Ruby Fragments - II

11:32 PM - Riverbend Gated Community off FM 327 - Katy, Texas, U.S.A.

~

‘No, not that sort of thing at all. Imagine these lights, right? Like, on your face for long periods of time, but not to the effect of like, one-far-off-constant-glaring-dentist-light-type light like you’re talking or anything, but more so like with the consistently-shifting-colorful-flashing-images-being-projected-right-onto-your-face-type / light like I’m talking'

‘Directly into your / eyyyyye, maaaaan'

‘Directly into your- yeah, fuck it man!'

‘PPPPPFFFFFHHHH/huhuhuhuhhuhhuhhhhh'

‘This is actually / killing me.'

‘Don’t talk about the Dentist man, / please-'

‘HHHHHHHWWWWEEWWWGGGGHHHHGHGHGHGHHH'

Notwithstanding the best of his efforts to retain the meditative quality of his lung’s resistive posture, blue smoke spiraled ubiquitous as it was expelled, pushed bullish with a commanding domination over his entire trembling body, and resonated into a coughing fit that flew with rage from all the way deep down within Chase’s very right-wing-corn-fed-all-American bowels.

Pipes/cigarettes packed with ‘nicotine-free’ tobacco were passed around lackadaisically between the boys smushed arm-to-arm in the tiny upstairs bedroom’s bathroom’s toilet room of ‘Wax’s mom’s house’.

They would later discover that the term ‘nicotine-free’ was the inaccurate hearsay relation of another as being ‘addictive-free’; a misquoting caused by that hearsayer's dyslexia when having spied a colorful advertisement that cunningly described the tobacco, in a font whose letters were suspiciously IMPERIAL and thoroughly contiguous, as being ‘additive-free’.

Giggling and punching to the right of Chase, atop the bathtub’s shitty too-slim porcelain rim, affixed permanently ‘at-the-hip’, pimpled both in countenance and in kind, was the inseparable duo known to the group only as Clark and Mindy, twelve and thirteen, respectively.

The two boys met in shop class, and through a mutually subconscious recognition of one another's skill at the practical applications of simple metallurgy, a strong knack for cracking the best jokes, (though not always at the appropriate times fun, nonetheless) and just sort of having a generally-all-around-let's-have-a-good-time-all-the-time-type of life, grew as one.

Stuffed to their left, and to Chase's immediate right, was squished the rose-red-puff-cheeked runt-of-the-group Mickey Hickson, aged eleven, who is only allowed to hang with the boys because he plays a mean electric guitar, and though he’s the most socially-inept and fucking awkward kid you’ve ever laid eyes on, he seems to affect this sort of inexplicable anomaly, some invisible-radiation-cosmic-magnetism-type stuff for fuck's sake that draws flocks of the opposite sex to the runt like flies on honey.

Chase stood attentively against the inner panels of the toilet room's thin wooden door, which seemed to levitate within its not-so-bad metal hinges; a squeak-and-creak every now-and-again when he shifted his weight reminding him of its (and their situation’s) essential quality of ultra-fragility.

Most of the boys were thirteen-ish.

Some twelve-ish.

One eleven.

To the left of Chase, stood upright, leaning along a small, short shaft-of-a-wall were Jeffrey May and Wade ‘Shrimp’ Strimbo, both twelve.

A combo whose friendship, though not industrially fused by metal inert gas like that of Clark and Mindy, made them a duo of dynamism, nonetheless.

Where Clark and Mindy were, at times, indiscernible between one another due to such stark similarities in behavioral tics despite such contrasting skin tones (Mindy being the color of Earth, and Clark that of a cloud), May and Shrimp, though so alike in appearance they were often mistaken for fraternal twins or sometimes rarer, cousins, did not often share deeply held beliefs.

In arguments, one would typically fold to the other’s point of view (usually Shrimp due to his size (or lack thereof)) on the surface, but within remain stolidly unchanged.

Clark and Mindy were more likely to have a loud, long row though sometimes it seemed theatrical, as deep down it was clear they were always on the same side, unlike the enmity from far down which seemed to brew no more than some bubble of this intense-but-hidden-type of rivalry between Shrimp and May.

To their, and Chase's (sort of) left was seated ‘Wax’ upon the toilet, consistent in his inquisitiveness upon the order of not just pipes/cigarettes, but also upon which friends ranked higher among others in terms of pipe-/cigarette-handing skills based on a sort of crudely judgmental pretending-to-be-humble-but-still-with-a-holier-than-thou-attitude-that-made-his-high-and-mighty-sense-of-humility-be-percieved-ultimately-as-totally-self-righteous-and-judgmental-type of way.

