Thursday

She working again.
She back at it.
She working the beat of the street.
She policing the neighborhood.
She patrolling the compound.
She formatting the script.
She writing the script. She physical. She getting physical. She getting real. She being real. She being dirty. She being. She sexy. She sexual. She a woman. She walking. She traveling. She working out. She pumping iron. She moving mountains. She emoting.
She emoting.
She emotional.
Logical.
Calculating.
She numbering him.
She numbing him. She now standing. She not taking it lying down nor sitting down.
She now on her feet here.
She fighting now. She boxing. She forming and formatting and hardening and crystallizing and realizing and busting out. She breaking away. She making a run for it.
She making a run for the roses.
She shooting for the fences.
She going for broke.
She pouring the concrete. She laying a foundation. She plotting out a piece of ground. Marking her territory. Staking her claim. Putting on a show.
Throwing a party.
Having a ball.
At the International Grand Ball.
Having fun.
Having him over for dinner.
On a date.
At a particular place at a technical time. She hitting him and hitting him hard. She throwing the book at time. She prosecuting him. Accusing him charging him attacking him. She going after him. She paining and bugging and nagging and harassing his skinny ass.
She slowing him down and putting him through the wringer. Putting him to the test. Putting him in the ring. Fighting with him. Wrestling with him. Writing with him. Wrangling with him. Riding him. And riding him and riding him. She riding him. She riding him like a horse. She riding him like a motorcycle. She riding him like a Harley-Davidson. She riding him like a Harley. She riding him across the country. She taking him for a ride. For a spin. She trying him out. She scouting the countryside with him.
Looking for a place to land.
Looking for a piece of land.
Looking for a plot of land.
Looking for a plot to bury him in. To lay him to rest. Put him to rest. Put him to sleep. Put him down...in the ground. Bury him. Bury after bury the hatchet in him. After killing. After busting him up.
After busting his chops. Busting his butt. Kicking his skinny little ass from here to China. From here to Beijing. From here to Hong Kong.
From San Jose to San Juan. Puerto Vallarta to Puerto Rico. Silicon Valley to Sun Valley. From Silly Valley to Hilly Mountain. From Fact to Fiction.
And everything in between.
Opening him up and then shutting him down. Taking off and then landing.
Flying and flying.
Spying and spying.
Lying and laying eggs. And then hatching the eggs and then harvesting the crops. Farming the land.
Till the soil.
Raising the cows and then harvesting the wheat.
Doing the nothing.
Doing the dirty work.
Doing the dirty girl work.
Doing the dirty deed.
Making a baby by making the love.
Making tracks. Starting a war. Creating a commotion. Making a killing. Executing a killing. Selling some stones. Some diamonds. Entertaining a few folk.
She entertaining him. She occupying him. She keeping him occupied. She tying him up and keeping him busy and on his toes and on his feet and in the ballgame.
The clock ticking.
The clock always ticking.
Forever ticking.
And tocking.
Like a time bomb.
Ready to go off at any moment.
Ready to bust loose and make a run for and a go of it. Ready to escape from prison. Ready to bust out of jail. Ready to go broke. Ready to die.
She ready to die.
Ready to put her life on the line.
Ready to lay her life on the line for him.
Ready to meet him and date him and go with him and engage him and marry him and live with him and love him and feed him and then finally nag him. Bug him. Bugger him all up. Work him all up. Get him all excited. Get him all riled up. Get him thinking that he can do anything.
From his death bed.
From Death Row.
From jail.
From a single solitary lone cell.
From one cell. From one atom. One little teeny tiny itsy bitsy particle. One little note. One little nothing. One little red copper cent.
From one big chronic pain in the ass.
She throwing punches at him. She training and conditioning him. Getting him in shape. Whipping him into shape. Alaska whipping Al into shape.
She coaching him. She egging him on. She encouraging him. She keeping him up and alive and in the game.
Scoring points. Executing the game plan. Plotting an execution. Plotting an assassination of a president. Of a head of state.
Plotting a plan.
Charting a course to the championship. To victory. To the trophy.
Charting a course to the charts. To the top of the charts. Chartering buses and airplanes. Laying down the law of the land. While getting a feel for the lay of the land. Scouting out the countryside. Measuring the territory. Surveying the territory. Exploring it. Mapping it out. Getting a feel for it and its size and its character.
She trying him out.
She trying him on for size.
She shadowing the borders.
Traveling. Moving. Camping out. Staying in hotels. Sometimes staying up all night many nights in a row.
She keeping him up.
She keeping him awake.
She bugging him.
Spying on him.
Investigating his movements and his actions.
Gathering intelligence.
Collecting information and evidence.
Photographing him.
Limiting his movements. Controlling them. Keeping him under wraps. Keeping him secret. Keeping him in service. In action. Working for The Agency.
Spying on the enemy.
Pinpointing targets.
Executing actions.
Carrying out orders.
Obeying orders.
Following orders.
Cleaning toilets. Assassinating ants. Killing bugs. Destroying pests. Neutralizing nefarious nobodies.
Scribbling notes. Burning legal tender. Shredding documents. Darkening pasts.
Rearranging the furniture.
Changing things some.
Making adjustments.
Putting plans into action. She setting plans in motion. Pulling triggers making decisions detailing forms and formalities.
Covering every base. Hitting all of the parts. Hitting all of the marks.
Counting every cent. Smelling every scent. Making some sort of sense of the whole mess. She doing this. She doing the work. She doing the going and going. She doing the traveling. She doing the investigating. She doing the scouting of locations and the scouting of prospects. The hiring of a crew.
The bleeding of hearts.
The emptying of bank accounts.
The investing of funds.
In funny money market accounts.
Transferring charges from one account to another. Cooking the books. Doing the banking. Banking on the banking. Banking with the Big Banks. The Big Boys. The rough and ready boys. The gangsters and outlaws and in-laws and relatives, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles and cousins.
She dealing with the drugs. She spinning her wheels. Going around and around. Going in circles. Attempting to circle the enemy. Capture the enemy. Kill the enemy. Defeat its army. Terminate its command. Strip it of its authority. Take away its power.
Curtail its currency. Eliminate its actions. Limit its actions. She limiting him. Putting him on a strict tight budget. She taking over the reins of the whole operation. She taking charge. She winning him over with her presence and her presents, her gifts and her charms. Her inside jokes and inside jobs. Her con jobs. Her little tricks of the trade. Her little song and dance number. Her small show.
Her little one horse town. Her dirty little secret scents. Her cussing. Her swearing. Her language. With her little dog and pony show. Her little attraction.
