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PostPosted: Thu Apr 22, 2010 2:35 am 
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by-the-throat wrote:
while the monster in my lap snarled through the bars of my zipper.


Man, that line made my sides hurt.


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PostPosted: Thu Apr 22, 2010 2:52 pm 
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Thanks for the great story.


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PostPosted: Fri Apr 23, 2010 5:00 am 
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I handled cooking breakfast while Phebe went out to fuck with that water filter some more; apparently it had tipped over in the wind last night and we were low on drinking water. I was glad for the alone time because it gave me the opportunity to burn a doob in the bathroom; I had been getting antsy sitting around sober for so long though her presence mitigated the ache somewhat. My nerve endings were tingling nicely along with the bacon I was cooking over this little propane camp heater that she had busted out of her food kit, looking all clever and professional in a pair of shorts and my Black Sabbath t shirt.

The smell of bacon was making me salivate; it had been a long time since my last meal. When you are a lifestyle drug user (read: junkie) your food intake isn't nearly as important as your drug intake, and so you don't always notice when you miss a couple meals until you get those stabbing pains in your gut and realize that you're running on fumes and gristle. The low blood sugar can give you a head rush, especially if you happen to be smoking dope-it lowers your blood sugar, the source of those infamous "munchies." But it is easy to attribute the head rush to other sources, unless you are a gonzoid psuedo scientist with a hard dick and a GED like Jon Mackey, in which case the coke high, the weed buzz, the adderol body buzz and the hunger dizzy spell are as distinct as tattoos. So I didn't even have to be asked to cook breakfast; once I blazed that joint and stepped out into the dim grey light of my living room I knew I had to eat something; my stomach was talking satanic gibberish like a backwards Led Zeppelin record and the delicate spongy texture of my THC soaked brain, suitably dulled to prevent panic, was floating in a murky precambrian ocean of dizziness. I had taken the last item out of my freezer, sniffed it cautiously-a full package of bacon, just now defrosted and looking succulent and sinful curled up in that clear plastic wrap.

Once, what seems like a million years ago, I had held plastic wrap over my exes face while I fucked her. The image sprang to mind suddenly and I grimaced. Mostly it was the savage stirring of my heart that I remembered, and now in the light of the current situation I could see it was the pale echo of the primal rush, higher than PCP, that I had felt when I stabbed that zit faced kid in the back of his terrified, stupid fucking dome. It was similar to the strange (and erotic) fascination with death as a kid.

I had first discovered it when I was talking to a little buck toothed girl that was asking me to bury her in the sand. I must have been 7 years old at the outside, maybe 8, so a good five or six years from any real drug abuse. My dad had been in the back trailer, which had a reek I will always remember-the high acid brittle reek of charred brillo pads from an ersatz crack pipe. And I was outside in the sand on the edge of our little pond, helping this girl-I think she was my cousin, as if I needed to make the great state of Indiana look any worse-cover herself in sand and remarking offhandedly, but with a charge of sexual power that I still remember all these years and pills later "You know, when people die they bury them."

Maribeth? Rosalee? Annabelle?-I no longer remember, or even care-and I had an interesting summer that year, as we kissed behind sheets on the clothesline and giggled and blushed our way through showing each other our pubic areas, but I never got the crackling brown rush that I did when I was suggesting living interment to her. Some time later we caught a women-in-peril murder movie and acted that out, and that had a similar vein-but the goddamn stingy broad would never let me play murder, she always had her boyfriend show up to let her out of the fucking cage, and I had always allowed it because it seemed to be the dramatic convention.

At the time I didn't think anything was wrong with me, but of course now, in my socks and a fresh pair of jeans and a black hoodie to shut me against the cold, cooking bacon on my coffee table, I could see it. Because it was the same fucking urge, some kind of lizard brain kill-fuck-ravage thing that ensured that despite performing multiple felony murders yesterday I could still get a hardon blazing like the sun while I looked at the pretty girl, and it seemed worse.

"...Mackey, earth to John Mackey," a voice tuned in to my cosmic radio while I traipsed about memory lane. I jumped a bit, still transferring a somewhat soggy bit of bacon from the pan to a paper plate on the table.

I looked up and Phebe was smiling, rain droplets beaded in her hair like tiny jewels on a Hindu goddess. "Sorry," i said somewhat sheepishly and forked another piece over onto the plate. "I was wool gathering a bit."

She sniffed a bit, looked back towards the bathroom. My growling stomach dropped at least six inches; I swear to god I'm surprised it wasn't hanging out my asshole. "What's that smell?"

"Um, spicy bacon," I lied quickly and handed her a plate. "What were you saying before?" She was peering around me towards the shut door of my bathroom, which had a window open but probably still reeked of dope. It was a mistake; I assumed that because I couldn't smell it, she couldn't either-but I was just numb to the smell, and she was no fool.

"Oh, uh, I was asking if that was ready yet," she said, taking a seat on the chair next to the couch and crunching a single piece of the bacon. "I am starving. Anyway I got some bags of mulch propped up around the filter so that should keep them from falling over again tonight." She wiped grease from her chin, an unladylike move that captivated me anyway, and leaned back in the chair. "Not bad."