It was 11:44 PM and there was just no way they were going to miss what would be the finale of not just the first, but also, unbeknownst to the boys, the very last season of Shark Seven’sBreach Tactic: an avant-garde cable broadcast examining the fictional account of a documentary camera crew known as Shark Seven as it documents the relationships between the stars of a fictional reality television program whose name is unknown; the documentary camera crew remaining the show’s real 'Stars' for the entirety of its one season.

To Wax’s immediate left and Clark’s immediate right, immediately in front of Chase, sat beneath the small ventilating window on the cold tile that warmed to the touch of filled denim was Chase's best friend and hero, Lewis Ledger.

His forearms rested coolly on bent knees, his posture seeming to melt into the crease where the wall met the floor. He seemed almost vertically supine using only the passive traction of his rubber soles to keep him from slumping forward into a horizontal heap-of-a-liquid-type form.

He was fourteen, the oldest of all of us, and wore sunglasses indoors.

The sound of the hound being let out for a piss floated up from downstairs with an immediacy that seemed to cause only Chase and Hickson to lift their attention. A general sense of unease swept through the water-closet's occupiers giving them the fantods. They were wholly bound to secrecy and the presence of an authority figure would compromise their operation ad nauseam. It was time to abort. The upstairs bedroom’s bathroom’s toilet room was gagging to exhale a few of the boys, as they began to crowd one another with feelings of wholesomeness and fulfillment ready to depart into a lateral vector adjacent the space they filled.

A thunderstorm made itself known like an apparition seeping upward between the bars of a gate laid horizontal; pure electric thunder roared, hissed, between hits and bore a televised crack and whistle.

~

0430 - Southeastern Zone 6 - London Borough of Bexley, England, U.K.

~

The air at 0430 was stiff and chilled,

like the exterior wetness

of a freezing Heineken

held-in-hand

during the season

when bears hibernate.

Only this morning was experienced

in its pre-dawn sheen

smoothed over

into a duskily blue haze;

ghoulishly bitten

by the convex rim

of what looked like

a reflective coin

of stretched water

and tattered by

cheeping,

nibbling

pigeons.

Normally, taking a shower alleviates,

a ceremony of washing clean,

but although this shower does

seem to release

some of the semi-snarling spikes

and rather

squeaky

pressures

building within skulls,

there is, ever-present,

the anxious spear

tipped with conscious guilt.

They ignore this,

and nonetheless

ride the momentum

of a wakeful washing of water

from the combed,

shaved, and ironed

white collared shirt,

black trousers, and

black shoe combo

to the truly forgiving

tingled chill

of that morning’s nippy 0514.

They like to roll cigarettes before They set out for the studio.

They don’t always,

but when They do,

remember to grab their airtight

Gold Standard 'Additive-Free' Quality Blend,

Easy-Rolling Quality Papers,

and “Nation's Favourite” Extra-Slim Filters,

They feel at the top of their game,

as They can be sure to get a few puffs in

before the bus gets there,

hopefully.

Sometimes

They smoke their cigarettes

in the back gardens beside their dewy allotments

before They leave,

but rarely.

Another few times,

though less rarely still very scarcely,

do They smoke their cigarettes

just outside their front doors

in the slim trenches of brick

between They

and their neighbors'

homes,

but Those who partake don't enjoy this practice when alone,

or when not waiting for someone in the house,

as They feel sort of begrudgingly voyeuristic

about anyone walking by

and can’t help but be made uncomfortable

by the looking-glass impressions

They give Themselves

that all passersby

totally see Them

as some like

weird

voyeuristic

organism.

So but sometimes,

but still less rare and not very often,

do some of Them walk down to the bus stop while smoking their rolled cigarettes,

though none of Them much enjoy this method

whatsoever

as the whole smoking-while-walking thing

really fucks up their whole

nicotized experience,

and They generally feel that the wind

ends up smoking more of their cigarettes

than They ever get to anyway.

So what happens usually is They’ll smoke their cigarettes at the bus stop.

Sitting on the shitty

too-slim

small

red

stump,

which seems to simply function only

as the necessitated tease of relief

that won’t let one of Them truly fall asleep

without tasting the morning-after hangover taste

of bus-stop concrete,

is an option for smoking their cigarettes

as long as it’s early enough

that no one will be lively enough

to bother one another with small-talk,

and that the bus is late enough

providing Them the time to do so,

but so often do They begin to light up

as they make their diagonals

across the painted zebra-patterned walkway

that the bus’s heave and shattered rustling of tree branches

scraped and shoved by the blood-red double decker

HHHHJJJJJJJHHHH

forces them to terminate their cigarettes

with maximum smoke received before death,

like some 14-year-old kids direly

puffing out of a small window

in utter desperation and

fear on some fresh,

newly-lit pipes

or cigarettes

in an upstairs

walk-in closet as

one of their mother’s

approaches imminently

with her stern knock at some

thin metal-hinged wooden door,

as

if

(T)hey

somehow

have the balls

to kill the entire

thing in one last-ditch

attempt before total

destruction.

