The Felsh of Felix

 Before he kills me, or more to his style,has me killed, let's us put some flesh upon our boy Felix. It's hard to do, because out in public you'd never look at Felix and think "that guy has the power to disappear me." However, he does have that power, and he carries it lightly. Not overly tall, not overly short, thin to the point of being a skeleton. Felix wanders around the world, his world, like a man who expects people to get out of his way. Strangely enough, people did get out of his way, sure he had Mutt and Jeff at his disposal to make sure his path was clear, but most of the time Felix when out among the people without those bruisers to make a path for him. 

I suppose it was just the aura of Felix that made people step aside for him, like the Queen on her royal procession, people just move aside for him when he wandered down the street. It was a talent that I hated him for, being possessed of the skill of being in everyone's way all the time, I very much wished I had the ability to walk freely down the street. I envied him for that skill, and even more so for the fact he had no clue that he possessed it. Felix sincerely thought that people would make way for other people that they thought had somewhere to be. 

Felix had spent a lot of time in prison, and those of us who knew where to look could see the scars on his wrists of previous times when he was shackled. He wore a lot of long sleeves to hide them, but if you were paying attention you could spot them. Of course, bringing them up was a particularly bad idea. Felix did not like to be reminded of his time "on the other side of the table." Trust me, that other side of the table from Felix was not a happy place to be. He is terrifying. What makes it worse is that he is a buck 50 at his heaviest, but still somehow scares the every living shit out of you.

It is not a physical fear, he has Mutt and Jeff for that. They are there to pound the shit out of you if Felix needs them to. But, he rarely needs them to. Mutt and Jeff have a easy posting, being Felix's muscle. Felix doesn't need muscle he's just Felix. If he asks Mutt and Jeff to make you their "playmate" for a while, it is not because he needs them to, he just wants to give them something to do. Felix rarely needs to "beat it out of you." You looked at his skinny, aesthetic ass, and felt some oddly overwhelming desire to confess your sins.

That is the beauty of Felix, he is an aesthetic. Tall without looming over you, thin without being skinny, and with cornflower blue eyes that would drill into you in search of the answer he wanted. Felix would say he was in search of the truth, and maybe that is true, but when Felix turned those bluer than blue eyes upon you, the truth became whatever you thought he wanted to hear. It is the glare of the fanatic, the look of a man who knows all your dirty, little secrets, and is willing to listen to you share them before he has to tell you that he already knows. It is the give you the rope and let you hang yourself theory of interrogation and he is a master of it. 

If you had a death wish, you'd look at Felix and tell him that "he needs to eat a sandwich." You wouldn't be wrong, but it is unlikely Felix would appreciate the comment. In fact, I am of the opinion that Felix eats like a horse, but it is the fervor for the "cause" that burns within him that makes him unable to gain weight. His internal engine is burning so hot that all that is left is the bare necessity to keep him body and soul together. That internal fire is what keeps Felix going.

At some point during his fanatical life, Felix obtained a wife and children. Bring them up to him to your cost. He is not the type to wax poetic about the woman who stole his heart, if he even has a heart. Good for her for stealing what may not even exist. Felix will tell you, generally as he is putting you in prison, that "prison will make you calm."  You take one look at the scars on his wrist, and the blueness of his eyes, and you can't argue with him. 

Make him mad, which is really hard to do no matter what he lets you think, and you will see the blueness of those eyes increase tenfold. They blaze, they burn, and they bore a hole into your soul that God itself couldn't repair, even if it wanted to. You have to be around Felix a lot, and to my sadness I have, to know that Felix has anger and he has being mad. Felix's anger is terrible to behold, and you'd rather it not be directed at you, but it is a lot better than making him mad at you. 

I've had the joy of both. I've had Felix's anger aimed in my general direction, and it was a physically unpleasant experience. I had a limp for about six weeks. Then I made him mad, and that is why I am here, in some dive bar trying to make a contact with a fellow that Felix wants deceased. It isn't the cleanest way to live, but it is a way to stay alive at least for me. 

Felix is of the opinion that he owns me body and soul, and he isn't far off the mark. But there is still a place inside of me that Felix can't touch. The beauty of it is that he knows this. It might be the only reason that he hasn't had me made unalive yet. In somewhat good news, I do have a few examples of Felix's writings. Writings that might take a bit of the shine off the armor of the knight of the revolution. I also, might have someone in his office that tells me things that Felix doesn't want people to know.

I wonder if maybe Felix knows this, Felix seems to know everything. Which is quite distressing when you have as much to hide as I do. This little sketch of Felix is just to let the world know what I am dealing with. If I write vaguely blame Felix. I do not like the late night visits from his goons. I certainly do not like sitting across from a self satisfied looking Felix as he tents his fingers and reminds me that "you know GI....."

Brock's Pass

 The hard part about losing a battle is the aftermath. I mean you don't really have a handbook for losing now do you? Few people, actually none that I'm aware of have written a "you've lost the battle now what?
 guides for groups like Claudell's Marines after the battle of Hester's Reach. Short of running away as fast as you can in any direction, and hoping you don't get your fool self killed, there's really not much in the way of best practices in losing a battle. I mean, who would want to read it even if it existed. I doubt many of us would want to say I read W____'s account on how to lose in the best way possible, and I've learned a few things about losing. Sure there is a school of thought that says you don't learn anything if you win only if you lose, but I suspect the son of a bitch that came up with that idea won a lot more than he lost. The majority of the lessons I've taken from losing (and I have lost a lot) is that it fucking sucks. Luckily if you lose bad enough, there isn't a lot of interest from the winning side in rubbing it in any further. Generally you leave the field in major disorder, and the winners are happy to see the backside of you. Let some other bastards finish you off instead. They are just happy, and maybe a bit surprised, that they won.

