Pugilistic

I had been blacked out until just now.  I don't even remember the music I had come out to.  I think it was probably the Batman Begins theme song by Hans Zimmer.  Anyway, I became un-blacked out when...

"Hey champ!  You're a prizefighter!  Don't forget your training!"  My coach was yelling loud as fuck at me, and I looked around.  I was bouncing up and down and hitting my gloves together.  I was facing my opponent who was on the other side of the ring.

Oh shit.  What am I doing?  Why the fuck do I get myself into these damned things.  I thought the same thing every fight.  Fuck it.  I looked around the arena, but it was too dark to see anything.  I looked at my opponent.  What's up, little bitch?

"Hey!  Don't forget your training!"

I turned around and leaned toward my coach, "Hey!  I think I'm just gonna rush in and beat him in the first round!"

"No!  Hey!  You stupid motherfucker!  Hey..."

I turned back around and ignored the coach.  I continued bouncing, biting my mouthpiece, and staring at my opponent.  I didn't care anymore.  I didn't want to fight anymore.  I wanted to get this fight over with.  I never wanted to fight again.  Ever.  Like, ever.

So, I braced myself.  My coach's voice faded away.  I would rush in and use all my energy in the first round.  This motherfucker wouldn't know what hit him.

I remembered something.  I looked nearly, around the seats around the ring.  There she was: Taylor Swift.  I waved at her.  She blew me a kiss.

I immediately forgot her.  I went up to my opponent.  We smashed gloves and went back to our corners.  It was almost time.  It was time.

BING! BING!

I rushed forward.  I blocked my left and threw a wild, hard right hook that smashed into my opponents head.  The crowd went wild.  Everybody was standing up yelling, and telling me what to do next.  They were like absolutely insane, caged animals--like monkeys mixed with hyenas that had absolutely lost their minds.

I covered my right, and with all my might I threw eight jabs into the other pugilist's face.  A couple of them made it through, and it seemed as if he was about to turn around and ask his coach what to do about me.  I decided I was done, so I would use all my force on my next two punches.  The crowd was roaring, and I was certain I wouldn't make it out of the arena alive.

I used my whole fucking body.  Covering both sides, I cocked to the right and threw the hardest, biggest, strongest body shot I could imagine and that I had ever thrown.  My opponent's body was jolted, buckled, and he looked as if he was going to fall.  He was slightly leaning toward me, not knowing what to do with his hands and arms.  Within a millisecond we caught eyes, and our souls spoke to one another.  As you know, souls operate in a different space/time world.

"Your eyes are full of fire," my opponent said.

"It's not because of you.  Your eyes are full of fear and confusion.  You look like you're about to drop out," we were being cordial.

"Yes... well... you kind of blindsided me.  We had been studying your tapes, and you have never fought like this.  It's as if you're absolutely mad... like the audience here."

"It's just that I'm done fighting.  I never want to fight again.  Like, ever."

"I see.  Well fucking-a.  You caught me off guard, but I should have been ready for anything."

"You'll have plenty of fights yet.  As for me, I am done.  I'm going to walk off into the sunset with Taylor Swift over there.  Did you see her?  Did you bring a date?  I hope you don't feel embarrassed.  I've been the champ for a long time now.  There's no shame in losing to me.  Hell, there's no shame in losing to anyone.  Fighting is crazy."

"Yes, I saw your Taylor Swift over there.  She looks great.  Yes, I brought a Victoria's Secret model.  She's not that famous yet, but her name is Doutzen Kroes."

"Oh ya.  I know her.  She's hot as fuck."

"Why are your eyes full of fire?"

"I don't know."

"Shall we get on with this?"

"Sure.  Thanks for being my last fight mate."

"No problem."

I threw an insane liver punch.  It was as if my left became a viper and a scorpion at the same time.  The other pugilist's eyes went dark, and then they went white, and then they closed.  I stepped out of the way and down he went, and he would not get up before the count of ten.

I went to my corner.  I waited.  The fight was over.  The crowd swarmed into the ring, but I didn't care about anything anymore.  I didn't even put on the promotional t-shirt.  I stood there motionless, with my stupid arms hanging down, with my stupid hands with stupid gloves on.

Oh well.  I thought, and I just looked around, like a confused man--a pugilist.  Taylor Swift joined my side

The fight was over.

Finally, I wasn't fighting anymore.  I took a long walk.

The Beggar Man

It was wet and raining and cold outside, and the beggar man was outside.

The sky was gray with gray clouds gray from all the sadness in the world.  The whole world was gray.

Well the beggar man looked up at the sky and smiled.  He knew that where there were clouds, there were silver linings.

He looked and looked and looked and looked and looked and looked for the silver linings.

His brow creased, his eyes narrowed, his lips turned downward, and he started getting choked up.  And then, he really started getting choked up.  And then he began to sob lightly, but he was trying not to cry.  You know how that goes?  When you're really trying to hold it back.  And then, through the tears, he looked up at the sky, again.  He squinted and looked hard for the silver lining--there was none.

And then he let go.  He began to cry and sob hard, and the tears came flowing out like the rivers of the Ganges.  He reeled back as if he was hit, until his back hit a wall, and then he felt along until the wall led him to the nearest alleyway; he crept in and slid down against the wall.  He cried and cried.

