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4 out of 7 scientists prefer Chewbacca's crossbow
meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent looking doghouse...
copyright 2002-2011 ultrablognetic |
Friday, December 12, 2003
 D A R K
part 10 The filing cabinet, surprisingly, was mostly full of information about, of all things, groceries. Chan’s front business was as a supermarket entrepreneur, and apparently he was actually kind of serious about it. Dark’s gloved fingers flipped through various folders that documented some of Chan’s dealings in the local market. From the files it looked like Chan owned minority stakes in Foodland Supermarkets in Kaneohe and Sunset Beach. The majority of his interests, however, lay in ventures in Honolulu’s Chinatown. The borough was much smaller in scale than those of most mainland equivalents, but still a vital part of downtown Honolulu, with its own interconnecting seams of an underworld, as well as a bustling system of Chinese grocery outlets, and it was in this community that Chan was regarded as something of a kingpin. Other than the files on Robbie Chan’s business enterprises, there was a file on the house, containing various documents, some files on some automobiles, and a file simply marked “etcetera.” He flipped through the etcetera file, and the description was valid. There was all kinds of stuff in there, ranging from brochures for outer island resorts to a receipt from a dog shampooing. There were even a few photographs. One showed Chan with a short Asian man, the two of them smoking cigars on a golf course. There were a few of a baby crawling around on a green carpet, and one of the dog that Dark had knocked out in the yard. He was about to put the file back and move on in his search when he came upon the last item, a page cut out of a newspaper. Dark unfolded it and discovered it was from the LA Weekly, maybe 5 months ago, and wouldn’t you fuckin know it boys and girls? It was a write-up on Kylie Dusk, Los Angeles’ most controversial stripper, local counterculture icon, and sometime girlfriend to Rion Dark. Thursday, December 11, 2003
 when you think about it, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.
Every last bit of it. that lamp? Bullshit. Your soft comfy sofa? Tres bullshit senor. And don’t even get me started on your bedspread. Mine’s the shizzle, but yours is like shit of a bull, central office, and don’t even check, I called it in. yah, it’s like that. I just wanna get in a car and go like a billion miles an hour to like dr. phil’s secret lair where he’s prolly got oprah tied up in bondage gear and put a stop to that whole operation, cuz it just ain’t right. Go ahead and sue, oprah. Here, take it all, my mcdonaldland watch and my lakeside tattooz, and hey you CAN get fries with that. beyotch. Fukn jizzle sizzle cizzled my oh-izzle and I was like, werd? Chuuuch. Don’t try to understand that, it’s coded for one echelon of clearance above your authorization level. You have to hang out with snoop dogg for like 85 astro-medallion equivalents on the time map and then maybe I’ll clue you in to the first word. But you should already know it, I mean c’mon. jizzle sizzle? If you’ve read even one astro-medallion of this space you should know, I mean c’mon, they’re running out of you for chrissake. Shit. Wednesday, December 10, 2003
 so fitty was yappin in my ear metaphorically about some people wantin all his cash and hoes, and I gave him whut I think was some good advice, but shit if I can remember exactly what I said at this juncture. Apologies extended profusely.
Shit, here I am again in the spotlight (shah heebie) with nothing besides nada to say. I’m kind of over just blabbin all kine bullshit, I mean, I want to, or, am, searching (search – ah shit I mixed um tenses or some shit) for like the true meaning of life, like if you bit into the cosmic candy bar what revelations would you have? That’s the kind of shit I want to explore in this here space. Sad thing is I just don’t see it happening. And then once you get into the whole overanalysis of self that would be inherent in even a minute degree of the mind shift necessary to like swing the pendulum over in that direction, I mean, you’re talking drastic action or at least thought process degrees that due to the inherent nature of both yourself (myself, thanks carlton) and the surroundings ie the skunkworks at large that too much pressure to get like some real atlantis style shit pumped out on not even the regulah but the every so often would just be counter productive and even worse may inexplicably salt down the product, which, frankly, I just won’t have. So I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you, ie the one last, shit, rhesus monkeys are played out, um, koala bear? Nah that ain’t right either. Gotta let that one percolate in the lab for a fortnight & I’ll let ya know. Deal? In the meantime, don’t forget to repeat, mofos be lathering and rinsing to death and then you strait throw the blatant directions on the bottle out the window whut with your almost desecrated water by not following through, yah? I mean c’mon, if you’re gonna start this journey down the graffiti brick alley at least have the courtesy to bring your best overalls and slimjim selection. Chuuch.  video game beers zippy’s restaurant side bar shots beer car raekwon the chef home chill bed up confusion bed bathroom wake alarm shower coffee car rain office computer internet out so whut’s up with that.
def leppard. What the hell’s up with cheeseheads? Yah I know it’s Wisconsin. They’re all into their cheese identity in Switzerland too. Ok I’ll stop name dropping. Steamin’ steve clark. Dead. Rick Allen. One arm. Joe Elliot. Old age. Phil collen. Continuation of mistaken identity for that genesis drummer. That new guy. Fuck him. your fukn uncle’s step child. Well he shit it can get the bozack end of the Ozark mountain range gift fund. So hmmm the innernet is still um not givin up on the goat and whut not. I gotta like investigate this shizzle but it’s kinda bizzled if you get my dizzle. So we were drinking like snakebites last night. Yukon jack and lime juice. And beers. And beers. And I put three songs on the jukebox. They were safety dance and two others that I can’t recall. It was, how do they say, a scene. Not necessarily a good or bad or even neutral scene and as far as I know a minimum amount of crime was occurring, but nonetheless it’s inherent nature could not be denied. Best wu album ever, see the picture. Trust me on this. Well, there’s lot of other good ones, but this one is, how do they say, ah yes, that’s it. yeah, it’s like that. I really don’t have to explain it any further, now do I? You wouldn’t like me when I have to explain stuff. Tuesday, December 09, 2003
So busy. So busy that my number one client, the super secret JS, called, and I had to tell them politely to go fuck themselves via their own cornhole. Of course I mean this metaphorically. I informed them that the woods were full of rabbits and if they could consult with the squirrels and boo weevils that I would be sure to get back to them on their skunk needs at the nearest possible possibility.
And they had the nerve to hang up on me. On me! The king of the biz. Well I informed them in no uncertain terms, at least to myself under my breath after I had hung up the phone, that I would not take that shit from him her or no man woman beast. And I'm pretty sure they got the picture, or if they didn't, then at least they'll know that I'm the best, and if not that, then, well, I had a really tasty dr. pepper with lunch today, so you can't take that shit away from me. Ok, so whut's deep in my mind right now? C'mon, let's delve. And there you go, I just had to edit a bunch of shit. not that it was relevant, far from it, it was ponderings on the james bond series of peliculas (movies) and well, fuck it, I don't feel like explaining my paranoid delusions to a giant tarantula infested web of shame, so yeah, there's that for you to marinate on.  Howdy festering pile of dogshit, how they hanging? Whut's that? purty good? Glad to hear it. ya know, all I want is for you to understand my hopes wants dreams fears insecurities and every little detail of my innermost consciousness but without me having to divulge one single piece of pertinent information. Is that too much to ask? I mean, I can go to the comic store and buy say batman number whatever and I don't necessarily have to know that this man's mother and father were slaughtered by a ruthless gunman right in front of his eyes when he was only like 8 years old, right? I mean, yeah it helps, to understand his motivations for putting on tights and swinging from a rope at god knows what hour of the night, but even then, hey, people do weird things to get their kicks. So the master thesis was in a major stall for a while, but last night I cranked out a couple pages, and I was pleased to see that I jumped right back in there like Amelia Airheart riding a bike, misspelled name and all. It just flows still, where, nobody knows, and I still like it like that. the crew is stuck in Vegas