NEW CHAP

“Bet you’ve never seen trees like that!” Terry, Art’s father said releasing his pale right hand from the steering wheel and pointing to a distant green fur on the mountain range they had been approaching for the last hour.

“Ya.” Art replied as he re-adjusted himself in the passenger seat.  He was excited but didn’t know how to show it. It wasn’t the sort of thing ten year old Art was used to being excited about. It wasn’t a new Sim. A new Cloud-buster. A new Vis-chip. It was a bunch of trees. Ofcourse he had seen trees, plenty, but never so many backed up against one another. His eyes brushed back and forth over their tips, surveying them for some break in projected graphics. But there were none.

“Those are the real thing kid, hundreds of years old. My father used to take me here every summer. Parks gotten a lot smaller since then but its still the same place.” His father said. There was something in his voice Art had never heard before. Some level of pride book ended by hesitance. Almost worry. “There used to be parks like this all over the country. I really wish I could have seen them all.” He paused and looked out at the forest before them. “ You’ve never seen a real bear have you?” His father suddenly exclaimed, splitting his grey beard with a child’s smile.

“We saw one at the zoo. Remember the big one who was sleeping?” Art didn’t know that bear was almost always sleeping.

“No no its different in nature. These are real bears. Wild. Well find one ill show you.” Art’s father sat up in his seat and ran his hands up and down around the wheel, leaning forward into the road.

Art had been learning about the old national park system in school and found the subject wildly boring. Some Old man called Jim Mirror or something had stopped everyone from building new buildings and roads to preserve a section of wilderness. It didn’t make much sense to him. It seemed like a waste.

As they passed the last ‘Coulier Group Motor Trail’ Sign and came to ‘The Coulier Group Welcome Road Gateway’, Art began to realize why that Mirror guy had tried to save this place. It was beautiful. Art wanted to say so but he was too shy. He wasn’t old enough to say ‘Beautiful’ out loud. He said it to himself.

After paying the $347 dollar camping fee Art and his father found a campsite and unloaded the truck.

‘Theres nothing here’ Art thought tossing tent poles onto the pile of Arachnylon his father said was their tent. ‘Theres no lights?’ He asked his father without opening his mouth. ‘ Theres no bathroom…There’s a bathroom. You cant stay somewhere without a bathroom. NO ONE would let you do that. Its underground. That’s probably where everything is.’ He decided starring at the flat dirt of their camp. His thoughts were interrupted by the peripheral image of his father pulling a hatchet from his knapsack.

“Dad why do you have an Axe?” Art asked , taken aback.

“Its going to get cold kid. Real fuckin cold. Were gonna need wood for our fire. Ill teach you how to use it.” His father replied.

This was going to be a fun trip. Only fun Dad said ‘Fuck’.

Over the next two days Art and his father hiked through the park, stopping and taking time. Something Art had never truly experienced. His father taught him more in those two days than Art had learned in his entire life.Real skills, not just facts. Practical things Art knew he would use for the rest of his life. Or hoped he would.

They had been keeping  an eye out for the bear wherever they went. His father would stop and turn the flat of his hand to face back, in a half crouch, scanning the landscape. Art stopped out of fear, and his father out of an excitement the man thought could only exist in memory. Art was terrified but as the days and lessons went on he became more enchanted with the idea of seeing something truly wild. Every fantasy was peppered with images of white teeth wet with blood, tearing his limbs apart, red muscle glowing in the sun. The sound of his father’s back connecting with a bed of pin needles. Their last screams. He told himself the only re-assurance he had ever heard: “Too many Sims, the world isn’t really like that.”

It was day three when they saw the bear.

Art’s father had taken him on what seemed to be a death march up the steepest incline anyone had ever endured. They were headed to the smaller of the two lakes in the park- ‘Lake Morris’. Art kept his mind fluid with humor. He imagined a massive escalator bypassing the trail, progressing effortlessly to the plateau where the lake kept itself wet. Dreams of some elevator inside the mountain, rimmed with cushioned leather seats, walls adorned with screens showing the latest Sim highlights.

By the time they reached the top he forgot it all.He was too tired to think. It was one foot after the other, one breath then the next. He felt the trail level out and looked up for the first time in what seemed like hours. It was amazing. Looking over the park he could see and expanse of unadulterated wilderness no Sim could duplicate. No photograph could portray. No description could describe. He almost felt bold enough to say that it was ‘Beautiful’ outloud. But he held back again.

“Come on kid, Lakes just past those pines.” His father said. His voice trailed off as he kept the pace.

They pushed through the trees and brush, bypassing the winding path that would serve only to slow them down. As Art caught his breath he filled his lungs with a breath of cold air and felt his heart jump. The water became clear. Such a calm and flat sheet of dark blue anything he had never seen. It was natural yet somehow more perfect and smooth than any plasteel window he had ever seen.

“There!” His father shouted shooting his tan left hand forward to point at an all at once massive but silent and shinning beast. There it was. The bear. The creature moved with such ease Art wondered why man had even bothered to mechanize anything. The bear in the zoo didn’t move much at all. It  now seemed that caged marvel of nature served only to hold down the concrete beneath in place. The bears in his hunting Sims moved like people, without anything near this level of finesse. The pictures he had seen of brown bears made it seem as though they traveled with a heavy footed stomp that could shake the earth. This bear didn’t make a sound as it sprinted from the tree line to the Lake’s shore and dove in.

“They can swim?” art shouted dropping his walking stick.

His father’s hand fell to his side as he crouched. “ Oh they can swim kid, watch.”

The bear (Pedaled into the mountain sea, head just above water) swam -less gracefully than it sprinted but still moved with surprising ease through the water. Upsetting the liquid crystal as it made its way toward the center of the lake.

“Now where the hell is he going?” His father pondered aloud.

Art’s eyes darted back and forth between the bear and his fathers face, unintentionally gauging how to react to something so amazing and new.

His fathers face contorted in disapproval. This was something Art had seen before. Homework, messy room, broken dishes. The first familiar image he had absorbed since they hit the dirt.

“Jesus fucking Christ really? Godamnit.” Art’s father said standing again. “Why do we have to fucking ruin everything. Godamnit.” His hand met a wrinkled city brow.

Art looked (ahead to see where the bear was going) where the bear was swimming . A mass of Mylar bags and Dorito mulch had amassed at the center of the lake. The sight of trash was for jarring for the first time. Something Art had seen every day of his life was now so  surprisingly foreign and offensive. The bear reached the island of litter and began to lick and nibble at the trash.