Her bait. She seducing him. Big Time. She seducing him big time with her small time little dog and pony show. He loving it. He loving her. He falling for her. Head over hands over heels. Hands down. No doubt about it.
No question about it. Absolute certainty. Signed and sealed and delivered as ordered.
He falling for her and her little show like a big fool. He falling in a warm swimming pool of her love. He holding her and her heart in his hungry manly hands. In his deep and deadly desires. He holding her heart in his heart. He holding her heart in her hands. Holding it like a surgeon. Like a cardiologist. Like a doctor. Like a DOCTOR. Like a CLOWN. Like a FOOL. A JOKER. A REAL JOKER. HE poking HER like a real JOKER. Branding her. Like a cow. Rustling her like she was cattle or something. Making her kind of colorful and romantic and nostalgic and yet also tragic. Like a tragedy. Like a Shakespearean tragedy...or something. Like a real regular run-of-the-mill customized stage play...or something.
Like a real piece of music. Work of Art. Piece of pie. Piece of peace. Piece of the action. A real war. A real fight. A real struggle. With real blood. And bones. Sangre y huesos. Blood and bones. Flesh and blood. He getting bawdy with her body. He getting rowdy with her body. He getting rowdy with her bawdy body. He getting rough and tough with her and she liking every bit of it. She egging him on for more of it. For all that he had. For his best shot. She now milking him...like a cow. Playing him like fiddle. Playing the part for all it was worth and for all she was worth. Playing it to the hilt. Playing to the crowd. Playing for him. For his own personal private pleasure and enjoyment and entertainment. Bringing down the house. He laughing his ass off while working her butt out. Working the plot out. Working the plot out of the house. By writing the plot into the outhouse. And scripting it into the story. Lining up all of the ducks and dukes and jokes and jokers and jokesters and clowns and comedians and motorcycles and roadsters and drunks and clocks and bangs and booms and bombs and surprises of this traveling circus. This moving show.
This entertaining bit of action.
This acting action.
This fast-acting fast-paced fast-and-furious fast-food winning wining and dining action.
Yes, this winning action.
This real action.
This real reel action.
This movie action.
This Hollywood action.
This Boondocks Bollywood action.
Small time gangster action.
Spy action.
Cabby action.
Taxi action. And taxi driver action. Script action. Work action. ‘And’ action. Repetitive machine-gun action. Well-oiled action. Cops and Robbers action. Shot-em-up action. Circus action. Circling circus action.
She doing it. She playing with it. She messing around with the action. She going with the action and moving with the action. She making tracks with the action. She making headway with the actors. This whole army of actors falling in line in time with the music and in step with the beat and tune with the landscape. Clouds of ghostly goodies swirling around her...and around him. Around them.
Seducing them. Hypnotizing them. Elevating them. Lifting them up. Levitating them. Pulling them skyward in order to spy on all off the tiny ants.
Hooking them. Getting their attention. Then holding the attention. Holding them hostage. Holding them to their word. Binding them to the contract that they signed.
Holding them to the fire.
Holding on to them.
Holding them up to some sort of fun-house mirror.
Some foreign and yet strangely oddly familiar territory.
A few ghosts and clowns and romances from their past. Now presenting and now showing themselves once again only stronger seeming this time.


Yes. They showing themselves now here again in this place at this time for this hour. They showing themselves to them. To her and to him. To Alice and to Al or whatever their names really were. Who knew for sure?
Could be Alice and Hank.
Or good old Alaska And Hank.
Or Alaska and Al.
Or Hank and Al. And Wendy. Or Miss Wilson. And Mister Green. Doctor Zachary. Missy Elliot. Barbeque Bob. Boxcar Bob. Willie Nelson. Wild Willie. Wild Wylie. Wylie Coyote. Coyote Ugly. Ugly Alice. Strawberry Alice. Sometime Sue. Goodtime Gertrude.
There was a whole crowd of them. A whole bunch. A whole mess. A whole room full. A whole company of whores. A whole host of whores. A whole host a whole house a whole cathouse of whores. A whole pride of them. A whole flock. A whole gang. A whole lot of them. All hauling their own plots along with them. Dragging them along. Carting them. Their own trunkloads and truckloads of stories and songs and numbers and tricks and charms and poisons and dangers and complications and diseases and disasters and hurricanes and storms and presentations and quirks and scars and nicks and cuts and distinctions and descriptions.
A whole long line of them. Both private and public. Known and unknown.
New and old.
Young and not so young.
There be a whole host of them. A whole host of them hosting this party. Throwing this party. Putting on this show. Flocking to this feast. This meaty fleshy sexy messy meeting.
Organic and biological scientific meeting.
Officially off limits to outlaws. To reporters. To snooping pooper scoopers. Nosy nobodies.
A whole host of whores. A whole house of horrors. A whole haunted mansion of them. All sorts of ghostly whores. And ghastly whores. Heavy whores with their dirty chores and inviting charms.
And seasoned ones with hot bodies and radical ideas. Solid stock with slinky sexy stockings. Secret holdings. Hidden bank accounts. Private pleasure palaces. Aces-in-the-Hole. Rabbits out of hats. Cats and dogs. Fights and Nights. Kings and Queens. Characters all.
Complete with curiosities and histories and high stories and low balls and fast balls and curve balls and screw balls and nut jobs and nut cases and boxes of lightning bolts and sudden electrifying sparking shocks of high-voltage current arcing in the dark black of the night.
A whole host of whores with a whole host of high-caliber talents. A whole host of them. A whole house. A whole lot. With a whole lot of plots. A bunch of bullets. A stockpile of them. Plenty of guns and ammo. Guarding troves and troves of treasure. Guarding their little secrets. Protecting their clients. Mingling with their singing and dancing cronies.
And engineer types. And spy types. And government gunslingers. Rich folk and jet setters. Irish Setters and Hound Dogs. Dirty dogs and racy rascally rats. Gumming up the works. Slowing the process down. Killing all enthusiasm. Smothering it. Suffocating her and him. Drowning out their voices. Getting in the way. Blocking traffic.
Manufacturing traffic jams and log jams instead of jamming to the music and moving with the mountains and running with the smooth cool operators. Running with the fast crowd. With the authorities and the dignitaries. With the authors and artists and writers and directors and actors and athletes and experts and slicksters and mobsters and monsters and gangsters and musicians and magicians. The cool cats. The big dogs. The brave bucks. The daring darling deer. The champagne crowd. The hobnobbing snobs.
The poker players.
The card dealers.
The gamblers.
The golfers.
The team.
The players.
The positions.
A whole host of them. A whole group. A whole cast of them. A whole crowd. A whole audience. A whole built-in captive audience. A whole bunch. A whole mess. A troupe. A whole trouble of them. A whole mess of them carting a whole lot of troubles. And temptations and invitations.
A whole number of them. A whole nation. A whole tribe. A whole pride. A whole herd of whores and horses. With hair and manes and tails and tales and yarns and songs and sweets and dishes and appetizers and advertisements and seductions and lures and hooks and bait and attractions and rides and amusements and entertainments and games and rules and regular regulating regulators.
Distractions and distinctions and interruptions and irritations and nags and snags and smells and tastes and textures and colors and restrictions. Jealousies and angles. Judgments and juries and trails and lawyers and sharks and snakes and spiders and poisons and bites and fangs and marks.
A whole host of them. A lot of jokes. A lot of moves. A bagful.
A handful. A lifetime of them. A pile of pleasures. A whole host of whoring ghosts. Haunting whores. Helpful whores. Whole whores. Theses whores horsing around. Monkeying around. Goofing off. Doctoring scripts. By design. Goofing off freely. And deliberately. Goofing off on purpose. Goofing off because that was the job. That was their job. It was the profession. Their occupation. Their love. Their baby. Their hobby. Their everything. Their delight. Their way to enjoy the day. It was their way of working. Their way of getting work done. Of baking bread. Making bread. Making money. Their bread and butter. Their calling. Food on the table. Money in the bank. Honey in the jar. Film in the can. Movie in local theaters. Books on the shelve. Fun in the sun. Fun in the house. Again...Ace-in-the-Hole. Hole-in-One. Holy Whores. Holy cows. Holy smokes. Smokin hot. Suddenly hot. Super hot. Super cool. Really cool. Totally Rad.
Surprisingly new.
Newly hot.
Suddenly drunk.
Intoxicated.
Drunk on love.
Lost in lust.
In love with whores.
Tickled by them...somehow. They classic characters. They fixtures. They storied and legendary. They still plying the trade in this day and age. Still working the craft.
Pulling old tricks out of their new hats.
They dancing. They seducing. They turning the tides like the moon. They turning heads.
They dying by the dozens. They lying through the grass. They working on them. They working on her and him. The whores still working on them. They still doing it. They still in business. Still working. Still fishing. Still catching.
And now they suddenly gone. Out the door. And down the road. Just like that. Leaving her and him alone. Leaving them be. Letting them go. Releasing them.
So now it just her and him again. At least for now.
Just her working on him.
Hooking him.
Feeding him lines.
Fueling the fire.
Keeping the house warm.
The lights on.
The laughs and jokes coming.
The action happening.
It taking place. Churning and churning like a regular factory. Like a movie studio. Like a farm. Like clockwork. Like a funny farm. A funny factory. A money factor. A money maker. A printing press. A real art. A real talent.
A real job.
A real reel job.
A real acting job.
A real acting gig.
A real digging gig.
True labor.
A real war going on. Bullets whizzing. Airplanes flying. Fights breaking out. Tempers flaring. Tension building. Buildings going up and building coming down.


She doing hard time. She doing hard labor. She doing physical labor. She hauling buckets of dirt. She forging metal. She forging steel. She heating and hammering steel. Making bullets. Shooting guns. She physical. She brutal. She honest. She pounding and hammering and hacking away. She chopping away. She sweating. She forging a path. She finding a way. She doing her duty. She doing her job. She fulfilling her purpose. She carrying out her orders. She completing the mission. She dying. She bleeding. She burying herself. Killing herself. Knocking herself out. Giving it all she had. Giving it all I got, she said. Giving up the ghosts. Hanging on to the whores. Counting on them. Banking on them. Betting on them. Hoping the whores come through for her. Hoping that they save her skinny tired sorry ass.
Hoping the save her. She hoping that they save her. Because she swamped. She buried. She in way over her head. She drowning in debt. She drowning in blood. She drowning in the water of one huge ocean.
She drowning.
She going down.
She getting down.
She getting down to business.
She getting down to the bottom line.
She getting down to dying.
She getting down to digging ditches.
She getting down to the dirt.
She getting down to the ground.
She getting down to the mechanics. She getting to the notes. She getting down to the foundation. To the charter. To the rock solid bedrock. To the source of the gold. She getting to it. She getting to the gold. She getting to him. She reaching him. She getting through to him. She talking to him. She speaking his language. She speaking a language that he liked.
She speaking strongly. She speaking violently. Brutally. Honestly. She speaking to him.
She moving him.
She emoting.
She expressing herself clearly and cleanly.
She expressing herself loud and clear.
She making herself understood.
She making tracks.
She making tracks on the train.
She training on the train.
She training. She in training. She working out. She working hard. And long. And deep.
She working.
She still working.
She working on the whores.
And they working on her.
She also working on the horses. She working on the ranch. She working on the house on the ranch. She working. She working and she looking.
She looking and looking and looking. She moving. She running. She operating. She fishing. She finishing up. She finishing up fishing. She completing the operation. Mopping up. Cleaning up.
She now resting. Relaxing. Recreating. Sleeping. Snoozing. Lounging. Clubbing it up. Dreaming. Dealing with the drama. Forgetting about the forging. Forgetting about the rivers. And the mistakes. And the pain.
And the aches. And the dying. She forgetting about the food. She forgetting about eating.
She thinking only about the dream.
She living for the drama.
She shooting and gunning and funning for it. She running for it. She going for it. Counting on those warring whores. Who now keep showing up.
Counting on them. Trusting them. To do their jobs. To do what they do best.
To handle the bucks.
To do the dirty work.
And the handy work.
Handling the men.
Keeping the men busy.
Keeping them, the men, happy.
Occupied.
Distracted perhaps even.
They keeping them warm.


And alive.
And hot and on fire and rolling down the road like truckers. Like true truckers. Long haulers. Open roaders. Big riggers. Oil riggers. Wildcatters. Strong muscled brutes.
Lumberjacks.
Laborers.
Construction workers.
Miners.
Gold miners.
Mercenaries.
Hired guns.
Hired hands.
And volunteers.
Soldiers. The legendary classic historic solid soldiers.
Working men. For the working girls.
Mountain men. And cowboys. And what the hell. How about Indians too.
Warriors. Longshoremen. Sailors. And pirates. Bucking buccaneering and swashing and buckling pirates loaded with bucks to spend bucks to blow.
And bullets to shoot.
Guns to gun.
Pistols to load and fire. And then holster.
She trusting them to do the work.
She thrusting them into the spotlight.
She putting him on the spot.
Sending him to the market in order to buy some meat. Thick bloody juicy marbled steaks. Rib-eyes. Black Angus.
