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

[OT]

back with a bang!!!! and how I've missed these exploits! I love when you set the scene for a few more antics - the little discourse parts - like the male pattern bullshit - you know its going to be good when you do that, you show off you!! this was brilliant - the descriptions for things so mundane - you inject with a poison to make it shine whilst you laugh at it - like with the toe nail description - nice image that was... lol - then the snookie slams, paris hilton - the name says it all!!! and the cat always makes me laugh, sitting there mocking you ha!! nice!!!!