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Right Time

6/24/2013

You: "You knew Sara."

Me: "Yeah.  Kind of."

You: "From school?"

Me: "Technically, no. Maybe yes.  We met at a bar in Madison called the Purple Duck."

You: "I had no idea."

Me: "Not a lot of a people do. It's kind of a tucked away little dive."

You: "No, I meant that she'd been to Madison."

Me: "Oh.  Well, yeah. She came up for New Years. This is back in 2010."

You: "Was she visiting someone?"

Me: "Tamera Fletcher. Does that ring any bells?"

You: "Not really, but please go on."

Me: "We met at the Purple Duck. I showed up with some friends, and the place was wild by then. We just went in and joined the crowd."

You: "What was Sara doing?"

Me: "Drinking. Like anybody else there.  She was already there when I arrived, so I couldn't say how much, but she could -- it was nuts. We were all getting pretty crazy."

You: "Did the two of you... do anything?"

Me: "No."

You: "That's good."

Me: "Which isn't to say she wasn't a lovely girl. I thought she was attractive and all that. I just didn't... to be honest, I didn't have a shot."

You: "Oh no?"

Me: "She had her pick. I don't mean to sound foul or anything, but they don't make women like her in Detroit.  She's a custom made beauty, one of a kind.  You can be proud of that."

You: "I am.  Try to be. I don't really know how thrilled to be at my daughter's hotness."

Me: "I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude."

You: "No, no.  It's not you. There are a lot of things lately I'm having trouble processing."

Me: "Are you sure you really want to do this?"

You: "I feel I have to. It isn't easy, but things are making more sense... even if it's a kind of sense I don't care for."

Me: "I wish I could say I understand. Personally, I'd rather be ignorant."

You: "Most people have that preference. They even have the luxury. I don't.  At least, I choose not to.  So, please, go on. My daughter was the most fuck worthy."

Me: "You want a drink?"

You:  "Yes."

Me: "I've got some vodka in the freezer."

You: "I've got a pint of whiskey right here... in my bag"

Me: "Must've been in the scouts -- always prepared."

You:  "..."

Me: "I'm just gonna help myself to some vodka."

You: "If you like."

Me: "..."

You: "How long have you lived in Chicago?"

Me: "About four years now. I was only in Madison till I finished college. Then I moved here for a job and to be closer to home."

You: "Closer to family?"

Me: "Close enough. I've got a sister I like to hang out with, but the rest don't really mean much. That's why I don't mind helping you out. Talking to you over the phone, I kind of wish you were my mom."

You: "I guess I've got that going for me."

Me: "Well, so, yeah. Cheers. The Purple Duck.  Sara never stopped. She was either dancing or drinking or joking around -- some people are just incandescent. I always thought I was kind of slick till I met her.  She cut off pick up lines with these sarcastic quips that were more disarming than cutting. Like she was saying, 'I know what you're getting at, but let's not deal in bullshit.'" She made people be genuine."

You: "That is nice to hear."

Me: "Then I'm glad to tell it."

You: "Though I can't help wondering if that skill is what... he was certainly being genuine, if I can be objective about such things."

Me: "I read about it in the paper. It really is -- "

You: "A calamity, misfortune, heartbreak, disaster, misadventure, blow, wreck, ruination, hardship? There are too many words that all mean the same thing, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Me: "You two must of been close. You remind me of her is what I mean."

You: "Oddly enough, that's one description I've never heard.  All of her friends put the two of us in separate galaxies, if not universes apart."

Me: "But her friends only know you through her. It's a slanted view."

You: "Strangers, I suppose, are better for objectivity."

Me: "Maybe.  I won't say I knew her all that well, but I think I knew her well enough to get a good portrait."

You: "Did you know she was 16 when you met her?"

Me: "No."

You: "Would it have mattered?"

Me: "I want to say yes."

You: "But you can't be sure."

Me: "Not if I'm being honest."

You: "And how can I really tell, really tell you're being honest?"

Me: "You'll just have to trust me."

You: "Trust you. For all I know you fucked her in some trash filled alley and left her with cum drooling out of a drunken smile."

Me: "I can assure you I didn't."

You: "Thank God I've got this whiskey then. All the warmth of your assurances would leave me freezing otherwise."

Me: "What exactly do you want?"

You: "Besides my daughter back?"

