#reckless ambition

First night of the tour! Reckless Ambition have just kicked the night off. WE APPROVE! Mr Singer Man has a nice voice! We're up next!

He tumbled forward. Vision blurred. His head in an ever spinning haze that made a class five hurricane look like a kiddie ride at the local fire station's carnival. "I uh..." he stammered "... What year is it again? I've been gone so long..." Without warning the contents of his stomach emptied over himself. The vomit soaked his shirt with the warmth of a thousand, questionable, and mostly unwanted, hugs. "Do I need to write this?" he asked himself questioningly. Further more the introspect of himself started a coarse argument if he had been drinking or not. A vast majority of himself proclaimed there had been no alcohol consumption in close to twelve years that would drive the body to intoxication; a minor stout few within that greater circle said perhaps he may have been drinking when he himself had not paid attention. Looking down to the pool of wet artistic lacquer that a no-talent, worthless, modern artist would frame, he saw nothing. Warmth subsiding, the world no longer revolving as if it were some Jewish kid's dreidel on the eve of Hanukkah's first day, he could only rub the side of his face. "When did I last shave? My goatee's gone. It's mostly just a five o'clock shadow now." his thoughts digressed into confusion. On the right hand his middle knuckle felt tender and sore, the only indication of a wound had been a small gash. Did Pixel cause that? No, the only thing that spurs that sensation of pain is punching a wall. It's more than likely bruised the bone. Swiftly brushing hands through the hair atop his head he let a sigh purse his lips. The mohawk is still there. Sure the side's need a good shave and it's rather complicating the look of the main style, but nothing in that regard had altered. "I need an adult." Jory's eyes wandered around the vacant room. No one else around. "I need an adult, or a kid with a decent attention span and steady hands, to fix my hair." Because when you come from a hole in time the most  important thing is to ensure your hair still has that wonderfully lustrous look about it. "No one touch my stuff. Seriously. I'll fuckin' stab your throat." Convenience poured itself before him-- a single can of Nos energy drink. Sugar free. Cold. Frost. Chilled. Ready for consumption. Guess it's time to write here again.

Laying in a pile of fecal matter of the aviary variety, the priest looked upward with diminishing vision. Blood had long since robbed him of clear sight, the holy garbs that adorned his body resembled something often found after a pack of wild dogs came upon a single piece of meat on the ground, and his arm was most certainly not designed to bend that way. Wham. Whack. Thud. Then whatever pronunciation you would use for the sound of a cheek being torn clean from a body by battered knuckles. During this tribute to violence and gore, the Father could only take a moment to wax and wane in the extended moments that the native sensation of your body shutting down. "Maybe," he thought, with Mikhail burrowing fists into the man's skull at an increasing pace, "Maybe lusting for the young is wrong after all." Had his eyes not been welded shut by the assault, maybe they would have widened with the feeling of his lip being ripped off. A spry fog of red stuff that better suited a person on the outside had decided it best to rush onward to the ground beside his oiled back hair, and along his white collar. Moving upward the priest felt the cool air graze against his more than likely permanent new features. That barbaric man had to be lifting him up, he thought. There's no way I would stand up now on my own; especially after what he did to my legs. Do I even still have legs? Mikhail's face held an unflinching snarl, eyes digging deep through the man as he took harsh breaths. Apparently he forgot to breathe through the entire exercise. "Oh my Lord! You are just sent here by the Devil to kill innocent men! You're a wicked demon... FROM THE PITS OF HELL!" Some woman, some where behind him, in a rather large crowd. She was one of many, but she was to be their voice. As for the rest of them, they were the hand held videocameras for the voice. Sure, watching the Patriarch haven the knuckles to his body much in the same way ships would rush toward a port during a storm was brutal; having the social surge of people looking at their intricate pages that represented their only contact with a social circle larger than their pathetic lives had allowed them in the physical pane of existence. Pivoting around on heel, Father Reska thrown to the empty pew, Mikhail glared down the line to an incredibly strange sight to beheld by anyone. Searching the sea of people and their various forms of recording, his mouth hinged open with a gasp. "You're all wearing... Mother of... You're all wearing polyester sweater vests. I have crippled a pedophile who just so happens to be a priest. Your little rule book tells me to kill deviants like this. You will all burn in your hell that you violently horrify and ruin people with; just because you're wearing a poor choice of clothing." He sneezed. No one said bless you. Which, he thought, was quite all right. Moments passed in a sandpit of time. Nothing moved, nothing happened, the pervert lay on the ground in pools of his own internal life giving sustenance had groaned. The idea of, up to and a little after, emaciating the priest through the loosening of internal organs had all the carvings of a master plan. Mikhail thought it the carving's of a genius. All of a sudden the slowed time of the world had loosed itself to the alternative motion of blistering quick lightening. Now the group decided it time to swoop in like a slavering hoard of thralls devoted to the holy man. Mikhail didn't panic often, if ever. Right now, though, there was an immaculate trail of urine running down his inner thigh and over the combat boot to a puddle on the ground. Daftly he reached for his revolver, with only six rounds, but at least thirty people to contend with. "I want to die in clean pants, not like this," he muttered.