He slid over to his side, huddled up in the fetal position and cried some more, until he fell asleep.

He woke up, as it was raining, very windy, and had become nighttime.  He was soaked.  It was freezing.

He struggled to his feet, felt around his big empty pockets for his flask, until he found it.  It had been a dreamless sleep.  He took a small swig and began to cry again.  He made his way to the main street, which was empty.  He was a weak beggar man.  His back hurt.  His fingers were creaky.  His nails were black.  His face was nothing but creases from his youth when he used to laugh and smile all the time and from his old age cringing.

He looked around, and it was dark all around.

Afar, he saw a lone light.  His stomach grumbled.  Underneath all the layers of black, shit clothing that he was wearing was a saggy body with shitty bones.  Well, he made his way to the light, to beg for food, of course, because he was hungry... you see?

It took him an hour to get there, and it got darker and scarier every second he traveled.  He was sure he would not make it this time, and he was not sure that this light would be very welcoming.

Knock, knock, knock, at the light's door.

He propped himself against the door jamb, and took his flask out.  He emptied it into his mouth.

Finally, the door opened, and there stood an extravagant looking man.  He was tall, young and handsome, and strong, and his hair was perfect, and he looked brave like a lion.  He was wearing a grand, fine robe of many deep colors, and he was holding two swords.  He smiled at the beggar man.

"Well, look at you!  What are you doing at my door?" He looked around outside and around the beggar man, "Are you alone?  Well, look at you, won't you?"  He sure was a happy looking man.

"Your light was on."

"Oh!  Ok."

"Mister?"

"Yes?"

"Were you awake today during the day?  Were you around town?"

"Oh, no.  Not me.  I was asleep.  Not today.  I slept all through today, and just woke up when you did, at nighttime.  It's a dark night ain't it?  I like it."  He shivered, "So, how can I help you beggar man?"

"There weren't any silver linings in the clouds earlier today during the day."

The grand man looked at the beggar man in the face, and he put his right hand up to his closed mouth, as if he were studying his face.  He had a serious countenance now.  "Well, look at you beggar man, won't you?  How can I help you?"

"I'm hungry."

"I see," he repeated a couple times and thought some more, "no silver lining in the clouds today huh?"

"None."

"What do you think that meant?"

"That there was nothing good to be found.  That it was just a gray, unforgiving world, where you can't find nothing good nowhere.  Not even in all the shit we live in, can we find a glimmer of hope.  That everything is always going to be shit, and nothing is ever going to change, is what I think it meant."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, that may be so, that may be so," the grand man mused for a while, and then, "Hah!  Well ok!  Who knows, right?"  He had alighted again.  He was bright and cheery again, "that's very interesting.  Who knows, right?  Maybe that is so!  But, look at you, won't you?  For now, why don't you come in and eat?  You said you're hungry did you not?  So, what are you waiting for?  You even look like you're hurting!  I have a whole mess hall of food that I just made with my butler and my cook!  We're just hanging out!  We'll talk about all that shit you just said!  You must be a philosopher or something, you crazy fucking beggar man!"  The man was yelling at this point.

"Thank you."

Well, the beggar man went in and ate a whole mess of fucking food, and he was full.

I Never Asked to be Born! Stations in Life!

I grabbed my skull.  Oh!  I grabbed my skull!  But I didn't quite grab my skull.  I only put both of my hands on my head, and my head was made out of skin, hair, and all sorts of other shit, including a skull and a brain.  In that manner, I grabbed my skull.

And I huddled in a corner.  This corner was in a corner of a dimly lit room.  Yes, there was some light in there.  I didn't know where it was coming from.

What's my name!?  I didn't only ask the question in my head... I shouted it.  Well, my name is Danny Castro, and my name is Daniel Castro on my birth certificate, but I go by Danny.  Ok.  My name is Danny.

I grabbed my skull in the aforementioned manner.  I thought about my brother Ismael and all his wild ideas about light, color, and sight.  On his own, he had figured out that we never really see anything but reflections of light.  I never get to see Ismael Ismael, and Ismael never gets to see me me.  I tightened the grip on my skull.  Let me explain.

The human eye can only see because light shines into it.  If there were no light, the human eye would not be able to see what it sees.  The human eye is a mechanism that picks up light.  That light--and the colors and gradations of that light--is then interpreted by different parts of the brain, and then we "see" what light has reflected.  I'll try again.

If there is no light whatsoever, our eyes see nothing: only darkness.  They see nothing because no light enters into our eyes, and our eyes need light in order to see things.  So, all our eyes really see is light.  So, when there is light, what our eyes see is light reflected off of other things.  The sun shines on different parts of Ismael, and those are the parts that I see, so then I "see" Ismael, but what I really see is a reflection of Ismael.  The light.  Our eyes only see light.

I thought about that because, when I thought I was grabbing my skull, I was really grabbing a bunch of different things.  And when I think I am looking at something, I'm really only looking at the reflection of light off of that thing.

Oh!  Strange things filled my mind.  The room was empty, but there was a dim light coming from somewhere, and I was in a corner grabbing my skull.

All this honesty was thrashing around in my mind.

