Leweh, Leweh

  I've always been a fan of two things: history and punk.  I mean, there're more than two things that occupy my life which I enjoy, but I find my mind wandering towards one or the other.  Anyway, here's where I believe the origins of punk music to reside:

*  *  *

  A butterfly flaps its wings, and a hurricane is stirred. But where did things go from bad to worse? Was it the butterfly you blamed? Or his mother for giving birth? You can reach as far back as you'd like to say the influence for an idea started elsewhere, and in this case, I will tell you how punk music started in a doo-wop song from 1957.

  A bass opens the harmony with Richard Berry humming the tune like it's the first one he's ever known and come to love. His voice croons over the lyrics and you can hear him smile in an almost sultry way as he slips the words “Louie Louie” from between his lips and past his perfectly-manicured mustache. By the end of the song, you've memorized the chorus and are ready to hum along.

  Now let me make one thing clear: back in those days you didn't care about who made the song first, just who played it best. When you released a record, you had a few of your own songs, but nobody cared if you could write, just let me hear you play the ones I love. The best way to sell a record was to play a good song better. But so far Berry's version was the only one around. Popular as it was, it got played at every sock-hop and on every station. It was a way to make the bars in town a cheerier place as well. So enter “Rockin'” Robin Roberts.

  Roberts may have misunderstood what the song intended, tattling for the girl named “Louie” between the cigarette smoke and the smell of piss and beer became a song rattling for another round from a bartender named “Lou”. Roberts recorded his version just one year later in '58 with The Wailers, transforming a serenade into a plead for one more round. True to the name of the band, Roberts took the buttery voice of Richard Berry and high-tuned it to the wailing voice of Jack Daniels. The bass of the original song matched and complimented the bass of Berry's voice. The scratching of the saxophone exacerbated the cry of Rockin' Roberts. Amid the rumble of instruments, Roberts declares “Let's give it to 'em right now!”.

  Five years pass, and the rain makes a suicide dive on anyone caught in the fray. Jack Ely and a gang of others from a local high school in Portland, Oregon make their way into the recording studio to escape the weather and record their first single. Forming The Kingsmen, they never figured they'd play rock music, but a 90-minute session of “Louie Louie” they performed the night before in a club makes them feel eager and prepared, if not a little braggy. Pooling their money, they have enough for one take. They tell the producer they want to have a practice round before the real thing. Whether he didn't hear or didn't care is anyone's guess. Where there was once a bass or a saxophone paving the opening beat to form the song, Jack Ely takes a breath, the piano strikes the chords, and the drum slaps the beat together. The Kingsmen believe they're warming-up, getting sloppy in their style and shaking sleep from their voices, but the producer has hit record and no one notices a thing. Someone has convinced Ely to use a hanging microphone to give the song a live feel. But being a teenager and not quite tall enough to fully utilize the height of the microphone, he leans back and yells over the instruments to hear himself sing. His braces sit funny and his words become slurred, almost an ode to Roberts' version. The drums continue to slam until a drumstick is dropped around the 57-second mark, where the drummer yells a “FUCK” in frustration. Pulling influence from the Roberts version of “Louie Louie”, Ely screams in annoyance “Let's give it to 'em RIGHT NOW!” and the guitarist plucks from his guitar strings like he's trying to torture the poor thing. The final slam on the drum is enough to almost break the snare.

  With their anger belted from their systems, The Kingsmen discuss how to fine-tune the “real” version they'll record. The producer tells them they've already played the final cut. They can pay for another take or cut their losses. April 6^th, 1963 is the day The Kingsmen were broke enough the record punk history.

  Paul Revere and The Raiders record their own version of the song two weeks after The Kingsmen, in the same studio, giving back to the 50's vibe of Roberts' version. There's more yelling, better guitar plucking from an already seasoned musician, and more emphasis on the brass instruments. Being already a well-established band, Paul Revere and The Raiders slowly climb their version of “Louie Louie” behind The Kingsmen before dropping suddenly. When investigating the causes, the band finds that while they sold well locally, the band's producer isn't a fan of hard rock music and shuts the single down.

