#and yet finds her morals as twisted as a cork screw

[recitedemise]

❛ i could keep you safe. they’re all afraid of me. ❜ for extra fun, imagine she is holding her arcane focus, a bloody dagger, up for extra emphasis

𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬: no longer accepting.

"I confess, I, too, may or may not be roused."

And he has every reason to be.

Inara is! Inara is a menace. She is doom in flesh, bearing an appetite for slaughter he can scarcely understand. She skulks like a phantom, meanders in the likeness of an omen in the dark, and ever dripped in this fragrance of petrichor'd furies, she is magic, mayhem, and the blistering hells. She smells like lightning. She reeks of cullings. In that tender heart of his, Gale's ought to be frightened...and watching her, blade twinkling, he concludes that he is.

He sees it all now. In his mind's eye, a thousand images flash in equally terrible fashion. He's watched her in amazement, beholding her Weave with such untold talent, and to stand as her witness, his heart madly raves, but at the cost of murder, the green grove rotting, he feels illness and guilt in equal measure. Gods, how she confounds him. His emotions twist up.

"Any offense to my sensibilities aside," the wizard begins, meaning very much his psyche, "I suppose I'd much prefer our adversaries hold your attention rather than myself." By a margin. He looks up to her, waist wet with gash, and props himself against the cavern wall. Cut off from their party, he's but Inara to light up his way, and he's already admitted it: the thought's unpleasant. What luck, he thinks. He squirms, blood spilled half-black, half-ruby. Somewhere in his chest, his orb and heart flutters. "Still, I should ask what I've done to warrant your extensive protection. Until quite recently, I hadn't much labeled you as generous at all--if not in more sanguine matters."

#MERDEVA #ASK. #Oh.... This. Is. Fun. #Gale is admittedly SORT of frightened #impressed by her #and yet finds her morals as twisted as a cork screw #now it's just HIM and HER and he has to come face to face with all that conflict #Gale bleeding and absolutely at her mercy: ahhah well. WELLLLLL.

[crackheadcastle]

Getting Away.

Saturday, early evening.

Charlie and I have been grinding on this idea of starting a business all afternoon. Many of our ideas are pie-in-the-sky. Both of us really like the name HoneyMaker. We even played around with spelling it differently. Honeymaaker. Or, Honeymkr. Charlie likes how the name sounds like Money Maker. To that point I winked at him. “It’s like a think tank, ya’know..”

We figured that we should get a P.O. Box to start. Charlie said he would look into filing the name with the local municipalities, his shaky, near illegible handwriting already taking notes. I was so excited, practically jumping up and down. It’ll be a business of businesses! An amoeba! The sense of how ridiculous all of my ideas were did not register as a reason to stop and think. We would start out, Charlie and I, with glow-in-the-dark menus for restaurants all over the city, we would create retainer style accounts as consultants. Charlie suggested we use Craigslist to find a silk screen person to print the glowing ink on top of the menu lettering. Maybe we could do a special wax treatment to the paper menu’s to make them last longer. We talked about what we should wear as our own personal branding. And, what about an office !?

There’s already much work to be done. I figured for a cheap enough space somewhere that we could set up a telephone. Yes, a land line with a 212 area code, very professional. “What about location?” Asked Charlie. We had to take a bike ride to do some scouting.. Up and down Metropolitan, Manhattan Ave, Greenpoint Ave. We rode for almost two hours hunting for vacant space, for rent signs, etc. Abandoned looking pet stores, laundry spots long since closed up, a couple furniture stores and a bodega which looked like it never recovered from being a crime scene. In the end of our ride we found an old church down in Hill Stuy across from some abandoned brownstones. The facade was basic, no windows, just a door, everything painted brown. Lots of graffiti layered into and on top of the thick skinned brown latex paint. What stood out and caught our attention was the hand painted eye with little lines reaching from the bottom lid above the door and street tags.

“It’s perfect, man.” Said Charlie as he rolled up another spliff. “Yea, we gotta look into how the hell we gonna rent this baby!” I said. “I hope it’s cheap as it looks.” Just then the rumbling of a train below us. The A,C line. Both of us peered into the grate half covered with street garbage and car tire trying to perceive the actual passing train cars. Nothing but rowdy darkness down there.

“We gonna hafta make some more money to start Honey Maker, ya know that, right?” Charlie says to me. This is a bristling truth that I do not like. Time to get my salesman hat to wear for a bit. Now that I think of it, I could also use some salesman shoes as well, cause mine are a little stinky. I resist getting into an argument with Charlie about keeping a regular job. We both know it’s not really worth it. A better way to make money is to work for yourself which takes a different level of effort, that’s all.

Geeked out and beaming, we take off. I explain my plan to go door to door with the glow-in-the-dark menu idea to generate some sales - tonight! No need to wait. Charlie remarked that I must have been touched by Gawd hisself when I was a baby. Our chit-chat was covered in possibilities which kept lifting our spirits.

I could really see it. The newspaper headline: ‘Homeless Guy Launches Million Dollar Biz’. I gripped the crappy ten speed bike handles making the dry rot rubber squirm. My sense of control was present. Being in awe - is how I would best describe the sensation. Who knew how basic it is to simply deign the future you really want? I’ve been so conflicted for years and up to this point I’ve been my own worst enemy in not making things happen. I began to see that I am the only person responsible for how my life goes.

At the next intersection Charlie and I stopped on our bikes in waiting to cross the street. I didn’t realize that Charlie’s front tire was sticking out as it was and that it might pose an issue for the traffic. I told him to pull back a little. Instead, Charlie lurched with a hop onto his pedals to cross quickly. A car was coming at the same time which honked angrily, made a true New York stop - which is more like a pause, before attempting to make the corner while giving me a pointed scowl and middle finger.