Claudell's marines lost very, very badly at Hester's Reach. Chasing the confused and demoralized survivors probably wasn't worth the trouble to the winners. At least that's how I figured it since they did not, in fact, chase after us. Since Claudell managed to get himself killed at Hester's Reach, Claudell's Marines basically ceased to exist. Not to say there wasn't a mob of us left, we just didn't have a leader, and a mob without a leader is dangerous, and useless. As a group we did shitty things together before Wilson imposed some sort of order upon us. It isn't my proudest moment, but I can't deny my participation in those crimes. One of the lessons of war is the only thing worse than the losing side, is the winning side. It brings me no confront that the winners of Hester's Reach did as many if not more shitty things that we did.

Ever mile traveled from Hester's Reach was unpleasant. The fact that the first few were done in a blind panic, doesn't make them any less awful. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to be on the wrong end of a disaster like Hester's Reach. A lot of soul searching happens after something that bad, and it takes a lot of time to figure out if you have any soul left. Being young didn't help. They (whoever they are) say that you always remember your first, and in the main that is true. Hester's Reach left a very, very large bruise upon my soul, and maybe it never really fully healed. A lot of dreams got shattered at Hester's Reach, but sadly for me it wouldn't be the last time. Pity that.

In somewhat happier news, the pelting run away from Hester's Reach lead us to Brock's Pass. It wasn't too far of a run, but it felt a lot longer than it was. It was way too cold as well, but maybe that is a false memory. Maybe it was just my body wouldn't do what I wanted it to do, wouldn't work right, couldn't process the massacre it had just seen. I wish I could tell you I remember it all like it was yesterday, but thank fuck, I don't. Sometimes the brain shuts down and suppresses shit that will make it snap like a twig. 

In theory, Brock's Pass led somewhere, after all that is what passes do. It is kind of in the name. All I gave a shit about at the time was that Brock's Pass led away from Hester's Reach. I am sure it had other good points, but for me, that was the main point.  Passes are often found over the source of a river, and I guess it made geographical sense for Brock's Pass to be so close to Hester's Reach. Geography wasn't my main concern at the time, my main concern was to get away.  Like most passes, Brock's Pass was defended, I mean why wouldn't it be? It led somewhere, somewhere people wanted to go, and where there is a place that leads to somewhere people want to go, there is generally a group of people who want to stop them from going there.

That group of people, the ones that wanted the sad remains of Claudell's Marines from exiting stage left from the battle of Hester's Reach, weren't fighters. They were just a bunch of slack jawed yokels who had decided that Brock's Pass shouldn't be a freeway. The remains of Claudell's Marines would not pass for the Old Guard of La Grand Armee, and Wilson was far, far from being a Napoleon, but we had enough gumption to sweep aside the yokels at Brock's Pass. 

It was an odd feeling having my first taste of "victory" so quickly after a crushing defeat, but that is how life decided to introduce me to the "joys" of warfare. It was not a victory that the bards will sing about, it wasn't really even a fight. It was more of a spirited skirmish. Of course, I didn't really understand that at the time,  at the time I was just glad not to have to run. Winning is a odd feeling. You stand there so nice and look at the backs of your "foes" fleeing and think 'that was me about X amount of time ago'. You know precisely how they feel, but still you feel no sympathy for them. Thus losing makes hard bastards of us all. 

 

Hester's Reach

 Many years ago I referred to the "battle" of Hester's Reach. It was my first battle, and like many a battle since, it did not end well. I think I also mentioned my joining Claudell's Marines, which was a bad plan since I don't swim, I sink, but any way to get out of the small town prison I was in that threatened to kill my soul, was a way that I wanted to take. Luckily for me, Claudell's Marines did not require me to pass a swimming test, all they wanted was warm bodies. I met that requirement, and they handed me a weapon, gave me a modicum of training, and said "welcome to the Marines lad." I didn't care where I went just as long as it was away from the small, small town that was in the process of killing me. 

We spent a lot of time "marching" which to me seemed to be just walking from point A to point B for no reason, before our fearless  leader (and soon to be as dead as dead can be) Claudell decided which direction was the best for us. Claudell wasn't a natural public speaker, few of us are, and when he tried to rouse the troops to believe in the latest "cause" he had found for us, he generally  mumbled a few words, and asked his second to do all the real talking. His second was a fellow named Wilson, he was to become a major player in my life, and if I had known what he would eventually wanted to do to my sister, I would have probably contrived to kill him "by accident" in the battle that followed. However, since I can't predict the future and therefore remain poor, I did not shoot or stab Wilson. A decision that I came to semi-regret in the future. Besides, I figure killing the second in command might be frowned upon as treason.

  I was young back then, and dumber than I am now, if that is to believed. I had no idea what was expected of me, and the training in  Claudell's Marines was not of the highest quality. Mostly, it consisted of some older fellow telling me not "to get my fool self killed at the first pass." I took that to heart and resolved to attempt to make the other side have to work a little bit in order to kill me. Peace was not what we wanted, it was bad for business. Luckily for us, there was generally always some local asshole who wanted some other local asshole's land, castle or woman. 

For those uneducated. like I was way back then, a reach is a section of a river. It was not to be the last river that I had to face in my life, but it was the first. I probably should have realized later in life that rivers were not my friend, but I've never been accused of being the swiftest horse in the stable. This river lead to a rather large bay, that lead to some ocean who's name isn't important to the story. The important bit, if there is an important bit, is that it leads somewhere. When the clouds came, and the rain started to fall, it was more of problem for my fellow 'Marines.' One would think that a group called Claudell's Marines would be able to handle a spot of rain, but my comrades melted away like snow under a summer sun.

It was summer, that much I do remember of the terrifying, and terrible disaster that became known to history as the battle of Hester's Reach. Calling it a battle is granting more credit than it deserved, it was more of a massacre. Also, I doubt that history was paying attention. After all it's not like Cluadell was some sort of Alexander the Great conquering Persia. History is funny like that, it doesn't really care too much about your actions until they become world changing, and the battle/massacre of Hester's Reach was far from world changing. Well except for me, the battle of Hester's Reach changed my world in many, many not so good, ways. 

