Wednesday, April 24, 2013

An ode to the night

An ode to the night.

You rob me of my sight, my ears prick and strain at every sound in the night; are they beasts or phantoms that wish to prey on me this night.  I stumble and trip upon the litter you scatter and leave for me when I lose my sight.  You come with silenced speed; the light of day rapidly dimming screaming it’s almost the hour of night; I scurry about before the coming of the night making sure my defenses are up to the fight.  I fear the darkness you bring, all those things I cannot see with my poor human sight.  My human ability to smell proves to be a heartless cry; I cannot tell who is just out of sight, creeping towards me in your blanket that steals my sight. The tricks you play on me make my flesh tremble with fright; I damn you each and every minute of the night.  I huddle in my hut afraid of your might, my bedding pulled so very tight, I toss and turn all through the night.
 I have sleepy days and sleepless nights.

The morning sun brings me cheer that I’m still alive; I will hunt you all the hours of the light, if I find you death will be your plight.

From the Ramblings

Monday, April 8, 2013

I am painted

I am painted.

I am painted; my body is but a canvas of my life, imagines of those lost and things to be remembered.  My flesh cut then healed prays the true color of my faith; red, black, white and blue, these are the colors which mark me.  A name, an inscription a memorial to those who have fallen.  My skin shows those and that which are important to my very being.  Permanence of color a picture story of my integrity, my love for those living and lost.  Don’t be shock by what you see; these are things that make me who I am.  These are the images that have carved my soul before you.  Love me and I shall love you forever in return.

 My skin is marked; this is who I am, respect my colors.

From the Ramblings


It's a job

It’s a job.

I have a calling card so to speak, that of leaving three in the head and one in the heart.  I’ve heard some guys leave slashes with a knife making an “x”; some their initials.  I think that’s silly.  I don’t mind the wet work but cutting one’s initials in the mark is just a bit too much for my likings.

I had a job once to end the life of a round heeled bitch of an acquaintance of mine.  She knew the score the minute she saw me.  Two thousand bucks was lot money even back then just to plug a friend’s bitch, but he wanted her gone; gone for good.  He was a bit more than pissed at her for running around on him.  The big two grand pay day proved that to me.

She begged me not to mess her face up.  Gee how one’s fame gets around.  I promised her and plugged one into her heart.  Since she was dead I figured what the hell and put my three calling cards in her forehead.  So much for begging, I got a paying customer to keep happy; besides he’s a friend of mine.

People are funny; let them get a little close to you and they start asking all kinds of fucking stupid questions.  “What was your hardest job?”  “Do you enjoy killing people?” Really?  What the fuck is that?  I answered with three to their stupid heads and one to the stinking heart; I hate people.  Sometimes I wonder if I might have a problem.

I’ve had a few girl friends over the years; blondes mostly.  I don’t know why but the blond ones just seem to be what I’m drawn to.  Pretty faces, killer bodies; some with smarts, some dumb as a box of rocks.  They think it’s exciting what I do for a living.  Most I tire of and leave my calling card on their heads; whatever.
I ran into this one broad that talked without taking a breath for hours about how she did this and did that. Blah Blah Blah.  Turns out she went to school to be a head doctor.  She was all over me with questions.  She wanted to make me her lab rat.  That bitch could talk a mile a minute and didn’t shut up until I put the first one right between her pretty blue eyes.  I hate the fucking doctor types.  All questions; how does that make you feel?  Did you fuck your mother?

My worst job was this uppity rich fuck.  Five thousand bucks to end his miserable life.  Usually your mark has a schedule that they live their pitiful lives by.  This ass was all over the board.  Never a set time leaving for work, lunch anywhere from noon to three, never home after the five o’clock hour, nope not this one, he’d leave for work anywhere between eight and eleven.  Two hour lunches, longer if he was banging some new bitch.  Home at all hours of the evening.  He was driving me crazy.  I had to get this job done; I had other business to take care of.  Giving up I made an appointment with his secretary for three in the afternoon.  She led me in and sure enough dumb ass was sitting like a stuffed duck behind his over large ego desk.  I took a seat as offered; the one on the right.  Big shot started into his gaggle and I pulled my gun out screwing the silencer on the barrel.  He watched the whole thing not missing a word of his spiel.  I think he only figured it out when I sighted down the barrel and my first round hit his forehead.  I thanked the front desk girl on the way out.

