#honestyisnotcontagious

[jackblankhsh]

“Quiet Child”

[jackblankhsh]

A Blood Red Reindeer Knows:  Part 5:  Snake Eyes/Black Eyes

A half hour later I'm checking into the North Light Inn.  It's a crappy room, in a shitty part of town, but it's affordable.  Plus, this is the kind of place folks know to mind their own business.  Most just want to be left alone anyhow.  Whether junkies cooking pixie dust, or doll families hovering over homeless, no one wants a witness to them ever having been here.  Maybe that's why, in my room, all the mirrors are broke.  

 First thing I do is call Cari.  The sound of her voice is like warm honey.  I can't tell her everything.  She might worry, and if she asks me to come home I'll do it -- no second thoughts. But I'm finally feeling a thread in my hand.  It'll lead me where, honestly, I'm not sure I want to go.  Still, I tell her everything I can.  

 She's no fool though. Cari can sense what I'm leaving out. There's an outline full of implications in the missing puzzle pieces.  

 Still she says, "You do what you think is right.  I'll be here waiting for you."

 "Thanks a chuisle mo chroí."

 "Come home safe."

 "I will."

 It feels like a lie. Still, there are times the truth does no one any good.  Hanging up the phone I figure on a shower.  

 Though there isn't enough hot water to rinse off the feeling of this city, I get clean enough afterward to feel fresh.  Stepping out of the steaming bathroom my body is well on the way to shutting down. Next item on the agenda is definitely a bit of sleep.  Then I spot a note slipped under the door.

 Getting my gun out of my jacket I go to the door.  Stepping outside I can't see anyone except for a nodded out rabbit on nearby stairs. Yet, there's a hint of perfume drifting on the air.  Something familiar, sweet and spicy -- baked apples and cinnamon.  

 "Vixen?"

 Going back inside I pick up the note.  Sure enough it's her handwriting.

 The note reads:

 "Rudy,

They're watching you. Be careful."

 A knock causes me to spin round.  I throw open the door hoping it's Vixen.  The stupidity of my reckless is made plain when I see Glitterspark.  

 Before I can react he thumps me over the head with a lead sap.  I fall backwards into darkness.  All I see is black dotted by twinkling Christmas lights.  In the distance I can almost hear Vixen say, "I'm sorry," but I figure it's just part of a pleasant dream in an unpleasant moment.

 When I eventually come to my skull feels cracked.  The door to my room is shut, and I can't make sense of what happened until it dawns on me my hands are empty.  My gun is gone.  

 However long I've been unconscious is too long.  Dressing quick as I can I hurry to the parking lot.  Sirens are screaming in the night, and I've got a feeling anyone could be on the way for me.  Whatever's going on, Glitterspark is holding a coffin nail sure to seal me in.  

 Getting on my bike I roar out of the motel parking lot unsure where I should go.  The obvious choice is out of town.  

 Then I hear a jack-in-the-box springing out shouting, "Extra!  Extra!  Read all about it!"

 It doesn't take eagle eyes to spy an old mug shot of mine on the front page.  Trouble this deep, there's only one place to go.  The problem is I know I'm not welcome there either. Still, it's not like that's ever stopped me before.  So I head for Black Jack's Cooler.

 #

 At first glance it seems like a glacier.  Then the neon adorning the outside comes to life.  A tsunami of colors flood forth filling any eye that happens by.  There's no way not to look.  

 What a person learns, though, is that all those lights are distractions.  Strobe bursts pull attention away from the sad bastards slumped over slot machines.  Poor puppets looking ready to feed the slots blood for one more shot at gold.  Over at the blackjack table several glum faces are ignored in favor of TVs flashing sexy plushies foretelling fabulous fortune while they dance on dice.  A craps table is ringed by sweaty faces too desperate to dwell on anything but hope. Meanwhile, the neon's a rainbow blindfold hiding the truth.  

 For every single smiling winner there a thousand losers who risked their last penny betting with galactic odds against them.  In fact, the only cheery toys are the ones already rich.  It doesn't mean a thing dropping a hundred bucks here and there -- pocket change to them.  They can burn dollars for fun.  No, the sad truth is Black Jack's Cooler doesn't live off them.  It thrives on the desperate hoping to hit 21, roll seven, catch a full house on the river; the people most likely to leave penniless after chancing everything to win... does it really matter what they're after if they've lost?  The house knows every sad story, and ignored them all.

 Walking into the joint my first thought is how long before they know I'm here.  Eyes are watching from a hundred spots, half of which I can't even guess at.  Action Figures acting as security patrol the casino floor.  However, it's been almost a decade.  Perhaps things have changed.

 Tossing down a small stack I slip into a poker game, and wait.  Things are going well, to the point I actually feel like a winner. Sure enough that's when the hammer comes down.  

