Kevin had never seen a pack of angry babies move so fast. He had assumed the winding staircase with the faulty guard-rail would pose a problem for them, especially with the baby-gate that had recently been installed at the top of the landing, but there they were, a mass of chubby legs and cheeks, climbing over one another as they scaled the stairs, blood on their minds, the sound of 30 diapers busily rustling echoing through the walls of the chamber.
The old crone had been right all along.
It had come down to a case of kill or be killed. By babies. Up until this point, Kevin reckoned the drunk gypsy's maxim had been nothing more than an extraordinarily odd metaphor. Or was it a simile. No...no -- it was indeed a metaphor.
Had he been able to take a figurative step back, a narratorial route of perspective allowing him the time to fully appreciate the details of the situation, chances are Kevin would have found it darkly amusing. Here he was, the leader of a militant wing of the United States Pro-Life Movement, here he was, the man who had fought so tirelessly for the rights of the unborn -- a man who had killed to save the lives of fetuses, here he now stood, this man of conviction and self-described honor, watching death slowly waddle his way on all fours -- methodical, extremely cute.
"My god," he realized in a brief moment of illumination. "Am I about to be murdered by some of the very babies I helped to save?"
Saturday, May 19, 2007
From "By the Grace of Apocatequil"
The land was barren. The ground was drier than a dried curuba. The Qhapaq Inka was worried.
It had been nearly seven months since the last rain had fallen on the plains of the Urubamba Valley, and with the Feast of the Inti Huacas less than two months away, Atahualpa, delirious from his lack of sleep and constant coca chewing, was desperate to appease the gods.
The land needed to be quenched. The maukas and ullucos needed to be harvested.
Ticci Viracocha, the high priest and childhood friend of the Supreme King had come before Atahualpa three days earlier with a proposition, one that had initially struck The Exalted One as implausible and foolhardy -- the ramblings of a confused priest with a face full of tattoos. Since then though, with every passing hour and every discarded coca leaf, Atahualpa had grown desperate, knowing that Feast of the Inti Huacas had take place without incident for the last five-hundred years.
The Supreme King was not prepared to let The Feast fail under his rule, a rule that had seen the kingdom more than double in size through a process of creative agricultural advancements and multiple campaigns of systematic villager slaughter. Nothing made The Inka more proud than to talk about his kingdom's agricultural advancements -- nothing, that is, except for the slaughters. The Qhapaq Inka could talk about the slaughters for an entire moon cycle.
And now Viricocha stood before him with this ridiculous proposal, one that he would normally dismiss without consideration, and yet here The Inka was, slowly nodding his peacock-headressed head! Here The Inka was, dipping a peacock feather in berry ink and affixing his royal seal (a fiery peacock) to the parchment the high priest laid in front of him! He rested a hand on his pet peacock that sat by his side.
The plan would have to work. The empire depended on it.
Groups would be assembled -- dancing groups -- rain dancing groups -- groups that would be dancing to illicit rain -- rain that would fall from the sky.
Civilization's first dance-off was about to begin.
It had been nearly seven months since the last rain had fallen on the plains of the Urubamba Valley, and with the Feast of the Inti Huacas less than two months away, Atahualpa, delirious from his lack of sleep and constant coca chewing, was desperate to appease the gods.
The land needed to be quenched. The maukas and ullucos needed to be harvested.
Ticci Viracocha, the high priest and childhood friend of the Supreme King had come before Atahualpa three days earlier with a proposition, one that had initially struck The Exalted One as implausible and foolhardy -- the ramblings of a confused priest with a face full of tattoos. Since then though, with every passing hour and every discarded coca leaf, Atahualpa had grown desperate, knowing that Feast of the Inti Huacas had take place without incident for the last five-hundred years.
The Supreme King was not prepared to let The Feast fail under his rule, a rule that had seen the kingdom more than double in size through a process of creative agricultural advancements and multiple campaigns of systematic villager slaughter. Nothing made The Inka more proud than to talk about his kingdom's agricultural advancements -- nothing, that is, except for the slaughters. The Qhapaq Inka could talk about the slaughters for an entire moon cycle.
And now Viricocha stood before him with this ridiculous proposal, one that he would normally dismiss without consideration, and yet here The Inka was, slowly nodding his peacock-headressed head! Here The Inka was, dipping a peacock feather in berry ink and affixing his royal seal (a fiery peacock) to the parchment the high priest laid in front of him! He rested a hand on his pet peacock that sat by his side.
The plan would have to work. The empire depended on it.
Groups would be assembled -- dancing groups -- rain dancing groups -- groups that would be dancing to illicit rain -- rain that would fall from the sky.
Civilization's first dance-off was about to begin.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
From "Life at 115th: Straight Trippin"
Shabaz, Dredge, Tre, and Trey looked suspiciously at the tape recorder, obviously unsure as to whether or not they wanted to continue. There was an awkward silence. The burr in my sock dug deeper into my heel. Shabaz finally spoke up. "Listen man, you been good to us so far, know-wah-ahm-sayin, but, truth, we think ya best turn that piece off if ya want some more flap from us, know-wah-ahm-sayin know-wah-ahm-sayin."
The rest of the boys nodded. "True dat, " they all said. A trio of "true dats." The young men each took one step towards me.
I flicked the recorder's power switch to the off position. My tried and true Panasonic RQ-2102, my all-time favorite, the one that had saved my skin and allowed me to be a lazy journalist so many times. "Not this time," I mumbled under my breath. "This time, I'll have to go it alone." Son of a bitch.
"Satisfied?" I asked while lowering the Panny to the sidewalk, caressing it with the back of my fingers and resting it gently on the curb. I straddled it between my legs, doing as much as I could to shield it from harm without making it look like I was the kind of deviant that was sexually attracted to my tape recorder, a condition that, once I began attending the meetings, I learned was far more common than anyone could or would care to imagine. Some secrets must remain as such.
Dredge scanned the rest of the crew, took in their solemn nods, and did a quick handstand. They were ready to open up. He began to speak. His speech was suddenly and remarkably lucid.
"Now, the common mark on the street will look at one of our magic tricks and automatically brand it as nothing more than sleight of hand, some clever trick that we've been able to master through years and years of practice and repetition. These type of guys see four homeless 15 year-olds and assume as much -- 'These kids have nothing better to do,' he'll say. 'It sure was a nifty trick, the way he made the ball disappear, but it's just that, a trick, and nothing more.' And that's when we know we've got the sonuvabitch right where we want him."
Again, the rest of the group nodded in unison. Another trio of synchronized "True dat"s followed. I began to slowly stroke the Panasonic with the inside of my ankle, caught myself, and continued, both aroused by the tape recorder resting a few inches below my crotch and fascinated by the story being told to me.
"I'm confused," I said. "What is the man not understanding about your trick? Why do you have him where you want him? What more is there to a silly ball trick?"
Trey smirked and let out a small chuckle. But Tre was deadly serious. He looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up, reading all that was me from the inside out until I was sure that he knew every instance of every shameful action that had taken place in my past as both a journalist and a man who has sex with recording equipment.
"The trick is," said Tre as Trey continued to laugh. "The trick is that there is no trick, muthafucka. All the brothas you see before you right now be full-blown wizards."
I froze. Of course.
"Know-wah-ahm-sayin, muthafucka? Punk-ass Harry Potter don't hold a candle to the wizardly shit that go down on 115th damn right near every muthafuckin' night. True dat."
The rest of the boys nodded. "True dat, " they all said. A trio of "true dats." The young men each took one step towards me.
I flicked the recorder's power switch to the off position. My tried and true Panasonic RQ-2102, my all-time favorite, the one that had saved my skin and allowed me to be a lazy journalist so many times. "Not this time," I mumbled under my breath. "This time, I'll have to go it alone." Son of a bitch.
"Satisfied?" I asked while lowering the Panny to the sidewalk, caressing it with the back of my fingers and resting it gently on the curb. I straddled it between my legs, doing as much as I could to shield it from harm without making it look like I was the kind of deviant that was sexually attracted to my tape recorder, a condition that, once I began attending the meetings, I learned was far more common than anyone could or would care to imagine. Some secrets must remain as such.
Dredge scanned the rest of the crew, took in their solemn nods, and did a quick handstand. They were ready to open up. He began to speak. His speech was suddenly and remarkably lucid.
"Now, the common mark on the street will look at one of our magic tricks and automatically brand it as nothing more than sleight of hand, some clever trick that we've been able to master through years and years of practice and repetition. These type of guys see four homeless 15 year-olds and assume as much -- 'These kids have nothing better to do,' he'll say. 'It sure was a nifty trick, the way he made the ball disappear, but it's just that, a trick, and nothing more.' And that's when we know we've got the sonuvabitch right where we want him."
Again, the rest of the group nodded in unison. Another trio of synchronized "True dat"s followed. I began to slowly stroke the Panasonic with the inside of my ankle, caught myself, and continued, both aroused by the tape recorder resting a few inches below my crotch and fascinated by the story being told to me.
"I'm confused," I said. "What is the man not understanding about your trick? Why do you have him where you want him? What more is there to a silly ball trick?"
Trey smirked and let out a small chuckle. But Tre was deadly serious. He looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up, reading all that was me from the inside out until I was sure that he knew every instance of every shameful action that had taken place in my past as both a journalist and a man who has sex with recording equipment.
"The trick is," said Tre as Trey continued to laugh. "The trick is that there is no trick, muthafucka. All the brothas you see before you right now be full-blown wizards."
I froze. Of course.
"Know-wah-ahm-sayin, muthafucka? Punk-ass Harry Potter don't hold a candle to the wizardly shit that go down on 115th damn right near every muthafuckin' night. True dat."
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