Vodka riceburners and ak samurais

Jack Millnan. Crazy as hell Jack Millnan. If the KGB couldn't kill him during the height of the Cold War, it was doubtful God himself could acheive the feat. It wasn't that Jack was that high up on the CIA flow chart, or even that he was privy to any classified materials that caused him to be a high value target to his enemies. Jack was the grease on the wheels that kept the intelligence machine of the western world. He was off the coast of Cuba as a kid, watching the nationalists get slaughtered by Castro's forces. To see a clusterfuck that up-close and personal made the man swear that no other op he was part of would endure such a humiliating conclusion. Many people that had been involved with the agency played the political game and aimed for advancement through the ranks, but not Jack. The man loved to get his hands dirty, and his moral compass went down with the Edmund Fitzgerald. He was an enabler, an organizer, and a scrounger. Jack was there on a mule smuggling stingers into Afghanistan, and smiling like a damn fool at checkpoint charlie when the wall went down. When the milennia rolled over, the agency determined they didn't need a cogwheel like Jack anymore, so they retired him. The result was a decade of intelligence failures and Jack going freelance. He built a nice little fortress about 30 miles out of Beirut and stocked his black book contacts, former friend and foe alike. It was a few years after Yuri had gotten pulled out of front line during Chechnya that they had first met.

      *         *         *

Kazakhstan was the country where dreams and hydration go to die in a very slow and grotesque manner. Two men sat on horseback, headwraps around their faces to keep the constant bombardment of UV rays from blistering their skin. Still, two faint streams of smoke arose from the holes in their protectin, coalescing in a vertical tango towards the heavens. A pair of binoculars peeked through the headwrap of the taller man. "No sign of man or beast, this is truly a land that nature and religion has forsaken,"muttered Yuri.

Yuri and his partner had been tasked with tracking down lost supplies of conventional explosives that had been "liberated" from the former Soviet stockpiles in an effort to clamp down on the black marketeers before they managed to get a hold of nuclear weapons. They frequently chose the lands of the Kazakh to do their business because no one in their right mind would go there. So here they were, waiting to see if a smuggler's caravan trapsed by, looking more inconspicuous by the moment. Due to the quiet atmosphere of the surroundings, the conveyance of choice was typically pack animals, and people seemed to ask less questions about a train of mules than a fleet of cargo trucks. With this in mind, the sound of the internal combustion engine nearly forced Yuri to drop both his binoculars and his cigarette. His ire drawn more towards the prospect of the latter. What was more remarkable was that the vehicle was heading straight towards them. Cars were rare enough in this neck of the woods, but how on earth was somebody able to get an exact fix on their location dabbled into the realm of the absurd.

Indeed it was directly towards the two Russians that the beige Defender 90 barrelled in the midst of the desert. The secret to its owners superhuman tracking skills was the long antenna that ran over the extra fuel tanks on the roof. That radio went directly to a satellite station which was also tasked with monitoring black market activity in the area. No one was supposed to know the existence of the sattelite or the station, but Jack Millnan frequently gave less than a damn about the supposed tos in the intelligence world. All Jack was hoping for was that his new neighbors werent too upset about having neighbors, because a few well placed rounds shot at an advancing target could easily put it out of commission.

Yuri seriously considered unpacking the LAWS rocket and just blowing the vehicle away. He hated questions, and the answers he usually go typically infuriated him even more. A smoldering ruin poses at lot less risks than even the most innocent of human beings. Then the hesitation kicked in. It started with the fact that it was a land rover that came towards him, not a military surplus jeep from the US or soviets, leftover from vtheir constant meddling in the region. This meant an outside player, and a well financed one at that. Any of the people that were trying to kill Yuri in this area would not raise their visibility enough by travelling in an expensive foreign car. The way the car was coming towards him, you could swear the driver was an English lord on the way to a foxhunt. Yuri shoulder the rifle and searched his pocket for a fresh cigarette. He had just finished lighting it when the SUV skidded to a stop about six feet in fronth of the FSB team. Like Puxatawny Phil in early February, the driver suck his head out quickly and nervously from his confines. The owner of this particular cranium seemed to be gaunt and in his sixties, but his eyes possessed the livelihood of a twenty year old. He sported a faded field shirt, a four day beard, aviator sunglasses and a Boston redsox cap. He broke into a smirk as he began to speak, "So I hear y'all got a privateer problem..."

   *        *      *

The eigth decade of his life was creeping into existence and it seemed as Jacl Millnan had shrugged off the mantle of time and its ill consequences when Kruschev ordered the boats bound for Cuba to turn around. He shoved a few extra banana clips into Yuri's hands and motioned for him to keep low. Off in the distance, quite the commotion was brewing, as the Russian could hear the faint echo of a large number of angry voices waltzing upon the wind. Knowing Jack, he had probably created a diversion large enough to engulf a thousand men on the other side of the docks. They moved quickly and quietly, darting to and fro among the containers, like mice hunting for a lone piece of cheese when there are multitudes of famished cats lurking about. Yet all of these nefarious felines had not been accounted for. About 100 yards away from the entrance was a scout patrol, just situated where the containers ended so that nobody would be joining the party late or leaving early. Jack glanced at Yuri, motioned to the two guards on the left and pointed to Yuri, then proceeded to give instructions to the rest of the four man rescue team. In fifteen seconds, it was all over, but due to the lack of silenced weapons, the larger force was now fully aware of their presence. They raced through the gate, to the parked infiniti that awaited them. The driver gunned the engine and they were off. In the back, Jack sat next to Yuri, grinning from ear to ear, almost beaming, "Don't you just hate customs?"

