In a backwater border area somewhere near an African frontier a tiny mud brick box shaped shanty stood. Long abandoned. It now served as a covert military installation. A bunker serving as a forward looking enemy observation lookout post. Central Command had decided it would make an incursion through bombardment by using this location as the operation’s covert base and ready eyes. They set up a gigantic booby trap per their orders in the adjacent quadrant near the enemy. A killing field that the artillery barrage would subsequently drive them into. The well-hidden structure was manned at times by three or four paramilitary and agency types, half of them women. An unlikely combination of personnel considering the immense level of physical danger in holding such a position after the fact of the disclosure of their presence in the region. They had to attempt to make the second part of the mission look as if it was simply a happenstance occurrence that did not reveal the fact of their presence in near proximity within this structure on the ground. Theoretically the distance between them and the ambush they set up would be far enough. They prepared their end of this exercise from the cover of the tall grass that cloaked their location from view. When it came to initiate their end of it by setting off the explosives, much to their surprise and dismay, a woman’s frantic voice sounded outside revealing their position. Someone that had panicked and not followed the directive of leading potential pursuers away from their disguised base. Small fists pounding furiously on the outside of the structure’s only entrance. This fugitive’s opposite number giving her entry inside just managing to close the heavy wooden beam door before the enemy arrived to lay immediate siege to their structure. A contingent of troops that had been just far afield enough to manage to avoid being annihilated and now burning white hot for a quick and brutal revenge to be levied in kind. The rapid assault on the sturdy timbers saw them pried from their jamb and uprooted in an unexpectedly swift manner. The small room filling quickly with many sets of eyes bearing expectant expressions searching for victims upon which to visit their impending evil intent. Their festival of the application of vengeance would begin in a round of torture of the men and and build slowly to a crescendo saving the women for its finale. Tasking their imaginations to kill everybody in the bunker in the worst way possible. Their collective efforts seeking to provide a fit level of retribution for the ambush.
A Portuguese speaking backwater community in the middle of nowhere in sight of the coast. A haven for old burned out Hippies. A truck driver of a big box panel job doubling as a cab driver offering rides through the tangle of tiny causeways and dead ends that served as the town’s central sprawl. Navigating congested city traffic in the oddest of spaces. In one instance actually bumping up and down going up over the roofs then bouncing across their closely stepped flat cousins down finally into a bone jarring impact upon a dusty street. Smashing a large granite serpentine Augustine head with the back of the vehicle’s carriage. Revealing its true character as a faux stone maquillage for hiding drugs in their liquid form. The immediate result of such a spectacle finding the thoroughly rattled passenger now extent on the other side of town. The driver reveals a young adult daughter whose birthright has cost him his chance at fortune. But he is not a vindictive sort. If you treat him nice then maybe next time take the ride and you can have his daughter maybe as a wife? Maybe to prove yourself? The young girl being the next chapter of the tale being spun. That old story of a Tomboy tough exterior camouflaging an otherwise good heart. The mood of the scene set off by the transport of Italian architecture many centuries past. Though these people are not Italian they are living in an old town. The tourist comes back by the stable of the pensione eating a leg joint of chicken finding the young woman naked in the corral tending to the animals. A big brown and white Guernsey cow backed up against the rails where a horse formerly stood. He tosses the piece to her and she tosses it back on the ground. Then quickly picks it up and throws it back out of the corral at its sender with a look of disgust. “I don’t like chicken!”, she snarls. She’s a willful spirited lass. The man reflects as to what a strange, strange, strange world it is realizing he is currently amidst a dream of his own visiting other simultaneously slumbering people’s lives.
Fall descends! Displacing warmth with slowly biting cold kisses upon the cheek and over one’s extremities. Young Black sedan driven man’s Toyota music rediscovery ‘esplanade’ pounding out a decades old beat. The decades old constant drumming bringing back that other salt shaker in line when the inadvertent listener once knew that particular tune by rote. The volume pushed up so loud before the static traffic lamp that it buffets one like Jackie Chan kicking their ass! His thoughts have been laying down flat for the bulk of the week. A fucking living skeleton still aping human existence. Dead for all intents and purposes to the outside world. Chanting his Asian mantra barely audible. Nearly indiscernible. Trying to escape that ever tinier box called life. Strumming chords and PC chord progressions, trite and dated, having been forever played. In the shadow time of this era, it was not just the wooden puppets that wanted to be a real boy. Little girls trying to take that away too! Identity! Uniqueness! So fucking important! The more artifice applied like makeup to achieve it, the further into a faceless crowd one falls. Tourists in their own lands! Marveling at the falsehoods that they have been told. The magic box of elementary poisons. Nothing to wear! Not a single thing to believe in any longer. All used up! The empty cases discarded. These fucking ‘broads’ are all think they’re boys! There souls have been stolen and now they are just part of the furniture. A dead stick between their legs. Who will put this world aright? Certainly not its enemies that have been working overtime over generations to topple it! No longer that paucity of former friends on the other end of that warm piece of plastic blistering their palms. Hoping for the purring wetness bursting forth within the inert coldness of their extended hand. Modern Relationships. “Girls get what they want!” Boys get their unending frustration. CIVILIZATION? “Game Over!” Nothing left but King Rat! Jump head first into the bore hill and breath the shit into your lungs for a fast exist out. Who was originally accepting the proffer of, “Everything you ever wanted or dreamed of delivered to your door on a silver platter?” That yellow belly low down dirty rotten snake? Or the man who tended to the maidens? The world is your Apple TM. But sooner or later, it rots. That constant pound of jungle rhythms. Who would submit themselves to that? “You should!” You slave bitch! Both sides now scared by a rabbit.