OneDayOneSnap

Social Justice an adult only post.

2011-12-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

The air of the motel 6 was rich with the smell of their union. She sat in the bed, with the sheet pulled up and over her breasts, while smoking a Salem Ultra Light 100, and flicking ashes into the cheap disposable plastic cup they had requisitioned for an ashtray in the non-smoking room.

He, bolder, paced the room, unabashed and unashamed of his nudity. The residue of their sex glistened as it cooled and dried on his cock.

This 4pm Motel rendezvous, may have seemed like a common story but it wasn’t. This was an exchange, not an exchange of sex for money, but an exchange just the same. She had something he wanted, and in exchange he did what she needed done. The details were never spoken of, and words would only have further complicated an already complicated issue.

There had been words in the past.

“Do you have children?” She had asked.

“Nope. Don’t really ever want to either.” he had answered in his normal unemotional tone.

“Then why do you do this? I mean seriously you can’t be doing this just for a little afternoon delight?”

I do this because I like to.

“No.. No... No.... I don’t mean the sex. I mean the violence.”

“So do I.”, he had relied.

That pretty much ended that conversation.

A chill had gone down her spine, she had been truly afraid for a second. She had been sure she would never call him again. But then they had made love.. and those feelings had faded away with her own cries of orgasm...

She had called him again and again and again... and here he was.

He dropped his own cigarette in his plastic cup, it made a pssst sound as it was exstinguished in the waiting water. Sitting the cup down, he picked up the ½ pint bottle and took a swallow of bourbon straight from the bottle.

She watched him, becoming aroused again, while he paced. ‘Like a caged lion.’ she mused to herself. Reaching over to drop her smouldering cigarette in his cup she allowed the sheet to fall. He noticed, and the twitch, let her know he noticed.

He crossed to her side of the bed holding the bottle out to her. She shook her head no and grabbed his flaccid prick. He grinned, set the bottle down on her side of the bed and placed his hand on the back of her head as she took his now stiffening member into her mouth. She didn’t really mind the taste and knew it turned him on when she tasted their leavings.

The social worker embraced the debauchery, and rejoiced in the freedom to do and be anything he wanted for the next hour. He knew a side of her that no one else ever did or would and she knew sides of him and secrets that would forever alter his life.

Surrounded by this impenetrable and absolute wall of secrets lay a freedom and liberation that no one could or would ever understand.

Later, while he showered she dressed quickly, and quietly, and left. She made sure to leave nothing behind except the file, that had been carefully photocopied, and slipped out of the file room with the sign that hung on the wall that said ‘absolutely no files are to be removed from this room’.

When he finished showering he came out of the bathroom and dressed in the pile of clothes that lay neatly folded and hung over the back of the rooms only chair, finally he stepped into his boots. He wasn’t surprised that she was gone, he had expected it. He wasn’t shocked at the file either. He picked it up without opening it, left his magkey on the bedside table with a 5 dollar tip, walked to the parking lot and got into his truck.

Forty five minutes later at a diner on the other side of town he opened the file and read while eating a double cheese burger and fries. The waitress knew her business and knew it well, she didn’t bother her customer with useless chatter and kept his cup full of hot black coffee. He read every single word, of every single page, he looked at the photos, and then looked at them again. As he finished a page he lay it face down in a neat and orderly pile at his right hand. When he finished reading, he looked at his check, left a 10 and two singles on the table, put the pages back in the file, and left the diner taking it with him.

He drove to the local Kinkos, shredded the file, and left without a word to the harried clerk.

Later that night Jack finished his job at the foundry. He clocked out and headed over to Jerry’s Bar for a couple of beers before heading home to his wife and children.

About a mile from home a truck had seemed to pop out of no-where. He narrowly avoided a crash and was run off the road. The other vehicle must have spun around because even as Jack climbed out of his truck he was almost blinded by headlights and a light bank that was on the headache rack of the other vehicle.

Furious Jack climbed out of his truck ready to give a piece of his mind to the offending driver.

With rage in his step he stomped toward the other vehicle holding one hand out in front of him to shield his eyes from the blinding head-lights.

“What are you, some kind of fucking idiot?” shouted Jack.

The driver’s side of the other truck opened and a man climbed out. He was completely in silhouette but the silhouette was huge and Jack felt the first tentacles of fear creep up and down his spine. He changed his tone a little.