Me: "Yes, besides that."

You: "I want to know how a room full of people couldn't spot a 16 year old.  I don't care how drunk and dark it was in the Purple Duck. Someone should have noticed. It's like everyone went out of their way not to."

Me: "..."

You: "I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time lately --"

Me: "It's all right."

You: " -- controlling my rage."

Me: "..."

You: "It's just that I can't help wondering if things like this New Year's you're describing, if things had gone different. I don't know who to hate."

Me: "Makes sense. I only met her that one time."

You: "Yet, she obviously left an impression."

Me: "Yeah.  I kept thinking -- I remember thinking, days later -- why can't I ever meet a girl like that? I mean, I did that night, but you know what I mean."

You: "I do.  I do. Sara was one of a kind."

Me: "I get the feeling that's not a lot of comfort."

You: "It wasn't at first. It made things worse actually. However... I don't know. I think it's bound to hurt on and off again the rest of my life.  Sometimes I think aren't predators supposed to pick off the weakest part of the herd?"

Me: "That's what I learned. From the TV anyway."

You:  "..."

Me: "..."

You: "I thought she was safe. At a sleepover."

Me: "On New Year's?"

You: "On a lot of occasions. Her friend Molly said Sara hitchhiked all the time. Said Sara told her, 'I've got a system for spotting crazies.'  Every system's got its cracks I suppose."

Me:  "Indeed."

You: "I think I've taken up enough of your time."

Me: "I didn't do anything with your daughter, but if I'd gotten the shot I probably would have. She may have been 16, but all I saw was an incredibly hot girl -- attractive for so many reasons.  She's probably the only real reason that New Year's stands out in my mind. That said, I didn't recognize her picture at first. When I saw it in the paper I was just like, Who is that?  How do I know her? And I remembered seeing her and wanting to fuck her before I realized the headline said she'd been -- well, you know."

You: Butchered.

Me: ...yeah.

You: "Thank you. I'm finding out I didn't know my Sara all that well. It helps to know what other people saw."

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Clean Up with Dirt

6/21/2013

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Henry Martin determined to make this city a better place, and in a way, he did. History is bound to be the judge, though there’s never one of set eyes gauging the past.  Everyone thinks they know best, and it’s easy to be moral in a hypothetical situation.

When exactly Henry started developing his idea of what was best for Chicago is hard to pin down. His memoir, A Moral Moriarty, implies the notion first popped into his head around seventeen, however, the exact plan he put into action may not have been formed then. It’s far more likely Henry’s plan evolved over the years. Still, the facts seem to remain that Henry Martin decided to clean up the city by getting dirty.

He set his plan into motion around the age of twenty.  At least, that’s his first recorded arrest for dealing drugs.  One might be inclined to believe Henry intended to finance his noble intentions with drug money, amassing a fortune to donate to charitable causes. Money is, after all, only as moral as what one does with it, or so Henry put in his memoir.  The truth is he was doing his best to be the leading drug supplier in Chicago. His first arrest got him a six month sentence. He did the time, and by all accounts came out of prison with a veritable doctorate in crime as well as a mental rolodex full of all the names anyone would need to become a kingpin. It's even be supposed by some getting arrested may have always been a part of Henry's plan.  Within seven years, having climbed a mountain of bodies and survived two gang wars, Henry Martin controlled all the drug trafficking in Chicago. If you smoked, snorted, or shot to get high your money went into Henry’s wallet.

It then begs the questions if he was so prominent in the criminal arena why didn’t the police or feds ever get him? The man on the mountain top is usually a prime target. And bribery alongside occasional blackmail will only delay things so far.  Eventually, Henry should have been on the way down.  The sad fact of the matter is the police liked Henry.  He fed them criminals of all varieties. Now, none of Henry’s, shall we say, colleagues in crime were aware the king of the realm was an informant. Yet, even this facet of the story belies the truth.

Around 1998, at the age of 19 Henry had a meeting with then police commissioner Alexander Burns. Burns has remained tight lipped on the particulars of that meeting, specifically how a nineteen year old managed to get an appointment with such a high ranking official. The only thing Burns has ever admitted is that, “This kid came in with an idea so outlandish I didn’t believe him at first. Then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘I can do this. And it’ll make things better.’ There was just something about him, the way he carried himself and spoke -- I don’t know.  I believed him.” With citywide crime rates on the rise, violent crime especially, Commissioner Burns decided to take a desperate measure.  He endorsed Henry’s plan as it’d been outlined to him, and from then on out the commissioner did his best to waylay any investigation into Martin. According to court transcripts this apparently involved occasionally informing Henry of potential evidence as well as witnesses which needed to be “handled.” As such, Henry Martin received carte blanche to do as he pleased for almost eleven years.