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Between a Dantes and a Faria

The darkness blankets the senses, a fog of shadows, its coolness bringing a false sense of refredhment, a momentary lapse of reality, which was four corrugated metal walls, an AK-47, a large mound of moldy potatoes, and an emotionally detached russian. Said individual breathed in, trying desperately to limit the passage of air through his nasal cavity, in a vain effort to escape the stench which flowed around him like an angry poltergeist. This was swiftly followed by a drawn out exhale, trying to create a sense of catharsis in a seemingly doomed situation. The arm arose, causing a few of the tubers to roll down the mound innocently, the hairs starring to become matted down from continuous interaction with the decomposing produce. On the wrist, one of the specialities of Switzerland lay, an end to all chronometric devices, and our beleaguered captive could discern the position the Earth's rotation currently found itself in. "Nine A.M. what I wouldnt give for a bagel and some coffee right about now...." lamented Yuri.

He looked where we surmised to be the vents in the metal container were,noting the lack of luminesence entering the temporary prison, or crude grave, one could not be sure at this moment in time. He made his way over to that side of the container, leaving the pomme de terre nest he had created. Even in a bizarre captivity, there is no need to ignore the issue of comfort. He moved forward carefully into the inky cloak which envelopped him, his arms slightly outstretched, he has out front, acting as a buffer so he didn't smack to hard into the borders of his newfound home. His fingers felt the frigid slickness of metal and he came to a halt, leaning slightly forward to gain a better understanding of the demensions of his current confines. Once he determined how he could jump with the least porbability of injuring himself, Yuri made a hesitant leap up to grab a hold of the small openings near the top of the container. They were found to be only about five inches high and about a foot across, enough to stick out an arm, even though the most useful thing that could produced would be a lopped-off arm. His fingers held firmly, as he stilled the rest of his body and dangled from the opening. Yuri tried to concentrate on the sensations that his fingers felt on the outside of the container, hopefully giving him some further insight. A gentle breeze brought a wry grin to the russian's face. So the container was indeed outside, though it seemed to be buried amidst a great number of similar containers, as no light was penetrating the large cluster. He dropped back down to the floor and flopped down on the potatoes, an unseen cloud of fungal dust arising from the disturbance. Yuri still had a few days he could survive without water before real mounting health concerns would arise, and since he had nowhere to go and nothing better to do, he laid back and closed his eyes. Sometimes, the darkness was so profound, he couldn't tell the difference if his eyes were closed. There really was no matter, since one's mind started to run with unsettled dreams and nightmares as soo as one was devoid of any optical stimuli. Fire. Screams. The smells of gasoline, gunpowder, and blood. The act of killing an unarmed person, wrenches at a man's soul, and Yuri often tried to rationalize it to switch his focus to more pertinent things. Thank good he had those cigarettes up his nose, who knows what the melange of lye and death would have done to his olfactory memory. It was either the deceased's life or his and Yuri's together, that was the only though that let him sleep. At that moment, a dagger of salt cut through the wafting cloak of putrid spuds that surrounded him. He was well on his way to sea. There was a benefit to temporarily detaching yourself from reality, as it destroys the perspective of time, and if you focus hard enough you can eliminate boredom. The state of being bored dulls the mind more than an MTV real world marathon, and he had to be ready for immediate action when that dore opened. There was only the clip that was in the gun as far as ammo goes, so Yuri was hoping there wasn't more than six of them, otherwise he was gonna have to finesse it a little bit. There was always hope that someone else opened the door, and the FSB agent simply walked out the boat. However if this was a straight up Japanese operation, then you could count on their being a fair amount of thouroughness and effeciency. There was little he could do, and after playing out a dozen or so scenarios through his head about a hundred times a piece, the Russian relented on thinking solely on his eventual opportunity for survival. "Never become too attached to plans, for the rarely turn out as expected," murmured Yuri, the saying an ethos in the world of espionage.

Happier thoughts were the suprise he found when he let his  mind drift. A hotel room in St. Petersburg in late December. An overcast day, no need to test the surroundings for ice to skate upon. A large bed, the red comforter ensuring the warmth of all that would inhabit it. A window cracked open, the first few flurries of the day's snowfall somehow finding their way inside. A nightstand, with a clock showing an unimportant time. A bottle of vodka, standing tall, blazing forth the image of the old Hotel Mockba. Two glasses, filled with ice, crying out to be replenished. A head of long, luxurious black hair cascading downwards, rising and falling slightly with your respiration, her body giving you that touch of extra warmth to add to your comfort. Your arm cradles the outline of her body on the comforter. You raise it, bringing the hand close to your face. It is here that your age is exposed, as the fingers look tired and worn, the skin seeming to have giving up hope of looking lifeful long ago. Somehow she doesn't notice. Thank goodness she doesn't notice. Such are the dreams of prisoners, as the poor lonesome soul who inhabited the Chateau d'If thought of a lovely woman named Mercedes. It was during this thought that sudden clank brought Yuri out of his day dreaming.

He wasn't sure the dream had lasted just a day, as he had no idea how much time had passed. All he knew was that he had completely missed the boat docking. He now heard the other containers being pulled away, one by one. His adrenaline pumped furiously into his system, his grip tightening like a vice on the AK, keeping it trained. The anticipation was growing maddening. Finally, Yuri began to make out some human voices, though he could yet decipher exactly what they were saying. Then a louder clanging and a sharp burst of light shot into the space like an ICBM out of a silo. The gun still pointed firmly a the door and whoever now soot in it. "Easy there fella, don't get too trigger happy. Though a little's fine. Damn, figured sticking a Russian with this many potatoes woulda had a couple cases of vodka, eh? Well I know it was shit poor accomodations, but across the docks there is an angry group looking at a container full of dirty laundry when they thought it was gonna be you. Prolly shot a bunch a holes in my undies. Helluva ringer, though. Damn long intros, welcome to Yokohama, Yuri."