Claudell was a drunk, which isn't a crime, until you give aforementioned drunk control over thousands of men's lives, then it becomes important. Claudell liked Calvados, a particularly strong drink from France. It should have been a clue as to his ability to fight a battle that he was always blasted on Calvaods, but hindsight is 20/20. I suppose it was Wilson who was actually in charge. But like most seconds, Wilson could only offer advice, and it was unlikely that a piss drunk Caudell was in a mood to listen, and at the battle of Hester's Reach, Claudell was in no mood to listen. 

I managed not to die at the battle of Hester's Reach, but it was a close run thing. A lot of fellows I knew did leaves their bones on that watery graveyard. A lot of fine men watered the soil of Hester's Reach, and it was a pity. I said a lot of last goodbyes to comrades who had taught me better, and who deserved better than to die on a battlefield that would soon be lost to history. It was just a petty little battle in the civil war of people who gave no shits about the good men who died at Hester's Reach.  

Looking back on it, I should have never been anywhere close to Hester's Reach. I should have known better and I should have done better. Those are famous last words, luckily for me I survived (barely) Hester's Reach. It was a massacre, it wasn't the last massacre I attended, and it should have taught me more than it did, but the battle of Hester's Reach would be the first, but not the last, in a series of disaters that would eventually define me.

Endings

 "You are not good at endings are you?" I looked up from my attempt at balancing matches on the bar, to the person asking that question with a bit of surprise. "What makes you say that? I've finished/ended several beers just in the last couple of hours, all things considered they were happy endings as well. At least until tomorrow's sun smashes its way into my eyes and makes me want to die." She smirked at that (she is a great one for smirks). "Yes, Shakespeare you've certainly had a fair amount of beer. I expect that it will make you brood as usual." I raised an eyebrow, "who said beer makes me brood?" She replied "I said that, and while I have the floor, I'll say a lot more. Beer makes you brood, whiskey makes you maudlin, and gin makes you angry. These are the three moods of GI. Accept them or not at your leisure, but that's the lot."

I sighed, she made me sigh a lot. She had a point, not that I would give her the satisfaction of telling her, and not that I needed to, she already knew, the bitch. "I thought we were discussing endings, not the three moods of me. Neither of these statements I accept as true by the by." "Oh, we can discuss your poor performance at endings if you wish. I am big fan of discussing your failings, but you'll need to buy me another drink first sailor." I motioned for the barkeep to bring her another drink, nothing like paying the bill to listen to a list of your flaws. She was quite good at pointing out my flaws. I sometimes thought that perhaps that was why she kept coming back, she could never find someone quite as flawed (in her opinion) as me, and she was a master at finding fault. It wasn't exactly her best trait, but you know her best trait didn't require talking.

 "Have I ever told you I hated you?" She let loose another smirk. "No, I don't believe you have. I told you I hated you once, but since you were fucking me at the time, I think it might have been at best a mixed message. Not that you are particularly good at getting messages either across or through." I laughed at that, "have you ever thought maybe it's the not the message that is the important part? Maybe it just the simple words, take for example 'i hate you' not really a deep message there, unless you start to dig. But why would you dig into that? Do you want to know how much, or how deeply someone hates you? Do you want to know why, how, or what for? You want to hear the stories of how they lie awake at night hating you, and devising multiple ways to ruin your life? Or is "I hate you" enough to get the point into your thick skull? Well, not your thick skull my sweet, your skull is as finely formed as the rest of you, which is the tragedy of you. Finely formed, but ..." I trailed off before I finished that sentence it was an old argument of ours, we had several of them, old arguments that is, and it wasn't going to come to an end tonight. After all, I am shit at endings, she wasn't wrong about that, but I'd take that admission to my grave if necessary. 

"Yes, Shakespeare I've heard the stories about my fine form, not that I mind them, they are after all true, but I just figure that maybe you had something else to say for a change. You've no reply to my observation about you being bad at endings?" I took a deep drink of my beer, "perhaps I shall have to brood upon the subject, and get back to you with my findings." She finished her drink, stood up, gathered her things, and on the way out said "well don't brood too long pretty boy, after all I might need to remind you that I hate you in about an hour." She smiled, she was quite pretty when she smiled. "You know the apartment code, and the key will be in its usual spot, don't brood too long lover, but I'll realistic and give you two hours, because I know you'll sit here and wrestle with what I just said about endings for a "couple" of more pints. I can afford to be patient." And with that she swanned out of the bar with all the curse of her curves on display. 

 Watching her swan out of the bar was almost worth paying the tab in and of itself. When she tried, and she was trying, she had a walk that made grown men feel underage. She was aware of my gaze upon her departing form, and she milked it for all it was worth, the bitch. Maybe I should have told her I hated her after all? Though I wasn't exactly sure that I do, which is why I ordered another pint, and decided I had at least an hour to think (I prefer to call it thinking, not brooding thank you very much). Sully in his usual way, came over with another pint, and said "not sure who that one is, but she certainly has a way of making an exit." I nodded as I looked again at the door, "yeah I suppose she does, she comes and goes, but never quite leaves, that is part of the problem of her." Sully just laughed, and said "well you'd know better than me GI, but I am confused as to why you are still here, but then again I've said that about you way too many times over the years."

"Go polish a glass Sully, I'll leave in me own time, and under me own steam as usual, and not before." Sully just nodded and walked away, he wasn't going to say more than he needed to, and in his mind he had said what he needed to. It is what makes him a brilliant bartender. Of course she had a point, I am not good at endings, after all she is walking, talking proof of it. We had wandered into and out of each other's orbits more than once, and it seemed that is how it was going to be. A brief flurry of mutual attention, followed by (sometimes years) of neglect. Like an ancient church that gets a makeover once a decade before beginning to fall back into rack and ruin.