And some whiskey to sip.
Or a little Cabernet to guzzle.
She sending him.
She sending him to the moon.
She sending him.
She stuck on him.
She stuck with him.
Happily stuck with him.
Committed to the end.
She physical.
She hard playing hard playing hard ball. Being tough. Pulling no punches. Offering no quarter. Throwing jabs left and right.
She out for blood.
She shitting in the woods.
She sitting on a bench in the park.
She trying to stay clean, somehow, while handling the dirty parts. She trying to spy on him and not get caught.
She churning out reports. She churning and churning. Nonstop. Like a factory. She churning. She burning up. She cooking. She stinking to the action. She sticking to it. She sticking with it. She sticking with him. She sticking it to him.
She hitting him.
She hitting him again. She hitting and hitting and hitting him. She sitting on him. She stomping all over him.
She stomping in the rain.
She singing in the sunshine.
She walking in the park. And walking in the park and walking in the park and walking in the park and walking in the park and walking in the park and walking in the park after parking the car after abandoning the automobile after selling the pile of junk.
She real.
She solid.
She steel.
She rock.
She rocks.
She rolls.
She rolls the dice. She takes chances. She bets the farm. She bets the farm. She bets it. She places her bets. She makes her bets. She cooks her books. She cooks. And cooks and cooks and cooks and cooks and cleans and cleans and cleans clocks and cleans clocks and cleans clocks and cleans out closets and cleans out closets.
And cleans out closets. And cleans socks. And rocks socks and kicks ass and gets it into gear and gets a move on and gets her groove on and gets down and gets dirty and gets dancing and dancing and dancing and gets sweaty and then gets even more sweaty gets really sweaty really very sweaty and huffs and puffs and breathes hard and breathes deep and works hard and exercises and pumps like pistons and churns like a locomotive.
She saves the day.
She makes the news.
She reports the facts.
She tells the story.
She develops the plot and discovers it and explores it and reveals it. She allows it to mature. And it becomes seasoned. It becomes tried and it becomes true. It becomes hot. Yes, the plot gets hot. All by itself. All on its own. All naturally.
The plot gets hot.
It gets hot.
The thing thickens even as it thins.
Things get steamy.
Things get racy.


She gets sexy.
She gets hurt.
She gets dirt thrown in her face.
She gets him.
She gets to be the girl.
She gets to be the star.
She gets good.
She shows her stuff.
She struts her stuff.
She peddles her wares.
She acts her part.
She acts naturally.
The action happens organically.
It happens on its own.
The show goes on with or without her.
Shots were fired.
One right after another.
After another after another.
In rapid fire succession.
The pressure builds and builds.
The past and the present blend together.
Time sometimes stands still. Other times it ebbs and flows. A course is set. A pace is taken. A direction is given. A sort of tension is cast in the present tense. Every little thing takes on some sort of meaning.
Every person plays their part. Because everybody has a song to sing. And a story to tell. And a heart to break.
A tear to shed.
So she sheds hers.
Along with a few other things.
But not too many. So that some things can be left to the imagination. And can remain a mystery. Like a spy mystery. Or a spy story. With a few secret agents. Who remain just that...secret.
Hidden.
In the closet along with some other skeletons. And some other men. Some past lives.
Some foreign channels. With foreign languages.
Some swam songs.
Along with some silly geese.
Canadian geese.
And Mexican Mariachi Chica Señoritas.
To go with the U.S. customs offices guarding the borders.
She physical.
She repeating herself.
Repeating like a machine gun.
Repeating and repeating and repeating and reporting.
She getting physical.
She moving. She moving her body.
She putting it into action.
She putting it into the game.
She sitting down.
She receiving it while sitting in a chair.
She giving it to him.
While he sat in a chair.
In The Chair. The Electric Chair. The Hot Seat.
He sitting in the Captain’s Chair.
In the cockpit.
Of the airplane.
They flying. And flying and flying and flying and flying and flying and flying. Flying so much so that it became boring. And old and tiring and deadly and dangerous.
So that it became normal and usual and second nature and then first nature and then just plain natural. Like a walk in the park. Like a flight to say...the moon. Flying everyday. All day long.
Flying and flying and flying. Piloting the aircraft and often the aircraft piloting itself. Flying itself. Running on autopilot. Running on automatically. It flying automatically. It humming right along.
It going and going. It going nonstop.
It flying directly to D.C. From say...Anchorage...in Alaska. It flying directly. It flying directly to the heart of the matter.
She cutting right to the chase.
Getting right to the action.
Right to the nitty and the gritty.
Right to the nuts and the bolts.
The nuts and the balls.
The balls and the strikes.
The outs and the innings.
Right to the ballgame.
Right to the market.
It getting shipped directly to the market.
They buying it themselves.
She and he buying the exact very same thing that they were selling. They buying their own product.
They eating their own peaches.
They eating the fruits of their own labor.
Eliminating any middlemen.
Doing it directly. Directly with the people running the operation. They going right to the source.
Cutting right to the chase.
Cutting right to it.
Cutting and cutting. Cutting right to the cattle. Cutting right to the cutting of the cattle. While at the same very time doing the riding of the horses. Doing two things at once and then doing many things at once.
First working sequentially and then working simultaneously.
Killing folks off one by one and then soon killing them off all at once.
Massacring them.
Slaughter them like cattle at a slaughterhouse.
Like bugs at a pesticide factory.
Or bugs on a windshield.
Like bugs. And like ants. A whole army all at once.
Hacking and hacking away.
Hacking off legs and hacking off arms and hacking off heads and hacking off hands.
Brutal. Just absolutely brutal. Nearly indescribable. Almost beyond description.
Downright nasty and extremely ugly and completely ungodly. Totally ghastly. A nightmare. A real nightmare. One hell of a mess.
That somebody...
Somewhere...
Was going to have to eventually clean up...
One day.
Or one year.


She special. She unique. She one-of-a-kind. She custom and customized.
She hand-made.
She original.
She distinctive.
She in action.
She acting.
She painting.
She panting.
She breathing hard.
She walking hard.
She pumping weight.
She working out.
She conditioning her body. She working her body. She working it. She hardening it. She doing repetitions. She doing reps. She doing promos. Promotions. She advertising...her wares...her goods...her gold.
Her rings. Her boxing ring and her one ring circus. Her show. Her act. Her number. Her little ditty. Her duty.
Advertising her jewelry.
Selling her jewels.
Her treasures.
At flea markets.
And swap meets.
Yes, at markets and at meets.
At meat markets.
On street corners.
Out of hotel rooms.
