SECTION 10

Wednesday, December 17, 2003 3:29 PM

Sectioned it off, feel much better.  what i need to do is make some fucking macros for these fonts.

You have no idea how many other thoughts were conjested in my head.

Profound thoughts.  Thoughts you wouldn't believe.  But must, for they were well conceived, full-formed thoughts.  Irrefutable, after suitable rationalizing.  That is, ...  hmm...

Okay, so now what?... i don't know.  i have none of those fancy thoughts any more.  that isn't to say, i couldn't summon some new ones...  i just don't feel like it, i have plenty of thoughts in a day, i need not put each one down, or try so desperately to, or want so desperately do, but never do anything about--wait, this has turned to something else.

All i know is if i wasn't smoking right now, i'd be doing something much less productive, like play video games...

oh look, i got aimed.  hmm...

well, i have plenty of time.for this tomfoolery later.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003 3:36 PM

Thursday, December 18, 2003 5:45 AM

so, as mentioned, this is a birth of a new me, or whatever.

i am sad though, as i am nearing 25 in less than three months.  i don't want to be 25.  i wanted "things" " to happen to me" before then.  Hell, i wanted it when i was 18, but i don't suppose that's very unusual.

No, but i do feel a bit cheated.  no, not cheated, but due for a course of good luck.  like the waitress/actress at the resturaunt, waiting for a fancy hollywood director to come by and say, you know what?  you'd be perfect for this non-waitress role, that is really good, and pays millions.

anyway, that's what is called a non-sequitor, of course, that suggests there's a sequitor.  right now, my cat is on my bed, waiting for me.  i have noticed my ritual changing to get...

whew, i jsut had to chase the bastard, he gets impatient, he'll only get up once i lay down of course, and i can't take my eyes off him, thus i'm not looking whiel i tpype this.  as i ti is, i know i better get off and go to bed before this punk ... oh he tried aagain.  gotta go.

DAMN!  nevermind, that sneak--!!  in fact i exclaimed "you sneak--!" as he ran past me so fast, and out the window, i know he thinks its a game, i had to laugh, as he bested me, i turned my head for one second to time stamp, and zip, he was out my door.

goddamn, i love that cat, i can't really sleep without him on my legs, i often really can't and have to track him down after tossing listlessly.  I need to feel that warm lump by my foot.  it makes everything alright.

lets use a euphamism, and call me a creature of habit, and look upon it as a quirk.  there are many things i quirkily try to do every day, if possible, have my cat rest at my feet at the end of it, is definitely one of ithem.

this is all part of my great capacity to love, that is being subletted to this creature.  i need something fangless, and generally furless, and female, would be nice.  sigh.

so i've got this new schedule... i don't sleep more than 4 hours the night before, feel like shit all day through work, and less so during the night with the musicians, then i go home and stay up even later, its abotu 6 AM right now, i was watching Gorky Park, totally enthralled, when i only get two hours of the recording--would have been death trying to watch that with all the commercials--which shoud have been a 3 hour recording.  i figured most movies were 90 min back when, and that movies are usually 2 hours with commercials, this movie ended up with a LOT of commercials, i was able to zip through, but at the price that i lost the rest of the movie, and this wouldn't happen if the phone connection ... sigh.

My point?  Oh... so i stay up until 6 AM, and i sleep for about 10 hours, and i feel good the next day.  I would sleep for more if i could.  but sadly, i do have to work.  so...  (but not so sadly, how many jobs can you say you can sleep in after staying up all nigth before?)

Such is part of my new jue da vie juie.. jua... fuck it.  My new section of the green room.  An optomistic turn, soon, soon i feel something in the ways of love coming.  it always does once i get myself on my feet.  you know, feet, confidence, dominance, alpha male, self-esteem--not necessarily narcissism, nor egotism, or jingoism, or chauvinism, or ... ismism.  when you ism too much your an ismist.  and the ones who really get hurt by ismism is the children.

Point, point... hmm.  i'm happy, i'm going to sleep, i'll have my cat eventually, and evenutally some pinocha.

i'm still playing it cool though, i do think about it, but only in that way that people do when prepairing themselves before a race or competition.  I'm not going to try out for the team until i know i can make a lap or two.  why are sports analogies so easy, even though i don't watch, participate, or acknowledge sports , in general...

oooh, here's the cat, i got him now, the sneaky bastards trying to eat, i'll shanghai the feline, and i'll ... "talk" to "you" ... "later"  "..."

Thursday, December 18, 2003 6:13 AM

Friday, December 19, 2003 7:17 AM

you know...  i honestly have nothing to say right now.

of course, i was thinking plenty until just now.  now i'm drawing a blank.

oh a topic would be easy enough to conjure.  but i don't know, it just seems forced.

So, instead...  i'll not write about anything.  i write about nothing a lot, and it passes the time well enough.

sigh.  i need to hook up the vapors.

there's only one girl i want to call, and maybe i will, tomorrow, before work...  i feel i should.  for she is really the only one i genuinely want to see.  who i am sure will be entertaining, am sure i will be comfortable with, am sure is... just as lonely, in some ways...  though i don't really know what she's about right now.  i don't know, i feel a definite kinship.  like, no other girl could possibly make me feel at ease...  you know what it is?  she's never taken advantage of me, its always been 50-50, and we've help each other out of a few jams...  so few girls can i say that i know, that don't owe me money, that i am interested in, to some extent, that are possibly interested in me, to some extent.

i mean, all the others, are either slightly weirded out by me, i am not normal, after all.  i mean, she acted weird too...  but, like, in ways i would, so it wasn't too weird...  very strange stuff, no i won't elaborate on who, i'm probably not going to even call her.  i can't say who though.

does it really matter?

what are your plans this holidays?  why not redecorate your dungeon with us?  with better incarcerations and places of physical punishment.

spruce up those old chains and irons with...  what else, a sprig of spruce.  And a splash of blood.  virgin, preferably.

almost 25, last year for somethnig to happen, before i give up and go to grad school.  i must make it happen, though, or at least help it happen, i mean, i have an incredible faith in my own talent, i feel i could be such the engenue.  or whatver.

me an my whistful thoughts, just tossed out there, to die.  a few sentences, then its off to the next whistful thought.  its nice to not have to worry about money though.  i mean, its nothing to brag about, but nothing to lament about, neither.

i think about sex often, you know, in a very abstract way.  Which is hard to describe, but why the fuck not?  You see, women hear men think about sex every 5 seconds, and are like ... wha? they have the spice channel on all the time, and they just flip to it whenever a real life conversation gets boring?

i think i should work on some comedy material.  particularly some "men and women: they're different, huh?" material.  i always laugh at that stuff.  if they can make me think, much better learn, through a new perspective, then its a comedian i respect, and who earns my laughs.  i don't even care if these comedians get the best laughs, but they usually do.

what... oh, right, i want to do some writing.  besides this.

soo, ttfn, and all that razzmatazzjazz.  and if there's any reason why, its cause i don't give a fuck.

Friday, December 19, 2003 7:38 AM

Saturday, December 20, 2003 5:01 AM

T minus 11 hours, its official.  then i have to meet with the folks, and things, and i still haven't a gift, and i got a real lame excuse why, so, i'll spare you.

aaaah, but i'm feeling good tonight.  fairly good indeed.

i haven't been able to get a fairly good cup of mate out of my cup in a while now, since i stupidly tried ginko tea, which ruined my months long curing--years, in fact.  i don't think permanently, i just need to really work on it.  i also need a method without metal... actually, the metal never bothered me before, its just the ginko tea, so i'll go back to old method, cause my new method, involving filters that roll up and attach to the tea bag, instead of a paper clip, but then attach to the cup handle--well, the water diffuses all the way through the filter paper down the side, dripping, and i can't have that.  Sooooo.  i'll have to figure out something, but in the mean time, i might as well start one brewing.

fucking family obligations.  were it not for the fact that these people could keel over--no, i shouldn't even kid about such things.  i need mate though.

...

sorry, i got distracted there for about an hour and a half, ah the blessing/curse.  its about 6:30, but i'll save the stamp for when i'm done.

what the fuck is all this shit about mate?  fuck that.  i don't know, but, whatever.  okay, so i'm at... uh...  t minus...  i don't know.  but i better think about when i need to wake up by, so i can plan to

let's sorry, let's see... hmm... 2 hour drive, at least.  4 ... so... i need to be up by 12, 1ish.  okay, no worries then.fuck. i better check my phone messages, i've put it off much too long.

i just distrust certain medium, like the phone or the mail, not for their fallibility, but for their reliable way of ruining one's day.  sigh. i'll listen to my damn messages.

oh, by the way, of course i didn't call that girl.

cool, nothing too worrisome in those messages.

...

damn, i keep getting distracted, and never seem to finish this entry.

its now 7:15.  but i think its about damn time for that damn time stamp...  i'm not too happy with these recent entries, not much of an auspicious beginning for this section, not at all.

nonetheless, a blogitis--or rather a blog it is.  not a disease.  exkcept of i lazy typing whatever .  so i make an entry, no matter how lame, and i must keep it, i can't avoid the fact that not every word that comes from my fingertips is all that geniusified.  i'm cheap, i'm easy, i'm sometimes, much worse, lazy and ignorant, yet, fuck it, i don't care, sometimes.  i'm not that all the times, just sometimes, but sometimes could also apply to my caring, for sometimes i do--but more importantly, sometimes i don't.  and less importantly, but more important caring in general, i don't care right now.  i really don't .  so i'm being stupid.  very sometimse.

and lazy and icnocpmite nd .  imnocpotenp inaco pnc m  a.in  ...  incopmo un ...  incohpm o...  incompet ... inceompe... incompetjne... incompetijn.... incompetjte... incowmtemi.... incometie... inocopme... inocopm...  incopmetj.... inoch.ntmue.... incho. e... inoc.mue... inco.metp. ... inco.met.   ...  incom.te...  inocm.j...  inco.met.... inoc.me...  incohm.etcm.... inoch.m... incheoc m.... inoc.me... inoc.met.... incom.et.... inoc.met... incom..... inoc.met...  incoqm.et.... inoc.me.t... inocm.e... inco.m.m... incom.et.... nioceom.t... inocpmuet... inoc.,me... inpcom... inoc.mjt.... inocyp.m.m... nioc.mp.e...  inc.mopt.... inco.m pt..... inoc.m..  (I'll get it eventually) ... inco.mp... inoch.pm.ct.... inoc.mpm........ incopmetu.... incoh.umjt.... incop.mp... incp.m.. inoc.mu... inc.mop... inoc.mp.t.. inoc.pm.... incomp.t.t..  incop.m.t.t..  inicom... inocmpt.w.... inoc.mp.t... inocomp.... inocmp.t.t.. incomp.t.t... eni... incompt..t..  incompteetn... incompw..n.. incomp.w... incomp.t.t.nnn  ... incompeten.t...  incopmet... incomp.t... inoc... icon... incopm.n.... incompew.n.. incomp.t... incompeten.t  incomptenet..  incompett... incompetent.

i did it.

did i?  ... 

yeah, i did, wasn't sure abotu the ... spelling.  girr... grr. . these typose are reallyi starting to annoaynig  ninan iannn nanaynqei  annyneotiu

i'm kidding i won't do that again.

its all abotu being able to type it really fast.  incompetent.  incompetent.  incompetent.  incompetent.  incompetent.  incompetent.  incompetnen...  damn, i was doing fine at doing it slowly.  fucked up on the last cause it word-wrapped on me.  but anyway.  that's easy.  the tricki is to punch it out on the kepb.. y... keny... keyboard.  and it won't look he the grrr the same or yo... fro... for you, beacus... because... you're doing that crazy qwerty stuff, and i'm doing the obviously superior dvorak.

isn't it obvious...

okay, so that was... um 10 minutes, well spent.  much better than thet r... the rest.  of the sis  the  this gar... or  oh fuck it.