now, well, not stuck literally, but I don't want them to leave yet, well, I guess you wouldn't necessarily put it that way, it's just that the story has not flowed to the point of them leaving yet. Sadly there is lot's of interesting stuff in Vegas. My only fear is that I will look like I'm biting hunter s. Thompson having like some drugged out whatever fest in sin city, even though i am not in any way shape form that's just where the story seems to have gone, so with that in mind, I gotta keep it brief and get them back on the road, problem being I'm having too much fun with the scenery and kooky cast of personas available at your disposable in such a place as the ol' stripola. Maybe, oh I got it, some wacky scheme with the old guy from before whereby they have to get on a plane to Taos, new mexico! Hell yeah. And then they have to meet some really drunk old Indian that holds like the key to this arcane box full of expired racing stubs from a retired horse track that will prove the particulars of this old crime and then they'll be heroes. Nah, fuck that, too forced. In fact, I don't even want to think about where they're going. They made it from so cal without me planning it. they'll make it out of the desert in the same fashion. And if they don't, well shit, whatever. But I know they will. They'll cross the country at least half way by the time the tale is told. Or not. Shit. well, whatever. Have a good one. Go clippers. Monday, December 08, 2003
 Sweet freedom. Dick loved little Nell, really, loved her to death, but four hours of uninterrupted rest sounded like heaven, especially in light of the shit he'd gone through the last few days. The combination of security and relaxation was almost too good to be true. The security of knowing that psycho BITCH was locked up, at least for now.
As he pulled into the driveway of the two story house, he couldn't help but focus his eyes on the burnt remains of the balcony. The contractors were scheduled to come out tomorrow and clear it away and put in a new one, but he didn't think he'd ever set foot on it. Actually he might call Ace Construction and tell them, you know what? Fuck the balcony. He turned off the ignition and stared at the closed garage door. Just stared away, zoning out in la la land. His thoughts turned to Morgan. Good ol Morgan, always there with his slippers in the morning, always ready for a walk around the block. He'd known Morgan longer than that BITCH and now Morgan was no more. Now Morgan was charcoal. Dammit. Why was he doing this? He had specifically told himself he wasn't going to think about this stuff today. He'd gotten the afternoon off from his piece of shit boss, Larry. (Actually Larry had been pretty cool the last couple weeks.) Nell, bless her heart, was playing pin the tail on the donkey at Joey Clarington's house on Mayfield, and he had a date with a cup of tea and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Dick managed to pull his gaze away from the garage door and stepped out of his Acura Integra, the car they'd bought together, him and Jane. Now that he had the clarity of hindsight, that may have been the first day he'd seen her dark side. Jane had gotten just a little too animated during the negotiations with the car salesman. He remembered her actually saying "do you think we have the word dumb motherfuckers printed on our foreheads?". She had blushed when she said it, and she generally never used language like that, but the whole talk had stopped at that point. Dead in the tracks. And you know what? They had gotten a hell of deal on the thing. FUCK. He still loved her, didn't he? That was the most pathetic goddam part of the whole trip. He still loved this psycho fucking BITCH that had trapped his dog on a balcony that she'd soaked with lighter fluid and threw a match and closed the door. Poor Morgan never had a chance, the ledge was too high to jump over. He must have just burned to death, wondering "what the fuck?? Where's my master now? He married this bitch and left me in her care and now I'm burnt doggie toast." Fuck it Dick. Go have a drink. Actually go have about seven. He turned the key in the front door, and right when he opened it, he got a vibe, a bad feeling in his gut. Maybe he was just tired. The preceding was my response to a writing exercise in Stephen King's book On Writing  So I'm going through a bunch of files and I notice this thick old tome with the title of "old mill stream murders 1975-76" and I’m thinking, ok, I have never seen this file before, and how in sam hill did it get mixed in with the current stuff that I'm working on? This got me down the trail of checking the thermoscan readings for the warehouse and whether or not there was a record of any unauthorized personnel in with the cooling vats over the weekend. Sure enough, there is one glitch in the system, at 2:13 am Sunday morning, some type of warm-blooded organism, bigger than a cougar but smaller than your average human, somehow just appeared in the candle storage area. The only reason the alarms didn’t go off and page someone, most likely yours truly, was that none of the entrance codexes were tripped. So whoever or whatever this thing was, they just suddenly appeared in a top security vector, a la some blue skinned x-man, and made their way into my office, through my triple penetration proof max-smith lock fortified by uranium crystals and oatmeal standards, and rummaged through my files, inserting some archaic reference to some slasher murders from a dark corner of Iowa almost three decades ago.