The other main point she had (the bitch) is that she knew all of this, and she knew that the pattern of our "relationship" was not, in fact, ours. She knew that because drunk me had decided one night to tell her that. It was not exactly the brightest idea I have ever had, but drunk me sometimes likes to make things difficult for sober me, the bastard. The point about me being bad at endings was just another broadside in our little war. She knew that endings were not my strong suit, and that there were/are other carbon based life forms of the female variety that were out there in the world. Like ships that have sailed away from port in search of fairer weather, but always knowing the way back just in case of storms. 

She was wrong about one thing, although she would never admit it, or maybe she just didn't remember it. She had told me she hated me more than the one time she mentioned. It was said whilst being fully clothed so the message was decidedly not mixed. It was crystal clear, and said with some force, made all the more pointed by a request to "get the fuck out of my sight." A request that I figured it was in my best interest to grant at the time. It was, at the time, what I considered to be a pretty fair approximation of an ending. I was, eventually wrong, but that is not an uncommon occurrence. 

I wondered what alignment of the stars had brought her wandering back into my orbit? Was she just at loose ends, and knew I would be there, like some human security blanket? Was she actually more fond of me than she let on? Or did she just want to make me her dirty, little secret again? Slumming amongst the proles, while waiting for something classier to come along? Then I realized it really wasn't the time or the place to ponder this particular mystery of the universe. I was never going to solve her for X anyway, and besides my allotted 'brooding' time was at an end. I called Sully over, and said "while as pretty as a peach Sully my man, I've got to go see a man about a horse." Sully smiled, and replied "your tab is paid GI, go give that filly a happy ending." I laughed "Sully my man, you've never said anything more true in your miserable life."

Ancestors

 This project has over the many years it has polluted the interwebs with its content has ancestors. They are long, long dead writers who drive me to do this. It is both an attempt at a homage, and an attempt to try to emulate them that this blog exists. The standards they set are unreasonably high, and someone with as little talent as me has no way of reaching them. It's not my fault that Krudy wrote prefect prose at a rate of 17 pages a day while shit housed. I can't compare to the prose of Joseph Roth who was also piss drunk most of his life, such a famous drunk that there is a hotel in Austria that still has an open tab for him, and he died in 1939. Sure you've got your easy drunks to follow like Hemingway or Dylan Thomas, but their path is just that theirs. Our path, my path is different in spite of my attempts to replicate theirs.

These ancestors, these influences, these literary fathers and grandfathers had their own set of circumstances that allowed them to put pen to paper. This is the 21st century and I have to contend with a lot more distractions, a lot more time sinks than they did, and clearly I am not doing a good job of avoiding them. It is exactly one person's fault. Mine and mine alone. I attempt to walk in their written footsteps the best I can, and I generally fail. I wonder if they had the same issues with writers who came before them, or did they just have the courage of their convictions, and realized they had talent that could not be denied or ignored. 

Several of these ancestors knew each other, some even exchanged letters. One of them would even admit that another one of them was twice the writer he was. Both of them were ten times the writer I am, and I am using the term writer very broadly. My ancestors are like Roman emperors, and how the fuck are you going to compete with fucking Emperors. I am not born or called to the purple. I don't know any actual writers, and given today's version of them, I am not sure that is a bad thing. I want to sit down with the Krudy's the Baudelaire's, the Zweig's of the world and ask them how it works for them. 

How do the words come? Do they pound on your consciousness like the NKVD on a suspected enemy of the state's door at 3 am? Do they slide out of you like a river that can't be damned? Do they have to be pulled like a bad tooth? Or do they just happen like a summer thunderstorm, something that can't be stopped? All of these I have experienced. I have rolled out of bed at 3 am to write something down that wouldn't let me sleep, I have tried to plan stories that makes some sort of logical sense, and I have just sat down drunk and wrote what came to mind. 

I claim the literary ancestor to this blog is Dostoevsky, and back at the start that was true. While he still looms over these pages like a vulture on a telephone wire, I am more and more convinced that he would not approve of where my writing has taken me. He's still there, he's just not on the path I want to tread, I mean for fuck's sake read him, then read me, we have little in comment. He had talent, I don't. But I try, and maybe in that trying I say a few things worth remembering. I certainly hope so, or else why would I be driven back to the keyboard over and over again?

All of this rambling is to say the reason I hesitate to write (other than pure laziness) is the standards I see, I can not meet. And I doubt Krudy had grammar Nazis to contend with, and even if he did, he was too drunk to care. Perhaps drunk is the way to write. Hemingway did tell us to write drunk and edit sober, but who wants to be Hemingway? After all he put a shotgun to his face and blew his brains out. If you were to look closely at the writers I try to emulate you might find a common theme, and it has nothing to do with the written word.

Cobras

 There are a few unpleasant ways to be jolted awake in the morning, having Felix's goons battering your door telling you to "wakey wakey, the boss wants to see you again." is one of them. Nothing quite gets the old pacemaker skipping a beat like a wake up call from Felix. A before breakfast chat with Felix is a way to get you to want to skip breakfast and possibly lunch as well. Another way is the industrial sounds of "progress" being made in our fair city. Someone, somewhere is always building something, and some other bastard is equally enthusiastically tearing something else down, then there are the bastards who live above you that like to teach their pet elephant (they must have a pet elephant, that's the only thing that could be that loud) how to polka at 8 a.m.. These are both shit ways to wake up, and face the day, but today option three was on offer, a gift of my glorious subconscious, and just a little too much gin.