  The Kingsmen's selling to the local radio stations comes easy, but no one expects the number of sales it garners. The popularity of it stems mostly from a playing style that no one has heard before: sloppy, angry, and compulsive. The unclean style gains attention from those of an older generation as well, condemning the song for an almost certain abrasive nature. The governor of Indiana tries banning the song from club and radio play, to some success. The anger from certain crowds also draws the attention of the FBI, who spearhead a 31-month-long investigation into The Kingsmen's version of the song for subliminal messages of Anarchistic or Communist nature. The case is finally closed when the drummer lies about the outburst at the 57-second mark being an “Argh” rather than anything profane. The original performers split ways shortly after, but the song remains a chart-topper for years.

  The influence of The Kingsmen's style slithers into the minds of an (as of yet) unheard of band. The Sonics are from the Northwest as well, and “Louie Louie” becomes an anthem for disgruntled musicians. The Sonics release their first record, with covers of popular sock-hop anthems, albeit in a grungy sound much like that from The Kingsmen. While the original songs most bands made were love ballads, The Sonics' were a bit darker in nature.

  “Psycho” is the tale of a man driven mad by a shit relationship. “Boss Hoss” is about driving a nice car. “Strychnine” is about being addicted to drinking poison. And their most famous song, “The Witch”, about being in love with an evil woman. The Sonics' sound and subject matter made its way around the country, influencing a much heavier style for generations. One of their most popular covers continues to be “Louie Louie”.

  Over 1,500 versions of the song have been recorded. April 2^nd has been declared “Louie Louie Day” in Oregon.

   There was once a Louie Louie Parade in Philadelphia, but it was cancelled in '89 in its first year due to rowdiness from the crowd.

The Hilot

   The wrinkles in her face always seem like she's asking a question. And maybe she is, I don't speak the language. The clothes she wears say she's ready for bed, maybe a poor old mystic, but the ring on her finger at least suggests business in good. I speak through people who know my first language as their second and I don't know what exactly is being told. I'm here for the experience at worst and maybe her magic will work at best. I injured my thumb at work a month ago. What happened is unimportant and confusing to tell. What's important is that the pain in my thumb is still there and a mild inconvenience. We sit around the farmhouse occupied with our own means. The housewives watch Filipino soap operas in the living room, every other sentence they speak is in laughter. The men catch up over the flame of a mosquito candle outside. Me, I drink coffee and listen to histories from a man representing the old generation. A commotion stirs from the front door and I watch an old woman sit down on the couch. I hear from Lolo Renee: “The hilot is here.” I don't see much of what she does to the first person to sit with her, but I sit and continue my chat with Renee knowing I'm next. After a while, the story of his time working in New York is cut short with a room of people calling my name. I sit and look at the hilot and she looks back and already I feel like I'm doing something wrong. A hilot is a healer, a mystic. In American terminology, a witch doctor. Depending on the hilot, they use a mixture of basic, rudimentary physical therapy message and either Catholic prayer or tribal wordspeak older than Spanish reign. I give her my arm and try my best to explain the pain and she goes to work. She uses a small bottle filled with some sort of oil and bits of something unidentifiable floating inside and rubs it down my arm. The hilot whispers to each glob of oil she holds in her hand, but I can't hear her so I don't know where her faith rests. Every once and a while, she has me roll my hand along a glass Coke bottle as hard as I can. She uses the bottle to rub along my arm and message my hand. I'm told to make punching movements. All-in-all the whole thing lasts 5 to 10 minutes and I'm back on my feet with an arm slicked in oil. I bend my thumb and it actually feels fantastic. No pain takes my thoughts to visions of more doctor visits on my employer's dime. I've been cured. When Nicole lays on the couch the hilot gets to work on her bum knee, rubbing oil on her legs and messaging her feet. From time to time, the hilot looks over at the TV and watches the soap opera that's been left on like she did with me. When Nicole gets up from the couch she bends her leg and again, all is well. We go to bed towards midnight and wake to the sound of several roosters screaming for superiority around 5. I open my eyes and hold my hand up to my face, bending my thumb. The pain is still there. I should've told the hilot there was something wrong with my feet and opted for a foot-rub instead.

Descent

  Look at me, going on vacation n' stuff.  Haven't been back on the electric typewriter for quite a while.  This story and the next were two experiences I managed to write down while I was dying from the heat.

