swimming in an ocean of shit.

Picture of M and I.

you will have to go to my other site to see this... http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com






ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

PUFFINS REFUSE TO SHOW THEIR SMILING FACES TO THE CROWDS. THE QUEEN IS NOT AMUSED.

PUFFINS REFUSE TO SHOW THEIR SMILING FACES TO THE CROWDS.  THE QUEEN IS NOT AMUSED.


 THE QUEEN IS NOT AMUSED!!!For days now, zookeepers at the Lincoln park zoo have been having trouble with the rather notorious puffins in the main birdhouse. There have been rumbles with other birds in the past, photographs of the bouyant waterfowl flashing gang signs, and whispers that only their well-documented excessive use of drugs keeps them constantly smiling all day -- yet, in spite of all their personal problems, and what numerous puffins have described as 'really, really killer hang overs,' the puffins have always somehow gathered the gumption to show their smiling faces to the crowd. Not today, though. No, on this dark excuse for day, the puffins have turned their backs on the adoring crowds and are spewing white runny feces out their asses out right onto their once faithful well-wishers... Yes, this is hard to remove from the hair and lips, feces; this fount of puffin shit indeed does sting in the eyes, and taste terrible in the mouth. For journalistic purposes, I did have to have a taste…The Queen is not amused!!!
The bejewled old leach called a special session of parliament today, immediantly after news of the Puffins unruly, anti-market behavior hit the shocked and sadden shores of great BrittanyThe queen addressed parliament for thrity seven minutes, screaming over and over into the microphone, "The queen is not amused."
Landed Gentry in the parlaiment then began singing, in gregorian chants, over and over, rising and sitting as they intoned, "Theeeeee Queen . . . is . . . not . . . a.. mused."
One of the princes flounced up and smacked the old queenie to stop her from screaming that she was not amused, and the bejeweled wrinkle then went on to urge the puffins to ‘do their part,’ by 'smiling through the bars of their cages.'
Seemingly unimpressed, the puffins responded by continuing to spew white gook from their anuses at the passing crowds.
In related news, the penguins are still spinning around in circles as fast as they can and screaming, :Oh, the shits with you," over and over again with no sign of stopping.
When their publicist was asked just what the heck those waterfowl are up to, she mysteriously answered this reporters stern, probing question by smiling and looking out at the horizon, then saying in a breathless, excited voice, "They are ushering in the new time!!"

welcome to the post environmental age

Below is a link to a new animal, just discovered. Better look quick because the poor, ugly little thing isn't exactly pet material so you can expect its extinction soon. Yes, this is the thesis statement... http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com

We think that keeping these animals in zoos will preserve them for the future, like the pyramids... leave it to mystically addled humans to make every other creature on the planet evolve until large, hair less beings that look like curds of cottage chesse. What else could they look like after evolving to live in a cage for thousands of years being fed for nothing. They will get bored of pacing, and one day just sit there and gawk back at us... I mean, you can't even give animals treats at the zoos anymore, and let me tell you, in the opinion of my dear husky girl Ruby, and the remaining Kitty Bum Buk, this just ain't right. ... zoos, you can't even be against them anymore because there is no nature for them to go back to.

Funny, I came in here this morning to pretend like I could start a trend, be the first one to declare that this the post environmental era, and wrote this really sad essay filled with jesus juice jokes and other disgusting, Johnny Pain at his painwracked meanest.... then, between trying to get the picture to come up on my blog and moving the type around, I lost the essay. What can I say, the world needs less whining, right? Luckily my pills and a few bowls have hit me skull since then...

However, since my thesis here is how to save the world, which is important to me no matter how much you are laughing right now and how silly this will sound to me on after the surgery, when I expect to be on at least a few less pills, I am going to move one with my THESIS STATEMENT RELATED MATERIAL.

I am a reluctant carnivore. Embarrassed by my meat addiction everytime I see a cow or a pig or a chicken. The futility of what one man can do in this world and my poverty kind of combine to keep me on the edge of the idea of the costly switch to eating right. I mean, know that if we could do away with the entire meat industry in one fell swoop, the world be better off. I would like people to stop showing at emergency wards with unbelievable stories about why they have light bulbs in their asses to be passe' as well, but like war and taxes....

The dying off of all the forests that we are seeing now, starkly and nightly, is a storm that is settling over the planet, and the lightening is striking already. You should never do things like drown your mother in an oil slick... (unless she is on my list). Fire, destruction, wave after wave of ancient cultures flushed into tent cities....

Not that I don't think humans are just selfish enough to figure out some way to survive in our gray, concrete future. ... We will shuffle through zoo's and see the large curds of cottage cheese that once leapt from branch to branch, high above man's bafoonery.... and we will read the histories of these times with disgust.

Hey, maybe all those statistics showing a rise in apocalyptic thinking are really people, in some garbled way, reading the thoughts of all of the animals on the planet? I am sure some Kook believes this somewhere.

So, do not become an environmentalist terrrorist because it won't do shit. Animal lovers lost... the winners are wearing them as coats.

http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/050414/481/lon11904142236

ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

Thu Apr 14, 6:36 PM ET

Undated handout photo issued by Bristol Zoo Gardens, of 'Kintana', the first captive bred aye-aye, an arboreal nocturnal lemur, Daubentonia madagascariensis, a native to Madagascar, to be born in the United Kingdom. Bristol Zoo Gardens announced Friday April 15, 2005, that it is the first UK zoo to successfully breed and hand-rear an aye-aye, the largest nocturnal primate in the world and one of the strangest mammals on the planet. (AP Photo/Bristol Zoo Gardens)




ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

DEAD CREEK's... WORLD PREMIERE....from Hombre Films.

Tonight was an interesting evening of about as underground as the cinema gets. We are talking one step away from watching student films being screened at the end of the semester. Uh, actually... there were some other shorts shown as well that were indeed from film school -- I had some seriously Nam-like flashbacks to attending columbia and watching dozens of these dreary productions of badly cliches spread out over long, long minutes of boring camera work.

DON'T GET ME WRONG... this is going to end up being a DAMN GOOD REVIEW of the feature film... DEAD CREEK starts out with a satire of directors and producers and actors doing the kind of commentary that one expects nowadays with all films. The boring, self-promoting actors and the guy who loves everybody and... They actually even used little bio's of white type, over blood splatters, making jokes about the various people talking in the mock documentary. One beefy guy on the crew had below his name, "Definantly takes it anally,' for a beefy guy who looked like a hick --good funny. A mock producer who made it out like he loved everybody and took credit for everything who was immediately deconstructed by the director--an amusing cat in elaborate black sun glasses, looking very 'Hollywood.' Another great bit had them forgetting to pick up a eviscerate dog prop, complete with bloody pig intestines. Some kids find it and poke it with sticks, and then the mother bitches at them for killing a dog during the scene (which they make clear they did not do, but when they say the dog was made out of wire, one wonders? Maybe I just missed something... Well, of course I missed a hell of a lot, of course).

There was a bizarre subplot with a homosexual actor proposing to his gay lover, which some on the set find beautiful (the Hollywood director), while others on the set keep punching him in the balls. ????? There were also an actor who said, in two different bits, that he thought he was in a zombie movie, not a gay coming of age zombie movie, which he seems to believe this one turned out to be.

I laughed a lot, and the effects were not gory or overblown. It was a silly movie that worked best as a mockumentary, maybe....

BUT the DVD we were watching the movie on kept having problems, to the point where we had to stop the film like ten times, take out the disc, clean it, do all this shit... We all felt so bad for the film maker. I mean, shit happens, and me and my crew were not about to let this destroy our buzz, you know. In fact, the one hitter got pretty hot before the show and during various bathroom breaks. I got like six people stoned, laughed a lot, helped make for a good crowd for a filmmakers worst nightmare -- the opening night from hell. He is going to email everyone and let us know when he gets the DVD problems figured out and can run the entire films. In fact, one you couldn't see much of at all...

Anyways, for the price of cup of java I had an interesting night in the city. The conversation was great, too....I also did a drawing which is supposed to be part of this review, and will be soon.... Dark, like they have been lately...

So, that is my unworthy review of a movie. The director will probably be rich and famous one day, but won't we all, eh???? Ha.

This mockumentary went on for about twenty minutes, and then, as one began to suspect as the talking heads and other shots.








ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

Rambling new synopsis of book.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

torture here, torture there, torture, torture,everywhere

This is from the village voice. More orwellian doublespeak about america's torture policy. I do not want to be part of a country that tortures, I want to be part of a country that leads others away from barbarity. My apologies to the village voice for associating them with this vile, vile little blog.











Liberty Beat
The CIA's Kidnapping Ring
U.S. ally Uzbekistan teaches interrogators how to boil suspected terrorists to death

by Nat Hentoff
April 15th, 2005 1:13 PM alert me by e-mail
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U.S. law and international conventions bar sending prisoners to another nation unless there are strong assurances of humane treatment. The CIA says with a straight face that it gets those assurances before delivering suspects to jailers in Egypt, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Pakistan—countries that have such abysmal human rights records that promises of decent treatment are a joke. Editorial, Los Angeles Times, March 11


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But of course they're out of control, there's only so much we can do. Porter Goss, director of Central Intelligence, quoted by Democratic congressman Edward Markey of Massachusetts in a letter to his colleagues, March 8



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During a White House press conference on March 16, George W. Bush was asked: "Mr. President, can you explain why you've approved of and expanded the practice of what's called 'rendition'—of transferring individuals out of U.S. custody to countries where human rights groups and your own State Department say torture is common for people under custody?"

The president: "[In] the post-9-11 world, the United States must make sure we protect our people and our friends from attack. . . . One way to do so is to arrest people and send them back to their country of origin with the promise that they won't be tortured. That's the promise we receive. This country does not believe in torture."

Question: "As commander in chief, what is it that Uzbekistan can do in interrogating an individual that the United States can't?"

George W. Bush repeated his talking point: "We seek assurances that nobody will be tortured."

Actually, there is much that U.S. interrogators can learn from their counterparts in Uzbekistan on how to break down prisoners. One of the CIA's jet planes used to render purported terrorists to other countries—where information is extracted by any means necessary—made 10 trips to Uzbekistan. In a segment of CBS's 60 Minutes on these CIA torture missions (March 5), former British ambassador to Uzbekistan Craig Murray told of the range of advanced techniques used by Uzbek interrogators:

"drowning and suffocation, rape was used . . . and also immersion of limbs in boiling liquid."

Two nights later on ABC's World News Tonight, Craig Murray told of photos he received of an Uzbek interrogation that ended with the prisoner actually being boiled to death!

Murray, appalled, had protested to the British Foreign Office in a confidential memorandum leaked to and printed in the Financial Times on October 11 of last year:

"Uzbek officials are torturing prisoners to extract information [about reported terrorist operations], which is supplied to the U.S. and passed through its Central Intelligence Agency to the U.K., says Mr. Murray." (Emphasis added.)

Prime Minister Tony Blair quickly reacted to this undiplomatic whistle-blowing. Craig Murray was removed as ambassador to Uzbekistan.

On the BBC (October 15), Steve Crawshaw, director of the London office of Human Rights Watch, spoke plainly about George W. Bush's continual, ardent assurances that this country would never engage in torture:

"You can't wash your hands and say we didn't torture, but we will use what comes out of torture."

CIA director Porter Goss also engages in what George Orwell called doublespeak. Testifying before the Senate Armed Services Committee on March 17, Porter Goss said, "The United States does not engage in or condone torture."

As for our ally Uzbekistan, run by the merciless dictator Islam Karimov, Philip Stephens, a forthright columnist for the Financial Times, noted on October 19:

"Uzbekistan provides a vital base for U.S. operations in neighbouring Afghanistan. U.S. financial aid [to Uzbekistan] provides a bulwark against Russian influence." And—dig this—an October 16 Financial Times editorial points out that because the Bush administration supports the barbaric government of President Karimov, the U.S. "has given [Karimov] the confidence to sell a long-running campaign against internal dissidents as part of the campaign against Al Qaeda." (Emphasis added.)

In 2003, Fatima Mukhadirova sent photographs of her son—who was tortured to death in an Uzbek prison—to the British embassy. As reported in Muslim Uzbekistan (February 12, 2004): "His teeth were smashed, his fingers were stripped of nails, and his body had been cut, bruised and scalded." His mother was put on trial "for attempted encroachment on the constitutional order" to convince her to shut up about what was done to her son. (She was subsequently convicted and sentenced to six years in prison.)

Meanwhile, Porter Goss told the Senate Armed Services Committee on March 17 that one of the CIA's own techniques, waterboarding, is "an area of what I call professional interrogation techniques."

As Reed Brody, special counsel for Human Rights Watch, noted in a March 21 letter to The New York Times: "Waterboarding, known in Latin America as the submarino, entails forcibly pushing a person's head under water until he believes he will drown. In practice, he often does. Waterboarding can be nothing less than torture in violation of United States and international law.

"Mr. Goss, by justifying the practice as a form of professional interrogation, renders dubious his broader claim that the C.I.A. is not practicing torture today." (Emphasis added.)

I cannot resist repeating what George W. Bush said on the United Nations International Day in Support of Victims of Torture (June 26, 2003): "The United States is committed to the worldwide elimination of torture and we are leading this fight by example. I call on all governments to join with the United States . . . in prohibiting, investigating, and prosecuting all acts of torture." Let's start at home.

ALL WRITING IN HERE, with the noted exception of marked text, IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

the complete gallery... for what it is worth.

Okay, here they are… the compiled, newly edited, joke added, hopefully slightly less lame pictures than last time. Don’t hate me for bringing out the photo album so much, either. I could be showing you aunts of mine that you will never meet smiling and waving in front of their rv’s, like the rest of the people in your silly, Disneyland world.



PICTURES OF PAIN. VOLUME 1
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/cde4&.src=ph&.tok=phHD91CBrszIi5aV

PICTURES OF PAIN VOLUME 2
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phtD91CBi1JnH7ib


PICTURES OF PAIN volume 3

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph&.tok=phZE91CBJGiQq28H




Pictures of Pain Volume 4
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph&.tok=phZE91CBJGiQq28H

















ALL WRITING, ART AND PHOTOS IN HERE ARE THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

So, I am not a psycho..... Much as I like to pretend.

I often wish I was a psycho, of course. There is a part of me that would like to have no compunction about killing -- hopefully, I would be some sort of righteous batman. Unfortunately, I am more Charlie Brown than Charles Bronson, and the only Death Wish I have is pretty much spent on worthless moping and whining around my blog.

But no... I am too lazy to kill massah jackoffyourson or any of his helpers.... the money worshipers who circled the wagon around this freak deserve burning arrows in their eyes, too...

But, like Socrates before me, I abide by the laws of my society... Because, sadly enough, I am not a religious psycho killer. I'm not sure what my parents did right (we never talked about that in therapy, because of that thing where the therapist gets you to dislike your parents so you will bond with them, something they have all too scarily in common with cults).

Does this mean that for some reason I like killing? No. Never could stomach faces of death, howl like a monkey until I can change the channel when some horrible parental beasts crimes are blathered out on the nightly news bulletins. Still, I am Johnny Pain, no denying it. A guy who loves the idea of kicking ass, a fifteen year cab driver with muscles and boxing and lots of street fighting behind my punch first policy (which has held me in good steed over the years, though I recognize the stupidity of it and consider it a side of me best repressed).

Funny thing, is the novel I am writing, the violence is anything but funny. It is the true grotesquery of the book -- as it is in my first, One War, which some brilliant person is going to buy one day and get the privilege of selling all my other work. Or, not.... poverty may just be something that helps my work for all I know, though I have my doubts.


so there, to anyone who thinks this is the psycho killer shit list, and that I will be killing all who I name... well, if you are one of those people, I hope the thought makes your life a living hell, actually, but you ain't worth the prison time of anyone (with the exception of religious psycho killers, who actually often get married while in prison... to chicks who write in, other inmates... you know what ever god tells you to do.... I'm just saying)


I was once actually thrown out of school for inciting a riot. I painted this sign, like fifty feet by five feet, in all these cool colors and different types, reading,
PENTA COUNTRY STONERS NEVER LOSE THEIR BUZZ. Penta County was a school I mistakenly went to for a year or so before my back surgeries started.




ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

Links to my new slide shows/ they kind of suck.

