This is on The Obscurian, but I don't want Chupacabra to be stopped, even though I don't think any of us look at it anymore. Oh, sad.
Summer crawls 'til Winter snows
And all will come undone
People crash while no one knows
That none of us have won
All wear masks to hide the pain
And truth is buried deep
Twisted tongues will lie again
For pride they wish to keep
Vile words spat without thought
Cut deep into the bone
See the mess that Man has wrought
Blind to what we're shown
Friday, February 6, 2009
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Dumb Light
Sky full of flies
Fault lines breaking up the ground
And it’s so easy to fall with the sun blacked out
See, they build them steeples high
There is one truth I’ve found
Even with your eyes wide open, babe
Aint nowhere to go but down
So I’m down here with the locusts, love
Marching in no direction
Fault lines breaking up the ground
And it’s so easy to fall with the sun blacked out
See, they build them steeples high
There is one truth I’ve found
Even with your eyes wide open, babe
Aint nowhere to go but down
So I’m down here with the locusts, love
Marching in no direction
Trying to keep these fuckers off my heals
Trying to keep from getting eaten
See, down here we all cannibals
Gregarious little creatures
We'll eat your flesh and pawn your watch
at the first sign of weakness
And the locust king is a pretty thing
I spent a year between its thighs
It taught me how to sing a pretty song
And how to weave a pretty, pretty lie
Said there’s a reason for every thing we do
And ya'll beholden to me
Each of you is a sad collection of
Myths and dreams and ennuii
And each myth exists, you see
To support the next in line
We've stacked them all right here
The big one on top is mine
And they say one day a hero'll come
To seek repudiation
They say that he'll be gaily dressed
And in the highest fashion
And all that bling may mean something
But your own dumb light is blinding
Your the answers to the riddles
Your the deapth of any hell
Heres an empty bag and heres the cat
Heres the bottom of the well
Trying to keep from getting eaten
See, down here we all cannibals
Gregarious little creatures
We'll eat your flesh and pawn your watch
at the first sign of weakness
And the locust king is a pretty thing
I spent a year between its thighs
It taught me how to sing a pretty song
And how to weave a pretty, pretty lie
Said there’s a reason for every thing we do
And ya'll beholden to me
Each of you is a sad collection of
Myths and dreams and ennuii
And each myth exists, you see
To support the next in line
We've stacked them all right here
The big one on top is mine
And they say one day a hero'll come
To seek repudiation
They say that he'll be gaily dressed
And in the highest fashion
And all that bling may mean something
But your own dumb light is blinding
Your the answers to the riddles
Your the deapth of any hell
Heres an empty bag and heres the cat
Heres the bottom of the well
Saturday, November 15, 2008
writers group revival
What this town needs is a genuine revival! My house, December 7'th. It will be like the Christ-ass episode of writers group, complete with crying and hugging and a great big, solid, dripping moral at the end!!!
XOXO
P.S. There will be cookies and wassel, but bring something you stingy lechers!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Experiment...
This might actually count as an experiment in terms of both the title of the story and the fact that I was high as a kite on Nyquil when I wrote it. Not only that, but this one is another of what Crease calls "my diarrhea stories", written in about twenty minutes. Tell me what you think. Please.
"Please, Mr. Gordon. Have a seat."
Donald looked around the small room, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. But there were no speakers that he could see, no glass that would signify a two way mirror. In fact, the only thing that he could see in the room was a chair that reminded him of the one that graced his dentist's office.
He sat, and the chair reclined automatically.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Gordon?" the voice said, and Donald sat up to see if he could pinpoint the source again. A small metallic arm darted around from behind the chair and pushed his head around until it faced forward. "Please, Mr. Gordon. Let the chair do the work. Now, are you comfortable?"
Donald flexed, trying to see if there were any cramps currently or that might form if he sat long enough. "Yes, I guess so."
"Mr. Gordon, I don't mean to sound rude, but you may be here for quite some time. We want your visit here to be as pleasant as possible. So, if you feel anything, please, say so now, and the chair will automatically reconfigure itself to find your maximum level of comfort."
A little impatiently, Donald said, "No. I'm fine."
"Good," said the voice, and two steel bracelets clamped down on Donald's wrists, locking him into the chair.
Donald immediately began to struggle. "What is this?" he shouted.
"Please, Mr. Gordon, don't fight. The restraints are merely part of a complex biometric system, designed to measure the slightest detail of your bodily systems. Right now, we are showing a thirty seven percent increase in your heart rate and a twenty six percent increase in your blood pressure. Neither of those are good for a man of your advanced age, Mr. Gordon. Now please, just try to relax. Besides, as we said, you may be in here for a while, and any abrasions you might make while fighting against the restraints would not be able to be treated until we are done in here."
Donald took a deep breath, and tried to relax. He looked around the room for a moment, trying to focus on something to take his mind off the chair. It was impossible, though. The room was completely nondescript institutional tile on all four walls. The door that he had entered was precisely fitted with the wall, and he couldn't swear to its exact position.
"Commencing study on subject 1437-Alpha. Are you ready to begin, Mr. Gordon?"
Donald felt a drop of sweat rolling down his nose, and his entire body ached with the craving to wipe it away. Instead, he watched it trickle inexorably down his nose and dangle, seemingly for an eternity, before falling into his lap with a nearly inaudible plip. "Yes," he said, trying to keep his mind off the next drop of sweat that was already beginning its long journey.
"Very well. Now, before we proceed any further, let me ask you this. You have signed all of the appropriate paperwork, including waivers, insurance forms, and next of kin, is that correct?"
"Yes, yes. Is all that really necessary?" he asked.
"Certainly. We are reasonably confident of the intended outcomes of this experiment, Mr. Gordon, but there are always aberrations in any experiment. Hence your forms, as well as this confirmation that you are here of your own free will."
"Yes, that's fine. What are you guys working on again?"
There was a moment's silence, and then the voice came on again. "We are testing the strength of the fear impulse, Mr. Gordon. Specifically, we are testing whether you are more afraid when you know that the objects aren't real, or when you are not in on the joke, so to speak. You, Mr. Gordon, are part of the control group. We have let you in on the joke, as I have said. You are going to be subjected to a gauntlet of common phobias, but rest assured, they are all simulations. You are not in any danger. However, once the experiment has begun, you may not leave. Mr. Gordon, this is your final chance. Can you speak very clearly, so that we may record your response for prosperity. Do you wish to proceed with this experiment?"
Donald watched a final drop of sweat drip from off his nose, and then he said, "Yes."
"Very good," the voice said. "Beginning phase one."
Suddenly, the lights went out. Donald tried to see or hear anything in the blackness. For a beat, there was nothing, and then he heard, or thought he heard, a gear turning.
The lights came on, and Donald was staring down into an abyss. He was dangling at least a mile in the air, his legs pulling down with the intense force of gravity, and he could feel the breeze buffeting him. He felt his stomach drop, and he looked aside to make sure the restraints were holding him. As he watched, he could see a gear turning within the chair, the restraints loosening bit by bit. Three more revolutions and he would be falling, end over end, towards that cold, unyielding ground so far below. Two revolutions. Donald held his breath. One revolution, and Donald began to pray.
The gear made its final turn, and with a sound as loud as judgment, the restraint popped open, and Donald began to scream.
"Interesting reaction," the voice said.
Donald opened his eyes. He was back in the room, the same blank white walls staring serenely out at him. His face was pouring sweat, and he wished that he could wipe it away. But the restraints were still firmly in place, and Donald wondered whether they had ever opened at all.
"Let me again reassure you, Mr. Gordon, that all of these are merely simulations. You are in no danger whatsoever. Now, are you ready for the second phase?"
"Can I get something to drink first?" he asked.
"Of course," the voice said, and a small mechanical arm rose out of the machinery again. Instead of swatting him, however, this time it was holding a glass of water out to him. "And open, Mr. Gordon."
Donald looked strangely at the arm for a moment, then opened his mouth. He choked for a moment, then was able to swallow. "Are you ready for phase two, Mr. Gordon?"
"As I'll ever be," he said.
"Good," the voice said, and the lights went out again.
This time, there was no grinding of gears, but there was a sound, and not only that but a sensation, as well. It started around his ankles, slowly rising up his legs until...
The lights came on, and Donald was sitting chest deep in cold water. Out of nowhere, the blank white walls had formed spouts, great mighty fountains that were gushing gallons of water into the room; and the water was rising at an incredible rate.
He twisted in the chair, trying to get away from the water (and that's what it was, it couldn't be any simulation for he could feel it lapping at his chin even as he twisted), but the restraints held him tight. The water rose higher, higher, until it was past his lips, into his nose, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't even think of anything other than the fact that he was drowning, oh dear God, drowning...
And then he was back in the room, his clothes dry except for the sweat that was quickly drying in the cool, white room.
"Well, while there was no vocalizing this time, your heart rate jumped exponentially. Are you ready for phase three, Mr. Gordon?"
"No!" he shouted, straining against the restraints with everything he had. "Let me out, you never told me that it would be like this."
"Mr. Gordon, we told you everything that we would be doing. You are entirely safe, Mr. Gordon. These are simply simulations."
"Simulations, my Great-Aunt Ruth. I nearly drowned and you guys were just sitting here watching it all go down."
The voice sighed. "Mr. Gordon, let me assure you, you are in no danger whatsoever. As I have told you time and again, these are merely simulations. In no time are you in any danger. Would it ease your mind if we warned you what phobias we will be testing?"
Donald looked around the room for a moment, thinking back to the last time, when he'd been straining for a hint of what would happen next, the waiting almost worse than the actual test itself...
"Yes," he said. "Yes, please."
"Good," the voice said. "The next test is arachnophobia, then."
The lights went out then, and Donald struggled to remember what exactly that meant. He'd heard the phrase before, certainly, but right now he couldn't think what it related to. There was a mythological precedent, he remembered, a weaver named Arachne, and she'd been punished by being turned into something...
He felt the first prickle as something made its way up his leg.
The lights came on, and it all came back to him then (spider Arachne was turned into a spider arachnophobia is a fear of spiders oh jesus), and he locked eyes with the thing crawling up his leg. It was huge, it's body roughly the size of a softball, and it wasn't the only one in the room. The room was alive with them, their hairy legs ticking maddeningly on the white tile floor and walls and ceiling. The walls were white, he knew they were white, but to his eyes they looked to be a thick, undulating brown. The one crawling up him had worked its way up into his lap now, and he could feel the legs of it digging into his stomach as it began climbing up his chest and towards his face. Donald began to scream...
...and the lights came on again.
"Mr. Gordon, are you all right?"
His brow was sweating, and again he wished that he could wipe it away, or that the arm would dart out of the chair again, this time holding a handkerchief to wipe his sweating forehead, but the arm stayed secreted away in the machinery, and his restraints were still locked in place.
"Are you ready for the final phase, Mr. Gordon?"
Thank you, God, he thought, and aloud he said, "Yes. Please, I just want this over with."
"Very well, Mr. Gordon. The final phase will be fear of abandonment."
And the lights went out.
Donald waited in the darkness, wondering what horrors he would be confronted with when the lights came back on.
A minute passed, then two.
After ten minutes had passed in the dark, he began to laugh. A simulation, he thought. No danger whatsoever, he thought. Any minute now, the lights will come back on and I will be free from this hellhole, and I'll be able to put this nightmare behind me.
Any minute now.
An hour passed.
Then two.
On the second day, Donald began to scream.
"Please, Mr. Gordon. Have a seat."
Donald looked around the small room, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. But there were no speakers that he could see, no glass that would signify a two way mirror. In fact, the only thing that he could see in the room was a chair that reminded him of the one that graced his dentist's office.
He sat, and the chair reclined automatically.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Gordon?" the voice said, and Donald sat up to see if he could pinpoint the source again. A small metallic arm darted around from behind the chair and pushed his head around until it faced forward. "Please, Mr. Gordon. Let the chair do the work. Now, are you comfortable?"
Donald flexed, trying to see if there were any cramps currently or that might form if he sat long enough. "Yes, I guess so."
"Mr. Gordon, I don't mean to sound rude, but you may be here for quite some time. We want your visit here to be as pleasant as possible. So, if you feel anything, please, say so now, and the chair will automatically reconfigure itself to find your maximum level of comfort."
A little impatiently, Donald said, "No. I'm fine."
"Good," said the voice, and two steel bracelets clamped down on Donald's wrists, locking him into the chair.
Donald immediately began to struggle. "What is this?" he shouted.
"Please, Mr. Gordon, don't fight. The restraints are merely part of a complex biometric system, designed to measure the slightest detail of your bodily systems. Right now, we are showing a thirty seven percent increase in your heart rate and a twenty six percent increase in your blood pressure. Neither of those are good for a man of your advanced age, Mr. Gordon. Now please, just try to relax. Besides, as we said, you may be in here for a while, and any abrasions you might make while fighting against the restraints would not be able to be treated until we are done in here."
Donald took a deep breath, and tried to relax. He looked around the room for a moment, trying to focus on something to take his mind off the chair. It was impossible, though. The room was completely nondescript institutional tile on all four walls. The door that he had entered was precisely fitted with the wall, and he couldn't swear to its exact position.
"Commencing study on subject 1437-Alpha. Are you ready to begin, Mr. Gordon?"
Donald felt a drop of sweat rolling down his nose, and his entire body ached with the craving to wipe it away. Instead, he watched it trickle inexorably down his nose and dangle, seemingly for an eternity, before falling into his lap with a nearly inaudible plip. "Yes," he said, trying to keep his mind off the next drop of sweat that was already beginning its long journey.
"Very well. Now, before we proceed any further, let me ask you this. You have signed all of the appropriate paperwork, including waivers, insurance forms, and next of kin, is that correct?"
"Yes, yes. Is all that really necessary?" he asked.
"Certainly. We are reasonably confident of the intended outcomes of this experiment, Mr. Gordon, but there are always aberrations in any experiment. Hence your forms, as well as this confirmation that you are here of your own free will."
"Yes, that's fine. What are you guys working on again?"
There was a moment's silence, and then the voice came on again. "We are testing the strength of the fear impulse, Mr. Gordon. Specifically, we are testing whether you are more afraid when you know that the objects aren't real, or when you are not in on the joke, so to speak. You, Mr. Gordon, are part of the control group. We have let you in on the joke, as I have said. You are going to be subjected to a gauntlet of common phobias, but rest assured, they are all simulations. You are not in any danger. However, once the experiment has begun, you may not leave. Mr. Gordon, this is your final chance. Can you speak very clearly, so that we may record your response for prosperity. Do you wish to proceed with this experiment?"
Donald watched a final drop of sweat drip from off his nose, and then he said, "Yes."
"Very good," the voice said. "Beginning phase one."
Suddenly, the lights went out. Donald tried to see or hear anything in the blackness. For a beat, there was nothing, and then he heard, or thought he heard, a gear turning.
The lights came on, and Donald was staring down into an abyss. He was dangling at least a mile in the air, his legs pulling down with the intense force of gravity, and he could feel the breeze buffeting him. He felt his stomach drop, and he looked aside to make sure the restraints were holding him. As he watched, he could see a gear turning within the chair, the restraints loosening bit by bit. Three more revolutions and he would be falling, end over end, towards that cold, unyielding ground so far below. Two revolutions. Donald held his breath. One revolution, and Donald began to pray.
The gear made its final turn, and with a sound as loud as judgment, the restraint popped open, and Donald began to scream.
"Interesting reaction," the voice said.
Donald opened his eyes. He was back in the room, the same blank white walls staring serenely out at him. His face was pouring sweat, and he wished that he could wipe it away. But the restraints were still firmly in place, and Donald wondered whether they had ever opened at all.
"Let me again reassure you, Mr. Gordon, that all of these are merely simulations. You are in no danger whatsoever. Now, are you ready for the second phase?"
"Can I get something to drink first?" he asked.
"Of course," the voice said, and a small mechanical arm rose out of the machinery again. Instead of swatting him, however, this time it was holding a glass of water out to him. "And open, Mr. Gordon."
Donald looked strangely at the arm for a moment, then opened his mouth. He choked for a moment, then was able to swallow. "Are you ready for phase two, Mr. Gordon?"
"As I'll ever be," he said.
"Good," the voice said, and the lights went out again.
This time, there was no grinding of gears, but there was a sound, and not only that but a sensation, as well. It started around his ankles, slowly rising up his legs until...
The lights came on, and Donald was sitting chest deep in cold water. Out of nowhere, the blank white walls had formed spouts, great mighty fountains that were gushing gallons of water into the room; and the water was rising at an incredible rate.
He twisted in the chair, trying to get away from the water (and that's what it was, it couldn't be any simulation for he could feel it lapping at his chin even as he twisted), but the restraints held him tight. The water rose higher, higher, until it was past his lips, into his nose, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't even think of anything other than the fact that he was drowning, oh dear God, drowning...
And then he was back in the room, his clothes dry except for the sweat that was quickly drying in the cool, white room.
"Well, while there was no vocalizing this time, your heart rate jumped exponentially. Are you ready for phase three, Mr. Gordon?"
"No!" he shouted, straining against the restraints with everything he had. "Let me out, you never told me that it would be like this."
"Mr. Gordon, we told you everything that we would be doing. You are entirely safe, Mr. Gordon. These are simply simulations."
"Simulations, my Great-Aunt Ruth. I nearly drowned and you guys were just sitting here watching it all go down."
The voice sighed. "Mr. Gordon, let me assure you, you are in no danger whatsoever. As I have told you time and again, these are merely simulations. In no time are you in any danger. Would it ease your mind if we warned you what phobias we will be testing?"