In 2007 an epidemic seemed to have hit the streets.  People kept dying from drug use.  Anyone using drugs such as cocaine, heroin, or crystal meth almost immediately died. Investigations revealed that every user had been poisoned. The second phase of Henry’s plan had gone into motion. He personally saw to it that every drug shipment which passed through his hands received a massive dose of sodium cyanide.  Among his legitimate businesses Henry owned a tool and die manufacturer. Cyanides are employed in a number of chemical process including the hardening of iron and steel. As such, Henry's purchasing of and access to large quantities of such a toxic substance went unnoticed.

In a matter of weeks, even hardcore drug addicts reportedly felt too anxious to risk getting intoxicated on anything stronger than liquor and marijuana. True, a certain proportion risked consuming drugs regardless of the apparent risk.  However, those individuals tended to die. The drug traded dropped off, but this only resulted in gangs looking for new sources of income.

Unable to peddle dope many dealers went into extortion and armed robbery. Several decided to rob one another, typically under the misconception that each other were responsible for the drug poisoning. For months the city burned from the dramatic rise in street violence and gang war. In one month almost four hundred people died, many of them innocent bystanders who caught a bullet during shootouts between rival gangs. The only upside seemed to be that these crimes afforded the police better opportunities to arrest and convict with more efficiency and effectiveness than drug cases. There no longer needed to be lengthy investigations to compile enough evidence for a conviction. Fed up with the shocking rise in the lethality of walking their neighborhoods, witnesses tended to come forward more often. In addition, a shadowy hand seemed to protect these people who would normally find themselves targeted for being so-called snitches. That hand: Henry Martin. (This has led to further speculation as to who else may have been in on Henry's plan given it is unlikely he protected these people personally.)

In A Moral Moriarty, Henry laments the loss of life which occurred during this period, but also states:  “There is no joy in birthing only pain. Joy comes afterward.  After the blood and agony, the doubts this may not be worth it, only then is there new life. That’s when happiness ensues.” He goes on to say how he did his best to make things safe, though he always knew many would have to die for things to change.

At the height of public outrage, and frankly terror, Henry Martin then took the next step in his plan.  Over the years he secretly recorded the bulk of his interactions with various criminals, many high ranking members of organized crime families. On December 8th, 2012 Henry Martin turned in every incriminating file and recording he possessed. Indictments soon came flying out of the district attorney’s office. It’s estimated that close to four hundred arrests followed for a variety of crimes. Everyone from the top of the criminal ladder to the very bottom soon found themselves facing prosecution.

It’s no surprise Henry Martin was murdered not long after he turned in his golden pile of evidence. Police found him flayed in his cell where he was being kept for his own protection.

The public isn't entirely sure what to make of Henry Martin.  But crime is now at an all time low. As Henry said in his memoir, “I don’t expect to live much longer. You can’t do what I’ve done and not expect a hammer to come down hard.  Still, I think it was worth it.”

Editor's Note: Henry Martin apparently wrote his memoir over the years leading up to the final stage of his endeavor so that the public could be made aware of his intentions.  As per his will the profits from his memoir go to a variety of charities established to help the victims of his plan.

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Great Excerpts: Naked Lunch

6/12/2013

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Guaranteed to offend someone, it's another installment of Great
Excerpts. This time around we're reading from William S. Burroughs'
generation defining classic Naked Lunch.

J. Rohr as the host
Directed by Stefanie "Sajib" Johnsen

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybb2U7uR9To

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A Hero, A Leader... Anyone but Me -- part 3

6/6/2013

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“On the left!”

“Got him.”

“Good shot Zoe.”

“I’m running low.”

“Matty catch!”

“I got the .38 not the .45.”

“Sorry. Fuck -- HERE! NATE!”

“I’m ok Jim. I -- DUCK!”

“Shit. MOIRA… HELP!”

“Got it… COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”

“This is what we get for hiding out on a fish farm.”

