Ugly City

Mr. White Sonofabitch puts on the plastic rain suit his grandmother gave him for Christmas last year and steps into his slick fucking BMW i8 custom roadster with the doors that swing open, upward.  Not unobtrusive, but that’s not his style.  He can do anything in his city, on his road.




I live in the shadow of a soft, troubling presence crab walking behind a toothless curtain of flesh.  I blow white, chunky heads wide open with a fountain gun… stone brains sink in the sand.  Me… just a flyaway… sitting on a wire choosing all the insects to perform for my pleasure.  Carefully… very carefully.  I break into homes, into bedrooms, slashing.  This is my confession of torture?  Of slaughter?

3:12 a.m. growling cramped stomach.  Farts.  

I went to the circus jerk for a good time, hoping to heel my infection.  But there they were in their tents, the same white chunky heads bleating, stomping their tatty hooves and raising clouds of sawdust.  In a pungent pool, they swam in their own bloody flux, gasping like eels out of fish-lock.  Between shows, I watched children playing in a hole.  I saw a little girl dancing under a snapped power line.  I grabbed her for her safety… tied her up… found her out.  She’s cried these same tears before, I told myself as I sliced the fragile lace belt.  I prayed to the pantomime god who blessed me with nothing but a prick to fondle when I’m insecure, to protect when I’m proud.  I fall into a steaming cavity with a belly full of candy.  The candy I used to lure this child into my arms.  I chop my own wood for the fire of my choice.  I rely on others for ridicule.  I wear my genitals on my sleeve.

Driving at insane speeds: in the rear-view mirror a small, ugly dog rolling maimed in the road.  Summer smells.  Boxes of condoms and supplies under the passenger seat- overflowing ash tray.  I want control; I’m a bottle and a switch.  I found Freedom like needles in an alley; she’s bound and passed-out in the back seat.  I’ve built up my life only to burn it down.  I cannot control the crash, because I want to reside over Freedom’s flesh like a wheel grinding out mush.  Seething deathbird.  I’m going to teach my texts (which have been drawn up in animal fat) to all the children of this land.  I’m culling the small minds.




In the assassination sex-act, Mr. White Sonofabitch wheezes into two cell phones.  He doesn’t have to pay attention to freeway speed limits or what lay before him.  Guns under seat belts create the most exciting sporting event, he thinks to himself.  Fuck the Steelers, The Cubs and Ohio State.




Divide the house.

Foster hatred and WAR FUCK.

Create fraternities of sodomy and murder.

Lay with beasts and learn from them… then suck out their eyes.




Meanwhile, in the same ugly city, in a corrugated metal barnfactory, an eternal milker, a box that looks like an octopus, chugs beneath a cow mechanically sucking her lactations ‘round the clock.  Needle drones are released to give the necessary monthly injections to keep her body thinking it’s pregnant.  A methane collector is harnessed to her back; an insertable tube plugged into the anus empties the valuable commodity into the tank which is emptied every six hours.  She eats a gruel composed of her deactivated and rendered sisters, plastic hay and a modified corn that’s only the smallest percentage real corn (the rest filler to fatten her).  Thus, she’s bloated beyond measure.  She shares a 10 x 10 metal stall with two of her inbred sisters.  They have similar coloration and markings… however… one of the sisters has some problems.  A runt from birth,  she was never going to be good for meat despite the super hormones and high fat diet forced upon her.  She exemplified defect, bound to happen, from inbreeding.   As soon as farm techs assessed her raw milk as ‘grade D but edible,’ she was sentenced to hard labor.  The subsidizers  of the barnfactory found that they could sell her low-quality milk to the Dollar Stores and corporate bakeries at great profit.  So, they lowered her into the metal grid that would support her until she was used up.  Over the course of four years, they squeezed more than 50,000 gallons from her.  Then, one day, she up and withers and the only products coming from her udders are scabs and blood.  She caves in.  This signals to the factory techs that her utility is finished; they slate her for deactivation and rendering or, as they term it, disassembly.  They begin this procedure by cutting out her throat so her constant crying won’t disrupt the processes of the other two as she waits for transport.  Unlike her sisters, her ribs are evident- they poke from beneath her skin like barrel staves.  She’s not even passable enough to grind into food to feed the others.  But, they no longer are obligated to waste valuable feed on her, as she’s no longer viable.  She drips yellow goo from all her holes as she hangs from the straps and pulleys that the techs have attached to lift her from her pen.




