I suppose youre all wondering where Ive been for a week. Or maybe youre not. Maybe no one reads this shit. Its difficult to say and supposition is all that I have: This dingy of hope, penny loafer of luck or just a pure psychosis, a fiction if you will to stave off the loneliness and insanity.
Hector of course was very upset and having no recourse to report the abduction went straight to the bottles again. Now he and his wife, Matilda are on the fritz again. I hold myself personally responsible and Im afraid that Caldwell can not help me in this matter. Matilda refuses to speak with me and refers to me as either, Gringo del Diablo or just, Diablo blanco.
Hectors dedication to our friendship is touching and its inspiring to think that our cultural differences have never come between our mutual love. I think in some ways we envy each other. Hector has often confided in me that he wishes he could wear a bow tie; a privilege I would gladly trade if I could survive a nuclear holocaust. I guess the pavement is always softer on the other side. This city has its boot on my spine. My disgust is residual. I feel like a sack of pain. My gut is a glass jar filled with nails. I wish Matilda could forgive us. Or at least Hector.
I was abducted not by aliens. But stolen in the midnight by a rabid mad man by the name of D. An old friend who had once shot my mother in the leg with his nickel plated colt 45. He still maintains the perverse notion that it was all an accident. At the time he was foaming at the mouth and shrieking incoherent obscenities and charged my mother with the heinous and unforgivable crime of treason against The Dregs.
(The Dregs was an underground political movement we started which goes deeper than the grass roots movement and formulates and congregates in the sewers. Our mission statement was: To force the shit to roll back up the hill and back to its owner. The homo erotic innuendo of pounding the shit back into the assholes was not lost on our homophobic constituency, many of whom quit and so we had to change our slogan from Shove it up your ass! To, Eat Shit and Die you Fuck Stain!)
D--- alleged that my mother had metal nodes implanted in her teeth and was transmitting our deeds and where abouts to the CIA. It was a gross miscalculation on his part and no where near understandable because my mother had no teeth. The metal nodes were an impossibility. Nonetheless he pulled out his gun and if I hadnt chucked a basketball at his head she would have been gut-shot in her living room. The local police chalked all of it up to temporary insanity. You see we had pulled a string of robberies through out the Albuquerque area, most of which were centered around the base of the Sandias. At the time I was snorting junk and so everything was a bit hazy but apparently we had stolen about seventy-five pounds of worthless costume jewelry that had a street value of approximately one glass of warm piss. But we thought that we had hit it big and headed for the desert till the heat cooled off. Theres irony in this if not out right idiocy. Clearly the junk was talkin. It was in, the second week in when D was attacked by a Dingo. We had just finished burying the goods and were resting and dehydrated and hungry when it came upon us. D was bit on the inner thigh. Thats when I hit the beast on the back with the shovel and it ran off. All out of food, water and drugs, we headed to my mothers house in Flagstaff Arizona. We ran out of gas five blocks away from her house and pushed the car into a ravine and set it on fire. (It was stolen anyway.) D was already beginning to foam.
This was the third week: First infection, then septicemia and then psychosis. Thats what the authorities said with all their authority. My mother never pressed charges and they never found the goods or suspected us of any crimes (pathetic as they were.)
He arrived late Saturday night in black engineering boots and jeans from a dead man, a trench coat of oil clothe and a cigarette. (It hangs from the corner always, even in gun fights and sex, for Ive witnessed both seven years ago in Flagstaff, Arizona. (Its also interesting to note that during the aforementioned Dingo attack the cigarette never left his mouth. Really quite impressive.)
I dont know how he got in. I can only guess that my uncle let him. I havent seen my uncle in eleven days. I had woken up to something stabbing my cheek. It was cold and hard. In the darkness I focused in to the glowing orange orb of his cigarette. I knew immediately that I was in trouble. The nozzle of the gun pushed harder against my cheek. Then he pulled it away and tapped it gently against my forehead.
Mornin butt munch.
Fuck you. I said.
Get dressed. Were goin.
Being that I was unarmed, I had to go. Where we went I can not tell because I was blind folded, eventually hog tide and thrown into a truck... (I swear this is true and its a testament to a truism that was expressed by a writer I knew who swore that, real life was far more interesting than fiction. This is what he told me: stick to what you know. Which is nothing... as far as I know. I told him that, if this were true, we wouldnt need Hollywood and Id have nothing to write about. As it turns out, he was right.)
I know I have yet to tell you about the abduction but itll have to wait. Ive recently received a string of very sad news and my heart if very broken. There is a deep sadness that has seeped into my skin and if I dont find a cure I fear the worst and that in the end it may be for the best. That I should turn my wrist into a faucet and drip the sadness away will have to wait. My lips are dry from praying that something beautiful will appear to leaven this heavy life and end all this suffering.
Hector of course was very upset and having no recourse to report the abduction went straight to the bottles again. Now he and his wife, Matilda are on the fritz again. I hold myself personally responsible and Im afraid that Caldwell can not help me in this matter. Matilda refuses to speak with me and refers to me as either, Gringo del Diablo or just, Diablo blanco.
Hectors dedication to our friendship is touching and its inspiring to think that our cultural differences have never come between our mutual love. I think in some ways we envy each other. Hector has often confided in me that he wishes he could wear a bow tie; a privilege I would gladly trade if I could survive a nuclear holocaust. I guess the pavement is always softer on the other side. This city has its boot on my spine. My disgust is residual. I feel like a sack of pain. My gut is a glass jar filled with nails. I wish Matilda could forgive us. Or at least Hector.
I was abducted not by aliens. But stolen in the midnight by a rabid mad man by the name of D. An old friend who had once shot my mother in the leg with his nickel plated colt 45. He still maintains the perverse notion that it was all an accident. At the time he was foaming at the mouth and shrieking incoherent obscenities and charged my mother with the heinous and unforgivable crime of treason against The Dregs.
(The Dregs was an underground political movement we started which goes deeper than the grass roots movement and formulates and congregates in the sewers. Our mission statement was: To force the shit to roll back up the hill and back to its owner. The homo erotic innuendo of pounding the shit back into the assholes was not lost on our homophobic constituency, many of whom quit and so we had to change our slogan from Shove it up your ass! To, Eat Shit and Die you Fuck Stain!)
D--- alleged that my mother had metal nodes implanted in her teeth and was transmitting our deeds and where abouts to the CIA. It was a gross miscalculation on his part and no where near understandable because my mother had no teeth. The metal nodes were an impossibility. Nonetheless he pulled out his gun and if I hadnt chucked a basketball at his head she would have been gut-shot in her living room. The local police chalked all of it up to temporary insanity. You see we had pulled a string of robberies through out the Albuquerque area, most of which were centered around the base of the Sandias. At the time I was snorting junk and so everything was a bit hazy but apparently we had stolen about seventy-five pounds of worthless costume jewelry that had a street value of approximately one glass of warm piss. But we thought that we had hit it big and headed for the desert till the heat cooled off. Theres irony in this if not out right idiocy. Clearly the junk was talkin. It was in, the second week in when D was attacked by a Dingo. We had just finished burying the goods and were resting and dehydrated and hungry when it came upon us. D was bit on the inner thigh. Thats when I hit the beast on the back with the shovel and it ran off. All out of food, water and drugs, we headed to my mothers house in Flagstaff Arizona. We ran out of gas five blocks away from her house and pushed the car into a ravine and set it on fire. (It was stolen anyway.) D was already beginning to foam.
This was the third week: First infection, then septicemia and then psychosis. Thats what the authorities said with all their authority. My mother never pressed charges and they never found the goods or suspected us of any crimes (pathetic as they were.)
He arrived late Saturday night in black engineering boots and jeans from a dead man, a trench coat of oil clothe and a cigarette. (It hangs from the corner always, even in gun fights and sex, for Ive witnessed both seven years ago in Flagstaff, Arizona. (Its also interesting to note that during the aforementioned Dingo attack the cigarette never left his mouth. Really quite impressive.)
I dont know how he got in. I can only guess that my uncle let him. I havent seen my uncle in eleven days. I had woken up to something stabbing my cheek. It was cold and hard. In the darkness I focused in to the glowing orange orb of his cigarette. I knew immediately that I was in trouble. The nozzle of the gun pushed harder against my cheek. Then he pulled it away and tapped it gently against my forehead.
Mornin butt munch.
Fuck you. I said.
Get dressed. Were goin.
Being that I was unarmed, I had to go. Where we went I can not tell because I was blind folded, eventually hog tide and thrown into a truck... (I swear this is true and its a testament to a truism that was expressed by a writer I knew who swore that, real life was far more interesting than fiction. This is what he told me: stick to what you know. Which is nothing... as far as I know. I told him that, if this were true, we wouldnt need Hollywood and Id have nothing to write about. As it turns out, he was right.)
I know I have yet to tell you about the abduction but itll have to wait. Ive recently received a string of very sad news and my heart if very broken. There is a deep sadness that has seeped into my skin and if I dont find a cure I fear the worst and that in the end it may be for the best. That I should turn my wrist into a faucet and drip the sadness away will have to wait. My lips are dry from praying that something beautiful will appear to leaven this heavy life and end all this suffering.