“Stop complaining and shoot something!”

“I AM! …fucking merpeople.”

#

My dad used to tell me growing up is about learning what you can’t do.  Being young means you can do anything you want, be anything you want, that sort of thing. But getting older, assuming a person gets wiser, is all about finding out not only what you can’t do but learning to live with the fact.

I guess that’s what all this is about. I don’t mean that the universe fucked up the whole world so I could learn a lesson I should’ve picked up when I was fifteen.  The idea of a global apocalypse so one prick can learn a life lesson, meanwhile thousands, if not millions, possibly even billions are dying -- it’s the height of narcissism. What I mean is this story, so I suspect I should get to the point.

It’s pretty clear by now I didn’t care for Jim.  Something about him always seemed phony. He did alright in a shootout, though he tended to spray&pray, firing a cloud of bullets in the general direction of his target. Let me put it this way: based on his stories, Jim was a better shot right up to the moment we met him; and the things he kept telling us about himself sounded too close to bad action movie plots.  I swear to god he implied Walking Tall, about a sheriff using a two by four to beat the corruption out of his town, was loosely based on his life. For all Jim’s survival training Moira was the only one pragmatic enough to remember to scavenge for first aid supplies. But whenever I pointed these kinds of things out, well, everyone just got pissed.

Then one day, somewhere in Utah, I got all the proof I needed.

We spotted the crows before the town. Hell, we could hear the damn things a mile off. Not sure if the crow population was just booming or if something unusual was going on, but needing to hit up the town for any food and gas there might be a scouting detail got sent out. Now, Matty and Zoe are our best scouts, but Jim always insisted we make things fair. So everyone drew straws. On this particular occasion, Jim and I got the duty.

As per his routine camouflage, Jim took off his shirt then streaked dark mud over parts of his face and torso. Properly painted, he led the way towards the soaring murder of crows.

It took us about an hour to get near the town.  Anytime crows went into the sky we hid in nearby bushes.

“No sense chancing they might see us,” Jim said.

A year ago I’d’ve thought he was an idiot.  It’s funny how time, experience changes the way things look.  My old instinct, probably just six months prior, would’ve been to ask how we’d check if the crows were indeed supernatural. However, I knew the safest move was not taking the chance either way -- assume everything in the world now possessed the intention of killing you. As such, it took two hours to sneak into the town.

I’d stopped noting the towns’names. Too many looked the same. Sure, the layout changed but not the pattern:  corpses rotted to gel and bones, burnt out homes and businesses, car wrecks littering the roads, blood stains decayed to black, lawns looking like prairies, crude handmade signs begging for help, though their makers were long gone, either dead or moved on; everywhere the proof nothing would ever be the same again. The only thing I wanted to do was grab what we could and get out quickly.  We managed to scrounge up a few gallons of gasoline, though not much else. With the crows in the sky, and slim pickings in the town, there was no point bringing the whole group down.

“Better than nothing,” Jim said on our way back to the caravan.

Hmmm I grunted in agreement.

“Maybe the next town’ll be better, yaknowhuamsayin’?”

Mmm I grunted in disagreement.

Whenever he and I got alone together he never shut the fuck up.  Jim fired off one line after another, a quick sentence here and there trying to spark off something like a conversation.  He probably wanted us to be friendly if not friends.  Maybe he figured one might lead to the other.  I only know I didn’t give a fuck.  I made it a point not to speak to him.

We were walking single file, Jim a few steps ahead of me.  Our attention on the crows, neither of us noticed the figure crouched in a nearby tree. We detected it the moment it pounced on Jim. My first reaction: “There is a god, and she loves me.” I recognized the creature right away. Skeletally thin with long greasy silvery hair, eyes like polished tin, ivory skin: vampire. It knocked the gun out of Jim’s hand the second it hit him. I’ve seen people get hit by cars with less severity. I heard the sickening crunch-crackle as its jaw unhinged exposing a mouthful of crooked needle teeth.  The night terror hissed at me, and for a moment I thought, ‘Why do anything?’ It would’ve been so easy to simply let it kill Jim.  Done. Problem solved. Fuck him anyway.  But when I looked at Jim I didn’t see anything defiant.  There wasn’t a hint of the unflappable action hero he so often claimed to be. Instead, he looked scared out of his mind. So I shot the vampire in the face, blew its jaw clean off.  The bloodsucker ran off into the woods howling.  Still, the damage was already done.

