Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

The day was dusty, full of a haze. She stumbled into the Sheriff's office dressed in mens' clothes, triumphant at her ability not to wither under the weight of marime  clothing from a gadjo . She had made it 6 miles from Hiram's Crossroads in the sweltering heat to the town at the base of Rockington Pass. "I wanna see the best madam in this town." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Now just who in God's chamber pot are you? You one of them Injuns who lives west of town? Ain't you got your own sheriff?" "I ain't no Injun. I from the Mexican part of town. We read fortunes and dance and sing for ye." "Why you dressed like a man? You some kind of invert?" "Look. A man, he try to reach under my skirts and I have none of it. I's a good girl. Good Mexican and American family." "Yeah. Mexican. Sure." "I'm here because I Rom Bari. No, we not Injuns. I wanna make a deal with t...

So she documented the trees, the genii of the plants, the animal life, the stars, the heavens, the qualities of the earth, the tones of music, the vibrations of the spheres. All of human, her philosophy, his art, her insight, his reproductive faculties, the third sex’s physical body. All mapped, catalogued, indexed. Accessible to all of creation, and making all of creation accessible. And on the eighth day full of light, she rested. And soon her angel face was called down, called into mankind. And people walked the earth in skins and furs, and all was trusted. Man took riches from man, and woman took riches from the earth, and none was abused, but all served their full purpose. And the day came when the Sky God said “You must destroy this.” And clouds rolled in, and the awe-inspiring majesty lit golden stairways up and down from the heavens, and lightning served as the railings for life and death, and the containment of transitions. And in it she, like Atlas, held up the world....

And on that day, the sons and daughters of Heaven’s Dominion walked the earth. And they deigned to be righteous in their deeds and verily sought with their hearts. In a tiny town, Sage Xifu sat, copying the works of the ancient sages. They were manifold, and written in a daunting style. Xifu would sometimes spend long hours in the evening trying to decipher the stylized handwriting, now made confusing and less-decipherable by the instruction of the Islamic schools. The old system had served them well enough, but Xifu knew better than to try to resist the tides of time. His brow furrowed and there were permanent lines etched in his face. Sage Xifu guarded the world’s largest library. It was greater than the library at Alexandria, but somehow he suspected that this statistic would not go down in history. Things would go well until the occasion that somebody desired a text from the library. Then, it was not so much an inconvenience to retrieve the text, but a physically arduous tas...

The half-masked figure danced and jigged in front of Darlene. She sighed in the fog. “You must be one of those…what do they call’em…trolls.” The imp neared his leering face just inches away from Darlene’s. “Not sooooo faaaast, m’lady. Sure, I look silly, but I am here to protect you! I am one of your darksidewalkers. Did you not hear me earlier? “Yeah, I did. If I wanted an escort home I would have asked Carlos from the club. I really think I’m going to be ok. I’ve never had problems on this route before.” Half-Mask suddenly extracted something out of his trouser leg. It was a cane, with a silver skull for the handle. “Do you know what this issss?” he sneered. “Yeah, it’s a weapon. And if you don’t stop waving it like that I am going to call the fucking constable.” “Ohhhhhhhhh…the  Constable. The CONSTABLE! Well aren’t we fancy, living in a some-odd, so-and-so neighborhood like this.” He unsheathed a thin sword from the cane.” “Prepare for a duel, mad...

Darlene walked confidently down the boulevard. The Old Town lights flooded trapezoidal prisms beneath, just like in the movies. Fog dominated this time of year, and she enjoyed it all the more for that spookiness. Occasionally a bum emerged from the darkness, wraith-like. She knew that her nightclub was a potent realm. Many had vied for the night, but somehow the darksidewalkers had won out the bid. She felt safer signing the contract with them, anyway. Their main DJ and promoter was a woman, and that was another reason she preferred them. There were also some strong male DJs in the arsenal. Frankly, this group was much less violent than most of the people she normally contracted with. Earlier that week, one of her friendly patrons had sent her a link to a scandal that had emerged regarding Satanic rituals in local nightclub. These people had nothing to do with the darksidewalkers, for she knew that those patrons had a direct line to the Dark Lord and didn’t need the publicit...

