Thursday, November 21, 2013

Considerable revisions and visualizations and additions today.
Here is as follows.
Opposition from the missus (damn close enough)
Beckett looked at him- then, back at the board. Then, back at him. It took her under a minute to see it.
She studied the flow chart in mock scholarity.
"You know, this is perfect. Except for one thing."
She leaned in to whisper, against his very eardrums.  "You can't back up a damn thing."
A thought hit him. "We know he's not part of the car culture, then- but where did he source all the carbon? Hundred k of it doesn't just appear in some tuner's garage." He thought about it. "Pull up the VIN on the car. Why did nobody think about this? He started with some POS. That much, I know."
And then he thought about it again. He remembered back to the 458 Mansory he rented once, out in California. "Every CF part manufactured in real-name tuner shops has a unique number, in case of defects. Find the number, find the dealer, find the killer."
He leaned over the desk. "Ryan? Get the number on the drivetrain, will you, man?"
"And the drivetrain of all parts because..."
"Because almost nobody makes a goddamn carbon fiber drivetrain! But this guy did, I'm sure, he's got a few large just on the mirrors."


Unplotted Rivalry
Ryan leaned into the car and looked around. He had never liked cars, since he wrecked one back in high school. Thousands, hundreds of hours just covering the down payment on a fancy car his parents got him for Christmas which had already been taken off to the junkyard.
All cars end up in junkyards, eventually, and then there's no difference between a Buick and a Bugatti.
Es Bosido knew that same thought.
"We need to take him down an inch or two."
Ryan nodded. wn an inch or two."
Ryan nodded.


the SUV
they raced to the adress written on the tailpipe of the wreckage. Ryan found it looking for the number on the drivetrain, which he still hadn’t plugged in.
She sighed. Maybe his-
"Beckett!" He threw her to the floor before the first bullet left the barrel. In seconds, the Challenger Hemi 392 was just bullet holes and corrugated metal.
From above, from around, from next to them came the men with the massive rounds, filling the police cruiser with lead.
And she thought this would be an easy mission
He took the wheel. The car swerved through the little alley. The side mirrors ripped off. Shots ripped through the back seats. He kept driving. She took the gun out of the holster.
No- fuck it, she damn well did have the right to use it.
Trembling, her fingers found the AR180 and pulled it, pointed it through the back window-
The alley was ending.
Castle jolted up onto her and ducked as grenades rolled off the hood-
"Use that." She jerked her head in agreement and shot up the SUV behind them-
The reinforced glass eventually gave way. The SUV was giving up, but the shots were never ending. She grabbed another cartridge from under the seat.
He flew into incoming traffic and strutted over the curb, the body kit holding up the exhaust-
The massive Hemi drowned out the SUV with the broken glass.
More shots from the left- a car from the right
"Near the base," Beckett reassured him. She threw the gun at his face and he aimed the heavy assualt rifle through the windshield.
The run-flat Pirelli slicks of a carbon-fiber black Cobra wheezed air. The car bashed through an incoming mail truck and took heavy damage to the- everything.
He needed to get her back if it cost him his life.
He motioned. She threw him a cartridge. He skidded through three red lights, and-
The station was a stone throw away.
Shit, he needed to get in the other lane. He hooked it in sixth gear. The tires only had, five, ten seconds before they gave-
Thousands of pounds of metal, glass and flesh tumbled over the moving traffic-
The SUV came to a rumbling stop under the police station, then-
"Go! GO!" Fifty policemen shot at the SUV. Whoever was inside needed to get taken out before they all went?
A construction bulldozer was ten, twenty feet away, but it was empty, and all the men had gone home to their family and children--
Es Bozido bolted to the fence. Ran through the fence. Smashed though the windscreen. Floored the gas and heaved the massive machinery to the station. Picked it up. Went over the curb. Took it to the other side of the street when.
His body gave out when the first explosion rocked New York.
The car exploded, a massive forty-gallon tank throwing volatile toxic through four lanes. He fell to the floor.
Castle's first thought was to get the EMT.
Beckett's first thought was- she lost control of the fine edges of vision, and disappeared into a methodology in which she had control merely- over- nothing.
The EMTs hauled the unresponsive body out of the cockpit and hauled ass down to the hospital.
Beckett grabbed the keys. They all ran. o the hospital.
Beckett grabbed the keys. They all ran. o the hospital.
Beckett grabbed the keys. They all ran.


