts and soaps, like I showed you.”

“You do know how to properly arrange a bed don’t you?”

I am still appalled at this question I find that those that feel that they are above us can demean us due to our ignorance. She could not help herself; I was the help, the field hand and still young.

This was simple education on ethics. I still believe my military bearing should have told her I could make a bed. None the less she went through the motions and probed my brain more. “come wash these clothes with me.” Steps ever so lightly to make me a part of the family, sigh. Things I simply could not digest or entertain long because clearly I would soon be off to bigger and better

things. Dedications will go to the Family of those alpine hills; you were not long in my life but played the biggest part of developing my character. Helped me develop an Identity I can be

proud of. Mainly because of the originality of the Identity; Something I can have on my own

even if it is darker than most people are comfortable with. My oracle had tenacity for words, “the

institution will teach you that science is god that what Gods are myths and the affirmation of God and Jesus are fables and that casual sex will not harm you.” Sitting in her night gown of cotton, blue pedaled embroidery, sipping her tea and milk and hearing that above all there was in this world that will destroy me. I’ll succumb to the woman.

“A world without religion is one of dialogue and amoral debauchery that we, as a society, should never stand for.” All of which I whole heartedly believed and sought to impart on my Mulatto basket-case beauty, of course it is hard to defend ones piety when you are continuing to ravish her, even as you quote verses from the bible. “Bianca, I assure you, as you can see from the picture she comes from an upstanding family and will meet anyone’s approval, a mindless whore she is not.” I’m made to persuade. “From her picture I can see why you are smitten but I assure you jezebels come in all shades.” She is insistent; the rouge lips of the beauty in the picture are a marker for an oracle of her caliber and only infuriate the older mistress. I smirk at myself at this recollection because she was no better than even my mother giving tallies of my basket-case. I equated this to the idea that “no one is good enough for the ones we love.” Only how can she claim any tenderness for me when she neither birthed me nor invested any such time to develop such emotions—surely six to nine months is not enough time of association to claim any such charity for a person.

I compared this to the instance of the many occasions in which I introduced myself to a woman, thirty years my senior who still maintained her youthful beauty and to me had the uncanny

appearance of an Air force pen-up girl model. Upon meeting, I went so far as to inform her of

her unusual exotic look and the appeal it had on me. In her husky tenor-Alton voice she asks, “If

I cared to join her outside for a smoke?” being that I smoked Marlboros-socially at the time to the liking of no one that knew me I was pleased that she asked. We entertained each other’s

pleasantries and I indulged in her off beat charms. I am emphatically mesmerized by her Mulatto face and her shape. To still maintain her v-shaped waste and hips aside from the use of a girdle I

am dumbfounded. My oracles words tease me, “A woman of seventy-one can surely do the same

as any floozy, very little art is there in arousing a man.” I wave the memory away as if it is the very smoke from our mingled cigarettes, a heated blush upon my face as I indulge in this

woman’s essence. As we sit upon the veranda of the lobby I learn she is an unconventional

student, one of the many that are determined to earn a degree of some-sort before they die or

retirement require they work till they are bare bones. She asks me if I drink. I reply, “rum is my other lover.” She smiles, coy and confesses that she does as well and would like to take me

around town. I innocently enough agree. We met the following evening at the same building

because she does not know where I reside. But I enjoyed the deception. It allowed me time to compose myself as I contemplated how she looked when she walked away. Voluptuous hips swaying through the fog created by her burned out cigarette. As she pulled up in her four-door sedan all black, outside and interior, she was all giggles. Frauza Balc, from the craft, tickles the nape of my neck with her tongue and as I look upon this relic of beautiful servitude Humphry Bogart appears, “hears lookin’ at you kid.”

I enter the car, our fingers touch as I rest my hand on the center console and she reverses the sedan. She is jubilated that I agreed to our engagement. She wants to eat at Ruby Tuesday, “have you ever been,” she asks; her and her friends, whom I have never seen, go all the time. At the

moment I can’t remember the last time I went there, so I tell her no. She is surprised, asks me if

I’ve been under a rock. “You’ll simply love the place.” It takes us thirty minutes to arrive. She parks the car and gathers her things—she is wearing a bikini strapped blouse embroidered

design-black, with a black skirt, much like the skirt from the other night only showing a lot more legs in her four inch heels. This is the first I notice her legs and in addition she primped her hair, bangs with fall away curls, just below her ears, still conservatively in a bun but just enough tilt to be fun. She is wearing hooped earrings. And red lipstick, showing a lot of teeth in her smile and we have not even made it inside the diner. We are asked to wait for seating—it is a Wednesday night but this is a college town so the place stays busy. We walk to the bar. I sit on the stool,

neglecting to ask if she cares to be seated first, neglecting to ask if she wants a drink, neither

offering to pay and feeling quite young. Only she does not miss a beat—She sits at the bar beside me as we wait for a table for two. I am quiet due to the fact that is loud and I have not been

around that many people before since, well someone’s party and upon reflection I tend to eat

very little when I am around a lot of people. You literally had to assure me if I did not eat then, there was not telling when I’d eat again and that no one was going to take my sandwich. Most confused this lack of conversation for the strong and silent type. I was just freaking out.

We take our seats and she sits right next to me. Not across so I can, you know look her in the eye and have meaningful conversation, which I suppose since we saw each other again after this

meant, “I did fine.” Who knows, she may have had plans to rob me of my social cherry and got off on the innocent type. All I know is she was a Basket-Case the think Humphry Bogart was

some smooth criminal because none of this registered with her. It seemed normal how we were

interacting. She buys me a beer. A light mult of the same overpriced cheap loggers and I sip on it like it’s a soda pop. I don’t mind beer and the burger was good. I eat in mindless relish and have such a consternation upon the food that maybe it dawned on her that Humphry Bogart is full of secrets and this could have been what turned her on. Never understanding what I was thinking

but knowing it was something insightful if she could just ask the right questions. Only the wall remains; as attractive as she is at this moment I see her as nothing more than as a woman who

needs someone to talk to and does not mind listening to my drivel of dreams and aspirations. She hangs onto every word, weather she believed as I did was and is irrelevant. She was willing to go the whole nine yards just for a taste of gratification, validation from someone she met 24 hours prior and owed nothing. In fact, I owed her for the dinner. She dropped me off back to my place. Wanting to come see me again—no less honed for something more, just wanting to cook me dinner. “When, was, the last time you had a home cooked meal?” true enough, “it’s been a while, call me tomorrow.”

She, does.

I, go. She resides in a three bed room apartment fully furnished with IKEA this ROOMS-TO-GO that. There is a bar. During our excursions she learns I am an Eddie Murphy fan and wants to watch Chris Rock comedies with me, offers me a beer. I except-it’s a Budweiser-black in a can like the new Red Bull cans. I sip it like a soda pop, and she beams as she sits curled up next to me on the sofa. She tells me about her and her family as Chris Rock tells jokes and I began to not listen to

Chris Rock and more to her and realize she is a grandmother—Has a daughter who is twenty-five and they all love each other. She has told me upon entering to make myself at home but I have not ventured from the couch since I entered her home. The sun begins to set and this dinner

seems to be coming to an end for conversation and I awkwardly make her feel her age, through no words alone. She goes to the bar and fills her thermos to the top with liquors and offers to

drive me home. I’m more concerned with her drinking and driving than anything else, yet offer

no other alternatives; We enter the car she swings by the neighborhood park, seemingly to wash her car but I know it is because she wishes to have more time with me. We; well I wash her car as she maintains an inscrutable look of displeasure and contempt upon her face that I cannot understand because I seemingly did nothing to cause her anger. She is the image of a Basket-

Case and I cannot say if she is sexier in the moment of departure or just pitiful. Her need to speak but lack of words suitable is interesting and burns my memory. How does a woman develop such irrational feelings of love, trust, arousal, abandonment, frustration, and contempt and only knew a man for forty-eight hours?

Needless to say after that day my unconventional Air force Basket-Case of a beauty no longer called me and I remained Humphry Bogart. “Here’s lookin’ at you kid!”

Frustration builds as I am made to realize how completely mundane most of this information dump has been.

David Baldacci is an accredited writer that spends up to a hundred pages on character development and setting. In a hundred pages or less the reader knows where everything is headed and by the end knows more it to come because Baldacci enjoys the series and world he has

created. At the moment I can’t say if this is good or bad because my story has no regulatory

settings and if it did, then God help us all; I’d not innovate anything and neither would the reader learn something. Thus I’ll feel unfulfilled as a story teller and the reader will wonder, what was the point; as we all do when you finish a Baldacci book—what was the point??

I, as the writer knows how the story ends and the lesson in which I wish to impart with the world.

Getting you all there is my dilemma. Do I take it slow like a caring father or do I bombard your brain with information like an indecent child? In David’s world when he is done with a character he can just kill them off but in my world people do not simply die and if I spent a hundred pages or less getting you to like the idea of someone I aught to make there death meaningful.

“I, see you,” are words of sweet release off her lips as our foreheads touch and our fingertips brush. She is electrified by our coupling and I am drowning in her Black Amethyst perfume.

“Truly you are the only one who has seen the real me and has not cringed in fear.” I whisper in her ear.

“It’s cause you taste so good.” She purrs.

The sun left us as we skipped the day to be together, I had exams and she had a boyfriend she should have met at the student union. A building that maintained the burglar bars on the windows even though its been reported that the crime rate has decreased over the years. It took us no time to dress and clean away our time together but nothing would change her mussed hair. As we sat in the bathroom looking at her hair I was certain we would be caught before we had begun.

“This is a disaster, did you have to muss my hair?” she whines.

“I can’t help but be amused and thankful for being a man, I never had to worry about it. I mean I like my hair long too but I never thought the bed-head due would be so obvious.” I chuckle.

“I’ll try to curl it or get it wet, or scrunchie it.” She supplies.

“The scrunchie might be best. I would say take a shower with me, do we have the time?” I ask.

“We do, but I won’t and it is not fair for you to ask things of me I don’t do with my boyfriend.” Her steely eyed leer is cutting.

“You’ve got to be joking, right?” Clearly; not. “And why is it not fair?” I inquire.

“Cause I may start to fall for you.” She moralizes.

“Would that be so bad?” I probe. We took the campus provided shuttle back to the yard so she could meet her friends and I could leave. As we take the first of many trips from her Apartment

back to the school we hold hands and listen to the emerging soft music, typically the Quite Storm that is played on the radio. That night I got lost in the ardors of Smokey Robinson and Al Green and she contemplated her guilt of her sin and betrayal of love.

“How do you stop the rain from falling?”

“How do you mend a broken heart?”

Our hands cling to our final minutes of peace and when we depart the shuttle I am flattered yet troubled that she wishes me to follow, yet do.

She leads me to the diner of the union. I continue to remain enraptured in our time together too distracted to notice her attention on her phone. She has renewed a text from “him” and is looking for “him.” I should leave but she is not ready to say good bye. She holds onto my presence for a minute too long and he notices us together. She does not miss a beat though. Runs to him as if she has been trying to see him all day and I the dutiful friend have been nothing more than a bore. As she holds his hand she turns her head over her shoulder and in the most indiscreet of

gestures wiggle her index finger in my direction. “Good bye.”

I remain transfixed where I am because in all my life I have never witnessed the transformation of such proportions. Her uncanny ability to make even I believe that in that moment she truly loved “him.” That I was a peasant and would ultimately die, a peasant.

The Basket-Case, here’s looking at you kid!

Before I began to write I had the notion I was strong enough to help people, fix everyone’s issues and thus tackle the many dreams of my closet. Per my Black Amethyst I could not fix

“everything” That sometimes people had to learn for themselves and you cheat people out of growing up when you do everything for them. I should have listened. Writing did not come

natural to me. Creation and art maybe but the ability to be concise, diplomatic and to tell a story,

fluidly with active human dialogue, not automatons; No, that is what I aspire to but have not seen since William Stryson and everyone was determined to hate him. Are dates truly important to the story?? I felt the story should unfold like my art projects do, that typically if I set the pad down I can come back to it and the story will continue without me having to adlib, As I feel I am doing now. Of course, I should not be expected to be satisfied until I finish the project, right? So, what was it about her that made her so special?

What gave her the right to hold up my plans of greatness and satisfaction so that I could pine away about our intimate moments? Is sex really all there is to the culmination of man and woman?

Cause that is fawning at me as we speak; Caring nature, because the memory of her, little index finger, shows how evil she can be, my lack of a social life? Not likely, typically in this junction of my life I must beat the many associates and friends away with a broom just to sneak off

work her for the few hours, I do get to indulge in her sweetness. No, it was due to the autumn full moonlight cellular phone call. After leaving her we resumed textual communications and it

seemed she always enjoyed texting more than talking on the phone. Truth is, she had a curfew,

due to her boyfriend; they had felt it was disrespectful to talk on the phone past 10:00 o’clock at night because 11:00pm was the designated “booty-call” hours of most at our age. Still is last I

heard. As we text, I noticed trends in our conversation and where the topic was heading

and so, I issued a challenged. Since my pride was already stung by her superb acting ability I called her and be damned her curfew. Waited for her to text me that she could not talk, called again, deeming that if a woman was going to play coy and seemingly present herself as a player, I’d force her to play the game.

“Ugh, you know I can’t talk on the phone.” She whines.

“Kind of stopped caring, wanted to hear your voice,” I offer, to show that I mean no harm or imposition.

“Your sweet, but you are going to get me caught up.” She is making no move to get off the line, I can tell she likes the adrenaline.

“Tough cookies for you, well I’ll make this quick, I’ve been sitting here and going over our arrangement and was wondering…look I have to know where I stand, with you and feel I have to ask, barring not knowing will drive me crazy, but you should know that after I’ve asked and have been denied I’ll not be made to ask again.” I congeal, setting of the stage.

“what is it?” her curiosity and vanity, tantalization making her mind drool for the gratification my words supply.

“Will you leave your boyfriend for me?” pop goes the weasel.

There is a pause, she is breathing heavy because she knows I’m only asking due to me being jealous and not out of my feelings of being in love. She knows as I know that I set the rules of

engagement and at no time is she at fault but as I’m set to gain she is the one that loses no matter what direction she turns. She tells me No, and affirms in a pleading voice, “I don’t trust you.”

I’m Humphry Bogart and she’s my Basket-Case, just how I like them.

Book 1: Ignorance Chapter 1

The saxophone plays the soft melody throughout the dark streets to accent, the smoky, full moon night. Liquid silver light seeps between the drapes of Clive Dawson’s one bedroom apartment.

The tiny kitchenette sink is set on repeat drip from the faucet. A system you’d think the city politically endorsed, unbeknownst of its citizens, in thoughts of saving water and money. Saves

money on Utilities but the incessant dripping keeps him up at night. Tonight, is no different as he lies on his queen size mattress he pilfered from his previous employer, of the local mattress incorporated LCC.

There is microscopic fecal matter in bloomers of the unpurchased variety secured in between the box spring and mattress; because women are vain and illogical:

He alone would deliver similar mattresses, to newlywed couples or single men or long overdue in need of repair marriages; Mattresses that were endorsed, by Serta, to improve anyone’s mood and night sleep. Of course, to fire Clive without any provocation meant a loss in one’s employee

and a suitable queen size bed. His mood was greatly improved and the woman that joined him in his newly acquired bed never complained. Only that incessant dripping faucet suggested several incessant thoughts the he had no ready answers.

“Why as a writer must I live below minimum wage in a city that has not even tried to support itself since the early eighties? Barely graduate from a college that due to its liberal arts

accreditations is located in the grottos. So, infested with crime and drug activity that the local

Chinese Chang Fow, does not serve after dark? Why is it the red brick sidewalks I reside in has two faces upon the road Martin Luther King Blvd? A road no different from any other road;

Fixed with traffic lights that direct the passer byers across this empirical social divide that because of the name alone, anything upon the red brick that the night touches is not as nearly as vibrant as upon where the light treads away from. As you cross this road and mingle among the pretty youthful faces at the eateries and social buildings, the day spas, the theater, the mall. The

cloud of Depression does not exist. The Democratic Ideals of liberal bliss do not touch upon the red brick of my residing. Leaves not the comfort of the concreate, motor and rebar of the

proceeding roads of Martin Luther King Blvd. Why must the incessant religious buildings

convened by Black individuals, that do not profess the accepted Christians views be in

strip malls over-populated by illegal immigrants? Why is this incessantly normal? Why is every Southern Baptist church in the ‘hood adjacent to a fried chicken shack? And why does Black

America become incessantly defensive when you ask the question? Why has it become normal to associate television stereotypes of Black America, White America, Mexican America, Asian America, with how things are and not the way they are wont, to be?”

“Am I truly to believe that someone wrote that all writers are broke hacks of minimal talent and thus when I tell you I am a writer that is how you ought to see me. That if I told you I was a

Black writer then I should expect your immediate, incessant response to be no different than the reaction of that pipe faucet that is dripping from the sink of my tiny kitchenette!” Drip, drip, drip.

In frustration, he climbs from his mattress in a heap and huff not bothering to dress or apply socks. Walks-runs, naked to the sink, his six foot even and hundred-eighty pounds’ frame hovers above the stainless-steel pipe. Pulling the bare caulking with the faucet and in a satisfying crunch breaks the sink.

Thus, ending the drip.

Walking over to his window to look upon the city, he spits over the windowsill upon the view of his city hall.

During a Mach-interview with lead reporter Lauran Shriller; Clive is asked to explain his thesis:

“The problem with contemporized writers is there incessant need to dump information on the reader. Never leading a story and always jabbing at the topic motif as if the reader manages to forget he was being told a story along the way. Writers used to be as fluid as a fencer. The pen was mighty as the sword; not than the sword, and should have been as finely crafted as a

rapier. So, that the words were not wasted, nothing lost. ~Clive Dawson.

…. Flashing lights – Bright bangs that punch the air in time to the click of her heels.

The quasi electric blue hues of cellular phones silently capture her image. Hips, legs, feet fluid as the tune and beat she keeps in her head.

“isn’t she lovely?!” and observant attendant asks anyone that is listening. To call this person a fan would infer too much. To say the observer did not care and was not awestruck would be to insult the poor girl.

She was riveting. Her name was Maria Phantom. As a model, the runway is her home and the cameras are her Validation.

Click. Flash.

Turn and Snap.

The rhythm of the night is music to her ears.

“Come and get it boys! I am sex and you are gods. Let me be your guide,” She raises her arms above her lithe 5’7’’ frame and in a coy move of fluffing her loose kinky curls, poses for the camera, center stage, a gush with joy at the vying attentions.

‘I might have applied too much powder for this show. The spot lights are making me sweat’

In an almost reflexive turn she glides in between Daryc and Jaris, her attendants. The booth is reserved for the three. For a daughter of a salesman no expense should be spared.

Lauran Shriller of the CNN news is reported asking Washington DC. in response to there claims that the first defense against terrisom is the American citizens.

“What truth is there to the claim that American citizens cannot trust the reports on the news.

That the life we Identify with is a lie and it is government official’s that are the culprit, That Freedom is truly not Free?!”

The politcal analyst is livid. “What the american people need to understand is the terriost will say anything to get more people to join thier cause. Using all forms of media even our own media against us!”

Shriller will not be denied, “You see sir, it is statements like that I am afraid of, I did not ask what the terrorist is capable of, statements like that are the birthing grounds of the Inquisition and

the Red Scare. They only breed more questions like is my neighbor a terrorist, I noticed he or she reads old books and is a little smarter or has a little more money or where does their money go

and maybe I should be peeping in their windows cause I am the first defense. So again how far is too far and what is the American Solution. Do our officials not understand that when you say Americas First Defense is its own citizens that the faith in our National Defense is somewhat diminished?!”

Um…”I understand that these things can be confusing to our young people, but attacking government officials is not the answer.” the bleak reply of a tired argument.

Shriller is not done yet, “Why do our officials not preach that sentiment opposed to giving our citizens lisences to kill, maime irradicate those around them?

Those that believe the delusions of the propaganda that they see on the televisions are a terror group no better if not more dangerous than overseas factions.”

Here is where the political analyst lines his pockets, “you believe that, you believe there is threat from another Timothy Leveh?”

“With the rule of violence in America and our young carrying guns and no education in our schools, how can there not be?” Shriller, draws the line in the sand. “So, when you tell the

American people what these terror death groups and ISIS sympathizers, why do you become angry at the conclusion. As delusions go, and you honestly believe that with people so

afraid to go outside that you would not create a blood bath. You thought the people would roll

over and let you lead them when they can’t even trust a news report to tell them the truth?”

“When has the government lied to its people?”

Lauran Shriller flips her lid, “Holy….mother…we cannot use this tape, what the….is wrong with that guy, get him away from me!”

With publications of dystopias, utopia novels, and false news reports; is there any wonder as to why there is killing in the streets. Iraq cries out for a liberator not knowing that his cries are lost

in the cacophony that is the cry of similar nations posing the question, How do you build a

Nation?”

Considering America is considered the greatest nation, the answer should be handed to Iraq soldiers in that manual on how to clean and load your M16. They gave farmers guns and told

them to clean their streets of ISIS as if they cared one way or the other. American soldiers were appalled at the idea that these Iraqi babies would not shoot down their ISIS fathers.

America if the rifle is given to you, will you strike down your Governmental father? So why do we expect such savagery from those that understand war better than we do? They call Iraqis weak because they will not neutralize the threat.

Was the American 23 year old kid weak because when his brother was gunned down he did not shoot the 19 year old kid? The Primeval dog in you, answers “YES”, but are we not human? The thoughts we pose lift us above the animals so why are we asking grown men to kill each other?

I do not preach peace. I do not preach, I just ask the questions.~ Clive Dawson.

The government is setting the stage for war, it is a drama that they love but deem it is to traumatizing to expose to its citizens. We can blow down a building though.

I remember the first time I read Dante’s Inferno I was mesmerized by the thought that, that was hell, I was given a physical realization of what the world fears to be where we go when we

indulge in sin…I, at no time ever thought that as it being called a Comedy that I should define

any joy from another man’s plight, no matter the insightful journey Dante took. And then I read it again and was by divine insight shown the truth. The writer was not giving us, the reader, a place for our sins physically. He was poking fun at it all. At all philosophical thought; through poetry

he gave his enemies the big bird and placed himself in heaven. The thing is those that he curses to a damnation is hell and the uninformed took these writings and made them unmovable truths for all standard religious thought.

To what purpose?

So that they could say there is no answer. Before Dante’s Purgatory was a joke of philosophical extremes; No one could imagine waiting in line for judgement-reticently. A lot still can’t and the religious leaders made this Comedy a dogmatic fact. Taking the words of an enraged, ostracized criminal and turning them into philosophical truth.

I find Roger Penrose author of Emperors New Mind a penguin international bestseller to be no different. I have at the moment read half his dissertation and have seen no new insights on already theorized Theorems of a publication a year after my birth. “1989”.

I am made to wonder that with the views of popular mechanics (inventions of great magnitude are those that improve our lives on the practical level) where the practical use of empirical

mathematics has benefited us; and how the mathematical truth has been proven. It is my firm

belief that no matter how much one theorizes and schemes the human is always one step away

from its feral predecessor (existence no closer to God or to a mode of enlightenment that can be agmatized by a man made machine. And if we found the answer—would we believe it?

According to Roger Pensor in 1989 no competing software could solve the Hamiltonian circuit problem in Polynomial time; to show that the HCP is actually in P then this would show that all NP complete is actually in P. Another unanswered problem is the polynomial solution for the traveling salesman problem.

~Secret code systems, that were introduced, which depend on a problem of factorization of large integers. –Insight on complexity theory of 1989.

The issues of complexity that are not as central in relation to mental phenomena. These have been documented since the 1930’s; Godel’s theorem “~E”= ther is no (natural number) such that reductio ad absurdum~Russell paradox??

Cohen 1966 suggested a reflection principle to refute the continuum hypothesis. Formalist dictate that if one cannot prove a hypothesis false this makes it true.

C=X, is independent of the standard axioms and rules of procedure of set theory (Cohen and Godel)

The Brouower fixed point theorem of topology: if you take a disc together with its interior and move it in a continuous way to inside the region where it was originally located, then there is at least one point of the disc a fixed point which ends up exactly where it started. No one knows essentially they deem the existence of it to assert truth.

Non-constructiveness-existence theorems which depend on the Axiom choice of Zora’s Lemma

Mandelbrot set deemed non-recursive by corroborated statements of Leonare Blum, Shub and

Smale (1989). Compatibility for real-valued functions of real numbers, I am not a science fiction writer, though the ideology behind the motivations of each character is on the verge of superb, I wanted to show that these are indeed true motivations and in so forth are real world issues, depicting this without boring you to tears and in one book.

Not a series, though more could be said, I’d love to leave the possibilities up to the imagination of the reader. Allowing the science to only be implored by the reader and the facts of the matter to remain evident; Who is Clive Dawson, Maria Phantom; etc. why are they important to you? Because no matter what walk of life, they could be you:

Dawson, a writer in search of truth formulated by his identity; Phantom and aspiring model satisfied in her identity yet due to her inability to choose who she wishes to love is she truly satisfied with the world as she perceives it?

There love is Black because it is forbidden in all social standards, No one identifies with it because they wish not to accept that such a mode of thought exists. To change our Identifying truth, is this evolution of self or is this self-delusion? The adage ‘So I think that I am?’

Mr. Thursday, blends in with the crowd, is identified by this appearance yet does he exists simply because I perceive him to be or as a chameleon; forms only what I wish to see? What new developments have gone into the Pearl Richard results? 1979-1989 radio wave argument in tis effects of the human brain?

There are several laws of nature that science tries to refute due to the lack of credibility it asserts upon their own theorems and the implications of such a law being applied on our natural world.

The first being, a Law of Equivalent Exchange; nothing is taken or given from this world or from an individual without recourse upon the decision; this is a non-computable intuitive law that is

discarded by most philosophers because of its erratic nature. Secondly the Law of the Excluded

Middle; this law asserts that denial of the negation of a statement is equivalent to the assertion of that statement. (~(~P)P).

Brouwers rejects such laws because they leave no room for his own asserted agendas. Though they are laws, we have an example of those that try to bend them. This may be why most intellectual thought generate more massive weaponry than natural improvements.

Anyway through a conversation I had with old relatives I noticed this law taking effect- I asserted a belief and predicted his following actions due to my asserted claim- he ignored my

accusation but by evading or holding on to his reservation he then dubbed my accusation to be true of the moment. If it is false that something is not true then it is truth-those that deny this need a constructive existence. Hence the mentioning of, reductio ad adsurdum.

These are common sense things of course but such reasoning in that of itself can still be deemed illogical by those that do not apply it. Had I not had this book I may never have dubbed a name to such reasoning just would have asserted its truth to may gain. Being that it helped my argument.

–The first time I was imprisoned I was deemed lower than scum- my deserved reward for my sins my weakness.

–My second imprisonment—I can’t afford it—time to change my outcome—stop feeling sorry for yourself—please come back to us.

–Logically one would think the first impression never changed and the overall perception would remain the same, Due to my imprisonment they have learned nothing and still hold on to their lack of responsibility in my plight and makes such words of high honor easy to spew. But the

Law of the Excluded Middle gave me new insight—both agree with my deductions even if they wish not to admit it. It would be nice to get them to say it out right—thus then I’d know they

believe it but that may be pushing to hard. My mother was a golden pupil, she understands even if she can’t make an unselfish move to change her own world at least she can see past her front yard, still wants to dream. Eldric, not so much. He will maintain that dreams are pointless and that Yahweh already has determined our place in this world so why do anything at all; more

defeatist rhetoric that upsets me. The latter is his own closure—an assertion of being a good man even when no one believes in him. Not even him. For if he believed in a dream he would have it.

Speaking of not reservations means they exist and I should remember to look for them. Do not become trapped in his unified delusion, I’ll offer my hand if he needs it but will remain distant— he did have me locked up and secretly enjoys my struggle. People tend to confuse a lack of omission with respect; I remember a time when I would not mention a topic of discussion

because I knew it was a problem simply not to hurt feelings or deal with the hidden issue. In saving feelings I was dubbed the enemy because of my lack of omission. This to some is the

same as lying. At times the situation will never come up but it does not mean the volcano is not active—my letter was logically an attempt to sledgehammer the truth out of him—he wont play because he is old.

