Chapter 9 - Sadie Hawkins Day

November 4, 2004
Sadie Hawkins Day
King Tut Day
Diamond 3

Wednesday. A 3 of Diamonds day. Thomas Bleever. Now he was a 3 of Diamonds…

Thomas Bleever

Thomas Bleever was a doubter. A real doubting Thomas. He was also a full occupant of what is known as the third circuit, or the third tunnel-reality. This has a lot to do with his doubting.
Thomas Bleever was not always a doubter. When he was a toddler, he was in the first tunnel world. The world of approach and avoidance.
His world of approach and avoidance was centered around two things – breasts and Papa. Approach the breasts, avoid Papa.
Papa wasn’t always to be avoided, but when he had that alcohol smell on his breath, and his voice was louder than usual…this was the time to avoid Papa.
His whole world seemed to exist within this two-point axis. Forward and Back. It wasn’t until a few years passed that and he was able to stand up on his own two feet, as they say, and walk, that he was able to break through to the second tunnel world.

The second tunnel world was entered upon conterminous with his being able to stand and walk, for he became aware of up and down, not just forward and back. He could see that walking was superior to crawling, and this the up-down world of dominance and submission entered into his mind…and changed him into a second tunneller.

Most of his world was then centered around this strange phenomenon of up and down, high and low, dominance and submission. And soon, he began to take advantage of this power he had over crawlers and shorties. Thomas was a tall child.

But it wouldn’t be long before young Thomas was making utterances. And soon, these utterances launched him into full citizenship within the brother and sisterhood and English speakers.

He also entered into another world. The third tunnel world. The world of language, right and left, the mind. Il est également entré dans un autre monde. Le troisième monde de tunnel. Le monde de la langue, droite et parti, l'esprit.

But the third tunnel reality was not really the entire mind, it was just what most people thought of when they say “the mind”. In actuality, it was the left hemisphere of the brain, predominantly, with a partial awakening of the right hemisphere.

Of all the realms he had discovered, or blossomed into, Thomas was most fond of the third world, the world of speech, symbols, numbers. Left and right.

Before young Thomas could reach puberty, the fourth tunnel world, he was put into school, where he could focus more on developing his third tunnel world. The fourth would come soon enough, and best that he have some intellectual foundation down before allowing his consciousness to be primarily a function of the fertile crescent where his legs converged.

Perhaps it was because young Thomas took so readily to the third circuit of speech and mental activity, that when puberty did possess him, he acted upon it with equal verve, because months did not pass before young Thomas was bringing girls from his class to his house when no one was there, under the pretext of “going over some biology problems”, when it fact he was much more interested in biology solutions. His own mainly, for like most boys his age, the concept of foreplay seemed only sane or necessary if the hand were stretched with dick skin, or bore such sensitivity, and we all know that that is indeed not the case. And young Thomas was among the first to make and act on this discovery.

As with most people, Thomas, over the years, maxed out his circuits, so to speak, and the fourth circuit maximalization led to offspring, for whom these four worlds would be replicated.

But a strange thing happened on the way to replication. He opened a window and was sucked into the fifth tunnel world. Well, he didn’t really open a window. The window is a metaphor, like “doors of perception”, only here we are talking about windows of perception.

It all happened when Thomas made the wrong turn at an unfamiliar intersection. He had been knocking back a few, tempting the old second circuit, and decided to head home before he did start on his big man script, which seemed to coincide with his opening the second portal with booze. Someone should have taken his keys.

But no one did take his keys, and before long he was threatening the lives of dozens of men, women and children, as his weapon of mass destruction hummered down the road, from lane to lane, up and down one-way streets, emergency lanes, median strips, taking out mailboxes, street signs, dogs…only to wind up at the home of the whore he didn’t even remember he had picked up along the way.

The house was filled with smoke and half-dressed people dancing and writhing on the floors and sofas.

“Come on shugah. Loosen up.” The whore’s voice was sultry, seductive, charged.

“I’ll dance with you. My name’s Tom. Call me Dick.” Thomas thought he was being funny.

“Tom. Is your dick hairy?” The whore was quick. Big hands too! “Johns call me Djeli”.

“Jelly?” He bursts out laughing. “Hey mom. I’m in a jam…”

“All right, enough of the crass infantilism.” Djeli had Tom by the nuts. Literally.

“God you’re strong. Would you please let go?” Tom was pleading for future generations.
“You feel pretty good down there. Come on up to my room.” She began pulling on his timid detumescence, which still seemed to bear promise, one would think, and his will gave over to hers. They stepped over orgic dyads in undulant lambency towards the stairs the top of which bore a closet and a bed.
“Welcome to my castle!” Ms. Djeli had simple tastes. Her demands were few. Either that or she is a few blogs shy of a blogosphere.
“Like music?” She pulled a portable transister radio from her purse and stuck it on the side of the bed. It appeared to be making some squeaking sounds. “I am what they call an audiophile. I can hear a song once, and file it away for all time.”

“But why would you want to file away this Sh*t? Throw it away is more like it.” Thomas didn’t appear to be appreciating the squeaks.

“What? You don’t like The Squeaks? They are gonna be bigger than the Beatles.”

“Bigger than the Beetles? I don’t think so. And not only that but I’m beginning to think you might have a few screws loose.” Tom was getting snitty.

At that, Djeli darted from the room and quickly returned holding a screwdriver. “Where?” she asked, frantically.

“Where what?” Tom was confused.

“You said I had a screw loose. Oh there it is.” She noticed that her doorknob was dangling from the door. Grabbing the knob in one hand, then tightened the screws with the other, prompting Tom to say:

“ I like the way you handle that knob.” Tom turned toward her and spread his legs apart almost instinctively. She flicked the screwdriver at him and it came to land right between his legs, about three inches from his fertile crescent, his family jewels, his once again timid endowment.

Djeli walks over and pulls the screwdiver from the box he is sitting on, and runs it up his leg and over his crotch, and says:

“Strip.”

“Say what?” Tom was incredulous.

“Get out yer clothes.” Djeli was serious, almost demanding.

“Now!” She WAS demanding.

Djeli walks over by the door and clicks off the light.

“You’re the kinda guy best fucked in the dark.” Tom didn’t really know how to take that. Is she insulting my physique? My looks? What?

Suddenly Tom felt something warm on his hand. It felt like warm liquid. He had the sudden urge to urinate.

“Bathroom.” Tom wasn’t one to hold back.

“Sure shugah. Down the hall of the left. Red door.”

Tom slipped on his jeans and stumbled through the doorway of the small closet of a room and sidled down the hallway, re-unzipping his pants as he walked. Path of least resistance. But what’s this? The door is locked??

“Occupied!” Came a voice from the other side of the door.
“I’ve really gotta go! Mercy!” Tom was feeling desperate. Suddenly the door was kicked open, and, to Tom’s astonishment, a sexy young hottie was sitting on the toilet, her panties cuffing her ankles.
“Go ahead!” The girl spread her legs and produced an opening where she supposed her intruder would aim and shoot his urinary load.
But the sight of her clean-shaven love mitt gave his Johnson an upward tilt, making micturition a near impossibility, unless, that is, he wanted to spraywash the ceiling, or the Klimt lovers that hung from a wire and nail on the wall behind her head, further firing his passions.
She scraped her thin cotton halter top across her areolae as she let breathe two firm and milky white titties adorned each with the tenderest, most demanding, nipples he had seen in years.
“Why won’t my babies grow? I wanna be big. I want bigger…”
Tom was getting bigger and drunker on the moment, and seizing the moment, forced his nozzle down 40 odd degrees and produced a stream of life-giving urine which almost found the hole between her legs, but instead showered her thorax with said medicinal…which she seemed to enthrall. She stood up, him still pissing, turned around and arched her back so that her ass was up, and reached between her legs, grabbed his still pissing wang, and shoved it up her aching love receptacle. He emptied one load then another, as they bucked and rocked and grinded…her hands clutching the rim of the toilet.

Boom boom boom. “Did you fall in?”

“Oh Sh*t. It’s my date.” The girl exasperated into Tom’s ear, and bit his earlobe, causing him to blurt out in pain.

Knock knock. “Shugah. I don’t have all night, and the clock is still runnin’.”

Tom realized that his date was also a door’s width away. Mumbling could be heard beyond the door. The dates were talking.

“I think we’re caught.” The girl said, to Tom’s distress. “My husband’s not gonna like it.”

“Your husband?” Tom realized that in his own case it would be no big deal. He didn’t really know the whore anyway. But a husband is a different matter. Husbands can be irrational, as proved by their being a husband in the first place.

“Shhhh!” And whispering, “I call all my Johns “husband”. They like to fantasize having the young wife and all. Costs extra.”

The idea of his attacker being a Geritol drunk, eased his fears, somewhat. But when the door suddenly kicked open, and a monstrously huge and meanborn plebeien in wifebeaterwear and tattoos of nuns sucking the barrels of AK-47s, stomped in and lifted him to the ceiling with his clenched and massive fist, his moment of relief vanished in a twink…which is how he was feeling at this moment of vulnerability.

