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by Michael Carmen
Thursday, Oct. 05, 2006 at 3:12 AM
firstname.lastname@example.org 117 sewage
Drag this filth through that brag of shaming fat oil where needle ends up such pathology of brat shit homing domicile to beat the bastards without tracking sucked-up attitude noded to wall until I smash the face of the devil.
Smoking George In A Fight To Stand Urban Warfare: A Story About A Lost Fire Arm With A Toe
by Michael Carmen Tuesday, Oct. 03, 2006 at 10:57 PM
email@example.com 117 sewage
In a noon of roofs taken from a two storey old house in an inner area in Malate was a view where some leash of altitude of upper plane suburbian 3 o clock snack.
It was better with a beer and some drub of cut-above-the-wrist gunshot from an instant decision which would be a tall-joke of a dying bride. In due course, “Big Face” came back from a run of the mill mission of illicit but low cash. He told “Jhonny Brat” to slow move or watch the back as Jhonny would go straight to Bigface’s father, Mr. Romualdez. The inebriation was thin at that noon when we lower the level of our loftiness and then we went to the first street from the right of Slap Nose Hotel. A gunshot was fired first then our attention to analysis of what kind of Colt was used. Jhonny Brat went off to his mission to ask Bigface’s father what to do about the killing of a friend from Baguio. A passing of a shot of rum from a half naked 6’2 local of the street where ten meters away was another circle on mixed vodka with fruit juice. The streets were very diplomatic and political but good and if it was to debate then it would be still good because of Bigface’s friends and neighbors from San Francisco, California and Baguio. The day was for another beginning of a deleted job on self employment and that it was imperatively unethical that we had to avail another box of red filter. Then a lighting fire to the cigar. At six noon, Bigface left us on one side lending us 50 bucks for the kick and with a delightful smile he turned his back packing his shits all but dry flat but brave as a boy of street knowledge. The sky turned to dark gray like an angry angel of agony while I took the glass of beer. As of that time on, no more gunfire was heard and at 7, I took the bus to another hotel to the South. The route was clear when it needed also to be checked by the authority due to some reports on arm transport that the police had to hop up to the bus to inspect all necessary details. So it was clear that nothing came up with the call from the PNP. I arrived drank my two cans of slaps with a daypack in a residential vicinity in a city in South Luzon. To another room George called me up from the landline where the owner was an Indian Monk from Calcutta while the phone apparatus was waiting from the ground floor and I had to go down from the third . He hang up after some affirmation about a shootout. At the third floor was spotless, also the wind was fresh from the width of the meadow countryside of a clear patent athmospere. Another call from George saying that it would be better if I go with him tomorrow to referee between the gangs that would collide. We agreed on some conditions that the deals would come breezy with that point that appointees must be in good vibe and no badnews from the brat boys. I opened all the windows of the green painted room and smelled fries from the lower lessee as the TV was tuned to ABC and the night’s news.
Last September 20, the next day from the South stop over, to the downtown where George house was located were some cars parked alongside of Don Pedro Street and the motorcade. I thought that maybe it was the birthday of the guy because he usually like driving black cars so a lot of black cars were parading through the cross road where buildings of newspaper publications are open ‘til six or seven. I knocked at George’s front door and that pink color with varnish on the sides ‘til I knock my third then the door opened and it was him, a tall half American junky from Chicago and his bearded face. He invited me in and offered me the rocking chair opened the disk player and played bluegrass music from Germany. He smiled a little but frowned his face back as if he was like kidding about the early 8 ‘o clock visit. He offered me some opened bisquitz. The house was painted in blue but half part was green and the printed tiles of European design were of course acceptable not to mention that also dried flowers around the sala. The sofa were from province as he mentioned and that it was given to him by a godmother of one of his nephew. George went inside the storage room as he sneezes frequently checking out the barrel of his forty year old bazooka ammunition with some calibers given to him by his half brothers. The room was meshy noticeable that the house was at fifteen. He told me that witches from the seventies were hanging over the town that when some hippies came along offering gifts for the “Sin God” , he was only sixteen at that time now he’s turnin’ 40. A printed copy of the hippy era from George’s portfolio and his ID of associated press based in Chicago showed out from his aged brown envelope. The picking nose after he elucidated the story on the witchcraft. George also told us that the Police used mantras to kill witnesses to the tribunal court before the case creeps to the higher court. We went out to the backyard where the garden of all green leaves and some were hanged to the metal brace to the second roof. A small white dog awaits for the feed. The bench was low and he was a little high of good cannabis and he sneezes again. Two cups of coffee at the patio’s round table and still hot. It wet my CBGB shirt when it spilled from my lips. The half American called the gangs through phone as he settled the gangwar promising an event concert for consoling such grievances about the unfairness of the situation. I talked to the guy when George handed me over the cell phone and they said that there were no killing happened and gave his word that nothing like that will occure. So I supposed that Bigface and Jhonny Brat was lying about a murder.
An hour later, I decided that I should go back to the Port Area to pick up some relatives from the province. George sent me out of the hippy house and shook my right hand. His phone rang and answered it. He gave me the phone saying “it’s for you”. A guy on the phone told me that Bigface was shot dead this early morning. So I returned the phone back and hopped on a taxi. I remembered about the gun that Bigface carried when we were waiting for Jhonny’s black belter cousin. It was a 45 caliber pistol. Stainless and brand new. Bigface told me that it was given by his girlfriend hooker and that it was steeled from a cop costumer of the 2nd street’s sex den. When I was along the boulevard to the Port Area in the taxi, I realized to check if the call about Bigface was true. So I told the cab driver to take me to Malate near Slap Nose Hotel. An hour and twenty minutes later and I saw Jhonny again smoking newly lighted cigar. Haggard and stinky that he would realized afterwards that he looked like an old man in the age of 19. Somebody called my name from the right side of the planted bench when I heard a shot. Then I saw Jhonny lying on the pavement with full of blood all over his body. Also the hole on his head. He was dead with a gun in his belt.
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