One day when I am relaxed and he is drunk such omissions may arise—I should not hold them against him that is unless he says the wrong thing.

My height—I laughed to myself—a crack at my mental stature and how tall I am—I’m not that tall anymore. Only my presence still makes heads turn—no matter the outcome be the sun rise or sunset, I will shine,

For I thinksith, so I am.

The Helsenberg’s principle of uncertainty> not possible to measure both the position and the momentum of a particle accurately at the same time, absolute limit to be determined by (^x^p>

h).

How much of this has changed in consideration of radiology studies?

Chapter2

Feed the Models

Maria Phantom stands center stage, spotlight, bright and revealing, pours over her sensuous curves and curls. Through heighted senses she addresses the auditorium full of spectators.

“Thought we are beautiful, fashion is not an occupation for the pre-Madonna or the undedicated;

Good Fashion is painful. It is through pain and struggle that anything with anything in life is appreciated! So as I cry out to you, my little monsters, through my fierce heels and rebel lips, Feed the Models! Know that you are the fuel for the lights of this runway!”

He claps and cheers with the others. Just another face in the crowd, he smiles as the notices the premature hunger in her eyes, the primal elation that the adrenaline of this night gives her.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, if I had written the words.” Clive searches for a way through the ensemble of greedy fanfare. Finding himself near a fire exit of the far side of the

stage. Dipping inside; it leads to an empty hall. A dark walk way that, to the right no light or

shadows of origin can be detected. To the left seems as equally dark. He takes a step forward into the darkness, the click of his Smith and Allen swade tipped shoes are the only indication that his footing is secure.

He pauses as he begins to notice shapes through the haze of the shadows before him.

Her silhouette is as unassuming as a house cat, if not more alluring. Her all too familiar shape gives her away but the scent is what makes Clive weak for her. Maria smells of Black Amethyst and in this hall he wishes to have his fill of her.

“You know, I would not have ended my night well if I had not had the chance to see you.” Maria whines.

“I would have texted you, I saw you and could not have been more proud of you. This story will make front page news and it’ll be your story the world begins to appreciate.”

Maria chuckles, she knows how much Clive adores her but she can’t understand why he is still so reserved with her—at the moment she does not want to talk about tomorrow—only all Clive sees is tomorrow.

“C-L-I-V-E”, she sings his name.

There shadows touch, he clearly knows what she wants only he is not going to make the move. Not tonight.

“Ugh, you are an impossible MAN!” as she hikes up her dress to turn away she looks over her shoulder for one last retort.

He is right behind her, she did not hear him come closer. There shadows are incortus; Devouring each other in an incorporeal world that lives vicariously through our fantasies.

Clive’s lips barely touches her cheek as he whispers to her sweet nothings.

This he will always give her even when he can’t give her the touch.

“Yes, I am impossible, I asked you to be rid of him, and when you leave here you will be with him.”

She should have texted.

The darkness envelopes him as he walks alone in the dark to his car.

Maria shakes off the shiver of his leaving, puts on her brave face and turns back to the celebration.

Among her friends and gaudy fans, it is times like these that she is made to wonder what are she truly wants. As she bites her bottom lip she scans the room. Her boyfriend is a no show again.

She drives home alone.

The next morning is as eccentric as the last.

Wake up to make up.

Shower.

Beagle.

CNN.

Click.

Maria is on the road before the coffee gets hot at Starbucks. That is where she and her, boyfriend of three years, K.D. Lamar, met for the first time so she tries to keep up appearances of bliss by frequenting the place religiously.

One might imagine it is also because he owns the particular franchise by her office. But who are we to quibble about why Maria does what she does. At times she does not even know.

“Do you know why I put up with your philandering? Do you, cause I don’t;” one night is all I asked for, and then when you don’t show up, you never even give me an excuse! I think as your girlfriend I deserve at least that.” She tirades.

“We both know this is not about the show, so let’s have at it. What can I do to please your royal kisser!” Lamar through flippant irritation at the same fight grips.

Though as clever as the remark is Maria will not be shamed; where she is Clive’s inspiration so he to her and as the heated argument takes a turn for the worse she is struck by his long forgotten

adage; ‘the man is a walking fortune cookie,’ “Do what you want opposed to always doing what you’re supposed to do.”

And that’s what she does, of course not without leaving the room clear of any confusion.

“You can start by sleeping on the couch and thinking of me more, I should not have to tell you everything.”

When she woke the next morning Lamar was gone and she could not find her phone, so contacting anyone at the moment was not in question. In her hot little number of a red sports

coupe she balls down the highway to her fortress of solitude. The office, where in the industrial

monstrosity of a corporate building owned by her father, she could lament in front of the camera and through her search for Identity—her own identity—she may confuse as reflecting beauty.

Lauran Shriller is now live with CNN. “The real world reflection is filled with stoic corruption, fraud, and civil agenda issues; Diplomatic discrepancies that will not be covered up by the latest

Loreal brand; suppressed by the next Couture high heel or drowned out by the next Beyoncé track. Wake up America! Your President is Black, the streets are red with innocent blood and the

layman can only find work flipping burgers.” This was Shriller, “feeling thankful that I have a job and my ‘lambo’ is blue too.”

Production manager of the CNN editors room is livid. Another line of reporting that media backers are claiming is not news so they won’t cover it.~ Clive.

One of the few things that attracted Maria to Clive was his impulsive nature. His free loving ability to say what he meant and mean what it was that came out of his mouth.

“When you look at me, it really seems like you find me draw dropping attractive.” Coyly she observes one evening as they entertain each other at a local waffle house. He drove her there

because as a child, with his father, he could remember times of the juke box playing and refills of coffee and walk by the overly tender waitress in the blue blouse and white apron. Gold curls and flashing smile topped with a white serving cap that made you think of the Ice Cream Man or a Navy sailor.

The Name tag of this particular blond beauty was Kimberly and she looked to be a mother of two by the time she was eighteen. This did not show as she worked at filling Clive’s mug and easing her way into the friendly conversation of Maria and he.

“How long have you two been dating?” Kimberly is curious.

“Oh, we…” Maria hesitates out of reflex.

Clive is not bothered. Though by the look of hurt on Maria’s face he can only express tenderness the more. Confusing pour Kimberly, Clive with his hazzle eyes looks Kimberly in the eyes, holding her attention so she understands,

“When you see two young people sitting alone at a booth eating separately acquired plates of waffles, trust me, nothing special is going on. Now when I get up to dance with her to the sounds

of Otis Retin’ then you will know without even asking how long we have been dating.” Kimberly

frowns her freckled nose up is comprehension as she turns she lays the bill with a wink to Clive.

“Geeze, bite her head off why don’t you,” Maria laughs, playfully tapping his hand in Mach reproach.

“I have to use the restroom, be right back hold that smile.” As he arranges his tie and enters the one seated reprieve, two women sitting at the window table of the far corner of the diner begin to giggle and point in Maria’s direction. She assumes they recognize her from the local magazine.

They confirm this by walking up to her table and showing her an image of her last vogue, on their iphones; she was on the catwalk, she coyly smiles, showing teeth and engages her new fans.

Kimberly returns and converses tapping Maria playfully chimes in about finally realizing who she was.

“I saw you the other night, Get it girl!”

Clive returns but is too late for the praise. As he observes the room the envy from only a moment before seems to fade and settles back to the comfortable glow that only he seems to resonate. Upon sitting back in the booth, Maria points out the beaming girls.

“They know me, and are smitten as two kittens, they left me their numbers and want to hang out with me.” She informs Clive.

“The whole world wants to “hang out” with you.” Clive jokes, looks over his shoulder and waves to the gushing double d’s. “My word, did you happen to notice that they float upon their own mummeries.”

“Uh-hah, well it is a normal state of affairs to have boobs Clive, even if mine are only just so,” retorts an offended Maria, she has always hated when Clive notices any other woman.

“You and I both know I am all the rage about your midriff. Honestly I’d love to have my mouth filled by them now, but the table prohibits me.”

She smiles, “The only thing that prohibits you from anything is the lack of regard for limits and boundaries, how is it that whenever we eat out, you finish the whole meal and I still have half a plate?”

“Because unlike you when it is said FEED THE MODELS, I truly feed. Your need to save for tomorrow is endearing, I just always felt why not do today what I will do tomorrow, you only have one life.” Clive corrects.

“Do we truly only have one? Must I only have you in this one, could I not save just half of you and carry these moments into tomorrow?” Maria pleads unknowingly.

…If only it were so…. ~~~Ring-Ding-A-Ding~~

!!Answer your phone!!

It is the ring tone that dissipates the spell that is Clive. Waking Maria and dropping her present reality back into focus.

“I can’t pick up right now, please leave a message after the beep and have a blessed day,” Goes the voicemail of her cellphone.

“This is your father sweetie, Great job last night, I’ve been keeping up with you and we are all proud. Your sister is coming in from Greenspoint, she is bringing along some new basketball

boyfriend and wanted you to meet him, at least to, you know one up his star potential with her own, through you. She would never say this but we both know your sister. Do you think you and Lamar will make it?” One long voicemail.

As she clicks the call between she hugs and kisses her supportive father through the phone. Asks him to call Lamar himself cause at the moment she can’t find him—they had a fight.

“No, nothing major just the usual, I am at the office right now going over PR plans for tomorrow.

Um, can’t seem to find my cell phone either—think I left it on the dresser, so I’ve kind of not wanted to leave the building till I call it a night, you know case he tries to reach me here.” “Sounds smart, I’ll buzz him for you I don’t need to intervene do I?” asks a concerned father.

“No I can handle Lamar, we will be at the get together, see you then.” She replies sweetly.

Click.

Upon writing this story I really hopped I could answer the question as to why certain events in our lives transpire as they do. Only I did not want this to become a book on the journey of life

because this is only one segment—A memory—and it is a bad habit to associate our lives around a single memory. I am not in the business of teaching bad habits. Only making us aware of them and demanding that we become better than them. ~Clive.

“Please come to the party, you have not seen my family in ages and I am sure they miss you.” Comes the voice of a pleading Maria.

“I am sure I was not invited and the reason I’ve not seen your family in ages is because…” responds Clive.

“So you’re not coming,” quips Maria, “The Big Bad Wolf is going to allow one Christmas party faux pas to break my heart?!”

“You can joke about this all you want, I’ll laugh with you, far from the death and dismemberment.” Clive is despondent.

“So, it’s a bad idea; ‘sigh’ fine just know I did think about you and I’ll text you after the cake is eaten.” She smiles at this last remark. Knowing her mother’s cooking pies and cakes are a must

for every celebration, big or small. Short of that most of her friends play hookies from their own lives simply to sample her mother’s cooking. Food Network eat your heart out.

“I’ll be at work most of the evening but I’ll be looking for your text,” love you sweets and try to be good.”

“I’m always good!” Maria replies as she hangs up the phone.

“That’s good to know,” KD’s tenor voice, full of tenderness carries across her office from the front door. He is hidden in the shadows of the hall, holding two paints of Starbucks best. The light from her office window reveals her surprise.

“Happy to see me, I take it, brought you your favorite to say sorry, but a call from your dad says there is a party tonight. That I was invited?” He inquires

“Yea,” Maria finally finds her voice. “Did you want to go?”

Lamar walks into the room. Dropping the recyclable fillers upon her desk—leaving the option of flavor choosing to her, both are to her liking. Taking all the pressure off the moment, she shuffles papers as she reaches for the goodies.

He grabs her hand and walks her around the desk. “Yes, I want to go but more so I want to apologize for last night.” He has her directly in front of him.

Her bottom is propped up on her desk. He is careful to maneuver her out of the way of the coffee. He kisses her open mouthed on the lips cupping her face and tangled her hair in his hands. She is his trophy. He will not lose her to the whims of her fickle nature.

Between kissing and undressing him Maria notices the door.

“You should have closed the door.” She chides.

“Not today, I’ve been wanting to give you something special.” His huskiness is commanding.

She cocks an eye brow in exaggerated curiosity “A chore, work is a gift in itself, As of the next hour, you are to indulge in me, without letting your staff know I am here.” Comes his instruction.

“They did not see you drive up?” she pants.

“No and they won’t know that I’ve made you musk all over your desk either.” His fever boils.

They kiss.

Her storm subsides.

There is an unofficial truth presented by Schrodinger of 1967 and those of his ilk. On matters concerning the world in which laymen such as you and I frequent every day.

This truth that men of unquestionable intelligence would have us believe that the humans sole survival is largely based upon an uncontrollable law of the universe called Entropy. The

Manifest Disorder in life, the dramas between man and woman. The wars between the weak and the strong, the whirl winds that ravish seas and the formations of the farthest star all serve to produce the energy needed to sustain our minute existence.

Baring all this in mind it is also deemed by those same thinkers that lack of such entropy serves no purpose at all. In fact it is deemed needed to cause war, or simply to eat a chicken, walk down the street, one would only increase in our passing away.

I am sure many of you have seen stories such as this. The love of a man and woman so many inseparable years, lost due to the untimely death of a husband. This woman is Identified as a

mother, a daughter, a sister. Her children witness her sadness and seek to console her failing

heart in the wake of their fathers passing. They grow to hate even mentioning his name because

of the pain it causes their mother. This woman who was a lover first sees no consolation besides the love that her husband gave her and despite all that she had in life dies, due to a souls need for another.

The woman did not take her own life, she saw no life beyond the man and followed his wake; Three short months later.

Such entropy is deemed apart, a necessary part of the human cycle. A manifest order that I am sure the next time those of religion, pacifists, or simply curious ask why there are wars, death, heartache and pain. Such knowledge given through a scientific nature will be a comfort to the unbelieving. –Clive Dawson’s thoughts; on how to answer the outcry of the Middle East.

Chapter 3

Swisher Sweet

Early on in Clive’s career he would find himself walking aimless throughout his city looking for suitable stories to share with the world. He’s frequently be seen chewing on the end of a swisher

sweet, inhaling the smoke with relish as it rained overhead. Fedora of coal shade protecting him against most down pours and a tweed parka to take the bite out of the cold. Dark jeans with a loose boot cut for his favorite black all terrain foot ware.

Guaranteed by the over the counter personality with the brunette Charlecestarine curls, and pearls to make a sea captain go down with his ship. “To outlast your rough exterior and that of any blue blooded traveler.” He was instantly sold. During his long walks he began to notice an interesting pattern. After he would circle the district about two times, an old 1970 geo sedan hatch-back would always conveniently appear right outside of his peripheral. Stop upon his

noticing of the old relic and when he dutifully ignored it as he ignored most of the slothful city; would start up and creep behind him again. Now for the first week of this, Clive allowed sleeping dogs to play dead; but when the city continued not to produce headlines and his

drinking steadily increased due to his corruptible nature found much satisfaction in entertaining the voyeur. Promptly turning around, walking to the geo and upon the surprise of the driver,

commanding the passenger-side seat of the lone car and demanding a lift, to the nearest dive bar. “Do you normally ask strangers for rides, No; don’t answer that, I suppose you are going to want me to pick up your tab?” the unknown geo driver inquired.

“Honestly you asked for this intrusion and now I’m asking why, I can already guess but I’d hate to offend, be nice to know where I know you from though.” Clive ignores the driver, observes his

city and its flow, for a change not controlling anything. Just enjoying the ride. “Hard to place a name to your face but then again I know a lot of people and a lot of people know me.”

The rain is an incessant part of the conversation. A constant pitter—patter upon the pane glass that seem to only understand the griping of offbeat wipers. The traffic is low or non-existent this does not make the drive any more direct.

“How long have you been drinking at that tub-water of a bar. The Nightingale?” The shadowing driver asks.

“You tell me, you’re the tail remember?” smirks Clive.

“Don’t be smart, you don’t have to many friends and by the looks you can use one. I’ll take you to your bar, might even share a drink with you but’cha gotta lose the tough guy routine and give

Bogart his shoes back. A guy like you can go as far or as low as he likes, just thought, as a casual observer you ought to start thinking, “What’s the point of being the hero if you still lose everything?” asks the driver.

“Reputation, Respectability, A calling to serve, the fact that at the end of it all I want to not be forgotten.” Clive answers as quick as a shot, has waited a long time to get that one off his chest.

“What a load of crap, you have never cared about any of that if you did you would have joined the Peace Corps, the Army. Not chase some hot tail around and beat up drunks in bars!” the shadow driver is irate.

“He-he, funny thing is I tried all that, they did not go for my politics. Anyway, I’m not much into people who presume to know me but can’t give me their name.” Clive probes.

“Call me Mr. Thursday.”

Chapter 4

PLEASURE

It is a seduction in every-sense of the word. Not a seduction of merely two people but of this entire world perceived by its inhabitants. How do you trap the willing into their own consciences and make them like it. Then accuse them of indulging in sin. As a philosopher I can endorse the claims of moderation. To maintain balance is a feat worth writing about. Only I cannot truly claim the extremes of any side. For I see them as simply, extremes.~ Clive Dawson.

Pit-pat.

Pit-pat, goes the rain.

“Stop living for them, they don’t deserve you,” The silent plea of the shadowy, Mr. Thursday.

“Is humanity to be Identified by its actions alone. You see me, A man in living flesh, tall, dark, limited in visual ability so I wear glasses to compensate. To uphold a professional appearance, I like to keep my hair short, A tapered fade, skin tight. I am not noticed unless I wish to be.

Maroon sweater vest, complemented by a tie that brings out my smile. I am unassuming and my khakis do well at the job and my dockers fit well too.” The waiter brings in the glasses of water each man takes a sip of his glass of water. “I have worn the same pennie loafers for years, they are comfortable.” He looks at Clive to engage his attention. Honestly not caring if he is paying attention, enjoying the chance to talk to him. “Thousands of kids in this town walk by me day in and day out and the unassuming “me” cares not if they are paying attention. Because of what and

who I am, I’ve determined that they wish to have nothing to do with me or are simply too busy.

And then you pop up. Though you are only there to obtain what it I can provide. You are engaged. You see me but make no judgements and seem not to even care.” Clive is not certain how to take this so he listens.

“Early in my career this institution was a lively arena; I was like you, interactive and a socialite. Then I was dipped into this play ground, surrounded by all sorts of characters and made to feel an outsider because of my own convictions.”

“One night I was at a party and there were bodies everywhere. Naked, black skin from one room to the other the ratio between the women and men as a whole in this institution was a miniscule

1/5 already. So in this room and due to the fact that no one was from any other city for a hundred miles, men and women alike poured their frustrations upon each other; Devoured,

indiscriminately, seeking, grasping hold to the one solace that this party provided. Pleasure.”

There is a silence, shame is a potent atmosphere filler. Clive, as a writer, ultimately is ahead of this confession, only like any good thrill seeker waits for the bottom to fall out.

“The relations between man and woman, after you have developed a taste for it becomes so mechanical, don’t you think?” Thursday ask.

“Not really,” interjects Clive.

“Honestly, think about it, the guy gets the woman to his room and undresses her, might not even get undressed himself. Shoves her head down to his phallic, with not so much as even a kiss to encourage her; after he finishes, what is left?” Thursday flips two ice cubes of gin in his glass of water.

“That is the fun part, it is up to the readiness of the two, before the act, of how far they will go.”

Insists Clive, “if that is all she or he is looking for then that is all the be expected.” “Where that the world was so black and white.”

Mr. Thursday stirs the watered tonic.

Mr. Thursday slams the table, barking at Clive to lose the Bogart drab impression, as attractive as it was, he wanted him to see the world for the colors that it was. His homosexual nature was due to that skin tight night; Bodies rolling up on each other, crying out for release and minds expecting the warmth and closure of its darkness.

It was this entropy that breathed life into his universe. He never claimed to be born with the

Identity. Only understood it and did not seek to apologize for it. The man created Identification cards for all the young minds searching for a synthetic tomorrow and upon the first encounter with Clive saw a man worth confiding in. Though the words never came off his lips and though his tenor voice skirted around the phrase, “I am gay.” Clive could feel it. The human in Clive would not allow his Ideology on the matter condemn Mr. Thursday. Instead he listened to the pulse of the black man. His only friend.

The incessant pitter-patter of the rain upon the glass drove home the point of the conversation. A constant reminder that they were moving forward to a predetermined destination, more so together than either one of them could have hoped.

Lauran Shriller of CNN news reporting on the issues of homosexuality and abortion;

“Do you believe this air of tolerance presented by the media to be another attempt to Mask covert hidden agendas?”

Who is really the enemy, those that believe in conformable classical standards or those that preach in an every entropic universe living life like there is no tomorrow is ok; Responsibility is irrelevant until it’s relevancy is made manifest?

I know due to obvious reports of death after death that cigarettes cause cancer but I still choose to breathe in the toxic addictive substance. At what point am I not the reason for my affliction?

Upon Identifying a standard of living are we not demanded to act accordingly?”

“Parallel computers and the ‘oneness’ of consciousness was all the rage in 1989. To be homosexual was a misfiring in the brain in the 1950’s. Hitler and the United States split atoms, we have landed on the moon People!

At what time do we accept responsibility for our minds the good and the bad and begin to ascend beyond the mundane mediocrity that we call existence, or are we to accept that this is all there is?” ~Clive Dawson’s dissertation on expectation:

Some of the greatest Con-men have stolen millions from corporations, lawyers, and other high dollar industries under the premise that the human variable will not change. That the nature of

mankind is predictable and the successfully fill your pockets with the bullion of the undeserving or hard working, is to simply be aware. Now is this awareness, this connived ability apparent in most. Of course not or we would all be millionaires.

Can it be learned? Sure bit it won’t be digested from a book such reasoning can only be mastered through trial and error.

Darn; I know right, means most will have to place the marijuana down and apply themselves.

Oh, but wait, can you build it?

I am sure most of you have heard of such stories.

Building the perfect woman that algorithmically understands your every need, Building the perfect man; Building the perfect computer, that hacks into the world banking system and

drowns you in digital greeneries. My question to you all is; After the machine has completed the algorithmic process that you could have already achieved on your own, at what time was that system aware of some ground breaking achievement?

The question was rhetorical; honestly, at the end of the adventure with your Automaton sexdolls and robotic assessment nothing will surpass the physical enjoyment of the Identification registered between two sentient beings.

Does make for good science fiction though.

As the two observe the smiling faces in the E-vapor filled room, with mood lighting that coordinated with the era, blue, the men could not help but to grow nostalgic for days longs past.

Though the people that frequent the dive bars generally remain the same, one could not help but to feel as if somehow the city had took it upon itself to make fantasy a reality. Only the fantasy was plastic, stoic, and lacked depth.

In Mr. Thursday’s time the women that frequent the bars could never be trusted. Animal vixens that clearly desired green-backs opposed to flowery promises for a drink. Women that, as you

accompany them down the dark alleys with intentions of a night of deep needed passion, turned

into a blood red moon of empty bed sheets and crimson droplets that lead to a dead Armani suits that witnessed the trail of her scarlet disappearance. The click of her heels upon the cobble stone re-enact her itchy fingers counting the fifty dollars, his death amounted to.

Noticeably younger, Clive, could picture the same decadence emulating from the four dark haired voyeurs that presently were more interested in their bar tab than the occupants, satisfied

that they would not be bothered by the suits and skirts, he returns to their previous conversation.

“I’ve been invited to a soiree as it were by the very people you claim I should stay away from. You do realize that no matter how much you encourage me, my better nature will win out.”

“Selling yourself short, admirable, still want to get the bills paid kid.” Comes Thursdays address.

“it is not always about the money you know, I honestly feel some deep-rooted obligation to this woman.” Clive protests, “Asserting the belief that if I treat her better than the others she may realize her own worth and simply feel entitled to it all.”

“That goes without saying, only keep in mind humans are slow learners.” Smirks Mr. Thursday.

The door to the outside opens with a loud bang. The two seemingly simultaneously look to the door, the rain is still falling in sheets. The grey sky is blinding in comparison to the hue of the establishment.

She is Bianca Aries. A working girl that has been a bombshell knock out since the seventh grade.

Moved down from Clive’s from New Jersey when she turned sixteen and since after graduating high school, served drinks for tips of the Nightingale. She could remember the before times, when you could drop out of Grade school and still maintain a family. When your merit

determined how far through the rabbit hole one was expected to go. She crawled and gouged the

eyes out of many, simply to claim the little sets of creature comforts that her 5’3’’ and a hundred and ten-pound frame, accented by her sensuously pendulous breasts would allow. She

confidently sashes her hips to the natural rhythm that has been the tempo of her smooth jazz life and after a quick glance at the unperturbed patrons of the bar, dives for the back office.

Who she saw was not how she wanted to start her day.

It always spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

In the 1940’s, a drug called “Curare” was used as an ‘anesthetic’ in operations performed on young children-whereas the actual effect that this drug has is to paralyze the action of major nerves on muscles, so that the agony that patients experienced in no way was made known to the surgeon. Dervent 1978.

:Re-reported by Lauran Shriller of CNN news; Her response to the silent steam rolling the citizens of Clive’s city.

In an air of insufferable distaste, wet, miserable, and clinically perturbed, Ms. Aries removes her stilettoes in the time it takes her to round the corner leading into the hall of the red room office.

Situated towards the back of the bar, though as graceful as the movement was it gave Clive and the many other patrons time to appraise the meaning of her presence.

She was to suppose to have the night off. The wood flooring is slick; her bare petite toes curl to grip purchase upon the newly waxed surface.

‘Harry is going to be pissed that I gave him an extra mess to clean up.’ Waving off the previous night with the janitor, ‘have to remember to dedicate a cocktail to the silly man,’ she like a pitbull in heat, finds the door knob.

Opens the door, the red hue does little to hide the surprise on Jimmy Mac’s, the owner of the

Nightingales, face as he sits behind his desk amongst towers of managing billing, half finished vodka bottles and an embarrassed Shelia-what’s-her-name posed in mid-suction upon his exposed lower torso.

Crack.

Goes the first shoe against the oak desk, ricocheting harmless off scattering papers.

Lauran Shriller of CNN news reporting; the entire world is effected universally by the lack of inspirational thought that it has allowed the focus of conversation to move away from preservations, family togetherness, Heritage and social standards. It is now muddled with

laboratorial declarations from earthly men who can only sustain on earthly regime. Even upon such standards all is made to fade. So what does the philosopher claim is the answer the impossible questions he is obligated to answer.

“The world is going to end anyway, so why worry about it.”

“Where have all the good men gone,”~ Clive’s thoughts.

Amidst the leaflets Jimmy and Sheila expectedly wait for the other shoe to drop. The distance from the desk to Ms. Aries seems unnaturally immense. The stretch of glass paned

window and book shelves that encompass the décor of Mr. Jimmy’s office breathes an air of education that not a single individual in this room can honestly say they readily associate with dear old Jimmy.

Caught with his pants down, Ms. Aries attacks, in a voice boisterous and husky as smoke. A musical shrill that makes most men exhausted.

“Can’t a girl go one day without seeing this place! My day off Jimmy! Not a useless vacation to play with my toys, toys that you seem to lack no end of! I can’t stand this place Jimmy, I feel

trapped, suffocated by the stench. The human need to huddle in one nostalgic fantasy long since pissed down the drain. And where do I find you, calling me to work cause you want a blow-job! Well toddles Jimmy

I quit!”

In a burst of pure indignation and residence she hurls the final shoe along with her charm which is clumsily connected to the heel of the stiletto missile. Not lacking any grace in the

befuddlement of discourse twirls on bare lithe heels and walks off toward the staff voyeur; every step making demands of the floorboard, that the splintering wood, objected of by way of creaking in step.

“You can’t quite!

Sheila please get up!

Look I’ll pay you double,” Jimmy coos to the air. He knows she won’t leave. The only home she has ever known.

He escapes Shelia, reluctantly, boxers of polyester-silk with heart shaped designs can do nothing to suppress his hairy claves and shins. Dress shirt and cotton tie askew he bolts after Bianca.

“Listen, I called you in…” his left sock catches on the nail of the floor board separating the threshold from the hall. ‘where is Harry when you need him?’ “…because it is supposed to be busy tonight.” Still pulling at his now unraveling left sock he manages to free himself from his office. Hesitantly approaches the door properly denoted with signs that say ‘Lounge and Staff.’ Rapped with a single knuckle on the support beam and invites himself inside.

“Honestly, what else would you do without the club?” Jimmy smiles.