My gut had recovered a bit again, though I found myself as usual desperately craving a valium. Of all my swirling galaxy of pills, the blues were the rarest and I hated to part with one for no reason-especially when I had to be out and about all day-but god it sounded so good to not give a fuck for awhile. Still with the munchies rooted deep in my bones now I started to gorge on my half of the bacon, washing it down with tepid filtered rainwater. It was no king's feast, but it was a lot better than those stupid fucks out ravaging the city were doing. Phebe kept the shotgun strapped to her back now when she went out.

The lights flickered on again briefly around noon, as the two of us were emptying the full filtered bucket of water into the bathtub that we had recently scrubbed. (I think she found my roach, but if she didn, she didn't say anything-and a lot of people can't tell a roach from a rollie.) It was sweaty, irritating grunt work, hauling the buckets back from where they were filtering down and filling up, then reassembling the whole mess with the now soaked bags of mulch. The water was beginning to make the bags split up the side as the water was absorbed, and they wouldn't last much longer there. We had no idea what we would be doing after that.

"Hey," she said, looking up at the flourescent bathroom light that now buzzed above us. "The lights are on. I'll go set this back up outside, you go see if you can catch anything useful on the tv."

"Yeah, thats likely," I said, and we both shared that warm chuckle we had found ourselves sharing a lot over the past few days. The minute she stepped out I was bent over the back of the toilet cutting up a few bumps; the time limit was too short for any decent lines. I played connect the dots for three minutes, tops, letting the high spots flare up in my battered conciousness with relish. Now suffused with lemon-yellow purpose refined in some south american hellhole and cut fine with baking soda, I stepped into the living room and jammed the button on the TV, my face flushed and hot and my synapses crackling like the bacon and very much alive, unlike the bacon. I found myself wanting some more bacon and so I ignored the banal blue glow of the tv while I scarfed down another greasy mouthful.

Flipping channels soon got me to a working feed, although it wasn't very eventful. Just some guy with a shaky handicam pointed at the...wait, was that the strip club? Holy shit it was, Moxie's Gentleman's club, name after a stripper long ODed, where my bitch ex worked-or had worked. It looked like the parking lot was still full. Still, it was a remarkably dull feed for a news day this exciting and I wondered for a few moments why it was being shown at all-until I remembered that the TV studio WXMJ was right next door, and whoever was filming this shit was just standing on the roof looking over there and ranting in a foam mouthed voice "...and fornicators and sluts and gutter trash and junkies and pedos and queeeeeeeers..." Why do the nutjobs always emphasize queers so much? "They brought this on us! They have brought the pestilence of AIDS, the famine of endless rain, the war of cultural destruction!" The guy was shrieking and I don't understand some of what he next said, while I puffed on a cigarette and pretended like it didn't worry me.

"Fire and sword!" the guy was ranting. "Jehovah guide us to victory, to cleanse the charnel house of sodomite whores, twirling their....nipples..." I guffawed out loud at the way he struggled with 'nipples' the way a feminized eunuch male (remember, Americanus Eunochio) has to struggle with 'cunt' for years after that scarring Women's Studies class. "...Bringing locusts and herpes and lesbian dvds!" Actually that sounded like a great party, just add ecstasy.

The sudden shuck-shuck of a pump shotgun outside killed my scathing social commentary in a rush of frigid blood; suddenly I was on my feet grabbing my own new shotgun and stepping towards the window, face pressed against the bars. I could see Phebe there taking cover behind her own water filter, her stare strong and determined as she faced...three, four....no five figures in the misty rain. The first one stepped out of the rain and I could hear her cursing him. It was a fat guy, with flaccid bitch tits that showed through his cheap silk shirt, a scraggly beard, with a woman and three kids in tow.

"Cesare?" I said, forgetting he couldn't hear me through the window. Just then I heard the thump of Phebe's shotgun butt against the door.

I opened it in a rush, bringing the smell of cool rain and terrified sweat. "Jon," Phebe said coldly, still staring with one hard blue eye at the now frozen Castigliono family, "this guy says he knows you."

"He does," I said, and looked him up and down. His cheeks were hollow and bruised and it was his wife, not his mistress that was at his side. He was missing a kid and even without the rain, he would have looked ready to off himself. They had no weapons. He gave me an eye like a kicked dog as I regarded his family.

"You want to let them in?" she said. That barrel still didn't waver.

"Jon, I need....hooked up...for awhile. They took Eliza." Eliza being the mistress he fucked around with while Lola was at home with the kids. "When we got back our house was burning. I...need, um, some pills man, I'm real sick..." Fucking typical. His kids were rail thin and shivering behind him and all that saggy titted motherfucker could think of was getting some addies in his diseased system.

I thought about it for a long time. But it was Phebe, and the kids, who decided me. "Jon," she said to me, "he has kids, man." She apparently didn't notice the part about the pills, or maybe chose to ignore it.

"Fine," I practically snarled, and tore open the door all the way. They shuffled inside like holocaust victims dripping all over my floor and my chances to get Phebe in the sack...although I wasn't thinking about that of course, despite my exhaustive list of things I would like to do to her that lurked in the back of my mind like graffiti on the bathroom wall.

They stood there stunned for a few seconds, like they hadn't expected help. Their trudge was the trudge of the desperately hopeless, and for a moment I thought that was why they were frozen in place once the stepped inside in the piss yellow light from my reading lamp. But that wasn't it. They were looking at the TV. I followed their gaze, and my cigarette crashed to the carpet in a spray of hot cherry.

Phebe was behind me and was looking over my shoulder. "What are we looking at?"

