tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25458037323808436242024-02-08T08:25:27.100-08:00raw countryshort american stuffFabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-40212319126958273052012-09-07T09:00:00.004-07:002012-09-07T09:01:07.066-07:00Red Oak <br />
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Every
morning I walk my Dylan around, he is a quiet hound but he pisses on
your foot if you get distracted watching a skirt or a car or what the
hell to write for ten bucks a story in this sparrow-fart town of Red
Oak, Iowa.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wasn't
born here, my mother died immediately after my birth in a hospital in
Iowa City. My father moved here to work in 1976 when I was two years
old and he has been sent here at the old railway station. In fact, if
there are two things that Red Oak is famous for these are the railway
and the Second World War. I'm sorry, I should point out about the
railroad that this town is most famous for its underground rail
system, rather than the one up on the surface. Through these tunnels,
for miles and miles, blacks slaves were helped to escape to the free
states and to Canada during the Civil War. As for the other war, many
guys here have given their lives in Europe and the Congress has given
the name of the town to a battle cruiser years later.</div>
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There was a
time when my father was still alive, that he told me many stories
before I went to bed. Those were not just stories that made you
sleep, they were anything but lullabies. He would sit on the bed and
he would take off his horn-rimmed glasses. Every night for me was a
big dilemma: I did not know if I wanted to listen to that stuff or
not, because I would fall asleep too late, but at the same time I was
dying of curiosity due to the vibrations that his words would cause
me. A year after that I knew enough about what I will tell you here,
I remember that I asked my father why he would tell me that creepy
stuff rather than just fairy tales, but being a lousy writer I will
report what the reason he gave me later in the story, trying in this
way to keep you interested in what will happen.
</div>
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What I can
tell you now is that every time I watch a horror movie I don't feel
any need to cover my eyes.
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If I wrote that Red Oak is
a very small place, or if you like to hear it again a “sparrow-fart
town”, is because few people live here. By the end of the twentieth
century the population grew relatively slowly and the new generations
have ended up in big cities or in other holes on the shores of
America. So here they all seem to know everything about everyone, but
what is curious is that I never heard from others apart from my
father the facts of the underground tunnels. It seems that it is a
great taboo around here. People live their American Dream, and if I
may be so trivial, when I saw Jonathan Harker end up in that inn in
Transylvania to ask for a castle I got up from the couch and went to
the window to look at the last of many sedans parked in the yard with
a wife smiling and waiting for her husband at the door. Asking about
a castle to those happy little family would have broken their
internal balance and would have made them feel uncomfortable
even if they would have tried hard not to show it.
</div>
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The only time that
everyone shown a purely awkward silence was during the telethon of
six years ago, when none other than Johnny Carson himself, who was
born here, made a joke alluding to the "secret business"
that wives of Red Oak would carry on underground once their good
husbands went to sleep at night.</div>
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At that moment, as we were
all standing in front of the small stage behind the Town Hall my
father drummed with his fingers over my shoulder and supposedly we
both enjoyed that moment of truth.
</div>
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Once back
home I told him that embarrassing silence was due to the alleged
infidelity of wives and that wouldn't have to do necessarily with
that problem. He moved from the stove and looked at me with a frying
pan in his hand. He asked me to tell him how old he was, and I told
him that he was exactly the age of Johnny Carson. He then asked me
why Johnny had gone from that place quickly. To seek success
elsewhere? To have a career? I asked that trying to remove all those
suspicions I had just like the people we were talking about.</div>
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He left
because of that hole under his kitchen son.</div>
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A hole? He
had never said anything about any hole in private homes. The only
ones I knew were somewhere in the Town Hall, in the old Methodist
church and in the bathroom of a diner closed for thirty years now. I
would like to point out that the only time I wanted to see if those
holes really existed I shit in my pants and went home. Well, this is
just the first part of the whole story of course, otherwise I would
not know what to tell you and I should give up those precious ten
bucks that I will get from a small literary magazine in Chicago. Ten
lousy dollars for a short true story nobody ever told, can you
believe that?
</div>
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But back to
us, I remember that when I started taking it more seriously was right
after the death of my old man, who left my life at the age of seventy
for a fucking lung cancer. During the months following his death
nothing had happened around me that pushed to get to the bottom of
the matter, something had happened inside me: a series of feelings
motivated by the anger towards a father I loved and who had been left
alone by the entire community because of his ideas. With a big dose
of masochism I wanted to find out if those facts were true along
with the existence of that Black Man of whom he had spoken to me for
many nights, that Black Man that had garrisoned the underground caves
for many many years. When I say the Black Man I mean that he was
black in his complexion and not only that it could be the lord of
darkness. His name was – and I tremble at the thought that still is
- Prince Hall, a legendary figure in the American history over the
last three centuries. He was no ghost, no Boogey Man you could see on
TV or in the latest version at the only cinema in town. He was real
guys, and I wanted to expose all the inhabitants of Red Oak at the
cost of my hair getting white altogether, I wanted to do justice to
my father, that's what.</div>
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The first
thing I did was to finally open my father's handbook. I know it
sounds stupid stuff like the ones you see in the movies, but if you
will show mercy I will tell you that I hadn't found it in a secret
drawer closed with a key hidden in a book. I always knew it was there
on his dresser but as long as he was alive I never had the urgency to
open it. Thing was I didn't want to find myself alone with that
terrifying world, I had room service every night and also a goodnight
kiss that made the pill a little easier to digest.</div>
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The second
thing was to lock myself in the library reading of Red Oak and Prince
lobby with the notebook in hand and with a new brand to try to put
down any track that would anticipate an exploration in those caves.</div>
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When I
grabbed from those high shelves all the books about the underground
system intertwined with the huge drains the librarian gave me a bad
look, but soon he went on minding his business and drinking his pint
of coffee. I had made a big mess, several other volumes had fallen
down on the floor and I lost half a day before concentrating on the
material. At the same time I guess it was all part of the desire to
postpone the thing indefinitely, just like when I was taking small
breaks between one paragraph and another, or when I spent hours
choosing what kind of coffee I wanted from the machine down the hall.
After two months, however, I'd put together an idea about what people
were hiding in Red Oak, and especially what was the reason.
</div>
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Now I will
inform you about a couple of historical backgrounds so that it will
be easier for you to follow the thread of my theory and make your
personal opinion out of it.</div>
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When the
black Freemasonry had found its way into this country at the end of
the eighteenth century - and from Boston it scattered itself
throughout most of the northeastern states - the ideas of
abolitionism had been emulated by many other brothers, many of whom
have received an education by entering the lodges in young age.
During the nineteenth century, and with the fury of the Civil War,
those ideals have found greater strength due to the growing hope due
one of the main purposes of the conflict, the abolition of slavery.
Consequently, the Black Masons, whose founder was none other than
Prince Hall, tried in every way to move their affiliates (not only)
to the Union states so that they could put together a military power
that would allow them to attack the Confederation and free an
overwhelming number of black slaves from the chains.</div>
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In 1863, in
the midst of the conflict, a black lieutenant stationed at the town
of Red Oak sent a letter to Prince Hall himself - whose headquarters
was in Boston - to notify the existence of a very long tunnel that
from Canada would go down south for miles and miles and cross the
Republic of Alabama to finally reach the banks of the Mississippi
river from which began the border to the free state of Mexico. It is
no coincidence the fact that in that letter Canada and the
Mississippi River were referred to as "The Promised Land"
and the "River Jordan".</div>
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It happened
that Prince Hall sent many followers in Red Oak. The plan was to go
down in those caves and set a real iron train that would travel
underground. Through a sophisticated system of espionage blacks
slaves living in the Southern states through a sophisticated would be
gathered in the underground stations and start their journey towards
a freedom they had never known. Everything went well for the first
two years. And in those big books I could admire the drawing of the
coal-fired locomotive “Freedom”, a train that could reach forty
miles per hour underground. The enormous mass of exhaust steam went
up into a complex ventilation system and then emerge from the
manholes on main street here in Red Oak. The white citizens of the
town, totally unaware of that formidable plan, attributed the cause
of that black smoke to the devil that he was underground and that
loved to remind with those high puffs that hell would have been too
close for sinners.</div>
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A year
before the war was won by the Union all went wrong. I found evidence
of this in the diary of a soldier belonging to the Boston Division.
He had collaborated in the success of the plan for the last two
months. Ten thousand slaves were brought to Canada from Alabama, when
a small number went to Mexico, but not before they swam for a mile at
least, in the waters between the Mississippi delta and the coast.
</div>
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The problem
started during the night. The Freedom had been traveling for a month
under the soil of Texas and then, after passing through the other
states it had entered the Republic of Iowa four months later. Its
cargo was about a hundred slaves, some with their entire families.
For the journey they had little food and water they were pretty
exhausted. It was to be considered normal that many would have not
survived to see their Promised Land.</div>
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As I love to
repeat "many" would have been normal, and even if the train
had crashed into a rock and they were all dead - something with a
high probability of risk after all - it was to be described as a
“normal” accident, but when that same soldier went down to the
station that is now under our Town Hall and found a sea of bodies
with a hole in their chest he had decided to use words like "unlikely
typical of normal circumstances" in his letter to Prince Hall.</div>
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And now it's
time to talk a bit about Prince Hall. The man of Caribbean origins
who, as I said, gave rise to the first black Freemasonry. Believed
died in 1807 at the age of seventy-two this man has never ceased to
exist. When I say that a soldier and a lieutenant had sent their
letters to this person, I mean the person, not the name of a Masonic
family that has his name until today. Prince Hall would have written
to these two men about himself in first person putting down his
signature at the bottom. Prince Hall himself would have taken the
train before the end of the Civil War and would have traveled to Red
Oak with a congregation of Masons wearing jewelry, leather apron and
a blue silk collar.</div>
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In his
memoir the same soldier describes the events of those days. He wrote
- and I had found everything already noted in my father's notebook -
that he escorted a group of black men of Boston from the Town Hall
entrance, through the hole and finally to the place of the massacre.</div>
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Prince Hall
has been described as a man who wasn't apparently upset at the sight
of that genocide. The soldier wrote that he walked through the bodies
with a face made of stone and that now and then he would call one of
his brothers to share a few words, like a surgeon who reveals a
drastic situation to his assistant, added the the witness. The second
day the train was dismantled. The operation took place underground,
and everything was done without the knowledge of the white citizens
of Red Oak, who would remained locked up in their houses during that
long winter and eating the food they had accumulated at the end of
the summer. On the third day Prince Hall asked the mayor of the town,
the Methodist Aaron Smith, the granting of the number 103 on Victory
Street. Smith was reluctant despite President Lincoln had sent him a
letter of recommendation for Grand Master Hall. As stated by the
soldier in his writings, at the time there was no need for a black
man to live in one of the seven confederated republics to be subject
to racism. But in the end the will of Lincoln was always more or less
effective in the Union states and Hall managed to get the use of the
two-story building that would have become a diner in the fifties.</div>
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Hall and his
team of thirteen Masons settled in that building and never returned
to the Town Hall. They would only come out early in the morning to
reach their private couch at the town railway depot. From there they
would load a carriage with a series of mysterious wooden crates and
carry them to 103. The day they stopped to come and go with was
already the eighth day that Prince Hall had set foot in the town, and
none of his men were seen on the streets for more than a year.
</div>
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in 1865 the
Civil War was finally over and the Union celebrated its success in
each state with huge parades and parties with tons of alcohol. But as
the soldier continued, 103 Victory Street remained closed as usual
and none of those men was seen around. Once, a group of white
soldiers, having seen the wooden boards nailed to the windows,
thought that building was a brothel and kicked the door in. Two of
them managed to escape and went straight to jump on the Nishnabotna
River were they soon drowned. The others were never found. Another
time, a white preacher making his quest through small towns decided
to camp in there. He broke an axle from a window and went inside. The
man was found the next day lying on the mud of Victory Street, the
rest of his mutilated body was all covered with big burns. A month
later, by the river that cuts through Red Oak, a black man totally
naked was found on the sand with his throat cut from ear to ear. He
was a mason who had arrived in town along with Prince Hall. He was
dead the day after he had revealed to the local newspaper what was
going on inside number 103.</div>
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The director
of the Red Oak Bulletin published the confession on the first page of
the September 7, 1867. I present here a summary of the article: a
black man by the name of Samuel Hinds stepped in the press office on
the morning prior to the day in which he body was found by the river.
He confessed what he had seen and attended inside the number 103,
Victory Street. The details concern the phenomena to which he and the
members of the Masonic cult led by the Master Prince Hall witnessed
during the long period of one year after their arrival in Red Oak.