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Fra-gi-le must be Italian

It was times like this where Yuri hated spy movies. According to the widespread belief contained within said genre, the cargo sits promptly in place without the slightest stir. This can be the case when it has been securely fastened within the container with nets and ropes. Unfortunately, his kidnappers/foilers had failed to provide him with the proper supplies for this to be the case. If one were take the cinematic adaptations of Ian Fleming's works, then there would not be so much as a jostle and the russian could enjoy a cold glass of Bollinger (appropriate vintage), accompanied with caviar and foie gras. However these preconcieved notions simply fail to adhere to the laws of physics. A container may possibly weigh several tons, so the crane must have the lift capacity to shoulder such a burden. And one containing but man, AK, and potatoes would be considerably lighter than the heaviest container. This would not be a problem and the journey a smooth one if a trained professional was at the controls. Yuri doubted that his enemies could find one in their midst.

So here he was was, bracing himself in a corner, hoping that whomever was mangling these controls hadnt seen the interior of a sake bottle this evening. A sharp enough pitch would easily send him reeling into the other side, with a half ton of moldy potatoes soon to follow. It is here that our protagonist would not like to make claims for the dear reader, but to suffocate after being severely injured by an onslaught of subpae spuds is not one of the more preferable modes of death. So he stood, legs wide and alert, hoping for the best. Keeping alert, never knowing when the dice that fate had cast could turn against him. There were several moments when he thought this little sojourn would turn sour, and Yuri was glad to know he was not amongst those that turned ill easily when one's sense of balance was stressed. Eventually there was a dull thud, and the Russian finally buckled. Well the hopes for a soft landing were dashed, how about for smooth sailing? This fate Yuri determined to be his when time went by and there was nay a sound of engine to be heard, nor much for the scuffle of man. He took the zippo out of his pocket and struck it against the pant leg. Circling about the container withered and danced until it found a source of fresh oxygen. At least asphyxiation wasn't going to be a problem, even if the smell of rot would still linger. Yuri shut the lighter with its almost trademarked click. He stared into the dark gloom. There would be very little light throughout the trip. To where, not even the divine knew. Just a man in the darks. With his daydreams of conspiracy, and the nightmares of his past.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave.

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Third Class Cargo

There was something comforting about the Marche Slave. It seemed to resonate within the soul, and really demonstrate the angst, anguish, anger, and triumph of a people in a musical sense. There would always be a more somber association for it in Yuri's mind. The slow, droning begining almost infers the presence of death and decay, and it seemed to become the theme to the time Yuri spent in Chechnya. The federal government had adequate rights to be agitated with the region, as their violent tactics made many scream for retaliation. Some would have called the unit of FSB the sharp end of the sword, Yuri called it the blood smeared face of the Russian hammer. He didnt even know who sent the orders, they just came in a sealed envelope and bore the highest clearance. Make the Chechans know the fear that their radicals were exercising upon the Russian populace. So, they became a renegade squad, terrorists sanctioned by the federal government. If the recieved a tip on the location of an enemy leader, they blew up the entire building. Individuals weren't executed, mobs were. Every time Yuri got picked to do grave detail, it was the Marche Slave which played through his head. Grave, what a terrible farce on the word. They commandered a backhoe from the local transportation bureau and dug a hole the size of a swimming pool on the outskirts of some po-dunk village. They went inm slaughtered anybody suspecting of having opposition ties in the russian standard way, the ak-47. They then proceeded to load the bodies into the truck. The blood was so ubiquitous, it was if the red army had been reborn. The FSB then drove to the oversized ditch. Opening the tailgate to the cargo truck let loose a torrent of blood that would have been a vampire's wet dream. This was usually the first point when the new guys lost it. The vetrans usually began sticking cigarette halves up their nose to block the smell. Usually it was the guys who vomited that were picked to toss the bodies into the man made pit. For some, this was too much, as they evacuated the rest of their stomach, the blood, mud, and vomit making an abhorrent stew. So in they all went, and even their makeshift noseplugs couldnt block that smell. The smell very much resembled......

Moldy potatoes, damnit it was almost like being in Chechnya again, those poor bastards. Though he still hummed a few bars of marche slave in memoriam as he cleaned the ak of any potatoe residue. He was gonna have to pay that bastard back, even if he had saved his life. Alas, there were more important things at hand, like whose grandiose idea it was to lock him in here. The first suspicion was Mr. Wirey from the bar, but he had the stench of a third party, he didn't demand on seeing him open the envelope, he just did what he was paid to do and got the hell out of there. It could be the driver, but he came across as too stupid to mastermind it. This was only the third time Yuri had been to Okinawa so he doubted he had pissed off any of the local Yakuza for them to give a damn. That left someone who knew a hell of a lot more about this job than he did. That meant someone in the Russian government or someone who could tell the Russian government what to do. Hell, after the Communists left, that could be a lot of people. What the hell was he supposed to pick up here anyways, they had lead him to believe it was a satellite navigation circuit board and corresponding software stolen from an American contracter. The muscle they used wasn't usually this subtle. There, the gun was clean. He was also getting to the uplifting part of Marche Slave. The container lurched. "What the ..., how did I miss the sound of the crane?," the Russian exclaimed as he tried to steady himself.

"Well, I hate traveling first class anyways...."

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Moldy Potatoes, an AK-47, and Tchaikovsky.

"We're here, boss."

Yuri was already opening the door when the words escaped his mouth. No cigarettes this time, he wanted to keep light and noise down to a minimum. "Let's go."