Jolting awake, as the poison the cobras in your dream injected into you finally begins to work its deadly way into your central nervous system, is not a pleasant way to start the day either. You let out a small, girlish whimper and lash out to try to ground yourself into what you hope is the reality that doesn't contain cobras. Granted in this particular iteration of the cobra dream, I had at least killed two of the bastards. The one whose poison was in the process of killing me, and his/her/its partner (do cobras, like cops, have partners? Christ I hope not). It takes a few precious seconds to realize you're not in fact dying of cobra venom, and that you are "safely" in your own bed, and safely is defined very broadly. After all, Felix knows where you live, Felix seems to know everything about you. Sometimes, when you lose your glasses, you wish Felix were around, the son of a bitch would probably know where you left them as well, and what your prescription is. 

This morning's added bonus was as I jolted awake my hand encountered an object in the bed with me that I had no memory of being there when I went to "sleep" (some people, with little imagination and a lot of prudishness might call it passing out). Needless to say, this was almost as scary as the cobras. Had Felix finally planted a dead body in bed with me to pin some murder charge on me to make me dance to his tune? Had I actually killed someone in a drunken rage, as some people think I am prone to? A small grunt from the form next to me at least answered the dead body question. It seemed the body was, in fact, alive. Which I briefly considered a plus, before reconsidering the fact that I had no idea how that 'body' got to be beside me, and to whom it belonged. A quick glance to the left confirmed that yes, there was another (live) body in the bed next to me. Having answered the dead/alive question, I shook my head and began to ponder question two which was who in the actual fuck was this person? 

The glorious and wholly intentional lack of light in my bedroom was not going to be particularly helpful in answering this question, and my desire to "shed a little light on the subject" was not exactly high, so I was left with attempting to push aside the lingering terror of cobras in my mind, and start trying to piece together where I could have obtained aforementioned body. Rejecting the obvious way, which was elbowing said person, and politely inquiring as to their actual identity, I decided to try to think. I try not to think too much, as it generally gives me a headache, but it seemed to be the only unobtrusive way of ascertaining who was gently snoring into my extra pillow. Well short of finding their wallet/purse and rifling through it for their ID card, which would probably work, but they might frown upon. Sadly, it would seem I was stuck relying on my foggy memory, or my addles wits to sort out this person's name, and more importantly how they came to occupy the other side of my generally solo occupancy bed.

The gin was apparently more effective than I had hoped/intended for it fogged the memory and addled the wits (never a particularly hard thing to do in the best of times) to the degree where both were drawing blanks as to the solution to the latest mystery life had thrown in my general direction. I decided to lie there as quietly as any man could that was cursing himself for a drunken, forgetful fool, and hope that when they awoke, they would just fill in the increasingly large blanks that constituted the last 12 hours of my existence. A further, furtive inspection did reveal the person was of the female variety, which I suppose was a small blessing, and was presently in a state of undress that would suggest that perhaps the gap in my memory was even sadder than I thought. It would seem considering my own state of unclothedness that I had forgotten what appeared to be a smashing good time. I didn't even bother to swear off drink, why lie to the gods and yourself first thing in the morning?

As I continue to puzzle out how I was to learn the name of my latest playmate, she made my morning all the more exciting by muttering in her sleep. At first it was gibberish, and I couldn't make out a word of it,but then as she continued to carry on her conversation with whomever she was talking to in her dream. She calmly said "but Mr. Felix, I don't want to." And that, boys and girls is how I met the cute little typist in Felix's office. Some days I prefer the cobras.

To be continued (eventually)

Felix and the Freikorps

 This is not going to be an overly entertaining post, not that (to me at least) any of them are entertaining, this post is more of a place holder. A place to hold the idea(s) kicking around in my head, and nearly kicking it in, while I try to go about my day to day business of being a lazy fuck. The recent revival of the Freikorps has set me to thinking about their history, and what of it I can with safety record on these pages. Certain actions of Wilson and the band of reprobates in the Korps were (are) quite illegal, and by that I mean permanently illegal. Some of their less romantic activities do not have statute of limitations. They were illegal when they did them, remain illegal to this day, and the punishments they face are not the type that have an expiration date. Those actions are not the "boys being boys" type of activities you and your mates engaged in whilst misspending your collective youth. 

Of course, as mentioned before, the Freikorps had several banners they "fought" under. It was the nature of the beast back when they roamed the world, like violent, drunken buffalo that would kill you and yours for the right amount of coin. Sometimes they won, sometimes they lost, but they always managed to get paid, if even they had to steal it. They considered it payment, other people of less open minds would consider it theft, and really narrow minded people might throw around the term "war crime." Most of them are past caring now about their exploits, their (all too few) successes, and their (all too many) failures. Soldiering, using the term very broadly, is a young man's games, and has certain inherent risks. One of those risks is that people, sometimes a lot of really, really bad people want to kill you. Sometimes they succeed. It says it right their in the contract they all signed, "not responsible for any masses of lunatics that want to kill you." Now sign here, take the coin, and see if you can pretend you know how to march in a semi-straight line. The pox is another inherent risk, but that part of the story will have to be treated with a bit of delicacy (so to speak).

Poxes and murderous lunatics aside, the history of the Freikorps is probably nothing overly remarkable. They are not the grand conquerors in the Alexander or Napoleon mode. They are just a middling group of madmen, that figured out they individually and collectively possessed certain skills that were useful to a fair amount of people. That the skill was making a fair amount of other people cease to exist, well that's why we are here isn't it? The tales they have to tell are not heroic, they are not object lessons that will teach the younger generation how to be better people. If there is one certain fact that is undoubtedly true about the Freikorp it is they hate people. Which would make sense after all. No, their tales are just that tales. Stories that might entertain, might disgust, might make you laugh, or might make the tender hearted among you cry, but they are not the great deeds of great men. Few things are so great that they redound down the ages. Great men generally just cause great pain. Simple men just get on with the day to day disaster that is called, for lack of a better term, life. 

The tales of Wilson, Corker, and the newly deceased Jackson and the rest of the Korps are something that will take a plan to tell, and the "good" news (if there is to be any good news) is that a plan is forming more and more everyday. The main problem in the telling is the laziness that afflicts me like a pox, and the difficult task of telling a story and making sure the objects of the story don't kill you for the indiscretion of airing their indiscretions. We all need something to live for, and maybe this is it for me. Looking around the landscape of my day to day wanderings, reasons to live for, truly live for, not just get out of bed are fairly thin on the ground. Not a cry for help just the facts of the matter as they appear to me at this time. 

Again I am not promising anything, ideas come, stare at me a while, tap me on the forehead and tell me "I am your story, don't forget me, write me down." Which I then fail to do, and they leave with a sigh, and a whisper that they will be back some other time. Unrecorded, and unexplored like a large portion of the Louisiana Territory before Lewis and Clark and their Corps came along. I am attempting to get an outline of Korps story somewhere close to a piece of paper (hence this post) in the hopes that the idea(s) won't disappear like a summer dew under a summer sun. Here's hoping. 

Then, of course, there is Felix. Felix does a lot more than tap me on the forehead when he wants a portion of his story told. Felix is not that type. He doesn't knock, he hammers, he doesn't talk, he bellows, and he doesn't ask, he orders. His story, which needs a lot of back filling, is also something I am working on at my own tragically slow pace. Trust me, it's there, it's just very complicated like the plot of some French film. There is a vague idea rattling around in my head that Felix and the Freikorps might be tributaries of the same thought river, and will someday flow into each other. Then again, it is quite possible they are like railroad tracks, parallel lines that never meet. There are rumors that they do meet, and there are an equal number of rumors saying that they do not, and even a couple of rumors saying that they should not. 

Felix, Sully, David the Liar, Mutt and Jeff, and the rest of THAT merry band of bad men (and a couple of bad ladies as well) also demand attention. It is something they also deserve, after all I started their tale(s), I should have the decency to try to finish them before it is too late, and they grow stale, or out of date. Even though I am quite sure that neither Felix or the Korps are men/people of the times we find ourselves in at the moment. They are out of the past, and the past has something to teach us, at least those of us that will listen, it is just a matter of paying enough attention. 

All these, somewhat pointless, words are a way of telling the 3 people that still read this dross, and more importantly myself. That I have to return to these stories sooner rather than later, after all what else do I have to do? The revolution has yet to come.

Gjudarnsson's Friekorps

 The river, that according to Wilson, God had put there to foil my plans was not some piddling stream that you wade across for kicks on a lazy Sunday afternoon, nor was it the baptismal type of river. That is unless you wanted to drown the newly minted converts to the religion you were fooling them into believing in. No, it was a mighty river. Large, wide, and probably full of things that would gladly eat you if you decide you needed to wade/swim across it. Not that swimming was an option. The band of miscreants that I "led" were not exactly the swimming type, and none of them needed to be made aware of the fact that their 'glorious leader' (i.e. me) would sink like a stone as soon as the water touched his armpits. I didn't feel the need to advertise my lack of swimming ability, Wilson was already overfond of pointing out my faults and flaws perceived or real, and I did not feel the need to give him any more ammo. Speaking of my erstwhile second in command I looked around for him, one to ask him a question, and two to make sure he wasn't pointing a weapon in my general direction. Did I mention that Wilson had told me how much he loathed me during the one and only time he had been drunk? Every since then I was a little more cautious about presenting my back to him.

However, at the moment Wilson was not leveling an instrument of death at my general direction, but was looking across the raging river before us with a far away look in his eyes. "Penny for your thoughts Wilson" I said as I came up to him. He shook his head seemingly startled by my appearance, and replied "I doubt you'd want to pay even that much for them sir." I narrowed my eyes "sir now is it? When did we become so formal Wilson? Have you decided to finally start giving me the respect which I have done nothing to deserve?" Wilson just smiled and said "I was just thinking about the river, and how the girl that I love(d) is on the other side." This bit of news came as a sudden shock to me like something throwing me a fish at me out of nowhere and yelling "catch". "Girl that you love? Wilson this is news, I had no idea you were capable of human feelings. I had you pegged as all gears and mechanisms on the inside like a mechanical Turk or other such automaton." Wilson let out a small sigh "no ____ (better to call me by name now I guess) I have feelings just like the rest of the carbon based life forms on this planet." 

If Wilson had told me that his mother was an octopus I would have been less shocked. A girl? That he love(d)? I had figured Wilson for a 'different' sort of life style (not that there's anything wrong with it), and was intrigued about what member of the fairer sex could possibly interest Wilson for longer than it takes to make a sandwich. "Well, Wilson this is a problem for all of us as well, because the job we have been paid to do is also on the other side of that river." I didn't really want to tell him that it was the reaction to a woman's rejection that had led me to becoming his glorious leader, no need to get to chummy with the fellow who I was pretty sure wanted to kill me in my sleep. "Well Wilson, if you can somehow puzzle out a way to get out merry band of morons across that river, perhaps you and your beloved can stage a happy reunion." I raised a hand before he could reply, "and don't try to tell me you have a plan. The last time you had a plan, I had to shoot our engineer for thinking he could get us into Tessenow." 

Wilson winced at being reminded of that particular overwhelming failure, and said "well ___ there used to be a bridge somewhere close to here that would probably, if it still stands, be the best means of crossing." "Well, Wilson that would be grand, since I shot Jackson after Tessenow, we find ourselves sans engineer. So a gentle walk across a flat bridge would be a lovely way to pass the afternoon. Lead on MacDuff to this bridge of sighs of which you speak." Wilson nodded his assent, "if I have my location correct, it should be about 5 miles south of here, an simple walk for such stout men as ourselves sir." I sighed figuring that Wilson didn't mean stout to imply that we had grown fat. "Well let's get everyone still sober pointed in the direction of this bridge, and see how long we shall have to wait for the drunken stragglers to show up shall we?" Wilson nodded his assent, and set about making it happen. He might want to do unnatural things to my sister, and want me to die in a fire, but Wilson was a very good second in command, godsdamn him to hell. 