After bringing the tools of their worship in the building and have it
adapted this into Masonic temple he and his brothers have expanded a
sewer hole forty feet deep in which they entered. Having set up a
small camp underground, in a clearing at the crossroads of an old
railway tunnel and having there practiced their worship every night
in the hope that no further evil things would happen. In this
respect, the man reported the real reason he and his brothers came
into town, describing the mysterious murder of a hundred black
slaves in the intent to escape from the Confederation territory
during the past conflict.</div>
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After
reading the testimony I had taken the trouble to better inform myself
on the Masonic statutes and their regulations. The goal was to
understand the nature of certain objects that were brought to the
building by Prince Hall and his crew, and maybe to discover something
that would have appeared – knowing nothing about Freemasonry –
too much complicated to understand.
</div>
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I opened
some old leather-bound books that contained dozens of rituals and
after I had read them here and there for a long day I was finally
able to understand two things: the first - which in my opinion is the
least important since it's a matter of form – justifies the cruel
killing of the mason Samuel Hinds by the hand of his brothers. In
fact, according to one of the main Masonic amendments, a brother
mustn't tell who to who does not belong to his lodge what happens in
it. It 's the famous Masonic betrayal re-enacted in other
circumstances other than the ones narrated in the Bible. The second
thing concerns the Masonic tools: the article presents a brief list
of the objects that Prince Hall told his brothers to bring at the
number 103: a Bible, which is the most important book in the whole
Masonic ritual, and then, from a number of chairs and jewels and
decorated pillars and rough stones, what is highlighted is the use of
a “long flaming sword”, so-called among Masons. This sword would
have the power to overcome many difficulties while fighting evil, and
more specifically - as it's described in the old manuals – this
powerful weapon can defeat the Lame Goat that lives under the earth's
surface where his reign begins.</div>
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I didn't
need to read too much about the Lame Goat, or the goat with the tail,
horns and hooves, it was the devil. If I believed to that story I
also had to believe in the Devil and that in that same moment he was
looking at me from under the marble floor of the library. It
was a lie big as an elephant and I slammed the book on the table. The
librarian awoke suddenly from his reading and invited me to calm
down.</div>
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I thought I
had wasted all that time, I thought about those cowards who lived in
Red Oak that would laugh at me and my father for believing in that
story. They could laugh at me alright, but my father had died, and
for that reason I couldn't quit. I had to get to the bottom of the
matter, I had to go so deep that I would end up underground, and my
legs started shaking.</div>
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I went down
in November 1993. At the time I did not believe in God nor the Devil,
and people have always said that these two things have always gone
together. I put in a backpack a flashlight, two sandwiches,a bottle
of water and a bottle of whiskey so that, eventually, I could not
believe my eyes.
</div>
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My bike had
a flat tire, so I started walking from my house to the old diner, at
103 Victory Street. At two in the afternoon of a rainy autumn I saw
nobody around, the usual cemetery. It was a normal thing, especially
in a small town, but thinking back to that story, I imagined that
people was hiding behind the windows and that they knew exactly where
I was going. Just like the inhabitants of a village in Transylvania,
at the feet of the castle. Walking along the last avenue before my
destination I was attacked by a strong wind behind him as if it
wanted me to hurry up. Everything was so full of sadness, my
situation was not good: I was alone in the house, my father was dead.
In Red Oak there was anything to do and I hadn't found a woman yet.
If you add that I was going to find the devil, you would feel exactly
the way I did on that day: I was excited by the risk of doing
something different, I was excited by the fear of dying from fright
and never come back. The diner had lost all the chrome plates on the
front and the grout had gone away from the walls. It was a strange
building where two different architectural styles had been fused
together, but after the newer facade was completely gone the old one
had resurfaced, and boy that was scary enough for me to stop and go
back. It seemed like a little church without a steeple, the windows
were closed with plastic panels and cardboard, and in one of the two
on the ground floor there was a circular hole from which you could
see all the darkness inside. At the door still intact and made of
hard oak hung a notice of seizure of the property dated 1962. Having
seen that the door was firmly planted on the ground I went back to
the window and I easily enlarged the hole by ripping off the rest of
the cardboard and plastic. I jumped in and ended up in a large room
occupied half by a long counter with twenty chrome stools all in a
row. On the ground there were pieces of glass, porn magazines, used
condoms, syringes, tourniquets, torn stockings, rat poop and so on.
The smell was unbearable. I took the handkerchief from my pocket, I
poured some water in it and put it on my nose. There was nothing that
suggested the entrance of a hole in that room, and even behind the
counter, nothing.
</div>
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I went to
the bathroom which was paradoxically as big as half the restaurant,
and there I saw a whole square meter of floor made of white tiles
occupied by a mountain of cockroaches moving slowly over each other.
In my life I have never have never been afraid of those animals, they
only made me sick. I took the bottle of whiskey and poured some
of the liquid on them. They moved faster and two large ones, ran on
my legs that I slapped them and squeezed one in one hand. In few
minutes they all returned in the hole, but now they had fifty percent
alcohol whiskey on them. I lit a big match in a single shot and threw
it on them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
(to be
continued)</div>
Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-39963893598190260632012-08-18T08:08:00.002-07:002012-08-18T11:24:52.900-07:00The Lamp Post Man<br />
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Donald
Burgeze was drunk, really drunk, that day that he started to talk
alone in the mirror, Newark suburbs, late, old toys in the backyard.
He had been trying to be better all his life. He wanted to be a
writer. From the very first moment he conceived the meaning of that
word as the people's recognition of him as one. He was excited by all
that stuff: the people, writing books, a writer writes, and the
street going: “hey! Wait a minute! That's him! Who? That fucker
there? Doncha know him? No! Well that's him, don't you fucking read
the papers? No.. I read books, and you're telling me that he's a
writer and not a journalist aren't you? Yeah but, you know...</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What had
brought Donald in the mirror hearing those voices wasn't only
Bushmill's, he had to make peace with an idea that had been haunting
him for ten years. It wasn't the first time he had stepped in the
toilet and stood there for a long while, he thought that it would
make him feel normal again, that other people didn't exist and that
it was all in his mind, reality just a big creation of his own, no
God, no good and evil, no nothing, just a neat hard-glass mirror with
toothpaste stains on it.
</div>
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The first
time he had ended up in the toilet was after a dozen nights spent
re-writing “the night was humid”, studying the sound of that
statement, so unfamiliar to him, so bold like he wanted to prove
something that wasn't in him yet. The night could have been “moist”
or “wet” or “soaked in acid”, it wouldn't matter to him,
cause there was no story to tell, but just the beginning of a pure
emulation, a writer's act, and even after two pages he couldn't
understand whether he liked it or not.
</div>
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He thought
that he had gone out to offer a sample of a tasteless imitation of
some good wine. But the people weren't so stupid. Non that stupid at
least.</div>
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Than he got
better. Maybe it all began when he saw that man outside his window,
“<i>standing there in Clinton Avenue as a black lamp post that had
lost its light, sad for something that had happened to him two years
ago somewhere south, and ended up in that large brick basin that
sloped toward the long Passaic river.”</i></div>
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That was his first story incipit as a writer, and he was enthralled
by it at the very first moment he had put it down with frantic
fingers on the keyboard. Then Donald returned to the window and that
man had disappeared even if he thought he had seen him for a second
sneaking in a “<i>dark alley as a furious cat”</i>, he would have
written later two days before he sold for fifty dollars the first
chapter to a web magazine.
</div>
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For a long year Donald had been in deep trouble, the man was no more
out there kicking cans and giving to him that constant spark that
would ignite the rest of his novel. Yes, he saw him a couple of
times more fighting with a “<i>big slavish bull that used to sell
dope all over the neighborhood</i>”, but that was the last time for
him. The second act had been set on that moment, and it started off:
<i>“ The man had left Georgia State to experiment wild life, his
love was gone, his dream was over and done and he needed to get back
to the evil roots of humanity, and what better than Newark could
satisfy that desire? A big dark cathedral whose transepts were the
empty streets heading nowhere and the main entrance was just an open
throat to the black ocean.”</i></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By the time he had finished the third act he never saw that man
again. Donald's name was printed in the Newark Post's art section
only two weeks after the last three chapters were released on the web
magazine. Page 23, “BURGEZE, THE WRITER WHO TELLS THE TRUTH”, was
the title of the article that praised the skills of young writer
Donald, his capacity, of how – as the writer himself had declared
in his first interview - he had followed that man from day one when
he first saw him standing outside his window. <i>The Lamp Post Man
</i>was a ninety-nine pages novel whose synopsis said it was built on
a game of real testimonies put together to depict a mysterious man's
identity and story. The article went on: “Burgeze highly plays with
non-fiction by using self-collected proofs. He's got a humble will to
provide the reader with a <i>very</i> possible story”.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Seven years had passed since
Donald's first attempt to write, and it took only the last two months
for fame to claim it hers and let him buy a new car and a bigger
fridge. <i>The Lamp Post
Man </i>wasn't a best
seller by spring, but easily, it could have reached the top ten in
Jersey within one year time.
</div>
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Donald was going to be forty soon, the eternal “I did it” smile
on his face. He also managed to pay a cleaner and get rid of those
toothpaste stains on the mirror. And there he was, shaved and shiny
like a respectable man, a writer. Now he believed he was his own boss
even if the new editor would ask him to write something boring soon.
Why don't you write about women on the moon waiting for husbands to
come back from visiting planet earth? You have to dare Don! It's 2012
for chrissake!
</div>
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I can't even say how in hell your book has hit the jackpot so much
being something people have read a thousand times... That's what his
short agent had told him in the restaurant, pushing him into take
advantage of the fact that his name was still in the air, and that it
would be good for him to write something that would really prove his
talent.</div>
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You talkin' about my story? You didn't like it? Donald asked the
editor who was slowly chewing a big piece of lobster.</div>
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Listen Don, this never happened to me. I know you two weeks and I
still wanna be your friend but I feel unsafe with you... I feel you
got some kind of angel somewhere...</div>
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Think so? Have you read my book?</div>
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Hey... it's not bad, did I tell you that it's bad? No, never, I never
told you that Don.</div>
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Then what's with this angel? Do you think I got some kind of
recommendation?</div>
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Sometimes I do, honestly, I published some nice non-fiction writers
before, and believe me when I tell you that whenever I had all the
critics on their side it took no less than one year. Here I'm talking
about something fast, too fast maybe and I can feel the heat around
me. You might say that I don't like to win easy cause in this
business that's never a success... Yeah you could say that.</div>
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Donald pushed his dessert away.</div>
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Alright, listen carefully Don, I'm not telling you this because I'm
your real friend. This is business. Only I don't want to fuck up with
the wrong angel and find myself starting from scratches again. I took
a risk with you, and whenever I take one I know exactly how long does
it take to win or lose.
</div>
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I get what you're saying, said Donald who more than once felt like he
couldn't explain to himself how everything had gone uphill so fast
for him. He reckoned it might have been the market, nice and simple,
mainly the short man before him who managed to call the web magazine
and make a nice bid, critics in his pockets, ok, also good writing –
of course he had thought about that - but what else? What angel?
Suddenly he remembered that time he saw that face down in the street
looking at him. Donald freaked and stepped back from the window, then
he sat back and put his fingers on the keyboard getting inspiration
from that look, trying to get what must have been beyound those deep
eyes that never blinked under the heavy rain.
</div>
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He didn't know anything about that man. Of course, he was just a John
Doe that happened to give his fingers some inspiration after a “humid
night” seven years long. His novel was fiction all over, only it
was sold as a product of an author who would step out of his cozy
room to go after the last man minding his business in Clinton Avenue
late at night. The web magazine had already labeled it that way, and
Donald wouldn't mind as long as he got his fifty bucks, the first
money he ever made out of writing.</div>
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I don't know nothing about no angel sir, Donald concluded in the end
still thinking about that man.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Don... The only reason why we're making business together it's that
every single publisher wanted a piece of you, I just got faster than
anybody understand? You and your Lamp Post novel were in some sort of
a big auction, who would pop big money for you would win the race,
but I tell you son, books aren't just horses in a track, this is a
poor market and whenever it gets rich it takes at least the time for
those fucking critics to come back from their holidays...</div>
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Donald went back home, Clinton Avenue was of a bright red with all
that water dripping on those brick buildings. A long sedan was there
by the sidewalk, black windows and all, “silent as a coffin”
Donald readily noted in his mind.
</div>
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Funny thing was that he thought it had always been there, across the
road, but he just couldn't bet on it. He walked up the dim stares and
locked himself up, he was home now, with plenty of time to get
himself a drink and lay on the sofa. At one point the deep silence in
the room invited him to stand up and make some noise. Like a kid
trying to push away an incoming twist of terror Donald started to
talk alone, repeating passages from his novel and moving in circles.
He would silently laugh, caught now and then by a stroke of vanity,
till when, as a ball in a spinner he would let himself reach the
window again.</div>
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He was there, staring at Donald with those deep eyes whose real story
was impossible to tell. He turned his face to the door, was he safe?
He got back to the window. The man had disappeared, supposedly
mounted in that sedan that wasn't there anymore.
