the clocktower struck thirteen ( gunner bricmont )

[basket of hearts]

Wanted man in California,
Wanted man in Buffalo
Wanted man in Kansas City,
Wanted man in Ohio

Wanted man in Mississippi,
Wanted man in ol' Cheyenne

<center>Wherever you might look tonight you might see this wanted man</center>


<center></center>

If you ever see me coming and if you know who I am
Don't you breathe it to nobody 'cause you know I'm on the lamb

<center>Johnny Cash : Wanted Man</center>

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ January 11, 2006 06:16 AM: Message edited by: no innocent victim ]</font>

[basket of hearts]

"Gunner, we need to talk."

I remember everything from that very moment. Life as it was, was all but forgotten except for that very sliver of a minute that changed my existance forever. Marla Irvington was the gruesome string puller to everything I did, back then. I blame the fact that her lips were as sweet as a candy apple, and her hips fit so securely in the center of my palms.

Women. The truth lays within a single quote: Can't live with them, can't live with out them.

"What do we need to talk about now, Marla?" As I murmered I adverted my eyes away from the television that flickered with technicolored pixels, and offered my full attention to the brunette leaning up against the arm rest of my couch. She wore what would be considered my favorite outfit. It was a death sentance though to my sexual character every time she wore it. Marla would wear this skimpy, red dress I had bought her for her twenty third birthday that accented her full curves and brought out the natural highlights in her hair. Fuck, she was beautiful. A damn devil, if you ask me.

She would drag her fingers up a long the nude sideline of her thigh, just to tease at first. Start curling her hands through her hair and make shadows with her slim arm across her breasts. It was that very dress that I bought her, that will haunt me until the day I die.

For one, that dress cost me a good amount of fucking money. Two, when Marla would wear this simple yet extremely appealing piece of clothing, I automatically felt myself become hard. Did she ever let me do anything about it? No. Marla liked control, and for some ridiculous reason, I handed her the control she wanted with a fucking cherry ontop.

The third reason, was because what we talked about next would be my ultimate downfall as a human being.

"I need some money." She said, with that pout on her mouth that made my knees quiver. I tossed the remote control to the top of the sofa cushion and raised my hands above my head, criss crossing my fingers together at the back of my skull. This is when I sighed.

"I just put in five hundred dollars in your bank account, Marla. What more do you need?" I could feel the tension in my stomach rise. A knot that wasn't just the sheer temptation of what Marla was wearing, but knowing for some damn reason that this conversation was not like the others.

"I know. But I need more. You can give me more, baby, can't you?" She started with some batting of those thick lashes of hers. I tried to look away, but the damn snake slithered right into my lap, arching so she could rub up against me like a fucking bitch in heat. I hissed.

"Tell me what you need it for, and I'll think about it." That's when she reached to secure herself around me. Constricting me. Paralyzing me as I felt myself throb. She smelled like peony and cherry blossoms. Marla eased closer, adjusting so she could smile and murmer right a long the edge of my ear.

"I just need it, baby. Come on. Atleast five hundred more. Think of it as an early Christmas bonus?" Marla spoke, leaving trails of red lipstick to shine against my skin. My hands started shaking. I just wanted to grab her, right then and there, and fuck her brains out. I knew that wasn't an option. Stupid red dress was a bad idea in the first place.

"You tell me what you need it for, and I'll give it to you, babe. But I ain't putting no more cash in that account of yours, until you give me some clue to what the hell you need a thousand dollars for." My fingers began to nudge up her sides, reaching up to feel the expansion of her rib cage. She didn't stop me. And she wouldn't, until I crossed her line.

Marla had this way of making everything seem like a dream, too. Hazey, if not totally out of context to what reality was supposed to be. Sure, I saw her. Felt her. Though it was always artificial, like you knew you were going to get fucked in the ass for thinking that it could possibly be the real thing.

Love is a fickle thing. I, of course, found it out the worst way of all.

"I want to have Bobby killed." The way she said it was eerie. As if just the sheer thought of actually putting someone in the ground was nothing more than another theory for the day. Easy and simple. Almost like offering out a recipe for angel food cake to a neighbor.

I gripped her and pulled her closer, closer than she had been. Immitating some sort of sick and twisted smile as I melted some kisses on her collar bone. She didn't even budge. Not one stinking moan of pleasure. Damn ice queen simply let me do it, and didn't even have the manners to fake like she enjoyed it. Marla though, was waiting for her words to hit me like a bus.

And it finally did. I jerked my head back and caught her eyes with mine. "I'm sorry... Come again?"

"You know I never come again." Her quip seemed funny to her. She was smiling, anyways, but it wasn't a real smile. Almost cruel. She knew how to make me feel like a piece of shit. But that wasn't what bothered me. My hands suddenly went numb and fell away from her. She almost looked sad to see a slight waver in her control.

"Did you just say what I fucking think you said? Marla, don't be stupid. This is a joke, right? Right? Ha, ha, funny, funny. Look, I know Bobby has given you some trouble in the past but it's getting to that point where you just need to fucking forget about him. You have me now, and --" She probably didn't even hear a word I said. She was already trying to suck the life out of me, via a deep, passionate kiss. I succombed to it, only because I was weak. I was pathetic.

"I want him dead, Gunner. Dead and gone. So we can live happily ever after, you see? With him still around, we'll never get a moments peace. He'll always be trying to take the kids away from me, try to take me to court for the drugs. I don't even have a drug problem, right, baby?" She purred. It was so delicious I couldn't take my lips away from hers.

But Marla did have a drug problem. A very severe one. Hell, I did too, at the time. Heroine, cocaine, MDMA, hash. Whatever the fuck we could get our hands on. Money wasn't an issue, then, and our addictions were blinding us so bad to the things around us, that I do believe both Marla and I went a little crazy.

I used to blame the drugs, booze, and Marla for what I did. Now, I just blame myself and that heartless bitch. What we did, was something no God could ever forgive us for.

And again, it changed my life forever.

[basket of hearts]

Gunner watched while people littered the sidewalk, waiting to cross the busy intersection of brightly painted cabs and brand new BMW's. Hollywood was not a stranger to Gunner. It was a second home where business boomed and yet the secret of it's origins were strictly on a need to know basis. Rarely did anyone need to know.

His own reflection was a smudge of life against the wide pane of glass seperating him from the noise outside. Those who passed him wouldn't give a second look. Gunner was ordinary compared to the wolves in angel skin, stitched and pulled with so many plastic surgeries that they probably didn't remember what they originally looked like. Men with what Gunner would consider a purse, walking and strutting like they were the golden peacock of the cement catwalk. Cellphones galore. Botox. Material possessions that meant shit in the long run.

A blonde woman passed by and hinted a sterile lipped smile his way. Gunner just didn't feel the need to return something so fake. Instead, he stared past her and probably ruined her day, making her feel two feet tall and ugly as a corpse since a simple man like Gunner didn't pay her the attention she craved.

A wolf whistle pulled Gunner out of his submission to his own thoughts.

"Pretty. She looked like she would tear you up good, mate." Deacon kicked out a foot and shoved a chair aside to make room for himself at Gunner's table.

Where Gunner was out of place, Deacon stood out like a brooding storm cloud amoungst fresh daisies and fruit cocktails. Shaved head and a mug only a mother could love. Or a prostitute paid enough to pretend.

"You're late." Gunner didn't even know if this was half true, or half false. His watch had stopped ticking days ago, and he just hadn't bothered to get it fixed. Though, out of sheer habit of doing so, he flexed his wrist and took a glance to the device. It still spoke, loud and clear, with it's thin hands: 6:13 p.m.

"Traffic was bad." Deacon said, while shuffling around his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

"You don't have a car and I've never seen you take a cab. You can't smoke in here, either. It's California. Can't fucking smoke anywhere." Another woman passed by the window, a brunette. Gunner paused all signs of life just to stare at her. His lip twitched and by the time he was looking back to Deacon, the man was past lighting his cigarette and actually exhaling towards a "No Smoking" sign.

"I'm sticking to my story, mate. And fuck California. I hate this shotty hell hole."

"Why don't you leave, then?"

"Cause we ain't done with business, yet."

Gunner reached, slowly, to pull Deacon's cigarette out of his mouth and throw to the floor boards of the cafe. Nudging a foot out and rooting it underneath his heel, just as a manager was coming by to try and tell the two long faced men that it wasn't allowed. "He's from Europe." Gunner said, as if that would explain his friends temperment and stupidity.

"Come on. We're late meeting up with Dev. She's going to be fucking pissed at you, too." Gunner slurred his words. Not because he had been drinking, but just because in always asking for forgiveness until three in the morning, he was always a bit tired during the daylight hours. Sluggish in moto skills and lethargic in moving. Deacon, though, nudged fingers up underneath his nose and snorted back a wad of snot and probably some left over crystals of cocaine.

As they both left, Gunner could have sworn he saw a familiar red dress pass by the window.