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"Welcome to my head. My thoughts, dreams and pretty much anything else that gets blurbed out."

99 problems part duex 20 March 2013 |

You know. Forty five minutes with an asshole on fire seems like an eternity. I sat in that car until God got to the 6th day. When we arrived, they didn't even bother taking this stinky rag off my head.

At least there are no drums.

I was dragged out of the car and spent most of the 2 minute walk trying not to trip on the different sets of steps and wooden walkways we went over.

Fuck this bag stinks. Ahh. I get it.

I couldn't see shit, but I sure could smell it. Gotta hand it to Mr. Miyagi and the gang, he sure knew how to keep things hidden. To bad I didn't get to walk to wherever this was, because I was pretty sure what everything was made of as I walked over it. Stone, dirt, wood, dirt, and stone. All in that order.

Oh well, it's not like I've never seen a traditional tea garden and court yard before. Just means there is a ten foot wall i'm going to have to scale damn if I want to get out of here.

While they lead me through various parts of some stone floored building, I kept trying to pay attention to the sounds, but I swear they told everyone to be quiet. So, with nothing to go on, I began to descend what I think was stairs, at the instructions Miyagi.

Fuck that's cold.

I must be in some kind of cellar shit inside the main house. Smells musty, and every so often, I think I hear the sounds of moving water overhead. Though, it's a little quiet down here as well.

Mr. Miyagi takes my hood off, and I realize very quickly that I should have shit myself in the car. As the other 3 goons begin to tie my feet to the only chair in the middle of the rust splashed concrete floor, I start to realize that I may have made some mistakes about who that waitress was.

Peeking around the room I see a few wooden barrels please be booze, large sacks of rice, and directly across from me, a metal table covered in what looks like Dr. Frank N Furter's stainless steel playset.

Just don't take my balls.

The goons finish tying my hands behind my back and Mr. Miyagi just stands there for a few moments and stares at me.

"Hey, wax on," I say to Miyagi. "Can you do me a favor and hose me down? This curry shit is getting in my eyes."

He just stares. Fucker. I know you speak English..

"My name is Kokichi," Miyagi tells me.

"I'll stick with Miyagi."

Miyagi reaches out his hand and treats me like my old man.


They laugh, I grunt, and the staring match continues.

I sit for what feels like an hour, all the while contemplating who the hell it is that wants me here. Which is sad because I'm not really sure who I've pissed off in this country. I mean, I was relocated here to protect me from my own country, and now I've apparently got a reason to leave this one as well.

Seriously though. You kill two or three Dominican cartel bosses in Los Angeles and suddenly you find yourself on a flight that never existed, siting with a guy who tells you his name isn't important. Next thing you know, you live in an apartment that gets paid by someone who doesn't exist and you get a job where all you do is take packages that come to the door, re-label them with labels that come in a separate letter, and give them back to the delivery guy the next day. What the shit kind of life is that?!?

Wow. Get a hold of yourself. I'm starting to sound like a whiny bitch.

The door at the top of the steps opens with a loud creak and I get to glimpse the bottom half of a man wearing white suit pants and matching shoes. I hated the 70's.

The moment he reaches the bottom step, I realize my mistake.

"Ahh. Mr. Chan," I say. "How have you been?"

Mr. Chan, "Dave-kun."

SLAP. ow.

"Yeah," spit "I had that coming."

"Good to see you so soon. I was afraid that after our encounter at the club you would try and skip out on me," Chan says.

I sit and stare at him. Knowing that anything I say is just going to give him an excuse to hit me.

Mr. Chan he hates that name isn't much to stare at anyways. Around 5'8" and a buck twenty five, the guy is almost always shirtless. I realize he thinks he is Yakuza, half the reason I call him Chan, but his tattoo's look like he got them done by the worst of their Tebori.

Under boss pride. 

"So Chan," I chide. "What can I do for you on this fine morning?"

"Start with why you shot one of my brothers in cold blood," he says.

"Call it a hunch and good aiming. Besides, Miyagi over there shot up a small crowd earlier, and you're worried about one replaceable henchman," I say.

He just stares at me for a moment, and I can already feel my sphincter start to clench. Hopefully he can't see it.

"Dave-kun," Chan says. "You know very well my name is Kazou, and that is is Mr. Kokichi."

I spit a little bit of blood. Looks like that last slap hurt more than I thought.

I really have to poop, but I know its going to burn.

"Enough small talk," Chan says. "You know why you are here, yes?"


"Good," he says. "In the morning I will have Kokichi here remove both of your hands. One for my man, and one for my daughter. Good bye."

I stare at his back as he walks up the steps and realize I must have been down here longer than I thought.

No wonder I have to shit so bad, never got the chance to take my morning BM. Bastards.

Chan leaves with Miyagi and I wait for the inevitable click of the light switch. It never comes.

Fuckers. Going to make me sit in the light all night.

I begin checking the ropes at my wrists and feet. No good. My wrists are tied pretty tight, and to make matters worse, they are starting to swell. Great.

I test the chair. No good. It's actually welded to the floor. After a quick glance at the weld, I realize that the rust stains on the floor aren't rust.

Well, this day just got worse.

Looking around the room I start to realize that I really am going to lose both my hands.

I wonder if they cut off her tongue? Ha.

After sitting for a while I hear the sounds of water running overhead again and this time I notice the gurgling sound coming from the back of the room. I lean my head back and look and sure enough, there is a large floor grate in the concrete where the sound of moving water is coming from.

Thank God for traditional water systems.

I quickly close my fingers around my hands and begin sliding them under my butt. Thankfully the silk robe at this point has scooted itself up enough that it isn't to hard to move out of the way.

Holding my hands together as tightly as possible, I begin to form a small cup.

This better fucking work.

I brace myself for the immense amount of pain my ass is about to feel, and release my bowels.

Shouldn't have had so much teriyaki the night before.

Doing my best to catch as much of the liquid feces as possible, I begin to push it back against my butt cheeks and let it smoosh out of the cup and onto my wrists.

Oh man is that rancid.

As the smell of digested teriyaki and curry begin to assault my nose, I start to feel the liquids sliding between the ropes at my wrist.

Twenty minutes of me attempting to control the flow of hand saving liquid freedom, I finally sit completely on my hands with all my weight. I sit there, in my own vile salvation, hoping to give it enough time to warm up my hands and moisten up the ropes.

Note to self. Write a book.

Once I can no longer feel my hands, I slip them out from under my butt and begin to work on getting one of the hands free. Unfortunately for me, I was never one of those people who could just spin his shoulders and bring their hands out in front of them. Although, given the situation, perhaps that is a blessing.

After what seems like an eternity of struggling I start to feel my wrist give. Unfortunately it's not the rope that's starting to give. It's actually my wrist.

Fuck it.

With a quick pull, I tug as hard as I can and feel the wrist pop out of joint, and the rope.

I bite my teeth and scream as quietly as I can.

The door at the top of the stairs opens and I place my hands back behind my back and grab my now dislocated wrist with my free hand.

The goon walks most of the way down the stairs, takes one look at the puddle around me and just starts to smirk.

Laugh all you want fucker. I am going to be gone in the morning, and you are going to be dead a few moments later.

He curls his nose up at the smell, and walks back of the stairs.


It takes me a few minutes to undo the knots at my feet with only one hand, but I manage. Now freed, I walk over to the table and grab a screw driver in the bucket under the table.

I don't find anything useful for a sling so I make do with duct tape. Taping the arm in a rough sling.

It's gonna be sticky for a bit, but that might not be the worst of it.

Walking over to the grate, I begin to thank the ceiling as I realize that it isn't bolted down. Looks like they might actually sweep the leftover parts into this hole anyways.

I put my fingers through the slots and begin pulling up on the grate. It's heavy, but after a few moments of grunting, the top comes off and I am looking down a black hole big enough for a local to climb into.

I hate my life.

5 hours later.

As I walk up to the U.S. Embassy covered in shit and slough grime I half expect the door guard to start yelling at me to stop well before I even cross the street. To my surprise, the guy just stares at me as I walk towards him.

"Hey," I say. smooth operator.

The guard just stands there eyeing me. Right about the time I am going to start explaining, a black SUV pulls up and the door opens.

"Get in Dave," Says the man in a black suit, white shirt and black tie.

I'm about to protest when I notice my old boss sitting next to him in the car with that same stupid ass smile on his face.

I get in the side door and we take off.

"Jim," I say, as I look at the man sitting across from me.

Jim just rolls down the windows slightly and says, "Heard you were in some trouble Dave."

"Yeah," I say.

This fucker is going to send me to Alaska, I know it.

Jim just reaches into his jacket and pulls out travel arrangements and hands them to me.

"I hope you like sheep," he says.

I take the itinerary folder, sit back and open it up. Inside is all the usual documents. Fake wallet, real passport, plane tickets, a small folder with whatever local currency, and a locker key.

I really hate showering at airports.

"How long," I ask.

"Six months at least. Try not to get too drunk," Jim says. uhg.

I relax and try to stay awake for the rest of the drive to the airport.

Never have sex with a waitress. 

I got 99 problems... 16 March 2013 |


Shit. Morning already?


"Errmmfff, fuck. I get it already..."

I need coffee if I am going to keep doing this.

Day in and day out it's the same damn thing. Five forty five a.m. in this godless country and already there is some jerk playing drums in the courtyard while a bunch of other assholes all yell, "YA!" in unison.


They say it's supposed to be good for the body and soul, but clearly they've never heard of sleeping in. Oh well.

And what the fuck is that smell? Always with the damn smell...

I dragged my wrinkled carcass out of bed, grabbed my silk cheap shit robe from the bedpost and made my way to the bathroom.

48 years old, and I wake up this sluggish? I'm never going to make it to retirement. .. ... heh.

Normally peeing isn't so hard, I hate this place it's getting the body able to squat without falling over backwards that's the hard part. I manage it, pull the cord and walk back through my room to go make my coffee.

Shave? Nah. Fuck it. Day off.

I un-pinch the hose tapped to my faucet and let the water poor into the boiler. Damn thing has been broken for months, and if I knew how to yell at my landlord, i'm sure it would have been fixed by now.

ahh well. 

I open the freezer, grab the coffee and start to fill the filter.

Two scoops, and then I poops. Thanks Granddad. 

My apartment isn't much, but they said it would be good for hiding, and i'm inclined to believe them. I wouldn't look for anyone in a neighborhood like this one. I'm pretty sure everyone in this damn building fucking drums is using some kind of opiate. It's got a bedroom, living room and this poor excuse for a kitchen. I mean, the thing doesn't even have a counter top!

I open the door to grab the menus and other litter that accumulates every morning on my doorstep, and notice one of the neighbors staring at me again. This time, she just stands there in her doorway, all wrinkled and judging me. I swear, if the woman realized that she was less than five feet tall she wouldn't give me the stink eye.

Screw her. She prolly knows karate or some shit. wuld'v kicked my ass anyways.

As always I put on my best smile riiiight and wave my useless papers at her, as if she understands the social gesture anyways, and close the door.

Being on the third floor has always been kind of nice, seeing as how I don't have to deal with all the kids knocking on the first floor doors and running off.

I sit down in my chair, and as my balls hit the bare musty fabric of my thirty year old lazy boy, i'm reminded that today is laundry day.

Always with the drums.

I get up and waddle back into the bedroom and begin the sacred process of pitting my dirty clothes hamper against the clothes on the floor.

*sniff* blech..

It takes me a few minutes before I realize that it's going to be a rough day. Every one of these items smells like last weeks winner, and I am pretty sure even I don't want to know if that is actual mold or just another wasabi skid mark. I grab the hamper and ...

no drums. 

My eyebrows begin to sweat and I strain my ears, praying for that sweet sound of obnoxious howling the woman downstairs calls a song.

Nothing. shit.

I move quickly to the window and peek. shouldn't have done that.

As I look into the courtyard I catch the three guys dressed in black fatigues wearing white bandannas exit the vehicle and head straight for my building. shit.

Knocking over the stack of magazines by the edge of the bed I dart for the bedside table, grab my service gun and check to make sure its loaded. Seven plus one. Good.

I dart for the door and begin regretting having picked the only apartment that wasn't attached to another building. Oh well, that's what I get for picking a place that had a roof.

Sunbathing. Who's fucking idea was that.

I listen at the door, and the sound of silence begins to make my nerves fire. There should be older people shouting at the men to leave, or some young punk trying to challenge them. Looks like my first suspicion was right. damn.

Well, two ways out. Up or down, and I sure as hell don't want to see what the guy in the car is packing. Looks like we are going up.

Only going to work if they think I'm gone, or that I went out the window.

I grab the handle and open the door slightly. Peeking out the slit I look down the open air walkway towards the stairs down and watch for moment.

Fire extinguisher.

I notice the fire extinguisher hanging on the poll directly across for my room. One of those nasty yellow ones with the big cone that shoots sand. Prolly broken.

"Shit", I say as I open the door, lean out, and grab it.

As I grab the handle and push the door most of the way closed again I hear the sound of the 5th step on the stairs creak and know that everyone on the floor just froze.

Good. That'll give me about 6 more seconds.

With the gun in my right hand and the fire extinguisher in my left I sit and watch the top step.

"First one get's it in the eye", I whisper to myself as the sweat from my eyebrows begins to beat at the corners of my eyes. Slowly I lean back and extend my arm so that the muzzle stays inside the room, and brace myself on the lamp stand.

Only gonna get one.

I check to make sure the safety is off, and wait.

Sure enough, as if the old man himself is still looking out for me, the bastards head appears at the top of the stairs looking in my direction.

BANG heh

He loses an eye and, hopefully, his life. Before I have time to realize the shitstorm I just caused myself I toss the fire extinguisher out the side window and down into the alley, breaking as much glass as possible on the way out. As the damn thing bounces back and forth between the building next door and mine, I quickly dart out the front door and, keeping low, cross the hallway to the stairs leading up, on the opposite side of the now dead gangster.

This better fucking work.

I creep up the stairs, make it to the turn, and wait. Sitting with my back against the center support of the winding walkway leading up to the next floor. Listening for the sound of them entering my apartment, seeing the broken glass, and hopefully thinking I jumped out the window.

... ....

I sit, for what seems like forever, and finally hear the sound of the door to my apartment being opened. It's one of those times I really wish I spoke the language, but i'm pretty sure I know an exclamation when I hear one. I grin to myself and begin sneaking the rest of the way up the stairs.

A few seconds later, one of the neighbors asshole begins pointing at me from across the quad on the 5th floor and shouting.

"Jig's up", I tell myself, and begin booking it up the rest of the stairs. It doesn't take long before the stillness of the apartment becomes a flurry of shouting, and in some cases projectiles. I make it to the 4th floor landing and run for the far end of the hallway. Without pausing to think of what this is about to do to older me, I slam into the door just before the next set of stairs going up, and carry myself, door and all, into the living room of some older couple. aloha... ... ha.

"Uhh.. ..ow. That wasn't the best idea.", I say as I drag myself off their door.

The man shouts something at me while reaching for his lady's wide eyed face, but I am already running for his bedroom and opening the window. I get the window open and immediately realize why the man was shouting at me. Funny that the guy wasn't so mad about me busting his door in, but the fact that I had just been standing in front of his wife with my robe completely open really hadn't entered my train of thought until the small breeze that was accompanied by opening the window decided to make it apparent.

Heh. That really was a look of shock on her face.

I look out the window and see what I was hoping to see. On this floor of the building there is one of those awnings you only see in really cheesy movies. I'm talking red and yellow faded striped cloth being held up in a very, "Please jump in me" type of cupping gesture.

I take a moment to peek back into the living room in time to see the head of a younger guy, dressed in black and wearing a white bandanna pop his head in the room. nope.

Without waiting to see the expression on his face however, I take a breath and jump out the window. Unlike the movies, I land in this cheap cloth, and sure enough, fall right through, taking the wood dowels and netting underneath with me. I fall for what feels like too long, gathering what I can only assume to be a mass of items I am about to forcefully insert into my body in ways that can only be described by looking at the box art of a game of Kerplunk™.

With a ruckus crash I land on the second worse thing you could hope to land on when not wearing underwear, a spice stall.

Seriously, who the fuck stores their spices for sale in large open wicker bowls just sitting in big piles?

I do my best to sit up and realize I look like something out of a Warhol painting.

Happy Birthday Mr. President.

I groan and begin pushing myself back to standing and hear the Bandanna head shouting at me from the window, right about the same time the knife goes whizzing past my face and sticking into some kind of fruit.

Fucking spices in my nose.

I take one last look up at the window to make sure the prick isn't going to jump after me, and take off running down the alley. Cobbled streets, carts and people are the obstacles of everyday life here, but as I run covered in earth tones, people seem to part. At first, I think it's because I am bigger than most of them, but a few seconds of running reveals why they are really avoiding me.

I Look back over my shoulder in time to see Mr. Miyagi step out of the black car and open fire into the crowd, and my back, with his ak-47.  fucking cliché.

Biting dirt as fast as I can, I lay myself out on the cobble and wait for the sound of gunfire to cease. When the micro explosions stop, I take a peek back towards the vehicle and straight into the muzzle of a rifle. 

Still in hand, and now flanked by 1 less lackey, Mr. Miyagi smooshes the rifle into my nose and says, "Our boss would like a word with you". balls.

"Oh, now you speak english", I snort.  

The lackeys, minus one, grab my arms, hall me to my feet, and begin stuffing me in their too tiny car. 

Fuck, my asshole is starting to burn. 

.... .... to be continued.

the bug 11 March 2013 |

Bouncing off the follicle lined walls at 343.2 meters per second it lands. Planting itself like unwanted neighbors at a beach on a romantic evening. You ignore it and choose to continue on with your present train of thought.

Festering in a way that would make gangrenous wounds seem normal, it begins to rot the mind. Tearing at your subconscious, just waiting for that brief moment of pause to unleash its torrent of puss filled worries. Meanwhile, you spend all night tossing and turning, hoping to get the drainage out of your head long enough to fall asleep. Yet it grows.

Finally, sitting at the table in the morning, you recognize it. You give it life for a brief period, hoping to satisfy this thing long enough for the invader to leave it's larva stage and exit you the same way it came. As a passing moment. 

It doesn't leave. You try again. Still there, now its just worse.

Finally, the larva retreats. Finding refuge in the back of your mind, you begin to think that you can live with just ignoring the mild gnawing sensation. "Yeah", you tell yourself. You can live with that.

Sitting in front of your computer, you begin to feel that gnawing sensation. You stop to contemplate the best way to go about ignoring it, and before you realize what has happened, your hand has begin clicking and typing. The gnawing feeling grows, first to a grinding, and then to a crescendo of ripping, tearing, gnashing and clawing. The back of your head splits, and your fingers fly over the keyboard in flurry of motion as a reflex. 

Boney fingers fill the split at the back of your skull and begin to pry. Grey matter seeps from the open wound, as the creature begins to pull itself free of its cocoon. From the membrane filled sack of your mind the thing emerges, covered in grey matter and translucent ichor it blinks into the light. 

You stare. It stares right back. The creature gestures to the screen, and you find yourself flitting your eyes to the monitor and back to the creature. Then it hits you, there were words on that page. Your eyes dart back to the screen as recognition sinks in. You wrote something.

The creature shrills at the top of its lungs; the first bleat of a newborn. Scrambling on all fours like Gollum it runs screeching from your office and out the door. Into the morning sun it runs as the creature bursts from the house in a torrent of wood splinters and shattered glass. 

You watch, in horror as the creature begins tearing it's way through the town, infecting all of those you know and are connected too.

You flee back to your computer desk and hover the mouse over the delete post button and... freeze. Do you kill this wondrous babe? The product of your own seed?

You smirk and click publish.

new beginnings |

Last night I lay awake with a million thoughts running through my head, and one of them was this blogspot account.

I'm not exactly sure why, but something just kept telling me to use this old medium for some ramblings I have been wanting to have. Which is weird because it has been so long since I touched this thing.


Anyways. Last night, I was thinking about all of the things I have wanted to write, and decided I would use this space for it. I really don't know if anyone is reading this, but a part of me hopes that someone does, and at least ends up the better for it.

I have however decided that I am going to use this space to write. About what, i'm not sure yet. I am kind of wanting to start writing short (very short) stories.

We will see. I may even start in just a few minutes.

The end.