A lovely, by that I mean shitty, five mile "walk" later we came to the location of the bridge that Wilson had figured would solve all our problems. Well at least the problems that presented themselves on this side of the fucking river of death we were facing. As we cleared the forest that blocked our view of the river and the bridge of salvation that Wilson had promised us, I begin to wonder why this seemed to be way too easy. No one on this side of river had tried to kill us, and it seemed no one was paying any particular attention to us. This should have been a sign of things to come, but you know why ruin a perfectly good 5 mile walk with thoughts of a bleak future?

As we rounded the corner, and cleared the trees blocking our view of the river we came upon the view that I was dreading from the start. It was a lovely view if one likes views of broken bridges and raging rivers. As one would expect if one has the luck I posses the bridge that Wilson counted on getting us across the river was in pieces in the aforementioned river. I seriously doubted our ability to cross this non bridge, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe we had brought shame upon the name of Gjudarnsson's Friekorps, when Wilson whispered to me "don't despair boss, I've an idea."

to be continued

Death of a Skeptic

 I  took the Rationalist's records the night I murdered him, he seemed to want me to have them, and I was between books at the time, so I thought why not give them a read. I had heard from the CC that he fancied himself a writer, and wanted to see if his fancy would tickle mine. As it turned out it did, much as the bastard had predicated it would. His records were an expansion upon the Romantic's records. It didn't take a brain surgeon to suss out that the Rationalist had killed the Romantic and that was how he came into possession of the Romantic's records. I had put a bullet in the Rationalist's brain, and here I was, seemingly another link in a daisy chain that I wasn't sure I was okay being with being a link of. I started with the Romantic's dribble, and dribble it was, at least to a fellow of a skeptical bent such as myself. I read of the Romantic's hopes and dreams, his few successes and his many failures. It seemed he took his Romanticism seriously, and eventually it became more than he could bear. After a while, I began to wonder why the Rationalist was sent to kill the Romantic, In my (somewhat expert opinion) on whacking people it was clear to me that given enough time, and a couple of more (eventual) failures, the Romantic would have whacked himself. 

Maybe the CC knew (or knows) something I don't (or didn't) maybe they just were tired of waiting for 'nature to take its course' and sent the Rationalist to put a little hurry up on the demise of the Romantic. Or maybe they were concerned that he would pull a von Kleist and shoot the latest objection of his affections before deciding to shuffle himself off this mortal coil. Either way, the Romantic was a stone cold dead as dead could be, and as far as I could tell no one missed him overmuch, then again I am not in a position to know that. Maybe somewhere in some forgotten corner of the Romantic's life there exists some damn fool that thinks of him with a degree of fondness.  Maybe there was someone beautiful and strange (she would have to be strange to love the Romantic) that missed him and is still left wondering why he hasn't written or done something equally stupidly Romantic like showing up to crash her wedding. I couldn't sort out any names from the scattered notes that the Romantic kept, he seemed to go out of his way to obscure the names, and the Rationalist (oddly) did not seem to motivated to make sense of the Romantic's ramblings. Maybe the CC, and by extension me, didn't give him enough time. 

The Rationalist, the man I killed, did make a few queries into the wanderings of the Romantic, being the Rationalist, he wanted names. I am not sure if this was to solve a puzzle that was perplexing him, or to send poison pen letters to the late Romantic's paramours in some sort of sick game or not. Being a Rational type of fellow I figure he just wanted to solve the mystery of who "the one that treats me like shit", "nellie the elephant", or "little miss disloyal" actually were in real life. His notes, much less chaotic, and much more prosaic than the Romantic's made a fair more amount of sense. His writing far less beautiful, but more coherent than the Romantic's led me to eventually put real names to the people the Romantic wanted to hide behind cute little nicknames.

These names, these women would not be pleased at the conclusions the Rationalist came to about them. He lacked the Romantic's, well Romanticism, and looked at this collection of women, as the main cause of the CC's desire to have the Romantic made deceased. The Rationalist solved the mysteries as to the names, but as far as I can tell from his notes, he was unable to solve why the Romantic did what he did in relation to the women in his life. To be fair to the Rationalist, he was not the man you wanted to untangle the mysteries of the Romantic's scribble. His mind was load bearing, the Romantic's mind was eye catching, and those two are hard to combine. Reading the Rationalist's notes and watching him struggle to make sense of why the Romantic did what he did, and why at least one of the "women in his life" didn't just shoot him makes one wonder why the CC even bothered whacking the Romantic. He seemed to be a harmless kind of fellow, and one destined for a short life span anyway. The need to shorten that life span was something that the CC did not share with the Rationalist. They merely told him to kill the Romantic, and being a rational, rule following fellow he did just that. 

The Rationalist once wrote of the Romantic  that he "not only liked to flirt with death, he liked to invite it home with him, have a romp with it, and then buy it cookies." Rereading that sentence gives me pause it is a line worthy of the Romantic, and yet it was written by the Rationalist. Perhaps, killing him made the Rationalist somehow sympathetic to the Romantic. Or maybe he just meant it in the literal sense. The Rationalist, as it would turn out, would never suspect that I would be the one to murder him. Odd that, one would think, that being a rational, thinking man he would have puzzled it out. My job wasn't sympathy my job was to whack the Rationalist, and that is what I did. The Rationalist apparently deserved it, the CC ordered it, and I made it happen. Welcome to the line of succession. This was not a part of the brochure. 