He had decided upon local help on this dirty little errand, he always knew that too many wide-eyes got tongues wagging in these parts. It was a distance to the base, and there was no reason for military personnel to be here, thus their presence was negligible. This meant any foreigner was news and was noticed, and if there was anything that Yuri did not want, it was to be noticed. They had parked the car roughly two miles from the main entrance to the docks, in hopes that the security measures would be less stringent, and they were right. Just a long stretch of twelve-foot high chain link fence with barbed wire jutting outwards at the top. Not that that was ever an option anyways. Another benefit present only in the grimier sections of the world is rodent infestation. Now, to the American homeowner rodents are a pest and a nuisancw, though to those in the breaking and entering business, they are a resource. Namely, no one except PETA ever notices a dead rat, and since most burglary countermeasures can be acivated by a well placed rat, you can use them as a scout. However, these scouts are not handles with great care. It took Yuri all of thirty seconds to find a rat. They are a fairly docile creature if approached properly, and so he scooped it up withouth problem. In order to repay the rat for its generous service, the russian only gently tossed the rat at the fence. The rat hit it, then fell to the ground....proceeding to scurry back to find more nourishment. The driver grinned and handed Yuri the wirecutters. About ten quick snips was all it took to get a decent sized hole, you didnt want it to be too big or it would get noticed quickly.

They went through, Yuri taking extra care not to get caught on any stray parts of the fence. Though his DNA and fingerprints were deemed classified by the Kremlin, with technology these days they could pinpoint the ethnic group, and that was the last memo he wanted to see on his desk back in Moscow. Once inside they moved quickly, taking care every so often to leave a tranquilizer laced piece of ground beef for the dogs. You may not like carrying around three pounds of raw meat, but damn did it come in handy. Thankfully, they werent too far from the pier they were looking for. "Remember, container 104657 is what we are looking for, don't bother with anything else."

For the briefest of moments, Yuri thought he saw the Japanese driver grin, but as quickly as it was there, it was gone. Quickly, he tried to surmise what this could mean. The possibility of a double-cross was always present in this world, but sometimes you had to suspend your suspicions in order to get things done. In Okinawa, typically it was the Japanese way or no way. These days, he would have preferred Norway, good fish, good vodka, and good spies there. So the Russian continued about his work, staying leery of anything out of place. Yet, in a quiet shipyard in  the middle of the night, nothing seemed in place. That's when it hit him, it was quiet. Even by now they should have run into at least one dog, or perhaps a wandering security dog. If either of those two beings had run into something suspicious, the alarm would not have been silent. That's when he saw the number on the crate in front of him, 104657. Shit. Paranoia was gonna have to wait. Yuri blamed nerves for his trepidation. Best to get the items and get the hell out of there. Then he could worry about possible double agents. A cyanide tablet in the coffee should do the trick nicely. He opened the door slowly, hoping that the hinges were still well-lubricated. He cracked it open about eight inches before going inside.

The smell backhanded his nose like it was a cheap prostitute. Dear god, were those once potatoes? If it wasn't for the military, Yuri would have begun retching on the spot. Well that will surely keep the customs inspectors from prying too close an eye to the seemingly bening crate. He began going through the mountain of rotting starches, looking for treasure aming the tubers. Then he found a small metal box. He pulled it out from underneath the spuds, rushing it a little and falling on his back with a clang. He quickly darted up to see if anyone had noticed the sound. Indeed, someone had, but this fact was lost on Yuri. He opened the box and found a single sheet of paper inside. Printed on the paper was a large yellow smiley face and the words "Have a Nice Day."

Yuri had only assumed that it was to his benefit that the container door made no noise. Yet, that too was a double edged sword. The first sound Yuri heard of his entrapment was the clanging of the iron bar locking the container. Turns out his instincts were right, this had been a trap. The odd thing was that Yuri knew the expediter of the package, and was suprised that he had played along, or allowed himself to be coerced into it. Though there was one thing that was certain, he may leave Yuri trapped, but not helpless. He turned and rifled further into the beyond-ripe produce. Ugh, that one was covered in maggots. This other one nearly exploded. And then, there it was in all its glory. The father and child of revolution, the AK-47. Well he was prolly gonna be here awhile, so time to do other things. First and foremost, he needed to clear his mind. The marche slave always seemed to do the trick. So he hummed some Tchaikovsky as he tried to get a better grip on where he was.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Warm sake, with an eel shooter, double wasabi

There are some circles of humanity which often romanticize the banter that goes into a barter arrangement. I'm not talking about haggling, the fine art of trying to squeeze the buyer out of as much money as he can possibly go, but the standard exchange between two parties when the sum in question has already been agreed upon and for some reason the two persons involved blather on about some subject which has nothing to do with the current situation. Weather, I believe, is frequently involved. In this sewer of the nefaste, Yuri always found it more useful to get in and get out. Plausible deniability, the less time people had to see you there, the more likely you weren't there. So as two consenting adults do when they both know exactly what they want, an abbreviated tango commenced. Yuri found the bench in the darkened booth. There was eye contact. The Russian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The wiry waif placed and envelope on the table. The piece of paper soon lay next to it. Different hands soon began pulling the objects back to their respective side of the table. Yuri stood. "It's always better when they don't talk" he thought, as he lit a cigarette and promptly left the bar.

The beauty of the modern day black market transaction is that the logistical concerns when dealing in physical money are no longer a hinderance to a less-than reputable enterprise. Since electronic banking was introduced into the mix, one didn't have to cart around a convoy of vehicles to close a multimillion dollar deal. Even the need for verifying the amount was lost. Even if someone did try to cross you, there was always the old way dealing with it, the cold muzzle of a Tokarov to the base of the skull and a little pressure on the trigger. So thus the modern day illegal businessman conducted his affairs, quick and cleanly, like ripping off a band aid. Not that you could find a band aid in a place like that.

