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Meeting Mireille

5/24/2011

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                The name she spoke was the soul of violence.  It ignited the evening with possibilities, none to be wanted though one must be chosen.  However, at the moment Millar found himself more in need of a piss than a nightmare.  So he ignored the girl with gleaming teeth.  The confusion that fell across her face translated to the rest of the bar.  Seeing the expression, Millar remarked, "Sorry dear, but I have to drain."

                "But I am Mireille."

                "And I am Millar.  Pleasure.  We'll keep chatting horror once I've pissed," he said, swaying, the last gin making his legs rubbery.  Patting a finger on her mouth, he stumbled off in what he figured was the route to the restroom.  A moment later he passed her again, still dumbfounded, on the actual path to the toilet.

                In the darkness, denizens of the tavern murmured low wonder about the man's bravery.  For centuries it had been known that the Talons & Hook, on the Thames, was the hunting grounds of none other than the queen of all nosferatu.  Though not the first to hold the title, her crown had been worn since Columbus first voyaged.  By many accounts the Inquisition itself had been her doing, a clandestine means to procure blood without suspicion.   Her visits to Talons & Hook had begun sometime in the late 1700s and continued to the present.  As a result , the place had grown into a watering hole for all manner of nightmare realities.  However, when Martin Millar passed the place all he saw was a glowing neon sign advertising beer.

                Satisfied by the sign's implication, he shuffled his way to the door, throwing it open with such force it banged off the wall and closed in his face.  Bellowing a swear that made some of the lower demons tremor, he entered more gently, if not steadily.

                Intrigued by the brazen, albeit flawed, entrance, Queen Mireille instantly decided her meal would be the hot blood of this recent arrival.  She watched him take a seat square in the middle of the bar, his back audaciously turned to the crowd.  Most of the other patrons preferred the shadows and corners, rarely daring to sit along any line with the front door.  (Decades of foolish demon slayers had made such seats precarious.  It wasn't uncommon for a werewolf to be sipping a beer only to have the front door burst open and some fool or another come flying in, spraying bullets coated in all manner of foul smelling herbs.  The wounds wouldn't last, but the stink would endure.)  The bartender, one of a long line of descendants from the first owners, took Millar's order skeptically.  Most mortals who ventured within were either looking for some creature to which they'd been indentured -- willingly or otherwise -- or left within a few moments. 

                Martin Millar had no sense of his surroundings and no notion of the tavern's reputation.  He'd arrived in town the day before yesterday.  His wife had called while he was away on business to tell him she'd be packing her things.  When he got home he could expect to find the house empty, save for what she was willing to concede as his, and that her mind was made up, the end was here.  He'd drifted off the A40 somewhere in the midst of their conversation (conversation may not be the right term since Millar didn't use a single word during the whole exchange, just grunts and uh huhs.), blanked for an extended period, and finally come to a stop in the Abingdon, Oxfordshire.   Knowing nothing about the town, he stopped at the first place that looked like a hotel, which was able to direct him to actual lodgings, and spent the better part of the last three days drinking.

                Having recently been ejected from another pub for throwing flaming Drambuie at a couple celebrating their first wedding anniversary, Millar stumbled the streets and alleys till he happened across the Talons & Hook front entrance. 

                When the lady took a seat next to him he couldn't help laughing.

                "What?" she said, spreading her most seductive smile.

                "Nothing.  I'm sorry.  You just look like such a cliché."

                "Pardon?"  The smile vanished.

                "My cousin is goth, but you put him to shame.  He's more concerned with Victorian styles, not this whole vampire thing."

                "What makes you think I'm a vampire?"

                Millar rolled his eyes, "Please.  Look.  Lets start over.  My name is Martin Millar."  The introduction out, he felt the need to pee.

                "And I am Mireille."

                And so on and so forth, as previously related, till Millar returned from the bathroom.

                Smiling, a slight up turned corner of the mouth, Mireille said, "You really don't know who I am."

                "Are you on television?  I don't watch the thing.  It hurts my face... brain... what have you."

                "No, nothing of the sort.  I'm, what you might call, a local legend."

                "Well then, there you have it.  As I'm not a local..." he made a gesture suggesting she complete the thought on her own, then signaled the bartender for another drink.

                "That's on me, George," Mireille said.

                "Thanks.  Don't expect recipikation."