white dreams so far and true
"It's impossible to accept because he never was only a man." Tears flooded Ryan's eyes. Through the face of malice and death, there was always the man who he had come to know as closely as a brother.
With the unbearable reality impounding them, Castle gained transparency infinitely.  The man he knew was now at the edges of death. From a man who they did not know. From a man they knew closely, came the unbreakable sadness.
They had been without sleep for three days. When they heard only the thick, loud beep, and decided it was time to go home.


unplotted downbeat- tempo section
Insert the usual dinner scene with Castle and Beckett. Put Castle's mother out of town on a meeting with a friend. Have her hear of the news and come rushing to the hospital.  Add a fake call from the hospital telling them Es Bosido is dead. Have there be a massive downpour. Have them tell all their stories, and why life without him will be difficult, as a friend, as a brother, as a co-worker. Bring in the killer, who is seen only in a black coat. He pays condolences to the man and leaves. When he leaves, they all realize he is the killer. (Insert clue which makes the reader gasp.)
And then Es Bosido comes staggering in and looks in at the scene. (To a degree, like the episode with the dead look-a-likes.) Make them realize the man with the black coat made a fake sculpture of Es Bosido. He comes out of the hospital with some scarring and stiches, and mild flashbacks.
Have him realize a clue which later defines the novel.
Intertwine this with the story in notebook.



Boss 302 Show Cars

4000
carbon fiber hood

8000
carbon fiber doors

1000
carbon fiber deck panel

9000
twin turbocharger kit

1000
chop roof 1"

500
hood pins, carbon fiber and steel

5000
Forgiato custom carbon fiber rims

400
K&N cold air intakes

500
car-specific digital tuner

2000
P Zero Corsas

500
thicker sway bar- carbon fiber

2000
carbon fiber driveshaft

800
carbon fiber front spoiler setup

2000
custom grille

1100
tint glass

3000
shaker scoop, carbon fiber

3000
accuair setup

1000
hard track shocks


nitrous setup

15000
carbon fiber roof

3000
carbon fiber side mirrors

1000
5 degree rear camber

5000
Borla exhuast, quad

6000
Recaro seats, 2

3000
carbon fiber rear spoiler, adjustable
2000
carbon fiber hood vents
2000
full LED kit
10000
hidden M16 in grille



Wednesday, November 20, 2013



The intro


The car swerved through the red light and floored it back into fourth. Down the left lane, over the corner of the sidewalk, over the narrow curb.
The spoiler snapped off. Two shots rang from the alley.
The tires heated. More gunshots.
Police cars reached the scene.
The “object in pursuit” pulled a donut into the intersection at 90. Cars honked and rammed out of the way, if they could. Signs blurred, red ang blue permeated the air.
More shots, more vehicles. Now it started to hydroplane; the P Zero Corsas were unmatched by the thick rain-
Edged a straight line down the yellow. It was rush hour.
Blurred and stunned, another car smashed over the curb and onto the hydrant.
He had one more light before-
Two blank butterflys edged from the shots and screams. Two men in the passenger row raised the barrels to the glass and fired.
The car in the middle crashed into the car on the right. Sparks filled the floor. Pants jutted from the left car; it lost control and hydroplaned into a barbershop. The shocks were trashed when it jumped the curb. There were two cars left.
The men with the weapons reloaded and rolled down the windows a bit more. The man in the occasional seat emerged, with a minigun.
The Cobra skidded through the next turn, then J-turned into the middle of the intersections on a red-
Two SUVs collided front-on. The crash sent out heaps of black smoke.
The Cobra was gone.


The first scene
She was dreaming of something to get him. It was Christmas Eve.
The phone rang. It woke them up.
She fell out of the bed and stared blankly at the phone.
“We’ve got a murder.”
He rolled out and put some clothes on.



The crime scene, iniation.
A young man riddled with holes sprawled inside. All the airbags evidently failed to go off.
“Time of death?” She enquired.
“Well, based on witnesses, and temperature of body, it was 5:42 or so last night.”
Beckett threw the number to the back of her mind.
Castle noticed something. He paced the wreckage, feeling every bump and indication.
“What is it?” She said.
He grinned. He hadn’t seen those on in forever.
“What do we know about the victim?”
She ignored her and listened to him.
“Ten point cage, airbags removed, AC removed, custom splitter. Not like that did him any good..” He smiled grimly. “It’s been dropped 3.5, obviously…”
Not obviously, they all thought. He drank some of the coffee. He moved around back.
“There was a spoiler here, from the nubs.” Carbon fiber, by looks. Ten grand easy.  "Decent Borla back here, too." 
Only later did he realize he was the only car guy in the room- figuratively speaking, as he would say...
"Rear diffuser, of course, all custom...
"Carbon Forgiatas, obviously.. P Zero Corsas both up front and back.. That must've been a sight, those burning."
"Here, somebody got it on tape." He took the phone from Beckett.
He whistled- no, cat-called at it. That kind of sound usually sat back for women- but this rubber was even better.. More expensive, for sure.
None of them remembered who finally convinced him to get back inside.





1st in the building
"Scrub those cameras, I want footage. Me and Castle can work over the car, see if we can find any leads from it. We need anything on this guy we can get- if he's as rich as his car, he's got a high-profile job somewhere. That should lead us to somewhere."
Castle grinned.
There hadn't been a case this interesting in a long time. Not since the very first.
That coffee in the usual Styrofoam cup was almost empty now.


more information
She looked at him. Her mouth formed that perfect smile. "For the sake of our future, tell me you would never get caught doing anything like this. I don't want to hear you're dead into a department store. I'm looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you."
She had said that every day for the last week.
"I won't get caught, that's fact." He wasn't going to make any more promises. He cracked his knuckles and leaned back in the chair.
They had been talking for a while when his eyes glossed over the external world, and turned within. As if an Iron Ghost... (Science fiction fan fiction reference)
"Here's what really happened here." He grinned. He wouldn't have long if they were going to get back soon. "So our rich-ass guy wants this car and takes it to get all Roushed out. He doesn’t make the payments, though. He's too busy with an investment in drugs, and building his prostitution ring, so he can't make the payments." He paused... "But, then, just as the two black SUVs went after him- and somehow caught up with him-" He thought back to all that money in one car... "His friends came to bail him out- or so they would have, if he could keep his ass screwed on for another minute." He thought about it.
"It's a garage. Nobody makes these cars from the ground up and keeps it to themselves. Just think Hennessey."
Only once he had lost his train of theory did he realize the small crowd gathered. It was half the fun of the job, for the interns, to see whether he was right.
"Or, there were no men. At all." He seethed in the victory of defeating the writer so easily... He turned the computer over. The crowd watched the man build the car, around the clock, for a week straight.
Castle checked the time stamp. (The footage was taken with a surveillance cam, which just happened to be looking the wrong way. Like, straight into the dead man's garage.
Ryan, one. Castle, zero.
Castle fought back. "But then it doesn't explain the motive for killing him." Castle threw his hands in the air in mock confusion. "Who would have killed him? Furthermore, where did he get the money to build this?"
He knew he was starting to talk like Beckett. "Follow those cams, take his daily for a walk, see where he worked."
"I don't take orders from you. You're a writer." Ryan turned around and walked away.
But he left the laptop. where did he get the money to build this?"
He knew he was starting to talk like Beckett. "Follow those cams, take his daily for a walk, see where he worked."
"I don't take orders from you. You're a writer." Ryan turned around and walked away.
But he left the laptop.



sir and ryan
"Ryan." Her voice was more insistent than usual- a very difficult feat to match.
His blood still boiled. Now, hers.
"What were you thinking? Mr. Castle has as much a right to work here as you."
He looked toward the ground.
Beckett hit his hand. Castle stopped eavesdropping.
A thick smile worked its way from ear to ear. No, it was too unprofessional. He wouldn't do it.
No- but he could try to pull it off while he still had a chance.
After the newly erupted episode, the usual people cleared out around the board. For a priceless moment- now, when the seven planets aligned- he had his chance.