Bianca is not amused, looking over her shoulder, hair still wet from earlier but now in a professional bun eyes deep brown which speak volumes. With her usual sarcastically charismatic manner corrects her simply mannered boss.

“Oh, I don’t know Mr. Jimmy, maybe I’d be at home like any good American girl and making sandwiches for my hubby.” Rolling her eyes in Mach humor, fixing her mesh, “In all seriousness

I enjoy my time off and the when I get here who do I see? The one black stallion of the country that could have stayed out of my life, You did this on purpose you two-faced snake.”

Jimmy takes her in, back against the door. ‘Look you’re going to stop calling me names, your mad, cool. Get over it.

Now who is here and why should we care so much?”

“Oooh Jimmy, that fleet wood mac of the eighties.” She is not impressed with his candor. “An old flame that burned me; Might be fishing for tuna-don’t go around talking about me to people Jimmy—ugh, anyway you’ll see him when I get to work. Just try to keep the coke out of your nose long enough to pay attention.” The joy could not be more apparent of his crocodile face.

“Great cause I need you kid.”

“Can it boner-champ, and go get dressed; you’re a mess.” Shoots back Bianca.

Jimmy, still confused and finding it hard to keep up asks, “should I be worried? Cause you looked worried and if you are shook—then, should I be?” Finally dressed and feeling

presentable for a bar-made the Puruvian Princess in mach disgust smacks Jimmy on the butt.

“You should only be worried if you’re not ready to play the game champ. The man out there is a master craftsman at the business of being a Con and will destroy you with his words and whims,” she smiles coyly as she sashes towards the blue hue that makes the bar of the Nightingale.

‘Words and whims sweetcakes.’

Jimmy can’t take his eyes off her hips, “so I should keep my pads and pens away from the guy? What about my bar, is that safe?’ he is speaking to the air again. ‘Now where is Sheila?’

“Harry Come Fix This Floor!”

Chapter 5

Blood Lines

Billy Phantom, by the age of fifty-five had what, most would agree, would be the economic equivalence of bliss for a high-yeller black man of America, standard five bed room home, two stories equipped with a double door garage and suitable tree coverage, to block the viewing

points of nosey-neighbors of his small cul-de-sac suburban village; located in the hill country of the eastern Atlantic coast. Not too far from the North Carolinian Alps. As a salesman he had moved his family all up and down the eastern sea board; As any nomadic huntsman following the trail of the greenbacks.

It’s how his ancestors did it before him and it is how their ancestors from the across grand

Atlantic seas in the hills of Africa were have said to have obtained there success. Not that he has ever read records on such claims. Never even saw a picture of the hunters that were deemed to be the architect of his blood-line.

Blood-lines did little to motivate old Billy; the greenback made his blood boil, the only thing heritage sustained was the stacks of old college libraries. The black chants of the west that

featured on his face would do nothing to feed his family. His wife, the love of his life, Jacqueline

Phantom; his three beautiful daughters; Maria, the oldest, Melina the knee baby and the youngest was Rannie.

His blood-line ensured that his name would end with this family, being that he had no sons: He made peace with this a long time ago; with the birth of Maria those twenty-three odd years ago.

Sitting in his den, upon his mahogany brown leather chair, crafted upon oak pegs. He always felt securest from the wiles of the world. Oak was strong and to sit upon strength, the burdens of control became minimal, almost as common place as numbers are to a salesman.

Thoughts of this nature dance among each other a waltz that is led by feet accustomed to the rhythm of his ever changing world. He never cringed in the face of change. When times were tough and he could not afford to take the girls to their favorite concert; splurge on Christmas gifts, or buy phones for his princesses, he simply worked harder and saved more.

Sacrificing expenses and securing his family in a good Christian loving atmosphere. Then when God blessed his with the chance to earn more money and rent his first home, He did, never looking the “gift horse” in the mouth and asking why he did not personally own his home.

Couldn’t afford to settle down in one place, have to always keep ones head to the ground, the sea of sales and the green back is an ever shifting monstrosity with a mind that is mapped by men of his breed.

Thinking upon his ever increasing lack the smile of satisfaction was hard to miss.

Live with Lauran Shriller of the CNN news report. “ How does it make you feel, when you as a writer hear or read the remarks of the statistic mongers who claim that the future of today’s

literature is not up to the task of yester years production because the attention spans of the

American people is non-existent. This of course is arbitral, due to the texting craze and illiteracy posed by technological advances; A habit which presumably formed in the beginning of the

Millennium.”

This is not Clive Dawson’s first appearance on CNN and neither will it be his last, the words he uses to answer Ms. Shriller are iconic.

“How do I feel?

I feel, as a writer that the faults of yester year or today lie with our present, For truly those are the only outcomes we can have as assured effect upon. As a writer I should not worry about the

“attention spans” of my present listeners; That as I write, my voice is traveling through time forwards and back and reserves an impression on tomorrow. The publishers worry, no one will

buy the book if it says too much. That I should sell my soul for a thousand words in the matter in minutes. I the writer and so many like me are supposed to stretch the human intellect. So If my story slips it’s seductive fingers upon the nape of your neck and entangles through your hair;

Peaking your attention through its rough syntax then I the writer have achieved what was asked and command your span of attention; Doing so in obviously more words than it would take to text.

Technology did not fail us, we failed technology when we allowed it to dictate and command our ability to communicate.” Clive smirks and winks at Lauran Shriller.

“Well there you have it folks. The literary demands upon the world of today and tomorrow; now I need to find a nice comfortable spot to enjoy Mr. Dawson’s newest book.” Shriller blushes off camera, “Ooo, it is hot in here.”

Jacqueline hears the doorbell. Appraises herself in her vanity mirror one last time, at forty-two she is still a sensation. Long black curls that require no primping; eyes out of a sultry beauty and mocca-cream skin that have never seen a wrinkle, Simply perfection.

Heels’ clicking upon the limnonym flooring of their newly acquired spacious home, Mrs. Phantom in a dash of expectation opens her front door.

“Omg! Pooh! Look at you!” squeals an overly excitable Maria Phantom, nearly out of her party dress with excitement she hugs her mother. The two are intoxicating, all hair, shining white

smiles, bare-shoulders, inviting breasts, predominate hips, strong calves tipped to perfection by

manicured polished toes. Women in all of their unabashed glory, the clicking of their heels upon the red-brick embroider cemented slab stair case, signals the winding end of the love song between both mother and daughter.

Only the meet and greets are far from over. For as Melina careens down the long drive that seperates the family home from the main road; KD Lamar is encouraged by the flashing smile of Jacqueline to remove his shoes at the threshold and bring along he and Maria’s things.

Her index finger engaged in a ‘come hither’ motion commands the stage production. Place ribbons there, tables here, food there; her take charge attitude suitably preoccupies Lamar before he is able to coordinate with Maria.

He is a victim in the chains of the master of celebration, through puppy dog eyes he whimpers his good byes. Maria laughs at the silliness of it all, welcomes the time alone with her thoughts.

Noticing Rannie across the hall in the foyer, a flash of only a few years prior comes to mind.

Rannie at seven years old, bows and berets, blue dresses complete with white tube socks, short hair curled in Simi cues beneath the ears. Black polished uniformed shoes to complete the

ensemble of conformity and southern bell gentries. She can’t quite say if she much cares for the changes in her sister. It nevertheless takes little shock to see her as growing up.

The pride of influence begins to swell.

As Rannie saunters up the merry bounding form eliminates any maturity first presumed from her previous stance. The carefree child emerges and is a spitfire of conversation. Dressed in a Spencers graphited tea and black Cyrus jeans. Slim to express the out of her lips.

Rannie steps in front of her older sister, new black converses nearly colliding with Maria’s toes.

“So, soul sister, you know how much I’ve missed you.” Giggling at her own joke. “When can I see Clive?”

The surprise on Maria’s face is hard to disguise and she barely tries. Her left eyebrow arched in her signature reference of a accusation she is thankful for the crashing distraction of Melina walking into the room.

Billy Phantom is brought from his study, by all of the commotion suddenly beset upon his home.

‘I know I wanted to see my girls, did not think they’d begin by destroying my front door,’ he thought as he approached his angels. “Is there any way you three can help organize this shindig without destroying my home?” The three in an all-smile response eagerly chant the same authenticated response.

“Y-E-S, Daddy!”

No matter the age difference, dramas, or how much growing up they do, they always know how to make daddy proud.

The six-foot one inch business-suite of a man with the midsection befitting an Arab merchant from a bad Indiana Jones film, smiled a toothy grin at his daughters. Rubbing his hands together he asks, Melina, “How many do you expect from your vast circle of cohorts to come to celebrate

your immensely wealthy lover? What is the bottom dollar?”

“Well,” rolling her eyes at her father’s show of financial priority, “it would seem facebook and twitter over compensated itself again and all 5,000 of my known contacts have been notified. Only I estimate one third to care and half to show.”

“Now what in the world would I do with that many people in my home, if two hundred people show I’ll be floored. Lock up all the paintings and law books Jackie, your daughter is crazy.” Old Billy is having a fit.

Maria chuckles at the red hue of her fathers cheeks, his blood pressure rising. Raising an arm and placing her hand on his shoulder she rubs him soothingly, “Now, now, after you called and

informed of this agenda, and told me who it was for, my staff and I took over the itinerary and set up a Visitor inquiry personnel list, I have a copy here. No one unwarranted is to show and no one I don’t like as they present themselves at the door. I thought it would be nice to meet and greet even if I don’t allow safe passage.” Relief is prevalent on Billy’s face.

“you’re a doll pumpkin.” After a minute to catch his breath he looks around the foyer; guides the girls with a sweep of his arms into the passage after his wife, she is slamming pots around in the kitchen and chasing the help, “where is the “Greenpoint PointGuard, by the way?”

“He’ll be coming along soon. We drove separately, he likes to take cinque-routes and I took the train. Had to rent-a-car I used the credit card, hope that is ok?”

Silently he groans, not even trying to hide the ulcer development as he realized his wallet may not reflect his prosperity. There is always work to be done.

Most writers either do not consider world events prevalent in a story-there personal story- or they feel the time restraints required, to remember all of the entrecote details of the world and

the world in there novels would either take away from the story or would produce an overly long story. I’m beginning to wonder what would be the harm in introducing time but more so for the reader by the presence of music.

Music like it or not is immortal and so by introducing a certain song or band the reader would then be able to associate their own personal time frame with the story they are reading. This method of writing can be found in a lot of spy novels; Crime novels; things of fanciful and

violent nature but this story is not one of these so how as a writer can I show my audience that where they were in life may have had a hand in the wheel of time that set in motion this story.

Indiamonheep: may very well be that solution, Or Lions, tigers, and Bears of Jasmine Sullivan.

Ever insisting, time passed, the clouds shift, as clouds are prone to do, revealing the omnipresent constellations which seemingly have always wished to interact with the humans of this earth. An involvement, that at times can come off as intervening or intrusive to those of us that are indeed paying attention.

The Phantom home is one of many homes in their particularly congested community, it was not always this way. The development of this community is no different from any other suburban village. Save for those inhabiting the nooks and crannies of solitude provided amongst the hovels of trees and side ditches.

Not a stones throw away resides such occupants by the name Laci Thompson. She is a lawyer. Made partner after graduating from Chapel Hill University, she has been an advent donator towards there college basketball program ever since. This is where she met her life Partner

Cheryl. In the stands cheering in drunken passion for a team of high testosterone boys that could never truly aspire to the standards required of the Thompsons. After such games, living off the adrenaline resonating off the sporting event, the two would find themselves in a bar or a huka lounge silently appraising there world and social climate.

The itch of curiosity always tap-tap-tapping.

Incessantly intruding on private conversations.

One particular evening after a game, ticket sales never on a downhill spiral thanks to Laci, all expenses paid, drinks served by the snap of her delicate opaque finger tips, Cheryl cannot take

her eyes off of her. They sit across from the other; a coy tango of diplomacy in the arms of other lovers. Tonight two lucky Duke male graduate students. Men tonight, women tomorrow.

Commitment is not a question when you have your own money, essentially it is almost preferred that names are never spoken. The night is only about relaxation and release.

Exhale and release.

Cheryl’s throat is exposed to the lips of the burley roman-fingered stud with no face. Dark hair long enough to conceal the dark intent in his eyes. Her smooth cream skin is slightly freckeled with an olive burn produced by kisses from the sun. Her golden hairs stand erect from the electric touch of his lips upon her exposed collar bone.

She curls her neck into his mouth. Enough force to send chills through Laci who sits entranced. Heavily swallowing back her pulsating heart, the heat of Cheryl’s eyes are engulfing; radiates sex.

The boy upon Laci’s left pulls her thighs around his own. She is now sitting half in the lap of the eager student and the other half of her controls the corner of the love seat. Another forward position, she finds herself in his Romanized hands which find her waist. Skin touches skin. His hands are calloused. The friction is erotic, only she wants Cheryl.

A deer who’s trance from the oncoming light of a drunk driver hears and sees nothing else. Not the music of the background; the pulsating technician of this club. The urges of the Duke

graduate for her attentions or the equally male homosexual waiter dressed in a bowtie and barecheeked polyester chaps; who continuously asks to refill her glass. A glass of GreyGoose that has not been touched by her now parched lips.

Cheryl can see the hunger in Laci’s eyes. Mouths beneath the over compensating music; “Take me home.”

That’s what she does.

They spend wine filled nights together, reliving fanciful thoughts and desires. This night-though different due to the Phantoms need to dance the night away- is no different for the two.

Laci’s home was one of the first built in the village, she was able to sit upon her roof and watch the building and constructing of all the many amenities provided by the city and state. She paid for a lot of it too. Things like the golf course range running through her back yard. Bought so

when the PGA tour began and Mr. Woods happened to participate in the open, seating upon the greens would not become an issue. Tennis was a vastly developing hobby among her

constituents. Many of the local children had to go to other centralized parks to play.

Not if Laci could help; the Phantom girls always raid her garage for the tennis balls needed, keeping an eye on those girls was the courtesy due there father. Money appreciates money. The contract developers asked for assistance when developing the paper work and maps of each

house. After making partner the development of Laci’s ideal world became a private obsession.

Control over housing development was a godsend for her unexplored talents of logistics. The magic of developing a community and maintain there happiness was always a consoling thought, on those nights spent alone. Finding Cheryl ensured her appreciation and worth could be properly acknowledged and gratified.

A house on the hill.

A beautiful woman to share it with.

Very little else could matter or dampen Laci Thompson. From on high, it was nothing for Laci to witness the jamboree directed, in kaleidoscopic flashes of light, towards the Phantom home.

“Now what could possibly cause such a change in the typically reclusive Phantoms,” pondered

Laci, as she lay in the arms of the bare-to-the-world beauty, Cheryl. As her curls cascaded around her face in a chaotic twirl she kisses Laci full on the mouth, Urging her back to bed, using the

reverberating vibrations of idle car radios and music flooding in rivulets from the home of Billy

Phantom, as a marching cadence for her experience trained lips; fingers daft as a violinist, winding her vulva into a tight pensive ball of anticipation.

‘That must be some party, cause Cheryl has not been this mouth watering in a long while.’ Laci finds Cheryl’s areola and with her coral blood-filled lips savors her taste.

They fall back.

Bodies entwined, energies flowing upon the waves of sound that is there world.

….

Part 2 to Blood Lines

“Once more, we are people. You can’t just come in and out of our lives as it suites you.

A girl starts to thinkin’ that you really don’t care. You never cared one thing about me. Only used me.” Bianca’s sultry eyes has silenced the bar, the patrons of the Nightingale, who typically drink alone or in groups, now had to keep to themselves.

Even in the midst of gunfire due to a cheating poker player; Life goes on.

Yet it would seem the sentiments of a lone Bar dress may have peaked the interests of a few young gusto’s that feel a woman as beautiful as Ms. Aries is worth liberating.

Good for Ms. Aries, Not for Clive.

“I don’t want you in here, I don’t even want to see you! How dare you show your face after deserting us all for…” the crowd begins to congest around the booth we find that Mr. Thursday and Clive Dawson thought having a drink incognito would come easy.

Nothing comes easy. Not for Clive Dawson, he should have remembered such sentiments. It would seem no matter how far from trouble he could separate himself, the gravitational pull would enfold him. Much as he finds now.

“Look at us Clive. We were your family. We loved you in your darkest of moments. Understood your depth and loved you despite your flaws. How are we repaid? Desertion! You gave us words

filled with hope. Beautiful songs written by a man with a heart so blue, you’d sooner he was conceived by a running river.” The Peruvian princess in a voice choked by pain and relief at

seeing Clive again begins to sing. The heartfelt well is deep. Guttural and eclectic, the band can feel her resonate and as her voice ascends from the crest fall of the waters’ surface of her soul. The first whispered syllable is not left to stand in vain.

“In-the-rain…In- the- RAIN, IN THE RAIN,

I walk in the rain! I walk in the rain

I walk in the RAIN! Is it here, I belong

Or do I cry because I’m alone.

Mother used to say, if you want you’ll find your way.

But Mother never had to walk through fire showers.”

Her hips fold into corals of hollow black depth. Clive a true musician of the highest order could not bear anymore. Caught up upon her need for him, his needs for her words he pulls out his

harmonic harp. Sends out a sharp tone to catch the gale of the blues bands guitar; Sails with the last trail of sound and finishes her valley of words in a baritone of so much power she is quipped into silence.

“If there is a hell,

Then this is how it smells Bodies laid up in piles by the pier.”

I walk in the Rain, I walk alone in the RAIN!

He takes one step forward, the Nightingales blue hue and smoke filled atmosphere cannot hide the expectation of all those present. The ring of men begins to meander back to their seats.

Bianca cannot remember when Clive stood up and managed to get in front of her. Now that he is only a breath away it seems that whatever courage she mustard to confront him was washed away by his words.

Their foreheads touch.

“You told us to believe in you, we did, you gave us a perfect world, with the wave of your hand.

Told us we’d live forever , I…believed. Still believe in you. Why couldn’t you just be happy?”

She buries her face into his chest, Clive Dawson has a million things he could say right now, with his right hand he wipes away her tears. Leans in close as he hugs her and nips her right ear as he whispers how sorry he is. Rubbing her bare shoulders he guides her to the bar. Requests two rums. Double fingered shots of the cheapest black piss provided by a congested city.

Clive’s city.

“Where did you go?” Bianca asks, as she sits cat-like on the black leathered cushioned stool. There is no back support so she has to lean forward.

Clive with practiced peripheral glares about the fecundity, Cutting down the floor girls, ear hustling and with the flick of his wrist, commands them to leave. The lights from the bottle stand equipped with rear view mirrors. Change from holiday reds, greens, pinks, and blue.

As each turn of the light, a heartbeat of a second, pass across her moon shaped face. The question remains. Her big brown doe eyes always transports Clive to better days. That’s why he comes to the Nightingale, Most heavy drinkers frequent bars so they can forget. The memories are too much and to numb the pain they swallow a toxin that honestly is only good for keeping the

radiators running in the generators of the city’s homeless shelters. Better the homeless remain

warm then the refueling of the useless fires of his belly. He wallows in his memories using the

past as an ever ready crutch to remain silent. He failed his past. Remembered those failures and made no means to correct them; Worse than a coward because he had the ability to change

things. The knowledge was ever present. He envied Bianca because she still remained innocent.

Well, from his perspective, Anyway. Her mind was not filled with Aryan; she worried not of transcendental things. He much enjoyed this about her. Only being surrounded by so much incessant ignorance he thought to pull the curtails of the dress of fate.

“I left for a little but sweets, you know my mind wonders, I never wanted you to feel alone. Did you not heed my words upon my leaving…”

“No matter…” she cuts him off, repeating memorized words. “How far I go, you’ll always know how to find me.” “I know,” mimicked Bianca twirling her neck in time of her right index finger.

Cock sure smile tracing her lips.

“What kind of mumbo jumbo is that anyway? I don’t have no crystal ball, jackass.”

“You couldn’t find one? There is a lady not too far from here, pay her five hundred dollars and she’ll reveal your own soul.” Clive laughs at his own joke. Fixing his tie is what has become a signature for the writer. He adjusts their shot glasses so that they sit perfectly apart from each other. Making three gaps of distance from the on looking perspective of individuals like Mr.

Thursday, who is still sitting in the back of the bar, now accompanied by the four barfly’s and an overly overt Carnegie clown who happens to be sitting in for a few drinks.

Mr. Thursday pulls out his zippo lighter. Attempting to ignore the advances of the façade showman. As the flame bursts from the zippo it catches the camel cigarette hanging loosely from his bold black lips. Only when he begins to pull on the filter and inhale fumes, he can’t.

The fireball upon the instant he flicked the zippo lighter collected itself in a glowing ball of embers, dancing in front of his eyes, sliding upon the string of Clive’s creative telekinetic

strengths. Twirling, sifting, puffing, bouncing along the thumb sized fireball upon wings unseen flooded past patrons and servers alike. A distance of two or more tables, just short enough to remain unseen, Clive raises his right index finger to his lips, the flame danced upon the tip.

Bianca’s squeal of delight at such candid magic was hard to suppress. Tapping her knees spastically she urged much of what she knew would be the unraveling. Clive was a dream

weaver. Fire was his element, “The roots of the world grow upward.” Taking his left hand and crossing his eyes to remain level with the flame. He touched both left and right index fingers

together, creating a triangle with his hands. Upon pulling his fingers apart and uncrossing his eyes, he gave birth to two twin fireballs. Both thumb sized wingless flames. This caused more tapping of knees and gushing delight. Mr. Thursday orders a pitcher, not sure if he is too sober or too drunk. His vision must be messing with him.

Tapping Clive on the arm, Ms. Aries gushes as a child being told a story by her older friend,

“Parlor tricks simpler than this have been spun as sole acts of gods or holy men. Even at times

Extra-terrestrials are decided to be the only sentient beings that control the elements. Humans;

Sweet little princess and the many patrons that leave here stumbling in their own vomit are told to except their status. They can have nothing more and can only hope, to learn by men greater than even Clive Dawson.”

“No one is greater than you.” Bianca interjects scratches the bar surface with her nail pouting at the reproachful look he gave her for being interrupted.

Setting the flames in two empty shot glasses, Clive creates windows to the past and future. Little flaming mirrors that are holes in our physical space; Time flows like a book, in the left glass closest to Clive the past, their past played before them, in the right the ever present future.

She witnessed her marriage awed the birth of her fifth child. The bar, her home and the city they know and love forever growing. Growing she hoped for the better. Then she saw it, the jump.

Clive was not on earth. He was somewhere, someone else. There is a woman. She is beautiful. She is holding his son. The glass breaks. Shatters and burns away to nothing.

“What does it mean?” confused by all of the information. Most of it seemed pleasant. She liked the idea of being a mother. Stretch marks and all, She flattens her tummy. Picking up Clive’s

hand to press it against her stomach, “You don’t know who the daddy is do you? Eh, maybe I

don’t want to know. Anyway with all that traveling you did aren’t you tired?” She cares not that he has not explained much. Knowing how much it takes out of him to use his gift.

“You have always been too sweet on me. I have traveled the world and the stars looking for the answers to liberation, Pravesetta. Our kinship is due to the fact that like you—I hate the system we are forced to live in. you think being a dive girl is tough. Only I promise you if I had your tits

and good looks the dive bar would be my last worry. Why have you not left this place? There is

nothing holding you here.” She reaches behind the bar and opens the latch to cross over, she must escape his probing mind. The distance helps. She leans on the bar. The light casting

shadows behind her. “I stay because it is comfortable. Outside of these walls, this city is a whole world that does not give two pennies about me, will suck the very life force out of me, all

because I wanted to see something new. No thanks, I’ll leave the adventuring to you Vagabonds.”

She smiles, taking the sting out of her words. Her curls fall in her face. Her black tank-top is having trouble keeping her breasts from spilling. Clive with his hazel leering eyes, adjusts them for her. Two invisible hands tug up on her midriff and they remain where they belong. Bianca

can hardly hold back her admiration for Clive’s ever growing ability. She can remember when his nose would bleed from trying to carve the thanksgiving turkey.

Clip

Clop.

The snapping of Mr. Thursday’s shoes break their momentary appraisals, His approach pulling the heat in the estranged co-hearts eyes from each other for the moment.

Clive must look up at Mr. Thursday to address him.

“I’m leaving,” says Mr. Thursday. “the four skirts are pestering me and the clown freaks me out.

Listen to your friends Clive. This can only end badly for you.” Without waiting for a reply the chameleon is nothing more than a memory. The rain washing away his foot prints.

“Hmm. Dump me, then you show up here with dark and handsome.” She smirks at Clive’s bewilderment.

“Low blow kiddo, I’m not gay; and no I’m not going to sleep with you just to prove it. He gave me a ride. I wanted to see my old friends, That’s all.” when she looked like she took the bait he dropped it. Sipping on his refill he did not notice her pour.

“All this way for little old me, huh must be a big storm bruin to bring the star captain in. The blacker the deed oh the better for me, I’ll sell them all before I fall. A pirates boast while dead men waltz.” She quips.

“That was from my first print. How long has it been? Six years or more.” Clive smirks.

“Longtime to be without your smiling face hot shot.” Her cellular phone rings. She ignores it.

“Pick it up,” he chides. The second ring, she looks at him as if, were she to take the call he’d vanish.

She ignores it. The voicemail engages.

He smiles at her need.

She grabs his hand, shaking his broad wrists. Spinning the dial back on his watch, he has not leaned on her. Clearly set the boundaries.

Like that phone call she ignores them. Thinking back upon the flames she asks, “What happened to the third; the past is set, the future clear but why did you ignore the present?”

“My clever girl, the present is irrelevant, it moves too much for its own good. Everyone is hustling and knocking each other over for fame in the now that will only fade into the future. To be forgotten as the past. I came not for today. I wish to change our futures. Take the wheel of

time out of the hands of those that wrote the books and self-proclaimed their victories. Take their teachings and show them that even humans have a place in the heavens.” She sighs, hands cupping her seductive cheeks. He was always a sucker for her dimples. “You always know how to make a girl dream. It was those dreams of never having to bow my knees to any man or god

that made me curl beneath you. To know I was not wrong for living out my desires.” Lighting cut across the night sky. Rain continuing to beat down on the city, the music has done little to change the setting of the room, as Clive looks around. The pockets of dense people with no faces hidden in the shade of candle lite tables begin to close in on themselves.

He begins to feel a congesting pressure of black energy emanating from the few individuals close to him. This vision is not too uncomfortable. He has had worse. Just have to ride the wave. The faces remain hidden, though they seem to be uttering incoherently all he can make out is a whisper.

‘Dark are deeds carried out by thee. Punishments unfold, a purpose binding. Seals that scold.

Past lives reviving the slithering fires of your plight,

Night, Day, Light or shadow you must obey

Take their hands. Don’t say a word, never mind that noise you heard.

The wolf secures the fallen flick

Black roses, Black lilies, Black Amethyst

Shown by the moon, shown through the willing,

Take them, Drink them up. Witness

How she dances with her sacred chalice!’

The moon is still flying high when Clive begins to move about the city.

The rain has subsided. This is bittersweet, very little could have been done to wash her Peruvian aura from out of his clothes and hair.

He looks upon the night sky. The stars remind him of his unfinished business. Pulling a cigarette out of his right jacket pocket in two smooth motions he has the filtered methanol cherry burning and the fumes rush into his lungs.

The first drag is the deepest.

……

Chapter 6 Carthage Papers

Uniformed officers, no matter the profession, always carry the stench of smugness in the very same hand-sanitizer containers they stash deep in their pockets of their right ass cheeks. The silver buttons of their overly starched dress blues, beam in a brilliance that pale in comparison to the lone cuffs that clasp like bull rings upon his utility belt.

The Taser is set on continuous prime even in the holster. Seventeen year old Dawson imagines the interrogating officer with no pants on.

‘young white liberals always imagine their slacks which support their jock straps, to denote highsociety. An aristocracy that most are too young to appreciate or are the left overs of there well-todo elders. None of which can be said to have been earned by their own merits.’

To Dawson the pants less John Grittmere; recently assigned to the investigation of “The Carthage

Papers” case file, was a pup. A simulacra-baby, whose soft blue eyes, Polack tan and undeveloped chin, did very little to assuage his assessment. Even the back and forth between his partner, a red headed, Davie Sulk, made the absurdities of the two men that much more comical.

The interior of the room is directly across from the supply garage of the small town prescient. He knows this because from where he is sitting, shackled to a steal chair; across from the pants less

Grittmere, The space to his left where you’d imagine a brick wall to be was hollowed out to support a seven foot long by four foot wide viewing port. The only sources of light in there close quarters.

The seventeen year old did not see anyone on the other side because there was no one there.

The television shows written by Dick Wolf about superior detectives viewing the interrogations or lawyers being accounted for. None of that was to be the solace of Dawson. Just a garage. Finely equipped with an artillery cage, case file holders; a red tool box of the industrial variety and a grease spot.

‘The cake in the middle of the table is not a trap, I asked for that, should have asked for a smoke.’

“It seems you suffer from Narcissistic tendencies and an uncontrollable taste for erratic behavior.” Grittmere did not phrase this as a question because he did not need a file to inform

him of Dawson’s intelligence. They are honestly lucky they caught him while he was sleeping.

His wife is due in a few months. She asked him to take time off after this case. The pup would do it too.

“Assault on a police officer: case file 62-5/r

Crippling a K-9 unit: case file 62-6/r

Execution of peace officer by poison: case file 00/1p

Decapitation of ATF task force: case file 20/45c2

Or Conspiracy that there of

Destruction of County Property: case file 80/90c4

By explosives: A 29 badge count all presumed dead upon arrival and all before your eighteenth birthday. Would have been nice if you could take such charges into juvenile court, wouldn’t.

Not nowadays though. What with all the terrorist talk going on. NOPE. I’ll personally see you sit away in POKE for this one. Be my pleasure to see you rot for a long time to come.” His blood pressure has risen visibly. The pink of his face becomes a red apple. It’s a wonder he has not

passed out upon the concrete slab. Dawson remembering the words of his father when he was

eight years old, “Whenever you have found yourself on the wrong end of the law, prepare your

heart for at that point you will always be at the mercy of the kindness of others, rarely will you

be able to move beyond how the world perceives you;” Clive continues to stare in the eyes of the pants less officer who due to his memories of his traumatizing high school career, where they called guys like him the dickless wonder, savagely taunts the much younger teenage prodigy. Dawson’s talents for leadership where acknowledged early on, his mind was sharp. They were lucky they caught him while he slept.

Lawyers always say, ‘to remain quite during interrogation, ask for nothing and try not to shift your eyes to the left when asked a direct question,’

Clive ignores all of these rules. Looks at the blue-eyed saint, smirks his Narcissistic grin, raises his arms up as far as the cuffs will allow and in a shrug of reticence says, “You can’t hold me

forever.”

……

Chaw. Chaw. Sounds the red eyed raven, as the cameras of the smog filled city, witnessed the stride of a chameleon, fluttering curiously above the lone traveler.

The tall, two hundred and five pound black man in the tan overcoat, conceals his face behind his wing-tipped fedora. Neatly polished shoes gleam in the moonlight. The clouds are minimal at this time of night.

The increase of patrol upon the Liberty City district and strict curfew laws make night travel precarious. Not because of muggings or knife wounds in the back. The blue pale hue put an end to the dangers of a cutpurse. Now the hookers and pimps or the occasioned passerby must fear

the very officers set above them. The beatings of abusive power and renegade police officer are not even news worthy to the daily procession; now it is a way of life, Darker the alley; thicker

the blood lust. Illumination is not a problem for Mr. Thursday, he glides in between the avenues of the city as a veteran patron. He has survived the Rebellion years. The Golden era, New politicians, new plans of reform, All with the same outcome, the rich remain rich and the peasant always dies a peasant.

Towering above him are the skyscrapers of dreams built off the backs of the unmotivated and complacent. Lashed to the bone by individuals that bleed just as red as any other down trodden

American. Convinced by thoughts of grandeur that rights to a Sovran land was contrived through bribery, fraud and taking from the less deserving. A country too cheap to build there cities up and the people along with it. Would instead spread it’s city out. Devouring land and resources it could not afford to squander.

A few emaciated beggars approach Mr. Thursday. He smiles and with his out stretched hand touches the scared faces of the begging men. They are still warm to the touch, still cling to life though they have little to live for. The men upon the edge of between human and feral inadvertently sniff upon the air. They have noticed a shift in the pressure of the dark block they are standing in. The lights have died.

They look to the right and left and can see nothing save for the void.

Mr. Thursday ushers them away from the epicenter of the dark pressure. The border is hard to determine but the light is reassuring. They walk through only noticing the difference because the cacophony of the city returns to its usual inclination.

The vacuum is lifted, For the beggars.

Not Mr. Thursday.

Turning ever slightly he faces the epicenter. Not even a full quarter turn, outside his peripheral he can see the Carnegie Clown.

The very same, from the Nightingale.

‘Ugh, now what could a rainbow freak in tights like you want.’

The clown smirks, “is that any way for a faggot to address his betters?”

Mr. Thursday is momentarily shocked. He can hear his thoughts and it seems they can talk in this void without words.

‘Really not trying to share minds with a clown. Clive has not even taught me this trick and I’m sure I’d like to be in his head much more than yours.’

“No you wouldn’t. You don’t know C-L-I-V-E like WE do. The attraction you feel for him will surely fade when the truth is revealed. I could show you now if you like. It will only hurt a little.

As I suck out your eyes!” giggles the clown.

The few meandering citizens of the city don’t seem to be effected by this negative black space.

Mr. Thursday touches the walls of the void with a single black hand. The spark is clear. Opaque but real.

‘Is he controlling this barrier? Am I going to have to kill a god in order to see tomorrow?’

The clown laughs in hysteria. The mere idea of a human killing a god is too much, Especially a human that cannot even separate the fabrics of the worlds. He will break this human for his

hubris. He may have been ordered to send a message but surely they will understand that the honor of a god is more important than there war with Clive Dawson.

“So Tie-Die, what is your name? Are I not to know the name of the pion that has taken me hostage and impedes my journey?”

“No, you’re not to know the name of the demigod that walks upon your incessant journey. Where could you possibly be headed that is so damn important that a talk with me can’t turn your head.

FACE ME WHEN I’m TALKING TO YOU BOY!”

Fully facing the painted deity Mr. Thursday removes his fedora and tan overcoat. Casting them to the side.

They fall to a heap in a cloud of silent dust. Closest to the edge of the barrier. His white button down and black tie remain stoic. The clown bows before his foe. A signal of honor that neither

feels the other is due. The black man does not wait for the clown to raise his eyes. He rushes him upon lath feet that would not have been presumed by his stature. Standing a six feet and two inches the speed of the man was not perturbed. Neither was the clown.

He saw the first jab coming. Moved inches out of the way only to side step into the reach. The second jab was reflex catching nothing but hair as the clown ducked. Beneath Mr. Thursday, the tie-died freak sent his foot, supported by the right hand upon the ground, into the color bone of the dark determined chameleon. Foot digging into the mans traps the clown suspends himself above Mr. Thursday. He has time to look up.

The clown licks his painted lips and drives his left kneecap into the vertebrae at the base of his skull. Driving and Driving until his forehead slams into the cement. It breaks, cracking upon the weight of the Clowns knees.

The gash leaking from Mr. Thursday forehead is deep. Blood seeps into his eyes. Stains his white shirt. He stands, stretches his neck. ‘This might take a while.’

The clown lunges. Two quick steps that are stunned in a free fall as Mr. Thursday sends too hey makers into the clowns solar plexus. Taking advantage of winding the acrobatic sideshow he

shifts behind the clown and reverse suplexes him. Skull fragments mingle with concrete chips.

Dust plumes around the matted blond curls of the dazed clown. He is seeing the sky again. Now the black, as his head is driven into the pitch. The bile he is forced to swallow due to the head trauma is sickening.

Mr. Thursday does not allow him much time to think over the decision to fight. He pulls the clown by his blond curls and drags him towards the barrier wall. Raises his face up to look him in the eyes. Paint oozes with the blood.

“Are you going to tell me your name dweeb?”

“Death is only the beginning.”

Mr. Thursday pounds the smirk off of his face. Paint smears. The wail of pain is hollowing.

He is begging now, though he has not felt the wrath of Thursday. Suspended by his throat in a grip all-consuming the clowns face is continuously pummeled into his own barrier.

“Please have mercy, I have a message, you are to tell the Dreamweaver that he is over stepping his place!”

“I want a name!” demands Thursday as he careens the blooded tissue, which used to be

Carnegie Clowns face, upon the cracking structure. “Who dares to commands us Humans like pawns upon a goh board?”

“I am Acamipada, the last of thirty-two dynasties.”

Mr. Thursday’s eye’s flash with victory, lips licked to moisten his appetite. Gripping the face of the god, bone, half tissue, by the jawline and almost lovingly pulls him inches from his own. Looks him in the eyes and asks in a whisper, “Now was that so hard.”

As he can make out the city lights and the dome slowly recedes he kisses the god full on the mouth. A hot deep lip bleeding experience; he separates from Acamipada and watches his body melding into the light pollution of the city. The cacophony is deafening outside of the vacuum that was the barrier. Mr. Thursday looks towards his overcoat. Picks it up, turns around at the sounds of fast approaching footsteps.

“Hey mister, got a quarter, my mom want a beer and she can’t find her pimp, Hurry please I just need a quarter.” He silently appraises the little black boy of Liberty city, flicks him a fifty-cent piece and turns before the kid can go on about how thankful he is.

‘Clive, whatever you got planned you better be right cause I’m getting too old for this freaky shit, gosh I hate clowns.’

He says to no one at all.

Chapter 7

Bird Cage

Reporting live, from CNN newsroom the forever lovely, Lauran Shriller, “Thank you Tom for the wonderful introduction, At times I wish the rest of the world could be so lovely, I find it hard to smile at times, but those words do help, even if they can’t stop the bombs of war, or the doctorial writings of propaganda.

Those words cannot feed the hungry, or free the imprisoned. End the wanton debauchery of the lazy or change the minds of the complacent. Neither can they heal the souls of the godless.

I seek this evening not to give you religion or even to shame. Only to point out observations, I smile upon the world sharing my truth as I see it.”

There is silence in the streets this night. The entire Nation hears Ms. Shriller, all save for Clive’s city.

“We all are gathered here, this moon filled night, to celebrate, my always luxurious, little sister

Melina. She has achieved unmatched greatness of her own accord. But little can be compared at her ability to surpass and inspire the world, through the love she shares with five time MVP

award NBA sensation, her lover, Jason Brachmen! They have separately amassed riches and fame, one can only imagine the nation there unified infatuations shall cultivate!”

The cheers in response to Maria Phantoms indoctrination are deafening, yet, despite the hundreds of eager to please, and the many simply happy to be apart of something, standing upon the

balcony overlooking the party goers, the tigress of the catwalk in one final roared expressed

sentence set the tone of the evening festivities, “Let the kiss they share, my little monsters, become a demonstration and illicit your very own passions!”

As Melina, dressed in her celebratory pink and green gown, kisses Jason, who, is dressed to compliment his love, in a black and gold suite, the crowd erupts yet again in renewed jubilation!

The kiss is one of true sensual desire that leaves the pouty stoutness of Melina’s lips red as fresh wild berries. She cannot help but to curl her toes at the sauciness of it all. Silently thanking her

sister for such a chance to publicize her affections. The shared spotlight, between the two sisters, is not an uncommon junction. They are all smiles and ravishing together. The strobe lights gave there all too familiar home the feel of an amphitheater. The balcony appeared grander than it

was. In such a short time the sisters could go far in the world. Those that showed were a testament to their overall lovability. The music reverberated off the walls. Coming from the

lower darker floors of the home and for every pulsating beat seeped through her toes, her need

for release, would grow. Pulling Jason along she waved goodbye to Maria. Turning the dark corner to the stairs that led to the crowd and dance floor, Melina was on a mission. Maria, standing alone did not notice the approach of Lamar and her younger sister, Rannie. “Mother and Father are, how do you say, indisposed without feeling disgusted, that at their age they still find time to disappear like that?” inquires Rannie. Maria, knowingly looks at Lamar

who rolls his eyes and only smiles. “I apologize for leaving you to tend to my mother, and sister.

Though due to your good showmanship, the shindig has gone off without a hitch.” She coyly beckons with her finger for him to come closer, practically purring. Whispers in his ear, “How can I ever make up my negligence to you?”

Rannie, in mock disgust, standing behind the two in plain view of her older sister, air vomits all over the floor. Drops to the ground, rolling in her own mock puke. Stands up, dusts off her new

Vera Wang dress and in a single bound land upon the settee, conveniently placed on the balcony that over looked the dance floor. Stretched out lazily observing her older peers, The band

contracted for the night was on of Rannies’ favorites. They were new and into all of the new revolutionized sounds. The energy was entrancing, when above spectators who mindlessly

followed the tempo orchestrated for their bodies to follow. She could see the very origin of the pulse. One day, she two would learn to lead others through her art. For now she would rock to

the rhythm. Inside the party was an orgy of bodies and noise. Outside, all one could here was the thump of the window panes and the vibrations of hundreds of feet. Though this did not suppress

the sight of the purple miasma, if one was paying attention, that slowly oozed into the night from the phantom home. The dark energy of passion, as a spiders thread began to cacoon and crystalize. Stretching forever skyward beneath the bright full moon, bird caging the surrounding village in its own celebratory energy.

Clive Dawson, dawning an opaque mask of porcelain, standing in a field of parked cars that stretch innumerably in all directions, in his signature three-piece black tie suite, is the only observer of the colossal purple miasmic Bird cage.

“Really not even sure why I showed up; then when I do, I’m not even able to enter. She better be worth all this trouble.” He sighs to the moon. He steps upon the grass filled lot. His single step pulsates the earth beneath him. Shifting the parked cars to create a wide birthing avenue,

unimposing his passage towards the red-brick and mortar stair case of the phantom home. The lights of the door way continue to illuminate the sculptures of tigers and leopards, which serve as pseudo handrails.

Approaching the obsidian pillars of miasma, not quite touching the barrier, he could feel the caustic force; it was all he could do simply to stand so close. The shell was a perfect elliptical casing. The pillars reaching fifty feet high and stretched along the entire circumference of the subdivision. Six or more homes. The phantoms remained the only party house.

‘No telling for how long.’

The Matriarch Oracle’s distant voice tickles his right subconscious ear.

‘This world is too engrossed to pay attention to what comes naturally, to seekers of truth, such as you and I.’

Clive turns around to face the night, He knows the surrounding shadows hide the source of this illusion that bars his way, only he cannot see whom it is. Bells tinkle to his left.

Now, to his right, the chimes sing song the presence of another.

He has not moved from the source of illumination. The light makes the night bearable. Behind him again; he hears the chuckle of the hunter.

“You humans are funny looking when you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” comes the smirking voice.

Directly above him, arms crossed, in a comfortable air of familiarity, confident, strong; suspended ten feet in the air by a silver plat form with a circumference no wider than the shoulder-with of the average man. The observers bare feet remained assured with the deftness of a surfboarder.

“My realm of Tamoguna since time immoral has been for the degraded. Vastu-yathatmyajnanavarakam viparyaya-jnana-janakam tamah,

They madly accumulate money, working day and night, not caring for the eternal spirit.

Madness, my friend!” licking her lips she floats further down standing directly in front of Clive. There breathe mingles in the cold night air. The silver platform retracts into a single twinkling earing, she fastens to her right ear.

“In there madness, they are reluctant to make advancement in spiritual understanding. Such people are very lazy. One embedded in my tamoguna sleeps. They are objected, addicted to intoxicants and sex.” Her tongue slips beneath Clive’s ear lobe as he remains spell bound by the demigod.

“This is not so for the son of VIVASRAN. So then why do you ruffle the feathers of those better than you mortal? Do we not earn your love and loyalty? Is Manu not your father, is the manna

you use not sweet. Is the mahat-tathva not cooling to the touch. Why do you fight against my tamoguna and they do not?”

Clive is distracted by his previous intent of seeing Maria, his eyes shift to the door. Still impeded by the barrier. She notices his attentions wandering. She cannot hide her feelings of being slighted. To be made to feel of no consequence by a man. Mortal or god. Still angers the five foot goddess, she clucks her tongue.

“Worry not for your little birdies, the night is young. Candra will remain in the sky till you are satisfied. This is my gift to you mortal. Despite what you think, I do like you, your need to be more that what you are intrigues deities like I.” She smiles with her eyes alone. Eyes any man could fall through the depths with no regrets.

Stepping back he sits on the hood of one of the many cars that are parked in the lawn. She stumbles into him, unprepared for his sudden retreat. Pulling out a cigarette, he appraises the ancient, who is coyly resting her elbows on his thighs. The weight not to uncomfortable. Lighting and inhaling the fumes Clive remembers who this bare footed woman is, slightly amused that she would go to the trouble of seeing him.

Tonight of all nights.

“Siva,” her toes curl upon the mulch beneath her bare feet, when he says her name.

“Only the fool would ignore the demands of your dictates so pleasant is your scent, sweet is your touch and absolute your wrath. It also pleases me to see that the Lord of the most predominate

verdra still knows what it takes to turn the head of one such as I. If you truly show favor towards me I can more than show the Lord of household pleasure, what it means to be human.”

He said human with all intentions of devouring her mouth with his. The white mask remained their only saving grace.

He was tempting the goddess who can decree the destruction of the cosmos.

She was loving it.

Patting him on the arm, signaling she had her fill of his empty promises, she continued to illustrate the histories of Man and why his attempt at changing the tamoguna, according to her and her kind, would be a wasted use of his potential.

“The gods are not even upset that you have issued this challenge, most are happy to prove ‘The incessant Fire-ball, the Candala, in his place.” She takes his cigarette and puffs where his lips used to be, making a face of disgust.

“That’s what they call me?” asks Clive in surprise. “I will do more than eat dog, by the end of this tale. They will have to write an entire cadre of insulting slander to describe their own failures. I will relish in the taste of their disgust.”

“Don’t be a brooding braggart.” Chides Siva, snapping her fingers, addressing his attention to the sphere of ice she created to show Clive what has become of his world.

“The structure of civilization is like any other blood filled organism. It is born, it is set upon a path, entangles it’s self into the radial system of this earth to breed more similar modes of life,

combats with its Identity and upon its self-realization begins to wither and die. Only due to the

immortal nature of the soul and the will to continue in a such a vain and violent existence does it choose such a path. You cannot escape what has so been decreed. The best you can do is understand it and fight as you were bred to do so.” As she finishes in her small fist Siva crushes the ice, thus ending the cries of mortal souls yet unborn, seeking their time to walk through her realm of ignorance.

These talks of ‘how things are,’ natural law and decrees of gods always struck an unseen cord in

Clive Dawson. He is the shadow of this world. Filled with a darkness as thick as paint. It masks his anger towards the shackles of an existence he was born into. The opaque porcelain mask he is wearing does very little to hide his pride-filled-voice, pulling the goddess by her shoulder length dark hair, tilting her fear-filled face, so it is only inches from his own.

He barks. “We Humans are made by our better to scratch and crawl for answers to questions that should be freely given. He that asks a question demands answers. He is made to demand an answer because upon asking of the question he is given no answer. I am called a dog-eater

because like a dog I chase my own tail forever seeking the answer to your forever circling,

spiraling, rules. Humans are the seed of gods, so it is written. Then why do I see nothing but misery upon my own people. Cities in all of their grandeur should reflect the gods. Then why are my cities in a constant state of reconstruction.

Celebration is meant to be in remembrance of you. Then why is there vomit from the bowels of jovial still staining the concrete sidewalks of my city blocks. The riches of this world are meant to show your abundance. They why are the poor made to remember decades of flee filled bedsheets and dirty rags.

Come now my beautiful deity, Answer me this riddle of Life. How can it be, after eons of kowtowing to your system and procession of opulence, that humans have not proven that they understand the meaning of sacrifice.” Taking her silence to mean ascent to his determination, in an inhaled-exhaled breath of BHAK-ti!

Stretching his free arm wide as the crescendo of his words climaxes he releases the cigarette from his hand. It bursts into a million white pestles. Pestles that as they catch the reflecting moon light appear almost green in color. Siva, is in awe of his brilliance. Unsure as to when was the last time a mere human could captivate her with his voice alone.

The pestles of green light began to billow and boil, orbiting the miasmic structure that is the bird cage, designed to keep Clive from tending to those that wished to see him.

“What was the purpose of showing me the mortality of us all, if not to simply anger me?”

She looks away, as much as his grip will allow, rejected and stung by his admittance to being hurt.

“To show you, why you should not go to them when they cry out for a hero, Most are too blind to even know they need saving and you jump at their beck and call.” Siva pleads.

“We asks questions to be Aware. To be Aware is to be alive and to Live is to love. To love is to die?”

She cannot help but to smile at his cleverness, humans are filled with so many emphatic signatures that make the words uttered truly beautiful. She sees beauty in the death of those

seeking out the light that created them. Looking at the suspended glittering pestles, circling the massive bird cage she remembers the long forgotten moment of her caustic birth.

The brilliance of lights reaching their zenith and when she finally asked to fulfill the call to arms, Time began and so did the time of the many individuals that stood at her feet. Giving thanks for the ability to see. See only what she wished them to see.

Clive was always different. He always would see the real her and not falter. He never cringed in fear of her opulence, seemed to be calling to her asking to bask in her pleasures.

Clive breaks her reverie, breaks her caged with his mass of pestles. Just a flick of his wrist and the miasmic craft of suspended energy; meant to keep him out, to keep him grounded, explodes in a mass of purple and green mist.

The cloud of smoke covers them completely. The sirens of the many vehicles begin to scream in protest of Clive’s need to show Siva that he will not be made to chase his own tail any longer.

He was always more than just a mere outsider.

“Go Siva, tell your friends that I am coming for them. Not for the sake of the humans they love to keep in ignorance but for my own.”

Taking a step back she appraises the scene. Her cage is no more. The moon is high in the sky and surrounding it is a purple and green cloud of miasma-her purple essence mingled with his green pestles of his last cigarette, A river of light flowing in the cosmic figure eight of eternity.

He takes a step toward the Phantom home, already forgetting Siva, the gods, his cities plight; Only wanting to escape the responsibilities of awareness in the troths of Maria’s passion.

‘Yes, I will go to my friends. I will tell them to prepare for the House of Radra to fall.

But you know Mr. Dawson you can’t defeat the laws of nature. Upon the destruction of one Era the rise of another is always to be expected. What will the god of fire, create I wonder?’ Turing upon her bare heels she melds into the shadow. Secretly smiling at her own lusty anticipation of the impending desecration.

Chapter 8

Spirit Guide

Those that find themselves encased in the sphere of Rajo-guna are made to bend their mortal knees in the presence of Brahma. Passion is there home, delusions, envious of the human ability to enjoy this physical realm, torment, tempt, maim, curse, tickling the souls of the living.

When Civilization was young and a family found itself plagued by demons, they used to call a priest, or any spiritual leader that could help educate them on the best way to exercise such troubling spirits.

The spiritual guide would tell the ignorant family to bless his or her home in the name of Brahma. He is the deity of passion. It is your own troublesome need for passion that plagues you. The family always listened to those that are learned of these things. Would build the alter and pray to the god of passion for relief. He would always answer by sending the troubling spirts away for a time.

That is until the passion of human nature would fill the loins of the man and woman and stir the jealousies of the forgotten, unwanted demons.

Brahma of course found this cycle rather amusing in the beginning. That is until the ever increasing human population surpassed that of the gods.

“Now why would you have a child in a time of squalor and decollates, regulated sex is the path of the human. Do not mate as the beasts below your station. Then cry to your god that you cannot feed the many mouths you have given birth to.” A wise benediction from an all wise god.

Surely common sense will prevail and this increase in the humans will correct itself.

In a time when a large family meant more hands to work and feed the whole;

Flowery words of piety mean very little; Families of twelve or more children was common place among country land folks and they tended to outlast the city folk, who’s line died due to the birth of one too many daughters.

The pride of male legacy has a way of out shining moral reservations. As in the case of the

Phantom daughters, Billy Phantom had only three. Any chance of his families name continuing passed with the birth of Rannie, his very last daughter.

This did very little to dampen his male ego mind you. Every chance presented you could find

O’d Billy Phantom ten toes down inside of his wife Jacqueline. Upon every stroke that her cunt takes he prays to the ever watching deities that is his seed will carry on his family name.

Jacqueline moans cannot be heard throughout the home, save for the music that continues to set the tempo of their love-making.

Below the older couples bedroom, in the hall upon the settee of the balcony, Rannie sits, observing the sexually tense crowd. Bodies dancing to the hypnotic techno beat, pulsating from the surround sound system her favorite band Indamonheep brought along to help promote their new music. “OOO WHAT’D She Say!” remained the theme of the full moon night.

When the celebration was at its zenith and the many lovers, or single dancers were lost in whatever worlds they allowed the night to take them. Rannie was looking out of the window at

all the arrangements of purples and greens that seemingly from the distant city began to reach for the moon, Silently slithering across the canvas of the starlit sky, to settle around the silver disk in the shape of an eight.

“Maria, what does the number eight represent? My teacher asked me the other day and I could not answer her.”

“It is thought that the single number eight is the same symbol of eternity when you read it sideways. So a lot of people associate different meanings to the same symbols. Kind of how the word ‘and’, and the plus sign is also the Cross of Christ.”

“Ooh, hmm that is pretty interesting, Do you think we live forever, like they say?”

She sees a shadow in the crowd, breaking from her memory; she begins to scan the crowd for her sister. She is sure Maria would love to see the light that the moon is holding right now.

Where is she anyway. More shadows shift in the dense mass of people. She does not notice the hands come from behind her, wrapping around her mouth, swiftly pulling her into the darkness.

Chapter 9

The White Masked Man

When they first became acquainted each were entitled lovers to another.

Maria was infatuated with Lamar, Clive was covered in the arms of the chocolate beauty Vanessa Norrit.

The summer afternoon was filled with young sexual energy. So potent, the occasional on looker never could tell who was sleeping with whom. In this day and age no one was uneducated to the world of swingers and liberal minds in the ways of love, but it is safe to assume the hormones of the two men would impede any conversations of crossing boundaries.

This is not to say the thought of what each individual did in the previous night to satisfy each other did not cross their minds, in fact this would become a conversation, more of a confession, for the nymphomaniac Maria; asking Clive, after the heated naked robust pounding each were inclined, to discuss past loves, long forgotten.

This trap, mind you, did not dampen Clive’s reputation. In her eyes, his candid nature may have been the selling point. His honesty in the realm of private intimate moments, even if they were with other women, may have been why no matter the sin. Clive Dawson could do no wrong.

“What was the she-devil like in the sack?”

“You really don’t want to know. She was nothing like you. You are all soft angles, where she is a rough saddle.” Clive compares.

“By appearance I would, If I were a man, be intimated by such a black panther. Never would have taken you for the whips and chains type. Should I pull out my bull whips when you become tired of me.” Maria, prods.

“I can assure you that I will never grew tired of your variety of love. Honestly I find it hard to believe that there is any man alive that can satisfy you.” He teases.

“Trust me, you and your penis need not fear being able to satisfy any woman.” She encourages.

“Flattery will only get you mounted all the more. But really when I am inside of you I tend to wonder what it is that Lamar does that makes you keep him. If he is not doing what I do, I feel bad for him.” He searches.

“What is that supposed to mean, you think a mighty lot of yourself.” She bristles.

“Sure I do and that is saying a lot if I think even I may fall short to satisfying you. When I was thirteen I lost my virginity and to a woman of amoral character, I came first and she gave me a black eye. Tied a rubber band around my swollen-limp penis and as she gave me a blow job to make your favorite new toy up, began to console me and tell me of all the evils that will be fall a man’s dick that finishes before the woman’s.” Clive explains.

“Well I have no reservations when it comes to sex. I care not for size of manhood or how long you can keep your soldiers at bay. Only that you have reached satisfaction and so will I.” Maria interjects , beginning to tire of hearing of Clive’s past affairs.

“If only all women were as lovely as you. Soul and mind. Truly then could a man such as I preach of being satisfied.” He pulls her close. Despite her protest of lack of time and the approach of the timely Lamar, kisses her savagely at first only to end as always as a flame-filled intoxicating rush that leaves them both stark naked and spent.

“How did you get me undressed again, ugh. No, you need to go before we are caught. I will see you again.” Maria, pushes him out of the door or her apartment.

He smiles, one of eyes and teeth that cannot hide his undying pleasure with such a woman, his pretty woman.

……

The music pounds an incessant thumping in his ears. The mask does well to hide his face. He would normally have attended celebrations as himself but due to the crowd. The nature of the event, out of respect the disguise will serve its purpose.

He is four heart beats away from Maria and Lamar. They dance to the rhythm of the song. The tempo carries each to heights that Clive has experienced numerous lifetimes simply walking and living.

The euphoria is contagious. She is riveting, her back is arched to support her dancers frame in the arms of the figure closely familiar with what it takes to please her. Behind his mask his eyes glow greenish-hazel with a fever unbecoming a gentleman. Clive is no gentleman, but he will not allow his jealousy to cloud his judgment.

He has stood long in the same spot. She noticed the masked man devouring her with his eyes. Shifting effortlessly with the amorous looks, Clive finds a lone female dancer. She is oblivious to the world. Alone in the arms of song, He slips behind her, Lifts the mask barely inches to free his lips, whispers in her ear to follow his lead. As silently as he approached her, he materializes in front of her. His feet are opium ducts filling the room with a haze of dust. She complies, they always do.

Taking her by the hand he motions her to stand in front of him. Six heart beats away in direct eyesight of him and the pale-white woman in the blue dress is Maria. She has been watching this

lone masked man. How he commands the woman, how she grinds her hips on his crotch. Nibbles on his ear, ‘Why is she nibbling on his ear? Look at her, completely head over heels for a man

that simply asked to dance. No self-respecting woman is that easy. He is not even looking at her, he is looking at me. Why is he looking at me with those familiar eyes?’

The pale woman in the blue dress climaxes. White cream puddles on the floor at her feet. Staining her thighs and black heels.

Maria has the itch.

Stepping away from Lamar, she excuses herself, Needing a drink at the bar, needing to escape the eerie white masked man. ‘What was that all about anyway. Crazy white-bitch better clean

that floor!’

‘Why has Clive not shown up anyway. Ask a man to a party and they want to have their panties in a bunch, always have to make him feel special. Is it not enough that I am always thinking of the Black Man!’

The sea of bodies coral her, suffocating her need, covering her in the cooling embrace of darkness, Shielding her private moments of missing the one man in her ever expanding universe, that has been dependable.

‘Maybe that Christmas party was too much for him, I know he will never admit it by my family did give him the third degree. It’s his own fault really. I told him he needed to hold his feelings for me a little closer. Broadcasting to the world, my world, how you feel without regard to those around you only leads to people asking questions.’

She can remember that snow filled evening like it was yesterday; typically because winter celebrations are a tradition in the Phantom home. A time of lights, Carols, good food and love,

warm tenderness passed through smiles and shining eyes. Hours before the gathering Clive and Maria found themselves in the awkward position of visiting her Grandmother. Living down the road in a home of expense all her own she asked her granddaughter to chauffer her to the family home. Of course Clive is in tow. The insatiable attitude of Clive is contagious and despite

warnings of her grandmothers eccentric behavior or ‘that intuitive grace’ all women of character possess, Clive is spied doting on Maria. Tones of love are expressed through the simple touches of the unrequited lovers. She spies the walls of reservations and the tactical precision of Clive’s nature displacing every perfectly placed brick with care.

That night energized by her new plate of gossip Maria’s grandmother is all too excited to release the black cat out of its burlap sack, in the very company of K.D. Lamar, Melina, and all those with ears to hear.

“I see how you look at her, as she laughs in his arms, loves in his eyes. The wolf of the night, entices and conspires. Look at you, barely touched the chicken upon that plate. Too busy

spinning webs to capture the love of my oldest granddaughter.” Clive coughs, feigns to have

chocked on a piece of meat, he has not eaten. The others continue to gaily entertain themselves, not in the least perturbed by the words of the seemingly senile old lady.

“Oh, our grandmother is known to spin a web of lies for her own amusement.” Jests Billy Phantom, a nonchalance most seem to believe.

She stabs Clive in the wrists, with her fork. “Fix your eyes young man, The wolf is coming out of you. O’d Billy, are you going to allow this rough neck to come into your home on Christmas

night and like Saint Nick supply your daughters with gifts?” Clive can take no more, her ability to read his intentions is too unnerving. He is becoming dizzy, May have had too much to drink.

The alcohol remains untouched in the bottle.

Celebrations have only begun, the night is young, ‘I am a man of truth and honor, of course the old wind bag would expel my illusions with such ease. Cannot delude the overly clairvoyant.’

Alone in the den the two meet. Grandmother is gone but her words still sit upon the minds of those listening. ‘Look at his eyes, the wolf is coming out of you young man.’

Resting his head in his hands he fights the urge to drink. She steps into the doorway.

Wearing the red party dress he bought her only days before. Her silhouette is like that of a cat singing to the moon upon the darkened alley fence. “You should not let my grandmother worry you, no one pays her any attention, just you.”

“As I sit here looking at you I cannot mask how my body responds to you. It is as natural as saying your name. Just as effortless, just as sinful. Maria. Come here.” Clive pleads.

“I’m already here.” She remains in the doorway. Her breathing heavy, not daring her composure to be near him—

He commands her again. Her right knee buds, yet she still remains too far. Before she can respond she is in his arms. Hair covering their faces, lips completing their hungry embraces; her moan is sweet.

His need is great.

……

The white masked man stands alone among the numerous party goers. As he steps closer to

Maria, who finds herself alone at the bar, each in turn remember that long ago Christmas night. Words spoken, promises made. Hearts tempted.

‘If I ever join you and your family at another soiree I’ll be sure to wear a mask so no one will be a witness to the eyes of the wolf that seeks to ensnare your love.’

Maria turns, feeling his hazel eyes from across the room. Silently thanking God for the absence of Lamar. Little does she know God had very little to nothing to do with such saving grace. The pale woman in the blue dress was instructed by the masked man to defeat and tame the loser of

the coffee shop. ‘Take him away from here. Take him into the night. Place him to rest. Make him dream of work at best. Do not soil his virtue and certainly don’t let him hurt you.’

Alone like a child Lamar is laid in bed by the woman in the blue dress. made to dream of better things, never to think of Maria, His beautiful Maria.

They meet upon the dance floor. To souls guided by a love that transcends their limiting existence. As they stand in front of each other amidst the dancing figures of people. Melina the party girl gaily laughs as her lover and as the sweat pores from their hair pools of fluid gather at their feet.

The noise is deafening, they are all too preoccupied to notice the masked man and Ms. Phantom have barely spoken a word to each other. She knows she knows him but still cannot prove it to herself. Maria is thinking. Blood is filling her pelvis with a heat she cannot understand.

‘I think’ith, that I am.’ Clive’s voice breaks her reserve, as always. The vacuum is sharp. Silence is blissful. Time has stopped for those that Clive chooses not to recognize. They are alone for those moments. The white masked man and his Black Amethyst are allowed only moments to share in a love no one else can know about.

“Nice outfit, I think I saw something like it at Percillas. You know you always go out of the way for me and I never do anything for you.” Maria pouts.

“Silly woman these moments we share are enough. A man such as I, dares not ask for more.” Clive assures.

“Yes you do, even though you have not said the words, action dictates that I either comply or lose you. Not much of a choice.” Maria as always loves when he does as she asks yet hates to have to make the final decision…To love or to love not.

“We always have a choice, love, we are human, that was the gift God. The devils and angels, They are the mindless drones of the Almighty. We humans can choose to love as we see fit and they will always envy us that gift.” Clive never wanted Maria to come to him because he asked or demanded but because she wanted to. And when she finally did take the first step, when she chose he’d be there to make sure she was never hurt by her choice.

“Do not presume to be more than the system that created you.” corrects Maria.

“I, only ‘presume’ to know what love is and how best to show you.” argues Clive.

“Hmm.., and how would a man like Clive Dawson show Maria Phantom love?” she purrs.

“Through the flames of PASSION. An Olympic love meant to Clothe the very goddess up above.!” He picks her up by the waist.

“Shut your mouth smooth talker and kiss me already.” The spark of their touch releases time the one motionless dancers reanimate. Melina unfazed by Clive’s craft of thought, provoking skill

continues to drift with Jason. Yet the nature of sisters through time or the death of moons will not change their combative natures. Maria and Clive are either certain no one is paying attention to them or believe, that as their bodies cling to each other upon the dance floor, no one can see them.

Melina’s silent gasp is proof otherwise.

Level headed and certain, if not turned on by their degree of raw passion; Sounds of cellular texted messages to everyone in her contact list. This would include Maria; A picture of the two deep in the dark depths of passion. Jason, after moments of trying to understand what has Melina so in throes, lays a bead on the direction of her eyes. Witnesses the exhibitions displayed in the center of the room of the seemingly oblivious friends. Clive’s back is a canvas of mulatto skin

covered in stars of sweat. The milky way is his spinal Colum. Effortlessly Maria straddles the

six-foot masked man. Nibbling on the same ear that the pale woman in the blue dress was devouring, as Clive releases, Maria is complete,

Clive demands more.

“My, my. Look at you all upon the feet of Brahma. Naked, prideful, darkness, lack of control, attachment, entanglement; How happy you all look as serpents entwined amidst their cesspool of your own creation. Oh, how I love you naughty nasty humans.” Cackles the voice hidden in the

shadows, the crowd all look towards the direction of the ambient voice, as the onlookers scan the balcony they witness Rannie dangling from ropes tied to her wrists, nothing to end her

impending fall. No ray of hope that she might free herself. Fiendish souls materialize around the dangling girl, tempting, plucking at her (dsl) lips. Basking in her tenderness. Whispering for her

to give in to the whims. Fall to her death. The life she lives means nothing to them. They lost their chance at this world and forever kick at the glass veil that separates the flesh from the incorporeal. Clive is in awe at the fact that this crowd can see.

‘This is not good, fiends are materializing and deities are beginning to ask for virgin sacrifices. Have to do something quick.’

Clapping his hands together the white masked man reverberates the words Sh~ani.

A pulsating light expands from his feet in one solid wave, separating the on lookers from the dangers of the impeding shadows. Rannie’s voice chimes over the commotion.

“Clive, is that you. If it is. It sure would be nice if you could set me down from here. It’s been so long since we have seen you. Why did you stay away for so long?”

“Y-E-S, CLIVE, tell the poor girl why her friend chose to leave in her time of need!” comes the sing song of the shadows.

“Rannie whatever you do, Don’t listen to the shadows. He is a bad man. I’ll get you down, just wait for me!” yells Clive from the bottom of the tierce.

“Ok, just hurry. Oooh, what’s taking so long get up here!” the ground quakes beneath his feet elevating him to the very crest of the dangling girls shoes.

“You couldn’t at least give me something to stand on?” Rannie whines.

“You know for a damsel in distress, you really are high maintenance. Really, how are you going to dictate how the hero saves you. Remember Rannie, I’m the writer and builder of this realm!”

He smiles as he unties her clasped wrists, Pulling the ropes from the wall, carrying her in his arms he steps on the mound of his creating and holds her close as the floor lowers like descending stairs case. “When you were away, I developed a lot of questions. I wanted to remember them all, so when I saw you last I could ask you.” Comes the muffled voice of Rannie as she remains curled in the white masked man’s embrace.

“What is it Rannie, what have you been waiting so long to ask me that you could not ask your very capable family?” Clive already knows what she will ask.

“Is it true that we love forever? That when we die the loves we shared on this earth ascend to heaven with us, forever and ever?”

Clive looks into the innocent eyes of the sympathetic Rannie and true to his nature, tells her the truth. “Yes, Rannie, we humans will love forever and the ties we state to our Identity in this realm will follow into the many lives to come.”

“So then why did you leave us when surely our love will endure forever?” sniffles Rannie.

“I left because despite this truth of immortality one cannot erase the marring darkness that surrounds us. Surrounded me. Even now my simple coming to your sisters celebration has put

you in danger. I cannot ask you to bare such responsibility. It is not fair, Before I came you did

not know to be aware. Nothing marred you, Remaining innocent of the darkness in this world is

so much sweeter than knowing of the shadows that always lurk behind us. Paranoia is the plague of many cities, I could not stand to see you all fall to such a fate.” Explains Clive, “So even the Great Clive Dawson has fears he cannot live with?” teases Rannie.

“I have an entire pastlife I cannot live with and only hope to teach you and others to see beyond your own faults to a world of Peace.” Smiles Clive.

“Oh, my, god, I think I am going to puke upon such drivels. Heckles the voice of the shadows.”

A darkness that shifts into view before their very eyes. “I am Kesi, A longtime friend of our brother, C-L-I-V-E; The naked truth seeking, trouble maker standing before us in all his glory. Someone has grown into a mighty fine specimen of a human, haven’t we. Going around and plowing away the fields of your choosing. If it weren’t for the need of the universe repeating itself I’d say it is ironic that you chose the Phantom girls to be the ones who become the Reapers of your Love.” Clive is irate beyond reason. Fury knows no limits.

“KESI, I iron bound your mouth. Suppress your tar filled tongue, you demon of doubt.” Booms the voice of Clive. No longer catering to the sensibilities of those around him. Chains of iron

swing the dark embodiment in the air. Creating a whorl pool of friction and light Blinding those enthralled of the spectacle. Visions impaired, none could see where Clive and Kesi have gone.

The only remains of the puzzling attack is the scorched floor board of the dance floor. Maria and the others examine the burn marks. The beautiful model recognizes the engraved markings immediately. Remembering conversations between her and Clive long since passed. The image is still warm to the touch.

“What does it mean?” Asks Melina, still not certain she believes all she has seen.

“A war is coming. Dark is the world to come avenged only by the dictations of truth. Our world is reflected upon the moon.” She turns from the Black Amethyst print left by Clive. Looks out

the window to the stars. Holding Rannie close in her arms. ‘Thank you for saving my sister you big goofball and for my flower. A single flower for his single kiss goodnight.’

Chapter 10

The Queen of Spades

Utopia, peace for the common man, prosperity of the Elysian fields, honor to the individual who fought the good fight, compassion placed upon the man who finds himself covered in soars from the black leaches of his environment. Absolution to the sinner, Tolerance toward the intolerant, rebirth of a city whose pavement remains spackled with the black mar of the burnt offerings;

Ashes, dust, death to the willing worker. The very worker, who slaves over the needs of the many.

A cycle of life created by a world too afraid of the steps hidden by their own overcasting shadow,

Individuals too lazy to demand more of this world, that when talks of ones, Right of Passage,

Freedom of Thought toward actions, Commitment to a better world, Belief in anything greater than what we can physically hold, is set upon the table;

:Immediately we declare the speaker to be one living in a fantasy.

Deluded by his or her own duality, Inferior to the Superiority of reality, Not pious enough to take the words decreed by the Gods and divine as the truth upon faith alone. A sacra less individual

plagued by demons, assured a painful lonely death. Due to your need to be accepted, Thousands have sold their very minds. They have sold their potential to a thankless corporation, who’s ever waking occupation is designed to leave you all spiritless.

Now, my little monsters, those of you engrossed in the tale of the alcoholic writer, may have deemed the Dreamweaver, to be some kind of savior of humanity. Like so many before him who have died to prove their worth, in this world, to be elevated upon the courts of the celestial realms, he would tell you not to follow or worship him. Neither Idealize his mission or believe that his path will not lead to the death of millions.

Through the flames, the all purifying breathe of enlightenment, will be Revolutionized thought ending the tyranny of those in charge of our Final Fantasy. ~Clive Dawson

The black ink bleeds upon the sand paper-brown lines of parchment. His very last few tries to open the eyes of his city.

……

Patrons of the Nightingale continue their mindless deluge of intoxicating liquids. No change can be read upon the ignorant faces as night becomes day. The Yaksas sing praises as they mill

around the dejected, thanking the Gunas; Tamo, Raja, and Sattva, for such kindness as to allow

the souls of humans to complete the cycle of entrapment. Without the separation or worlds, good and evil could not exist. One feed into the other. Humans are simply pawns; who due to their inferiority in the cosmic scheme of things are simply designed to perish with no hope. Well no hope, other than to grovel upon the feet of Faith.

Clive, and so many others, growing up as outsiders, vagabonds have always wondered what will happen to the worlds when a human makes a god bleed. No one ever mentions these things. Most try to shy their children from such dangerous line of thinking. ‘say no to drugs,’ they say, ‘Marry a good man or woman, have some kids, work by the sweat of your brow, save your wealth no matter how meager, never covet what does not belong to you, love with honor, share with the needy.’ To do this and one will live forever.

Truly, in this dark piss filled realm living forever is nice; Don’t you just love living for the millions that are too greedy, lazy, or disgusting to lift a finger for themselves.

Prison life tends to crystalize a man. When the cinder block jungle becomes the home of a materialistic person the slamming of cell bars, steel vacuum sealed doors and war-hardened fists,

Very few adhere to the Laws of God. Human Nature becomes the Queen of Spades need to Shoot the Moon. Hard to imagine a man, serving incarnation, who goes out of his way to save the

helpless? There are a lot of helpless men in this world. For Clive and many others the ability to remain on top of the pile of bodies that made the surface of his battle for freedom, was a testament in that of its self.

So when Brahma asked his Oracle to find our elusive hero, she was more than willing to incline.

Amber Jones, leading psychologist for the criminal court system, was originally, introduced to the Dreamweaver, when he was nineteen; More in her private office on the seventeenth floor of a newly constructed corporate building. The monolith was an all glass and steel cube. Filled with

cut away cubicles meant to create the illusion of privacy, the young Clive sat directly in front of the older talented woman without as much as acknowledging her presence with the required

hello and greeting of salutations inquiring upon her day. The young seeker delved into the story of Alexander the Great and classical revolutionists like the Monkey King.

‘To be the very same age as the Macedonian King when he set forth an army to lay siege on the known world. One can only hope to aspire to inspire at such a time as mine. Always look to the standard of the Monkey King, the only deity to journey to the west gates of the Nine tails to stake

his claims upon those that deemed him inferior.’

She was going to sit and ignore yet another black soul coming to her for a spiritual exorcise neither she, nor the patient believed in. Only to find, as she peered over the rim of her horn

tipped wire frames, an overly confident MAN. Seemingly unaffected by—‘she shuffles through his file—newly opened upon her lap—‘says here you were convicted of heinous crimes against

Nature and the Natural order of things for the duration of a year and a half, due to psychological observation to deem you—fit for society,’ she pauses to look at his controlled and pleasantly handsome face.

‘Do you deem yourself a danger to society?’ Amber Jones is known to be pointed. For seventy-five dollars an hour she can afford to be anything she desires.

“The only danger posed to society are those that cannot come to terms with the responsibility of their own actions, As you sit there and compare me, the man, with my life, You have to ask yourself, Do I look like a MAN that has trouble with Conviction?’ The smirk on Clive’s face in contagious. Amber cannot help to find herself smiling with him.

“I told the courts I’d take any punishment they deemed me worthy of, They are still disputing, they allow me to fly all over the country because they trust me to adhere to the rules. Son of a military officer, I am the picture of honor, My word is my bond even if I am a Convict.” Mrs.

Jones is unconvinced, “That is how you define yourself? Brave man, in this town criminals are given no such respect. Most fear the labels, shy away from terms that signify where they have

been, Yet you own your black marks. Care not for your Reputation in society, what may be left of one?” Clive is angered by her question, “Reputation is the mask the individual of gentries wears

to disguise the fact that without it he is no different from the beggar that harps on his ankles for a quarter. I have never lived off the chimes of purse I could not earn off of my own merit. Though

being a man of few words what Reputation could one like me truly have? Now do I care how the world perceives me? Well that is a different matter.” Collecting the loose files she barely looked

at in the hour she was granted. Amber begins to write her private number on a card. One can only

imagine the elicite thoughts running in the mind of this mother of three. Married for three years, happily contemplating what another meeting with Clive Dawson will reveal. Handing the Dreamweaver her card she asks, “How should the world perceive a man of your caliber? I’d like you to take a look at these questions, answer them honestly in the comfort of your home, we will discuss them when you return.” Her hand lightly glances of his callous warn knuckles.

……

“When the world sees greatness of any sort, it should cultivate that beacon of light. Mold that individual to lead others by his or her example, we can not function in this world believing what is told to us. Someone must take a stand against the congested minds that wish us to

continuously repeat our fruitless existence. Judge me as you will. Before warned my righteous vengeance will stand the test of time. When and if you ever find yourself at rock bottom,

remember my words to you. the strength of your will is not determined by the length of how long

you remain in the sky, it is determined by the number of lengths it took your blooded fingers to reach so high.” ~DreamWeaver~

“Has he been found?” demands the God of Passion. A tone that accents his inpatients, “I’ve always kept close ties to the DreamWeaver, as it stands the one you seek remains in a heated battle with Kesi, you demon of doubt. They have teleported to the Other world. He has developed so quickly in these short years, it is becoming harder to remain focused on the tether he maintains with the physical realm.”

“If you know exactly where the weaver is to be found, tell me so that I may intercede,” demands the God, “He is in the home of the Raksasas, be thou as brave as a man to step upon the soil of

the damned? Kesi dragged the Weaver there as an attempt to seek aid. Though the mortal wishes your death, you still wish to ‘interfere’ with his glory?” The glowing second sight of Amber turns upon the intentions of her employer who quickly refutes her gaze.

As he departs her chambers, a trail of disgust at the impudence of his present followers, Brahma sets his sights on Clive. More than eager to teach the God of Fire what happens when the kitchen catches flame.

Siva, after she was certain the lord of passion truly was no longer in ear shot, the twinkling of the bells resting on her sensuous ankles, proceeding her entrance, demands a moment with the

oracle, “How is it that a woman of your station, a clinical doctor, began to love a man like Clive

Dawson?” Amber is not shocked by the lord of ignorance’s perplexity, one set in an existence where you cannot love or trust anyone, would wonder what it was like to care beyond the

physical drive of nature. “I suppose the same could be asked of you, lord of destruction, how can a deity know what it is to find pleasure upon hearing the name of a mortal man?” The blood filled cheeks of Siva, is all the answer, her nonchalant demeanor, cannot deny.

“Come my precious lord of ignorance, together upon this tender kiss we will pleasure each other to the desires of a dream weaver we allowed to go amidst, the black amethyst,” beckons Amber Jones as her blouse pools at her feet.

…….

Lauren Shriller of the CNN news broadcasting station, ‘For the ten long years our nation has been at war with terrorism several questions have arisen that neither side of the fallen bodies can truly answer assuredly, when one discards the personal agenda, is the death of millions worth in comparison. After the smoke clears will you be satisfied that anything changed. Of

course not, all you hold on to is the worthless notion that God of any name condones genocide and pointless slaughter. That the gold and bullion of your fore-fathers, that neither of you will ever use or even truly earned a right to speak of, belongs in your greed filled pouch. That the color of your skin declares the testament of a long forgotten race, that the rules of you people

are better than the next even though the struggle of life is universal. As an observer, seeing no

difference made of the police state of one city opposed to another. That even as one crosses an ocean and upon the soil of foreign ideals, sex, creed, casts, all struggle against the very real survival of simply living. As a nation would it be so out of the way to elevate our vocabulary

when crass topics of war is discussed. For most ignorant individuals the thought of reading the

Quaran is unthinkable; even though the bible tells the same story. What I find in this world are schemers. Bored individuals who feel the only way to assert their lives is to gain control of

anything. The man that owns a business, his wife, children, home, car, his material is in control

of his kingdom and the moment the wife’s head is turned by the over indulgent intensions of the

‘pool boy’ or family friend who visits only during back yard barbeques, she is found consummating her infatuations of the attentions previously ignored by the complacent husband. Then heads are made to roll. Rage takes over and her sinful nature is laid bare. Yet such temper tantrums are the erratic responses of the very same Neanderthal that could not write as elegant as the husband or you and I.

How far we have come, to have landed on the moon, destroyed millions through the diffusion of atoms, crafted vehicles that assists us to see the skies, the birth of children is practically

painless; through, so many successful births it is a direct science that used to be magic. So far, to have not learned a thing, beyond how to dress better than the naked Neanderthal. These writings are not knew, Julien Vern had the same thoughts, Only no one read his books so the elevation

remains unrealized. Then they say, ‘How do we advance without ensuring someone leads us?’

The same question the children of Israel posed God while lost in the wilderness. We believe

Camelot fell because of the evils of human nature. The fall of man was mans doing but we have deluded ourselves into believing that such pain is of our DNA. We are greater that our thoughts.

Loving Clive Dawson; easy for me because he has shown me that if I truly believe I can be anything I wish to be. You all are greater than the sum total of your flaws. I did not need Jesus to tell me that. Now it is up to you to create the world you desire. Thank you and Good night.

Chapter 11

Spirit Realms

The other world, our spirit realm is not as fantastic as those deluded by the miscreant ‘threemodes’ of existence are lead to believe. The practitioners need flowery words to intice the non-

believer. Who would care two Sundays from now, about death and life if, they were to know, to

an unaware soul, nothing, but everything has changed. The soldier who is in the heat of combat,

loses his life due to the sword in his heart. That instant, as a lighting shock, everything that he is, alive and kicking, knees upon the same earth, which only moments ago filled as a river with his blood, is green again, can see the whole of existence reflected by the social agenda rooted system of the Banyan tree. The relief is present, upon realizing he is still alive, yet he can smell it. The change around him; the sepia of the sun rays are not as warm to the touch. In fact, “touch” is

more comparable to the surface of a mirror. Sand, dust, when placed under immense pressure,

heat and compacted into a nice box, left to cool, produces the very same glass upon the wall of

you bathroom sink. This alchemic production can be applied to the process of the soul when it is

Trans mitigated to the other world. Through death the process is not uncomfortable. One feels nothing, yet through life, the separation of the worlds for one not used to the passage, can be

rather unnerving. Jarring even. So one can understand why a traveler, such as Clive Dawson,

finds himself on the streets of, Other world, commencing to beat and maim Kesi, the demon of

doubt. Though he remains changed by the spell the dream weaver placed on him. The unsettling effect of realm jumping fuels Dawson’s anger. Bon-jarring blows upon the face of the dark

demon seem to help even out his mind. So he keeps punching him. The eyes are the key to the soul; an unarguable truth, held by all those that has obtained any knowledge in the life time. Through the eyes we can gauge the awareness of the individual who as of present may be talking to us. Through his or her eyes we can determine the happiness of life or it’s sadness. Can read the thoughts that remain unspoken; when a loved one dies, the vacant expression of the eyes reveal to all that the soul has traveled to the Other world. This is the last bit of magic in the world that

no philosopher, doctor, atheist, etc.; can argue with. One can claim that the worlds remain closed. As of yet no one has come to tell us of the world beyond. As of now all talk of the otherworld is found in the fantasy section of libraries and in the minds of those locked away from society. The pressurized mind knows the truth and it is reflected through the eyes.

‘The roots of the spiritual world grow upward, forever reaching to break the veil into the material realm. Our dopplar~ganglers scratch the surface of the mirror seeking to finally know

what it means to touch. The homunculus of our souls forever remains trapped in the otherworld.

Humans, unappreciative of the gift of life seek absolution of the sins committed by crossing the veil. Gods and demons alike allow such occurrences because of spite and jealousy. An

embodiment that is as crystalized as glass, never loving, never experiencing the touch of a

woman. Imprisoned by the laws of nature; to cut down the banyan tree that holds such a system together is the mission of Clive Dawson. Of course he has his misgivings. As he looks upon the ancient rooted system he can’t help but to wonder if the lights of this entire creation will fall in on itself as the body does when a human dies.’ Or are these just the vocal doubts of the black puss that is Kesi? ‘Wouldn’t it be a spectacle to witness though? the destruction of our unified prisons and the final union of both worlds.” The punch is swift.

“I have told you time and time again, cutting down the tree without knowing for sure is not in the best interest of my city. Stop trying to feed your own agenda and tell me the final aim. Cut down the system, to what end. Death. I don’t think so.”

Kesi taunts the weaver further, “Then cut it down. Light the torch on this insufferable city and see what you create. From the ashes rose the phoenix.” Smiles the crafty blackness, the two circle the humungous tree. Kesi, hands behind his back, circles in the whiners-chins, conveniently opposite of Clive’s clock wise gait. As the two meet evenly at the base of the tree,

still filled with misgivings in regards to the fate of the banyan tree, Clive punches the iron bound miscreant, setting the carrousel into the centrifugal pacing, all over again. Neither daring to tip the balance due to whimsical desires, or easing up on the demon of doubt who’s only purpose in life is to keep thinkers imprisoned in their own minds.

The passage of time is undeterminable in the other world. This does not mean it does not exist, just means if you find yourself in the other realms using the passage of the sun to

determine distance, time will not be an option to you, for they do not move. In fact, the only reason you are aware of a sun or moon is because the light above the traveler will

remind one of the sepia setting of their digital camera. The constant shift of shadows in

an externally silent world; no winds, no heat, no rain, no movement of elements because each is part and parcel of the whole. Few can truly understand the meaning of silence

until the passage and ones first breathe of the eternal is not a breath at all. These are the

nature of the physical world. Rules set into motion by deities who wanted more than the eternal. They could not destroy the banyan tree, no more than Clive can now. The desire to live is too strong, the will to love is too pure. The ability to separate the worlds and circumvent the three-modes, too overpowering, to control such a gift, to lord over the material and incorporeal is much too Godly.

“Careful, human, your flowing thoughts, are trenching upon holy ground,” Descends the voice of the Lord of Passion. A deity whom is becoming much too familiar with our troublesome scholar. The sword of Brahma, swift and unforgiving decapitates an unaware Kesi. The

six armed behemoth casts aside the iron bound carcass. Tossing the head of the demon of

doubt into the arms of Clive, “through your need to question the very gift of life, your

hamlet-filled mouth should entertain me, speak, poet, the lines of passion; talk to the skull of a demon you have been burdened to carry.”

Clive tosses the mutilated head upon the ground. Watches the eyes roll on the ground, stares at the blood on his hands, the miasma that was Kesi, sticky and foul.

He was not ready for lift. Three fists of solid godly determination pound into the solar plexus of the mortified weaver. The air around him, smoke-filled, suffocating, his shoes have caught fire. The barrier shatters.

…….

No one sees. They never pay attention to the processions of calamity that has become their world. Another black man rolling on the glass, hypodermic needle-littered, covered

ground. Liberty City remains unaware; the need for a drink, more money, a meal, paying bills, collecting cheap thrills, or the mundane attempts at social lines, super imposes itsself over their ability to adhere to natures first rule, preservation.

At least the ground is soft, the sky, still beautiful. The giddies of being alive, always start at

Clive’s toes first, whenever he makes a return, from Other world. He silently thanks the

six-armed behemoth for sending him back to the Nightingale. The mean little figure of

the song birds is always a weakening sight. The realization of gravity continues to keep

him humble. “gotta stay humble when seeking to save the world from its doomed self. No room for heroes, only men good for the sake of being good. Need to talk to Bianca

anyway. Getting tired and I’ve only just stepped through the looking glass.” Gotta stay

humble. Keep one foot in front of the other; and never look back. As he opens the door, the five foot Peruvian princess embrace is a rib-resetting one. The relief is too apparent on his face. The light is dim, cooling, quite, just what he needs after the mental stress.

“You are losing weight, you know. Are you eating or just looking to drink yourself to death.” She asks with a smile. He touches her baby fat filled right cheek; revitalized by her earthly warmth.

“Another successful jump, I’m getting better at these things, sorry about the smoke though, the body has the readjust so I’ll be all steam-boy for a few hours.”

“ I wanted to empty the place early anyway- I can always count on your visits for that. So how was the Phantom party? Learn any new tricks. I got some cuffs in the back. Henry has wanted to set the camera up for a while now, kind of wanted to get some new footage

before you go blowing things to hell.” He knocks one back, the rum is a golden snake, as it goes down his throat, biting all the while. “How did you know I was going to go, am I

that easy to read-or is her black magic that spell bounding?” he looks at her with hooded eyes, “It was uneventful—just cleaned up my mess as I left out—Any news from the

chameleon?” she sits on the bar-stool, legs spread conveniently so she could rest the palm of her hands and support her tense neck, “Nope, don’t too much care for homosexuals anyway!” waving of the conversation, Bianca takes Clive’s hands guiding him to the

darker reaches of the bar. The hushed moans seeping from the row of closed doors grab his attention. “I thought you said you closed up?” he whispers in her ear.

As they enter her room, the very room she has called home since she was sixteen, She cuffs the collar of her favorite alcoholic writer, drags his face inches from her own, kisses his full-

black lips and as she comes up for air, kicking the door closed. The night engulfs them.

……

Chapter 12

Fate

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to witness the destruction, does the cacophony of broken limbs, upturned earth, and bleeding roots make a sound? For the believer such

riddles are child play, yet such game has been the killer of thousands, convinced that the answers given where beyond reproach. Staking their very lives on the scales guided by

Tamo, Raja and Sattva; These three women are no kinder then the single eyed, scissor bearing, string of the fate cutting sister, spoken of by the Greeks, neither are as flattering as the spider webs of the Norns that enchanted those of the North. Minerva, could no

better control these three dancing vixens then; the gambler that prays to them. The, scales of sister justice, Luck, and Russian-runlet are said to be blind sword bearing harlots.

Always found it interesting how the direct good of this world was always dedicated in the memory of male hero’s like Spartacus, Achilles, Caesar, Malcom X, and Trevon Martin.

Yet the silent love found in the virgin gaze of newly introduced lovers, whose innocent brushing of shoulders on the crowded subway, was always credited to the caring hands of fate. Not, God, His son, or the Holy Spirit, but to an unseen string, tethering us all to the three little mothers; that is the lie of course.

The bullet which erupts from the .38 snub nose revolver, of an excessively trigger happy bank

robber, into the spine of one of the fifteen on duty beat cops set to pursue the already

numerously convicted UNSUB, was guided by the beautiful Raja. Her red passion filled eyes watched as the paralyzed officer, paralyzed from the waste up, eating the blue

hospice Jell-O; relieves his bowels into the (calosapy bag), dangling over the guard rail.

Smiling her innocent smile of enduring compassion as she greedily devours his mitigated words of thanks. This story would only end appropriately if the gun-toting bank robber

was imprisoned for all his crimes, yet this is not so. The other fourteen officers could not apprehend the UNSUB, he escaped with his money and life. The long haired Sattva

smiled on him that day. This is not to say the robber will not meet an untimely end. We all meet death eventually. Only the police officer, that fifteenth one, he is made to

continue life as he is now. The motherly gaze of Tamjo, Raja, and Sattva watch as all are

made to organize their lives, good, bad, or indifferent, dancing upon the strings that bind.

Only in witnessing such highs or lows of Liberty City is anyone truly assured of the intervention

of the three little mothers. When the tongues of engrossed lovers no longer produce the saliva needed to stimulate arousal are they truly kissing? When the touch no longer

stimulates is it worth touching. As they lie together, two naked bodies entwined by the

webs of the three sisters would they be inclined to continue if they were cut off from their five senses. Cut off as a material dog is, as he sniffs after the spade she-bitch?

Clive deep in thought, posed such a question to his Black Amethyst when she was pregnant.

Three months into the trimester, as they sat in the idling SUV, the very same SUV his son was conceived in. He stares at Maria. There usual routine of leaving the car and walking

into her one bedroom apartment to hide from the world in there queen size bed, was

halted by the question. “Do you think we have sex too much?”

She stares at Clive in confusion, head cocked to the side at the sadness of the question. At this point they are so comfortable with each other that the ‘sex’ they have been having is more of that of entitlement, than casual lovers. As she appraises Clive the look of disgust crosses Maria face. He immediately realizes his mistake yet awaits the storm, how beautiful her eyes are.

She begins to say something, looks at the steering wheel, looks back at Clive. Clicks her tongue and pouts. “All I am saying is, I don’t want you to think that, ‘that’ is all we are. Though the sex is good. I’d love to in this spot right now—he notices she is not wearing panties,

she has been doing that for weeks now. She feels fat due to the baby and her pants chafe.

“I just want you to feel loved even when I am not with you!”

She may hear his words but Maria is a nymphomaniac, even if she does not sleep with Clive now she has Lamar and God knows how many else willing to plow her garden. This is her

nature and she will never hear the silent whispers of Love as the tree falls; unless Clive’s swollen penis is five inches beyond her cervical wall. Her cravings for Clive were no

blacker than the City of Liberties cravings for the rays of light that kept the Amethyst at bay. Her screams of joy were no sweeter that the screams of the patrons of the

Nightingale as they gave into their ignorant intoxications. Her moans of satisfaction, no huskier than that of Bianca, the Peruvian princess; During the Phantom celebration,

Rannie asks Maria if she loves Clive Dawson. This is not an unusual question for Maria.

Long before she was pregnant her mother asks her the same thing, as well as the intuitive Grandmother. “I love sleeping with him, he is very good at that. Sure he is a good man but my love for him will only go so far.” They are all made to ask about Lamar. “How

can he stand to see you with Clive when it is clearly obvious you are sleeping with him?”

“I still sleep with Lamar, I honestly believe that he may not know, Clive has a way with people, he almost makes it seem like if he was not around me I’d get in trouble and he is doing all of us a favor by staying so close to me.” Truly he poses as a friend, nothing more, nothing less, all so she can have the right to choose. Even if he is not the one she chooses. He can

weave the story but not the outcome. This is why the war began. To ensure his black heart would retain the love of a black amethyst he needed to find a way out of the three sisters

web of influence. To know for sure that he was chosen and not by fate, he had to break free from the spiders hold. Weave his own, never letting the world know~

…….

The Tower of the Rudra dynasty corporation stands strong in the heart of downtown Liberty City.

Like any controlling power, the immaculate conception, of this behemoth, was in the rat-infested hovels of its brick and mortar foundations. Thirty-two tribes were slowly and

painfully born of the three little mothers Tama, Raja, and Sattva. Brahma is the second,

Rajas favored; due to his passion for war, sex, greed. The longings for greatness were

unmatched by the god. His rise to the top, unquestioned and the six armed son of a spider used his abilities with relish. At the behest of Raja the leader of undeserved glory,

inspired the world to dream. He and his men sold the opium that lulls the complacent.

Beat down the doors of the non-believer and through enough persuasion, water boarding of intoxicants and media. Managed to become the silent killer of every home, as the

thousands who call Liberty City home continue to mindlessly consume the drug, the

dream of immortality realized through complacency, certain sydaffects began to arise. Of course any pharmaceutical company will protest that the road to success is never easy,

none will ever admit to be the sperm donning fathers of the very demons it is quoted of

saving the world from. The ziggurat that rose off the backs of the uncaring reminded one

of the acrobatic performer standing on the perch of the brow beaten elephant, tusks and trunk cast high as the lithe red pantalooned actress commands the Behemoth. She is

ecstatic as the audience applause her mastery of the beast. The blush upon her face is

crimson with exertion. The Big Top will live on as long as there are those that will dream and applaud. Fueling of the ever hungry beast was left in control of the dark haired

beauty Sattva. She was as small as her sisters, though the more intelligent. Stocks, bonds, racketeering, fraud, export, an endless supply of demand made it so the beauty of the fair faced diva remained unseen. Unseen by even Clive, in his pursuit of these Three modes; he only managed to meet two of the little mothers; though they are inseparable when in public. Sattva always hides her face behind a lead encrusted mask. One engraved with spider thin markings of incoherent symbols. Her webs have always ensured the finical success of the Rudra brand. From the days of the gang wars and political injunctions,

even when the government, impressed with the popularity of the organization, sought to buyout the industry, Sattva’s enchanting masked presence warped the agendas of the

already rich. ‘Due to our ability to provide resources to a United Nations conglomerate and the support of some of the forgotten nationals, the Rudra Corporation could never

risk loosing control of its own best interests to a single nation. We are in the business of helping a nation, either support the whole or get out of our way.’ These discussions

tended to be almost comical, leaders of men made to correct the ignorance of men who encouraged the supplicating lies of the place of women, or the farce of their ability to

control their own lives. Her torrent for blood scared even Raja at times. When the three

found it hard to convince leaders to trust their money to them, they found Tama’s abilities to be rather persuasive. Of course when one is made to watch a woman drink from the

skull of another man, what would you do? On her most unstable days she is known to call Siva to her office in the company of a few dozen feigning Yakas; the denizens of Liberty

City, made to walk in an opium induced haze, bleeding from the soles of their feet as they continue to look on the ground for that invariable shard of enlightening dust, made to believe that, upon the sword of Brahma, the destruction of the banya tree, or their continued servitude, they too may have life ever after.

……

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy will be done, on earth as it is heaven for ever and ever.

As the lord of ignorance approaches the very mother of her birth; she is pleasantly informed of

her most base desires and would like it if she could convince her friends to make her reach ten climaxes before the pressing dawn urges on her daily demands. The Yakas

rarely succeed. Siva is spared simply because she is a favored child. Tama never allows the daughter of destruction to satisfy her because the controller never wishes to be

controlled. The bare footed seductress is hardly deterred from her inability to please the vulva of her master. She was raised to believe this to be the natural order of things. Her deft tongue, pierced with the pearl of gold always aims to please.

It was on such occasion Sattva, barges in on Tama. Blood covers the floor, walls, desk, and blinds. Several headless Yakas are scattered indiscrimently around the twilight filled

room. The desk lamp shade is matted covering of gore, spilling driblets of blood from a severed finger. A finger that was in the mouth of Tama who prior to that was fingering

Siva with it, invigoratingly; Discarded as a nuisance when Siva demanded more. Despite the intrusion the two women continued to play, tease, kiss and moan. Sattva walks over to the two, demanding to know what they plan to do about Clive Dawson.

“I could not find Acami Pada, for weeks now, and when I did, he no longer had a face.”

The two stop mid lip lock, Tama leeringly stares at her lead masked sister. Pushes Siva off of her and naked as the new born sky, she pads over to the blood stained desk which holds a dozier. An envelope she has been crafting since Clive originally escaped her hungry

grasp. Sattva opens the file, appraises her sister. Her pink nipples are ice hard, waving her away to continue as she was. Tama remains; she appreciates the fact that Sattva is smarter and would rather have her judge her ideas than anyone else. Secretly enjoys the praise of her older sister. Never seeks to outdo her, only seeking the success of the whole.

“This is a list of the entire thirty-two tribes of the Rudra; where they are in the world and the numbers of each individual garrison at our disposal. It seems here that Liberty City will be easy to guarantee and dispose of. When did you have the time? Well never mind, what else have you been cataloging?”

“We have a weapons program now. Take the listings and give each their own command posts. Set patrols and supply aid to the police force. For now a boost in the known control of say thirty five thousand sounds reasonable.”

“How are we to pay them?”

“They are thirty-five thousand-tell the state to give them the sum total to the man for the year if there are any complaints blame the recession!

“Thirty-thousand a year for thirty thousand men, sounds reasonable,” she chuckles, behind the lead mask, Clive will have a hard time killing any more of my men now. I kind of want retribution for my beautiful Clown. Who should we send after him?”

Tama licks a blood stained finger, laughs as she beacons Vera from the shadows.

The assassin is ready.

…….

Chapter 13

Laws of the Jungle

The red dress of Raja swirls in the wake of her stride. The Taiwanese designer was sure to exaggerate the cut of her delectable cleavage and when she turned the corner to find her sisters alone in a gore infested office, her confidence was only intensified by the sights around her. Her aura of sex and passion complemented well the taste of destruction.

The click of her heels announced her presence. The four turn and Vara immediately kowtow’s to

the silhouette of beauty that is the little mother. She leans down, cupping his upturned face, with red lips puckered upon his forehead she blesses him with the benediction,

“Destroy those that wish your mother ill, fear not death for in this life or the next you shall always carry my favored kiss, return only when the boars rage has bled from your soul or death carries you home.”

Vara, stands alone above Liberty City in an office newly cleaned of past dreams in Yaska blood. The rains of Indra brow beat the city. The gray clouds are the testament of gravity. The boars courage surges through his veins. Nothing will hold the beasts at bay. Thirty-five floors down the city lights illuminate the path to Clive Dawson. No time for the elevator.

….

His ire flutters in the wind. The rain bites into his hair, on his face. The rush of air is short lived.

As the two hundred pound Vara lands on the company cars beneathe him-his fall is cushioned. The black bullet proof vehicles are undisturbed by his decent. Lithe as a cat the black assassin walks in the lamp lilted direction, pops a lucky stripe into his mouth like candy.

As he lights up, all he has on his mind is pay back. “I’m coming Clive, do you hear me asshole, looking for a way out, well hear it is, two boring blades honing for your ungrateful ass.

Death will be the only liberation.” The clicking of his wing tipped shoes echo off the walls in reply. Lighting rips across the heavens as Clive and Bianca both reach a coupling climax. The eruption of the sonic boom percussions announce the pitter patter of soon to be rainfall, poetically sing song the end of their romp. Both lie in each other’s arms an

entanglement of hair and limbs. He can remember when she first invited him to this old rickety bed. The quilt adorning it was made by her mother. The last parting memory, it

has not phased out the over powering perfume of Black Amethyst that is Maria, nothing will ever overpower such an intoxicating flavor. Maria’s scent is like booze. The first

drink of rum leaves a hot minty taste in ones breathe by the time the fifth shot meets the others, melds into your pours controls the mind. Her very essence begins to seep into

your bones and the unlucky joker downwind of you can smell you a mile away. He does

not ever want to loose the scent of the Black Amethyst. He does not know, now, that he will never loose it, yet like the wino that paces his inebriation, like a paycheck,

incessantly sipping from the water chased fifth of vodka, imprinted with a skull logo on the label, he rushes to dress, leaving the five foot bar tress in the bed. Hair and limbs

sexually fulfilled, dead to the world. She does not even stir as the light from the hall cuts

into the darkness of their secret place, does not move a single perfectly sculpted leg as he locks and secures the door behind him. Clive exists the Nightingale, for most alcoholics

who spend most of their lives on the bend, time is an elusive apparition of their lives. The days begin to meld together and the only time they may look at a watch is when they want to know when they can get the next fix. Not the case for Clive. Though at the

moment, as he smokes his cigarette in the rain outside of the neon lit building he has

developed an emphatic grasp on these dilemmas of the wino. As he looks at his watch he

notices he has spent the past two days with Bianca, “At least the woman can keep up. Ill give that to the princess.”

Survival of the fittest, laws of the jungle, the strong men mate with the beautiful woman, eat the best foods provided off the land. Has the most children to establish the stronger tribe or nation. If you don’t live by these rules you are either selected to die, starve, or are killed off by any other numerous possibilities.

In prison, Clive, at the age of twenty two was presented with three rules of life. He still chuckles to himself at times, such as now, sitting in the rain, to think of o’d man Gorge. A cook of

the facility in charge of holding some of the most clinically disturbed men, the young dream weaver has ever run across. He may have eradicated a prescient at the age of seventeen but o’d man Gorge took the cake.

The emaciated white Anglo-Saxon, proud, master of prison cutlery at the age of sixty-five. On this day of recollection, noticed Clive was not participating in the orderly functions of those around him. This always disturbs the lesser man of this world.

‘How dare this young stud leave an old man to do the heavy lifting, when he is clearly capable?’

The doctrine of the society outside of the walls of prison illustrates a need to care for the old or weak. See an old lady crossing the road, give her a helping hand. An old man can’t seem to change his tone; Check one for the good Samaritan life support system.

This mode of thought; Old MAN GORGE, decided to preach to the unengaged Clive Dawson; had Old Man Gorge approached a less intelligent man he may have lured the individual to release the pressing burden of cooking for the 2,000 plus manned facility. May have even

convinced the young stud to suck his emaciated anglo-saxon axe head, simply because he was too weak to wonk his own penis, of course the lesser man would have told OLD

MAN GORGE to come around the corner, after being approached with such an assignations of character, and commenced to beat his old white ass. After cleaning him up, made him continue to cook and told him if he got any of his, aides ridden mucus, in the beans not to return to the dormitories.

Clive was a better man, more intelligent and adheres to the laws of the jungle, long before he was made to become a convict. Looks at the old man and tells him, ‘That he sees no reason to do the work of two people, my job is to call the orders, yours is to bring it to me, when I call for them, no later, no earlier, simply when I make the call. This is a four hour job. I

am sure you can stand there and take it just as I cause if you don’t, you’ll just fade away anyway. Now, at the moment I don’t need that heavy pot, you are holding. So I won’t

take it but I am sure you will hold it until I make the call. That has become your lot in

life, to wait on commands. The choice was yours long before we met, our paths crossed

and I just happen to not wish to pass on before you do. It would seem at sixty-five you still have a lot to learn.’

OLD MAN GORGE, is put off by Clive’s purport, in fact he missed the whole point because his response is that of a basket case, “So you are really going to stand there and not

contribute until it is convenient, until you make the call. Who made you GOD of this

kitchen—Oh I get it, you are still in the Jungle-figures-young people-well look kid, I’ll stand here but you are not the boss of me-I’m going to take a piss right after this and if you make the call, pray to your lucky stars that I am there to answer.” When he came

back from the throne, Clive made the call and sure enough he brought the food because true to his nature the weak fold to the strong.

Dawson did not make a habit of commanding only the old. There were many gang lords that at times of his choosing were made to bend the knee to his desires. Especially when it came to his personal space; the space of a man is limited in prison. At times it is hard to find a table to sit at to write a simple letter to the ones that say they love you. Clive witnessed a few men stabbed to death over the associating claims a few groups passed over the property of the state. A few times, seeing how he was not affiliated or engaged in the political arena that is Prison, the dream weaver was made to assert his dominance over the times and length in which he occupied a table.

He was stronger, mentally, and physically, Stronger to the point most had to ease their own minds about him by making a joke out of it. Whenever they saw him deep in thought

most would pass by the table and dismiss his letters as the writings of those of Terroristic threat groups. He was even labeled as being Muslim by those that only kept a

comfortable distance from him. Clive was intense, he never argued religion, though he studied them all just so if the need arose no one would hoodwink him with

misinformation. He played chess with the world around him, while others were content to play checkers. This was the mode that preserved the dream weaver during his conviction.

To be aware is to be alive.

So when the laws of the jungle are applied in the real world, a world with a warm heartbeat,

Pulsing with the blood red energy akin to that of the red light at the traffic stop, pounding in a cacophony of moving bodies, shuffling feet, honking vehicles. Light and sound, blaring their warnings that if you blink, stop to take a breather or are just prone to

stumbling around in the dark, not keeping your eyes open. That red dot on your chest-

(From the long distant scope of a .306 may be confused for the cherry of your last ciggertte.)

You may not hear the pigeons fluttering in dismay as they evade the jacket that is screaming through the rain. Screaming in an exhilarating rush to make contact with the seams of that tailor made suit. The one with the pockets on the inside hiding your secrets kept close to the heart.

Clive is not caught unaware. The shot is not so much evaded as it is welcomed. Arms out stretched. Fumes from the cigarette filling his lungs, rain saturating his Black Amethyst soaked pores. He yells ‘Bhakti!’

The very brick walls reverberate; echoing his demand for preservation of life. As the bullet is charged by the hammer of the firing pin, the rifles barrel implodes, burning Varas hands. He drops the now useless rifle. Curses his luck.

“Good to know he is going to put up a fight, would have hated to have killed him so easy anyway. We’ll have to go to work, he looks almost happy, the freak.”

………

Chapter 14 Red Dot

The weezing of the bullet, the crack of motor as the; .306 millimeter hole appears on the wall of

the Nightingale behind him, is heard long before the report from across the foggy city.

The shadowy assassin reloads, salivating on the blood lust of the moment. “Gotta keep your eyes open.” Another slug jack hammers into the cement near the Weavers feet. The laser cuts into the building mists like a sentinel, homing in on the heat of his last cherry.

Taking one full pull, filling his lungs with the sweet fumes, Clive zig-zags in the direction of the last crack. Vara, beginning to come down from the high of the drug Raja gave him, pulls from his coat a spare vile of the red potion used to induce the boars rage. Applying

an excessive amount to each of his eyes, his pores are made to over flow. He cries tears of a blood red. “Gotta keep your eyes open.” The adrenaline surges.

Reload.

Sights low yet firm.

His perch is shadowed upon a roof top that provides a false sense of security to one who isn’t the best at hitting a moving target. Especially one that does not know it’s surroundings. This is Clive’s city. The red dot becomes Vara’s Achilles heel. Tracing his prey back to his

quarry, Clive reaches the door of the building he is certain holds the perched assassin. Pistol drawn, he kicks in the fire escape door. Takes the steps three at a time, checks the landing window to see if the assassin has decided to flee, No one is bellow, he must still being aiming at the still burning cigarette. Five heartbeats has passed, he has not heard anyone rushing to meet him. Good, eight shots, no extra magazine. “Got to make this one count.”

Vara, has left off six more shots, Pelts the dangling cigarette. It flies in the air, splitting in two. “Hmm, where did he go…, good to know he is going to put up a fight, would have hated to kill him so easily. Whelp, time to go to work.” The berserker, lifts his rifle, prepares to find higher ground.

Thump. Thump, crack, goes the door to the roof as Clive breeches through. Pigeons fly in dismay as he disturbs their usually placid skyline view. The rain continues to fall in

sheets. He can see the signs of body heat escaping the shadowed Vara who is now only a few meters away. The signal red eye unweaving, boring a whole in Clives all too visible forehead. “You know your problem mister?” The silence between them could kill the deaf. “Names Vara of the Rudra and my only problem are scum like you that kill my

brothers!” Clive chuckles at the assassins pride. “Vara of Rudra, lap dog of Raja, your

problem is that you trust your eyes too much. Look at you, even now you can barely see what is right in front of you, The slight of hand is always quicker than the eye.”

Vara, spits back at Clives taunts. With his blood soaked eyes, takes aim, the red beam glints as it squares on Clive’s coat pocket. The one that secures the secrets of his heart.

The shot is not so much evaded as it is welcomed, arms outstretched. Rain saturating his Black

Amethyst soaked pores, He yells “Bahk-ti!”

The red brick wall shake through his echoed command for the preservation of life. Ringlets of light explode from his aura, a star burst. As the hammer slams on the bullet of the rifle,

the stock implodes. Burning Vara’s hands, he drops the useless rifle. Bites back a string of curses as he cools his smoking appendages, the rain feels like a thousand stabbing

needles to the touch. Clive snickers at the irony. ‘Such a poor student you are turning out to be Vara. First yours eyes, Now your hands. “Clive holsters his pistol in his left shoulder holster.

“Stop Mocking Me.” In a head long change of desperation venomous fury, Vara, seeks Clives throat blades slicing through the most and rain. Clives right, winged-tipped, foot reconstructs Varas’ ear and cheekbones. The blood washes away pink, a soapy contrast, upon the red brick rooftop.

Vara staggers back into the many pipes lining the cemented ledge of the rooftop. A few fall

indiscriminately around him. He is undeterred by the damage of his face and left

shoulder. He charges again. Meets a barrage of combination roundhouse kicks, his left

shoulder dislocates in a grizzly snapping of bone. The fist into his rib cage crumbles his resolve. The suffocating shard of bone, shifting into his lungs causes him to cough up blood.

The rain has become acidic to the touch, his breathe plums in clouds in mock display of a smelting factory. Clive is only too amused. “Never had anything personal against you,

you know. Don’t think men like you and I really had much of a chance anyway. We were told one thing, then showed another. To be lied to always hurts. Yet your complacency

has become the death of you. What honor is there in dying just cause someone told you

that is the only way. Wish not for the truth? No of course not, it is much easier to flow down the river provided for you. Why complicate matters with unknowable possibilities?”

Vara, sucks in the crisp biting breathe, “That is rhetorical right, son of a candala, how high and mighty is your throne. Can’t kill ‘em all fly boy. Our numbers will always grow, as the

city continues in this realm to bow to the three little mothers so does their influence increase in Other World. How can one man hope to navigate such a river!”

The bullet hammers into the mass of Vara’s blood red tear smeared face. His last memory a sepia snap shot.

“Hour, by hour, Day by day, Dream by dream, One bullet at a time.” Sing songs Clive as he holsters his still smoking gun. Indra ends the rain. The roof top is silent as the rainbow sours over the smog filled city. The pigeons return to their placid sky line view. Clive picks up the Boar blades, they are dripping.

As he walks away, the pigeons pick over the ashes and dust that is Vara. Death is the only source of liberation for men like Clive Dawson.