 I feel a heavy hand land on my shoulder.  

 I say, "Let go you wanna keep the hand."

 The grip tightens. I sigh.  Today is not the day to test me.  

 Jerking my head back I ram my antler into the Action Figure's stomach.  It jabs him back, and before he can recover I'm turned around cracking his chin with an uppercut.  Obviously he's not alone.  Folks who brag about fighting jabber on about style this, and all kinds of kung fu bullshit. The guard closest I kick in the balls, while the other, I toss a handful of chips in his face then throat punch; he's on the ground.  

 It isn't more than a second until a fresh crop of Action Figures are charging my way.  However, I've made my point.  So I put my hands up.  

 Surrounded I say, "I told him to get his hand off me."

 A slow round of solitary clapping sounds behind a row of burly Action Figures.  The column parts revealing the elf himself, Black Jack Frost, in an ice blue suit.  Shaking his head he can't seem to help a sardonic grin.  

 Pointing at me he says, "It's good to know you haven't changed."

 "Why's that?" I ask.

 "Because I won't feel bad about what happens next."

 I see his eyes move, glancing over my shoulder.  I turn in time to see Kung Fu Karl coming up from behind.  There's no time to dodge.  I get a cattle prod in the side, and for the second time in as many hours I'm laid out.  Though not unconscious, I'm out of action.  

 Action Figures scoop me up, and drag me to somewhere in the bowels of the casino.  They cuff me to a chair in a room that smells like piss, blood, and shit.  I can't help thinking I've made a tremendous error coming here.

 Not long after, Black Jack walks in with Kung Fu Karl beside him.  Two of the grimmest gangsters in the North Pole, they look oddly pleased to see me.

 Black Jack says, "Been a long time."

 "Not long enough," I say.

 He nods, "Yet, apparently, you missed us.  Why else would you be here?"

 "Haven't you seen the news?"

 Black Jack shrugs, "I've heard what's been said, but that don't make it true.  Unless you're here to settle old scores."

 "If I was, you think I'd walk in the front door?"

 He smirks, "Depends. Maybe you got an attack of conscience, and came here to pay what you owe."

 "I don't owe you shit."

 Kung Fu Karl growls.

 Black Jack says, "Don't owe shit, huh?  For what you did to Karl -- he can't do his kung fu chop no more.  Think about that."

 "Maybe if you weren't running a crooked casino, I wouldn't've had to bust the place up." Snorting I add, "Hell, you could've given me the money back.  Save us all the trouble."

 Approaching me Black Jack says, "First off."  -- he throws a vicious combo battering my face -- "My joint ain't crooked."

 Spitting blood I ask, "Second?"

 No words this time. He just goes into the beating. There's a heft to his punches almost like waiting ten years made his fists heavier.  Maybe it's just a decade of experience.  Either way, it isn't pleasant, and the whole while I can half see Karl in the background, itching for his turn.  

 After a seemingly endless barrage Black Jack steps away.  Snapping his fingers commands an Action Figure to bring him a chair. Taking a seat nearby, Black Jack mops his forehead with a handkerchief.  

 Chuckling he says, "I'm gettin' old."

 "I can take over," Kung Fu Karl says.

 Black Jack waves him off, "Not yet."

 "When?" Karl growls.

 "Soon." Eying me Black Jack says, "I gotta know why you came back, Rudy."

 Deep breath then I say, "I'm wondering the same thing."

 I've made worse decisions in my life.  Still, there's no doubt this'll rank in the top ten.  Truth is I've never been much of a planner.  That requires thinking about tomorrow.  I'm more of a doer which is not always a good thing.  I react to situations, going with the first thought that pops into my head.  If that means ripping an Action Figure's arm out the socket in order to beat my money out of his gangster boss's pockets, I'll flip the goddamn poker table over, and go nuts.  

 Vixen used to say, "You always do the right thing for the wrong reason."

 I'd reply, "Better than the wrong thing for the right reason," thinking I was clever.

 She'd just smile in that strained way you see on a person who loves you, but is disappointed.  She wanted me to consider what comes next. That would mean thinking tomorrow is worth anything.  I could never do that, at least not while living in this city.  So I left, and she stayed with her eyes hooked on a brighter future I couldn't see.  

 Considering the future I tell Black Jack, "You hear how some folks think things are about to change?"

 "There are rumors."

 "That change is coming, and I don't think it's coming clean."

 Getting to his feet Black Jack straightens his suit.  Shaking his head he steps towards the door.  Passing Karl, a nod is all it takes.  Looking like a delighted hyena Kung Fu Karl comes at me.  

 As he lays into me I hear Black Jack saying, "If change is coming that's tomorrow, and Rudy, you don't need to worry about tomorrow."

[jackblankhsh]

“Intercom” Every restoration job has its own unique challenges. Working on this 50s ranch house I stumbled on an attic full of angry squirrels. However, that doesn’t compare to this Chicago job I had. It seemed simple enough. Granted that’s a relative term, but it was nothing I never did before. I actually looked forward to it. Scraping and painting walls is definitely tedious, however, it’s a chance to turn off your brain. And I needed that. The job involved turning an old funeral home into a theater. I remember telling my boss, “This looks like the kind of place they buried people alive.” He remarked, “I wouldn’t be surprised if a cult did weird shit here.” “Isn’t weird shit part of being in a cult?” He laughed, “It’s good to see you joking.” “Indeed.” For weeks my mood could be described as gloomy. Having to wait for your girlfriend to stop being drooling high on cocaine so she understands it’s over — it’s not a recipe for rosy outlooks. Rebuilding rotted out homes just kept reminding me of her. I didn’t want to walk away, but fixing a home isn’t like repairing a person. Sure a hammer will get rid of a drug dealer, but it does nothing for personal cracks. Getting to work I soon noticed one detail about the building. In halls, and various rooms I found an old intercom system. A handheld earpiece, a gaping silver grate to speak into, and two bulbous mounds containing ringers — I always find old technology interesting. It’s familiar yet alien. I asked my boss, “Should we leave these? They might make like a sort of weird decoration.” He replied, “I actually said the same thing. The new owners want them out.” “Okay. I’ll do that next.” So I soon started going through the building removing the antique intercoms. They came out of the wall easy enough, and I left Paulie, a coworker, to deal with the wiring and holes. However, getting set to remove one from what used to be an embalming room, I heard a faint staticky hiss. Shaking my head — “Can’t be.” — I reached for the device. It rang. Doubting what I clearly heard, another shrill ring came from the intercom. Unsure what to do I plucked the earpiece off the hook. Holding it to my ear I spoke into the machine, “Hello?” “He’s coming,” a woman’s voice answered. “Who is this?” “You have to hide.” “Paulie, you fucking with me?” “Run.” An audible click. Hanging the headset on the hook I started hearing footsteps in the hall. Expecting to find Paulie, or my boss, creeping down the hall, I stepped out quickly, hoping to jump out and scare them. I saw a man approaching from the end of the hall. He reminded me of a withered tree — gaunt, bent, and crooked. Each footstep, though smooth, seemed like it should’ve caused him to stumble; his legs tossing his feet ahead flop-thudding on the floor. His weathered face looked like a pen sketch, dark lines in pale white. I said, “Who are you?” He stopped. His bloodshot eyes examined me a moment. Slowly a grin spread across his face revealing too many teeth. He said, “You’re not here yet,” and started forward. Pulling a hammer out of my tool belt I said, “Stay back.” He turned, and went into a nearby bathroom. I followed only to find nothing. The space allowed for a toilet, and a sink. It offered nowhere to hide. Yet he was gone. I told my boss. He thought I was screwing with him. “I’m telling the truth.” “Come on. This is a spooky place, but no way I’m believing that.” Maybe the look on my face made him add, “How about you get that last box then call it a day? I’ll meet ya at Mr. G’s later. We’ll have a beer, and chill.” “Fine,” I said storming off, “But I saw what I saw.” Right outside the room I heard the intercom ring. I thought about running to get someone. But something about the ringing felt like someone screaming. I ran to it, “Hello?” A woman’s voice again, “He’s killing us.” “Where are you?” She answered, “The embalming room.” I frowned. Looking around I didn’t see anybody. So I said, “I’m in there now. There’s nobody here.” She screamed, “He’s here! Help me! Hel...” Silence save for the hiss of static. “Hello?” I said, “Can you hear me?” More static until faint screams came over the intercom. Wet sounds like meat being tenderized. I stared at the box in mute horror. Then a voice, his voice, I recognized it from earlier, whispered thru the earpiece, “Soon.” “What?” He chuckled, “When we’re there on the same day, I’ll show you what happened to her.” Then I heard his voice behind me, “And that day is today.” I spun around. He stood two feet away, grinning that impossibly wide smile. I could hear him thru the earpiece, laughing from the past, even as he stood silent in the present. He reached for me. I didn’t think. I just grabbed my hammer, and swung. I can’t say how many times I hit him. The blows didn’t even make him blink. He just kept grinning until finally I hit him so hard the hammer imbedded itself in his head. He staggered back. He looked confused. Nodding he said, “I forgot this feeling.” Then he collapsed. I got my boss. We called the cops. They sent him to the hospital. One cop said, “Places like this, abandoned for years, homeless get in, and that’s all this was. He’s probably just a little nuts.” But I didn’t believe that, though I can’t say what I believe. I read some stuff online, only it’s hard to tell what facts, if any, are in an urban legend. Maybe I just don’t want to know the truth, what he was doing to people. It’s too grim.

[jackblankhsh]

"Mandarin Ducks"

 There'll be time to apologize

After you realize

There's no need for sorry.

A chapter in the story

Bittersweet to give it meat

Enough to chew,

Savor the flavor of blue

Because dessert comes after.

Is that hers, or my laughter?

Always en route to disaster.

From the first glimpse

Heart skips, trips, and limps

To the corner store for a porno cure --

Pump out the lust

Only to lube the rust,

And get the gears chugging,

Especially when she's hugging.

That's enough to inspire a desire

To hold her all night

Despite the closing bell,

And smells of hell

Promising to blight

What feels too right,

An echo that came back

Better than the original.

Ignore the infernal sigil

We're dancing on,

A kiss can't be withdrawn.

  Oh, it seems

Pygmalion built her

A companion

Useful as a cigarette

Smoked to the filter,

So for now

Butterfly lovers part

Just as the show is about to start,

But though star-crossed fucks

We're a pair of mandarin ducks.

[jackblankhsh]

"Rather Than What's Wanted"

 Ignoring the gaslight

Ignite a tiny lighter,

And by the glow examine

Where the gas lamps end.

Should the sights start to blight

The field growing strong

Shed tears for one night

Raining on paper

Printing drop by drop

The tragedy of what used to be

Easy to justify in the dark.

The grime and slime

Churned to twisted humor;

The sewer rot

Spritzed by a perfumer,

And one spray for the eye

To blind proper.

However many pages

Collect the lot

To look back on

When a wound needs salt

To remind what's wrong.

  Then walk the streets

Glaring at shadows

Seeing what's hid

Rather than what's wanted.

[jackblankhsh]

This week is a full on audio project.  I'm hoping to do more like this in future, a combination of audio and visual.  As usual, it'll be simple videos -- photo, art work, etc., but nothing too fancy.  This time around I wanted to experiment with a little verse and music.  "From Flowers, Piranhas" is intended as a B-movie inspired poem.  Every other element around it is supposed to tie into that theme.  Hey, it's Halloween, so I want to delve into the fun, spooky side of the season.   The poem is below.  I've got nothing else to add except I hope you enjoy it.

​“From Flowers, Piranhas” Leaving shrouded streets For open farm fields Throw away the suitcase A treasure trove Reliquary reminder of corpses That used to be family. A brief prayer Cigarette playing censer Watch the smoke roll heavenward Then, all words spent, Flick a comet across the sky. Never mind where it lands, An ancestral ruin beckons A long lost shard Remnant of a portrait In stained glass Shattered by flowers. Cadillac as best friend Carries decades backward Into a town decay visited, And not enough interest Left the job incomplete, Though rosy residents Seem to claim Sunshine fills an open grave Like warm water in winter. Houses abandoned to orchids Line an avenue No one goes down. If only all cancer Could be so beautiful. Find the mausoleum Masquerading as a mansion, Remnant of bygone success DNA couldn’t carry. Wander cobwebbed halls Passing photos oddly reflective, Unfamiliar yet similar Faces staring without warning What grows in the garden. Winged homunculi gestate In mammoth roses, Stalks coated in meat hooks Thorns defending Lethal butterflies Emerging from petal cocoons Glowing neon fluttering Hungry all night long. At home in the bone pile, Another skeleton in the closet Picked clean by pulchritudinous piranhas, Watches the fairies fly.

[jackblankhsh]

The Yellow King’s Executioner

I planted myself Where Carcosa shows. I lost my mind, But I found my soul. Shrouded in the hollow I let the Yellow King hallow The future I'd grow.

Hearing Cassilda's song I thought nothing wrong. In the court of the dragon I found a welcome wagon, Where whispers set a task, I donned their mask, And finished transformation To repairer of reputation -- This is my destined destination.

Feeling fine I embraced the yellow sign -- Floating over the line. At first A hesitant tensing. This isn't murder It's cleansing. But soon no need For any defensing. Raised my knife, and unlike Lot's wife I never looked back.

I'm sure the papers will subtract The fact of the attack, Claiming Serial kills occur And say nothing Of the king's executioner.

[jackblankhsh]

11 Days

"11 Days"

Can't help doing a booty tooch They just fired The motherfucking Mooch. And I know I shouldn't Take pride in another's failure, Especially since this Sewer tongue sailor Was probably a day away From some epic word play Dropping cunt bombs Talking about which moms His cum filled palms Are gonna slap like toms -- Drums that is. Oh, but he wasn't phosphor bronze Resistant to corrosion. In the midst of his eclosion, Emerging from the pupa case This insect lost before starting the race. And whatever inconsistent reason Is given for listing him Free to fire on this hunting season It's just another pawn Tossed like rubbish On the White House lawn.