it all on the board
Okay, okay. Beckett went to the bathroom again.
That would explain why she was acting so pissed off, wouldn't it?
He snapped back to the matter at hand- mind.
The mystery man, to the garage. They would find a garage, where these guys built from the ground up. Muscle club. Big, burly men, bigass money, bigass engines.
Garage to job. Dry cleaner's place, by looks. Huge corporation. Nobody came in, except a few fixed, to keep the place looking legit and proper. They kept their prices real high, and their service terrible. They set up next to another cleaners, so nobody would think twice about walking out the door.
Cleaners to cartel. Usual- no, no, with the women ring. Just because, for the money.
Cartel to the border. With Mexico, obviously.
Border to corrupt politicians.
- it, he was just impressed when the whole damn theory made it two days before it got taken down by the Sir.
It was Ryan's way of a forced apology.



Opposition from the missus (damn close enough)
Beckett looked at him- then, back at the board. then, back at him. It took her under a minute to see it.
She studied the flow chart in mock scholarity.
"You know, this is perfect. Except for one thing."
She leaned in to whisper, against his very eardrums.  "You can't back up a damn thing."
Mental note: she wanted the d tonight.



at the scene- car chase 2 (?)
they raced to the address written on the back of the envelope. He had a thought- no, he would hang on to it. He needed to prove he was right on this one, Beckett guessed.
Castle found the letter stuck in the tailpipe of the wreckage. The fourth exhaust- it was deep in.
Why he was reaching hand-over-fist into metal pipes, she had no -ing idea.
Terror hit his face. He threw her to the floor.
Her head banged into the steering wheel.
Hard.
A black SUV shot at the car. The windscreen shattered. The comm system caught on fire-
Their  world flipped as the SUV clipped and T-rammed them down the ramp out of the garage they had just gotten into.
The SUV floored it and drove away. Tire marks all over the road-
He grinned. Now of all times he had an idea--
(Note: his idea is to check the VIN on the P Zero Corsas and see if he can track them to any reseller)
a. this leads to him in an encounter with a Jiffy Lube owner, who flat out lies to them, and is later taken in and interviewed.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

am i your me


every smile 

takes ten miles

hides the true you
its shattered blue
bleaker than dark
is blue light stark
when under sea
am i your me


undoing by fences
realities true and clear,
the distance to your
well-being far
and real,
the homeostasis
of your soul
impossibel, every second of their
prescence a shattered glass,
a knife in the moment to stab,
and you wonder
is this my undoing
or theirs
as the invisible fences
pile, tell us all is physical,
people fall off the
grid and
exist never again



18 CONTINUED 
 
He was thrown in a windowless, stone room. There was no light. A mouse, perhaps, scurried in the corner.
Something brushed his leg.
He knew not that there were twenty other men in twenty different cells, and that they would all be used and spit out, for various purposes and reasons.
His head hurt as the memory once again flooded his mind.
"Opening  the goddamn hatch. Target the corresponding section."
"Get out the fucking guns. This place isn't standing any longer. He might be in there."
The walls came down, shredded by the men with the guns; the bombs finished them off; more men with guns picked off the remaining survivors, all of them, or so they must have thought.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Chapter 2
More vaporized nicotine filled the air. He blew a circle of grey into the stanced air, slowly destroying every pigment of the expensive paintings someone gave him a while back, "Just In Case".
"It went very well, sir."
Another billow of smoke into the nighttime air. His name was Freddy Banksy, and he liked to smoke.
"They were all killed. Those responsible got away before the cops even got to their cars. It was a glorious drive-by, sir. Very impressive in your eyes, I hope."
The standing man leaned forward, almost bowing to the man behind the desk, with his legs kicked up on the fine-grained hand-made desk.
"Sit down."
The intonation of the Boss' voice made him very nervous to make gaze with the man who paid his check every week. The vapors of Freddy's nasty habit made the assistant choke; for fear of his life, he held it back.
The assistant's name was Smith.
"Do you see all of this?"
Smith nodded desperately. Perhaps he could sneak a telephone to his family--