Chapter 15

Durggi Nergal

Shut-ins of Liberty City begin to peek through their blinds, allowing the morning light to banish sinful deeds of the previous night. Most have come to welcome the gut wrenching peel of the saxophone, habitually played by the Haitian sidewalk busking beggar. The few tokens

have become God sends. His tool which will help him navigate the banya tree of the three little mothers. A tree that has the ethereal comparable complexities of that of a casino, Sattva’s Genesha Casino, to be exact.

An interactive logarithmic system rooted upon the base of the Rudra Tower. The lobby of the building is expansive, needed, not so much, to house the comings and goings of the

citizens of Liberty City, more so for the caged elephants, lining the decorative walls of

the casino. There are no pillars that hold up the ceiling of this lobby floor casino, much to

cumbersome, the cages made of gold have been designed to suite those purposes. The elephants, matriarchs, given respect and reverence normally set aside for decretive

politicians, conservative patrons in blue or black suited ensembles, typically the envy of

the poor. Yet of the five female elephants, none can compare to Sattva’s favored Ganesha.

Whom the casino is named, centered in the middle of the massive hall, the caged Behemoth has an elephants head and a mans pot-bellied body. He has one broken tusk.

His skin has a rosy hue. His forehead is marked with vermillion, indicating his tendency to involve himself in issues associated with women, his generosity toward female adorers.

As the Genesha Casino is constructed upon the rat infested sewers, the Rudra Tower is made to sway, pitch and roll on the sea of grime that is the degradation and dejection of its customers, thus does Ganesha in kind ride, dance, stand or sit on the back of his treasured white, red-eyed mouse.

The twitching pink nose of the docile, complacent mouse is the testament of the citizens of Liberty City. The celestial realm holds his palace called the Abode of Bliss, which is the exact replica of the casino, where the slot machines spill the gold on to the cups or floor

at the feet of classically dressed contestants, so spills the wishes of the trees that surround

Genesha’s palace in Other World. The decretive walls of the casino are painted with the images of the forests and the pooling ocean of sugarcane juice.

Most, like the Haitian sidewalk busking begging saxophone player, win enough to break even may rise another day in hopes of achieving his promised favors, yet never enough to get

the elephant off their backs. There was one that managed to get the best of the Behemoth.

Though to have those speak of Genesha most will claim he cannot be fooled, the prodigy of this tale will not be forgotten by the vermillion faced Lord of Bliss.

Eighteen year old Durggi Nergal, was an ascended mental master, who found herself down on her luck one uneventful day, when she first stepped into the Nightingale. Her face hidden behind her long unkempt hair and braiding disposition, standing at five foot six, she

seemed shorter due to her stooping posture. Clive was introduced to her first as the black clad, brown eyed girl stumbles into his backside. Her face buries into the small of his

back as she embraces the writer and begins to wale in distress. A siren call that alerts the usually uninterested patrons, all eyes are now on the unusual pair. Bianca steps in from the back office, a red-headed Henry equipped with a mop in tow.

“I seemed to have developed a benign growth, in the small of my back. Wouldn’t be so much of a problem if it would simply stay benign, but you know tumors, they always draw

attention to themselves; In the assault of his posterior, he failed to notice the fluttering of a few Rudra red one hundred dollar bills. They fell as leaves in the November wind,

airily landing at the feet of the Peruvian princess, who like most workers when they see a

discarded piece of currency, neither check the authenticity of the piece of parchment, nor where it came from, picks up the loose bill. Stuffing them in the cup of her right

pendulous breasts, Henry is caught staring at her chest, she mushes his drooling face back into the office, “Finish cleaning,” she commands as she sashes over to the counter top; dressed in the pink and black uniform of her trade.

From across the bar she taps the siren on the shoulder. Durggi’s pasty pale complexion is ghostly compared to her shockingly stark black locks. As unkempt as her hair is the unsightliness of her demeanor makes her pretty. Her thick mascara clad eyes, continue to pool as hse

stares at the Peruvian Princess. “So what did you do to bag this one dream weaver, by all her whimpering, I’d swore you gave her a nice time and never returned a call.” She addresses the hidden Durggi, “Don’t go crying over a guy sweets, they are never worth it in the end no matter what they promise you.”

“Hmph,” responds Clive as he finishes his rum, lights up and looks in the direction of his hip, into the face of Durggi Nergal, who now is all smiles.

“I have something for you, weaver, I’m sure a fellow ascended can use such a gift.”

Call me Clive, weaver sounds…oh I don’t know…expensive, anyway are you even legal to be in here,” He looks at Bianca for her help, trying to pry the young woman’s hands off his middle.

“Are you going to card her or has the place turned into a day care?”

Bianca smiles, “Don’t mind him, the old blow hard just don’t trust women, kids, and pets, thinks the chances of being hurt of hurting all three is bad mojo or something.”

“You know, I’ve done mighty well, by moderating my time associated with the BIG three, as I drink a bloody mary, I remember living longer because of my awareness.” Clive sticks his tongue out at the bar tress, holds his glass up in signal for another.

“Well, for someone so aware you sure did not notice that I hold in my bag of tricks, Red Rudra Bricks,” Chuckles the still grinning mass of hair, that is Durggi.

The surprise on Clive’s face is more than apparent, his interest peeked, he asks for the bag. The strap is taunt on her narrow collar as she steps away from him. She is reluctant to let him see her prize.

“Hey kid, you came here gabbing off, now give me the bag-I’ll give….,” he pauses as he sees the dejection on her face.

“You could at least try to figure it out, I know about you, all of you have the perception, just as

I…so, I won’t tell till you start playing the game.” The little black clad girl begins to prance around the bar sing-songing, “I’ll never tell,” much to the annoyance of the insensitive Dawson. He turns to Bianca with a look upon his face that screams, “See what I mean?

………………………………………………………………………………………

Later that night the mystery of what was in the black bag remains unsolved. Dawson urges Bianca to use her lady like charms to appease the young woman.

“I am sure as a man you’d have better luck at, ‘the charming,’ of a woman and secondly, she is not a lesbian anyway…I don’t think she wants a big sister. Nope, you’re stuck with her!”

“Where is she?”

“In one of the spare rooms, playing with the computer, talking about getting you more gifts from the desire trees…whatever that means.”

Walking to the back rooms, he finds the door. He could hear the incessant clicking of the key pad from behind the door, her eerie sing-song of, “I’ll never tell,” a mantra chanted in time with the taps of the keys.

As he opens the door the only light is that of the blue white computer screen. Her figure is sharp and trim in the black.

“Hey kid, you never told me your name-where did you say you got home training?”

The clicking stops.

She looks over her shoulder, that same smile cutting into the darkness.

“Never said, anything about home training but I’ll play nice and ask you to call me, Durggi

Nergal-all my friends do.”

“You have friends? That’s good-hmm, so I am a friend, huh. Well look as a friend, tell me your story of how you found the desire trees.”

The assault is beyond sudden. The black figure tackles Clive into the floor, straddling his chest. Pinning his backside into the wood surface, the door slams shut, sucking the light out, all is darkness.

Durggi, only inches from his face, purrs her excitement at having Clives interest. At finding a friend to share her prized information with. She drags him to the computer and makes him bump his nose into the screen.

“What do you see dream weaver? Do you see like me, the roots of the Banyan tree, guarded by the three, do you see the trunk of the Behemoth winding like a snake, constricting the life of my Liberty City?” as he is made to look at the blue white screen, the constant illumination begins to give him a headache. He begins to feel she is only talking nonsense. He sees nothing.

……………………………………………

Sitting outside of the Genesha Casino in all black, dawning the decorative mask of a cat is an orphaned little Durggi Nergal. The Yaskas move in the security detail, shadows, looking

for would be thieves. They ignore little Durggi because she is so small and unassuming. Soon they will learn to always look for Ms. Durggi.

As she prances into the Casino she waves into the cameras, hoping the three little mothers notice

her cheesy grin. Her pink lips the only visible feature, Durggi has always been a fan of craps. She has her own loaded di. The red cubes fall in her favor for three rounds. The

crowd is ecstatic, everyone loves to hate the hero. She knows if she wins too much the

audience is set to turn. Gliding to the slot machine right below the belly of Genesha she watches the roll of the reels. This is the closets she has ever been in the presence of a god. Her awe is acknowledged by the Behemoth. The six-armed elephant with the one

broken tusk asks the little unassuming black cat called Durggi Nergal to name her desires before the final roll of the reels. The first is a heart. Time beats slow as she ponders over

the game set into play by her pulling of the stock. Sets her bag at the base of the machine,

Unzips the black duffle bag, the steel is cold, impersonal. The second heart falls. She aims the two extended clip uzi at the great elephant and is gratified in saying, her

beautiful pink lips, “All I wanna do, is take your money.” As the third heart falls so does the Rudra-red gold. Bills, coins, alike fill her bag in a gluttonous gorge. Genesha is confused. Why is the bag continuing to fill. He must stop her, he calls the Yaska’s to his aid. Durggi unleashes bullets in a torrent of fury akin to the flames of a meteor strike. Each missile homes in on an approaching demon with the hammering precision of an undertaker. Each stroke sounding the impending seal of the slate, the blood is rich and

black, flies in a hot spray upon the many patrons of the night. The bag continues to fill. An endless black hole sucking the loot from the machine no longer in the control of the raging elephant.

As he stands, the trunk raised high, the peacock blare of tormented outcry at the lack of control,

the six-armed giant jabs with is three right arms at the smiling cat. She meets his fists,

shifting upon the behemoths wrists. Charges up his outstretched arms, like a walk way, places the barrel of the sub-machine gun to his head, Looks him in the eye and says, “Are you happy now?”

His trunk swipes at Durggi; leaping above the twenty-five foot elephant, Durggi unleashes another barrage of flaming lava like slugs. The black bag begins to overflow. Shifting in the air Durggi lands near the unconscious Ganesha’s lulling head. Reaches his vermillion brow and kisses him.

Steps away, almost reverently and as she holsters her favored uzi, grabs her now pleasantly placid black duffle bag and sashes out the front door. The cameras show the crowd flooded out of the casino in mass and the fading image of a little Durggi Nergal in her cat mask still smiling all the while.

………………………………………………………

In the dark room of the Nightingale, Clive is still made to stare at the computer screen. “Really kid, I cannot see a damned thing, you are good at Tetris though…um, what else do you do for fun besides watch YouTube videos and listen to the Jonas Brothers?”

“Well, I have an unhealthy obsession with cats, I really want one but wouldn’t know how to take care of it.”

I suppose with you staying around here, we will have to do something about that, so after getting to know you the best I can figure about you is that despite your gifts for games and

numbers you are a rather normal kid that has found a way to further complicate my life with a need to hack into the Rudra company and God knows what else and acquire information that the three little mothers may very well kill your adorably destructive ass over- am I batting for a thousand yet?”

She smiles her sweet cat like smile in the dark. Purring near Clive’s ear she licks his dangling lobe. “Yeah that is going to become a bad habit, I can already tell.”

Durggi ignores the Weaver, shifts over to her prize. Unzips the black bag and as an endless assortment of jewels and cash falls out, Bianca bursts into the room. The ecstatic look of child-like glee is too much for Clive Dawson, he rolls over laughing at the two women as they tussle over the money.

“Well now it seems you bought your way into Bianca’s heart. We will work on the pet thing later.

Really can’t stand myself for being so weak.” Clive leaves the room. Sits at the bar finishes his nearly burnt out cigarette and makes fun of the Duke and Chapel hill game.

The blue devils and blue goats continue to rival each other, year after year. The irony of the game tickles the alcoholic writers fancy. He pours the burbon in his shot glass. Pours as the liquid fire burns down.

“Yeah, Durggi Nergal, you’ll fit right on in with the song birds of the Nightingale. Seems we will never run out of a need for those of us with hearts as black and blue as the wool of the lambs determined to fill the three bags full.”

England’s not the home of mythical creatures and Nightingales

It’s the home of police who kill black boys in Mobile

And I love my boy

That’s why I’m leavin’ I don’t wan’ him to be aware

That there’s any such place as this.

Chapter 16 Peculiar Weather

Do our memories shape our Identity, or are we the masters of our memories? When the past begins to haunt us, are we not entitled to take a stand, Command the shadows of who we were, dictating who and where they touch.

High upon his pedestal, secured by the walls and glass of his office, sits askew of papers, mortgage, debited notes, new expenses in his over reclining office chair is Billy Phantom.

Assuredly alone with his doubts, worries, joys, pride, until he can feel the presence of another, distracted from his scribbles, checks his watch and grumbles a few incoherent

words of preferable wishing to have as few interruptions as possible throughout the day

he contemplates highering a new secretary, one that will keep his privacy in mind. As he is made to address the dark figure, he cannot place the man. Must be an associate of high order, considering his apparel; Overcoat, black, shoes, black tie, black. The only thing white on the man is his hair and button down shirt. The sales men cannot be certain yet prays there is no death in the family.

Brisk of step, the silent figure welcomes himself in the room. Stands with his back to Billy

Phantom and opens the window. Letting in the bone chilling winter air, Liberty City is known for its peculiar weather. Rains of untimely torrents give birth to snows of lasting

impression. Without turning the figure introduces himself, “Lucal is my name, I work for one of your biggest employers, the three little mothers, Now that you know we have

shared economic ties, know this as well. We share a need to be rid of a radical voice. In my possession is a file on Clive. The man whom claims the heart of your daughter also claims a past which my ravens shall feed on. We all want what is best, take what I give you and give me Clive. Through the destruction of his Identity I shall destroy the voice of Liberty City.”

Billy Phantom with a shaky hand drinks the cup of water on his desk. Seeking to sooth the choking of his heart as he reads the black list of Clive, Shuffling the papers piled on his desk he looks up to address the black feathered sword point forcing his hand. Lucal is gone.

Billy Phantom, the salesman who achieved a world, a life to be envied, gazes at an empty door way of his cramped office still contemplating hiring a new secretary, one who thinks of his wellbeing.

Is alone.

………………………………………..

The kiosk, full of fruit, meats, sweet meats and bread, conveniently sits a few blocks away from the Nightingale. Bianca does not shop often but when she does she cannot turn away

from her addiction of black berries. She will fill a brown bag with at least a dozen cartons of the little berries despite Clives and Thristien’s continuous wise cracks about her inability as a woman to pick up anything from the store that is useful.

“So you spend six hours at the store, ‘running errands’ manage to spend most of the money and when it is time to eat dinner most of the time Thristien is fixing up vegetables. All I want to know is, where is the meat, or must I suffer death at the hands of a leaf?” whines typically Clive, as he fiddles with his plate of stirfry.

“You know, you could learn a lot from Thristen, could be his old age or his passive aggressiveness, yet he never complains about the cooking-further more if you hate it so much, why do you eat it?” teases a much satisfied Bianca, mouth full of blue berries. The juice smeared on her cheeks.

Thristen laughs his jovial belly laugh as he fans the smoke out of his face, trying not to burn down the bar. Durggi Nergal, types away through the searches of the internet, trying to

find all the ways to cook an onion. She makes a face after the twenty-fifth ad shows yet another tummy twirler.

The memory of Bianca’s past few nights with the group does not hinder her purchase of her favorite snack. As the snowfalls she cannot wait to get back to make Clive a pie. No

matter how angry he might be, her pies always sooth the gripe; “Will that be all,” asks the knowing Native American clerk, as she rings the Peruvian princess up for the bag full of fruit. The old Indian woman pulls out a pipe and through the smoky haze points up the street. The brick layered with snow is the perfect back drop of the stand-alone figure in

the distance. As Bianca collects her purchases she tells the old woman that whoever the figure is, she does not know them. The silent native American with eyes that have seen many things, watches as the tall and dark figure vanishes with the snow.

Bianca walks to the Nightingale. The bell which signals to the normally full establishment only echo’s against the oak floor. The snow keeps most at home. She walks to her room to set things in order. Leaves the bag on the counter.

The bell rings.

She yells back to the entrance that they are not open, come back later.

Walks back to the bar where she set her blue berries, jumps in surprise as she notices eight dark figures sitting in the bar. Two at the window seats, two at the bar, two at the back door entrance. Two at the side door entrance. There is one lone figure in the middle of the bar. His hair is stark white. He talks first.

“Clive is not hear, that is a shame, him leaving such a prize alone.

I can only imagine he is off chasing after that girl again, what do you think?”

The shock on her face at the intrusion turns into anger, these men have come into her home, without asking, seeking Clive, more of Clive’s troubles on her door step and the pistol

she keeps is too far away. She pops a blue berry in her mouth, “So you are friends of his huh? That is good, cause for a minute I thought you were here to cause trouble but we all know friends don’t cause friends trouble.”

The white haired man smiles, The one gold tooth sparkles brighter than his whites. “No trouble, in fact you can even invite old Clive to the location of our special evening, I have a dress

here, go change into it. He will love it. Hurry now, you will not want to miss the first half of the show.” Bianca, wearing the black amethyst dress, fights back the cold. Turns once more to look upon the pink neon lights of the Nightingale, enters the black coupe sitting uncomfortably next to the white haired man by the name of Lucal, the two black cars speed off in the night, the old Native American woman, the only witness.

……………………….

Thristen and Durggi Nergal are the first to notice the emptiness of the street that is the Nightingale. Though the pink neon lights flash their usual welcome, none of the usual patrons are around. They cannot even find Henry.

“This is not good Durggi, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this part of the city so quite, really did not

notice how much I can’t stand silence until this moment.” Observes Thirsten, the cat-

mask of Durggi Nergal gives nothing away, her placid nature belies the torrent of emotion that is her hurt. To know something is wrong only frustrates the young woman. If only

she could shoot something. Several heart beats pass before they decide to break down the door of the pink lighted establishment. Thristen, places a broad shoulder against the door, silently asks Bianca for forgiveness. Shoves once only to crack the glass of the door, the spider webbing splinters reflect his misgivings.

“That is enough Thristen, I know where the Peruvian Princess is, she is not behind the pink lights, if you will look to the rise of that bell tower you may see the torches from here. Did you know this night is the very same of the Carthage Papers? Very few know of that day so I’ll forgive you of such sins. I fear Durggi may not know, this may be for the best, some sins should be forgotten.” Comes the voice of an already drunk Clive.

“What is going on, where is Bianca and why can’t we get into the damn bar, for friends we always seem to be the last to know, when the shit is going to hit the fan, just so you know

I’ve had it up to hear with your shit,” he grabs the cuff of his collar, the tan over coat stretches as the writer tries to back away from Thristen’s boring gaze. The stench of rum is like a freight train heavy with burden.

His eyes reveal a truth he wants no one to know.

The little Durggi Nergal, surprising the two separates the men. Her cat like lips part in the night,

she will follow Clive anywhere. Standing in the middle of the lamp lite street the three appraise each other. Clive has not explained the gravity of the situation. Thristen has decided to help as he can and Durggi prances around the two men waiting for Thristen to cold clock Clive when he least expects it.

The Mexican standoff subsides. They follow Clive to the car, his red Mitsubishi is a rice cooker, but it is his rice cooker.

On the drive he tells the two how he knows Lucal, yes they are friends, Bianca is annoying at times but she does not deserve the filth of his past to slime its way out of his mind back

into her or their lives. Thristen seeks to appease Clive, does not want him promising more than any human can bare. “We are partners Clive, look when I was a cop, I had a partner that was doing some bad things. He was selling for the Rudra Corp. When the academy wanted me to bring him in, I quite, my morals and values would not allow me to betray a friend. What I am saying is, the same goes for you.”

Clive curses at the homosexual, angered by his sense of duty. Feeling he does not deserve or want it. “If you know the truth, if you know all of the dark reaches of my mind, would

you still claim, to be a friend.” Clive punches the gas. The gravitational force knocks the wind out of Thristen. Durggi, in the back seat appears not to be listening, takes it all in.

The laptop in her lap glows pink, The signal of Bianca’s communications signal, Clive sets the computer on the dash of the car. The snow and computer obscure his vision, He only drives faster.

………………………………………….

“Hmm, you look good Clive, so I am just at the amp theater, you know me and my expensive tastes, I met a guy, tall dark and handsome, actually took a girl like me out and paid for everything, what was a girl to do but swoon at his feet. He really made me feel like a princess Clive. Well enough about me, where are you?” They can see her face on the

screen. Her bravado ends as Lucal appears on the screen. “You sure do know how to pick them Clive, she never stopped talking about you through the whole show, Yeah, she is a looker too. We are waiting…” the screen goes black.

Clive punches the screen. Sparks fly, Durggi Nergal is now hysterical. A siren call of childish temper tantrum, she puts Clive in a head lock, an automatic pistol posed at his head making him promise he will use his own money to buy her another computer. He still owes her a cat.

The snow has covered the roads and buildings in a white sheen of mist. Covering the red brick with a polish that promises a purity unrealized. Exiting the small red sedan he makes the

two sit in the car. Telling them they are only to come inside after ten minutes. If he is not back by then, expect to find a mess of bodies. What they don’t realize is, is that the body count will rise in five.

As he makes his way up the steps of the theatre, Clive recalls the first time he met Lucal, each was fresh out of college. Neither carried any illusions about the organization of the world or the operations of Liberty City because they both worked for the most powerful

organization, The Rudra dynasty. Lucal rose fast in the ranks and after a few years

controlled all thirty-two tribes. Clive was his number two and best friend. When the gang wars began, when they needed an enforcer of the rules of the three little mothers, they

called Clive and Lucal. Only when the three little mothers wished to extort the convicted felon, did Clive turn his pistol against Lucal and The Rudra did the dream weaver find himself alone.

“I never joined a street gang, because of my hatred of the powers that be, the army is nothing more than a governmental gang and all of it is a means for control, so I blasted my way out of the Tower of Rudra, crawled upon the cesspool of Liberty City till Bianca picked me up and Maria decided to love me.”

Lucal always knew how to tamper with the animalistic nature of Clive. How to sing the song of death that would abduct his soul and produce the predator that lurks beneath the mask.

Where the dream weaver writes the poetry of the mind. Lucal plays the strings that harp our final destination. Clive witnessed how many pleaded for death at the hands of Lucal

almost seemingly desired absolution as they desired air. As the shiver runs up his spine he can only hope he is not too late to save the Peruvian Princess.

Clive is the cause, Lucal the effect, There war is as old as the brick and breathe of the city.

He opens the double doors of the theater. There is no root, caved in long ago due to all of the ice storms.

She stands alone at the center of the stage, candles at the base of her feet, reveal her bounded figure; the black amethyst dress enhance her sensuousness. In her dark hour she is beautiful. “You should have stayed away Clive, I’m a big girl, could have taken care of all eight by myself.”

“I know you could, just had to be sure, you know. Kind of like having you around and all, not like I am sweet on you or anything.” As he makes his way down the aisle a suited man

rushes behind Bianca, using her rope bound form as a shield. Pounting his pistol at Clives squared form he signals for the others to surround him. The suited man behind Bianca

reaches to gag her with his hand. An amateurish mistake, she corrects by drawing blood from his middle finger. The scream distracts those moving in on Clive. Dark as the

amphitheater is the shot is still clean. The man who’s hand was just groping Bianca goes limp. The shock of her face is viewed through the candle light as the man’s head erupts into a cloud of red mist. His blooded hand goes limp.

“Watch were you are shooting, you almost hit me.” Screams a still tied Bianca. Rushing up the stage the dream weaver unties the Peruvian Princess, arm’s length away he looks her in

the eyes and says, “I think it’s time we blow this scene, get you and yourself together, ok three, two, one, lets jam!” He drops the grenade, the pin hits the floor.

As she makes it down the steps she notices—too late that Clive is not with her. A pigeon flaps above her head. The explosion peals into the silence. Tossing her hair into disarray.

Thristen and Durggi drag, half carry a screaming Bianca into the car.

They drive away from the enclosed burning amphitheater. ‘He told us after we got you out not to look back, that today he was going to end this hunt, that as a friend he owed us that much.”

“So you are going to let him die, Thirsten you don’t know Lucal he is a monster, Clive can’t win. He just can’t….” weeps Bianca.

“I’ve known Clive a long time, a real wolf in sheeps clothing that one is, win, lose or draw, we reap what we sow kid, I’m only doing as asked, now don’t go calling me a coward cause he chose to take responsibility for once.” Thristen continues to barrel down the highway, getting the girls as far from the carnage as possible.

……………………………..

Clive raises his head to observe the damage. The smoke rises through the open roof. He can hear the gong of the bell. The taunt of Lucal is unmistakable. He always did feel secure on the high ground. The weaver races to the stairs, counts two bodies, not including the lone

man on the stage. A shadow creeps at the top of the stair case. The darkness hides all, but his flash bomb should help even the odds. The pin twangs; the pop dazes the tailored suite scum bag at the threshold. He does not see the palm of Clive grasp the side of his face as he thunders two bullets into his brain matter.

The hall splits at the top of the stair case. A window to the left and right denotes the end of the hall. A sub machine rifle clears the doors on both sides. Clive steps back in time as the

barrage of bullets clip the floor at his feet. He waits, they round the corner, a volley is let

off. Squaring his shoulders Clive buries a bullet into the skulls of both men. Only four bullets left. Three more to go. ‘I’m coming Lucal, you ready?’

Clive dismantles one of the machine guns, carries the other hoping the added artillery will help, he clears the dark steps, the moon light cuts down the shadows but not by much; moving

to the right, counts the doors, one, two, three; Steps. ‘They head up. Good more high ground.’

The three suites are ready. Lunging at Clive one seeks to hack off Clive’s arm with an ax. The weaver dips out of the way, Round housing the ax into the face of the second man next to

the first. The blood stains the floor next to Clive’s wingtips. He releases a barrage into the stomach of the ax man, only to be surprised by the third. The third man in a blue suite and yellow button down sends two bursts into the stomach of the dream weaver.

Clive hits the wall. The wind knocked out of him. Coughs up blood, wipes at his mouth.

Breathes in deep and silently curses his absent mindedness. Never should have forgotten his cigarettes; These bruises will be hell to pay later, if there is a later.

More angered than dazed, Clive stands, feels at hisi wounds, sees the blood and knows things are not going good.

One last ditch effort, he clips the knee of the submachine toting suite. The satisfying snap is met

with the response his knee makes with the third man’s face. Breaking his nose into his

brain. He dies instantly. As he looks at the bodies, he knows Maria would never agree

with his primordial nature. These hands, used to love and nurture, kneeding the skin of her perfect supple relenting body are the very same hands that produce a web of lies and death.

His father’s voice rings in his ears, “A real man speaks with his fists.”

The clapping of the stark white hair of Lucal ruptures Clive back to reality.

“Look at you, Candala, once a proud, purposeful beast of the forest, now nothing more than a domesticated dog, lapping at the heels of men that will never understand you. Not even

half the man you used to be. Your weakness makes me sick.” Lucal brandishes his blade savoring the heat produced by his own hatred. Not even phased by the cold. “When you

were true to your nature you could not beat me, now that you hide behind that pretentious mask of enlightenment, death is only more apparent. Is that why you fight so hard, do

you believe absolution through self-sacrifice shall purify you. Shameful DOG! Only my Blade Is Due The Honor. Don’t you cheat me C-L-I-V-E!”

His steps are incalculable, the heat from the tip of the blade unbearable. The metal surges across the dream weaver’s pistol. Even he is surprised by the convenience of his reflex. He sends a fist into the jaw of Lucal. Staggering the assault only for a moment, as Lucal

spins into the punch, the sword cuts into the air just above Clive. He evades, sends a kick that floors Lucal. Pistol drawn like a sword Clive is made to pause because Lucal has his blade dangerously close to his collar bone.

The dream weaver flashes to a time when they are not at odds, when the world made sense and

Liberty City respected men like them. Now they are a dying breed. Are being made to kill eachother because there will to live will prevent others from giving them absolution for their sins.

The blade draws blood, His pistol hammers down into the shoulder of the white haired Lucal.

Clive jumps out of the window, not forgetting to throw his last grenade, on to the floor. The pin flys, Lucal only has time to curse.

……………………………………………….

As Clive falls and remembers how Maria, his Black Amethyst, tastes, her kiss, her words of reproach at his need to kill, his need to ravish her to escape the reality that is his past.

He swallows her in, holds her in his belly. A satisfaction no glass of rum ever produced.

He remembers the explosion, he remembers the cleavage in the red brick, made by his descending burden. He remembers Thristen dragging him into his red sedan.

