You wake up one day...well, morning, it's 0500, early. What woke you up is a very loud crashing sound. It sounds like someone just ran a bulldozer through your front door. And that is pretty much what happened, only it's the Metro Division SWAT team. They breached your door with an armored personnel carrier. You hear a lot of clanking around, but no voices. That would be the SWAT team exiting the APC. There are no voice commands because every member of the team already knows exactly what their individual roles are. You cant see it, but they use hand signals to communicate. They have no intention of announcing their arrival...not like it would matter...the sound of your front door, and 3 meters of concrete and brick either side of the door and the living room bay window splintering and shattering should serve as adequate notice. Almost immediately, a helicopter roars over your house, barely clearing the roof. The rest of the windows in your house shake, then shatter. The chopper does a hard turn and comes back, hovering about 30 meters over the roof. They torch up the choppers spotlight. Every room in your house is now as bright as day. Behind the APC, another team has taken up support positions. Behind them is the Joint FBI/SWAT Command and Control Unit. They have eyes and ears on the entire operation.
Well, maybe you should have been a honest law-abiding citizen. That would greatly help your situation, but, unfortunately for you, that is not the case. You, my friend, are Public Enemy Number One. In fact, there is no other badder-assed criminal in all of the history of crime as badass as you. Up until now, you've operated completely untouched by the long arm of the law. Your organization has penetrated international politics, law enforcement, commerce, entertainment and religion. Up until now. Now... the other most baddest-assed motherf*ckers in the world, mostly ex-Marine  Recon and veteran cops are wearing the badge, and they are coming to take you. Personally, they don't care if it's dead or alive. They move quickly and quietly through your house, up the main staircase. You've been awake less than 30 seconds.
Now, this is a bad situation for you. But...But...it is not a situation you haven't thought about, prepared for. You always figured this may happen, probably would happen. It was just a matter of when and where. In the first 15 seconds of being awake, your sub-consciously trained mind reaches for the snub-nose S&W .38 special you have under you pillow. You have had another 15 seconds to think about it, an eternity. All good things fade away. The .38 holds 5 rounds of hollow point ammunition. It is a double action...no hammer, just point and pull the trigger. The only reason the cylinder has 5 rounds in it, is because you have to know, with a 100% degree of certainty, that when you pull that trigger, there will be a live round fired. You're only gonna need one.

I'll Never Go

You wake up one day and you're Dag Ripley. I know what you're thinkin'...but, you're not me, you are Dag Ripley. You live in a Downtown Pittsburgh high-rise, called the Gulf Tower. It's elevators are polished brass. The red beacon on the roof blinks Dag Ripley in Morse code. Pre-covid, it was full of banks, lawyers and insurance companies. You got a great deal, because its been empty ever since. You think its about 30 floors. The top 2 are your Penthouse. Connected by a great stairway modeled after the Titanic, this is where you live. Your recording studio, which has nothing digital at all, is under the Penthouse. This is where you spend most of your time. The sub-T parking is great for your collection of fast cars and motorcycles. Most times you just drive your 1978 cream white Chrysler Cordoba. Like new. You had some building engineers come in, because you wanted to take a few floors out, to create larger spaces. They approved, but only 5 could be removed without compromising the structural integrity. You left the first floor exactly the same. Floors 2, 3 , 4 are gutted to add an Olympic size diving pool with a 10 meter platform. The 5th floor is your personally eats, called 'Honkers.' [You couldn't use 'Hooters'] Same line up of waitresses. Dag would suggest the breakfast menu...2 cantaloupes, halved and seeded, fried ham and cream of wheat. 
Floors 6, 7, and 8 are gutted to re-create 1985 Venice Beach. The windows were replaced with floor to ceiling  high-tech polymer 3D holographs. You can program them to be anywhere in the world. The lighting is diffused, using MPG200 sun bulbs. [Movie Producers Guild, 200 watt]  Using a complex array of mirrors and other reflective and absorptive properties, they simulate the temperature and sunlight at Venice. An SOA circulating air system and a Glandular Scatter Scent System, [GSS] reproduce the variable wind and smell of salt water, french fries, and skunks. [And whatever else.] Another state of the art sound system helps push along the sound of crashing waves, quacking gulls, and crying babies. And a lot of sand, and a winding skate path.
Your favorite floor is the Troubadour Wax Museum. You used your 5th floor removal to re-create the Troub's 2 stories. The re-creation in wax is Poison playing to a packed house on a Saturday night. The band, all the fans, bartenders, cooks, bouncers and other ungainly characters...all re-created in wax. Brett is the only animated wax figure. You got a license from Guitar Hero. All the same moves. When your in the mood, you just pick up CC, move him off stage, grab his guitar and pipe some Dag Ripley through the sound system and play air guitar. It's great to watch Brett move to Dag Ripley, in a Godzilla-like, B-movie kind of way. 
Pretending to be Real.

Pretending To Be Real

You wake up one day and you smell a fire burning, a campfire. You realize you're sleeping on the ground, on a mattress of thick brown-hair hide covered with colorful woven blankets. Your vision starts to clear. You are in an enclosed area, but not far from outside. It's a circular room. The is a series of long poles along the perimeter of the area, all leaning to meet at the middle, maybe ten to twelve feet high. The walls are an off-white color. No other people are inside. Clothing and more blankets hang from a rope strung across two poles at the far edge. The beds are situated along the inside wall perimeter, in a circle. Toward the center of the room, the reddish dirt is packed solid, a common area. In the center is the fire pit, and there is a small fire burning, the fire that woke you. There's no danger, the pit is well made, dug a good way down, encircled with large rocks. You look up again, wondering why you're not dead...of CO poisoning. No...you realize you're in a Teepee and the construction allows for the smoke to be drafted up and out. There is no door that you can see, and then suddenly, a panel of white swings open, and a women appears. Behind her you see a gathering of people. Those you can see, do not look happy, yet they wear colorful clothing and beads, feathers. Their faces are painted with black and red lines, smudges and curves. 
She says, 'Juriš na Kišu, you need to come now, right now.' Her voice is haunted with urgency. She steps inside, moving toward the rope line, and as you crawl out from the blankets, she throws you some pants, a shirt, and some moccasins. You follow her outside. One thing you didn't notice from inside is that the sky is dark with storm clouds. Lightning cracks in the distance. Another thing, the gathering of people is all men. They are armed. A few carry Henry lever action repeaters. Most have long bows and sheaths of arrows. Others hold long spears with a piece of deadly chipped rock strapped to the top. Their sidearm is the tomahawk. Some are on horseback.
A tall bronze skin man with long jet-black hair steps toward you. He wears a chest plate of beads, shells, and small rocks tightly woven together around small sticks. You hear something. Far off in the distance. It could be thunder...or it could be horses...a lot of horses. 
He says, 'Juriš na Kišu, the time is now.' You look around at the grim faces of the warriors. He continues, 'The White Man is Coming. He brings the storm. In the rain and wind our arrows and spears will not fly true. Our guns are few, he has many. We will be slaughtered.' You meet his eyes, then slowly meet all the warriors eyes, then the woman. You don't know how or why, but you know what you must do. You nod your head in an affirmative way. He puts a hand on your shoulder.
You leave the gathering and walk toward an open field in the direction of the growing thunder. You close your eyes and raise both hands to the sky. A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky, then another, and another. A bolt slams to the ground only feet from your position. The wind howls around you in a hurried frenzy. Dust, dirt and dry leaves envelope you in a whirlwind. You hold your ground. You hear panic in the village, the women and children, scurrying for shelter. The sky, now utterly black. The sound now is for sure the sound of one hundred horses, roaring through the valley. You do not waiver.
You are Juriš na Kišu, The Rainchaser.

RainChaser

Fate. Cool word. Loosely described as the cause by which things are believed to come to be. Some of us believe in fate...in that no matter which direction we try and navigate life, through education, sports, entertainment, etc., our inevitable outcome will always be a matter of fate. Fate usually carries with it more than a hint of a bad outcome. 
Destiny. Another cool word. Loosely described as a predetermined event, or course of events, held by an irresistible power, as in a Higher Power. Some of us believe in destiny. For example, Man's destiny. Speaking of 'Man' as a civilization, is our eventual destiny at the hands of God, or Buddha, or Allah? Aliens? Can we control our destiny? No, we cant. It is out of our hands.
So we have Fate...the cause, or in the manner of, and destiny, as in the outcome. Over the last 20 centuries or so, many philosophers have written journals about these subjects, until their eyeballs screw up into their heads, and they fall off the chair. Or, as history has shown us...their public, [written and published] views on these two formidable mind benders, have led to general hysteria among the population. Then of course, a government steps in and locks them up and throws away they key. Or, maybe feeds them to the lions. Nails them to a cross. Remember Socrates? Not the rat Socrates...if you remember that movie...Ben, Ben was the brown rat, Socrates was the white rat. No, the real Socrates. His publications on these two subjects, [in general] got him jailed. But that wasn't enough for that government. One morning in jail, Socrates asked for some water. The CO's of the day brought him a drink. A drink of Hemlock tea, deadly. 'Here ya go Soc, old buddy, enjoy. You bastard.' 

'Drive.' Not like drive a car. The drive to press on, in an energetic forward way. Drive is a highly admirable quality. We all had friends in school, remember the ones that 'got' math? Math is crazy, you either get it or you don't. In my case, I didn't get it, but I had a couple friends who were genius level math kids. That didn't stop them from getting into late teenage trouble like the rest of us. In fact...these guys were way too smart for their own good. They would have made excellent career criminals. But, they all had 'Drive.' The drive to succeed. They went on to CMU, MIT, RPI. They are all now very successful in their own right...or have disappeared. That means the work for you know who. You don't have to be a math genius to have drive. It is a quality shared by many. 
Did their 'Drive' lead them to the 'Fate' that then led them to their 'Destiny?' Not in the manner of any standard definition or understanding. Fate and Destiny are predetermined.
Okay, then...
What happens when we meet our Fate?

FTW AIF MSTRS

Fate Among Us

You wake up one day, and man, you're feeling old. Your first step out of bed is met with groans from your left knee. Truth is, you are old. Old enough to have seen all the people that you loved in this life either die or move on. Your two kids are alright, but they don't come around much since their mother passed. Time flies and time sucks, Man's relentless enemy. Time fears nothing.  You look around your place,  the pictures on the walls, the furniture.  Been alone a long time.
You live just outside New York City. You step outside, look toward the skyline. ' Go ahead, bite the Big Apple...,' you say to no one. Back inside, you get ready to go to the Homeless Mission. It's Tuesday, and you're a volunteer for the spaghetti dinner. Then...
A sudden change of plans for today.  You call an Uber. You leave your piece at home. When the guy arrives, you say, '7th south and Carmine.' You check your watch, almost  5 p.m.  He drops you off, and you start walking. Straight up 7th Avenue. Around 2000 hrs. you're at 7th and 31st. You know where you are, know where you're going...up the F'in street.  It's getting dark a little earlier, it's late summer. At 2100, you stop at the 7-11 on 38th for some water. 
At 41st, a black Lincoln Towncar swings out against the one-way 7th., and stops hard on right curb, flashers on. Windows are blacked out. You get the green light, and as you start to cross, a white guy exits the rear driver side door. He walks through the exhaust, and stands by the trunk. A black guy gets out the front passenger side door. He stands by his open door.
You step up the curb to the 42nd St. side of the sidewalk. The white guy curls around behind you. The black guys takes a step, and is now blocking your path. You feel a hard dull object come up against your back. At the same time, the black guys puts a MP-5 in your face, and says, 'Get in the car.'  You get in...I mean, what the hell else can you do?  The car takes the first right into an alley. You're hustled out of the car, and ushered in through a non-descript metal door. Looks like an old warehouse. Along the wall are some wooden stairs. You are walked up the stairs. To the left is large room, low light, table lamps. Some high-backed leather chairs around the room. A large oak table in the middle. The black guys says, 'Here..' and points to a chair away from the table with the gat. You sit. Nice chair, reminds you of a Lawyers office. Nothing else is said. 

Through a door that looked like the wall, an Asian guy comes into the room wearing a gray pin-striped Armani suit, and sits  at the table. He nods to the white guy, who then escorts you to a chair at the table, directly opposite the Asian. The Asian guy starts talking. 'My friend. Hope the ride over wasn't too rough. Now, I want you to tell me everything you know.' 'About?...,' you ask. 'The secret .' he replies. He is not your friend, and you have no idea what he is talking about. You look at the Asian guy, meet him eye to eye. A long moment passes, then you say, 'I don't know what you're talking about,' with a hint of sarcasm and contempt. 'Fair enough,' he says. He reaches to an small ornate wooden box on the table, opens it, and pulls out a new deck of playing cards. Unwraps the cellophane, shuffles the deck, then drops it front of you. You cut the cards, push them back. He says, 'No, your deal,' and slowly slides them back to you. You say, 'What's the game?' The Asian looks up at an imaginable sky and says, 'One hand, 5-card draw.' You contemplate his suggestion. 'Stakes?,' you ask. 
He says, 'I win, you tell me what I want to know, then I kill you. You win, you walk.' 
You say, "Dead Man's Draw,' make eye contact again and say, 'Fair enough.'
The Asian guy pauses, then says, 'You know of the game?' You want to just start laughing hysterically, but you don't. You deal the cards.

The Falling Cross

One day I wake up. At this point, I'm still tryin' get my thoughts together. I'll be traveling today, but only in the metaphorical sense. Meditation. Includes a consultation with Confucius. Himalayan Astral Plane. If you've never heard of it, that's because it doesn't exist. If I don't get outside once, for a least fifteen minutes, I wont be able to breathe the way I want to. Cigarettes. If I cared I would not smoke, but I like to breathe also. I can feel my mind sharpening up right now, a little bit...good time to say goodbye, but I'll be back. 

So far, all except few song or video 'descriptions' have been about YOU. 

IF you have taken the time to read them you may have had an odd reaction. It is only odd, because you don't feel it enough. Its called emotion. Great song lyrics and/or quotes are the Easter eggs. My pleasure. Thanks for reading it. [Exhale.] Now...Age of the Dragon. Title tracks always require a little extra music. I made effort to keep it pleasing to your ears. Be patient, my friends, when the song really starts... at the lead vocal, this journey begins.

Age Of The Dragon

You wake up one day, and you are a jewel thief. A big time, badass, big money jewel thief. You career choice, although not legal by any means, has lead you to a very comfortable life. So comfortable, you don't have work more than once every couple of years. When you do work, you work well. Methodical, well planned heists. In this business it is necessary to have an accomplice or two. You work with two other people, one man, one women. 
As luck would have it, it's time for a job. Your Lamborghini needs a new engine, you blew the head gasket doing 210 mph on the Autobahn. Your 50 million dollar mansion, sprawled out over 50 acres in Pacific Palisades overlooking the Pacific, is in need some home repair. The Dobermanns are getting old, you're gonna need new dogs soon. And as always, you want another guitar. You've been checking out a cherry red Gibson SG. And you want the new Anniversary Edition Marshall JCM800 100wt amp and cabinets. And, as always again, you want another firearm. The new Sig sniper rifle is in your sights. 

You assemble your team, and plan the next heist. You are the mastermind, the 'Hacker'. But without the other two, the mission would be impossible. The other guy is an expert in climbing, rappelling, and all things ropes, cables and knots. The women is a safe-cracker. Her skill is uncanny. So far, no safe has refused to yield to her. You handle the alarms, cameras and guards. This is not a killing job, and you've never killed anyone. 

The plan details are laid out on a large light table in your house. There are $100 million worth of cut diamonds in a safe on the 47th floor of the Enterprise Center high rise, a 50 story office building in the metro area. Central Diamond Importers. You reach under the table, flick a switch, and the table glows to a soft white. You lay down the blueprints. Overlay the HVAC system duct work, maintenance floors and corridors. You add an overlay of elevator shafts and hallways. Another overlay of the security network. The three of you come up with a comprehensive plan that calls for entry through an outside window, via the roof. You will gain roof access from an override of the loading dock freight elevator. You will need to rappel down 3 floors. You carry a hand-held hacking computer. All alarms will be interrupted for that floor only, but the main alarm desk will still glow green for all floors. The camera feed will be intercepted mid-stream, and will feed back a constant background video to the guard desk. A small hole cut in the glass will be sufficient to deliver a nerve agent to the guards in the office near the safe. They'll be asleep for a couple hours. Then you cut a larger hole for entry. Crack the safe, grab the loot, and out the main hallway to a service corridor and back down the freight elevator and out. You each will arrive independently, and a burner car will be staged nearby in a 24 hr. parking garage, for rapid escape. 0230 hrs., second Tuesday of next week.
And you know, with no degree of uncertainty, no one will ever talk. No matter what.
Sound like a plan?

Honor Among Thieves

This description is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone or anything is purely coincidental. Rated E.
One day you wake up, and Joe, Nancy and Chuck are sitting at your dining room table. Chuck has a laptop. You say, 'Get out of my house,' but they don't listen. They say that this is a very important meeting. A Council. Joe says, 'Take a seat.' You pull out the only remaining chair, and Joe drops a glass of water to the floor. Broken glass and water lay on the floor, scattered everywhere. He says to you, 'Mind getting me another glass?' You say, 'F*ck off.' Joe gives you a look of disappointment, then helps himself to another glass of water. He reminds you that this is a very important meeting. Nancy says, 'Let's get started. We need a plan to get the guns out of the hands of the average law-abiding citizen.' Now you say, 'Get the f*ck out of my house.' They don't listen. Nancy continues...'Marihuana' she says. Chuck looks up and says, 'Where? You got some?' Nancy says she will take care of him later. Joe says, 'I want some,' but nobody is listening to him. Nancy goes on... 'The  Medical Marijuana plan is working better than we expected. Stupid little people. As long as we keep it illegal at the Federal level, we should stay on track. Those stupid, ignorant little people!' 
You know what they are talking about. It is a little known fact, a law deliberately planned, and buried so deep in the bureaucracy, most people don't know about it, until it's too late. You pay a doctor to prescribe you medical marijuana in a state where it is legal for medicinal purposes, send your money to the State, and in two weeks, get your weed card Yay! And...
If you own any guns, ANY GUNS, even hunting rifles, or if you have a concealed carry permit, YOU FORFIET YOUR RIGHT TO OWN A GUN. You are under penalty of felony jail time if you don't comply. The State will know right away, because you are already in the data bank for your permit, or a background check. Your guns will be confiscated. Sure, you can sign them over to a friend, family...but then they cant get their weed card, so good luck with that. They can get away with this blatant violation of the Constitution by keeping it illegal at the Federal level. Live in a State where it's legal for recreational use? If you get caught intoxicated on weed, [it's legal remember???,] and you have a gun on you, even a hunting rifle...You got at least three felonies. You will do time.
Chuck checks the laptop...'Yep, haha, we've had XYZ amount of guns returned voluntarily, XYZ amount confiscated. XYZ arrests, XYZ convictions. Hey Nancy...where's the pipe?' 'Shut up,' Chuck, she says. She continues, 'Now we have to go after prescription medications. Cant own a gun if you take anti-depressants! Hahaha! OMG, how about OHHH-piates? No Gun! She reaches in her purse, pulls out a pill bottle and pops a few pills. She asks you, 'You got any wine?'
You say, 'Get out of my house,' but they don't listen.
Joe takes a sip of water, drops another glass and falls out of his chair. Despite his cries for help, Nancy and Chuck ignore him and keep talking. Chuck says, 'What about Big-Pharma? They aren't gonna like that. I got a vacation house on that Island...I need my campaign contributions. Hey, where's that black book...?' Nancy says, 'Shut the F*ck up, Chuck!, don't worry, I got a plan...'
You go to bed. There's your gun safe, right there where it's gonna stay. What's that quote from George Washington?, you're thinking. Something about, 'including their own government...'