“Where are you taking me? Put me down!” Tom was being dragged by the neck out of the bathroom and down the hall. He tried to struggle free, but the brute had tremendous strength and instead kept shaking Tom, saying “shut up purty boy”.
He toted Tom into one of the vacant rooms and chunked him down on the bed and began taking his studded leather vest off. Tom struggled to engage his third circuit mind. He needed a plan, and as King Kong disrobed, he thought of one.
Kong grabbed Tom by the ankles and lifted his legs high in the air.
“Get away from me, you freaking idiot!”
Kong was not dissuaded. He moved closer and reaching down, grabbed his proportional manhood with one hand, as his other huge hand banded Tom’s two legs into a clutch Tom was unable to escape.
Kong poked at Tom’s backside with his ampleness. Tom squirmed and tried to get free.
The girls walks in giggling. Tom bends his neck up and notices they are both naked.
Kong yells “Get over here.” Which they do with reckless abandon.
“I am not in Kansas.” Tom thinks to himself.
“Welcome to Kansas!” Kong spouts threateningly then locks gazes with Tom Bleever. “Beef country.”

Tom was against the eating of beef, and regarded the beef industry with distrust, even disdain. He weeped for all those individuals, branded as mere cattle, and forced to live lives of utter degradation.

“Show me dat ass!” Kong was still gazing at, and grazing on, young Tom Bleever, innocent, third circuitron, virgin. “And why are you drenched in piss? So picaresque…”

“Picaresque? Where does somelike like you find a word like that?” Tom was truly quizzical, confused, querulent.

“You’re a fuckin’ buzzkill. Here. Fuck my wife.” Turning to his “wife”, he says, “Get over over. Lay down.”

“It’s lie down, honey. You lay bricks and crack whores.”

“I don’t need yer goddam grammar lessons. I need you to spread dem white ass legs.” He spanks her on the ass and bends her over the bed. “Get over here, Larry!”

“Name’s Tom.”

“Whatever, Larry. Here. She’s all yours.”

“Again?”

“You fucked my wife, you bastard?”

“You just told me to, brother.”

“Well that was MY idea. She don’t fuck nobody unless it’s MY idea. Now fuck her!”

“Yeah! Fuck me big boy!”

Refusing to comment on the irony, Tom prepared to comply. But somehow, in all the commotion and dick-dodging, a certain detumescence set in which was hard to shake.
Kong whacked him on the ass. Blood began to flow. And before long Tom was once again rocking and rolling against the creamy white hindparts that parted before, and after, him.

He leaned into her as a climax began to build. Djeli was working the girl’s tits which hung down to greet her experienced fingers and cupped hands.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm” the girl moaned as he Tom sloshed inside her cum and urine-drenched orchid.

Tom felt hands on his thighs. Hot hands. And then the poking and prodding he had felt earlier. Kong had reawakened. Kong’s thick fingers were slick with grease which he was using to carve a greased entrance into Tom’s inner self. For his part, Tom was too preoccupied to give it much notice. That is until he suddenly felt his body filled with an alien force, or substance, or being. He felt it move deeper and deeper into him, as he was pumping deeper and deeper into the wife. They created an undulating rhythym, the three of them, and in a bang the three simultaneously exploded in ecstasy. Nasty, nasty ecstasy.
And then the edifice collapsed. Kong on Tom on the wife, with the wife bearing the entire weight.
She did not seem to mind. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She let out a final spasm. The sound of squeaks could be heard from a distant room.




As the three animals slept, Trollium Djeli tiptoed out of the room, and returned to her castle and clicked the transistor radio off. Pulling on some short-shorts, yanking them firmly into the crack of her butt, she threw on a sweater and strutted out of the room, and walked down to The Penguin to get onion rings, to go.

Garrick Ammonium was there, playing chess. He looked up and nodded recognition. Garrick, like Tom, was also a third circuitron. But now Tom had seen a world beyond that which he shared with Garrick, for he had tasted the fifth circuit, and now he was a neophyte “Rapture Engineer”. A state made possible by the confluence of smoke and tantra.

Higher circuits would still remain a mystery, but for now, at least after he gathered himself, he was born again. A new man. A stranger in a strange land. I-not Robot.

Garrick moved the white queen. Tom too moved a white queen as well. But in a totally different world. A world where checkmates were all too premature. And yet a world where an infinite game remained a possibility. And Tom would soon learn that infinite games are infinitely superior to finite games. Life is really not like chess.
Chess you play to win. Life you play to keep on playing.
Tom was learning the beauty of uncertainty, indeterminacy, Life.