"What do I do?"  I thought to myself.  "I didn't ask to be born into this."  Outside of the door was waiting my normal life.  I was born in Southern California, and my parents loved me, and it was hard to swallow, because so many people were suffering around the world.

"I didn't ask to be born!"  My mind raged.

I imagined a twelve year old girl born with AIDS in Africa.  There in my corner all huddled up and grabbing my skull fiercely, I thought about her (I also thought about my perfect grammar).  She was poor.  She has had AIDS since she was born, and I forced myself to think hard about this.

She sat in an empty room clutching her skull.  Outside, there was chaos, and there were her siblings waiting for her to take care of them, because their parents were long dead.  The HIV had taken them away.  And her mind raged, "I didn't ask to be born!"

"What is fair?" I thought to myself.  Nothing is fair.  Is it fair that I was born in Southern California to a nice family and she was born in subsaharan Africa with AIDS?  Who the fuck decided to put us where we were born?  Why wasn't I born in subsaharan Africa, and why wasn't she born in Southern California?  Maybe she was?  Maybe I was?  Maybe we were all everybody, and maybe everybody was everybody else!  Why was I thinking so abstractly?  Mark done said, "Love your neighbor as yourself."  Maybe everybody was everybody!

I clutched, and I was losing my mind.  Nobody deserves anything.  I thought hard, and I thought logically.  There must be a god.  Ipso facto, when/how/why/where we were born was not arbitrary, nor meaningless.  Considering the massive implications of all of this, I came to a conclusion.

We are all orphans, to an extent.  What do we deserve?  Almost nothing.  But not nothing.  Something. We deserve something.  For he we are!  We exist!  What do we deserve?  Do we deserve to be rich?  Do we deserve to be poor?  We can't deserve those things, for we had no say in which station we should be born into.  What do we deserve then?  For, we do deserve something.

We deserve love.  Every single one of us deserves love from everyone else.  And we deserve to love everyone.  "Love your neighbor as yourself."  We should be hard on ourselves and on everyone else, in a loving way!  That's the way we should love ourselves and others!

We deserve the chance to be loved.  More importantly, we deserve the chance to love others.

And most importantly, we deserve the chance to be saved.

And so have we been.  Drowning and seemingly without hope for one last gasp of air, we have been saved.

Although it seems that nothing in this life is fair, there is hope and at least we do deserve something and not nothing.  That is fair.

I let go of my skull.  I walked out of my room.  I hugged my family.  I got on my computer.  I sent a couple bucks to whatever organization givewell.org told me to.

I went back to my room.  I closed the door.  I got on my knees.  I was humbled.  I don't deserve any of this.  Hell, I don't even deserve to be alive, probably.  I thanked god and I took George Harrison's advice: "Everything else can wait, but the search for God cannot wait; and love one another."

I heard U2 in the background.

I went back on my computer and thought about true love.

The Opera of the Proletariat

I was about 32 years old.  It was a beautiful day, ironically, as you shall see.  Casually strolling down a beautiful avenue, busy with fine automobiles, I was mulling over which café I'd choose: order a bold black and find an advantageous vantage perch from which to perv on some fine ass chicks.  I preferred crazy, silly, bouncy, bright-eyed, long-haired, blonde girls that enjoyed not being inhibited by the invention of habiliments and thus were hardly hindered by donning hardly any of it at all.  I wasn't picky though, as long as they were beautiful.  Call me what you must.

Having improved my gait over the years by meticulously studying the most fashionable modus operandi of the day concerning detached coolness, I sauntered down the boulevard with panache.

I saw an old man and a young boy walking toward me.  They looked like they belonged in a different era--perhaps 1960s Italy.  And then everything slowed down.  Two British thugs ran up behind the grandpa and the grandson.  One of the maniacs shoved the old man against a parked car, and the poor old man crumpled to the concrete.

The other fuck had grabbed the child.  The kid must have been around three feet tall, and he was slight of frame, with shaggy black hair and a fair complexion; he had no clue what was happening.  And now this British-looking fellow was about to run past me, but everything was in slow motion...

I transmogrified into an elite Israeli Mossad agent; I stuck an insane Krav Maga fist into the pirate's throat before he could escape with his adolescent stolen treasure.  The boy was under the pirate's arm.  I took the ability to breath away from the assailant and shocked terror into him.  He spun wildly around and accidentally flung the boy with accidental incredible force over a parked car and into traffic.  The pirate was forced down to his knees, making strange and terrible sounds as he grasped his shattered throat.  He dove face first into the concrete, hacking blood all over the fucking place.

The other British pirate, the grandpa, and I stood paralyzed, as we watched the grandson fly gloriously into the running of the fine vehicles: he crashed onto terra firma, and then a beautiful, elegant, exotic machine took his ability to be alive away by crashing him and making him die.

Slowly, I looked at the other pirate--I mean this guy was wearing a leather jacket and everything.  Slowly the pirate looked at me.  Slowly he lifted his right arm and pointed at me with his index finger.  Then he spun around, looked at the old grandpa, pulled a gun out of somewhere, pointed it at Grandpa, and let a single bullet fly, but not before I shattered a giant, sturdy, ceramic flagon that I got from somewhere over his bald stupid head.  Who knows which way that fierce, angry little bullet went off flying?  I sure don't.

I killed two pirates in all.  At the hospital, the old man held my hand and cried, telling me that his grandson and he had been the only people left alive in his family, and now his little relative was very much dead.  "I don't want to live anymore," he sobbed.  "Thank you for putting your life at risk and trying to help us."

"I don't know what came over me.  I'm sure anyone would've done the same thing," I responded.

"Who knows.  Thanks again, young man."

I told him he could call me if he needed anything, but he died a couple days later.

And a couple days after that, I found out that he left me everything that his family had acquired: all told, I became thirty-seven billion dollars richer that day.

So here I was two years later, about 35.  I stood in my insane suite, who knows how many stories up in who knows what building, overlooking New York City.  I was looking over the whole city is what I mean.

Look at all those poor people down there, I thought to myself.

That night, I would have the same dream I had been having since I had become super very rich.  A dream about desperately poor people performing a very elaborate, genius, and quite beautiful, but sad opera, that was what I saw during REM sleep.  The cast was immense; if not infinite, almost infinite; if that's possible.  At the end, they all amassed on the immense, almost infinitely big, stage, faced me, and bowed.  I was always the only person at this opera of the proletariat.  Crying, I would give them a standing ovation, and I would whistle, cheer, and clap loudly.  My cheering sounded like oceans of praise.  And then I would wake up.

Still I hoped that a crazy, silly, bouncy, bright-eyed, long-haired, blonde girl that enjoys not being inhibited by the invention of habiliments and thus is hardly hindered by donning hardly any of it at all would join me for the magnificent and magnificently tragic and melancholy opera.

And then I hoped she would join me in real life too.

That Hustle Mama

My eyes popped off right open and wide opened.  Them lids just flashed back just like that.  Shit was quiet all around and it was only ten days before Christmas.  I was keeping track of the days 'till Christmas, and I was keeping track of that fat wad of cash that was growing under my mattress.

I stared down that motherfucker Alarm Clock.  It was 4:58am.  Why does my brain always turn on right before the alarm clock goes off?  Something about an internal clock.  Whatever.

4:59 and 43 seconds... 4:59 and 51 seconds... I turned it off before it went off.  No use in waking my baby too.  There was enough suffering in the world with me waking up.  No need to compound the misery that the world groans under by waking up my baby too.  Nobody ever really wants to wake up, do they?  Don't we all just want to be peacefully asleep for like ever and dreaming cool, nice dreams?  I don't know.

My kid walked up to my bed and tugged at the sheets.

"Momma, you awake?  Are you leaving now?  Are you going to work?  It's almost Christmas, right?"

"Yes, I'm up.  You have an internal alarm clock too?"

"Yes.  What is a manternal-ma-long-block, mama?"

The tap, tap, tap came at the door.  I let the neighbor in.  Our apartments weren't too bad.  She lived a couple floors up, and she took care of my daughter, for real fucking cheap.

"Be nice to Consuela Ju-Ju-Bee.  I'll see you when I get back from work.  Thanks, Consuela.  See ya later."

"No problem miss Avenger."  They left, and I went back to my room to get dressed.

Miss Avenger: I gave her a fake name for no fucking reason.  I don't know why I did that--just being silly I guess.  It sounded more bad ass than miss Minchin; that's for sure.  That wasn't my name either--just saying.  I noticed myself in a mirror and thought: my name should be miss Hot Mess.  Fuck it.

I was dressed and ready to serve the world, to get mine.  I reached in between my mattress and box-spring and pulled out my fat, black glock; I admired it.  Either this city was going to eat my daughter and me alive, or I was going to end up having to use this motherfucker.  A false dichotomy?  No.  This city is a rampaging monster, but I'm a mad woman.

I walked out of my apartment, and into the indoor hallway of our building.  I locked up behind me and heard a voice down the way, "Excuse me, do you know where the bathroom is?"

This guy looked worse than I did, and he was walking fast toward me.

I pulled my gun out, and he just kept coming, "Hey stop right there!"  No.  He just kept coming.

"What are you going to do wit dat?  Come here honey.  I'm a rapist!  Arg!"  Stumbling and falling toward me, that's what rapists say, right before they rape you.

Then my ears started ringing from all the lead I was unloading on him.

Deaf, I looked up.  Suddenly, it occurred to me that it probably wasn't a good idea to try to shoot someone, while closing my eyes, head cocked downward.

I saw this wild man on the ground holding his belly and grunting like a dying man.  I had blasted the poor old rapist in the gut!  There was blood everywhere!  "Help me... you old... haggard... bitch!  Help me please."  As he sat up against the wall, his belly was vomiting blood all over the goddamn place.  I sat down next to him; he smelled like shit and alcohol.  I was sitting in a pool of blood.  I placed my left palm flat on the ground, immersing it in blood.  I was beside myself--don't you understand that I was in shock?  "Help me," the old fool died out.

I whispered, "I killed you, you old fool," as I put my left arm around his shoulders, the gun hanging loosely in my right hand.

An old ass Asian lady (she must have been 73) neighbor came out and saw us, "You kill him."  And she pointed at me.

I was exhausted, "Yes."

"Give gun to me.  Policeman come.  You no want to be trouble," she said gravely and Asian-ly, as her eyes widened.  She bent over; she took the gun; she put it in her apron.  I was starting to black out.  The lady said, "You lie to policeman when he come.  I give back you gun when safe.  Fuck the policeman.  They always trouble me when I play my rock and roll loud," and she was gone.

I heard the police coming up the stairs.  I pushed the old fool over and started frantically searching his pockets for any money.  I pulled out two giant stacks of cash and shoved them deep into my purse.  Then I pulled my wallet out and left it next to my purse.  I closed my purse and jumped on top of the old fool and tried to cover his stomach wounds with my hands, "help!"

"Ma'am!  What happened here?"  Human police dogs.

"Some crazy man shot this man and ran off!  He went down the stairwell that leads to the alleyway!  This man is dying!"  I just kept pushing hard on his wounds.  "He's bleeding out!"

"Ma'am.  Step away.  He's dead.  You were very lucky.  We have been looking for this man for a long time.  He has raped many women and robbed many rich people in the last couple of days.  He went by The Rape Thief."

I looked blankly at the cop, and then I fainted.  I woke up sitting against the wall, and a paramedic was taking care of me.

"Miss..."

"My husband's name was William Tully."

"Mrs. William Tully, is your husband--"

"He's been dead a long time.  Someone killed him, and he couldn't stop himself from being killed."

"Mrs. Tully, you're in shock.  Please try to relax.  Here's some drugs.  Eat up."

All I could see was blood, and I wondered when I would get the chance to kill again.  Gotta hustle around here.  Now I had some extra capital to add to my wad.  I had some money to spend for Christmas and hopefully some money to get out of this shit hole.  My daughter would be so happy.  I put my left palm to my face.  The blood was still hot.

The Lieutenant, Hemingway, and Darwin: Ch. 1

Chapter 1

Oh shit, I thought to myself.  I didn't open my eyes yet, as I started waking up.  I didn't know where I was yet, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

With my eyes half closed, I threw my arms wide and felt around for a bottle.  Shit.  No bottle.  I opened my eyes fully and sat the fuck up on whatever bed I was in.  I looked around.  Very good.  Very good.  I was in my quarters.  I stretched out hard, and looked at the clock: 0500 on the dot.

Ok.  Fuck it.  I'll take a break from the bottle, for now.

Hungover or still drunk, I got up and stumbled around for the shower, then I stopped, stood erect, and looked around to see if anybody else was in the room.  There was a body under the sheets in the bed.  Fuck.

Then, BANG, BANG, BANG, motherfucking, BANG, BANG, BANG, at the fucking door.  It startled the shit out of me, and I clasped my ears with my filthy, hungover hands.

"What?" I roared out.

"Second Lieutenant, we're ready for you."

"Son of a bitch!  Just call me Lieutenant, you bastard!  Who are you?"

"It's Sergeant DeMatteo, sir."

"Get the fuck in here, you son of a bitch."

"Yes sir."

DeMatteo stepped inside, ready and dressed for combat, "Second... I mean, Lieutenant?"  He looked away at my impressive nudity.

"Sergeant, sneak the young lady out of my quarters, right now.  I don't give a fuck if anyone sees.  Just sneak her out."

"Did you have a good time last night, sir?"

"You bet I did... Well, I think I did.  Yes.  Yes I did."

"That's great sir.  I'll sneak her out, and we'll be waiting outside."

"Alright.  Get the fuck out of here you son of a bitch Sergeant DeMatteo, if that is your real name," I was more on the drunk side than on the hungover side.

The sergeant grabbed the young lady's clothes, and then roughly threw her over his shoulder, "Sir,"  and began making his way out.

"Goddamnit, DeMatteo, you fucking guinea spic.  Keep it down, and sneak her out, you bastard."

"Yes sir, Second Lieutenant," he smiled.  Her tits were flying everywhere, and she was grumbling, almost inaudibly, and then they were out the door.

Motherfucker that spic.  Goddamn local beauties.  I should be more careful.  I hoped she would be ok.

I made some coffee.  I drank it.  It was black and hot as hell.  I took a bunch of Advil.  I took one Xanax.  I jumped into the shower, shaved, and, standing there, I dozed off a couple of times.  Finally, I got out of the shower and into my combat gear.  I ate some cold, leftover eggs and a bagel, drank some dirty water, walked outside, and got blinded by the sun.

I heard some shuffling, as the small band of Marines I was in charge of came together and made a weak attempt at military formalities.  We had been lost; shot at; starving; and sleepless for a long time--now you know why we were all so tired; it was hard to maintain military customs.  As I waited for my eyes to not be blacked out, I shouted out, "Ten-hut motherfucks!  Attention!"  I rubbed my eyes, and then I squinted until I could see, using one of my hands to try and shade my eyes from the omnipresent sun.

"Sergeant DeMatteo!  Someone speak up!  Where is the Gunny?"  I could see better now, and I saw that we all looked terrible.

"Sir!  The Gunny took thirty men northwest, to look for more men and weapons and to weed out more of the enemy, per your directions from yesterday, sir."

"How many of us are left, Garbanzo Bean?"