Saturday, December 20, 2003 7:25 AM

Sunday, December 21, 2003 5:45 AM

i was just thinking, how fucked up would some of the most romantic songs be, in a obsessed psychopath thriller.  Ready or Not Here I Come, by the Intruders.  Ain't no mountain high enough.  Can't get next to you.  I'm gonna make you love me.  Thin line between love and hate.  kiss and say goodbye.

Antyw

Anyway, who cares, right?  i don't.  nope.. not at all.

who cares, not me, in the least.

you excuse me, you want some funny dialogue?

naw fuck it, i'd rather not.

But whatever.  you know, i write these whistful songs, and wanting words, and all this crap about i need a girl, i want a girl, you are my girl, but not my girl, when will you be my girl, i need another girl, etc.

Well, you know what, i don't need a girl, girls are extremely bad for productivity, and i know this from experience.  I didn't write a single goddamn thnig, except the occassional playwrighting assignment, during the period between the first year of college till the end of the third year.  Why?  cause i was extremely happy, in general, or at least occupied, with a girlfriend.  I wrote some when i had my most recent... relationship mishap.  But not much.  I wrote my most when i was in junior high, high school, and then these last two or three years, not including my time with the mishap.  Times when i would have shot myself for the touch of a woman's hand, but instead spent my time writing away my sexual angst.

sex is a wonderful thing though, i remember every time, well, every new time, with a new person.  kindof.  i guess i remember it about as well as i do anything i try to remember.  But whatever, memories are overrated.

Everything is overrated, except...  Nope, its all overrated.  i do love the caress of a gentle woman's touch.  and the feeling she gives so much... okay, now i'm spewin lyrics.  and that's not my intention.

god these entries suck.  well you know what, i need to be productive.  Right?  Sieze the day of abstenance.  Use the fact that i don't have a girl jumping up and down energetically on my mere presence.  I have time i could very well not have.  I could write something beautiful, or meaningful, or make the perfect song, learn that technique that will make it all different, and i don't fucking know, do i care... no.  so oh well.

sex, would be nice though...   must.  readjust...  mindset.  use these two hours, do something.  These two more hours of being awake i believe.  Well, one of the first things i'm going to do is use my coffee maker to make some mate.  or not.  i'm too lazy for that.  but i'm going to do something.  something not requiring much movement, but whatver.  sometihng nonetheless.

fuck typos.  i don't give a shit, and i don't care if you do, and if you don't then good, but if not, then its also good, but if its not good, then it must be something else, and that must not be care related, or shit-related.  or caring about shit related, but related to care or shit, without the other.  Or...  haha, i'm such a jackass.

Sunday, December 21, 2003 6:08 AM

Monday, December 22, 2003 4:08 AM

i have to work in about 6 hours.

i could sleep, that would be a good idea, with consideration of what i have to do.  But fuck it.  ah yes, vapors, remind me why i love teh nighttime.

i got a strong desire to write, but can't decide what...  i really should share.  i need to.  but not this.  this is crap, i've written lots of greater value.  and yet, i only share this current moment with you.

My body has lately been telling me things, my mind doesn't agree with.  like persuing women.  but i'm resisting, somewhat.  Not sure why... oh yeah, want to be productive...

Then why am i writing this?  I could be productive.  I could also sleep, even sleep, would be more productive.  This...  this isn't productive.  and yet, i can't help it, i must write.  So...  Let's do something at least, write something, otherwise, this redbull and vapors will be a waste, and this last cheater cig wouldn't satisfy the same.

Remember that cheap old cliche they used in 80s movies...  You know, the detective would always be quitting cigarettes that day.

What the fuck.  I know.  Instead of movie format, i'll try to translate to written narrative.  Let's begin.

Monday, December 22, 2003 4:16 AM

"What is it?" asked the tough, black commander.  He was mad, and with good reason.

"It's McGriffin," said detective Reddington, he left the office as fast as he entered it, not waiting for a reply.

McGriffin walks in.  Hair and clothes amuss.  He seemed to have gotten dressed in a hurry, hasn't shaved, and looks as if he may have recently been in a fight.  The commander was not pleased to see him.  Though a man prone to displeasement, he was especially displeased today.  McGriffin tries to comb his hair with his hand, and straighten his tie with the other.  The commander simultaneously tries to curb his anger, and speak in a thinly-veiled pleasant manner.

"So, McGriffin, how'd you sleep?"

"Not bad, considering."

"Oh, of course, considering.  And i of course consider it very important to shown concern for my salary detectives."  He directs him to the chair across from him.  The commander, Commander Edwin Earl Howard, had well-worn, tough, deep black skin that had served him well for nearly 50 years, and the body of a retired boxer in a fashionable business-suit, neatly pressed.  McGriffin, on the other hand, is in his early thirties, wears a cheap grey suit and a black tie everyday.  He has many suits, but they're all cheap and gray.  His shoes are always scuffed, as well.

"Look, Earl, you shouldn't say 'salary' with such contempt in your voice."

"Look, McGriffin, i'm probably the only friend you got in this department."  He gets up from his nice leather chair, walks over to him, puts his large hand on his shoulder.  "As it is, not many understand that ... different results require different methods.  You've succeeded in a few places where others have failed, and that makes them jealous, and then they start talking, and suggest that you should be taken off active duty."

"And you tell them?"

"Go ahead!  You can start it in motion, but McGriffin has made a few friends as a result of his... results.  As a result, i don't ever have to cover for your ass and your antics," he sits back in his leather chair.  He reaches into his desk and gets a cigar.

"Well, that's good to hear, if a bit puzzling to hear."

"Trust me, I'm not saying it to put you at ease.  Because those same friends you've made, you've also started to lose, some of them, cause you've busted some of their buddies.  Funny how fickle friends can be.  The way I hear it is you're almost out of friends, and definitely out of get-out-of-jail-free cards.  One more fuck up!"

"What, no doubles or fifty bucks?"

"You are lucky, McGriffin, that I am able to keep my composure, but it is easy, when i remember, that if its your ass, its your ass, i've never defended you before, and i'm not going to now.  Because your job is not worth losing my job, and I'm not planning to, as I've been here a lot longer than you."  He lights his cigar.

"I thought this was a no-smoking building, like, you know, every other one in the state?" asked McGriffin.

"Yes, but this is a smoking office--you see, I have an air purifier and a permit, JUST, for momments like these.  I'm just glad I didn't read the front page of the morning paper, until i got to work."

"Wife wouldn't permit the cigar, would she?"

"Of course not.  But look here.  These headlines don't exactly make up for last weeks!"

"Oh, that article wasn't even on the front page, and it didn't exactly make you sound all that bad.  Or the department... in general..."

"Save it McGriffin, your fate is in your hands.  That said, how would you like to hoist yourself by your petard?"

"Love to."  The commander throws a fat manilla folder on his desk.

"We've emailed you more of the particulars, but here's something to start with."

"Ah...  Its momments like these when I wish I hadn't picked today to quit smoking."  The commander laughs heartily and leans back in his chair.

Monday, December 22, 2003 5:05 AM

Monday, December 22, 2003 5:31 AM

I just finished rereading Chapter 10 of perversity.  Definitely the best chapter, but to appreciate it the most, you have to read all the previous chapters.  Still, by far one of my favorites of recent times.  So, should i continue the pulp-heroism of Detective McGriffin?

McGriffin gets out of his 1972 gold chevy nova and looks at the notebook in his hand.  And by "notebook" I mean literallly, a pad with pieces of paper in it, and on these pages were the facts that McGriffin would put down with his trusty No. 2 and these facts he would use to track down the criminal element.

On the page he was reading, there was an address 4662 Banacek Lane.  He looked up at the street sign, he was at the cross-streets of Banacek and Kojak Ave.  He looks around, and squinted in the sun, deciding it was much too bright for anyone's good.  He hurries along the sidewalk, rubbing his left arm--for below his shirt is the patch that is not dispensing nicotine fast enough.

He knocks on the door.  An attractive woman of 30 answers the door.

"Good morning, Miss Steadman."  She instinctively clutches her lapels of her bathrobe to conceal herself more.

"How do you know my name?" she asks.

"I'm sorry, I don't always explain myself..."  There is a long pause.  Miss Steadman is waiting, but he only follows with "may I come in?"

She opens the door wider and nods.  He walks in, takes a seat.  He continues: "Anyway, could i trouble you for a cup of tea, I believe you have darjeeling?"

She looks quizzically at him, "yes...  I do."  She walks over to start the kettle.

"I suppose I should come right to it.  Frankly, Miss Steadman, all roads lead to you."

"What roads are those, and where do the come from?"

"They start on the body of Antonio Ramirez, go in every direction, and all still manage to end with you.  Should I give you an example of one such road?"

Monday, December 22, 2003 5:54 AM

Monday, December 22, 2003 2:42 PM

"Should I know this 'Antonio Ramirez?'" she asks coyly.

"I think so, he used to work for you, or your husband really.  For though you own half the company, you're pretty much a silent partner, am I right?" he asks.

"Yes, my husband--or rather, ex-husband--that is..."

"Your late husband?" he suggests.

"Yes, exactly, my late husband, he made all the decisions.  In business, that is."  She walks over to the thermostat.  She turns it way up, commenting: "I'm cold."  Then she walks back to the divan, and lays upon it.  The temperature becomes noticably warmer, almost immediately, so much so that by the time she gets to the divan, he's loosening his tie.  She says, "oh, damn, now its too hot."  She then removes her robe.  McGriffin makes a note in his notebook that she is naked.  She looks impatiently at him.

"Well?  Aren't you going to jump me? or say something at least?" she says at last.

"Well, some detectives might see an intimate encounter with a possible suspect a compromising factor on the objectivity of a case.  Luckily, I'm not one of those detectives--that said, would you like me to have sex with you?" he interjects dryly.

"Well, as long as it doesn't interfere with the objectivity."

"Its fine, as long as I fuck you with no emotion, and treat you no differently after we fucked, than if we hadn't fucked."  He goes over to her, taking off tie, begins to kiss her neck, and slowly caress her shoulders.  "That also said, I won't be able to stay to cuddle."

She smiles, turns around and jumps him.

Monday, December 22, 2003 2:59 PM

Tuesday, December 23, 2003 0:05 AM

McGriffin is walking out the house, satisfied.  He sees the gardner, an elderly gentleman of about 70.

"Mr. Rumson, am I right?" said McGriffin, genially.

"Yessir, I am the mrs, rather the ms.'s gardner.  Been working here before they came to this old house," he says, barely getting up from the gardening work he was apparently good at.

"I understand, and what did you see the night of the homocides?"

"Nothing, just a black car speeding away."

"You don't remember anything else, are you sure?"

"Well, actually, there's one thing...  but, naw...  it's probably not important."

"Okay, great then, see you later.  You can contact me through the department if you remember anything."  He starts walking away.  The old man continues to talk after him.

"Really, its nothing important, I'm sure, just something I noticed that I noticed was strange..."

"Uh, huh, sure, great, well, got to be going."  The old man catches up to him and starts tugging on his arm.

"I just really think I should get this off my chest, just make sure it is, as absolutely unimporatnt as I think it is..."

"Sigh!" McGriffin relents.  "Go ahead, tell me."

"Well, as the car was driving away, i noticed the 17-year-old lass who lives across the street yonder was changing with the window blinds open."

"And she had never done this before?"

"Well, sure had, but that was the first time i noticed how nicely she was growing into womanhood."

McGriffin hangs his head, then raises it suddenly, with a look of knowing.

"Of course," he exclaims, "the killer must have gotten the girl across the street breat-implants, and then rigged the blinders to open just at the time of his exit, thus making sure you'd never get a good look at the fleeing assailant."

"Really, ya think?  Gee, I thought they were real."

McGriffin is about to speak when he wisely choses not to, and walks away.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003 0:30 AM

Tuesday, December 23, 2003 11:18 PM

McGriffin pulls out his cell phone, calls the commander.

"Hey, Earl, yeah, McGriffin...  What?  Fine, I'll hold."  He puts on an elaborate helmet like thing that is a headband, with a wire attachment, attached to a plastic cradle that holds the cellphone directly up to his ear, while he drives.  "What Chief...  I mean, Commander, I know that, its a term of endearment...  Sorry, I was putting on my cell phone attachment."

The Commander responds: "Yes, yes, go, go, gadget cell phone.  Look, I need to know the progress on this case."

"This case!  It's getting silly, that's what the progress is.  Damn silly.  Oh wait, i'm being followed..."  McGriffin looks into his rear-view mirror, sees a black mercedes.  The driver of which is Ms. Steadman.

"Look, McGriffin, I'll call for back-up, what's your position?"

"Naw Commander, I think i got this one.  I'll call you if I need to...  Actually, what am I talking about what car...  Must be my imagination, gotta go, see you later..."

"McGriffin--" but the chief was cut off.

McGriffin pulls to the side of the road, takes off his attachment; she pulls over behind him.  He waits, but she doesn't get out her car.  He gets out of his; she finally gets out, goes half the way and stops; he is a good 10 feet from his car.  He looks past her at the empty car.  But then a head emerges from the backseat!  Out of the car comes...  A ninja!  The ninja gets close to McGriffin, who assumes a Crane stance.

But then the ninja, rather than reach for his katana, pulls of his mask to reveal he is really a woman and a blonde, blue-eyed, beauty at that.  McGriffin gets his gun out.  And approaches cautiously.  Ms. Steadman and the ninja approach him.

"McGriiffin," says Ms. Steadman, "meet my bodyguard, Sonja."

"Oh, this is completely rediculous," says McGriffin.  "Why is she dressed like a bloody Ninja?"

"I am a Ninja," says Sonja, "I was raised by an old Japanese man who found me in the jungle one day..."

"Oh, come on!" says McGriffin, "I saw American Ninja too, and you my dear are no Micheal Dudakoff or whoever the other guy was, from the third one."

"Look, its true," she says.

"It better be, or I wouldn't be paying her ten thousand a day," says Ms. Steadman, this time dressed, in a blue number.

"You specifically called and asked for a Ninja?  Where did you go, the Ninja Classifieds?" asks McGriffin.

Just then, two black vans pull up out of nowhere.  Out from the vans come two groups of ninjas, all in white, five each.  McGriffin again assumes a Crane stance.  Sonja steadies him, and says calmly, "I'll handle this."  She walks calmly toward the group who has congregated and each are assuming a different karate stance, kicking into the air, and whatnot.  The first ninja of the group comes out of the group and attacks Sonja.

"Okay," says McGriffin, "hold it!  Hold it!  Stop the production," he walks closer to the assembled ninjas.  "I thought I recognized the pudgy one.  That's Ralphy Mouthy Slavinov."  The ninja hangs his head.  "And that's Slim Jim Bromine I bet, next to him."  The ninja next to him bows his head.  "I know this racket!"

"What do you mean?" says Ms. Steadman, who rushes to his side.

"These aren't Ninjas, these are two-bit wanna-be russian mobsters.  And this is the oldest trick in the book.  First the white ninjas, quote-end-quote attack the patsy.  But they don't attack her, really just scare her, probably by doing those stupid air-kicks and screaming a lot.  Not that ninja's are suppose to scream, I just don't give them that much credit."

"Yes, they were screaming a lot," she says, remembering.

"Yep, that's totally their M.O.  One day they are street-gangsters, the next they are elite mafia, the day after terrorists--they're really an acting troupe from Russia that went bankrupt after the collapse of the Soviet Union. They prey on the rich and incredibly gullible.  I must hand it to them on gumption for going as Ninjas, I hesitate giving them praise for more than creativity, but I guess they spent most of the efforts on reconning a perfect victim.  And they did a very good job at that it seems."

"Oh McGriffin, you saw right through those nasty ninja disguises, didn't you!" said Ms. Steadman.

"Naw, I just saw the M.O. pattern, and guessed that amoung the assorted were those two ex-cons with a penchant for using theatre as a weapon.  I don't know karate from karat-B.  But karats are currency.  Not like current D-C..."

She slapped him.

"Thanks, I needed that, I guess it was only fair.  But remember, you asked for those.  Now then.  You ninja, what has this taught you?"

The ninja known as Ralphy took his helmet off, "that no matter how stupid the patsy, you can never expect the guy she is fucking to be as stupid as she is."

"Exactly," he says, "now go home.  Come on Ninjas!  Really, you guys need to try something else.  I mean, you're a troupe why don't you try something legal..."

"Wha!" says Ralphy, "and do actin' on your side of the law?  Hah, that's a funny one McGriffin."

"All right, scattle off, unless, the lady wants to press charges?" he says.

She shakes her head.

"But I think the lady would like the 5000 she gave Sonja as a deposit," says McGriffin.

Sonja responds, "I already spent it on a boob-job.  But I'll have a three-way with you and Ms. Steadman."

"Well, that's her decision," says McGriffin.

"Well, I really only hired her cause she was hot...  Have the scars healed?"

"No scars.  It was a minor reduction down to D.  They're much firmer now," says Sonja.

"Wonderful!" responds Ms. Steadman.  "Ralphy, you can drive my cars back to my place."  She throws Ralphy her keys.

McGriffin interjects, "um Ms. Steadman, are you sure that's wise?"

"Of course, what was I thinking, I'll need my keys back eventually, you can use the silver one to get in the house, just leave them on the big screen TV, thanks."  They both get into McGriffin's car, who shakes his head as he enters his Nova.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 0:17 AM

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 1:23 AM

The three of them are lying satisfied in a hotel king-sized bed, each smoking a cigarette.  McGriffin sits up quickly.

"Damn, I forgot!  I'm quitting cigarettes."  Stamps out the cigarette.  "Where's my damn patch."  He reaches down by the side of the bed, by his shoes, and his gun.  Just then.

The door gets kicked in.  Two assailants with shotguns come through.  But before they even get off a shot, McGriffin from his akward position grabs the gun and shoots them both.

"Damn," says McGriffin, "and just when I was ready to go a seventh time.  Sonja."

"Ya?" she says.

"Who hired you," he says.

"I told you, no one hired us."

"But how did you find Ms. Steadman?"

"We, um..."

"Well?"

Ms. Steadman interjects, "we met at a party.  It was pure chance."

"Who's party?" asks McGriffin.

"Why, one of Mr. Steadman's business partners, in a ballroom in some tiny latin american country."

McGriffin raises an eyebrow, "to a tiny latin american country!"

Sonja sits up, "are we going too?"

"No."  He gets up, puts on his clothes and leaves.  Sonja and Ms. Steadman go back to their activities.

In a tiny latin-american country:

"Bartender.  Give me a Rum and Coke."

He returns with a glass and a bag, "un 'rum' y un kilo de coca."

"What?  What is this?"

"Coca, pure Columbian cocaine, imported directly."

"Don't you have Coca Cola?"

"Coca Cola, que es esto?"

"You've never heard of coke?  You know, down your throat, not up your nose?"

"Mil desculpas senor.  Pero no."

"Alright, alright, tienes toro de rojo?"

"Toro de rojo...  Ah, Red Bull, of course.  I mean, claro que si."

"Okay, give me a red bull and heroin."

He starts to take away the coke and rum.

"Leave those," says McGriffin.  The bartender returns with the red bull and heroin, McGriffin pulls his wallet and lays a few 10,000 bills on the bar.  "Keep the change."

A man in a topaz suit and slicked-down black hair approaches McGriffin.  "Ah, I see you are a man of taste, I am the proprietor of this establishment, let me do a line of the house blow with you?"

"No thanks," says McGriffin.  "I don't do these, strictly for resale."

"Aaah, bueno, bueno," he puts his arm around McGriffin, "that's good, cause if you had agreed, I would have had to shoot you, as I hate drug users.  Ptooee.  Were they not so essential to my business, I'd do away with the lot of them.  Now, then, would you like to hit this blunt?"  He produces a blunt from his pocket.

McGriffin hesitates.  "Good stuff?"

"Si," he says, "good stuff."

McGriffin shrugs and takes it.  "Do you have a light?"  He looks even more skeptical at the blunt, then puts it between his teeth and lights it with a candle on the bar.

"Aaaah, bueno, bueno.  For if you hadn't hit the blunt, I might have again needed to kill you.  You see my father had a saying, which, translated into english is: 'Always trust the man who offers a hit of his spliff, and never trust the man who passes on the blunt."  They were his last words, as well, but strangely, he ammended, 'cough, cough, as long as its made of good stuff, cough, cough.'  Then died.  Oh, by the way, its a Cuban cigar and the mota is my own, grown in my own home, by my own hands.  It is an honor!  For you to hit this blunt."

"Well, I feel honored, as well."  They pass the blunt back and forth.

"What is your name, stranger?" the man asks.

"Detective McGriffin."  The man's eyes widen.  He immediately draws his gun, McGriffin does the same, almost simultaneously.

McGriffin says, "look, I only want some information."

"Oh," says the man, who puts away his gun.  McGriffin shrugs and puts his weapon away.

"Who ordered the party with all the Americans and Russians a couple months ago?"

"That would be... a man in a black hat."

"And?"

"What, he didn't give me a name.  Oh, and he drove a black car."

"Wonderful," says McGriffin.  He starts to walk away, "you can keep the heroin and the coke, and the rum, i'll take the red bull, if you don't mind, and you can keep the money, they're counterfeit..."

"Ah, McGriffin, you are too kind, but you should really take the counterfeits with you, they have value in their own right, especially in the hands of criminal element such as myself and this bartender.   Oh, and while you're at it, keep the blunt, with my regards."  He hands McGriffin the fake money.

"Thanks," says McGriffin, with blunt held tightly in lips.

He starts to walk away.  Then stops.

"Damn, I forgot, I'm quitting tobacco.  Ah fuck it," he says, taking off patch.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 2:18 AM

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 2:31 PM

"McGriffin!" yells the commander, sitting in his nice, leather chair.

"Please," says McGriffin, "I just got off the plane from some tiny latin-american country."

"Real or fictional, look, McGriffin, what's with those goons..."

"Goons?" asks McGriffin.

"Yeah, goons."

"Like the ones you get in the Goons Classified?" asks McGriffin.

"Look, McGriffin," says Earl, "I don't care about your little inside jokes with yourself.  I want to know about those dead goons you left in a hotel room, and didn't bother to tell anyone about."

"Oh, sorry, slipped my mind."  Says McGriffin, casually, sitting down into a chair, not nearly as nice as the Commander's.

"Did it?!" says Earl.  "Have you made any progress on the case at least?"

"Hmmmmm...  Not really."  McGriffin picks at his nails.

"Well, that's wonderful," says Earl, "guess what, I'm going to try to instill in you a sense of urgency, and you're going to take it, as a subordinate.  I'm going to take out all my frustrations and anger with the rest of this department, with my wife, with the kid down the street, everybody, including all that anger and frustration I have reserved for you.  You're going to go into shock by the time I'm done with you.  I'm--"

A phone rings.  The commander answers, responds: "mm, hmm, I see... I see...  Alright goodbye."

"I suppose that's some kind of new development in the case I need to get right to, and thus saving me from this punishment?"

"No, that's my order, they're out of mushrooms.  You're still thuroughly fucked."

An hour and a half later.

"...And my wife!  Can you believe her, she blames me for..."  A ring is heard.  The Commander composes himself and sits back in his chair.

McGriffin looks anxious.

"What?" says the Commander.  "You're time is up, the cost of this session will be deducted from your paycheck."

"What seriously?" says McGriffin.

"No, that's just my order, damn they're late," says the Commander.  "I'm in a good mood, i'll tip them well anyway."

He walks out of the room.  McGriffin reaches for a blanket and covers himself.  McGriffin wonders why the Commander has a blanket, but quickly realizes.  He then lets himself succumb to the effects of shock, as best as he can.  But the shock is kind-of a let-down, so he gets bored and walks out of the office.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 2:55 PM

Friday, December 26, 2003 4:41 AM

McGriffin's feelin melancholy, the case isn't progressing how he'd like...  Sure, he was getting laid plenty, but while that usually gets investigative results, it seems recently to be getting McGriffin nothing but booty.  He goes into a cafe, one of those all-night joints willing to take a melancholy soul like him at 4 AM.

The waitress seems completely unconcerned with his entrance, which is exactly how he likes it.

He sits in a booth and starts to read over the case file.  The waitress finally comes by, asking if he wants anything, he says coffee, black.  ...  but with sugar and milk and artifical sweetner and non-dairy creamer, on the side.  The waitress gets him all of the requested, and extra attitude, compliments of the house, it seemed.

He didn't care, if anything, he was probably going to tip better for it.  Her surliness left him alone to the case file.  He looked, and looked, for one over-riding fact, something, that he was looking at, but didn't realize he was seeing.  He thought about pouring over the crime scene photos again, but realized he was just making himself crazy.

He thinks to himself: "You know, i don't even know these people, come to think about it, i don't even really care about their plight, or the fact that a murderer might get away, big deal, that happens all the time...  I don't even give a shit about my job, or performance, or anything like that.

"I just want to know where that one over-riding fact is.  That single missing jigsaw piece that rearranges everything, and makes it so that, though there seemed to be so many holes, the pieces suddenly fit.  What's most frustrating is that there is no guarantee such a detail exists.  The missing piece, that can sometimes make an entire case, or, if never found, could make the foundation weak and collapse.  Sometimes it can't ever be found."

He mixes his concoction, carefully portioning out every ingredient.

He was no stranger to all-night diners and 4 AM concoctions.  But this was not one of his regular diners, and he was certainly not a regular to anyone there.  But eventually he spied someone who was a regular, evidentally by the chatter he was sparking with the waitress, who wasn't nearly as surly to him.  Him, being, Rumson, the gardner.

Friday, December 26, 2003 5:27 AM

Wednesday, December 31, 2003 7:16 AM

"Ah, Rumson, what are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of your Detective McGriffin.  But by the looks of things, i don't know if you really are all here."

"No sir," he said, hanging his head, and rubbing his eyes, "not entirely."

"Look, son," says Rumson, hand on his shoulder.

"Son!  I'm no more a 'son' than you are," he says, "well, I guess.  I am in actual years of existence closer to that of a 'son,' still...  ...  Oh whatever, what were you going to son, I mean, say?"

"I was going to say that you look haggard.  You look about as old as I am.  Not literally, but figuratively.  Like in the eyebrow area...  You got a nasty wrinkle setting in."

"Thanks...  Anything else?--Or you know what?  Forget it, I don't want to know.  Go be a gardner, and gardner... or garden...  or do something."  He lays his head on his table.

"Why are you even up right now?  I don't think you got up brisk in the morning to sieze the day."

"No... no...  I have a problem letting go of the night.  That's all...  That's all...  Damn, I got to report in to the chief in ... sigh... 3 hours.  Then I'll have to put in a few hours, maybe kill someone...  And I'm just so bloody tired.  You see, you probably, what go to bed at 8 PM every night?"

"8:30 sharp."

"Right, and wake up when the crow cocks or cockadoodles, or rather, when the cock crows...  That's what I meant.  Yeah."  He points for emphasis, but the emphasis fails him and his hand falls limp on the table.  His head slowly lowers, till he has his forehead to the table, but still talks, eyes-closed: "You see, it starts simply, it will be fairly early, like 3 AM, I will have the first inklings of the darkling hours.  Hours I have to myself, to waste, in diners such as these, if ever i go out.  ...  What times it anyway?"

"7:30."

"AM?"

"Yes."

"Damn...  I mean, good, the sooner the better."

"What the sooner the better?"

"The end," he says, exhausted, face flush against the table.  He rests there, eyes closed for a few brief seconds of bliss.  In reality it was more of three minutes that passed.  He quickly raises his head, blinks, widens his eyes, raises eyebrows to intensify this, blinks a few more times.  Then he does the Van Damme Bloodsport thing, where he rubs his eyes intensely with his palms, as he was just blinded by blinding dust--maybe that was Kickboxer, the two are fairly interchangeable.  Anyway, he assumes a perky posture.  "I'm up!  I'm up."

"The end," repeats Rumson.  "You're not sleeping so you might as well hear this."

"Might as well," says McGriffin, head rest on hand, rest on arm, rest on elbow, rest on table, rest on ground.  Something McGriffin imagined would be very soft, regardless of actual texture, if it were possible he could sleep on it.  His mind was consumed with rest.  "Oh right, but first, let me explain the situation.  It gets near 3, I think, I got to be at the Commander's at 10:30, I go to sleep now, I get 6 and a half hours of solid sleep.  Cause I set my alarm for 9:30...  No wait, now that I realize there's no real traffic at that time, I've gotten to work something like 10 minutes before I actually need to be there.  And I can't do that...  So I now knock off 15 min.  So.  I get up...  Rather, I set my alarm...  Okay, whew, seriously, this is going somewhere.  I think."

"Ooh," says Rumson, sitting down in the booth, across from him, "this has to do with my point."

"Soon enough.  Anyway, I set my alarm for 9:45 now.  I get up at 9:45, gently move the cat from...  okay, i move myself out from under the cat, as he is atop seven blankets, which reduces friction.  Or something.  Anyway, i move myself out from under him, walk across my room to the alarm, playing loud oldies music.  I switch it off.  Set it for 30 minutes later.  Turn it back on.  Reach over to my meds, take my meds.  Stumble back to my bed over crap left on the floor of my room.  The cat is of course disturbed, but used to the ritual, and stays put, i slide back in underneath him.  Then enjoy 30 minutes more in the bed that I am absolutely loving at that momment, and not desiring to ever part with again.  But part we must, and i get out of my half-sleep, bittersweet, to turn off the oldies music playing.  Then i got 15 minutes get ready.  Got to be out the door by 10:00.  I used to give myself 30 minutes to get ready, and be out the door by 10:00.  I, of course, would never be, nor ever am, out the door by 10:00.  It takes me 15 min if I'm lucky, at that time, to get to work.  So i can get out the door something like ten minutes late without freaking out--which is what I used to do, when i didn't give myself enough time to get out to work..."  He rests his head on the table again.  "Just... just give me a minute...."  He rests his head, for what feels like 5 minutes, but is in reality 15 seconds.  He jolts up, then puts his head down for another, real, 5 minutes.

Mr. Rumson is apprehensive and doesn't want to disturb him.

"Anyway!" he says with a jolt, as he quickly sits up, with a similar jolt.  "The point is.  The point........  Oh my god," he gets up with another jolt.  "I just remembered."  He reaches around and grabs something out of his back pocket.  A smooshed Dunhill cigarette box.  "The last of my cheater cigarettes!  I forgot about this.  Oh, callooh, callay...  But wait, i got...  What time is it?"

"Its 8 AM."

McGriffin whimpers.  "Alright.  Well, anyway, i got, um, 2 hours...  yes.  2 hours.  that goes to my point.  but first, this dunhill.  I must appreciate it.  After all, i can't go out and buy another pack of cheater cigs, after a while they become more than cheating.  they become failing.  Oh, if my eyes didn't burn so.  Anyway."  He passes the cigarette under his nose.  "There's only one.  I could just smoke the one.  And then its gone.  But then again, there is this bag i smuggled from a tiny latin american country.  I couldn't reject a man's so persistantly hospitable.  So, i make two spliffs, waste two hours, and get more out of one cigarette.  Yes, and i can have a Red Bull, as Red Bull only really goes well with cigarettes.  Hell, why do you think they have that one ad with the guy with 30 cigarettes in his mouth?  It takes good with a cool drag.  Anyway, I should...  Because.  Well, i'll get to my point in a minute.  Anyway, let's get the fuck out of this diner.  You can watch me smoke a spliff.  I'm going to ask, just because some crazy latin american guy said it was important, to him at least, do you want a hit?"

"Oh, no, no, the missus started to take to the reefer after her rhuematism and glaucoma set in.  I tried it, but i get awful munchies for sweets, and I'm a diabetic.  But I let her do her thing and listen to her crazy hippy music.  Makes her happy.  So, I'll watch."

Wednesday, December 31, 2003 8:16 AM

Thursday, January 1, 2004 12:02 PM

McGriffin gets up in his bed.

Looks up, is amazed to see daylight, creeping in through crevaces in the walls.

Looks around, sees cat at his legs.  Slides out.  Walks over to his desk, reaches for alarm, to turn it off, but it is not on.  He has awoken on his own accord.  He shrugs, as he is oft to do.  He reaches over for his meds.  Opens one pill container.  Takes one pill.  Opens another pill container.  Takes one pill.  Opens a third, takes three.  But the third is an herbal.  So he shrugs, and takes three more, thinking to himself, who fucking really knows how many to take?

He starts walking back to his bed, but his cat gets up and jumps off the bed.

"Oh, you fucking slut, you whore, the least you can do is stay till i get up," he says to the cat, the cat runs out.  He sings to himself "just call me angel of the morning."  But only that one lyric.  For, as he tries to return to his slumber spot and his somnulent state, he hears his cell phone.  Damn, he thinks.  He goes back to the desk, and gets the cell phone next to the meds, looks at the number displayed on the front.  It is not a number at all, but his address book listing: "Chief."  This time he thinks and utters "damn!"

Nonetheless, he flips it open before it went to voice mail, and mumbles hello, as if he had just woken up.  Well, he had just woken up, but wasn't as tired as all that.  He just wanted to keep the conversation short.  Granted, he had enough blankets to go in shock 7 times.   7, assuming that blankets are a consumable quantity in shock absorbtion.

"McGriffin...  McGriffin!  Listen up, I'm keeping this short, cause I know I must have woken you."

"Actually, Chief, you know I can't lie to you..."

"Don't call me Chief, McGriffin!"  The Commander was in a jovial mood though.  There hadn't been any new headlines in days. Nonetheless, he wanted to keep the conversation short, as efficiency is simply a good thing.

"Commander, Earl, I can't lie, I actually woke up before you called."

"How strange," he says, picking at his nails.

"Yes, well, I had looped."

"Looped?"

"Looped, you know, when i stay awake so long that when I finally go to sleep, I sleep like 18 hours and its morning.  Its been three days for you, compared to my two.  Looping makes it quite difficult to work out my meds.  Cause the ones to make me stay up, i take in the morning, and the ones that help me sleep, I take at night, before I sleep, but if i don't sleep, I'm supposed to take all of them at some point in a 24-hour span..."

"McGriffin!  Shut the fuck up, you really annoy me sometimes."  He was no longer in a good mood.

"Wha?  Should I take a pill or should you?" said McGriffin taken aback.

"While you were rambling, I got a call.  The gardner, Rumson.  He was just found dead."

"Oh..." says McGriffin, "that's still no excuse to be snappy with me."

"McGriffin--"

"--No, I think I deserve an apology."

"Did you just hear me?  They found the Rumson body floating in the aquaduct."

"In the aquaduct?"

"Did I say aquaduct?  I mean, in his bath tub.  I get the two confused sometimes."

"Where's my apology?"

"Good bye McGriffin, I'll text-message you the directions to his ranch."

"Ranch?"

"I mean, I mean, house.  Sorry, another one of those things.  aquaduct, bathtub, ranch, house, just those four words.  There's actually a few more vegetables.  I mean words.  That's one of them."

"I'm sorry, but bodies are found all the time in baths.  If I'm not shooting someone, someone's been shot, its all part of the job, i think we both know this.  You don't hear me being so openly disrespectful to you.  I keep it behind your back, when I joke with the other detectives, at your expense, you should see the impression I do of you...  Some other time.  Yeah, yeah, I'm going."

Thursday, January 1, 2004 12:46 PM

Friday, January 2, 2004 5:24 PM

"McGruff!" says the mobster.  And by mobster, I mean european.  Maybe Belgian.  "Hold on, I got a cell call."  He talks to the person on the phone, then he hits McGriffin over the face with his gun after a few minutes.  Not too hard, he was already light, to light-medium bruised.  A single cut had appeared on his right cheek, through which four tiny droplets of blood were ever slowly trickling over his already dusty/dirty dermis.

"Goddamn," slick black-haired thug, number one, closing his cell-phone, thrusting it in his black-leather jacket.

"What's up?" slick black-haired thug, number two.  With black-leather jacket and gun.  Number one had hit McGriffin cause he was lowering his head, and he didn't want him going unconscious.  He was still tied up and alive.  And he appeared awake.  With nothing required of them but to wait, number two couldn't imagine what was bothering number one.

"Nothing, nothing...  Goddamn it...  What the fuck," says number one.  "How long have we known each other, Tony?"

"Well, a long time Tony," says Tony 2.  "What's up?"

"I don't know, I just don't usually open up."  Then he hits McGriffin across the other side of his face, a little harder this time.  McGriffin winces slightly, then smiles, appearing unaffected.  "That was just in case you desided to talk...  And I mean not only now, but in the future as well...  Not that you will be around in the future.  The future is going to be without you, that is.  Most likely.  I mean, if i weren't fairly confident that we were going to kill you, I mean, just from prior experience, pretty much, if you get this far... you don't get much farther.  Anyway, keep you fucking mouth shut, cause this does not concern you."

Tony 1 composes himself.  Puts gun away, sits on a near-by rock.  They, by the way, are in a cave of some sort.  McGriffin has no idea how he got there, or if there are even any caves in his state.  In his state, he's not sure if he's even there.  He could care less about what Tony 1 is about to devulge.

"Well, that was my mother.  But that wasn't the call I was hoping for, I made a different call earlier, man, i did a pretty shitty job.  Man, i really suck at this.  Fuck!"

"Relax, Tony, calm, find your center."

"Alright, alright," repeats Tony 1, "I'm relaxed.  I am...  I'm just, a fucking moron is all.  I, I was calling a girl I met at a party.  You know the party Tony was throwing."

"Oh, yeah...  Which Tony, Crazy Tony?"

"Naw, Crazy Tony's party I heard would be much to crazy."

"Ah..."

"So, anyway," continues Tony 1, "I'm at Tony's, and I see this cute girl.  I mean, she's just my type.  Slick black hair, leather jacket, cheap perfume, gun in the garter, you know."

"I personally go for tall, pale Irish girls with short cropped brunette hair, and freckles if possible, a gentle disposition and shy eyes, eyes that are green or hazel, not sure," says Tony 2.

"No, wait, that's my type.  I forgot.  The slick black hair, that's your type, remember?" says Tony 1.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, that's right..."

"But it doesn't have to be cropped brunette," says Tony 1, "she can have blonde, cropped, but plain, and brunette, long, to the waist if possible--girls keep cutting their hair for some unknown reason.  I mean, granted, we have to keep the ponytails, as part of the job, but if i was a woman, and not a mobster thug, i would let my hair grow very long.  And keep it clean of all products and pollutants, and keep it clean, and fresh, and soft if possible..."  He sighs.

"So, this girl, you see her at a party," says Tony 2.

"Ah, what the fuck, you don't care."  He smacks McGriffin for no reason.  This time with his hand.  It didn't seem to hurt him at all, so McGriffin raises a curious eyebrow.  Time passes.  About 2 hours.  No one spoke.

The rocks were brown, and grey in some places.  The ground was dirt, of a similar brown, and dust of a similar grey.  there were spiders in corners and not in corners.  There were bats that flew by, every once in a while.  They were quite furry, in fact, a lighter brown than the rocks, they seemed almost cute in the light.  But only if you were to ignore the ominous shadows they created by passing by the latern.  The latern was bright, but it was the only light in the room.  The air was a bit thin, and it was a tad nippy.  His chair was somewhat uncomfortable as well, being wood, and rigid, without any cushioning.  None in the least.  His grey suit, was, of course, looking pretty shabby, luckily, it was inexpensive to replace.

"Alright," says Tony 1, "just...  Don't say anything okay?  Let me finish my story.  This ain't easy for me you know...

"I see this girl, and well, I don't imagine myself to be this tough, buff, slick euro hit man slash thug.  Intimidating and confident is not how I feel when not in uniform.  The ponytail?  Clip on.  The muscles?  Come off with the jacket.  I go from Euro to california, from thirty something, to twenty four slash five.  Deep olive with bronze tan?  Gone.  Pasty, pock marked, pustilence, putridness, and perillous to think too deeply about.  From contacts to frames.  All that musle tone, the lines...  They simply lift up and off the skin.  Till the body is covered in this loose white sock.  Its disgusting really, is all I can think, sometimes.  But that's cause I have to eventually leave the job, and the uniform.

"You probably don't even take off your uniform do you?  I bet you decided to go all the way and actually make that muscle tone.  Actually acquire that tan by solar or someother means.  You probably don't have contacts at all, you probably have lazer surgery.  And you don't wear a mask, I bet you've had surgery to fix that deviation, or that dissymmetry.  I bet you have all sorts of personal grooming done to you or by you, every day.  Besides all the working out.  Yeah, sure, I could do that.  I suppose.  If I wanted to date a hitman.  Or hitwoman, or whatever.  I don't want muscles on my chick, so she shouldn't expect them on me.  I can accept the blemishes, I can look beyond the frames, beauty is something else to me, and that's perhaps, what made me think she was the most beautiful woman in the room.

"I should work out, I know, people who are fit are happier, I believe, just because of the boost to their self-esteem, which transfers over to confidence, which leads to attractiveness, which leads to successful mating, progeny, etc. etc. and the furtherance of their genetic existence and satisfaciton in this.  I could work out, but instead, I'm on the job.  Sometimes, on the job, and not getting paid.  Just cause I like to wear the costume.  Sometimes, on my off times, I wear other costumes.  But I'm always left with this pathetic physical prescence in the end.  I feel most confident in my costumes.  But I have to take them off to work on my naked body.  But I feel I do much more important things, in some ways, in my costumes.  Things that will be remembered long after the reps and the tanning hours and the manicures that you've wasted your time on.  And with my costumes, I don't need to be more than breathing and alive, with a clear mind, a clear enough mind, to put on my costume, and be anyone I want to be.

"Anyway, I had to take off my costume and I felt very much, alone.  I don't know, i was so much better that night though, though not good enough.  oh why is this so hard for me?  Cause I'm not good being myself, with myself, et cetera, et cetera, I'm afraid I'd have to get New Agey to some how find myself.  Do i need to?  I don't know.  I just wasn't very confident...  I, well, i got her number, but when i called, i fucking, i can't believe, it proposed dinner and a movie over the phone, cause i don't know, i figured i had to give her some reason to call me back, i figured maybe if i did something witty i could make a good impression, but nothing's more contrived than an answering machine message performance.  I don't know, i'd probably fuck up anything too complicated.  But who am I kidding, I was still contrived.  I had to be, I was too concerned, anyway, so i might as well be constructively consumed by the upcoming call.  I figured out what I'd finally stumble around to if we happened to actually talk to each other.

"I mean, it was a rough game plan for a message, if that was to happen.  Indeed i called at an hour to perhaps, encourage a message situation.  But I didn't play the message situation right, I ...  Oh, god, you know what I said?  I'm not completely sure, just that after-shock, you know, keeps me from remembering...  But it was something like: 'Hey, this is Tony, you know, its just um.  We, uh, we met at the party, um, I was thinking, that maybe I could, you know, take you out to a movie, then maybe have dinner.  You know.  Um, like, uh, if you want to, uh, call me back my number is et cetera, if you want to...  And, uh, yeah, maybe I'll get to talk to you again.'

"What an idiot I am, 'maybe' I'll get to talk to you again, how defeatist.  But i am defeated, and i feel so stupid, and i don't think she'll call me, i bet she regrets giving me her real phone number, i thought it would be a fake number.  Finding it was a real number did make me feel better.  But now, now i got to wait, its been like what?  let me check my history.  I called 2 hours ago.  Yeah, and now, my head, my heart, she's so attractive, like, way out of my league, i feel almost, like she was the most attractive woman, i saw, with my eyes, granted, but still, no one can doubt that empirically what i find attractive is in accordance with some standards of beauty.  She was the pretty girl there, at the party.  And I tried, but i dont' know.  I'm still me, you know, i can't avoid that.  My words, in person, out of costume, are pathetic.  I'm almost wondering if I should be in costume first, compose my words, then use them out of costume.  But then it would be...   Well, I don't know.  I just think I should stay out of my costume as much as possible.  Or at least, not use the costume as a crutch, but that is where I'm comfortable.  And i like the costume...

"Oh, Tony, do you understand me?  Its so hard to continue, and the waiting is so unbearable.  My self-esteem will be ...  No it can't be shattered you can't further shatter a shard.  Maybe you can, but it gets harder.  I'll feel, if anything, more confirmed of how unbearably unattractive I must be.  And I know I could very well do some sit-ups right now.  But instead, I'd rather be here, holding a gun to this motherfucker's head, and, perhaps getting to shoot him.  Something I can't do out of costume," says Tony 1.

Tony 2: "So who was on the phone?"

"Oh, my mother, that's why I was so mad," says Tony 1, "I can't take the phone calls from other people, when I'm waiting so desperately for a call, I feel won't come, and when it does come, i'll be scared shitless, and stumbling to say things the right way, and knowing I will fail, and somehow things will fall through, eventually, she will dislike me.  She will run out of patience.  With me, or something.  Or it will require more effort from me than I'm willing to give for an uphill battle, that I don't really want to run, as I seem so rarely to win battles."

"Hey Tony," says Tony 2, "I'm not the winner you deem me.  I guess I could be.  But I'm not.  In fact, I'm not alone, a lot of the world is alone.  Alone and not alone.  I think its our fears of disease.  Communicable disease will soon be abolished.  The sexual revolution started with contraceptives, but will not come to complete fruition till we irradicate communicable disease, or prevent its communication, without cumbersome barriers.  Then sex wouldn't equal death, like it does right now.  That's our generation, the Sex Death Generation.  So I now dub it, so it should be.  We're after the free-love, and after the diseases, and the fear, and the constrictions, and the distance between men and women, and free expression of love is suppressed, as if returning to our Puritan roots, and soon enough, maybe less than 30, maybe less than 20 years, there will be no more fear of sex equaling death.  And then, then, people will be happy, and fucking like bonobos on extacy.  Unfortunately, we will have gone far beyond our sexual peek, and while aging may be eventually slowed, even stopped, it will never be reversed in our lifetime, and i doubt even some kind of preservation will allow you to eventually regain your youth, and a chance at orgiastic bliss in a society with sexual freedom."

"I do not doubt it Tony," says Tony 1, "but right now, I really wish this girl would call me.  I just really don't think she will.  If she does, somehow, you will know, trust me.  For i am in costume often, and I am sure you will be around as well.  As you are nothing but costume."

"That I am Tony," says Tony 2.

"As am I," says McGriffin.

"Am am I," says Tony 1.  "I just wish somehow, I could somehow, just..."

"Find happiness, contentment?" asks McGriffin.  Tony 1 threatens with his gun, but he reserves the striking.  He is not in the mood just then.

"Yes, I suppose," says Tony 1.

"Well, I hate to say it, but I've been with women, and I've been without them, I've been happy on occassions, and i've on occassion felt a sense that could be called contentment.  But these are all moments.  Moments I've felt with women and without them.  Moments that never really seem to matter in the longest scheme of things.  Women they rarely seem to matter in the longest scheme.  Everything rarely seems to matter in the longest scheme.  And that's where you'll eventually end with over examination.  Do you not find contentment in your costumes?" asks McGriffin.

"Yes, that I do," says Tony 1.  "It's just when I have to take off the costumes..."

"Here," says McGriffin, "do you not agree that only one of us can be the one who takes off the costumes?  If indeed there is one of us who is wearing a costume, that is hiding amongst us thugs and gumshoe.  This person is the only one who's going to make it out of this scene.  Well, maybe you are that person, right now.  But I don't think you will be for long.  Indeed, I think soon enough, you, like Tony 2, will soon become just a costume."

"Oh," says Tony 1, "well, that's encouraging.  That means, I won't have to worry about lack of contentment."

"Yes," says McGriffin, "soon, you won't have to worry about that girl never calling you.  For you will never be around to worry.  There will be no girl calling you, instead, the girl will be calling me."

"You?" asks Tony 1.

"Indeed," says McGriffin, "you see, I was in the scene before, and i'll be in the next scene, and I don't think either one of you will be.  Which means, more than likely, that I'm going to find some clever way out of this situation."

"What about a deus dex machina?" asks Tony 2.

"That would work as well," says McGriffin.  "What does that mean, exactly?  A machine for the gods?  Or made by the gods?  Maybe it makes gods?  If it is for the gods, what does it do for them?  If it is a machine made by the gods, then what does it do for us?  And if it makes gods, well, then that's just silly.  So, Tony..."

"Which Tony?" says Tony 2.

"You will do.  Reach inside that rock."  Tony 2 reaches inside a rock, his hand goes right through the material, and...  No that's stupid.  Anyway, McGriffin gets free, and shoots them both.  Just then.  Tony 1's cell phone rings.  McGriffin answers.  "Mom!  Damn it, stop getting my hopes up."  He closes the cell phone, puts it back in his leather jacket.

Friday, January 2, 2004 7:52 PM

Saturday, January 3, 2004 8:15 AM

McGriffin has been running aimlessly for for the last 12 hours.  He is in a forrest, somewhere, but where, he hasn't a clue.  To keep himself from running in circles he aims for a bright star.  Could be the North Star.  Could be Venus, he didn't know, he just didn't want to run in a circle.  Eventually, he figures, a direction always leads somewhere.  Eventually.

Saturday, January 3, 2004 8:47 AM

The last thirty minutes go by as quickly as the 24 before them.  He is still in the forrest.  Beginning to doubt whether this direction will lead anywhere.  So he decides to take a break, before returning to his aimless (but not directionless) running.

Saturday, January 3, 2004 8:54 AM

Another ten minutes pass.  He does nothing but sit still, then after a while, he takes out his broken No. 2.  He uses his pocket-knife, having recovered all of his posssessions from the two mobster/thugs, to whittle away a point, so he can write in his notebook.  At this point though, McGriffin thinks.  He realizes he has his cell phone now that he has his possessions again.  He wondered if there was reception, but then realized if there was reception in a cave, then there must be some in the nearby forrest.  So he calls.

"McGriffin!"  says Earl.  "I'm using GPS right now to find your signal.  East Germany?  What the hell are you doing there?"

"Of course," thinks aloud McGriffin.  "They must have been speaking German, but knowing German, and being nearly subconscious from beating, I must have thought it english."

"McGriffin, you are by the far most...  Whatever, I'm sending a rescue team."

"Oh, can you do me a favor?" says McGriffin.

"What?" says Earl.

"Can you tell the local police that I'm an American spy?  From what I hear, they send a special rescue team of hot snow bunnies with machine guns for spies," says McGriffin.

Some time later, on motor skis, in white fuzzy parkas come attractive blonde, brunettes, and red-heads, between the ample curves of their breasts would lie the straps of machine guns.  McGriffin gets some well-deserved booty for walking 12 hours thru the forest.

On the plane back, he is attended by two of the hottest...  Okay, three of the hottest, the third just came from the lounge with the fondue, German secret agent facillitators.  (Basically an elevated Geisha/call girl with a lucrative government contract, and some false idealism about serving society.)   But really, this isn't fair to these ladies.  Some of them are hoping to be secret agents themselves in the future.  Modern day mata haris, and whatnot.  This is their training ground in some respect.  For whatever reason.

Sunday, January 4, 2004 3:29 AM

Another long period of time.

McGriffin gets curious, he asks one of the ski bunnies, "i'm no auronautics expert or anything, but i wouldn't expect a flight--even a direct one, with no layaways--from Germany to the states to take more than 15 hours.  Would you?"

Just then, the pilot comes through the doorway, he says: "I got some bad news for you..."  Then he gets a pained look on his face.  "But I feel I won't be able to devulge the intricacies..."  And falls flat on his face, knife out of his back.

"Alright," says McGriffin, "who knows how to fly a plane?"

"What about the knife in his back?" says the brunette.

"Well, it may know how to fly a plane, but i doubt it would be very good at it," says McGriffin.

"I can fly a plane," says the blonde.

"Alright, you go fly the plane, and I'll relax here with the other two, hey, where's the red-head?" asks McGriffin.

"Dunno, mysteriously disappeared," says the blonde.

"Oh well then," says McGriffin, who is getting his curlies fingered by the brunette, "no worries, I think we'll be fine by ourselves."  The blonde goes to the cabin to fly the plane, they return home with no further incident.  They find the redhead later, she was in the lavatory, supposedly, during teh momments of incidence, masturbating.  This was accepted as typical hot girl behavior, and hot in itself, so no one pursued the topic further than in their own fantasies.

Sunday, January 4, 2004 4:02 AM

Monday, January 5, 2004 0:55 AM

McGriffin returned to the diner.  It was again, late.  Very late.  His mind was tired.  He was sure of solace, this time.  For Rumson, he knew, would not be there.

He enters, he sees the same surly waitress.  She, in turn, ignores him, she knew how to get a tip.  He seats himself, grabbing a menu on the way.

He sits down, and pulls out his notebook.  He flips through the pages.  He crosses out some items, and puts markings near others.  He's not happy.  He's not happy.  Some might call him miserable.  But he is not miserable, for there is serene contentment in his momment.  He's wallowing; he's bathing and layering the mud of depresssion onto and into his skin.

The surly waitress comes to him.  He is afraid that she might disrupt the somber serenity with sober civility.  But true to character, and to self, she is still surly.  But for sure to disrupt.

"McGriffin?" she asks.

"Yup."

"Here," she leaves.

McGriffin opens the envelope, inside is a mp3-player (the sectagenerian was up on the times--not that McGriffin knew for sure it was from Rumson).  There is also a pair of headphones, earbuds.  Discreetly McGriffin puts them in.

"Hell McGriffin, its Rumson, I figured this is the only way I could finally get you to shut up and force you to listen to me.  I never did get to my point, and--"

In walks a beautiful woman.  He pulls the earplugs out and turns off Rumson.

"Let's skip a few chapters, shall we?  Let's go straight to the conversation about why men and women can't be friends."

She's confused, she had only walked in the door..  Already this detective in the cheap grey suit has approached her, and made this strange remark.

"Shall we go to our usual table?" say McGriffin, knowing full well they have never met.  But some might mistake this for wit.  It mattered to him not.  "The rest will bore me, so why don't we go to the part where we've been friends for a while, and we try to reevaluate the relationship.  This will be shortly after we have watched When Harry Met Sally together."

Some time passes.  Eventually he gets to how she's really a plant, and his cell phone's been bugged.  But is that really important?

Monday, January 5, 2004 2:56 AM

Monday, January 5, 2004 3:17 PM

McGriffin gets into his car, after having sex with the beautiful woman, and letting her go with a warning.  Truth was that he had no proof, just speculation, so he could never have arrested her.  He pulls out his cell phone, as he drives.  He is tempted to throw it out the window.  He puts it to his side though, as the lab would need to run tests, or whatever, to prove the tap.  But then he realizes that the jig is up, they know that he knows.  They will likely try to hunt him down, using the GPS of the cell phone.  He throws it out the window.  It in fact explodes on contact with the ground.  Uprooting a tree or two, decimating at least one bush.

This is somewhat alarming.

And then from nowhere come three black helicopters.  McGriffin wonders why they decided on a color as inconspicuous as black on this early morning.  Nonetheless, they are closing...  McGriffin thinks this is as good a time as any to listen to what Rumson has to say.

"McGriffin, I'm glad you finally got around to listening to what i have to say.  And what i have to say...  Is this.  Ready?  Good.  Okay.  It's all about the journey, you understand?  Its not about the final piece, its about the pieces before it.  And not any one piece but the space between pieces, that untangible non-discreet value.  Don't preoccupy yourself with, where is this going, where am i going, and all that.  Just enjoy the ride."

The black helicopters fly over his head, and disappear.  They must have been military, and, you know, in the neighborhood.  Thinking nothing of it, he drives on to the station house.

He passes Reddington on his way to the Commander.  "Yo, Red, how's the chief?"

"Chief's pissed."

"So, better than usual?" says McGriffin; Reddington nods.

 McGriffin walks into the office.

"McGriffin," says Earl, "I tried your cell, where were you?"

"Oh, sorry, the cell's gone."

"What happened?  Did your elaborate head-gear eat it?" jokes the Commander.  McGriffin thinks he should ask Earl if there were any helicopter flights scheduled for non-military airspace.  But figured it was better not to bring it up.  Somehow it would be his fault, thought McGriffin.  Earl asks, "any progress?"

"Eh, a little," says McGriffin.  "But you know what Earl?  I really don't feel like continuing it.  I mean, its getting a little jejune.  You know?  I'm fucking tired with it all.  Rumson said I should enjoy the ride, but the ride gets boring sometimes.  I would find enjoyment in the journey, but i just don't feel like, well, its the right journey."

"McGriffiin," says Earl, tender as possible, "you know how long we go back?"

"Way back," says McGriffin.

"Yep," says Earl, "you probably know exactly what I'm going to say, before I even say it."

"True that," says McGriffin.

"Alright then, you can commencce to imagine what I'm going to say next."  McGriffin looks up and tries to imagine.  He shudders a bit, and seems almost to recoil as if hit, then he shivers a bit, then he starts to sweat, and finally he reaches over to grab the blanket.  Earl leaves and turns off the light as he goes.  "Don't forget to lock up when you leave."

Monday, January 5, 2004 4:32 PM

Tuesday, January 6, 2004 11:31 PM

McGriffin leaves the station house, in the late hours.  Everyone else in the department is gone.  He walks out the door, only to be stopped.  By a man in a black hat, nearby, his black car.

"Mr. Steadman, I presume," says McGriffin.

"Yes," says Steadman, "you've figured it all out, haven't you, McGriffin?"

"Just one thing, why did you kill Rumson?" he says.

"Cause he annoyed me," he says, leaning against a wall, "that's what I do to people who annoy me.  And you, McGriffin," he says, holding a gun, "you annoy me as well."

"Sometimes I annoy myself," he says, raising his hands.  "Pretty ballsy, killing me in front of a police station."

"Well," he said, "you were really getting to annoy me, couldn't wait around for a better locale.  Walk."  He takes one step, and turns around quickly, he tries to knock the gun out of his hand.  But instead he gets the shot off.  McGriffin falls to the ground.

"Well, so ends the annoying journey," says McGriffin, "how anticlimatic."  He then passes out.

Rather.  He tries to.  But he's not injured bad enough.  He was able to deflect the barrel from his vital areas.  He got shot in the thigh.  The bullet, in fact, goes clean through, without hitting any bone.  Why, this wouldn't even be the end of his football career, if he had a football career.  Which he doesn't.  The recouperation period for a wound of this type, would be a week, maybe two max.

McGriffin realizes this, and is pissed.  He was really ready to end it all.  Now he's mad, he's going to make Steadman finish the job, even if it kills him.

After shooting McGriffin, Steadman tries to make it to his car.  He's a very slow runner, though.  He makes it to his car, but only after McGriffin goes through his little, loss-the-will-to-live crisis.  He starts the car, but hears the sound of a gun shot.  The bullet hits his tire.  Steadman is worried, but puts it in drive.  Bang.  Another tire.  Bang, a third.  Then McGriffin gets real low with the ground, and actually manages to hit the 4th wheel.  The car was going nowhere.  He tries to drive on the flats anyway.  McGriffin shoots the hood.  The engine dies.

Steadman is afraid to leave the car.  McGriffin gets up on one foot, blood dripping down his leg.  He takes off his shirt, and ties a turniquet around the wound.  He is taking his time, for sure.  Then he starts the slow walk to the car, a good 20 yards.

McGriffin is thinking, aloud: "damn it, damn it, I could so kill for a cigarette right now.  And if that cigarette would make my lungs suddenly explode, all the better.  I wish I was dead.  I wish he was dead.  He will be soon.  Fuck arresting this son of a bitch.  He shot me.  Me!  Why?   All I did was fuck his wife a few times, and maybe attempt to arrest him, and ruin his attempt at a new life.  Fuck it.  He should have finished the job.  What a pussy, no wonder his wife seemed like she'd never been fucked right before.  Unbefuckingleavable.  Oh, I'm so going to maim this son of a bitch first.  He's going to eat my gun before he swallows my bullet.  That fucking bastard, I'm going to fuck her one more time, extra hard, just for shooting me.  He's looking right at me.  Hey, can you hear me?  Huh?  Why don't you fucking use that gun, huh?"  He is about 10 feet from the car, he pounds his chest with his open hand and his gun, inviting the shot.  Steadman can hear him now.

"Look," says McGriffin, limping toward the car, "you're fucked.  Do you realize that?  Unless you use that gun right now, and shoot me, I'm going to come over there and make these last few momments the most painful you've ever experienced...  Actually, you know what?  I'm not even going to kill you, I'm just going to render you unable to speak, as well as, hear, move, chew solid foods, taste, which is good, as you won't be eating solid--"

At which point, Steadman shoots himself in the head.  But he misses.  What a fucking pussy.  He only grazes the back of his scalp, and nicks an ear.

"What the fuck is that," saying McGriffin, getting to the car window.  Steadman is holding the right side of his head, looks over to McGriffin.  McGriffin makes a circular motion with his fist, indicating Steadman to roll down his window.  Steadman complies with the objective, and then says:

"Look, you were annoying me, I mean, really beginning to annoy me.  I wasn't scared by any of that or anything.  I just figured,  sure, I could kill you, but then what?  I'd just find someone else to annoy me, the only way to stop the annoying cycle, to stop all the annoying, was to make sure that no one would ever annoy me again.  But then...  I missed."

"You can't miss on shooting yourself in the head!" cries McGriffin.

"Hey!  What about in The Deer Hunter?" says Steadman.

"What about The Deer Hunter?  That guy was being forced to shoot himself.  But he pussed out, just like you did."  He then starts to spin the chamber of his revolver.  He steps away and motions for Steadman to get out of the car, Steadman shrugs and complies.  "Look, I'll show you how its done.  I got one bullet left.  You put the gun right up to your head, right to your temple, actually, a little behind it, just like this."  Without even wincing, holding the gun right to his temple, he first makes a kindof little prayer, but without any words, praying he is the one who wins, he pulls the trigger.  He is immediately disheartened.  Obviously, he has lost this round.  "Shoot...  Okay, okay, best two out of three, or rather, one out of five."  He aims again, clicks again.  He clicks again.  He gets impatient, and pulls the trigger again.  He clicks again.  "Okay, now the bullet has to be in one of these two chambers."  He clicks again.  "How do you like that," he says.  He pulls the trigger a sixth time.

But another click.  This is when he looks at the gun.  "Oh yeah," says McGriffin, "I forgot I already shot someone earlier today."  He tosses the gun to the side.  "Can I use your gun?"  Steadman gives him the gun.  He puts it to his head.  But, just then...  A butt.  A cigarette, a perfectly good, unused cigarette, it appeared, was peaking out of a slightly crumpled pack on the floor.  Steadman looks down, sees he has dropped his cigarettes.

"Sorry, about that." Steadman bends down and puts them away in his coat pocket.

McGriffin turns the gun onto Steadman.  "Alright, hand them over."

"If you wanted one you could have just asked.  But if you want..."   He starts to give him the entire pack.

"Naw, naw, only one.  I changed my mind.  I just want...  One...  Blessed cigarette...  A reason...  To go on..."  McGriffin is evidentally indefinitely putting off the plan of cigarettes--i mean, suicide.  McGriffin gets a cigarette from Steadman.  He lights it.  "Aaaaaaaaaahhh.  That is good.  So...  I guess, yeah...  You wanna, uh, go?  You know, you're under arrest and all that?"

"Eh, what the fuck," says Steadman, he starts to walk with McGriffin, who puts the gun away in his cheap, grey jacket pocket.

 McGriffin talks as he walks, enjoying his cigarette.  "You know, its funny how I did the, you know, 'roll down your window' move...  When really, I was already pretty sure that that car had automatic windows.  But like, what should I have done, make exageratted twitches with my index finger to simulate--"

Before McGriffin could finish his sentence, Steadman had grabbed his gun and not missed.  Steadman fell to the ground, dead.

"Damn, if I wasn't pretty sure," said McGriffin, "that this pretty much means the end of this annoying case, I'd fucking join him."  McGriffin walks toward his car, enjoying his cigarette.  He'll wait till the morning, wait for someone finds the body, and take care of all the paperwork then.  He was going home, to go to sleep early, for once.

Wednesday, January 7, 2004 0:55 AM

Friday, January 9, 2004 5:12 AM

Well, that was the story of McGriffin. I had to finish it, don't know how i feel about it, i think it needs serious editting, and not just for spelling/grammar.

Of course, i never edit, so...  Oh well.

Time to spark that last spliff--i mean, plenty of green, after all, if it was my last, i wouldn't spliff it.  I don't have fears of being greenless any more.  But i really must quit cigs, like my main character, its not fucking easy at all.

Ah, donovan, i do enjoy donovan.

Lit.

This time i thought ahead, and licked it good.  It should last a bit.

Its been quite a while, hasn't it?  Quite a while indeed, i think.  I started McGriffin back ... on Dec. 22.  I had to finish it.  Otherwise, i'd be lame.  And if i didn't do it now, i just know from past experience, that i'd never get to it.

I like McGriffin, neurotic detectives--that's been done--but suicidal?  And not in that mel gibson / lethal weapon way.  Mel Gibson evidentally lost his wife--not McGriffin, he's just born that way, lives that way, operates that way.

So, i got to see some old faces, the German, the Musclestein.  The Musclestein made me miss the much quieter replacement.  He's been a long time in coming with a name.  I tried to tell him, that its not exactly a bad thing.  One friend, of over a year or two, never made it in.  If you look at how often names get mentioned, i wouldn't be surprised if the Musclestein was up top there.  So, there you go.  Occurance means nothing.

But i got a name, I think.  Lars Rickens.  Strange name, i know, but i think it works.  It was a toss up between Lars and Logan, but Logan seems too attached to Wolverine.  Lars sounds like a typical RPG character's name, nearly as much as Logan.  It also works with something i wrote back in 6th grade.  And the association with the piece in my recollection, is fitting, in some ways.

Anyway, have you noticed how the only readable colors are Easter colors?  I have.  This isn't very eastery.  But this is.  This even more.  This most of all.  Wait, this is the same color, fuck it...  I'm a bit tired.

Anyway, 00FFFF to you, too.  He's five foot two, and six foot four--the universal soldier--did you know?

Anyway, I have no fear of repeating myself.

So...  Anyway...  Good old donovan...  Yellow is the color of my true love's hair...

I want to a musician.  I mean, i am.  But i have made a "resolution" of sorts...  i'll be 25 soon.  25, years, of, age, that is.  And not yet what I want to be.  Which is something/someone/somehow/somewhere/somesome.  somewhy.  I'm going to give it a year.

Starting valentine's day.  As that is the uncerimonious occassion of my birth, revisted, quietly.  Quick quiz question, what card does Awbvious keep in his guitar case?  The correct answer is: Ace of Hearts.

One year.  One year, perhaps writing a song a day, if possible.  Recording as often, if possible.  One year.  And then...  Fuck it.

I'll still record, but no more delusions of illusions.  Disillusioned will I be, completely.  Granduer.  Vainglorious.  Then I will turn to what I know best, and longest, and can always fall back on, my writing.  Maybe some filming.  Who fucking knows?  Van Gogh, didn't start painting till he was ... what aws it?  26?  Let's see 1882/81, born in 53...  So...  He was 28/29.

Dude.  Van Gogh, he's about as stupid with women as I am.  No.  He beats me.  But only cause I got SSRIs, which help.

whoops, i just totally got distracted with organizing my songs

damn, like a good 2 hours went by, which is fine, but i like to sign off before i go and do things like that.

damn, oh well, what time is it?  oy.  I gotta be up in like... 8 or so hours...  Not to bad...  I do like working evenings.  I still should have cleaned in all this time...  Yes, a clean dir of songs is good too, but no one else cares about that.

And by "my" songs I don't mean, songs recorded by me--cause that would be a useful use of my time indeed.  I have such a bird's nest of songs that I recorded.

Yeah, so i'm going to officially try for that whole "musician" thing--and I've decided this, not by what I think is my strength.  I've got many avenues: my drawing, my writing, my music, my filming, my comedy (which is writing, but performed).  And if i thought it from the point of view of what's my greatest strength--i doubt i'd says music.  But the fact is that when it comes to fantasy--to the ideal--to the reason why...  And the reason is base, maybe, but essential.  I mean, its evolution, its the arguable reason why man has tried so hard to express himself through all these avenues--to attract females.  So.  Let's face it.  When it comes to a best-case scenario, there's no doubt that the musician will always get the most (a non-vulgar term excapes me)...  Well, the most.

Musician isn't something to tell your career guidance counselor.  Musician isn't something to be proud to attain, but at least its a little smarter than being an "artist" in the traditional sense.  Picasso might have gotten the tail, but still.  I don't know, Van Gogh shouldn't have shot himself, maybe he could have finally got something besides the usual heartache at the hands of cruel, parasitic females.  Musicians, they don't have that problem, because females aren't allowed to attach enough to become parasitic.  Oh sure, i'll attach some day, but after I finally get a little hedonism.

So long I've been living this Puritanical lifestyle, and i'm not even afraid of going to hell.  I do want a girl, and love, and all that.  I do.  After all, its my best shot at long-term, consitent layment.  But consitent layment with variety?  For a while, you understand.  I would eventually attach once it got old--as i'm sure it would.  I just don't want to be too old before i get a chance to let it get old.  Then i can be youngish and attached.  Like, let's say the musician thing works--if it doesn't i'll do something sensible, like go to grad school or something.  If it does, well, i imagine i could make music for ...  Well, i could make music till i die or run out of creative juice--not that i could imagine such a thing happening now, i do see it happen to artists before me.  But anyway, even if i did make music indefinitely, i know i'd probably only get that shmorgesborg melange of vulgar terminology of your choice for about 5 years, maybe.  In a best case scenario, i could easily get it after that period, but during those 5 years, they would be especially freaky, and they would satiate my needs, after that, i would find something to attach myself to--or at least start looking.

And if i never find anyone, because of the isolation of stardom, or whatever, like i care.  i already have the isolation of ignominy and obscurity.  The only difference is that I'd have plenty of superficial, short-term extacy--oh no, horrid.

Yeah, well, i'm not too optomistic, i just have to give something a try, i've been doing this every-route thing too long.  Nothing's "broke"--i need to concentrate on one thing, for a while.  Give it a good try.  And hell, its not like a work-out regiment or somethnig I wouldn't enjoy.  Fucking music?  Please, goofing off, more like.  But i have so many projects, sigh, that i must finish, before i start this, in a month or so.  I have stuff i really really need to finish.  I mean, really really, really.  i got like two video projects, a game thing, i'm not really going to "finish" the last, just kind of polish off the end so far, and package, whatnot.  i was planning on doing it tonight, but instead i started rambling.  I suppose i'll still be rambling, but greenroom things, well, they should be sparser in the future.  No more McGriffin bullshit.  I mean, if out of nowhere someone was to say, wow, your writing, really affects me *and* i want to give you a whole lot of money...  Then i'll continue it.  As it is, i don't really get many of the "affects me but i'm poor" statements.  I get them, very occassionally, not exhuberant statemnets, but, a little encouragement here and there over the last so many years.  Still.  I've never been offered a god damn dime.  Okay, well, that's not true.  And, technically, i've made more money writing than I have making music.  anyway, i took the dime offered to me, and no more were offered.

I really consider this slop writing.  its got okay rhythm, but i don't expect everyone to follow.  i am totally not writing for anyone but myself right now.  if anyone else were to hear these thoughts, fuck it, i don't give a shit--as i am an artist--sharing thoughts is what i do--and receiving thoughts is what i want out of art.  But still, i don't think anyone should ...  well, that is to say...  this isn't really anything right here.  i'll admit it.  This is soooo waste of words.  Sometimse, the more i say things like that, the more i disagree later.  But right now...  No.  I don't think so.

I mean, yeah, there's a gleam here or there.  But still, this is mostly wading and sifting.  I know.  But i don't mind it, when i read myself.  I can fucknig understand it.  I don't get fucking thrown off by misplaced n's in fucking.  that's fucking all it is.  Man, fucking a.  Fucking a, is all i can think right now.  Cause...  i'm fairly tired, and that zoloft fucking kicked in about ... oh fucking 15 minutes ago.  i suppose that's why i'm fucking saying fucking so much fucking right now, just for the fucking fun of fucking it.  fucking why the fucking fuck fucking not?  Yawn.  I am sleepy though.  and i really don't need to leave all this posterity for myself.  Fuck it.  I miss ramblage.  I've been stuck with McGriffin too long.  It was good having direction though.  Someone want to give me some money, and i'll give you 50 McGriffins.  But as no one is offering, i'm going to make some albums, some songs, and see what the fuck happens.

anyway, these projects i have to finish, none of them are really for this site, so if i'm working on them, it may seem like i'm doing nothing--fear not, my creative juices are merely flowing elsewhere.  Again, i am really just talking to myself and i think this will do for now.  I'll probably read this again, like, in a year.  Its easier to write this crap than it is to read it...  Makes one wonder a bit why write it at all.  But if one wonders this after one has already written it, as I have done just now, it makes one pause.  I could delete it all.  Many other ones do that.  Which is foolish.  But sharing is not necessarily non-foolish.  Saving and reusing and picknig and ... yawn, too much work.  Fuck it.  In a year or so, i'll read this shit.  Right now...  Yawn.  I think... Yawn.  I might want to .... yaaaaaaaaawn.  smack smack.  get some sleep.

Friday, January 9, 2004 8:12 AM