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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Fiction

In The City

Donnie watched her from his peephole whenever he heard the hall door open, her elongated ghost, her skin dry of sweat from the stage, the smell of money around her hips, or he’d imagined. Asia, or whatever her real name was. A hot piece of Portland ass. Young, 22, tattooed neck to feet, perfect little tits bouncing up the hall at three in the morning. Donnie would watch her open her door: her little bubbly ass and tight waist, what he could do to her if she had an interest in an ex-punk 46 year-old with a gut and a life of shame. All the aggression and strength of his past, and he ended up in that building, a place for the young or the very old. The scene was long dead, the city was weak now: skinny hipster clones that worshipped the feminazis who fucked them while Donnie jacked off in his apartment.

But Donnie had a good night in front of him. Poison Idea was playing downtown, and he was meeting up with a few of his old friends, or rather a few of the friends from his scene back when punk was really alive, when it had guts. He looked into the mirror. Faded skulls and webs across his elbows, a smooth head by nature, but it worked for him, he’d lost the rest on top at 29. He was heavier today, his anger put some weight on his posture. He was never a leader back in the day, maybe not the last follower, but he didn’t have the charisma to walk in front. Had he been born that solid, he might have a shot at pussy like Asia, he might not be drunk and flying on coke before 7 p.m. Hell, cocaine was even non-hip these days, an old man’s drug. He looked out the peephole when he heard the hallway door close downstairs. He stepped out, closed the door behind him and started down the hall in old punk form: Docs laced high and polished, his denim jacket with the CRASS iron-on, his eyes pinned and hungry, ready to try Asia— ready to try the alpha male bit one more time in the rotting, new millennium, eight years past 2000—all of it was slipping off the edge of life and into the boring pool of androgyny, mid-tempo garbage, a complete lack of question—all so unbearable for him. He walked the hall toward the stairs. The door opened. Donnie eyed him, and his mind ran down the list: expensive ink, frail, bangs in eyes, girl jeans, headphones on, his fucking iPhone playing iTunes while he walked toward Asia’s door. He nodded at Donnie, like he had some kind of connection with him, and he sang along to the music coming up from his phone. Misfits, Plan 9. He nodded at Donnie and sang it:

I’ll do anything to exterminate the whole fuckin’ race…

Donnie didn’t feel it coming, but it happened. It happened out of nowhere, his elbow being slammed into the kid’s face, the kid down on his back without a sound, curled and covering his mouth. Donnie stared down then moved toward the door. He’d actually seen Misfits play live. Not that he could hold it against the kid, yet he did, and something snapped in Donnie’s head. He felt better. He was a man again, a mushroom risen from all the shit in the city. He shoved the door open, jumped down the first set of stairs and laughed, ran to the bottom and stepped on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette and walked to his truck.

The light was red before the Burnside Bridge. Donnie reached over and put a tape in his cassette player. Summer had just hit Portland, his windows were down, and beyond the bridge the city waited, almost like it had when he was a kid, when NW 23rd was a littered street lined with dives and dangerous venues, where all the bands used to play. He thought about it now, a street lined with boutiques and cafés, with corporation, the Rodeo of Portland. He thought about the busted mouth in the hallway and he felt better about the street— he’d created some kind of balance. Jello Biafra came over the speakers:

Ever hear about the guy in New York whose dick fell off in the bath after he shot it full of coke? It’s okay to run out of butter in Zambia, just smear squashed caterpillars on your toast. Waiter, there’s a terrorist in my soup-

A guy screamed at him from a mini-van in the next lane over and a car behind, “THE POWER OF LARD!” He waited for the bald guy in the truck to say something back, surprised by the connection, but Donnie just yelled out the side of his mouth, “Fuuuck youuuu!” then gunned it through the red light, to let the other guy see how alive he was, how rare. The guy in the mini-van glanced up Burnside at the back of the white truck, looked on in disgust and made the left, over to his girl’s place. He walked in and she kissed him, “Hi, baby. Congratulations on the review in the Mercury. They really loved your book.”

“Thanks, beautiful,” he handed her the bottle of red and kissed her back, “good to see your face.” The fake skinhead on the bridge had tried to fuck up his night with a yell, but that fuck wasn’t in her place with her. He opened the wine and looked out over the water from her kitchen window. Her place was the highest room in the house, and the hottest, but the window AC he’d given her kept it like a penthouse. She wrapped her arms around him and watched the city. She told him Poison Idea was playing downtown if he wanted to go, because she could get them in. Her friend owned the place with her old man. He shrugged and poured the wine, “That’s alright, baby. It’s not the same band as it was, and I’m an enemy of that kind of nostalgia.” She laughed, “What do you mean?”

“Well, not like it’s Slayer playing. Also, I’m not in the mood for that fucking crowd tonight,” his thoughts glanced the bald fuck in the white truck, “anyway, I’d rather walk the city with my favorite gal, maybe get a martini in a lounge on Broadway, what do you think?”

She wrapped her arms around his ribs, “I think I love you.” He peered at the city, “Goddamn right.”

They drank the bottle and walked the bridge into downtown. The water of the Willamette was gorgeous, the night sky, the buildings behind them. They kissed there, held hands and walked into the city. Two young men watched them go into a hotel lounge up the sidewalk. The shorter one took the other’s hand, “See, why can’t we be like that? We’re in Portland now. You’re two thousand miles from home.”

The taller one checked his shoulders, and his boyfriend threw his hand away. He grabbed his hand and bumped him with his shoulder, “I was only joking. And calm yourself. You know I’m not really into PDA, but if you want to hold my hand, I’d rather you held it than bitched about it all night. Meaning that now you’re holding it stop your bitching.”

The shorter one laughed, pulled him against a wall and kissed him deeply. Across the street two old skaters watched. One handed the other a rolled cigarette, a Drum. He shook his head, “Fucking faggots are taking over the whole fucking world.”

Barren shrugged, “Fuck it, better them than the old fucks.”

“If you see it that way,” Greasy said, “it’s all fucked, day in, day out.”

They watched the sidewalk move with the mix of the city. Students, junkies, hipsters, faggots, lawyers, stuck up bitches who wouldn’t respond to their hellos. A blonde caught Greasy’s eye. Long black boots, sexy as the night could become, flawless beneath a perfect moon. He nodded to her, “You look beautiful.” She ignored him. He flicked his smoke over her head. It landed in front of her, she stepped on it and kept walking. Barren laughed. Greasy looked over at him, “Fucking stupid cunts.”

Barren watched her round the corner. A junkie on a BMX caught his eye, with a cop on a mountain bike pedaling for Hell behind him through the side street behind Berbati’s. The junkie looked back at the cop’s face: rigid in pursuit, his arms tense on the grips. The cop was younger than him, all the cops started getting younger than him once he passed 31. He looked back again then stared forward at the embankment that led up over the rail and onto 3rd. He looked at the rail and smiled, “Fuckin’ pig,” he went up the embankment and hopped over the rail, really rubbed the cop’s face in it. The cop got to the top of the rail, picked his bike up and lifted it over, but by that time the dude was gone. The cop made a few laps around the block, but he’d been burned, and it was fair. Elsa sat on the floor and waited. The floor was easier when she was hurting. Why, she had no idea. Maybe because she saw the room from a different angle and it threw off the pressure. She heard the hallway door open and the sound of Dag’s freewheel being pushed up the hall. She sat the table and opened a book. The door was always opened, and Dag pushed his bike in, “You know you were just sitting on the floor.”

“Oh, fuck you. No I wasn’t.”

He kissed her scalp and sat across from her. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, “Where were you?”

“Had to outrun a cop. They got those fuckers thick as flies down there now, on mountain bikes. More than usual.”

She didn’t care. He was there now. And he didn’t care that she would rather run it up than see him alive. They were both fucked without it. He cooked her up and she set the rig out. She thumbed what was left in the baggie, “Are you getting in on it?”

“Don’t worry,” he watched it cook with her, “I just sorted myself out on the way over.” “The cop saw you finishing?”

“Exactly. Didn’t kill the course, but it was really shitty timing on his part.”

She smiled into the spoon. She would probably love Dag even if they were both clean, but she couldn’t love him if one of them were. They’d tried that. One toppled the other, then the other toppled that one. They were connected to fall. Dag had enough for the rest of the week, and what he’d given Elsa would get her by until then, unless a cop popped him and he did another ten days in county, which meant nine days in medical. When that happened, Elsa sold some ass. When Dag was out he was constantly hustling to keep them both covered. He shot her up and they fucked, then walked down the street and watched a plane get ready to land off to the northeast of the bridges.

He stepped off the plane and pulled his fedora low on his brow. It was slow at the airport tonight, but old habits in public died hard. He’d had a good time in the city on set, survived the wrap party, gave a long interview with Playboy about his life as an actor, then blurred back to Portland to spend two weeks with his family, or his mother, really. His father didn’t have much to say to him, never did. A couple of fast whispers as he walked through the baggage claim, a few cell phone shots, and he was in the back of the car. The driver looked in the rearview and smiled, “You know who you look like?”

He stared at the driver and smiled. The driver wanted to make the kid laugh. Hell, the kid was 40, but he was still a kid, he still had his baby face. He was famous for it. He’d seen the kid grow up. He pulled onto the access road, “Saw you on Late Night. You’ve been busy.”

“I’ve been going non-stop. Good to be home, friend. Name?”

The driver laughed, “Like you’ll remember. Lenny.”

“I like Lenny,” Alex said. Brubaker smiled at him. They played the same game every time. Brubaker was older now, a lot older. He’d been a driver for the old man before the old man retired from film. He was the only one in the family anyone could fully trust, including the people in the family. Alex thought about it. His cell rang. He looked at Brubaker, “I have to get this.” Brubaker raised the window between them. Alex put the phone to his ear.

“Hi, baby.”

“That was fast.”

“I told you I had to come here last weekend. I offered to bring you with me-”

“Yeah, as your fucking buddy from the city.”

“Don’t do this to me, Christian. You know what I’m up against.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

Alex rubbed his eyes. Brubaker glanced back. Alex stared off over downtown. He made Brubaker take the same way every time. The Fremont Bridge onto 405.

“You know what it’s about, babe. Please don’t do this. I’m fucking begging you.”

“I know what it’s about. Your parents’ heads are so far up the ass of Jesus and all that bullshit. I can’t hide like this anymore, Alex.”

Alex hung up and texted him that the call was dropped and he’d call him from home. A text came back:

CHICKENSHIT.

Alex watched the city from the bridge. He loved Christian, he burned for him. The world had their suspicions, jokes were made on SNL, Comedy Central Roasts, references to him being gay, but he wouldn’t admit it. The bridge was in the mirror. Brubaker rolled the glass back down:

“You gonna tell ‘em this time, kid?”

Alex squinted at him in the rearview, “Tell them what, Bru?”

Brubaker shook his head, “Gonna leave that elephant in the room again.”

Alex reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette, “Mind your own business.”

“Old car.”

“Bullshit. Let’s go down Burnside.”

They looked at each other in the rearview. Brubaker smiled at him, and Alex sighed, took a long pull and watched two cops cuff and stuff an old punk with a bald head. He looked like he’d been in a brawl. They had him tackled by a white truck. He was screaming at them. One shot pepper spray into his eyes. Alex saw the other cops grinning at him. They bent him into the back of the squad car. Brubaker slammed on the brakes. An old bum looked casually over at the car and kept pushing his cart across. Brubaker hit the gas again. The bum watched the tail lights go up over the bridge and disappear. He got his cart up the sidewalk and looked around Chinatown. The idea of getting off the streets one day had long ago died and sank deep into the earth. He pushed his cart up past the House of Louie, the same broken lives hiding in the alleys, walking up to civilians with their hustles, threats to jump off the Burnside Bridge if they couldn’t eat tonight, the litany of the sickened, the hard life in contrast to the other side of Burnside, one light away from being clean, one light that would only be earned through stroke of luck or felony. He wanted a beer, he wanted a beer so goddamned bad he couldn’t stand it. He pushed the cart up past Magic Gardens, made a left and walked past a man puking. He pushed his cart off to the side around the corner and walked back. The guy was letting it go with force. He put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. He looked like a lawyer, “You alright, brother?”