Her smile is the same. Full mulatto lips that remind him, no matter how far he roams he will always have a home. She kisses him, the passion is almost heaven. The warmth is worth

loosing oneself in. Her perfume is sweet, only it is off. He is scared because it is not her he smells. He does not want to know what will happen if he ever lost the ability to smell her in his dreams.

Stealing himself, he lets go.

Bianca is smiling at him, as his hazzle eyes make contact with her, He tries to move but can’t, “If I was not tied up like a mummy I’d reach for you. Tell Thristen to come undo this. Why am I naked? So, you let Thristen get a look see huh?”

She slaps the bruised dream weaver. His mouth is taped up too, So no one hears him scream. Her kiss soothes his wound, naked, she lays with her weaver, hoping but knowing this is not the last they have heard from the dream weavers snowbird-song of abduction.

Chapter 17 The Lie Of Omittence

Certain aspects of Clive, were enough to irritate the usually pleasant Maria Phantom to no end.

First, his habit of indirectly involving himself in the outlandish troubles of others, to the point when she could not find him, when she did and he would with relish recite his adventures and shower her with tales of his grandeur or strength. All she would find

herself wondering is how he could take pleasure in the pain of others, or be the one to

cause to pain. His sweet docile nature that she is privy to seeing would seem, according

to his stories, are never appreciated or discussed amongst them, ‘civilized’ associates she was kind enough to meet or they all believed as he, ‘real men speak with their fists.’ And there was no room for compassion.

Secondly, she could find no pleasure in his discussions of being around other women, certainly would not understand his affections for his mother or sisters; would ignite the room with her gaze at the mention of the buxom Nightingale Peruvian Princess, he was known

around Liberty City of being, ‘sweet on,’ and certainly could not stand the fact that he

refused to be controlled, even when it looked like she had a hold on him, could keep tabs

on his every move, despite his dependability, he always managed to be five bottles of rum into the pits, into a woman, into a fight, into anything but her.

Though when he was inside of her, well then she was content with who he was, the beast, the savage of his soul would inflame her, releasing her own black nature, allowed her to

delve into the sludge of the very grime that created us all. Inhibitions be damned, Clive Dawson made her feel free.

She recalls the time when they just finished making love, the flash of the camera, showcases yet another nude of her Adonis. The sun shines golden upon his back, almost making her demon, angelic as he snuggles her neck and breasts. “You know I have a child, a

daughter, suppose I told you because as long as we have been together sharing a truth

about myself will help you trust me more.” Whispers Clive into her ear; She looks at him sidelong, the mention of yet another obligation that does not involve room for her possessive behavior, serves only to push her away. “Failing to mention a truth until it is convenient, is no better than a lie.” Maria chides.

“Well that is unfair, to quip my tongue when now I decided to give a little and you lie everyday as we continue to bed each other yet you run to the arms of another, yet I allow it.” Blusters Clive.

“Right, you do, so I commit no wrong, know, you did before you made this bed the consequences; yet still you slide between my legs, weak to my touch you are, so don’t go blaming me cause you can’t say no.” she smiles, kisses him and runs to dress her naked form.

He always allows her to win these arguments of morality because of the burden of the sin he carries. Never mind the death of millions, his previous employers, if she knew of the

mother of his daughter. If the world knew that the son of a military man who should be

above reproach committed such a crime, was imprisoned for it, had to kill men to preserve his own life for the birth of his daughter. He would lose all he worked for, Liberty City, the Nightingale, and his Black Amethysts. Lose it all to foreign policies, morals, values and decrees that even as he laid in the arms of a woman who was promised to another, would applaud his ability to seduce the public ridicule of his past. The burning at the

stake and the destruction of his very identity, so what was the harm of allowing her to

indulge in her own justifications; only solidifying her self-righteous esteem, which in the

long run, she very well may need, if he were to ever leave her. “One thing I can’t stand is the phrase, if someone truly loves you, they’ll always come back. That is a crock you know, if someone truly loves you, they never leave in the first place, come what may,

they will love you till there dying day.” Embedding the memory into her soul with a kiss, he never could find himself departing from her as gracefully as he approached her. Much like a bashful child filled with a innocent joy of simply having his black amethyst, the

naked woman, not the titles or what she could do or not do for him, to hold and bed at his leisure was more than enough to make Clive feel like a natural man; such a fact made his father a lier. “Real men love and provide a means to love the women in their lives so the test of his strength may be echoed in the cries of the life that he and she bear witness to.

As each cry to heaven through their conquering climaxes, so does the child cry victory of breathing his first breathe of life.”

“Who takes care of your daughter, the one you have neglected to name or share with me as you troupe around the dark allies of Liberty City?” she asks as she drives him to work.

“It’s arranged so that when I must be away for extended periods that my mother looks after,

Nina; the nanny helps as well and because she is such a sickly child, she has the best doctors available.” He glances as Maria, the shock on her face is due to his social

demeanor. This information is certainly a marring error on his already black character, yet it does not help that he seems to have no remorse for the burden of raising a child in his

absence placed on his mother. She certainly cannot see the joy in such a family unit, nor how such foreign ideals can be attributed in her own family and is repulsed by the idea.

This is of course is by no means to infer that Clive had any intentions of having a child with

Maria, only said to infer that as soon as she found out about his daughter she immediately sought to assert her laces hold on the dream weaver even if it meant adopting broader views, “So where is the mother?”

“She gave up her rights to Nina, a long time ago.” he lied, hoping to end all talks of the mother.

Through his commanding nature he learned to perpetuate his feelings of solidity through his voice alone. On a weaker person, it would work; Maria, not so much. His entitlement had become a torment of its own, Clive always found it amusing how with anyone else she would always differ to their needs, voiced or unvoiced. Yet when Clive would set up a

boundary or enlist a desire upon their lives of intimacy, Maria Phantom would have no quarter, unless her self-interest were met first. She was quoted in saying, ‘You have

nothing to lose, everything to gain, if I give into you, So, no, you will tell me everything I

wish to know, when I ask it. You will give me my pleasures unchallenged and when I

don’t wish to see you, vanish with the winds.’

“You little minx, how have you decided that nonsense, I can assure you that I hold as much risk if not more than you in our little game- I not only empathies with your ability to lose

Lamar in this affair, I encourage all the means for you to successfully hold him close and at your wish, with no complaint, might I add-I lose nothing; what a laugh; I lose you to your slightest distaste in our affairs or to you vowing marriage or anything other than

commitment to me, then I lose everything. Don’t you understand how far I’ve invested my essence into the success of you finding Love. No, of course not- how silly of me, your self-interest will always win out.”

He never told her, could not tell her that upon failing to find love through her, his Black Amethyst, he will never find it.

“I’ve been with a lot of women in my life time love, and in all of my travels, you are the only one to love the true me, flaws and all. yeah I lose you, I lose big.” As he exists the car, he does not kiss her good bye, does not even wave. The rain falls in sheets on this side of

Liberty City, it would seem, every time they depart. Clive’s cap is the only protection against the pellets. She drives off watching as he fades into the smog of the city. The bite of his last words, though she won’t admit it to anyone, leaves an impression.

Liberty City, like any metropolis thrives upon its own negativity. The Rudra Tower is the epicenter of that purple miasma that breeds the Yaskas who as pigeons incessantly search

upon the ground for what has been long lost. Their own individuality, what makes Maria and so many others envious of Clive Dawson and those of the Nightingale are their

ability to be comfortable in their ostracized world. At no time do the patrons pine away for better lives or the roads traveled by all the rich and famous. They all wish to

remember, delve in a world forgotten and thrive off the work it takes to build with their

hands. The dream weaver may have a few abilities, but as the black cat Durggi Nergal has proven, to be aware is to be alive, all it takes is a little effort and even the youngest soul can function in a world seeking to iron-out-the-wrinkles of your mind.

Those wrinkles create your identity, like the finger print of your index finger. Without it no one can track you. The grid does not exist, not because it was never there but because you do not exist. This is the aim of the Rudra dynasty and all corporations like it. Perverting the idea of freedom by educating the gullible travelers into believing by accepting all that is

decreed, by following the webs of the three little mothers and willingly walking down the gullet of that three headed spider with the mouth of flames, one will be free of the abduction of this world. Will sit upon the banyan tree and live forever.

“An eternity never knowing love is not eternal at all,” sighs an exasperated Clive. This is his latest broadcast and it seems Liberty City still sleeps. The comatose state of the mind can only remain on life support for so long before the brain eventually dies. When our brain

dies so does the person. Durggi Nergal sits in Clive’s office leather couch, listening to her

new favorite song. As she reads his new broadcast her cat-like-eyes twitch. She walks up to the dream weaver, grabs him from behind. Licks his right earlobe simultaneously

asking the engrossed writer to tell her a story about the human mind, “The mind is no mystery to an ascended master like you.” He swats her away, “play coy with another, not your betters, a story I shall tell, but one of desire.”

The natural warring with the artificial and the imprisonment of a defeated soul judged under the Law of the Excluded Middle.

There was once a young man, scarcely educated on the ways of the world but certainly not dimwitted, who knowing what was traditionally expected of a civilized, ‘artificial,’ man sought not to ask of the rising ardors, that supplied the ammunition for his natural man.

Which upon the first missile fire, set the stage for the battle of his hundred years war. The prize being that of his Half-sister. Morals and virtues are not the cares of the mind guided by his natural man. The laws of nature dictate that all is fare in love and war as long as

the creature adheres to the preservation of his or her own life. Taking no life unless one’s own life is in question. To obtain shelter, to eat as needed , to survive and maintain

companionship. For without those three things the human or natural man would waste away to nothing. The natural man is set in to motion upon his birth and only ends his

quest or motion upon his death. This is not to be assumed to be different for the natural

woman, despite her anatomical differences, she is still a creature of motion and yearns as the male for the same three demands of nature. Thus the artificial man, keyed with morals and virtues set in opposition to the decrees of nature. He stands erect and

covered, ashamed of all that drives him, made to believe self-preservation is achieved through complete denial of all things natural. He even may end his sense of motion,

becoming a priest or monk to sit at the base of a rock until he, not being able to escape the laws of nature, passes away into the cosmos that uttered the vibrations of his

existence. Now, you moralists may ask why he was so driven to conquer his half-sister.

Where there no other natural women for this natural man? Did not his artificial man not satisfy his understanding of societal rules, was he so ethically perverse? When we

compare these questions to the habits of man as a whole, we must not fail to realize that despite some of our most grandiose achievements, our base needs are no greater than

that of our Homo erectus ancestors and when we remember the laws of nature no taboo

of such high esteem exists. So according to nature no law was broken and his need for his half-sister was no different than the need shown towards any other woman. Thus when

his half-sister pierced his artificial man in the heart with her own warring implements his death due to her insatiable beauty was determined long before their first heated touching

of virgin lips. The two fell into passion for each other. Controlled not by the whims of a god or goddess, nor the directions of what is deemed right and wrong by outside

perspectives. Upon public watch they held hands and entertained each other innocently

and upon the pallets made by the curious lovers tasted the fruits of life provided by the gods. Neither thought of sin, nor cared of anything besides the hunger of satisfied

passions. Her first experience was not that of an artificial woman subject to discomfort and pain, made to bleed because the artificial man is being devoured by her valve does

not see the woman as his equal. This natural man kisses and couples his half-sister to her first climax with promises of more and upon simply asking she folds into his arms. The

secret whispers of his half-sister would always be in half moans, “I know the Baptist in me will suffer the fires of hell for my heathen desires, but if it is wrong to love you, if I can’t have you inside of me to quench this fire, then I don’t want to be right.” As he

completes his motions and releases his essence into her she accepts with relish and wants nothing more than to be happy. Eden was short lived for our two lovers in the same

manor as Adam and Eve, society deemed its vote witnessed the birth of this ordinary, natural mans daughter and due to societies envious tendencies, its tyrannical habits, as it is understood there is no escape from evil once vice becomes habit; this does not excuse the activities of society, only serves to explain the plight of the artificial man’s mental

captivity. When the young man was a child he was vaccinated under the supervision of

his mother. Those long years ago, vaccines of all the plagues, real or imagined, that seek to destroy the societal population, showed no signs of augmentation in his infantile

person and at a very young age he evaded the law of the Excluded Middle which had he shown some negative effect to the vaccines given, would serve to prove that real or imagined he was sickly and weak. Due to him not succumbing and his mother’s

awareness not to infect foreign bodies into her child at an uncontrollable or excessive

rate, he was fine. This cannot be said for the wellbeing of the love child produced by his

half-sister. Due to the Law of the Excluded Middle and the fact that she became injured after the mosoltuve cocktail of vaccines given to her, the daughter, she was deemed, autistic.

The natural man suffers from a rage he cannot voice. For he cannot understand the evil of the artificial man, so indoctrinated in the idea that because she was hurt by the vaccines they must have committed a sin and he must suffer the fires on this earth and his soul will

parish in the hear after. Her weakness, which was never her fault, for a natural child is born free of spot or blemish, this artificial child is made to suffer the poking and

prodding of the doctors, the separation of her mother and isolation of her father-yet

remains oblivious to it all because as a natural child such politics are of no concern. She remains innocent as the day of her birth-yet may never know how much her father and

mother truly care because they lost the war with the artificial man. He, the natural man,

was shackled for his libertine leanings and made to leave his family. His sister was never bothered with having to explain herself because her loving brother never wanted her to feel ashamed of her innocent love. Never would he allow the blood of his natural man, mar the stage of their passion. Would forever uphold the memory.

The natural man suffers from conflicting views for upon his freedom there where many that became aware of his need to take care of his family and their moral, virtuous, artificial ideas were always set against him returning to the ones that naturally and

unconditionally loved him. This again is due to the callousness of society. Society is

directed in a theater of cruelty, glorifies its own debauchery and imprisons anything in direct opposition. To know the Law of Excluded Middle is a perversion of natural law does nothing to protect the natural man from it.

That is determined by the creatures will to live beyond the hold of this world.

This is the very same motivation that ensured Clive’s ability to escape the web of lies posed by the three little mothers. He may have lost his daughter, his half-sister, the love of his

family; He may have had to preserve the honor of his love and desires, hold close to his heart his dark past, but nothing would make him bend his knees to the artificial will of fate and tyrannical system, where most say something cannot be done, a scientist will

declare that where there is a will there is a way. This statement is incomplete, in the war between the natural man and the artificial man, where there is a natural will there is a

natural way and where the will is artificial so be the way. And where self-preservation is a natural human decree any artificial creation will pale in comparison.

In concluding his tale of the lave he had that served to imprison him, he finishes his last discourse to Liberty City. Come what may he will love the mundane city and all who live there, till his dying day. He strokes Durggi’s cheek as her pale moon face hides into his shoulders. The pain in her heart for Clive was too much and in the middle of the tale of

his black desires she is made to weep quietly. As they sit in the dark room on the brown leather settee, she folds her legs up under him, never wanting his to feel alone ever again. Chapter 18

“I Thinkinth For That I AM ”

Durggi Nergal reaches for her submachine pistol. Her cat-like intuition is sent into hyper drive as she begins to notice the change in the rooted system of Liberty City. Day turns into twilight, as the two look out of Clive’s office window, the sight of all the oblivious

citizens walking around in their busy lives would lead one to believe that the two are

beyond paranoid. Each looking for the very atmosphere of their worlds to come in on

itself due to the weight of their shared knowledge; no the shy does not fall but the city quakes under the boosted demands of the thousands of armed officials set to storm the known location of the libertine. Each black uniform lethal, sleek as the moon rises,

howling for the blood of the free thinker. None have taken a shot yet, as they sound the

three story building, aim on to his window. The field of battle has been determined, to his surprise it would seem that Billy Phantom would be the whistle blower.

The two can see him under the troops and set up the perimeter that serves to confine them.

“Looks like the only way out is to scale the roof tops, are you ready?” urges Durggi.

“By all means, lead the way, as you escape, head to the Nightingale, I lead the hunters in the other direction. You will see tomorrow my little kitten.” Smiles an undisturbed Clive, as he muses her hair, he sends her off. He steps to his computer and calls the two most

important people in his life, his mother and Maria. His mother answers first, she is the picture of loveliness and remembers as a boy of four years, how essential she was to

making him the man he is today. Tells her of his success and failures, wishes for her not to take his future actions as desertion, that no matter what the world will say, that he

deserved his fate, that he is a monster, He was always to isolated from the world, He even imagined that they would go so far to claim him as Godless. He whispered to the image

of his mother and as the tears of helplessness weld up, she promised she would always love him no matter what happened.

When the time began to drag he steeled himself for the conversation with Maria, who much like

his mother was a staple to the core values that urged on the dream weaver. “My father told me, I could not believe it, tell me they are all lies,” came the artificial mechanical voice of the woman he had given to love. The pain in her voice is too much to bare, but he knows he owes her that. He takes it all.

“How could you do it, I am carrying your child, don’t you care about us, what will we do without you.” Much of what he told his mother, he tells Maria. He needs her to be aware that her pain is bearable, that if she really wanted to believe in something worth anything it would be in the world that there shared love produced.

“Maria, I know you may feel betrayed, just know that as much as they may try, only you can allow them to take whatever happiness you may cherish away from you. As I go I carry

the memories of our love, you have the best part of me, our son. Who, created out of love will only be marred by the evils of this world if you allow it. Promise me, no matter what you will hold our son close, love him dearly as I love you.”

“Where are you going? You can’t fix everything, Clive!” she pauses, realizing that through the computer screen she has admitted her love, her need for the dream weaver only in the threat of losing him. Much too late now, Though he takes what little is offered in this

cruel world and cherishes every moment. “My lovely Maria, though my body will not be there, you will have my love, I will never leave you as long as you continue to believe in me. I know you cannot understand these words, I know you believe love can only be expressed in my staying, I can only hope in this sacrifice, you will come to know the meaning of true love.” He ends the transmission. The screen goes black.

The hundreds of officers below him have already intercepted that last message. They know exactly where he is, after packing he last magazine into the black bag, serving to carry him into the night, he begins to scale the open window. The beam from the helicopter hones in on the dangling Clive.

“We have you surrounded, either return to the window or prepare to be fired upon.” They are

only going to warn me once. A crack into the cement next to his hand confirms his

thoughts. He does not stop, Climbs to the roof and despite the several shots taken at his

feet, he runs into the cold night. The helicopter is given an impressive view of the pursuit of the dream weaver. Each black task force is set in hot pursuit. They look like shadows

chasing the light of the moon. Hungry wolves lurking to eat the lone rabbit, There bullets are teeth, eating away the very ground serving to support the speed of Clive Dawson.

With the agility of a long jumper, he clears a seventeen foot gap, never looking down into the dark allies that, if he were to fall into them would serve to be the end of his story.

“I thinkith for that that I am!” shouts the weaver as he commits to a twenty foot jump, landing precariously on the ledge of Rudra Tower’s monolith. After securing his footing he can

see he has been able to separate himself from the black suites rather well. The helicopter is still sixteen building back, determined to find his body lost in a dumpster. He is surprised at the beauty of Liberty City from these heights. Awe struck even.

But not Lucal.

The sword is a whip as it cracks the air above his head. Clive is quick, but can feel the heat from the steel, as it comes back for his right cheek.

“Brahma and I were curious, dream weaver, how is it that you escaped imprisonment the first time anyway, as we figure it, you are not the brightest tool in the shed.” Lucal whips the blood from his sword. Dangling the cuffs from his index finger. Pulling his favorite

pistol, in the same speed of Lucals blade he sends a volley into the shoulder of the white

haired demon. Blood blossoms in the wind. Not giving an inch, the dream weaver sends a

wing tipped heel into the same shoulder, crushing the grinning enforcer into the ground.

The floor begins to crack under their weight. Gravity begins to pull the two into the building. Pipes, beams, shellac, all saving to hold up the monolith begin to come in on itself. The explosions of electric wiring build the fires that engulf the first floor of the illuminated structure.

The three little mothers are confused at first. They cannot imagine why the room has begun to fill with water, than it dawns on them that the building is on fire.

“Would the weaver come here? To bring destruction upon us and thus reek destruction on the

Banyan tree?” Savtta looks at her two sisters, each mind trying to understand such an impulsive decision. The level of the water is ignored, though the numerous pillows and couches that serve as their comforts are now free floating around the room.

The two men continue to pound on each other as they free fall through the different spiraling

levels of the monolith. A single cable serves as the ladder of their conjoined perch. Lucal’s white hair flutters in a tangled web. The wind whipping into him with vengeance, the pain in his shoulder makes his grasp weak. His left fist winds Clive as he sets his feet.

He sends his own callused knuckles into the chin of his once longtime friend. Each set to prolong their decent into the flames that hungrily devour the walls and final floor of the tower.

“When I finally decided that when the end is near and bottom of the cesspool has become your life, all one can hope for is to go up. You see, two birds hand on the tip of the burning

banyan tree. There is all they know and love; Home, the security of their beating hearts, yet one bird can feel the heat of the flames no different than you. So I tell you Lucal dream as I of freedom as spread you wings. Fear not the fall, I escaped the imprisonment of this blasted tower by having no fear Lucal. Join me or die on this perch.” The flames grew higher.

“Are we to believe that your way is so Absolute, look at you on this same line we stand. Are you so happy to stand alone!” Lucal spreads his arms wide, his feet the only thing holding him to the cable.

“That is the joy of it all Lucal, our world is not set by Absolutes or sureties so why not be satisfied by our own choices, if nothing will protect us from the ultimate end why spend our lives hiding from it. In circles we could dance upon this fictional line of thinking,

instead I destroyed my own shackles and will only die due to the day I stop using my mind.”

Lucal’s feet began to burn. He became entrapped by the flames, no real need to preserve his own life because he was a slave to the very system he guarded. As the tower ate itself so did it eat the white haired man. Clive climbed, not disturbed by the flames and as he reached

the top of the suspension wire, he was greeted by the masked face of Sattva. Her delicate hands pulled the writer by the hair unto the ledge, he gasps for breathe, looks at how far the bottom was and tries to fight back the vertigo.

“Did not think heights would bother you so bad.” With a force that belied the tenderness in her voice, she re-grasps Clives long curls and holding his upturned face inches from her own masked one imports the question which has haunted him from the day of his birth.

“What is that you desire, dream weaver. What could be the possible gain of destroying this tower.

I am the Lord of goodness, this, all that you see, from the richest man to the wealthiest venture capitals, to the birth of a child are all in my power. To determine the bliss or pain

as discerned by ones desires. So allow me to love you. Whisper into my mouth the single whim and forever rely upon me. I can end the hunt for your soul. I can make sure your

children live forever in the light, never know Tama, or Raja’s scorn, with the flick of my wrist from your little kiss will the world know of Clive Dawson.”

The dream weaver in his insistent manner, smiles in the face of the little mother, who stands only five feet tall, wrenches free the mask that covers her beautiful face, kisses her hot lips, sending the ignition of desire through her toes, upon every strand of dark hair, and her

delightful fingers. After having control of the beaded mask he casts the little mother away from him. Dawns the mask, with the incoherent markings upon his face, the lead is

heavy. With his new ability, fusing with his own, dream weaving touch, he ends the web.

“My desires little mothers have always been to be held upon a higher standard of living. Elevated to that of the gods, not to control the world, or Liberty City, or even you miscreant angels, though I was tempted one could never destroy the roots of the Banyan tree, one

can only learn to climb it’s branches and bask in the beauty of it’s reality, why must we reshape our destinies, why not take the cards dealt to us and love the life we lead.”

The little mother of goodness looked upon the weaver with a hatred and scorn never witnessed by the world. In righteous and furious anger she lunges at the now lead face of Clive Dawson. seeking to scratch out his eyes. Those hazzle eyes she has always loved.

“You have the ability to make the most powerful men bend to your feet and all you wish to do is live free, among your Nightingales, what are we to do follow along and whimsically live

to no purpose? To be more than human is to have purpose, is to know that you serve the greater good. In order to know how to lead one must learn to follow. To believe in something greater than self.”

“My lovely little mother, the will to live is a purpose greater than oneself, the ability to live beyond our own limitations or that of others is true freedom. None need the temples,

learned men, or the Rudra Tower, to tell them that. The gods are cruel because they have to be, humans are compassionate to compensate for the two. Where there is destruction

so breathes life.” As he speaks he begins to weave. Reorganizing a city set to believe the dictations of a vocalized system of no face. In one illuminating effort the weaver

explodes the Rudra Tower. In the wake of the ashes all who had a television set or computer or cellular phone could witness the Black Amethyst rose, that sat in the night sky.

Chapter 19 Better-Man

Lauran Shriller, was the first to report admits the thousand uniformed officers and pajama clad citizens. “It would seem none could find the body of Clive Dawson in the rubble that

used to be the Rudra Dynasty. None can say for sure if this is an act of war or just another perverse threat on citizens of America. Some believe that because the building seemed to be the only thing destroyed in the city that it was scheduled for demolition, though none can remember, the Liberty Council authorizing one. We sought to ask one of the little

mothers if they know what was going on. But as Clive is nowhere to be found neither are the mothers. What can be said about the Black Amethyst, seen all over the city. Thank you for the fireworks Clive, we are sure this Christmas will be a good one.

On the twenty fifth day of December, seven days after Maria’s birthday, Clive’s son was born, all remember the night because that same night the Tower fell and the citizens of Liberty City began to think for themselves. All in the Phantom family disputed on the mode in which they would add the new little one in their lives. Maria named him Hamlet, after

her grandfather, believing Clive to be too violent, decided not to give him his last name. Wishing for more for the son, she brought into the world.

Thanking Clive for this gift and wishing him the best,

Where ever he is.

……………………

Bianca sat at the window of the Nightingale, hands resting under her chin.

“Still looking for him, he will show up, he always does.” Comes the voice of Henry, mopping the scratched hardwood floor. The bell of the front door chimes. Both turn to see who it is.

When Thristen appears from under his coat, soaked with snow, he can feel the dejection.

“Don’t get up, I only want a drink, I’ll pour myself, don’t mind me.” He remarks sarcastically, Bianca storms around the open space of the bar, not noticing the twitch of Durggi Nergal who as always can ruin a surprise with her cat-like inclinations.

“You know Peruvian princess, if the dream weaver was to return, it would be hard for me to even recognize him. In order to defeat the three modes of nature one will surely go through some kind of change.”

“I’d know Clive Dawson anywhere, that drunken fish, red eyed, and smelling of tobacco would waltz in here like nothing has changed and would ask for the same piss pour rum just so I’d smile.”

The dark shadow in the corner of the room who has been sitting alone for the past hour, simply observing the few individuals of the Nightingale slams his glass mug on the table.

Signaling more beer. When none is forth coming the banging only increases. The incessant bang is like the incessant drip of a leaking faucet. A constant reminder that nothing will change unless we set upon our minds to fix them ourselves.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Louder becomes the sound and the angrier the Princess becomes. Storming over to the patron she slams her two, work worn hands on the table. Demands to know the shadowy figures problem.

He is distracted by her swinging breasts. For a few heartbeats too long he stares and before he can catch himself he tells her to fix her cleavage, the sight of those beautiful breasts will hinder you from bringing another fill of beer back.

“How will my breasts hinder anything,” asks the shocked Bianca.

“I will not allow you to leave without first taking my fill of your heavenly rounds.” Informs the shadow.

“Bet, that is what you say to all the women in this city, I’ll be back with your drink.” Responds Bianca as she unconsciously readjusts her midriff.

The shadow-man smiles alone to himself, certain that had he been any other man her leering eyes, at his comment would not have been the only thing to leave an impression on him.

As she returns with his drink the Peruvian Princess asks about the shadow man. “What’s your name, or is tall dark and handsome going to be your catch all.”

“I am known as Better Man, for as the sun rises and sets, you will always see my shine.” He guzzles half his paint, eyeing the woman as she sizes him up.

“I knew a man, that once dreamed of such things, lost him recently to his high ambitions and lack of regard for morality.” Chides Bianca, a single tear falls at his memory.

“Hmm. Sounds like this man knew a lot about life, tell me more about your dear friend, I have all the time in the world.”

So they talked, alone, two souls closer to each other than they could ever really know, about the one man that sought to save Liberty City from itself. She told of the good, the bad, the ugly and as they reminisced on worlds long gone and people now forgotten they found a mutual love for Clive Dawson.

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