Unlike the Romantic, who made it fairly easy for the Rationalist, and unlike the Rationalist who made it easy enough for me, I resolved not to be the next link in the daisy chain of death.  I was better than that, I was not going to go gentle into that good night, and I was not going to be such a damn fool as to be surprised by the wolves when they showed up at the door. I kept close watch on my keys, and I didn't wander around my city in a drunken haze, making lampposts my temporary best friends like those who had gone before me. Sober living isn't really living, but I figured it would at least keep me alive. Besides, drinking at home is safe enough right? The wolves don't have the key, and if you move enough they have almost as much trouble as the post office in finding out where you really live. 

Reading the mad ramblings of the Romantic, and then reading the Rationalist's measured, but flawed approach in trying to make sense of them led me to attempt to synthesize the two. It is a vanity project that probably needs to be fed into the fire, but it keeps me from falling into the trap that snared the Rationalist. Or at least I thought it did. I made sure to keep my thoughts as secret as I possibly could, but a secret is something that once spoken aloud, ceases to become a secret. A hiding place is only as good as the man who picks it, and it appears I am not as clever as I thought I was. This was made clear one fine night when the "knock" came at the door. Why they bother knocking is beyond me, but I guess it makes them feel better about themselves, and what they are there to do.

When I opened the door, I knew what the fellow on the other side was there to do. He wasn't anything remarkable, not tall, blond, and muscular with locks of flowing hair. No, he was just a man, a man that were you to walk by him on the street you wouldn't look twice at. I took one look at him, and just to make myself feel better I said "I thought you'd be taller." He let out a small laugh at that, nodded, and replied "people often do." As pleasant as a Fuller brush salesman, he asked "May I come in?" I opened the door further and gestured for him to enter, I really had no other choice, no need to kick to hard, I knew that from experience. 

I motioned for him to have a seat, "I suppose the CC has decided that I've outlived my usefulness." He nodded "it seems so, you know as well as I do how they work, they didn't tell me the why, they just told me the what." Of course I knew that didn't make it any better but I knew. "I've got something for you, it is in the other room, and with your permission I'll go get it." He shook his head, and tutted "no lad I can't allow you to do that. I know you've a Roscoe somewhere in here, and I don't feel like making this any more difficult than it needs to be." I sat down and nodded, "fair enough I wasn't going for the Roscoe anyway, your showing up is in many ways a relief. What I have to pass on to you is the gift of the 'daisy chain'.  He arched an eyebrow "I am not much interested in flowers, so I'll have to pass." 

"This isn't 'real' flowers, they are literary sunflowers if you will, they are the notes of the Romantic, who got himself on the wrong side of the CC, and then the additions to those of the Rationalist who also managed to get himself deceased courtesy of yours truly, and finally my own scribblings. Another link in the 'daisy chain' as it were." He let out a small sigh "I'm not much into reading beyond the classics, but if it will make you feel better, go get them." He pulled out his own Roscoe and leveled it at me and said "but real slow like, and if you come out with anything other than paper in your hands, I'll make this last two days." 

I put my hands up to signal my agreement, "I've no desire for a slow death, besides I'm not a gunslinger. I not going to come out guns blazing and hope I get you before you get me. You are just like me one of a multitude, the CC would just send someone else to do your job, and eventually they would succeed, no need to fight the fates." He smiled "fair enough, go get whatever it is, but make it quick. You know time is money and my alibi is only going to be able to remember our agreed upon story for so long before they get too drunk to make the details clear to the flics." I stood up, "the whiskey is over there" I pointed to the liquor cabinet, "help yourself, get the good shit and pour me twice whatever you pour yourself no need to go to the grave stone sober." He stood as well, "on that, at least, we can agree. I do hope you've got something worth savoring."

I walked slowly and carefully away from him to my bedroom and found the box that contains the Romantic's writings, the Rationalist's additions, and my own attempts to make it make sense. I took a very long, slow, deep breath and realized that I was about to die. Life doesn't prepare you for death. Even though all life is is a prelude to death, it still doesn't prepare you for it. Silly really. Because you know you're not immortal almost as soon as you know that left is left and right is right. I guess knowing it, and facing it within a few minutes are different. I was finding that out now, and I didn't really like the feeling. But life is life, and death is death, and the fellow in the next room wasn't going to wait forever, and besides what else did I really have to do? It wasn't like I am a good person, I fucking killed the Rationalist, I knew what I was doing when I did it, and I knew (and he told me) that eventually 'they' would come for me. Well 'they' were in the next room, and it was best not to keep them waiting, that would just be rude. And if you can be pleasant to anyone, you should at least try to be pleasant to death. 

I gathered the papers I needed, took another long breath (one I considered my last, even if it technically wasn't) and walked back to my living room where my fate awaited me in the form of a normal looking fellow you wouldn't peg for a stone, cold killer, but then again no one who knew me would ever think I had killed the Rationalist. The CC had a lot of flaws, but picking it's executioners isn't one of them. I walked into the room and noticed he had in fact helped himself to the "good stuff" and had mercifully poured me a double measure of it as well. "Feel free to take the bottle with you, no need for it to go to waste, and I'd feel better if I knew it went to a good home." He raised his glass and said "I appreciate that, and I will take you up on it." We clinked glasses and I had about two thirds of my drink down me, when he shot me straight in the heart. A true professional.

I felt it was the least I could do, let him have his last drink, and end it as quickly as possible. No need to muck about with reasons for this and reasons for that. He was a doubter not a disbeliver, and that was what the CC had decided was the reason he needed to die. I was there to make it happen. I wasn't there to listen to a speech, or to bargain with him. To his credit, I don't think he would have done either, but I wanted to be sure, plus I figured there's no real way to prepare yourself to be shot, so why not let him have one last (half glass) of the good shit on his palate when I ended him. He sputtered a bit, somehow still managed a look of surprised before he managed to mutter his last word "thanks". It was as good as a last word as any other, and I raised the rest of my glass of the "good stuff" to him, took his bottle as he requested, and his pile of papers labeled "to be read by my murderer" and left as quietly as I had came. Thus ended the Skeptic.