Charles was on a rampage that day. Smashing bottles, tearing down TVs from the wall. He would’ve gotten his guns and made his way to the range but it had been raining and he didn’t want to deal. He had no appreciation for his dwelling space that day because his job was shit and he hated it. He hadn’t been successful at convincing the last woman on a date to fuck him, and he was furious. If there was one thing he was decent at it was drowning it all in drink and then fighting. With himself, with others, with his lack of peace. “I know this too well,” he thought. So many images of his mother. Time and time again. Trying to control. Trying to make sure she didn’t kill anyone or burn down the house in the process. He was the man, after all. He was the glue that held the household together. Or was that supposed to be the woman? In any case, his mother hadn’t been functional sober for most of her life. His methods were rigorous and rigid as a result. Sometimes he even washed his hands...

The scar on his leg was not a picture he was proud of either. To be fair, not much of him was. Having a bar brawl on one of the drunken blackout nights was not the way to go when he could have had the wounded warrior option. Many of his scars were from his family. He looked back on how unable he had been to keep a lover and where all the fights had left him. It was not a place of pride. It was usually a place of longing. He sat on the front porch visualizing the last one. A redhead. Always ready to do whatever he wished. Usually feeble in her own desires, or unsure. It was fine. He was happy around women with less conviction or who were in the mental trap. He guessed that it hadn’t occurred to him until today. For years, all he wanted was to make sure he could secure a good fuck. Then he’d started to think about wanting a home of his own, maybe a family of his own. Many of his military friends had had them when he first joined up…and most of them hadn’t cared when leave came. “I...

He tried to clear his mind from the debacle of the past few years. Debts, half-realized relationships, frightening bomb blasts to his routine again and again. He thought that his time in the Marines would have been the worst time, the most traumatic time. There were still nights that he couldn’t remember…and some that he couldn’t forget. Buried deep in there somewhere were acts that he was not proud of. Hookers, accusations, drinking blackouts, drunk dials home to an even more drunk mother whose eye sockets were probably black and blue and which he always tried not to picture. He knew that his sister was tweaking again and his baby sister was off running with a boyfriend who beat her, too. His heart flew through the darkness, demanding answer, demanding confirmation. Another night they were all alive, but barely. He hated “strong” women. Only those who were broken and who hobbled to him, arms outstretched, made him desirous. The stripper with the drug-dealing bro boyfriend. The ...

There was a special place in the cemetery where he preferred to dine when it was not a great feast-day and the others didn’t need him. Colloquially it was called Altar of the Dictators and it was located inside a mausoleum. Most of the time families of the murdered would go there because they knew le Baron visited the area. It was imperative that they remember those who did Evil in the world who had died or been killed in order to seek justice for their deceased. Nowhere else in the world did people pay active tribute to those who had committed war crimes. It was not the cemetery attendants who tended and manicured the Altar of the Dictators, but the Slaves and the kept men and women, who arrived every other day. Some of the kept sat in luxury and were allowed to pretend to decide whether or not they wished to be bothered doing this duty. The slaves, of course, had no choice. Hitler, Pol Pot, Saddam Hussein, Noriega, Marcos. Each photo hologram lovingly framed by flowers and can...

He pulled up to the feasting part of the cemetery in his usual stretch limousine with three equally long stretch limousines before him. Everybody always held their breath. His valet emerged, and opened the proper doors, huffing and puffing to run nearly two miles. First, the leaders: Roma, Armenian, Italian, Irish, Mexican, Greek, Romanian, Russian, Chasidic. Secular Israeli. Pakistani. Indian street CEOs. Palestinian. Black American CEO, White American CEO. His limo really did stretch for miles. Then, their kept women and their slaves. Every nation, every skin tone, every genitalia. Born rich, born poor, born prostitute, born clergy. Some university-educated. Finally, Himself. Mama Marie squeezed young Bábáco’s hand. But before the Baron, his two slaves. Each in chains. On his right hand, a woman with skin of the blackest night. Glittering, luxurious hair in a moderately close-cut Afro style. On the left, a woman with skin so pale almost transparent. Hair of the whitest moo...

Baron Samedi’s feast of the dead was impressive. Cooked meats, raw meats, fruits, vegetables, legumes, desserts. Left on an old room and board table in the cemetery. They came to sit at the second hour after Midnight. Lala had an arrow through her head. Uncle Paul had one of his eyeballs hanging out of his sockets. Mama Marie had her red scarf, as usual. The first course was always the body and blood. The damned humans had already cut much of the fat away from the bones and bloodied all, so there was no joy in preparing the meats. Baron Samedi was extremely disappointed in this. Baron LaCroix’s ridiculous whiteman powdered wig kept dragging in the soup. “Why you always wearing that, LaCroix? Jesus beg you to do it or something?” “Fuck Christo, that brown man Greek. All he ever tell me is to do the stupidest things. Other week he tell me I don’t cross myself enough and I don’t take communion. My name is LaCroix, you idiot!” The entire table laughed in an uproar. M...

The machine wheezed in and out slowly. Nobody but Miles had noticed how hot the room grew at times. It could not have just been the prosthetic lung of that assistor. Every time he moved into the corner he encountered matter, presence. He often reached his hands forward, expecting to feel something there, like in elementary school where they had those black mystery bags with peeled grapes and shaved cucumbers and rubbery spiky bouncy balls. But his hands felt nothing true, only dense matter. Miles wasn’t afraid. It’s that he hesitated comparing with the others and didn’t ask whether they saw the servitor. How do you accuse something non-corporeal? This was maddening and not a thing to just accept. One evening in supervision, he accidentally dozed off. It had a medical droid face. Its eye sockets met in a convex arch that humans would interpret as programmed for sincerity.\ “Who are you?” The breathing machine kept on. “Are you an angel?” “I am the servitor of ...

Desdemona had been hired at Miss Marilynn’s after moving in from Montana City two years earlier. The day Deanna joined the ranks, Des had immediately welcomed her. Most of the girls were unimpressed when a new girl joined the ranks. Miss Marilynn didn’t accept just anyone, and she kept strict numbers in the house for legal, sanitary and undercutting reasons. The girls just starting out usually got the biggest percentage taken and had to cover the other girls on their days off if there was no one to work. Usually the girls starting out had to do laundry. Miss Marilynn had heard about Miss Cassie’s place two blocks down getting lice 5 months ago and vowed that they’d never be afflicted so, nor with bedbugs. Des was now comfortable as one of Miss Marilynn’s girls, and usually took a half day off, which often meant two half nights off in a row, since the trickle of johns during daytime hours was slow, but existent. They had much better dinnertime johns. Des immediately accosted D...

The workers leaned in and out of doorways. It was early in the evening, so the supper crowd hadn’t even contemplated arriving yet. The entertaining-ladies were still busied making their drawing-rooms as clean and as comfortable as possible. Upstairs, a working girl named Deanna smoothed her hair and secured an extremely sharp pin into the series of twists. Most of the other girls knew about Deanna, but she didn’t go out of her way to bring up any particular subject matter unless someone asked. She had heard some of the local tribal people use the word “two-spirits” once, but she didn’t think that fit either. Her first day inquiring about work at Miss Marilynn’s, she had been honest about her secret. Miss Marilynn scoffed, chuckling. “They always think they been the first one of those in here. Trust me, there’s a customer for everything.” Deanna smiled. “Thank you so kindly for being understanding. I think we gonna work together great.” Miss Marilynn’s was a high-class joint. ...

Her windows were constantly covered with black lace. “I don’t want to see outside,” she said. “The world makes my eyes sad.” All her lace was tatted; homemade. Doilies were her favorite to make, even though the public always found them the most useless. There must be some better medium that she could work with. Occasionally she felt the tinges of arthritis creeping up, but she thought little of it. “My husband didn’t need me. He left without me. So now I make this.” She would watch her favorite electro-box shows from the 2010s while she was making it. She was one of the few who had retired with enough money to have an electro-box. She also had enough for animalskin coats and to hire a private hunter. The food from the markets usually caused pods and growths to sprout in peoples’ stomachs, and there was a large business in extracting them. She could have easily sewn creations with artificial lace imported from Gondwanaland Main but she did not care for it. Small elast...