“Too much fucking tequila.”

The guy smelled the bum and threw up again. When he woke up a few hours later, his head was still bleeding and his wallet was gone. He stood, stumbled into the wall and made his way toward Burnside looking for help.

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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Fiction
In The City
Donnie watched her from his peephole whenever he heard the hall door open, her elongated ghost, her skin dry of sweat from the stage, the smell of money around her hips, or he’d imagined. Asia, or whatever her real name was. A hot piece of Portland ass. Young, 22, tattooed neck to feet, perfect little tits bouncing up the hall at three in the morning. Donnie would watch her open her door: her little bubbly ass and tight waist, what he could do to her if she had an interest in an ex-punk 46 year-old with a gut and a life of shame. All the aggression and strength of his past, and he ended up in that building, a place for the young or the very old. The scene was long dead, the city was weak now: skinny hipster clones that worshipped the feminazis who fucked them while Donnie jacked off in his apartment.

But Donnie had a good night in front of him. Poison Idea was playing downtown, and he was meeting up with a few of his old friends, or rather a few of the friends from his scene back when punk was really alive, when it had guts. He looked into the mirror. Faded skulls and webs across his elbows, a smooth head by nature, but it worked for him, he’d lost the rest on top at 29. He was heavier today, his anger put some weight on his posture. He was never a leader back in the day, maybe not the last follower, but he didn’t have the charisma to walk in front. Had he been born that solid, he might have a shot at pussy like Asia, he might not be drunk and flying on coke before 7 p.m. Hell, cocaine was even non-hip these days, an old man’s drug. He looked out the peephole when he heard the hallway door close downstairs. He stepped out, closed the door behind him and started down the hall in old punk form: Docs laced high and polished, his denim jacket with the CRASS iron-on, his eyes pinned and hungry, ready to try Asia— ready to try the alpha male bit one more time in the rotting, new millennium, eight years past 2000—all of it was slipping off the edge of life and into the boring pool of androgyny, mid-tempo garbage, a complete lack of question—all so unbearable for him. He walked the hall toward the stairs. The door opened. Donnie eyed him, and his mind ran down the list: expensive ink, frail, bangs in eyes, girl jeans, headphones on, his fucking iPhone playing iTunes while he walked toward Asia’s door. He nodded at Donnie, like he had some kind of connection with him, and he sang along to the music coming up from his phone. Misfits, Plan 9. He nodded at Donnie and sang it:
I’ll do anything to exterminate the whole fuckin’ race…
Donnie didn’t feel it coming, but it happened. It happened out of nowhere, his elbow being slammed into the kid’s face, the kid down on his back without a sound, curled and covering his mouth. Donnie stared down then moved toward the door. He’d actually seen Misfits play live. Not that he could hold it against the kid, yet he did, and something snapped in Donnie’s head. He felt better. He was a man again, a mushroom risen from all the shit in the city. He shoved the door open, jumped down the first set of stairs and laughed, ran to the bottom and stepped on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette and walked to his truck.

The light was red before the Burnside Bridge. Donnie reached over and put a tape in his cassette player. Summer had just hit Portland, his windows were down, and beyond the bridge the city waited, almost like it had when he was a kid, when NW 23rd was a littered street lined with dives and dangerous venues, where all the bands used to play. He thought about it now, a street lined with boutiques and cafés, with corporation, the Rodeo of Portland. He thought about the busted mouth in the hallway and he felt better about the street— he’d created some kind of balance. Jello Biafra came over the speakers:
Ever hear about the guy in New York whose dick fell off in the bath after he shot it full of coke? It’s okay to run out of butter in Zambia, just smear squashed caterpillars on your toast. Waiter, there’s a terrorist in my soup-
A guy screamed at him from a mini-van in the next lane over and a car behind, “THE POWER OF LARD!” He waited for the bald guy in the truck to say something back, surprised by the connection, but Donnie just yelled out the side of his mouth, “Fuuuck youuuu!” then gunned it through the red light, to let the other guy see how alive he was, how rare. The guy in the mini-van glanced up Burnside at the back of the white truck, looked on in disgust and made the left, over to his girl’s place. He walked in and she kissed him, “Hi, baby. Congratulations on the review in the Mercury. They really loved your book.”
“Thanks, beautiful,” he handed her the bottle of red and kissed her back, “good to see your face.” The fake skinhead on the bridge had tried to fuck up his night with a yell, but that fuck wasn’t in her place with her. He opened the wine and looked out over the water from her kitchen window. Her place was the highest room in the house, and the hottest, but the window AC he’d given her kept it like a penthouse. She wrapped her arms around him and watched the city. She told him Poison Idea was playing downtown if he wanted to go, because she could get them in. Her friend owned the place with her old man. He shrugged and poured the wine, “That’s alright, baby. It’s not the same band as it was, and I’m an enemy of that kind of nostalgia.” She laughed, “What do you mean?”
“Well, not like it’s Slayer playing. Also, I’m not in the mood for that fucking crowd tonight,” his thoughts glanced the bald fuck in the white truck, “anyway, I’d rather walk the city with my favorite gal, maybe get a martini in a lounge on Broadway, what do you think?”
She wrapped her arms around his ribs, “I think I love you.” He peered at the city, “Goddamn right.”

They drank the bottle and walked the bridge into downtown. The water of the Willamette was gorgeous, the night sky, the buildings behind them. They kissed there, held hands and walked into the city. Two young men watched them go into a hotel lounge up the sidewalk. The shorter one took the other’s hand, “See, why can’t we be like that? We’re in Portland now. You’re two thousand miles from home.”
The taller one checked his shoulders, and his boyfriend threw his hand away. He grabbed his hand and bumped him with his shoulder, “I was only joking. And calm yourself. You know I’m not really into PDA, but if you want to hold my hand, I’d rather you held it than bitched about it all night. Meaning that now you’re holding it stop your bitching.”
The shorter one laughed, pulled him against a wall and kissed him deeply. Across the street two old skaters watched. One handed the other a rolled cigarette, a Drum. He shook his head, “Fucking faggots are taking over the whole fucking world.”
Barren shrugged, “Fuck it, better them than the old fucks.”
“If you see it that way,” Greasy said, “it’s all fucked, day in, day out.”
They watched the sidewalk move with the mix of the city. Students, junkies, hipsters, faggots, lawyers, stuck up bitches who wouldn’t respond to their hellos. A blonde caught Greasy’s eye. Long black boots, sexy as the night could become, flawless beneath a perfect moon. He nodded to her, “You look beautiful.” She ignored him. He flicked his smoke over her head. It landed in front of her, she stepped on it and kept walking. Barren laughed. Greasy looked over at him, “Fucking stupid cunts.”
Barren watched her round the corner. A junkie on a BMX caught his eye, with a cop on a mountain bike pedaling for Hell behind him through the side street behind Berbati’s. The junkie looked back at the cop’s face: rigid in pursuit, his arms tense on the grips. The cop was younger than him, all the cops started getting younger than him once he passed 31. He looked back again then stared forward at the embankment that led up over the rail and onto 3rd. He looked at the rail and smiled, “Fuckin’ pig,” he went up the embankment and hopped over the rail, really rubbed the cop’s face in it. The cop got to the top of the rail, picked his bike up and lifted it over, but by that time the dude was gone. The cop made a few laps around the block, but he’d been burned, and it was fair. Elsa sat on the floor and waited. The floor was easier when she was hurting. Why, she had no idea. Maybe because she saw the room from a different angle and it threw off the pressure. She heard the hallway door open and the sound of Dag’s freewheel being pushed up the hall. She sat the table and opened a book. The door was always opened, and Dag pushed his bike in, “You know you were just sitting on the floor.”
“Oh, fuck you. No I wasn’t.”
He kissed her scalp and sat across from her. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, “Where were you?”
“Had to outrun a cop. They got those fuckers thick as flies down there now, on mountain bikes. More than usual.”
She didn’t care. He was there now. And he didn’t care that she would rather run it up than see him alive. They were both fucked without it. He cooked her up and she set the rig out. She thumbed what was left in the baggie, “Are you getting in on it?”
“Don’t worry,” he watched it cook with her, “I just sorted myself out on the way over.” “The cop saw you finishing?”
“Exactly. Didn’t kill the course, but it was really shitty timing on his part.”
She smiled into the spoon. She would probably love Dag even if they were both clean, but she couldn’t love him if one of them were. They’d tried that. One toppled the other, then the other toppled that one. They were connected to fall. Dag had enough for the rest of the week, and what he’d given Elsa would get her by until then, unless a cop popped him and he did another ten days in county, which meant nine days in medical. When that happened, Elsa sold some ass. When Dag was out he was constantly hustling to keep them both covered. He shot her up and they fucked, then walked down the street and watched a plane get ready to land off to the northeast of the bridges.

He stepped off the plane and pulled his fedora low on his brow. It was slow at the airport tonight, but old habits in public died hard. He’d had a good time in the city on set, survived the wrap party, gave a long interview with Playboy about his life as an actor, then blurred back to Portland to spend two weeks with his family, or his mother, really. His father didn’t have much to say to him, never did. A couple of fast whispers as he walked through the baggage claim, a few cell phone shots, and he was in the back of the car. The driver looked in the rearview and smiled, “You know who you look like?”
He stared at the driver and smiled. The driver wanted to make the kid laugh. Hell, the kid was 40, but he was still a kid, he still had his baby face. He was famous for it. He’d seen the kid grow up. He pulled onto the access road, “Saw you on Late Night. You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been going non-stop. Good to be home, friend. Name?”
The driver laughed, “Like you’ll remember. Lenny.”
“I like Lenny,” Alex said. Brubaker smiled at him. They played the same game every time. Brubaker was older now, a lot older. He’d been a driver for the old man before the old man retired from film. He was the only one in the family anyone could fully trust, including the people in the family. Alex thought about it. His cell rang. He looked at Brubaker, “I have to get this.” Brubaker raised the window between them. Alex put the phone to his ear.
“Hi, baby.”
“That was fast.”
“I told you I had to come here last weekend. I offered to bring you with me-”
“Yeah, as your fucking buddy from the city.”
“Don’t do this to me, Christian. You know what I’m up against.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
Alex rubbed his eyes. Brubaker glanced back. Alex stared off over downtown. He made Brubaker take the same way every time. The Fremont Bridge onto 405.
“You know what it’s about, babe. Please don’t do this. I’m fucking begging you.”
“I know what it’s about. Your parents’ heads are so far up the ass of Jesus and all that bullshit. I can’t hide like this anymore, Alex.”
Alex hung up and texted him that the call was dropped and he’d call him from home. A text came back:
CHICKENSHIT.
Alex watched the city from the bridge. He loved Christian, he burned for him. The world had their suspicions, jokes were made on SNL, Comedy Central Roasts, references to him being gay, but he wouldn’t admit it. The bridge was in the mirror. Brubaker rolled the glass back down:
“You gonna tell ‘em this time, kid?”
Alex squinted at him in the rearview, “Tell them what, Bru?”
Brubaker shook his head, “Gonna leave that elephant in the room again.”
Alex reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette, “Mind your own business.”
“Old car.”
“Bullshit. Let’s go down Burnside.”
They looked at each other in the rearview. Brubaker smiled at him, and Alex sighed, took a long pull and watched two cops cuff and stuff an old punk with a bald head. He looked like he’d been in a brawl. They had him tackled by a white truck. He was screaming at them. One shot pepper spray into his eyes. Alex saw the other cops grinning at him. They bent him into the back of the squad car. Brubaker slammed on the brakes. An old bum looked casually over at the car and kept pushing his cart across. Brubaker hit the gas again. The bum watched the tail lights go up over the bridge and disappear. He got his cart up the sidewalk and looked around Chinatown. The idea of getting off the streets one day had long ago died and sank deep into the earth. He pushed his cart up past the House of Louie, the same broken lives hiding in the alleys, walking up to civilians with their hustles, threats to jump off the Burnside Bridge if they couldn’t eat tonight, the litany of the sickened, the hard life in contrast to the other side of Burnside, one light away from being clean, one light that would only be earned through stroke of luck or felony. He wanted a beer, he wanted a beer so goddamned bad he couldn’t stand it. He pushed the cart up past Magic Gardens, made a left and walked past a man puking. He pushed his cart off to the side around the corner and walked back. The guy was letting it go with force. He put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. He looked like a lawyer, “You alright, brother?”
“Too much fucking tequila.”
The guy smelled the bum and threw up again. When he woke up a few hours later, his head was still bleeding and his wallet was gone. He stood, stumbled into the wall and made his way toward Burnside looking for help.
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The constant weight

Desert. Pint. 11:13 p.m.

right now in Barcelona

I'd be doing the same shit

or in Rome

or in Buckeye

the wait transcends

space and time and

ocean

but nobody does it

like they do it in

in the desert

sitting here outside of

it all

outside of the writing

the next book

the next hustle

all the next bullshit

sipping a Kilt Lifter

bonus lime wedges

from the belly shirt

and ass behind the bar

while outside the

moon burns white

above the mountains

drinking to forget

what I haven't done

or will never do

all the precious normality

I admire and despise

the constant condition

the constant weight

and lightness

the constant ghost

the hidden laughing bruise

the sick and tired prostration

before a night slowly wrapping

around us

a lotus dream before

the ripping grip

sitting here at the bar

frontal lobe toggled

head change coming

the tapping in

mystery reopens

as the night moves

across the desert

winding and watching

the dirt and rock

and the grace of

moonlight

burning white

and shining

down

on all of this.

