Please direct your attention

to the shiny new site: Billy Prophet's Unexpected Vengeance. An alternative version of similar events for the purpose of deeper understanding.

don't ask

Nothing pulls you out of the desperate shadows of drunken longing like a sweaty naked man pounding on your window. I had just begun setting into a bottle of Wild Turkey, washing away the stains of the most recent one night stand that didn’t love me back, that had vanished where I could not follow into the sunlight and afternoon breezes of her smiling swing set companions to play at businesswoman and productive member of society when the Ghost of Christmas Ugly showed up fucked as hell, bare to his hairy ass and desperate for admission into what was scheduled to be a solo flight to the depths of nowhere.

God fuckshit damnit, Ronnie, I’ll let you in. Quit with the racket already. I have neighbors that don’t need to see me letting a naked assclown into my home. They have a bad enough impression already. I, with pangs of silence and a most infantile separation anxiety, broke from my bottle, got up and opened the door. He hurried past glancing back worriedly as if someone was looking for him or maybe that he had been followed from some clandestine dead drop by communist sleeper agents, yet still was surprisingly conscientious enough not to allow his overexposed flesh to defile mine.

Not looking at his cock or feeling any repressed need to compare, I grabbed one of Q’s bathrobes from his room and tossed it over, Q wasn’t around, he wouldn’t notice and I sure as balls didn’t care. He picked it up from the rumpled heap that hadn’t even remotely been on target and quickly struggled into the ill-fitting flannel with a somewhat baffled expression of relief and resignation. Now fully dressed for the occasion, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, handed one over to me. We chugged in momentary silence, oh blissful sweet oblivion coming on so softly, but not yet, but not yet. I set my empty down and got back to business of drowning myself in the juices of despoiled corn. He tossed his towards the trash, missed, grabbed another and joined me on the couch.

“What’s on?”

“Conan.”

“Sweet.”

because sometimes routine is enough and sometimes it isn't

A young man walks slowly into a bar, after presenting his id to prove that he of a reasonable age to further abuse his liver in public, to openly defile his temple, he proceeds to a table and orders a pint and a double of scotch. He finds his waitress to be attractive, not exceedingly so, but Goldilocks just right in the pleasant manner of a woman with whom you could converse freely and experience the mutual exchange of jokes and truths without being continually drawn to the overwrought plasticity of her scantily clad body. To be plain: she was not a hooker. He thought of telling her so, or at least some more appropriate manifestation of his feelings, but decided not to. He had already constructed the whole of her life in his mind’s eye and her former football playing reliving the glory days still a meathead corporate automaton fiancé would not take kindly to the kind of attention he was seeking to offer. Saving himself the inevitable physical humiliation he simply sipped at his whiskey and thought deep and disturbing thoughts. He finished his beer and scotch and ordered a treble bourbon in adherence to his drunkard’s idiom, to finish off the Thorogood cliché, and to give himself one last chance to grow some balls and talk to the attractive young filly that was clearly not wearing either engagement ring or wedding band. He finished his drink in anguished silence cursing his inability to relate to people, women in general, and most specifically pretty single waitresses who get off in 15 minutes and would love to go to an all nite diner if only he would ask. Of course, we all know how this story ends. After all, it’s been playing itself out on a loop for the past three years.

A love poem to a seamstress: petty diversions to stave off stagnant patterns

A man walks into an office with a gun. There is only one bullet. He gathers together everyone on the floor and forces them to watch his spectacle. He claims he will now turn the 39th floor circus into his own private Russian roulette show. No one tells him his gun is an automatic. A window breaks as he dies. A secretary calls maintenance to fix the window. As an afterthought she advises them to bring a mop for the blood.

***

All things end, he thought. He was not the crying sort and would shed no tears over his loss. He thought he loved her. he thought she loved him. He was wrong, clearly. That was all there was to it, right? He began to drink. There was only half a fifth of Zdenka vodka and a jug of Sunny D in the house. He made do.

All things considered, he told himself in the middle of his oblivion, it’s better that she left now than later after I did something really stupid like give her that ring I bought. He cursed himself for not realizing she was fucking around on him. He was a trusting sort; he figured they really were just guys in her drawing class. He went outside for some fresh air and promptly got himself lost.

He couldn’t remember his name or how to spell but he was able to count out enough money to buy a pint of Early Times and stumble into a park. Correction: cemetery. He woke up with a mouth as dry as a crypt above the crumbling remains of one Ethel Johansson, loving wife and mother. He felt dead. He felt reborn. His right wrist was bleeding slightly. He wondered if he had miserably failed to kill himself with a broken bottle or if it was just a drunken accident. Not really giving a fuck, he wandered down the aisles until he found his shoes laid neatly as an offering to Carl Joyner: dead before his time. He put them on and headed for the exit, a beer, and the effort to rid himself of the last remaining cobwebs of his previous life. Today was going to be a very good day. And tomorrow would be even better.

***

Well, you certainly left an impression.
That was the idea.
So I gathered.
Was it a good impression or a bad impression?
Two guys are vowing to kick your ass; a few girls think they are in love…
Good to hear. Any bars in the area?
It’s not even 2pm.
I need breakfast. You’re buying.

***

A man walks into a room full of people he does not know. He insults them and leaves. Life continues as it did before. In the room there is much posturing and vows of revenge that will never be acted upon. They think themselves free as their cages shrink. Go to sleep, little birdie, I laugh as I throw the shade o’er the top. The man feels better about himself, continues walking, gets in a fight with a stranger over a matter of twelve dollars. Neither die, nothing is solved, nothing is changed. The man walks on with a black eye, time well spent, and a little bit more amused than when he left his apartment in the morning. It has been a productive weekend. He thinks he may actually return to work on Monday. Though he remains uncertain and unconvinced. He does not like his job and is considering whether or not Monday would be the appropriate day to go down in blaze of glory. Perhaps, if his horoscope is markedly appropriate. Or wildly inaccurate. Either would satisfy his sense of fate and destiny. All his father ever taught his was how to throw a fight and how to fail to impress a classy lady and end up owing a hooker and fighting a pimp. But he gets by and he enjoys himself. And that’s more than I can say for you.

***

Spectacle is everything. He is a people watcher. He sits and stares as the world passes him by. He makes notes in his journal, on napkins, wherever. He notices the way they dress, the way they walk, they way they interact with each other. He gets good at it and can pick up minor nuances. He can spot a new relationship, a best friend who is sleeping with the others wife, a dishonest accountant. He characterizes them all, writes everything down for further analysis, files them away for later. He makes up names for his subjects, they are often wrong, but more often than not more appropriate than the actual. He is very good at this game. He is very bad at life. he has no friends, less money, and will die within the week. But he does not realize that he should be miserable with his lot, and so he does not act as if he is miserable. He dies with a smile on his face and a house full of files on all the people he watched making a go at living the life he was too afraid to begin.

***

I never made her smile. It was a startling realization. We broke up two weeks later. There was a minimum of indecency and afterwards they went their separate ways without rancor. She died 67 years later. He never saw her again and did not think of her that often. As far as how her life turned out after that day, I do not know. I didn’t pay attention and don’t feel bad about the situation. That is, as they say, life.

a little bit more (third notice)

I wasn’t sleeping, she didn’t wake me up. Though I doubt she could have known that I would be awake. That I would be on a drinking and writing bender. No sleep till the bottle is empty and the pages are full. Though I was having far better luck with the emptying than the filling. All I had gotten down was the beginning sketches of a story of the Good Doctor: a well meaning young lad in over his head and struggling for air, for life, for love. Deeply in debt to some of the right people and all of the wrong ones, desperately trying to win the love and attention of the dearest little barmaid lecherous drunks ever laid eyes and roving hands on. Not knowing what to do or who to turn to, the Good Doctor finally turns to his last resort: the Saint, a man of ill repute yet notorious for his “miracles” (the only thing that could save him now). The Saint was a man that no one knew, no one could fathom, and everybody feared. The Good Doctor had truly hit bottom. Whether this was the ladder back up or the road into hell, though, was anybody’s guess. It was a pretty crap story, to be honest. An idea that would be less than likely to flesh out into anything worth calling a tale and possessing even less of a chance at insight, skill, or merit. At least I had put the first of the cracks into the Aswan High Writer’s Block. I suppose that might count for something. I was startled by the phone ringing. No one ever calls me. No one to the point that I have forgotten my ringtones and was wondering how AC/DC managed to work its way into the middle of The Velvet Underground. I didn’t recognize the number.

***

“Hello…?” What the fuck time is it? 4 am. Who the fuck calls at 4 am? I mean respectable folk know that the only appropriate times for a telephone call are between the hours of noon to 10 pm. Excluding lunch breaks and dinner time and leaving a contingency for afternoon naps. Don’t they?
“Isaac?” A girl? Is this that Debt Solutions telemarketer again?
“Yeah.” Play along. Always the better course.
“This is Samantha…from the bar…um…” Ho. Ly. Shit. So, not a telemarketer.
“Oh, hey. What’s up?” Be cool. She called you. A good sign. An excellent sign. Just fucking be cool.
“We’re you sleeping? Oh shit, you were sleeping, weren’t you?” No, but shouldn’t you have considered this before calling? Does this mean that something is wrong? Is something wrong? I am not good at dealing with emotional crises. I hope she doesn’t expect me to fight someone for her.
“No.” That’s it? That’s all you can say?
“So you’re awake? Are you busy?” Busy? Who’s busy at this hour?
“Nope. Why? Do you need something?” Because I don’t think I can kick anyone’s ass for you. I’m something of a pacifist. Coward, whatever.
“Yeah, um… Could you meet me?” Are you in jail?
“Sure. Where?” Don’t say jail. Don’t say jail. Don’t say jail.

... (being part the second)

I was waiting for the end of the world. I was waiting for the sun to rise in the west. I was waiting for my contradictions to resolve themselves so that I might get down to the business of living and living rightly. No such luck. If my first impression of Sam was one of condescension and professional disdain, my second was no better. Having been duped into a night on the town with the lads, I left the comfort of my apartment and my bottle for crowded bars and overpriced watered down drinks. While a heavy glass of amber poison would have contented me for the evening, I was instead blessed with the joy of inane chatter with lesser mortals and the sly come hither insinuations of scantily clad harpies wishing only for me to buy them drinks and jewelry with the money that my fashion and flair implied but did not conceal. And there she was, in all her glory, the queen of the castle, sitting court above us all deigning only to speak with the most promising of gentlemen and even then casually dismissing all advances with ease and grace. The room loved her. It is safe to say that I despised her immediately.

Damn all beautiful women. I drank heavily that night. Some in the bars but mostly when I got home. When I surfaced later in the week I was more miserable than ever; haggard, unkempt, and exhausted. I may have slept a few nights in the park. That might have been a dream though. I can never tell. My writing was still blocked. Fuck it. I cleaned myself up and went to see Chuck. If he couldn’t make things better at least he would have a better/new way to forget. I may be drowning but I ain’t dead yet.

It was a different bar the next time. We were finally formally introduced and spoke at length. Or so the story goes. While I was clearly there physically that evening, I have no recollection whatsoever of the events and unfortunately have to trust what little information I have been able to piece together from my detail deficient friends as to the true nature of the events. She was wearing blue. The only image from the experience that remains within the grasp of my conscious mind is that she was wearing blue. Blue to match her piecing eyes, her dark tresses falling loosely over pale bare shoulders and a smile promised warmth for a man so long alone in the cold and desperate winter winds of solitude, of exile.

She came up like she knew me the next night. My street cred skyrocketed with everyone who saw us together. No longer the surly degenerate leering over his drinks at the frolicking of unencumbered souls; anyone who was in with Sam was in. Fucking high school all over again. I went with it. What else could I do? She’s beautiful and I have no self-respect. We talked about her mostly: it seemed safer. She proved herself to be of far more depth than I had thought possible. It won’t stop me from judging books by their covers, maybe a glance or two at the backside, but it certainly improved the evening having someone intelligent and witty to banter with. I almost got the impression she found my posturing attractive (cute at the very least). I did not expect her to call at 4 am though.

Number in Wrong Place (first installment)

“What’s the deal with your clocks?” She’s a morning person. Fuck. I have a bitch of a hangover and was not planning on moving or speaking for another couple of hours. Looks like that idea has gone to shit. This whole thing might not work out.
“Wha?” Dazed/best I can manage.
“Well they all read different times, and …” checking her cell, “none of them are accurate.” I suppose I could come up with some tale as to how my notions of time and existential reality differ from that of the consensus. But that’s mostly bullshit. There is no reason for it, like most of the shit in my life, I just felt like it at the moment and haven’t worried about it since.
“Yeah…”
“It’s just that it’s a little weird. Doesn’t it bother you? I mean, not knowing what time it is…” No. Not at all. Does it bother you? They’re just clocks.
“I really don’t notice them.”
“Oh.” And now she'll never call again. Odds that this is the last conversation we will ever have: 20:1.

***

Samantha is a rising star in her law firm. Just a year out of law school and she is already starting to make a name for herself. Or, this is what I hear. While being attracted to powerful, opinionated, driven career women, I couldn’t give a fuck about their actual careers. I met her in a coffee shop and then again in a bar and then again in a bar and then again in a bar and then she decided to ask me out. I still don’t know how she got my number. I don’t remember giving it to her. Of course, there’s always been a fair bit of my life that I can’t remember.

Everything started out fine…

I hadn’t been writing, I was lost. I can’t write if I’m not settled, I’m not settled if I am not writing. I was in a spiral. When Sam bumped into me while I was waiting for my coffee I was spaced as fuck and had she not been startlingly beautiful, controlling the entire room with her presence, her glow, I might not have noticed her at all. She was on the phone, talking into one of those Bluetooth fucking earpieces as if it didn’t make her look like a preposterous fuckwit, as if she was granted an air of importance, nobility simply because she would now always be in the middle of the phone call of her fucking life. I sneered and thought less of her. Fucking drones and their jobs and their notions of “importance.” Fucking who needs it?

go on, take the money and run

It's raining. A driving downpour that smelled of both death and rebirth. Underneath umbrellas, underneath a streetlamp, two seemingly inconsequential gentlemen are waiting.

"I'm hungry."
"Me too. But there's nothing as can be done."
"He's late."
"They often are."
"Are you sure he's coming?"
"Nope."
"So how long do we wait?"
"Until he comes."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Someone else's problem."
"But if he never comes..."
"I think there are some chips in the car."
"Oh ... I think I can wait a little longer, though."
"Probably for the best."

...

"So are we going to kill this one?"
"Probably."
"You don't know?"
"I wasn't told."
"Then why are we here?"
"To wait."
"And...?"
"The answers will come. Or they won't. No matter."

Headlights in the distance, approaching. A black luxury automobile pulls to the curb. The driver exits, leaving the car running, walks round and opens the rear passenger side door holding above it an umbrella. A man in the full length fur coat steps from the car. He and the driver are dead before he can fully straighten. The only sound is the rain and the whisper of the engine.