Donald looked around the room for a moment, thinking back to the last time, when he'd been straining for a hint of what would happen next, the waiting almost worse than the actual test itself...
"Yes," he said. "Yes, please."
"Good," the voice said. "The next test is arachnophobia, then."
The lights went out then, and Donald struggled to remember what exactly that meant. He'd heard the phrase before, certainly, but right now he couldn't think what it related to. There was a mythological precedent, he remembered, a weaver named Arachne, and she'd been punished by being turned into something...
He felt the first prickle as something made its way up his leg.
The lights came on, and it all came back to him then (spider Arachne was turned into a spider arachnophobia is a fear of spiders oh jesus), and he locked eyes with the thing crawling up his leg. It was huge, it's body roughly the size of a softball, and it wasn't the only one in the room. The room was alive with them, their hairy legs ticking maddeningly on the white tile floor and walls and ceiling. The walls were white, he knew they were white, but to his eyes they looked to be a thick, undulating brown. The one crawling up him had worked its way up into his lap now, and he could feel the legs of it digging into his stomach as it began climbing up his chest and towards his face. Donald began to scream...
...and the lights came on again.
"Mr. Gordon, are you all right?"
His brow was sweating, and again he wished that he could wipe it away, or that the arm would dart out of the chair again, this time holding a handkerchief to wipe his sweating forehead, but the arm stayed secreted away in the machinery, and his restraints were still locked in place.
"Are you ready for the final phase, Mr. Gordon?"
Thank you, God, he thought, and aloud he said, "Yes. Please, I just want this over with."
"Very well, Mr. Gordon. The final phase will be fear of abandonment."
And the lights went out.
Donald waited in the darkness, wondering what horrors he would be confronted with when the lights came back on.
A minute passed, then two.
After ten minutes had passed in the dark, he began to laugh. A simulation, he thought. No danger whatsoever, he thought. Any minute now, the lights will come back on and I will be free from this hellhole, and I'll be able to put this nightmare behind me.
Any minute now.
An hour passed.
Then two.
On the second day, Donald began to scream.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Exhibitionist
Crease woke up tonguing another face in the sandstone. His cough, like the braying of a autistic donkey, protruded to lift a murder of dessert birds from their vigil. They had perched, he surmised, for the better part of the morning waiting for him to regain consciousness. His tongue was swollen and soar when he tried to speak.
"Flech eateen philisthines! Dont eefen have the dethenthy to eat a man while heeth too numb to notith!"
His helpless flailing, big and awkward like that of something to heavy to support itself, fell short of frightening the birds. In the emptiness of their cackling he could skry laughter, malevolence, enmity. They circled once. He tried to to stand and did a sort of ragdoll summersalt instead. He hoped someone was watching him. Possesed of a constant need to feel abberant, he started to piss and cackle like a hyena, just in case. Like Hemmingway said, he thought, no one can stand before a bar with dignity. Fuck if I can't have it here though.
"C'mon you thtupid dino'th!"
He knew they had him this time, lemming that he was. Fuck, he hoped someone was watching.
"Flech eateen philisthines! Dont eefen have the dethenthy to eat a man while heeth too numb to notith!"
His helpless flailing, big and awkward like that of something to heavy to support itself, fell short of frightening the birds. In the emptiness of their cackling he could skry laughter, malevolence, enmity. They circled once. He tried to to stand and did a sort of ragdoll summersalt instead. He hoped someone was watching him. Possesed of a constant need to feel abberant, he started to piss and cackle like a hyena, just in case. Like Hemmingway said, he thought, no one can stand before a bar with dignity. Fuck if I can't have it here though.
"C'mon you thtupid dino'th!"
He knew they had him this time, lemming that he was. Fuck, he hoped someone was watching.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
I have a bad habit...
I can't just let a sleeping dog lie. Shit man, this always happens. I drop out of writers' group for a few weeks and it goes on a six month hiatus. What the hell, man? So, in the interest of bringing back the beast, here's a new story for y'all. It's a long one, but we need a long one to make this bitch breathe again. It's called "Smoke 'Em If You Got Em".
Smoke 'em If You Got 'em
Andrew woke to darkness, darkness and a rough, scratchy surface covering his face. He opened his mouth to say something and suddenly the sack was removed from his face, the harsh light stinging his eyes. Once the dazzle settled from his eyes, he looked around. He was in a warehouse, it looked like.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Reeve?"
The voice came from behind him, and he tried to turn, but couldn't.
"Oh, yes. Let me get those for you," the voice said again, and he felt someone loosening the knots on the ropes that bound him to the chair. After a moment, he heard the sound of movement behind him, and a small, thin man stepped into his field of vision, carrying a chair in one hand and a small wooden table in the other. He set these down in front of Andrew. "You are no longer bound, Mr. Reeve. You can move about freely, but be warned that you are not allowed to leave just yet."
Andrew stood up, feeling pins and needles shoot through his legs. "How long have I been out?" he asked.
"No more than half an hour, I suppose. But I understand that the ropes can do horrible things to your circulation. Feel free to stretch, if you must."
"What do you want from me? Money?" Andrew asked.
The man laughed. "No, Mr. Reeve. I suppose this is what you would call an intervention."
"An intervention? What do you mean?"
"Ah, yes, where are my manners? My name is Bannister, and I am here to help you quit smoking."
Andrew laughed disbelievingly. "You? What are you going to do? Hold me here, slap patches on me, make me sip herbal tea until I don't want to smoke any more? Look, buddy, quitting's not a problem. I've done it hundreds of times."
The man smiled thinly at this. "Ah, yes, quite an old joke for you, isn't it?" He picked up a small brown bag from near his feet and picked through it until he found a folder. He opened it up and flipped through it for a few pages before he said, "Here we are. Let's see, the first time that your wife recalls you saying that was in December of nineteen-eighty-one. At your office Christmas party, predictably enough. Looks like it was a variation on the theme, however, as you said you'd quit 'dozens' of times by then. Keeping track, are we?"
Andrew looked at the file, then back at Bannister. "You've got that much info in that file?"
Bannister snapped it shut and favored him with another of those thin-lipped smiles. "That, and more. This is quite a detailed little file here, filled with every single detail of your life that friends, family, acquaintances, and of course, your wife, could recall."
Andrew snorted. "So, Ginny sent you, huh?"
Bannister gave a slight nod. "Yes, I was hired by a Mrs. Virginia Reeve. She's been quite concerned about your health lately, you know. She gave me full permission to do whatever I have to do to get you to quit."
Andrew leered at him then, getting up close enough that he could have kissed the smaller man, if he'd had a mind to. "And what's going to stop me from walking out that door right now?"
As quickly as if it had been magicked there, a small, pearl-handled revolver appeared, pressing into the underside of Andrew's chin. "Mostly this," Bannister said, in the same calm, conversational tone he'd been using thus far. "I won't shoot to kill, of course, not unless it comes to that. But I will take out a leg. Both, if necessary. Now, if you would be so kind as to sit back down, we can begin your treatment."
Andrew sat down with a hard thump. He looked smaller somehow, almost deflated. "So what do we do then? Do we just sit here, eyeball to eyeball while I go cold turkey or something?"
"Actually, not at all. Would you care for a smoke?" Bannister extracted a pack from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table between them.
Andrew eyed the pack warily for a moment, as though he expected it to sprout sharp teeth and bite off a finger if he reached for one.
He stared at them for a moment longer, then said, "Alright, I'll bite. What's the catch?"
Bannister leaned forward and smiled. This time he looked predatory, showing off every single tooth in a too wide grin. "Why, I'm glad you asked. This pack of cigarettes is your brand, is it not?"
Andrew looked down and nodded. "Yeah? So?"
"So, I can tell you this. Half of the cigarettes in this pack are absolutely normal, not a thing wrong with them other than the usual gumbo of carcinogenic ingredients."
Bannister paused, obviously waiting for Andrew to say something. Finally, Andrew said, "And the other half?"
"Laced with a slow acting poison. It won't kill you outright. It usually takes six or seven of the bad ones to do that. But you will start to notice certain things. Memory loss, tremors, twitches. That sort of thing."
"Only half of them, though, right?"
Bannister nodded.
Andrew reached down, opening up the pack and looking down at the cigarettes. "Ah, hell. I like those odds. You got a light?"
Bannister seemed pleased, and extracted a silver lighter from the same pocket. "Excellent. Now, you are welcome to smoke as many as you like, Mr. Reeve, but you must answer a few questions for me each time you do so. Are you ready to start your first set of questions, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew exhaled a large ring of smoke towards him. "Shoot."
"Okay, let's see here... Ah, here we go. Tell me about your childhood, starting with your date of birth."
"Yeah, okay. Let's see... I was born September 2nd in 1954."
"Good, go on."
"My parents were named Ralph and Maggie, and I had an older brother named Alex who was killed in Vietnam when I was twelve years old. He was twice my age, twenty-four, when he died. I didn't really know him that well, since we were so far apart in age, you know. Anyway, I graduated from Roosevelt High School in 1972, and I married Ginny in '73."