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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The constant weight
Desert. Pint. 11:13 p.m.
right now in Barcelona
I'd be doing the same shit
or in Rome
or in Buckeye
the wait transcends
space and time and
ocean
but nobody does it
like they do it in
in the desert
sitting here outside of
it all
outside of the writing
the next book
the next hustle
all the next bullshit
sipping a Kilt Lifter
bonus lime wedges
from the belly shirt
and ass behind the bar
while outside the
moon burns white
above the mountains
drinking to forget
what I haven't done
or will never do
all the precious normality
I admire and despise
the constant condition
the constant weight
and lightness
the constant ghost
the hidden laughing bruise
the sick and tired prostration
before a night slowly wrapping
around us
a lotus dream before
the ripping grip
sitting here at the bar
frontal lobe toggled
head change coming
the tapping in
mystery reopens
as the night moves
across the desert
winding and watching
the dirt and rock
and the grace of
moonlight
burning white
and shining
down
on all of this.
17
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Soulmutt

Nothing’s been the same since you

died

no matter how I slice it

no matter how I see it

no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it

You were in my blood and you will stay in my

blood

until my blood stops

and dries

your love and roots and every

bit of fur haunt me

no matter where I run

no matter which continent

or bar or highway

your little ghost

sits, sleeps, rides shotgun

your eyes the faintest of blue

looking wise in the sunshine

across the parks and ponds and lakes

and coasts

your little heart beating big enough

for my own

your belly against my palm

in all those shitty rooms

in shitty towns

or in the beds of

shitty women

you always knew I had

guts when nobody else

did

and you always knew I’d

pull us up and out of anywhere

we despised

closer to me than any human

will get

deeper under my skin than

my own bones

so far into my heart you’re still

the center

and though

your daddy was in jail

when you had to die

and though I don’t believe

in angels or anything beyond

carbon

you came to see me the first night

you were gone

and I held you on the slab in

the cell and fell asleep with my

hand on your stomach one last time

before you went off

to do something greater

than I could ever imagine

I want to take this afternoon

to tell you that I love you more than

anything

and no sacrifice I’ve ever made

to keep you

could hold a candle to how much

I still love you

six years past your

death

and I want to tell you here

that because of you

I know what unconditional love means

and if you were here now

I’d buy you the best of everything

even though you wouldn’t have

any idea what that means

but your little brother is almost

eleven now,

and he’s happy

and I still talk about you

and his tail still wags at the mention

of your name

and there’s even a little

girl in the mix now

she looks something like you

which is why she’s here

and while it’s true she doesn’t have your

shrewd, moody genius

I know you’d be proud that

I gave her a home

and on days like this

when the whiskey’s half gone

and I’m lost out on the road

while I wait for things to come through

while I cross my fingers and hope

things start to make sense

while I wait for the spines and brains around

me to grow

while tricky assholes have

siphoned my money

while I either do or do not

wait for eminent failure

or success

the Sun sits high and warm

and shines a beautiful

orange across the desert

while I sit in a hotel and

drink whiskey

to disappear back into

the days when you were

here

when I was alive

and we watched each other

swim

anywhere we chose

to swim

and while I’m sitting here

drunk

and staring into

darkness

I want to take this

moment

to tell you

I still love you.

32
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Soulmutt
Nothing’s been the same since you
died
no matter how I slice it
no matter how I see it
no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it
You were in my blood and you will stay in my
blood
until my blood stops
and dries
your love and roots and every
bit of fur haunt me
no matter where I run
no matter which continent
or bar or highway
your little ghost
sits, sleeps, rides shotgun
your eyes the faintest of blue
looking wise in the sunshine
across the parks and ponds and lakes
and coasts
your little heart beating big enough
for my own
your belly against my palm
in all those shitty rooms
in shitty towns
or in the beds of
shitty women
you always knew I had
guts when nobody else
did
and you always knew I’d
pull us up and out of anywhere
we despised
closer to me than any human
will get
deeper under my skin than
my own bones
so far into my heart you’re still
the center
and though
your daddy was in jail
when you had to die
and though I don’t believe
in angels or anything beyond
carbon
you came to see me the first night
you were gone
and I held you on the slab in
the cell and fell asleep with my
hand on your stomach one last time
before you went off
to do something greater
than I could ever imagine
I want to take this afternoon
to tell you that I love you more than
anything
and no sacrifice I’ve ever made
to keep you
could hold a candle to how much
I still love you
six years past your
death
and I want to tell you here
that because of you
I know what unconditional love means
and if you were here now
I’d buy you the best of everything
even though you wouldn’t have
any idea what that means
but your little brother is almost
eleven now,
and he’s happy
and I still talk about you
and his tail still wags at the mention
of your name
and there’s even a little
girl in the mix now
she looks something like you
which is why she’s here
and while it’s true she doesn’t have your
shrewd, moody genius
I know you’d be proud that
I gave her a home
and on days like this
when the whiskey’s half gone
and I’m lost out on the road
while I wait for things to come through
while I cross my fingers and hope
things start to make sense
while I wait for the spines and brains around
me to grow
while tricky assholes have
siphoned my money
while I either do or do not
wait for eminent failure
or success
the Sun sits high and warm
and shines a beautiful
orange across the desert
while I sit in a hotel and
drink whiskey
to disappear back into
the days when you were
here
when I was alive
and we watched each other
swim
anywhere we chose
to swim
and while I’m sitting here
drunk
and staring into
darkness
I want to take this
moment
to tell you
I still love you.
32
11
28
Juice
427 reads
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Copulation, debt, Nabokov, and their bullshit.

Pedaling Old Town

lean back and pull up on the bars

five stair drop

-easy-

let the coffee course

and your beard go white

fuck the rules of them

their candy ass bullshit

if you contrast your blood with

their copulation and debt

you will only suffer

like they do

the only division being

your awareness

and while life

is not a contrast

keep an eye away

from those who

don't tread

deep water

but right now

fuck them

pedal, sweat

and think of

Nabokov, botany

roll past the

young ass and

flowers and find that

perfect spot

red brick bar outside

blasting Ozzy

lean the bike

and order the

Jack Coke

talk to your waiter

about Rome

about catacombs

or Chicago

your life in a hotel room

while you drive the States,

pause for a week

to

live again.

Back out here

in the wind

ignore writers who

bitch about age

it's all bullshit

their bullshit

keep your body lean

keep drinking

keep the fire in

your eyes

and the sex

sexy

the rest is there

only to pull you

down

by

their weak

grip.

18
6
19
Juice
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Copulation, debt, Nabokov, and their bullshit.
Pedaling Old Town
lean back and pull up on the bars
five stair drop
-easy-
let the coffee course
and your beard go white
fuck the rules of them
their candy ass bullshit
if you contrast your blood with
their copulation and debt
you will only suffer
like they do
the only division being
your awareness
and while life
is not a contrast
keep an eye away
from those who
don't tread
deep water
but right now
fuck them
pedal, sweat
and think of
Nabokov, botany
roll past the
young ass and
flowers and find that
perfect spot
red brick bar outside
blasting Ozzy
lean the bike
and order the
Jack Coke
talk to your waiter
about Rome
about catacombs
or Chicago
your life in a hotel room
while you drive the States,
pause for a week
to
live again.
Back out here
in the wind
ignore writers who
bitch about age
it's all bullshit
their bullshit
keep your body lean
keep drinking
keep the fire in
your eyes
and the sex
sexy
the rest is there
only to pull you
down
by
their weak
grip.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #lustforlife  #culture 
18
6
19
Juice
362 reads
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Wednesday night triple.

Letʼs not fucking reduce it to play it safe

the drink isnʼt the conduit or reason

or a fucking weak road to write the truth or

an excuse

to hate without disclaiming anything

burn the reasons why not

burn the fucking effigies of

centuries-long bullshit

tricks of the old page

manipulation of the weak and trusting

adulterers and thieves and con-men

working under the guise of loving

Christ,

of bullshit virtues

repeated forgiveness of sin

fuck each and every one of these

deficients

the still and nowhere dark of death

waits for them like everyone else

the earth will harvest them

as fast as the dead before them

and behind them is

the damage left for theirs

through which to sift and work through

while honest men bleed

or give until they bleed and

and some of them need to

women misused and abused

and some of them need to be

the damage of all this infects the children

mass-connected and sprawled out

informed and dead and lost on risk

soft in the gut

soft in the instinct

all our lives 100 years left

at best

pigs rooting in greed

fat ass fucks

take at the trough

steal with smiles

our children raped

with ideals of

kneeling pigs

with one eye

on the door

the lack of grace and the forgotten

feel of cold sun at dawn

the first kiss

the first caress

the first sounds

of the water breaking shore

or the metallic taste of

stardust beneath the

panhandles of road

and dirt

extinction of travel,

of the hunt

the love of us relegated to

acceptance of anything

that stays out of the way

regardless of its size or stupid

recklessness

while outside the moon bears down

upon a tired old mother

polluted and disfigured

her oceans diseased

with the dream of pigs

but beyond this filth

the stars still shine

upon the artists

the blood from broken

calluses

the heat of

animal sex

the riffs of loud music

the clay of sweaty smocks

the stretching of new canvases

the words that run across the page

you know like I know

the truth

is ours

still

and the

true world

is here still

for us to dine

upon the

flesh

of

pigs.

20
7
9
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Wednesday night triple.
Letʼs not fucking reduce it to play it safe
the drink isnʼt the conduit or reason
or a fucking weak road to write the truth or
an excuse
to hate without disclaiming anything
burn the reasons why not
burn the fucking effigies of
centuries-long bullshit
tricks of the old page
manipulation of the weak and trusting
adulterers and thieves and con-men
working under the guise of loving
Christ,
of bullshit virtues
repeated forgiveness of sin
fuck each and every one of these
deficients
the still and nowhere dark of death
waits for them like everyone else
the earth will harvest them
as fast as the dead before them
and behind them is
the damage left for theirs
through which to sift and work through
while honest men bleed
or give until they bleed and
and some of them need to
women misused and abused
and some of them need to be
the damage of all this infects the children
mass-connected and sprawled out
informed and dead and lost on risk
soft in the gut
soft in the instinct
all our lives 100 years left
at best
pigs rooting in greed
fat ass fucks
take at the trough
steal with smiles
our children raped
with ideals of
kneeling pigs
with one eye
on the door
the lack of grace and the forgotten
feel of cold sun at dawn
the first kiss
the first caress
the first sounds
of the water breaking shore
or the metallic taste of
stardust beneath the
panhandles of road
and dirt
extinction of travel,
of the hunt
the love of us relegated to
acceptance of anything
that stays out of the way
regardless of its size or stupid
recklessness
while outside the moon bears down
upon a tired old mother
polluted and disfigured
her oceans diseased
with the dream of pigs
but beyond this filth
the stars still shine
upon the artists
the blood from broken
calluses
the heat of
animal sex
the riffs of loud music
the clay of sweaty smocks
the stretching of new canvases
the words that run across the page
you know like I know
the truth
is ours
still
and the
true world
is here still
for us to dine
upon the
flesh
of
pigs.
#poetry  #culture 
20
7
9
Juice
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...

At the table writing to War Pigs
Saturday, summer hanging on

tooth and nail

shot of Blanton’s to drain the

remains: jockey riding cork and riff and the

fucking weight of these vocals

the distinctiveness

the acid blood encased in metal

giants ahead of their time

sitting here thinking about

the music that raised me

from classic country

to punk

to thrash

to Coltrane

to Jane’s

to Slayer, Simone, Buckley

Don Williams

and along the entire thread that spirals

umbilical

from

the head to the keys

as it was before any type of screen

and like it is now, across the

static of technology

remaining still is the grip of

centuries

the ink well of Dos

and the parchment of

Schopenhauer

the speed of a laptop

or touch screen

all of it is a

vessel of speed stopping time

with words to music

all the greats who’ve gone before

to pave inroads

for such broken thoughts

of youth

that ran into cities of age

and somehow

boulevards of luck

after alleys of shit and sweat

and gamble

rolled over and exposed

the fields lush green

the smell of published books

the scars less visible across

the knuckles

the bullshit edge of

labor fields at dawn

or the fucking faces in the factories

and warehouses

traded off to anecdotes,

to stories over

beers in Europe

or Texas

or from the table

while Black Sabbath

reminds me how bad

and good today exactly is

the metal pours out

from the speakers

across the table

down my arms

onto the

broken roads

and boulevards

into the cities

moving

toward

you.

24
4
17
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...
At the table writing to War Pigs
Saturday, summer hanging on
tooth and nail
shot of Blanton’s to drain the
remains: jockey riding cork and riff and the
fucking weight of these vocals
the distinctiveness
the acid blood encased in metal
giants ahead of their time
sitting here thinking about
the music that raised me
from classic country
to punk
to thrash
to Coltrane
to Jane’s
to Slayer, Simone, Buckley
Don Williams
and along the entire thread that spirals
umbilical
from
the head to the keys
as it was before any type of screen
and like it is now, across the
static of technology
remaining still is the grip of
centuries
the ink well of Dos
and the parchment of
Schopenhauer
the speed of a laptop
or touch screen
all of it is a
vessel of speed stopping time
with words to music
all the greats who’ve gone before
to pave inroads
for such broken thoughts
of youth
that ran into cities of age
and somehow
boulevards of luck
after alleys of shit and sweat
and gamble
rolled over and exposed
the fields lush green
the smell of published books
the scars less visible across
the knuckles
the bullshit edge of
labor fields at dawn
or the fucking faces in the factories
and warehouses
traded off to anecdotes,
to stories over
beers in Europe
or Texas
or from the table
while Black Sabbath
reminds me how bad
and good today exactly is
the metal pours out
from the speakers
across the table
down my arms
onto the
broken roads
and boulevards
into the cities
moving
toward
you.
#poetry  #prose  #culture  #blacksabbath 
24
4
17
Juice
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Brother In The Wind

Afternoon at the table

out there the clouds sit grey

and the homeless stay lean

the end of summer

the end of high noon

the end of heat and sweat

and chlorine nose

the short autumn closes in

on the mountain

white noise TV

brain rotting in the fucking

vacuum of this town

keep the heart heavy, though

keep the heart heavy and

your next move close

any town or or city or place

that constantly reminds you

of your own death is a fucking

bad place to be

sitting here thinking about

the water, the coasts, even

the lesser weight of other

deserts

thinking about old love

gone or moved on

thinking about Italy

thinking about the blood orange moon

over the fields of South Dakota

somewhere on a road there

out in that space

lost but freed from all the bullshit

all the stress

all the subterfuge and sacrifice and

sallow skin from fallow thoughts

from fear

we put ourselves where we do

kill the TV

blast High on Fire and tap shuffle

catch up on what you know

the metal thatʼs missing

let it bleed into Miles Davis

kill the tech and set the needle

carefully onto

Seven Steps To Heaven

pour the shot

itʼs just a Wednesday

itʼs just a page thatʼs despised

you over a long break

but they're everything

refracted and reflected

the sadness of a white moon

saxophone

the heart of a hungry cat

with nowhere and nobody

while the day becomes the page

like it used to be

like itʼs supposed to be

all the lost wind of you

all the lost feeling

the numbness that seeps in

being pushed back

the worries for nothing

let the record turn and

ignore the inner voices

pitted against you

let them wait

the blood inside you

only wants to survive

caustically or creatively

and it will end in either.

and to forget the words

that save you will

end you that way

to forget the blood orange

moon you've fought to

protect and preserve

to let the grey days

and sentences slip through

the cracks of false busyness

through tiny screens

and mass disconnection

will end you that way

all the disgraces that quietly

build upon the heart

the mind

swimming in your blood

reaching for shores

lost and forgotten

under a sun that burns

away the film of such

disgusting things

the long and short works

of yours

the long and short

nights and days

without escape or purpose

destroy this

while out there the clouds

sit grey

and the homeless

stay lean

you know where you belong

where itʼs always been

waiting for you

afternoon at the table

flip the album

and set it down on

Side 2

let the garbage wait

for someone else

in all the grey areas

in here you

have mountains

to burn.

18
5
14
Juice
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Brother In The Wind
Afternoon at the table
out there the clouds sit grey
and the homeless stay lean
the end of summer
the end of high noon
the end of heat and sweat
and chlorine nose
the short autumn closes in
on the mountain
white noise TV
brain rotting in the fucking
vacuum of this town
keep the heart heavy, though
keep the heart heavy and
your next move close
any town or or city or place
that constantly reminds you
of your own death is a fucking
bad place to be
sitting here thinking about
the water, the coasts, even
the lesser weight of other
deserts
thinking about old love
gone or moved on
thinking about Italy
thinking about the blood orange moon
over the fields of South Dakota
somewhere on a road there
out in that space
lost but freed from all the bullshit
all the stress
all the subterfuge and sacrifice and
sallow skin from fallow thoughts
from fear
we put ourselves where we do
kill the TV
blast High on Fire and tap shuffle
catch up on what you know
the metal thatʼs missing
let it bleed into Miles Davis
kill the tech and set the needle
carefully onto
Seven Steps To Heaven
pour the shot
itʼs just a Wednesday
itʼs just a page thatʼs despised
you over a long break
but they're everything
refracted and reflected
the sadness of a white moon
saxophone
the heart of a hungry cat
with nowhere and nobody
while the day becomes the page
like it used to be
like itʼs supposed to be
all the lost wind of you
all the lost feeling
the numbness that seeps in
being pushed back
the worries for nothing
let the record turn and
ignore the inner voices
pitted against you
let them wait
the blood inside you
only wants to survive
caustically or creatively
and it will end in either.
and to forget the words
that save you will
end you that way
to forget the blood orange
moon you've fought to
protect and preserve
to let the grey days
and sentences slip through
the cracks of false busyness
through tiny screens
and mass disconnection
will end you that way
all the disgraces that quietly
build upon the heart
the mind
swimming in your blood
reaching for shores
lost and forgotten
under a sun that burns
away the film of such
disgusting things
the long and short works
of yours
the long and short
nights and days
without escape or purpose
destroy this
while out there the clouds
sit grey
and the homeless
stay lean
you know where you belong
where itʼs always been
waiting for you
afternoon at the table
flip the album
and set it down on
Side 2
let the garbage wait
for someone else
in all the grey areas
in here you
have mountains
to burn.
#poetry  #lustforlife  #culture  #milesdavis  #highonfire  #blessedblackwings 
18
5
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Mid-life Chrysler

Already faded

four nights of destruction

brain cells torn back

from the hours and faces

all the fucking plastic bullshit

burns from ash to air

sitting here waiting

skull on fire

bones in flames

blood racing for more damage

while the whiskey barely

scratches the surface

the mid-life Chrysler

waiting in the driveway

the fucking smell of burnt dirt

and lack of love

lack of grace

all of it waits

in the shit-high desert

but also there

my angel dogs wait

for their dad

them without the need

to see the bay and salt water

the barely legal pussy

bouncing by the rearview

showing everything

them home asleep on my bed

without the need for travel

or Europe or American coasts

or anything under their belts except

a warm, familiar touch

a kiss below their eyes

a walk around the block

unaware of the deficiencies

of today

I sit here drunk

and faded

texting onto

an app I thought of

regardless

of any and all bullshit

this baby came from me

and while I'm not needing

or wanting response or praise

I want to say that it was supposed

to be so much more

and it just might get there

solely because of you

dear writers

and only because of you

and before my ass gets

lifted and propelled

36 thousand feet skyward

across three hours down

to the house

in case the flight goes

down in flames

I want to let you

know that I love

each and every one

of you crazy

motherfuckers

and to thank you

from the depths of

my heart

for being

here

and

tattooing

the arms

of

my

motherless

child.

29
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Mid-life Chrysler
Already faded
four nights of destruction
brain cells torn back
from the hours and faces
all the fucking plastic bullshit
burns from ash to air
sitting here waiting
skull on fire
bones in flames
blood racing for more damage
while the whiskey barely
scratches the surface
the mid-life Chrysler
waiting in the driveway
the fucking smell of burnt dirt
and lack of love
lack of grace
all of it waits
in the shit-high desert
but also there
my angel dogs wait
for their dad
them without the need
to see the bay and salt water
the barely legal pussy
bouncing by the rearview
showing everything
them home asleep on my bed
without the need for travel
or Europe or American coasts
or anything under their belts except
a warm, familiar touch
a kiss below their eyes
a walk around the block
unaware of the deficiencies
of today
I sit here drunk
and faded
texting onto
an app I thought of
regardless
of any and all bullshit
this baby came from me
and while I'm not needing
or wanting response or praise
I want to say that it was supposed
to be so much more
and it just might get there
solely because of you
dear writers
and only because of you
and before my ass gets
lifted and propelled
36 thousand feet skyward
across three hours down
to the house
in case the flight goes
down in flames
I want to let you
know that I love
each and every one
of you crazy
motherfuckers
and to thank you
from the depths of
my heart
for being
here
and
tattooing
the arms
of
my
motherless
child.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #lustforlife  #culture  #thankyou  #stopatnothing 
29
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Fiction

Am I Evil?

I grabbed the sack from over the counter and watched a guy leave through the door. I barely missed it. I waited around for someone else to walk through. I breathed out and walked toward it. Nothing. I backed up, walked forward, nothing. I walked back by the bathroom, stared off casually, approached the door and tried to sneak up on it. Nothing. The woman behind the counter was watching. I stared off. She walked around the counter and played with the little sensor box at the end of the glass, “Strange, this has never happened here."

I glanced at her hairy mole, dead square on her nose, "This happens to me, always does. This is why I donʼt wear a watch."

She looked at me, "Why canʼt you wear a watch?"

"No, I can wear one, but it stops once I put it on. Iʼm cursed."

"So," she laughed, "if you wouldnʼt have come in here today, the door wouldnʼt have broken?"

"Thatʼs right."

"You're lying."

"Think about it, every time I come in here, I always have to run up on somebody else coming in, or leaving. Maybe you could let me out the back."

"Sure, but hold on."

She waved a cook over. He knelt down beside the door and began working at the sensor. A couple stood behind us, waiting to get out.

"Okay," he nodded, "now try."

I looked at the woman and tried. Nothing. I backed away and told the couple to go ahead. The couple stepped to the door. It slid right open. I followed them out. The door growled at me. Up the sidewalk I threw my hands in my pockets. The food was warm against my side.

"Excuse me."

I let her catch up to me.