“I mean.. shit man. How fast was you going? I never even saw you...”

“Is your name Jack Kineson?” the man in silhouette asked.

“Yea it is..” answered Jack. “Who are you and where the fuck did you come from? Look at this goddamn mess!”

“You didn’t see me because I was setting in the middle of the road with my lights off.”

“Well why in the fuck would you do that?” asked Jack still perplexed.

The man answered as he stepped forward. “Cause I got something for you.”

As the last word left his mouth his hand came forward and pressed a tazer into Jack’s throat. The pain was excruciating, paralyzing, and endless all at the same time. Jack felt his knees give, his bladder let go, and saw lightning even though there was none, all in the brief second that it took him to collapse to the ground. He must have faded for a few seconds because the next thing he remembered he was laying on the ground with the shadow of his assailant over him.

“You beat your kid that has autism? You want to tune him up a little?”

A steal toed work-boot came out of the darkness and crashed into Jack’s Shoulder. He felt his shoulder dislocate and his clavicle shatter. Thought and coherency evaporated as Jack screamed. Another kick, this time to his lower ribs, and the scream continued even when all the breath in Jack’s lungs had been spent. Finally his breath reached it’s last and he tried to suck in more air. He couldn’t. His assailant had actually put his boot on Jack’s neck. Jack needed air worse than he ever had and he couldn’t get any. He began to panic and beat against the leg, with his left arm, the right one refused to move. The leg seemed sized like a telephone-pole and it had him pinned to the ground as completely as an insect pinned to a board. A darkness even darker than night began to close in on Jack. He knew he was losing consciousness and he almost welcomed the darkness. Never had he felt pain like he felt in his shoulder and right side. It was like a fire from the inside out as his broken bones ached and ground against each other with every movement.

The only sound was a rasping as Jack struggled to get his breath, and finally his left arm fell down to lay like his right. Jack’s consciousness had left him and he welcomed the darkness.

Minutes? Seconds? Hours? …. Sometime later Jack felt liquid hit his face. It burned his eyes and tasted horrible on his tongue. The thought of drowning flashed across his mind like an endless neon sign on a jet black sky and he jerked himself into a sitting position. The stream followed him and his shoulder stabbed at him. He tried to open his eyes but the liquid stung them and he squeezed them shut, leaned to his left, vomited and then fell over in it.

“You awake Jackie Boy?” asked his assailant.

Jack did not answer, he lay there in the piss and vomit (it was piss he realized as his mind said the word) and waited for this nightmare to pass.

“If you don’t answer me I will break your leg.” said the voice with a darkness and confidence that assured Jack of it’s sincerity.

“Oh God.. I’m awake. Please don’t hurt me anymore.” mumbled Jack in a voice that quivered so much it was barely recognizable by him as his own.

“Good, because I want to make sure you hear and understand what I have to tell you.”

The assailant nudged the broken shoulder with the toe of his boot, and Jack screamed.

The assailant laughed low and menacingly.

“Just making sure I have your attention. Do I have your attention Jack?”

“Oh God Yes.” Jack answered.

“Your gonna get about 6 weeks off, or at least light duty while that shoulder heals. I want you to take that time to get you some counseling, or get a divorce. Because if your autistic son gets hurt again I will kill you.”

“What? What are you talking about? Who are you?” Jack asked with a since of bewilderment and confusion in his voice.

Although it was the assailant’s boot it felt like a sledge hammer as it slammed again into Jack’s already broken shoulder. He tried to scream but a scream wouldn’t even come as the ends of the clavicle bone were ground together. One end of the bone almost poked out of Jack’s shoulder and lightning again flashed on the inside of Jack’s eyelids.

The low menacing laugh again sounded and the assailant knelt beside the victim on the ground and now placed his hand on the wounded shoulder.

The pressure caused Jack to moan.

“Don’t say stupid things Jack... It doesn’t fucking matter who I am. It only matters that you believe that if the boy gets hurt I will kill you. Do you believe that Jack?”

The assailant emphasized his final statement with a slight shove to Jack’s shoulder causing the bones to grind and Jack to scream again.

“Yes I believe you... Just let me live..... Just let me go.... Just stop hurting me....” As Jack said this he began to cry and weep and wail... Like a terrified toddler in the body of a 37 year old man.