"Sir, with the two Privates that just showed up..."

"Fuck.  Go on."

"Sir, that makes eighteen of us, including you."

"I'm in no mood GB.  I'm no mood to hang out with all of you.  We'll be going north.  Contact the Gunny and tell him we'll all be meeting at the rendezvous past the two hills and right of the three trees, but left of the seven goats.  There should be a couple of mansions with electricity and water there, hopefully as nice as this one.  We'll rest there.  The trip is about thirty miles for all of us.  GB you will take the north route; kill all enemy; bring women and children with you, if possible.  If not, kill them.  Bring all weapons you find.  Let DeMatteo know that my orders for him are to bring all enemy and our own POWs he encounters and to kill all civilians.  GB, you take the fourteen men with you.  I will take the two Privates, go northeast, and then we'll turn northwest and meet up with the rest of the company.  Where are those two fucks?"

"Sir, are you sure you don't want a couple extra men, sir?"

"Sergeant Gallo, you take the fourteen men with you and head straight north.  What time is it, anybody?"

"Sir, zero seven hundred, sir."

"Ok, thank you Sergeant."

"Sir, yes sir.  Hemingway!  Darwin!  Sir, see you tonight, sir."

"Be safe, Sergeant.  Thank you."

Two friends came around a corner, dressed in their combat gear and looking fresh and clean, as DB's troop jog-trotted north.  They stopped in front of me and looked straight ahead.  They were still very disciplined.  They must have not been out here long.  Fucking privates.

"I don't mean to put you two in danger, and I'm sorry to your mothers, but it is best if you get a crash course in surviving out here.  No gradual acclimating out here.  You'll die within a couple hours if we take it slow.  You'll probably die during this crash course, but it gives you better odds than slowly learning how to survive this hell hole.  That is why I decided for only the three of us to go west.  Being only three, we are much more vulnerable, so you will have to learn fast or die.  You must be sharp at all times.  You must be stressed at all times.  I need you both to turn into thirty-five year old war-hardened veterans, within a couple days, or you will die.  I'm not going to die, but you might.  So stay sharp.  Fucking Privates.  You have to be kidding me."

"Sir, yes sir," both of them.

"What are you guys fucking best friends, or what?"

"Sir, we're friends sir," Hemingway confidently.

"Private Hemingway, what is your first name?"

"Erne--"

"Never mind.  I don't want to know."

"Private Darwin, is that your first or last name?"

"Sir, I only have one name, sir."

"Well you seem like a depressed fuck, Private Darwin.  Fuck it.  I'm not going to ask.  One of you, tell me how you ended up joining my diminished company."

"Well Second Lieutenant--," 

"Lieutenant.  Call me Lieutenant."

"Sir, we landed about ten miles east of here, about--"

"Shut up Darwin.  Hemingway, tell me what happened."

"Sir, we landed a bit off from here.  Right when we landed mortar fire hit us from every direction.  I saw Darwin on the ground.  I picked him up and threw him over my shoulder.  I ran toward the enemy.  I asked them to fix Darwin.  They fixed him and told me he'd be alright.  They thanked me and went north.  I looked back and saw all of our men dead and in bits.  We went the opposite way of the enemy, and your company found us, sir."

"Interesting," I was spacing the fuck out, staring into the deep blue and bright sky.  "Alright privates.  Give me fifty, and then we'll get going."  They gave me fifty, and then we got going.

But I Love You So Much: Who Am I? Madness.

"But... but... but I love you so much."

I cringed hard.  What the fuck could I say back to her?  There was that ever so familiar silence over the damned phone.  Fuck me this sucks.

Fuck it, I thought.

"Well, you won't love me so much very soon," I said.  Well that kind of felt good, I thought.

"You're an ASSHOLE!  You know that?  Why don't you love me back?  What's wrong with me?  I'm pretty, and I'm smart."

She sounded so desperate, and that made me kind of like her.  She was like a wounded little bird that you just want to take care of and love.

Silence.

"I never said I wasn't an asshole.  I'm sorry."

"Listen.  Listen for a second," her voice was kind of shaking.

I listened.

"Are you still there?"  Her voice was still shaking, and she might have been crying.  She was probably crying.  For sure she was crying.  She was probably crying.  I wondered if she was crying.

"Ya."

"Listen... just please... please love me back.  Please?  What can I do?  I'll do anything... you know there's always going to be other women, no matter who you're with... prettier women.  Why not me?  No one will ever love you like I love you.  I'll love you forever, Danny,"  The desperation was seeping through her voice, but toward the end there... there was some resignation.

"I'm sorry..." and, well, she hung up the damned phone just like that.

I put the phone down.  I took my stupid glasses off and rubbed my face hard with my palms, "Fuck me.  Fuck me for sure."  I glanced at my haggard face in a mirror.  I sat down somewhere.

I just sat there.

"Fuck man.  What a bitch."

A thought flashed into my head: I wondered if I would call her sometime in the near future.  As fast as that thought flashed into my head, it was gone, and I was thinking about something else.

A couple months later, she popped into my head.  One millisecond later, she popped out of my head.

Years later, she might have popped into my head, but I couldn't be sure.  How can one be sure about such things?