Every time this is mentioned to me it rears a hideous beast from deep within my body that demands blood as the only tribute to sate its hunger. It's something of a guilt by association. My style of dress and choice of terrible hairstyles and footwear often lead people to make broad statements and requests. The general question I receive is what I'm using or what I'm selling; clearly a reference to illegal narcotics. Though here's a hint to everyone reading: I FUCKING LOATH AND DESPISE THE USE OF NARCOTICS DUE TO SUFFERING THE SIDE EFFECTS OF THEM WITHIN MY OWN PERSONAL LIFE. They quite literally destroyed my family. Though there were exactly 4 times I had smoked weed, to try and garner favor and seem connected within a social setting. All of these experiences happened during my all too eager youth; aged 15-16 respectively. On the same token, both times I had sipped the drink of the trailer-park gods, just so happened to coincide with the use of illegal narcotics. I stole 3 scooters, 3 bikes, then a boat with 3 seats. It's a story I'll discuss later. It's also one of the many reasons why the last serious intake of alcohol stopped at the age of 16. Regards to everything else my appearance often lends itself to people to question my ability. Because as we know, men and women who act within the status-quo have never fervently killed, maimed, nor took the time to consume the flesh of small children after raping them. Clearly it's those wild hair styles and crazy clothed freaks who are the ruin of society. So when I get into the occasional ham-fisted debate, I'm attackedad-hominem on things that bring absolutely nothing to the argument. When you attempt to make a straw-man directly out of your opponent, based purely on aesthetics, things have gone awry in your mental world and within your argumentative platform. It makes me laugh every time. What I'm doing here is exorcising my mental ability. The fact is that I never suffer from writer's block. That's something amateurs use as a crutch. I FUCKING SUFFER FROM WRITER'S FLOOD.There for I'm going to sort my thoughts by explaining situations in my life that I find fascinating enough to be shared; be it an abhorred knot in my stitch of time, or something that brings about utter ecstasy and leaves me craving more on the floor of cloud 9. There are five (technically six) incidents that have led me to invariably to question my trust in the  police force as a whole. It's not because of my mohawk, dog collar, baggy clothing; not because I'm in some perpetual state of rebellion against DA MAN. It isn't even because it's the normal status-quo for a gentlemen of my stature to indulge in to fit with the miscreants; it's quite literally due to personal experiences that have left me in a state of abandon and confusion due to their actions or inaction. We're going to start from the most recent events and go through a windfall in time to my younger days. This far into the situation, please let me say, that if an officer of the law is actually doing their job and protecting a citizen (be them foreign or domestic), I truly have no qualm with them. However in my personal experience those incidents are so far and few between that it's a segmented portion of hell that had been cut from Dante to share with us. My last experience with the law, the very men I pay out nearly half my income with every pay check and expect them to protect me and others, was during the winter of 2010. Let me state very clearly here that the situation quite literally involved a meth-head stealing the ashes of a dead child. There is to be no confusion as to what the incident was for and about. Let me give a little back story to this, just because it sounds so wild, and it would be in improper taste and dialect to deny. Clearly you have to know everything. Some where during the early month of September in 2010, I had met my biological father for the second time in 15 years. Apparently the lucid memories I had of him from my days in a diaper weren't simply an over active imagination of a child. He tried to spend time with me-- at first. Then his own selfish ideals took hold and never let go. When I had first met him with a cognitive state I had been some where around seven years old, and he gave me a movie action figure Raphael. We would meet every other weekend for roughly eight months before he just vanished again. That hadn't bothered me. I was told he was my father, but my real father adopted me, took me under his wing, and did the appropriate rearing. After the 15 year lapse in time, he comes back to Maryland, and I meet him via my sister, whom I knew I had and that was all, through Myspace. We meet up, it's mostly me snarling on the inside and wanting to scream and spit venom at him until I had exhausted all I physically had to give in hatred. More importantly I wanted to know what killed people on his side of the family. Diseases, conditions, things I should watch out for. This is explained in quick succession, over the hours my rage subsides a little bit and I loosen up. The meeting between us happened at one of his friend's houses that he had grown up and ran the streets with in his youth. At the gathering is his (third) future wife. At the time the future wife had a boyfriend with whom she had been with for some years. Apparently he used to be a contractor, did a lot of the usual contractor things. Building repair and maintenance, roofing, what have you. Just a general everything-man. Her boyfriend had lost his job two years prior to my meeting her. During this time he develops a compassionate love for heroin, crystal-meth, and cocaine. Everything you'd want to pick up after being unemployed for a stretch of time; because money comes so easy under those conditions. Which it did. The third future wife of my biological father had unfortunately enabled her lout of a spouse. Which is disturbingly common and I don't begrudge anyone who falls into that. You love them, you care for them, you want to try and help them achieve their happiness, even if it means killing them slowly. A month's time since the first meeting with the group passes. I visit frequently because I demand to trudge up the past and learn all I can. Curiosity is a damning device. Over the course of the month my biological father displayed a trait that we share all too well: flirtation. He and the future wife were hitting it off pretty well in part due to my explaining what was going on with her living condition and his comforting her. She tells her-then boyfriend that she was going to spend a few nights over the friend's house. It's closer to work. They're catching up after so many years absent from each-other's lives. The best friend had slept with the future wife's husband and that thus destroyed their timeless friendship. It's quite a grab bag of insanity once I came to realize that the ex-husband was also amongst our number quite frequently. Around day four of staying over her friend's house, the future wife gets a phone call. "Bring me 200 fucking dollars or I'm selling the kid." It's quite literally engrained in my mind. There are incidents of shock that just dig so deep into your psyche that you'll never be able to let them go; even if you tried to drown them out with the most beautiful and tasteful of moonshine. They'll surface faster than your own name. I had heard that through the cellphone. It was crisp, clear, perfectly pronounced, and stung like a spear through the chest. Keep in mind this is most recent, so I have virtually no trust in the police's ability to do anything productive. However I know where she lived, I know the area like the back of my hand, the patrons, the animals, and the lower echelons of society that inhabit the area. I'm a tough guy. I'll grab my knife. It's just so cool of me to have disregard for the life of drug addled pieces of shit that do nothing but consume air that I could be breathing instead. The future wife and the then-boyfriend had a child a few years prior. At least they had a child while it was being malformed in her body. Quite simply every time she attempted birth, it always ended terribly. In my most humble opinion, she just should stop so her heart will stop aching. Of course this is her first child she almost had. She had her darling baby cremated and put into a gold urn. Actual white gold. Nothing but the best for an incident so tragic. Thus why the then-boyfriend demanded 200 dollars in a hostage situation for the child. He could only get a hundred or so from any of the local pawnshops; but mommy will pay anything. We all pile into her SUV and head to her condo complex. Then-boyfriend is going through withdraw. Me and my biological father are told to stay outside after escorting her to the front door. She was going to attempt to talk him out of throwing away their baby's ashes to sell the urn. Instead of hearing the opening line to some plea, we instead hear the words "What the fuck" spoken at such a shrill pitch that I nearly go deaf. It's cold out, it's literally 12:30, and I haven't any idea why I left without a jacket. It's fucking cold out, and hearing a harpy-esque shriek come from the inside of the condo wasn't comforting. He had sold everything. Every single thing that wasn't nailed down had been sold. Furniture, silverware, TV's, the old Pentium 4 computer system with a CRT monitor, shoes, clothes. Everything. He sold everything in the span of a few days to acquire money for his fix. In just a few seconds of entering her complex did it turn from not only a hostage situation, but grand larceny. At least one would think a dead child's ashes would constitute a hostage situation. It doesn't. There's screaming, inaudible threats, and loud stomps and slamming. I was never allowed to go into the condo, but I either heard a plate shatter or a lamp break. To this day I'm not even remotely sure which of the two it could have been. For all I know it could have been one of those coffee mugs with a witty saying on it. Future-wife comes out of the house in tears. The red of her face matches that of the sun beaming down on you in the desert. She's completely devastated that her entire life had been sold off. Pictures, photo-albums, almost everything. At this time then-boyfriend opens the sliding glass door to the miniscule porch that quite literally has enough room for a single throw-away plastic chair to take up almost its entirety, and he starts screaming threats with a kitchen knife in hand. My blood's pumping because I'm all too eager to show who is more a hardass in the game of life. I'm a fucking MORON. Oddly enough, it's me, within my state of euphoric adrenaline who talks sense. "Call the cops. This is too much. Just call the cops." The entire time there are people performing the usual task of the American way: Watch from a window with your mouth hanging open because it's a spectacle. It's better than cable and you don't have to pay for it. Apparently he had saved her work uniforms and had them in a trash bag. He'd wave the bag about and point to it with the knife, threatening to destroy not only her work uniforms, but to also just throw the urn on the lawn so the ashes would be lost. This was his child. All of those ashes within that container shared his DNA, genetics, and dead dreams. However the crystal meth was a higher source of joy for him. The dead are dead and he needs to waste his life away to join the dead. As she calls the cops I head back to the SUV. That spring-action knife was calling to me in ways that a woman's body does when we're about to make love. The knife is tucked away into the tool box so I couldn't get to it nor do anything rash. A few years martial arts (many years out of practice) should be all I need if the conflict becomes physical. It takes the police roughly twenty minutes to show up. My hopes aren't too high, but I'm thinking what with all of the pieces laid out the way they are, they would be able to get him out of the complex and get her the urn back. The cops tell me and my biological father to back away from them. There are two, a tall and slender individual with a tired expression on his face, and then a rather chubby fellow whom I can hear breathing. Their entire concern was keeping everyone away from them. Everyone. It's a classic Laurel and Hardy pairing. To this day I believe police do that on purpose. It gives you something else to laugh at besides how ineffective they are. Bold and fearless. Courageous protectors. Then a stream of fecal matter spews from the slender one's mouth. "You do realize it's one in the morning? You do realize you two are doing nothing but disturbing the neighbors here with your fighting? If any of them press charges, we'd have to take you in for disturbing the police." Excuse me. You said the what to the who now? Again, words seared into the flesh of my mind I can never let go or lose focus of. The first orgasm I shared with a partner isn't nearly as crystallized in my mind as this incident. "What about my stuff?! He sold everything in my house! Everything! My shoes, TV, computer, almost all of the clothes! Can't you get my child back from him? Make him leave?" My throat becomes hoarse. I don't even know how. I think I'm breathing so hard with my gaped maw that I don't realize I'm probably suffocating myself in anger with an over abundance of oxygen. The fat one continues to wheeze. I think he must have been a 'special forces' sort of gentlemen. Bring tubby along for the adventure, he could use the exercise sort of officer. Part of me wants to say he was nothing more than a coward with a gun. So he stayed quiet nearly the entire time. Except for a few excerpts of "Back away, you're making us uncomfortable."  "Do you have receipts for anything in the condo?" Future-wife nearly loses balance. Skinny man continues. "You two live together, right? He's on the lease as well? There's no physical violence here, he has a key to the condo, and you haven't answered if you have any receipts to show proof of ownership. If anything was even stolen." Listening to him, a good ten feet away, I kick the ground and break my toe. Maybe not break, crack? Either way my big toe was swollen for two weeks and it hurt to walk on my right foot for the entire time. Future-wife speaks back, nearly in tears, "No, he's not on the lease. He's my now ex-boyfriend. I just want my baby back." The wheezing one clears his throat. This is his time to shine, to finally say something that doesn't instill his sense of safety to people who were of no threat to him. "Ma'am, by law, because he's not on the lease and he's living with you and has a key; you're in violation of the condo's contract. As for the child, is he the father?" Male bravado is quite the thing to hold in. Especially for me. I'm short tempered, haven't the time of day for ignorance, and quite dislike when I see things falling to muck because someone is lazy. Much less two someones. "He's the father, yes. Yes he's the father." "Then he has every right to the child as you do." Those were the last words spoken by the insufferable waste of human cholesterol. Commander cowardice spoke bold and plain while the scrawny boy attempting to be a man, officer, began filling out paper work. My mind scrambles. It can't possibly process what's going in. Every law of thermodynamics, gravity, ohms, the Turing Test, and the theoretical discussion of the 4th dimension had all been shattered here. There were a few exchanges between the group. Excluding me and my biological father who had sat there with arms folded over his chest the entire time. He had a rather long rap sheet and didn't want to infuriate the police. Smart move on his behalf. Why stir up the hornet's nest when there's no honey to be gained? Future-wife saunters away in tears. Absolutely broken by the entire event. She was warned to keep quite this late at night. If they get a report about them disturbing the peace then she and then-boyfriend would have to spend the weekend in holding. Us three pile into the SUV in a state of complete disbelief. Why I recommended the police was then beyond me. Had we performed the masculine course of simply beating the drug addled man into an early grave, no one would have said a thing. The area was mostly inhabited by narcotic savoring simpletons and people who could barely read. It would have been a spectacle. We drove to a twenty-four hour convenience store, withdrew 200 dollars from the ATM, drove back, and paid for the child. Out of common courtesy he gave her the garbage bag full of her work uniforms and what bits of clothing he couldn't sell off. That night when we went back to the friend's house, we parted ways in near silence. She clung to her precious jar of ashes, biological father clung to her trying to offer solace, and I left with a broken toe and an all too clear look into the world we live in. I don't hate the police because of my hair or political views. I don't hate them because of the music I listen to, the movies I watch, nor the reports on the news that are "always misrepresenting good officers of the law." My disdain and swell of rage for them comes directly from the tap. This is quite the read. Imagine the next installment when I discuss the rape and assault of my mother. We're doing this in reverse chronological order, don't forget.

DON'T LET ME WRITE WHEN I'M SCATTERED BRAINED AND I CAN'T KEEP MY FUCKING EYES PROPERLY OPEN. I LOOK LIKE A DORK. A DORK IS ALSO A WHALE PENIS. Which I guess isn't so bad... STILL.

Every night offered something different; both physical and virtual. While all of the patrons of the world outside rarely brought the same style twice, the neon light for the restaurant above his complex provided the same hue of pink and blue, as well the ever threatening sound that the neon was running its final course. Tonight, as always, and faithfully, provided essence of something new. Rufus' eye remained fixated on an old computer screen that held his attention, far better than than the group of partially nude women that sauntered by his one-way view window, could have begged for. "How much longer do you think we have," he spoke into the mic as he pulled himself close to the screen, light given away by the monitor being the only source to give proper illumination in the room, which spoke to his face pocked with scars and the missing eye. "With the consistent platform they had been operating on, I'd be safe in saying it's too late to freely move without winding up as a casualty in the mist of controlled chaos that is about to become your current street." The female voice echoed with distorted reverb and static masking. "You have been watching the feed on screen, have you not?" A sound of distorted slurping fed over the speakers. She was enjoying her late night cocoa. Tons of milk almost completely replacing the chocolate flavor you get from those little powdered packets. Tongue gliding over his lips, left hand searching desperately for his over priced energy drink, the right tracing the edge of the desk. "Of course I have. I finally get to see this episodic thing unfold. You're the one who had been following the pattern with all of the details; I'm just following with the clues." Tonight is the night that Dougein Road in the port district of New York, was going to turn into a blood bath. Rufus had front row tickets as he sat waiting in anticipation for the event to unfold.

Every time I stumble into a new social networking site I always feel my knees buckle and my legs turn to jello. It's been this way since the day of Javachat back in the mid to late 90's. Find a new room, become slightly queasy due to a slightly different shade of red and new names that I don't recognize instantly. It's a break from my every day and for some reason the adrenaline I receive does little in keeping me stalwart; instead it makes me a child again. In short it can be said I roll around in a state of digital vertigo, before I adjust to my new surroundings. Someone might find it displeasing and displacing on their very self. Others would take it as a sign to not experience new things because it would place a momentary discomfort on them. I, however, am no such man. I am the fool who leaps in without looking and screams abruptly when he sees the horrors, or welcomes readily when he sees the pleasures. It's a god damn fool maneuver and I recommend no one else following my lead in that sense-- not all the time at least. As I type this out I'm still at a loss for the simple mechanics of the tumblr universe. A universe inside the vast network of computers that I had simply avoided because I had no due process nor reason for stumbling into here. That, though, may very well be the reason I should have created something here sooner. A menial escape from the other social works where I tend to bite my tongue (only ever so lightly) as to not cause too much conflict. Regardless of that I essentially came here under strange pretenses, and I'm quite fine with that. In regards to else... do I give a mission statement as to what I plan to do around these parts? Have I a need or desire? Perhaps I'll fade out in a few months time and spiral out of existence on a drug binge filled with violence, lust, and pure unadulterated hatred and a desire to discover god with a glass pipe hanging out the side of my mouth. There's always a possibility for that. Perhaps I'll use this more for my musing, to see if I can't entertain a few people with woven tales. It's a pleasure to be here. Now pardon me and my buckling knees while I crawl into bed with Evil's Toy -- Silver Tears, playing ever so politely in volume; while of course I feel a slight sting of pressure with an ear to ear grin with a Ms.Alex kindly inviting people to follow me on my misadventures.