(RESUME FROM NOTEBOOK 2 WITH UNPLOTTED EXPOSITION)
He pressed the red button on the desk, his feet up on it.
He looked out the window as he waited, his left hand nursing a cigar. He would have to get in with Mike later. Once he had a little something to take the usual edge off that he always seemed to get.
He blamed it on nerves, something in that water from across the world he always drank.
"How can I help you, sir?"
"Take me to the club. Bring the stretch."
"Yes, sir." The wingmen ran out of the Boss office to get the head of the garage to get the chauffeur to get the hired help to get the keys. It pulled up to the big man, with the car lift he installed a few days back. No, not him, it was the head of the upkeep, who got to the head of the residential upgrades, who got o the head contractor, who leased the job out to a few of his men.
Chapter I
          He found the series of commands every day to be an easy way to recalibrate. Reach the house. Step out of the car. Open the garage side door. Tiptoe in the house. Undress in the side bathroom. Get in bed. Sleep. And he ran through them with a sort of metallic obliviousness to her- yet it was the oblivion which comes from a lack of understanding on how to properly communicate.
          Montrose found his new life was little more than a long string of commands. From the boss. From the car. Occasionally, from the woman he loved dearly and called his wife. He wondered what she thought... But nonetheless, the found all of the commands bearable, for he was a believer in the prospect that all of the seemingly pointless commands and tasks would someday unify into something with a greater purpose, even if it was not during his lifetime, even if it was not to be experienced by him.
          He had been lectured and otherwise informed extensively on the importance of respecting women, especially the woman in his life. His mother was a sex counselor, and found it quite important, especially given she was female. And Montrose found it quite important himself as well, and he took care to understand what he could. So he did his best to do what the important women in his life said, and that seemed to satisfy them. He found the task-command-obedience response was typically enough in most situations with women. Yet he missed the entire point, because such a form of thinking failed to allow the establishment of intimate relationships...
          And he hoped he would find out if his wife was okay with it. He felt a slight uneasiness as he walked through the front door, and wondered briefly if it was due to him coming home later than usual, or simply a product of the inevitable nervousness from a new marriage. He tiptoed through the door guarding the bedroom, for it was light at night, and his wife would surely be asleep... And then he pulled his weary-but-young bones into bed.
          Yet he was shocked to see his wife out of bed, for he was trying extensively to not disturb her sleep.
          The edge of Rania's eyebrows and lips and eyes appeared to be in some sort of anguish, but he did not know what it meant. He made a note to ask later... Automatically, instinctively, his body reacted in the same way. Yet he had yet to discover the reason for her strange expression. They stood there, by the right side of the bed, for a few seconds, until she broke the silence.
          "Why do you do this to me? And yourself? Evety day, Monday through Friday, you stumble in and stumble out of that door. You leave me here, without having any idea what you are doing, or where you're going, or who you're going to see." Her chin furled at the last as an attempt to shame him into the details of the affair he must be having. "They don't pay you anything extra for working overtime. You know that.
          "We've known each other for six years. But now I feel like I don't know you. You're gone almost all the time five days a week, maybe six, if I'm lucky. When you aren't here sleeping, you're at work. Or wherever else you might go. Half the time, you wake me up trying to get through the door at who knows when.
          "You have to stop this. It's not only for a month. They're going to hold you in the cage forever. They got you, and they're not going to let you out. Unless you do something else.
          "It would be nice if I could see you more than several hours a day. No, in fact, I demand it. You have to pick, it's either me or the job. You can't get both."
          Montrose was stunned at the rapid release of information. He had been wondering what she was thinking, yet he lacked the courage to do so. And, when he thought about it, everything seemed clearer now. And the clarity was not from his work, not from his political power, not from his money. It was from his wife, the one he cared the most about, but nonetheless felt unable to connect with.
          Montrose had acquired the ability to disassociate the potential emotional connections and the job necessary to perform. It was a virtue at work, allowing him to maximize his output and accomplishments, all of which furthered his ego. Yet the skill proved an obstacle in relationships, in friendships, in marriage... And it would not be an issue, except that he lacked the mental switch. Thus, the lack of ability to form a personal connection was perhaps the main factor in the lack of unity then present in their marriage.
          Sometimes the best response is simply to take it all in, with respect and diligence, and listen. Sometimes a curved lip or changed in stance is all it takes to communicate that she wished not for him to obtain the last word. And he also showed that he was going to work on the issue, and that he had not been aware of it, yet nonetheless realized its importance. Montrose was unable to read her expression-he simply had nothing to say in response. Yet she was more than able to read his changes in stance and speech and moving eyes and so forth, a gift attributed to many women. A gift which often proves quite advantageous in close relationships, such as marriage.
          Montrose continued his routine, glad for the enlightening pause. Undressed. Got in bed. And he thought about everything she said, and then he ran through potential outcomes and methods to solve the problem. He was oblivious to the notion that his failure to account for her perspective was important in determining the best path, especially en route. But it was not that he chose ignorance; rather, it was due to a lack of understanding of how to connect with those lacking a Y chromosome.
          Yet his decision to show up a bit late to work that Wednesday proved wise, and he truly considered it the best option. For he was vaguely aware of which way the wind blew, and he did not want Rainy to leave, because he would need her in the storm. In the materialistic world he found himself submerged in, it was easy to forget one's path, and to wander astray. And he would spend many years attempting to find the right path.