They don't save their half-smoked cigarette butts because they smell to Them like, well, half-smoked cigarette butts and couldn’t equate that smell to anything better if They tried.

If one were wondering what the smell is like:

go smoke half of a cigarette,

put it out,

wait a minute,

and then smell the thing.

So but,

every now and again,

They are luckily gifted

on their cigarette-absent walks

down the road from their homes

with the fast-moving portrait

of a red blur-of-a-bus heading English

down the crossing street in front of them

communicating ample time to sit at the stop

smoking their cigarettes

in peace

and totality.

(As a side note,

sometimes if They’re waiting for a bus

and it’s taking too long,

They’ll deliberately roll cigarettes at the bus stop

to sort of

summon

the red beast,

as They know They’ll never have enough time

to smoke the entirety of the things

PLUS the time They’d all been sitting there,

though occasionally,

but not all that often,

does the bus actually take longer than even two cigarettes,

which They all view to be slightly maddening;

particularly Those who did not light up at the chance(s).)

But on this 0517,

of a slightly 'more pre-dawn' morning than usual,

there is a specter at the bus stop.

The fickle mist of that morning’s early hour made itself present through cotton-eyed gazes blinking away the gritty dust of last night’s sleep-cycles.

They swallowed the sight before Them.

An all-gray presence appearing,

in that odd way,

more the spectral resemblance of a person,

or their shadow,

rather than the living one,

decked out with suitcases and the like,

sitting on the shitty, little (in)convenient red stump of the bus stop;

its form of a woman’s.

They chose to smoke their cigarettes at the top of the road,

a choice odd and foreign to even Themselves,

giving Them just enough time to,

probably,

but briefly,

but still probably,

slightly annoy this gray stranger

as They smoked the rest of their cigarettes

while seated next to her

on the shitty red stump

before the rest of Them arrived.

(T)hey talked briefly, but none really remember what about, nor would (T)hey ever need to.

Though a remark They do remember was that the bus was slightly early to the time it was scheduled to arrive which is why the gray woman had been sitting there despite leaving 3 minutes earlier than They, Themselves.

This made Them ponder the times in which maybe it’s better for Them to be late rather than early to something.

~

0528 - 723 bus northwest-bound toward Zone 1 - London, England, U.K.

~

her thoughts swam upriver

of the direction the

mechanized beast

rocked and shook them down

stop-start

curves more violently tranquil than those of a

luscious hourglass body

she began to read her book while listening to music through headphones

and was shook

by a rude awakening

to see

that she

had missed

her stop

and so pressed

the red

STOP

button

and realized the bus was now to stop at

a small spot

without even a shelter or

small red stump

inside the

waxed

crescent

of a road

across from

a field the likes of which

gave her the chill of not knowing whatsoever where she was

and so forced the bus driver to stop at an empty stop

where no one got off

not even she

she just sat there and felt like a fool

as gazing eyes peered noisily from black-suits

the ever-wondering steam leaping from the back of her

as foreign stares questioned her entire existence

and then she got off at a stop a little further down

and read some things on some boards

and crossed a street

and found the right bus stop

and figured hey fuck it what the hell

and rolled herself a cigarette

and smoked it at this new bus stop

and then the new bus showed up

and the bus driver didnt stop at the stop

and went to the light instead

and she saw the driver make a motion with his hand signifying no

and this chance for her now seemed limited to running to the next stop down

but not very likely considering the amount of cumbersome material she was lugging

and another bus now approaching from the opposite side of the road made itself into a window of opportunity that she leapt through unafraid of broken glass consequences

for she said fuck my plans

and ran to the door

and cried silently

and the bus driver pulled a hero

and opened his doors to the gray young woman

and let her on

and a really nice old woman remarked about her luck

the driver even picked her up

for this bus was for Employees Only

and shared with her a squinty smile that made her feel warm

and squintingly smiling herself

and made her feel generally appreciative of what had transpired

and she made it her prerogative to find out

and possibly even become

an Employee of whatever destination it was

to which these folks travelled daily.

~

0712 - Soundstage 1-A of Toe-Tag Studios - Undisclosed Locale

~

The combined enthusiasm of the cast & crew on Shark Seven’s Breach Tactic series was never more than a speck in comparison to that of its creator, Emile Woods, also known by most women, (sometimes men) whose interests lie in horizontal accompaniment of the man, but most frequently known to himself, as 'Mr. Hollywood’; 'Hollywood' for short.

He is an American.

A man.

He is an American man.

Who is sometimes quite alright

except when he's not

He has a severely addictive personality

which frequently attracts chaotic

Alright, that’s enough-

fuck off

This is actually pointless

Hollywood drug himself from 'the dark place' with the cold breach of what had originally appeared a glass film being rippled over the bowl of the studio's staff's bathroom's sink. His face was shocked with ALIVE! and in an instant, his heart skipped a beat triggering ‘PLAY’ firing a synaptic reel into the ‘ON’ position.

He witnessed the 'reality stars' which the Stars of his show were focused upon.

They were holding cameras

and filming his Team

film Shark Seven

in a triangular feedback loop.

He pulled his face upward seizing the space above, exploding tentacles of water with the outward acceleration of a golden ratio casting the eerily translucent drip of dragged claw-marks melting downward upon what was before a spotless mirror; their manner one that indicates their color should be sanguine (the liquid claw-pattern's). Hollywood’s mind reeled with images of abandoning the Reality show’s third of the set and putting them in an environment similar to his and Shark Seven’s team's. He peered through refracted dendrites racing downward toward his own obstructed visage. He envisioned surrounding the three simultaneous casts/crews in a pressing infinity. His luxury three-piece was soaked. His tie askew, he slammed the studio bathroom door shut

harder than upon his flight bursting out.

Ignoring the immediacy of the immediate eyes immediately peering before his deranged figure,

He

galloped

down

the stairs

about

two or three

sometimes four

steps

at-a-time

WHAM!!!

Another door slammed open which awkwardly slammed back toward him

which he had to stop with his forearm

and all he could think was that the draft probably ruined his hair,

unaware

of his already soaked,

misshapen appearance.

A silence had fallen through the air

that,

in the heat of the moment,

Hollywood could not discern

whether was present before

or after his entrance,

but regardless it was now time to BASK in the GLORY for he was a GENIUS come here to impart upon his fellow cohorts the secret knowledge of what would save their hideous child from its grotesque death. His mouth ran as a fine-toothed motor, rumbling and BBBBVVVRVRRRRRing in radial shapes around his Team.

They smoked cigarettes in the studio.

He LOVED that, though he didn’t smoke himself.

They saw him as a tool.

He explained his idea.

'To HELL with fake reality stars rehashing old paraphrased dialogue around a 'paramilitary task force' who search endlessly, chasing false parables like chickens with their heads cut off! Let's give 'em cameras and they’ll film,

not Shark Seven's team,

but US

filming Shark Seven

filming them!'

‘Running around like chickens with our heads cut off.'

'WAMMO! What a time to be alive.'

A few crew members from Hollywood's Team abandon their equipment and their cigarettes alike, spitting on them or stepping on them to extinguish, and simply walk away without a word. There are no hard feelings between anyone.

Those who do stay do so with a silent vigilance that communicates a ‘let’s get on with it then’ attitude, which Hollywood adores.

~

12:10 AM - Riverbend Gated Community off FM 327 - Katy, Texas, U.S.A.

~

‘HHHHJJJEWWWWHEWHEWHEWHEWHHHH'

Clark's teeth vibrated within his mouth as his tongue formed a shallow valley releasing a laugh that stuttered from his throat like a lawnmower that wouldn’t start up.

He suffered from the inconvenient habit of not being able to tell when it was appropriate to laugh.

The boys slumped in tired anxiety surrounding the liquid-crystal display that was to entrance them during that night's entertainment.

They were adequately prepared for SSTB's season finale, replete with snacks, smokes, and squishy surfaces alike.

Though the whole thing seemed to be falling apart at just the worst moment, for all their young, hopeful eyes could cast their sights on was a mean static fizz shifting busily like some monochrome virus aching to break the boundaries within which it was contained.

Shrimp and May lie asleep leaning upon on one another, snoring and dribbling heavily, supported only by a shared lump-of-a-couch-cushion and a wooden wall-post.

Wax and Chase have made their way downstairs to scavenge for more snacks and hidden smokes; the quest knowingly incompletable, but at this point, anything will suffice to take their minds off the unrelenting static in place of their absent idols.

Mindy is examining a spot on one of his brand-new, fresh-smelling sneakers while Clark feebly tries to regain his attention with the usage of a rubber band and paperclip.

Lew is seated directly across from the television, hands folded in his lap, waiting with the silent baggy-eyed gaze of someone who looks determined to shake off the death-knell of sleep at any and all cost. The tableau strikes familiarity and is fraternal in nature.

POPBZZZZZZWSHHHHHFFPT-

Flashing blue lights that warp into an enigma.

Ledger's mouth drops wide.

Clark fires the rubber band without watching its trajectory, eyes fixed on the screen.

Mindy's sneaker falls to the floor.

~

0200 - Lakeview Heights Circle - Habersham County, Georgia, U.S.A.

Textures were metal

and their shit clanked

constantly

Green-men.

Rollin’ in a jailhouse

.40 cal welded at-the-hip.

Tip-toe steppin'

Fuckin’ Sweat

Drippin’

Goddamn,

S.W.E.A.T. team

'Pretty sure I pass this place daily on my way to the station'

Shut

the fuck

up

Pulled the bolt

tripped it with a BAD lever

sent that fucker home

with a jolting slam

cocked

locked

ready to rock

Tip-toe razor steppin'

Black, White, and Blue

thin lines in my mind

and down my back

New tat fuckin' itches

MRAP whipped

Uniform line

Steps, Steps, Steps

Form up

Try the side

Course it’s locked

Battering Ram steady

Pin pulled

Swing hard

‘case ya hit it

Egg cracks

after two

Hand on point

Toss it in hot!

Then there’s smoke and I can barely see my hand through it

An outsider’s left eye twitched, feverishly

Sighted between the crosshairs of a glass-etched illuminated reticle floating, static, within optically indexed lenses

He took the shot like a champ, writhing with dignity in a pool of his own scarlet twinkle

run red rabbit,

run,

She didn’t know where she was anymore

She ran and ran

Stumbling along the way

she felt naked

though she was covered

head

to

toe

in Kevlar

Clanking all the fuckin’ way home

down a corridor of previously milling drones

of the undead type that slave in cubes

She tripped on PAPER of all things

Swinging in a Euclidean figure

Bashing through a door

Rolled upward and knelt at the ready

Looks up

and sees

Lights shining brighter than the sun

Not fluorescent

ton of them

It occurred to her,

in that very moment,

that she

was in a film studio.

She maneuvered her weapon deftly

painting radial patterns through time-space

with the liquid movement of a dancer

snapping with intelligence

her Colt submachine gun.

The cameras slowly panned toward her.

Cigarette hanging from the mouth of a dead-eyed camera op

the camera op focused intently now upon his subject

readily-aimed at a readily-aiming subject clad in body armor.

She stared at the voyeur staring at her and panicked like an insect.

Fired upward

smoothly eliminating

each

and every

artificial

star

plucking them

one

by

one

until all light

was finally diminished

to the whirring wheeled voyeurs’ operational touch-screens'

small blue glows

the dead embers of exploded stars

She activated the Strobe function

of the tactical

flashlight

mounted

upon her rifle

eliminated

target

upon

target

Tango down.

Her mouth twisted beneath the spit-damp portion of her jet-black flame-proof balaclava.

The lenses which covered her eyes whined with the sharp, rising pitch of a dying hiss that accompanies the engagement of all night-vision visuals in Hollywood films.

There was no one before her

Only voyeurs

staring blankly

from glass eyes

black apertures

ringed in black metal

or plastic

she didn’t know

or care

soon they rose,

mirrors did,

from the ground

slowly rising,

these mirrors,

from the edges where the floor meets the walls

Surrounded by infinite depths,

she spun radially.

In all of her destruction

she could not destroy the whirring dead embers of cool blue

and soon they echoed too

through the black voids that now eclipsed them in totality

She hadn’t noticed the floor or ceiling

which now too

was toppled with oblivion.

She fired.

Fuck this.

She fired

and fired

and fired

in every direction

apart from the floor,

unaware of her fear

of its consequences.

Glass rained

the sound of a waterfall

composed of chandeliers

The expanse furthered

and soon

as

the

last

bits

of

glass

settled

lazily

from

heaven

she ran

out of ammunition and-,

along with the

tinkling

shatters

left from

late & dist

ant frag

mentslastly

falling to their death,

there was the click click click clickwhich was immediately

indicative of an empty magazine. She sat atop a mirror, in

a mirrored exp a n s e

n o w v a s t and rainingrefracting fragments

of black and blue twisting with a viscious intent

uponspiralling

expertly down. Fuck

it. She gripped her rifle

by the rail and smashed the

glass beneath her feet. It didn’t

break upon first try, but she knew

i/

\t

/.

w\

/e

\a

k/

\e

n/

\e

/d

\.

/w

i/ .\

/t /e

h\ a\

/c

h\ /b

. l\

/o

\w

/.

-To be continued-