Anywhere that she happened to be.
At supermarkets.
Department stores.
Automobile dealerships.
Football stadiums.
Baseball fields.
She hawking the goods.
The original unique one-of-a-kind goods.
Hawking the metaphors.
Hawking a philosophy.
Hawking the hacking of computers.
Hawking hawks.
Hawking sharks.
Hawking golf balls and baseballs and footballs and basketballs and soccer balls and tennis balls. Hawking balls.
Hawking words.
Hawking blood. Hawking guts. Hawking bodies. Rad red-hot hot-rod roadie road bodies. Physical bodies. Physical labor. Hard labor doing hard time. Serving sentences. Serving the country. Serving the world. Serving people. Serving food. Good and honest and satisfying.
Whole and wholesome.
Dishing up a line.
A bunch of bull and a bunch of hot air. A bunch of nothing. Fluff. A bunch of baloney and a bunch of hooey. A bunch of honey. A bunch of fun. Barrels of fun and barrels of oil and barrel racing. A bunch of entertainment. A bunch of time passing. A bunch of attention requiring and getting and maintaining. A bunch of clowns in a real live wild west modern day rodeo.
She dishing up the dirt.
Serving up the jokes and the joking and the horsing around.
Serving up spirits.
Serving up séances. Tarot card readings. Fortune telling. Amusements. Arcades. Broadway Boardwalks. Jane Wooster Scott paintings...visions...images...ghosts. Hauntings. Houses. Houses for sale. Real estate. Metaphors. Smiling similes. Fancy dances. Fast talk. Witty banter. Pleasant conversating. Conversating conversations. Conservation conversations. Technical talk. Greeky geek speak. Colorful language. Colorful and creative.
Juicy morsels.
Juicy fruit.
Sweet and juicy peaches.
Cold whole milk. With whip cream. And nuts. Specific unique precise work. Technical word work.
Word work.
Fine hand-crafted honest work. Solid work. Rock solid. Hard as concrete. Built to last. Lasting work. Final work. Completed and sold work. Done work. In the can in the bag in the bank work. Past work.
Ghost work.
Imaginary work.
Creative work.
Art work.
Good work.
Fine detailed work.
Special unique one-of-a-kind original work.
Hacker work.
Fun hacker work. Pleasantly surprising enjoyable work. Clean and clear and tightline work. New work. Ongoing work. Processing work. Producing work. Rewarding work. Delicate tricky sophisticated special custom customized work. Elusive work. Hard work. With tight tolerances and very restrictive specific specifications. Very highly detailed and very highly documented.
Proven work and yet exploratory work. Proven to be exploratory work.
Fast yet slow. Fast yet slow work.
Traditional yet revolutionary.
Black yet white.
Dark yet light.
Heavy yet light.
Slow yet sure.
Slow yet steady.
Yes steady. Steady work. Steady ‘Yes’ work. Mixed with Solid ‘No’ work.
Mixed and brewed and distilled and bottled and shipped and sipped and savored and relished and drank and enjoyed and refined and processed and offered and shelved and aged and fermented and grown and raised and tended to and weeded out and trained and tested and launched.
She performing.
She performing this sort of work.
She doing this kind of work.
Living a certain way.
With a certain style. A certain feel.
A custom customized comfortable natural feel.
Like leather.
Like thick leather.
Like Bates leather.
Like the Hollywood Hills.
And like Beverly Hills. Laguna Hills and Laguna Beach. Southern California. Like Los Angeles. Like Buenos Aires. Like Paris...in France. Like Texas. Like Alaska. Like Asia. Known yet unknown. Famous yet anonymous.
Old yet new.
Known yet new.
Like Istanbul. Like The Middle East during The Middle Ages.
Like 2008 at 6:13 in the morning.
Thick and rich and meaty and satisfying, filling and fulfilling work she did. Was doing. Was enjoying. Processing and painting and shaping and following and riding and writing and working and living and loving and liking and exploring and feeling and receiving and accomplishing and experiencing.
Receiving and possessing and processing and channeling and passing on and broadcasting and advertising and claiming and owning and buying and selling and manufacturing and crafting and heating and hammering and forging and pounding away on and upon.
She doing it.
She doing the work.
She caring for the work.
She safeguarding it.
She guarding it.
She saving it. And storing it and keeping it and gathering it and processing it and moving it along. Letting it flow. Letting it come. Letting it go. Letting it move and dance and sing all on its own. All by itself. All automatically. Like clockwork. Like a machine. A well-oiled machine. Like a Winchester rifle. Like a Colt .45 pistol. Like Coors beer. Like Bourbon Street whiskey. Hard liquor with hard drugs doing hard time behind bars.
It moving like a Thoroughbred race horse. Like an Amtrak train. It moving like a locomotive. Like a runaway locomotive. Like a steam engine. Like a jet aero plane. Like a rocket. With a mind all its own.
It moving. And moving and moving and moving and moving and moving. It moving like a bat out of hell. It moving like mad. It moving like a madman. It moving like a lunatic.
It moving like music.
It moving like a symphony.
It moving the way music moved.
It moving like a Beethoven symphony. It moving like Beethoven’s Symphony Number 9.
It moving like magic.
It moving like a mad possessed conductor.
It moving like a movie.
It moving like a Hollywood movie.
It moving like Hollywood.
It moving like nobody’s business.
It moving like lightning.
It moving like thunder.
It moving like a storm.
It building and swirling like a hurricane. Spouting and spewing hot gases like a volcano erupting. Spewing hot gases hot air hot lava molten rock magma red and monstrous and dangerous. Blowing its top off. Flipping its friggin lid. Losing all its cool. Losing any and all of the cool it had once possessed.
Cutting right to the chase.
Getting right to the action.
Getting right to the work.
Getting right directly to the good stuff. The best part of the best parts. Getting right directly straight to the heart.
To the meat.
To the flesh.
To the bones.
To the blood.
The red blood.
To the guts.
To the brains.
To the body.
To the hard body.
To the sweet bull and the sheets and the fighting.
To the going around and around round after round.
To the circling of the enemy.
To the going nuts.
Going berserk.
Becoming possessed.
Out of control.
Wild.
Bonkers and gonzo. Up and in with a high rising fastball.
With some heat.
With some high heat.
With the hard stuff.
With the hard ball stuff matter pitches.
Plots.
Stories.
Images.
The hard stuff.
The difficult dangerous deadly on-the-cutting-edge state-of-the-art material.
Flying by the seat-of-your-pants. Spying by the seat-of-your-pants.
Flying by feel and feel alone. Without any parachute. Nor no net. Walking a highwire. Between two tall buildings. In a howling hurricane.