</div>
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If angel was the name of a secret helper that was greasing his way up
to success, that man down there didn't look like no angel. He was
more likely to be shark that wanted his money back or some other
lowlife with the suit and the driver. While thinking fuck it and I
don't care Donald tripped over the carpet and fell. There was
something solid underneath it, and at first glance he thought it was
a rat but it wasn't. It was a round piece of plastic, a camera with
its electronic eye pointed at his laptop screen. Just a tiny hole on
the rug. It was looking at his laptop.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Two days had passed since that night and Donald made sure he spent
them outside his flat. He would go home just for dinner, get straight
to bed and be sure he pulled the sheets over his head. He would wake
up at the scream of an ambulance and he would stare at that red light
under the carpet.</div>
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The same day Donald happened to know the truth he had decided to call
his editor. Also he couldn't get on with his new thing, that if it
wasn't already hard to put down it also required his stressed mind to
calm down and focus on the new subject. What he could do, Donald
thought while listening to the cold voice of the editor, was to write
a sequel of<i> The Lamp Post Man</i>. His fingers wanted to be back
on it so bad that he couldn't stand still in his chair. That was the
only thing to be done, he was out of motivation for everything else.
And he had a lot of material too, more than before: that face, the
car, the camera hidden under the carpet. He just had to put all the
things together in a nice thriller and he would have sold more copies
than ever. He knew it as well as he knew that his editor would have
finally quit bothering him with the conspiracy theory and all that
angel nonsense.</div>
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Donald took few breaks from writing and he kept sipping a full glass
of brandy that lasted until he finished writing half of the first
chapter: “<i>What's survived in my mind, what I saw was him again,
and I really couldn't believe he hadn't changed a bit, fire and
demolition were still in his eyes, he remained the living proof of
hatred and despair, a man that had lost everything in his life could
turn into a devil...”</i></div>
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Donald turned the TV on and saw his face in the news. The word
“devil” had produced an endless echo in the air and he raised the
volume to see if he had won another prize he forgot about. He heard
the newsman going: “...young and successful writer Donald Burgeze
has been found dead in his flat in Clinton Avenue two hours ago.
Coroner said it was a hundred percent murder and that the killer left
a message written with the blood of the victim.</div>
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Experts believe that the man who stabbed the writer in the chest
sixteen times is the main character of Burgeze's best seller and
non-fiction novel <i>The Lamp Post Man</i>, yes you got it right, the
same man whose story Burgeze wrote in his ninety-nine pages novel. A
bit of advertizing now folks and then back with this <i>sad </i>and
amazing story...”
</div>
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Donald gulped down a dry rock and watched the door. He approached the
window expecting to see him right there. But he wasn't, he was behind
him.</div>
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Yes, Donald could feel the thhick breathe of a man exhaling on his
shoulder. Once he had found the courage to turn back and face him it
was the first time he had seen him that close. His chin was thin and
pointy, a better version of Carl Malden's nose was stuck between
those two “piss holes in the snow”, deep, black eyes staring at
him without a blink. Then he spoke.</div>
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Do you know why I'm here?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What do you want?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I think you know...</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Donald peed on his pants instantly. He couldn't move, that man looked
like he could control every single movement. The next thing that came
out of his mouth was why: why that incredible thing he just heard on
TV, why all that fast success had his editor skeptic about his
talent, why? Why Donald was afraid and kind of certain he was going
to get stabbed and killed?</div>
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Why? He finally asked.</div>
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Because there's always something better you can sell to the people.
You don't understand do you?</div>
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We bugged your flat to know exactly what were you doin' from the day
you submitted your chapter to the webzine. We suggested them to
exaggerate your persona a little bit. To have you more like an
adventurer, to follow this man and get to write some exclusive bits
of his existence. And you did a good job Donald. I mean, wait a
second, your prose sucks and we had to pay a lot for those critics
but the thing you're really good with is mystery. You did a good job
with me, you made everything up but it doesn't matter Donald, you did
a good job.</div>
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Thanks.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sure.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What's gonna happen now?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sit down, I'll tell you something else first, ok?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Donald was shaking, but if he had survived to that meeting and
somebody would ask him about that man he would have said that
those manners and that face had charmed him from the beginning to the
end of that conversation. Still he couldn't see why he had to be
wasted at all.</div>
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You see Donald... By the way, do you mind if I call you Don?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Go ahead...</div>
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We are the reason of your success Don, your editor wasn't wrong. But
he doesn't need to worry now cause he's dead.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Why??</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, more or less it's the same reason why I have to kill you too.
Don you're about to take part to the biggest thing literature has
ever accomplished. You're gonna be remembered forever Don.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Listen to me: you write a decent book, we find it and we like it, but
most of all we make some adjustments on your figure as a writer. We
like your title though, it's dark and mysterious. We provide you with
a flesh and bones lamp post man, which is me, right here and now.
He's a very dangerous man , a “devil”, as you wrote one hour ago
on your sequel there. He saw you after him and he wants to get rid of
you and your editor. We sell this story, a true story about the end
of a true story teller as you are and we get stinking rich Don.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But... You gonna need someone to write it down.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We know.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What about me?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
No, I'm sorry but it takes a good one now, the story is too big.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Can I give you a good title?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You sure can Don.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ehm... What about “The Return of the Lamp Post Man”?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shit, you really are crap Don.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-37071439921705669922012-07-30T08:59:00.004-07:002012-08-18T08:06:58.613-07:00The Comedian<br />
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<br /></div>
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The Ole Oscar Theater in
New York was a shithole, Luke thought to himself. A comedian has to
start from somewhere, he would say to his friends after the fifth
round of shots at the Lab. Yep, we all do, one would say, and what
about hecklers? Luke would pour himself another one, down the
hatchet, a cool grin and “that shit makes you tougher doncha think?
It gives you character, talent alone is nothing boys, you should know
that by now...”</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In those nights at the
Lab there was always the man to
whom they owed the rent. A comedian too, an old one, Lenny
Bruce style, sitting in a wheeled chair behind them with the gazette
always at the same page, the horses, a matter that had brought him in
the audience for once, winning money or losing money, no shakes, no
embarrassing silence and no fame, just some win win extra buck with
no kicker.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Occasionally Luke would
look at him, the only source of doubt for what he was saying, a piece
of a fussy audience that man was, while those scared boys would yeah
yeah Luke like little monkeys holding hands in circle, all scared of
the stage.</div>
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Fifty miles far from the
Lab Luke had lost that cool grin of his. He wasn't home, his father
wasn't there either and he would really need to get some confidence
and some sense of belonging now. His father Jonah was at work,
struggling to make ends meet in this recession.
</div>
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Tense like a howl sitting
on a thin branch he moved his eyes from the leather cushions to a big
tall glass of tap water in front of him. He felt like he had to drink
it all as if he was in some strange hospital, humor surgery, yeah,
but was he that good? Fuck it. What the fuck, fucking job... Hecklers
were already shouting out there, beyond that thick crimson curtain,
getting warmed up for the hunt: let's bring him down, let's pay these
five bucks and have a laugh just like in High School ok? You're all
set guys? And then a greedy Hitchcock-like “yees...” just when
the curtain was slowly pulled open and revealed the dark mahogany
stage where the bird was going to put his tiny hairless foot. Woop
woop! And Yeah, ALRIGHT!! All those c'mons hollered from the back row
where the “Heckler's spectators” were sitting ready to watch
their show.</div>
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Luke appeared showing a
two-bit worth confident smile, he didn't even look like he was out of
control on purpose, as many comedians would rather go for, and he
happened to be there without a plan. He knew for a fact that the
owner wanted him to finish earlier so that those naked girls could
get on stage. Smudged and confused notes came up to his mind
altogether: smokers, white is beautiful, the coward street fighter,
Scranton police, girlfriends on bachelor's parties, weed, Nixon
horsefucked in prison, dykes on holidays, fuck English, how I spent
the first day with my dick, satisfied taxpayers, limo hookers, Elvis
taking a crap while singing, my new van, let's get high, and finally
his favorite let's kill dogs and avoid war... The long list was
scrolling down too quickly in his head and he couldn't catch any of
those lines. He looked at the green emergency exit. I'm fucked, he
thought while the seconds passed and the temperature in the audience
got hotter. Oh yes, he could already spot the hint of an
unfair phrase out of the lips of those unfriendly faces. Fuck it.</div>
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Hi... I'm Luke and I'm a
comedian...</div>
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Silence, just a quick
“hurry up!” shouted a guy with a big coke from the front seat.</div>
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You know, what I don't
understand about comedy gigs is that huge glass of water they want
you to drink. Why not whiskey uh?</div>
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Silence.</div>
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…You know I've drank it
all and now I need to take a long leak... So? What's it about? Do
they want me to finish earlier cause
the guy has to clean the crapper before ten?</div>
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Silence. Luke thought
that one of those clues at the Lab was just right for the intro:
“<i>Forget about the list, just improvise some stuff that they can
see: a stool, a glass of water, the curtain. Make them feel like you
are a good improviser and you'll win their respect.”</i></div>
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A possible sign of
appreciation from the audience, if real, was not to be put into
words, but just the low breathe and the sound of straws shaking ice
in the cocktails.</div>
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You know? I was born in
Fyffe...</div>
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Heckler: Where is that?</div>
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Oh it's Alabama man...</div>
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He wasn't even born in
Alabama, a Brooklyn Jew he was, but he thought that he could create
something funny out of that lie, and he was wrong now that it was too
late.</div>
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Heckler: The fuck are you
doin' here?
</div>
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(Laugh)</div>
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Oh well, I get paid to
make you laugh asshole...</div>
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Luke knew that he had
pushed it too far and too soon. But those excited verses from the
women out there made him stronger. Problem was what's next to that?
He knew it was just a jolly, a sparkle of nitro for a slow car
running in a straight line, and what about the incoming bends? What
about those driving skills? What about talent and character? A
suspended bunch of glorious seconds were to disappear soon to leave
him in a new and even worst beginning. He knew that, so he rushed it.</div>
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And what's that lousy
Jamaican shirt you're wearing pal?</div>
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A collective laughter,
definitively brief.</div>
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This is not Cancun
mister, this is the Ole Oscar friend... And Luke looked around as if
he was not sure about the
importance of that name. And they laughed, and finally he
thought he was on the right track. Only that guy wouldn't let it go
that easily, they were still even after all.</div>
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Heckler: you got
something against my shirt jerkoff?</div>
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Oh no, not at all, just
against who's wearing it, that's too much for you sir, you look like
an optical illusion...</div>
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He knew that last phrase
was too long, it did sound like a conversation bit, nothing like a
comedian on stage. Just two people
arguing in the street, that's what it looked like, and why a comedian
should do that? Where was the difference? That heckler wasn't going
too far, it was his job, and Luke's job was to stall it with style,
evoking people's laughter to shut him up, make him hesitate so that
he could grab the ball and get on with his act again.</div>
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Do you know how many
smokers live in Fyffe? Jeezus,
would you believe me if I tell you that...</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hecker: I wouldn't
believe to any of that shit you gonna say anyway bozo...</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh... Is that a fact?</div>
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Heckler: Yeah!</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh yeah?</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Heckler: Yeah!</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Right...</div>
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<span style="color: black;">Voices
had destroyed the previous calm of a difficult game yet still open,
some laughing and some booing at Luke. All it had been ruined now,
that sacred silence was gone. It was the democratic chance of every
comedian who would step in that cage of lions that now had been
covered with soap.</span><span style="color: red;"> </span>Luke reckoned
that he still had to learn how. His act was over. The heckler had
won. Ashamed like hell Luke was now standing there with the mike up
is ass. Then he came off the stage facing the boos of the front row
with that guy still calling him looser, go home and whatnot.</div>
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When the girls started to
dance a lousy can-can all half-naked Luke was already having a light
beer alone, small tears in his eyes, his hands clasped in two fists.</div>
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The owner's head popped
out of the big crowd like a plastic puppet reciting “you don't even
get the open bar tonight boy, and what's with that stunt anyway? Man
up Luke, and do it fast for another place cause from now on you're
just another customer here. I don't wanna see your ass on that stage
anymore, okay?</div>
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He
arrived home with his red Chevette whose scratches were covered with
stickers saying “laugh at name and I'll get paid”, “I'm not a
man, I'm a comedian”, “Yes I know, I'm driving a shit-car”,
“Call me loser please”, “One day you gonna read of me” and so
forth...</div>
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His old man and him had
been living in a old house for twenty-six years, which was Luke's age
and just half of his mother's when she had reached heaven after
having bounced on Manhattan's asphalt.</div>
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That same old house
seemed haunted that night that had finished too early for Luke. He
opened the front door and went to the kitchen, put together a baloney
& mayo sandwich, grabbed a coke from the fridge and turned the
small TV set on. A reporter was trying to say something under a cloud
of dust, a twin set of skyscrapers had collapsed behind his back.