I have been neurotically rearranging things in the blog in the hope that having my websites in the reader, under however dubious and embarrassing circumstances, will send me some traffic. If I gain some readers through this, well, that's good, too, eh.... I'll need some big numbers when I start the cult, you know... Well, no you don't yet... Forget this--and while you are at it, cut off all contact with family and friends and talk only to your animals--use the native American method of starving yourself long enough and they will talk back. It's all too true, too true...

Just so you know, I can't even stand the commercials for that shit for brains show FEAR FACTOR and would never use anything in that genre, or anything sexy that didn't have a hell of a lot of artistic merit (which, you know, with my general lack of artistic merit, is very rare.



http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phFvW1CBoVrIH7ib



http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/slideshow?.dir=/cde4&.src=ph




http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph&.tok=ph_0X1CB6cG9q28H

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/slideshow?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph





THIS LAST LINK IS A NEW ONE I AM JUST GETTING STARTED, but since I have ten minutes to wash the grime off my body and try to catch a train downtown to meet M. (to avoid the beatings as much as I can, of course)....You will have to trust me that it will get better and bigger. I am taking my camera downtown for some skyscraper shots too.




ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

Hamsters are too killers

Hamsters are too killers


I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it’s all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day…. You know me, I don’t care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom. I already have an army…. Well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They …. Ummm….Already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many ways… I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain’s smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing that’s close. I may have even taught them too well. I can’t even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me. I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters won’t follow most of my rules. I don’t where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline – an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamster… let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the room…


I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but noÂ… I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening. Still, you just better watch it, like I told M. because I am growing stronger and mightier everyday, with each whisker that is added to my battle hardened troops.

Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I’m taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids…. No, I just said, “It’s just a joke.”
“Don’t make me beat you down.”
“They are hamsters, for dogs sake!“
“Will you quit saying for dogs sake?”
“With my last breath.”
"“What?”
“Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?”
“Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you aren’t more careful… By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Yea, right.”
“I think I would remember something like that.”
“Really?”
“What does that mean?”
“You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it.”
“Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, ‘Oh, the shits with you!!”
“You know what, you could, couldn't you?”
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can’t fathom?
“I can’t stop these penguins…” I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can’t.
“If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don’t take them to the beach anymore… they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly.”
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn’t think so. The tans really help."
“I have to go to work. Be good today.”
“I can’t face a day without hamsters.”
“Stop it.”

After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions…

I didn’t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy.… M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.

Consider me taking on students, and any hamsters you can get your hands on,  from this day forward, call and I’ll see if I can use you … if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.

x prose and some babbling

The voices never shut up.... they are there in the back of my mind howling and laughing and screaming every word I have ever heard, disparaging remarks, egotistical cheerleading... it is all there, the constant banter of a bilkllion books and the backs of cereal boxes and all the universe of things we read simply to have something to read. Sometimes it is fun, though.

This entry too has to do with my damned putting an ad in the reader begging. I am sure everyone I know will see it and feel like I have either lost my mind even worse than normal, gone on a drug binge, or rushed in where angels dare to tread. I mean, I don't play the lottery, or believe in pennies from heaven. All I ever won, in my whole life, came about when I was eight years old and won a bottle of ketchup. This was at a company picnic where the prizes started out as bikes and expensive toys then worked down to the left over condiments. We already had ketchup at home, by the way. THe pain I felt that day is probably worth all the years of telling this damn anecdote whenever I tell people that I believe that if there is luck, it is indifferent to me.

Okay, back to the novel notes....



X moves in with three artists and the kid they are helping to raise. The artists inherited a space from tehir uncle in a trendy neighborhood, where they have the corner space with a gallery, a game store, and an old bar. They live in one of the apartments up stairs and in the store, then rent the other two out to pay taxes and utilities and what not. They consider themselves part of a loose movement of writers who think they are batman influenced, meaning thattheir life is work of art too, in the sense that honesty and justice and what not have to be dealt out whether the cops want it to or not.

They start out defacing subway signs, move to putting weird poetic statements in the boxes in the subways which usuallly have maps, stage days where they stand out in public with signs reading, Will Vote Republican For Food. They are long haired, kind of post punk guys. All are different. Paulie, the guy who inhereted the place, is a half mexican kid paints scenes from video games and is the most successful of them (which is not saying much). Jimmy and Johnathon are the other two artists. Jimmy is a sculpture and a painter. He makes elaborate, wall sized peices out of foam that resemble landscapes and then paints them like aerial views. (in fact, I have been meaning to try my hand at some aerial views, and it would look cool three dimensionally, especially if you made it round and coming out from the wall, like a planet or something....

Johnathon is easily the sanest of the four. He represents a kind of melding of the intellectual with the animalistic.... but he is also a romantic with a death wish. In fact, it has to be mentioned that he has tried to kill himself a few times in his youth.

Matt is youth, the one who has to decide which way to go with his life, which bits of culture to pick up and what to discard.


POSSIBLE PROSE FOR X


The cops showed him the pictures of his pit bull; throat torn off in the front, both ears... he closed his eyes and nodded, yes. He remembers that day too much, he knows. The dog had been better than any human he had fucking met. Since leaving prison, the dog had been with him all the time. He was paiainting out of his house, a skill he picke dup in prison, and even had an agent--which all came as a surprise to him and he half expected it to all disappear soon.

He was doing something crazy, that was for damn sure. Driving fifty miles up to Chicago, where the gang was that broke into his car, took his dog, and forced her fight. The cops pretty much said they could do nothing and he knew right then why he was still alive. Why he survived the war, why he made it trhough the gray hell of prison, why he let himself keep living when every day seemed like there was something new to suffer about. He read the papers, had always given a shit . . . prison had given him the guts to do this, he knew. The same gang had given him troubles during his stint. During his intake, the social worker told him that if he didn't ask for protective custody, they'd be ganging up on him that night.b He blamed them for all those hours alone... his art grew however, and he was a model prisoner, allowed to use the internet in the library. That was where he ran across the psycho killers hit list, a half comedy site selling the paintings of a collective of artists and writings. The site made him laugh more than he had or did in prison.





They would have raped if he hadn't asked for solitary. The i

Jimmy represents the scul



ME: Okay, fuck head, what are you doing? You're 43, no kids, no money, no really, really cool paintings of great publications... nothing extrodinary at all, except an extended bout of forever studentdom.

I: Is this just meant to destroy my buzz, or do you have a point?

ME: You have to find meanings, however small, to become your signposts, obviously.... like the bikers who are civilized by kids. Made up or not, looking forward to something seems, scientifically speaking, to have profound effects on our emotional states during the day. We all know what the night before christmas was like, we just underjudge how often that feeling follows us throughout our life, coming up invisible and taking control of you and making you buy some damn thing or another... or in this case, writing a book. Once you get the outline shored up, you are ready to do what you really love, which is to make up, live in, the scenes I write.

I: Yea, so you keep telling me. You know, when I did that draft where I laid out every bit of action, the one that led to the final draft, I was writing by hand in a taxi, late at night... doors locked so I could check out customers before letting them into my sanctuary. I think this hand writing led me to a more clear path than the computer does. For some reason in here, I get little bits of this and that, then lost them, rewrite them, etc.... right now I need one file that has a synopsis, character descriptions, basic outlines for the various scenes, and
needed










ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

BEGGING FOR ALMS FROM ATHEISTS

I hate begging. I will do so if I am a quarter short to getting on the train, or dying for a cigarette or in need of a weed front, but little else will get me there, okay? But.. Since I am trying to better my existence, and be a bit more like the great artists I so admire, it is time for me learn the fine art of begging. I had a horrible vision of this one day when I was very young and very sure that writing was some kind of financial boon like being a rock star or something, as I read through a hard bound, beige copy of bowdlerizing letters. Most of them were to his mother. Something like twelve or more opened with the line,

"My Dear Mother,

I will never, ever again ask you for money but I must do so once again."



I called my mom and told her about this at the time and can still remember her bitter, bitter laugh. She knew. None of us in my family who matter ever chased the bucks for a lifestyle. She started reading to us while we were still in her womb and filled us with an alternative way of seeing the images that would one day splash across our eyes like acid.

Baudelaire's letters letters begging your parents for money. . . . That should probably be on the curriculum of every high school freshman English class, to avoid a bunch more souless art fucks like me too stunned by the damage already done to even know where to start cleaning up the bloody mess...