Upon once again entering an atmosphere that could at least resemble something able to support life, Yuri pulled out the envelope and opened it. Pier 42. Container 104657. The docks, how cliché. Unfortunately when moving a great deal of merchandise under the nose of government law enforcement agecies, it was best to try and put something a great concern among the plethora of rank and file. Like hiding a diamond in a crate of broken glass. The problem is sometimes when you reach into the crate to get that elusive treasue, the shards tear into your flesh......with guard dogs. All the films you see of people going to the docks and calmly picking up their illegal goods from containers is a farce. To get something from a place like that without hassle requires documents. And Yuri wasn't exactly in the document carrying business, more like throw drug laced meat over the fence business. This was the one moment where he wished he was in the Phillipines, twenty bucks and some wire cutters and he would have convinced some local degenerates to have a luau, with dog as the protein for the meal.

The Russian got in the back seat of the Nissan and gave the driver the envelope. Freaking right hand drive cars, hard to get used to even if you aren't driving. The car took off, and the blackberry became the center of attention. "Love Okinawa, gonna pick up some excellent sushi fresh off the boat. -Y" was the message that was sent out. Used to be there had to be a voice or a computer actually attached to that sort of communication, but with technology advancing the way it has, burying status updates in billions of emails was easy. He looked at the bleak atmosphere, passing the poorer neighborhoods of the town. He tried to think of that town near the base where he completed his training....but to no avail. The towns gave their soul to support the base, but there would never be enough to get most beyond just scraping by. He was snapped out of his daydream when the car lurched to a stop by the docks. Time to go to work.

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Yokohama Yuri

And here I am again, though it seems the headaches subsided sometime before dinner. Tooled around for a couple of hours on the departure ticket with no real leads or bites. I think the wig trumped up watchmen a bit much, didn't think it was that good, prolly wont give it another viewing for a couple of years. Mr. Baseball is on TV, watching that a reminding myself I have to get the next season of Magnum PI on DVD. Four and a half hours until sunup, trying to figure out if I can fatigue my mind by then. Also trying to figure out who to root for in the NFL playoffs, guess I am gonna have to go with the Saints, at least New Orleans has good food. Another day without hitting fifty degrees on the mercury, and here I am, becoming a night owl again, somehow trying to determine the cause. I will give it this, though, it is blissfully quiet. I do miss the days of nonverbal communication with somepeople. Its kinda fun when you can interpret a gesture or a glance appropriately. That is the one true thing about humans, they can never really hide anything. They can decieve themselves that it is something else, but even that takes preparation. I have never hid my loathing for loud people, and I do love my silence, but the cold just seems to accentuate the loneliness. The bizarre thing is I am even more constantly surrounded by people, but their attitudes and actions have either distanced them from me, or caused myself to create some distance from them. In some cases, both have occurred. It is as if people have been getting closer, and I have begun using a scale with smaller measurements. A world full of familiarity has become twisted and strange to me. Though I cannot tell whether it is me going mad, or the world.

Grime exists everywhere in this world. The constant shedding of the human skin creates a neverending supply of particules to contribute to this phenomenon. Couple this with the seeming omnipresence of water and the continuing cycle of life and death, and the sad truth becomes painstakingly clear: everyrthing is dirty, it just depends on  the degree. Some people try to maintain an environment as spotless as can be, in an everlasting fight against the entropic tendancy of nature. Others just make do with cleaning enough so they can  function and not be made ill by their environs. Some, however, completely surrender to the inevitable march of filth and become awash in it. This bar seemed to be owned and frequented by those of the latter classification.

In Japan, one tended to view all establishments by a stereotypical model that was found every three blocks in Tokyo; clean, open to technology, and polite. Here, in Okinama, it seems that the personnel from the nearby military installations had brought a bit of the Ol' Wild West in with them, and some of the locals had embraced it, distancing themselves from the Tokyo urbanites. At one point, a swarm of flies has mounted an all-out offensive to take the bar as a resupply zone and forward operating center to take the entire island. However, as it happened with the charge of the light brigade, they had met with the heavy artillery of reality. Most of the victims lay strewn about the ground, black specks of futility, wallowing in the stench of failure, fermaldehyde laced beers, and marlboros. Some of them had been inundated with enough poison throughout their lifespans that they actually made it to the bar, where the encountered an even denser cloud of smoke and deeper pools of alcohol. The only things that could survive here were humans and fear. The venue was so ill-lit that it would seem suitable for a spelunking convention.

Yuri opened the door, instead of the accustomed stench of grain vodka, the muted corn mash of bourbon whiskey sifted through the door. Ten years in the Russian army, Chechnya and Georgia (South Ossetia, you say) in particular, had made him a monster, killing anything that unsettled his verve, emptying his soul so the torments had nothing to tug upon, and deafening his ears so the screams fell short. Fifteen more in the FSB (though he still preferred the ring of KGB) had made him part of the devil's legion, knowing who to bribe, who to kill, and who to ignore in milliseconds. This bar was one of a million like it that Yuri had seen in his lifetime, and he knew exactly what could be found here, waylaid arms of the US government. Most people would think to find prostitutes, drug dealers, and Yakuza in a place like this, but those were the pawns, knights, and castles of vice, and this was a den of death. It reminded him of an ex-legionnaire's bar in Marseille, but he doubted the couscous was as good here, and he'd be damned if he was gonna eat anything raw off of that bar. The steel-grey eyes scanned the room, a reflection of the Siberian winter, spreading the spirit of the tundra and the gulag throughout the space like a virus in a host. Then the hawk found its prey in a side booth, just on the fringe of the light, flirting with the tenebrous shadows of melancholy. A thin, lanky figure, who seemed to belong more to an early twentieth century opium den than a twenty first century dive bar. Clean shaven, with a face so drawn and morose, it took ten seconds to figure out of he was dead or not, and sunken eyes that warned you not to trust them. In this world, those were the people you needed, people who knew trust was a lost commodity, so the had the speak in truths so stark, the reality cut your skin.

Dunno where i'm gonna go with this one

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

A Blinding Light

Well I have finally caught up on all the blogs I have been following, so I don't feel like quite the über horrid friend. I have noticed that there is a bit more brevity to theirs than to my normal fare. Maybe thats is why I have such a sparse readership. I can imagine the chagrin, "great there is another post up, when am I gonna have the free half-hour..." As for myself, turmoil as normal. Trying to get the captors to treat me somewhere within a decade of my actual age has forced me to tactics I find a bit too childish. I have resorted to my terms paper social tactics, as in to say I do not speak to these transgressors, and I have reduced my diet to one meal a day as a form of protest against their policies and their terrible cooking (how does one create a stew with tough meat? It baffles the mind...) If there is no hot water, I do not shower, which can result in smelling like a yak (it disgusts even me). All I really drink is water, so soon I will be able to get up on my own high horse and show them their flaws (Everyone has them, so why do people tend to highlight those of others? All it creates is the want for revenge). Wish they hadn't forced me into this corner, but all attempts at diplomacy and converation were brick-walled. Though some odd side effects, the insomnia is still going on, and today the migraines popped up after a long absence.

Still trying to find a suitable means to escape this situation. Need to find just a clerks-esque type travail, or something to drown this background noise that enshrouds me to push through some creative thought. Think I might go look for a pen, as it is mightier than the sword, and muses have never appeared in time of need. Oh well, gonna try to sit and watch The Watchmen, Scott said good things about it, and his opinion can usually be trusted.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

The Sun also rises.

Just when one starts entering the nuances of one's proper subconcious, life always gives you a nice delivery from Bob's Barricades. Just as I was preparing to determine whether my fantasies or nightmares were going to trapse the light fantastic of my dreams, a third option arose, insomnia. Usually, fair readers, this blogger tries to empty his head of whatever free radicals are there and then find slumber. I figured I was well on the path to this, having finished my post early, and proceeded to stare blankly at the ink black ceiling. However, when the clock hit four in the AM, I realized there was no rest for me tonight. So instead of my subconciousness presenting me with those fears and regrets, all I had was boredom. And a movie about Nelson Mandela, the Color of Freedom, I recommend it. So thus I pondered a great many thing, most notably how to try and move my life in some forward direction. It then occurred to me that this was one a the first bouts of insomnia not initiated by a drinking binge. Previously I always ran on the assumption that my sleeping patterns were disrupted by excess sleeping after excess drinking.  I now am left to wonder that if the cause of these episodes are by the immediate thoughts that drive me to go out and seek solace among others (Arthur Guinness included) instead of the good old self destructive behavior bit. Soon enough, when you swear your evyes have developed cracks in them, the rest of the house began to wake up, to which I determined they have lost all famliarity of the term "inside voices". My brother then swung by, which further proved my theory that my family isn't smart enough to get out of earshot before they talk shit about me. Thus a long line of fairly evil plots developed, I will take the high ground and not lay it all out in public. Plus, I never like to let the subjects of my wrath (pronounced Roth on this occaison) know whats coming. So here I am, taunted by the vacant ramblings of my mind and increased paranoia (wait is it paranoia if it is founded in reality) towards most of my family. Coulda really used some downtime on Call of Duty (killing thousands online is quite theraputic sp.?), but it was Lena's birthday, so Scott was out, and Adi's stuck working on this case, so it was a nogo. Starting to realize why I was so insular in high school. Man, I could really use some sleep.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

A Dreamcatching Gargoyle.

Throw some salt over your shoulder. Nail a horseshoe above the door. Cleave a foot off a rabbit. Open the Bible. Thumb your rosaries. Face Mecca. Go to the Wailing Wall. Most people have their rituals and their faiths to keep them from fear in the inky black of the night, those that fail to grasp that one, essential point. There is a bogeyman, though he does not go bump in the night.

When we are children, the typical fear is of an actual physical entity will come and harm us. From the monster which hides under the bed or in the closet, to the ghosts which wail and rattle their chains. We grow up and face the reality that these creations simply do not exist in this world. Yet, however there is still a suspension of disbelief when it comes to completely dismissing the possibility of their existence. People line up at the movie theaters and buy the popular paperbacks that describe the horrors that can ravage peoples minds. Why do they do this? An escape into horror does not make much sense, why would one willingly put themself into a place of fear? I think it is much rather a displacement of fear which drives us to seek these horrors.

To build one's fear around a fictional entity allows us to distance that emotion from reality. If you can stockpile all your fear in your imagination, you can approach reality fearlessly.

But what about those of us whose fears are entrenched fully within the sphere of reality? For whom the pearly gates and the caverns of fire and brimstone are tucked in between the skies of Navarone and the mines of Moria? It is that group which are not tormented by vicious demons or hockey masked serial killers, but by what their subconcious throws at them. Why torture a man with a succubus or a witch when an ex-girlfriend can add a personal touch to the fear. The mind, it is a wierd and unchained beast, switching from mysterious joy on one trip to overt torture the next. This was the case for the past two nights, where a pleasant dream of a lightly clad female acquaintance I hadn't seen in years shared a warm embrace played chastely in the first dream. The next night I was haunted by much more crude sexual overtures by an ex. The disparity was not lost on me. As most would define the male as the more coitus driven of the two sexes, it was odd to see it was this act that was the nightmare, whereas the more innocent exhange the blissful dream. I also tip my hat to my subconcious, as the more prudish women was making the more laviscious gestures. So how does one without faith or superstition attack their fears? One could say that I have used this medium to the fears that my subconcious has asserted these past two nights. To a casual reader, it would seem correct. Yet to those that know me, the realization that only a fraction is shown would be most apparent. So I look to prep some sort of gargoyle in my mind's eye, wondering if such guards would ever drive percieved evil away. I hope that it does not drive it away, but merely keep it at bay. For fears seldom disappear forever, they find tiny crevices to seep into and then leap out again when Murphy's Law dictates. Yet if you keep it in sight, you can attack, become familiar with it, and weaken it. Thus I will sit in a chair, behind my Gargoyle. A dreamcatcher hanging from above. Again never intending to drive off the feara, but keep the link between my concious and unconcious minds open.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

A beautiful haunting

The red glow of the light straining to get through my lids greets me as the day starts anew. The dark sheets envelop me, there smoothness inhibiting any desire to move. I take a long, deep breath, trying to coax my body to return to its slumberous state. Alas, it has been awakened, and further rest is impossible. I roll over and stare at the nightstand. My watch sits in the valet. The hands are lifeless, reminding me yet again I need to wear it in order to charge it. A worn paperback lies next to it, the first volume of "The Count of Monte Christo". For too long, I was a prisoner, yet I have been brought back to shore to find that shimmering jewel of the Catalan Village. A wave of contentment washes over me. The phone sits idle, I pick it up and glance at the time. Still too early for me to be anywhere. I breathe in again, my nose searching for any traces of you. They find a few small particles wafting in the air. Is it the soap you use? The shampoo? Or some other chemical concoction that creates your unique scent? Fear strikes me. If it is a trial to smell you, then you are not near. My hand darts out, hoping to be proven wrong, yet not hoping to accidentally strike you. Its futile grasps into empty air ensure me that the space behind me in the bed is indeed vacant. I roll over, my bleary eyes even dryer with disappointment. Then my ears perk up, they hear the whine of the shower as it musters up the courage to do its chore. My mind tries to keep to innocent thoughts as I grin. Comfort finds me anew as I know you are near. I sit up ans stretch out my arms, the muscles in my back ready to rip out from their moorings in revolt. An exhalation accompanies the relief. I sit up and blink. A poster glares back at me from the opposite end of the room. A woman in her finery taking out her melanated jaguar for a stroll. You possess that grace yet the moments you choose to display it are of your own choosing. I swivel my legs over the bedside, the pants leg of my pajamas catching with the friction. Coupled with stretching incident from earlier, the faded Pink Floyd tshirt looks like it is being pulled by an invisible black hole. I stand and shake so the clothes can find their natural resting place. I keep the volume low, but turn on the ipod to help wake me up. The speakers garble to life with the opening sounds of "Let it Rain". I lumber towards the bathroom still feeling the need to be closer to you. I wander in, but keep the door between me and the shower closed, letting my imagination have all the fun. My hands straddle the sink as I lean forward. I look up, taking in the motley, grizzled appearance of my face. At least certain important parties appreciate it. I take one hand and run it over the chin. That feeling always suprises and elates me. I brush my teeth, hoping that you won't have to suffer the plaque and grime that has been building up there overnight. Then comes the floss and listerine. I start thinking about putting on some deodorant when I hear the shower cut off. Your light footsteps softly splosh against the tile. The rack shudders as you pull a fresh towel, but I know that is not what you will be draped in, that is not your style. You have the day off today, so you prolly have something casual to loaf around in around the house. My mind races, playing games, solving cyphers as to what possible comibnation you could be wearing. I grin again, knowing that the clothes should never merit so much concern, it is the person that fills them that matters, no matter how beautifully they fill them out.... a few more rustles and i hear the knob begin to turn. I turn and lean my elbow on the counter, readying for an entrance that even Boticelli would describe as sublime. The door opens, and your radiance is revealed. You are tousling your hair, in order to rid it of those last stubborn droplets of water. Its dishelvedness portrays a glamour lost by most in this world. A black t-shirt clings to your frame, concealing all immodesty through its dark nature. A pair of charcoal boxers complete your ensemble, fully prepped for a day of reading or watching movies. I gaze into your wondrous eyes and draw you closer...

Hope the dreams are this good again

Sic semper tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

The Heat of Fusion

I look outside the window and can feel the wind slap me across the face like a scorned lover. The blood raises to the skin, giving the pallid flesh the illusion of color and life. I could be out there, trying to establish some sort of machismo image by braving the elements, but to what worth? There are no witnesses, and that small mound where used to be a tree could be decomposing hookers as far as the neighbors were concerned. As for the misbegotten parental units, their ire is as limp as a quadraplegic eel. My actions are inert as long as their social image remains unblemished. So, I sit and stare at the cold, imagining invisible gremlins running around and smacking people in the face, blowing infernal gusts as they shuffle their papers. A voice whispers in the wind "aren't you cold?"

No, I am not cold. The warmth has been seeping out of me for almost two decades. Damn, has it really been that long since I trusted more than five people? Shit, that number is prolly three or four at the moment anyways. Heck, you can only find one in a 300 mile radius. It has definitely been that long since I trusted anyone with the same last name. So here I stand, an emotionless edifice, a weak golem, staring at a grey winter sky. I turn back towards the glowing monitor. It used to be a swivel, and oh, how did I ever relish the swivel.

