Unquiet Desperation
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Author Topic: Gun Games and Free Will  (Read 4954 times)
Will
Henry David Thoreau
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Everything is Irrelative.


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« on: November 14, 2008, 06:55:53 PM »

This is something I jotted down during my lunchbreak.  I actually thought of this concept while tweeking the other night.  I plan on writing a series of these that combined will tell a larger story.  I'll probably quit though before I'm halfway through though. 



The conversations were always intense around la huerta.  It wasn’t so much the subject matter or the personalities of those partaking as much as it was the gun.  The gun was our toy and a conversation piece.  It was symbolic of our need for unnecessary drama.  We were dumb.  People that visited us were even dumber. 

Our hazy living room lay adjacent to the kitchen which lay adjacent to a bedroom which lay adjacent to the garden.  There were three of us that lived there.  I was the oldest.  My balding head screamed a youth of paranoia while my fattening stomach whistled a life of gluttonous sloth.  Junk food is a most dangerous addiction. 

I lived with two friends I met in college, Blake and Charlie.  We called Blake Blake the Snake because that’s the way he was.  He was sneaky and dangerous and always slivering in and out of trouble.  He wore a custom hat that said SNAKE on it and always had the bill turned to the side.  His eyes were lazy, his hair was black, and his favorite words were bitch, fuck, pussy, and sheeeit.  I think his vocabulary revolved around all the hip hop he listened to.  All in all, he was one of the most entertaining people I’ve ever been around.

Charlie was an insanely bipolar redneck.  He’s tried to kill himself 8 times that I know of.  His need for attention was funny and pathetic at the same time.  He said he could have made it big.  He hitchhiked out to L.A. one summer and found himself in the office of a man who was going to put him in a Mountain Dew commercial in exchange for a little fellatio.  Unfortunately for Charlie, he was a disciplined homophobe.

I was fat and balding (if I hadn’t already mentioned that).


Blake and I were sitting at home when there was a knock on our apartment door.  I peer through the peephole and discover it’s Ralph, our most frequent visitor and dumbest of all our friends. 

“Man, you fellas got it smelling good in here,” he says as he enters.

“This is how it always smells bitch,” said Blake as he lay in the recliner with his hat over his eyes.  “What the fuck are you up to?”

“Just went to see Conspiracy, that new Val Kilmer movie.”

I start laughing.  “You went to see that?  I’d rather have my eyes cut out than watch that piece of shit.”

“Have you ever seen it?” Ralph asks me.  “That motherfucker kicks some ass in that movie.  At one point he slices this dude’s throat and there’s like three other dudes shooting at him and he uses the guy he just killed as a shield and then he smokes those motherfuckers.  That shit was bad man.”

“Yea, well you know what?” I ask.  Val Kilmer didn’t do that.  He’s acting.  He and bunch of other people are dressing up and playing pretend.  Think about that next time you’re watching a “nail-biting suspense slash action movie.”  I make the quotes with my hands.  “I can’t keep a straight face.”

“Well I thought it was fuckin’ awesome,” Ralph reaffirmed.

“Don’t let Will get you down Ralph,” says Blake.  “He’s just a fucking cynic.  He’s a little bitch.  Here man, you want this?”  Blake picks up Lady Pistola from the crease in the recliner and tosses her to Ralph who catches it with one hand. 

“You know Ralph I wrote a story where this guy pisses on the world and disintegrates that bitch,” I said.  “Now that’s a bad motherfucker.”  I start laughing again.

“You’re stupid,” Ralph says as he throws Lady Pistola at me.  I catch her with my legs.  Ralph takes a seats on the couch beside me and I grab the gun and aim it at his head. 

“Yo teno tu a punta de pistola,” I say.  My Spanish is horrible, if you can call it Spanish.

“Get that bitch out of my face and let’s get high.”