Chapter II
          Men often do not realize what is right in front of them. This is natural, innate, perhaps, and it usually fails to develop into a problem. The women in their lives simply have to make everything very clear, or else they will likely fail to miss an important key of the puzzle. Such delivers for sound support in favor of the notion of maintaining the heterosexual marriage losing ground today.
          Such was more or less the case with Montrose. He did his best to pay attention to the small details and signals from his wife. But it took much work, and sometimes he still failed to understand. Yet he considered it normal, unaware that many have much higher abilities of perception, so he generally failed to ask for clarification...
          And he felt like he could not have asked what the signs meant. For part of being a man is developing and applying the developing ability to solve problems; and when he found no meaning in the signal, he often denied its existence, as if he could will it away.
          Such was more or less the reason why he was more than a bit surprised when his wife told him quite explicitly what she thought and how she felt: for she assumed he was reading the signals, and that it would not come to him as a shock. Yet most men need these things when beginning the journey of marriage, and they are thankful for them, because they respect the individual speaking, and because they recognize the importance of the messages.
          So it was a great leap of faith he made that morning. He decided to ask Rania to be less subtle, or to explain what the gestures and changes in pitch meant to her. He would also try to share his motives more frequently and clearly. After all, there is nothing a married man should want on Earth more than his wife to be satisfied with him, and Montrose was no exception. His desire for it was simply hidden under a thick coating of work and stress and money and power, and he found it cumbersome but impossible to remove the coating.
          He decided to do something special for her that morning. He would cut out a little time from his hectic schedule, so that they could connect and develop a plan or path with which to proceed in the great journey known as Life.





Chapter III
          Or a lot of time. He was accustomed to waking up much earlier than her. Sometimes, it would take him hours-or so it seemed- to crawl out of bed without her awakening.
          Rania woke up, at last, at 7:29. After all, a childless newlywed wife has a bit less busy of a schedule than her working male counterpart, on average.
          What is it about this job that matters so much to him? She had processed the news of his potential raise in exchange for about a month's work of overtime. Before they had married, his job was about five hours a day: less than most people's hours, and he certainly made more than the average Joe.
          She remembered the way he used to rub on her every night. He always felt to cold physically, yet there was a sense of masculinity which radiated heat. She wished he would do it again-
          And then, with an agitated sigh, she realized he was gone. Again. Why did he leave the light on last night? And why the hell was the coffee maker brewing?
          When she saw him at the table, she was overjoyed. For it was Friday. He usually left earlier than usual on Fridays. He should have left by now, if he was going to work. Of course, with his salary, he could quit at any time altogether... And it spread through her beautifully designed brain instantaneously; the way a woman knows when her husband has news.
          Maybe they could really talk now. She had wanted some kids for a while.










Chapter IV
          "You're still here!" As much as she was confused, there was an ability to find the correct words in any situation, a virtue she inarguably possessed.
          "Yeah, honey. I wanted to tell you something."
          "I was just hoping we could talk about how things are going." She delivered through with a modestly promiscuous-looking smile, an attempt to prepare him for her high drive.
          She reached over and pulled him in. As affectionate side of his mind reemerged, he realized he was to do the same. He kissed her there, and there was an intermission of it, back and forth. At last, they let go, for she was gasping for air. His well-built arms let go.
          "Apparently your work isn't as important as me now." That's what she would have said, if he did not brush her lips against his again, sending a jolt through their souls. And she would have been glad she did not say it if she knew, for that could have turned into an argument.
          "I've been wanting several kids my whole life, so..." She added another smile on the end, hoping it would convince him. From what she knew- and she was always right- he gave in. After all, there are times when a man should think before giving his woman an answer, and there are times when he should just not argue.
          When he considered it some more, in the brief, brief, time period he had to respond... He did not consider it. As he sat there last night, he realized she wasn't getting nearly enough time. But there was more to it than that, he realized. Marriage isn't supposed to be a measure of balancing priorities simply using cold-equation derivatives: the thoughts, the wellbeing of the other as the whole are not to be dismissed.
          He actually felt a little guilty.
          "Sounds good to me. Let's try tonight, honey." He hoped he stuttered out an acceptable answer.
          "Don't come home too late," she threw back, half joking, half serious. How was he supposed to take that? But he didn't. He kissed her again and left.
          Throwing his long, supple frame into the Aventador screaming for attention in the garage, he realized his wife lacked as much attention and affection from him as the carbon-fiber sports car in the garage. Trying to battle a wave of contradicting emotions, he turned on the engine. Push to start. And he drove away.









Chapter V
          Their humble abode sprawled over several acres, drawing the attention of those around for miles to come. It was one of the largest, most secluded mansions in the world, hidden in a little town just outside of Florida.
          When the place was being built, Montrose insisted upon a wing reserved for the six hundred-something guards on constant surveillance over the estate. After all, there were many who would give anything to assassinate several of the wealthiest men and women in the world, and Montrose was determined to prevent that from happening.  In addition, all of the windows contained bulletproof, one-way glass, to eliminate the risk of break-ins.
          The couple in The One Percent spent most of their time in the right wing. It was home to their penthouse, a fourteen-story tower with a massive base supporting its hulking construction of wood, steel, titanium, and concrete.



Sunday, November 10, 2013

Hitman For Hire

For several years, Sean had been a sniper in the US Army, at Mogadishu, starting in 94. The good times... When things ran well, because you expected they weren't going to, and then... With every shot, it seemed there was some more... Something... Not real. Some way he was controlling everything; who and what saw the light, and who never saw it coming, and who lived to the next day, unscathed. There was something he dimly remembered about... information. He had been held at gunpoint, and waterboarded, and... Little glimpses of it all, sounds and feelings and shocks. They seemed as if all there was of him, for all else was spinning out, faster than the semi, faster than... He had to tell them something, and he did. Was it because he was a sniper? The growing fears, the children, ... The boss wanted him. Sh, he hoped it was good... "Sean, were sorry, but we just don't have any room these days. It's hard for all of us in these troubling times. You are one of our most prized employees", his boss started-- "Laid off, my a. Fk you and this whole fng company. off." Sean raged from the kitschy, professional room, breaking both the door handle and his chair in his wake of fury. He threw away that tie, that expletive tie. He just lost his expletive job. They called it being laid off. No, he was expletive fired. Everybody was these days. Hell, if they gave an dn about me, I would still be there. Right now, making a few bucks an hour, filing papers or something. He usually wasn't like this. What happened?

