Thursday, December 17, 2009
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Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
an excerpt from the short story, "Bloodbath" by Jim Battery
He'd never seen a driver pull over and stop the Chinatown bus to urinate before.
With all the junk he was holding, Dwight figured it must of been a trick. And, in fact, it was a dirty fucking trick; those feds had been waiting for the bus at the rest area. Dwight saw one of them duck behind a garbage bin.
"This is going to be a bloodbath," he murmured beneath his breath. His heart was pounding against the barrel of the .45 in his jacket.
He pulled the pistol out and jumped up, announcing, "I reckon the Lord don't always agree with what a man does," and he shot a hole through the back of the head of a man sitting towards the front of the coach, meaning to scare the piss out of the other passengers.
The young woman beside the sudden corpse thought she was still dreaming when she woke up and touched the blood splattered on her lap but she didn't begin screaming until she tasted it on her fingertips.
Dwight had seen her somewhere before, somewhere back in the city. A waitress? A stripper, maybe. It wasn't important. He yanked her out of the seat. She was younger than she looked, maybe 19 or 20, blonde, short skirt, cute legs in bloodstained white tights. The agents outside moved towards the bus with their guns drawn. Everyone on the bus screaming. So much goddamn screaming, Dwight thought, pushing the girl in front of him. He shoved the pistol under her chin. She began sobbing.
"Thank you, mister, thank you!" Blubbering.
The feds were shouting at Dwight to drop the gun and let go of the girl. He wondered if she wasn't the wrong kind of hostage anyhow.
"Thank you, mister! Oh my god, oh my god, oh god!"
Well, this is just the last thing I need, Dwight thought. He felt like vomiting. A trickle of blood dribbled out of his left nostril and settled at the top of his upper lip. He'd been doing all that blow.
Meanwhile, the driver was shouting in Chinese at the top of his lungs from inside the toilet. A baby was bawling somewhere. Somebody was cowering behind a seat, praying in Spanish. For a second Dwight thought he might could kill himself and everyone would be better off.
"You crazy! Now you get off bus!" the driver was howling.
Dwight pushed the girl slowly toward the door and suddenly realized why she looked familiar: her photograph was on the news the night before because she'd been kidnaped last week by the dead serial rapist whose brains were splattered all over her cute legs.
Dwight snorted a snicker abruptly in spite of himself as the squad outside closed in like a pack of tittering hyenas. You filthy pigs, he thought.
I'm a motherfucking hero. Doesn't that figure?
With all the junk he was holding, Dwight figured it must of been a trick. And, in fact, it was a dirty fucking trick; those feds had been waiting for the bus at the rest area. Dwight saw one of them duck behind a garbage bin.
"This is going to be a bloodbath," he murmured beneath his breath. His heart was pounding against the barrel of the .45 in his jacket.
He pulled the pistol out and jumped up, announcing, "I reckon the Lord don't always agree with what a man does," and he shot a hole through the back of the head of a man sitting towards the front of the coach, meaning to scare the piss out of the other passengers.
The young woman beside the sudden corpse thought she was still dreaming when she woke up and touched the blood splattered on her lap but she didn't begin screaming until she tasted it on her fingertips.
Dwight had seen her somewhere before, somewhere back in the city. A waitress? A stripper, maybe. It wasn't important. He yanked her out of the seat. She was younger than she looked, maybe 19 or 20, blonde, short skirt, cute legs in bloodstained white tights. The agents outside moved towards the bus with their guns drawn. Everyone on the bus screaming. So much goddamn screaming, Dwight thought, pushing the girl in front of him. He shoved the pistol under her chin. She began sobbing.
"Thank you, mister, thank you!" Blubbering.
The feds were shouting at Dwight to drop the gun and let go of the girl. He wondered if she wasn't the wrong kind of hostage anyhow.
"Thank you, mister! Oh my god, oh my god, oh god!"
Well, this is just the last thing I need, Dwight thought. He felt like vomiting. A trickle of blood dribbled out of his left nostril and settled at the top of his upper lip. He'd been doing all that blow.
Meanwhile, the driver was shouting in Chinese at the top of his lungs from inside the toilet. A baby was bawling somewhere. Somebody was cowering behind a seat, praying in Spanish. For a second Dwight thought he might could kill himself and everyone would be better off.
"You crazy! Now you get off bus!" the driver was howling.
Dwight pushed the girl slowly toward the door and suddenly realized why she looked familiar: her photograph was on the news the night before because she'd been kidnaped last week by the dead serial rapist whose brains were splattered all over her cute legs.
Dwight snorted a snicker abruptly in spite of himself as the squad outside closed in like a pack of tittering hyenas. You filthy pigs, he thought.
I'm a motherfucking hero. Doesn't that figure?
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Dr. Leo Watts
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Saturday, January 5, 2008
Nataliya
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Maria
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Monday, December 31, 2007
Julius
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Sunday, December 30, 2007
Ignacio
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Saturday, December 29, 2007
Francisco De Nada
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Else
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Benjamin
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Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Hope Diaz
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Emmet
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Monday, December 24, 2007
Sylvia
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Friday, December 21, 2007
Samson
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Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Lester
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It wouldn't be far from the truth to say that Lester Davison tumbled from the backseat of the taxicab he was born in and rolled into the alleyways of The Big Easy, learning to pick pockets and play music as he wound his way up out of the South. Finding himself here in the city, he co-founded the legendary local band, The Bold Saboteurs, and performed with them until he was kicked out (for beating a drunken heckler blind with an accordion.) After being released from jail, Lester busked around the city streets and subways before taking his current ivory-tickling job in the Troubador Lounge, where he can be found on his best behavior every Wednesday thru Sunday evening from 9 PM - close. Covers and originals.
Louis
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Monday, December 17, 2007
Sophie
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Herbert
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An easygoing widowed Navy veteran, Herbert has been the Ticonderoga's doorman (and occasional driver) since Francis became the general manager. He traveled across the globe in the service and returned home to work in the city's shipyards, until a back injury forced him into early retirement. When his wife died, he grew restless and went to sea again, working as a bartender aboard an ocean cruiseliner. His daughter convinced him to come home soon afterwards, but Herbert knew that he had grown weary of traveling. After taking his current position as doorman with the Ticonderoga, he became the guardian of his nephew, Samson, who attends school nearby.
Eurydice
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Then again, it is quite possible that she is truly the beloved wife of an ancient god in a tragic myth, departed from this world and cloaked beneath the blind veil of the damned, oblivious to her husband's doomed rescue attempt.
Perhaps the truth is somewhere beyond.
All we know for certain about this mistress of mystery is that she's the current occupant of Room 420.
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