"That was crazy," she said, "you really break things like that? I mean, itʼs working fine now."

"Itʼs technology. In my old car, everything was manual. Everything. No electric windows or automatic transmission. No CD player. I had a new car once, for one minute, my ex-girlfriend's. Sheʼd just got it. I sat inside while it was running and everything shut off. She had it towed and they gave her another one, but the same thing happened. She broke up with me the next day. Well, we were on the skids long before that, so…"

"You're lying."

We were at my front door. I took my hat off and wiped my hair back from my face, "Iʼm not. I was born with it. You can imagine the hell I grew up with."

I looked behind me. She had followed me into the house. She saw my typewriter and my desk, scattered pages and a full ashtray.

"You write?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"Everything. Twice a week I help this girl mow and trim yards. But right now I do piece work for a London magazine."

"Piece work?"

"I freelance for them."

"Freelance?"

"Forget it."

I looked in my room. My bike was in there. Her weed was gone and there was a note saying that she came by but I was gone. No shit. I threw the note in the garbage. It bounced off the can and hit the floor. I reached down to pick it up but it jumped up in my hand and I threw it away. It happened to me once in a while. The woman had seen it. She looked up to me and froze:

"El Diablo!"

It dawned on me that she was Mexican. My neighborhood was Mexican, so I hadnʼt paid any mind. Then everything else dawned on me:

"El Diablo- wait. Iʼm not the devil. Itʼs my chemistry. You know how some people can pour acid onto their hands? I saw a guy on this show once, he poured acid on his skin in front of his students and nothing happened to him. In my case, anything electrical or technology based invented after I was born breaks around me. Itʼs just science."

I stared down to her and smiled. She backed toward the door, "No, no no no no. You're the devil. Stay away from me."

She slammed the door and walked back to work. She was crazy. I lit up. I sat down and hit the machine. I wrote a long poem about the bakery woman. I laid on the couch and read through a book I had started to write. I grew bored. I jacked off and took a nap.

After midnight I was laying around in bed. It was still raining. I heard someone knocking. I wrapped myself in my blanket and looked out my window. I didnʼt recognize the car. I opened the door. The bakery woman. She was wearing her bathrobe. I shook my head at her and laughed.

"What are you doing here?"

"You are the devil. I know it."

It was cold outside. I opened the door all the way.

"Alright, have it your way, Iʼm the devil. Come in before you catch something."

She came in. I closed the door and locked it. She followed me back into my room.

I walked into the kitchen and ran the hot water, "I have one pack of hot chocolate left. You want it?"

She hissed from my room, "No hot chocolate with the devil!"

I turned it off and sat on my bed, "Toss the devil his boxers."

She flicked them up at me with her foot. I dropped the blanket and dressed. I threw on my sweater and grabbed a pair of socks and walked to the bathroom, got warm and combed my hair back. I sat on my bed. She hadnʼt moved. She stood in the middle of the room and stared at me. I lit a smoke, "Look, sweetheart, you're starting to give me the creeps. Sit down or something."

"The devil," she said.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, how-"

"NO! Donʼt say that word! You are the most evil! I feel it off you!"

"Listen to me, if I was the devil would I be living here, in this shit hole, working for daily cash and writing for a British magazine? Seriously, get off my ass."

"I'll show you," she said.

I laughed, "Show me."

She reached inside her robe and around her back and pulled out a pistol. I jumped back on the bed:

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down. Baby, you donʼt want to do this."

She screamed and pulled the trigger.

I saw the smoke leave the barrel. I saw the bullet spiraling in front of my face in slow motion. In slow motion, I cocked my head at it while it spun there and hung in front of me. Everything went back to normal speed. I didnʼt know how I did it, but I swiped the bullet from the air and threw it backward at the gun. It went back into the barrel and everything went down in reverse. The smoke went in and the gunshot went in reverse and there was a click and there and there was silence. Instinct came in. The gun broke loose from her hand and flew across the room into mine. I held it on her. She stared at me coldly, "You see, you are the devil."

I looked at the gun. I was sweating. I closed my eyes and the gun was no longer.

"You need to leave," I told her.

She ran out. I jumped up and ran to the mirror. I stripped naked and studied my body. I had a receding hairline and a gut. In the mirror I watched my hair become full and longer, and my stomach tightened to an athleteʼs form. I made my cock long and thick. I held it in my palm and smiled a mean smile. Was I the devil? Could it be that I was the devil? I searched my scalp for the number. Nothing. I searched my right palm for the number. Nothing. I tried to think evil, harmful thoughts against the world. Nothing. How could I be the devil? Then I got it. I was dreaming. A twisted dream. Iʼd had them before and regularly, but this one had them beat by miles. I walked back to my bed and made myself sleep it off.

Morning. Bright out. I thought about the dream and shook my head. Stupid. The Devil, The Lord, Santa Claus and the Great Pumpkin. I felt foolish over having the dream, over the drama of it. The bakery woman and the gun, the bullet. I decided I needed to get out more, go downtown and meet some girls, get a decent job and so forth. I was afraid that I was losing my mind. I felt good that morning, though. I usually woke up coughing. But I felt charged. I even felt virile. I didnʼt even stretch. I leaped out of bed and ran the water in the bathroom sink. I splashed some water on my face and wiped my hair back quickly with my reflection. I turned and opened the cabinet behind me to grab my contact lenses case. I slammed the cabinet door and turned slowly back to the mirror. I jumped out of the bathroom and approached the mirror piece by piece. There was my perfect body, long hair and eyes that could see through walls. I tried to feel fear but I couldn't. I extended my arm and watched the veinwork course smoothly down to my fingers. There was the new cock. I looked into the backyard of the house next door. I put my pants on and walked out back.

I had this neighbor. This tall, sexy, Mexican woman who was married with a little baby. Her husband was a big Mexican. I would sometimes peek through my blinds and masturbate while I watched her in her backyard, her bikini riding up her big brown ass while she bathed in the sun and smoked her long cigarettes, watching her baby sleep on the blanket across from her. She was out in her garden. I watched her out there, on her knees in a long bedshirt, nude underneath, picking those miniature tomatoes and placing them in the front of her shirt, pulled up just high enough to where you could see the front of her thighs and a small, magic tuft of hair. She had never shown interest in me, maybe a few disgusted looks as I smiled and waved to her from my backyard, while I played fetch with my dog, on the many afternoons she was out back, lying in the sun. I walked to the fence line. She looked up at me. I didnʼt see the baby. My guess was the kid was at her mother's, an old Spanish lady who drove a big station wagon. I stared at her. She looked me up and down. I walked over the fence like it was a small step. She had this look to her. She knew and I knew. I stopped in front of her and dropped my pants. She grabbed my cock and stuffed it in her mouth. It was genius. I pulled out and walked around her and dropped to my knees. I flipped her shirt back and drove it in, pounding into that hard flesh with a vengeance, pounding until she bucked and shook with orgasms, which I made last 20 minutes for her. I zipped up. Just for good measure, I gave her another one without even touching her. She fainted.

Back inside, half an hour later. I was watching from my bedroom window. She was doing work about her yard, singing in Spanish. I waved her over and gave it to her one more time.

I quit the lawn job. In the next couple of days I fucked whichever woman I wanted, wherever I felt like it. The corporate bitches riding the elevators downtown were good, as was the teller in the bank and even the older artist looking chick in the bookstore. The coffee shop girls were always fun, and the otherwise stuck up women who worked retail or restaurants or the lingerie stores. I wondered if I was really the devil, or if I had been blessed with a gift. I no longer had a problem with technology. After I had sex with a waitress in the womenʼs bathroom, I decided I was fucked out for the first time in my life.

I needed money. I would walk into banks and the tellers would hand me over envelopes of it. I never had to say anything to them. Iʼd nod and theyʼd smile and hand it over. Cameras were useless against me. Audio was useless against me. I had no fingerprints. I had no government. I moved into my mansion in West Austin, right on the lake. Paid cash. I had no bills, no hassles, no tax bullshit. Well, not after the IRS man came over in a shitty mood to audit and bust me. I showed him his whole family scattered, naked and gutted on my front lawn. Laid out before him was also his own death, his head on a post, his guts around the waist of his lower body, slid down the post from his detached head, his heart stuck in his mouth. He left and never came back, nor did his kind. I never actually hurt anyone, but what I could show them was horrifying.

I learned the full potential of my gift. I had the vision of a hawk, the gift of flight, the gift of invisibility at my choosing. One afternoon I was flying nude around a tall treetop in my back yard, when the lady who does my gardening caught me. She saw me, so I hovered behind a bushy branch and she shook it off and went back to her work. I could never expose myself to the mortals. That would end my fun. Years went by me like nothing. I had not aged. I had never felt better. I went in for a physical once, and the doctor was amazed at the perfection beneath my skin and blood and veins. My lungs were pink, though I loved smoking. My heart and liver were brand new, everyday. But I still did not feel evil. I learned to enter my television and fuck the actresses, the models, even a few anchorwomen. I was a famous writer now, doing readings in different cities and countries and writing at the top of my form. There were talk shows, magazine interviews, my phone ringing off the hook. I had no troubles with the paparazzi. Not after the first time.

I had 38 wives living with me, all sterile. They were between 17 and 23 years old, from all around the globe. I also kept a few older ones around, for when the mood struck me. Sometimes I had them all at once, all of them on all fours, in a big circle by the pool.

But I was not an evil devil. There was the crippled man I passed in the crosswalk downtown. I breathed on him and he straightened and walked normally. It caused an accident, after the woman in her car watched me fix him, but no one believed her, not even after the man I healed backed up her story. There was the blind person to whom I gave sight, on many occasions. The looks on the faces of the now seeing were truly beautiful. Never again was a child going hungry, never a cold person anywhere. I vanquished AIDS and cancer. I cured several problems and took no credit. A lot of hospitals were shut down, but I liked that, too.

My life grew dull with no enemies. I thought of ways to make the mortals resent me, but I didnʼt have the heart or desire. Every woman wanted me, men wanted to be me. I had used the gift to its fullest, the shower rooms at private girls schools, the flights through outer space, sleepovers on the moon, the soothing over of pain, the complete destruction of pain, whenever I heard of something in pain. My dog would never die now. I was never going to die.

I dropped by the bakery one day to see the woman. She told me that she knew I was behind everything but that I was still the devil. I blew onto her face and the mole vanished. Her body became thin and youthful. She screamed:

"GIVE IT BACK!"

I gave it back to her. She walked off.

I was turning the key to my house when I felt a chill. None of my wives were around. I dropped the keys on the mantle and walked around the corner in to my living room. Two men were sitting on my leather couch. I knew who they were. I just didnʼt want to believe it. But they had no other way into the house. The main guy was older, white hair and a white beard. The other was not as old. He wore a smooth-ass suit and wore his long hair casually behind his ears. His beard was just like it was in the paintings. They were completely beautiful. They stared at me. I sat beside the couch in my recliner. I went to light a smoke. No flame. I tried again.

"Not now, Benjamin," said the suit.

I placed the smoke on the table, "Look, you guys, I never asked for this."

The old man shot me a look. His son sat there, his hands folded on his knees. He spoke, "We know about you. There was an accident."

I sat back and stared at the old man, "I canʼt tell you how strange this feels. You two look human."

The old man stared at me, "We're not like them, but we need to talk to you."

His voice sent shockwaves throughout my body. It was shocking. Nothing had shocked me in years.

The son started:

"It began forty years ago, in this time schedule, you were in the hospital in Peoria, St. Francis Hospital, 6:23 p.m., half an hour after you were born. You know about the other one, the dark one, the fallen."

"Satan," I said firmly.

"Well, he sent his breath over the seas to find the chosen one, the one to who was born with his mark, the one to completely change then abolish life here. This has been planned since, well, you wouldnʼt understand. ‘Satan’ -as he is referred to here, does not have the power my father has. He had to physically make contact with the one born with his blight, though be it a powerful, formidable blight. Because of the laws my father made for him, he could not acquire flesh to personally touch the child, so he sent his breath as the deliverer, the way he has to operate from where he is, the way evil really works here. He can be seen to other immortals, but he could never walk amongst the people, thatʼs only a myth, but he can destroy them and see them at all times. Trust us, he knows everybody, this is still his world, and he runs it completely and mercilessly, but my father still owns it."

I looked to the old man. He rubbed his beard and stared at me. I noticed neither one of them had blinked the whole time. Then it occurred to me that I hadnʼt blinked in years. His son continued:

"It was a matter of timing for him. You donʼt remember this, but the nurse rolled your bed closer to the window for your family to see you, and in the process she had to roll the bed with the chosen one aside to get you closer, and at that moment, the travel of centuries and water and land the breath had journeyed hit you instead. And because you were oblivious to it, it made your life awkward. This is why you felt sick. This is why you would disable manʼs technology with your presence. This is why you healed instantly after you were hurt, why you donʼt age, and so on."

"Then why was I aging before that fat chick from the bakery discovered me?"

"You were aging because you were ignorant toward your purpose. The human mind is powerful, Benjamin. Note that once you accepted it, everything stopped dying in you. You had to be a man anyway, and the woman from the bakery was not sent by us."

"Oh, so she was sent by the devil. That makes sense."

"Sure, but she thought she was doing our work, thatʼs a pretty common trick for him to pull off here, and he was hoping youʼd destroy the world. But you donʼt have the vision the other would have had."

"Yeah. What happened to that guy?"

The old man cracked a helpless smile. The son nodded to the floor, "His family moved to Kentucky. He works at Auto Zone."

I broke out laughing. They did not. They wanted to, though.

"Let me get this straight. The Antichrist is selling starters in Kentucky, and I get to rule the earth."

"Yes, but you donʼt rule the earth."

"Wait, you two didnʼt come here to end me, did you?" I looked at the old man, "I mean, I'll change whatever it is thatʼs bugging you."

The son nodded to me, "We are not human. To see us in our natural state would kill you, even with the breath of the fallen you have in you."

"Thanks. I need a smoke, guys. Please."

They let me light up.

"I was always a non-believer before this."

"We know, Ben. But now we have a problem."

"What? The women? I'll cut back."

The old man rubbed his eyes. The son shook his head, "Itʼs not the women. We will never lie to you Ben, you wouldnʼt have made it to Heaven, anyway, but now we need to come to an agreement."

"I have questions first."

"Oh?"

"Please."

He leaned back and sighed, "I'll give you a few."

"Which religion is the right one?"

The old man smiled sadly. His son answered:

"None of them."

"Are all sins really equal?"

"No."

I looked at the old man:

"Have you changed with the times? Because if you havenʼt then everybodyʼs going to Hell."

The old man looked to his son. The son smiled, "Good questions, Benjamin. Heaven has always been for the pure, regardless. That hasnʼt changed. In this world there is no more purity. Religion, like faith, is all ego now, all self."

"So everybody goes down."

"Yes and no." The son glanced his beautiful eyes over my shoulder and continued, "At birth, everybody belongs to my father, no matter what the parents have done, whether the mother took drugs during the pregnancy, whether the life was a product of rape or out of marriage. But it never takes long for the life to become taken in by evil, even if, and this is almost every case, the life isnʼt aware that itʼs evil. Granted, it sounds unfair, but itʼs not, and itʼs the way it will always be. Benjamin, somebody else is here right now."

I turned quickly over my shoulder. I knew it. There he was, sitting at the table behind me: Dressed in black, dark hair combed back shiny, an angular, insanely chiseled face. He shot me the worst stare I have ever seen. I heard the sonʼs voice:

"I donʼt think you need an introduction, Benjamin."

I looked back to the son. I could feel the devilʼs desire to be near the old man. The old man wouldnʼt even look at him. The son told me this was the first time the three of them had been together since the first of time. I walked to my fridge, "This is too much." I pulled a beer from the shelf. I held it up, "Anyone else need a beer?"

The devil put his hand up, "Right here." He caught it. I twisted mine open and sat back down, "So, what, you guys hate me now?"

The son smiled, "No, Benjamin, far from it." He motioned to the devil behind me, "But he hates you."

I waved it off without turning around, "I donʼt care about that."

The devil threw his beer at me. I reached back and caught it behind my head without looking. I set it carefully on the table. Iʼd just bought that table. I tilted my beer at the son, "Alright. How do I stay out of Hell?"

"Well, you've given the world a new beginning, Benjamin, no more disease, no more pain, nice touch."

"Thanks, man."

"But now you need to give it up. Itʼs your gamble."

I swallowed my beer, "Gamble?"

The son sat back, "Listen, Benjamin, to tell you the truth, I never planned on coming back here. I mean, can you blame me?"

"No, but all the believers were planning on it, the evangelists and their con, they bet on it, live off it."

"We have a special Hell planned for them, a very special Hell."

"Good."

"But now my father is taking a second sight on this world. He sees goodness now. He sees that people are truly caring for each other again, caring without any thought of gain for themselves, and for that, heʼs reopened Heaven for the masses."

The room felt lighter. I smelled sulfur.

"Whatʼs that smell?"

The son nodded over my shoulder.

"He left," the son stared at me, "heʼs angry."

"Boo-hoo." I put out my smoke.

"Everything here will be yours, Ben. You will be in Heaven. You can keep the writing job. But you have to give back this gift you think you have, to let the people start on their own from here now, a clean start, to truly show my father that without trouble the world will be good."

"But this means I will die. Eventually."

"Of course. But I may come back again, and if I do, you go straight to Hell, to the inferno, the fiery lake or whatever itʼs called now. Either way, you will have a total and perfect separation from my father then, and believe me, youʼd rather die here first."

I looked beyond them, to my pool and my dog sleeping outside, under my pecan tree. I never wanted to give it up. The son leaned forward, "Listen, Benjamin. Why donʼt we just kill you, right here? I know you've been wondering about that. Contrary to what you are taught to fear, my father is not a murderer. My father is fair. But with this misplaced breath you have, which we need from you to continue Revelation, this gift will lead you into evil. Thatʼs unavoidable. You canʼt imagine that right now, but it is. Give it back and live normally within your born flesh. And pick out one woman and have children. Be a good man, Ben. Your heartʼs in the right place. Walk a straight line and you'll have a long, happy life. Iʼd advise you to stop smoking. You've done well, a few indiscretions aside. At least you didnʼt run for president, that was refreshing."

"I donʼt have to go to church, do I?"

"No. No one really had to go to begin with."

"No?"

He sighed, "Most of the questions are misconceptions, Ben. Right now you know more than anyone else here has or will ever know. All other questions you have will be answered when you die, thatʼs one of the few facts mankind didnʼt misconceive."

I watched them stand.

"Wait, what do I do now?"

The son smiled, "You'll know, Ben. You're smart."

They walked by me. The father squeezed my shoulder:

"Do whatʼs right, Benjamin.”

As good as I felt the morning Iʼd first awoke with the gift, the touch dwarfed that feeling. I felt bright and weightless. I felt the purest sense of joy and warmth, of love and understanding the entire universe of time and beginning and end, all one motion, all beautiful. I also understood that when I was going to die, I would be old with all my senses, I would know before it happened and it would be painless. I watched them walk out of them room and leave through the front door. I thought it had style.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wiping out nuclear everythings, wiping out the order of stupidity an all forms, wiping out disgrace. Just after dark, I had this feeling gnawing at me. I jumped off my couch and let my dog inside. Out back, I walked far to the middle of my property, shedding my clothes with each darkened step. I stood in the middle of my life and opened my arms at the sky, leaned my head back and breathed in deeper than I ever had, so deep and hard that I saw colors going into my mouth. I took the breath in deeper still, and when I exhaled I could feel a crack beginning to open down my chest from my throat and I screamed out and the trees shook and the ground trembled, and it was only then, at the end of it, that I realized what I had been playing with. I realized why a visit from them was necessary. I realized that I had not been using the gift to even one percent of its potential. It was incredible and nihilistic, but mainly what I did not use of the gift, the meaning of it, was pure evil, unlike the little edges I had polished and used. No wonder the devil was pissed. I reached down and pulled my chest apart. The colors and the death and the blood of many who were to die from it but did not because of the way Iʼd used it, all of these were sent forth from my body and tunneled upward into the sky with a blast of color and thunder and deafening cries for souls, for the damned it would never harvest. I watched it explode sideways and cover the sky and for a second the whole world was a negative of a photograph and I collapsed to the ground and went into a small coma.

I awoke there, nude. It was daylight and I walked to the pool, dove in, swam underwater to the other side, jumped out and walked into my house. It was all over the news, the flash and noise from last night. The trembling. People thought it was either a meteor or the second coming. Or a bomb. Or alien holocaust. I let my dog out and walked to the bathroom and toweled off. I had my gut back and only a little less hair than Iʼd had before I was discovered. I think itʼs stopped receding. I keep it short now, anyway. I have a beautiful wife. Our kids are 6 and 8. The world, well, we shall see. No one can ever know what I know, but they wouldnʼt listen if I told them. Tonight my wife took the kids and some of their friends over to the school to watch a Christmas play. My kids arenʼt in it. I sat down in my study and worked a few hours through my 17th novel. I keep the devilʼs beer bottle on a shelf by my window. Itʼs filled with sand and used for a bookend.

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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Fiction
Am I Evil?
I grabbed the sack from over the counter and watched a guy leave through the door. I barely missed it. I waited around for someone else to walk through. I breathed out and walked toward it. Nothing. I backed up, walked forward, nothing. I walked back by the bathroom, stared off casually, approached the door and tried to sneak up on it. Nothing. The woman behind the counter was watching. I stared off. She walked around the counter and played with the little sensor box at the end of the glass, “Strange, this has never happened here."
I glanced at her hairy mole, dead square on her nose, "This happens to me, always does. This is why I donʼt wear a watch."
She looked at me, "Why canʼt you wear a watch?"
"No, I can wear one, but it stops once I put it on. Iʼm cursed."
"So," she laughed, "if you wouldnʼt have come in here today, the door wouldnʼt have broken?"
"Thatʼs right."
"You're lying."
"Think about it, every time I come in here, I always have to run up on somebody else coming in, or leaving. Maybe you could let me out the back."
"Sure, but hold on."
She waved a cook over. He knelt down beside the door and began working at the sensor. A couple stood behind us, waiting to get out.
"Okay," he nodded, "now try."
I looked at the woman and tried. Nothing. I backed away and told the couple to go ahead. The couple stepped to the door. It slid right open. I followed them out. The door growled at me. Up the sidewalk I threw my hands in my pockets. The food was warm against my side.
"Excuse me."
I let her catch up to me.
"That was crazy," she said, "you really break things like that? I mean, itʼs working fine now."
"Itʼs technology. In my old car, everything was manual. Everything. No electric windows or automatic transmission. No CD player. I had a new car once, for one minute, my ex-girlfriend's. Sheʼd just got it. I sat inside while it was running and everything shut off. She had it towed and they gave her another one, but the same thing happened. She broke up with me the next day. Well, we were on the skids long before that, so…"
"You're lying."
We were at my front door. I took my hat off and wiped my hair back from my face, "Iʼm not. I was born with it. You can imagine the hell I grew up with."
I looked behind me. She had followed me into the house. She saw my typewriter and my desk, scattered pages and a full ashtray.
"You write?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"Everything. Twice a week I help this girl mow and trim yards. But right now I do piece work for a London magazine."
"Piece work?"
"I freelance for them."
"Freelance?"
"Forget it."
I looked in my room. My bike was in there. Her weed was gone and there was a note saying that she came by but I was gone. No shit. I threw the note in the garbage. It bounced off the can and hit the floor. I reached down to pick it up but it jumped up in my hand and I threw it away. It happened to me once in a while. The woman had seen it. She looked up to me and froze:
"El Diablo!"
It dawned on me that she was Mexican. My neighborhood was Mexican, so I hadnʼt paid any mind. Then everything else dawned on me:
"El Diablo- wait. Iʼm not the devil. Itʼs my chemistry. You know how some people can pour acid onto their hands? I saw a guy on this show once, he poured acid on his skin in front of his students and nothing happened to him. In my case, anything electrical or technology based invented after I was born breaks around me. Itʼs just science."
I stared down to her and smiled. She backed toward the door, "No, no no no no. You're the devil. Stay away from me."
She slammed the door and walked back to work. She was crazy. I lit up. I sat down and hit the machine. I wrote a long poem about the bakery woman. I laid on the couch and read through a book I had started to write. I grew bored. I jacked off and took a nap.
After midnight I was laying around in bed. It was still raining. I heard someone knocking. I wrapped myself in my blanket and looked out my window. I didnʼt recognize the car. I opened the door. The bakery woman. She was wearing her bathrobe. I shook my head at her and laughed.
"What are you doing here?"
"You are the devil. I know it."
It was cold outside. I opened the door all the way.
"Alright, have it your way, Iʼm the devil. Come in before you catch something."
She came in. I closed the door and locked it. She followed me back into my room.
I walked into the kitchen and ran the hot water, "I have one pack of hot chocolate left. You want it?"
She hissed from my room, "No hot chocolate with the devil!"
I turned it off and sat on my bed, "Toss the devil his boxers."
She flicked them up at me with her foot. I dropped the blanket and dressed. I threw on my sweater and grabbed a pair of socks and walked to the bathroom, got warm and combed my hair back. I sat on my bed. She hadnʼt moved. She stood in the middle of the room and stared at me. I lit a smoke, "Look, sweetheart, you're starting to give me the creeps. Sit down or something."
"The devil," she said.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, how-"
"NO! Donʼt say that word! You are the most evil! I feel it off you!"
"Listen to me, if I was the devil would I be living here, in this shit hole, working for daily cash and writing for a British magazine? Seriously, get off my ass."
"I'll show you," she said.
I laughed, "Show me."
She reached inside her robe and around her back and pulled out a pistol. I jumped back on the bed:
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down. Baby, you donʼt want to do this."
She screamed and pulled the trigger.
I saw the smoke leave the barrel. I saw the bullet spiraling in front of my face in slow motion. In slow motion, I cocked my head at it while it spun there and hung in front of me. Everything went back to normal speed. I didnʼt know how I did it, but I swiped the bullet from the air and threw it backward at the gun. It went back into the barrel and everything went down in reverse. The smoke went in and the gunshot went in reverse and there was a click and there and there was silence. Instinct came in. The gun broke loose from her hand and flew across the room into mine. I held it on her. She stared at me coldly, "You see, you are the devil."
I looked at the gun. I was sweating. I closed my eyes and the gun was no longer.
"You need to leave," I told her.
She ran out. I jumped up and ran to the mirror. I stripped naked and studied my body. I had a receding hairline and a gut. In the mirror I watched my hair become full and longer, and my stomach tightened to an athleteʼs form. I made my cock long and thick. I held it in my palm and smiled a mean smile. Was I the devil? Could it be that I was the devil? I searched my scalp for the number. Nothing. I searched my right palm for the number. Nothing. I tried to think evil, harmful thoughts against the world. Nothing. How could I be the devil? Then I got it. I was dreaming. A twisted dream. Iʼd had them before and regularly, but this one had them beat by miles. I walked back to my bed and made myself sleep it off.

Morning. Bright out. I thought about the dream and shook my head. Stupid. The Devil, The Lord, Santa Claus and the Great Pumpkin. I felt foolish over having the dream, over the drama of it. The bakery woman and the gun, the bullet. I decided I needed to get out more, go downtown and meet some girls, get a decent job and so forth. I was afraid that I was losing my mind. I felt good that morning, though. I usually woke up coughing. But I felt charged. I even felt virile. I didnʼt even stretch. I leaped out of bed and ran the water in the bathroom sink. I splashed some water on my face and wiped my hair back quickly with my reflection. I turned and opened the cabinet behind me to grab my contact lenses case. I slammed the cabinet door and turned slowly back to the mirror. I jumped out of the bathroom and approached the mirror piece by piece. There was my perfect body, long hair and eyes that could see through walls. I tried to feel fear but I couldn't. I extended my arm and watched the veinwork course smoothly down to my fingers. There was the new cock. I looked into the backyard of the house next door. I put my pants on and walked out back.

I had this neighbor. This tall, sexy, Mexican woman who was married with a little baby. Her husband was a big Mexican. I would sometimes peek through my blinds and masturbate while I watched her in her backyard, her bikini riding up her big brown ass while she bathed in the sun and smoked her long cigarettes, watching her baby sleep on the blanket across from her. She was out in her garden. I watched her out there, on her knees in a long bedshirt, nude underneath, picking those miniature tomatoes and placing them in the front of her shirt, pulled up just high enough to where you could see the front of her thighs and a small, magic tuft of hair. She had never shown interest in me, maybe a few disgusted looks as I smiled and waved to her from my backyard, while I played fetch with my dog, on the many afternoons she was out back, lying in the sun. I walked to the fence line. She looked up at me. I didnʼt see the baby. My guess was the kid was at her mother's, an old Spanish lady who drove a big station wagon. I stared at her. She looked me up and down. I walked over the fence like it was a small step. She had this look to her. She knew and I knew. I stopped in front of her and dropped my pants. She grabbed my cock and stuffed it in her mouth. It was genius. I pulled out and walked around her and dropped to my knees. I flipped her shirt back and drove it in, pounding into that hard flesh with a vengeance, pounding until she bucked and shook with orgasms, which I made last 20 minutes for her. I zipped up. Just for good measure, I gave her another one without even touching her. She fainted.

Back inside, half an hour later. I was watching from my bedroom window. She was doing work about her yard, singing in Spanish. I waved her over and gave it to her one more time.

I quit the lawn job. In the next couple of days I fucked whichever woman I wanted, wherever I felt like it. The corporate bitches riding the elevators downtown were good, as was the teller in the bank and even the older artist looking chick in the bookstore. The coffee shop girls were always fun, and the otherwise stuck up women who worked retail or restaurants or the lingerie stores. I wondered if I was really the devil, or if I had been blessed with a gift. I no longer had a problem with technology. After I had sex with a waitress in the womenʼs bathroom, I decided I was fucked out for the first time in my life.

I needed money. I would walk into banks and the tellers would hand me over envelopes of it. I never had to say anything to them. Iʼd nod and theyʼd smile and hand it over. Cameras were useless against me. Audio was useless against me. I had no fingerprints. I had no government. I moved into my mansion in West Austin, right on the lake. Paid cash. I had no bills, no hassles, no tax bullshit. Well, not after the IRS man came over in a shitty mood to audit and bust me. I showed him his whole family scattered, naked and gutted on my front lawn. Laid out before him was also his own death, his head on a post, his guts around the waist of his lower body, slid down the post from his detached head, his heart stuck in his mouth. He left and never came back, nor did his kind. I never actually hurt anyone, but what I could show them was horrifying.

I learned the full potential of my gift. I had the vision of a hawk, the gift of flight, the gift of invisibility at my choosing. One afternoon I was flying nude around a tall treetop in my back yard, when the lady who does my gardening caught me. She saw me, so I hovered behind a bushy branch and she shook it off and went back to her work. I could never expose myself to the mortals. That would end my fun. Years went by me like nothing. I had not aged. I had never felt better. I went in for a physical once, and the doctor was amazed at the perfection beneath my skin and blood and veins. My lungs were pink, though I loved smoking. My heart and liver were brand new, everyday. But I still did not feel evil. I learned to enter my television and fuck the actresses, the models, even a few anchorwomen. I was a famous writer now, doing readings in different cities and countries and writing at the top of my form. There were talk shows, magazine interviews, my phone ringing off the hook. I had no troubles with the paparazzi. Not after the first time.

I had 38 wives living with me, all sterile. They were between 17 and 23 years old, from all around the globe. I also kept a few older ones around, for when the mood struck me. Sometimes I had them all at once, all of them on all fours, in a big circle by the pool.

But I was not an evil devil. There was the crippled man I passed in the crosswalk downtown. I breathed on him and he straightened and walked normally. It caused an accident, after the woman in her car watched me fix him, but no one believed her, not even after the man I healed backed up her story. There was the blind person to whom I gave sight, on many occasions. The looks on the faces of the now seeing were truly beautiful. Never again was a child going hungry, never a cold person anywhere. I vanquished AIDS and cancer. I cured several problems and took no credit. A lot of hospitals were shut down, but I liked that, too.

My life grew dull with no enemies. I thought of ways to make the mortals resent me, but I didnʼt have the heart or desire. Every woman wanted me, men wanted to be me. I had used the gift to its fullest, the shower rooms at private girls schools, the flights through outer space, sleepovers on the moon, the soothing over of pain, the complete destruction of pain, whenever I heard of something in pain. My dog would never die now. I was never going to die.

I dropped by the bakery one day to see the woman. She told me that she knew I was behind everything but that I was still the devil. I blew onto her face and the mole vanished. Her body became thin and youthful. She screamed:
"GIVE IT BACK!"
I gave it back to her. She walked off.

I was turning the key to my house when I felt a chill. None of my wives were around. I dropped the keys on the mantle and walked around the corner in to my living room. Two men were sitting on my leather couch. I knew who they were. I just didnʼt want to believe it. But they had no other way into the house. The main guy was older, white hair and a white beard. The other was not as old. He wore a smooth-ass suit and wore his long hair casually behind his ears. His beard was just like it was in the paintings. They were completely beautiful. They stared at me. I sat beside the couch in my recliner. I went to light a smoke. No flame. I tried again.
"Not now, Benjamin," said the suit.
I placed the smoke on the table, "Look, you guys, I never asked for this."
The old man shot me a look. His son sat there, his hands folded on his knees. He spoke, "We know about you. There was an accident."
I sat back and stared at the old man, "I canʼt tell you how strange this feels. You two look human."
The old man stared at me, "We're not like them, but we need to talk to you."
His voice sent shockwaves throughout my body. It was shocking. Nothing had shocked me in years.
The son started:
"It began forty years ago, in this time schedule, you were in the hospital in Peoria, St. Francis Hospital, 6:23 p.m., half an hour after you were born. You know about the other one, the dark one, the fallen."
"Satan," I said firmly.
"Well, he sent his breath over the seas to find the chosen one, the one to who was born with his mark, the one to completely change then abolish life here. This has been planned since, well, you wouldnʼt understand. ‘Satan’ -as he is referred to here, does not have the power my father has. He had to physically make contact with the one born with his blight, though be it a powerful, formidable blight. Because of the laws my father made for him, he could not acquire flesh to personally touch the child, so he sent his breath as the deliverer, the way he has to operate from where he is, the way evil really works here. He can be seen to other immortals, but he could never walk amongst the people, thatʼs only a myth, but he can destroy them and see them at all times. Trust us, he knows everybody, this is still his world, and he runs it completely and mercilessly, but my father still owns it."
I looked to the old man. He rubbed his beard and stared at me. I noticed neither one of them had blinked the whole time. Then it occurred to me that I hadnʼt blinked in years. His son continued:
"It was a matter of timing for him. You donʼt remember this, but the nurse rolled your bed closer to the window for your family to see you, and in the process she had to roll the bed with the chosen one aside to get you closer, and at that moment, the travel of centuries and water and land the breath had journeyed hit you instead. And because you were oblivious to it, it made your life awkward. This is why you felt sick. This is why you would disable manʼs technology with your presence. This is why you healed instantly after you were hurt, why you donʼt age, and so on."
"Then why was I aging before that fat chick from the bakery discovered me?"
"You were aging because you were ignorant toward your purpose. The human mind is powerful, Benjamin. Note that once you accepted it, everything stopped dying in you. You had to be a man anyway, and the woman from the bakery was not sent by us."
"Oh, so she was sent by the devil. That makes sense."
"Sure, but she thought she was doing our work, thatʼs a pretty common trick for him to pull off here, and he was hoping youʼd destroy the world. But you donʼt have the vision the other would have had."
"Yeah. What happened to that guy?"
The old man cracked a helpless smile. The son nodded to the floor, "His family moved to Kentucky. He works at Auto Zone."
I broke out laughing. They did not. They wanted to, though.
"Let me get this straight. The Antichrist is selling starters in Kentucky, and I get to rule the earth."
"Yes, but you donʼt rule the earth."
"Wait, you two didnʼt come here to end me, did you?" I looked at the old man, "I mean, I'll change whatever it is thatʼs bugging you."
The son nodded to me, "We are not human. To see us in our natural state would kill you, even with the breath of the fallen you have in you."
"Thanks. I need a smoke, guys. Please."
They let me light up.
"I was always a non-believer before this."
"We know, Ben. But now we have a problem."
"What? The women? I'll cut back."
The old man rubbed his eyes. The son shook his head, "Itʼs not the women. We will never lie to you Ben, you wouldnʼt have made it to Heaven, anyway, but now we need to come to an agreement."
"I have questions first."
"Oh?"
"Please."
He leaned back and sighed, "I'll give you a few."
"Which religion is the right one?"
The old man smiled sadly. His son answered:
"None of them."
"Are all sins really equal?"
"No."
I looked at the old man:
"Have you changed with the times? Because if you havenʼt then everybodyʼs going to Hell."
The old man looked to his son. The son smiled, "Good questions, Benjamin. Heaven has always been for the pure, regardless. That hasnʼt changed. In this world there is no more purity. Religion, like faith, is all ego now, all self."
"So everybody goes down."
"Yes and no." The son glanced his beautiful eyes over my shoulder and continued, "At birth, everybody belongs to my father, no matter what the parents have done, whether the mother took drugs during the pregnancy, whether the life was a product of rape or out of marriage. But it never takes long for the life to become taken in by evil, even if, and this is almost every case, the life isnʼt aware that itʼs evil. Granted, it sounds unfair, but itʼs not, and itʼs the way it will always be. Benjamin, somebody else is here right now."
I turned quickly over my shoulder. I knew it. There he was, sitting at the table behind me: Dressed in black, dark hair combed back shiny, an angular, insanely chiseled face. He shot me the worst stare I have ever seen. I heard the sonʼs voice:
"I donʼt think you need an introduction, Benjamin."
I looked back to the son. I could feel the devilʼs desire to be near the old man. The old man wouldnʼt even look at him. The son told me this was the first time the three of them had been together since the first of time. I walked to my fridge, "This is too much." I pulled a beer from the shelf. I held it up, "Anyone else need a beer?"
The devil put his hand up, "Right here." He caught it. I twisted mine open and sat back down, "So, what, you guys hate me now?"
The son smiled, "No, Benjamin, far from it." He motioned to the devil behind me, "But he hates you."
I waved it off without turning around, "I donʼt care about that."
The devil threw his beer at me. I reached back and caught it behind my head without looking. I set it carefully on the table. Iʼd just bought that table. I tilted my beer at the son, "Alright. How do I stay out of Hell?"
"Well, you've given the world a new beginning, Benjamin, no more disease, no more pain, nice touch."
"Thanks, man."
"But now you need to give it up. Itʼs your gamble."
I swallowed my beer, "Gamble?"
The son sat back, "Listen, Benjamin, to tell you the truth, I never planned on coming back here. I mean, can you blame me?"
"No, but all the believers were planning on it, the evangelists and their con, they bet on it, live off it."
"We have a special Hell planned for them, a very special Hell."
"Good."
"But now my father is taking a second sight on this world. He sees goodness now. He sees that people are truly caring for each other again, caring without any thought of gain for themselves, and for that, heʼs reopened Heaven for the masses."
The room felt lighter. I smelled sulfur.
"Whatʼs that smell?"
The son nodded over my shoulder.
"He left," the son stared at me, "heʼs angry."
"Boo-hoo." I put out my smoke.
"Everything here will be yours, Ben. You will be in Heaven. You can keep the writing job. But you have to give back this gift you think you have, to let the people start on their own from here now, a clean start, to truly show my father that without trouble the world will be good."
"But this means I will die. Eventually."
"Of course. But I may come back again, and if I do, you go straight to Hell, to the inferno, the fiery lake or whatever itʼs called now. Either way, you will have a total and perfect separation from my father then, and believe me, youʼd rather die here first."
I looked beyond them, to my pool and my dog sleeping outside, under my pecan tree. I never wanted to give it up. The son leaned forward, "Listen, Benjamin. Why donʼt we just kill you, right here? I know you've been wondering about that. Contrary to what you are taught to fear, my father is not a murderer. My father is fair. But with this misplaced breath you have, which we need from you to continue Revelation, this gift will lead you into evil. Thatʼs unavoidable. You canʼt imagine that right now, but it is. Give it back and live normally within your born flesh. And pick out one woman and have children. Be a good man, Ben. Your heartʼs in the right place. Walk a straight line and you'll have a long, happy life. Iʼd advise you to stop smoking. You've done well, a few indiscretions aside. At least you didnʼt run for president, that was refreshing."
"I donʼt have to go to church, do I?"
"No. No one really had to go to begin with."
"No?"
He sighed, "Most of the questions are misconceptions, Ben. Right now you know more than anyone else here has or will ever know. All other questions you have will be answered when you die, thatʼs one of the few facts mankind didnʼt misconceive."
I watched them stand.
"Wait, what do I do now?"
The son smiled, "You'll know, Ben. You're smart."
They walked by me. The father squeezed my shoulder:
"Do whatʼs right, Benjamin.”
As good as I felt the morning Iʼd first awoke with the gift, the touch dwarfed that feeling. I felt bright and weightless. I felt the purest sense of joy and warmth, of love and understanding the entire universe of time and beginning and end, all one motion, all beautiful. I also understood that when I was going to die, I would be old with all my senses, I would know before it happened and it would be painless. I watched them walk out of them room and leave through the front door. I thought it had style.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wiping out nuclear everythings, wiping out the order of stupidity an all forms, wiping out disgrace. Just after dark, I had this feeling gnawing at me. I jumped off my couch and let my dog inside. Out back, I walked far to the middle of my property, shedding my clothes with each darkened step. I stood in the middle of my life and opened my arms at the sky, leaned my head back and breathed in deeper than I ever had, so deep and hard that I saw colors going into my mouth. I took the breath in deeper still, and when I exhaled I could feel a crack beginning to open down my chest from my throat and I screamed out and the trees shook and the ground trembled, and it was only then, at the end of it, that I realized what I had been playing with. I realized why a visit from them was necessary. I realized that I had not been using the gift to even one percent of its potential. It was incredible and nihilistic, but mainly what I did not use of the gift, the meaning of it, was pure evil, unlike the little edges I had polished and used. No wonder the devil was pissed. I reached down and pulled my chest apart. The colors and the death and the blood of many who were to die from it but did not because of the way Iʼd used it, all of these were sent forth from my body and tunneled upward into the sky with a blast of color and thunder and deafening cries for souls, for the damned it would never harvest. I watched it explode sideways and cover the sky and for a second the whole world was a negative of a photograph and I collapsed to the ground and went into a small coma.

I awoke there, nude. It was daylight and I walked to the pool, dove in, swam underwater to the other side, jumped out and walked into my house. It was all over the news, the flash and noise from last night. The trembling. People thought it was either a meteor or the second coming. Or a bomb. Or alien holocaust. I let my dog out and walked to the bathroom and toweled off. I had my gut back and only a little less hair than Iʼd had before I was discovered. I think itʼs stopped receding. I keep it short now, anyway. I have a beautiful wife. Our kids are 6 and 8. The world, well, we shall see. No one can ever know what I know, but they wouldnʼt listen if I told them. Tonight my wife took the kids and some of their friends over to the school to watch a Christmas play. My kids arenʼt in it. I sat down in my study and worked a few hours through my 17th novel. I keep the devilʼs beer bottle on a shelf by my window. Itʼs filled with sand and used for a bookend.
#amievil  #yesifuckingam  #diamondhead 
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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Paradox Lost

Mixer in the afternoon

alright, on my third

but outside the Sun is frying

everything in its touch

everything regarding the city suffers

a famous, commercial writer once said

never place your desk in front of a window

sitting here now in the early afternoon

frontal lobe joggled just enough

head change

ice at the bottom of a glass

sings as sweetly as Simone with

the right timing

watching the tip of the mountain

burn from my window while I write

take advice from no one

if it goes against your gut

ignore and avoid kept men

with soft hands

in weak imitation of the greats

ignore their cries for attention

and self-promotion

while they use age as a gauge for

wisdom while their

wives fold their clothes for them

in the next room

which overlooks a tiled den

and a gorgeous yard

ignore the bullshit

to simply survive is not enough

while outside the mountain burns

and your words hit the page

with force

the reward is doing it

the reward is in the lift of heart

those of us who have made a living off

the writing will tell you it’s

a long and brutal fucker of a climb

but a climb with each second worth

more than a life

avoid the circles of trash, stench, and low-flying resilience

aspire to money for contentment

but be driven by neither

accept to banish

abolish to embrace

don’t place faith in

the existence of things you

cannot see

but place it in things

you know must be there

laugh at the sorrow

while the sorrow eats you

and outside the mountain burns

and sheds rocks like tears

the Sun disfigures dream

the life of us gripped

in the fist

of our own surrender

of fear

but spiked with moments

of unfathomable joy

of moments combined

in memory

that becomes our fortress and gate

our Mars and Pompeii

our sunlight, Liszt, and metal

our poets, singers, thespians, and

criminals of war

all the love inside

trapped but burning

beneath all the anger, waiting

beneath the unfathomed greatness

built in

moment to moment

the buzz gripping the mind

the time running out in this poem

before I start sounding like one of them

and feeling the oddly warm comfort

when you become what you despise

sitting here in the early afternoon

the dead men on my shelves

the dead women on my shelves

the dead-eye stare of a mountain

on fire

weeping across the desert west to

California

where I know beauty

must be waiting

while I sit here writing

ugly in desert

officially drunk

while the mountain burns

and laughs

at my stupid

fucking

face.

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Written by SonOfSlayer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Paradox Lost
Mixer in the afternoon
alright, on my third
but outside the Sun is frying
everything in its touch
everything regarding the city suffers
a famous, commercial writer once said
never place your desk in front of a window
sitting here now in the early afternoon
frontal lobe joggled just enough
head change
ice at the bottom of a glass
sings as sweetly as Simone with
the right timing
watching the tip of the mountain
burn from my window while I write
take advice from no one
if it goes against your gut
ignore and avoid kept men
with soft hands
in weak imitation of the greats
ignore their cries for attention
and self-promotion
while they use age as a gauge for
wisdom while their
wives fold their clothes for them
in the next room
which overlooks a tiled den
and a gorgeous yard
ignore the bullshit
to simply survive is not enough
while outside the mountain burns
and your words hit the page
with force
the reward is doing it
the reward is in the lift of heart
those of us who have made a living off
the writing will tell you it’s
a long and brutal fucker of a climb
but a climb with each second worth
more than a life
avoid the circles of trash, stench, and low-flying resilience
aspire to money for contentment
but be driven by neither
accept to banish
abolish to embrace
don’t place faith in
the existence of things you
cannot see
but place it in things
you know must be there
laugh at the sorrow
while the sorrow eats you
and outside the mountain burns
and sheds rocks like tears
the Sun disfigures dream
the life of us gripped
in the fist
of our own surrender
of fear
but spiked with moments
of unfathomable joy
of moments combined
in memory
that becomes our fortress and gate
our Mars and Pompeii
our sunlight, Liszt, and metal
our poets, singers, thespians, and
criminals of war
all the love inside
trapped but burning
beneath all the anger, waiting
beneath the unfathomed greatness
built in
moment to moment
the buzz gripping the mind
the time running out in this poem
before I start sounding like one of them
and feeling the oddly warm comfort
when you become what you despise
sitting here in the early afternoon
the dead men on my shelves
the dead women on my shelves
the dead-eye stare of a mountain
on fire
weeping across the desert west to
California
where I know beauty
must be waiting
while I sit here writing
ugly in desert
officially drunk
while the mountain burns
and laughs
at my stupid
fucking
face.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #culture 
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