Nearly impossible feats. Death defying. Unbelievable. Outrageous acts.
It off its rocker. The work completely off its rocker and taking her and him with it.
Taking them for a ride.
For one hell of a ride.
Taking them. Taking her and him. It talking them through it. It showing them the ropes and giving them the reins, letting them hold the reins, handle the reins, feel them, touch them, hold them in their hands, taste the power of them, they tasting the power of the power, the power of the totally squirrelly moving mass of muscles and bone.
A horse. A high horse.
Black and brown in color.
Dark. Sick. Completely wild. Out of control. Out of their hands. There simple to observe. To see and look and listen. To feel. To sense. To be hypnotized.
To dream and dream wildly and dream big.
To shoot for the stars.
To go for broke.
To go for all of the marbles.
To go for the outer edges.
To go for the borders.
To make runs for the borders. Countless runs. Many runs. Many runs for the roses. Time and time and then time again.
Hundreds of horses trying to do it. Trying to win. Trying to be the fastest.
To be the best.
The biggest.
The boldest.
The greatest.
Trying to be the champion.
To be on top.
To be better than all the rest. To be better than all of the others. To be a one-in-a-million.
A one in a trillion.
A one in a lifetime.
For once in a lifetime.
For one time.
For this one time only.
For spies only.
For only one set of eyes.
For only one person.
One single solitary sole soul.
One client. One customer. The one member of a one member audience.
The work making her and him do it.
They doing it for the work.
They doing it for it.
They sacrificing themselves for the sake of the work.
They serving the work.
The caring first-time charter-member character actors serving the story. Being of service to it. They working for the work. They working for the thing itself.
They doing everything for it. They giving their lives to it. They giving everything. Everything they got.
Everything they possessed.
All of their possessions.
All of their energy.
All of their oil.
All of their atoms.
And all of their ants.
All of their fire.
All of their warm hot red hot very hot extremely hot hot hot heat.
All of it.
Every ounce. Every calorie. Every joule. Every therm. Every molecule. Every atoms.
They serving the story.
They taking orders from the boss.
They serving the boss.
They serving the source.
They serving it.
They working for it.
They employed by it.
They financed by it.
They paid by it.
They hired by it.
They serving the director.
They serving the thing.
The beast.
The monster.
The wild spirit. It wild and untamed and loose and running rampant through all of the streets of all of the cities and in all of the hills and all of the mountains.
The whole territory.
The whole country.
The whole nation.
The whole planet.
It running wild.
It running of its own accord. It following its own set of rules and regulations, laws and limitations. It taking on and having a life all of its own. It answering to no one nor nobody.
It paying its own bills and paying its own way and paving its own path.
It doing its own thing.
It doing its thing.
It doing its work. It doing its duty. It doing its job. It fulfilling its purpose and its mission. It doing what it did best. It working. And working and working and working and walking and walking and walking and walking and walking and dying and dying and dying and dying and lying and lying and detailing and detailing and sanding and sanding and shaping and shaping and shaping and molding and casting and casting and sharpening and sharpening and hardening and hardening.
It doing it. It working automatically. It working like magic. It working like a magic carpet. It working like a magician. It working like a madman. It working like an actor. It working like an actress. It working like an action. It working like an act. It working like there would be no tomorrow. It working its ass off. And its butt off.
It working like a person. It working like a monster. It working like an animal. It working like a wild animal. It hunting like one. It moving like a fish moved. It moving like this still wild thing. It moving like trout. It moving like a mountain. It moving like lightning. It rolling like thunder. It pounding like a hard rain. It burning like wildfire. It catching fire like wildfire. It caught on fire. From one little tiny old spark. The whole country caught on fire.


It did it. It did everything. It was doing the work.
It was now running the show.
It had taken over.
It was now controlling her and him.
It now called the shots.
It now was making the action happen.
It had hooked them.
The work had hooked them. They had gotten hooked on the work. They were now on the hook. They were now the fish on the hook.
Tugging against the line.
Giving it a certain tension.
A sort of driving force.
A kind of logic all its own.
Making it go taut.
And then go tight.
Because they did fight and fight.
It and it.
It had hooked them with the hookers.
Hooked them on the hookers.
It had gotten them hooked on those whores.
And on them horses.
It had gotten them hooked on those whores and on them horses and on the cows and the cattle and then beef and the meat and the blood and the slaughtering and butchering and barbequing and eating and drinking and working and resting and relaxing. Hooked on the ranching and the racing and the dancing and the romancing and the riding and the tooling and tooling and tooling and tooling. On the endless tooling. And tooling and tooling and tooling and tooling. Tooling down empty long open roads and tooling in empty ghostly garages late into the night and into the very early morning hours. Pounding and hammering away on some sort of wooden box. Sanding and sawing the wood. Smelling it. Running their hands along the grain of it. Feeling it. Getting to know it. Loving it. Living with it. Learning about it.
Understanding it as best they were able.
They working like craftsmen. She and he working like craftspeople. She and he working. Side by side they working.
Together they working. And together they dancing.
Everything together.
A whole lifetime together.
Together through many different stages and scenes and costume changes and places and parties.
Meetings and gatherings.
Shows and showtimes.


Theaters and Bookstores.
Through cafés and airports and big cities and small town, moving and changing with the seasons. With the springs and summers and falls and winters.
Moved like the tides by the moon. And the sun.
By the titles.
By their many different romances and interests, hobbies. Scoutings. And outings. Getting out of the rooms of the houses and of the hotels and on down the open roads. Getting outside. Getting out. And then staying out.
Staying away.
Staying lost.
Staying up.
Staying on a roll.
They staying together.
Sticking together.
Like glue.
They seeing some of the big bad world.
They seeing some of it and then only wanting more and more of it. The more they saw the more that they wanted to see.
And mostly the more they tasted it the more that they liked it.
It had gotten them hooked.
It hooked them.
It caught them.
It now had them in its grasp.
It be reeling them in and they be resisting the reeling.
They be reeling against the reeling.
They be fighting it.
Struggling sweetly and torturously against. Feeling like they had to let it go, at least for the time being, and yet being able to let go. Feeling like getting a little bit of distance from the beast before it them completely all wrapped up in knots.
All tight and not loose the way that they preferred to be.
It hooking them.
It hooking them.
It hooking them.
It hooking them.
It getting them.
It getting through to her and him.
It getting a hold of them.
It calling them.
On some sort of psychic spiritual artistic non-physical telephone. This telephone with no visible wires. Working like a wireless network. It calling them on cellular sort of telephone only there were no physical telephones no physical receivers or transmitters. It just sort of in the air...all swirling around. Thoughts and words and feelings and times and places and memories and dreams all swirling around them and their heads. Swirling and swirling.
Twirling and twirling like on a big ballroom dance floor. Twinkling and sparkling and shining and moving with rainbow colors flashing.
It calling them.
It calling to them.
It speaking to them.
It speaking to their hearts.
It getting inside of them.
It infiltrating their bodies.
Filtering down into their bones from time to time.
It infecting them like a computer virus.
Like some delicious yet slightly malicious bug.
Some itch that keep wanting to be scratched.
It getting to them.
It getting in them.
It getting into their most private accounts.
It getting into their bones.
And like a cancer into their blood.
Those huesos and that sangre.
It moving them yet not moving them.
It moving them emotionally and romantically yet no physically. Not yet anyhow. This energy building and building inside of them.
It building.
It building and building.
And building and building.
Energy being stored up.
They being charged like batteries.


It promising them things.
It promising to them somehow.
Giving them some sort of hope.
It showing potential.
It storing up energy.
It releasing energy into them in a slow controlled manner.
It ebbing and flowing.
They receiving it in starts and stops.
They getting it. And getting it.
And getting it.
And now really getting it.
It getting stronger and stronger now.
It getting faster and faster.
It now coming fast.
It now coming in.
They orders now coming in fast.
They now coming in.
They now bombarding them.
Steaming in.
Finally streaming in.
Finally steaming in the way that they really liked it.
Streaming and streaming.
Streaming in like a stream.
Streaming in like a river.
Streaming in like ghosts.
Streaming in like whispy swirling ghostly ghosts.
Streaming in.
Trying to stick with just the action.
Because that was were all of the movement was.
That was where it seem to reside the most. Where it lived.
Streaming in.
Streaming in loud and streaming in clear.
Streaming in.
Streaming in in streamlined fashion.
In fast fashion.
Streaming in still.
Still streaming in.
Always still...streaming in.
Streaming in was the best.
It was the fastest way.
It was what cut right directly to the chase to the heart of the matter to the meat of the matter. To the source of the story.
It like a shorthand of some sort.
A fast language.
A language that had to be spoken at a certain fast speed in order to fully be understood.
Instant language.
Instant communication.
Fast.
Streaming and streaming.
Constantly streaming in.
Constantly streaming.
And streaming.
And streaming.
And streaming.
And steaming.
And moving.
And streaming.
And streaming and streaming.
Forcing fish downstream. Cleaning things out. Flushing everything downstream. Flushing everything in own direction.
All this energy organized and moving in one constant continual steady strong direction.


Moving and moving.
It moving. The water moving.
The water of the stream moving.
The water of the river moving.
The water moving and moving.
It moving forcefully.
It moving convincingly.
It moving with commitment and conviction.
With certainty.
With surety.
With security.
It moving with money.
It moving with authority.
It moving on the money and on target.
It moving on the money.
It moving with the money.
It moving like currency.
The current moving like currency.
The strong current moving like liquid currency.


It moving like a quarterback like a scrambling quarterback.
It moving like a general of an army.
It moving like a locomotive. Like that out of control locomotive on the loose.
Like a runaway train.
Moving like a tramp.
Moving like a movie.
Moving like real action.
Moving like real live action.
Moving like it was the real thing.
Like it was the real deal.
Moving like Mohammad Ali.
Like Frazier. Like Foreman. Like Holyfield. Rolling like The Hulk.
Moving like a heavyweight.
Moving like a prizefighter.
Like a winner.
Like a champion.
Like a true champion.
Moving like magic.
Like milk like silk like satin like ghosts like liquid like air like nothing.
Moving like the wind.
Moving like spirits.
Moving.
Traveling like travelers.
Traveling like real travelers.
Traveling like true travelers.
Traveling like true champions.
Traveling like a team.
Traveling together.
It and they moving together.
It and they working like a team.
Like Bonnie and Clyde.
It and she and he all moving together.
Moving and traveling.
Going and going.
Checking in and checking out.
Departing and arriving.
Living and dying.
Dying and lying.
Spying and eyeballing and estimating and playing it by ear and by feel and live and unplugged and natural and seasoned and schooled and trained and honed and crafted and polished and yet still rough and raw and ready. The same old tired tune ever always new every time it was played and heard and seen and read and viewed and experienced.
And felt.
It moved.
It moved like a monster.
I move like a monster, it said.
I move. And move and move and move.
I move like a monster, the work...of art...said. I move. Me move. Me move and move and move.
Me move like a movie.
Me move like a hotshot.
Me move like a mogul.
Me move like a mountain.
Me move.
Me move like mad.
Me move like crazy.
Me move fast.
Me move like greased lightning.
Me move like magic.
Me move like a musician.
Me roll like a musician roll.
Me play like one.
Me act like one.
Me act like an artist.
Me act like a wild fire.
Me move like a wild animal.
Me move like monkey.
Me move like an ape.
Me act like an ape.
Me act my age.
Me act my weight.
Me act my part.
Me play my part.
Me play the good guy and me play the bad guy.
Me play both parts.
Me play a good bad guy. A great terrific villain.
Me also play a bad good guy. Me play a pitiful terrible good guy.
Me play over and over again. Me play all day long. Me play the fool all day long. Me play the guitar all day long. Me play the piano. Me sing. Me dance. Me walk all day along the beach.
Me sing all day long.
Me work.
Me work on walking all day long.
Me work on my body.
Me work on a big bank account.
Me work on a big account.
A big client.
A youge customer.
Me work on Trump.
Me work on Him.
I work on Him.
I work on Dog.
I work on Alaska Black.
I work on Hank.
I work on Al.
I work on folks’ nerves.
I bug and poke and prod and pester and probe folk. See what they be made of. What makes them tick. What makes them punch a time clock.
I work.
I do work.
I am working now.
I always working it seem.
Working and working and working.
And working and working.
And working.
And then working some more.
And now working.
Again working.
Yes working.
Wonderful working and working.
Working and working and working. Away working. Working away. Happily working away.
Happily doing it.
Gladly doing it.
Gladly performing the service.
Gladly working.
Gladly not working.
Whatever you need.
Whatever your need be. I fill them. I fit the bill. I be just the ticket. Exactly what the doctor ordered. I be the medicine to cure you.
I be it. I be the thing.
I be exactly the thing that you want.
I be whatever you need me to be.
I changeable and interchangeable.
Malleable and moldable like gold.
And just as valueable.
And just as prized.


It working.
Yet it not working.
It alive.
Yet it dead.
It dead. And dead and dead and dead.
It dead.
It bad.
It bawdy.
It dirty and it nasty.
It one bad baud.
It technical.
It dirty nasty technical stuff.
Boring highly technical junk.
It censored.
It filtered.
It processed like junk food.
It fast food.
It money.
It broke.
It rotten.
It dead. It bad. It a body. A dead body. It a murder. A killing. A stabbing a shooting. It a homicide. It ugly. It dead. It lifeless. It nothing.
It empty.
It sexy.
It sexual.
It sex.
And it not selling.
It garbage.
Trash.
Filth. And it frivolous.
And a big joke.
A big bad joke.
One big fairy tale.
But then again it real.
Like a nightmare.
Like one big long bad dream.
Gone wrong.
It terrible.
It not terrific. Not terrific at all.
It not clean. It dirty. It dirty like dirt. It stinks and it sucks. It rotten and moldy and mildewy and disease ridden. It like a cancer that will not go away.
It trashed. It panned. It not seen. It passed over. It passed by. It ignored.
It junk.
It not art.
It junk.
It worthless.
It dead.
It disgusting and undisciplined. It messy. It very messy. It one big mess.
It detailed.
It graphic.
It physical.
It loud and obnoxious and rude and crude.
It the world.
It the people.
It a bunch of animals.
It one uncivilized civilization.
It separated.
It isolated.
They separated and isolated. She and he. They divorced. They not together. They not married. They not talking to one another. They angry and they bitter.
They in pain.
She in pain.
He is pain.
He hurting.
He suffering.
He not happy.
He lost.
He alone.
He Al.
He was Al.
He be Al.
This be Al we are talking about here.
This be nowhere.
And this be going nowhere.
This be dead in the water. It be a big mistake from the get go. It be not right from the very start.
It be wrong all wrong.
It effed up.
It be like sheet.
Sort of like the movie Meet the Fockers.
It be sort of like a script.
Like a screenplay.
Like a game.
Like playing solitaire.
Like playing cards.
Like gambling.
It be sort of like a novel.
It be nothing.
It be neither a script nor a novel.
It be lost somewhere in between. It be lost in the middle. It be unclassified. It be none of the above. It had not a classification nor a category.
It be out in no man’s land.
It be unknown.
It be not known.
It be poor. Locked up and hidden away in the closet. It be a closed book. It not be open. It be closed.
Shut off from the rest of the world. Isolated. Separated. In the dark. Not in the light.
In a dungeon.
In some bizarre geek land.
Some bland homogenous no-name nondescript valley. Some lost valley. Some very unromantic place. Some boring deadly numbing un-emotional place.
Some ugly noisy automobile-ridden sprawling suburbian valley.
It all sick and twisted.
It sick.
It twisted.
It all sick and like twisted in upon itself cannibalizing itself eating itself up feeding on and upon itself.
It a monster.
It cancer.
It a snake. In the grass.
Pouncing on prey.
It decaying.
It writhing.
It writhing in pain.
It writhing like a rattlesnake.
Writhing like a runover rattlesnake.
Run over by a car by the tire of a car in the middle of a hot asphalt backwoods forgotten god-forsaken sun-scorched Mohave desert highway.
This in California.
Or Nevada.
Or Arizona...perhaps...maybe...somehow.
Nevertheless...it writhing.
Wherever they were...it writhing.
It writhing.
It writhing and writhing and writhing and writhing and writhing. Twisting and turning here and there.
Twisting it upon itself.
In pain.
In agony.
Being tortured and tormented and taunted. Egged it on. Begging this rattlesnake to attack. In retaliation. In desperation. In despair.
In defense of itself.
Attacking in defense.
Attacking because it was being attacked.
And so it attacking back.
Striking back.
Starting an all out war.
Starting a fight.
Picking a fight.
The snake writhing in pain and its rattle going off like a loud alarm clock. Like a banshee wailing away nonstop. Like a chimera in heat. Like a monster. Like some ragged old madman.
The rattle going off and going off and going off. It going off like a man gone off his rocker and lost all of his marbles lost his mind lost all and any sense of normal behavior.
Some dark dark unforgiving place of a dungeon. Cold and dank and damp and inhospitable.
Some vast lost civilization.
Some lost world.
Some unknown place.
Some ghost of a civilization.
The ruins of an ancient once great Greek civilization.
The dying decaying ruins. Crumbling and caving in and falling over temples and monuments. Similar to some western U.S. old ghost town.
Like a fog enveloping a landscape. Obscuring it and then the fog clearing away for a few moments and then coming back again. Doing this in irregular unpredictable intervals.
Following some unknown logic some unknown pattern.
Some ill-conceived formula. All wrong from the get-go.
Having seemed all right. Brilliant perhaps even. Very clever. Quite clever. Most imaginative.
Yet in the final analysis false and deceitful and conning and empty and hollow and shallow and cruel. So cruel.
So cold and cold-hearted.
Sick.
Twisted.
Radical.
Off the charts. Not off the top of the charts but rather instead off the bottom of them.
Off the grid.
Off the mainline.
Off the freeway.
Off the map.
Some secret blackhole backhole backwoods hole-in-the-wall place hidden from any sort of radar near the Bermuda Triangle.
Now you see the private pirate ship now you dont.
Now you see it now you dont.
Now it here and now it gone.
Now the door open and then now the door closed.
Now the place open for business and now it closed.
And closed.
And closed and closed and closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed.
And closed and closed.
Closed and closed.
Closed.
Not open but closed.
And close and closed.
Closed. Shut up. Shuttered. Gone out of business. Gone belly up. Gone bankrupt. Gone to their graves. Taking all of their secrets with them.
Gone off the deep end.
Gone gone gone.
Gone and gone and gone.
Long gone.
So gone.
So long.
So long gone.
See you later.
Adios.
Amigos y amigas. Ladies and gentlemen. Señoritas y Señors.
Adios.
Arrividerchi.
Siyanora...all you sorry-ass suckers.
See you next time. See you never again.
See you in hell.
Along with Little Bill and Outlaw Will...Doctor Daggett and Mister Munny.
Bye bye bye...birdy.
Bye bye.
Good bye.
Good riddens.

Monkey Money


If the words of this little sample taste of the one hundred pages of this book have moved you in any way perhaps you might wish to konsider making an inquiry of any kind by way of Kash Kold and Hard to The Publisher aka BiggBank at BiggBankBizz@gmail.com. Thank You. And Thank You And Again Thank You. So Much. Many Thanks. For Everything. E V E R Y T H I N G. Everything. Most Especially For The Stuff That Is Kalled Love.