Mer Rouge (part 27)

On the empty shores of the Boeuf River, with the calm moonlight above, the brothers dumped the half naked body of the police officer into the miry waters and then drifted on into West Carrol Parish where they concealed the abducted Oak Ridge cruiser under brush near an abandoned cotton field. Then they wandered three miles into town without bearing so much as a sweat while toting two large duffel bags. When they found a grimy roadside motel near Chickasaw, they strolled into the lobby and dinged on the call bell. They did this for about five minutes before an old haggard bastard sporting WWII cap and red flannel robe stumbled from the back and rubbed his eyes. When he saw the brothers, he began to bitch. “A little late ain’t it boys?” 

The brothers, holding firm and still donning their reflective shades, looked daggers. “It’s 9:30 in the evening, sir,” one said.

The old man fumbled around the front desk before finding his dark rimmed glasses. And when he put them on, he narrowed his eyes to see the clock on the other side of the lobby. “I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “I must’ve dozed off early.”

He took the men’s money and handed them a room key. The brothers picked up the loaded duffle bags and carried them around the corner to the farthest street-facing room from the lobby. Once inside, they dropped the bags onto the bed and closed the shades. One brother removed his leather jacket and shirt while the other inspected his gunshot wound. As predicted, where a gash of torn flesh would have meant certain death for a mortal, this wound had already healed. But blood remained crusted around the now scarred gash and the other brother gently cleaned it away. Once finished, they unzipped the duffle bag and took out a large cat-sized statue of a golden eagle. After clearing off the central nightstand and moving the beds to the outer walls, they placed the eagle on the nightstand and reached into the same duffle bag. They pulled out two olden swords measuring nearly two feet in length. And they each took their gladius’ and they knelt before the golden idol, which underneath its talons read the ancient Roman initials SPQR.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 26)

It was sundown when the Priest rolled into Morehouse Parish. On the outskirts of Oak Ridge, he saw the abandoned Harley and sidecar off to the side of the lonesome highway. He pulled over and stepped out of the Gremlin with the Smith & Wesson ready. The engine ran with the front lights shining onto the bike. He walked around it. He checked the sidecar. Nothing. Then he looked up. Headed in his direction was a torrent of motorcycles roaring down the thoroughfare. The priest reholstered the .38 and calmly walked back to the vehicle. As the gaggle of motorbikes passed, a few of them stopped. There were maybe three dozen of them. One popped down the kickstand and dismounted. Sporting a half helmet and cutoff sleeves, the biker approached the abandoned Harley and looked it up and down. His compatriots all stopped. They had both the Harley and the Priest surrounded. Then the dismounted biker shook his head and spat. “Flat tire huh?” he said to the priest.

“It appears so.”

“Is it yours?”

“No sir.”

The biker stood with his hands on his hips. “Well shit,” he said. Then he whistled. “Hey Dirk! Get yur ass over here!”

A bike roared up from the rear and threw down the kickstand. Its rider stepped off and lowered the gaiter covering his face. The priest’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t recognize the name but the face triggered a faint memory. Dirk was huge. Maybe six foot four. He wore a denim vest with a bare chest underneath. The tattoo over his heart was hardly visible but it was clearly that of Aryan Nation. From underneath his smock, the Priest laid his hand on the butt of the .38. But the man, Dirk, approached the derelict Harley and nodded. “This is Oak Ridge’s problem,” he said. Then he turned to the priest who was seated on the hood of his stolen Gremlin. “Where are you off to, father?”

The priest shrugged and deflected. “Oh I was just wonderin up north.”

“Do you have any business in Morehouse Parish?”

“None that I’m aware of,” he lied.