The camera was still focused squarely on the strip club. I tuned out the delusional lunatics ravings, and watched. And I saw feet-feet and feet and feet, slogging through the ankle deep water towards the entrance of the strip club. It was an army, a hundred motherfuckers at least, and I shuddered thinking of the fate that likely awaited whatever poor bitches were still stuck in there. I had seen it in Chicago, had seen it televised once before, and been fascinated-even aroused enough to feign an interest in Cristal's handbag collection. Now my stomach full of greasy bacon roiled and flopped like a catfish nailed to a tree, and I turned away.

Cesare noticed the look, his hands shaking. "Dude, you know Rachel's there right? I saw her just before I left; I guess the owner is trying to ride it out." Phebe looked up sharply when he said 'rachel'-a fact that gave me hope and make me cringe at the same time.

The feet of the mob marched through the parking lot. I saw axes, ballbats, guns, even one jackass trying to light a molotov in the driving rain. These weren't holy rollers inspired by that fuckup on tv either-one look at their distant gazes and hard set mouths told me what kind of booty they were after in the strip club. I set my jaw, got on my feet, and grabbed a box of shotgun shells from the pile on the kitchen table without asking.

"I've gotta go after her," I said, in a distant coked up fog, almost before I had realized what I was saying. But all I could think of was that mark I had left on the side of her face before she left, and how really, in the darkest part of my heart, I had been imposing her face over that poor dumb cunt in chicago the whole time. And I realized then that it is not enough to run from the ugliness inside ourselves-in order to transform it, it must be confronted. And then something amazing happened-I felt Phebe's hand on my arm, saw her stare up at me with...it couldn't be admiration. Not of Jon Mackey, the human rattlesnake in life's cosmic woodpile.

And yet, very clearly, she said "I'm with you Jon. Whoever she is."

It sounded less world alteringly profound when I sobered up later, with Cesare at my heels with a ballbat and Phebe at my side with her own shotgun, stalking through the alleys knee deep in rainwater while thunder cracked overhead, but by then it was too late to regret.

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PostPosted: Fri Apr 23, 2010 5:42 am 
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this is getting even more interesting by the post! thx for sharing the story with us MOAR Zombies! :mrgreen:


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PostPosted: Fri Apr 23, 2010 9:40 am 
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Maybe the best addition yet! I'm really enjoying it.

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PostPosted: Sat Apr 24, 2010 1:53 am 
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Chapter 6 - Rainbow in the Dark

My dad was the type that wore his machismo like a bullet proof vest; his swinging cockmeat alone was proof of his status as a badass, a genius and a working class hero. For a guy that would later burn to death in a meth related trailer fire, he had a mighty high opinion of himself.

My mother was a non-factor; a late blooming early 80's era flower child, sucked in by the rugged masculine charisma and plentiful drugs of Jon Mackey Senior. I don't remember her; she died when I was 3 or 4 of alcohol poisoning. You'd think, at that age, that I would have remembered her death or even a few details about her, but I don't. I have a picture of her somewhere, smoking a cigarette on the porch outside the front trailer in our yard, with me asleep next to Shitface, our black doberman. I remember Shitface clearly, and even his death-but as for mom, I got nothing.

The landscape of my childhood is a long tomb of mediocrity and deviant sexual exploration. I recall spending at least 90 percent of it alone. While Jon Mackey Sr. went off to the JB Weld plant to work, Jon Mackey Jr. was left in the care of Gramma Mackey. She was probably a fine woman in her prime, but relative to me she was unimportant-she mostly made tuna sandwiches and shat the bed. Between an invalid caretaker and the gorgeous Lovecraftian scenery of Kent, Indiana, (a rickety bridge of bullshit welded together with crack and child pornography-at least until meth caught on around 2003) I suppose it is no wonder that I turned out like I did. And in the end, it was convenient to me to always have an excuse for my behavior.

I was 13 when I realized the fundamental fucked nature of man, and it was the first-and only-lesson my father ever taught me that I truly took to heart. We had been clashing recently, as the lukewarm pink tide of hormones flooded my pock marked system. Jon Jr. was a faggot because he had no aptitude for tools. Jon Jr. was a faggot because he read those faggot fantasy novels all the time. Jon Jr. was a faggot because he wasn't Jon Sr. But when I turned 13 on a crisp and cold fall day in 1993, Jon Sr. was determined to show me how to make it right.

I was out of bed and making scrambled eggs. My clumsy pubescent hands still struggled with cracking the eggs and so I had yolk all over my shirt and pants, but I knew better than to try wearing an apron-Dad was home and he wouldn't stand for that shit. It was Saturday morning, and I was eager to get back to my copy of Dune that I had borrowed from the school library.

You could always hear Mackey Sr. get up; it started with a smoker's cough like a cartoon character, a wet hack-chort-hack-hack that signified that he had lit his first cigar of the day. He smoked those cheap white owls; I think if Gramma hadn't smoked Basic Menthols I could steal, I would have never started smoking, because I couldn't stand the fucking sweet flypaper reek of cheap cigars, and still cannot to this day.

Inevitably afterwards came the bangs and rustles and curses as he hauled himself out of bed and into the same pair of burn marked blue jeans and Dead shirt that he had worn the previous day. It wasn't long before I could hear him shuffling out into the living room to shout at Gramma to turn down the fucking tv and anyway that cocksucker on there was way over his guess for the jet skis on price is right. By that time I shoveled over an extra plate of eggs and hash with ketchup and hot sauce, and was sitting on my end of the table with my headphones in and head down. I had long ago learned it was best to avoid talking with him; none of our thoughts occured on the same plane at all.