"Excellent. And you started smoking when you were... let's see, fifteen, it looks like. That would mean you've smoked for... what, nearly forty years now?"
"Yeah, I guess. Can I borrow your lighter again?"
"Of course." Bannister took out the lighter and set it on the table. Once he was done with it, he started to hand it back. Instead, Bannister held up a hand and said, "Set it on the table. You'll be needing it again soon, I think."
Andrew shrugged and said, "Fine with me."
"Okay, next set of questions. Are you ready, Mr. Reeve?"
"Fire away, chief."
"You said you were born in '54. Who was president then?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Who was President of the United States back then?"
Andrew laughed. "That's your question? I don't know who you been talking to, but I ain't no history major. I could barely tell you who was president ten years ago."
Bannister smiled. "Your best guess then."
Andrew looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. His fingers traced delicate smoke patterns in the air as he thought. Finally, he said, "Christ, I dunno. Truman?"
Bannister smiled again, then said, "You're right, Mr. Reeve. You aren't a history major. By the time you were born, Truman had been replaced by Eisenhower. And you're on your second cigarette."
Andrew recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "So? Like I said, I ain't no history major. Doesn't mean I got one of your bum smokes."
"No, it doesn't. But it is interesting. I know that Reagan was office the year I was born."
Andrew laughed. "Reagan? Christ, you're a kid. When were you born, '82, '83?"
"I was born on January 20th, 1981. It was the day he took office, in fact."
"Well, hooray for you. What are you doing in this business, then?"
Bannister didn't say anything for a moment, then said, "Let's just say that I enjoy my work."
"Whatever," Andrew said, reaching into the pack and grabbing another cigarette. "So, how long do we play this little quiz game here? I mean, are you trying to bore me into quitting smoking or what?"
"No, actually. We play until you decide to quit yourself, or..."
Andrew looked up at him, exasperation on his face. "Ah, Christ, enough with the dramatic pauses. Or what?"
"Or we play until the poison sets in, and you die."
Andrew smirked. "Poison. Yeah, right. Poison, my ass."
"Actually, they are poisoned. That one you have right there in your hand, in fact, is one of my 'bum smokes', as you called them."
"Yeah, sure they are."
"Yes, they are. If you look by the filter, you'll see a small red dot. I use those to keep track of how many you've had, and adjust the questions accordingly. Your next round I will want a little more detail, if you please, Mr. Reeve."
Andrew froze, the cigarette hanging from his lips. After a moment, he took the cigarette away from his lips and looked at it.
The red dot stared out at him, and he made a panicked motion to stub it out.
Like magic, the revolver reappeared, and Bannister said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm afraid that it's a rule. You take it out of the pack, then you smoke it. All of it."
Andrew slowly pulled his hand back and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He inhaled and said, "All right, fine. I need one after you shoving that gun in my face, anyway."
"Excellent, that's the spirit. Now, tell me about your family."
Andrew felt a drop of sweat start running down his face, and he said, "Shit, like I said, my parents were Ralph and Mandy, my wife's name is Virginia, I got one kid, a girl. Named Maggie, like my ma."
"Maggie? I thought you just said your mother's name was Mandy."
Andrew smiled weakly, the sweat running faster now. "Did I? I meant Maggie. Yeah, my baby girl, named Maggie, after her grandma."
"When was Maggie born? Your daughter, not your mother."
"A few weeks after you, I guess. February 2nd, 1982. Groundhog's Day."
"More than a few weeks, Mr. Reeve. I would be a full year older than your daughter."
"You said you were born January 20th."
Bannister nodded. "I was. I was born January 20th, 1981. The same year Reagan took office, remember?"
Andrew nodded back. "Yeah, yeah, okay, I remember now." He took a puff of his cigarette and said, "Fuck Reagan. Never liked him anyway."
He reached for another cigarette, then paused. He tilted the pack towards him and tried to look down into it when he heard a soft click. He didn't even have to look to know what it was, and it only solidified matters when he heard Bannister say, "No peeking."
Andrew picked one out and checked the filter.
Bannister watched as his face went white. Keeping the revolver cocked, he said, "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."
He watched with some satisfaction as Andrew lit his cigarette with a shaking hand. "Are those tremors I see, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew blew out smoke harshly, shouting, "Of course there are fucking tremors. I'm scared, okay? There, you happy?"
Bannister smiled at him. "Yes, I am. So if you're scared of them, quit smoking them."
Andrew took a deep drag, then said, "I can't. Jesus Christ, I can get you money if you want, but I can't quit, can't you see that, I can't fucking quit and you're going to kill me if you don't let me go."
Bannister shook his head. "No, Mr. Reeve. You will have no one to blame but yourself. Now, are you ready for your next round of questions?"
"Please let me go, I can get you money, I can get you lots of money, just let me go."
Bannister shook his head again, and this time he looked as though he were filled with genuine regret. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reeve, but I can't let you go. Not until you quit, or you finish the pack. Your choice."
"Please."
"No, Mr. Reeve. Now, are you ready for your next set of questions?"
"I'll do anything."
"Fine. Don't grab another cigarette. If you can go for twenty minutes, I will let you go."
"I can't."
"You can't do twenty minutes? Not even a full hour, not even half an hour, and you can't do it? You see, that's why we're here tonight. I'm trying to help you, I promise. Even if you finish the pack, I'll be helping you."
Andrew snorted. "How will you be helping me? By killing me?"
"Yes. By saving you and your family from tracheotomies, from lung cancer, from a slow and painful death in a hospital bed. I'm trying to help you. Meet me halfway."
Andrew looked down at the cigarette, the red dot already half burned away. "Twenty minutes? Starting now?"
Bannister nodded. "Actually, I'm feeling magnanimous. Twenty minutes from when the offer was first put on the table. That leaves you with eighteen to go."
Andrew stubbed the finished cigarette out. "I can do this."
Bannister clapped his hands together in excitement. "Excellent. Are you ready for your next set of questions?"
"Sure. Throw them at me."
"When did you buy your first pack of cigarettes?"
"Excuse me?"
"When did you buy your first pack of cigarettes? Describe the experience to me. Make me feel as though I'm there with you, watching you take that first drag."
Andrew glanced down at the pack, then back at Bannister. "That's not fair."
"I doubt anyone would accuse me of not playing fair, Mr. Reeve. I've been level with you from the start. Look at it this way. If you can get through this, then you can get through anything."
Andrew glanced at the pack, then away, as though he was afraid they might burn him. "Okay, fine. What do you want to know?"
"Why did you start?"
Andrew laughed. "Why else? To impress a girl. I dunno what I was thinking. My parents never bothered cleaning out my brother's room after he was killed in 'Nam, and I was digging through his stuff to find something, I don't even remember what. But I stumbled across a pack of his Lucky Strikes, and I figured that this girl I was lusting after would be impressed." He laughed again, caught up in the memory for the moment.
"And was she impressed?"
"Oh, yeah. Real impressed. Fifteen year old kid smoking an unfiltered Lucky the first time he ever tried smoking? Not to mention that my brother had been dead for four years, and those were probably sitting there from before he got shipped out, so they had to have been at least five years old? Yeah, she was real impressed right up until I blew my groceries all over her shoes."
Bannister laughed. "Then why did you keep smoking?"
"Figured I just had to practice at it, show her one day that I'd learned how to do it right, and she'd start thinking I was real manly. By the time I got it right, she was going out with Bobby Stockwell and I was up to a pack every other day."
"I see. And what was it like when you got it right?"
"What do you mean?"
"That first drag where you really got your first look at what it could be like? That first drag where you didn't cough, didn't vomit, just tasted that rich smoke?"
Andrew pulled another one out of the pack and lit up without thinking. "Pretty damn good, kid. That first drag is what keeps you coming back. It's never as good as that first drag, but you keep hoping. That's why you keep..." He stopped in mid-sentence, looking down at the cigarette dangling from his lip. The red dot stared up at him from just above the filter.
"You tricked me," he said.
"Not at all, Mr. Reeve. I didn't put that in your mouth. You did."
"You know what I mean. You might as well have handed me this and lit me up."
"Don't blame me for your addictions, Mr. Reeve. If you had quit before today, you would never have seen me."
"Well, you're certainly not helping. I normally don't smoke like this, you know. You just..."
"I just what, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew took a long drag before answering, "You make me nervous."
"Then I am doing my job. I believe that makes number four of the 'bum smokes', Mr. Reeve."
"No, it doesn't. This is three. I've had three of the ones with the dots, I've been counting."
"And how many of those have you had, Mr. Reeve?"
"I've had five, and the first two were clean."
"Were they? You didn't start checking until the third one. Are you certain the first two were clean?"
Andrew felt sweat forming in a small pool beneath his nose, and he swiped it away before he said, "I'd have noticed."
Bannister just smiled. "Would you have? Well, then, let's agree to call it three, and just keep in mind that six is usually enough to kill someone."
"Six? I thought you said seven."
Bannister nodded. "I did. I said six or seven. It's not an exact science. One man made it down to four cigarettes left in the pack before he finally keeled over. When I checked for dots, he had two left. So, I suppose the current record is eight. Would you like to try for the record, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew stared at the pack for a long moment, trying to make a decision one way or the other.
After a second's hesitation, he reached in and grabbed another one, anxiously checking the filter.
No dot.
He breathed a sigh of relief and lit up.
Across from him, Bannister smiled and said, "Well played, Mr. Reeve. That's the spirit. Now, are you ready for the next set of questions?"
Two hours later, the pack was empty, the final cigarette dangling from Andrew's fingertips, forgotten for the moment. A thin curl of smoke still issued from the tip, but he made no move to smoke it.
Bannister leaned forward, tapping Andrew lightly on the shoulder. "Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew's eyes opened sluggishly, and he looked up at Bannister with no recognition in his eyes. "Who are you?"
Bannister grimaced at him for a second, and then forced the grimace into something resembling a smile. "Just a friend, Mr. Reeve. Can I get you anything?"
Andrew lifted his head slowly, turning to stare at the now-dead cigarette in his hands. The red dot had been burned away. He lifted it to his lips anyway, sucked weakly, then threw it away in disgust. "Actually," he said, slowly. "I'm just dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?"
Bannister kept the smile on his face, even though it felt horribly fake, as he reached into his pocket and extracted another pack. He unwrapped the cellophane and extracted a cigarette, placing it in Andrew's mouth. Andrew didn't notice the red dot on the filter, didn't notice anything but the cigarette in his mouth, and the sensation of smoke filling his lungs as he sucked.
Bannister watched him smoke for a minute, then set his lighter on the table. Andrew looked up at him with a confused look on his face that broke into a smile when Bannister said, "Keep the pack."
Bannister walked out of the warehouse, turning back only once to watch as Andrew lit up another cigarette, still wearing that same smile as he pulled the first drag of smoke into his lungs.
Smoke 'em If You Got 'em
Andrew woke to darkness, darkness and a rough, scratchy surface covering his face. He opened his mouth to say something and suddenly the sack was removed from his face, the harsh light stinging his eyes. Once the dazzle settled from his eyes, he looked around. He was in a warehouse, it looked like.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Reeve?"
The voice came from behind him, and he tried to turn, but couldn't.
"Oh, yes. Let me get those for you," the voice said again, and he felt someone loosening the knots on the ropes that bound him to the chair. After a moment, he heard the sound of movement behind him, and a small, thin man stepped into his field of vision, carrying a chair in one hand and a small wooden table in the other. He set these down in front of Andrew. "You are no longer bound, Mr. Reeve. You can move about freely, but be warned that you are not allowed to leave just yet."
Andrew stood up, feeling pins and needles shoot through his legs. "How long have I been out?" he asked.
"No more than half an hour, I suppose. But I understand that the ropes can do horrible things to your circulation. Feel free to stretch, if you must."
"What do you want from me? Money?" Andrew asked.
The man laughed. "No, Mr. Reeve. I suppose this is what you would call an intervention."
"An intervention? What do you mean?"
"Ah, yes, where are my manners? My name is Bannister, and I am here to help you quit smoking."
Andrew laughed disbelievingly. "You? What are you going to do? Hold me here, slap patches on me, make me sip herbal tea until I don't want to smoke any more? Look, buddy, quitting's not a problem. I've done it hundreds of times."
The man smiled thinly at this. "Ah, yes, quite an old joke for you, isn't it?" He picked up a small brown bag from near his feet and picked through it until he found a folder. He opened it up and flipped through it for a few pages before he said, "Here we are. Let's see, the first time that your wife recalls you saying that was in December of nineteen-eighty-one. At your office Christmas party, predictably enough. Looks like it was a variation on the theme, however, as you said you'd quit 'dozens' of times by then. Keeping track, are we?"
Andrew looked at the file, then back at Bannister. "You've got that much info in that file?"
Bannister snapped it shut and favored him with another of those thin-lipped smiles. "That, and more. This is quite a detailed little file here, filled with every single detail of your life that friends, family, acquaintances, and of course, your wife, could recall."
Andrew snorted. "So, Ginny sent you, huh?"
Bannister gave a slight nod. "Yes, I was hired by a Mrs. Virginia Reeve. She's been quite concerned about your health lately, you know. She gave me full permission to do whatever I have to do to get you to quit."
Andrew leered at him then, getting up close enough that he could have kissed the smaller man, if he'd had a mind to. "And what's going to stop me from walking out that door right now?"
As quickly as if it had been magicked there, a small, pearl-handled revolver appeared, pressing into the underside of Andrew's chin. "Mostly this," Bannister said, in the same calm, conversational tone he'd been using thus far. "I won't shoot to kill, of course, not unless it comes to that. But I will take out a leg. Both, if necessary. Now, if you would be so kind as to sit back down, we can begin your treatment."
Andrew sat down with a hard thump. He looked smaller somehow, almost deflated. "So what do we do then? Do we just sit here, eyeball to eyeball while I go cold turkey or something?"
"Actually, not at all. Would you care for a smoke?" Bannister extracted a pack from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table between them.
Andrew eyed the pack warily for a moment, as though he expected it to sprout sharp teeth and bite off a finger if he reached for one.
He stared at them for a moment longer, then said, "Alright, I'll bite. What's the catch?"
Bannister leaned forward and smiled. This time he looked predatory, showing off every single tooth in a too wide grin. "Why, I'm glad you asked. This pack of cigarettes is your brand, is it not?"
Andrew looked down and nodded. "Yeah? So?"
"So, I can tell you this. Half of the cigarettes in this pack are absolutely normal, not a thing wrong with them other than the usual gumbo of carcinogenic ingredients."
Bannister paused, obviously waiting for Andrew to say something. Finally, Andrew said, "And the other half?"
"Laced with a slow acting poison. It won't kill you outright. It usually takes six or seven of the bad ones to do that. But you will start to notice certain things. Memory loss, tremors, twitches. That sort of thing."
"Only half of them, though, right?"
Bannister nodded.
Andrew reached down, opening up the pack and looking down at the cigarettes. "Ah, hell. I like those odds. You got a light?"
Bannister seemed pleased, and extracted a silver lighter from the same pocket. "Excellent. Now, you are welcome to smoke as many as you like, Mr. Reeve, but you must answer a few questions for me each time you do so. Are you ready to start your first set of questions, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew exhaled a large ring of smoke towards him. "Shoot."
"Okay, let's see here... Ah, here we go. Tell me about your childhood, starting with your date of birth."
"Yeah, okay. Let's see... I was born September 2nd in 1954."
"Good, go on."
"My parents were named Ralph and Maggie, and I had an older brother named Alex who was killed in Vietnam when I was twelve years old. He was twice my age, twenty-four, when he died. I didn't really know him that well, since we were so far apart in age, you know. Anyway, I graduated from Roosevelt High School in 1972, and I married Ginny in '73."
"Excellent. And you started smoking when you were... let's see, fifteen, it looks like. That would mean you've smoked for... what, nearly forty years now?"
"Yeah, I guess. Can I borrow your lighter again?"
"Of course." Bannister took out the lighter and set it on the table. Once he was done with it, he started to hand it back. Instead, Bannister held up a hand and said, "Set it on the table. You'll be needing it again soon, I think."
Andrew shrugged and said, "Fine with me."
"Okay, next set of questions. Are you ready, Mr. Reeve?"
"Fire away, chief."
"You said you were born in '54. Who was president then?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Who was President of the United States back then?"
Andrew laughed. "That's your question? I don't know who you been talking to, but I ain't no history major. I could barely tell you who was president ten years ago."
Bannister smiled. "Your best guess then."
Andrew looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. His fingers traced delicate smoke patterns in the air as he thought. Finally, he said, "Christ, I dunno. Truman?"
Bannister smiled again, then said, "You're right, Mr. Reeve. You aren't a history major. By the time you were born, Truman had been replaced by Eisenhower. And you're on your second cigarette."
Andrew recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "So? Like I said, I ain't no history major. Doesn't mean I got one of your bum smokes."
"No, it doesn't. But it is interesting. I know that Reagan was office the year I was born."
Andrew laughed. "Reagan? Christ, you're a kid. When were you born, '82, '83?"
"I was born on January 20th, 1981. It was the day he took office, in fact."
"Well, hooray for you. What are you doing in this business, then?"
Bannister didn't say anything for a moment, then said, "Let's just say that I enjoy my work."
"Whatever," Andrew said, reaching into the pack and grabbing another cigarette. "So, how long do we play this little quiz game here? I mean, are you trying to bore me into quitting smoking or what?"
"No, actually. We play until you decide to quit yourself, or..."