Those embarrassing letters baudelaire wrote are another one of those things we piddling nobodies can (with varying degrees of conviction) add to the long lists that those of us who are not famous need to convince ourselves our lot is better..... We play our own conman's, forever our own mark ready to believe the spell/lie that we don't even want to be JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR -- that life in the muddy world outside the pretty, pretty tv land is just fine....

I have been leading up to something here, obviously.... so, unless you are too self absorbed, involved in a phone conversation, watching southpark, or making sure your boss can't see that you're reading my site, or simply just too head dented to get much of anything and are right about now reaching for the keys to find a site with more mountain jugs and furry crotched near children.... You should realize that I am whoring myself here. Begging for alms. Sort of. I like to consider this more of a knock on the back door from a weary traveler, who wouldn't mind doing a look work for a sandwich and a few coins.

I am basically saying that since I can't work due to the porous nature of my lower spine and hips (I hate always mentioning this, sorry -- I deal with it better than you would think, so never let the mention of it matter, should you be the kind of psycho to bond with a misanthropic human hunter such as myself who is indeed, and I am sure much to your chagrin, both a dog and a cat person).


Not that I am going to start charging people to read my work.

I just want to offer some other services, like getting a tax break for making a donation to the arts, or sending off old sets of paints and brushes that someone has left over and has sat in the garage forever. An actual money order would be fine, as well. My social security check is so small that I can't even afford a bank account anymore.... And money orders are easy to cash.

As far as earning a few bucks? If you know of anyone who needs tutoring, like writing a paper on a book, I would be glad to help them over the internet. I have done a lot of this kind of work, and once made 75 an hour doing it. But now, I would read a book and help you for like 30 bucks. I can send you signed, framed whatever sizes of all of my paintings for various prices. I will frame them and send them off and sign them. The same with all the paintings in here. Tell me which one you like and will send you the size and the latest picture, etc....

To this end, I did something last night that I am kind of embarrassed about. They have a free newspaper here, the reader, and a column where you can publish in the classifieds for free. The title is wanted. I decided, what the hell, I have nothing to lose...

Pulled up the page and wrote something about being a disabled painter and writer who needed help and directing them to my websites for further instructions. It might be a good way to get a bunch more readers? I don't know if anyone will actually come out of the wood work and send me much needed money. It is kind of an experiment. When I woke up all straight the next morning, I had a flash of embarrassment for writing the damn thing.... But, as they say, strangers things have happened.... like that chick who got 75 grand to pay off her credit cards.

So, there it is, the article for the people who start coming to my site tomorrow to see if I am for real or anything. I even put my phone number and address in there? What the hell do I have to lose?

My fans will probably one day support me, when the books finally start coming off... Speaking of which, I am happy with this weeks work and will write about that next....




I worked 12 hours a day and went to school full time for twelve years. I took plenty of time to do art, edited a magazine, wrote for two little TV shows, a play, published songs and short stories and collages... Then later, the paintings began to sell for a bit of money, though I am no Picasso. I do hold designs on being better than most prints and all rock posters, okay?

When my health failed, a fusion from twenty years before began falling apart. Pieces of bone as big as the end third of your finger are like inches away from the spine. Wondrously, all this cartelidge and assorted stuff surrounded the bone and is keeping it mostly away from the spine. All on its own it did this. Thinking without me. I'm no mystic, but I was impressed with the body that day, for sure.

Now, I can get along a bit. I have to take way more pills than I want, which is a lot, believe me. The pain is such though that only something like morphine would take it away, and that shit would mess my life up so bad that I would rather live with some pain. I mean, I will take everything short of it. The pain of having these bones stabbing into my nerves all up and down my back is such that I end up spending the night in the hospital without pills.

Luckily, I live in a town with a free hospital.

I get less than 600 a month on social security and 150 in food stamps. This is not enough to pay half of my utilities most months, let alone new shoes ... The converse I have on my feet are full of holes.

I am kind of used to living a very non materialistic life, and take a certain pride in my ability to let go objects.... But lately I have found myself unable to afford something that I desperately need--the money to continue sending off my stories, canvases to keep painting, and the money to get to all of my doctor appointments,





Now, anyone who has been reading me for awhile knows that I am often begging my readers for only two things -- open minds, and hamsters. Sorry to add a third, for now... The money will be used to finance my room divider business, which I know can take off if I can get the space and materials that I neeed, but if I apply for an arts grant, they cut off my social security... No win for the poor.



So, here is how the ad reads.


Disabled fine arts painter and novelist broke his back a few months
before graduating. Please help. 773-973-5095/ 1333 West Fargo 3-s
60626. For an example of my work see http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.
com


Bad Ad. So today, I rewrote another and put that in also, saying that I could use any kind of assistance, even old paint and stuff. I gave them addresses to both this site, and the new elves attic site, which I am going to try to make as funny as possible tonight, because the reader comes out tomorrow. I even put my address in there, like it matters.... Because I hope to get money sent to me.... Money orders please, or boxes of paint, or gift certificates to THE ART STORE, or grocery stores or canvases I can paint over or.... Any kind of writing job would be cool, too... I can write very funny commercials, and am a great MC. I developed that talent doing weekly shows last year.

So, if you can help, fine. I am sure I will muddle along without any help. There is also the paintings that you could buy, or even order 8 by tens of anything from me and I will frame them and sign them and send them back for twenty bucks.

I have no room right now to finish a room divider I am trying to paint, and my bad back makes moving it a bitch. This would be a booming business if I got it going. I talked to designers, store owners, etc... There is a huge demand and they would love to have someone who doesn't mind painting in the scheme the decorator comes up with. So far I like painting dark, brilliantly lit Chicago nights with skies filled with stars and great puffy clouds tinged by a yellow moon. Mot that I am so great at this yet. I need to do a series of paintings. I presently live half a block from the lake, so I could go there and paint if I could get my easel down there.

So, once more, the reason I am asking for donations (tax deductible) from you, as a patron of the arts, is so that I may remain stable enough to keep producing those occasional laughs I give you. I mean, unless something changes, M. Is going to sell me to some Korean guys who are going to force me to paint landscapes for those STARVING ARTISTS sales that are advertised not so cleverly everywhere....

So, that list of things you can send (and remember, people are getting money donated for breast transplants and shit, so you will helping to fight a deadly trend of giving where it is not needed). I am also willing to paint any of your animals that you ask. I will do this in my own way, but I will do my best to make them beautiful. Just send the picture, a canvas or the money for one of a specific size, and any dominant colors that you want in the back ground. I will do the same for people. I am very much like an art deco drawerer when it comes to paintings, though,.

Thanks again for reading me. And by the way, most of the donations you send will NOT GO FOR WEED. We use the utility money and food budget for that.

HAVE A DAY WHERE YOU DO NOT EVEN SEE ONE PILE OF DOG SHIT ON THE SIDEWALK.






so, send money orders, paint and brushes, old drawing pads, pencils, gift certificates or whatever you can afford to pay of what you think I deserve for all this writing and painting.

john scott ridgway
1333 West Fargo 3-S
Chicago, IL 60626

johnsridgway@yahoo.com


Thank you .... and don't feel weird if you can't send anything, okay? I am am usually too poor to give a hand out too.





ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON WOWS COPS BY BLOWING LLAMA!!

Massah jackoffyourson allegedly staved off a child molestation accusation in 1990 with a $2 million payment to the son of an employee at his Neverland Ranch, according to a television report, which went on to say he also paid out another fifty three dollars to the family of a neighborhood pig, who refuses to be identified because he is afraid he will be labeled, quote, 'another one of massah jackoffyourson's washed up, ex-celebrity, rubba bubbas... like one of them corey's.'

The television news magazine, Grapevine on JPC, which reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"

The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.

"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is… Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out … ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. He's obviously....ark...a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot... ark...do shot! Rubba!!! Crackes..."

His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!
The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, stupid shit that happens, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``

The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it’s head. He claims that he has captured Elvis’s soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king’s favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the GRAPVINE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``stupid shit that happens'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.J

ackson, 45, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005. Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson. Democratics responded, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.

Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, "No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch."

When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, “My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys¦ What, oh.. No, donkeys. They have cute asses. You ever stick your head in a donkey's ass? It's all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor's pee pee thingy."

At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, "The children in the limo are getting cold. Arrk. The Children in the limo are getting cold!"

ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

a joint tween my lips, hot coffee to sip, and a cigarette burning away in the ashtray..