Another car - an suv, was approaching fast, perpendicular to our new offended gentleman whose lurching front end was just in time to be struck - K’POW! Charlie could barely swing his face around to witness all this. The on coming car struck and jumped into a twist. The bottom of the vehicle revealed itself to me with aching grace as I was almost struck in the face by one of the tires. I didn’t notice the long bleating horn of the cork-screwing car before it landed openly in the street, on Grand Ave, on it’s top, with a moist crash and embarrassed spray of tempered glass across the pavement.

Some other people saw this happen, a concerted “Whoah!!” came from another street corner. “Holy Shit!”

I stood in shock, right where I was. What a perfect storm! My heart sank into my stomach as I considered that I had just been part of a serious accident. The driver of the pissed off car got out screaming: “You! Hey!”

Other’s from the street corner darkness came out to help what looked like a woman in the flipped suv. Everything seemed to stop and take on a cinematic decent into reality. All the tv shows and movies I’d seen growing up started to flicker by as I fished for a course of action. “This is your fault, pal!” Yelled the angry driver. He had got out and was getting in my face. “Lemme see your ID.”, “Um, I don’t have one.”, “What!? Are you crazy? C’mon.. don’t bullshit me.. show me some information, there’s no way I’m eating this situation on my own tonight. You shitty bike riders are always in the way!! What’s your name?” Demanded this upset fellow.

This is the moment in life we’re all waiting for, the moment where morality and workability clash, where responsibility surges into view like a burning ocean in which to cross on a leaky rowboat. I said nothing at first, I was trying to slow down time, I needed to come to a sensible answer, especially since the police would be here soon. I could already hear the firetrucks loopy whine start up across the neighborhood. More people came out to help the driver of the flipped suv. The woman was saying something… maybe she was ok.

What would I say to the police? I had been partly to cause this insane car accident. My adrenaline was already high, I could feel it. I may get arrested. Who knows. How am I gonna pay for this? I was caught in the headlights of American insurance claims, attorneys and a lawsuit concerning bodily injury. I really don’t know how I’m gonna get through this.

“Let’s wait for the police -“ I say repeatedly. “I need to sit down.” The angry driver blocks me. “No - you can stay right here.”

Fuck,…. fuck, fuck fuck, fuck. Goes my mind. My dream of being some kind of under dog entreprenuer looks like a shredded teddybear on the floor right now, white puff and stitches still swirling in the air by it’s assailant.

Where’s Charlie I wonder.. “Hey, did you see my friend? The other guy on a bike with me?” The angry driver is inspecting his car, the damage is pretty bad. The sound of a police siren begins to howl into range of this scene.

I put my bike down and scan for Charlie. I pick up the bike and walk it across the street without the pissed off guy noticing too much. “They’re gonna arrest you - know that?” Snarled the man. This scared me alright.

This was my chance which seemed like a hollow moment for sure. If I get caught running, everything will be 10 times worse. Fleeing the scene of an accident sounded like a terrible idea, yet, I couldn’t bear to face the circumstances otherwise. I was in trouble alright.

“Charlie!?” I whispered heavily. “Charlie!? Where the hell are you?”

Under the darkness of a tree near the corner I found myself outside the situation. The lights of the police arrived, a firetruck and it’s crew out kneeling down and talking to the woman possibly trapped inside her vehicle. I could hear the voice of the upset man he was barking about some kid on a bike that caused the whole thing to happen. Damn. Guilty until proven innocent!

Ambiguity straddled my mind, my thoughts. They don’t know who you are. It’s their word versus theirs. Etc.

Quickly I jumped on my crappy ten speed and started to ride off. Weightless with adrenaline. A cold reptilian glare watched me as I left, the eyes of guilt burned into the back of my head. This was not one of my proudest moments to date. However, I could not stand by idle and allow the thirsty jaws of predictable American failure chew me up and shit me out of it’s system.

I had to reach down into myself and wield the very same shaky, draconian, logic that feeds the ‘system’ in order to escape certain doom. I’d rather bear the baggage of this one than face the music tonight.

My folly is virtue. We all are beautiful liars when the moment chooses us.

I got away.

Quickly I rode my rusty bike towards the anonymous streets ahead. 

Through one neighborhood and then another where I figured it’d be best to dump the wheels. I had gotten far enough away but was still shook by the insanity of what just happened. First, I was almost killed. Second, I was being blamed for the incident by the only other person in the wreck, the only witness. My face was a little numb with all the prospects of how this all ends. Each police car that stood idle street side or looped around any block had my fullest attention. I worked on what I might say in the event they discover me.  I kept thinking of Honey Maker to distract myself from looking shady or paranoid.

Later on, I flower stepped back to the Buick under the bqe - like slowly backing out of a thick garden bed on my haunches, careful not to disturb or crush root, branch or leaves.

To my dismay I found that someone had written ‘HA HA’ on the windshield. The layer of grey dust still crumbling off where a finger had recently completed it’s painterly stroke. Charlie?

Climbing into the car, I’m greeted by the familiar dankness of sweaty chinese food containers mixed with ‘Ocean Breeze’ air fresheners I piked up the other day.

Restless. Watching cars pass. Admiring the chainlink fence with tortured razor wire guarding the auto mechanics yard. Next to the garage is a red tour bus and the face of it is ripped open or smashed open, all the way to the second or third seat. Did the bus hit a low hanging bridge? I couldn’t help wondering how many must have died in the bus’s accident. Maybe it was from a couple years ago when I heard one tipped over while speeding in leaving for Boston.

Nobody got hurt tonight, right? Charlie must have gone home. He often disappears without warning.