Installment 5
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
A Novel
Babe
Kenny was cute. Rachel Kane had her wants. Johnny boy could
survive. I could laugh. All were torch bearers for my flag. It became
hard to breathe with parodies of whatever the hell should have been
coming along taking over from the parodies that were.
They
were at my wedding to Kaye, Johnny boy, Rachel. They were at my
wedding to Babe. It was all there in the pictures, the memories.
Johnny boy. Rachel. Dreams of perfection. Dreams of perfect people
being perfect
Rachel
provided experience, experience pressed within the flowers in the
photograph album of my heart. Rachel, Johnny boy, more and more
fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat beat beat
of the hopeless ripple in the wind.
He
was always doing a job well done, Johnny was, a job necessary for his
arts, his manly arts filled with circumspection and poise.
My first wife Kaye ate up our success.
Kaye the treasure.
Lyrics were needed, clarity,
I
loved the depths of hell and I loved to throw the unsuspecting into its
pits so that they could be used as fodder for desires and face down the
grand panoramas and vistas of those who wished to ride with the night
and conquer the lights of reason. Hope needs its loves and hope spreads
the word as a present for those who could be the casting fires of
forged sticks standing firm in the winds of destruction.
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.
Over
time those who play in the vineyards and domains of force, dominance,
debasement, cruelty, occupy positions in worlds with a thousand mothers
springing unseen from backwaters of rage and passion.
Players,
actors, manipulators, take their journeys through the seas of the
vanquished immersed in seasons of fury, flailing in spins, rushing to
conclaves with the agents of delusion. Fog cohabits with fear, wanes in
its own way and waxes poetic with memory as a sometimes wisp of smoke
that traps those who wish to crave dangerously amidst cunning.
Into
depths unknown, fears unknown, unidentified, peace unoffered,
characters find the undersides of daunting lusts, mean cravings, waiting
for opportunity, seekers of prudence.
Eyes
of dementia produce in their wake challenges for those who wish to
undertake killing fields unchecked, unvarnished, triumphant. Cruelty
survives the potent attributes of the habitats of daily needs while
paupers vie for territory, meet on fields of conquest, demand ultimatums
in fields of vision and satisfaction.
Seasons
of access and executions, seasons of kills, come to fruition.
Denunciations of souls and spirits, denunciations of voided lives,
voided souls and sentries exist in practiced nullification with
sustenance ached for and defenses against vulnerabilities a midnight
dream.
All
currencies of all kills seek challengers. Voracious primal ooze finds
its way through ready achievement ready to co-opt those things that time
wishes to deal with. Effervescent dreams, grand achievements,
primitive stalking horses, all would have their dreams capture force for
force’s sake with powers, answers, traps, life, taken as faint
somewheres fused with and left to a forever that shimmers alone in the
dark.
It
is a hard thing to fathom. It is a hard thing to sit here as I do and
bear witness to facts, stories, charges, sealed in time and left to
embrace those plowing the earth for their winks at eternity.
Long
nights and scores of deadly demons wait to pounce upon opportunity and
to learn secrets of paths to want and power, secrets of division and
use. Smart, vengeful, facile, evil devils wait cautiously for lost
strains of lost songs to carry them to perfect combat with trouble
always a friend to those who seek it, always there to prosper and to be
baited by those who choose to be special.
Strong
perpetual illusions wane and wax poetic, cohabit with needed diversion,
risk, cohabit with lessons, tricks, meanings that are deep and dear and
that are often left to test waters of eerie endeavor in places
unguarded and vengeful.
Vineyards
and domains of force, dominance, debasement, cruelty, can come to
occupy netherworlds of rage and passion to be run from by those of
fineness and strength.
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.
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.
Jake
Green was born in New York City. Jake became Jake the Jew early on
looking out over many things. Recollections hazy, his claims on the
name Green hazy, Jake parlayed a career as manipulator, dealmaker,
facilitator, into a world of forceful contacts, lucrative money. He
rose through the ranks of those whom others wished to know, Jake.
Smart, Jake. Good Jake. Someone had to know someone who knew someone
just to get to know someone to talk to Jake.
Barbara
Scott, Jake the Jew. They were interested in establishing a priority
of predator. They owned a world of lucrative contacts. Jake knew
people. He knew how to play people. There was no publicity. Jake
deduced. Jake deduced with slow happy contemplation. Men of skill were
purchased. They were exhuming the dead, Barbara Scott, Jake the Jew.
They did that. They wished that.
Jake
Green took me to New York. He saw that I was raised in a decent
manner. I was not his blood but he did so. That’s what I knew. Jake
told me not to mourn, not to wear the robe of Death that was placed
around me.
Jake Green fathered Kaye, fathered Vivian.
Jake
told me not to mourn. They killed my father. Probably my mother. My
sister as well. I’m not sure. My father they killed. I was a
convenience, a necessity. I served purpose. My father was an efficient
protector. He sought out enemies.
Jake
thought that I had put my careful little ass in a sling and he only
wanted to see how I would handle it. He wanted to see me bent over and
trapped, burnt out like a caged rat. He could be happy. Me, Steele,
boy wonder, eyes wide in the headlights.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Tell
me Michael Steele,” Kaye would say. “Can us mere mortals at all
imagine the pristine makeup of the heart of Michael Steele,” she would
say.
“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” she would say.
“Tell
me, brave and tortured soul,” she would say. “Tell me true,” Kaye would
say. “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,” Kaye would purr and
sigh.
“Tell
me, Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me,” Kaye would say. “Of your
heart, your ideals, Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye
would say. “Tell me of your soul’s capitulation,” Kaye would say.
“Tell
me, Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me about the love of a good woman,
Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me of its sparkle and dew, Michael,”
Kaye would say. “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me, young
Lochinvar, of veins of ice, wills of iron, men of steel,” Kaye would
say.
“Tell
me young Steele,” Kaye would say. “Tell me of men so bent and weary
with the weight of the problems of the world on their noble backs,
Michael,” Kaye would say. “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,”
Kaye would say.
“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” Kaye would say.
“Tell
me Steele,” she would say, “can mere mortals at all imagine the
pristine makeup of the heart so strong, the bearing so staunch,” Kaye
would say.
* * * * * * * * * *
Babe
Kenny and I got out of vehicle. We went to the door. I knocked. Babe
in basic black, hair blond. No one answers. Babe gets smug. I knock
again. Babe gets smug again. I hear rumbling from deep inside. Babe
hears rumbling from deep inside. Anticipation swells up. Phil and Kaye
would be deep inside.
Phil,
the useless, comes to the door. He asks who is there and he is told.
He is not in rapture, he opens the door, wheezes, murmurs, sullies,
drapes over a drink, wobbles, lets us in. He is dressed, almost tame.
He speaks to Kaye. She comes in and joins us. Kaye looks like the
purring cat. She looks well behaved.
“Michael,”
she said, “this is a pleasant surprise. Miss Kenny, here, must be
thrilled to be here. I should have let you be, Michael,” Kaye said. “I
don’t know you like Miss Kenny does, Michael,” she said. “That’s not
what I’m here for tonight, though, is it, Michael,” she said. “I’m here
for bigger things aren’t I, Michael,” she said.
Phil
offered a slobs outlook. He reintroduced himself to Babe. Phil was a
strong sort of guy. He wanted to square the circle, circle the squares,
be worthwhile.
“So
what gives, Mr. Wonderful,” Kaye said to me. “What tails you have to
tell, Michael,” she said. “Are you still the boy I married,” she said.
“Michael
wants to play, Phillip,” Kaye said. “He wants to play with me,” she
said. “He wants to put on a show, Phillip,” she said. “He came here to
put on a show, Phillip,” Kaye said.
Phil
sat down in the corner. Kaye lit a cigarette. Babe lit a cigarette. I
spit out a trim cigar. Babe started to wonder if angels had wings.
Phil started to wonder if he was always as dull as he looked.
My
Kaye was the good grace of proper form. She was the complete necessary
appendage to reality. We would always exhume the dead, my Kaye and I.
We could always make the fates look coldly, my Kaye and I. She would
honor her family, my Kaye.
I smirked next. Kaye was dead after that. Plain dead. There went Kaye.
Poor
Phil. Poor Kaye. Beyond the pale, the script, the moth eaten rancid.
My Kaye could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet sweet
little Kaye could get her sweet, sweet little tentacles on. My Kaye
could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet Kaye could get her
sweet, sweet little hands on. No more. Loss, chasms of yearning.
Eternal emptiness for me.
“Who else are we going to kill today, Steele,” murmured Babe. “Who else, Steele,” she said. “More wrecks, Steele,” she said.
“Are
we going to waive our magic wand and create a world of wonders,
Steele,” she said. “Are we the original fugitives, Steele,” she said.”
Sidney,
Jakes driver, comes at Babe from out of the shadows, grabs her, brings
her to me. He stands over her unsmiling. Babe was lost, Kaye was dead,
the end point of desire.
Sidney
had worked with Jake a long time. He was aware of the prerogatives of
survival. Sidney was a man knew of use and utility, kept his own
council, listened intently, closely with eyes grown sharp scanning
rooms, crevices, doorways, the spaces of dead air. Sidney did not wish
to be surprised. He took pride in his work. Kiss deadly Kaye, stare
down Babe, me. Sidney would put Babe in order. Sidney would not be
made to look bad.
“Cute,
Steele,” said Babe. “Nice. Interesting, Steele,” she said. “That
was wonderful, Steele,” she said. “Just wonderful. I’m glad I came
now,” she said.
“Time always honors the currency of coercion, Babe,” I said.
“People die,” I said.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dominance
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