ALT="Scott">

ALT="Scott">



I have been filled with burning questions lately. Mostly about the acid that I spilled on my groin (oh just don't even fucking ask how, alright--though trust me, never try to remove a tattooed pet name from your penis just because you think you have a better one....


I didn't tell M. this is what happened right? I'm safe putting it in here because M. doesn't read my writing. She says, kindly enough, that she would rather just hear me perform the better, more polished stuff, but I suspect this is really symptomatic of her hatred of what she often refers to as, '...ceaseless babbling." I mean, she has even called my lectures to the hamsters ceasless babbling, so you know how wrong she is about this.


You readers are like the people I am having a mental affair with. Like Jack Nicholson said once when he was asked if he lied to women and he answered, taking the cigar out of of his smiling, sunglass dominated face, "I don't lie to the one who I am having the affair with."

I know that feeling all too well from short forays in my past into sanctified, matrimonial beds not of my building -- GO AHEAD, ADD ADULTRY TO THE LIST OF REASONS I AM GOING TO YOUR SILLY LITTLE, OH SO BORING HELL.

Anyways, I am merely sitting at these keys because it is easier than working on the book, at the moment, and someone suggested a topic that I should write about, which I wanted to get down in here.... for present or future exegesis? There is presently another rise in apocolyptic thinking. Gee, what's with that?

I once tried to explain to an atheist prof. that just because there have been groups since the beginning of time declaring that the world was going to end with them still around -- saved by an easter bunny drawn in a sleigh with reindeer -- that this hardly did not mean that we were indeed in the end times.

Not that I think of End Times like suspicious boofs, of course. I look the world and see shit no god would have done, and in this godless world some things are real. The environment being the biggest one.

By the way, there is now some controversy going on with my dead beat boyfriend status. I mean, I get a little money, but nothing like what I could earn working, and my health keeps me from contributing much to the housework. So you can imagine how different M.'s mother in law and my dear mum view my life's lot. I can go from 'da bum' to the struggling artist by dialing various numbers on my phone, I suppose.
















ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

she.... UNPUBLISHED SHORT STORY MADE INTO SMALL MOVIE

SHE
Always dressed in faded black jeans with the knees torn out and sleeveless T-shirts emblazoned across the chest with the logos of famous rock bands (who inevitably, mother said, seemed to have the word ‘death’ in their names). Basically, She was a good girl, who did all of the things that good little girls in her land did. Like worrying about problem-things.

Indeed, on the day that our story takes place, She was very embroiled in a problem-thing. She had just come from a lecture about a problem-thing that was altogether new to her and was having quite a struggle wrapping her thoughts around it. New words were all floating around in her mind like a bunch of little problem things that she could not make into the very big problem thing that the lecture had actually been about. It was all very confusing, but she was sure that if she concentrated real, real hard, she eventually would understand. And concentrate real hard, she did!

Why, she was concentrating so very hard on the problem-thing that when she got home she ran in the front door and right through the living room, moving so fast and thinking so hard that she didn't even notice her family waving at her from their very favorite spots in front of the television. She just ran into her bedroom, slammed the door shut, put on her favorite CD, The Dead Lovers In Potato Crates, pulled out a cigarette, lit up with her unicorn lighter and started smoking furiously--like she always did when things needed thinking about.

Now, though She did not notice her family when She passed through the living room, they most certainly had noticed her. And when She turned up the CD as loud as it would go, they noticed her even more. The strange music pounded out of She's bedroom right in the middle of Father's very most favorite part of the whole game -- the important half-time talk, where famous sportscaster’s express views of interest to sports fans everywhere. Father was none-too-pleased with the development.

He cast a stern look down the hall when a creepy, screechy voice screamed, "Death is a cool old fool, a kinda’, sorta’ thing, baby. Baby, baby, baby, my little baby thing."

This was not the first time that She had turned the stereo up so loud that weird noises drowned out the television. Normally, father would just cluck his tongue a few times and use his bemused voice to tell little Skipper-Do that he should go into his sister’s room and tell her that ‘She better turn that music down if she knows what’s good for her;’ but not that day. That day Father was very, very angry and he jerked his very favorite hat off his head -- the one with his very favorite team written across the brim -- and just threw that prized possession right down into the middle of the living room floor.

Mother looked down at father's favorite hat laying on the mint-green shag carpeting and said, "I guess that it's time to teach that little girl some respect for other people's feeling." Then she reached down into the bottom of her knitting bag and pulled out a long, nasty, old, gray chain.

‘Yes,’ father nodded, as he pulled a lasso of scratchy looking twine out of his pants pocket and said through gritted teeth in a hissing voice, "I'd say its well past time."

Mother got up from her chair, straightened the lace doilies on the armrests, then looked down at where little Skipper was laying in front of the television with his face just inches from the screen.
"Come on, little Skipper-doo. "
"Oh, all right," Skipper said, but as he got up from the floor and followed his Mother and Father down the hall, a dour expression showed his continued displeasure. As they came up on She's door, the creepy voice fell silent.
Suddenly from the living room, they could hear a sportscaster's excited voice saying, "Now, Herb, that is the craziest thing that I have seen in my twenty fond years of being associated with this wonderful, wonderful game. Let me send this back over to you, Herb, as I ask, in your four years of proud association with this game, isn't that the craziest thing that you have ever seen?"

At the sound of sportscasters, Father smiled and turned around and started walking back toward the living room . . . but then, before the sportscaster Herb could even answer the important half-time question, the weird music started up all over again! This time it was louder than ever and sounded like metal rods crashing and screeching against each other in some terrible, industrial machine. Father stopped in mid-step and grew all still, his face and neck became fire engine red and his eyebrows shot way, way up on his forehead.

Skipper watched father closely, because he thought steam was going to shoot of Father's ears like in all the cartoons, but it didn't

Father pushed mother and Skipper away from the door, grabbed the handle and said, “I’ll take care of that little missy!"

When he threw that door open, right then and there, three jaws dropped to the ground! She was waving around a cancer-causing cigarette and bouncing up and down like a satanic pogo stick. She had her eyes closed, so she just kept bouncing around, even though everyone else was mortified by her aberrant behavior.

Mother covered her eyes with one arm, threw the other hand behind her head and stumbled backwards in a near faint. Skipper jumped behind Mother to stop her from falling, but mother was so very much bigger that he was knocked back against the wall, where head bumped into Father's most very favorite painting in the whole world; the one that he bought at the Starving Artists sale at the Ramada Inn, after going to all of the trouble of scrapping a chip of paint off of the hallway to compare to the browns in all the various landscapes. The painting swung this way and that, this way and that . . . then came crashing to the floor! They all three watched aghast as the corner of the Genuine Maple Frame hit the shag carpet and broke into two pieces. Father looked down at that sad sight and said, "You know, and this is a fact, mind you-it's cheaper to buy a whole new painting at the Starving Artists sale than it is to go to Sears and buy a Genuine Maple Frame."

All the while, She had no idea that she was causing any mayhem, let alone that her very fate was being decided as she danced around, smoked and listened to The Dead Lovers in Potato Crates.

When Mother pulled herself back together, the first thing she did was pat little Skipper on the head, then she turned to her enraged husband and offered him a perky smile as she said, "Tie her up, boys! Go on and get to it."

Father rushed into the bedroom and reached for his bouncing daughter just as she shot up, impaling her throat on his long, sharp nails and tearing bright, red gashes in her pale, white flesh.

"Ouch," She cried.

Father used the scratchy twine to tie her hands behind her back, and then he forced her down onto her knees. Mother came into the bedroom happily strutting like she did just before her and father went to bed early for noisy intercourse, pulled that CD out of the stereo, got a grip on each side of it, and start smashing the disc over her daughter’s spiky orange hair. And she kept up that smashing until The D.L.I.P.C. ‘s second album, Monkey Vomit on a Leper’s Little Toe, broke into pieces that flew all over the room! Skipper could not believe how cool things were going! All he could say as he watched his mother was, "Cool. This is so cool."

When Mother was done pummeling, she threw what was left of the CD into the wall,
crossed her forearms over her pert breasts, threw back her head and laughed like a Jackal,
for a long, long time. Skipper was more than a little creeped by the time Mother stopped,
put her index fingers on her daughter's temple and said, "Let us all silently pray."