*  *  *

  A light rumble shakes our stomach and rattles out fears. Even the seasoned veteran drinks down the lump of spit he's held in his throat. It feels like we're in the middle of a city being heavily shelled before the wheels pick us up into the fog. I like to imagine it's the wind dragging past us that we hear but I know it's the turbines firing us into a fury. The cabin levels out and we pick our heads out of our seats and our stomachs from our feet. The thought of an unfair and statistically unlikely death is on everyone's minds. Some more than others but it's there. There's only one thought that calms me. It shouldn't, but it does-- “I'm in their world now.” Whether the pilot is a drunken slouch or he's the world's best who's just damned with a faulty plug, I'm in the control of everyone's prayers. I'm thinking things I shouldn't-- “There's always something wrong.” Could be a bolt just loose enough to be a worry, it is something. And do they ever know? Do they know about the belt on the main component that's been stretched and spun out of its pulleys and breaking the fan with the force of its seats forward trays up buckle in we're making our descent.

An Apology

I realize some of the text, specifically excerpts from my comic writings, are black type on a dark grey background.

I'm sorry.  I have no idea what it is I'm doing.

My coworkers believe I should know computer stuff, since I'm in my 20's and full of beautiful, glorious energy that they wish they could feast upon.  The truth is, I know how to get my ass on Facebook and there lies the end of my technological prowess.  The fact that they believe I should know such mystical arts such as "10-key" is nothing more than libel and young-hate.  Basically I'm trying to tell you that I have no idea what I'm doing, or how to change words into other colors.

But by God I'll try.

A Passage From "American Dreams"

Here's an excerpt from a comic I'm working on called "American Dreams". It tells the story of greaser kids in the Middle-Of-Nowhere, Oregon, back in the 50's.  They have nothing left but to hit each other 'til their bones run dry in rumbles set throughout the school year.  One day, an actual gang shows up and forces the kids to either work for them, or get out of town.  Some of the kids like the lifestyle of playing real gangster, but the rest know it's bad business.  Now they gotta try and get the gang out of town without knowing who to trust.

I've been detailing the entirety of the storyline for over a year at this point.  (Fuck, that doesn't make me feel good.  But progress is progress, huh?)  This is a portion from the first issue, when two of the main characters, Brendan Carllyl and James Brennan, are making their way into the center of town.  VO Box stands for "voice over box" and is being told through the mind of Brendan Carllyl.

*  *  *

PAGE 3

PANEL:

The car is only a little ways into the city of Ellisville, one side heavily developed and the other gets more like the wilderness the deeper into the land you get. They are at the edge of town so the shops are few and far between.

VO BOX

I don't know when the place was built, I've never cared to know, but pieces of its history stuck to people's tongues like it was legend.

VO BOX

It used to be a good spot for bootleggers back in the day, y'know?

PANEL:

The car is center of the panel, driving past the record store, the barber shop, and a fishing supply store.

VO BOX

Way out here in the middle of nowhere? With small-time cops not making shit for cash the legal way? Everyone was on the take.

PANEL:

The boys continue down the road, the view this time overhead.

VO BOX

It's how our city grew. Everyone here has a grandad that used to be in the running game.

PANEL:

JAMES BRENNAN flicks his almost-spent cigarette out the window at a group of three Black men in their twenties. They all turn away defensively.

VO BOX

Well, almost everyone.

PAGE 4

PANEL:

A light signal burns green on an overcast sky.

VO BOX

Once the Prohibition was done breathing all its smoke into people's private lives, the town died once again.

PANEL:

The same signal turns red.

VO BOX

The smoke had cleared. We saw we would have to try our best to be a legitimate town with something to contribute towards again.

PANEL:

The four-way stop begins to pump cars from their starting lines a little into the intersection.

VO BOX

We were the same logging town we used to be, but this time with the bitterness of knowing we used to have it good.

PANEL:

A driver in another car slams the breaks, looking to his right, his face tense.

VO BOX

Our parents had to deal with the hurt of earning nothing like our grandparents did.

PANEL:

JAMES BRENNAN's car races past the man who stopped short of the wreck, dashing past all those waiting respectfully in line for their turn at the signal.

VO BOX

And of course, that aggression just rubbed-off on us.

PANEL:

JAMES BRENNAN flips the bird out his window, not even a smile to grace the notion, as he rushes towards the viewer.