Art’s father hung his head, looking up from time to time to reaffirm his disbelief.

“They eat trash?” Art asked quietly. He knew they didn’t. Or shouldn’t.

The bear became less graceful, and while it didn’t emote in the same way Art’s friends and family did, he could see it was afraid.

“Dad what’s happening?” Art asked taking a few steps closer.

The once flawless beast began to thrash and (Gag) roar. This was going wrong. Art started crying.

The bear had ventured too far into the lake and was losing energy. Water began to flood its mouth and throat, coughing clear water back and forth. Sucked in through its maw and ejected from the snout. And then it was gone. The lake was calm.

They packed up the campsite and hit the ‘Coulier Group Fond Farewell Trail’ without speaking a word.

“It was beautiful Dad, Before, you know” Art said looking out his window.

Dad didn’t say much after that.

Nineteen years later Art was sitting in the apartment of his supplier. He handed over a loaded credit chip.

“Got somethin new for ya this time. Sludge.” Crazy Chester his supplier said. He pulled a sheet of  perforated plastic-like material from the flat of a paper cutter and folded it in an accordion pattern.

“That time travel, shit your pants stuff?” Art replied.

“Yeah.”

Art’s phone rang. “Hold on.” He answered it.

“Im sorry to inform you that your girlfriend has taken her own life.” A nurse admitted from 17.9 miles away.

‘She was beautiful before, you know…’

Red White and Burbank- The itch you didn't know, the itch you couldn't scratch.

The itch we didn't know.
The itch we couldn't scratch.
The hockey stick,
The plastic gun,
The absence of the snatch.

In the electric blown out fog of my memory we were a roving band of hooligans.
Tyrants.

Plastic rifles and wooden Disneyland muskets on our backs, we patrolled Screenland drive as if we had vowed to protect it, and some other neighborhood sought to take it. Willing to pay the raspberry price.

Some other horde of pre pubescent miscreants with the implied firepower to overcome us at any moment.

Our block was sacred- not because we were told it was, but because it was ours. The treads of our power-wheels held this section of earth to the face of the planet, and without them it would be nothing. It would be Verdugo Blvd. grown-up waste. It would be the shitting grounds for big kid scum. It'd fall helplessly into the hands of "Dinner at six, bed by nine" parents who's retinas had been tattooed with the likeness of Lenny. Who's ear drums had been manipulated and shaped by the thunderous and unyielding 8 o'clock thunder of their "Law and Order" church bell wail.

We had a job to do. This block belonged to the kids. The Ninjas. The Basketball Allstars. The Street hockey kings in oversized black and white jerseys. The Commandos in ill fitting fatigues and big sister cammo face paint. The card merchants with an untold wealth in their deck. The Pog barrons with riches in their neon tubes.

Like any well trained unit we all had our roles to fill. There was, first and foremost, our leader- Garden Hose Greg. Greg was the oldest and had the experience and know-how to keep us alive when shit got hairy. We were all of variable age so he was elected leader by default. He had all the tricks. This motherfucker could fill a water-balloon faster than anyone i've ever met, to this day. And god damn if he wasn't a surgeon with the garden hose. Once saw him nail a kid four houses down and across the street without getting a drop on his chords. Then there was his sister- Donna. This girl had at least a year on all of us and knew how to use it. She could play both sides. Everyone wanted a little attention from the older girl, she could make you stupid with a glance. Next, ( in order of rank and age ) was Kyle. Sonofabitch was 3 times the size of the biggest guy in our unit and about half as bright. Wasn't much for strategy but just the sight of the boy would keep you at a distance. No one fucked with Kyle. After that was Rad. Now, Rad had a temper. He was the living, breathing definition of a 'Loose Cannon.' He'd follow the plans Greg laid out for a while then lose his shit on whoever was closest. It didn't always work out in our favor, (in fact most of the time one of us wound up at the wrong end of a rubber snake, or worse- a brick) but when his "Talents" did shine on our side it was as if we had harnessed a force of nature. In reality we didn't harness shit. Next up was Myself and the Tornado. We were the "Bash Bros".  Born on the same day, the same street, with the same reckless abandon, and an identical affinity for "the Mighty Ducks", Tornado and I were unstoppable.

We were a team from birth. While we were both members of the Screenland Dr. Militia (SDM) we had plenty of solo mischief under our belts. Me and the Tornado were the only two who had fully explored the catacombs and dungeons of our territory and lived to tell. We bore the scars of week long groundings.The memories of crawl-space beasts with 3 inch fangs and no souls. The wisdom of day long living room adventures into the mind, into territories unknown to most. Through lands of "Golf Magic" and past the four legged creatures native to every backyard in our territory. We were brothers and remain so till this day.

But the SDM wasn't without its peripheral soldiers. Every great army employs mercenaries.
The Gurkhas of the british, french, and foreign legion. The GalloGlass of Scotland, The Swiss guard of Vatican city. Yeah, we had our own.

There was Bloody Valentine from the Kenwood territory, He wasn't the kind of kid you brought to the front line but this guy had an arsenal to be reckoned with. Be it high-powered super soakers with extra ammunition capacity, to long range precision Nerf weaponry. This wasn't someone you wanted on your side, it was someone you couldn't win without. He was outside our lands but the ruler of an adjacent territory. He kept his lands quiet without raising a finger.

Some might disagree, but I am a fan of the mystical. I believe in an army without some sort of shamanistic sooth sayer at its aft is without conventional direction. A strategist can only get so far without someone who doesn't just think outside the box, but lives outside the fucker. We had a priest. Waxy. He was out of his mind but in tune with the out of tune chaos that surrounds us all. Waxy would show us what was and what wasn't. What could be and what couldn't. What was never, and possibly, what would be. He lived on the outer rim and a journey to his territory was more of a pilgrimage than a march. Only leaders were aloud. The Maple territory was absent void of combatants. It was neutral ground. A place for contemplation.

Our ranks were prepared for any foe, any invasion. We had the weaponry and the know how. We had the leadership, we had the Allies. We had the vehicles, siege engines- well, they did.

Bikes, roller blades, scooters and skateboards were more so recreational vehicles. Scouts would sometimes use bicycles on account of their speed an silence but PowerWheels were our war horses. Well- their war horses.

Greg, our General, had a jet black Jeep with room for a driver (Usually himself) and a gunner(More often than not his sister Donna). His machine was faster and more sleek than the rest of the convoy, and rightfully so. Kyle had a beast of a machine to match his physique. A bright red 4x4, lifted. This thing was scrapped and scarred to shit. Perfect as far as he was concerned. Rad had a low to the ground Ferrari with a gold stripe down the center. It was fast as hell but had pretty low battery life. Not a problem. So did he. Bloody Valentine had a silver BMW of some kind. This machine was so damn quiet he could make the alley run- back and forth- without a soul knowing. The vehicle was tops but his knowledge of those alleys is really what let him move so deftly bellow the radar. There were soft spots. Ridges and valleys. We could spot em on foot but V had the terrain memorized. Tornado's ride was similar to Kyle's but in better condition. It was red and a different model but served the same purpose: brute force. I would ride tail gunner a lot of the time but some operations required us to split up.

So I'd have to take my own ride.

My own ride?

No.

I didn't have my own ride.

Maybe it was because I never asked. Maybe I knew my parents couldn't afford a bullshit plastic battery powered car I would end up using for a year and a half. Maybe I was afraid if I asked for a bullshit plastic battery powered car and dint get it my life would end.

It Wasn't the Distraction, but the Bother.

It wasn't the sound of the train,

The constant or consistent churn of it's measured gears,

And careful path.

It wasn't the idea of an operator I couldn't understand,

With a path so plain before him,

So much weight behind him,

And so little to do.

It wasn't the half kept business hovel,

Occupied by landlords who kept their order,

Of currency and obligation,

Without the aesthetic to purchase dutiful faith,

And a sense of obligation.

But with tittle enough to sit in a filthy wheeled office chair,

And crack a whip,

Without raising a finger. 

It wasn't the cheap jug of drug store wine,

Round and loving,

Cradled by the fetus of my adulthood.

Emptied by the child of the upright bearded forever-untill-never.

It was the past-tense,

Easy and painted up,

Shinning like a new bike.

It was the nonexistent,

Ever present,

Always fading,

Never leaving.

It was the unbrushed hair of childhood,

Made to look intentional by backward eyes.

It was true love in the classroom,

Made to seem undying by the sound,

And texture,

Of a crumpled and miss spelled note.

It was the pocket hole in thrift store pants,

For a dumb girl's hand,

And an anxious boys cock.

It was the lunch bell,

That tore apart the most important conversation,

That had ever been ended.

But really it wasn't anything.

Because it still is.

And it will be.

I still think one day I'll see the future.

Despite my fetish for the past, 

Mt washington warzone

7 beers deep, sweating that good july sweat on a friends porch.

Redwood planks kissing the leather souls of my second hand kicks.

4 hours of fire works, illegall yet accepted pyro launched into the space between Mt washington and echo park.

We cooked these bombs up to show thanks and respect for those who gave their lives in order to make a home, a new country.

Fun bombs to stage a less violent reenactment of the bloodshed that led to our beautiful unyielding freedom.

plenty feel we glorify the violence humanity has adopted as a way of shuffling itself into order.

I dont feel violence needs glorification, there is an inherent glory in offering your life for an ideal.

This isnt a poem.

It isnt a story.

Its a calm, comfortable fuck you to those who wont accept that our life here in America, the greatest Nation in the world, was bourn of bloodshed, death and sacrifice.

Reality is dirty, get witht he times and salute the fucking flag

In the imortal words of Bullshit- I present to you...

In the immortal words of an unborn bullshitter,
I present to you:
The broken hammer handle.

In the drunken prose of a friendly stranger,
I pour on you:
Contents of an empty glass.

In the stuttering tattoo of a brain-dead philosopher,
I attempt to explain to you:
Once everything was nothing,
And now,
Nothing-
Is everything.

Bent,
Then straightened arms,
Pulling their way up.
Silver aluminum rungs,
Pushing their way down.
Summer sunburns growing,
                                            escaping.

A facade of yellow teeth,
Wind-struck on their behind.
A plastic pint,
A half warm beer,
Holding the last few circles of air,
To remain appealing.

An impression,
Rectangular,
Leaving behind the dense fur of cardboard.
Leaving behind a thin sheen,
Coating the calculated genetic hilltops of exposed muscle.
The shivers of mortal skin,
Shaking,
Creaking
Releasing,
Finding a nowhere shaped hole.

'Let them bleed and heal'
From an unkempt maw.
'It aint lumber, but it aint free'
From a more or less reformed criminal.
Breaking a hammer without a solid swing,
Takes a particular,
Lacking.

'Poor guy, he doesn't know his whiskey'
Sliding out of a proud child's mouth.
'Do you know where you are?'
Sing two lips, cracked and tanned by an age we couldn't remember.
White, clean skin,
Singing from a stool,
That could hold its tongue.
Bright blue eyes,
Wet round sockets,
An open and dangerous cunt,
Hovering,
And whispering nothing into a read pleather seat.

'Is t working? Is this real?'
From an angry,
love addict.
'Its real, its starting. Where am I standing?,'
'Where was I standing?'
From a happy,
Drug addict.
A mirror,
Holding the Mule self of a skinny,
Wanna-be,
Grown up.
A rented bed,
Cradling the Bi-Oceanic life organ
Of a hesitant,
Pensive,
And vicious
Huntress.

Swinging the steel action of an unchanging tool,
Collecting the sheets of a compromised,
And desperate,
World.

Drinking the corner out of hand-warmed plastic,
Gathering ounces of manufactured courage,
And thirsty for less,
More.

Squeezing a sphere of soil-bourne sugar,
Exploring the pillars of liquid someones god dreamed up,
And knowing their smell,
Taste.

Toil and the sweat cash,
It expels.

Recklessness and the dumb pride,
It offers.

Mindful mindlessness,
and the present nothingness it remembers to forget.

Hammers swing.

Glasses empty.

Tabs dissolve.

Earn.

Spend.

Forget.

Q
W
E

.

Pawn Scum Prom

INT. CHRYSLER -NIGHT

The warm glow of streetlights creates a strobe effect on leather jackets and pale hands grasping for a silver flask. We see the flask unscrewed by one hand and lifted out of a shaky frame by another. Wanda Jackson fills the cab with vibrating rock and roll.

JERRY

Hey asshole I opened it to drink it, not to watch you!

GLEN

Ahh whatever man, once you get wheels- you get first drink.

GLEN takes a swig, head back- not watching the road. His Pomp holds tight all but for one small lock coming lose in the front. The Chrysler swerves and the headlights of an oncoming car illuminate the cab. We now see the full band- "Jerry and the Only Ones" pilled 5 deep and covered in instruments and gear. Sketchy looking youngsters with more grease than the car they drove- in their hair.

JERRY

Hey watch it man!

GLEN

(Laughs)

BOBBY

Ey you keep driving like that well never make it to the dance!

JOEY

(Tossing a copy of teenagers from mars over his shoulder in shock)

I wanna get laid tonight man! Watch it!

GLEN

Cool it guys were fine. Another 2 miles and well be surrounded by skirts.

GLEN throws his arm over the leather bench seat, left hand on the wheel, right hand wiggling the flask in JOEYs face. GLEN takes his eyes off the road.

GLEN

You wanna get laid, your gonna have to stop bein such a PUSSY.

JOEY 

Man, I aint no-

JERRY

HEY WATCH THE FUCKIN ROAD!

BOBBY

FUCK! TRUCK FUCKIN ---TRUCK!

GLEN throws his right arm back over the seat to grab the wheel. The cab is once more illuminated everyone inside is stricken by a look of terror, except GLEN who looks into the lights as if he knew the driver of the big rig they faced would "Chicken". 

We see GLENs eyes in a close up. Everything is dark except a rectangle of light showing the lack of fear in the youngster's gaze.

JERRY

Turn you sonofabitch! TURN!

JERRY reaches over from the passengers seat and grabs the wheel- violently jerking it to the right, out of oncoming traffic, into the proper lane, and past.

GLEN

Damnit Jer-

We see the gang cover thier faces as the Cab is washed with headlights then goes dark.

WIDE SHOT EXT NIGHT- ANABEL'S PASS BRIDGE

We see the Chrysler slam through the railing of the bridge and plumet over the edge.

WIDE SHOT EXT NIGHT ANABEL'S PASS (CREEK)

We see the Chrysler violently meet the water and begin to sink. The car sinks. The music stops.

We cut to now  mostly calm water. Bubbles begin to rise. First many. Then fewer and fewer. Then calm.

A distorted lead guitar line tears apart the summer night- sinister and out of tune. We see a wet scalp begin to rise from the dark water. GLEN (Now DANZIG) emerges from the creek as if being lifted by the spirits of the damned. His Pomp is now destroyed and matted down into a singular lock running from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose. His eyes are now framed by black circles, Pond scum adorns his cheeks and shoulders as he emerges, yet somehow his filth looks groomed. The work of some demon barber. The rest of the band Rises with him and they stand-float- feet just bellow the waters edge. They appear dead yet remain living. DANZIG produces a crooked smile and looks up to the moon as it washes its light over their upright corpses.

CUT TO

EXT NIGHT ROAD ( JUST PASSED ANABEL'S PASS BRIDGE)

The band walks down the road in the direction of the dance. They drip dark green river water from their jeans and leather jackets. Destroyed instruments on their backs, they leave the glow of the street light and disappear into darkness.

CUT TO- 

INT  NIGHT GYM - SCHOOL DANCE

Teen girls in colourfull dress spin and shake in the arms of their sweethearts. Young men in flamboyant formal attire spin and swing their girls from side to side. Some confidently- some with nervous calculation. We see feet shuffle and scratch the gym floor.

Two exceptionally pretty Teens, JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER dance closer and slower than the crowd around them.

JOHNNY TENDER

Baby I want your soul

BETTY BOPPER

I need your soul!

The two embrace only to be torn apart by the GYM TEACHER in an ill fitting suit, still with his team cap on and a whistle around his neck

GYM TEACHER

Lets make our pastor proud- Leave room for jesus- and watch the floor will ya?

WIDE SHOT

we see the dance under way.

CUT TO 

the PRINCIPAL and his SECRETARY facing each other, leaning on the punch table. The PRINCIPAL is clearly stressed, soaked in sweat, trying to keep his comb over in order. The SECRETARY is twitchy and eager to please leaning in to comfort the unaware PRINCIPAL.

PRINCIPAL

Where the hell are these guys!....I shouldnt have paid them up front. ahhh bunch of-

SECRETARY

Bunch of no good scoundrells! I agree, its not your f--

PRINCIPAL

Oh quit it. We need a band or these kids are gonna go crazy....

SECRETARY

Im sure theyle show up! its just a matter of--

PRINCIPAL

I need a drink

We see a mischevious teen about to spike the punch.

The PRINCIPAL grabs his flask and takes a hit. the teen dashes off terrified. 

PRINCIPAL

(To the SECRETARY)

Dont you have somewhere to be?

SECRETARY

Hmph!

She storms off.

CUT TO-

SHOT OF THE STAGE FROM THE DANCE FLOOR 

Music stops as the needle on the record is clumsily removed.

A NERDy teen with curly hair and freckles stands at the mic. He taps it and it feeds back with a hellish fury.

NERD

Hey folk! looks like the bands a little late, so im going to go ahead and give you a taste of real Annabel High Comedy!

The room goes silent.

JOCK

Shove it nerd!

Just as the crowd begins to laugh and mock the NERD we see the back door to the gym slam open supernaturally. 

Four soaking wet silhouettes stand hunched over, holding guitars covered in river-bottom scum. The harsh light of the school hallway shines past them destroying the cool blue lighting of the dance. The room goes silent.

We see the PRINCIPAL crane his neck and drop his stolen flask.

The NERD at the mic slowly backs off the stage, stumbling at its edge.

JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER loosen their embrace as their faces grow awash with concern.

 JOHNNY TENDER

Who are these punks?!

(P

WIDE SHOT OF THE GYM

as the band stands still in the door way. 

DANZIG takes one step forward and we hear the wet squish beneath his boot.

PRINCIPAL

Is this the- uh - the

The PRINCIPAL looks around the GYM.

PRINCIPAL

Goddamn hooligans.

The PRINCIPAL begins to stomp angrily toward the BAND.

PRINCIPAL

Youre late and youve got another thing coming if you think were paying that 12 dollars you asked for! These kids are-

DANZIG

(groan)

The band saunters toward the stage as the room of highschool teens looks on , bewildered.

The band takes the stage and readies their instruments, Heads hung down, deathlocks hanging still in the vacum of a school gym.A sonic feedback rings out and swells as teens cover their ears and wince. When the feedback reaches its pinacle we see a push in shot of a girl hollaring and covering her ears and finally her head explodes as JERRY strikes the first note of (INSERT SONG HERE) and the room goes wild in terror. They begin playing and DANZIG begins singing.

We see a wide of the gym- Teens run around in fear, falling, trampling one another, trying to escape- but the doors slam shut and apear to be locked by some demon force.

We see the AV NERD scrambling with a bundle of un plugged cables, obviously confused by the fact that the music is playing but nothing is plugged in. Suddenly he is electrified- lit up like a christmas tree.

We see the GYM TEACHER scrambling around in the crowd, trying to find a way out. he spins around and we reveal the VARSITY BASEBALL TEAM all in tuxedos but wearing their baseball caps (matching the GYM TEACHERs) They have become demonized and the BATTER in the center of the row swings a bat and demolishes the head of the GYM TEACHER.

We see the SECRETARY toss students aside and jump a table, only to lose her footing and impail her eye with the pen she so diligently carries with her.

We see the PRINCIPAL on his hands and knees in the crowd.

PRINCIPAL

My glasses, where are my glasses?!

The PRINCIPAL recovers his glasses and stands, looking toward the stage. We see JERRY point his guitar neck at the PRINCIPAL and let lose a visible wave of rock n roll terror- frying the PRINCIPAL until he not more than a smoldering skeleton.

We see JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER holding one anothers fore arms and looking around in fear.

JOHNNY TENDER

Dont worry babe, ill get us outa this.

BETTY BOPPER

Baby! LOOK!

Betty bopper points to JOHNNY TENDERS corsage which is now sprouting a carnivorous murder pant. it hisses and bites his neck releasing an ocean of blood. BETTY BOPPER shrieks and quivers as her crown grows bejeweled tentacles and strangles her blue. 

The Cold edge of the Round Table ( A CCTV feed of the world Sludge left behind )

Creases had formed on the forearms of Mr. Runner. It had been 32 visits since the sweating had stopped. 20 since the the shaking stopped. 13 since he'd had to use the buzzer at the entrance to the visitors area, they knew his face now. Case Runner had been in this room filled with worried family members so many times, all of them leaning on their own tables, and still the weight of the room itself bent its creases.

His soul had formed callouses months, even years ago, but those dents lain into his arms couldn't be defended against by some passive function of the flesh. The light of his life was dying. The sun in his sky was fading, not due to some celestial inevitability, or a planetary incursion creating a blinding illusion, but by her own hands.

Case tapped his side in an involuntary gear check to find his keys were missing. A nano second of anxiety passed when his eyes met the blue corn-plastic bin resting in the administrators office. They took anything that could be used to cause self harm upon entry, as the patients of this particular ward were hell bent on leaving it any way they could. While Case knew his machine was old and metal, a grav bound Mercedes that spit poloution what could choke a factory crow, the thought of his toothy key being used as an instrument of death seemed barbaric, ancient. Everytime he loosed them into the tray, hearing the slap of six mag-chips and the ring of one aluminum key, he couldnt help but think of his girl violently dragging its edge across her wrist, over and over, trying to free the red fuel that kept her bound to this plane. Smelling the tears of desperation as she clawed helplessly against her skin with the key.

Case shook his head and snapped back into the cold room. The wood print vinyl looked up at him from the round cafeteria table he patiently leant on.

'Uhg' He thought. ' How many plastic trees had to die for you?'. Runner had to jest to keep from snatching that key and taking a note from the guards warnings.

"Mr. Runner?" A tall nurse called from the entryway to the visitors room. He was the same man who ushered Sheena in every time. Handsome in his own way and made more appealing to the eyes by the lack of beauty he was surrounded by. He stood about six foot but gained a couple inches as he was rail thin. 'Hutz' was etched into his badge. Case guessed this was his last name based upon his common sense knowledge of name tag protocol. Sheena had mentioned a man fitting his description who she had learned to trust in her time here, but never referred to him by name. Case knew this was him, and despised the man for the time he was allowed, but couldn't help but be thankful for his loves comfort.

"Right here," Case said lifting his arm slowly and turning. 'You know its me you fuck.' he thought.

Hutz stepped back, pushing the door behind him with the ridge of his shoulders. He looked to his right, down the corridor and let loose a slight but knowing smile. He stepped out and all that was left was the back of his left hand holding the door opened.

Sheena stepped through, not yet looking into the room but up at a now invisible Hutz, returning his smile. His hand slid to the edge of the door and he was gone. The weight of the door now came to rest on the frail, stark white hand of the object of Case's affection, love, and worry. Sheena.

This girl had eyes that could tear a hole in an oribiters hull, weld it shut again, then hop inside and steal every molecule of oxygen scrubbed for consumption. Though she was sick and without colour, there was still some radiance, not some youthful beauty, or warmth, but the glow of the moon on a plasteel walkway. Stepped on and sad, but unyielding. It always looked as though she had just finished crying. The rims of her eyes were red and inflamed. Her lips were wet and pink, recently licked and refreshed. Her pale red hair was braided and tossed over her right shoulder. The girls in the ward had very little to do, and as Sheena had explained, took to braiding one anothers damaged and broken hair several times a day. The freckles Case had loved so truley, and counted hundreds of times had faded yet still remained. Faint but still present as if they had begun to recede into the girl, feeling her withdraw from  the world and following suit.

Sheena took the same nine steps she always had to the round plastic stool beside Case. Her slippers sliding across the once smooth Lino, now marked by stool leg indentions. She gently laid her hand on the table top and lowered herself onto the stool.

"Hey" She said smiling big and tugging her braid. Her turquoise robe settle on the floor and she crossed her legs. Loose fitting sweatpants met silently. Left over right.

"Ive missed you so much, im sorry I couldn't call yesterday. I was stuck without my phone and didnt make it home." Case said sliding his hand across the table to meet her fingertips.

"Its ok, I understand." She replied pushing her fingers over his just has far as the index cuticle. There wasnt supposed to be any contact in the visiting room to ensure nothing was being passed back and forth and to make sure the other visitors weren't made uncomfortable.

"How have you been, I cant believe its been a week since ive seen you already. You've been in here so long the wednesdays kindof, I dont know, push up against each other. Everything else is just filler." Case said pushing his index finger further beneath hers and sliding his ring finger atop hers.

"Ive been alright. I kindof lost it the other day though. They were making us all go to group therapy twice in one day and everyone was pissed. It basically meant that our time to do what we wanted was cut down to an hour as opposed to 3. When you have that little time alone it gets to you, someone taking it away you know?" Sheena said adjusting herself on the uncomfortable stool.

"Yeah I can imagine..." Case started. He had thought about her plight in this place more when she was first admitted, but not witnessing it first hand. It had become an imaginary routine that flashed by in the instant of a fleeting day dream. Overshadowed by his own dreams of being with her outside again."Thats bullshit. What do you mean by 'Lost it?'".

"Yelling throwing shit. Im embarrassed about it. But The nurses were cool about it and everything. I calmed down eventually." Sheena said leaning forward and smiling again.

Case tried not to be jealous of some nurse, as they were trying to save the love of his life, but he couldnt help but feel some envy for someone who could do what he couldnt. Someone who was allowed to help. Fucking Hutz. More and more the thought of the man bothered him. Some fucking saint helping his girl calm down in his absence. Case wanted to help. He thought he could. He tried for years. Eventually there came a point when he was proven wrong and it killed him. That gangle fuck was saving his girl while all he got was 15 minutes on the phone a day and 30 minutes a week in person, in a room of a fucking crying mothers, stoic fathers. It would be wrong to say anything, to ask if she felt for him, for Hutz.

"So, have you made any new friends?" Case asked. 'Godamnit, why do I have to ask, why do I have to torture myself? Shes not going to mention him'.

"No no one new has come in since last time." She replied. " Good news though..." She started.

"Ya? what?" Case said grabbing her hand full and tight. This was unacceptable contact but the notion of good news was overwhelming when you spend your days with nothing but the bad.

"If I do well this week I get a pass to go outside next time you visit!" She said squeezing back. Her head shot to the side, whipping her braid into the air. She looked over her shoulder to the room guard/nurse and let go. He didn't see but she had to make sure.

"No shit! thats amazing!" Case exclaimed. This was good news. He hadnt held the girl in months. Hadnt kissed the girl in almost a year. He needed it. They needed it. The want for contact had grown beyond a point of merely wanting. It was a need and he was on the verge of losing his mind over it. It wasnt just wanting sex, it was wanting any form of physical affection. Not to say that Case didnt desire her whole body. He thought of it constantly. Before Sheena had fallen into her depression they had made love with the consistency of the moonrise. They had fucked with the frequency of a string of summer power outages. They lived for the sound of hips clapping together, the sound so loud it would almost make your ears ring.

Case could still recall the shape of her hips as she bent and arched her back. Her smooth white skin reflecting the sharp blue neon from the street. The way she would pull herself away from him only to push back fast enough to break both their bones, but with the fluid grace roboticists have pined for for centuries. The feeling of his hand at first cupping, and then grasping tightly the back of her neck where her hair grew fine and her spine shook chills to her shoulders- down her arms to her finger tips-down her back-around her hip bones to her stomach- up to her chest- a wave over her breast making the skin taught and sensitive- from her hips to her thighs and up between her legs where he could feel her shiver and surround him, tight inside of her- down to her knees tensing and bending-down the back of her calves and around her ankles to twist and wash across the bottoms of her feet to meet curling toes. Case could remember not with his mind but with his body how his shoulders would ache and swell, using every ounce of energy inisde him to pull Sheena by her gentle waist to meet his front. Her soft tissue pillowing against his waist  as he travelled deeper into her. He could see that blue neon striking the sweat that studded their bodies, entering each drop only to twist- distort and release itself into their eyes. The room would always grow hot and humid. The sheets once neatly drawn across their Nano-cushion bed now pulled from every corner and bundled beneath Sheenas stomach, between her knees and elbows. He could imagine perfectly the creases on the pillow as she pressed the side of her face into the thing- her hair now wet- her cheecks red- mouth open. He could see her tongue moving back and forth across the back of her teeth and her eyes open just enough to shine a slit of un spent tears. Finally , almost like clock work but without monotony, she would release her last deep, heaving breath and exchange it for the whistle of air being drawn through tightly clenched teeth. Over and over. Every muscle tightened from jaw to shoulders, from arms to legs, from stomach to back, and from inside to out. Case would take the cue as if there were some kind of choice and let go, still moving but without any inward impetus. She would shake and go limp. He would fall to her side. The blue neon would lose its edge, and the night would have its way, drenching their minds, and bodies, with its dark shawl.

"Thats so great." Case said resting his head in a cupped hand and arm propped on the table. The sex was one thing, but what they both needed now was some faint reminder they were still alive. Still in love.

The idle conversation of a hospital visiting room ran its course and Hutz re entered. Time was up.

"Times up." Hutz spat without feeling. Fucker.

"Ill call you tonight when im off work. Be good. Lets get you out of here." Case said standing.

The two exchanged a platonicly masked hug and Sheena as ushered out with the others. Hutz Lingered untill the last of them exited and shot Case a glance.

"Nice girl, Sheena." He said smirking.

"Ya." Case replied clenching a fist. 'Cant hit em.' he thought. 'Cant do it. dont do it.'

Case reclaimed his "dangerous" belongings and walked down the fluorescent sewer of a hallway. The elevator bell rang.

'Goodbye.'

The Derm, The Bomb, and the Erotic Thunder.

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Hiroshima, The Derm,. and the Rectangle Scar

Jet leaned back into his set for the first time in hours, leaning on the accelerator withe heavy, even weight.

'Time to get fuckin HOME'  His thoughts spat. His head was fuzz. Dense foam. There wasnt more than one thing on his mind and it filled his skull like a wad of toilet paper jammed into the cylander it was uncoiled from.

Waiting for drugs was the worst.

The craving had started the second his dealer replied " Yeah, im around." The Craving, true craving never started untill he knew he was going to get his fix. Jet's Hunger had driven him to message the pusher, but the feeling of drive and urgency had only arisen once the Sludge was within reach.

He had hurried out of the Compacto-grade quaters him and his bitch stuffed themselves into and rocketed into the drivers seat of his RoadWave rx92 within nano seconds of recieving the reply. The Wave had been a slick sex machine with a no questions , nonstop hover rig when he bought it. Now it was a second rate grav-bound piece of shit with four wheels more than anyone wished to worry about. When you live on the ground floor of Highland park a hover rig is only worth what the fucker who chops it off your car can sell it for.

But fuck it. It wasnt about cars anymore. It wasnt about status. It was about Sludge, and where it could take you. Where you might end up. When you might end up. Modern life is rubbish, right?

Jet had sat outside the squat where his Pusher pushed for a good 45 minutes. This was a fucking eternity. The drive only took about 15 and by minute 7 of the trip he was already buzzing with anticipation.

Sometimes he wondered if that feeling, the feeling of wanting, needing, might be more of a kick than any of the junk he had ingested. If they could bottle that feeling he'd buy em out. It wasnt a good feeling but it was a strong one, and for a junkie as far gone as Jet it wasnt about good or bad. It was about strength, potency. The sweaty palms and quivering joints of a Pusher bound car ride was fuckin potent. The waiting was the peak of that miserable high.

He sat outside the squat checking his watch ever minute and a half. The arms on his vintage analog watch swung so slow he often thought it was broken. Old tech had a way of mocking you. He lived in a world saturated with information, so much you could never count it all, never know or see it all, But a quantified set of info shoved in a circle and dictated by 3 slowly swinging black arms was easy to understand. There was no distraction from the truth it was trying to tell. That was it. This is time passing- and your going to fucking watch.

'Hey man whats the deal ive been here 30 mins' jet typed and messaged his pusher.

'Comin' The pusher replied.

'Godamnit' Jet thought to himself. "Comin" meant nothing. It meant he had seen the message. Thats it.

'How easy if your fucking job?' Jet thought, 'Literaly all you have to do is wal outside, hand me two derms, take my money, and go back inside. How fucking hard is that. Im literaly meters away from where youre sitting huffing Nan-Bug, twitching around. Just get up and walk outside.'

Jet looked down at his watch for the 32nd time the moment a ring tapped his window. Finally, jesus.

"Yo here you go man, 600." The pusher said through the transparent plate of passenger side plasteel.

Jet let the window recede into the door while extending his arm across the trash covered seat beside him. He had been holding the cash so long and so tightly it was soaked with palm sweat. If the Highland park coalition of vendors and residents (HPCVR) had still used paper money the wad would have been destroyed, but the sweat slid off the Corn-plastic like it was supposed to and the pusher grabbed a half dry 600 credits.

"Is this good shit? like clean fuckin high and easy travel?" Jet asked grabbing the derms awkwardly with his left hand, body twisted in a rush.

"Yeah, its the same as usual, your gonna shit your brains out." The pusher said releasing the two pink rectangles.

The nerves of waiting immediately fled and before he really heard what his man had said, Jet was half way to the Compacto. The cab was silent, he couldnt think about music, didnt care about singing along to some radio trash hed heard s thousand times. His head was filled with the journey to come. The tingling feeling racing from the derm to his fingertips. Electric pain shooting to every nerve in his body, from the middle out. His scalp tightening and taking an inventory of every follicle of hair on his head. His joints tightening, just to release and disapear into a time he never should have seen move. Into a time in which he wasnt welcome, wasnt understood, and couldnt be stopped from invading, to do as he wished.

He pulled the Wave upto the curb in front of his complex. The thing had been chipped so many times it served as more of a visual delineation of street and sidewalk than a lip. The walk from the wave to the lift, the ride up 33 stories, the sprint down the hall ending with a slap of a thumb against his greasy Print-coder slipped out of history before it began and he was home, sludge still in hand.

"Oh my god that took for fucking ever!" Tema said raising her arms, spilling a feww drops of the Tsing-Tao she had just opened. "Happy fuckin anniversary asshole!" she shouted, laughing.

"Happy anniversary! sorry i took so long, work was shit, but I got us something..." Jet said with a shit eating grin, hands behind his back. He gently thumbed the derms.

"I dont see any flowers...no champagne..." She joked sipping her beer. "Then what? Dick? I have had your dick- it aint a present its a pain in my ass." They both went silent a beat then erupted in laughter.

Jet produced the derms. It had been months since they had tripped on sludge together. Longer since they could afford it.

"Godamnit J- how did you come up with the scratch for fucking sludge!?" Tema exclaimed umping to her feet.

"I been working my ass off and saving for tonight. I wanted to do Hiroshima again like the first time." Jet said approaching her with his arms open wide. The junkie had left him. He wasnt alone in it anymore.

"Oh my god, I fucking love you" Tema said grabbing Jet by the waist.

The spidering rectangle scars on their fore arms ached, and as the lights on the ground level of Highland park grew dim, they peeled back the derms, stuck them to the usual spot, and disapeared.

Show me to my sweet, sick, Dark Cave.

Show me
to my sick
sweet
dark cave.

The cave where dreams stab at the clumsy waking mind.
Where the wounded and forgetful sleep crow is welcome and not mauled,
by the growling brown beast of perceived consciousness.

In the day I walk-
Strut-
confident in the ground beneath my feet.
Falsely sure of the surrounding wood, predictable and ancient.

When I hunger-
For nourishment,
pleasure,
thrill,
peace,
I find gravity a weak and cowardly foe and rear up,
effortlessly!
Onto my hind legs and roar.
The sunlight hunt is simple.
The sunlight hunt is cheap.
The sunlight hunt is fake.


But when the sun goes down,
and the woods o dark-
And quiet,
I become human again.

I become that primal evil we've scraped and sacrificed to shrug.
I become the human-
not the man.

Law,
conscience,
faith,
true,
and false,
hesitance,
meaning,
worth,
thankfulness-

No.

Sight,
Sound,
Breath,
Blood,
Focus,
Freedom-

The mirrors of "existence" have fled,
and not broken-
its too seamless and quiet for that.

The cave echos only wind and broken brush.

Claws become words.
Fur becomes the past, the future.
And the drool hanging from my fang-

Remains the same.

Red White and Burbank- Big Sur and the oranges of who gives a fuck

I woke up to the glow of a still smoking stoge smoldering in my bedside ashtray ( a Coffee cup my grandmother had received for completing her 15th year of alcoholics anonymous ).

I woke up once more to the glow of a blue crack lighter burning the tip of a poorly rolled joint.I was still covered in the rags from the pervious nights drunk, excited for San Fransisco.

Thelonius and myself had spent the previous weekend up in Angelus Crest National forest dropping acid and talking nonsense. We decided a San Fran trip was in order so we spent the week after our return swinging hammers and making enough money to buy some pot and gas to get our broke asses up the coast.

"Hey man were goin up to SF this weekend, you wanna roll?" I said to Red on the phone, Rolling slowly out of bed as to avoid the unpleasant head rush a three day hangover offers to the bastard that dare tempt its resolve.

"This weekend?" Red replied in a groggy tone. He was avoiding the same pain.

" Ya man, Thelonius and I are gonna head up today, or, like later today. Maybe tomorrow. I feel like shit dude. I killed another one of those carlo jugs. Wrote some good stuff but fuuuuuck I feel like shit." I Groaned, Managing to sit up without vomiting.

"Fuck yeah, lets do it. Traveling DopeStars dude." Red said, ready.

"Ok let me call you back in a few, Ima call Thelonius. See what the deal is. Later" Click. Nothing kills a hangover better than a good plan. i finished the joint and Re-tied the shoes I had slept in. Brown leather, scuffed to hell, and more ready than ever to stumble the streets of San Fransisco in search of something new.

I Sat for a moment looking at the burnt down sticks of Nag Champa haning out from between the keys of my piano. I looked down at the carpet, stained and ruined. Looked at the empty jug of wine the helped me feel better, then forced me to feel worse. Why the fuck not.

"I do believe , if you dont like things you leave, for some place youve never been before."

I Blew the last rip of my joint through the window unit by the bed and opened my phone again.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring

nothing

ring ring ring ring ring

nothing

ring ring ring

"He- Hey." Thelonius answered, awaking from his own drunken death slumber.

"So we gonna do this or what?" I challenged my aching brother.

"Yea lets do it." He said. He was always ready. God bless the sonofabitch.

We all stumbled around on our own for a bit then met up. We spent what we had on wine and pot, then Piled into Red's Car.

It was 10 am and somehow we were ready to roll.

"Lets do this" Thelonius said tossing his pack into he trunk.

If a competent traveler took a look into any of our bags the reaction would be more than a laugh and nothing less than a shudder. But what did we need. We were young and immortal.

" I say we go up the one and camp a night in Big Sur." Red said jamming his key clummisly into the ignition. We had all packed tents on account of not having enough cash to pay for a hotel once we landed in SF, we were ready.

"YES." I said craving a night under the stars.

We all agreed that would be our first stop.

The engine started.

Our blood shot eyes cleared.

Our skin rippled with chills.

I Pinched a snap from the sandwich bag resting between my legs.

Thelonius lit a smoke and blew a grey cloud through a knowing grin.

Red leaned ont he pedal.

We slid onto the 5 and Burbank was gone.

-------------------------------

We were two joints in and half way through "Loaded" when we hit Malibu.

"Man you wouldnt beleive the sit I got into after we split up last night man." I said to thelonius, looking over my shoulder into the back seat. I passed him the third Joint.

"Yeah dude you took off ,where did you go?" he replied takin the J and toying with it a moment.


"Well first of all" I started , " Na man, no way. She was pissed." Venus in Furs began playing. Thelonius lit the Tea. "I was rattling on and on about the same old shit, how im still in love with her and all that and she was piiiiised. She went off on me man haha"

We all laughed at my romantic missfourtune.

"Dude," Red began "Can you take over?" He said looking quickly to me then back to the road.

"I guess, why? We basically just hit the road..." I replied. He was too stoned.

"Im too stoned dude." Red admitted. " I got the urge to turn into oncoming traffic like 3 times already." We all burst into laughter.

"Fuuck, I guess dude, pull over." I said.

He did.


----------------------



Only now do I understand what it really feels like to truly start losing your mind.

We fought with everything we had to shake the consciousness we had inherited from family, society, and our on conscience. We felt true madness, true as far as we knew.

But madness isnt the loss of inhibition. It isnt the loss of the ground we were raised to appreciate, almost worship.

it isnt falling on the ground of a hotel youve never been in before, and never meant to.

It isnt being lost in hollywood on drunk looking for a car crash.

It isnt the boundless landscape of an LSD trip that may never end, or the infinite microscopic universe resting o the edge of a blade of grass far gone after an 8th of mushrooms.

True madness is seeing the benefit of being a part of the society you fought so hard to distance yourself from.

True madness is the slobber on the back of a postage stamp youve reluctantly pasted onto an envelope to pay your bill.

True madness is breaking your back for a warm shower and not even fucking knowing it.

But what did we know then.

We just wanted to get high.

And love everything.

And whats wrong with that?


------------------------


None of us knew how much we had to drink once the stars became clear and the ground became a blur.

"C-Come on dude lets take a walk, " Red shouted slapping me as hard as he could on the back.

"Yo wanna take a stroll ?" I asked waving Thelonius over.

"Na im gonna sit here and scope these stars for a while." He replied.

"Come on lets o." Red said starting into the bitch black wilderness. "I know where the bay is dude, follow me."

"Do you really?' I said stumbling behind. "wait theres no fucking way you do,  theres no fucking way."

"Fuck you follow me." Red insisted.

We stumbled blindly across the meadow we had made our camp in. The moment we hit the tree line Red fell ass over ears.

"You good?" I said between coughing bouts of laughter.

I helped him to his feet and we continued down what he insisted was a trail.

We could have walked a mile our a meter but I was in no shape to say. We both fell every few yards untill we saw the moon's reflection in a small shoreline puddle.

"There it is asshole I told you I could find the fuckin' bay." Red said stabbing me in the chest with his knowing finger.


I have done my best to recall events, places, and coversations with as much accuracy as possible. As I write im riddled with just as many substances as when I experienced these events, but to this day Im not sire if what we found was a puddle or the bay. Every time I think back on that evening the size of the puddle/bay changes. Sometimes its a massive bay opening its cliffs, shrouded in pines, to the mighty pacific , in all its glory. Other times its a muddy puddle skirted by broken twigs. Some times when I think back it was a stream. I havent gone back to investigate but as far as I know the landscape in Big Sur changes with every rising moon. But as tonights memory serves....

We planted our drunk asses on a log and looked over the most beautiful moonlit bay man has ever had the privilege to observe, and I vomited everything I possibly could into it.

I woke up just in time to fall asleep looking up at the stars.

More eternal than we ever hoped to be.


----------------------------------

The morning came and went like any other fucked up hangover prelude had, and we hit the road to SF once more.

"Damn last night was gnarly" I said shivering in the shotgun seat.

"Were we singing with some pollish dudes?" Thelonius asked.

"Shit....were we?" Red pondered aloud.

"Dude I think we were, like, at some point im pretty sure we were." I said, half remembering.

" Oh we definantly did, yes, I remember," Thelonius started.

" They werent Polish they were french." Red said.

" No, No they were....fuck, some sort of european...kind of..." I attempted to solve the mystery but before I could reach a verdict we all erupted in laughter.

We sparked the morning joint.


As the pacific waved and washed to our left we kept quiet, Re visiting the thoughts we had stumbled upon the night before.

Ideas, Poems, Dreams of old loves and hopes for new. Images of beautiful girls we had kissed, things we had forgotten to do. Things we were happy to have forgotten.

Then we saw the city.

We crossed the bay bridge.

Then we hit the traffic.


"God damnit, Hundreds of miles with no traffic and the second we get where were going- traffic. Bullshit." Thelonious said.

We were bumper to bumper , surrounded by steel and pine trees.

Then shit got real loud.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT." I said , eyes widening.

"The fuck?" thelonious said poking his head out the window.

"Earthquake?" Red asked.

Just then 5 blue and yellow jets blasted directly over the highway toward and passed us.

"Fuckin Blue Angels!" We all exclaimed.

The weekend had begun.