Jobs don’t always go as one might want.  I had this one guy that was paying a thousand and a half.  It was mid winter and the streets were slick with ice.  I followed him up 2nd avenue and just before he went into a café I tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned just as planned.  I had my barrel two inches from his forehead when I slipped on the ice and landed on my ass.  Eyes the size of dinner plates he turned on his heel and jerked the door open.  Thinking he’d make it into the restaurant and maybe out the back door; who fucking knows.  He made two steps before I had my gun up and firing into his ass.  The rounds pushed him into the café and he landed five feet right in front of the bar.  I was so fucking pissed at falling on my ass I gave him four in the head.  I demanded and got seventeen hundred for the job.

I tried to retire once.  Thousands in the bank from hundreds of jobs over the years.  The calls just kept coming.  I raised my rates; turned down all but the ones that might be a challenge.  The calls and jobs just wouldn’t stop.  I started to take only jobs that had multiple hits to accomplish; they paid the best.  You want the whole front Office killed, I was your man.

I really only remember one job; the rest are just numbers, moments to be forgotten the same every time.  It was a Tuesday morning; seventh of March if I remember right.  The lottery was up to twenty two million seven hundred thousand.  Not a record but damn close.  Two weeks after the winners were announced my private phone was ringing off its hooks.  Silly fucker forgot, neglected to put his ten bucks into the business pool.  They’d won fair and square; he wanted them all dead.  I took the job for ten thousand bucks cash, all up front.  It was easy really; they had a party to celebrate their good fortune.  I walked in with the caterer and faked myself as a photographer.  As they were blowing out the candles I was blowing out their brains with a full auto MP5 I’d stolen from the local Police department.  Going through two full mags, I had to do some cleaning up with my side arm.  I was in and out in only five minutes.  That’s a good hourly wage if you ask me.

There’s this building up on 43rd Street that some rich guy is fixing up and turning it into an apartment building.  I liked the location so I bought a floor.  The whole damn thing ten thousand square feet; living in style now.  I’ve semi-retired, I’ve only been doing a job about every other month.

Bought a cat; furry little fuck but she loves me and wants my lap every minute I’m home.  I’m thinking of putting in a pistol range; movie theater too.  I don’t go out much, only if the weather is sunny and warm. The cleaning lady asked me the other day if I’d been sleeping ok.  I about gagged; she die if she knew how I made all my money.  No doubt about it, she’d die for sure.

I sleep just fine; to me it’s a job, I got no worries.

From the Ramblings


Sunday, April 7, 2013

I’m a Centurion

I’m a Centurion.

I am a humble Centurion of Roman rank one hundred men under my command.  This has been my job for the last twenty four years
We woke three hours before dawn readying for the days battle.  We are but a blink of the thousands of commands readying around us for the bloodshed to begin.  I worry not; we’ve defeated Army’s twice the size of today’s challenge.
One hour to light we finish our morning meal and help each other into armor.  Chest plate squeezing shortening my breath I walk among my men checking armor, weapons shields.  This day will test the heart of my most seasoned of men.  Our foe numbers in the thousands, hundreds of archers, countless mounted cavalry.  This is the fight we’ve trained for over countless months, some years.  One can taste the excitement in the air within the troops.  Men; boys jumping, crashing into one another unable to contain the exuberance of the coming battle, Seasoned warriors laughing, punching the young and untried of battle remembering the first time they ran to fight, sweat on brow, sword hand aching to kill the enemy. As the time comes near I caution them to hold ranks regardless of twist and turn of the battle.  Our strength lies in unity, precession attacks, retreats, thrusts. I warn that our quarter will be challenged this day by cavalry and archers will fill the air with their death.  To this I receive cheers and banging of shields.  My men are as ready as they will ever be.

Morning light winks over the far hills, small wisps of clouds dance on gentle breezes.  It is a good day to die.