VO BOX

We were second-generation losers. And ain't no one in town would tell us different.

First Christmas

Okay so I got to thinking:  How shitty would it be to be Bruce Wayne when his parents were killed?  I mean, sure.  Dead folks.  I getcha.  But REALLY, put yourself in this money magnet's shoes:  What's the one thing you lived for when you were 8?  Christmas.  Fuck birthdays.  CHRISTMAS.  Remember that one toy you didn't get but your buddy did?  Bruce never experienced that.  His parents could afford to buy anything he asked for-- and they did.  There was no reason to keep their kid humble, they just wanted to see that smile get wider.  Can you blame them?  Alfred took care of the parents and the parents took care of Bruce.  But after that night?  Your parents are gone and now this guy you barely know is the only one to take care of you from now on.  And to think everything was right as rain just five minutes ago.  But when does it sink in that your parents are never to return?  Christmas.  All of a sudden you have less toys and none of them are as cool as they were last year.  I mean, what does Alfred know?  He never raised a kid before.  (And his daughter doesn't really count, he pretty much abandoned her when she was born.)  So here's my thoughts on how that musta went:

*  *  *

PANEL:

A close shot of BRUCE's eyes. They sting from the cold, and he hasn't shut them for what seems like hours. The scene is brief, but he doesn't dare close them. Not even when the gun fires. The muzzle flash reflects across his watering eyes and the paleness of his face.

VO BOX

They tell you the older you get, the less you remember of the days you were young.

VO BOX

Don't believe them.

VO BOX

Not a word of it.

PANEL:

THOMAS WAYNE, we see the pain in his face. The long, hoarse sound he makes we can't hear, but the veins in his neck are strained as the air leaves his lungs. A tear rolls down his cheek. He's mid-hunch, gripping at his chest with both hands. He doesn't care about the seams in his shirt he must be ripping underneath as he clenches his breast. He just wants to keep the blood in. He stares at the ground, possibly the shoes of his killer, as BRUCE watches in the background, stoic.

VO BOX

I was ten. And I saw it all.

PANEL:

THOMAS WAYNE's hands clutch his wound in a close shot, the blood soaking a wider and wider area of his nicely-pressed shirt, now wrinkled from his gripping hands. His golden band of a wedding ring glistens in the light of a streetpost we can't see. A single drop of blood drips from between his fingers.

VO BOX

You never think of them as anything more than providers, do you?

VO BOX

They're just people that feed you the food you don't want to eat.

VO BOX

Send you to the schools you don't want to go to.

PANEL:

The drop of blood is in freefall. It falls against a white background. All eyes are on it.

VO BOX

But they're never human to a kid that age, are they?

PANEL:

The drop of blood hits the pavement, but doesn't shatter into a moisture stain on the ground. Instead it bounces-- it's a pearl. It bounces twice across the panel with a "TINK", "TINK" written in expensive lettering. The kind with lots of curves and $100 finishes you'd see on an opera poster. This pearl, it bounces among a few others, some lying against the curb on the edge of the road. This one we watch, it bounces towards the gutter.

VO BOX

They don't feel. They don't get tired.

VO BOX

They don't bleed.

PANEL:

From the radiance of the unseen streetlamp, the light it provides sends beams into the gutter, broken-up by the grating above. Through this choppy lighting, the bloody bead makes its way into darkness.

VO BOX

Because that's not their job. They're there to give you what you need. What you want, and nothing more.

VO BOX

They're supposed to buy you the things you want. Tell you the stories you want.

VO BOX

Take you to the... movies you want.

PANEL:

MARTHA WAYNE's face has always been the subject of front page news on all the glossy magazines. But her hair isn't permed to a model-like standard and her face in the panel isn't flattering like the one in the papers. Her face is tilted up, like she's tilting her head back for comfort, but the bangs of her hair touching her right eye as they rest half-open, they tell you she doesn't need comfort anymore. Not where she is now. If the way her mouth lies open is any indicator, her last moment-- her last breath-- was a gasp.

VO BOX

Some day yours will be gone, too.

PANEL:

MARHTA's left hand is slightly made into a ball, her sleeve rolled up to her elbow uncomfortably, as it lies dormant on the ground. The diamond ring is slightly turned to an odd angle on her finger. Specks of gravel and dirt stick to the back of her hand.

VO BOX

And you'll realize then, your Christmases will never feel the same.

PANEL:

The same shot of MARTHA's arm, this time in a black long-sleeved sweater, as it hands a carefully-wrapped present off to whoever stands outside the panel. The red bow is large, almost as large as the present itself, but the paper is nothing special. The background is the inside of some room, orange with light. Wherever it is, you get the sense we've switched from an uncharacteristically cold night in a Gotham alley, to a warm morning on Christmas Day.

VO BOX

I know I was spoiled. I knew that. None of the kids in the Narrows got what I got. Did I care? Not once. Because I got what I wanted. Always.

PANEL:

BRUCE begins tearing into his gift. His face intent with happiness next to the tree, with many more gifts underneath. His hair is matted from the long night of waiting for Santa to come. MARTHA sits in an armchair facing the tree next to BRUCE, but she doesn't pay attention to him. She looks over to ALFRED without a smile, who's standing near a window as it snows outside, bringing her the cup of hot whatever-it-may-be she ordered. Behind the chair, THOMAS stands in front of the fireplace as it rages, a cup of coffee in hand. BRUCE is the only one in the room that smiles. If memory serves correct, snow at a night-like hour is usually a pinkish hue while the sky is purple.

VO BOX

We had the money to make it happen.

PANEL:

BRUCE unwraps the gift in his lap, a toy gun with an orange tip.

VO BOX

And all it takes is one minute. One man.

PANEL:

From above, we observe THE WAYNES opening the doors of the side entrance from the theater. Steam comes from a pipe on the side of the building, rising into nothingness. From around the corner, A MAN who hides in the shadows of the building next door walks to the spot where the elder Waynes will die. He holds something under his coat.

VO BOX

It was June 26th, much too early for my parents to start buying presents.

VO BOX

I was still reeling from the last one. My parents bought me an action figure I wanted, but it was the wrong color. I threw a fit. They didn't care, they could buy me another one. This year the next model was coming out, and they better get the color right.

PANEL:

BRUCE is centered, his eyes wide like they were in the first shot. His parents, whose upper and lower bodies are out of frame, brace themselves. MARTHA holds her right arm up, elbow tucked, clutching her hand bag to her chest. Her left arm extends as far as it can behind her, pushing her young son back. THOMAS does much of the same. Unlike MARTHA's stiff frame, THOMAS hunches a bit, prepared for anything-- so he thinks-- his right arm pushing BRUCE back with a bit more force than MARTHA.

VO BOX

And then in two short bursts, the sound of a heavy book being dropped on the floor, these people you used so carelessly are gone.

PANEL:

The barrel of a gun fires. It's close enough to see the sparks flame out like a cannon and the smoke swell into the air.

VO BOX

Bang.

PANEL:

BRUCE's face is that same stare. Eyes wide, full attention. Multiple pearls glide out of focus in front of him .

VO BOX

Bang.

PANEL:

A hammer comes down on a nail in the wall with a "BANG". The same elegant type as before accompanies the sound.

PANEL:

BRUCE sits in the same chair his mother did in the Christmas flashback panel. Same angle. The room doesn't glow with the lights of the tree or the heat of a fireplace or the buzz of the lights, though. Everything is grey from the natural light of the one window. The fireplace looks cold, the tree hasn't been plugged-in yet, and the lights are off. Everything outside the window is stark white. ALFRED hangs a stalking beside two others on the wall in the background. BRUCE sits normally, with his legs dangling and his arms propping up his body on the armrests, but he slumps.

VO BOX

For six months I did nothing but think about that night. How could you ask a kid that age to think of anything else?

PANEL:

BRUCE's eyes look to his left, his eyes a little more open now, but he still retains the bags under his eyes.

VO BOX

And then it clicked-- Why Alfred put a tree in the den, why he hung stalkings, why he baked cookies the night before... It was Christmas.

PANEL:

We lurk over BRUCE's shoulder as he looks at the gifts under the tree. There are none, only the three or four all sitting next to each other beside the tree. None are bigger than an average shoe box.

VO BOX

But this doesn't look like the Christmas I knew. There were barely any presents. I was used to having so many. This looked like a year I had been bad. Why so few?

PANEL:

ALFRED, with his right hand, leans over the top of the armchair to hand BRUCE one of the gifts with his left. A small smile resides on his lips. BRUCE looks like he's in a curious surprise, but hasn't slept for quite a long time. He looks down at the gift being placed on his lap.

VO BOX

It was then-- truly then-- I realized what it meant for your parents to die.

PANEL:

From BRUCE's perspective, the present sits in his lap, the bow quite small. BRUCE's arms lie on his sides, like the present is completely alien to him.

VO BOX

Alfred was trying. God bless him, he tried. It was never quite his job to take care of me. He took care of my parents, who then would deal with me.

VO BOX

Of course he'd take me to school sometimes and make sure I was ready for bed, and once he helped me with my homework.

PANEL:

BRUCE looks up from the chair over his left shoulder.

VO BOX

But between the two of us, over the years, we'd truly never spoken a word that meant a thing.

PANEL:

ALFRED smiles at the reader, his right hand still placed on the back of the chair.

VO BOX

And now he was doing his best, to prove to me he would take care of me. He would do his best to be a father.

PANEL:

BRUCE looks back down. ALFRED walks away towards the left of the panel.

VO BOX

But me being the age I was, I could only realize how serious my parents' deaths were.

PANEL:

BRUCE's hands begin tearing at the wrapping paper surrounding the box.

VO BOX

I would never have the amount of presents I did before.

PANEL:

BRUCE's face begins to curl a small smile.

VO BOX

I would have to live like a kid in the Narrows now.

PANEL:

BRUCE's hands hover over the gift, whatever it may be. The wrapping paper hides the sides of the present so you can't know what it may reveal. Behind the chair, ALFRED begins lighting the fireplace.

VO BOX

I'd have to settle for... this.

PANEL:

BRUCE's hands pick up the gift and bring it closer to him. It's some sort of robot action figure. A blue one.

VO BOX

It was the wrong model. This was the one from last year.

PANEL:

BRUCE's eyes swell with tears. A droplet already rolls off his cheek. But he smiles. The whole thing is just so ironic.

VO BOX

But it was the right color this time.

PANEL:

ALFRED has come around to the side of the armchair. BRUCE curls his legs up to his chest and hides his face in his arms. ALFRED lays his right hand on BRUCE's back for comfort. The toy box sits in between BRUCE and the armrest, somewhat already forgotten.

VO BOX

God bless him for trying.

ALFRED

"Bruce! Oh... Is everything okay? I--I'm sorry. Is it the right--?"

BRUCE

"Thank you, Alfred..."

PANEL

From the overcast sky, we take a final look at Wayne Manor. Its many rooftops covered in snow, as well as all the property a ten-year-old could ever inherit. One light shines through a first-floor window.

BRUCE

"I just miss them so much."

THE END.

Fire Intro

Gangs have their streets, superheroes have their cities.  Every hero has their territorial pissings, but not all range above "vigilante" status.  Fires happen.  Earthquakes happen.  Sharknados on occasion (maybe?).  And who can quell such things?  Flash, Superman, Green Lantern... even Batman could money something up to fix the inevitable.  But Nightwing?  I mean, what the hell?  Batman has his own problems, he ain't going to the neighboring city to help fight the fires.  I made this excerpt as an intro to a possible storyline where a fire breaks free and begins to ravage a city.  (INSERT SUPERHERO) would be evacuating the immediate areas, trying to stay a step ahead of the out-of-control maw behind them, and eventually piece together that this case is one of arson.  Not everyone leaves a riddle to mark their handiwork, so it would take real detective elbow grease to catch the pyro behind a city-wide panic.

Anyway, here is the intro from the arsonist's point of view:

*  *  *

This is the city you once knew.

The one you lived within the thick of, all its bricks and steel and mortar and told yourself “At least this will never come to pass”.

The fire beats deep within your bones and the cries you roar are drowned within the hot ash and broken cries of a thousand others.

The bricks blacken and the streets turn white from the overturned ash of a million stampeding feet and the smoke never settles for the fire refuses to have its hunger sated.

Smoke curls around every street lamp and limb of the tree to invite the city in.

People push and shove against the walls of flesh that crowd their way from getting out of the jungle they live in.

The flames don't get louder. They are content with their own being and they dance and celebrate the miracle of being free and alive.

Who are you to judge the flame?

The Sermon

I'm gonna start off with a piece I wrote as writing practice.  In order to get my creative thoughts all bubblin' n' junk, I would begin writing on a document I called "GUNS".  Eventually, as time went on and I continued writing on the same document, I had fleshed out a beginning, middle, and end to the story.  By the time I finished, I retitled it "THE SERMON".  Ante up, children.

*  *  *

The gun in my left speaks silent. Its whisper quick in delivery but its words harsh enough to kill.

The gun in my right spits fire with the kind of heat that would scorch the sun. The barrel a mouth that won't stop talking. It lets them know what's on her mind.

The gun on my back is for the rest. When the boys hear the commotion and start charging in numbers through the doors, when the two in my hands cool down and kick up nothing more than wind and old dust, this gun will heave and sigh and sing a song for these men, letting them know its sorrows and the horrors it's seen. It'll take care of the second wave, alright.

These are the cards I was given in this game. And no matter their numbers, I'm going to play them like a royal flush.

These things in my hands are the only gods in the room. To every man I have them look to, I pull the trigger and let them sing their praise. The men always react the same: they drop to their knees in glory and pray. I am the messiah to these gods, and these messengers of crime, they will hear what I have to say.

After awhile the guns start to get light. Eventually they stop popping when I pull the trigger. I look at these hunks of steel in my hands and see they have said all they needed to say. The speeches they made were quick in delivery but spoke volumes. Their voices hoarse, they've done their job.

The men that once stood in their own reverence now lay in their own blood. Everything that they once were flows out of them. Those that haven't had the darkness veil their eyes soon will. I hear moaning and crying spread across the room. Some of these thugs are still alive, but I don't care. They know to stay out of my way. The message sent.

I hear the footsteps of an army behind closed doors.

When they bust into this hallowed ground, before they have time to look around and see the good work I've done, I sanction them into my community in my own special way.

I let them hear my sermon.

By the time I've finished with them I notice the sounds of crying and cussing has gone away. The guys from before have cooled down, collected their thoughts, focused.

Those that are alive have started finding their guns, ready to make me a martyr.

But by the time they look for me, I'm already up the stairs.

I walk through the door without a plan or a reason to live. I know the people up here, these murderers and thieves, they're the cowards that would hang back at any sign of a scuffle. They back into the corner like dogs.

But sometimes, those that are cornered are the animals with the biggest bite.

He's reckless, some kid. He has a bat but it's apparent he never learned to play.

I teach him. I teach him the old ways, before there were rules and an ump.

I get him on his knees, not sure what God to pray to. But I let him know. I'm the only thing left to hear his prayers.

I wrap his head around the baseball bat. Another home run.

By this time I can hear the old man behind closed doors and spendy shades cursing at me like I'm right next door. And I am.

Before I can turn the corner I run into one last resort. Some lurching gunman without a vocabulary or a thought to spare. You know the type.

Two lead shots in my gut to drain the one made of whiskey.

I don't let the pain set in. I let the shock be my gauze. I let the anger be my morphine. I let the bat do my thinking.

I let the bat give him an excuse to never think again.

I take the gun that was too good for him and another he had hidden in his belt. These lonely orphans will find a good home with me. They'll learn how to play by my rules and they'll someday teach the world that crime pays with a check that's doomed to bounce.

I know he waits with steady hand and wild heart on the other side of that door. They probably have a secret knock that lets them know it's anyone but me.

But I have a secret knock, too.

Two shots through the door and his screams practically say "Come in, friend! Come in!" I have no reason to splinter the wood with a heavy kick. Not now. His hand isn't as steady now that it's missing fingers.

He knows begging and flattery will get him nowhere. So he doesn't try. That flaking mouth spews a voice of rot molding teeth held to the gums with blackened tar.

He knows what's coming and he wants his last words to be a curse on my family name.

I raise the guns and the choir takes a breath before they belt out another tune.

Sing a symphony for me, girls.

You've Reached The End Of Your Rope

There's no more content down here.  Feel free to hang on with your one good hand and dangle your feet in the dark below, see if you can find some solid ground.