Dirk glared at him something fierce which was followed by a long silence. “Well keep wonderin north. And stay the hell out of my parish,” he warned. Then he lifted the gaiter back over his face and climbed onto the bike. Dirk rode out in front of the herd and the army of hellraisers followed him northbound. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

The legend of boggy creek

If I have to go out and do research, you know you done fucked up. Which is exactly what Charles P. Pierce (not to be confused with Charles B. Pierce) of Esquire magazine did. Get a load of this article:

https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/a71138108/correspondents-dinner-shooting/

My initial thoughts were ‘I don’t give a shit about this guy’s personal experience with firearms.’ So naturally, I quit reading because I ain’t reading all that shit. Annoyed, I did a background check on this Pierce fella and apparently he’s a dude. And what I mean by a dude is that he’s a guy who’s been around a while. Probably respected in some journalist circles, which is how he has the job title of “political blogger” for Esquire.

First off, respect to him for getting a cush job. If only I could be so lucky. But secondly, it made me wonder if a blogger employed by a major publication is beholden to a word count. Because that’s the only reasonable explanation for why this “blog” post has a word count that’s at, or near, 1,000. He didn’t need that many words. He’s selling a stupidly simple premise: SPOILER ALERT in light of the White House Correspondence Dinner shooting, Democrats should leave the conspiracy mongering to the Alex Jones’ of the world because gun violence is a real problem and shouldn’t be taken lightly. A fair enough premise, but the article itself appears to be a symptom of journo-brain: an overly confident and overwritten piece designed simply to take up as much space as possible to justify the writer’s job and the publication’s existence.

Don’t get me wrong, journalism is important and necessarily for a free society and all that jazz. But its importance to society is based upon its ability to provide accurate information to the public. It’s NOT based upon how clever of a writer the journalist thinks he/she/they is. Because, and future journalists take note, no one gives a shit about your personal life and experiences— as interesting as they may actually be. The only time it is acceptable to divulge that kind of information is if you are writing under a pseudonym and you’re making up stories to fuck with the reader (which I categorically deny ever doing).

But Pierce’s premise here is also partly wrong. Sure, any reasonable person would agree that a wacko shouldn’t have a gun. But arguing that the “Left” shouldn’t do “Alex Jones cosplay”? He’s completely out of touch here. The Left should ABSOLUTELY do Alex Jones cosplay. If we’ve learned anything over the last 10 years it’s that gaslighting your opposition is totally and completely 100% effective as a propaganda tool. It puts the Right in a defensive position. Does the Left actually believe that the WHCD event is a “false flag”? I dunno. And who gives a shit. The only way out of this “post-truth” society is through it. So both sides need to experience the pain of misinformation if we are to ever restore the sanctity of TRUTH. Therefore I encourage the Left to flat out lie and fuck with the Right, give em a dose of their own medicine.

Just don’t get high on your own supply.

Mer Rouge (Part 25)

Sirens wailed. Smoke from the burning barbershop towered into the sky. The priest looked to the other side of the road and saw another column of black smolder rising above the buildings. He bolted in its direction. A block and a half away, he found his beige Chrysler set ablaze. With sirens ringing nearer, the priest re-concealed the shotgun under his smock and calmly sauntered away from the fire and towards a nearby neighborhood. Down the calmly streets, children waved to him as they played in the front yard. Grandmothers smiled at him as he passed by. From a speeding pickup, one redneck heaved a carton of eggs at his back. “Fuckin Catholics!” the redneck yelled. But the priest kept his head down as he wandered down a cul-de-sac where he noticed an old 1970 AMC Gremlin. He looked around for passersby. “No one will miss this piece of shit,” he said to himself. He took the butt of the Mossberg and smashed open the driver’s side window and opened the door. He knelt down and hotwired the vehicle like it wasn’t shit. Then he cleaned up the shattered glass in the driver’s seat and sat down. When he pulled down the sun visor, the keys fell into his lap. “I guess somebody wanted this car stolen,” he said aloud. With a quarter of a tank of gas, he started down the direction of interstate 20 towards Louisiana.

But the brothers were miles ahead of him. It took them less than an hour to reach Moorhouse Parish. By that late afternoon, they took the exit off I-20 and headed north towards Oak Ridge. Near the city limits, they pulled off the empty road and climbed off the bike. A brother unsheathed a switchblade and punctured a tire and then they waited on passing vehicles. Another hour later, near dusk, a squad car rolled up. It was Oak Ridge police. The officer climbed out and adjusted his pants. “Flat tire?” he asked 

“Yessir,” one brother responded politely in a faux southern affect. “Perhaps you could give us a ride into town.”

The officer nodded. “Heh. I haven’t seen one of those sidecars since Saigon.”

“Yessir. They’re not that common.”

“Where can I find myself one of those? I have a Harley just like that and I’d like to get an attachment. You know, for the wife n all.”

The brother scrambled for words. “Uh, I’m sure you can find plenty of those down in New Orleans.”

“Nar’lens?”. The officer spat. “Is that where you boys are from? Yur tags say Tennessee.”

“Right. Well uh, our family lives down that way. My brother and I are headed back to Tennessee.”

“Jeez. Yur takin the long way. Yur almost to Arkansas!” But the officer agreed and he opened the back driver’s side door. He bent down to clear out shit in the backseat and tossed it to the front. “It might not be the most comfortable ride back here, but…”

Before he could finish, a brother pulled him up, held him, and poked the switchblade into his throat. The other brother took the officer’s service revolver and checked the cylinder. “We appreciate the ride, officer,” the brother said, “but we’re looking for Deputy Fornier of Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Do the right thing

I’m a simple man. I ain’t in this racket for fame and fortune. It’s all for the love of the game. So I don’t require much. Except $10,000 owed in back taxes to the IRS and various creditors in and around the Cayman Islands.

Now I know I’ve said that I don’t give a shit if anyone reads my work. It ain’t all about YOU, buddy. I ain’t gonna crawl on my hands and knees and beg for money. But if you ever caught yourself thinking ‘I like this guy’s work’, then you owe me. You owe me BIG TIME in fact.

Don’t worry, I’m not a violent person. No one’s gonna come to your doorstep and bust your kneecaps. But here’s what WILL happen. Someone will come to MY door and bust MY kneecaps. Now I ain’t gonna sit here and convince you of the importance of walking. So you wanna save my kneecaps? Please go to Amazon.com and purchase Vanitas or, heaven forbid, the Detective James Series: Vol 1.

“But why would I pay for this shit when I can read it here for FREE?” you might ask.

Well if you shut up for a second, I’ll tell ya.

What you read here is all first draft stuff. That might come as a surprise. Reading this website alone, you might think I’m the second coming of Hemingway. But what you purchase from Amazon is actually a BETTER and more COMPLETE vision of my storytelling. But I can forgive you for thinking that this is apex of English literature. However, like so many other things in your life, you’d be wrong. Internetruinedeverything.com is just the tip of the iceberg.

So do something right for once in your life. Go to this Amazon 🔗 , buy one of my books, and sleep well knowing that you not only contributed to great literature, but you’re also saving my kneecaps.

God bless

Mer Rouge (Part 24)

The priest put his ear to the frail wood panel wall and focused. After one of the brothers spoke, a muffled voice responded. “Who the fuck are you guys?”. Given the clarity of the brother’s voice, it indicated that they were facing the back wall the priest hid behind. The exchange continued.

“We’re looking for the spring. Where is it?”

“What fucking spring?”

“We’re not stupid, Mr. Fornier.”

“I don’t know of any goddamn spring.”

“And the water you sell?”

“Look, if you want any of that snake oil piss, I’m a little busy right now…”

A gunshot rang out followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the floor and the Fornier man cried out. “You dun shot my knee!” he yelped. Shaken, the priest holstered the Smith & Wesson and readied the 12 gauge Mossberg hidden under his smock. By now, voices were so heightened that there was no need to put an ear to the wall. The priest quietly mumbled his prayers. 

“Who provides you with the water?” he heard a brother ask.

“I…I…it’s my cousin!”

“Where is he?”

“He’s a deputy with the Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department!”

“In Louisiana?”

“Yes!”