He sat down at the table and began eating noisily; I could hear him even through the Ronnie James Dio tape in my walkman. Chancing a look up, I saw his expression was curiously focused, the movements of his fire hardened knuckles less haphazard. He was wearing his tool belt, hammer and screwdriver and other, more arcane bits that I didn't recognise (though I probably would have recognised a crysknife) hanging from his narrow hips. He looked every bit his age today, and there was blood from where he had coughed into his beard.

Still not saying anything, I gathered up the empty place and shoveled them into the sink to wash later, the remains looking oddly like blood and brains. But I heard his rusty voice behind me before I had a chance to scurry back to my room.

"Boy...Jon boy. Come on out here, boy-I got a birthday present for you," he grunted, punctuating with an epic fart that rattled the rickety kitchen chair he was sitting on.

What is that old saying? 'Beware of freaks bearing gifts' I think. No, I'm almost sure that isn't it. But even misquoted, it would have been damned fine advice that day.

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PostPosted: Sat Apr 24, 2010 5:16 am 
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Woot! another update, what a pace!! :D


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PostPosted: Sat Apr 24, 2010 6:08 pm 
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Cliffhanger!!!


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PostPosted: Sun Apr 25, 2010 2:42 am 
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In the end, no one could ever resist Mackey Sr-not even me. He proved it daily, in a constant ritual pissing contest. He was a ragged redneck with a glib tongue and a good coke hookup, and he learned to take both of those and run with them until he succeeded. So I suppose I learned that lesson from him as well. But that day's lesson was of a different nature, philosophy perhaps, although I doubt he ever used the word.

I am surprised to find myself still hating him, even after all these years.

He had taken me to the stump behind the second trailer I sometimes used as a fighting platform for my dandy Mortal Kombat action figures. He chewed his cigar and pontificated, standing tall under the brilliant (valium?) blue skies while fire blazed in the trees around it. I remember a distinct taste of something rotten on the wind, maybe a dead dog or deer upwind somewhere. At this stage I still had to look way up with him.

"Jon boy...I..I know I been hard on ya, son, and I sure as shit don't like them faggot wizard books you are always readin', but I guess I never told ya why." He sucked on the cigar that even then I found ironic in a Freudian way. "It's a hard world, Jon Boy. And ain't no mother fucker that won't stick it to ya if he can. You can be quick, and sly...and I seen it in ya, boy, you got the gift o' gab same as me. But it ain't gonna work every time, and you gotta learn to take it like a man."

He had taken my hand, his own scarred digits gripping my wrist tightly, and was now holding it on the stump. His hammer was out in his other hand. At this point I began to panic; even at that age I could tell a long string of overenthused crack pipe fueled babble from a legitimate philisophical point. It's easy; just wait until it stops making sense. It stopped making sense about the time he lifted the hammer over his head.

"They'll make ya weak, boy, make ya a bitch, if you can't man up and swallow the pain." He paused, and there was a stern silence unbroken even by ambient nature, though the dull roar of terror in my ears prevented me from even putting up a decent struggle. "You know I seen some shit about some Jap monks or somethin, they make you lift a scalding hot kettle with your forearms, just to make a man out of ya. And you gotta know how to burn when your time comes. They'll hurtcha Jon Boy, they'll cutcha good and bloody, but they don't love ya son, and I do." My understanding of his critical lecture disappeared beneath a red vortex of pain that centered on the stump and grew to encompass the whole world. My screams were far away.

"See it? That's your pain, Jon Boy. Seize it, see?" He held up his own spotted, hairy knuckles, showing me all the old scars. Then he jacked it across my face in a swift, single motion. "And stop that Christfuckin' squawkin, boy. You're a man."

I chomped down on the next scream, not because I felt that manly, but because I had just looked at my hand. It was already swelling with blood running between my knuckles, and moving it sent glass shards blazing up and down my nerve endings like hell's angels on Highway 65. My pants were warm; only years later did I deduce that I was pissing myself. All I knew then was that Mackey sr was looking down at my crotch and obviously didn't like what he saw.

"You little pisspants faggot!" he snarled, his eyes glazing with that cracked out goshawk rage, and reached for my other hand which I snatched back. In the same motion I reached up with the good hand and grabbed his screwdriver off his belt. Holding it in a rear grip I jammed the flathead edge right into his inner thigh, eliciting a wheezing grunt of pain.

He staggered back a step while I curled up on the ground and clutched my wounded hand, moaning. He looked down to the screwdriver sticking in his leg, and back at me, and suddenly bellowed a harsh, wheezing laughter. The miracle of crack cocaine enabled him to pull it out smoothly, without flinching. "Well hell, boy-at least you got balls," he said, and that was the end of the subject for him.

That was September 11th, 1993-my 13th birthday.

He took me to the hospital, bought me ice cream and a dirty magazine for lying to the doctor, gave me a real birthday present-a Led Zeppelin cd, and assumed that his lesson of "Man up and take the pain" stuck with me.

We never talked about it again. But if we had, I would have told him the real lesson I learned while "Rainbow in the Dark" blared in my headphones and I waited in the ER for my turn to lie to the Dr, surrounded by welfare chumps and battered wives and junkies hoping to get a good RX by stabbing themselves in the neck. The lesson has nothing to do with taking pain. It wasn't even about how to sell your sons vicadins to some junkies in the waiting room to pay for his birthday present.

No, the lesson I learned in the long grass from Jon Mackey Sr that day was "Every motherfucker wants to fuck you, so fuck first, fuck hard, fuck fast-and don't listen to a fucking thing anyone says about it."

It was easy to apply that lesson in the 2009 flood. The only question was one of aesthetics.

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PostPosted: Sun Apr 25, 2010 7:56 am 
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:shock:


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PostPosted: Mon Apr 26, 2010 9:30 am 
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Well done sir, well done.


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PostPosted: Mon Apr 26, 2010 10:47 am 
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Heck of a good series fo story updates

More please when you get a chance!

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PostPosted: Mon Apr 26, 2010 11:59 am 
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Quote:
More please when you get a chance!


^^ this! :mrgreen:


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PostPosted: Tue Apr 27, 2010 3:18 am 
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Chapter 7 - Save the Princess, Fuck the World

Of all the fundamental lies we are infected with growing up weird the worst is from TV. At the flickering altar that we offer our placid tapioca brains to, we are told that the hero can accomplish the impossible and (more importantly) that he always gets a girl along the way, usually in about 110 minutes just before the closing credits roll. Since, fundamentally, we are all the main characters in our little stories, with everyone else being sidekicks at best, but more likely just spear carriers, it naturally translates that we can do anything with wit and gumption and a good haircut, and that no matter what we do it always comes with an impossibly hot girl as an accessory.

In the light of reason it is easy to see. But then, with a nice dramatic thunderstorm boiling above our heads and the hazy sun having just vanished below Naptown's ragged skyline, the movie paradigm made sense to me, especially having just come down off the coke high and the more potent high of somehow getting Phebe to follow me here.

Cesare had come too, the stupid fuck. Not that I wanted him there, really-I knew he would be a drag and despite the two addies and the vicadin I had fronted him he had complained the whole way there. But I didn't trust him alone in my apartment. Getting him to tag along had been easy-I told him he wasn't getting a single pill unless he came to back me up. His reaction was the predictable entitlement whining, but there was no way I was going to leave him there where he could get at my stash. It was all I had in the world, the work of decades really, and represented at least 75 percent of my net worth, and I knew that fat bastard would steal it in the heartbeat despite his various pledges of undying friendship over the years. Junkies are like that; my gramma once told me "Jon, love conquers all, except drugs." Old bitch was right, and she would know; she died of lung cancer in 2004. Cesare had left his kids and his wife (who wasn't speaking to him and was possibly the reason he had a black eye) back at my place watching one of the pirated disney dvds I watched when I did acid. I hoped they didn't pick Alice in Wonderland; I had dubbed Cannibal Corpse over part of the soundtrack. They were all apparently deeply in shock; maybe they wouldn't notice. No one mentioned what had happened to the missing kid.

Phebe, on the other hand, took almost no convincing. After I had hooked Cesare up I found her putting together the scary looking black rifle that one of the looters had dropped in her place. "It's a 10/22" she said absently as I walked up to her-as if that meant anything to me. "I was thinking of giving it to your friend if he's coming with us."

I looked over at Cesare, who had just emerged from the bathroom with that flushed "Aaaah" face that can mean either the end of a painful withrdawl sequence or a really massive dump. Possibly both. "I wouldn't," I said.

Her tone lowered, and her gaze sharpened as she looked over my shoulder at him. "You don't trust him?"

"That isn't it." Well, not exactly anyway but I still found myself afraid to give her the full story. "He's not a bad guy, just a fucking idiot. Leave it here with his wife, they might need to protect themselves anyway." I had stuffed the pistol in the pocket of my fresh cargo pants. It wasn't very convenient but it was more secure. And Cristobol's sawn off was resting comfortably in my hands, with a pocketfull of shells in my hoodie. It wasn't much, but it made me feel better. The knife was in it's accustomed place in my belt and was the only part of my equipment that felt organic; I was comfortable with it there.

I had also gathered a larger than usual supply of drugs from my stash; a q of smoke, eight or ten grams of yayo, a few dozen hits of cid, vicadins, addies of course, a little E, and some valiums blues almost against my will. I had no concrete reason for taking it, except as a carrot to lure Cesare along behind me, and a nebulous idea of negotiating my way into the strip club with it. It was secure with my spare magazines and some food and clean water in my shoulder bag.

We were watching people shoot at the locked doors on the tv at the time while that foaming mouthed bible thumper continued ranting about vengeance and damnation and nipple tassels. Foolishness of course. You didn't have to wear nipple tassel's at moxie's; they used nail polish.

I had taken a couple of hard bumps off the web of my hand on the way and popped a discrete adderol. I had expected a short trip-it was only a twenty minute drive if you were smart enough to avoid the outer loop. But walking translates poorly and it was nearly nightfall before we arrived at the strip club. And the damn adderol, plus Phebe's wet tank top, was giving me a vicious hardon that made walking uncomfortable and difficult. They never fucking tell you THAT in the movies. I spent probably the whole transit time hunched over halfway trying to figure out my feelings for her while they were already painfully obvious in my boxers.