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes Yes anything.” gasped Jack

“You were in a one man accident out here. Just dozed off and drove off the road. I was never here and that’s the story you will stick to. Am I right?”

“Oh Yes.. absolutely.”

The assailant got up slowly. Walked back to his truck and drove away.

2011-11-20T07:49:00.001-08:00

I'd like to be a fly on the wall....

That has always been an interesting expression. Would you like to be a Fly On The Wall? I wouldn't want to be forever but for a few minutes? On a few different walls? Oh Hell Yea...

The thing about the fly on the wall is that he gets to actually see us like few people do. He gets to see us before we put our face on. We have so many different faces. Life is a stage and we are all actors and actresses.

If you were a fly on the wall in the office, yesterday about 930 pm this is what you would have seen, looking at the coffee table between the blue ez chair, and the green chair and foot-stool here in the Man Cave. I pride myself on not being a sneaky guy, but I know even as I create this post that the Mrs. would rather have me post photos of myself, as naked as the day I was born, with nipple clamps, and a neon blue pogo stick stuck up my ass, then to post this photo on the web.

Now I will admit that this photo doesn't scream order, organization, and extreme sanitation, but I'll bet if I were a fly on the wall in your home or office I might see somethings you would rather not be seen.

Lets assume you don't know me. What does this photo say about me? Lets break it down piece by piece.... It says I have a google TV, a smart phone, I drink coffee, beer, and probably booze, I use honey, probably in the coffee, I have eaten reese's pieces, have keys with a fuel card attached, I am one of the last people in the world with a land line phone, at least once in my life I drank a bottle of water, I use cox cable, and I don't take every single dirty dish, down stairs to the kitchen the second I'm done with it. It also says I have dry skin, an ugly table, and this little table is used as a catch all.

None of those things are anything to be ashamed of, none of those things are morally incomprehensible. They are all a testament to my Humanity. I am human, I am flawed.

So now Lets turn to you, shall we? We will say all of you, and for the most part it's true, but I will admit that one of you in particular is on my mind. What would I see if I was a fly on your wall? In your home of many rooms, what room do you live in, and how does it look in there? Not right after you have straightened it up, but right before you turn off the lights and go to bed.

See this is an intimacy I want to share. I know it's weird, but at my age, I have seen a lot of things, I have seen a lot of faces, and I want to see the face no one else sees because then I will know you like no one else does.

Just some random thoughts on a Sunday Morning.

Strange Gods can be Yours if The Price is Right...

2011-11-18T17:13:00.001-08:00

Today the Mrs drug me to what I call a witchery shop. This place sells everything

from exotic herbs and candles to statues of any God you can imagine. It's kind of a

one stop, separate the sheep from their cash shop, and as you have probably guessed

it's not my thing.

Still no one wants to be the asshole any more then is required, so I went in and looked around

with my cellphone as exotic meditation, sage, charlatans, tea leaves, and boiling cauldrons were discussed.

No one said anything about kittens, puppy dog tails, or blood sacrifice, but I'm pretty sure the conversation was censored for my benefit.

It's not that I don't believe in the spiritual world it that I do.

The theory of this old fat guy is that it doesn't matter what your god of choice is, it could be the cat, the budda, the swastika, the cross, or the honest belief that their is no god at all. It doesn't matter what or who you worship, Jim Jones or Opera Whimprey, Montel Williams, or simply a life shaping loyalty for the 58 Chevy Belair.

The Magic doesn't come from the statue, or TV program, the Magic comes from you and all of the other fever-ant believers.

Imagine that your mind is an energy generator, and when it becomes focused on something it generates a current. This current is minuscule, but it's very real. Kind of like a watch battery. However if you can somehow line up a billion or trillion batteries well then you can get some shit done.

You can build pyramids, you can raise armies, you can spread your faith like a cancer.

You can murder millions, or save thousands. You can accumulate wealth beyond measure, and lands as far as the eye can see. You can have people kill people and marry people, you can bind people, torture people,

split the seas in two and do almost anything you want to.

The sheeple don't know it's them, they can't imagine that it is their energy that creates the atrocities and miracles, it's easier for them to give the credit to the statue, or the King, or the God, or the talk show personality.

The masses provide the energy, it's harvested and directed, by the keeper of the Deity, and then what ever happens was Gods will. How easy is that?