18

{This will be cleaned up later. Somehow I could only copy it in HTML.}


Prologue "Get that car off the boat!" He started to push it-- The boat was going to run into the right wall and sink-- A shot pierced his lungs, and he was down. Chapter 1 Cigarette smoke filled the room; music blasted from the stereograph. An odious, unignorable nonchalance polluted the room, the scent concentrated with the man at the desk. The door banged. He crushed the cigar into fine pieces. A fortune, it cost him. Not that money meant anything. It hadn't in ten years. "Sir, we lost five on O'Malleys. Shot time from the cops, they pulled through on the speakeasy near there you set up a few years back, we got them out there with two k... Your name's all over it, sir- I would've telephoned you, but I couldn't find a decent one--" "Get my keys." pt 2 "Really! My as you're outta men! Get me ten officers down here immediately!" "They're keeping the fire border up- some lady's house on fire--" "Do I look like I give a ?" "No, sir, bringing them your way now." Hung up and bolted out the sweets parlor. Couldn't pause to hang the telephone back on the receiver. He fell on the ground just before a case of lead shattered the window of the cop car he was using as cover. pt 3 "This is station two, bringing you the latest news. A showdown between what resembles several gangs and the general crowd versus the police broke out at two- forty. We have no information other than what we can see now." She paused. She whispered to the cameraman," Give me a wider angle here." "As far as we have been able to tell, the fight erupted in a corrupt fa├žade a few miles down here. The criminals may have been caught, and then-" She made a grand, sweeping gesture-"They floored it down to here, indicated by the tire marks and bullet holes on nearby structures." The man readjusted the finder on the camera and gave the trusty camera a hit of oil. "The action is moving this way down the street... The opposite way is being held up as a crime zone... We can't move any further back. We will bring you updates when we have them." It was early, or late, either way... She yawned. "From Channel Two, Eighteen, New York." pt 4 SEVENTEEN KILLED, MANY INJURED Last night, at approx. two-forty AM, policemen took control of a speakeasy, hidden as "Joe's Honest Plumbing Store." An anonymous source who declined to speak to The Empty Bottle tipped them off. Police have been engaging in the firefight, as of the writing of today's paper, five- twenty AM. Fifteen of the casualties as of the writing of this article were policemen. The other deaths, of the mob, is not yet known in terms of numbers. Police declined to issue the names of those deceased. The number of injured persons is estimated at two hundred, most of those harmed persons being most likely engaging in illegal activity. It was extremely packed, and many people came running out through false walls, eyewitnesses say. The speakeasy was most likely exploded by high-grade military level explosives, judging from the damage and size of the blast, eyewitnesses. say. Citizens are advised by a representative of the police to stay in their houses between eight PM and six AM, and refrain from interacting with those considered suspicious persons. For any additional information or corrections, please telephone 888-8888. pt 5 A rich one, from all the little projects, and the kick started speakeasies, and the prostitution ring he fired up, and the local gangs he gave protection... For a large sum.... They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He donated frequently and generously to soup kitchens. A hint of stubble remained below his lip. He would have it seen to. He had to maintain a professional appearance pt 6 They sat on the porch with hushed voices, recalling it. Best to speak too quietly, than too loudly. The lady with the notebook scrawled furiously as the older lady recalled the night before. "First part I saw, the ground shaked. It come straight from-up-and-out of this ground, you hear. I get up, and there be this flash and screaming- like.. Well then my ma, she snap up from bed. There, ping-ping-ping-ping of bullets, tires screech,- sounded like it could've been one of those action moving pictures, with them sounds, like." It all went in the notebook. She could decipher the proliferous grammatical errors later. "Then this man yeller pull a rifle ,boom-boom-boom like a cannon, shooting up the whole road. Holes every where in cars and in the street-" "Circles, circles, those men come out of the building and... pt 7 "Sir, why was the building blown up, and how were you involved? Why were you there?" No answer, pause. Beads formed on the smooth, clean windows, of moisture. It was cold and damp. Paced, moved into a position below the attacker, relaxed appearance. "What was in the speakeasy?" No answer, pause. "Block D." He snapped and the men pulled the silent man out of the chair. Hayden Ncmarya didn't sh around with these people. pt 8 "Why was the speakeasy blown up?" The man was now cuffed to the table. Hayden leaned in closer with every word. He lunged at the handcuffed man. The man didn't flinch. "What was in the speakeasy, worth your people blowing it up? Who do you work for?" The man continued to stare him down. "Tell me your name, and I'll let you eat." The man continued to stare him down. pt 9 He was thrown in a windowless, stone room. There was no light. A mouse, perhaps, scurried in the corner. Something brushed his leg. He knew not that there were twenty other men in twenty different cells, and that they would all be used and spit out, for various purposes and reasons. His head hurt as the memory once again flooded his mind. "Opening the goddamn hatch. Target the corresponding section." "Get out the f guns. This place isn't standing any longer. He might be in there." The walls came down, shredded by the men with the guns; the bombs finished them off; more men with guns picked off the remaining survivors, all of them, or so they must have thought.