She had just stayed quiet up until then, because everyone in her family was acting so weird, but things seemed to be calming down, so she said in her nicest, politest little girl voice, "Hey, I'm sorry about the cigarettes, alright? I've been meaning to bring it up with you, but you're all so weird about everything. I mean, it would be like the tattoos and weed all over again, and I don't need it, alright? When you guys quit trying to drag me back in time, then we can talk, okay? Aren't you guys about done praying? And why can’t you just see it’s a waste of time, for god’s own sake."

No one paid any mind to She, as they were all deeply embroiled in their own individual discussions with the Lord. Skipper felt particularly driven to seek the comfort of a deity, because he wanted to be forgiven for the sin of breaking father’s very favorite piece of art as soon as possible, so that if something happened like a meteor hitting their house and he died, he could still get into heaven without any serious hassles.

When Mother was done praying for the lord and all his grace to fill the vessel of her child, she cleared her throat to signal everyone that they should finish up, or, in father’s case, quit pretending, then she looked down at her daughter, smiled and said, "This hair! Lord help us, but that is the first problem we are going to have to sort out." Mother spit into the palms of her hands and began rubbing them down the sides of the spiky orange head.

Now, She liked her hair just like it was, so she started tossing her head from side to side and going all crazy. Mother tried to keep straightening the spiky hair into something more flat and normal, but it was darn near impossible with She squirming and trying to fling her head from side to side. After a few moments of struggling with her daughter and heavily moussed spikes, Mother finally stepped away from the struggling She, put her hands on her hips and said in a very, very angry voice, "You will have normal hair."

Mother looked at Skipper and Father, put a smile back on her face and said in a much, much nicer voice, "Keep a firm grip on her, boys. I'll be right back."

As soon as mother was gone, She tried pleading with father and Skipper, but they both just held her tight and stared straight ahead, acting like nothing she said mattered at all. No matter what she said, they just kept staring straight ahead at the wall and pretending like she wasn't even there. It seemed like Father and Skipper had been replaced by people She didn't even know and that made her very, very scared.

Mother returned to the room carrying the re-chargeable curling iron that Father had bought her for Mother's Day, reached down and grabbed a handful of the orange spikes, jerked back She’s head to expose her throat, then clamped a thin fold of flesh with the searing, red hot metal.

"Ouch," She cried.

The skin in the curling iron sizzled and sputtered. She was struggling very hard indeed but Father and Skipper held her tight. They could see by the look on Mother's face that she was bound and determined to keep burning that neck until she was darn good and ready to stop.

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," Mother told her.

After what seemed like forever to She, Mother finally had enough of that curling iron, but when she tried to pull it away the red metal stuck to the black skin. Mother had to jerk and pull and twist and jerk some more, until finally, with a look of sheer determination on her face that warmed Father's heart, she gave a very strong tug that ripped the curling iron right off. A big patch of flesh tore free, as well. Before mother could do anything about it, the bloody flap of flesh dripped red gunk on the white shag carpet. Mother looked down at the mess and said in her frustrated voice, "Oh, now look what you made me do."

"Ouch," She cried again.

"Are you going to mind me, young lady?"

She had not liked being scarred for life one little bit, so she tried to say just what she thought Mother wanted to hear, "Oh, yes, Mother. Now, please, can I get up?"

"Well, first we have to do something about these bumps of hair on your head, then we'll see." Mother began clamping orange spikes of hair into the curling iron and twisting and jerking, until one after another they became perfect curls. When She's entire head was transformed, Mother stepped back and got a smug look on her face and she said in her tough-gal voice, "Well, at least I managed to get a little bit of that orange mess under control." Then her voice became very, very nice as she looked her daughter right in the eye and said, "Oh, really, that's so much better, dear. You'll like this new look. Especially once you get used to it. I'll bet the boys are going to like you a lot better, too. Why, we have two boys right here, so we can ask them what they think? Say, boys, is this some juicy trim, or what?"

Father made a show of looking into She's face and smiling, then he gave her a peck on the cheek and said, "I forgot how pretty you are."

Mother turned to Skipper, "And what about you, Mr. Skipper-doo, don't you have something that you want to say to your sister?"

Without even looking, Skipper just kind of muttered, "Okay, yeah, it looks better. You're some juicy trim, Sis."

That wasn't good enough for Mother. She looked down at Skipper and shook her finger right in his face, "Now, Skipper, you go on and take a really good look at your sister."

Skipper was not about to disobey Mother when she was shaking her finger right in his face, so he looked at his sister, and when he did, boy was he surprised -- She really did look better. Skipper sounded all excited as he told her, "Gosh, you look great. Mom, she is some juicy trim! From now on you can come to all my games, okay? You and mom and dad! We’ll eat hot dogs."

She had never cared for the games and had been a vegetarian since her cat died in August, but everyone was just being so weird that She went ahead and told Skipper that she'd love to go to his game and eat hot dogs. Then She looked up at Mother and asked, "Can I get up, please?"

"After that little display?� Mother shook her head, ‘No.’ “I'm afraid that you've done nothing to show me that you know how to behave around your elders. You know, we do all this for your own good. So you'll be happy, dear. You're always moping around here, whining all the time about all these mopey things.�
“I am happy."

"Happy is as happy does, dear. Listening to songs about death is not a sign of happy. And protesting all this stuff, it just makes you so sad.�

Mother turned away and started walking out of the room; over her shoulder she called out in her tough-gal voice, "Boys, you go ahead and chain her to the bed, and bind that little thing down tight. She's not going to like it when we shove it in."

She thought about trying to fight as father and Skipper chained her to the bed, but the last time she had disobeyed her parents she had been scarred for life, so she didn't do anything. Even though the chains were so tight that they cut into her skin and made her fingers start to turn purple.

"Ouch, " She cried, “The chains are cutting me? Why must they be so tight?�

Father came out of his daze, or whatever, and answered in a voice that She had never heard before; it was a strange and breathy sound, "You just lay there and take it."

She couldn't believe that her Father was going to let chains cut her wrists. That day was so weird. Blood was seeping out around the nasty chain, bright red and glistening, flowing in thin tendrils down into the cracks between her fingers. She was ready to try to say something else, but just then a loud whirring sound blasted into the room and startled her to no end. The whirring came from the blades of the Cuisenart, as Mother placed things into the clear container and hit the Puree button.

Mother spread a white dishtowel on the kitchen table and began laying out on top of it all of the ingredients for a very special batter. There was a handy calorie counter, no bigger than the palm of your hand, just the right size for a purse, yellowed copies of Dear Abby columns that Mother had always thought were just so right, pictures of models cute enough to make her melt, and lots of other stuff -- even a few things that her own mother had given to her on a day that had been a lot like the day of our story, though a lot different.

After listening to the rise and fall of the whirring Cuisenart for a few minutes, Father got such a hankering to out into the kitchen to see what was going on, that he did just that. When Skipper saw Father get up and start silently creeping out into the kitchen, he just had to follow, because he liked to do everything that Father did. Mother had her back to the door when father entered, so he snuck up behind her and gave her a big hug. Mother snuggled back into Father, rubbing her ample buttocks back and forth over his bulging crotch, before turning around so that they could embrace properly.

Father reached around behind her back and tried to slip something into the Cusinart, and though Mother did not even look like she knew what was happening, just as father's hand neared the batter, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She pulled his hand out into the open and they all looked down into his palm at the little blue and white Madonna from the dashboard of the Buick. When mother saw that little blessed virgin, she just broke out laughing, let go of Father’s hand, pointed at the batter, and gave father the old ‘thumbs up!’

Skipper watched the Madonna fall down onto the chopping blades and get pureed, and he wanted to put something in that batter so bad that it felt like he might pee. He grabbed the closest thing, which happened to be a big mop with a wooden handle that was a good two feet taller than Skipper. He held that mop up in front of his parents and asked them, "Can I put this in? Please, can I? Please?"

Mother looked at the size of that mop and she just had to laugh, and that laugh was still in her voice as she said, " I think it would be pretty hard to get that in the Cusinart, honey."

"I can make it fit, Mom. Remember, the puppy, mom? He was bigger than this mop."

Father had to say something about then, because someone had to change the subject. “You know, honey, I think you're underestimating the men in this family. Skipper, you go ahead and give it a try." Then with a wink to Mother, he added, "I might have something else for you to do before you have time to finish the job, though. Go ahead, Skipper, show your Mom that you can get that thing in there."