It makes it easier for us all to sleep. Then we don't have to ever admit that sometimes, horrible things just happen. Sometimes the good simply die young, sometimes babies die in their sleep, sometimes the bad guy wins, some days it rains on parades.

Every day is a roll of the dice, and we all just have to try to be the best we can be.

It is my opinion that the keeper of the deities are the most powerful people on the planet.

They define good and evil, they demand sacrifice be it blood, money, or blind faith and obedience. And all three of these things are really the same thing and that's power.

Have a great Day and say your prayers.

Santee Sports Bar

2011-11-17T12:46:00.001-08:00

Is it wisdom or bullshit, when your old and half in the bag at 1245 pm on a Thursday what's the difference anyway. This is what I'm wondering as I listen to these buzzards crow back and forth to one another. The thing is each of these old men had, and have a life. From the one bragging about his tours in Vietnam to the other drunkenly half hugging his shoulder as he tries for the fourth time to explain how he built aircraft.

The waitress, who has the ass of a 10 year old boy, is now wiping the bar and will soon be drawing more beer. It's 12 oz, draft or domestic bottle for 2.25 day and she is busy. I admire the cleanliness of this joint and the way the colored LED ropes above the bar change colors, they seem to be on a 5 minute timer. One more room is available in front of the bar and it has a couple of pool tables and a dart board. I can't help it, but the mood, ambiance, and color scheme of the place, are all mentally noted and may end up in a story somewhere some time.

My ear-plugs are in although I'm not listening to anything and several of the patrons are looking at me out of the sides of their eyes as if I am a curiosity. I know they would be trying to make conversation if not for the headphones, and honestly that's why they are in.

My spidey sense tells me I could do the bartender if I put in the effort, but I won't. She reeks of single-motherhood, grief, drama, and the latest fragrance by Avon. I don't need any of these things. I am already married and in *love* and it only gets more complicated after that, so I'll leave it be.

I like this bar and will be back. I stay for one beer, and one beer only. I don't need the hassle of drinking and driving, or the risk of banging up Melvin the scooter. Plus I only brought a single five dollar bill, and would feel very silly pulling out the debit card for beer.

I finish my beer, and drop two singles, in the tip Jar. "Thanks Miss." I say as I walk out the door and she is saying something else but I pretend I don't hear.. it's EZ with the ear-phones.

I notice the outside tables where you can smoke and drink beer at the same time and I have to give them credit for that here in the, smoking dope is cool, but cigarettes are of the devil, liberated State Of California.

I also notice the parking lot is right next to the beer drinking and cigarette smoking section and I can only imagine the ass-kickings that have been handed out and received, and the amount of blood that has been spilled on the gritty asphalt. I don't know for sure but I'll bet a dollar dollar more blood has been spilled then beer.

This concludes.. This.

Cookies

2011-11-17T10:06:00.001-08:00

The honor lies in the Service if not the services..

2011-11-17T09:05:00.001-08:00

My hand is a loyal soldier.

Now a little older and having lost the smoothness, and glow of youth, he will become reminiscent if allowed and tell you about the old wars.

He will tell you of the angry slaps and the violence. He will go on and on about the joys of touching the face of a new born baby, and the excitement of creeping up the thigh of a lovely maiden. He will tell you of the countless hours spent holding a cigarette or drink. He will tell you how he tossed dirt onto the casket of my brother, and explain to you that no matter how often you do that you really won't grow hair on your palms.

He will tell you about threats and grabbing someone by the throat and pushing them against the wall. He will go on and on about how his decedents carved stone and how he worked as an electrician. He will show you scar after scar and bore you with every single one.

If you listen long enough he will tell you how he has been ordered to steal, and heal, he may even tell you how sometimes he twitches in his sleep as if he has left a task uncompleted. About the only thing he won't comment on are the liver spots or moles? After all whats to say, they weren't there and then they were.

He has dreams that always have gone unfulfilled, he will never paint or sculpt, but he can drive about anything that has wheels.

Somethings make him proud and some things bring him shame.. but his honor lies in his unflinching obedience and unquestionable loyalty.

So, this is me, the sunshine of the fricking world listening to rich girl by Hall and Oats, and waiting for Mrs. Swaney.

2011-11-17T08:21:00.001-08:00

Test

2011-11-17T08:14:00.001-08:00