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Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/01 04:04 By: tqr Status: Admin  
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[Rorschalk ran away from the house with the gun and got away with everything except the tip of his nose. Now he walks through the underpasses beneath the cloverleaves of converging freeways through the narrow paths between the squalid camps of filthy tents and blow-torched dreams, wearing an X of athletic tape across the middle of his face like Jake Gittes chasing down his twisted caper in the lala land classic CHINATOWN ... the constant roar of traffic and the pall of fumes that wrap the atmosphere in oily drear make the desperate play of survival into a kind of throwback to black and white silent film era, where emotions are shown through extravagant gestures and clownish expressions all combining to make you fall in love with the silverscreen ... excepting these emotions are wrung from the pit of hunger and despair that's reached the end of the line though their hearts are still beating and their eyes still can see]

Yo no tengo, hombre. Por favor.

[... though concealed in the waistband of his silken pantaloons, the blue haired freak is glad he doesn't just have to rely on some fancy demurring, taking comfort in the heft and feel of the warm steel at his tailbone ... and he wanders, wondering if he's on the right trail or getting farther away form his intended destination... then, walking from the light back into the shadows of an underpass, he is surprised to see a boy whacking what he thinks at first is a pinata, but once his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realizes with some shock in the surprise that it is an obviously long dead corpse, whose head is {like a flip top pez dispenser looking backward and upside down in relation to its suspended body)hanging by a flap of neck skin and some tendons, still dressed in a suit that is more red than its original tan hue. People wait in line for a chance to beat it to a pulp even though there will be no candy to converge upon when it finally breaks]

Vamos! Que?

[The child hands the louisville slugger to the next person in line who gets in a thudding hack at the dead body's rib cage...]

Rapture. Very bad man. Do not be sad. He was a very bad man.

[The Rorschalk nods and looks away and walks on, with the hunch that he is close and closing in...]
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/01 20:07 By: deplancher Status: Admin  
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[DeP is back inside her bivouac to return to a yellow bright state of mind. She's reading aloud and nodding, pausing every few minutes to bite into a bright green apple, Granny Smith, wax removed.]

You know happy endings sometimes bring out the moan. Or is it the groan? It's not that I don't WANT gladness. Never so never so! But you must ask yourself in a suspect world where so many seek no higher than dull mediocrity, 'is there optimism? Is it even sane to snuggle up to optimism?' Dystopia's become so rebel. Ugly's become so vogue. Hate. Abuse. Dismemberment. Bully cave dog snarls and wrestling after still writhing bones...menus offering nothing tastier than fresh misery with snotty sneer. Isn't that what the masses who've been suckled on reality tv and dumbass self-declaring trendsetters with enhanced everything desire most to view, be, hear?

Oh, but I am not one of those cynics, Jesus mon ami. I am still a butterfly, light-hearted and grimace free. This is how it feels to read this current capital. It's got a song. There is a tree. I'm beginning, I think, even through the chaos from outside, to hear a melody. We shall see. When I'm just a bit stronger after a sip of this Yellow Sinshine elixir, we shall see what we shall see. Sinshine? What does that mean? Slip of mind..only Sunshine in here. Yellow is the colour.....

DeP
A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer
of The Floor
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/02 01:09 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus puts wiley flame to the tip of the Java clamped between his teeth, and he sucks, sucks, sucks. Beautiful purple smoke dances from the tip of the cigar. He is seated in the pilot's chair, the current cap spread out on the cherrywood's desktop. He tosses the spent Swan Vesta into the deep, triangular marble ashtray. He's watching DePlancher]

Know what we should do? Set up some tents. Remember when we were kids, making forts with blankets and furniture and cardboard boxes and strange things we found around the house? Pillow cases. Upended dining tables and fishbowls.

[Jesus sighs. He sucks some sweet smoke from his Java]

So I've examined Jake Adams's Unseen, and I like it.

[Jesus shuffles the pages on the desktop together, taps them even, and then he tosses them into the rafters]

There we go.

[Jesus brings out his iPhone, tosses it to the desktop. He gazes at the screen]

Missed call. Darn it. It was from Rorschalk, too. Wonder how he's doing? I should give him a shout.

