THREE WORKS
BY ZOOT FORZILCH

CRASHLANDS PART FOUR

Dreaming ist verboten. Expresley against the rules.
Infringements will be punished by forced hallucination
or fifty fried tongue lashes on a hotbed of brain
wash. Whichever is not the shortest or the quietest,
you can be sure thats the one they'll choose. Quickest
too, no doubt. Or rather not, that is. Its all part of
the treatment syndrome, so we've been told. Treatment
for what, cry the carry on brigade, all dressed up in
eighteenth century togs. They've been walking up and
down outside the window for days now and no one is
sure what the final reckoning will be.
However no one is to be found wanting in this
deportment. Squire Trelawney and Squire Benjamin are
most insistent in this respect. They have engaged the
captain of a local windjammer to put into robin hood
bay with a square rig of contraband. They have
underground scouts, abroad in the local hostelries,
and believe there is a hitherto untapped market
amongst D6's and F9's. A monogrammed pair of trainers
and a shell suit bearing the company logo will be
given free with every sexpick. To avoid repetition of
the hoover scandal all intending purchasers will have
to become lifetime subscribers to the company liquor
scheme. This agreement to be to signed in blood. In
triplicate. In the presence of witnesses. At dead of
night. Additionally a waiver foregoing their right to
the grog ration will be sought. Dissenters will be
regarded with death.
As a sign of good faith Squire Benjamin has of late
taken to flying a kite above the treetops that
surmount the clifftops. He is often to be found
perambulating there of a morning. Most customary with
his old boosem drinking compadre Squire Trelawney. The
two are engaged in a series of experiments aimed at
tracking down the source of astral grievances.
Benjamin is convinced these are electrical by nature.
Trelawney is convinced some correspondence exists
betwixt this and the erections of young slothrop, a
local blade of his acquaintance.
Young coughdrop is presently recumbing in a bordello
and a gaggle of young fancies are taking bets on the
inclination of his proferred dong. Take a lick of this
boys and you'll find the quickest way to heavens via a
sinners sexual healing. The little doxies squeal and
giggle at this nonsense for they have heard it so many
times before. And better told whats more. But Madame
George, the brothel keeper, is doing a roaring trade
in breakfast sucking pumps and so no one wants to
upset the apricot cart.
Them two old squeers be coming in soon ma'am, sneers
snipe the half mad old potman who empties drums of
diarrhoea on a whole other level. His panderin west
country drawl can be 'eard all over the shot. They be
pacing the 'eadlands up on honest cove this very
instant, a ferreting out clues from lightnin jags. Tis
said as 'ow Squire Trelawney as 'ad a vision, he
wheedles. Well I'll be bound, echoes Madame George
continuing in the country pandemic. Aye, its quite put
the zap on young Benjamins bonce so it 'as, nods
nickodeamus sagely.
Back on dry land the incumbents of the battle star
galleria had once more to assume the position of
aliuses and petty disguises. The sojourn below street
level had not been uninstructive in this respect and a
small spell of no names at all seemed the best course
of action. Of course, human nature being what it was,
this would rarely solidify into the el permanente
mandate. However regular monikers were considered de
rigeur amongst the cognoscenti, so in practice they
generally degenerated into varying degrees of ad hoc
cognoma. Thus during the first weeks induction it was
next to impossible to try and work out with accuracy
who anybody was supposed to be.
Those who had survived the various administrations of
the plague carriers, and the government training
schemes dreamt up to overcome them, were transported
free across the country in liberty troop villes. They
ran for weeks, and often months at a time, and when
they did hit land it was usually in huge makeshift
metropoli. These were modelled on the clearance camps
that had proliferated in the first half of the century
during the time of demographic experiments. Because of
this they were sometimes erroneously called the final
solution but in fact they were really only a bad case
of the seven percent variety.
The codename was operation overpop and the scheme was
promulgated clandestinely to all suscribing interests.
The party of the first part being in constant hoc to
the party of the second part due to the careful
application of some tiny indecipherable legal
journalese. The inventor of this particular strand of
the scenario was a chap called O'Molloy or dublo for
short. The invention was entirely his own doing and
his chest puffed enormously with dogsbody pride at the
merest mention of its graces. Perseverance knew no
better adherent than himself. Hadnt he pedalled it
around for years at every country fair and script
conference until finally some nutter from the
independant sector had decided to give it a whirl.
Then in a matter of very little time at all it caught
on like wildfire and everyone wanted to grab a slice
of the action.
Joe blow was among the first. Now his annual beanfeast
was considered required reading. Then as now he faced
the assembled punters with a fiercely penetrating
gaze. He cleared his throat and his countenance took
on its wearily familiar mask of gravitas. He had moved
through a time switch to be here this evening and so
far not everything had gone to plan. Unfortunate
scotty, the operator, was offbeam someplace of his
own, and though joe had made the switch himself he'd
made it too fast. People are dying out there dont you
know, he hastily intoned. In this guise the
familiarity of the war cry of the anonymous brigade
sounded curiously theatrical. Even somewhat hollow.
For all the solemnity of his pronouncements there was
still a pinch of wooster bubbling away below the
surface and despite his best efforts he remained
forever out of his bodybag. He was aware of the
disjointed nature of this tirade but powerless to
altar it. All he could do was pull serious faces and
try a little legerdemain. It was not a conspicuous
success. Some of the better end started to cough
nervously and shuffle their shoes. The howard league
were prime movers in this repect and both frank and
arthur looked on incredulously. Against a lazy jazz
backbeat of frankie and albert the slow boat began.
SuperBraces appeared in the wings with a magic lantern
tucked under his arm. The introductory talk was
scheduled to begin in a small matter of moments.
Goodness gracious, said prebendary Puffenstuff, what
will the young people think of next. He was agog with
the general intrigue that was running riot through the
room at that precise point and was anxious not to miss
out on any of the coming proceedings.
Psychodrama was certainly a large part of it. The
treatment that is. (For sure.) But it was not the only
component. (Yeah yeah.) Long walks in the country and
a never ending stream of cups of rosy were also
instrumental. (I hear where your coming from.) In nice
cosy edwardian parlour games. (I'm comfortable with
that.) Preferably somewhere out in the country.
Surrounded by green fields and with woods close by.
(I'm very comfortable with that.) Close to the sea
with plenty of opportunities for swimwear. (Oh yes,
very comfortable.) Having the exclusive services of an
inhouse croaker and the whole lot paid for by the
social. (Oh extremely comfortable.) And maybe, for the
really bad, free trips to africa. Oh fabuloso Benjii,
crooned the assembled multitude.
In the background he could hear the whiplash sneer of
the workhouse overseer. Great clammy wet feet smashing
down on the naked stones like sjamboks, as he came
lolloping through the steamie. The old crones hid in
dark sullen crannies for it was the overseers drudge
of choice to lash these poor unfortunates in the
privates with wet towels. Bennie remembers it well for
he has stood oft in line with the other orphans
waiting for a storm. A cool blast of hoopla to blow
out the cobwebs. A nice warm fusty nook bereft of
other spiders. They're cannibals you know. Will 'ave
your 'ead off in a trice of a shaky lambs tail, snorts
the overseer drilling up a line of coke from off the
broken back of a teenage mother. We'll put your
fertile womb to better use than that my dear, he
oilily offers. White goods and machine tools, thats
what the country requires. At that he grabs the girl
by the hair and smashes her face in the brick wall.
Blood and viscera slide serenely down the proscenium
arch to land in a shough running under the cheap
seats. I say, thats a bit near the knuckle, shouts
Jeeves. Ra-ther, Norton hastily puts in.
It is all a bit much for the men from the ministry.
Cannes film festival is more up their street.
Preferably on a freebie. Agreeing to present prizes at
the first annual convention of pyschobabble was not a
smart career move thinks Jeeves. Absolutely squire
thinks Norton telepathically. The boss man was not in
complete control of his faculties when he handed out
the short straws on this one, they both concur. The
house lights are raised and they prepare to leave. Not
a moment too soon if you ask me, corners Jeeves. I'll
drink to that, adds Norton. At the exit they are met
by a fallen usher. He motions them into a sly
confessional at the back of the ticket tellers booth.
He produces his press card and offers them an
exclusive.
If you want to see the flip side of his coin go down
to the 1925 shelter on Aberystwyth seafront and ask
Scotch Tommy. He'll give you the full SP on Joe Blow.
The knew messiah he certainly aint. The only souls he
saves are those already saved. With the blue cross
doodah tatooed obligingly over their nappers. Stating
fiercely plain. Dosh no problem. Molly no loan. The
technology is not unique. It could just as well be
used on green stamps. For down on the street where
they really need him Joe is curiously conspicuous by
his absence. Off someplace stateside no doubt.
Addressing the latest conference of those who have no
mood altering grievances no doubt.
A leading commentator in the biz was less than
complimentary when asked for a comment. Building his
own treatment centre in his backyard for heavens
sakes. Well I mean it might impress the punters back
in the oxbag brigade but it sure dont slice the
moutarde down here on easy strasser. What we need are
more filofaxes. More interpersonal skills. More
aggressive marketing campaigns. SuperBraces has a line
in this respect, he inquires, cocking a snookie
highbrow? Lets put him on the payroll then. See some
action replays.
It seems like a four four two would be the obvious
ploy here but dont count your chickens too soufle. A
three five two with the lead midfield man doubling as
a striker might prove just as effeminate. After all as
referee Burroughs is quick to counter, once these guys
leave the field your never gonna remember their names.
And there is some truth in his observation. However
for the real McCoy one should look no further than a
two three five. A formation not seen for oodles and
donkeys on the turf but guaranteed to pick a winner
every time at subuteo.
In the staff room the head prefect draws himself up to
his full height and, pulling on a cheroot like Lee Van
Cleef, prepares to tackle the head. Good lord you
might just as well get yourself laid out in an orgone
accumulator, he opens. I mean I personally wouldnt set
too much store on these things. (But neverthless
benefiting from a questionable wide.) This bit of
cosmology, in particular, sounds a bit alien to me.
(Scraping a leg bye.) Mind you once you get out there
in amongst the twilight zone theres all manner of this
kind of gear up for grabs. (A tentative four here?)
Still bull balloon says he stuck his willie wonka in
one and blew his stack straight off. Right there on
the spot. No messing. (A contentious bye bye given
here.) So I guess it just depends on your point of
view.
Joe Blow has signed a pact with Joe Lucifer. If he
returns it within seven days he gets Jo Lean as an
added bonus. And I guess you must of heard the stories
about Jo Lean. Seems there not much short of nothing
she wont do. Cept tell about it afterwards of course.
Loyalty for goodness sake. A rare and unusual
commodity in these hereabouts. Anyway, cut up a long
story short, this faustian phantasmagoria has an added
dimension. As a part of the bargain his captives must
petition the lord with prayer. These sermons are
collected each day by a man goin round takin names.
Then when everyones put his john henry on his own
personal event thingy Joe breezes through them all
looking for likely talent. Anything that strikes more
than a couple of points on the richter whatsit is like
as not to wind up being the basis of one of Joes
little routines. Then he writes the whole thing up and
puts it out under my name. I mean howd'you like that.
De noive of this guy. Strutting his stuff up there
about how hes the big cheese and how hes done it all
but we aint supposed to do nothing cos its bad for us.

Then theres this second in command dame. Mary Come
Lately, late of llanelli, how does your garden grow.
With pitta bread and lumps of lead and terminal
addicts all in a row. Well she blows in from nazareth
obviously to fulfil the lucretia role. It is one she
is well versed in. Comfortable even. Her old man
having passed away one day and she never even noticed
being, at the time, more interested in the contents of
a bottle of bells. Or so she says now. Truth is she
just cant take it coming home to an empty larder every
night so she figures, what the hell, might as well
truck on down to the command post and bust a couple of
asses. Josef 'em like, up the stalin. So she comes
sneaking in at midnite with a round of toast for
herods boys and the main gates boobytrapped with
twenty pounds of fencepost stapled to her cheek like
an out take for close encounters of the chesty morgan
kind. Then shes all talking throaty low about how no
ones got any more gratitude no more and what a hard
time shes having sat up on the podium here all day and
haulin home that big bag of scratch every night.
Counting ill gotten gains in the watch tower. Humming
all along haul along. Down dale buck and wing rogers,
the errant commanders of captain codys lost ramblers
you know. Sitting there at six in the morning spieling
out there examples. Dreaming up the where when who
what why of it all. Moses sticking his schnozzle out
between the eaves of the tent. Back in the rajah daze.
Tinking who dat dare trumpeting where de hells de
howdah.
The gardeners next. A frustrated lucifer from
edensville. Always maundering on about how he aint no
cowboy just cause hes building storm drains out of old
eggboxes. Hes usually to be found snuck in the snug
but dont go silly on him if he ups and marchs out
halfway through mid sentence. Its only that old monkey
halfway up his back got his arm in a back hammer thats
running rabbits up his paunch. Greets the new arrivals
with the old hard con soft con shuffle. How much time
ya done bro'. Plays a bad hand of slammer chest. Goes
into the bar of the brasiere with the french boys
muttering a pint of winners chutzpah please and make
sure that boys got clean unnerpants on.
Right now the gardeners sat in the potting shed
nursing his fly billies and listening to early Bert
Jansch. Jack Orion catchs his fancy for obvious
reasons. Then Joe Blow sticks his head round the door
to see how the sheds are potting. Hoe that soul
brother, is his opening rejoinder. The gardener looks
up in some surprise. He has his nose in a book and is
a million miles from here. However he recovers his
equilibrium in time to make the customary sign -
crossed forelocks over a humble pie - and offers the
traditional greeting. May the hog be with you brother.
What hoe, inquires Joe, and making a noise like a
hunting horn departs poste chase over the horizon.
The gardener shares this humble abode with the yard
cats, Ziggy and Cher, and all three are want to spend
their afternoons lazily reclining before a blazing
brazier of raspberries. When in season of course. The
unexpected arrival of Joe Blow has cast an unwarranted
dampner on this scene of domestic bliss. Muttering and
cursing the gardener gathers up his boots and prepares
to decamp for the greenhouse and an afternoons slug
busting. Not the lovingly comatose postnoon he had
envisioned when slurping down the last mouthfuls of
rhubarb crumble at lunchtime. However on his way to
the hothouse he espies Stout Blow in the midst of the
meadow. He has peeled off his white suit and is naked
to the waist. Preparing, no doubt, to go into his
saturday night fever routine. The gardener is
encouraged at this turn of events. Blow will be
suitably engaged for the remainder of the day and he
can return to his loving shed.
Once re-esconced in the potting house he loses no time
in establishing himself there. He sends Ziggy out to
keep cavey in case Blow is trying to pull a fast one
and comes sneaking back to catch them all unawares.
Cher he sends up to the kitchens to retrieve a
roasting tin full of sweetmeats to spice up their
afternoons repast. Then with all done he settles back
in his old armchair. Tis the same from the big house
that old Leviathan sat in of a night and dreamt up his
weird schemes many pages ago. He grabs his comic from
off the hob, where it has been nicely browning, and
continues to browse.
Benny the transexual spectre. Split into many parts.
Blondie from syracuse and byron from the bronx.
Creations of the night in borrowed biblical splendour.
Searching for the exit. Lost in a maze of memory gone
sour. Transmitting diseases with a stroke of the pen.
Breaking out in spasms of rage across the page.
Playing tricks on fellow conspirators. Guiding the
mercenary tanks of the conquistadors. Making a mockery
of the napalmed refugees. Sitting senseless on the
sidelines. Pitching pitiful intrigue into the prairie.
Benny the transcontinental danger machine. Riding
alone through the night with dreams of murder. Another
day another dollar. Heading for the coast to pick up
on the trail of his quarry. Riding the blinds for fear
of discovery. Playing cat and mouse with the brakeman.
Drinking from sterno cans in a rented suit. Never to
be returned. Hired on phoney credit with all his other
artifacts. Fingering the trigger of his latest limo. A
job without end. Something new and hard to handle.
Train rattling onwards. Through the high sierra
mountains. Gray and emaciated. Greeting the dawn with
a hoarse rattled throat. At a hill top crossing.
Battered coachliner three days out of the east. His
unknown adversary. Drunk with fatigue at its lowest
ebb. Stranger passing stranger. Unbeknown. Separate
roads to the same fate. Real or imagined. Rail meeting
road at a deserted highway. Nothing but bars and
dives. Two men sitting alone over breakfast. In a
movie lot hotel. Left over from the thirties. A
conscious parody. Of itself and their lives. Hidden
beneath battered trilbies and chalk stripe suits.
Benny the comic book monster. At last facing up to his
responsibilities. Giving his readers something more
for their money than cheap thrills. Chasing a complete
stranger across america for kicks. Nothing more than a
name on a ticket. Just something to hold on to. Not a
reason to be but a reason to behold. As he surveys his
surroundings and watches ancient waiters hustle up
eggs and coffee. Life slipping by past steamed up
windows. That lead to the kitchen. Chance of a free
meal. Instant friendship from girls at the counter.
The stranger in town. Says his name real slow. No ones
really sure. The man from the drugstore. Thinks he's
seen him before. Cant remember where. Trusts nobody.
Automatically on guard. Slyly aware that he's being
followed. Follows with his eyes as the people from the
train return in slow motion. Thinks he sees the one. A
friend from childhood days. Cutting through the years
with a message of revenge. Time has no frontiers. Old
scores seldom settle. Lingering on the edge of dusty
highways. Searching for the end with a silver bullet.
A stranger leaving town. In the back of a beat up
trailway bus. Hat pulled down over his eyes. Sleepy
after three days on the road. Unshaven. Clothes in
need of repair. Veiled in cigar smoke. Sinister aspect
to deter conversation. Dreaming of a new life on the
coast. Sleep on the beach. Grow strong in the sun.
Dispel the gloom of a struggled life spent in the
slums back east. Settle down and start anew. No more
hustling. Goodbye to the shingles and rackets. Passing
the time between waking and sleep. In fond
anticipation of the future.
The driver ominous behind green shades. Glances at the
mirror. His frozen crew. Lambs for the slaughter. He
hauls them here three times a week. On the last leg of
their desperate journey. From a comfortable house he
built himself. In the suburbs of a stolen city. The
faces never change. Same mixture of hope and despair.
He despises their freedom and secretly hopes that one
day he will crash off the highway. Go out in a blaze
of glory. No survivors. Especially that sneaky looking
guy in the back. The one looks like he just stepped
out of a broderick crawford movie.
He looks back to the road. Just in time to swerve out
the path of a diesel. Cursing his indecision. One day
he mutters. One day I'll give those sons of bitches
something to write home about. Putting his foot to the
floor and heading down out of the mountains. To the
long stretch through the desert where the road runs
parallel with the railroad track.
Road and rail running together. Headed for god knows
where. The billboard keeps its own company. A
lightning commentary of the age. Relocation and
dislocation. The everyday disaster. Advertised on
every corner. The promise of paradise reflected on the
faces of the travellers. The lonesome hobos from the
empty continent. Restlessly moving from town to town.
In search of dreams and schemes. None of them
realising that all the new deals and fresh starts are
just more links in the chain. That weaves back and
forth from coast to coast. Endlessly inventing new
ways of disguising the truth. Letting them believe for
a little while longer that theyre not really running.
But no one believes it. No one believes anything. They
put their trust in false profits and let it go at
that. On the observation deck of the pullman car they
sit in gilded opulence. Salesmen and vacationers and
people on the make. Amongst them sits Benny. An
imposter in such surroundings. Visiting by proxy a
life that could have been his. Staring motionless out
the window. Watching the cars pass down the empty
highway. Past withered trees and abandoned gas
stations. Seeing in the distance a long wound road.
Vainly trying to pass. Catching up for a second. Two
sets of indentical passengers gazing into the past.
Eyes rest each on the other. Himself from long ago.
Slumped in the back of the bus. Motionless on the top
deck of the train. Now they're gone. A steep gray
slowing the bus. The train disappearing through a
slope in hell.
A lazy hot afternoon. The small town lies forgot by
the side of the sea. Along the main drag the townsfolk
pass the time in idle forgetfulness. Time has long
forsaken them. They live out their lives according to
patterns whose meaning has long since vanished. Down
on the quay they watch fishing boats bob gently home
on the laughing waves. Nothing of note ever happens.
For most people nothing ever will. Employment is
scarce. The canning plants closed and nothing will
come to replace it. It is a place for forgetting.
Thats all.
The town boasts of three hotels. But one has already
closed. The windows are boarded. For sale hangs
forlorn in the forecourt. The wind rocks slowly.
Creaking out rusty scaffold. Beating out metro for the
raggedy children. They take over the basement of the
other two. One is considered respectable. It is solid
construction. Moneyed red brick. Built in the twenties
from the proceeds of scandal. It is a relic from the
days when the town was a resort. Its own galaxy of
stars. Its faded grandeur acts now in reverse. A
magnet for people where nobody goes. The third has
always been cast with aspersion. Nothing more than a
street bar of desire.
Most days it is crowded. Noisy from all the talk. Just
whats going to happen. When things start to pick up
again. As surely they will. Surely they must. They
insist. Bad times are after all. Only the necessary
preamble to good. There is endless speculation. The
old hotel is already bought. Famous names are bandied
about. Fabulous plans are unveiled. A disney world. A
casino. A marina. The dreams multiply and magnify. A
continuous round of drinks is maintained. Each more
flamboyant than the last. As fuelled by liquor. Ever
more outrageous predictions are implied. The afternoon
drifts on in such fashion. No one caring who brings it
to a close.
Out on the waves. Gunny loneshark bobbing on the
breeze. Sits pouring over charts in the stateroom.
Picking cigar ash out his moustache with a toothpick.
He needs a low key bay. Out on deck his lackey keeps
watch. Over the cadaverous contraband hastily lashed
on the makeshift deck. Gunny goes to the bridge and
looks out through a three bit telescope. Scanning the
sky with byway eyes. For any likely cove. The second
banana heaves the coupings off a barrel load of rum
and pours them each a pint. Smashing glasses gunny
downs his at a blast and returns to the snake room.
The charts slide across the floor to greet him. They
make a sly pattern which suggests that maybe this is
the way. The banana lets out a croaky soaky yell.
Theres a low flown plane dipped down low on the
horizon. Gunny is thinking fast through the haze. His
mind consumed with tortured visions of white suited
customs man. Khaki boots stomping down his ill washed
decks. Dock spikes broke and on the rigging. Slow
night torture to spill the beans. Deliver up your
secrets. Sweet vermin swine. Banana is breaking out an
ancient rusted machine gun from tar spattered banners.
He aims torpedo low over the soft spitting waves. The
plane whatever has turned. Its sites set perhaps on
bigger game.
They continue to drift. Motors are cut to save fuel.
To maintain silence. Occasionally they pass a small
fishing smack. A spot of no consequence. The fishermen
are no friends of authority. Gunny has bought their
allegiance with promises of great things in store.
When his old man finally makes it down the coast. At
the head of all that east coast scratch. Turn this old
cannery lobster pot into gold city then. Make ragtime
millionaires out of all the old bums sat on the
barbers shop stoop. Big daddy rolling down the pacific
coast highway with his robber baron remittance men.
The grown up no neck monsters. Flashing largesse on
greedy spinster palms of small town dreams. Banana
keeps a weather eye to port. Gunny is hastily oiling
the magazine of the rusty machine.
Joe Blow the west coast man. Back east for a quick
tumble. Through phoney broken time switch refractor. A
deliquescent photo cell. Helpfully on the blink. A
delinquently sited observer. A sure fire crack at the
speed wreck. Has been living awake seventy two hours
in a trance. Rubbing shoulders with the blue crowd.
Robed in a ribbon of many colours. Gunning for his
brothers. A gold medallion of ready rubbed flake. A
glittering prize to cover his erstwhile surprise.
He is almost totalled. Complete? No unaware. Unknowing
warhorse of old greek persuasion. Crammed with hidden
goodies for pirates beauty. Getting high on hemlock
highballs. The real booty. Sells well in the west. In
barbary coast slick chops. Take the slow train west.
Sidle off to the smoker. Veiled in cigars. Jump ship
roundabout the high sierra. For maximal disorder.
Arrive in a slow day at dawn. Then quick step quickly
to black rock bleakly. Out to the night mans motel.
For a nippy sweet quick change.
Throw nickels at abandoned street kids. Post them all
on lookout. Seeking out the sly clues that are all a
mans life depends upon in these hereabouts. Always
being conscious over the shoulder for the childhood
friend. Who will soon betray. Or be himself betrayed.
In a fast hand of cunning disguise. From out the past.
Turning cartwheels on a self erected gallus pole.
Gunny brings the boat in longside. Abaft the shambling
pier. Perched perilously on the edge of swaying oily
surf. Scrambled legs of the city. Looks tipped to
dissolve. In trusted minute. Lines are thrown to the
harbour man. He flicks them expertly round the capstan
wheel. Tightly secure he takes his cut. Helps the crew
unload the spoils. A whole wreck of renegade guns.
West coast weaponary for mid east jungle. They count
them off a case at a time. Smooth notch
on sly prayer wheel. They sing as they throw. Gonna
tell the captain. Bout miss lordy.
The master is happy. Sitting on the stoop of his one
room shack. Picking out toons on the back of his
twelve string. East coast style. Bottom E. Drop down
D. He has his mug of rum. Woods one oh one. He watchs
the world flow. Keeps time by the steam whistles.
Swapping yarns with the yard switchers. Occasionly
stopping he notes in a book. Anything strange or
unusually usual. The coming and going of small time
traffic. Boasts in and out. Whoever delivers? Cash
collects.
Sally Amanda sits thinking. In the late afternoon
veranda. Casting lazy scary glances west to the water.
Looking for signs of the home coming fleet. Rubbing
her thighs with cuban cigars. The life blood of the
town. Ill met contraband. Thinking of one. Who may
come or not. With good news or not. Has ridden too
long on this west coast express. Slid into town this
morning she heard. Wonders if this is the one. Or who
the other. Seen drifted on the train. Both fugitives
now who would sanctuary seek. Low down for show down.
The strangers say. Its always said in the down town
bar. Its open all day. They sit and talk. She heard
them say. The long coming miracle. Breathe new life
into these scattered environs. The new jerusalem in
these greenish lands. A new deal. For those prepared
to eat. Take a scythe to the ravenous corn crazy
lands. Out past the new moon highway. Catch sight of
the old times. Straight through the lamp light with
stone hollow jars.
Hands on hips. She surveys this tattered scene. From
the shadows of the sheriffs office. Pacing back and to
the old dusty board walk. Listening for strands of
tell tale talk. Some info to peddle at random. A hand
or deck of wise cards. Trade little secrets for little
more. In these parts a mans life you know. May depend
on just this or that piece of scant info. Who saw
whom. Who went where? Who got burned. Who held the
match? Wondering at these small comings on main
street. Grinning at those old goings. Counting the
time she has. Before soon meeting with the town
shrink. Straighten her head on the water shed couch.
Annie Salamander she calls herself now. The quick
change artist. Brushing a wisp of long black hair out
her eye. Casting careful glances into the couch. She
taps deftly at the door. Is met by Lou Soo Wong. The
japanese trick cyclist. From somewhere up the county.
On summer frolic in a new found colony.
Benny makes camp in the old colony hotel. Alone he
tramps the bill worn boards. Incognito he counts his
dollars. Spread lazy on the empty bar. He uncorks a
bottle. A hip size pint. A long drawn slug from the
lip. He has thinking to do. Strangers to outwit. Stay
ahead of the game. Arrive easy they said. Slide in at
dawn without a sound. Make no waves. Only graves. Big
deal in store. For a slice of the pie. A piece of the
action. His last run down. The final job. Here on the
coast. At the end of the line.
Outside the ragged orphans play. Bluff man blind with
the swaying sign. He hears their shouts and strolls on
out. Casts down a handful of change. Nickels dimes
pennies no more. For news he says. Anything strange.
They fight for coins and disperse in the dust. Nothing
escapes their all seeing eye. Hid under the boardwalk.
On the barbershop stoop. Passing out the shine.
Calling off the news. From every hidden corners
pictured city views.
The strangers already left. Decamped to a roadside
motel. The clerk is seedy and nervous. Mumbling bout
the nightman. He throws a key a cross a deck. A pile
of blanks. Grumbling out the cabin. Leaves soon
return. Smooth and smiling. A tray of milk and cookies
crumble. All innocent charm. Small talk and visitors.
The roads gone west. Wont be back. The sign burns on
for old times sake. In leaves the strangers passing.
Back and to and fond regards the long dead hawk.
Preserved in love in case of ancient. Hung on the wall
a hobby clerk said. Rare in these parts it passes the
time.
The stranger sat back in the barbers chair. Enjoying
the slow singe of hot towels. The barber knows all.
Tells all in the right frame of mind. A silent ear.
His favourite listen. Rattling on. The mayor has
shares in the liquor store rap. Much else besides.
Half the town is in hock. All his talk. Just phonus
balonus. The promised land is his alone. Tied up neat
in his cross eyed hand. Now rumours abound.
Interspersed parties hot on the scene. Double cross
and green cross. Deals within wheels. Look both ways.
Go easy on trust.
The thing is to take them. But quick like surprise. So
say the mayors east coast bank. Bankers he confides.
To the razorback sweeney. They want it all. Will stop
at nothing. Send heironymous strangers into town.
Casting spaniards in the works. Busting up the pecan
pie. Sinking the boats with their low down loans.
Sharks the barber snicks a whisker. Taking the wrong
load from out the mayors spokane nose. Bankers you
say. We had one in lately. Clean shaven. Looking to
sniff out a few tricks. I kept shtoom. Me an up coming
depute. He should coco.
The mayor is in a funk. Cold sweat runs down his
robes. These guys are not sweet. They want it all. As
he himself. But for the town. His clarion cry. New
opportunities. The board of deputes. Lining the track.
Reopen the pecan plant. Send out the ships. A thousand
helen strong. On the trail of tuna fish harvest.
Whistling dimes for every buddy. Lonesome spare on
every corner.
At night when all are gone to ground. A round the
booze stained tables. Interested parties gather. The
stakes are high. Each reachs in with a trigger nimble
finger. Figure it how you can. A shovel full of
awkward coals. The pot still boiled. Some one raises.
Someone calls. Round the edge the moon dogs glow. The
attendant waits. Whispering muttering. Small print
detail. Time for later. Now all eyes. As one on one.
Who speaks his piece. Who says it all. Winners and
losers. Wish fountains whirlpool. Made here in the
night. At the toss of a card. The turn of a coin. Big
money rising. Slow fortune raising. Home on the kill.
Anyone argues. Mow him down. With twisted metal and
legal steel.
Gunny holds court by the end of the bar. The local
worthies at cynical tension. They hear him out but say
no more. All are waiting the sheriffs prayer. The
mayor is on the make. Stitched up good. Broke and on
the take. This is read by all. He's cooking up some
shady grove deal. In cahoots with the orange blossom
special. Launder the land and clean it up fast. Gunny
has a plan. Forty thousand bales of fresh laid hay.
Mailed fast freight to the coast. In beat up trains.
Washed over at night. In newborn dough by the shambles
edge. A half laid noisome plan. Will place aboard the
hard earned patch.
Elsewhere are lackey. The banana too. Holding up the
pool hall. A dazzling ray of dangerous strokes.
Historical folks. The slow shuffle of used bills. Dark
eyes and juke box. Lackey plays fast. Banana on the
fall. Tinkling glass and hurried bets. Black takes
all. Tip on a wing. Cash eerily in.
Down on the west end of the island sits a ramshackle
complex. Of duplex and triplex. Washed ashore under
the east of the bridge. They straddle the strip of
land. From the rivers edge to the freeway. The
interurban tracks run rusty. A clanging clattering
streetcar tumbles out the tunnel. It is midway to the
crush. A motley melee of street work operators. Ride
roughshod on the gangplank. Home for the evening.
Going to the match. See the fights, the movies, the
cafes. Could be algeria, could be france. Watch out
for the man at the back. Moving through concentric
circles in search of a goal. A missing picture book.
Stole out the back of the bar. The bare dusty rim now
all that remains. Make swift hasty copies for maximum
gains. Smuggled out the museums rooms. Float away on
sinking canal sides. A leper barge blowing a peel of
cornetto trashlands into the carib heartlands.
The strangers meet. A hasty alliance. Of makeshift
allegiance. Needs must end. Its written in blood. They
heard it said. On seperate routes. They each outwit.
Small time hacks. Peek out worn up boards. Clever
notes in oft spilt ink. Milked of human slyness. They
each await. Her regal highness. Surveys it all. From
arid safety. That shrinks front room will once more
turn. Its tricks then shift. Another parlour. Silver
doll in chanted hold up. Framed in leather. Bound in
sky.
Benny and Joe hole up in the sentry. Dead mans hand on
itchy trigger. Lays in wait for lawyers dead pan. Sly
bambino code once more abroad. In the beam worth two.
In the brush work three. Four strokes to the bar. In
the engine room shovel. Steaming hissing. Stripped to
the waist. Rippling muscles gleam in firebox glow.
Eugene france the jump ship stoker. Grabbing command
from the brass rubbed rail. The anchors weighed. For
streams ahead. Buried at sea. In full crystal honour.
The barber is in the black room. Counting out
counterfeit coins from beneath an oil lamp. He has the
rough crew already assembled. Beery and leary and guns
at the ready. He has them fire pumped and prime. It
only needs a slow blown fuse. The crackled papers
already lit and flaming snuffly blue. Lynch fever is
mixed with the sweet perfume of insanity. They need
only the slightest push is all. Direction matters not
a foregone conclusion. Over the top in a minute from
now is the most it takes. The barber pulls the pins
and stripes and tips a wink to the brakeman. Lately
thrown from a norfolk caboose to down the high road
weapons a dangling. In need of a scape goat any will
do. Who sold them short who left them cold? In
coughing wretching dust of stagnant town.
The brakeman grabs a twelve gauge from off a padlocked
frame. He swaps a case of partridge with some
switcherman and heads out the back road in a cloud of
rust. Kicking up trash and glass and newsprint. Some
comic urchins sneak out the funnies and pass the word.
He's riding point to the burying ground. A solo round
whilst sweeney takes the mob back round the front. A
miscellaneous hail of shouts and shots and lights
accompanies him. It pressages an early conclusion to
the proceedings.
Paraffin flares mingle with the stench of mob
violence. Torches light the night. Scare the way.
Mixing pre battle stumble with post bottle confusion.
Sweeney takes a wrap to the strop. Then slides his
unseen summation through to a decision most likely to
please. The hayseeds forks are blazing. Flashing cold
steel reflections on the night owls recollection.
This is no ordinary rumble of the saturday night blade
thrower type. Its the culmination of a mighty head of
steam. Blown clear as a dream since summer erupted.
The mayor has been caught ass uppards in the till
again. Once too often for comfort it would appear. The
priest chimes the bell and the townsfolk gather on
spanish. A regular hocus pocus seems set to ensue. The
sweeney has been mixing up bad medicine potions with
vigour. The urchins pour them out upon the main drag
with every available chance. No one messes up on their
turf. Crazy loners sneaking in at dawn to cut stains
with the vampires. He should coco. Someone shot the
sheriff fair enough. But no ones gonna cop for it.
The hayseeds come rolling out of the liquor stable.
They got nigger fever roaming at the back of their
eyes. The whites have turned bullcity red from
mainlining hootch in sturdily abandoned backwaters.
Now their heads are burst in search of a scapegoat.
Trading insults at any good looking cove. Anyone loose
on the horizon. Is most like to get a scythe on. A
swift decoke with the hammer and sickle. Rubbed down
with gasoline sandpaper. The flames lick high tricking
out the low rent district in used sanitaries. Theres
bodies mounting rampant dummies on the sidewalk. The
ambulance admits a diminishing stream of apomorphine.
Coughing up lynch pus puts suspects in a death fever.
Out on the prairie a whole mess of jailbait limps
wantonly across the railroad. Legs cut and tarped with
angel dust. Heads cropped shaven style. Wearing out
the remains of cremation pyjamas. Pulling at ringoes
through the defence nostril. Whipped in a frolic of
battle orgy. Benny and Joe put six guns away. Bury
their differences and head for an airbrush. No one
knows who holds the baby now. The brakeman has done a
runner. Straight out the back of his comic book.
Riding a cut rate siege tank. Ramrod straight into the
heart of make believe. Its sides all lipsticked in
blood brother. Broken bones and pelvic organs. Sliced
through the griddle. The sweeney will put them all
back together again dont you worry. He's already
ordered up a brace of barbecue buns.
The sheriff is lying in his casket. Feeling the soft
desecrated subsoil running light through his fingers.
Pulling a fake and phoney stake from out his heart. He
winks at the deputies whilst picking a silver bullet
from his teeth. Its all done with mirrors, he
announces with laconic grandeur. That mayor is a real
dumb cluck. Anyone worth half a salt can see he's been
forcefed with all that baloney. But have no fear boys.
The sweeney will smoke him out. Wrapped ear to wig in
swirling moustache nets. That'll take the stiff out of
his upper lip. And that guinea out on the long shore.
He's got some coming too. The sheriff swings his legs
over the sides of the sarcophagus. He scuffs the
pointed toes of his boots through the dust. He traces
out a diptych on the trapdoor of the cellar. Heres a
clue boys. Its down in the steam caves below. The
sheriff gathers his cloak up under his arm and limps
out onto the verandah. When he is gone the deputies
examine the artwork. It is a crude drawing of a man in
an iron mask. Greek theatre queries one young buck
hesitantly. Nah more like ned kelly quips his oppo.
Once on the board walk the sheriff can relax a tad.
Just to the side of the office door just where you'd
expect to find it is the requisite rocker. He swings
idly in the afternoon breeze and the slow rhythmic
creak of his runners serves for the ticking of a
clock. He slouchs past it to the iced drinks machine
and kicks it hard. A regular bottle of coke comes
tootling out. He douses the cap and takes an old
fashioned swig. He is a big man. Well over six foot
and uppards of two hundred and sixty pounds. The
swinging seat is inviting and the sheriff plants his
weary bulk lazily
into the welcoming envelope. He's thinking of this
damned shrink. How he ever got in tow to these people
out here in the badlands is beyond him. This is the
west after all. The talk should be of how it was one.
All this psychodrama is just getting plain ridiculous.
Hes only in this thing because of that fool daughter
of his. He always said it. Bringing a girl like that
up without a ma is just plain crazy. But he did it
anyway. Now hes wound up in one of her crazy damn
schemes. Psychoanalysis he snorts. What'd that ever
prove. What that girl needs is someone to take a
paddle to her behind. Cept'n that shes twenty one now
and a hotshot at karate and like as not to end up
giving anyone that tried it a damn good licking.
Sally Amanda is trying to carve some sense nodules out
of all this schtick. Soo Wong is short changing her on
this score. Poising there inscrutably ahent his desk.
Sleek chinky lips lapped round an onyx fag holder.
Blowing diaphanous rings of woodbine into the air.
Pontificating at length on the roles of archetypes and
the cleansing of dreams. She stretches her legs out
under the table. Kicks him gently in the shin. Demands
more than this old tosh for fifty bucks an hour.
Accelerates the grubstick whilst running delicate
fingers along the old fashioned veneer of his
flybutton. Soo Wong ooze lethargically with a dose of
analysis. Rendered oblivious by Sallys spirited thai
kicks. Crushed into the shrinks sullen cry on me
shoulder. He rushes out on the stoop. Trips over a
brace of vagabond urchins. Casting dice on lame snot.
Sjambok the menace from out the brakemans comic. A sea
of judas bred hair shooting out in punkie read spikes.
Waves his white flag quickly in Amandas direction. But
she is gone.
The shrink is not amused. Having to sacrifice his
talent in the pursuit of battle honours. Rescuing
dipsticks from shoplifting sprees in harrods. Yes
m'lud I know. I was that sails assistant. Hauled on
the bowline. Thrice round the melody. Cartwheeling up
the dilly in quick time. A white rabbitas corpus
stuffed deftly down his pyjamas. Pleading eloquently
for the defence then copping a plea. 'ey senor we 'ave
no feelthy badges. Flown in on a peace mission from
bogota. Barefoot street kids with a fistful of
dynamite. From east to west. White house squared to
shite house cubed. This is real. People are dying out
there. Infested with word virus. Their minds in cut up
syndrome. Bewitched by scary artificial plague. Its
true. He read it in the paper. Now they need a hero.
Some plucky little devil to wade in and restore water.
Call short stop the short order man. Leave him stuck
on a straw. A smear of egg cream. Sticky trail of auto
de struck. Slipping execrably on the third rail. The
brake man on the verge of a double header. Trying to
rig this thing round the right way. Just what it takes
from the broken battle scars. All this stuff with the
mayor he doesnt buy. The sweeney is a cheap switcher
of casual word disguise. The mob has been hypnotised.
The sheriff is not dead. He's suffering from hysteria.
The newsboy heard it off a lunatic. He only slipped
off the train here looking for a cheap hotel. Thats
not his daughter its his lover. Running in slowmo
across downtown. Then in a flash its high noon in the
war zone. The three ten from yuma just left. Now
theres no
one but an orphan with a quart gun. Pump it up with a
new shot of volume. A rococo blast of art deco
industrial. Right into the heart of the conveyor belt
country.
The bull frogs call out instances of order. Two
burgers and a relish. Heavy on the fries. Far from
beneath a smoking cabriolet. All this is only the down
slide. Consumer heaven needs these emetic surges once
in a while. Make room for the new goods. The ones
spookie tooth rejected. Hermetically lasered at birth.
Santa claus on the look out for some small spicy
eastern techno gismos. Catch him unawares through
blazing on the subway. His snores moving in concentric
circles. Out among the urban discoveries. The mechanix
ball. Swings majestically back and forth. Over all
this hidden small town persuasion. The stock in trade
of the scene is easily seen. Renegades from a thousand
black and white B movies. Moving real slow across the
foreground. Benny the spent technocrat. Trading his
gonads for a CD Rom. The virtual real of the ad spiel.
Totting up main street on a promise.
The ninety ninety track. Lies just across the city
limit. Beyond the town borough. In a freeway tangle of
auto wreckers. Vacant lots. White cardboard foldaway
houses. Roughness island by the sea. Wrong end of the
high land. A black sabbat forenoon. Of newspeak
tannoy, popcorn and brambles. Slow rumble of a
thousand idling motors. Well bent on a quarter to
bust. Side by slide. Sweep down the track. Burning
slick of well oiled rubber. Makes realtime atmospheric
for seedy spectator. Rushing betwixt concrete and
speed sector. Comparing notes. Gasoline valve angles.
Overhead cam tangles. Floating it all on a rolex
oyster equation. The bond one with the fast getaway.
Quick bets with the fat man. Hustle up a score or a
pony. A whore or a phoney. This endlessly drifting
sunday. Float on forever in search of the rainbow. The
jimmy dean chicken run reads right through. Back up to
fresh out of high school. Glazing at the moon. Looking
through the crown prince of penny hallucinations.
At a coney cabaret. The housewifes low. In back a
tinkling pianissimo. A slow spot to illumine the
stage. A two card trick for the drag queens ball.
Benny in full weimar regalia. Top hat and suspenders
on a blue moon stool. Crooning out 'valling in luff'
again. Fluttering dark silky eyelash from below
flowing blonde hollow whiplash. In search of the
perfect part. To play it all with such sincerity. Such
perfect aplomb. Perhaps too much so. Not enough wag.
Or tongue in cheek, they said. After, at the judging,
when prizes were awarded and he stood bereft in the
wings. Hesitantly waiting. Shyly smiling. Fingering
the tassles of his trusty tress. Shoved roughly aside
by the bruising docker land king bees. Lately stung
from the hive of a payola quarry. Where canarys sing
development blues on the inbred wharfside. Then keened
up on the keyside. All the roadsters driven together.
Down to the wrong end of the island. Past the empty
fitzgerald gas station. Lost limits of tender
typhoons. Eastern cadabras. Through laughing hoola
hoops of rapturous pasturous coolie damn plenty.
Gunny is not aroused by this latest turn of events. He
has spent precious long days getting this end of the
log together. This is a tight operation after all. Gun
running aint wot it usta be, he tartly muses. At this
lackey and the banana float a soft parade of doowops
on the background in befuddled agreement. They have
been out all night off loading ancient weaponary and
are in need of tea and sympathy with the devil. The
terrorist circuit is beginning to give out the wrong
signals and each man fears the throat of the
redundancy package. The modern business ethic gunny
harumphs. When they hire you they offer you a package.
When they fire you its all wrapped up in another. And
all the time the only one that makes any concrete
decision is the padding round a quarter pounder of
semtex. [Now in glutinous over supply (with the
falling of walls in that particular neck of the woods]
it seems a hasty conflab may be in order here.)
With so many contra streams of influence in evidence
they have been hired by the bank to sweep the town
clean. A financial health check its called. To aid the
acquisition of the mayors fiscal shindigs. However a
rogue spaniard has been snuck in the works and is
causing commodious handfuls of trouble. The sweeney
has overdosed on righteous indignation and is working
the rabble to fever pitch. He has them pitched in for
an accurate rerun of the world war three scenario.
Then in the midst of all this the sheriff, a vampyr if
ever he saw one, arises from the dead and goes off
lone sharking with his daughter. She is none too
convinced by this and hires a shady out of towner to
booglarise the shrinks archives. However he arrives
with an unknown shadow in tow. The upshot of all this
is that the spotlight falls more diligently onto the
mayors sphere of operations. A situation he does not
want to be pretty party to. The bank is beginning to
get nervous re the state of its investment. When the
creditors descend it intends to be at the top of the
helm. If anyone has to take a fall let it be the
pensioners. This is a decision he feels comfortable
with if not exactly in the mood for sharing.
The mayor is currently in fat bob mode. Maundering on
about how his family was blown away in a death camp.
Huge crocodile tears erupt down his irascible
expandable nose. The judge raps him soundly on this
pinnochio like proboscis. Enough of this old tosh fat
bob you're going down for a long time. Then hands him
out a pair of scissors and orders him to spend three
months cutting the heads off tulips. Fat bob is no
slouch and dons his suspenders and pirouettes across
the court in grave appreciation of the seriousness of
his misdemeanours. Tank you boss, he slovenly mumbles.
On leaving this bailiwick he detrains to his limbo and
heads out to boot hill buying up options along the
way. One is an enormous headstone with the words thank
you lord carved into the side of the quarry stone.
Outside in the real world the main hoop continues to
blaze. Parts of childrens broken bodies fall out from
the ferris wheel. The octopussy fans out its tentacles
with a sleek sucking motion. The snatch at the end
fits completely over the victims head with an oblique
squelching motion. The sea of profanity is casually
rambo like. The nurses are bespoke street speak.
Gasoline fumes smash the nite with bubbles of techno
curse. Each exploding into a belsenesque extravaganza
of casseroled untermensch. The sweeney is on the
stump. Heaving his scalpels paranoically in the air.
Dribbling out the latest on the mayor. Hurriedly
taking bets on the outcome. The punters are bullish.
An imminent futures market in hog bellies belies the
true state of the auction.
Gunny is close in the side. He has the requisite
numbers all smuggled ashore. Washed up in track side.
Lined out in torpedo blue. Cut with a swathe through
the second ranks of hayseed. Easy as butter on a lost
tangoed asp. A smoking tureen of burnt innards gurgles
to the surface. The giblets are pickled out in
gargoyled headsets. Held aloft on dripping pikestaffs.
Dropping sweet virgin maidenheads on tired old wapping
faggots. Wrapping the headlines in last weeks dead
fishpaste. The primal swamp gurge snuck craftily
ashore. Past ill kitted customs dock. Croaking out new
spun battle lines.
This one is old now. A fetid stink of yesterday covers
all. The camera cruise are pulling out. A sure sign of
serious business. The corpses piled high as elephants
underwear. Rivers of thick green slime pulse out of
ruptured mainsprings. The yellow gold shine of
maggotty buboes illumines the death camp. Lithuanian
refugees trade bullwhips for bullfrogs. A slight
chorus emanates from the edge of the evening pool. The
dogs are encouraged. Baskerville mastoffs with large
spikey collars. Seven days they have starved now they
will gorge.
Sally Amanda leaves a trail of spiked meat up main
street. Up in the hills her old man is running riot
with a posse of wild dogs. The children of the night
he calls them. She suspects he has been at the
formaldehyde again. Her own troubles are tied up with
the shrink. He has loosed off a cannonade of her worst
fears. Dressed up in the finest traditions of
psychodrama. Taking on the distant apparitions of her
godsprings. They are moving outwards now with their
own inexorable logic. Playing their own strange game
as they go. She remonstrates with Soo Wong on this
principle but he is unabashed. This regular business,
he sparkles. The chinee way. All perfectly legal. I
see it in the movies one time. Maybe two. No pain
without gain, he cackles rubbing his talons together.
Sally stares a little amazed at this and wonders at
the large egyptian ring there. It is a flesh coloured
ruby that glows in the dark.
It is one of Lou Soos trademarks. He uses it often in
casual hypnosis. Didnt I see him hook the sheriff that
way mutters the sweeney to joe. Just like a trout on a
dry fly down in that old mill pond where me an old
bull usta go. Bulls a good old boy been trawling his
flies over half the county now. He it was that first
put me onto that mayor. Dirty low down dawg. I went
down to the deepo then. Hear'd some coloured boy
playing a whole wild heap of harmonica there. Just
sounding like it was a train. Vampin' I think they
calls it. Then I see'd theres others there in on this
thing. That girl of the sheriffs. Shes hired some
killer diller shootist just like cat balou and hes in
there pokin' about so I figured it was 'bout time I
high tailed it outta there.
Joes heard this one before and also knows all about
the silver nose routine. He guessed his ghost was
loose on the scene. He'd had that feeling since
breakfast way up in the sierras where the rail meets
the road. But hes also got this impression that the
whole thing is geting played out in the balance of
archetypes and goes back much further than that. Benny
he knows from school daze and its the classic hard con
soft con routine there. Hes seen it in all the best
noir thrillers. One goes south at eight and one goes
north at nine. One becomes a punk and the other a
killer bee. All decked out in blue as befits the
colours. Just a couple of homeboys running loose on
the coast. Called in by an old flame in a tight spot.
Looking for the quickest way outta there.
A private lie. Five six seven. A dark brooding eye.
Ninety nine a hundred a hundred and one. Just like he
thought they ought to. A classic half breed of simple
destruction. Benny the ball and his altar ego. Of long
ago small time daze. Cruised like a butt under a
shaman cube hall. In a passing denver poor ball. One
half of a drag act now gone. Visions of buffalo billie
vicariously. His present predicament to chase out new
roots. Flush out fresh clues dearly. Once more hit the
road. Then the victim. In a cute cusp of new laid
surprise. Down to the chinoiserie flesh out of
cheroots. Then catch a sweet carload of former
dressing downs. Rumbling through the cavernous vaults
of the fast fading midnite departmentt. Scattering the
last home run commuters, the musty grumbling
conductors, the patient penitent bagmen. Eyes and ears
ever alert for the pregnant flash of the nightmans
storm lantern. Poking its corporate nose into all the
hidden nooks and crannies for slackers and idlers.
Filling his lungs with barkly clad nights in gaol.
Hiding out in the shade of the watch words dull
granite brazier. Always there by the shadows. Still
listening to the dank clatter of uneven wheels on the
wet night rails. Clicking crisply smooth cross the
cable car cobbles. In
search of a stillborn by gone clue.
Benny now crashed in the tram operators office. Head
first through the window. Feverishly searching through
piles of files. Old routines, dates, fares, transfers,
and tickets. One must hold the key to all of this. Why
it is he that appears to be left with the short straw
he is less than bemused. Its a job, he drones. Twenty
five a day and expenses, he bullshits. He feels the
comforting bulk of his holster pressing upwards from
the depths of his double breasted gabardine. Now if
Joe were to walk in at this point. Claiming to be on
some errand of disorder. Why all he'd have to do was
just squeeze real gentle on the trigger. Aiming a
casual handship in the direction of friendshake. Bingo
and done. The whole thing wrapped up sweet and neat.
Light and tight.
He cursed himself. He knew he hadnt the courage. Even
though he knew Joe could do the same to him without a
second glance, still he couldnt make that all
encompassing move. The cheap switch that would kick it
all into touch. Leave him at liberty to amble casual
and free to the end. Kicking up duffs and scuffs with
his new brogues. Sit it out on the end of the pier and
then do nothing but watch with a wry, sly, somewhat
amused grin as the sun sinks and clinks into the
welcoming folds of the cadaverous seas.
Escape from reality. Down the road to highway plenty.
Oozing with the spoils of lost ordnance. Eighty eight
howitzers are in full swingeing supply. Pumping
sixteen to the bar in strict panto boogie. Carnage is
exported at the rate of a button a finger. Exploding
egg shells in maimed soldiers gust for supplies.
Tearing muscles out of redundant limbs is the easiest
way to rejig this project. Fodder for the recycling
plant. A profitable sideline for the hospital package.
The noble art. Territory and the replenishment of
coffers. The museum of modern atrocities is crying out
for skeletons. Rich young calcium critters only need
apply.
Foreign doctors from paranoma city wait in exile in
florida jails. Dreaming of piglet bay invasion
schemes, running roustabouts instead of hookers.
Pinkie and perkie on red alert. Strangling the
moustachioed clerics with a portion of madames garter
belt. Pounded into deafness below the swinging
mountainous orbs of madames bristols. Performing brisk
enemas for the sake of a suppository. Garnering a
brisk trade in the establishment of dodgy organs.
Olfactory a specialty. Custom built with slave labour.
Bussed in each day across the everglades. Complete
with the hooter of your choice.
Pfeffermint morgana is the one that said it all. War
is profit. Gimme dat gash boy. The red hot bullets of
machine pistoleros spilling forthwith into dead mens
gullets like jackpot time is here again at caesars.
The trick is to be well positioned with the cash
bucket. Grabbing only gold. None of that visceral
razzamatazz. The heironymous sweeney can weigh in
later with the scalpels. Clean up the losers for a
quick trawl through the roulette wheel.
Down in the cantina. Four in the morning. The peons
assemble. Tired sleepy eyed. They pay no attention to
the man in the corner. Bent double at the table.
Furiously scribbling in possible slow hand. Outside a
wide horse runs white and wild. The pistoleros gather
in damp leafy glade. Above the moon sneaks down a
crumby grimy backward glance. They heard the peons
under the tarps of the flat backs. An hours journey.
The guards are bribed. Lone star prairie easy to fake.
Rip holes in the wire a dollar an inch. Slide them up
in the silver mountains. Load spangled planes for a
handful of centavos.
The trucks loll languid in the airfield strip
underneath the cold light glare. They line the tar
like gleaming twelve stream monsters. The planes pull
up. The long side first. Old green brown war
transports. Seen many a day. Better and worse.
Classified now as UFO. No one will believe. Been hid
by sunday moonglow. From out of the hatch a hundred
wetbacks disperse. Bussed in over the border from an
hour before. Sprung from low grade gaol for maximum
disorder. They spread like ants, like spiders, like
flies. Loading unloading. Trucks and planes shuffling
round corners. Flying prayers on spinning wheels. The
wild oat sacred nuts and bolts.
Out on the highway the wagons roll. In union convoy
fifteen strong. The drivers gone in a dead mans chest.
Its in quick out like rum daze of old. From fun
runners now sold. Pick up on the west. Then deposit
east in twenty four less. Fake plates on cheap crates.
Fake numbered policy. A hijacked plane. Wheel in the
mountains. The pilot is high on coke and pain. Will
fly the damn thing anywhere for a few dollars more.
Out at boot hill the battle is raging to a compulsive
victory. The survivors are pulling up stumps and in
the process of legging it back to town. They leave in
ones and twos for greater authenticity and smaller
targets. The road back appears to have shrunk during
the time of the battle. In places it is no more than a
half track. Someone quotes fermats last theorem in
possible explanation, but it is no more than a guess
at best.
As the first back soon discover it is not only the
road back to town that has shrunk. Many sensed that
something was wrong, that none could put a finger upon
in the dark. With sun up all is clear and revealed.
Whole streets have disappeared. Houses, outhouses,
land, sea, and air have all vanished. The people too,
together with dogs and cats and kids and larks and
whatnots. The town is shrinking fast below the scene
shifters gavel. Eighteen wheel trucks roll in to move
suburban villas in one swell hoop. King size dozers
take out the low rent areas with nary a slice of their
fast action shovels. Fast food frank hovers gleefully
astride a fistful of options anxious to be in the van
of the first authentic theme town ghost park.
Benny rides through the night. His modus particular
gone west by west. Has an illicit meeting still to
keep. On cool crystal first street. Second from the
end. Flown in on the very running air. Always calling.
Cutting and drawling. Sally Amanda has the goods. The
low down she says. Cunningly extracted from out the
dripping shrinks skinny file. Pyramid styles in
splendid piles. He pondering the labyrynthine ways of
her mind. Meaning more of a dream than less of the
same. She the utter complexity of this stricken coup.
The mayor's a lush. Has always has been. Put by on the
side for many a long year. All the goodwill just blind
in the bank. Sammy the keeper more offer the key.
A down town diner on main. Is stumbling home through
early morning mist. Dressed in evening wear. Ghostly
dark. A splash of christine white hangs close by his
pristine throat. A flowing cloak of company. The
yellow cabs have deserted. In these canyon prairies
theres not a trace of movement. The dark hours have
hidden every one. A silver cane presently is heard
tapping. For to search yet again. Far out in the exit.
A backdoor to entrancement. The one passed through
before. Far back in time though. Or forward by the
edge though. Glimpsed briefly before in gothic framed
window. Many a mile and smile from here.
In the dark glow of the shadey light on main Benny
kept the appointment. It was gone midnight and all was
quiet. Though some late night reveller passed no one
paid him any mind. Further off down the street corner
by the drug store, Sally Amanda waited in mute
expectancy. She hardly dared hope the latter letter
would be answered. Small classified reply to a gun
club mag. A modern day john wesley. Leastways that was
her interpretation of his desperation. A flexible
approach. No job too small. A clean sweep and broom.
The ideal candidate to lay the track. Spike clean
prayers through the mayors disparaging wheel.
Lou Soo Wong paces back to cross the floor. Hauling on
a chain lit stoagie. He considers this latest tale.
Wove out by Ali Lucinda. The meanings there he says.
Ill read between the lines. Concealed by sudden words
of make believe and do. He slides along to spike her
with an easy line in marshmallows and banter. Exotic
sighs displayed upon the couch. Whispering in her ear.
If she has the goods he'll find a way. We deliver.
Twenty four hours. Ours all day. His sweet and sour
countess. Furrowing and burrowing. Reluctant keeper of
small time secrets. Old town sores put to bed each
week. Raked again alive as coal burned deep damp glow.
Lighting main streets crystal ball. Buried on down in
a merry go round. Halfway house of decamp blues. The
skinny shrinks stagnant shingle. Sways once more in
the clumsy wind. Puts out a word or two. Fresh out of
the latent air of confucion.
Outside the townsfolk pass in medieval tapestry
formation. White faces on black shrouds give way to
quasi witch queens rolling up electronic ducking
stools. Naked legs weaving in rotic kimbo. They throw
delicate bouts of pubic bouquet at interested
onlookers. Frolicking with thoughts of what comes
next. The town seems now much less than what it once
was. The walls of stone and solid gone. Now shimmer as
in the heat of the best of midday hallucinations. Soo
Wong feels soon undone and searchs madly for new lost
causes. Pliant subsoil streams of thought to weave and
gently mould with injection laid plans. To gain a fix
and turn inwards to the dreams of the new world
paymongers. The time lords of trick psychery poised
with increasing ferocity in the shrinking wings of all
the worlds.
The actors pass back once more causing filtered lanes
within the reach of the props. Swapping costumes and
yarns as they go, they recount the various scenes
through which they have made such swift stage changes.
They are all standard genre formats so no one need be
too alarmed. Simply cloaked with a little sugar is
all. Tells one to another. Theres really no need for
all this subterfuge darling. Its absolutely straight
forward farce thats all, another billingly coos. The
acting manager slams his boot hard upon the nude butt
of the leading man. Off off with all of you. Time has
run out. I'm very late. Late. For an awful most
important date. Date.
Pally Belindas head is cooling rapidly. The children
of her dreams are fast running down. They do not have
sufficient wind left for another set of treacheries.
They would rather leave surreptitiously if at all
possible. Spinning yarns to the shrink as they merrily
go. Dwarfing his superego plans for a takeover at a
glance they threaten to spill the beans forthwith. His
abyssmal attempts at flattery re the corporate lover
are now common whatsit amongst the towns folks. The
barber has been out of late upon the battery roof
beating his drums. The message has travelled fast all
over the county and the marshall is busily laying in a
new source of game. At this point Lou Soo must adopt
another disguise. But fast.

================

A LOOSE DECISION

the man returned to his apartment. it was empty as it
always was. or rather it wasn't. it was full of
ghosts. memories. remembrances of the few fleeting
occasions he had chanced to entertain the odd passing
stranger that happened by. he sat alone and wondered
what had become of it all. how he had wound up there.
alone with his guilt. surrounded by acres of spent
promise. the debris of years of neglect. like himself.
which was the product of a wilful self neglect. which
he tried to pass off casually as the fault of those
around him. when in fact it had nothing to do with
anyone but himself. but he was not disposed to talk
about that. as he was not disposed to talk about
anything that would give much away about himself. or
indeed anything. for he was at all times most careful
to keep the details of his life a most carefully
guarded secret. along with all the other worms that
were lovingly incarcerated there. he wished for a fine
sharp pen but he had nothing to say. he wished for a
poets eye but for that you needed a finer appreciation
of the human condition than he had ever been able to
amass. and so he sat alone among all these overdue
monuments to mispent schemes. consumer heaven. only a
lifetimes grind away. but he had fallen for it
nonetheless. buying all this strange equipment that he
thought would put some space between himself and
whatever he thought was after him. but what was after
him? that he did not know. sometimes he thought he did
but mostly he did not. and so he went on down all the
lonely adrift days. there was nothing to sustain him
in this and so often he fell. he fell gently and he
fell from great heights but ever he fell. down and
down in the face of ever decreasing circles. flapping
blindly in the face of providence which somehow he had
never been able to trust. always a disquieting glance
across his shoulder. in case someone was there. in
case someone was watching. he did not know what he was
afraid of. only that the fear had always been with
him. and he could never be without it. and he would
resort to the strangest stratagems as a defence
against it. that no one would ever know or understand.
but himself in the darkest of moments. and even then
only fleetingly. completely unable afterwards to
explain it. if he could find the words. if he could
find the courage. which he could not for it was gone.
along with all else. for which now he searched
forlornly. but could not find. as he could not find a
reason for the impulse that had led him back here.
except that it was the one place where he felt he
could be himself. whatever that was. or is. or could
be. or should be. for he had reached the point where
he felt that he knew nothing anymore. what was right
and what was wrong were only now the most passing of
problems. so much so that he was completely unable to
sum it up in any coherent fashion. he tried to think
about it but it was no help. he wondered why it was so
difficult to put down accurately what it was he really
wanted to say. if this was actually it. or whether it
was just one more trick that one part of him was
playing against another part. or whether what he
wanted to say could not be written. or written like
this. but how else? this seemed the most appropriate
form. spare and to the point. anything else would just
be a needless embellishment to further obscure what it
was he wanted to say. which could have been that he
had nothing to say. only the urge to say he had
nothing to say. but not the courage to admit it. at
least not to himself. and so this self imposed torture
of ever running round in endless circles. in a futile
search for the proper place to begin. but it was
absolutely necessary that he find this point. for
without it he would be powerless to proceed. except to
say that he could not proceed. unless the only
progress he could make was to proceed to record that
he could not proceed. and thus could not write. and
thus had nothing to say except that he had nothing to
say. except that he was sure he really did not have
anything to say. not even to say that he had nothing
to say. for that would be such a futile exercise and
would serve no purpose other than to emphasise the
very thing that he most wished to disguise. the thing
that caused him the most shame and the most
embarassment. that he had nothing to say. and so was
was continually having to resort to more and more
elaborately constructed inventions to cover his
tracks. to contain the overwhelming sense of guilt
that was slowly taking over his life to punish him for
having nothing to say. that had driven him to live
like a recluse. to flee from all human contact in
panic and fear. and take refuge in the lines of the
page until even that small space became unbearable and
seemed yet another conspirator against which he must
be on his guard. every word needing such thought and
care and yet written in such reckless abandon. in the
vain hope that somehow even at this late hour he might
still escape. or return at least. but if he returned
whither should he return? and to who? or to whom? for
he knew not which. for they had all left him as so
much had left him. as he had driven them away. as he
had secreted himself deeper and deeper within the
walls of this. this castle? this tomb? what it was was
not clear. sometimes he felt the horizons were
limitless but these times appeared less and less
often. in their place were terrible restrictions that
he could not understand. could not understand because
they came from within. but within where? himself?
where he was? what he had become? except that he did
not know what he had become. except that he had become
mute. for the words had deserted him along with all
else. the words that once had been his pride and joy
were now the source of his despair for they said
nothing to him. and so he in turn could say nothing to
them. and only run. from the silence to the silence.
that tinkled like a small still bell. to tempt and
tantalise him. and catch him unawares. and so inveigle
him further within its tangled grasp. where it became
infinitely harder to make himself heard above the
babble of all the other silent voices already there.
the ones that whispered in such strange tongues.
whose message he could not record. except in such
strange fashion as this. mischievously and between the
lines. where it stayed so well hid that not even he
could decipher it. or if he did imagine that he had
perhaps glimpsed even the fleetest flickering of hope
it would be gone. in an instant. the minute he tried
to set it down. try as he might he could find no way
of capturing the sounds that assailed him. much less
could he understand them. even when they first came to
him. they stayed so briefly. they spoke so fast. but
they did speak. of that he was sure. but what was it
they told him. or tried to tell him. it must be a
foreign tongue for otherwise there would surely be
some trace of a memory. even just a word. one word.
even if it was unrecognisable and distinguishable only
as a sound. a sound even. that would be something.
some indication that all is not lost. some sense that
hope still remains. for they only become refined
gradually. until they are turned into something of
definate distance. used by all but not alas he. who
must remain for ever outside the circle. waiting
ceaselessly for it to break. for ever searching for a
weak link with whatever tools are to hand. or finding
none resorting to blind desperation and when that too
proves wanting endeavouring to unleash the muse with
spirits. whose alliance while not always constructive
is comforting. as it was comforting for him to write
this with the aid of a machine rather than a pen. for
the pen was too fearful. and too final. and the words
once set down were there forever and could not be
erased. and was this really why he had nothing to say.
since he manufactured it rather than conjured it. and
thus it was not real but only seemed so. until forced
to stand under the watchful scrutiny of some inner
eye that he imagined was against him. but could of
been for him. he knew not. he could only guess. he
thought at times he should engage the services of a
private eye to unravel this for him. but how would he
be able to make contact with such a person if they
really did exist. and assuming they were not solely
confined to the pages of fiction? and having done so
how would he know how to make the right choice? and
being bereft of anything constructive to say how would
he know which words to use? and what did he think this
man would be able to discover that he so far had not?
and how would he reach him? and where would he find
such a one? and how would that one find him? it was a
maze. perhaps far too difficult for such an untrained
soul as himself to enter. but if he did enter. what
would he find there? surely nothing worse than this
place that he was already in. and if it was? then he
would come back. assuming he still could. which he
felt instinctively that he would. but this was
dangerous territory for it was the appalling record of
his instincts that had led him to this present
impasse. the despair and desperation which at one
moment seemed to completely encompass him and at the
next seemed to be gone as surely as it was never
there. such that he was free to indulge quiet
fantasies such as hiring a private detective to help
him break free of this fearful place. but how could he
be sure he would pick the right man. there was so much
to be considered so much that he would have to take
care to keep hidden. to the point that he might render
the mans services useless. but if such a man existed
then this is how he would approach the problem. with
stealth certainly. that goes without saying. because
he would have it very carefully drilled into him that
there was only one way to do this thing and he had
better get it right because there would be no second
chances. at least that is the way he would like it to
be. but only by making absolutely sure of the man he
hired could he make absolutely certain. but could he?
he had been backed up in a corner for so long that
there was no fight left in him. not the kind that was
needed for a task like this. he was wounded by
everything. casual glances. odd chances. even odder
coincidences. and words. most of all words. obliquely.
at angles. at tangents. directly or indirectly. these
he found most injurious. until after when he was
unable to explain or say why it was he had run. faced
with such obstacles he felt entirely unable to
undertake such a course of action as this. but what of
the alternative. to stay here and do nothing seemed an
infinitely inferior course of action. and held nothing
but the prospect of these ceaseless ruminations.
ruinations almost except that he thought that
somewhere there was the faintest of indications that
something was evolving. something different from what
he had started out with. certainly not what he had
returned for. but it was there. it was not what he had
intended and he appeared to have no control over it.
but maybe if he continued it would become more
apparent. he was intrigued enough to continue. but
what of this private lie business. having now possibly
discovered something he was loath to share it with
anyone. he crept from his bed and listened furtively
at the door. in the corridor outside all seemed quiet.
he could not be sure though for he had never been out
there. at least he couldn't ever remember having done
so. the fact of how he had returned here troubled him
though. he knew that he had returned. but he knew not
how. or from where. but it must have been somewhere
for he imagined that he must leave this place
sometimes. indeed he had the impression of memories of
other places but they seemed very distant and very far
away. he continued to listen. it was still quiet. he
returned to his bed. he wished to go into the corridor
but something held him back. he was not sure what.
perhaps there was someone out there waiting for him.
but how? he was certain no one knew of his existence
here. even he himself was unsure of that at times. but
then did it matter. he was safe here and undisturbed.
he could continue his existence indefinately.
nourishment was provided and though he could not say
from where it came or how it was brought it was enough
that it was there. and indeed of late it did not seem
of any importance for he had almost ceased to eat. at
certain times he mourned this loss for while the
actual business of ingesting the various apples and
sardines that he found was irritating it did have the
advantage of using up time and thus leaving less
opportuntity for introspection. if only he could empty
his mind with the same facilty that he was able to
evacuate his alimentary canal. his head reeled from
the weight of all the accumulated nonsense that he had
crammed in there. presumably there had been reasons
for this but at this present time he was at a
complete loss to account for what they could have
been. but whatever it was that had brought them to him
they now gave him no rest. they were demons that
whooped and screamed and leapt out at him at the most
unlikely times. always they seemed to tell him
something but always it was beyond recall. only a
trace would be left. scattered vaguely within the
fabric of his mind. that he would spend endless days
trying to reconstruct. were they days? it was
impossible to tell. he had no awareness of time. only
that it was always there and a constant enemy.
undermining everything he wanted to do. asking always
when will it start? when will it stop? and of what
will be its duration? always how long? how much time
will it take? how much must he endure? always the
time. what is it? what is it that he must watch out
for? that he must not miss. was that what they were
trying to tell him? and what of the others? the
voices. what part did they play in this? and why? when
even if he could discover why he could not find a way
to tell it. because there was nothing to tell? but
there must be. of that he was absolutely certain. for
if there was no cause then there would be no reason
for his being there. and having no reason then he
would not be there. but he was and so there must. but
how could he make sure? by going into the corridor.
except that he could not go out there until he knew it
was safe to do so. and since he could not ascertain
that it was safe unless he was somehow in receipt of
the knowledge that it was safe he must seek the
assistance of outside help. thus it was that his
thoughts returned to his earlier preoccupation with
the hiring of a constable. this would no doubt serve
to provide him with information concerning the
security or otherwise of his immediate environment and
this he resolved to do but he was at once assailed
with the vexing question of how it was that he would
achieve this. could he perhaps summon one simply by
will power alone. this he was sure would require great
powers of concentration and he doubted his ability to
provide a sufficient supply. but if not how else could
he achieve it? he thought but it did no good. he
remembered from somewhere he did not remember that if
he made his mind a blank this would perhaps help. he
endeavoured to make his mind similar to a telescope
and scan the farthest reachs. backwards and forwards
he swept. when he found the void he would capture it
in focus and then enlarge it until it overwhelmed his
whole being. but there was nothing. he turned back
into himself as deep as he dared. he tried to think of
his mind as a magnifying glass. he probed the the most
minute particles he could imagine. he thought of what
could be smaller. and then smaller still. and still
there was nothing. nothing that indicated the
existence of whatever it was he was searching for.
unless it was nothing that he searched for. but if it
was how would he know it? that that was it. nothing.
and not just nothing. the absence of anything as
opposed to the existence of nothing. what was more
real. words? they certainly did not seem so. but could
he be sure? and if so could he be certain? and of what
could he be certain? nothing to be sure. or unsure. he
was certainly certain of that. but still
the words remained elusive. he looked but could not
find them. perhaps somewhere they were there but if
they were they were nowhere else. and so he continued
his search. perhaps they were in the room that he was
in. he cast his eyes round. slowly at first for his
worst horror was that he would find some other pair of
eyes already there. in the place where his should be.
whose would they be? the confidential detective
perhaps? was this how he should contact him? he
redoubled his efforts. leaving no portion of the room
untouched. but there was nothing. unless he was
already there and in hiding. had he perhaps slipped in
unnoticed whilst he himself was elsewhere. or was he
the one that had brought him back here from wherever
it was that he had been. how would he know? how could
he know? if he was a chess player maybe he would have
at his disposal some manner or means for determining
beyond all reasonable shadow of a doubt whether this
was in fact so. but he was not. he was no more than or
less than or equal to a tired and somewhat bemused
entrepeneur of dubious equations. which were presently
mounting up in chaotic profusion. beyond his limited
abilities to enumerate them. or classify them. or
spread them before his gaze the better to study them
with. for there were others. so many others. oh so
many others. exponentially. infinitely. limitlessly.