You need my heavy hand grasping at your strings.  I don’t want to hear your ideas.  It’s all sightless noise.

Friend, I know you.  Friend, I saw you.  Friend, be mine.

It’s all me: it’s all you.

I feel for you like a sink of cold dishwater.

You played your song, you cleansed your dance, you drank the piss of champions!

I catch your falling voice in my cleaver hands and CHOP CHOP CHOP it to bits.

Ooops… you slipped again.  You planted flowers on your grave long before that gun went off in the face of your enemy.  You said you had morals mumbled from the lips of your mother’s god.  All he had to do was blow his mannish horn calling all of the downtrodden to his high court of disease.  They kneel before the scepter eyes high white electric.  Frownman jumps up and down drunk on the piss of mother’s god: “Hallelujah, oh Bull Master, oh Bull Trainer!”

I see your leather draggets behind blood sodden boots.

I want free reign; I’m a trapdoor and a wheelchair.  I feel your boredom like a tooth filling.  And arm as thick as chance grabs for a cloak… it’s covered us for years.  I’m giving it to you, child, for I want you to feel as sorry and tearful as I do.  A rabbit cloak.  A wise old rabbit lived under a bridge and watched people cross… cold people, people without cloaks… walking and talking, not listening and living in foggy sunshine.  Momma rabbit had her babies in a tin thicket.  She loped gently through ammonia puddles on three legs.  Lost one in the traps.  Her remaining hind leg grew quite strong and protected the children.  Her front paws foraged for greens.





Back in the freeway assassination sex-act, Mr. White Sonofabitch pulls his gun from under the belt, kisses the hilt, eyes rolled heavenward.  He’s confronting N-10 and F-112 with their salvation- only they don’t know it yet.  He made these specific plans on The App, and now he’s going for it.  He’s going to do what he’s got to do in style.  He fumbles for the sweat-stained, dog-eared list under his seat.  He scribbles N-10 and F-112 on it with a pen from his console barely keeping control of his careening vehicle.  Horns, industrial presses and handguns go off around him as he weaves in and out of traffic.  In his passenger seat, sex toys like a baseball bat and empty beer bottles, a few vials of liquid LSD and a can of lighter fluid.  Tonight, he’s going to get radical in a pulsating lung-vein-brain-hole frenzy.  He’s going where others are afraid to tread.  He’s not going for safe… but all the way… he feels excitement welling.  He’s got his alibis in order.


He’s going to low-life town to do his low-life things.  But that’s not who he is.  Not at all.  Everyone has their thing, he says, and there’s an app for it.  He’s out to prove a point to the rest of the world, to paint a picture in semen, lighter fluid and bone fragments.  This is his type of modern art.  Examples have to be set.  The agendas are getting out of control.  There’s only one agenda, he rationalizes.  He looks through his tinted windscreen as he steers into the parking area with his knee as his hands are consumed with vials, cell phones and gun. Just over the bank, and through a stand of trees, he sees what can only be N-10 and F-112, where they said they’d be, off the nature trails close to the waterfront- an out of the way area notorious for this kind of thing.

Meanwhile on the other end of the ugly city: rats wash up on cigarette butt beach.  Their bodies dot the butts, a whole city of them, like they’re sunning.

“In the space between Happy Hour and the Holy War, there they sit.  And here I am.  Dispensing The Will of the Living Insurer.”  White is so ready.


Clandestine (detail), oil on canvas, 2014 copyright GPD

Dude called and wanted me and my friend, Uzi Boi, to provide him entertainment.  He was a big shot… some kind of CEO or some bullshit, corporate czar.  

Uzi Boi and I played mumblety-peg waiting for him at a picnic table along the waterfront.   I lost all my toes doing something just as stupid a few years back.  Fuck it.  We’re wasted, for sure; we’d need to be to get into the scene this guy requested.  Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea because dude shows up, in this like hazmat looking suit with Ray-Bans and he’s got a gun in his hand.  Uzi Boi is like, “Woah..” and I’m laughing.  He’s coming toward us, raising the gun and saying something, quiet at first, but louder the closer he gets…

Nesting, digital photo manipulation, 2014 copyright GPD


Before he gets out, Mr. White Sonofabitch puts on his vinyl examination gloves.  They go on with a snap.  He shoves a 22 long rifle cartridge into the chamber of his Walther P99, seating it with a clack, and places two additional cartridges in the plastic pockets of his rainsuit.  He looks at himself in his rear view mirror- one of the singular reasons for its existence in his world. I am my legacy, he says as he smooths his hair and eyebrows, checking his teeth.  He speaks clearly, his mission statement, meeting his own blue eyes straight on, dreadful and intense.  He lays his Fallkniven A1, full tang survival knife, on the passenger seat next to the baseball bat, puts on his sunglasses and opens the car door.

There they sit, smoking a blunt, eyes glazed over like some deep sea fish. When they both finally see him in the plastic rain suit his grandmother gave him for Christmas last year a look a anxious disbelief fogs their eyes.  This is going to be fun, he thinks.

“In the space between Happy Hour and the Holy War, there you sit.  And here I am.  Dispensing The Will of the Living Insurer.”

In Mr. White Sonofabitch’s pocket, the cartridges and vials jingle as he fondles them with one hand as the stiff plastic of his rain suit crackles with the quickening of his pace.  His other hand trains the Walther on his quarries.  His hand is preternaturally steady.

“Listen… just do what I tell you.  Even if you’ve never listened to anyone in your life, your continued existence kind of depends on it.”  He lies.

In the moment, they’re only too happy to do whatever he wants, their inebriation heightening their terror while lowering their reaction time.  For him this is a good thing.  To the boys, the scenario unspools in slow motion.  Mr. White Sonofabitch barks orders in his sharp baritone- his captives complying in the retarded motions of the drunken.  Mr. White Sonofabitch is adept at maneuvering with his dick in one hand, his piece in the other- he’d been a Marine after all.  When N-10 tries to drunkenly charge him, Mr. White catches the boy with a haymaker in his temple.  N-10 collapses, his legs twitching.  White empties one of the vials from his pocket into the boy’s mouth, clapping his hand over so he can’t spit it out.

After he’s sure N-10’s swallowed the liquid, Mr. White rasps, “Roll him over.” He points to F-112 then to N-10 with the muzzle of the Walther.  “And spread his cheeks.”

With his target fully exposed,  White gets busy.  First, the middle finger, then the ring with the wedding band still on, then the whole fist.  Working it violently.  Then the same treatment with the barrel of the Walther.  Then, BANG!  The city’s newest, and certainly most decorated, internet troll is neutralizing the city’s most wanted unwanted. Blood greases pavement under foot.



Cigarette butts scattered on me.  Glass petals shoved in.  Towns emerged on my thighs.  The exposed areas of my body polished swamp black… the smell of undigested flesh, I lost my purpose  as I dissolved in a field of red.  Pain, bright and new, ancient and consuming shot through my nerve net.