[Jesus hits CALL BACK with his thumb. He thumbs SPEAKER. The phone rings, and it rings]
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/02 14:22 By: deplancher Status: Admin  
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[DeP peers out through the flap of the bivouac. It always takes a few seconds to adjust to the dullardly light after spending time in the light. In The Light. That's how it is inside the bivouac...light. Bright. But soft too. Like a cradle of down tucked under a large shade tree whose leaves flutter in a light (Light! See?) breeze and lift just enough to allow the warmth (and sure, Light) of a life giving sun to warm you. Sometimes, it's hard to convince yourself that it's time to crawl out.]

That's the feeling, I bet, that a child has in those moments before getting flushed out of the womb. All cozy and safe and suspended in warm disbelief where the world is peaceful and lalala comfortable. That's idealist talk. You know I know that, d'accord? You know I'm not unaware of the alternative. You choose, Jesus. Free will. Venus and Mars. We claim either the Underbelly or the Stars.

[She's crawled all the way out now and stretches her long arms, bends into a few squats to release the kinks of serenity. There's a small gnome in her left hand. In the other a mini tree with a rather large hole in its trunk, a purple ribbon dangling from its dirty gnarly roots. She places theise items on her desk, feigns brushing the cat hair from the cushion and sits.]

You have your ordinary tent...which is fun and purposeful and can mostly be constructed out of random materials and any deficiencies filled in with imagination. These can be transformative, at least temporarily. Like until mom calls from the other end of the house 'Dinnertime!' You know. Then you have the magic of the very useful bivouac. Transcendent, like a tipi only not so organic, and definitely no firepit. Go. Sit in it sometime. No smoking though, Jesus. We can talk.

Is that Rorschalk or Doomey on the phone? They need to get back before they get killed or caught. Strange goings on in the backstreets and hollow bellies of urbanity. Tell him...whichever one it is...tell him I miss him and he needs to come home.

In the meantime, I have considered Christian Riley's tale of healing. I think healing is a noble and worthy pursuit. Riley knows it doesn't come easily. And even though he almost wounded me at the end where there's a suggestion that schlock may ensue, I forgive almost instantly (oui, like Prince used to) and anyway, I like The Singing Tree so it rises. Go, enlightening capital, float yourself to the Terminal for I am still weak with bliss and cannot carry you there.

DeP
A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer
of The Floor
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/03 01:33 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus lets the phone ring. He sucks some smoke from the Java, whistles the sweet waft from his lips, aiming the stream mirrorballward. He hears a beep from his phone, another incoming call. He thumbs the screen, thumbs SPEAKER]

Jesus Christ.
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/03 01:39 By: doomey Status: Admin  
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dude. it's doomey.

[he's whispering]

they ruined another girl. across town, in another homeless camp. these fucktard rapests will die, i swear to shiva.

[rustling of garbage]

i am sunk in deep under a bridge, and i can see her from here. i think they're treating her like a godess or something, right? i mean, they don't dare rape her, right? you hearing me?
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/03 01:44 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus stands at the cherrywood, gazing out at space, sucking in sweet smoke]

Hearing you, Boligard.
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/03 01:55 By: doomey Status: Admin  
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she's beautiful. they've put her in a tent filled with lit candles. and they want her to talk with their dead people, they're shouting at her, cursing her, damning her if she doesn't connect them with their dead dads and dead aunts and dead sisters and dead daughters and fucking dead dogs. she's tied up, holmes. she's going into trance, and she's trembling. oh christ, i think she thinks she can help these homeless people. and these bastards are stepping closer to her, inching in. her eyes are wide and her head uplifted toward the tent-peak, and she's quivering. the homeless fucks are moving in.

[thrashing of grasses and plastic bottles and crushed beer cans]

fuck it. i'm going to grab her and bring her out. wish me me luck.

[sounds of rushing feet in dried grasses and then the phone goes dead]
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/05 00:13 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus shoves the near-dead Java into the mess gathered in the bowl of the gigantoid triangular marble ashtray situated upstage left on the cherrywood's desktop. A few sparks and some ash fly, float, swirl. Jesus sits upright, straight-spined, makes sure his combat glasses are on real good, and then he itches his chin, deep, getting in there through the wild bush that is his beard. He focuses on his iPhone that remains prone on the desktop in front of him. He prods it with his fingertips, sees it has not lost power]

Hey, Siri.

[The phone goes Siriward]

Any missed calls?

[Siri does her thing, she tells Jesus there are no missed calls. Jesus taps the desktop with a fingertip. He taps the little microphone on his phone screen]

Call Rorschalk. Go to speaker.

[Siri calls Theodore Rorschalk. The tiny speaker rings and rings. Jesus looks across the Floor at DePlancher]

Think we may have lost another soilder, Ms. DePlancher.