Some time later--probably years--I stared into my mirror (I had bought it with money earned, so it was mine).  I looked at my face.  I took off my glasses.  I rubbed my face hard, and it felt good.  I leaned closer into the mirror.  I admired my full head of hair.  I was thirty-five years old.  I was handsome, as I'd always be.

"Who am I?"

"Honey!  We have to go!  We're going to be late!"  My beautiful wife's breathtaking voice joyfully bounced off the tall walls of our massive and massively elegant mansion and reached and soothed and massaged my thirty-five year old ears.  Her face flashed in my mind--my wife's face that is.

Leaning closer to the mirror, "Who am I?"

She floated into our bright, fresh, airy room, like a good wind, "We're going to be late, and you're the guest of honor?"

"Showing up late is showing up early.  You know that," I smiled at her.

"Let's go," she kissed onto my lips.

"Let's stay here and have sex," I countered.

"After.  Let's do that after.  The limo is waiting, and the champagne is on ice," she was so happy, and she loved me perfectly and as much as is humanly possible (that is she loved me maximally), and my love for her was equal in measure.  This was the truth.  Let no man or woman doubt it.  We loved no others, as we loved each other, and we never would; and neither could we either; nor would we ever want to.  EVER.

"Okay, I'll be right down.  Wait for me in the car.  I'll lock up."

"Hurry," she hugged me hard and kissed my left cheek.  She floated away.  She looked perfect, as all heaven.  I waited until I bet myself that she was in the car.

I stared at the mirror, without expression on my face, "Who am I?"

 Madness.

 I knew she would always love me.

A Quick/Short Word on Abortion: VP Debate 2012

I just wanted to say some things about things that were said at the 2012 Vice Presidential debate.

I paraphrase.

Paul Ryan said that he believes life begins at conception.  He said he does not just believe this because of his Catholic beliefs; he also believes this because of what the sciences have shown and because of morality.  So, he said that if Mitt Romney was elected they would make abortion illegal, except in cases of rape, incest, and threat to the mother's life.

If one believes that life begins at conception (that, once a sperm gets into an egg, the union is a human, as much a human as a full, grown ass human), then Ryan's beliefs make sense.  You think something is wrong, so you act against it.  You believe something is a human, and you believe it is wrong to kill innocent humans, so you make it illegal to kill (abort) humans.  That makes sense.

Joe Biden said that he also believes life begins at conception.  He said he believes this, because he accepts the Catholic church's position/beliefs about this.  After saying this, he said that he does not believe in telling women what they can and cannot do with/to their bodies (it's between them and their doctors, he said).  He said he doesn't believe in forcing his religious beliefs on others.  He completely changed the subject.  He hid behind his religion; in essence, he made abortion a religious issue, so that he wouldn't have to defend it, and so Obama and he wouldn't have to hold people accountable for their actions.  If abortion is a religious issue, then Biden doesn't have to push it on anyone.  How can someone say that they believe that life (being human) starts at conception (for whatever reason: religious or scientific), and then say it's ok for people to kill (abort) those humans?  Is Biden ok with people killing each other?  Maybe he doesn't want to push his religious beliefs that say killing innocent people is wrong on others.  Maybe he thinks murder is a religious issue too.

Also, if life begins at conception (according to both candidates), then the issue is not one of what women can and cannot do to/with their bodies.  The issue is about what people can and cannot do about a human that is growing in a women or wherever; no one agrees that mothers should have the choice to kill a life.  People say 'pro choice,' as if it is solely about a woman doing something to her body--it is not the case that she is only affecting her body, though.  I don't think women should be forced to have babies, if they don't want to, but I don't think lives should be terminated.  Freeze them maybe?  Or maybe pick the lesser of two evils: force women and men to have the babies they 'accidentally' created; do this, at the cost of taking some freedoms away--life vs some freedom.

In my opinion the issue is a scientific and philosophical one.  If one cannot draw a non-arbitrary line where life begins, then life begins at conception.  This is the case, so life begins at conception.  That means that when sperm enters an egg it becomes fully human and should be entitled to all the rights that all humans should have.

Ryan made abortion a scientific and moral issue.  I commend him for that, and I agree with him.

Whether you are for or against abortion, at least be consistent and have good reasons for believing what you believe.

By the way, you don't have to be a woman to talk about abortion.  I didn't ask to be born, or to be a man (boy?), or to be so handsome.  All people should be free to think philosophically and critically about all issues: this promotes critical and new ways of thinking about things.  Obviously, it affects women in more and different ways, but abortion can affect everyone: woman and man.

Everything can be made into a religious issue, and many things can be considered non-religious issues.  If you believe such things as stealing, raping, physically hurting others, deceiving, killing, lying, cheating, being rich, being skinny and hot are moral issues that governments can address outside of religion--leaving religion out of it--then abortion isn't a religious issue at all.  It is a scientific and moral issue that should be dealt with by a just and moral government that is for and by the people and that protects ALL of its people.

If you're reading this, you weren't aborted... just sayin'.  You might wish you had been aborted, but ya... you weren't.  Weird, huh?  Not weird because I think you should have been aborted, existing is just so strange in general... sometimes--to me at least.

Look at these un-aborted humans--so handsome!