  
« Last Edit: November 17, 2008, 02:36:29 PM by Will » Logged

I think, therefore I'm lost.
Aristotle Shostakovich
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« Reply #1 on: November 15, 2008, 04:04:50 AM »

"His eyes were lazy"

like this' tremendously.....although I'm not a friend of popular short stories, I'm quite looking forwad to the next instalment.......

go for it.......and maybe some crash-bang Percy Wallop

till soon

nic
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Will
Henry David Thoreau
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Everything is Irrelative.


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« Reply #2 on: November 17, 2008, 02:39:33 PM »

I'm not sure how much I like using all the language I used, but that's how a lot of my friends and associations talk.
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Aristotle Shostakovich
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« Reply #3 on: November 17, 2008, 03:36:37 PM »

i once knew a man who could use fowl language for an hour and not repeat himself......if swearing is valid use it.....how many of the moral majority' frown at the sound of a swearword' and then smack there kid's round the head for using it?

there's only words......not sticks........knives....or tanks

till soon

nic
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my legs just don't work on monday's
Will
Henry David Thoreau
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Everything is Irrelative.


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« Reply #4 on: November 25, 2008, 09:18:27 PM »

Some subsequent chapter.


“Hey man, would you fuck a dude in the ass for four million dollars?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” I said.

“What the fuck?” interjected Arlyn.  “You two are fucking nasty.”   

Blake continued.

“I’m just saying, if someone paid you four million dollars to fuck some dude in the asshole, would you do it?  Four million dollars would solve all my problems.  I’d do it and I’d make him love me too.”  A cheap, sinister yet charming smile came over Blake’s face.  Arlyn shook his head in disgust and threw La Pistola at me. 

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Blake makes a good point.” 

“That’s just wrong,” Arlyn asserts.  “Yea, four million dollars would be great, but what about your integrity?  I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I did that?”

“INTEGRITY?  What the hell’s that got to do with anything?  I’m talking about four million dollars.  Guys fuck each other in the ass all the time for free.”

“Yea, and if they’re gay, that’s fine.  Do what you want to do, but just doing it for the money says something about your integrity.”

“Fuck that,” Blake says.  “Who gives a fuck about integrity?”

I throw La Pistola at Blake while he’s not looking.  He swears at me. 

“You know what integrity is?” I ask.  “Integrity is just another way of saying you’re overly concerned with what people think about you.”  I laugh at my half-baked stupidity; Arlyn doesn’t dignify my comment with a response.

We sit in the smoky living room, everything silent except for the television.  I ponder the preceding conversation, wondering what decision I would make if the scenario ever became a reality.  Then I ask, “What if someone offered to pay you four million dollars to fuck you in the ass?”

Blake’s face cringed.  “Aw man.  Now that’s just fuckin’ nasty.  You couldn’t pay me enough money in the world to do that.”

I remember thinking how we all draw our imaginary lines, no matter how misplaced they may be.
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Mr. Goldberg
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« Reply #5 on: November 26, 2008, 02:00:18 PM »

Disjointed and fragmentary comes to mind. Not sure if that's part and parcel of American psyche now. To me its a little reminiscent of a writer I truly hate. John Delilio. He is more terse, more epigrammatic than Hemingway. Average sentence is about 5 words long. He did a couple of books around the JFK assassination all written in that staccatto emphatic tone. Like a film that is just one freeze frame after the next. In interviews he's even worse.

Very intense. But the huge MISTAKE he makes is that you can't sustain that line after line chapter after chapter. Your audience/readership needs to rest...dramatic relief. Hence the comical/bawdy drunken Porter scene in Macbeth shortly after the act of Regicide. I don't exactly know how many men Clint kills per minute in each Spaghetti Western but if you timed it you'll see there are measured pauses between each poncho flip. 
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Mr. Goldberg
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« Reply #6 on: December 03, 2008, 05:08:42 PM »

...just my opinion by the way I'm not a fan of the Telegram Sam school of Prose...
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