Thursday, October 21, 2004
Twenty-hour hours to kill on the north shore of Oahu turned out to be a beautiful thing indeed. Dark decided to take himself on his word and grabbed a crown coke from the pool bar and went to lounge on a chaise between a pair of twenty something swimsuit models. After about three refills, he was feeling good and the sun was soaking in. A dip in the pool sounded good. It was about noon, the sun was roasting, and he had one of those early afternoon buzzes that are the guilty pleasures of drunkards and vagabonds the world over.
Much later. Evening. Sitting on the beach with a bottle of Cuervo, pretty fuckin’ drunk, chillin’ out under a palm tree. Taking in the scene. About a half moon, enough that the moonlight reflected off the ocean, the few passersby walking along the beach visible to Dark’s trained night vision.
But they couldn’t see him, hidden in his little shady spot, now could they? Not unless they were fuckin’ Ted Williams, ain’t that right boyo?
Dark was trying to stifle it, but the booze and the breeze were conspiring against him. The hunger was coming on him. He wanted to kill, to hurt, to maim. He wanted to hear screams and see blood.
This was not the time for play, however. He was here on business, and he couldn’t take the chance of attention from the police. Funny how he missed the job. When he didn’t attend to his work, his work attended to him. He just couldn’t stay away, and he didn’t even try anymore.
But not tonight. He’d feel better in the morning, he could already feel the hangover even though he was still wasted off his ass. The pain in his head would dull the bloodlust. Save it for his enemies. The innocent were just that, and it wasn’t their time to die tonight, at least not by his hands.
Dark stumbled back up the beach and towards his room. It was barely 11 pm but this place was just about shut down. The bar had closed at 10:30.
He almost expected those two punks that had snuck up on him in Waikiki to be waiting in his room, but it was all clear. He forced himself to drink some water and passed out. He hoped for dreams of Chan’s mystery girl, but if his subconscious gave him images during the night, he was unable to recall them the next day.
the schmidts are still here.
I sense a happening.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Have I mentioned that my diesel truckers is on the way? Kool keith is a genius. And h bomb is hg wellsish type whatchacallit. Even though he fucks up paperwork. In all alleyways that you could ever envision of. Not that I’m saying he did. I can only guess at exterior alterations in strategy that were executed on said side deals. But how could they put shit out that is unauthorized.
It’s like at first, you think, that, well, it’s all fucked up, like crizap, but that’s just guesswork from the bird crew on learning about all the possible potentials of phonics. It’s really fucked up, and the more you digest it, especially if in the right frame or status of mind, it’s just, fuck, it’s nuts. I mean, shit. Fuck. Shit and fuck. Fuck and shit. And then a big old fuckn shit.
Put it on cominatcha mode and like just look at at like it was a laser beam, and then trip out on 83 pounds of astromedallion stew, and you’ll start to understand.
See, whut I wonder, and what I’ve wondered from day one, despite the legitness of said media entities reporting on said reportage, is if this is all bullshit, I mean, the supposed illegality inspired drama of it, if keith is getting paid insane duckets and bankrolling the whole smokescreen, and it’s like some arcane seventh veil co conspiracy connection, I mean, they are saying “fuck the industry, fuck it.” Could a nice mindfuck on ice be the orderves to a dinner of egg foo yong?
Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I ever heard. It makes perfect sense in a way. Keith’s 73 identities. Why not invent one that rips himself off and struts off with the hardware? What stirs up more curiosity than a controversy? Btw I don’t know whut the fuck I’m talking about.
Monday, October 18, 2004
call me a tard, I mean, I feel so tarded for being so typical, in that of caring about Yankees bosox, but I can’t help it, it’s fascinating, how much these people care, really are passionate, about these baseball teams, I mean, read the verbage that the sports guys spits about the sox, it’s like, a sickness, I mean, dodger fans just aren’t like this, we lose, we lose, bummer, we’re not trying to make like curses from dead fat guys and, I mean, the cubs are the same, blaming shit on goats and shit, but, I mean, and yes that’s the 83rd “I mean” so sorry in arrears and advance, dillio with tha schmillio. But it does make for great theatre, only reason to really watch any baseball, I mean, I didn’t watch any of the dodger games, maybe a couple innings, just can’t sit & watch an actual baseball game, like from start to finish, way too much jerkie galerkie periods adding up to staring at the ceiling & just thinking there has to be something better to do with said allocation of time vestibule.
Oh yah, don’t buy that new kool keith album you see in the stores, octagon II. It’s a fucking bootleg. Somebody’s jacking keith for his flintstone vitamins. I got a feeling H-Bomb fucked up on some paperwork. The fucked thing is this thing is getting more pub on the record shelves than diesel truckers did. Fuck the record industry. Deep in their ass. Go "acquire" it or some shit. Maybe talk to ock, possibly he could assist in this matter. Just don’t drop cash on this shit & help line pockets of vagabonds doing opposite of valiant representation. At least theoretically and perpetratedly. Kinda fucked up thing is that the album is actually pretty good. I mean, I like it. Not that I’ve heard it. You know, it was psychically relayed to me via some fuckn space aliens from the planet Zebulon or some shit like that. My diesel truckers is on its way via amazon and legit purchase central. Suck on that for a spell. I supports that which is properly registrated.
Word to officer bird.