Trailer trash pedigree is calling

this post must be read while listening to The Heinrich Maneuver by Interpol. or it just won't be anywhere near as good]

He licked his teeth, but not his lips, tasting the air as it flowed under his tongue and soothed the new 8 gauge in the thick muscle, heavy black boots covered in buttons, studs, and splashes of pink glitter, taking him places.

Taking him places? Well when he thought of it, there was nowhere specific he wanted to be, though that was often the case. Chinatown was a default, but hardly ever in a way that bothered him at all. Here he stood out little, the tiny body of semipunkbutwhoreallyknows clothing dodging cars and tourists on Bowery and Canal, ducking umbrella awnings of fruit and goods stands, and halting everywhere he could for a handful of barrettes and charms. A dollar for stars to clip into his hair, twenty five cents for another little bit of color to clip to his worn leather jacket.

When he would be caused to come to a stop, he would find himself moving left and then right via resting his weight on his toes and then his heels, shimmying back and forth. It was the weather, the spring coming out and giving it's own flu shots. The pollen electrified him, all the spores of plant fucking riding the air and itching everyone else's eyes. He inhaled deeply, fingering at the little surgical mask around his neck, thankful he was out of the fish market district and instead taking in the dollar cakes with the spring air. Cakes that he bought and ate with abandon, the entire dozen bag of quarter sized hot cakes gone from hand to hungry mouth in an instant, a smile given to the prune-like asian vending woman that caused her to nod and return a smile of her own.

His season. His hands itched to help nature along in reminding everyone of their biological clocks and their organic needs. Procreation in it's most vulgar, heaving, sweating forms. He almost considered hopping the Q train to 34th and wandering around a few porno shops, thrilling inside at the idea of another day of worship in one of the many seamen covered booths. Meditation to the fornication of all forms. The appraising, hungry eyes of the patrons of the shops as they thanked god for having fed their habit for the day, because today their fantasies became a step closer to true. It was the greatest gift, seeing their faces as he wandered giddy and blushing from a 25cent booth, only fifteen and never once ID'd.

Sighing, he wandered into a less crowded street and sat on the curb, opening one of the pockets to his red, plaid bondage shorts and taking out a bag of lychee's, began a early noon snack. With each shell that broke in his white teeth he would tilt his head back, taking the round, sweet fruit into his mouth, licking the juice away as he sucked off the meat and then spat the large seeds into the gutter.
Taking him places?
He was in no rush.

A red nail, chipped in black overlay twitched slow and sudden, then in rapid successions. It was the only mobile portion of the entire body that lounged in the large and and sparsely cushioned white chair. A body of skin that made on think of words like swallow instead of shallow, pale in a way more sick than attracting, that was thin and therefore somehow retained light, but leaked it all the same. Limbs nearly just bone, frail and delicate with pockmarked inner elbows that made tiny trails like breadcrumbs down towards the forearm, but not far. One strap, white lace tinted with age and ill use, hung below his shoulder blade, which was rounded like a well worn wooden doll joint, not soft but far from firm, the other barely clinging to his deep collarbone. The dress was a soft yellow, old and worn as everything else he enjoyed, the pink flowers that blew across it so faded they were merely ghosts.

The left corner of his mouth twitched in the still grin that constantly rode on his features, a mouth that looked like it would unhinged and leap outwards in a bite, dragging his seemingly weak body along with it. The twitch drew the left side of is face into a grin like a rictus, and then released, letting it glide slowly back into the bared teeth and braces. This was typical when a part of his body began to fall asleep, which was now the case. Pins and needles that began in his eye, and then extended deep into the cavity, dancing along his cheekbone. A pupils lost already in the pinkish red that was his iris tightened further, an island in an ocean. An eye further lost in the field of gold and black streaks that was his bangs, cut to the bridge of his button nose, brushing at the almost strawberry freckles.

He pursed his lips to swallow, his lips painted a harsh bubblegum pink, taking back in the saliva that had pooled in his mouth before the grin set itself again. Out of the ten songs playing on his hub, a strand of vocals rolled out

".. it's so cold in this house"

and set his fingers to flow as if triggered. The eye darted over the screens before it, eleven in total directly before him, all suspended via thin stands that seemed to grow to branches of a sculpture set into the wall behind the tiny glass desk. The sculpture was a dark metal, cut intricately to mimic wood, spreading and fanning out to become a small but formidable tree. Higher in the branches were more monitors, these turned every which way, but still facing down on him in some form or another. The platforms on the monitors would cycle, many simply windows upon windows of running code.

"the threat and the yearning. it's gonna eat you alive."

He had found it without looking, one that bore some interest for him. The code seemed to almost be trying to eat itself, which was not unusual when seen in a virus. But this virus was not [a virus, that is], and the closer he got to the head of it as it ran, he caught of snatches of confusion that caused him to draw back, as if watching some animal biting at it's own flanks.

Ah, the code was from a biomass. Ah, the biomass had tried to become something else. Ah, that was destructive to it.
Ah, intrigue.
Ah, possible matters of importance.
Ah, follow further.
Ah, theory?

He reached a hand out, body remaining immobile on the old chair, though deep in the net and amongst the endless rain and breathing of code, he was fluid movements. His inch long, box-tipped red nails touched the nape of the code's neck, inserting a small fragment into it of himself. Not truly himself, but the code that best represented him.

Somewhere, Maddock's data underwent a minor corruption. A hack that would easily go with little or no notice, or at least for now, save for the resonating of the single line

"it's so cold. in this bed"

Erin sighed softly, a shiver running up and down his pale form, and went limp in the chair, wide eye glazing over slowly, a thin line of black saliva beginning to dribble from the side of his mouth.

I'm going to take FOREVER to reply to Elliot but I liked this part...This (obviously) is about Dennis. :

Still, the very thought of the boy's pursed lips led to bruises - led to broken wrists - led to calm fingers gripping a fading pulse. It led to lips turning blue as whimpers turned to soft - raspy - gasps for air. It led to birds wrapped in barbed wire - to pricking his fingers - to snares - to slaughtered lambs - to an endless number of images that he told himself every day to forget but in some inevitable way or another would come barreling back to him with a menacing grin and open arms.


Slightly off-topic...I think this fits him?
"Venus was a fly trap
The man you loved devoured
I used to dream about your sister
Fucking me in the shower
But I was never cool
So you can call me loser
Yeah you can call me anything
You want to senorita

I will always be the worst"

[this is a midway. aka, it doesn't start where it should. oh well..]
[x posted to fauxrealism]

It was when she doubled foward, the flow of it. How her hair, all ringlets and waves and straights, flew back like a river, her face clear as day, white as snow, thick black lashes shut in the gentlest of fashions, standing out true contrasting colors to how naturally pale she was. Like a ghost, she glowed in the blacklight, eerie turned beautiful horror when hey eyes opened. Black contacts rendered her sockets black holes, her face like a mask, cheeks duled but a faint brush of pink, lips burning in with a red heart drawn on in lipstick. Her head tilted to th side, all motions slow motion as he watched, her mouth coming out in steam due to the coldness of the place. White pouring clouds that he had counted as they came out, over.

Despite the darkness of the room, the false lighting of neon greens and reds and purples, the colors that hid age and blemishes and all that made the patrons here ugly outside their little sanctuary, he drew. His hand flew over the page, fingers stained in ink. Where as once upon a time he would have to tilt his arms and body when people went by, blocking the image from others, no one here cared. He was new to the city, grown suburban in a town where parents told their kids they were moving there due to the schools and the friendly neighborhoods. No one ever mentioned the little girls from the Wayward School, girls that ran away every few nights in their pajamas, ten years old and eyes promising enjoyable things in return for just a cigarette. He could still remember their little slippered feet in the snow, looking up from the desk at his job, eyes blurred from boredom and rampant insomnia to see them run in. Pillowcased with blankets stuffed inside, and nothing else. Pajamas in thirty degree weather. Eyes of grown women, bodies of children.

He stalled, pen lingering over the image a moment. They had found their way on the page, as they often tended to. Her portrait that he was working so hard on surrounded by their faces and bodies as they ran, squirmed, laughed, held hands, yelled, fought, stared. He felt his diaphram decend, air coming into his lungs before it halted, and he trembled softly before the steam poured slowly out of his mouth.

It had been two weeks of Manhattan living, and thus far he was about ready to throw himself out his penthouse window. Penthouse. He hated it. Hated the doorman that was there even at four or six in the morning, grinning like some ass as he opened the door and asked through a thick spanish accent if he had a good night, winking. Every doorman in Tyber's building readily assumed two things: that he was some faggot like his brother and was out all night getting dicked in every orafice, and that he was out getting drunk and fucking woman all night. No 'or' involved, they somehow thought this was simoltaniously possible. Instead he left a few hours after dark, when there were less people to navigate, and set to walking. Corner stores fed him tea when he lost his buzz, curbs and walls of buildings a decent seat when his legs hurt too much. When he was coming near exhaustion, praying for sleep, he'd ride the train to the end, and then wait till it circled back. He never rested for more than a few minutes at a time, passing out completely and then waking with a shock from the dreams he was having. Dreams he could rarely remember.

He had been to this club once, just the night previously. Where as the club he frequented in Boston people had been social, wanting to talk with one another and meet the newcomers, these clubs were just the opposite. He had seen the looks they had given him when he came in, sneers and rolling eyes like horses chomping on bits. Dogs with rabies. Making comments about the metal prong dog collar around his neck, about his small size and lack of knowing anyone. About his faded tshirt and ripped jeans. And his clear lack of knowing social heirarcy here, or giving a fuck.

It had taken all night to catch her name, but he had it. Lienette. Lie for short. She was under age and got in because she knew all the right people. The opinion of her was near half and half, though alot of people agreed with both. She was a prude but she touched everyone constantly. She was innocent as a lamb but she was knwon for random tantrums and getting blasted on E and LSD [that was never her's, and she would make a point of it looking like she was talked into it]. She didn't drink, but she loved absinthe. She had passed out numerous times at the club, everytime being carried out and away by a somewhat taller boy in garb like some Krishna turned punk, protected on high by someone with a catholosism complex called The Saint.

All this simply cememnted her further. Intangible and realistic and thirteen feet away. She had never looked back at him. He didn't want her to. He wanted to be ignored until he chose otherwise. She wasn't his yet. She wasn't ready for what that meant, but she would be. He had patience.

For the second night he left before the place really thinned out, sketchbook in his messenger bag, a nod to the doorman that he was getting to know by now. The man liked to gossip, and he never interupted him. It's funny how easily people talk when they realize they have an ear that doesn't throw any judgements back at them.

He held her image deep in his chest and in the front of his mind until he was less than fifteen feet from the club, and he heard it. The usual sounds of those from the bar across the street, one that catered to college white boys that drank too much, those that made most of their night by intimidating those that went to the club. Half the time they talked like they were from uptown. Far uptown. It didn't suit them.

"Hey look at the faggot! Hey son, run on home, huh faggot? You gonna run, faggot? You scared?"

They probably were talking to the boy and his friends near him. The ones with the black limp hair and make up. That would make more sense. But they had displaced her image. Caught his attention. He had just wanted her for the ride home, for bed when he could be alone with her and his art and his mind, but they had replaced that with sound. Annoyances. Drunken yuppie faces.

He looked up a moment, facing them as he looked at the drizzle slowly coming down in the mid summer. When he looked back, his red rimmed eyes squinted behind his glasses, and he pushed them further up the brdige of his nose when he spoke, voice soft but clearly heard.

"What did you call me?"

They paused, and then broke into a chorus of laughter. One advanced, looking almost exactly like his friends, nothing visually that didn't pass him atleast twenty times a day. True college boy quality.

"A faggot, son."

"Well you should talk to your mom, cause I ain't your fucking son, kid. I'm your pops. So home bout you come over here and blow me like you did in grade school."

"What the fuck did you just"

It didn't finish, but he didn't need it to. Anyone nearby would attest that the frat boy had grabbed Jack's shirt up in bunches, his other fist rising. It wouldn't matter, he'd be gone fast enough either way, but an alabi was always good when a fight turned into what he had more of a preferance for. The pipe had been sitting in the dumpster and the dumpster in the street due to construction. There was always construction around midtown, one could almost begin to depend on it.

The pipe made contact with the side of the man's head, the last of the dried cement coming free from the impact. As the man fell, Jack looked for a moment at the pipe as if himself dazed, somehow hypnotized by the gleam of it now that is was free of the dust and mortar, realizing eyes locking on the chunk that remained at the top, now covered in blood. Looking down at the man laying on the ground, gripping his head feebly, murmuring incoherently up at him, he rolled his shoulders back and in two hands, raised the three foot pole and large chunk of dried cement over his head, and drove it down into the man's chest. The scream almost could almost drown out the crack of ribs, and he found himself annoyed. The next was aimed at the man's mouth, and though it broke fingers that tried to block him in the process, he hit his target none the less.

Running down to fifth, arm waving like every other drastic madman, every other drunk after a night out on the town, he hailed a cab with ease. Slapping the hood, he threw the pipe into the trunk, sliding into the back of the car breathless, barely able to say the adress.

He'd sleep tonight, but not before telling Erin everyting.
Inpatient or no, he'd never question that boy again.


[.. why the fuck did WS's Astro come up? the hell?]

His knuckle was damp as it left his lower lip, having barely pressed but still coming away bloody. The color could have come from either, red dotted on both now and spreading slowly like a stain in sheets, but the soreness was in his hand. Leave it to inanimate objects, namely walls and brick, to leave the most damage and least amount of masochistic releif.

He grinned despite it, or possibly more for it, as he sucked away on the skin of his knuckle again, tongue darting out from slowly tinting teeth like a dog. By now the blood was dripping from his nose more steadily as well, all coming to drip on his lower lip and then run further down his chin. Yet if it weren't for the warmth of the liquid and the injuries to contrast the notsoyetdesperate chill and barelyharder breezes of just begining fall, he wouldn't have known his body to have been compromised. If that's what you could call it.

He tugged at the sleeve of his white thermal longsleeve, ends fraying and holes for the thumbs dug by his own nails. Layered under layered under layered of clothes typically, but today he had settled into a strange mood to dress anything but typical. Instead he strolled the streets of Williamsburg and Union Square and anywhere else trains and his heavy, loose and unlaced black workman's boots carried him, a dark and severly worn navy mechanic's full body suit. Baggy cuffs of rolled pantlegs scraped at the ground as he wandered on [the front of the cuffs tucked under the lolling tongue of his boots], the zipper of the suit open to just above his stomach, a thinaspaper white and blue 3/4 sleeve baseball jersey clung to the thermal, a logo of some boy with his head in another man's lap on the front, pink and faded [but not so much so that one couldn't make out the horrified expression of the boy and the larger hands that pulled open the belt of the pants]. The sleeves of the mechanic's suit had been torn free, leaving trails of threads to shed and stray down his shoulders. In the overwhelming clearness of the day, his glasses burned back the sun like flashlights.

He had no idea why the change for the day, but it suited him, fingers probing at the key he wore about his neck on a leather strip. It would not stay, of this he was sure, but as he ran a hand through his blonde and brown mohawk, leaving traces and tints of red from the blood throughout, he found himself too caught up by the scent in the air to much of care. Not that he ever did all the same.

The clean, crisp scent of autumn, which he let himself sucumb to as his eyes wandered to the leaves the crunched here and there under his feet, and the piles of them in the gutter like small children he had disguarded.

Eye candy, yes, but worthless, of course.

[no responce needed, but i won't shun any. he's just in the mood for a walk. and as if we ouldn't all tell, it's jack]