America would air that tape forever, and Luke turned it off, tired to
see more of that sad footage after seven years, now that offices were
the most safe places in town, being no people in them.</div>
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Outside the kitchen
window a parade of sport cars slowly cruised down the road. Those
powerful engines muttered something bad in the chilly air, and it
reminded Luke of that fucking guy in the audience, trying to waste
his act all the time. That bastard owned him from a privileged
position, so easy, thought Luke. And what about the people who had
paid five dollars for the show? He fucking hated the guy.</div>
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He stepped on the stairs,
no sound from the first floor.
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Dad?</div>
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Silence. That heckler's
voice was sill bouncing like a spiky little ball in his head.</div>
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Dad?</div>
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Walking the dim corridor
he got no answer, maybe he was sleeping. That early? Luke wondered if
everything had to be fucking early that night. He entered his
father's room, Jonah as in “Jonah and the whale”, real Jewish.
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Dad? Dinner?</div>
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The bed was empty, but
Luke saw one hand lying on the floor beside the bed. Fuck!
Dad! Oh God. The ambulance got there but it was too late. Jonah had
killed himself putting some lye in a full glass of lemon cordial. He
had left a piece of paper on the bed. Luke read it again and again
sitting alone in the kitchen.</div>
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<i>A man without a job is
not a man anymore son.</i></div>
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<i>Forgive me,</i></div>
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<i>your father.</i></div>
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The crack had brought the
Lebovits to their knees. Their bank account had been frozen for
months and bills were long as cheap toilet paper. Not a word, Luke
was intelligent enough to understand how his father's smile had
changed during that 2008. But he was a good man, the best man on
earth.</div>
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On
Bar Mitzvah Jonah gave to his son some toys and a nice comedy
record: <i>The Andy Kaufman Special aka Andy's Funhouse, recorded
1977 and aired on ABC in 1979.</i></div>
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Luke thought about that
voice changing, making impressions and then becoming real again, the
voice of a sad man who just wanted to please himself, that was it. He
wanted to make himself laugh first of all that Andy. Audience's
reaction was a consequence of it and nothing more; he wouldn't care
and they would laugh, he owned the stage as a shy guy whose act was
perfect, locked up in his own world, high quality art.
</div>
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Luke would put much
effort into being normal, confident, and that would crash him before
he could make the difference. There had been comedians too afraid of
locking themselves up, even the big ones, miserably laughing at their
own jokes to fill up that embarrassing silence, trying to be cool
just like the audience did whenever it turned into a stupid giant
with no face, a bunch of human beings backing up the heckler or the
satisfied one just the get an identity in the group, so easy. “<i>The
more risk a comedian takes the more bravos he would get in the end</i>”,
the Lab would teach him, but it was a very thin line to walk and Luke
knew it.</div>
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After the death of his
father he practiced in the mirror for three month, but still he
couldn't get what he wanted. Vanity would precede him. So he moved
away from it and turned on the camera. At the beginning he couldn't
get rid of the electronic eye but in time he would go down to the
kitchen, eat his sandwich and suddenly remember that it was all on
tape. Then he would watch himself changing expressions and vocabulary
inside his most familiar environment, but still it wasn't enough. It
seemed too easy and unnatural.</div>
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When he realized that he
needed a job he got it in one day: Kitchen Porter in a Thai
restaurant downtown, he said to his father tomb before laying a rock
on his grave. He started to cry at night thinking of him but he would
always get up early in the morning when all New York City seemed as
if it was built that same night, ready for hope and progress. He
would cycle to the City Hall, put his backpack down and an empty
paper glass in front of him. Then he would start talking as if he
wouldn't care, taking a big load off, moving his hands all over his
body just like he did under the shower, singing occasionally and
removing with all those clever lines all the grease that American
society would dump on individuals. Luke would see amidst the people a
giant moving on fake behalf of its single members, talking politics
and smiling like an hypocrite. The way he would show this grudge
would make him look like an unintended creep that was left alone in
his room to complain with himself, and all the people in the street
would laugh at him as they never did and as if they didn't want him
to notice. Luke had never thought comedy could have been so real.
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One night he decided to
get back to the Ole Oscar. There in his mind was still the memory of
that night with the heckler and that dead hand beside his father's
bed.</div>
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The owner didn't
recognize him, Luke was just another asshole booed on stage after
all. He left the glass full of water on the stool and moved away the
curtain. The people down there were talking loud and didn't expect
him to start that soon but nobody complained.</div>
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Sorry I'm early but I
don't care, really I'm sorry folks but I couldn't give a shit...</div>
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He looked honestly
stressed and a couple laughed immediately at that opening. That
heckler was there, same seat, drinking his tall soda. Luke spotted
him and his mind didn't even go “what the hell”, he just went
after him as if he was somebody that happened to be in his
cross-hairs for too long.
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Say man? Why are you
looking at my dick?</div>
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Laughs.</div>
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Heckler: Hey how you
doin' darlin'? What you gonna do this time? Run?</div>
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Luke remained serious
till he could, than he panicked for a bit and returned to the heckler
pretending to be someone who was afraid of get beaten up in the
street. The rest of the audience saw him taking off his shirt and
jumping as a the slimmest boxer they had ever seen.
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No man, I'm gonna stay
here just for you... ding, let's fight the heckler... bum bum, bum
bum!</div>
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He pretended he was
boxing with him, a real looser living in a world of his own, fighting
the dragon with a wooden sword. That number had been a must for
comedians as Richard Pryor in the seventies: a ridicule slim boxer
trying to scare the big one.</div>
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More couples began to
laugh: the show had been unpredictable and funny till that moment and
there was nothing better for five bucks.
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What's your name Ace?</div>
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Heckler: “fuck you”
is my name bozo...</div>
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Suddenly Luke got what
hecklers were about: angry people with no creativity, not even the
two-bit fast rebuttal you would get arguing in the streets. They
would just take advantage of their easy power by bombing a difficult
profession. Most of the times, Luke reckoned, they would show more
muscles than brain, sitting aside some tits and legs with a nasal
voice who would get wet on some man's talk.
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Alright, listen Fuckyou,
I went downtown the other day, I cycled all the way to fuckin'
Manhattan and I saw a couple of Fuckyous in front of Ground Zero ok?
Do you remember what happened? – alright, maybe you were watching
American Gladiator and drinking a flat can of Miller and whispering
some “Too Fast and Too Furious” bullshit to your lady
“Titsandlegs” over there – but I have some consideration of
your tribe and I'll tell you what happened alright?</div>
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Luke got the attention of
the audience, his flanks were almost covered now, but he had to keep
on. It was a risky improvisation and yet a story was about to be
told.</div>
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This tribe of yours man
is a pure fuck-up lemme tell ya... Do you know how to spot a Fuckyou
member in the street? Ok, ok... Folks you're lucky tonight, you got
yourselves the biggest sample you'll ever get, but I wasn't this
lucky you know?
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I was crossing the street
with that big nowhere in front of my face reminding me how words fly
even higher than planes when I hear a voice behind me saying “That's
fucking huge Wendy! Jesus Wendy! Do you see that?” I tell you,
Wendy was having fries while trying to walk as a Dalì elephant on
her ten-inch stilettos. Her MacDonald big ass would nod the slowest
“no” on earth folks, and it meant that no other chick, not even
Paris Hilton could have his own Fuckyou boyfriend. He was her own
fuck-up deal guys, cause who among the “chewing mortals” would
walk her around all the time believing the fact that a giant
“Taylorist burger burp” could mean true love to him, that making
love to a nail-painted pudding could make him fart as he was still
ten, feeling all the <i>luv</i> in the world while watching what
those Islam warriors had done to his country and his flag.
</div>
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Audience was hypnotized.</div>
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I tell you folks, I was
trying not to, I know I got a job to do and since I'm cooooomedian
and I have to make you laugh... I must take the shit out of these
Fuckyou boys and Titsandlegs women all the time, even tonight, right
boy? He concluded addressing the heckler.</div>
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Heckler: FUCK YOU MAN!!
I'LL FUCK YOU UP KNOW!!</div>
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You see what I'm saying
folks??</div>
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And everybody laughed
crazy. It was a real show, and even more real when the heckler jumped
on the stage and started running after Luke who was still engaging
the audience with “you see what I'm saying?” Then the heckler's
girlfriend hollered “Fuck him up Jim!” but Jim had too many fat
muscles to get a hold on Luke who had stepped out of the stage and
now was shaking hands to all the people who could hardly believe that
it had been a total improvisation.</div>
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At a certain point, tired
to run, he went outside through the emergency exit. The audience
followed him in the silent street of another night started early and
already about to finish.</div>
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Luke grabbed a yellow
plastic cone from the asphalt and started to wave it at Jim like a
sword. Jim ran toward him as a raging bull but Luke felt ready and
still sober like in all those five weeks after that miserable night.</div>
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He waited for the right
moment and then he hit Jim from above as a crazy toreador. The
fuck-up beast bit the dust and closed his eyes. The people stopped
laughing. The police came, handcuffed Luke who watched out of the car
window and saw that old comedian from the Lab shaking his head from
the top of his wheeled chair.</div>
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Luke Lebovitz managed to
be a comedian, but never a man.</div>
</div>
Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-66616459073817150092012-05-13T08:13:00.003-07:002012-05-17T11:47:50.646-07:00The Great Bixby (The Job)<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’d like to spare it for another
night guys, but this is brilliant. I was told this story and more of them fifteen
years ago when I was having a beer in Cleveland and this old man came to me.
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What are you? He asked with a cigarette stuck in his mouth as if it would have
been there since he was born. A journalist? Sort of, I replied. Well you might
be interested in some old stories I happen to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uh, ok… I said pulling my recorder out of my
pocket. What’s with that? I told him that my memory wasn’t the best and that…
Turn it off son, you’re not a Hoover boy are ya? You mean a fed? Yeah, what the
heck did I say? No no I ain’t mister, I’m just a student. I study fiction…
Fiction? The hell is that? I create stories you know how it is… No I don’t know
how it is… Alright, alright enough! Bring in your notebook and I’m gonna let
you have it son… <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I had with me a small block of
paper, the same where I wrote orders at the campus cafè. Yeah that will do… Here,
use my pen. He gave me a pen that wasn’t just a pen, but an art-deco
Wahl-Eversharp fountain pen that once I tried it on paper it leaked ink all
over it. I said fuck and the old man frowned grabbing my arm. Hey! You talk
with some respect when you hold that pen you follow? That’s Bobby Randall’s pen,
he gave it to me when he died and you mind your words kid… Well Mr… I’m Roy
Shelton Bixby. Mr. Bixby I apologize, that’s really a nice piece of antique! Oh
to hell with it boy, it’s just a pen… Listen now, if you buy me a drink I’ll
tell you about “the job”… Sure, beer? Yeah, buy me a chaser of that beer and a
shot of good Old Overholt and you’ll have your goddamn story, a real one for a
change.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It took ten minutes for the
bartender to find that old bottle of rye whisky, but it was there where it had
always been, behind all those shiny unsmelly brand-new globalized spirits with
different names but still sons of the same concept, progress, future and
whatever. I could feel America standing behind them as a frowny wild cat
incapable of resting. The old man swallowed his first whisky in one gulp and
took a sip of his chaser. Then he looked at me. Alright kid, you got a spare
cigarette?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
Job<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
night was moist that 15<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> of June in Cleveland. Roy Bixby was
counting all those unfinished cigarette butts on the golden over-brimmed
ashtray or scattered here and there on the floor. He thought that he would have
spared some dollars for another bottle of gin instead of buying Camels again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought he could do that but he knew for a
fact that he was a big smoker, especially when he drank. So he would stand
still in his office chair trying to solve that conundrum. Booze or smokes, booze
or smokes? He lit up half a cigarette and looked at the door opening. A rich
woman would appear there in front of him. Beautiful, crossing her legs and
asking for a light with that office finally turning into a respectable place
with no dirty corners and no stains of alcohol or ancient phlegm everywhere.
She might leave me a bunch of her long classy cigarettes too, he fancied. No,
no, she’d give me tons of money to find her stupid cat and then we’d go dancing
at the Euclid and I would be her rich lover, yeah… sure, he sadly concluded
sipping what remained of his quarter of rye whiskey. Yeah sure. You’re still
dreaming Roy. And as if he was really dreaming the phone woke him up sounding
like a train whistle in a cemetery. What the hell! It scared the shit out of
Roy Bixby alright. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Roy? It
was John Leonard, AKA Lenny or “John Gimmeacall” for the reason that he used to
pay back his debts by providing clients to Roy or to the Police Departement.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yup.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
drunk?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Whaddaya
care?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I got a
job for you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Forget
it John I’m closing up. Gimme the money instead.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It’s a
small talk, then you’re free to go and buy another bottle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I need
cigarettes too…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Than
take this job. A guy should drop by in fifteen minutes or so.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What is
it?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Easy
stuff, nice pay.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No
kicker?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No
kicker.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">All
right, I’ll take it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Good, I’ll
give you a call later.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">For
Chrissake, thought Roy. His head was like a balloon with broken toys in it. A
small talk, yeah sure… So what? He said aloud. Right after the last sip he reckoned
that he was a thirty-five years old man who complained almost about everything.
Might as well let that guy in. He was a private detective after all…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">One of
his smaller troubles was that he felt alone in his dull existence. He craved to
talk to someone just for kicks but that room was business and his dick attitude
wouldn’t let him, so that he looked like a taciturn asshole most of the time.
That’s what you get Roy, burping up all that whisky as an old tractor. That’s
what you get when you help people solving their stupid problems, they would
leave you alone in the end. Alone and welcome, that’s it. To hell with it. He
kept wracking his brain on that thought but he couldn’t cry anymore but if he
would have considered again that a private detective was the one who would get
to know people’s secrets, you can bet your ass he would have cried as a kid
cause he wouldn’t get any friends out of it at last. He was aware that secrets
were the key to friendship in that life. Knowing all those things and not being
loved in return was inhuman. Ok, there were lies at the beginning, because it
would take too much for a client to tell him that he was a queer in the first
place. The case could have been solved earlier with no lies, but since he was
to be paid by the day lies made him richer, so to hell with it. His wallet
would get empty pretty soon and all those lies would please him just for a
while, then again the truth as heavy as a granite block would fall on his head
in a hangover morning when he’d wake up alone and miserable with no cigarettes.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Somebody
knocked twice on the glass panel where the smudged letters “R Y BIX Y” appeared
outside on the silent corridor of The Big Memphis Hotel. Yeah, to hell with it…
said Roy scratching his eyes and slapping himself a bit. What do I care? The
door opened and a guy without money walked toward him and sat on the small
wooden chair in front of his desk. Roy was glad for the fact that maybe he
wouldn’t waste too much time being the other moving so fast and all. Maybe he’s
gonna speak even faster and I can go to bed and start with it first thing
tomorrow, he thought smiling as a kid, but he wasn’t even thinking, really, he
was drunk as a barrel. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mr.
Bixby?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m
Terry. Mr. Leonard told me that you might need some details.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Details
for what?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">For a
job.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A job.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yes.
Lots of money.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh
yeah. There is this woman. Someone stole her diamond and she’s ready to pay a
lot of money if you find it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh
really? If it’s a lot of money why don’t you find it yourself?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m not
very good at this kind of things Mr. Bixby. I live on the street…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What
are you in for then?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Five
bucks.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Here’s
one. Talk. The rest later, maybe…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright,
listen. Yesterday night a man called Frank Sender broke into this rich woman’s
house and stole her dead husband’s diamond. She didn’t call the police but she
called me to help. But I ain’t got a gun sir, so? What do a I do? I thought it
was better to tell what I knew to a pro, make few bucks out of it and goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
Sender guy, you know where he lives?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh
yeah. 51 Morris Street. He’s a full time hustler.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What
where you doin’ there?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I was
eating a sandwich.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A sandwich?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah,
the thing is, I was walking there when I saw this guy sneaking out of a window.
I knew that it was Mrs. Budreau’s window. I bring paper and milk now and then,
you know how it is…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No I
don’t know how it is… But I might wanna talk with this lady. She’s the one who
pays in the end is she?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah
but she’s in Florida now.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I don’t
like it… What’s your name kid?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Terry,
I told you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That’s
it?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m an
orphan.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright,
what else?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That’s
all I can give you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">All
right listen, I’ll give you two bucks for it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh
c’mon man! Four!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I don’t
trust you boy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright
alright…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll
see you around, take a hike…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright
Mr. Bixby, and remember, a lot of money for you if you find that diamond.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah
yeah… Hey, you got a spare cigarette?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No I
don’t.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok
leave me alone now. Goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When
that boy left Roy had less money than before, so no booze and no smokes. His
mood went bad just like the Indians last season and he thought that the best
thing was to go out and produce some real dough out of that lousy story. So he
grabs his trench coat, walks down the smoky stairs and starts his old Plymouth
under the heavy summer rain. He drives five miles through Carnegie Avenue and
when he gets to Morris Road he imagines himself lighting up a cigarette. Jesus,
I’m so broke… What now? Oh yeah 51. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
number 51 was there, a sad red-brick building that looked like it was built in
a day. A porter, no, a wino pretending to be a porter was sipping a cocktail
from an amber glass bottle. <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">Roy
saw a big bundle of fresh crisp dollar bills coming out of that man’s right
patched zoot suit brown jacket. He thought he could have some of that money and
he did. Muttering something like “fucking day” at the man’s ear Roy snatched the
notes and made them disappear under his sleeve. His mind went to hell with it…
It’s a free world and every way you skim it’s your problem pal… The lightheaded
wino was half asleep but he managed to repeat “fucking day” back, touched his
crotch and flamed up half of a cheap cigar out of a paper envelope. He didn’t
notice, good. You keep those cigars thought Roy, you keep them friend, now that
I got your money I feel just like quitting, ah ah ah, hell! <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Roy’s night had changed in a jiff and he felt
like he hit the jackpot alright. Still he thought it was too soon to leave that
case alone, might have been some extra money there for him.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-themecolor: text1;">With a childish grin on his face he
disappeared inside a dirty hall and reckoned that he would be better in robbing
people than getting the robber. Yeah, but there was a time when being a cop…
That time is gone Roy, he admonished himself, you better get that through your
head or you’ll have to put your mind to sleep with red pills. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He climbed up three
stories full of roaches panicking on the walls because of those heavy raindrops
falling down from an open ceiling that made him feel right on the edge of a
roman pantheon. Cleveland sure can look creepy on rainy days, used to say his
dead pal Bobby Randall before getting killed in that hell of a police ambush.
Being cops together was like sitting in a bar, drinking and dreaming of a
better life and believing in something that was clean and immaculate. It took
two to believe that, and still took two for one of them to die and leave the other
poor bastard alone. It’s a hell of a city, said Roy spitting out a raw oyster
of phlegm on that one last step. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-themecolor: text1;">The only door that had a rusty tag with the
name “Sender” carved on it was open and everyone could get in. Roy drew his
heater with the same one bullet that was left there from 1934, the year he
decided not to shoot it into that lawyer’s chest. She can have the money, the
bitch. No Roy, he said, let’s do this together, we can win this Roy! I tell you
this Roy, listen to me…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You give me half
of the money she wants from you and we’ll </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">get rid of her in court! You can
bet your shoes we will Roy!<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And Roy
bet his shoes and lost them alright. After he’d been paying that shark for a
year for an endless divorce trial he had found out that the spiv was banging
his ex and buying her things, hats, horrible hats with paper pineapples on
them. What a fruit… He remembered he told Bobby who went: men like that I’d
like to shack-up with the wives, and Roy rebutted that it was the precise point:
this guy ain’t got a woman Bob and he got mine. But you don’t want her right?
Hell no… So? To hell with them no? Yeah, to hell with them…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Roy
entered the small apartment and freaked out. There was a giant big black spider
coming down the roof. He turned on the light and found himself in a small
creepy living room under a hang lamp that was just a hang lamp and not even a
spider. There was nobody there, nobody but the scent of a ghost coming out from
hundreds of cheap rye whiskey bottles amidst a dozen pictures with a man and an
old woman. He picked one, unframed it and looked at the other side. “Frank and
his old beloved mum.” The man in there had the same sad face of the porter from
whom he had stolen that bundle. Roy felt guilty, so guilty that he touched the
money and felt guilty again. C’mon he said, stealing from a poor bastard with
no mum… And what about the diamond? You go down now Roy and give back the
money! No, no, you ask him about the diamond first and where the hell it is and
only then you give that money back you follow?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He ran
down the stairs feeling all balled up and thinking about those lazy cops
laughing at his name. Roy Bixby a private dick? Yeah, he couldn’t solve a case
if the case itself would knock on his door and tell him what happened… He don’t
have the eye for opportunity this guy, he never did. Yeah alright but at least
I got morals don’t I? I am bringing back the money ain’t I? And as for opportunity
I sure did what had to be done. If opportunity doesn’t knock build a door, and
that’s why my office has a door with my name on it<span style="color: red;">… <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">With
these bitter thoughts Roy stepped out of the building and caught that wino by
the name of Frank Sender playing with a crow bar on his Plymouth door. What the
hell! Went Roy pulling out the gun.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey
Frank!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Frank Sender
stopped and startled. He must’ve thought for a second that it was the cops. No,
wait, this guy looks just like me, nothing more than a wino… and Roy thought:
no wait, he’s nothing more than a clumsy cat this Sender… They kept staring at
each other, two immobile felt hats under the rain.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey
bozo! You might wanna reconsider stealing my car. I got your money right here!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What!
Asked Frank putting his hands in his right empty pocket. Hell! He exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
here’s my heater too Frank, wanna look in the hole?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey
wait friend…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah
I’ll wait… We talk?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah
sure thing. That’s a nice car by the way.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I know,
and you leave it alone you follow?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Anything
you say chief!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
sheltered from the rain in the hall like a strange couple with Roy holding his
gun in one hand and that man’s bundle in the other. He thought he had money and
power in one single shot but also that the case was still chintzy as a charity
gift. Ok Frank, here’s the thing. I know you stole that diamond. What diamond?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m a
private detective…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ah… You
stole my money Mister…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That
don’t change it don’t it?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Don’t
know, you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tell</i> me uh? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Don’t
crack wise with me bozo… I got the gun remember?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok ok…
A good horse got me that money, I swear!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It came
up that Frank hadn’t sold the diamond to a junk shop and very little else. Just
a horse and that lucky ticket still with him. That night he was celebrating his
next day when he would hop up on a train and leave Cleveland for good. Big
deal, thought Roy. You’ll spend your hundred in two months time if you keep
smoking those big cigars and buy what it takes for your crappy cocktail...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Since
when you adopted me? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
better get your flaps down kid, or you’ll take off!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Can I
get my money back? I earned it!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">If you
shut up and listen you’ll get the chance to earn it back you follow? Now, I
want you to answer to a couple of questions while we drive… <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
got in the Plymouth and left Morris Street when two prowl-cars had just pulled
up to the curb in front of number 51. Lieutenant Pioppi and Detective Mackey
were sitting in the rear with that guy Terry in the middle. The orphan liked to
play with two figures to have it right. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And why
the hell did you tell Bixby? The man can’t pinch a fly sitting on his nose…
Said Mackey who never liked Roy, not even back in the days when he used to
throw lots of them flies in the cooler. Pioppi shut his partner up with a fast
look, returned to the young man and became serious from the top of his trench
lighting up a cigarette. He was a clever man, police laziness had got into him
in a small percentage. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Let me
tell you something Terry, you don’t wanna jive us, we are the police… And this
is not jacks, you get up to go home… if you lie to me you ain’t goin’ home you
hear? Detective Mackey nodded at those words making a serious face and blowing
the smoke on the car window. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah we are
the police alright…</i> Roll it down Mackey! Said the lieutenant, it’s getting’
London in here for Chrissake!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
went over there for the same reason Bixby did. To catch the thief. The other
patrol pulled up at the front of 51 and two cops got out and drew their
pistols. Pioppi stepped out and told Mackey to wait in the car and watch the
snitch. The Detective complained and asked for how long and his superior said
to stay there until he made lieutenant. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
acted like they were in the worse ambush training, with the two coppers
chatting about broads on the stairs and Pioppi getting in that flat and getting
out of it without any clue and no pinch. He reckoned that John Leonard was to
get out of the help list, involving the police in a joke like that. The only
thing that kept the other half of his mind real was Roy Bixby, and he decided
to pay him a little visit first thing in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">…And
why this Terry would call you a thief Frank? Asked Roy holding the wheel and a
nice cigar with one hand and the loose heater with the other. I don’t know no
Terry Mister… He’s an orphan Frank, does that ring a bell? No it don’t, I told
ya! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
Plymouth entered a hairy neighborhood not far from downtown and after a few
silent red-brick buildings it reached what it seemed to be an old school with
shut windows. What’s with this place Mister? Asked Frank who if still would
have had his money with him he could have afforded to get the creeps. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I don’t
like this story Frank, and that’s the same reason why I go for the worst place
and the worst urban home in town you follow? You know Mr. Bixby… Call me Roy.
You know Roy, I can’t fucking believe that just one hour ago I was gettin’ my
kicks by drinkin’ a nice cocktail and touchin’ that race money and now I’m here
with nothing but a darned piece pointed at me! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah
it’s a crazy town ain’t it Frank? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Roy
didn’t quite know if that man would help him with the case as he didn’t know if
he wanted to keep the money he stole from him in the end. What he knew was that
he was talking to somebody for a change. That Sender guy seemed alright to him,
nothing like a shuckster really. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Youn
know Frank, we might even find this Terry I was tellin’ you about… If I get the
chance to face him Mister, this Terry who put the but on me to-morrow, I’ll be
glad to help you and myself Mister… Good, you ain’t no bum Frank, you’re a good
man. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
will I get my money back right? We’ll see about that, you just make sure we
make our interest in this story and you’ll get what it’s yours… Remember, I
need to find that diamond…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
left the Plymouth behind a dark corner and walked together to the gates of that
scary orphanage, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>both pretending to be
brave by making a serious mug, but truth is that place was giving them the
willies. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It happened
that these two similar men, Frank and Roy, two broke winos, went yellow that
night when once inside that drain, they heard some whispers coming up from the
basement. Hell! Croaked Roy, and Frank went: what’s cooking downstairs? No
clue, let’s go down and have a look see…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
crawled down two stories of stairs where a few red-eyed rats would stare at
them from the black corners. The more they were going down the more they could
hear what was what. The clean voice of a crooner produced by a huge grammophon
behind the one door standing at the bottom of the stairs. Roy held tight his
revolver and put his ear on that strong oak panel willing to tell how big was
that train coming toward them. In that instant Frank reached for Roy’s pocket.
He wanted his money back and for what he knew that night was getting too much
in the soup. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Next
morning Lieutenant Pioppi went to see Bixby. He didn’t want to talk on the
phone, he wanted that case pegged and he knew that Roy was usually more in the
know about these kind of things than the police. Once he stepped out of the
door and put his feet on his green lawn he saw Detective Mackey leaning against
the patrol car and smoking his tobacco. We go and have a word with Bixby
Lieutenant? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Git in
the car…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On the
third floor of the Big Memphis some young Mexicans were running along the
corridor with a burning pinata on their hands and shouting “arriba arriba arriba!”
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Pioppi
stopped in front of Roy’s office and knocked once and the two times faster on
the glass panel. A feeble voice inside muttered “whaat?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It’s
Pioppi, open up.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Wait a
minute…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
drunk?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Wait a
minute for chrissake… wait…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Detective
Mackey asked the Lieutenant if he thought Bixby was crying. He might, Pioppi
said with a pessimistic mug. To hell with him, he thought. Open up Bixby or
I’ll kick the door in! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Roy
Bixby opened the door with his two tiny peepers half-shut and the smell of an
unflushed john on the weekend. He looks pretty much fried to me sir, declared
Mackey.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Come in
and sit down… Oh God he’s dead… He’s dead!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Who’s
dead Roy? Asked Pioppi feeling like that day when Bobby Randall got shot and
Bixby was crying like a baby in the changing room. Who’s dead son? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Frank…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
mean Frank Sender? The guy from the job?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah, we
went… How come you know him?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">John
Leonard sent us this snitch Terry…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I should
have known better, we’ve been on same case Lieutenant… <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Terry
told us. He’s in the cooler now, don’t you worry about him, police took care of
him alright, said Mackey proud of the force. Then Pioppi went out to the
kitchenette and poured a stiff jolt of Old Overholt in two glasses, one for him
and one for Roy. He looked at Mackey’s proud mug and sent him out to buy some
lunch. Take your time he uttered, and the other closed the door behind him. Now
Roy was looking at his piece as if it were a kid with a fancy toy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll
have to hold it on you but I think you better let me have it…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright.
Roy put his whisky down and stood a moment listening to the same silence in
that room that would get him sad an lonely. Then he took another long sip and
began with the story.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He
happened to meet what kind of crooked society dwelled in that abandoned school,
that orphanage they broke in last night. Mrs Budreau would pretend to be robbed
by some guy once a year to feed those orphans by selling the same old diamond
story to a detective. And there was a list of a hundred private dicks caught on
that web. They would buy some name and an address to get that diamond in order
to get paid by the lady; they would give away few bucks that would turn into big
ones if fifty or sixty flatfoots were going to buy another story like that with
another lady around the town. All those</span><br />
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orphanage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m not
gettin’ any shut-eye… These Mexicans went off the deep end…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Why the
dead? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sender?
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I was
holding him as a suspect and he tried to escape… <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What’s
your take on him Roy? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Innocent,
he was just a gambler, nothing more… A good man. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright
Roy, listen... You’ve closed the case and I’m sending the boys to that school
to bring these damned orphans down. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Roy
Bixby stood silent, ready to take whatever that mouth would have sentenced.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll leave
you alone with your dead, it’s a swell pinch and you gave it to us, we’re even
Bixby. I’ll tell the boys to bring some cigarettes. The feds will go bananas
when they’ll know we pinched those orphans.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll
see you around Roy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah.
I’ll see you around Lieutenant.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-1433836984752205002012-04-15T08:23:00.000-07:002012-04-15T08:23:49.570-07:00Fiasco<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Johnny and Terry drink beer in the sofa with the ballgame set on mute. It’s a cold night outside in Waco TX.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Remember that night John?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I was talking about my girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh yes. But do you remember?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’s beautiful Terry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You hit the ball so good that you didn’t know it. It was like paradise on earth since then was it?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah yeah…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Goddammit John!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright, pass the beer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Here. That memory still shines upon us as the moon outside dude. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Right Terry, but it was a total fiasco.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What happened? Tell me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tara, my God she was a miracle that night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh yeah. She was with me that night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’s never been with you, not really.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh yeah? And how would you know that? With your head up your ass?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You’re sure picking the right night to talk about this Terry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m doin it for you sport. Well I tell you, me and your miracle girlfriend were doing the same thing in my car when you showed up with cokes and popcorn. We both didn’t have a job and used to hustle some money around riskin our ass everywhere while your “miracle” was “not really” having sex with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ah ah, that’s funny!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That’s how it went, and you can say it’s funny too, I agree with you. But don’t be blind for Chrissake!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Plus, you said it was a fiasco. And Johnny, did somebody ever tell you what a fiasco is?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Something bad?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Could be. And as a matter of fact it was bad for you that night. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Was it?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No no, it wasn’t… It was me who had shouted and cried and ran away as a kid when you saw what we were doin there. Course it was bad, but it was for you John! For me it turned to be bad when I saw your face. Hey… Not that I didn’t laugh, I laughed as a motherfucker and she did too for a while. Your miracle girl…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And how the fuck she’s with me now?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I didn’t deny that. But it was just a night that turned out to be good at last, and it finally worked out for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What I don’t get is fuckin why you still don’t wanna accept it for what it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cause it hurts maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yes I believe it does, but I believe it did for her too that night Johnny. She was virgin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Oh c’mon now!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey, it was good too, she loved it at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cool it!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Okay, you wanted to talk about your Tara now, the way she is today, but she is what she was too man, she is a product of it don’t you understand?? And you got a history too man, but you don’t wanna see it. You suffered man, in that parking lot you suffered, you dickhead! I enjoyed it and suffered, for you, later on I mean. But your shit always smells good don’t it? you never suffered right? You were Nostradamus that night, and I didn’t know Nostradamus could cry, I didn’t know that he could run away as a pussy. You hit the ball good that night Johnny that you broke your arm and once she knew it she started to love you for that, but in your mind that arm never broke so how the fuck would she love you know? Tell me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And how the fuck would you know all that jerkoff?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cause she told me. She couldn’t meet me no more after that cause what you did was the proof, the first one that you cared for her. And if today you are enjoying this miracle girl, well Johnny, thank God I fucked her! Thank God I fucked her! Otherwise I would be here alone today drinking my beer after listening to your sad excuses of not wanting to go out cause you had to see the ballgame. Fuck the ballgame, we are seeing it now together fuck-o! It wasn’t the ballgame, you were just sad, can you admit that you stupid fuck?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Shut up now, she’s calling me... Yes Tara. I’m with Terry watching the game. Yes sure… see you later.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What’d she want?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Waiting for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The bitch…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And they both laughed. Terry raised the volume and it was a bit of a better day in Waco TX.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-52663604399163692922012-03-25T05:19:00.000-07:002012-03-25T05:19:23.830-07:00Luck<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Summer of 1960. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">An old Ford pulls up to the front of a gas station on Main Street. Two men step out of the car, Charlie MacAvoy and Corey Lester. It’s a beautiful day and Corey stays with the attendant while Charlie walks toward the bar across the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yes sir.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey friend. A beautiful day and a beautiful gas station filled with beautiful people who know how to do their job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Appreciate it sir.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Easy now. You deserve it. I know you gonna check the oil and fill her up alright. I knew it from the very moment I got here. You go on now boy. Make this country proud of you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Charlie waves at him from the other side of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hey Corey! Move it, will ya?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m coming Charlie, I’m coming! Hey! You promise me you gonna take your time to enjoy these precious little things instead of rushin’ it all the time. You do that and you gonna be a better man! A better man I say!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What’d you say? I can’t hear you! Come over here!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I better man Charlie! A better man!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah yeah!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The small bar was something like a diner. A chromium plated trailer that a bunch of good willing people had hauled from Jersey when Corey was still playing softball in Oakland on the other side of the country.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A pool table was there. Locals had never played seriously except for few friendly games before sitting their saggy asses in those stools and drink straight bourbon till dinner time. It was an old town for old people and it had no name. All it could have been was beautiful in the way that Corey looked at it. But the truth was that all those shiny things, all those big cars cruising on main street were nothing more than a habit establishing itself through the passing of the hours, days, years and dull decades, when each good citizen would wait for his chance to throw the dices of malice, go to bed, and live another day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A chubby bartender stood ready behind the long counter and Charlie was caressing the pool table with a wondering face like he had seen it only in a sale convention that curious four-legged thing. They were pool hustlers and they had to look like flakes. The big idea was just knowing when to flake on and when to flake off in front of those people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Corey stared for a bit at Charlie and then returned to the chubby bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Aloha to you sir. Whisky please, JTS Brown. Give us a bottle and pour yourself a nice glass. I feel good today.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Might as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sure. Hey Charlie! This is one of those men that make this country a great one!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah? And all he gotta do is drink a glass of whisky? Buy him two and we’ll get to the moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Don’t be grumpy now Charles… There you go sir, here’s your whisky.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thanks. You boys just passing through?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Charlie rushed it to the counter willing to own the beginning of that conversation. He introduced himself and his partner to the bartender with a respectful tone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This is young Corey Lester mister, the best salesman I ever met.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What do you sell?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Druggist supplies. Corey’s gonna get an award. Now he might look embarrassed to you but he’s still the fastest boy in the territory.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thanks Charlie, but that’s too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Well you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok ok… I saw you moving around that pool and maybe you might wanna find out who’s gonna buy the next bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok Corey. But we have to be in Pittsburgh before it gets dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And we will. C’mon grab a cue now. I feel like I won’t miss three balls in a row today, you know what I mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And they’ve been playing for one hour, gambling money on corner pockets and sipping whisky as good friends who would take every dollar spent as a joke. Charlie had lost ten bucks more than his partner when four or five men with the belly and the curious eye gathered around the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Corey, I bet you twenty that you will miss the same shot again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I think I can try it just for you Charlie. Ok… Set the balls the way they were before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hearing those words and twenty bucks for a single shot even the chubby bartender approached the table, and all those locals standing together for the smell of money that came out from that happy asshole seemed like a bunch of hungry wolves studying the prey. They put aside the glasses and started lighting cigarettes passing the matches around. One of them asked what the happiest of the two men was in hock for so far and somebody answered thirty bucks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Corey was burping alcohol like a tractor when he hit the ball the same way he did before and it went down the pocket just like before. Charlie eyeballed him kind of angry and said what everybody there hoped he would say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Pay up Charlie. It was luck alright but I tell you now that it won’t leave me till we quit playing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m not sure about that Corey. You’re good at sales but this is something else… Ok, once again. Forty bucks says you choke right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">If that’s the way you want it Charlie, you sure got it. Set the balls!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There was a mysterious silence from the audience before Corey hit that ball again. One of those when a man’s mind is spotting the flaw on the picture while one hand touches the crucifix and the other reaches for the wad of money. It was the same strange silence that only wolfe traps could produce.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Corey stroke the cue ball and it hit the thirteenth too much on the right side that it jumped out of the pool. The wolves stood silent, still watching. Charlie collected his forty bucks and Corey asked him to bet another forty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">C’mon Charlie It wasn’t a steady touch! That’s it!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You wanna lose another forty? That’s it for me kid. You should know that you can’t control luck, that’s why they call it luck. It’s not talent for chrissake!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yeah? Think so?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I do. C’mon now. Let’s go to the hotel and get some rest. We got a bad day tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I can do it Charlie! Here’s a hundred!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Are you crazy?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No, I’m not. Just drunk, but I got this. I got this Charlie! C’mon take this last bet!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I don’t want it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And those were the last words before that same silence became lauder than ever. The end of an hunt finished with a bottle of JTS Brown, when the eyes of Corey and Charlie kept staring at each other waiting for that call.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll try you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The bartender stepped ahead and repeated what he had already said once more. I’ll try you boy. Corey closed his eyes and smiled drunker than ever. But Charlie had decided to go out after he told him that he would have waited for him in the car for the reason that he was tired to babysit him and that maybe this time he would have learned a lesson a hundred bucks worth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Corey looked around till he met the face of the bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok chubby old man. Sorry I’m drunk. Ah ah ah. Can I call you fats or fatman? Ah ah ah. C’mon I’m sorry, don’t be mad please. It is a beautiful day in this sparrow-fart town ain’t it? And we have to make the most of it me and you, here and now, two gentlemen with no grumpy faces around, ok?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ok. And now, good old man, set them the way they were before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Alright.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Now Corey was looking straight in those black tiny eyes of the bartender asking him if the balls were all set. He wouldn’t watch them balls and continued laughing bending over the pool table ready to shoot. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’ll take a piece of that action, said a man around the game, and then another one and three more. Corey laughed in his head, waited for the bookie to get done writing down numbers of dollars, closed his eyes and shot the cue ball great. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When he stepped out of the diner Charlie was sitting in front of the steering wheel and wouldn’t look at him. It was getting dark all over the town with no name and the gas station was closing up. The attendant recognized Corey and nodded ‘hey’, but the young pool hustler didn’t say hello but spit on the curb, grinned and got in the car that vanished on the red horizon just like a ghost.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-77636659220908442812012-02-04T16:11:00.001-08:002012-02-04T16:23:14.452-08:00Johnny Whatever<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Newark July 27, 1973.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Front of Fats Restaurant. A thirty-year-old man meets a fat one who’s sitting on a chair outside. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, where’s my money?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hey Johnny come here!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I said, where’s my fuckin’ money fatso?!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hey! You don’t…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I fuckin’ come here whenever I fuckin’ want to, you got that? You stupid fat fuck??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Alright…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Alright? Alright. Billie here?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">No, he went for a ride.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Did he?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, it means that you’re all alone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">(silence)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is a little bit early John…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Let me ask you somethin’ Fats. Whose team are you playing for this time?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">What can I say? Billie is the boss now…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yeah?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yeah.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, short season! </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">First you turn your back on me and then you play it like you know when the time is right for the money? Well I’ll tell you this. The time is always right for the money!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">C’mon John gimme another week! What? Don’t I know you when you was a kid?? Hey! Who saved your ass in Philly huh? You don’t remember that don’t you? Think about it johnny! It was me all the way! You put a stunt like that with the Union you end up in the fuckin’ trunk! But guess what I did wise ass! I talked to Bobby Vegas so that now you can show up in my fuckin’ restaurant and ask me for your fuckin’ two thousands that I borrowed what? Five days ago? You’re a joke!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You bought a new car Fats? That’s a hell of a car let me tell ya!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">(silence)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh dear! You got the money for mustangs eh? What is it? Let me see… Holy Jesus it’s brand new! Thanks Fats, you paid your debt now!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">He gets in the car, but another man approaches the restaurant from the boardwalk. It’s Billie Bag the </span></i><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">irish boss.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Say Johnny what are you doing?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I got me a new car.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is not Fats car? Fats, this ain’t your car?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fatso nods yes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You gave him the keys?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nope.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">He don’t need to Billie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why’s that?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">He owes me money.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">How much?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Two grand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This car cost more than that johnny…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’ll cut you in for the rest when I’ll sell it then.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You’re funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Am I?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yes. And I’ll tell you what, you go and drive it around the block and see how it feels. I bet you never drove a Mustang… I’m going inside for a coffee and I’ll wait here for you and you gonna tell me how does it feel alright? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fats give him the keys.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fatso leaves his chair and gives the keys to John.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now listen you punk. If by the time I finish my coffee I don’t see your Italian lousy ass here with a smile in your face and a “forget the money Fats” out of your mouth, things are gonna get pretty ugly for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Go on now, have fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">John stays silent and drives away with the car.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can’t believe you didn’t stop him Fats! What’s the matter with you?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nothing Billie, but you know… He’s related...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">(silence)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">No he’s not…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yes Billie, he’s one of the Caruso brothers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh Fuck! Fuck!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why didn’t you tell me??<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thought you knew!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">No I don’t! Am I supposed to know every fuckin’ guinea motherfucker who walks the neighborhood??<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know his name is Johnny, that’s it! Like Johnny Whatever if you ask me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well I’m afraid that’s not enough Billie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh Fuck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My car is worth thirty-thousand dollars Billie. It’s like you owe me twenty-eight thousand now that I paid my debt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">HEY!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">What?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’m the boss here!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yeah, so they tell me…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Don’t crack wise with me Fatso, I’ll get you back your car.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Mustang and a black Lincoln arrive from down the street. Three men get out of the car with Johnny Caruso that will light up a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You must be Billie Bag. My little brother Johnny told me about you. This is the man right Johnny?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Johnny nods yes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know who I am Billie?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">One of the Carusos I presume.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You presume right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now. You see this gun? My father gave it to me. I like it, it’s pretty handy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Wanna see my gun?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sure. Be smart, you don’t wanna use it bright boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’m not a <i>boy</i> Mister… I’ve been living here before your father adopted you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Alright.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Caruso turns his back to Billie and tells the others to kill him. Billie draws his gun and kills them all in five seconds.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hey Fatso! Come over here!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">You killed them!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">What did I tell you? Now you don’t have to pay nobody and you get to keep your car.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s not that simple Billie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don’t care. I’m leaving this town. I don’t wanna know everybody because they’re someone. I’m moving to the desert and stay there till the end. Make sure you drive that car after all this mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">So long.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-44669261745224818472012-01-14T09:36:00.000-08:002012-01-14T09:36:10.411-08:00Resuscitated Marilyn<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The other day I went to my usual cafeteria. I had to spend some time with the people. I don’t talk to them, I just move between them as a ghost and stare at their arms going up and down to fill their mouths with coffee before a few words and a smile, and a sorry, and “oh my God you didn’t!”, and all those beautiful fucking children driven around with no father and a looney for a mum. But hey! This is London, and everybody’s got a chance to live their life the magazine way. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Fuck them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In the night all this façonnable ass kind of living turns into Doctor Hyde, especially on Fridays, when outside a pub or a spit of a disco they shout at each other as they forgot what they were that same morning before, and their voices get inside your window and sound like a lousy horror picture. Like in a big tragedy they holler at one another with just half of the passion they’d wish they had the next morning at the council-paid pantomime. Oh you can feel the big stretch if you’re not from around here. All those self-confident looks strolling around, you could break them with a snap of a finger, or making up some new lines their magazines didn’t predict for the current week. It’s like they’ve been brainwashed by all that global shit about a charming way of life that they don’t remember what they were, and their premature instincts have to wait for the darkness to fall and for their glass to be empty. Funny thing, the only real moment for them it’s when they get miserable at night. You see women getting ugly and in a second they would take it on men that would fuck them off so soon you can’t stop laughing on your bed. Every fucking Friday night, same story. So, every Saturday morning, I taste the epilogue of their big alcoholic exploit when they try hard to show a civilized look that reminds me of an uneducated bitch with a whig, a hot ukrainian upper-class illiterate babe with a fur, a high-heeled nespresso-dream broad with her mouth open all the time, a Fifth-Element dope hipster, Brick Lane type, that would cry her ass out all of a sudden, but later at night of course, again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m confused, not flattered. So I watch back inside my coffee and back to those faces. Laughing time is finished. But there’s a girl, tight Levi’s and ranchero boots on, madras shirt, Monroe haircut, big lips, French nose, tits standing high like bayonets. She’s different, the way she moves and all. I stand up and walk to her. Can I sit with you?, sure be my guest. No lines reading, she must be the same at night when she’s gonna ride my dick at the crazy rhythm of Sonny Terry’s harmonica. Yeah!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You’re American right? A silent nod of affirmation. I knew it. She’s not from the big city, she’s from Paris Texas. Oh well. I say “oil wells” instead and she’s not hurt by the joke, she bursts into laughter as a kid. Kiddo, I say. Your country produced all the shit this people read as the Bible. You played them. Oh yeah? And she goes: these poor tea-smelling losers. And we laugh together like kids, sons of a wild exaggeration we don’t need to explain anything. Cause we like each other, and people that like each other are kids, don’t read lines, they just go with the flow. So I say to myself, today is an endless highway. And eee haaa and hallelujah and kiss my ass! And we laugh and laugh till it’s night outside and I feel like the Bad Lieutenant with a resuscitated Marilyn.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We go home and talk about the promised land that it’s in the people. Then as promised people we make love and laugh at each other’s face while Sonny Terry screams as promised.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then we sail to America, settle down, have few kids, buy a minivan, a tv set, and we still don’t know each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That’s the secret.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-45632520665055464142012-01-14T07:07:00.001-08:002012-01-14T07:07:49.676-08:00Old Buick<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We don’t know our history. We don’t know what a city is capable of. And since the city is made of people, we don’t know what we’re capable of.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It wasn’t a day like another. Or at least I’d rather think it wasn’t just another day. Alright: I mean, you don’t feel the danger before you’re past it. They call it panic, and in our dull existence the present is just a dead momentum in which you consider you’re gonna be alive one day. Cause the past is merely the things you’ve done. They deteriorate and as a corpse they stink and make you wanna do it again: like smelling your own farts. You got another chance to feel alive, and whenever it gets to that there’s no such thing as good and evil, cause you’re not allowed to choose and it’s all bullshit the idea of stepping out of the door and taking a direction. You got the dog in front of you and you’ll have to shoot it. You wanna chase dames? Alright, that’s your problem pal. You’re gonna get cornered and feel the same again, only with someone else’s fart under the linens. The only thing you need is a car and a trunk. You make sure you put there your twelve gauge and some clean shirts. You shave ready as it’s gonna be the last time you do it, have a nice meal, boots on, comb your hair and take a good look at that beautiful body they gave you to play someone else’s rules.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You don’t fit in, you just fit inside a coffin with your senses switched off for good, that’s where you belong now. And forty years in this place tell you this, you don’t need to pay a shrink just to be afraid to do the last move. You don’t need a god to pray and feel a little less lonelier in a too much well-known solitude. You don’t need a father, cause he’s dead already and he would just pretend that you could have had a better life here in Boston. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He wasn’t a poor man, he gave you everything but the will to appreciate life now that your childhood is gone and everything is just re-chewing the memory of a blind passion. You don’t see beauty no more, you just stick to rotten things like yourself now that you got old and they got old with you; things with four decades or more on their backs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Rusty things that still work one last time though.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">America has provided you with clean brand-new things. Knights of Columbus celebrated your achievements; your black Cadillac has been hand-washed by the hands of strangers; a tumor has been removed by a well-paid glove; your ex-wife got one last big check and finally tried cocaine; your son is a grown-up now and forgot the way he used to love you despite everything. What if he still would? I’d say that fathers are supposed to die anyway. So I’ll steal a car, one of those rusty crates that still got a motor. One of those you used to watch under the sun with your first gin-cut Cherry-Cola in your hand. There’s no use leaving them sitting beside the curb of a forsaken neighborhood. Owners look at them as they look in the mirror. Vanity it is, nothing more. Stuck in the past with immobile things all around waiting for a future that never comes. It don’t exist! And if you wanna celebrate America and yourself you do it with a gun in your trunk. No middle way, no compromise. So, defrost the lobster and have it the Boston way. Three cans of icy-cold beer and I’m already in Brookline under those twisted trees. The old Buick with the baseball-smashed windshield is still there. Purple as an old dream, silent as the truth. In that dirty back seat you made love for the first time and broke that irish cherry; you married her, had two kids, back to work, moved to a bigger house in South End, divorced, paid alimony, back to work, millions, women, coke, and finally back to that old Buick again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Look up in that project, your father’s smoke is not coming out the window no more. Play-time is finished and your black Cadillac is frowning at you from the other side of the road under those twisted trees. Leave it there, that car it’s the damnation itself. You got your twelve gauge with you and that’s all you need. Buick’s door is open, everyone’s got the ticket for the end he wants I think. It’s so easy, so tempting that I smile as a kid for the first time in years. I reckon that if my kids would see me now they would love me again the same way I did with father whenever after he threatened me to put my head in the vice. I used to pee in my pants, and in the night I wondered if he would have done that for real. Than I’d go to his room and see him laughing on Lenny Bruce and loved him again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My kids didn’t get that same chance with me. Friends are gone, now there’s just a bunch of people like me wandering around my pool with their square cigar and some baseball tickets for their subordinates.