The swivel itself was not the most important thing, but the other amenities which followed. The motion of the swivel is a characteristic found only in some chairs. If we take chairs and apply a Darwinian evolution to them, the swivel is about as new as not having wisdom teeth. (For those of you still born with wisdom teeth, I am sorry, maybe your children or grandchildren will be as advanced) Growing up, I had parents that were fans of conducting all house business in your standard, fixed chair. While certainly better than standing, this is like having parents proud to have a TV instead of a radio when you're asking for a flat panel LCD. Now the major drawback to your fixed chairs is the primarily lack of proper cushioning (overstuffed chairs are a definite exemption). While the American diet and the human preponderance toward laziness have provided most people with a fair amount of self-cushioning, even those can find that sitting in a padding-deficient chair causes pain to the rear after a certain amount of time. Thouroughly unsuitable for today's modern computer gamer for example. Though chairs that swivel are often upholstered with a leatherish material and padded with just enough give, so you can sit there for hours without a sore derrière. This, however, was some rattan piece of crap that had been in the house for twenty years and was so uncomfortable even the cat wouldn't give it the time of day. This chair was a metaphor for my current situation. Livable, yes, bearable, yes, but uncomfortable, unnatural, and something that made me despise every moment I lived with it.

So I turned to face the computer, making sure my knee did not hit the table, or there would be a definite influx of agonizing pain with the accompanying string of swear words barely contained behind my lips. I stare, hoping for some sort of creative dribble to come out, but nothing. Then I sense it, the impending doom which is to be unleashed towards me. I don't know how long you have spent around flourescent lights, but there is a certain sound that it makes in between the flick of the switch and the bombardment of light rays. Now if we take this comparison a little further, imagine if you have been living in complete darkness for the past decade, and you heard that sound. There would be a brief moment of sheer terror where you realized the agoniIng pain you would be put through right before it happens. This is what was going through my mind.

The tirade began, I wish I could go into more details, but I was far too bored to actually pay attention for most of it. I know that it shifted to socks to coke cans to whatever boring shit the rest of my family was doing, the fact that I was completely disinterested was not lost on the speaker, it was if the entire diatribe was bad tuna casserole and it just kept coming up. Aside frome various states of inebriation, I've always tried to have a short economy of words, and to be bombarded by this wretch just for the sake of them being able to talk, innerved me to no end. It put me in such a rage, that I tried doing my "Scanners" death stare, but the head would not explode.

Apparently I had become of such little value that my acknowledgement of the conversation was not even needed. The unending torrent of words built upon me like water into a sinking ship, and I was indeed drowning. I drew my gaze once more to the window, the tiradeur getting so wrapped up in their conversation, I doubt they would notice. The outside was bleak and dead. And that is what exactly what this town was to me, dead. It had started on the course of its own demise long before I knew the shores of this country, much less the avenues of this city. Time and time again I had tried to draw life from it, much like a vampire to his victim. Yet this time I withdrew not to find blood, but dust. At moments, it was a beacon, yet I knew it was a pharos that ran on a rare fuel, one that could not be procured in abunbance enough to make it last. And so it burned weaker until it died, my hands sifting through the ashes. I stand, knowing it is time to leave, but need something to give me that edge so I can leave it all behind. Regrets are for those that live in reality, but illusions are the only things that keep us alive.

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Never a good imp around when you need one.

The odor of sulfur is a peculiar one. Humans often have a sharp distaste for it, complaining it has an aura of decay and death about it. Silly creatures often have the bad habit of confusing simple things. Its is not a morbid odor,but one of transition, and it is this transition that is misunderstood by the mortal. There is very little that is pure in the human body, if anything at all, so when an individual shuffles off this mortal coil, most of what is left is for me to harvest, the building blocks of my infernal empire. The odor of sulfur is my mark, my calling card if you will.

I breath in heavily, letting the nostrils flare out to their fullest, intaking all I can, its almost as good as new car smell. I will have to give humanity some credit, it is dark down here. One would think with billions of slaves at my disposal working for eternity I could get some nice track lighting or something, but no just random pits of fire spotted throughout a cavernous wasteland. I wonder if they have this problem with work ethic up in heaven.... Anyways, sometimes it is fulfilling to sit back and take a look at your accomplishments. As i said, i do have quite the workforce at my disposal, but this isnt exactly the great depression, and resources arent what you would call abundant. As for actually managing the operation, you have to learn how to properly delegate authority, I mean we know heaven's got the different choirs of angels, but have you ever been there when Ba'al and Mephisto get into whether to take the seventh circle art-deco or roccocco? It is infuriating to say the least. But I have to say it does look a lot better than when I first fell down into this molten ditch.

Now one thing you don't see in humanity but poses an interesting dilemma in these realms is the categorization of mythological beings. Humanity likes to think itself the sole occupier of the afterlife realms. I mean, the don't even think other living things have a soul. Truth is, every thing that has ever been imagined has a place in this mother's cupboard of existence. (Always thought that terminology weird because mother never kept the pantry well stocked...) Yet here I am smack dab in the middle of goblins, ghouls, gargoyles, and gorgons, trying to get them to work as a cohesive unit. Imagine the costs I had to endure just to make this place handicapped accessible. And that is the workforce, the management is even worse. Now I have mentioned a couple of my top deputies, but trying to keep a tight leash on all their management styles has really got me running ragged. For all those who wanted anarchy in hell, they got it. Some jackass even managed to pull HR giger outta Switerland to do the first circle. I swear sometimes it just makes me want to punch an imp....

To be continued...

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

A hamstring's thoughts

Sleep is for the weak.

I stretch, I relax,

These are the simple facts.

Too much and lactic acid leaks.

You will feel the burn.

Cramped, confined,

Never asking if I mind.

This is the respect I earn?

I will fight back.

When you sleep,

I will creep,

And then attack.

A spasm.

A cry.

Ask why?

Minichasm

Of reasons sundry

Neglect, harm,

That day on the farm.

Quite the quandry.

You, taskmaster,

Punish with glee,

Yet also nourish me.

You are a bastard.

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,