Installment 2
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
A Novel
There were foreign objects; there was pain. It was the 6th of fucking June.
On
came Richard fucking Kenny and his fellow fucking brave hearts. On
came God’s fucking crusade in some fucking death trap of a fucking
landing craft in the fucking English fucking Channel just dying to help a
bunch of fucked up, fuck assed fucking Frogs get their god damned,
fucking fucked up fucking country back from some god damned, fucking
fucked up fucking fuck assed crazy assed fucking goose assed stepping
assed, fucking, rot in hell fucking Krauts.
Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.
A putrid soldier’s dreams.
Richard
fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American
heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.
The
young man next to Richard fucking Kenny on the fucking landing craft on
the way to the fucking beach sang the praises of Christ the fucking
Lord. The one next to him puked his fucking guts out. Richard fucking
Kenny had not only come three thousand fucking miles to get his fucking
ass blown off but he had to do it with some fucking idiot’s fucking puke
all over his fucking gear and some other fucking idiot singing the
fucking praises of Christ the fucking lord in his fucking ear.
Richard
fucking Kenny was very fucking agitated, disgusted about the whole
fucking thing. He was fucking annoyed. He would, he thought, have, at
least, died a happier goddamned fucking death if he was sliced and diced
by one of his old fucking playmates and left to bleed to death in some
god damned fucking stink hole puddle in some god damned fucking stink
hole alley behind some god damned fucking, rotten assed, fucking greasy
spoon.
His
god damned, fucking father, where ever the fuck he was must be turning
over in his god damned, fucking grave at the thought of his only fucking
son running around with a bunch of fucking red necked fucking bloody
fucking American he-men about to fucking charge good old fucking Europe,
from whence his god damned, fucking father ran, to play god damned,
fucking wonder soldier, god damned brave fucking wonder fucking hero.
Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.
Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.
The
fucking Kraut soldiers did not want to lose precious ground. They
wanted Richard fucking Kenny and his fucking friends to be fucking
dead. They appreciated fucking greatness, not Richard fucking Kenny.
Little fucking Addie Kraut was their mad fucking fool. He was strong.
A
wonder fucking soldier, wearing his spiffy little super duper little
fucking uniform and traveling fucking on, Richard fucking Kenny was a
thrill a minute. Richard fucking Kenny was getting his fucking tail
shot at pretty fucking good. This day was to Richard fucking Kenny was a
particular pain in the ass.
Richard
fucking Kenny in the middle of a fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking,
fuck assed, fucking foxhole in the middle of the fucking, stinking,
dirty, fucking fuck assed screw assed fucking war.
Richard
fucking Kenny became a dirty, fucking hero, another fucking smart
assed, wise assed fucking wise guy, wise assed fucking savior.
Two
fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past. Two fucking,
anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking throwbacks. Richard fucking
Kenny killed seven fucking Krauts. Richard Kenny knocked off a fucking
Kraut machine gun nest
Richard
fucking Kenny barely stopped himself from killing the two fucking
southern fucking fuck assed fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian
past, the two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking
southern throwbacks. He saved his fucking outfit.
The
lieutenant who was barely fucking alive only by grace of God and the
captain who was half dead were both fucking very fucking happy that
Richard fucking Kenny didn’t kill all of their own fucking wonder
soldiers. They were both exceptionally proud that Richard fucking Kenny
was a member of their, this man's, fucking Army. They were most
certainly overwhelmed. Richard fucking Kenney was their great fucking
hope.
Richard
fucking Kenny was put upon the god damned fucking earth to do great
things, to fuck rotten fucking ladies, to be sharp as a tack, twice as
mean. He loved to save the lives of the fucking wonderful who would be
very happy to hang his happy little fucking New York fucking assed neck
from a god damned fucking cross when he was back in the god damned
fucking fuck assed States. Richard fucking Kenny just wanted to jump up
and down and salute the god damned fucking good old fucking red, white
and fucking blue's best fucking examples of fucking class.
* * * * * * * * * *
Richard
fucking Kenny demeaned dangled leaden calves, gave up on dangled
fucking leaden losers. He jack assed backward through the straights of
hell. Sanguine, straight, Richard fucking Kenny jack assed backward
through low dealers, low weasels, low wants, low fucking kills.
The
All fucking American fucking boy was not something Richard fucking
Kenny could put up with too much longer. Richard fucking Kenny reveled
in his own fucking wonder. He was fucking proud that he had saved the
lives of all of the fucking red necked fucking fuck assed fucking
hicks. Richard fucking Kenny was tired, very, very tired, and he didn't
want the All fucking American fucking boy to wake up one fucking
morning and turn on Richard fucking Kenny when Richard fucking Kenny
wasn't fucking looking
Many
forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero. He said many
different fucking things. He was sure to turn into a no good fucking
asshole sooner or later. Poor Richard fucking Kenny.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.
He survived it. The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.
Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.
Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.
* * * * * * * * * *
Amy.
Sweet, sweet, Amy. Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and
honor. Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown
eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters
of manners and property. She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts
vigorously, in worship and adoration.
Amy.
Sweet, sweet, Amy was that which could make life worth living, a
shining beacon apart from all others of a peculiar conflagration of
will, of a peculiar conflagration of mood, a treasure, Amy. Sweet,
sweet, Amy. She wished to be the ideal to which all fine young dreamers
might aspire, who did not let the pedestal upon which she found herself
not allow her to not do what she must.
The
giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain. The
killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and
uncles. The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet
caress. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet
existence. How sweet, sweet Amy craved. How she craved. Sweet, sweet
Amy.
Sweet,
smart Amy. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such
and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy
could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of
her tongue. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly,
sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy
their sweet, sweet pleasures.
The
lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved, Amy, sweet,
sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives. The sweet, sweet lovers
of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet,
sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.
She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.
Some
men died for love, Sweet Amy figured. Some men died for money, Sweet
Amy figured. Some just wanted freedom from ghosts, dead spirits, evil,
she figured. Some took the path of least resistance. Some, the last
alternative to life.
Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy.
She
baited, she cooed, Amy. She laughed, she darted. She promised lusts
with her lips, said goodbye with her hips, Amy. She was a gift given,
Amy. Her lips inspired trust, her voice aching want, Amy. She drew
hearts out as a magnet, Amy. She drew spirits with ferocious fire. The
sweetness. The contempt.
Get
to a strong man, a weak man, a smart man, Amy figured. Make a magic
wand, Amy figured. A turn of the screw, she figured. A way in, a way
out. Will to will, strength to strength. Strength to weakness, guile,
subtlety. Amy knew the equations well. Worked them well.
* * * * * * * * * *
Memory
is a sometimes wisp of smoke, a fog that traps those who wish to run
with the fires and furies of the whirlwinds that spin dangerously amidst
the cunning who understand the fragility of the soul and the meanness
of the spirit. There are those deep and dear and those of substance and
depth are often taken for granted and given rides to test the waters of
eerie endeavor and feel the heat of vile creatures.
Characters
that spring upon the hidden planes of existence, hidden planes of
attack may be of an interesting kind, may be of a rancid, sinister kind
and play in dominance, survival, and find themselves oriented to the
mysteries of life with stories following around roots and edifices,
movements through time and fate. Dreams and drama induce momentous
rides and searing portraits of self and season.
My
world is a wanton place with playthings in long spacious corridors
angling in to slice and vanquish as they present their great homage to
prosperity and glitter.
She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.
She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.
She drew spirits with ferocious fire.
Purges were purges.
Amy screwed Death for eternity and Death took Amy as his own.
Amy screwed Death for eternity and Amy took as Death her own.
Somewhere in her passions she fused with fulfillment.
* * * * * * * * * *
books… http://bschiff.com/
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 ….
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff
