D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Blog:6-19-18

Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,

I have 't been blogging much lately due to the fact that I have begun work on the new novel. So, since i am feeling bad and shit, I am going to give you a sneak peek of the prologue right here, right now. I sincerely hope you enjoy...

PROLOGUE

“For great is our God above all gods.” - II Chronicles 2:5

(1992 – New Orleans)

Early one morning, as the overly popular sun begins peeking its smug sanctimonious smile from behind the blushing cheeks of a rode hard and put away wet horizon, Paul Danoe realizes how incredibly late it is... both for him, and the world in general. People say there is always time... that it is never too late. These people are stupid,

(Paul could tell them a thing or two but it would be difficult for them to hear over the perpetual Hallmark printing press whirring away in their heads.)

In fact, drop the 'these'. People as a whole are stupid.

Paul tries every day in every way to not be ‘people.’

The rave Cindy had suggested over coffee had turned into a joke. In retrospect, how could it have been anything but? Paul always went into these things with unrealistic expectations even in the face of past experience. There is no magic left in the world, no special place and time to transcend the baser realities of this tedious and poorly advertised life. It is a forever batch of sad little children trying to forget who they are and what they have become.

On the way back Cindy tells him to lighten up.

Paul says he doesn’t want to see her anymore.

Now, he stands on his front stoop, key in lock, watching the day’s orange light slowly crawl its way across the city floor toward his feet. It is this living breathing entity which most ‘people’ take for granted day in and day out. Paul smiles ruefully. What do tourists call this place, ‘The Big Easy’? Nothing easy about their life.

Too many goals…

Too many possessions…

Too much…

“Money or your life?”

From behind.

Now if a truth had ever been spoken.

Paul slowly turns. Before him is one of the aforementioned ‘people.’ The man is scruffy and greasy. He looks as if he just got finished packing the wheel bearings of a 72 Caprice Classic with huge goopy handfuls of automotive grease. His face and tank top are one big smear.

He waves a straight razor before him with all the confidence of a baby seal. Paul shakes his head.

“Are those my only two options?”

The man doesn’t take a step up but slashes his weapon through the air to emphasize his claim. He is a good five feet away.

“Give me your cash bro.”

Paul smiles,

“Bro? So we are related now? This is how you treat your brother?”

The greasy man pauses, confused.

“It’s just…”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s just something to call you. I don’t know your name?”

“Correction, you don’t know YOUR name.”

“What?” the man’s grip on his razor tightens as if he only now remembers where he is and what he is doing.

“I said you don’t remember your name.”

“I… I do.”

“What is it then?” Paul asks nonchalantly.

The man stops and cocks his head.

“It is… It is…” The look of confusion in his eyes says it all. Frustration clouds his face and he takes a step forward, raising the blade ever so slightly. “Give me your fucking money!”

“Whoa there Andrew, what’s your rush?”

The man’s face goes blank. His lips mouth the word ‘Andrew.’ He says it aloud. “Andrew… My name is Andrew.” His brow furrows again. “How did you know that?”

Paul smiles.

“The same way I know you should never bring a knife to a gun fight.” He flashes his arm out and points a finger like a gun.

The man spins and ducks all at once. To the passerby it might look comical; but Andrew suddenly knows he is about to get shot with finger bullets.

“Quick Andrew, look at your feet!”

Andrew looks down to see a gun on the ground. He squats and picks it up, dropping his razor in the process. The greasy man spins on his prey and points the gun, triumphant.

“Aha!”

Paul raises his arms.

“It appears you have the drop on me.”

“I… I do.”

“That is one amazing ass gun you have there.”

“Damn skippy yo.”

"And Jif too."

"What?"

"Nevermind, inside joke, look whatever you do please don’t shoot my pretty little face off.”

“I will most definitely shoot your pretty little face off.”

“But it is so pretty… and little…and…”

Andrew pulls the trigger. A thin stick juts out the tip unfurling a flag which reads (BANG!)

Paul shakes his head.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“You were going to shoot me Andrew.”

“I just wanted your money.”

“You were going to shoot me in my pretty little face.”

“Just your money.”

Paul squints one eye making Andrew’s image appear small and close.

“Your actions have consequences.”

Andrew drops the gun with the flag limp to his side.

“I just wanted…”

Still squinting, Paul reaches out with the impetus of optical illusion and uses his forefinger and thumb to grab small Andrew by the scruff of his neck.

“My pretty little face.”

Tiny Andrew squeals as he is lifted up through the air by Paul’s two large fingers and subsequently dropped into Paul’s gaping front shirt pocket. The hole is deep and black and cold.

“Your money…”

Andrew’s miniscule voice is silenced forever as the shirt pocket swallows him whole.

Paul stands on the stairs in the early morning haze, alone. He pats his pocket and sighs.

“I know you did bro…”

He walks over to the straight razor and picks it up. A kid might find this. Paul cradles it in the palm of his hand and holds it up to the air. With a small hop of his wrist the razor is thrust upward and as metal becomes wing a Blue jay flutters off into the bright dawn sky.

“I know you did.”

Paul turns and finishes the short trek up the stairs. His feet hurt. He has walked enough to last an eon. As he reaches out for the door he wonders if his sister will be up with one of her girl-toys. Or perhaps the triplets will be skulking about. One of them always seems to be, lurking… gazing… ready to tell anyone within earshot the grisly truth of their future in the old tongue. It becomes tiresome after a while. They need to get out, maybe give some lucky gent a wink-job.

Paul smiles. He cracks himself to pieces. A brisk breeze suddenly chills the air around his neck causing him to pull up his collar. The hairs on his forearm stand on end. A great change is on the way. It is coming. He can smell it. He doesn’t need the 3 hags in the room beyond to spell it out for him. It has been a long time since they have all entertained a new age. They are… overdue.

The prospect is exhilarating.

Paul smiles again and looks at the ground.

The sun at his feet is beginning to splash over his toes

Whatever the future brings, today is going to be one amazing ass day.

Paul’s key turns the tumblers.