                "Perhaps I'm not thirsty for gin."

                "OOO," Millar remarked jokingly, holding up his hands in mock terror.  He made a cross out of two fingers and held them towards her, "Back.  Back I say."

                Mireille couldn't help chuckling.  It was Millar's turn for an unavoidable grin.

                "You do have a lovely smile."

                "Thank you."

                "Are you sure I can't buy you a drink?"

                "Why not?  George, my usual."

                Nodding, George went over to a small cooler beneath the bar.  From it he produced a crystal decanter and filled a champagne flute with thick red liquid.  When the glass was set before Mireille, Millar said, "Remy Red?"

                "Perhaps," Mireille said, a coy look on her face.

                "You play it to the hilt.  I'll give you that."  Millar stirred his drink with a finger.  Mireille sipped her beverage.  The two chatted for a moment, the usual pleasantries.  Millar did his best to avoid the topic of his wife by lying, claiming he was in town on holiday.

                After a while:

                "Well, I've always been partial to Hotspur F.C."

                "Hotspur?  You mean Tottenhem?"

                "That's the one.  You?"

                "I was raised Chelsea, but I've got to say, I lean towards Arsenal... though I'll never admit it, family and all that shit."

                Nodding, Mireille said, "I know what you mean."

                "Siblings or kids?"

                "Both, in a way I suppose."  Her head cocked to one side, a thought popping up and out of her mouth, "You know what?  It's been a long time since I had a casual conversation."

                "You're welcome."

                "I'm serious, Martin."

                "So am I."

                She gave him a playful shove and said, "It's just that there's usually an... oh what's the word."

                "A purpose," he said, hoping to help her thought along, "Conversation is intended to get you somewhere instead of being relaxing."

                "Indeed."  Mireille agreed, signaling George for another round all around.  Once their glasses had been filled Mireille raised hers to Martin, "What shall we drink to?"

                "Casual companions."

                "I like that."

                And the two clinked glasses.

                The bullet ripped through her face flying with a hiss past Martin's ear.  He heard it pass as warm blood sprayed his face.  He felt what seemed to be small stones bounce against his face as pieces of Mireille's skull flew at him.  Time slowed.  He watched the flute fall from her hand, spinning as it fell, spilling its contents across her left leg then the floor.  It shattered in a sparkling array of crystal fragments, each piece a varying shade of crimson.  He saw the smile still spread across her face, the glaze that dulled her eyes instantly, and he could even look through the hole where her nose used to be... see the man in the doorway holding a smoking pistol, a well built individual in his forties with thinning hair and wearing a pair of horn rim glasses.  Slight hints of garlic hung on the trail of the bullet.  Mireille crumbled to the floor.

                Martin didn't know he could shatter a glass with one hand.  But he could.  He didn't feel the shards stabbing into his palm. 

                From the doorway the man continued firing wildly into the bar.  The occupants scattered in all directions, but Martin was the only one who went towards the shooter.  Ignoring the pain, he formed a blood dripping fist and rushed the man.   Punching and tackling in the same motion, Martin drove the man to the ground.  The shooter clapped Millar on the side of the head with his pistol, but all it did was inspire a vicious blow from Martin.  One, three, nine times he punched the shooter in the face.  Registering the glass in his palm, Millar switched to a brutal series of hard slaps, raking the shards across the man's face. 

                "Martin."

                He heard Mireille's voice in a soft calming tone.

                "Martin."

                He hated his mind for the tricks it played with his ears.

                "Martin."

                He hated his wife.  If she hadn't... maybe Mireille wouldn't have been in that seat... he wouldn't have to lose another woman, another chance to -- It was real wasn't it?  He'd at least not felt so empty talking with her, and now this man had ripped it all away, drained him entirely once more.  He hated living in the hollow.

                A hand gently grabbed him by the shoulder, "Martin," Mireille's voice again.  This time he paused, turned sharply to see the speaker.  Millar felt chilled to the marrow.  There she stood, Mireille, her face whole.  Blood still stained her dress but no other sign of the wound persisted.

                "I don't..."

                "You guessed it the first time."

                "You're goth?"

                Mireille smiled, "Vampire."

                "Right... right."  Millar's eyes stared off, unfocused.  Somehow nothing he saw registered any longer.  Like he had vision but no way to make sense of the input.  Without looking at her he asked, "So you're okay?"

                "It stung, but I'll be fine."

                "That's good."

                The man beneath him gurgled.  Looking down at the bloody mess he'd made, Millar said, "What about this guy?"

                "I think you fucked him up pretty good."

                "Well, he did shoot you."

                "Indeed."

                "Though I don't think it's as bad as I thought."

                "I guess not."

                Millar got to his feet.  He asked what they should do about the shooter, but Mireille told him not to worry.  George would handle it. 

                "Right... right."  Martin nodded, his eyes still unfocused.  He turned towards the tavern door, "I think I need a drink."

                "Mind if I join you?"

                "Casual conversation?"

                "I could do with a bit of relaxation."

                "Then we shouldn't sit near the door."

                "Agreed."

                "You know you smell like garlic."

                "Ugh!  Don't remind me."

                The door closed behind them, and the night continued.

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Killing Myron

5/22/2011

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From the mind of Myron:
Year long book/diary project:  collect all status updates for a year.

#

That was about the time we all decided to kill Myron.  Tempers had been high since he insisted that although I’d broken up with my girlfriend until I changed my relationship status it hadn’t really happened.  That it was “confusing to everyone… even after I explained I’d been on a three day bender as a result and couldn’t “give a fuck” about what the internet said.  His intention to document his status updates (such as “mmmm pecan date long,” and “leaving work early.  Shhh, don‘t tell anyone!!!!”) for some kind of, as he put it, “cultural posterity project” was the last straw.

Every since the sixth grade he’d been a pain in our collective balls, women included (ovaries substituted for balls if so desired), which is about the first time we met Myron.  Myron Vidilie Jango.  He used to put his hand down his pants, rub his sweaty bits, smell the hand, and look at you grinning, saying, “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.”

As kids he was an unavoidable aspect of our daily lives.  School and having moved into the neighborhood near us made Myron our friend by proximity.  He was always around, so he just happened to be a part of the scene.  In high school, we all went to the same public child prison; and although the social realities meant we could cut him out of our lives, stories about Myron from elementary schooled could only be proven by inviting Myron to parties.  We kept him around as proof of his behavior and existence.  Consequently, he thought us better friends than we ever were, however, somehow prolonged exposure to Myron made us numb to his -- one time Myron suggested we all buy a van in order to car pool to school.

He followed a few of us to college, and visited those who went elsewhere, usually at their request to, again, unknowingly validate claims about him.

Eventually, we found ourselves adults, if not working together, living in the same neighborhoods.  And Myron was always there… like a cancer grown into a little brother.  

Shockingly, Myron loved the internet.  He spent hours a week on message boards, in chat rooms, instant messaging, searching for phrases and words that popped into his head.  He’d come to school on Monday and tell us about numbers and keywords, “Two million for paella?  Paella?”  I can still see the incredulous look on his face none of us shared.  Hell, most of the time we had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn’t stop him from going on.  The dam might have burst then if Brad Wilkens hadn’t figured out how to get Myron to download us porn.  (Mainly we just drugged his drink and used his computer.  That being said, Brad was the one who, not only, figured it out but managed to regularly get the pills we needed.)

But in the twenty-first century, social networking ended the will not to kill.  

As previously stated, Myron took to the internet; and in the era of social virtual life, he belonged to MySpace, Facebook, Linkedin, Groupon, Live Journal, MyChat, 2nd Life, Virtua-Neighborhood, Digital Connection, Friendster, the V.W.W.A. (Virtual worldwide Amalgamation), every Yahoo group, and received email notifications about every blog he heard about (though he never had his own site.  He belonged to Youtube but only to comment).

When the dam finally broke we put Myron in a sack and beat him with socks full of batteries till he was no more.  We then confessed to the crime, provided video tape and other proof of all that was Myron, and were promptly acquitted.  

Y
et, we still talk about Myron from time to time.  He was around too much, too long to ever be out of our lives.  So, in a way, he’s not really gone… fuck.

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Story Tellers

5/20/2011

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Jason Mulgrave took his cockknife from a hidden pocket.  He used it to slice apples when the need for apples arrived.  Which it often did.  

“Cockknife?”

“Yeah.”

“Cockknife.”

 “You don’t have to sound so...”

 “It’s stupid.”

“Look.  Just finish it.  I swear it gets...”

“Worse.”

 “Stop interrupting me.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t see this improving.”

“Then finish it and be amazed.”

“I’d rather do something productive with my time.”

“Like another bong hit.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Fucker.”

Cough, cough, “Failure.”

“At least I’m trying.”

“Your face is trying.”

“That makes no sense.”

“More sense than cockknife.”

"Then you tell a story."

"Okay."

They hung Job from a tree on Main.  He used to spin in the wind, but these days he just sort of sways in the breeze.  You can’t smell him anymore, though we did get used to the odor.  But there’s nothing left to slop rot off his bones.  The bones are still there.  Rope around the neck, odd stain in the grass right below, where his covering and innards slopped off of him.  Jenny Brook used to take boys out there to play kissing games.  Only the bravest would stand under Job and put lips to her.  Mick Caufield claims he ate her pussy beneath the blackened corpse.  It’s protruding swollen tongue inspiring the effort.  But there’s never been much reason to believe Mick Caulfield.  Sometimes I drive past Job on my way to work, and the wonder is always the same: why did they hang him there, or anywhere for that matter?  I guess the first question really is who are ‘they,’ which is a labyrinth of liars and poker faces I don’t dare to attempt navigating.  However, there are times, sitting alone in Mr. G’s pub, I can’t help spinning my gears towards some type of answer.  After all, it stands to reason that there must have been a purpose, a motive to the hanging.  No one likes to think that a group just got it in mind, 'Lets hang someone.'  'Who?'  'What about Job?'  'Yeah. Why not?'

"Fuck you."

"What?"

"I meant tell me a fiction.  Like I give a shit about that corpse in the tree." 
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What's Your Next Fate?

5/16/2011

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And in a landmark decision, that will undoubtedly effect all of society, the Supreme Court has upheld the ruling in The People v. Taylor of "not guilty by reason of Fatalistic Determinism."  After days of deliberation the original verdict as well as the defense utilized by the defendant was, according to Justice Kennedy, "found to hold water.  I mean, shit, this is the world we live in apparently."  Justice Kennedy then excused himself to go "bang some Thai."  One can only imagine what this means in light of our new reality.

Despite its potential ramifications, little attention has been paid to this singular case.  Back in February of 2002, Jordan Taylor shot his ex-girlfriend, killing her on the corner of Fullerton and Clifton in front of a large number of witnesses.  However, the oddities of this seemingly simple murder soon arose when Taylor, age 43, took up his own defense.  In court he argued majestically for a Fatalistic perspective.  According to Taylor, the antecedent (his breakup) set in motion a causal path to the consequent (the murder of his girlfriend).  In other words:  by virtue of their breakup he was bound to a series of later actions which resulted in her death.  He further expanded this premise to include the notion that all his past behaviors precluded the likelihood that she, Annabelle Fitzsimmons, would breakup with him causing her own murder.  In essence, his life is a predetermined course of events since no other outcome could arise given the future that occurred.  When this point of view was challenged by prosecutors, Taylor rebutted saying, "Look.  If she wasn't dead after I shot her, I couldn't have killed her in the first place; You can't have the effect without the cause -- it's not linear it's circular, the cause stemming from the effect and vice versa."

Many were shocked when the jury handed down a not guilty verdict.  However, perhaps more in terror at the implications of Taylor's victory, prosecutors quickly appealed the decision, eventually taking the case to the Supreme Court of the United States. 

Hopes that the Justices might find some flaw soon vanished when a grim faced Judge Roberts read the decision.  He concluded the reading by shooting Justice Scalia in the face sighing, "It's too bad that was going to happen. "  Some reports have claimed that Justice Roberts then whispered to the corpse, "Who's a wimp now?" in a possible reference to this incident (http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/28/washington/28memo.html) which would only go to show the inevitable trajectory Fate laid down. 

Already the decision has spread and word is coming in from all over regarding the speed with which people have given themselves to Fate.  New York is ablaze, literally and figuratively, while Chicago's Sear's Tower is rumored to be a virtual "thunderdome populated solely by predators and prey."  As I sit in the hollowed out chest of an old woman I was "fated to kill" I can't help wondering why no one realized until now what Jordan Taylor has shown us.  This is a new day for humanity.  I, for one, can't wait to see what "fate" has me do next.
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    J. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards.

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