Andrew looked up at him, exasperation on his face. "Ah, Christ, enough with the dramatic pauses. Or what?"
"Or we play until the poison sets in, and you die."
Andrew smirked. "Poison. Yeah, right. Poison, my ass."
"Actually, they are poisoned. That one you have right there in your hand, in fact, is one of my 'bum smokes', as you called them."
"Yeah, sure they are."
"Yes, they are. If you look by the filter, you'll see a small red dot. I use those to keep track of how many you've had, and adjust the questions accordingly. Your next round I will want a little more detail, if you please, Mr. Reeve."
Andrew froze, the cigarette hanging from his lips. After a moment, he took the cigarette away from his lips and looked at it.
The red dot stared out at him, and he made a panicked motion to stub it out.
Like magic, the revolver reappeared, and Bannister said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm afraid that it's a rule. You take it out of the pack, then you smoke it. All of it."
Andrew slowly pulled his hand back and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He inhaled and said, "All right, fine. I need one after you shoving that gun in my face, anyway."
"Excellent, that's the spirit. Now, tell me about your family."
Andrew felt a drop of sweat start running down his face, and he said, "Shit, like I said, my parents were Ralph and Mandy, my wife's name is Virginia, I got one kid, a girl. Named Maggie, like my ma."
"Maggie? I thought you just said your mother's name was Mandy."
Andrew smiled weakly, the sweat running faster now. "Did I? I meant Maggie. Yeah, my baby girl, named Maggie, after her grandma."
"When was Maggie born? Your daughter, not your mother."
"A few weeks after you, I guess. February 2nd, 1982. Groundhog's Day."
"More than a few weeks, Mr. Reeve. I would be a full year older than your daughter."
"You said you were born January 20th."
Bannister nodded. "I was. I was born January 20th, 1981. The same year Reagan took office, remember?"
Andrew nodded back. "Yeah, yeah, okay, I remember now." He took a puff of his cigarette and said, "Fuck Reagan. Never liked him anyway."
He reached for another cigarette, then paused. He tilted the pack towards him and tried to look down into it when he heard a soft click. He didn't even have to look to know what it was, and it only solidified matters when he heard Bannister say, "No peeking."
Andrew picked one out and checked the filter.
Bannister watched as his face went white. Keeping the revolver cocked, he said, "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."
He watched with some satisfaction as Andrew lit his cigarette with a shaking hand. "Are those tremors I see, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew blew out smoke harshly, shouting, "Of course there are fucking tremors. I'm scared, okay? There, you happy?"
Bannister smiled at him. "Yes, I am. So if you're scared of them, quit smoking them."
Andrew took a deep drag, then said, "I can't. Jesus Christ, I can get you money if you want, but I can't quit, can't you see that, I can't fucking quit and you're going to kill me if you don't let me go."
Bannister shook his head. "No, Mr. Reeve. You will have no one to blame but yourself. Now, are you ready for your next round of questions?"
"Please let me go, I can get you money, I can get you lots of money, just let me go."
Bannister shook his head again, and this time he looked as though he were filled with genuine regret. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reeve, but I can't let you go. Not until you quit, or you finish the pack. Your choice."
"Please."
"No, Mr. Reeve. Now, are you ready for your next set of questions?"
"I'll do anything."
"Fine. Don't grab another cigarette. If you can go for twenty minutes, I will let you go."
"I can't."
"You can't do twenty minutes? Not even a full hour, not even half an hour, and you can't do it? You see, that's why we're here tonight. I'm trying to help you, I promise. Even if you finish the pack, I'll be helping you."
Andrew snorted. "How will you be helping me? By killing me?"
"Yes. By saving you and your family from tracheotomies, from lung cancer, from a slow and painful death in a hospital bed. I'm trying to help you. Meet me halfway."
Andrew looked down at the cigarette, the red dot already half burned away. "Twenty minutes? Starting now?"
Bannister nodded. "Actually, I'm feeling magnanimous. Twenty minutes from when the offer was first put on the table. That leaves you with eighteen to go."
Andrew stubbed the finished cigarette out. "I can do this."
Bannister clapped his hands together in excitement. "Excellent. Are you ready for your next set of questions?"
"Sure. Throw them at me."
"When did you buy your first pack of cigarettes?"
"Excuse me?"
"When did you buy your first pack of cigarettes? Describe the experience to me. Make me feel as though I'm there with you, watching you take that first drag."
Andrew glanced down at the pack, then back at Bannister. "That's not fair."
"I doubt anyone would accuse me of not playing fair, Mr. Reeve. I've been level with you from the start. Look at it this way. If you can get through this, then you can get through anything."
Andrew glanced at the pack, then away, as though he was afraid they might burn him. "Okay, fine. What do you want to know?"
"Why did you start?"
Andrew laughed. "Why else? To impress a girl. I dunno what I was thinking. My parents never bothered cleaning out my brother's room after he was killed in 'Nam, and I was digging through his stuff to find something, I don't even remember what. But I stumbled across a pack of his Lucky Strikes, and I figured that this girl I was lusting after would be impressed." He laughed again, caught up in the memory for the moment.
"And was she impressed?"
"Oh, yeah. Real impressed. Fifteen year old kid smoking an unfiltered Lucky the first time he ever tried smoking? Not to mention that my brother had been dead for four years, and those were probably sitting there from before he got shipped out, so they had to have been at least five years old? Yeah, she was real impressed right up until I blew my groceries all over her shoes."
Bannister laughed. "Then why did you keep smoking?"
"Figured I just had to practice at it, show her one day that I'd learned how to do it right, and she'd start thinking I was real manly. By the time I got it right, she was going out with Bobby Stockwell and I was up to a pack every other day."
"I see. And what was it like when you got it right?"
"What do you mean?"
"That first drag where you really got your first look at what it could be like? That first drag where you didn't cough, didn't vomit, just tasted that rich smoke?"
Andrew pulled another one out of the pack and lit up without thinking. "Pretty damn good, kid. That first drag is what keeps you coming back. It's never as good as that first drag, but you keep hoping. That's why you keep..." He stopped in mid-sentence, looking down at the cigarette dangling from his lip. The red dot stared up at him from just above the filter.
"You tricked me," he said.
"Not at all, Mr. Reeve. I didn't put that in your mouth. You did."
"You know what I mean. You might as well have handed me this and lit me up."
"Don't blame me for your addictions, Mr. Reeve. If you had quit before today, you would never have seen me."
"Well, you're certainly not helping. I normally don't smoke like this, you know. You just..."
"I just what, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew took a long drag before answering, "You make me nervous."
"Then I am doing my job. I believe that makes number four of the 'bum smokes', Mr. Reeve."
"No, it doesn't. This is three. I've had three of the ones with the dots, I've been counting."
"And how many of those have you had, Mr. Reeve?"
"I've had five, and the first two were clean."
"Were they? You didn't start checking until the third one. Are you certain the first two were clean?"
Andrew felt sweat forming in a small pool beneath his nose, and he swiped it away before he said, "I'd have noticed."
Bannister just smiled. "Would you have? Well, then, let's agree to call it three, and just keep in mind that six is usually enough to kill someone."
"Six? I thought you said seven."
Bannister nodded. "I did. I said six or seven. It's not an exact science. One man made it down to four cigarettes left in the pack before he finally keeled over. When I checked for dots, he had two left. So, I suppose the current record is eight. Would you like to try for the record, Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew stared at the pack for a long moment, trying to make a decision one way or the other.
After a second's hesitation, he reached in and grabbed another one, anxiously checking the filter.
No dot.
He breathed a sigh of relief and lit up.
Across from him, Bannister smiled and said, "Well played, Mr. Reeve. That's the spirit. Now, are you ready for the next set of questions?"
Two hours later, the pack was empty, the final cigarette dangling from Andrew's fingertips, forgotten for the moment. A thin curl of smoke still issued from the tip, but he made no move to smoke it.
Bannister leaned forward, tapping Andrew lightly on the shoulder. "Mr. Reeve?"
Andrew's eyes opened sluggishly, and he looked up at Bannister with no recognition in his eyes. "Who are you?"
Bannister grimaced at him for a second, and then forced the grimace into something resembling a smile. "Just a friend, Mr. Reeve. Can I get you anything?"
Andrew lifted his head slowly, turning to stare at the now-dead cigarette in his hands. The red dot had been burned away. He lifted it to his lips anyway, sucked weakly, then threw it away in disgust. "Actually," he said, slowly. "I'm just dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?"
Bannister kept the smile on his face, even though it felt horribly fake, as he reached into his pocket and extracted another pack. He unwrapped the cellophane and extracted a cigarette, placing it in Andrew's mouth. Andrew didn't notice the red dot on the filter, didn't notice anything but the cigarette in his mouth, and the sensation of smoke filling his lungs as he sucked.
Bannister watched him smoke for a minute, then set his lighter on the table. Andrew looked up at him with a confused look on his face that broke into a smile when Bannister said, "Keep the pack."
Bannister walked out of the warehouse, turning back only once to watch as Andrew lit up another cigarette, still wearing that same smile as he pulled the first drag of smoke into his lungs.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Why We Write
How with time we all will die
And how life seems to pass us by
How memory we hope won't fail
And every day we write our tale
To leave a legacy of ourselves
To add to books upon the shelves
As photos fade and faces gray
Our words, our phrases will hold sway
And how life seems to pass us by
How memory we hope won't fail
And every day we write our tale
To leave a legacy of ourselves
To add to books upon the shelves
As photos fade and faces gray
Our words, our phrases will hold sway
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Countdown to Apocalypse
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Sing it loud to set you free
The Anthem of hope and clarity
Display it proud for the world to see
The words of truth for you and me
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Out not with a whisper but with a bang
We shall not whimper but we shall sing
We all look forward to eternal dream
We shall gather in the streets and scream
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Large and low hangs the moon
We all know the end is soon
Blood-red ocean, beach whale-strewn
Apocalypse illness none immune
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Sing it loud to set you free
The Anthem of hope and clarity
Display it proud for the world to see
The words of truth for you and me
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Out not with a whisper but with a bang
We shall not whimper but we shall sing
We all look forward to eternal dream
We shall gather in the streets and scream
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Large and low hangs the moon
We all know the end is soon
Blood-red ocean, beach whale-strewn
Apocalypse illness none immune
Tonight is the night the whole world ends.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Blammo
I slipped a bit when the pate de foie gras came around, principally because I cannot pronounce pate de foie gras. Eating a thing unpronounced is like donking someone's sister whose name you can't remember. The person whose sister it is, or the sister, you ask.
Forsooth, either. So I slipped a bit.
What I mean by 'slipped' is I ducked under the tablecloth, making a noise I thought would sound as if I was feeling a bit ill. 'My God,' some bitch exclaimed, 'has he the dysentery?'
Naturally, I grasped this interjectionist by the heel and sank my teeth into her ankle.
Who wouled have thought her husband would be so angry?
So, we played a little game. Every time he hit me, I did my best to spit on his wife. The game got better and better, as I graduated from phlegm to blood, and bits of teeth, and then some of my dinner. The other guests were huddled in the pantry to our starboard side, tittering in adulation of my cleverhood. 'You had enough?' I demanded through new holes in my smile, and spit the tip of my tongue into his wife's fatass cleavage.
When I woke up I was in a dumpster. Dear God, forgive them. For they know not bout my crew.
I called all the third graders I'd been buying smokes and mouthwash for, and told them to bring ski masks. Oh, Gotham, you will burn for your transgressions.
First things first- find the fuckers that puree duck liver into French words, and fist their bunkin holes till they swear that Cher's ass a recycled toilet seat. I love my brain.
It is so well-built. The End.
Forsooth, either. So I slipped a bit.
What I mean by 'slipped' is I ducked under the tablecloth, making a noise I thought would sound as if I was feeling a bit ill. 'My God,' some bitch exclaimed, 'has he the dysentery?'
Naturally, I grasped this interjectionist by the heel and sank my teeth into her ankle.
Who wouled have thought her husband would be so angry?
So, we played a little game. Every time he hit me, I did my best to spit on his wife. The game got better and better, as I graduated from phlegm to blood, and bits of teeth, and then some of my dinner. The other guests were huddled in the pantry to our starboard side, tittering in adulation of my cleverhood. 'You had enough?' I demanded through new holes in my smile, and spit the tip of my tongue into his wife's fatass cleavage.
When I woke up I was in a dumpster. Dear God, forgive them. For they know not bout my crew.
I called all the third graders I'd been buying smokes and mouthwash for, and told them to bring ski masks. Oh, Gotham, you will burn for your transgressions.
First things first- find the fuckers that puree duck liver into French words, and fist their bunkin holes till they swear that Cher's ass a recycled toilet seat. I love my brain.
It is so well-built. The End.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Taxi
My own personal writing exercise, I took a line from "The Crack Up", which is the notebooks of F. Scott Fitzgerald and used it as the first line. Feel free to do the same if you'd like. For me, it wanted to be a poem, but maybe it won't for you, if you so choose to use it. I'm not so sure this is done yet, I haven't decided.
A taxi tipping over on a nervous night
Skidding tires on slick street rain
Crunch of metal and swirls of light
Overturning once, twice, and again
Heaven showers still rain falls
Dripping drops tell up from down
People huddled ‘gainst the walls
One by one begin to drown
A taxi tipping over on a nervous night
Skidding tires on slick street rain
Crunch of metal and swirls of light
Overturning once, twice, and again
Heaven showers still rain falls
Dripping drops tell up from down
People huddled ‘gainst the walls
One by one begin to drown
Friday, August 15, 2008
Mr. Lucky Lip Saves the Salt
It probably could use more, but this will do for now...
***This is a work of complete fiction***
Mr. Lucky Lip cringed and coughed and looked up and laughed. His tall frame stood scarred and strong as he mounted his extra-cycle, a truly noble transport, and made his way to the Den of Ill Repute. It was there he played the delicate beautiful instrument with bow and heart. Drop-jawed they watched and wondered who this stranger was. They wondered if it was he who wrangled a tattoo-throated fisherman with a belt, or if it was he who served them drinks with a loud laugh at the lounge with hookahs, or he who sold them books with a smile. They couldn’t know that he would set in motion a chain of events leading to the downfall of the local elite, The Church. And no, I am not speaking of the fairly descent band from the golden age of hair rock, the 80s, but of the institution of a faith run by white men and their little clones.
He played until the sun came up and those who snaked around at night tightened their ties and polished their shoes and kissed their clueless wives goodbye to spend the day packed into a cubicle. They played at being bad, thought they were kings, but it was they who were the ones to act for appearances. The poor little yuppies couldn’t sleep, so they quietly crept out of the house and into the bars and showed off that tattoo they got when they were nineteen of a dragon on their upper arm, yes, that would make them look bad and cool. Those people were blind to their contributions to the churning Church machine, those poor saps, he would have save them from themselves.
Mr. Lucky Lip, or Chris, as he was known to most, began his quest by going home. He plugged in his weapon and it hummed, no sound sweeter. He loaded it with a blank white page and began to type. He would write his truth, a manifesto of epic proportions. It was all clacking and dings for seven days he didn’t stop typing. His fingers cramped and bled and still he typed. Page after page, his heart poured out as inky lines, each letter pounded with purpose until he was finished. He signed the end with a Pac-Man ghost.
He made his way to Temple Square and began handing out his truth to anyone who would take it, which wasn’t very many. He stood in front of the Temple of Doom and tried the same with similarly poor results. He decided to make large posters of each page and paste them to the sides of the light-rails. They were taken down almost immediately. Feeling slightly discouraged, he went back to the Den of Ill Repute and left a few of the manifestos on the bar for people to take as they wished. He downed a pint or two before returning home.
A shifty looking man whose name I can’t recall happened to take a copy of Chris’ truth that night and took it with him to the office the next day. The stapled pages made their way around the building within hours. Copies were made and taken home to show the wives and to be passed to brothers and fathers to take to their places of employment. A few weeks after Chris left the stack on the bar, he began to see graffiti that looked remarkably like his Pac-Man ghost signature. It was everywhere, trains, buildings, windows, pavement, and he could swear he saw a tattoo or two. He caught a guy handing out copies of his manifesto and asked him what it was all about. He was told through a hoarse voice to come to a meeting that night deep within the bowels of a local bookstore where he happened to work. Masquerading as a book club, the meeting was led by Zach, a guy who became passionate about the truth within the manifesto. He told them all of his plans to take down the temples.
“Clearly, doing this nonviolently is not going to work. We need to do something a bit more extreme.”
He paused for a minute, judging the feeling of the room.
“Bombs.”
Chris went along with it, fuck it, he figured, why not. A sultry dame wiser than her years told him it was a terrible idea and that it would change nothing, but he didn't care. So someone said they knew a guy who knew a guy who could get them what they needed and they started to plot the downfall.
Around a month or two later (no official record can be found) forty-five or so black clad figures surrounded the temples ready to rig the blasts. They crept with shadowed accuracy to the sides of the buildings and set the explosives with a timer. They went up Capitol Hill for the show.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six… Chris’ breath quickened, his eyes widened.
Five. Four. Three. Two… With a large intake of air, he held his breath.
One.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, what the fu-” and before the ck could leave his mouth, BOOM! He felt the sound in his chest, it looked like fireworks lighting the night sky. They did it. He swigged his flask and laughed.
***This is a work of complete fiction***
Mr. Lucky Lip cringed and coughed and looked up and laughed. His tall frame stood scarred and strong as he mounted his extra-cycle, a truly noble transport, and made his way to the Den of Ill Repute. It was there he played the delicate beautiful instrument with bow and heart. Drop-jawed they watched and wondered who this stranger was. They wondered if it was he who wrangled a tattoo-throated fisherman with a belt, or if it was he who served them drinks with a loud laugh at the lounge with hookahs, or he who sold them books with a smile. They couldn’t know that he would set in motion a chain of events leading to the downfall of the local elite, The Church. And no, I am not speaking of the fairly descent band from the golden age of hair rock, the 80s, but of the institution of a faith run by white men and their little clones.
He played until the sun came up and those who snaked around at night tightened their ties and polished their shoes and kissed their clueless wives goodbye to spend the day packed into a cubicle. They played at being bad, thought they were kings, but it was they who were the ones to act for appearances. The poor little yuppies couldn’t sleep, so they quietly crept out of the house and into the bars and showed off that tattoo they got when they were nineteen of a dragon on their upper arm, yes, that would make them look bad and cool. Those people were blind to their contributions to the churning Church machine, those poor saps, he would have save them from themselves.
Mr. Lucky Lip, or Chris, as he was known to most, began his quest by going home. He plugged in his weapon and it hummed, no sound sweeter. He loaded it with a blank white page and began to type. He would write his truth, a manifesto of epic proportions. It was all clacking and dings for seven days he didn’t stop typing. His fingers cramped and bled and still he typed. Page after page, his heart poured out as inky lines, each letter pounded with purpose until he was finished. He signed the end with a Pac-Man ghost.
He made his way to Temple Square and began handing out his truth to anyone who would take it, which wasn’t very many. He stood in front of the Temple of Doom and tried the same with similarly poor results. He decided to make large posters of each page and paste them to the sides of the light-rails. They were taken down almost immediately. Feeling slightly discouraged, he went back to the Den of Ill Repute and left a few of the manifestos on the bar for people to take as they wished. He downed a pint or two before returning home.
A shifty looking man whose name I can’t recall happened to take a copy of Chris’ truth that night and took it with him to the office the next day. The stapled pages made their way around the building within hours. Copies were made and taken home to show the wives and to be passed to brothers and fathers to take to their places of employment. A few weeks after Chris left the stack on the bar, he began to see graffiti that looked remarkably like his Pac-Man ghost signature. It was everywhere, trains, buildings, windows, pavement, and he could swear he saw a tattoo or two. He caught a guy handing out copies of his manifesto and asked him what it was all about. He was told through a hoarse voice to come to a meeting that night deep within the bowels of a local bookstore where he happened to work. Masquerading as a book club, the meeting was led by Zach, a guy who became passionate about the truth within the manifesto. He told them all of his plans to take down the temples.
“Clearly, doing this nonviolently is not going to work. We need to do something a bit more extreme.”
He paused for a minute, judging the feeling of the room.
“Bombs.”
Chris went along with it, fuck it, he figured, why not. A sultry dame wiser than her years told him it was a terrible idea and that it would change nothing, but he didn't care. So someone said they knew a guy who knew a guy who could get them what they needed and they started to plot the downfall.
Around a month or two later (no official record can be found) forty-five or so black clad figures surrounded the temples ready to rig the blasts. They crept with shadowed accuracy to the sides of the buildings and set the explosives with a timer. They went up Capitol Hill for the show.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six… Chris’ breath quickened, his eyes widened.
Five. Four. Three. Two… With a large intake of air, he held his breath.
One.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, what the fu-” and before the ck could leave his mouth, BOOM! He felt the sound in his chest, it looked like fireworks lighting the night sky. They did it. He swigged his flask and laughed.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Good(ish) news...
So, the good news is that I got a job that is paying me a significant amount of cash more than what I was getting at any of my previous jobs. The bad news is that between the new job and school starting as of next wednesday, I'm probably going to have to sit out the group until about January-ish. Lame, I know, but I'm going to be working like a slave and trying to keep a decent GPA, so somethings gotta give. I'll still try to post shit on here though, so it's not like I'll be disappearing from the face of the planet. And Chris, I just want you to know that as soon as my student loans clear, that sweet ass guitar of yours will be mine. Anyway, I'll try to come if I can, but for now, I'd say you can probably count on me not showing up more often than coming.
Bricktop Betty
She rambled in like pickup sticks, her hair all ragged wicked wild
And called the regulars to tits, she thrust that bricktop suckle, child.
'I'm come,' spake she, 'for sweating fun,
'For eloquence and catching come. Who here among you knows the eldritch ways of knocking legs?'
The old men all just shook their heads;
They peered in beer, and downed the dregs.
And called the regulars to tits, she thrust that bricktop suckle, child.
'I'm come,' spake she, 'for sweating fun,
'For eloquence and catching come. Who here among you knows the eldritch ways of knocking legs?'
The old men all just shook their heads;
They peered in beer, and downed the dregs.
William Shakespeare Writes Corporate Sponsored Poetry
Energizer Batteries: A Sonnet
By William Shakespeare
I hath fallen down dead into the earth
Drained of life I lie pondering why
If only there was a source of new birth
To raise me back to sweet succulent life
At last! I hath found a wondrous gift
A tiny cylinder filled with acid
Oh positive and negative do lift
And now I am energized, death forbid!
How could I have lived without this life source?
I feel I can go on and on and on
Eternal life is now my destined course
My duel with death is now forever won!
Pink bunny so cool beating on thy drum
Energizer Batteries life comes from!
By William Shakespeare
I hath fallen down dead into the earth
Drained of life I lie pondering why
If only there was a source of new birth
To raise me back to sweet succulent life
At last! I hath found a wondrous gift
A tiny cylinder filled with acid
Oh positive and negative do lift
And now I am energized, death forbid!
How could I have lived without this life source?
I feel I can go on and on and on
Eternal life is now my destined course
My duel with death is now forever won!
Pink bunny so cool beating on thy drum
Energizer Batteries life comes from!
Vamos Vamos Vamos
So... no one else wants to drag Oz through the mud. Who's next? Keltin's on vacation but fair game, as are Zach, Kan and I.
I vote for myself, just because I want to see what strange and evil things I'm doing in your heads. Think on it and comment your choice(?)
Schmorgasbord.
I vote for myself, just because I want to see what strange and evil things I'm doing in your heads. Think on it and comment your choice(?)
Schmorgasbord.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Strippers in Atlanta
I went to Cameron's bachelor party night before last. It was fun- the strippers weren't gross.
Well, any more so than any pretty girl who wiggles her nibbly bits on guys noses for dirty one dollar bills. Strippers are gross. I lied.
The strippers kept telling me I needed to tip or get away from the rail, but that's where Cameron was, so I just pretended I was deaf and talked funny and pointed at my ears. Guys kept peeing in the garbage cans in the bathroom, which was fucking weird. Also, there was a really fat guy with a tray of cheap cologne and lotions and shit who squirted the soap in your hand when you used the sink and I think wanted tips but didn't say anything to the guys who kept peeing in the garbage cans.
I have found that paying attention to the strippers is against the spirit of the thing. Either you are coked out of your mind and full of whiskey and think the whole thing is swell, or you drink bud lite and try to stay away from the tables, and just watch, because the setup is unhealthy and pretty weird, and there are 100 guys hoping the stripper offers to go get coked out of her mind and drink whiskey with him. Now- Saturday night- we visited a true Atlanta institution (apparently): the Clermont Lounge.
A piece the newspaper did recently dubbed it 'The stable where old strippers go to die'.
Not only were the strippers on an island in the middle of the smokiest most gnar-drawling bar I've evr drank $1 PBR in, they were, almost uniformly, over forty and wobbling around like PCP had the better of them. One grandma wore a little red riding hood outfit, then a Krispy Kreme getup, and crushed beer cans between her tits. This place was both horrible and inherently honest, stuffed beneath a weekly-rate hotel on a run of Tattoo parlors. I got the inside of my lip tattooed.
The rub was- the joint filled up with an old Cuban DJ in a fuzzy white Kangol hat and more happy, drench-sweating gorgeous twenty and thirty somethings in rockabilly dresses and sunglasses and snappy shoes than I have ever seen, and danced like the paving stones were coming out of their streets and howled and gave dollar bills to women that looked as if they'd cut their hair that morning with a grapefruit spoon.
It was the best bar I've ever been to, and the girls were sharp and quick and danced too well for me and the enormous lesbian bartender put me in a headlock and called me Cuddles at one point. All I did was order a drink, and she dragged me onto the bar by my neck and called me Cuddles and told me I could have a job cleaning the dancefloor, as she gave me a painful noogie and people laughed at me. I am still confused, but the Clermont Lounge was pure 1950's debauchery- the kind of thing I imagined as a small boy when bad things were described to me.
When I first heard punk rock, or metal, I remember being reeeeaaaally disappointed, because they were candycane tame in comparison to what I'd imagined. I eventually found bands to redeem my imagination. It took longer to redeem strip clubs. That place was fucking dynamite.
Oh... there's a tattoo parlour next door.
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