[He sits back in the pilot's chair, watching the phone. After a few beats, he gazes at the messy pile of capital strewed across the desktop. He leans forward and gathers up the current cap]

Oh, and hey, wow. Check this out. I'll just orate a few moments from the opening of Rudy Ravindra's Path to Nirvana.

[Jesus once again sits back in the pilot's chair, and he reads from the cap after clearing his throat. Glints from the mirrorball spark off his combat shades]

"...unable to resist his parents’ relentless prodding, he embarked upon on another arranged marriage scenario. Yet, he was glad to have persuaded his parents to let him meet the woman by himself and not in the midst of coterie of his and her near and dear.

In spite of the smoggy haze, the day was sunny and cloudless. Yet, his mind was clouded and his feelings mixed. Nevertheless, he arrived at Rani’s house in a quiet residential area, not too far from shops and restaurants. The imposing colonial mansion had tall columns in the front patio. Even before he stepped into the house, Rahul was mesmerized by the colorful garden with yellow, red, white, orange roses, marigold, hibiscus, and many other colorful blooms. He paused to literally smell the roses.

He had to drag himself away from the beautiful garden to ring the doorbell.

At the sight of Rani in tight jeans and a tank top, Rahul felt overdressed in his linen jacket and tie. He stepped into the foyer and gave her a bunch of red roses and, as per custom, was about to remove his shoes before entering the living room.

Rani smiled, revealing her sparkling white teeth. “You don’t have to remove shoes. Come on in, have a seat.” She pushed away a few journals and a laptop from a couch. “Sorry this place is such a mess. This is my office, ah, I work from home. I park myself here, um, to keep an eye on the maids and the gardener. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Rani walked saucily down the long hallway like a model on a runway, putting one foot in front of the other, swinging her firm buttocks seductively. He wondered if the display of her delectable derrière was for his benefit.

A maid came in with coffee and snacks.

Rani set her cup down and took Rahul’s hand. “Come, lemme show you my backyard.”

[Jesus rolls the cap up in his hands, making a nice cylinder, and then he begins to twist it, like maybe he might get some nice juice]

First off is the typo "unto on", and then I have a problem with the "In spite" "Yet" and "Nevertheless" run. That might just be me. But then there's the bit when Rani walks down the long hall, but then she appears back by our narrator's side to take his hand and show him the backyard.

[Jesus uses one of Boligard's Swan Vestas to fire up the tip of the twisted capital. He tosses the used match into the marble bowl. The capital burns bright]

I will never understand why some crafters can craft, but they drop the ball repeatedly. And on the very first page. Hm.

[He pulls a fresh Java from inside his maid's blouse, and he pops it in his maw, and he sucks it to life with the aid of the failed, burning capital. He gets it going good. The cap goes ashtrayward]

Rudy Ravindra's Path to Nirvana has been burnt and tossed into the ashtray.

[Jesus sucks some smoke from the Java, and he casts his gaze upon the desk-lain iPhone. It's still ringing]

Come on, Theodore.
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Re:Wk 00.2 @thFloor brought to you by Bane Capital
Date: 2017/03/05 04:57 By: tqr Status: Admin  
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[The last corpse man's bloody neck hole, the hole that used to contain various tubes and arteries that oxygenated the fellow's body and circulated his blood from heart to brain and back again, had been fitted with an industrial size CO2 cartridge that rivaled the oxygen tank old Roy Scheider had used to blow up JAWS lo those many moons ago, shoved down good into the body politic it was, like a bitter pill only someone could swallow who had just been decapitated gangum style.

And Rorschalk, whose ill-gotten gains depended on the retrieval of one rogue broker on the brink of madness or mutual understanding in the efficacy of destruction, had the unfortunately ill-timed call to thank for his imminent demise, for as he was inspecting the CO2 cartridged corpse like a Mr. Potato Head doll, his phone began to ring. And like the kernel of popcorn that will succumb to the increased radiation of a cell phone ringing, once Rorschalk raised the phone too close to the contents under pressure of the capsule and was about to hit ANSWER, the CO2 cannister popped ...]


Nooooooooooo!

[Though speech seemed to be a capability he was still able to master, proving that he was still at least in one piece and of sound body, his mind raced forward the few seconds it would take him to come down and wondered at what rate of speed and peak of altitude one could reasonably expect to at least have a good chance to survive the crash landing...]
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