The real spooky thing about this whole affair, however, is that I was near the old mill stream on that fateful night in '75. I was only two years old, this was before any of my younger siblings were born, and my parents, with me in tow, were on their way to the strength and endurance carnival contests being staged in Indiana, and they’d decided to stop in that sad sullen section of Iowa to visit my mother's aunt Mabel, a matron of the family who although blessed with a variety of skills involving the culinary arts and jet propulsion technology, had never earned a dollar nor contributed in any way shape or form to the gross national index beyond her stock and bond portfolio, which was managed by a young stalwart of the time's wall street elite named Brockward Nelson. My great-aunt wrote many a paper theorizing on the relations between inertia and heat and their connection with various pie recipes, and is considered a veritable genius slash godmother in the now burgeoning underground internet community specializing in food related physical theory, but that is neither here nor there. I would spend a lot of timing rummaging through the file, cross checking info on the internet, calling up old contacts who may have knowledge of the specifics of possibly related events past and present, as well as the ever famous whole nine yards, but I am in something of a quandary in that Charles in Charge is on, and, well, you know, priorities. Even more disturbing, I have this bad feeling that by the time I am torn away from the insipid hijinx of Scott Baio and Nicole Eggert, among other thespian luminaries, I will have forgotten all about this potentially troublesome issue, which bodes not well for those concerned with plotline resolution. Sunday, December 07, 2003
 the fucked up thing about being as famous as me is that you constantly have to go against shit that you may have said before due to matters of personal security. Say for example you promise your girlie that dining shall commence at half past 8 at the chez ritz and you’ve got reservations and you’ve already slid a 20 to your waiter and the doorman via paypal and then suddenly the batphone rings and in that instant you know any and all plans that you may have instigated in any way shape or form have irrevocably been shattered as if they were a Persian kitty vase from the far reaches of backasswardville.
The reason I bring this up is that I seriously thought it was over over here. In all reality I was under the impression that the vultures were circling, that my gizzard was griddled, that in 98% of the possible eventualities of the situation, if I were to continue to propogate my name and rank in this here space that my life as well as those of my most personal and dearest would be compromised to a degree that I just could not accept. I won’t divulge at this time how or when or what type of information was received that changed the situation only to indicate that it was indeed dire, of that there is no doubt, but let’s just say that certain personnel who were deemed to be in dangerous possession of pertinent information have been taken care of via many avenues. These include but are not limited to strangulation, extortion, and utilization of various hostess products. I am thankful that the steps taken were not of the extreme nature that an inordinate number of people and or animals had to lose their lives, but the numbers having been reviewed, I can honestly say that I am content with the costs associated with said cleaning project in light of my once again found freedom to express my most innerfelt and misunderstood feelings in the appopriate forum, rather than some greaser’s poser ramblings that don’t have the quarter of a nutsack necessary to shine my shoe. Hopefully i am not universally disliked excessively in light of my wanton yanking at your metaphorical moodstrings like a banished wildebeest, but I implore you to recognize the knowledge of my disassociated although heartfelt feelings for you all which I hope is proven beyond shadow of a doubt in my inability to stay away. |
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