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I think that even if we had a crack seven years after those towers came down we still wouldn’t have had the chance to be ourselves again. We were once, no doubt. We had the cards, we had curiosity, and no church or shiny country club can’t give it back to us. No health insurance, no mortgage last payment, no organic food in the table, no secret blowjobs. No family now that I fucked up and real friends would just show up late.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We were something when we felt the dust under our shirts and there were leaves on those trees even in winter. We were Americans. Mobility and risk used to flow in our young blood and we would sleep like babies with the shout of crazy Buicks racing under our windows.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We were and now simply we’re not, and when you aren’t you have to be coherent with the fact and close the curtains. You’ve always been a kid, so close that rusty door and suck the gun now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-14019266070412321242012-01-02T11:59:00.000-08:002012-09-20T07:01:16.689-07:00Piece of Cake<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Yeah we gotta split he said. At the Corner of Dreams there was nothing, no bums, no lobos, no nothing. Charlie Matthews had left his De Soto at the DX Station twenty minutes away, between Cincinnati and Main. Where the hell is Charlie? <i>Should be here any minute</i>…, oh yeah? <i>Yep</i>. The fact that the big oilman Gilcrease wasn’t there guarding his temple of money didn’t make the boys smile. It was a lot of dough alright but it wasn’t a laugh. Strange kinds of dogs were barking under the iconic golden driller, running fast from nowhere to be shot by the man. And they were finally shot, a whole bunch of crazy pitbulls just before the boys had climbed over the fence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">One hundred thousand dollars wasn’t too bad for 1957, not bad for a lonely old man and three no-good juveniles. The money bag was lying on the boardwalk between their booted feet. A piece of cake they thought, and looked at each other to be sure they all agreed with it. They did but there was no Charlie down the road where the dawn was slowly rising moisturized by the Arkansas waters. The lonely man knew it was always a matter of time: they all could dodge the bullet now that there were no guns, and the black wells were still breathing in that night when the high buildings along the Broken Arrow were watching them from above like silent instruments of doom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Swear to God, whispered the man and "lemme take care of him", said the shortest kid spitting brown saliva on the asphalt. The Twin, the only one who knew Charlie, held his heater under the belt smelling with doubting eyes the warm scent of sugar coming out from the Avalon of Black Gold, Tulsa Oklahoma.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Why in a hurry?</i> He thought. <i>Why don’t we just walk home? It’s so quiet in here…</i> <i>but it’s gonna be quieter at the old man’s living room.</i> Shorty was staring at him. He was secretly bothered by his calm and abruptly asked what was his take on Charlie. <i>Don’t have any</i>, the other said keeping his eyes away from Shorty. <i>He dig okay and that’s all</i>... and Shorty went: well, you have to do something about your attitude dude or I'm gonna teach you when to shut up or talk with some respect! <i>Yeah? And who’s gonna make me huh? You?</i> You bet I will! Shorty shouted like an angry kid. The old man slapped him and looked at the other as if he was hiding some secret knowledge from everybody, as if he was the real enemy: I need to know whose side are you on here kid… you’re the only one who knows Charlie and I need you to tell me if he is or ain’t what and where we expect him to be tonight. We ain’t got time to lose okay? The Twin stared at the old man's face for longer than ever. He knew Charlie, he was his buddy, and he should have known better before that, now that the cards were on the table. They had spent together an entire childhood sneaking inside the big Admiral drive-in for a movie and a nice bottle of Cherry Cola and gin, driving crazy in the sunny street every evening, chasing somebody else’s girl. They had always been one thing together, one thing only, and they sure asked for trouble this time. But the street was talking that night, suggesting somehow in a low whisper what to do, where to go, what lies to tell and finally split and take his boots up to Owasso, or Sperry, in those parts of the town where a poor boy could dream and have a house of his own with a nice stove in it, a TV and a car. Charlie was waiting for him up there, the Twin knew it, ready to play dominoes he would have waved his hand from the porch as if anything had really happened that night. <i>He’s not a rat</i>, the Twin said to the man. <i>If he’s not here something must’ve happened to him...</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And we’re supposed to walk our asses downtown and steal a fucking car just because he’s not a rat? He’s not here now son, that’s all it matters to me… The man lit up his cigarette and never said a word again till it was out. You gonna get you share now boys and we’ll part right here! He handled a bundle of maybe twenty-thousand to each of them and kept the big slice for himself. Nevermind though, it was a big piece of money for those boys, more than they ever imagined.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Twin was heading north dreaming Crutchfield playground when a black shiny Brougham pulled over and a white face said hello to him. He got scare, he knew those men, the oilmen from whom they had stolen that money. </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here’s your money, I don’t need it sir… I don’t want no trouble and I should’ve called it quits right from the beginning…</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> He passed the money to an elegant hand and stood there waiting to be excused, a dummy in the middle of the street. A pale driver drew a gun and shot him in the face, then the car went on and did the same with the rest of the boys. The old man was found in his warm living room with no arms and his dick stuck in his mouth, the money still in his pocket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">As for Charlie Matthews, he had finished to change a flat tire ten minutes after his friend was shot by those men. He turned to the Corner of Dreams and looked for them. A deep silence and no police. The town really seemed to be owned by the shadows. Charlie saw his friend’s body, he put him in the trunk an buried him in Crutchfield playground, right beneath the broken maypole they used play with. Then he parked his red De Soto, stepped on the porch and had a cigarette watching the stars. He was broke, didn’t have a woman and a friend now, but he wasn’t a rat. </span></span></span></div>
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Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-23678978669486778652012-01-02T08:19:00.000-08:002012-01-31T14:13:58.767-08:00Pine Bluff<div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">6:00 a.m, 25th of December, 1965. Jefferson County patrolmen got high with a quarter of rye waiting for the Man to finish his fucking dessert. “He's the Grand Master of Suck my Dick!” says Bobby grabbing and squeezing his balls. Randall, a tall black guy from Joplin, doesn't really care. He got a call from downtown two hours ago and he just wants to get done with it, even if it was a fucking KKK Dragon he wouldn't give a shit. “I don't give a shit”, that's what his Cap would say to him anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A black sedan was parked right in front of the black&white. “Is that a driver Randy?, asked Bobby staring at the black windshield of the Lincoln. It was hard to prove but someone was in there, and the more he didn't move the more you could bet on it. Randy had bet a nice homemade Christmas lunch on it, and Bobby a good excuse to stay away from his wife and maybe spend a spare hour or two at the nearby joyhouse. But it don't look good, “these people sure like to go for another cigar...” said Bobby throwing away his cigarette butt. The weather wasn't so cold and Randall imagined for a moment that Florida should have been quite the same now, but he hardly put together a thousand last year and had to buy them clothes for the kids, so he'd never know. Bobby tripped up twice before reaching the radio, then he turned it on. “Hey Bob?”, Cap was talking kind of strange for his usual, he liked to shout things in your hears, and “Yes sir...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was just his third week in Arkanso, Randall started to watch around and began to shake. All the white supremacy was there: a big colonial estate with thin white pillars, a white big shot with all sorts of fancy jewels on him ready to be escorted who knows where. It could have been the fucking woods for what he knew, but he tried to stay away from that thought. “Bob? Is your partner there with ya?” Bobby exercised his voice two times, “Oh yeah Chief... Randy is right here, catching a cold, you know how it is...”; “ok, listen to me now boys... I want you to be prepared for this, cause things like this only happen once in your lifetime, you got it? Mr. Burke is on his way out right now, listen to me carefully... This is not what you expected, all right? But I want you to act like everything's under control cause my ass is on the line this time, you hear?; “sure thing Chief! What can it be, c'mon... Me and Randy, you know... we did see a lot of strange stuff here in Pine Bluff sir... We collared a freak just yesterday...”;“don't crack wise with me boy, just do as I say, or swear to God I'll kick your fat polish ass till it's purple, understand? I'll hold on, I wanna hear what happens down there...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A big crack and the marble gates started to move. The two officers kept staring at it. Bobby looked at his watch pretending not to be scared by the strange melody that was coming from out there, slow and pretty loud. Randall forgot all about the white man when he saw the real Beast, flash and bones, big gold and white apron hanging from his belly, black riding coat, black shiny shoes, tux trousers, white shirt and blue bolo. That was it, that was him, Mr. Burke with his two black twisted buffalo horns raised in the air of the night. A small dwarf, the chauffeur, stepped out of the car and opened the back door. Burke stopped on the red carpet, a choir of old men was singing “Silver Bells” inside the house. He brought a long cigarette to his mouth and lit it up, then he looked at Bobby and smiled, “take me to the joyhouse, ok?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bobby and Randall obeyed orders, crying all the way from Morris Street to Kendall Avenue. Mr. Burke was very polite and asked them both to join him. Their bodies were found on December 27th inside a big room, all naked and with no dick on 'em, their faces in a puddle of blood. The brothel had closed few weeks ago thanks to the Methodist Church in town, but Bobby didn't read the paper, or maybe it wasn't even that, cause incredible things like that only happen once in your lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2545803732380843624.post-23643169367909009232012-01-02T08:13:00.001-08:002012-01-02T08:13:49.282-08:00Condenado<div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Mr. Clay was an honest man. He knew his way with convicts, and he just wanted to leave those poor bastards alone. Heeley State Prison was a joke, its death row complex had a long glass corridor and you could see cars and buses cruising on the highway from the cells, and if they had binoculars they would see those orange shapes of men breathing and leaning against the walls to have a chat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">From the small restaurant accross the road anyone could do that no sweat. That place seemed to be there for that same reason, its name glowing on the big sign in those very first hours of the day. </span><i>Condenado.</i></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">A woman stood out there in the parking lot, miniskirt and a perfect whitey smile on her blonde head, waving her hands and shaking her ass to customers and taking orders, she must've been Miss Highway of Oklahoma State, whispered every morning Anspaugh to Frank Sally.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">What do you care anyway?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">It's not that I care...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Uh? You don't care now eh? You're fuckin' bustin' my balls every fuckin morning with this “super miniskirt” broad and now you don't care... And what's special with your eyes anyway pal? The broad's miles away!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">You don't understand Frank... you really don't understand... I wanted to be her, see? I've always wanted to...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">O Gee... Swear to God, I'm outta here...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">There was a time, before I did that motherfuckin' lawyer, that I realised I wanted to be like her. These women can have anything they want.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Yeah? And how come she's a fuckin waitress?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">She chose it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Yeah?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Swear to God.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">She chose it, uh?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Sure did, want a cig?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Yeah.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Ok, listen... You take a man...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">...from the sewer, he ain't got a bit of style, he ends up killing for a living and who cares, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Humpf, yeah...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">He wanna be someone but he just can't. Someone else made the choices for him a long time ago and that's it... You can't change what you are Frankie...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">No?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Fuckin A! This woman's got the cards, no matter what...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">This is pathetic, that glass shouldn't be there in the first place!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Why?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Why not?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">I tell you what, and I'm serious now Frank... Those people's got nothing to do with you and me being here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">No? And why the hell are they spying on us all day?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Cause this is the way it's supposed to be... By showing ourselves we're giving them a chance not to make the wrong choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">You said someone else chose for them already.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Yes I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">So?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">So that's the way it is...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Oh dude, you really are something, you know?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Thanks Frank...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Anytime.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Oh God, I don't believe this...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">What?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">She's waving at me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Yeah, sure. Mr. Clay?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">What is it, Sally?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">I think it's time for this guy here to have his Monster's Ball, am I right?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">In half an hour time Sally. You can tell your friend we're buying some food at the restaurant. I'll be here in ten minutes to take the order.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Sure chief, can I have something too?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">What's wrong with your soup today?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Nothing sir, just wandering... You know?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">I'll let you have a lollipop, ok?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Thank you sir, much obliged. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Be quiet now. The both of ya...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Slowly the day becomes brighter, a bunch of guards smoke their tobacco in the parking lot, waiting for the last meal to be ready. A tall light soda, a juicy T-bone, a buttered sandwich, a huge banana split, a piece of lemon cake, a milkshake with a cake spoon of fresh filter coffee, cause Mr. Clay doesn't need a nervous Anspaugh, and a tiny strawberry lollipop. It' all there. On their way to the prison, crossing the highway with the wind on their red faces, the guards meet the serious look of the waitress staring at them, and it's <i>all gone</i>. Dry wind blows down from the Ozark mauntains from where the ball of the sun has been thrown up in the sky, a big yolk that shines west, all over the road for New Mexico.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">By the time Frank Sally had finished his lollipop David Anspaugh Junior was lying on his bunk with a stupid smirk on his face. He was already dead, two more white pills in his left hand and a small unfolded piece of paper in the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Mr. Clay opened the cell door and didn't say a word, he was dead, that's all it mattered to him. He took the paper from his hand. There were two lines written in pink, and his pants were all soaked in urine once he read it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">I know who you are Dave, I know your story and you deserved a better life with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-US">Everyone deserves it no matter what, since there's no such thing as heaven or hell after it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">Yours,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">Claudine.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="Standard" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
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</div>Fabri Marciantehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07199173342302541015noreply@blogger.com0