beyond measure. beyond his ability to cope. to think
rationally. to take stock of the situation. to set in
motion positive approachs to this rapidly worsening
condition. simple and harmonic for preference. but any
would do. any at all. some straight forward plan of
campaign that would help contain the spread of his
doubts. the indecision that was turning him inside
out. the rapidly multiplying questions that were all
without answer. beyond any recall other than that they
had been asked. but by who? or by whom? for he was not
at all of the mind that it was he that had asked them.
or whether even if it was indeed himself that at this
precise instant sought clarification upon this point.
this conundrum that had slid unannounced and unbidden
into his thoughts. dancing tantalisingly across the
horizon. swept up in all manner of veils. that fell
away only to leave more of the same. to cloak all
these diversions in a mystery that was not there and
yet must nonetheless be solved. by trying to delve
between the lines of what he thought and what he
sought. in this way would he perhaps bring forth a
solution. he would summon the necessary ingredients
that composed this wicked brew and mix them with
whatever else he could salvage and then if this did
not give rise to the required result he would break it
all down beyond the smallest of its component parts
and begin once more to reassemble it using yet another
permutation. another combination to unlock the puzzle
of what it was that was keeping him here. but was
there? he rose from the bed once more and crept to the
door. it was silent. he listened as clearly and as
quietly as was possible. it was entirely still. he
listened for the voices. they were gone. or at least
there presence was undetected. was the moment
propitious for an egress? he must determine this at
once. using whatever means were immediately to hand.
instinct and intuition. his more than risky allies.
which seemed at times like all lies. public and
private. though the distinction was superflous in this
place for it was the most private of all and equally
the most public. where everything was accessible but
nothing was evident. he continued to listen. all was
still as it had been before. he allowed his hand to
enter the vicinity of the door. he hesitated before
making actual contact for he was terrified that he
would find it was not there. his apprehension was
extreme. it spread slowly throughout his body. his
ancient wracked carcass that creaked at every turn and
telegraphed his intentions to all who might have
reason to profit by foreknowledge of them. he leaned
against the door. he expected it to be firm. to lend
some substance to his rapidly dwindling resources.
instead it was soft. it appeared to submit to the
slight pressure. he allowed his weight to rest more
heavily against it and slowly it swung open. it turned
slowly outwards producing as it did a gentle sensation
almost like floating. he was amazed at how easily it
rotated for the hinges were of an extreme age and of a
very dubious nature. an indication perhaps of the
length of time that had elapsed since his
incarceration here. he surveyed the corridor. it was
of immense length. so much so that he was unable to
distinguish any tangible conclusion in either
direction. it was dimly lit apparently but he was
unable to discern by what means. at infrequent
intervals along its length he perceived other doors
similar to that through which he had made his exit. he
considered the two aspects that presented themselves
to his view. he was unable to decide in which
direction he should proceed. both prospects appeared
equally inviting. equally uninviting. whither should
he go? and why? what was there to find? what was there
to entice him? what comfort would be offered that
could possibly be worth the effort and pain of
proceeding. could he make a decision? or would it be
better to return. back where he had come from. back to
the place where all his imaginings were stored. where
at least the pain when it came would be bearable. if
not endurable. this at least dispensed with the
necessity of deciding in which direction to move.
except that to return had now become a further
alternative to complicate the decision. he was at a
loss. there was no way of adequately deciding in which
direction he must go. he resolved to move from the
door. that at least would be a start. he would move to
a position in the centre of the corridor at which he
would be equidistant from the three possibilities.
then at least he would be at a locus of impartiality
even though the need for such a requirement appeared
unnecessary. then again perhaps the corridor was
circular and so the need to decide in which direction
to progress would be rendered invalid. and if the door
through which he had just moved were to close then the
need for any choice would vanish. he endeavoured to
give due consideration to all of this. intense
concentration was needed in order to ensure that his
action would be the most appropriate. and if it was
not then at least he would be consoled with the
knowledge that his actions had been the result of a
maximum effort and were not the product of residual
chance and the manic mechanics of his other self. the
one who he feared was presently doing his utmost to
get out. who had contrived to bring about this present
situation that he found so intolerable. how could he
decide what action it was that he himself wished to
undertake? and that this choice once having been made
would have been made freely and not simply to appease
this ragbag of phantoms that were presently pursuing
him. that it would represent in its purest form his
most honest intentions. in truth there was no way.
only the intention was there. there was nothing else
that would bring resolution to this continuing
dilemma. his most concentrated speculations produced
nothing of value. nothing that would enable him to go
on or go back. he searched deeper among the
accumulated debris that passed for his mind and as he
did so he realised that this option had now been
withdrawn. for even while he had been attempting to
determine what significance could be attached to his
exit he discovered that the door through which he had
a moment ago passed was now closed. or gave every
appearance of being so. but how should he determine if
this was in fact so? or should he determine if it was
in fact so? it required no more than the ability to
prove a theory to determine this fact. no that was not
entirely true. this would supply verification. that
was true. but the verification so supplied would only
be of a quality that would satisfy the curiosity of he
who posed the question. how could he prove that it was
of equal veracity to another? one who may also be
supposed to be of a disposition to question this most
obvious of facts. if there was in fact another? apart
from the one he supposed was always there. who was
making life so difficult at this precise instant by
these unceasing and unanswerable questions. concerned
with which direction he should now take. and how it
may be supposed he could determine beyond all
possibility of doubt that yet another door had slammed
inevitably and irrevocably shut. for of that there
could be no doubt. it was now a fact beyond all doubt.
the delay and hesitation that had intervened had
robbed him of the opportuntity for anything more than
the construction of theories that could not possibly
be submitted to any form of external examination. but
even where his reason such as it was argued so
persuasively still he was inclined to doubt. should he
perhaps allow his hand some last fleeting contact? a
firm grip? a casual caress? some external stimulus
that would leave a lingering trace that would at least
allow him the vicarious satisfaction of knowing that
however ineffectually he had at least tried in some
manner or means to effect an escape. but to where? and
more importantly from where? and where was he now? now
that there was no way back and only a vague
impression of what may have been the way forward. for
the corridor or so he assumed it was did not now seem
as it had been before. but had he been asked to
explain further he would have been unable. for it was
not some tangible difference to its physical
appearance but rather some alteration in the way that
he himself perceived it. it was as though this was
where he had always been rather than that other place
which even now was becoming less and less clear in his
mind. such that he was unable to trust the line of
reason that had brought him here. or to question the
reason that reasoned that this was not the reason. but
some other avalanche of doubt that was now pressing
down on him with renewed ferocity. and from under
whose influence he must now extract himself with the
uttermost haste. or suffer the consequences and
confluences of these vicious streams. whither?
whither? he knew not. absolutely not. for there was
now no way onwards but forwards. where he had once
stood with the luxury of choice now there was none.
none but this endless chain of events that simply
rolled over upon itself like a kaleidoscope. that on
each upward swing presented him with yet another
disguised impression of all that had gone before. and
before that. and that too. with a relentless precision
that was so out of place here. so wrong. so awkward.
but so necessary to the events that had led him here.
now stumbling forward without the faintest desire to
do so except that he could not return and he could not
remain. for it was a place of treachery that he
inhabited. and though no one was there still he could
trust no one. not even himself. which he should of
done but could not for he knew himself too well to
believe anything he told himself and was always want
to search out all the flaws and the inconsistencies.
rather than the flow. which was everything. and which
once discovered would lead where he truly wished to
go. without the need to prove that that was it. it
would lead where he wanted to go. to the beginning.
where ever that was. but that was where it was. and he
must adjust his coordinates to coincide with this
point. so much would then be possible he felt. if he
was capable of feeling. which he felt. instinctively.
he was not. unless this was the instinct that he felt
and that this was the point from which he should make
his departure. and did it now matter? for there was
only one direction now. and having no way of altering
this he could at least go on. which would be
something. unless it was nothing. and he knew it was.
it was nothing which made him go on. only to find out
that it was nothing. that was his overiding concern.
whether he liked it or not. that it was that which
forced him to go on with this. to places he had never
heard of. along ways that were unimaginable. using
means that were unusable for purposes that had none
other than to prove it was so. it was a process that
gave him no pleasure for he knew it only as the most
intense of compunctions that he could not deny. for to
deny it was an infinitely more horrible condition. and
one from which he would fly making do with whatever
measures appeared to be available. meagre as they were
they would at least afford the opportunity for hope.
for what it was he hoped for he knew not. only that he
should do so. without the benefit of an ulterior
motive. which would only complicate his
interpretation of events and lead swiftly to
disillusion. as one by one the eagerly anticipated
conclusions vanished leaving ultimately only the
realisation that they had from the beginning
absolutely no chance at all of ever succeeding. just
as nothing would succeed. the one certainty of his
unsure life. of this he was certain. and so being sure
he had hope. he left the place at which he was
standing and proceeded to examine the corridor in some
further detail. there was now only one direction in
which he could go and this was the one he took. with
faltering steps on weak and shaky legs. his heels
dragging slowly. his toes feebly wandering. his eyes
half blind. his body numbed with the pain of so much
exertion following so quickly upon so much inactivity.
his ears straining to catch the faintest echo of some
sound. other than the constant murmuring of the
voices. who accompanied him like the wind. a constant
reminder of the potency of nature in general and his
own in particular. he stumbled on. sometimes amidst a
vague air of familiarity. surely a trick of the light.
a contrivance of the environment to further entangle
and disorientate him. he passed other doors but was
not tempted to investigate for he had a deep and
irrational fear that what he found behind them would
be exactly what he had left. left? escaped? perhaps.
and perhaps not. for had he not in fact been led
hither by the voices. and whether their intentions
were benign or malign it was nonetheless a concerted
action on their part. and one that it was not in his
power to resist. thus from what could he have escaped?
and given the foregoing prognosis how could it anyway
be in any way construed as forming on his part an
attempt at liberty that was the result of his own
freedom of choice. it was an unknown quantity and one
that appeared beyond the means of mere words. thus his
instincts told him. and yet he rarely trusted them.
but was that of any relevance for he trusted to
nothing. and confided to no one. and thus the
incidence of this singular instance was not in itself
significant since it cannot be imagined that his
distrust was in every case justified. rather it was a
blanket approach born out of his overall sense of
despair and was used simply as a defensive mechanism.
to cloak unknown situations with at least the
semblance of a means of approach. however that might
be it was an approach and thus a tentative step
towards progress. but progress where? there was no
sight of the end of the corridor and no end in sight.
he continued. slowly moving. trying to gather as he
went some sense of the medium through which he moved.
half hearted attempts he made to gain an insight into
the area through which he passed were quickly
deflected. the immediate environs were prepared to
yield not a single clue. there was no way even of
knowing if he had progressed for there appeared to be
no change in the appearance of his surroundings. they
had only a constant uniformity such that from
whichever point he stood to survey them the impression
so gained was always the same. the doors were spaced
at the same intervals and whenever he looked towards
the furthest extremities he saw always the same
indistinct ending. immovable and inevitable and
curiously and threateningly beckoning. urging him on
not with promises but with the opportunity to have his
worst fears confirmed and thus bring about a
conclusion to his endless moribund speculations. he
walked on slowly moving feet that felt somehow as
though they did not belong to him. his joints ached
and creaked. he struggled for air to fill out his weak
and emaciated lungs. he tried to clear his throat. he
coughed and choked and croked. he hacked and retched
and heaved and rolled. wracked and rocked and still
was unable to enjoy the luxury of one clean clear
breath of air. his nostrils dilated. he strained his
neck leaning forward as far as possible and as high as
possible in a vain attempt to snort up the life
preserving ozone. but without any measure of success.
he struggled on. resigned to this interminably slow
motion. and completely without any notion of where he
was going. or why he was going. or what it was that he
thought he would discover. it was a futile quest. an
empty gesture. a journey with no point to it. even
those most obvious and necessary such as a point of
departure and ultimately another of arrival. and
without even the redeeming feature of knowing that it
was better to travel in hope than to arrive at
despair. for these two were at all times his constant
companions. the latter positively and the former
negatively. but always they were there and so always
being there he did not perceive them as the fruits of
his flight. as welcome visitors who would make the
manner of his passing more palatable. he wondered
about the doors that he passed as he wandered about
the gloomy conduit. he was continually tormented by
the thought that he should peer behind one of them and
try and discover what was lurking there. once or twice
he stopped and listened. each time he heard nothing.
at least no sound emanating from within was of
sufficient strength to penetrate the barriers of its
place of confinement. several times as he was
proceeding from one door to the next he thought he
heard a sound. but as soon as he stopped the better to
concentrate his powers of aural reception it vanished.
almost as though it knew that he was out there
listening. he could perhaps surprise it by suddenly
swinging open a door and rushing in to apprehend it.
except that what if it knew as soon as he opened the
door that it was himself that was about to come
through and so immediately the lock began to turn it
disappeareed. moreover what if as soon as the lock
began to turn he too disappeared. this would be even
worse than gaining entry and discovering that he had
returned to the place that he had left. but if he did?
what would happen then? would it be an endless circle
that took him always from the place of his departure
to the place of his arrival such that it formed a most
intact journey that continued for evermore endlessly
repeating itself. a reincarnation of reincarnation
that formed a beautiful but frustratingly complete
circle from which there could be no escape and
likewise no entry. he searched through the immediate
surroundings for something that would break this. he
looked through himself for whatever he could find that
he thought would achieve this purpose but always he
came back to the inevitable conclusion. that there was
nothing save his own determination. he lingered by a
door. it was like a side street. but should he look in
or crawl on by? whether he could find some purpose
more noble than escape. but what could be more nobler?
surely nothing. the greatest achievement that a man
could perceive was the futility of his own purpose in
the scheme of things. and thus enlightened to act
accordingly. without any concern for his own design.
which was no doubt the only thing that seperated him
from the others. and which ran unseen through all
situations and was explained away in a thousand
different ways. a cherished and unassailable notion
that no one should question. or should wish to do so.
but what if he did? what then would result from so
many endless and inconclusive speculations. where
would it lead? would it could it lead to the
beginning? that most elusive of all points.
continually tugging at the edge of his perceptions.
and nagging him into the continuance of this labyrinth
monologue. with its never ending highways and byways.
dancing before him in unparalleled splendour. a
fandango with fate that he was ill accustomed to
ignore. but rather concentrated his mind in ways that
were foreign. ways that were unsure. and left him as
always at the locus of impossibility. confronted with
so many alternatives that he knew instinctively were
beyond his grasp. beyond his power to make any kind of
sense of it. to sum it up in the fashion that he had
set out to do. as he continued with his solitary trek
across this troubled terrain. that lured and enticed
him with all these unfulfilled promises. beckoning
ever forward. ever onward. further and further from
that which he truly sought. which was the beginning.
whatever that was. or wherever it was. the point from
which all else would flow. would flow naturally such
that he would not have to stop at every gap and
consider where next he could go. or should go. or
would go. if he could in fact could go. but despite
all he did so. or so it appeared. as at each step he
weariedly and wearisomely dragged his feet forward.
his body reluctantly following. his head cast down.
his eyes fixed doggedly on the heel of the boot of the
trailing foot. as though somehow a print would be left
in the dust that he could at some future time trace
back. that would provide his escape. along the trail
he was laying down. as he groped his way forward in
this tunnel that got ever darker as he proceeded. was
there some ratio perhaps that existed between the
extent of his penetration and the density of the
darkness that surrounded him? was it perhaps
arithmetic or geometric? he had no way of telling. nor
would he ever have. he kept his eyes cast down. better
that he should not see. in that way he could avoid the
disillusion that he knew was waiting for him. that was
following him. that he tried ever more desperately to
escape from. that was contained behind the locked
doors. waiting to burst out upon him. to engulf him in
streams that had no source and no mouth. wordless as
himself. thoughtless as himself. selfish as himself.
perhaps even they were himself. but he could not know
it. even if he should know it. or even still more far
removed he could know it. that this journey if such it
was was no more than an illusion and its apprehension
a dissolution. he closed his eyes and stumbled on.
fumbled on. shambled on. crept on. crawled on. with
only the backwards imprint of his steps to guide him.
or lead him. if such an aimless direction could at all
be construed in any way at all to be the product of
any definate purpose and not merely a simple chance.
an impulse that could not be ignored. or if so then at
his peril. but had he ignored it would his state then
be anymore perilous than his present one. and was his
present state perilous. how could he know that? what
did he have to measure it against. the danger if such
it was was only an intuition. but one he was powerless
to resist as he was powerless to withstand the force
of everything that his senses told him. for he was of
the unshakeable belief that they had lied to him. that
this situation that he had at last found himself in
was of their making and not of his. that they were
conspirators against him in this plot of which he
sought vainly for a solution. a way out from the
impenetrable maze that he had so far not even
succeeded in penetrating. or not that he was aware of
for it was entirely possible that he had penetrated it
but his senses wishing to proceed for reasons of their
own were deceiving him. he did not trust them. that
was sure. that was certain. equally he did not trust
himself. that was more sure. that was more certain.
and even more equally he did not trust me. that was
the surest. that was the most certain thing of all.

But what can i do for him. That i have not done
already. And why should i wish him harm. I hardly know
him. Indeed have never made his acquaintance. And were
it not for the foregoing i would have no knowledge of
him at all. And even having now read this i am still
none the wiser as to his present whereabouts or
purpose. These rooms and corridors to which he makes
reference do not sound at all likely to me. However if
need be i am prepared to investigate further. Though i
must say it is not a prospect i relish. I am if i do
say so myself a man for the simple things in life.
This preoccupation with mystery has never held for me
any fascination whatsoever. It is beyond me why anyone
should feel the need for it. Unless they have
something to hide of course. That i think could fairly
reasonably be considered to be an adequate reason. But
what on earth can it be that he wishes to keep hidden.
I wouldn't have thought a furtive existence behind
closed doors and a shillyshallying around ancient
corridors was particularly perilous. Anti social
perhaps but certainly not dangerous. No doubt there
are reasons for it though what these could possibly be
is quite beyond me. I am after all but a humble
workman in pursuit of a crust. Whose practical nature
appears to be quite out of place in this present
company. Indeed i am at something of a loss as to what
it is i should do next. Am i expected to shine a light
in this place of darkness? Shake the legs of this
weary traveller? Or should i break out my banjo and
treat you to a selection of alabama minstrel tunes?
No matter. I shall go on. This present place shows no
sign of life at all. Nor indeed does there appear to
be the likelihood of its making its presence felt in
the immediate environs. This place being somewhat in
the nature of a wasteland. An ideal place for a spot
of hasty retreat. In pursuit of sunnier climes. Warmer
weather. More suited to the taste of my wide brimmed
hat. Nothing on my mind. Fishing perhaps. See who
happens by. Perchance our man. Hot foot from his
loathsome sojourn in dusty tunnels. Up for air. A
casual question. Innocently posed. Concerning the
nature of his calling. Are there perhaps others so
engaged who he has had the ill luck to have missed? Or
the good fortune to have avoided? No matter i shall
carry on down this road. Banked on either side with
fields of green and grey green and yellow and amber
and spotted with blue and peppered with white and
black and polka'd with red. And plants and weeds and
crops and flowers whose names are all so foreign to me
that not a single one can i recognise. But what
matter. The day is fine the sun a shine the sky a
blue. Myself out casually walking and strolling.
Whistling a slow and sombre tune that will perhaps
strike a chord within the rancid bosom of he that
dwells below. Presently i shall stop and with my ear
against the ground will determine whether he and i are
in fact in the same vicinity or whether this is in
fact but another wild goose chase that i have been
sent on. Sent packing without so much as hello goodbye
good luck god bless or good speed. And here i now
stand just as the day i left. With no provisions. No
equipment. No change of clothing. No spare items at
all. Except for my hat and my old banjo. Which last is
exceedingly useless being without its full complement
of strings. Though this no doubt is some way in tune
with its owner. Myself with my unshakable prediliction
for drawing short straws marked cards and other
dubious accoutrements. But at last what is this? I
believe i hear a distant rumble. It is faint and far
off. But would seem somehow to be advancing in this
direction. Ah if only i had my compass then i would be
able to properly plot its course. Still there is still
my ear which may at such times as these be pressed
into service with at times rare and amazing results.
But wait. This must be performed exactly. First drop
to the ground in a low crouch. Then freeze. Alert to
every small sound and movement that takes place. Learn
and assimilate what is commonplace. Become acquaint
with all the everyday sounds that beat on regardless.
And then perchance take hold of that which is not
commonplace. That which is not of everyday. Home in on
it. Bring it at last to bear within the sights of my
rifled perception. Stretched taut as a guitar string
in high E. And then to wait. Casually. Patiently. And
then mayhap to apprehend the source of these distant
and foreign noises. Like a hammering it is. But not a
hammering as in one position but as if it was a man
knocking in spikes to tie the sleepers of an old and
abandoned railroad track that had suddenly been
pressed into hasty use. For a superior kind of
demolition derby. With swiftly refurbished locomotives
weighing in at about a couple of hundred tons and
ramming home with mass abandon. With engineers and
firemen employed from the four corners speedily at the
helm. But not alas our man who remains stoically and
heroically underground. So still i wait. Still i
wander. Across this barren plain. In the untold
direction of a railway station. To pause awhile
beneath the leaking drips of the water tower and
perhaps to rest my ear on the still humming line for
news of a possible arrival. But the rail is dead. It
gives no sound. It gives no clue no direction. Unless
this silence itself by its very absence points to the
only way left which is down. Down down down. Into the
ever deepening heart of things. Like a stanley knife
through a warm pat of butter. Or gold or even
margerine. What matter. These things. This sideshow of
consumer heaven. That has not an entrance or an exit.
For how could you ever be entranced? Or how could you
ever wish to leave from a place that you had never
even entered? Had heard only on the grapevine of
distant knockings. Things that go bump in the night.
And bang on the lawn. With distant drums. While i wait
here and consider what next i should do. Is there
perhaps somewhere at hand a person from whom i may
seek information? Directions possibly. For they say in
these parts that a mans life may depend on such
knowledge. But this place appears wholly deserted. The
station is abandoned. Weeds grow between the lines.
The booking hall is laced with cobwebs and the handles
of the doors are rusted solid. Perhaps the town may
contain some clue. Though i fear town is too grand a
description. There is really nothing more than a main
street with the usual collection of buildings. A
saloon. A livery stable. The sheriffs place. The jail.
The trading post. The stock in trade that you would
expect to find in this vicinity. But all are empty. It
takes no more than a couple of minutes to traverse the
full length of main street and even less to ascertain
that the town is abandoned. Unless perhaps there's a
stray face looking out from behind a ragbag blind.
Some old prospector perhaps who even yet still
imagines he will strike it rich. Who has within his
possession all the necessary equipment. The knowledge
of the terrain. The methods to be employed in the
search. Who lacks only a partner with sufficent funds
to finance the trip. But i have no time for such
dalliance. Nor indeed if i am honest the desire. I
have a definate objective in view. I have been sent by
the company for a singular purpose. The details of
which are contained within this letter that is pinned
to the inside of my pocket. It was delivered to me in
person by one of the companys most senior messengers.
He led me to understand that this mission was of the
utmost importance and that i should let nothing come
between me and its successful completion. Further
details will be found in the letter he has led me to
understand. However i must not open it until i am in
the presence of the addressee. Thus it is that i am
engaged in this vague and some would say fruitless
search. Walking at present through a ghost town. Whose
existence was hitherto wholly unknown to me. I do not
recall that i have seen it mentioned on maps and
further in fact i do not recall its name at all. Even
if it has one. I must soon determine what action next
i must take for i fear the company spies who may at
this very moment be infiltrating the area with a view
to reporting my action. Or lack thereof. I feel
instinctively that my usefulness to their purpose is
wearing thin. That soon they may take the decision to
dispense altogether with my services. To be
dispossessed without even an adequate reference. My
pension frozen to the bone. This is not a prospect i
would particularly relish. Therefore it is of some
urgency that i should at all times be on the right
track. But where in all this derelict waste can it be.
This main street begins to show signs of abandonment
even greater than those already passed. Perhaps a trip
to its end may yield some light. Leastways perhaps
lure that peering face from the safety of its lair.
The edge of the town draws nigh and still no sign.
When at last the city limit is reached i shall wheel
quick as lightning. Spin on one heel in a passable
imitation of a fandango. The better to catch the whole
sea of swimming faces who are presently grinning over
my shoulder. It approachs. The end is in sight. The
end of this unnecessary diversion. The moment
approachs. I will pause awhile as though in deep
concentration upon the details of the horizon. Then at
an appropriate moment make my move. Survey the scene
rolling out in all directions. Each with individual
idiosyncracies but the whole with unremitting
uniformity. From one of these perchance the correct
time for the next move will arise. Appear perhaps as a
mirage or a bush or a burning patch of reeds.
Diligence is required here. To apprehend the exact
moment for this next most important moment. The
capture of vital clues. Not a task to be undertaken
with levity. Nor faint heart nor lack of singularity.
But clear cool purpose with which at last i may
superimpose some order here. Like now. Quick spin and
there. Nothing