Taking our place among the scores of units, I glance left and right.  I see fellow Centurions from distant battles squaring their ranks, calling orders above the chatter of warriors.  To our front hundreds of yards in the distance are the hoards of barbarians.  It isn’t easy to estimate their numbers but one could easily say they were in their thousands.  Cavalry units mixed in between mobs of foot soldiers, archers at the lead counted in the hundreds.   Surprising was the discipline of movement.  The weight of their army was to our left, but as a whole they moved to center, facing our troops squarely. Having the morning sun in our face we lowered shields with precision reflected the morning sun directly into their eyes.  With the blinding light we could see numerous hands rise to block the glare.  A faint but clear laugh rose in the ranks.

A horn sounded the command to begin marching toward the countless ranks of barbarians.  Our lines were perfection of evenness. We marched as one; towards the hordes, no one a head, and no one behind the moving line of death.  Three hundred yards out their archers released their arrows.  Our ranks knelt raising shields to the sky as thousands of deadly arrows sought flesh and bone.  Two units on our far right broke the line rushing the left flank of the archers.  Cutting them down in scores those remaining fled back into the ranks of their foot soldiers, bodies lay everywhere. Our two units covered in blood smoothly returned to their position in the advancing ranks. 

We halted our march just long enough to break the arrow shafts from our shields.  Some had few, others looked like porcupines. Checking for casualties we suffered few, mostly nicks and small cuts from ricocheting arrows.

I motioned an adjoining Centurion and we met behind the ranks of our soldiers.  “Ah a good morning Maximus, you look well today.” “That I am” he said with a pat on the back.  “I’m curious they seem to have some training but made no move to protect their archers?” “They are barbarians and only fight for their own tribes; a few hundred dead archers from another tribe makes no problem for them” Maximus said shaking his head. “I’m a little worried by the number of cavalry we’ve seen.”  Maximas with a hearty laugh said “Cavalry are only as good as the horse is trained.  We have a few surprises for them, we will see if they’ve trained their horses well.”

With the sounding of the horn I rejoined my men and we in unison moved forward.  Shields aiming the morning sun again into their eyes.

Two long, one short blast of the horn warned of a cavalry charge coming from the North.  Stopping our forward march, seven units swung to the rear forming an “L” shape of defensive line. Over a small hill came two hundred mounted men; horses running at top speed towards our new formed line.  Seven lines deep knelt, shields edge to edge, long lances dug into the dirt.  On they came with idea of running horses over our men.  Seeing a solid line horses jumped landing four to five deep into the line.  Rider and horse were pulled to the ground; a pink fog drifted over the rear lines.  Center group seven to twelve broke rank in a large unit movement, in minutes the barbarian horsemen were surrounded.  Our front line closed the gap left by the attacking units.  One through unit six squared the formation into a perfect square closing off any retreat.  The screams of men and horse filled the air.

 One loud horn blast started the forward motion of men, leaving behind the remains of men and horses moving our troops over and way from the piles of the dead.  Clear footing was needed for the advance.  Formations changing back to the normal triangle of attack we closed the distance to the hoards of warriors.  We had lost just fifty men to their hundreds.  As the distance between our troops and the hoards closed, faces became visible to the unaided eye.  Wild eyes were seen among the ranks, nervous men shuffled feet.  Leaders screamed orders at the top of lungs keeping the men together, working as a unit
A whistle so piercing it hurt the ears brought our physiological war to the battle.  Ten thousand men stomped their feet in unison, swords struck shields; very low menacing shouts shook the air.  “Meeehaah, stomp, bang of swords hitting shields.” So loud any attempt at shouting orders was useless; it was deafening.  The air vibrated “Meeehaah, stomp, bang of shields.” I could see numerous fighters take steps backwards.  What started as just a hint grew bigger and bigger spreading as one terrified soldier passed his fear to the next.  The Officers of the barbarians were useless, only being able to control soldiers close to him.  Unseen by the enemy we brought our archers up to the rear of our lines.  With a whistle they launched a thousand arrows into the sky.  Hundreds of unprotected men fell to the ground, some with just one arrow, and others with many.  Their lines were decimated by the surprise attack.  Horns blew three short one long the signal for full attack.  All ten thousand strong rushed forward knocking men to the ground with shields, swords hacking and slicing into their numbers.  Within minutes units broke left, right engulfing the entire Army of barbarians.  The circle of closing Roman soldiers stepped upon the bodies of the dead, making them seem even larger to the dead and soon to be dead
Several units broke off of the main attack and dispatched those still living within the thousands of dead.  Lame horses some with huge wounds limped among the dead. They too would be put down after the scores of wounded.  Our medics raced aid to our wounded, stopping gushing blood from sword wounds.  The cries of dying men filled the air.

Two hours of search and kill silenced the battle field.  Soldiers chased down wounded horses one by one killing them all. 

I had seen this before being in my mid forties with many battles under my belt. It never seemed to stop unnerving me the cleansing of the field.  We asked no quarter and gave none.  Our enemy was defeated to the last man.  A few had been able to sneak through both ranks of fighting men and make a run for the forests.  This was anticipated and they too were cut down by our own cavalry one after another.  No warrior was allowed to leave the killing fields, their defeat was complete.  Let those at home wonder their fate, hundreds if not thousands massed, not one returned.

Glory is the Roman Army.

From the Ramblings


Saturday, April 6, 2013

Blessed be our Mary

Blessed be our Mary.

I was very saddened by the lost of our Mary, disheartened; she was a destined to be a saint of our struggle.  She had come to us as a mere child; borne during the early years of the war knowing nothing else but the whine of the bullet and the thump of the mortar.
I was fighting with the seventh group South Jihad; our warriors had some limited experience but none with more than a month on the front and none with a know victory.  It was early May and we all felt as though the war was beginning to turn our way, having a selected few victories was a heady experience for untrained troops.  We’d over run the airport and were closing in on the States Military Academy.  Twenty casualties were high for a group of only seventy soldiers but we kept our fear to ourselves and prayed that we might fight on for months to come.  The opposing soldiers of the State Government had much better weapons and air assents that stopped our attacks before they even began, much short of goals wished accomplish.  Our leaders pushed us on, but you can’t move forward when every time one looks up to shoot; a sniper cuts them down in their place.  The States tanks were just a nuisance; we snuck up on them with RPG’s and blew them up one by one.  We rallied and shouted praise to God every time we blew up one of the Russian tanks.  The snipers were the worst, we’d move forward without challenge and then man after man would die at the hands of the snipers.  Progress was at a snail’s pace if you wanted to live.

Mary came to us February 1st 2013 as a small crying defenseless bloodied child; her mother had been the victim of one of the snipers, shot through the chest but still holding her child to her bosom.  Two of our Soldiers risked it all to grab the child from her dead mother.  Mary was covered with dust, bleeding from numerous nicks and cuts she sustained from the bombardment.  Our Medic Joseph fixed her up and wrapped her wounds.  Joseph tried in vain to keep Mary in her bunk but she would have none of it.  She was up running end to end of the medical unit talking to each and every one of our wounded comrades.    Mary’s blood still seeping filling the bandages that were wrapped on her small frame.  Over the next few days she was known though out the brigade as the sister of the wounded.  She would move from bunk to bunk giving comfort and a prayer of hope.  Dying soldiers soon began to ask for Mary’s blessings; she made her rounds twice a day and spoke to every soldier giving comfort and her blessings.

Our make shift hospital was overrun by the State on May 28th they killed every wounded soldier in his bunk.  Mary cried for hours as we ran east away from the crushing offensive.  Mary being carried upon a running soldiers shoulder cried and pleaded that we return and save her friends from the coming death.
We tried to console her explaining that we could not save those she loved without being killed ourselves.  She cried and cried believing she could somehow save them.  She cried of lost souls unknown for each and every one of them. 

Mary soon stopped talking her anguish at losing so many close friends over whelmed her.  We all worried that she was lost to the war, her spirit being crushed by the constant killing and gravely wounded soldiers.  We tried to persuade her to talk; talking about those lost and those that had been saved by her prayers.  Mary remained silent only nodding her understanding of our efforts.

June brought much fighting in our district.  The number of killed and wounded mounted as the month came to an end.  We all spent much time worrying of our Mary.  Patrols would leave asking the blessing of Mary.  She would just look at the ground and shed a tear at her feet.  She would not wave an arm or glance at the soldiers leaving for the front.  Tears were her only sign that she recognized that another group of fighters were leaving to engage hostile forces.

At the start of summer July of 2013 news came that America was entering the war and giving weapons and supplies to the revolution.  This brought much celebration to our troops but only seemed to intensify the weeping and heart ache of Mary.  Her strength was vanishing by the day.  Sorrow was killing her slowly day by day as we watched. 

On July 4th 2013 at squad of American Special Forces arrived in our compound.  A female soldier of the American’s embraced our Mary and after many minutes of embrace Mary showed a small but clear smile.  Our troops in attendance shouted “God is Great” “Bless Mary the caretaker of wounded”  “God is Great” A great celebration took place.

The war ended shortly after the new years.  Mary accepted an invitation to leave with the American’s her new home being in the state of Texas.  She has been accepted into a college of Texas and will study medicine and political science.

It is said she will return to our Country in the future.  She still mourns the dead and pray’s the gods the salvation of the living. 

May Mary’s blessing be upon you.

God is great, god is great, god is great……. blessed be those that wept upon our blessed Mary.

From the Ramblings

Friday, April 5, 2013

Icky Abe Part 2

Icky Abe Part 2 

The birth of the man named “Torcher”.

Icky Abe had just delivered his new born, a flickering of flame, so weak, so very tiny.  He blew gently, oh so gently; just a soft puff, enough to give life but not enough to cause his baby any undue stress.  His infant flame being just born, so new and in need a soft touch to grow to became stronger, growing slowly minute by minute.

Icky knew that the air held very little moisture; quite dry for this time of year.  He placed just a few dry tenders at his babies feet; not too much, not too little.  The flame was catching and with just the slightest of help it would grow into an inferno in minutes.   Maybe it would become a configuration; this being Ickys’ ultimate dream, the height of his accomplishments a ragging inferno the likes the West had never seen.   Icky had two fatal fires to his record; one being his mother Ruth Ann and later Isaac the youngest of the Newman family.  Icky had found his talent useful in removing those that had done him wrong in a flamboyant flaming way.

Icky Abe born Abram Willis Durk suffered being a rejected child; beaten by his mother, bullied by class mates, he was always a sickly skinny child.  Icky labored to scrounge the garbage cans of the small city of Bishop Creek, Washington by order of his mother Ruth Ann for scraps to feed himself and his disabled mother.  Icky discovered as a young boy being forced to be the constant companion of the town’s garbage dump the instrument of fire.  He found he was able to take a small smoky fire, regardless of its weakness or conditions and turn it into a full blown inferno in just a matter of minutes.  Wet, packed tightly, caked with mud, no wind, it didn’t matter to Icky, and he was able to nurture a spark to an inferno in the most difficult conditions.  He was a natural arsonist.   
Bishop Creek was just a few hours from the bustling Sea Port of Seattle.  Being a small town having just seven students in classes ranging from first grade to the eighth grade; it didn’t take long for a student to witness Abram going through the town’s trash and coined his hated name of Icky Abe.  Icky Abe burnt down the student’s house for pay back, a grand pay back of which he watched along with the people of Bishop Creek.  Being without a fire house, Bishop Creek residents watched the Newman house burn to the ground.  It was the only choice the people had.  It was very clear to anyone watching the inferno who had set the fire as Icky Abe danced, pranced and ejaculated in his pants at the excitement of the flames.  He went completely hysterical at seeing Isaac the youngest of the Newman family exit the house engulfed in flames.

Icky knowing that he’d never be allowed to live in Bishop Creek burnt down the towns Postal Office and the last standing building of his childhood on his way out of town.  With the light of the burning Bishop Creek Post Office as a back light Icky headed south, a quick wave of one middle finger riding high, Icky distanced himself from the choking smoke of his youth and declared his name to be “Torcher” a man’s name from here forward. 

Torcher’ walked miles upon miles, at a few times he was able to catch rides with tradesmen making their way south to the Port cities of Portland and Astoria.   Never minding the cold rains of fall or winter snows Torcher was able to nurse fires to life and was very much appreciated by the tradesmen that he travel with.  Being put to work with his new found friends he had plenty to eat and lost the sickly snotty child he was and filled out to be a healthy young man of sixteen.  

Working in Portland he mopped floors and cleaned up the back rooms of the working girls.  Torcher found that he had little want of flesh upon flesh; his love being that which made sparks fly and smoke fill the air.
Tiring of the thankless work and comings and goings of the girls he called family; he left Portland and headed further south.  The next big city he wanted to see was San Francisco.  He had heard much about the city from the working girls.  Most traveled the coast from Los Angeles to Seattle working in brothels along the way, then turning around and working their way back south along the coastal highways.  He had an idea that would not leave his head concerning the location of the city of San Francisco.  The tails he heard of the morning and evening winds sparked a thought in his mind that just wouldn’t rest.  A plan was forming that only he knew no one else would hear his plans.

Torcher arrived in San Francisco late in March of 1906.  Wandering the streets looking for work and a place to stay he couldn’t help but notice things that most people would dismiss as the norm.  That being the uncanny natural breeze that worked its way morning and night from the south to the north like clockwork every day without misses.  It started each day with a faint movement of air and then worked it’s self into a gusty blowing being only taking pause in mid day and then returning after a rest to blow even harder in the early evening.

 He tasted the air wet, heavy with salt from the ocean, but he found that the salt dried the wooden planks he walked on to near bone dry.  Checking the buildings sidings from the boardwalk next to the bay to the top of the high hills, he found that most buildings were tender dry boxes waiting for one with a plan and a match.
The first of April came and went with Torcher unable to find work or housing.  He began to think that the city rejected him as the people of Bishop Creek had rejected him years before.  Anger and frustration took its toll on him as he hadn’t the time to devote to his true love in this city of unwelcome.

The plan came together one morning as he made his way down from the highest hill in San Francisco heading to the bay front to again ask of work another day.  The wind was at his back and growing stronger as he made his way down twisting streets.  He imagined a small start just a flicker of flame just might work its way from the heights to the bay, maybe beyond if placed in just the right spot if he could just find that spot.  Forgetting anything to do with work or a place to stay out of the soaking fog and rain, Torcher turned on his heel and headed back the way he’d come.  Working east and then west slowly he worked the wind. After hours of work he finally discovering the vortex of the prevailing wind the exact spot to which it came and worked its wings every morning and evening.  Happy with his discovery he returned to his shanty dwelling and made lunch.  His plan now in place he ate and waited, resting knowing the next morning would be one of work and a hasty retreat.  Visions of Armageddon filled his dreams.

The morning woke with thick fog and a tremor in the air.   Torcher walked in cloaked shadows to his place of delivery, a birth of fire, cleansing the lands of buildings people and clutter.  Looking around seeing not a soul, he placed his small bundle of dried moss and twigs under the siding of a long forgotten Hotel on the upper edge of the heights above the city of San Francisco.  It started with just a whiff of a breeze, gently, barley able to feel on the cheek of one’s face.  Torcher lit the spark of fire as the ocean breeze breathed its first breath of morning.  Spark became flame, flame became full live fire.  Toucher watched as his off spring jumped to life.  The siding of the dilapidated hotel sprang into snapping tender.  Fire rose quickly up the sides of the building and along the side walls.  Jumping from the roof to the next building it gave birth to a new spark of life.  Torcher ran along the streets watching as his child grew and grew.  Spreading quickly from one building to another the fire exploded under the morning breeze.  Torcher had to run at full speed just to keep up with the speed of its growth.  Sparks flew in the increasing wind.  At Seventy Second Street the fire had a large gap to jump to continue its rapid advance towards the bay.  With little to no delay the fire cast embers to the adjacent building catching the drapes of one apartment and instantly bellowing into an inferno. Torcher watched as the fire jumped from one block to the next, this was becoming his greatest feat.
Racing along Fourth Street with his eyes watching high as his fire raced along the roof tops, Torcher tripped on a curb and fell face first on the cobble stones.  As he wrenched himself up on one elbow the ground began to shake.  Harder and harder as the minutes passed the shaking grew stronger.
Lying on his back he bounced along the cobble stones keeping eye on his growing fire as it jumped from roof top to roof top.  Shards of glass rained down from the failing buildings, stones came loose and fell also.  One large facade of a beautiful building broke loose under the shaking ground and impaled Torcher through his chest.  With his last breath he watched as his fire jumped to the next block and raced along.

San Francisco was completely destroyed in the fire and earth quake that April day.  History knows not that the San Francisco fire was set by a boy from a small town in Washington State, an abused boy wanting to even the score of his childhood.

From the Ramblings