Skipper climbed up on top of the counter, put his feet on either side of the Cusinart, shoved the gray, swirly mop head down into the batter and used the toe of his sneaker to hit the ON button. The silver blades began slamming into the wooden handle, hitting so hard that it was all Skipper could do to hold on. Twice he lost his grip and the mop went all crazy, banging into his thighs and the cabinet (but not his peter, which is what Skipper was kind of worried might happen).

As Mother and Father watched Skipper struggle with the mop, they exchanged proud and amused smiles, but it was obvious to both of them that the job was too much for the little boy, so finally father stepped up to Skipper and gave him a friendly punch on the arm as he said,
"Son, I have something more important for you to do.�

Skipper knew that Father didn't think that he could get the mop into the batter, but he was determined to do just that. He used his most confident voice to tell Father, "No, I'm big enough! I am! I am!"
"I know you are," Father told Skipper, "but I have something more important. Go out into the garage and get the funnel that I use to put transmission fluid in the Buick, then take it out in the back yard and rinse it out real good with the hose, okay? This is important, every speck of oil has to be gone - we don’t want rogue lubricants getting into the batter, by god no. Rinse it out real good, alright?"
"Dad, first I want to do this. I can do it!"
Father's voice became sad, "Oh, I know that you can, son . . . it's just that, well, I guess that I can try to get that funnel clean . . . I don't know if I can, not with these eyes of mine. Getting that mop in there is a lot easier than cleaning a funnel, so I guess you should just do the little boy work."

Skipper thought that Father was being honest. He jumped down off the counter and started running for the garage. "You go ahead and take care of that stupid mop. I'll make that funnel so clean it'll look just like new."

"Son, I know you will." Father called out after the disappearing Skipper.
Mother turned to father and said, "He's going to grow up to be just like you.� Father's face just beamed when he heard that.

By the time Skipper came back in and proudly displayed a clean, red, plastic funnel, the batter was done. Skipper had meant to tell his parents about getting tangled up in the hose and how the wet spot on his pants wasn't what it looked like, but when he saw the batter he forgot everything and his face filled with a look of wonder. "It's like green snot, but it smells great! Like a fish stick shake, or something! Can I have a taste?"

Mother picked up the bowl and held it out to him, "Go ahead and take a little dab on your finger." Then she turned to Father, saying, "I know you're just dying for a little taste."

And Father was.

Both put the green slime between their lips at the same time and then let out long moans of satisfaction. Skipper liked the batter so much that he even stuck the tip of his tongue under his fingernail to get at a tiny green glob.

"Oh, that's good, dear," Father told mother.

"I could eat this stuff everyday!" Skipper added.
SHE THE END (edit - delete)

Mother blushed warm at the compliments. She took a certain pride in her cooking and commenting on it was a sure fire way to just make her melt. She looked down right delighted as she picked up the bowl of batter, held it over her head and began a little dance out of the kitchen and down the hall. Skipper and father joined in the little dance, though Skipper quit pretty quick, because he was sure that he looked nerdy.

While her family was in the kitchen, She had been laying in her bed, her wrists and neck wracked with agony from the cutting chains. She had no idea what was really going on, but she had seen lots of movies about weirdo’s doing really sick things and could imagine all sorts of stuff that she didn't want to happen to her. She was so scared that she started shaking like she was cold and making a sound like a mouse, "Errrrk, errrrrk."

When She heard her family come back into the room, she opened her eyes and started to ask to be let up. But before she could talk Skipper and Father jumped on the bed, grabbed her by her hair and twisted her head until her ear was pointing up toward the ceiling. Then Father pulled the funnel out of the waist of his pants, took a firm grip on the red plastic with both hands, and, with all his might, slammed the thin nozzle down into her ear. Red and yellow gunk squirted out, covering father’s arms all the way up to the elbows. She’s eyes shot wide open and her mouth started opening and closing real fast, her lips making a circle that grew big and small, big and small--like a goldfish gasping for air in a filthy bowl. Mother poured the lime green batter into the bright red funnel, and it flowed inside She’s head.

The green gunk seeped through her brain dissolving all of the problem things that she had fretted over, and sometimes even cried about; suddenly they didn’t seem so important, like they had lost some obscure power over her. They were almost gross. Like they were bad things to even think about. She could finally see them for what they were -- buzz killers, to be avoided by looking at pretty things and being pretty and making things pretty.
The old gray chains somehow melted into thin air, and the bloody wounds on her wrists and neck were all gone. Why, even her clothes were changed! She was suddenly wearing an outfit that She was pretty sure came from the Gap or their bastard child Old Navy, but right then she didn’t even want think about child labor. What did it matter where her clothes came from, anyways?

Laughing and carefree, she jumped up from the bed, bounced her head from side to side in a parakeet manner that everyone recognized as mothers, then turned from one face to another, and offered one and all as cheery a smile as they had ever seen. Then to father, She said, "Gosh, I guess it's time to dye this crazy hair back to brown. Will you take a chip of paint off the wall in my room, so that I can make sure that I match?" After She explained that she explained that this was a joke, they all laughed, and there were big old bear hugs all around, too.

They bridged the generation gaps and all that stuff, and then they all lived happily ever after.


ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

One of the reasons I have all these potential plot lines

is that I was forced,by the opportunity (I thought) of working with another writer as my editor, and that by meeting once a week he could teach me to write faster, and I could show him a thing or two about editing (which, since his books are basically very fine first drafts published on the net, 12, he has kind ignored literary crit., where as I have had the same edotor for 16 years and had to either listen to her or get cut off from her fine, fine... conversation and edifycatiom). This broke down when Jasonpettus.com decided that since the arbitrary ten years he had given himself to make it as a writer had passed, he was going to, like he had always planned, to move on to something else. I don't whether he is making the right decision or not anymore than he does.

So, since I ws trying to produce every week to give to Jason, I was forced to go ahead with a plot that should have remained in the maybe zone for a few more years. My favorite writing is character driven. In fact, the best part of the book so far has been the long character sketches that I wrote of each character. In this post modern, read it quick and get the guist world that most of my readers dwell in, no one is going to sit still for the kind of plotless interior landscapes I used in the last book in the first third. I realize this now. I wrote about a mercenary spy and stayed mostly with his intellectual angst, rather than going the Quentic Tarantino way...

Now, I know the theme of this book. Forge a moral life and do your best to live it, even if it does require a few changes here and there along the way. The artists think they are doing this on their website and with their paintings, and to some they are, in a word oriented way that will more help them act in the purely intellectual world than the real. They can hold their own talking about the finer aspects of nature vs nurture, yet can't really decide who to punch.


















ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.

more chapter outlines

Present synopsis



Matt, Zander, Jimmy, Johnaton live together in a store that Jim inherited. It is hot property in an expensive neighborhood; they run a game store on one side, and an art gallery on the other, but mostly they just hang out, smoke weed, and paint and write and try to score and sell weed. They also have a very successful web sight, and people sometimes crash there from all over the world. Mike Paite shows up on the first day, something of a cool hipster who can draw faces like a mother fucker, and starts doing them in the gallery and giving the house a cut, so they go to the back, which is open space and loft like, and build another bed room. Their rooms are basically large boxes in the storage area in the back of the store, though they have a lounge which is a living room for them and the customers and whoever comes in to buy weed, etc….
They have a near wolf, named padre, and two cats and a rabbit. A gangbanger moves in across the street, and through their association with him they learn that dog fighting is going on in the neighborhood. After finding out the cops won’t help because one of the gang bangers is gathering evidence for them. They do everything they can, but nothing helps…. the gang bangers break out their windows or some sort of warning. Then one day their own dog is missing. They find a local gang banger selling and torture him to find out where the dog is. Paite goes too far, gouges out the guy’s eyes and then slashes his throat – to the horror of the others. They then drive off and find the kid who is trying to get padre into a junkyard where the fight is; the wolf is basically pulling the kid around. They get the dog, At this point, they hear from inside the screams of a dog dying. And Paite again slashes the kid’s throat

The dog’s death screams go on and on, and then there is a shot. And just like that two more dogs are growling and howling in pain inside. Matt starts walking toward the fight with his gun, saying he was going to stop the fight. Paite follows. Jimmy and Johnathon do not want to go in, but they do. As soon as they see a circle of people around the fight, Paite opens up on them. A few are armed, and Jimmy and Johnathon are both shot down by one of them while matt and Paite are killing other guys, It is a blood bath, and Paite goes around firing kill shots into their heads, then Paite kills the dogs to quote ‘stop their memories or anybody else from torturing them.
The entire thing horrifies Matt. He and Paite leave together, go back to the store and split the cash they have, take a few paintings and games and other shit they think they can sell along the way, then hop into their car and drive… when Matt asks where they are going, Paite tells him, “Someplace warm. Someplace that makes you forget you were ever anywhere else. I have a cousin in Florida. We can surf on her coach until something comes up. We’ve got enough weed to deal with anything.�









Chapter outlines


ONE
Opens in store, with them making fun of customer. X comes in later, and introduces himself as they guy who their dealer sent over because they were trying to rent out a room. X knows them from their website. He establishes that he can make money drawing faces, so they invite him to live there.