I Have to Tell Her That I Love Her

"I love you," I said to her.

"Oh.  See what you've done?  Now I have to tell you that I love you too.  What did you do that for?"

"Not so that you would say it back to me.  You don't have to say it back.  Anyway, I gotta go.  Bye."

"Bye."

I hung up and started doing something.  I scrolled through some pages online, and then I started writing in my blog or whatever the fuck I usually do, when I'm not really doing anything.  Sometimes I like not really doing anything.

I found a picture of her.

I just looked at it and loved trying to memorize it.  She is so beautiful, and I thought about that for a while.  That's really cool that she looks so good to me, I thought.

And then I had shitty thoughts.

If she got married, I thought, I would definitely wait for her to get divorced or for her husband to die, and then I would hit on her again.  I wonder if she really knows that I try to hit on her sometimes.  I wonder if she likes me at all.

I thought, if I ever marry someone else, and she marries someone else, I'd divorce my wife, as soon as she wasn't married any more.  I would totally do that for her.  But if I married her, I would never want to divorce her.

That's pretty shitty.  Don't you think?

I'm just going to keep looking at how beautiful she is.  I'll probably tell her I love her.  I have to tell her that I love her.

I feel like love can be a mean thing sometimes, for some reason.

The Nun in the Cellar

It was raining so I put on a hooded jacket and a beanie--I fixed the beanie on my head like Enrique Iglesias does--then I turned off the lights and lied down again.  The grey light sifted through my shades into my room.

My homie started banging on the window and yelling to let him in.  I cooly walked to the door that led into my room from outside and said what's up and let him.

"Hey man, I know this big ass Catholic church we can sneak into right now and there's no one there and I know where they keep all the money--let's go rob that shit!"

"No no no.  I ain't robbing shit.  I'll go with you if you want, but I don't want to rob shit tonight.  I'm not in the mood."  I lied back down and stared at the wall and enjoyed the fact that it was raining outside.  I breathed in real deep.

"Ok, well, fuck it.  Let's go!"

I got up, and we went out, and I locked my door.  I felt like horsing around, so I danced around as we walked to the empty church.  It was behind some broken down and abandoned buildings, mostly where bums hung out.

"Shit man," I said, "You should have told me there were bums over here!  I would have come even more than I did come!  I would have been here more than I'm here right now!  But I'm super here now!"  I ran over to one of the bums and shoved her, "Hey!  Tell me something crazy!"

I turned around and saw my good friend walking around to the back of the church, so I left the bum, "I'll be back for you!  You better have some good bum stories for me when I get back!  I'll give you a sandwich!"

I ran over to behind the church just in time to see my friend throw an awesome, big, dark orange brick through a stained glass window.  SMASH!  I picked up a stick and cleared all the jagged glass still left on the frame of the window and we climbed in.  Once inside the church, we high-fived each other.

"This way!" My buddy whispered super fucking loud.

Down some awesome stone stairs we went, and there were candles everywhere lit.

"Why there candles lit, if no one here, dude?"

"Just shut up, dude.  We'll get the money, and we'll get the fuck out of here, and we can pay rent for like three more months!"

"Whatever."  I stuck my hands in my pockets and enjoyed the fact that it was grey and raining outside.  I thought about it as we slowly walked and carefully walked down the stone stairway steps.  I became a poet.

Rain.
Why do I love thee much?
Pain.
Does thou inflict it much?
Not me.
Bring me grey happiness.
Be-ing.
Three, me you do so bless.

We reached the bottom--it must have been the basement of the church or something cool.  My buddy was right in front of me, and then WHACK!  A stick came out nowhere and hit my stupid buddy right in the face and down he went.

"Wow!  You got hit!"

"Let's go!"  My good friend ran away, but I stayed; I stared; I liked the golden light that lit this bottom floor.  A feeble drunk voice spoke to me.

"Are you going to run too?"

"Are you going to smack me too?"

A pause.

"No.  I'm not going to whack you."

"There is so much wine down here.  You sound drunk."

"Mmmmmmmmmm.  I AM drunk.  I think I'll stay this way, but you cannot have the money of the church."

"I don't want the money.  Can I have some wine?  Are you a nun?"

"Good.  Yes, and yes."

"You're a drunken old nun!"

This old nun was wearing the whole nun get-up.  It was great.  She walked over, grabbed a bottle of wine for me, and one for her, and we walked over to some corner of the wine cellar.  We slouched down to the floor and sat on the floor with our legs out in front of us.  We became old drinking buddies within a couple seconds.

"This is great isn't it?"

"Sure it is."

"This wine is great madam nun."

She put her hand frailly on my shoulder; she looked at me gravely; she looked right into mine eyes; the buzz was getting on in my brain; I looked at her; she was old as hell; she had maintained her beauty very well.

A pause... "Well?  Are you gonna tell me something?"  I laughed.

"Because it is literally the blood of Christ, this wine is great."  Her eyes widened, and she nodded at me as if to say, "It's TRUE!"  Her mouth opened a little too.

I laughed, "Hey!  You're drunk!"  And I slapped her back kind of hard.

She laughed good and long, and I did too.

"I AM drunk!  Jesus makes me drunk, sometimes."

"Me sometimes too."