It never ceases to amaze me the way men think. There were maybe a hundred men in that mob outside the strip club, and they had been there in the cold and rain for hours at that point, and yet they were still trying to dig there way into the strip club. They couldn't be bothered to find shelter or feed themselves, but they would move heaven and earth to loot some booze and pussy, the only things of value within. A few were backing a truck up to the door and attaching a chain to the frame while the rest shuffled around the parking lot like zombies with their breath fogging and their balls blue, eager to be the first in line. Fuck my gender.

"All right," I said, as the three of us hunkered down behind an overflowing dumpster-trash pickup wasn't exactly on schedule either-listening to the truck's engine splutter and roar. "This is how we're going to do this..."

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Damn the cliffhangers....




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Great updates! Can't wait for Moar!

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In hindsight I don't know how I got anyone to listen to me.

I didn't really have a long term plan; I was just as confused and frightened as all those rioting bastards that even now were attempting to batter their way in through the strip club's steel doors by ramming it with the grill of the truck. Apparently they had already had some casualties; when that chain broke while they were trying to pull the frame out, it took the trailer hitch with it and brained at least three people. The crowd tottered wide around the still corpses while they bang-bang-banged at the doors. And I remember thinking, there but for the grace of God go I.

I meant it, too. God had always been a hazy nebulous concept with me; frankly Sauron was more real. But I was smart enough to realize that I didn't hold the moral high ground over these stupid fucks; I knew that had I not run into Phebe, and had instead been forced to stare at my own empty fridge for a few days, I would probably be out there among them. The difference between us was one broken key and a whole lot of luck.

I looked to Phebe, at my side, with her breath fogging in the cold. The shadow of the garbage dump shielded her eyes, thank heaven, or I would probably still be rooted on the spot staring. I breathed softly "You ready?"

"I am," she breathed back softly. Her breath on my arm was like a tropical breeze; it was cold and getting colder. I had noticed slush filtered in among the rain. The engine of the truck hummed in the parking lot, then roared. There was a dull, metallic crunch as it banged into the door again. Cesare was behind us at the mouth of the alley, fidgeting nervously. I had him watching the back entrance to the alley to make sure nothing would come from behind.

"We go when the truck backs up all the way," I said. I had known the reinforced frame of the strip club would handle most of the abuse, and I was waiting for them to back up nice and far before I put our plan into action. Phebe had loaded slugs into her shotgun, but mine was still packed with #4 steel buckshot.

We didn't have to wait long; Jon Mackey may not know military strategy, but he knows the thought process of horny undereducated perverts. If a few short runs in the truck couldn't take out the door, why not back up to the end of the parking lot and get some momentum up? And soon it was happening, the mob scattering out of the way as the pickup backed all the way up to the curb, sliding a little in the mushy wet puddles. The eager crowd formed two lanes around it's path to the door, and the engine revved to a tired series of war whoops.

My heart was thundering in time with the storm overhead, while ice cold fingers of rain ran down my back to my waistline. Not just because of the yay either (I had taken an extra couple of bumps for courage) but because I was extremely aware of everything around me. When you do yayo, my friend, you see the finer details that you missed before-the texture of the rust on the dumpster you are pressed against, the mole on Phebe's right forearm that she ought to get looked at, the smell of diesel tainting the rain as the truck revved up. But the faces in the crowd, man, as I stared out into that dark mass of figures illuminated by glaring halogen headlights, and they all looked the same. White, black, yellow, red, brown...all of them looked the same in the glow of those headlights.

Time slowed down to a crawl as the truck's tires started spinning wildly, smoking obscuring red tail lights that looked like a pair of evil eyes. I was aware of Phebe drawing a deep breath and holding it, though I did not do the same-my biology was speeding up even as we spoke. My dick was still hard and the cold was wrapping me in an unbreakable ice cocoon; I was invincible, a sexy shivering god of war with a sawed off shotgun and no regard for human misery, and I was about to do the first good thing I had ever done in my whole dogshit life.

Moments like that carry a high unlike anything I had ever experienced, even through the coke and the adderol and the testosterone. I wonder if the Crusaders were this high? If so, no wonder they beat the hashashayans; I'll take a cokehead and adrenaline junkie instead of a pothead every time. Same physical drawbacks, but the cokeheads are meaner.

"Now," I said simply to Phebe. She rose, one smooth motion, just as the brakelights went dark and the truck burst into motion. The wet barrel of her shotgun tracked the cab of the vehicle as it picked up speed. I heard her exhale a little, then stop...and then the shotgun went off, right by my ear.

In the dark it was hard to tell what happened next. First the headlights spun directly towards us, nearly blinding me. I heard screams, bones snapping, cursing and praying. No tire squeal though-she must have tagged whoever was in that beast. And just as I had hoped (it wasn't really planning, just hoping) it was out of control in the wet, slushy parking lot, and carrying carnage with it. The headlights spun away, and I saw the crowd panicking, moving in all directions, the fear showing in their white, terrified eyes as they scrambled away from their own demise in little dense mobs. Time to step up and do my part.

"HEY, ASSHOLES!" I shouted, stepping out of the alley. The chopped shotgun in my hands was lighter than a feather, lighter than air; it floated up on it's own free will, targeting the black center of the panicked mob. "MOVE OUT!" I fired once, twice, buckshot spewing, people collapsing or scattering in other directions. I wasn't really even aiming the shots; my goal was not to kill them, though I didn't shy away from the fact. Between us, we didn't even have enough ammo to kill them all.