Garrick just wanted to win. But the best victories in Life are when everybody wins. A hard lesson for a king, who is used to victories measured by how it relates to the king. And Garrick was a king. A king of clubs. The same as 9/11. A king of club day. Launched by another king. A king of Diamonds, of course. The day and card of Osama.
It is said that a king cannot NOT be a king and that a Jack cannot NOT be a jack.
A shame really. America is a Jack of Diamonds. July Fourth.
And how does a Jack of Diamonds fare against a King of Diamonds?

This is the story of our lives in Bushworld. An indeterminate world of Kings and Jacks killing each other. And sadly a Jack of Diamonds is prone to corruption. A Jack will always be a Jack. And diamonds, wealth…a magnet for Champagne drunks.




The Traffic Nightmare of Conversation

I am being bombarded with IMs and such, and all I want to do is write, so I am going to just Sh*t out some stuff in between IMs and Sh*t. What can ya do? Put the world on hold? Not likely. Not in THE BLOGOSPHERE.
So tell me. What is a blogosphere?
A blogosphere is the virtual space wherein blogs occur and interact. Sort of like the cybersphere, but limited to blogs and blogdom.
There are many great blogs in the blogosphere. Among the very best are these: Iddybud, Daily Kos, Eschaton (aka Atrios), Ed Cone, Matt Gross, Billy the Blogging Poet, American Street, Hope4America, SJ Dixon, bla bla bla…
I’m waiting for the NPR news headlines to be over, if you’re wondering why I am just sitting here, not writing. On this particular local NPR affiliate at Davidson College, the fare is Classical music, and I like to write with it in the background. But I also want to hear who will be coming up…
Estonian! I wonder if it is Arvo Part… Damn! I missed it. Well, it is obviously not Arvo Part. Renaissance-era music. Very nice! Reminds me of Gryphon. The band, not the mythical beast. The band that used to tour with Yes, and who were perhaps the most accomplished musicians of their day. The seventies.
Davidson College is, like Princeton, a Presbyterian institution of higher learning. Charlotte has more Presbyterians than any other city in America. We are also the ketchup-consumption capital. My theory is that it is measured not in bottles, but in packets. We are probably also the fast food capital. Thank God we have Aunt Bea to lead us back to home cooking. Ah! Home cooking! Doesn’t it just sound…what is the word…tedious? Time-consuming? Disastrous?

15425, 15536,15720… So much like taking a long trip in a car, this writing thing. Like driving a long trip, my eye is forever wanting to light upon the odometer, while my mind tries to arm-wrestle my eyes away from the odometer, and affix it to the road, where it belongs…thus allowing the mind free range elsewhither. For when the mind is elsewhither, time and distance disappear. And suddenly you’re there! The impossible made possible. With wondrous little mini-successes along the way, to reward you to press ever forward.
And such is the case with writing. Especially in a case like this, where the goal is to reach 50,000 words. Not Shakespeare heights or Dostoyevski depths. And thank God for that! I am just a shallow, unoriginal old fool, who is only doing this to keep from murdering everyone.
WARNING! WARNING! (Red lights, blue lights, flashing, flashing! Sirens blaring! Sounds of horns and squealing tires. Then gunshots, whistles, dogs. The howling! The howling!)
No no. I jest. I do not DO murder. I consider it most impolite and unspiritual. Everyone is a child of God, and to kill another is to kill God. To break God’s heart.
Can’t you hear that God’s heart is broken? And it is breaking all the more as hate and fear fill the theatres of War. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the planet. The center cannot hold. The Right is grabbing all. Sadly only to run away from their Heavenly Father, only to have the door slammed and soldered shut behind them.
Oh good! 15,975! 25 more and I can notch another thou onto my bedpost. 15, 989 now! What the fuck! It keeps changing! 15,998! Damn!
16,000! Yeeeeeeeeeehi! Woop! Woop! Yo Mama!
Okay. Back to work.
So I’m driving along, fingers clacking out my journey, and I come across the word, “baracalypitone”, for the first time. I know this because I made it up. On the spot. Just like that. Just like God. The god of the words. Only thing is…I’m channeling all this. I make no claim of ownership, although I may lay some claim to being, at times, onerous. Onerousness is my onus. Wanna smell my onus? Sorry, find some other sucker. I got words to travel.
So no. I’m not into murder. You can put the weapon down. Guns are for chickens anyway. Murder is not my bag. That would be Garrick Ammonium. Hitler’s great-grandson. If you’re kind, I’ll show you the bodies.