“Now… you’re next.”  White said to F-112.  “Lay down in the weeds over there.”   He indicates a patch of scrub near the BMW.  Following the boy, gun pressed firmly into his lower back, White orders him to lay supine in the grass.  The boy moans and whimpers, “Dude.”   Then, checking his reflection in the silvery lavender finish of his BMW, White commands flatly, “Go over there… it’s going to get messy and I don’t want you screwing up my freshly detailed car.”  The boy fakes like he’s laying down but springs and darts toward the wooded bank leading up to the bicycle path.  He slips.  Smiling, Mr. White Sonofabitch discharges the Walther into F-112’s leg.  “You shouldn’t have done that.  Now it’s going to get really rough.”   He leaps before him and kicks the boy’s thin body over.  When he falls face forward in the scrub, Mr. Whitesonofabitch dances over him, gyrating inches above his contorted countenance before dragging the body of N-10, by heels, from the pavement to the overgrown area next to F-112.  After a lot of grunting, barking and cursing, Whitesonofabitch positions N-10 facing F-112 with his innards laid bare, overflowing, his face a smudged and torn rictus of agony, eyes gone out.  “Now… kiss.”  He puts the muzzle to the back of F-112’s skull and releases shoots his load.

White releases his car door, places the gun in the glove box.  After a brief pause to mumble a prayer to the sky, he removes the baseball bat and survival knife from the passenger seat. He never lets his eyes wander too far from the gore slicked and shivering  F-112.  It looks to F-112, through his now hopelessly warped perception, like dude’s performing some sort of mongol war dance.  And he’s right. “That’s the problem with you millennials, you don’t want to follow instructions.  You want to take short cuts, you want the easy ways.”  White removes the boy’s pants and underwear and re-purposes them over the groaning youngster’s head like a hood, tying them off on his neck with the empty legs and securing it by his belt.  “Without any trust between us, I can’t even look at you anymore. Such a disappointment.”  It’s comical insofaras, the boy now reminds Mr. White Sonofabitch of a scarecrow .  The man stands there for a moment, whispering something F-112 can’t quite make out.  These are the last sounds F-112 hears, sobbing, as he feels the impact of the first blow to his head.  White’s expression becomes more intent as he watches the stain spread on F-112’s pants with each swing of the bat.  The pants muffle the sound of breaking bone.  It’s the most merciful thing White can do, this way the boy will never have to feel the blade of the Fallkniven enter his navel and slice him from navel to pelvis.  “And so, God poured down the steel rains from the rusted clouds and his prodigious cement weights and lead shot have secured the blackened birds to the iron cross.”

Pencil thin lips drawn back in after-life bliss.  White looks at the boy who is little more than scraps now.  “He’s been delivered.”  He says with an air of contentment licking his gloves..

After covering the bodies in his plastic rain suit and rinsing the remaining vestiges of these deeds away in the river, he changes into gym clothes and checks the boys’ clothing for whatever valuable items they may have had left.  Unfortunately, they only have a small amount of weed, Black and Milds and pills.  Suboxone, Oxys.  “Low class.”   He downs four pills before filling F-112 and N-10’s mouths and cavities with lighter fluid.  He empties a liberal amount over their remains and surrounding foliage, igniting the tableaux with a Zippo chrome lighter.  Reverentially, he traces several symbols over the growing pyre before falling, satisfied, into the BMW’s plush, leather seating like the star he knows himself to be.



Meanwhile, back at the White Sonofabitch manse, Mrs. White Sonofabitch is having a few drinks her own self.  She’s a starving waif of a broad at about fitty cents soaking.  Pretty much liquid diet and Slimfast.  Who can blame her?  These White Sonofabitch’s marriage is a Rube Goldberg Machine of manipulations.  They share a crippling fear of intimacy that allows them both to hold as much strange genitalia as their hearts desire.  He’s out there, making it happen on company time and she’s in here, living the nightmare, empty nester with more cents than time.  She gets lots of deliveries and has lots of work done.