But with the barrels smoking, two fresh shells shoved in the ejector, and the carnage of an over the top vehicle accident already in play, it was a simple matter to make them fear me.

"GET LOST, GO!" I half snarled, half screamed as I waded forward into the mob. The gun went off again and another man fell in front of me, black blood leaking out onto the pavement from the meat lover's pizza that was now his chest. I stepped on his head as I went on, shoving in more shells. "GO, GO! I'LL KILL YOU ALL, I SWEAR TO GOD!" And I meant that too.

From somewhere I saw a man with broken legs start to struggle to his hands and knees, clutching a revolver. I stooped down; there was a jolt in my arm as I drove the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his head. He trembled and lay still, and I turned to face the mob that had mostly scattered out towards the road. "COME ON, FUCKERS!" I said, and I found myself laughing, especially when I saw one of them point a rifle at me and drop instantly as Phebe leaned around the corner and put a slug in him. The others backed away instantly, and I fired my own weapon at them.

The range was too great for a kill shot, maybe 50 feet or so-and that barrel was cut short, man, let me tell you. But I saw them jump back anyway, and I started laughing again, great tornado gails of laughter as I reloaded and walked forward-unhurried, unworried, with my barrels smoking and my dick still damnably hard. "COME ON!" I screamed again, my voice growing hoarse. I heard Phebe's shotgun bark again and another of the mob fell, the others still retreating before us.

I couldn't take it anymore; the excitement, the adrenaline was making me dizzy and I couldn't hold myself back. Still laughing, I charged forward at them, breaking into a run with the shotgun pointed out one handed. "RUN, COWARDS! I'LL FUCK YOU BLOODY YOU WHORESON FUCKFACES!" The fear was gone; in truth I was having a great time. I mashed down the double triggers, sent both barrels into the crowd at close range. They screamed; a few of them shot at me, but I was invincible, motherfucker, I was Jon J. Rambo, and they moved so slow, all I had to do was dance around them, and no bullet touched me. There was a sound like catfood crunching as I gave the first guy in line, an old man with a big knife, a buttstroke to the face. He dropped, legs jerking, and I ripped the pistol out of my cargo pocket. Someone pointed their own shotgun at me, and caught one of Phebe's slugs in the throat for his trouble. The crimson spray dotted my face, but I didn't care; I was pulling the trigger on my .45 as fast as I could and watching dark red flowers sprout around me, a veritable garden of gore.

In hindsight, I suppose it was an absolute miracle that they broke and ran as fast as they did, without hitting me once. But at the time it made perfect sense, and I was so dazed and drug addled that when they all turned as one and bolted up Sweetwater like a pack of terrified lemmings, I had to fight back the urge to chase them with two empty guns and only my raging erection as a weapon. A savage death, surely. But no less than they deserved.

Phebe was behind me; I could hear her footsteps. There was a crunch as she finished someone on the ground. I turned around, still in my daze, and walked over to her confidently. She was nudging another corpse with the barrel of her gun when I grabbed her forcefully by the arm and turned her into me.

I kissed her. I mean, isn't that what the action hero does at the end of the movie? With my face bloody and both of us reeking of the dumpster we had been hiding out in, I kissed her. Her mouth was the only warm thing in the city, the only warm thing in the world, and while the frigid rain fell around us I devoured her without a hint of remorse.

As I pulled back, I saw no disapproval, no scorn in her valium blue eyes; in fact, what had previously been a haggard, terrified expression was suddenly lit up. Any other time, my cynic ass would never have believed it, but damnit, I'm the hero and the hero gets the fucking girl, and all I could do was kiss her again, and feel her shivering arms wrap around me and the trigger guard of her shotgun digging into my back. It was obscene and wrong on every level, but in Jon Mackey's paradigm, everything was as it should be.

But it wasn't time for the credits yet.

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PostPosted: Fri Apr 30, 2010 4:53 am 
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John Mackey, the terminator! Awesome! Can't wait for MOAR!

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PostPosted: Fri Apr 30, 2010 5:35 am 
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This story grabs me by the throat and shakes me like a rag doll. I feel thrilled and dirty at the same time.

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PostPosted: Fri Apr 30, 2010 7:04 am 
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yale wrote:
This story grabs me by the throat and shakes me like a rag doll. I feel thrilled and dirty at the same time.


Yep. Just read the last installment (freaking best one yet) and now I am going to go take a shower. So dirty....And I bet we get an awesomely graphic and dirty installment of Jon and Phebe getting to know each other. Going to be good.


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PostPosted: Fri Apr 30, 2010 9:23 am 
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thanks for the update!

More please

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yeah! :twisted:


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The next few scrambled lines of dialogue were disjointed in my head; I had a rush that was unreal while I stood in a circle of dead and dying motherfuckers.

I pulled away from her about two minutes and six million years later, breathless, and immediately started talking at the same time she did. Meanwhile Cesare had crept into the parking lot again nervously, clutching his bat.

"Jesus Phebe, I'm sorry, I mean I just thought I was going to die..."

"...scared the shit out of me, you bastard, you didn't tell me you were going to run straight..."

"...guys, guys, seriously Jon, can I get another..."

"...she's my girlfriend, uh, I mean my ex girlfriend, and I mean I have to get..."

"...kiss me again, you fucking idiot."

That stopped it for awhile. My world was submerged in her again, powerful waves of heretofore incomprehensible emotions washing over me like a healing surf. Yet there was a niggling, annoying voice still coming from my crotch...or maybe that was Cesare whining for another bump. Goddamn, no wonder we visionaries always hate those bastards from Porlock.

I could still taste her as I pulled away again. She was smiling at me, a dangerous smirk that made my fingers twitch-I wanted to pull her hair, throw her down on top of that old man's corpse, and violate her in ways that would make an Italian trust fund kid blush. And though the horrible part of me thrashed and snarled against the idea, I knew I had to come clean with her.

"Listen, Phebe...there are things that, uh, you don't really know. About me, that is." The words flooded out in a rush; apparently I was eager to nosedive off this new ecstatic plateau I found myself on (You can't miss it, it's the one with a shitload of dead bodies everywhere). She looked at me curiously. "Rachel is...was...my girlfriend. My ex girlfriend. I, uh..." And here the new white horse I was riding on stumbled; I couldn't explain that this whole fucked up idea was to make up for how I treated her and a lot of other women over the years, and so found myself stammering as we looked at one another. Her lower lip was quivering; Christ, I could still taste it.

"Hey, Jon...Jon..." I could barely hear Cesare's voice; he was so far below my plateau that it was like he was screaming into a rainstorm.

In the end, I went with the old Mackey standby; I lied to her. "Um, I mean, I still care about her, you know? But I don't want you to think..."

"I don't," she said.

"That isn't all," I forced myself to say. "I mean, there's also...well, my job, not really my job but how I really make my money..." I couldn't believe the words I was hearing, even though I was saying them. My heart was pounding still, a raging jackhammer in my chest that I couldn't quiet. "Well I mean the thing is..."

"Guys," Cesare was saying from far away.

"You mean the drug dealing?" she said, and I found myself flinching. My plateau was crumbling as the bastard tectonic plates beneath it shifted wildly; frankly I had no idea what to say to that. It must have shone through that famous Mackey poker face; she leaned in to kiss me again briefly. Every time it sent a warm liquid jolt through my frigid core of fear and adrenaline; at this point I didn't even notice the corpses that littered my field of roses. "I know, Jon," she said, with a little more gravity as she pulled away. "The whole complex knows. Late night, brief visitors, all the time? Extra locks? Bars on your fucking windows?" She laughed. "I'm almost offended that you thought I didn't know."

Always know this, my fellow criminals-you can hide from the cops, but you can't hide from the neighborhood.

I was still spluttering out a response, trying to assure her that I didn't think she was dumb, she was observant and intelligent and perfect and her eyes were like copacetic stars. I don't think I was getting my point across but I couldn't stop; my mouth ran like a punk rock virgin on his 6th Natty Ice.

My sexy delerium-God, her nipples were right fucking there, the same size as her eyes, down boy-was interrupted by Cesare's hand on my shoulder. Not normally my kind of menage; I consider it an achievement that I didn't throttle him immediately. Slowly I turned my head to look at him. "Jesus Christ, you fat bastard, can you seriously not wait for 2 fucking..."

"GODDAMNIT JON, LOOK!" The hand on my shoulder gripped tighter, spun me around. My plateau finished it's death star like implosion as I looked back up sweetwater where the mob had retreated, and saw more bodies and headlights and...very brief headlights? No, those were muzzle flashes. Shit. Over the sudden roar in my ears I could also hear "vrrrrrrp" sounds overhead as rounds whizzed by.

Phebe looked over my shoulder and paled. There were a few seconds of shocked silence. Then, in a low, grave tone, she said "Jon-do you have a way in?"

I did. What I knew, that the rampaging mob did not know, was that Moxie's had a roof access hatch. I guess it was for maintenance or some shit, but I knew about it because-you guessed it-it was a good place to burn one. You could get on the roof without it-it was only one story-but it opened from the outside and you couldn't see it from the street very well.

But I couldn't open my mouth to tell her about it. In fact, I couldn't open my mouth at all, even as I began to hear the angry shouts of the mob we had previously driven off returning for blood, their wounded pride forcing them down the flooded street. All I could do for a long few seconds was sit there like a fish gasping for air.

She shoved me-hard. I nearly collapsed, shotgun waving in the air as I windmilled my arms. "JON!" she said, and that was all it took. Jon "Rambo" mackey was gone, and the fear was back-that sour vomit taste in the back of my throat burned like the fires of hell while I stepped over the stain where some guy's intestines had been dragged out of him by the careening truck.

"The roof," I croaked. "Around the back, there's an AC thingie. We climb on the roof and we should be able to get in through the fire hatch." I was moving; a casual walk that slowly evolved into a full blown sprint as the three of us hauled ass around the back of the strip club. Cesare, huffing like mad, helped me up onto the AC unit, and I tucked the shotgun down the front of my pants-good captain christ, did I STILL have a fucking hardon?-and pulled myself up onto the wet cement roof, rolling over the narrow lip.

The roof was exactly as I rememberd, and, miracle of miracles, the hatch was already open. I could see white eyes peeking out from it's shadow, and a rifle barrel as well, but I wasn't worried. No matter which stripper they had there, I was assured that they would know me-probably biblically.

I turned to help the two of them but they didn't need it; Cesare had helped Phebe up and then she had helped him. I started to get up to cross the roof, but Phebe grabbed my leg and pulled me back down. "Don't get up. We don't want them to know about this entrance."

I'll tell you what-it's different, loving a smart girl.

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