Installment 1
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
A Novel
Time
a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from
the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the
scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered
stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging
bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.
Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.
She
is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through
dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite
the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.
Cynicism
is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is
fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of
identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is
wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers,
unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of
tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.
Actions,
taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an
uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows
paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in
uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the
scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement,
coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power,
will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.
Conflict
urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the
rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power,
the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.
Swirling
plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for
power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the
drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and
reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.
Swirls
of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by
those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and
purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing,
foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence,
clashes of will, of instinct.
A
stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that
forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to
set up.
Death seeks his muse.
* * * * * * * * * *
Richard
Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who
had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and
rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard Kenny was
left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma's good looks, his
daddy's cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard Kenny’s women who
weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined.
Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.
Sweet
Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized. Cheap bastards always
knew their names, Richard Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Cheap
bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid
jungles of open pits of open sores.
Richard Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.
Richard
Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All
of the men at the table of Richard Kenny’s life found Richard Kenny
a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.
In
1942, in New York City, Richard Kenny was trying very hard to get out
of the army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry.
Richard Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had
since lost its glamorous facade. Richard Kenney did not want to
continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.
Fuck the deranged lunatics.
Little
Addie, this Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned world, no
sense of proportion, no reason. The world was made up of an abundance
of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers
jump up and down in their cages could make a fine little life for
himself. Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard
Kenny's beliefs.
Little
fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and his goose assed , crazed fuck
assed friends knew all the games that Richard Kenny, his friends
knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little
fuck assed tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed suckers in
his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western
World…Richard Kenny knew them well, taught them well.
Little
fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose
assed friends were stench, bad medicine, bad assholes, Jew
baiters, bad mean grief, medicine, bad assed times. Richard Kenny.
The world could fuck itself silly. Richard Kenny could fuck himself
silly.
Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.
He
was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of
his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and
others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the
thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their
disposal. That this was the way of things Richard Kenny knew. He was
in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and
others sorry that they disliked him so.
In
the fall of 1943 Richard Kenny and his fuck assed friends were
shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of
England. Richard Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes
for which he cared exceedingly less. Admiral Dewey, Black Jack
Pershing, friggin' Winston friggin' Churchill, that crazy man,
Macarthur, Jimmy Doolittle and his whole bunch of damned friggin'
Flying Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’
British Tommies lying end to end on their god damned limey stained ass
stained bellies couldn't make god damned Richard Hymie Kharnovski
give two shits about this god damned war.
Richard
Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned yo-yo of a Kraut
paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last breath in some god
damned stinking European stink hole.
The
goddamned krauts ought to have their goddamned asses mangled just for
getting Richard Kenny into this goddamned mess. The goddamned Japs
should also rot in fuck assed, rotten, saki hell.
Dominance
Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis.... The dumb ...... the
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Books …… Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …….. Lust Games: An Essay on Honor A Novel ……… Void Games: An Essay on Revenge A novel ….
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