On the way home, he looks in peoples houses.  The pills percolate within his blood.  The freeway melts around him.  Through plastic chemical fumes he sees men and women fucking- death mannequins, mutant fish and trees.  The summer of pestilence floats on the bitter trade winds of cause and effect.  He sees seashore children playing with and growing into deadly meat-instruments of greed.  Water beads on glass vials brimming with cells.  Animal cells injected and multiply in permutations of women and men weak with smoking bladders and skeleton envy.  A transplanted armchair waits in the middle of the freeway as the milky cataract ocean rolls out in front of him.  He swerves.  Is it really there?  22 cartridges, pills and coins pierce the brown, filmed sky.  The last light of the sun flashes on the sand.  The sand is not sand either, but rather finely ground glass.



My wife, my wife: she likes big, black steers, muscles glistening.  This one pads gracefully across the polished wooden floor.  I see his legs twist around her soft white torso.  Her tongue searches the fold of his well-formed buttocks; her saliva a warm balm on his fevered flesh.  Sweet perspiration gives way to a musked veil that hangs over the room.  She squeezes the fluid from this young animal and eventually his tears.  Droplets form on the window as the heat of the room condensates against the winter outside.  Sunlight drains slowly, shadows elongate.  Patterns of light are diamonds on his skin.  They fall into steaming cavities. 



He blasts through the backdoor, barking command and invective not so different from where he’s just been.  She’s busy hiding all the evidence and fixing her augmented lips as he shouts.  More orders.  More commands.  More insults.  This is his routine when he takes his shoes and coat off.   He starts stripping and cursing her.

“I want that fence put up.  It’s been setting in that crate on the lawn for two months.  Summer’s already over and the grass is dead under that crate.”

“I’ll get Alphonso out here to put it up.”  She wheezes.

“To put it up you.”  He says, eyes dead.

“Get her done.”  Says the TV in the background.

Looking at the dining room table, his eyes skim across the grey, cold slab of meat with a pathetic pile of dyed vegetables grown half-assed in the depleted soil of a forgotten country.  He swallows the rest of what the dead men across town left in his throat, a coating of charred flesh smoke.  This is his life.

“That meat looks spoiled.”  He says and he’s not wrong.

“I don’t eat that stuff.  I cooked it for you.”  She says, polishing off her Lite Cosmo. By cooking, she means shifting it from freezer to microwave then, when it stirring it with a spoon she rubbed through her bum.

He comes in looking red-rimmed and vein-popped.  His hair stuck to his damp, flushed face.  This is never a welcome sight to her.  It always ends up this way: he slams around with her being in the way.  She’s pretty in the way when she’s not operating as a prop of sorts.  But, after his first and second tirades are over, he’s in front of her silently removing his clothes as he stares at her on the couch.  What kind of reaction does he want?  Those eyes with nothing in them, that mean mouth.  He drapes the trousers, French cuff shirt and vest over arm and deposits them in the laundry room.  He’s in there for longer than normal and she feels like he’s watching her.  She’s noticed crude peep-holes poked in the walls recently.  When he comes out, he brushes by her- heading to his man-cave- without another word.

Alone again, she’s thankful that his clothes appeared relatively unsoiled.  Tonight she won’t have to spend hours toiling over the horrible stains he was prone to.  She poured herself another Lite Cosmo, her fourth… or fifth.  No sooner has this vague ease settled over her then, and quite suddenly, he’s shouting below, his voice booms and shrieks.  She should’ve known that she wasn’t getting off that easy.  Screaming and growling accompanied by pounding and cracking like some primal rhythm increasing culminating in a great shattering that sounds like a mountain of glass.   He’s making one hell of a mess.  The sound of his bare feet heavy on the basement steps sends her off the couch. She’s nearly frozen trying to get out of his way, retreat to the bedroom.  But, here he is- nowhere to hide.  He’s naked and he’s cut himself badly, but it doesn’t register.  It doesn’t appear that he recognizes her and she’s certain that she’s never seen this thing before. As he pounces on her, she asks herself what she’s done to deserve this.  Then she realizes.

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