Paite sets up a chair in front of the gallery, starts making a few hundred bucks (his examples he lays out to advertise are great. When he gives the boys a 50% cut, and asks them if they want him to hang around and drew portraits. The cops were always chasing him off the streets, but with a business backing him he was legal.
The setting is three large rooms, two smaller rectangles containing the stores, and then a large square of area behind each store where they live, store stuff, etc…. They have also built a living room area in the game room, and the gallery, so people can hang out playing games on video in one room, and dund=grons and dragons and war games can take place in the quieter gallery. Selling anything is incidently to them, because they make enough money off the weed to support their art, and none of them are extravagant.
The living room areas are slpoppy, second hand furnitiure, broken in cushions, red flower design, a co huge coffee table – oplyboards with mild cartons underneath, that serves as a game board for the larger war ga,mes. This should be in the mgame room, too. In the gallery’s living room, there should be a tv.

TWO

They throw a party and get in an argument which shows where they are coming from and describes their manifesto, which someone should drunkenly read. X should listen very intently, thinking they are serious. Later in the night, when someone causes a little bit of trouble, X kicks his ass too much, and the others, while mildly impressed, become ever so aware that this man is different than they are. Gang banger comes into party with a Bike, explaining that he wants to sell it. Jimmy buys it against Zander and Johnathon’s better wishes. ) The gang banger starts trying to sell them stolen stuff again the next day,

THREE
A few days later, when Zander is there alone with two so called friends, gang bangers come smashing in with bats and try to steal their weed. One kid locks himself in the back room where there are some brass knuckles, but he won’t unlock the door. It turns out that a gang who is rivals with the guy they bought the bike from now consider them enemies …. Rudy comes along just when Jim wants a new cat.
Signs of dog fighting begin to appear in the neighborhood, along with a plethora of people filling their front window with pictures of missing cats and dogs normally associated with fighting. The gang banger asks a lot of questions about padre and he gets bragged up. .


A customer comes in while matt is alone in the store watching porn and waking off. She is wearing a long sexy white fur. The girl says she wants to bring some of her friends over from the bar next door who were just talking about being horny.. They merely come in and point at his protruding pecker and laugh, calling him a geek. X has come home by then. He spray paints them with black, then disappears before the cops they call can show up. This is when matt realizes that he doesn’t even know x’s name, where he was from, etc…. the cops believe him when he say’s x is just someone who comes in once in awhile.

the gang bangers car has to get smashed, on both sides on different nights, to make the point he is out with his old gang or something



A DRUNKEN OLD ROOMATE SHOW UP IN THE MIDLE OF THE NIGHT, AND EVERYONE THERE IS used to taking his shit, but x throws him out. He should say something about the Bull in prison, the guy who was the toughest, and how he learned that outside he was almost always the bull. He can say he was never raped but they don’t quit believe him because he tells paite’s story, which is too convienant to be true.
4) Write the manifesto





Herion addict comes over and gives jim some for his tooth ache, then does the other bit he was supposed to save for jim when he woke up/ talk about how the difference between pot and everything else is significant. Have the boys write a blog about this, one that finally tries to set the pot issue aright. Legalize and then leave us the fuck alone.



SIX
, Paite can be the boof, near rascist, but he would always treat blacks well, but in the the time he works at the store he starts catching thieves and all of them are black, and some have been coming around for awhile. But at the same time, he is cool to blacks in general, he just thinks that they are victims of their lack of power. And the easiest way to get power is to steal, take risks selling drugs, join a gang…. This hatred of Paite’s will come to a head when he breaks down and tells a story about a ‘near’ rape that they all think really happened.
. Two out of three of the thieves that x catches are black..
Paite would say that keeping all of them alive is making the world stupider
Jimmy won’t hear any rascist remarks, and johnathon will kind of be in the middle. Matt thinks everyone is the same. Zander goes the same as matt.
Johnathon becomes convinced that the signs he is seeing around the neighborhood point to dog fighting, and he does this research after seeing a dog passed from a young black kid to the gang banger that they know. He lets the others know

SEVEN

Paite goes after the gang banger (who it turns out is turning evidence for the fbi and thus hated by all gangs), and finds him on the corner where he, a thirty five year old fat guy, sells crack and shit beside seventeen year old kids. X immediately wants to beat them up with a pipe, but the others stop him. . Keeping the electric company at bay (an opening scene about fearing the gas man cutting them off could work)
EIGHT

Tale of gang bangers breaking in. One hides in bathroom, other gets beat until they get the weed and leave. Eventually the get them out the door and call call the cops. Unfortunately, Paul burned a doobie while they were waiting for Chicago’s finest to show up, and the cops smelled the weed and assumed the rip off was drug related and as such they made it clear that they weren’t going to waste any time trying to catch the gang bangers who almost killed Paul.. The cop looked around the apartment like he expected to see a pile of needles or a dead body or something, then told us that he didn’t really want to get involved. “Quit dealing, assholes. We don’t give a shit if you fuckers kill each other.�



NINE

1) X challenges them to live up to their philosophy by stopping all of the dog fighting.
2) They decide to quit writing about the shit and erase all files about it, in preparation for doing the crime.
Paite: revenge is essential for the beast that we are, and humans are always trying to gain power. He learned about it in prison, and know sees it everywhere around him, a metaphor for the guards are the cops and woman use their ‘pussy’ power, or as paite says about some of them, they ‘talk with their pussies.’

Johnathon should probably object to this kind of language usage on the basis of his feminist ideas and try to explain why politically correct is not something that should have been vilified,.:
The gang bangers try to get them turned in for dealing, but the landlord is convinced that all the young boys who come over are Jimmy’s lovers. Play this up like he is a slut, a very funny scene. All jimmy will say is, “I got to have it.� Or something,.
They find out the gang bangers are being protected by the fbi, after one of them who sells them stuff gets busted and out right away, bragging it was because of the fbi. He was busted for band equipment that he tried to sell to them.


10


Padre disappears and Paite finds the nearest gang banger, drags him into an alley and shoves a knife into his eye, then asks where the dog is… the kid tells him and then Paite cuts out his other eye.. Everyone freaks out, but paiet says he wants the guy to suffer for awhile, then kills him. They take a machine gun from this guy, and have two pistols that they picked up after the problems started.
By luck, a young black gang banger is trying to walk padre to the fight and the wolf is too big for him, pulling everywhere… and when he tries to yell at him or smack him Padre snarls back like that is not a good idea and the kid doesn’t try it again. They stop and get the dog from the kid, then X slits the kids throat. Some one is crying at this point. X tells them the kid would have just found another dog.

ELEVEN
The dog’s death screams go on and on, then there is a shot. And just like that two more dogs are growling and howling in pain inside. Matt starts walking toward the fight with his gun, saying he was going to stop the fight. Paite follows. Jimmy and Johnathon do not want to go in, but they do. As soon as they see a circle of people around the fight, Paite opens up on them. A few are armed, and Jimmy and Johnathon are both shot down by one of them while matt and Paite are killing other guys,. It is a blood bath, and Paite goes around firing kill shots into their heads, then Paite kills the dogs to quote ‘stop their memories or anybody else from torturing them.




Chapter twelve


Matt is horrified by the entire thing. He and Paite leave together, go back to the store and split the cash they have, take a few paintings and games and other shit they think they can sell along the way, then hop into their car and drive… when Matt asks where they are going, Paite tells him,. “Someplace warm. Someplace that makes you forget you were ever anywhere else. I have a cousin in Florida. We can surf on her coach until something comes up. We’ve got enough weed to deal with anything.�


ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL.