XVII. The Battle at New Babylon: Part I…White Noise…Fame is for retards…Unknown asses

ANother load of crap..a multi part series in the shitstorm of Atlantic City

I have a wicked heart ache, a propensity to placate myself with bad international, and sometimes gay, porn and a fistful of cum and quarters.

            Why? Because I can.

            When I see the world, it is usually in scattered bits and shreds of hideous white noise that is only pushed to the edge with the constant and never ending click of the television remote.

            Up. Down. Up. Down. This downright masturbatory motion is vouyerism at its finest. One sock with a giant hole in the toe, revealing a toenail that for some ungodly reason is growing into sliced skin to the left, instead of the normal pattern of up. The blinds kick left and right and the bright sun reveals, with every sway, a trillion dust microbes that tango through the air but can never be bothered long enough to land.

            They say I “speak in poetic prose for a generation of slackers, miscreants and sex offenders.”

            Right-O mate, right-O.

            Under my left hand, grainy ashes pounded into black chalk which makes circles of pain on the s****y wicker end table. Under that, a letter, and under that, another still.

            And another.

            And another.

            The top of which a cease and desist order from [deleted for legal reasons. Not because I care, but it peaks interest. Cheap tricks for a penniless age.]

            I click the television on and off, every three seconds and attempt to make a complete sentence from the garbled mess that appears in the brainless box.

            “Today in Gaza…we roll our asparagus inside…this fat f*****g b***h!”

            Bingo. My mouth creaks open into what horror stories call a rapist’s grin.

            The second letter is some water damaged reminder that some yutz who used to sling corn beef and hash got a novel deal spewing cunty proverbs about some shitneck b***h lawyer who lost her love and found herself by shoe shopping online.

            “I would like it if you came,” it spits.

             I would like it if your vagina exploded into cocaine and candy canes.

            The next wallowing piece of putrid parchment is from a music tv station that claims I have lifted their idea for some fucktards on the diseased shores of New Jersey and how downright maniacal the goings on can be.

            I run the tips of my yellow fingers across an imaginary rolodex of Braille and see the date is roughly a year before that trash heap ever hit the air waves.

            The third: A bookstore coupon and who else but that worthless, yet drowning in money sperm scuba diver Tucker Max has another best-selling book no doubt filled with converted urban legends about sex and predatory nonsense that is the cat’s pajamas with teenage sex fiends and middle aged fat heads reading it in their basement dens and jacking their limp dicks mercilessly while their wives and daughters prepare Sunday dinner and giggle about the secret Santa for the year.

            What…in f**k…is happening here?

            I want to cry, but am lifted, soaring into the thin, dusty microbes that massage my temples to the melodious sounds of the static and white noise of channel av/in. It the early morning hum of a hovering plow lightly kisses the surface of freshly fallen snow.

            A low hush of the nun librarian in your elementary school while you hiccup at the sight of tits in an anatomy book on the high shelf.

            The light release of steam from a dental auto clave, while it gushes forth purified white smoke.

            The talking heads, political prophets, and masters of their own reality flitter away and I am bathed in the powerful perfection of white f*****g noise.

            But inside an orchestra. Inside the cradle of white noise my ears are gently massaged to the sounds of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The very s**t that lifts a house from its foundation and makes maidens wet to the touch. Inside the womb of white noise I exist beyond shock writing and red faced maligning. I exist between the sands of the hourglass that insist that the cup runneth over. I exist in a world where children imagine their worst nightmares and give faces to the grand master boogeyman and not simply google its existence.

            I exist on a plane where not every piece of emailed filth and musing on meaningless horseshit gets pawned off as exemplary writing.

            I breathe upon the place where, just because you dreamt it, and added opposing colors to it, threw it in front of a camera and intentionally made it nonsense and call it art, is called s**t.

            Inside the white noise my ideas are immortal, but my time is not.

            However, when the reality of life kicks back in, I know in my heart of hearts, I am surrounded by stupid f*****g people.

            Tucker Max.

            Paris Hilton.

            Snookie.

            However, who is worse? These half retarded local celebrities or the monsters who find solace in the joy they spread to the population?

            The 16 year old with the tiny purse, tiny dog, tiny brain and the cro-magnon boyfriend 10 years too old.

            The jackal who actually tries to f**k a midget, just to say he made her spin on his diseased dick.

            And…well..Paris f*****g Hilton.

            “You’re just a hater,” Jack says, curling up on the edge of the couch, sprinkling a fine dusting of fur in the leather crevice.

            “And proud.”

            No one wants a simple life, no matter how new school, zen, or at one with the universe they think it is. Everything that craps, cums and complains wants to swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck and damn to hell the liars that say nay. So I say hate away. F**k em, kill em and f**k em again.

            Why? Because you can.

            The phone rings and the white noise goes away.

            “Yes.”

            “Dude, get the f**k up and get down to Atlantic City. My fight is tonight and I want you to cover it. If I have to come get you, I’ll put my dick in your mouth and take pictures. And the joke’s on you, because I’m not gay. Peace f****t”

            When I talk to Uncle Joey Pitfighter, I feel like my c**k hole was just raped with the business end of an electric toothbrush. His verbiage is like his fighting style; He gets in fast, chokes the f**k out of you and leaves a mess on your back. The whole time calling your mother a pig f*****g loaf pincher.  He is living the dream of dreams and we all get front row seats to gladiators with gloves, ashy elbows and crooked toes.  

            I pulled the recliner back and looked at the calendar taped haphazardly to the ceiling.

            “Fuhk.”

            This weekend there is a fantasy fighter’s f**k fest in the slime capital of the word. All hail Atlantic City. 3 blocks of new money, living on maniacal dreams and dirty p***y fantasies and 2 blocks of what looks like a demilitarized zone in the slums of Baghdad. Rub elbows with dead presidents and a herpes outbreak all at the same time. The hookers in Atlantic city aren’t just hookers, they are F*****G hookers. This place wasn’t built on broken dreams, it feeds like a giant hate furnace of everything irregular, immoral and erect.

            Who should join in such a horrifying adventure? What miscreant psychos need drink from the eternal faucet of blood money?

            “Hello?”

            “Ragu? Monroe. AC?”

            “…w****s?”

            “Indeed.”

            “Disease?”

            “Undoubtedly.”

            “Alcohol poisoning and animal rape?”

            “…man..I…sure.”

            “Sloppy party bottom molestat..”

            “I get it.”

            “I’ll be there in 20.”

            I glanced at the clock. 11:20 am.

            “You work till 5.”

            He coughed feebly and moaned.

            “F**k. I’m sick. Later F****t.”

            Clearly, the slur of the day.

            With the Tazmanian Rapist still imprisoned for his sexploits and his giant gorilla act on top of a kiddie carousel I had to thumb deep into the phone for more company.

            In the recesses of everyone’s life they have a special friend. He/She treats life and death as jest and is only to be brought out for special occasions when savagery and possible hate crimes must be committed. The friend is normally cloaked in a façade of fatherhood/motherhood, has a respectable job and puts out those s****y little Christmas cards with everyone in matching sweaters, fireplaces and the family dog in cute plush antlers. This person cannot be removed from their lives often and will only show up if the schedule of parent teacher conferences, birthday parties and family dinners are, somehow, not on the menu.

            I clicked through my phone and stopped at his name. My heart hardened and shuttered like a reed in the beginnings of a rainstorm. My pupil must have dilated to 3 times its size like it was expanded by way of acid binge. My palms became hot and released steam and my hair stood on electric ends. My fancies grew in red barbaric flames and I knew at that point I would be releasing the plague onto the world. I could picture him, sitting at his insurance claims desk, adorned with drawings from his young daughter and son, laughing at the water cooler, straightening his tie, and lint rolling his slacks that were a tad too short. That fake yucking laugh when one eye is crunched down and the mouth moves fast and ugly. A short, spurted laugh that placates the boss and automatically warrants an invite to a company trip and a big fat f*****g bonus. A little later on in years, his peppered hair always slicked to the side and cut a perfect box on the nape of his neck. A true business man and a poster child for what is fucked and wrong in the society of suits. He is one of my favorite things on this planet,

            -click-

            “BCBS claims, Chris speaking.”

            I gulped hard. In my head hole I can hear Artemis hiss.

            Release…the Ceto.

            “Old Man Winter. Atlantic City for a cage fight,” I started, both excited and horribly terrified of pulling the cap off this airborne sickness. “Weekend away?”

            There was a dull silence and a repeat of white noise. I felt as if I was being pulled into the receiver and bludgeoned by my own resounding stupidity. Hang up the damn phone.

            “Why do you always sound worried when you call me,” he said, a chortle in his throat.

            “Because you are a terror of biblical proportions and I’m taking you to a place where you have sucker punched priests and made a one legged hooker eat your a*s after an unwiped duecing.”

            “…first two, correct. The last is just bad taste.”

            “There are pictures.”

            “That could be anyone’s a*s. I have no f*****g idea whose a*s that is.”

            “I took the picture.”

            “…fair enough.”

            “Room taken care of?”

            “Big Country has us on the Heaven’s Gate tab at the Borgata.”

            “The f*****g Borgata. In the world of Guido muslims that place is a big reflective Mecca with lit windows.”

            “Yeah. And we have VIP passes to the pool at Harrah’s.”

            There was a break of uncomfortable silence and clicking at a computer. A few quick sighs of breath and finally a great reveal. Shocking for me, for him, sounded like he just ordered a thick crust pizza.

            “I drowned a guy there once. Nasty s**t.”

            I felt my anus shutter and my lower stomach played heavy drums. I choked for words and none came out, just the squeaking sound of air caught helplessly in my esophagus.

            “Yeah. New year. 2000. Ball dropped and I was in the pool. No one was looking, kept him under. They found him at half passed. Anyway, I have to finish these claims. See you at 3.”

            Click.

            Fuhk.  

Author's Note

Prewriting is for pussies.

Reviews

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

The way you ended this was just brilliant. The calm, whatever attitude of it all.

[Tommy]

I think you capture the life of the party hard crowd so well in this book, so so well; we all do have that friend who is married and to everyone he know at the office and at home a peaceful easy going number one dad, then you get them away from their everyday new life, and the crazy in their eye comes back out again…
Off to the next chapter…

Great Write E.H.!
RLG,
Tommy

[Amanda Dawn Sanderson-G..]

'I would like it if your vagina exploded into cocaine and candy canes.' Best line, no doubt. Although I could change my mind as I continue... it happens when I read your work. But I still must add that this line made me laugh out loud, I sure hope I didn't wake the neighbors.

'Everything that craps, cums and complains wants to swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck and damn to hell the liars that say nay.' I say nay, but if you spoke with me then you'd find out that I was a liar. I indeed want to be a millionaire, but I don't want the money for me, no, (well... maybe for my dream house on my farm...) I want the money to help those around me that I love and care for. That includes family, friends, internet friends, and people that were just good people that helped me become a better person or just made me feel happy or good about myself and things I've done for this world... so yeah, I want the money, but I'd never, ever want to be categorized with Scrooge McDuck, NEVER!!!!

'This place wasn’t built on broken dreams, it feeds like a giant hate furnace of everything irregular, immoral and erect.' I can never say enough times how much I love the way you see things, word things, and feel this... this s**t, as always, is amazing.

'I felt my anus shutter and my lower stomach played heavy drums.' Your descriptions move me... although sometimes they make my vomit a little inside my mouth, and I inspire to be so blunt with my own descriptions.... ah, one of these days... one of these days...

[Doreen]

So, not that I don't love the fact that you post your stuff here for me to enjoy, but why the f**k aren't you published yet? You should be, damn it! As usual, it's raw and honest, and addictive as hell. I've been living in the white noise for a few weeks now and it's Snookie free. Gotta love the igloo. Keep the words coming. Slime the nation.

[Marie Harrison]

OMG...I'm always amazed with your writings. I love it.
I always end up with a smile on my face and shaking my head.
Great job!

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

"Well well isn't this special? "- just wondering what The Church Lady would think of this.As for me it is you at your finest ... astoundingly astounding..
You have a way with words that no other can duplicate.. your stories are in fact, true life..

Chloe

[luciddreamer]

I'm not qualified to break down this writing...so all I will say is it was amazing...imo

Peace
Robin

[roarke]

geez, everybody's writtin' a dang novel these days... suckin' up all the good words.... all I know is, cage fights in Babylon only means one thing... and it ain't the "Rapture" hahahaaaha

git ta writtin' pilgrim.

[E. A. Fielder]

YES! Finally! I'm so happy I could s**t myself, not literally, but you know. I really wanted to write one of my extremely long pieces about all the things that stick out about this piece, and metaphors and such but Kristina took the cake and ran with it... for 5 or six paragraphs... So here we go...
I really felt in some parts I was reading my inner thoughts at work. I often get asked why I choose to say or do certain things at sometimes and not at others. My response is always "Because I can." I really like your description of your happy place. Where the world isn't ruined by the idiocy of today. The place you can fall into every time a pretty pops up in the room. The rant about how everyone "wants to swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck," true, even the self righteous Godly people like money. Why because this world is built around the fact the the more money you have the more you can do. If you can't do anything then you get bored. Back to the kids googling the boogyman. If they have to use their imaginations they get bored really easily. I used to baby sit a kid who only like video games, tv and f*****g around on a cell phone or a computer. When it came to learning how to read, taking a walk or using his imagination he got bored. So anyways here's my lame review for you: It was good nice descriptions. I can really relate to the character... blah blah.

[Poetic Beauty]

There are some many metaphors and genius statements in this piece there is no way for me to list them all. The first half of this is compounded with real life and disappointments then it moves on to the next would be Monroe Adventure. I think that last friend you mentioned would scare the hell out of me and make me think twice about inviting them to go with me. We all have friends like this. Ones we know will go and liven things up but we are almost afraid of what they will do to liven things up but we want them to go anyway. This is real life in your face and told with the genius concoction of metaphors and cutting edge wording that I can relate to. I am sure the next part to this is going to be one hell of a piece to read and will have me sitting on edge the whole time thinking...that did not just happen. The details are real and open. I can picture this in my mind and one of my favorite lines in this work is about the dust. It made we want to be the dust where no one can make you do something you don't want to do and anything is possible. I think this is one of my favorite chapters. I like all of them and all for difference reasons. My top favorite is about Ella Mae, then of course the one that made me cry which I am not calling it by its name for just thought invokes tears, and then this one. Keep it real and that is what you do and that is what keeps me coming back for more. 100/100


This whole paragraph states the obvious. Instead of kids reading Stephen King or Deen Koonze to get the s**t scared out of them they are googling what the boogyman is. It is sad really. This is an attention getting paragraph everything for the Beethoven to the boogyman. Wonder how many kids know who Beethoven is or the bigger question, if they have even listened to one of the classical masters? That is really sad.

" But inside an orchestra. Inside the cradle of white noise my ears are gently massaged to the sounds of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The very s**t that lifts a house from its foundation and makes maidens wet to the touch. Inside the womb of white noise I exist beyond shock writing and red faced maligning. I exist between the sands of the hourglass that insist that the cup runneth over. I exist in a world where children imagine their worst nightmares and give faces to the grand master boogeyman and not simply google its existence."

This caught my attention but not just because of Scrooge McDuck. Although swimming in gold coins would be cool if it were possible. This caught my attention because it is the truth
"Everything that craps, cums and complains wants to swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck and damn to hell the liars that say nay. So I say hate away. F**k em, kill em and f**k em again."