it's a bastard's paradise

[physiognomy]

"Rhy'din's strongest product ain't platinum or gold--

It's memory.

The poorest of the southside and the rich cats on the east will both give their lives away for a memory: a dead husband, a wedding, a birth of a child, a murder. Christ, what a business. Sure-- it wasn't a business before. It was a historical society. The Halls of Memory, where history was left untainted by all. It's locked up now. Old man Khan, that crazy fuckin' bastard, he locked himself up in there a century ago and refused to let anyone touch that stuff. --How does it work? Well fuck, if I told you, I wouldn't have a business. It's been around since the beginning of time. All the secrets of the world are in those Halls, they say.

Me? Consider me a memory salesman. The active president of this fine fuckin' establishment. The Man sent me here once old Khan started going crazy. They all go crazy eventually. I will too. Just imagine it-- the memory of the world all crammed up around you, all those voices and blood and wars. Who wouldn't go crazy?

--Tch. Historical socities. 'Socities' don't make no cash. I make cash. History makes cash. All this sentimental shit, it makes cash and this ain't some temporary business either. It'll be around until after the earth dies. There's a big fuckin' history book up there somewhere and we're the editors.

So. You come here lookin' for somethin' or are you just gonna sit here yakkin' all day?"


<center>


( screen name is 'or to fly' -- looking for storylines too. )</center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 28, 2005 01:17 PM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>

[physiognomy]

"I'll tell you a secret. Yeah, c'mere--

God don't got shit on me. Heh. God, tch. Am I bitter? 'Course I am, who wouldn't be? We all make mistakes, even God makes mistakes-- cept I have to pay for them and God don't. God don't got to pay for nothin', God makes other people pay for it.


The devil? I don't give a damn about the devil either. God and the devil, they're both the same. I don't even think they give a damn about 'salvation' or all that shit. I bet it's just another game to them-- one they been playin' for years.


Now me, I don't care who wins. I'm stuck here either way. God called this a 'time-out'. What shit is that, a time-out. That's what God told old man Khan and he's been here for as long as anyone can remember. So I'm stuck here on this cruddy little planet until the end of time.


A few of 'em have been on time-out. They go crazy. Tear off their wings --you know what happens then, right? They become mortal. They turn into drunks and gamblers and whores and eventually end up killin' themselves. I'm too sane for that. Me, I got a level head.


I don't care. I'll work for God if it'll put me back home. I'll help out the Devil if it'll get old man Kahn out of the Halls. I don't give a shit about God.


Don't give no shit."


<center></center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 08, 2005 03:06 PM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>

[physiognomy]

"You ain't gonna believe this one, fellas. Hah! You just guess what I saw yesterday. You just guess!


--Nah, nah. I saw Eden. That damned garden where it all went down, ain't that funny? Sometimes old man Kahn, he ain't that bad-- he likes to show me things when he gets bored and lonely. Eden, for chrissake. It's like the say in them story books, they have all these little pictures in 'em and the grass is all green an the sun is out and there ain't no clouds in the sky.


No, I ain't seen Eden before that. I wasn't one of them special ones, the kinds that came here and went around makin' miracles. Those ones, they just shit miracles out of their damn asses, huh! I ain't good enough to do that. Never was, and I never will be.


--Kahn? Yeah, he was one of those special ones. God loves Kahn. Even though he's a damn sinner like me, even though his hands are red, redder than mine. I don't get it. Christ. Don't make sense.


I ain't a bad cat. I ain't done no one no more harm than the rest. But there ain't no salvation for me-- bitter? Yeah. Just a bit."


<center></center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 09, 2005 01:41 PM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>

[physiognomy]

if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
kind neither
nor cruel
(only complete)
i not not you
not possible;
only truthful
-truthfully,once
if strangers(who
deep our most are
selves)touch:
forever

(and so to dark)


-- e e cummings


----


"I ain't gonna lie to you. I done some bad things. I ain't a bad bird though, really-- I ain't different from you. Glass a spilled milk, right? No damned point cryin' over it. No damned point. I ain't like this-- this whole thing you see here, it ain't at all like this.


The way I talk and walk and laugh-- it all changed, yeah? Yeah..


--There's that girl, that woman if you want to call her that. Josie. She got herself in a damn fine situation there, she did. I ain't gonna let Saint get her though, I ain't gonna let Mary down. She said to me-- and you hear me true, hear-- she said to me 'John, you watch that girl. You watch her and be her guardian. Huh! Guardian.' What kinda shit is that, yeah? Chrissake.


But I ain't against going home. I want to go home, you get me? I ain't the same here. I miss being me-- I realized something, yeah? Just 'cause Kahn got himself all locked up in the halls don't mean that I can't go home. I'm not Kahn. I'm not a sinner, I'm a good bird, you get me?


I ain't no sinner, man. I ain't no sinner."

[physiognomy]

On the crowded corner of Fifth and Swanson was a tired building wuth grimy brick walls and shaded windows. It may have been an office or an administration area, but the sign on the door only proclaimed that the building was indeed open for business. A tall, thin man with hunched shoulders and a dark suit pushed the door open and reflected upon, after hearing the door's rusty bolts, the purchase of a can of lubricant. The foyer was empty except for a small one-person elevator which he trudged towarr, thumbing the down button and listening to the tired whir of gears as the elevator stirred to life. He rocked on his heels until the elevator rang out an off-pitch ping and the rust-colored doors opened.


He stepped inside and the doors shut behind him; the elevator began its short descent downstairs. Half way to the floor below, the lights started to flicker-- a second later the elevator stopped altogether and shudder to a halt.


"Christ," he muttered vehemently, licking his lips.


Underneath the elevator's operation panel, the emergency phone began to ring. His fingers twitched in his pockets. The phone continued its harsh chorus; he gave in and crouched down to pick it off of the receiver, his eyebrows scrunched together in jagged lines. "--Yeah?"


From the other end of the line a voice as ancient as time crackled across. "You misbehavin', boy?"


"I ain't misbehavin' Kahn. Lemme into the halls. I got some things to find."


"Some things to find, huh? You can try, boy, but you ain't gettin' further than the first hall. Go on and try, huh?"


"Fuckin' crazy old man," he murmured, slamming the phone back on the receiver; the elevator rumbled gently and finished its journey and the dull orange doors opened once more.'


Before him stretched a long hall with stainless steel walls and cheap tile flooring; the fluorescant lights provided the room with a strangely chemical glow. The few people that had been there regarded it like a morgue-- that description was not far off. The air smelled of unease and things that should have died a long time ago. John often wondered if there were bodies in the storage units across the walls or if there really were dead things occupying space, waiting for the afterlife.


At the end of the hall was a set of double doors that were similarly hospital-esque-- the doors he had never been able to go through. A sudden confidence built in him and he hunched his shoulders; he ran, head on, for the double doors.


To his surprise he pushed past them like paper.


The room has startlingly familiar. A long hall with metal walls and a set of double doors. Again he ran head on for the doors-- the room that opened up before him was all too similar.


Six more times and John gave up. He slumped against a medical cart, his heart thumping against his ribcage and his breathing hitched. "Fuck you, Kahn," he wheezed quietly. "When I get into those halls-- I swear, when I get into those halls--"


Later on when he had time to reflect, he thought he had heard the gleeful laughter of an old man in his dying days.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 14, 2005 11:49 AM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>

[physiognomy]

"There's some things a man can't be blamed for doing, see? I ain't sayin' that doesn't mean I ain't a damned fool for doin it, but I coulda done worse. I ain't a bad bird, yeah? See, up there-- heaven, or whatever you folks wanna call it-- it don't seem much different from here, I guess. Now, mark me here, I son't know a damn fool angel that would trade heaven for this shit-- christ, lemme explain this better, huh?


There was this angel, this little fool of an angel named Liwet. Now angels-- they don't just sit around all day, that ain't how it works. They got a job just like you birds do, and Liwet's job was.. well, it was to inspiration. Oh yeah, he watched all right. He was hoverin' over Da Vinci's shoulder when he painted that Mona Lisa-- he was wisperin' in Beethoven's ear when he wrote those music things. He been doin' it for so long he started seein' things in humans. Carin' for them.


Christ, what a fool angel.


He fell in love with this pretty piece of German girl-- nice hips, nice lips, but what a brain she had in her. --Well, that's the biggest rule to break, see? Fallin' for somethin' human. It's unnatural they say. So they put Liwet on "time-out"-- and he been stuck here on earth since the plague died off.


--Liwet? Aw, he's mortal now. Some demon ripped off the poor bastard's wings and he's some homeless bum now-- me?


Well. Me'n Liwet-- let's just say we were stuck in the same boat."

[physiognomy]

<center>What can I tell you, this guy you see
I can't help feeling so cool hip and so free
I don't believe in getting hooked on love, no not me.

You can't persuade me to play your game
You turn your nose up whenever I'm acting the same
The way I move is oh so smooth, I'm cool
I know you want to hold me, cool cat.

Just leave me drinkin' in this bar tonight
I know you want me to make you, make you feel right
But all you do is hang your head so low
I know you really want me to go.

Why can't you please understand
What kind of man I've got to be
You're saying I'm such a fool hiding my thoughts away from
you girl I know it's driving you wild
I'm sorry I'm a cool cat baby.

You can't persuade me to play your game
You turn your nose up whenever I'm acting the same
The way I move is oh so smooth, I'm cool
I know you want to hold me, cool cat.


</center>

[physiognomy]

<center>Every angel has a purpose. A job that they are specificly designed to do that they are bound to find out in their long lifetimes. I never knew what my job was. Sometimes I think-- sometimes I think that I'm an angel built for falling. That's my job, to fail and pick myself up and fail again. How sad is that? Pathetic, even. I'm not even fit for heaven or hell, so I'm stuck on earth as a thing in between. A fake angel. Sure, I did what Mary ask, I getting the job done, but I mean-- I'm not going to get my promised reward. I know I'm not.


Why? Because I'm a fuck up. Fuck up, angel-boy, 'cause it don't matter anymore.


</center>

[physiognomy]

John couldn't remember hurting so much since he was human.


His body was burnt and torn to shreds with the sickly sweet scent of blood clinging to his skin and the concrete floor below; he squeezed his eyes shut to the film of red that had dripped into his vision and wondered how the hell he got into this and how he would get out of it. He was pinned to the floor with the disturbing accuracy that was near perfect. Thin spikes, attached to drains with collected with berry-bright blood, protruded from his wrists, calves, and abdomen-- behind him, the glorious spread of sparrow-colored wings had been torn down to the nerves and bones; they twitched patheticly, unusable.


A set of fuck-me-red nails arched down his stomach and left welts behind; his eyes were closed but he heard her voice like a bullet to his brain. "John," she crooned, as sweet as a child. "John-- oh, you poor man, poor little bastard, does it hurt, John? This is the hell you should be in. You should have gone to hell, John. Mary saved you. That bitch fought for you, brought you into her arms."


He couldn't speak; his vocal chords had been ripped out hours ago and he could only gurgle blood in argument. When she leaned down to kiss his cut lips a curtain of bright, orange hair framed his jaw. His jaw was about the only thing that wasn't broken-- that, and the eye that hadn't been pierced through. "Someday you'll get what's coming to you, little John. You weren't a good man. You killed. You raped. You went to jail. You were a murdering, lecherous bastard, John. You tortured yourself for it. You begged for forgiveness. Mary loved you. I love you too, John. I love you so much--" Her nails dug into his chest cavity pierced the flailing muscle of his heart--


John flung the sweat-slicked covers back that had somehow managed to tangle around his throat and stopped him from screaming. Shaky hands smoothed down over himself: no cuts, no bruises, no hurts. Still, he shivered like a the last leaf on a tree in the middle of a hurricane.

[physiognomy]

The note was posted on the door of his apartment with a piece of gum since he didn't have anything else; the hand-writing was barely legible at best, particularly since it was written on a rippe off page of the psalms which he always carried.


jose--

i'm leaving. the apartment's got another month's worth of rent so you can keep it if you want. take care of orwell, he isn't so bad.

sorry you fell in love with the wrong guy.

--john

ps. aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem. amantes sunt amentes.


<center></center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ April 24, 2005 03:47 PM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>