Another shot was fired and Fornier’s whimpering stopped. The priest kicked open the back door with the shotgun ready. In the brief flash of time before shots were fired, the priest noticed Fornier’s body draped in a barber’s cape with his jaw half covered in shaving cream while the panic stricken barber stood off to the side with his hands in the air. Thankfully, the priest was correct in where the brothers were standing. Without a second to spare, he unloaded the shotgun towards the brother standing on the right and the glass shattered behind him. It was apparent he missed the kill shot, yet the brother stumbled backwards and the other began ripping bullets from what appeared to be a Tommy gun. The priest leapt back behind the wall and the bullets tore through the wood. When he attempted to return fire, the brothers were already outside of the barbershop and one dispatched a Molotov cocktail. The flames roared through the shop, across Fornier’s body, and cutting off the main entrance. While the barber himself was on the floor desperately trying to escape the smoke, the priest reached out a hand. “Here!” he shouted. Yet another gun shot rang out and struck the barber in the back. The priest, now laying low to the ground, crawled back towards the rear entrance. Once outside, as smoke billowed from the building, he ran down the back alley and towards the front. When he got there, the brothers and their bike were long gone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

First Light

Things are at a fever pitch within the James Bond universe. B-heads are in a tizzy. For the first time in a long time, a new Bond video game is coming out, First Light, with the title song by Lana Del Rey. Additionally, we inch closer to production of the Denis Villeneuve-directed installment. And until the cast and title of the production is announced, this will probably be the last time I will discuss James Bond for the foreseeable future.

I’ve discussed what I think will probably happen — we’ll probably get a cerebral look into James Bond’s origins. I’ve stated my objections to this premise but it’s out of my control. The best I could offer is how to make that premise work, assuming that’s the direction they’ll go down.

But the question is: what do I want?

I’ve said time and time again, the objective for screenwriter Steven Knight and Denis Villeneuve is simple: just tap the ball. Audiences are already primed so there’s no need to do too much. I’m sure Steven Knight is more than capable of delivering a solid script. My concern is for Villeneuve. I’ve seen nothing in his filmography that would suggest he could handle the James Bond aesthetic. But time will tell. To be honest, I’d rather have a non-auteur behind the camera, someone who knows how to deliver the goods. I’m thinking of someone like Top Gun:Maverick director Joseph Kosinski.

But if I had a shot at the script, I’d simply restore the formula: a cold open that’s unrelated to the main plot, a complicated and hilariously convoluted plot, and an over-the-top yet simple villain. Are all of those things somewhat out of step with modern storytelling? Absolutely. But that’s part of the charm. James Bond is a callback to escapist cinema. Besides, it would be refreshing to see at this point. In our dark and cynical times, seeing a crazy villain out for world domination, without respect to global politics, would be a return to an older era: when good guys were good guys and bad guys were bad guys (even if Bond himself is a morally grey character working for the good guys). It would be a good jumping off point for the main plot: world leaders on edge over some realistic crisis are suddenly brought together to handle an ACTUAL bad guy. So the level headed British dust off the world renowned alcoholic, gambling addict, womanizer, and borderline sociopathic serial killer James Bond to save the day. And save the day he does. By the end of the film, the nations of the world are united thanks to Bond’s PP and his Walther PPK. Meanwhile, Bond himself couldn’t give less of a shit. While the United Nations uncork Champagne bottles and cigars, he’s in some mountain hideout and fuckin his way from one end of the room to the other. And the ending title card reads James Bond Will Return.

Audience applaud.

As for actor playing James Bond, I have no opinion. Villeneuve expressed a desire for a Sean Connery-like portrayal and I’m fine with that. But if that’s the direction they want, they’ll have to get an actor in his late 30s to 40s. In fact, Bond should perpetually be late 30s and 40s. He’s a force of nature and not necessarily a character with an origin and an ending. He’s a living myth. So no need to give him a biography or motivation. Just send him on a mission and let him cook.

THAT’S the James Bond movie I want.

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

On the city outskirts, where the cliffs drop sharply, the motorbike pulled off into a gravel pit where a shanty ice cream shack overlooked the mighty Mississippi. The brothers dismounted the bike and joined the gaggle of denizens standing in line for a tasty summer treat. When their turn arrived, the server sporting a white soda jerk hat, removed the pencil behind his ear and put it to paper. “What can I get you boys?” he asked them. But the brothers only glared at him from behind their reflective shades, their faces as unflappable as a clear midnight moon. The man nodded. “Oh okay. I’ll just get y’all a vanilla cone,” the server said. He brought them the cones, already dripping from the excessive heat, and the brothers wandered off to a lonely corner of the pit and gazed upon the wide river below with the green flats on Louisiana on the other side. 

This puzzled the Priest. There was something hauntingly serene about these two men as they shared their moment of solitude. It didn’t appear that they exchanged a word. But the priest watched them from afar. He tailed them stealthily in a nondescript beige Chrysler that he stole in a parking lot in Memphis. He’d occasionally break visual contact down Highway 3 to avoid detection. Yet the priest was beside himself when he discovered the charred remains of Deputy Ricketts and his squad car. He had only been minutes behind. Now he laid low. He looked to the backseat to check on the 12 gauge Mossberg and then he reached into his cossack to check the chamber of a Smith & Wesson .38/44. 

Meanwhile, the brothers took their sweet ass time munching down the cones. But when they finished, one climbed back on the bike and one into the sidecar and they roared their way on into Vicksburg. The priest trailed behind. A couple of miles later, the brothers entered the nearly deserted downtown area and the priest pulled off into an alleyway and readied his weapons. A block away, the brothers stopped by a lonely barbershop and dismounted. With a shotgun under his smock, the priest sauntered over to mainstreet and saw the deserted motorbike. Not wishing to attack them head on, he continued towards the alley behind the barbershop and picked its lock. Once inside, he held the Smith & Wesson and tiptoed his way through the back end of the shop. He could hear the brothers on the other side of the wall.

“Are you Fornier?” a voice asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tax day II: it happened AGAIN?!

So am I against my tax dollars being used to fund Ice and various military aggressions in the Middle East? Yeah yeah yeah. I’m against that shit too. But really pisses me off is that my tax dollars go to Florida. You know, that piss pit that hangs off the continental US? If my money should be used for anything, it should be to make that place not exist. Both as a major population center and a geographical location. It’s an abomination to god. The only thing that state is good for is drunk driving, meth lab explosions, old people fuckin, and college football. It should be outlawed. All of it. Does Trump want to boost his popularity? Then invade Greenland, let the ice melt, and let’s sink that landfill once and for all.

THAT’S something I’d give money towards

Tax day

I slipped into a slight depression after filing my taxes because, for the 83rd year in a row, I learned I will be paying in. I thought I had Uncle Sam this time. I thought I had him bent over a barrel and I was gonna slap his butt cheeks blood red. Yet that wily bastard got away from me again.

Instead I fell asleep for 12 hours straight and I dreamt that I was at a protest in a Walmart parking lot where I was chatting it up with a girl. A guy, presumably her boyfriend, got protective of her, and I, reading the room, told them to have a good day and I walked away. The next day, I’m at the airport waiting for my flight. I noticed the same group of hooligans, including the girl, were setting up shittily designed explosives in the terminal. Counselor Deanna Troi and I foiled their plot and saved the day but naturally I caught the eye of the FBI. They noticed I was at both locations where the alleged terrorists were being monitored. Denying any association, I asserted that it was merely a coincidence that I was both locations. Skeptical, the feds order me to go “undercover” to track these folks down, which led me to a power plant in West Virginia. The dream trailed off from there.

But isn’t this essentially the plot to One Battle After Another? (Still haven’t seen it.) I feel like no matter how much I contribute to the economy, no matter how much I try to be an upstanding member of society, it still ain’t enough. It’s one battle after another. (Maybe someone should really explain that movie to me)