When the vampire pounced on Jim it broke most of his ribs. Two snapped right into his lung.  It was only a matter of time before he either bled to death or drowned in his own blood. He tried sitting up only to collapse back in agony.  Then Jim cried. I don’t mean a few tears quietly fell. He turned into a blubbering fountain twisting in the dirt moaning, “Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh shit. Shit. I’m… I’m fucking dying man.” Every trace of his gravely voice gone, he sounded more like a teenage boy barely into puberty. Puppies make less pitiful sounds.

And I won’t lie. I wanted to laugh. Aren’t heroes supposed to die with dignity? I even got down on one knee all ready to gloat. Then he grabbed me by the wrist. I’ve never felt someone grab me like that -- literally holding on for life. He coughed blood up across his face, and I thought about Amy back when this all started. Because of her I recognized his expression, a mingling of desperation and terror.

So I said to him, “It’s going to be alright.”

He shook his head, “All my training… Call of Duty…”

“I like that game,” I said, wiping his face clean with my shirt sleeve.

“I love it,” he gasped, “Love it…” He shivered due to a spasm of pain. Feeling his grip on me slacken, I took hold of his hand. Eyes shut Jim whispered, “Fake it till you make it.” He coughed, gargling up a fresh coat of red. I cleaned him again. He said, “Fake it till ya… that’s what Mom said… I couldn’t survive… not this… I had to be… not me… anyone but me…”

“We’re still alive because of you,” I said.

Jim smiled briefly. He stopped crying. Then he said, “Don‘t tell… Moira.” And those were his last words.

I carried his body back to the caravan. The walk gave me time to think. I considered telling them all the truth.  Giddily, I envisioned every which way their faces would fall apart when they realized their hero was anything but. I imagined growing a three foot schadenfraude-boner to bludgeon the burgeoning legend of Jim into the dust… and then what? some part of me asked.   Well, obviously the group would have nothing left to believe in, so logically depression would inevitably envelope them all to the point they simply either shutdown to a suicidal degree or made stupid mistakes with the intention of dying. In other words, the loss would kill my friends. It didn’t matter what Jim was as much as what they thought of him as. He made survival seem possible; and it dawned on me for the first time in a year that maybe they all saw through him too, but his determined optimism, inspired by a lifetime of action movies and video games, actually made the others believe there was hope; Jim gave them permission to ignore reality. All I ever did was try to drag them back to the grim truth.

So, when I got back to camp, I told them all the story of how the vampire attacked me from behind. Then Jim spun around. Shooting from the hip he blew its jaw off right before the bloodsucker bit me. Wounded but not dead, the vampire went after Jim.  Jim cut out the fiend’s black heart with his knife (which I took the time to stain with Jim’s own blood for a measure of authenticity), however, as he did so the nosferatu hammered his chest with punishing blows.  I told them he only just collapsed on the edge of camp, having walked over a mile while his lungs filled with blood, never once uttering a complaint.

The next morning Nate asked, “So what do we do now?”

I glanced at Matty, “What do you think we should do?”

She shrugged, “Jim kind of talked sometimes like maybe we should go to Alaska.”

“Yeah,” Zoe remembered, “He said there would be fish and animals to hunt and not a lot of people.”

“What about the cold?” Moira said.

I said, “We’ll figure it out. If Jim thought it was a good idea then we should give it a try.”

“Hell yeah.” Nate punched me in the shoulder.

Moira cast a sidewise glance my way. She shook her head but agreed,“Fuck it. It can‘t be any worse than anywhere else.”

Aliens in flying saucers firing green death rays at anything that moves.  Nate is starting to wonder if the silent siblings are actually ghosts (and I think he might be right).  Trolls roam the north woods.  Sharks swimming through the desert sands. Bloodthirsty Sasquatch, lizard people in Las Vegas, goblins along the western Canadian coast, rumors of dinosaurs in plate armor, and last week we ran into a zombie-werewolf-vampire.  But we’re going to make it.  Like Jim might say, “It’s only weird cuz you ain’t used to it. Tomorrow, it gets everyday easy, yaknowhuamsayin’?”

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Right Time

Clean Up with Dirt

Great Excerpts: Naked Lunch

A Hero, A Leader... Anyone but Me -- part 3

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