Today was busier than expected, I am writing up the next part of my story (see last entry), but it is not quite ready yet. Here is an older entry that ties into the right time period.
"Bang! Bang!" we fired our young fingers with deadly precision. "Bang Bang" said the B52's of the Loveshack door. "Bang Bang" went Yosemite Sams cartoon barrels, lifting his short frame from the ground. "I hate rabits".
When I was 7 or 8, father drug me out to go hunting with a shotgun. Firing the thing hurt my shoulder like a bastard and if you held it too high on your arm it would slip upwards and pnuematically smack your face like a baseball bat. We went a few times, but I never hit anything. I remember distinctly one day walking behind him, crunching dry leaves in the morning fog, thinking about firing the shotgun into the back of his head. Bang, bang.
At about 10 father showed me how to shoot a pistol, it felt so much heavier than it looked in the movies. It kicked back against my arms, making my thin elboes bend. Can't shoot it from the hip or draw with speed, can't twirl it like John Wayne, to a 10-year-old it's like a cannon. Blow those cans on and on. Bang, bang.
Jay the monkey king had a pistol and a dubiously functioning submachine gun (it was like the firearms equivalent of a 1982 Saab). On coked out weeks he answered the door with one in hand while gazing twitch-eyed into the peekhole. Once a frat boy looking to buy knocked on the door then covered the glass circle with a fat finger. Jay fired a bullet into the wood, piercing frat boy's designer shirt. Bang, bang.
Lee never had a gun, he was a pacifist. Men in a pickup truck yelled "Fagget" at us when we were on the way back from the store. We walked on. One got out, hitting Lee's shoes with a hurtled bucket of urine. As a teenager, Lee was in the Olympics for Tae Kwon Do, he split the urine man's head like a cinder-block. We ran around corners, fleeing like demons from the guns that pickup trucks inevitably hide. The blood never came out of the sleeve of his tye-dye shirt. Bang, bang.
Isaah, the jealous mutual fuck of a deceitful ex carried a piece in his baggy pants with his Government conspiracy theories and his sample bags of cocaine. Amphetamines and firearms play a lot of duets on the stage of my life. Isaah would rather have fought me, stating exactly "I want to break that pretty boy's nose." Jack, a gay army ranger who had a psychotic crush on me at the time said he would cut Isaah's break lines or snipe him from a rooftop if he tried. Once in a while a stalker works in your favor. Bang, bang.
Got a rainbow-black revolver loaded at home with an emblem on it which looks like a lion in a wheelchair. Sometimes it seems I should put it down, make it go away, that for the first time things are safe. Do instruments of violence encourage protection or do they encourage violence? What do you think? I think there are still a lot of monsters and there are still a lot of victims in this latest age that pretends to be civilized. Many women I have dated were raped by someone at one time or another. America is a young and violent country, amped up on sexual repression and an excessive sense of entitlement. If it comes for you, shoot it in the cock. It's a powderkeg world. Bang bang. |
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