Counting Days

You wake up one day. To say you feel a little uneasy would be an understatement. It's that damn dream again. The same dream you've had recurring from  your earliest years. The nightmare. 
It all started when you were around ten years old. You were living in a nice house in a nice suburban area in the Northeast USA. Mom and dad, a couple younger sisters, the Bradyf*ckingbunch. Your bedroom was on the second floor, as was everyone's,  but you had the only bedroom with a rear facing window. The view from your room was very cool, a small forested area, about 100 meters wide, running parallel with the street. A downhill slope to another street below. Paths crisscrossed the entire area... it was after all, your playground. 
One day, your parents had saved up enough money to add a room, a family room. In those days, they were called 'Additions.'  The new family room would run the length of the house, in the rear, at the main entrance level. Since the house was also built on the same slope, and included a basement and garage, this addition would also provide a nice shaded area for a patio. The construction company sealed off the rear kitchen window, and cut a large arched entrance from the back of the living room, providing a free flowing floor plan from the old living room to the new family room. You loved it. The new room would not be two stories, so the roof was a small degree of pitch right up to your bedroom window. Many nights, you removed the screen and climbed out your window, to sit alone on the large roof, watching the stars.
On a night like any other night, you went to bed. A hot summer night, your window was wound all the way open. You fell asleep easily. At some point in the middle of night you woke up. You heard something that had startled you. It was not uncommon for an acorn to bounce or a squirrel to run rampant on the roof, but still...you listened carefully. Then you heard it. The sound of footsteps on the shingles. A soft sound on the gravel-locked asphalt, you knew it well, from venturing out there yourself. Unmistakably human. They started at the far corner, the lowest point. There the roof was ten feet feet off the ground, but the gutter downspout would have made an easy climb. Fear began to tremble in your veins. Slowly, the footsteps approached your open window. Then, they stopped. Whoever or whatever had crossed the roof and stopped at your open window. Your bed lay parallel with the back wall,  immediately under the window. And it was wide open. The only barrier a soft nylon screen. You laid in your bed frozen in terror. There were many other sounds, of which you could not accurately describe. At one point, you thought you heard a knife slicing down the screen. You contemplated jumping out of bed, screaming and making a run for the door, but the terror was so great you could not move. You waited and waited, but you never heard the footsteps retreat. At daybreak, you made your run for the door. When you left your bed, you thought you saw a shadow slip past you. Down the stairs and into the living room. An hour later, your father came down the stairs and listened  to your account. Then the two of you went outside to investigate. There was no evidence of an intruder. The both of you went to your room, the screen was intact, again no evidence of any intruder. He told you you must have had a nightmare.
Today, there is no roof under your window. But the nightmare is still there, recurring, morphing. In it, you are standing on a pier, jutting out into a lake. It is a bright sunny day. Then without warning, with a great deafening shriek, the sky turns black, and a winged demon so big it fills the entire sky, is bearing down on you. You hold your hands up to defend, like it's gonna matter. You see it's face. It's blood red eyes, bat-like nose, yellow blood stained fangs. At that point you wake up. Every time you wake from this nightmare a shadow streaks by you, in your peripheral vision. It's just a shadow, right?

Take Me To The Shadow

You wake up one day. Pick up your depleted uranium coated cellphone. Another message from work. You're thinkin',  'Leave me alone. It's Saturday, leave me alone.' It says it is urgent that you call the office right away. While still in bed, you call the f*cking office. Your non-binary boss answers and says you are fired, then hangs up. You're thinking, 'You  motherf*cker...I'm gonna come down there and...' Damn. WTF. You look up and over your new cooling heating anti-matter green recycled energy pillows...to tell your significant other the bad news. Oh, they are out of bed already. Okay, you put on your jammies and go down the stairs to the kitchen. Funny, you don't smell any genetically enhanced coffee brewing. There is a piece of non-tree binding synthetic plastic paper on the kitchen table. Oh, a note...probably went to McDonalds to get some raisin-fed whole grain sausage and proteins altered hybrid cheese Mcmuffins. You pick it up. It says, 'You bastard. I'm leaving. I never want to see you again. Me and the non-gender specific pool person have been having an affair, and we are getting married. I cleaned out the bank accounts and changed all the passwords, so good luck d*ckhead. I left you the hormone-altered interchangeable breed binary-selectable catdog...it's ugly anyway. Like you.' What? They are YOUR accounts. You put down the note. Scruffy, the gluten-free catdog, who is now in transgender cat poodle phase, comes up to you and bites your leg. F*ck! Little f*cker drew blood. You try to kick it down the hallway, but it bites your other leg. You tell the dog, 'I'm gonna change you into an all-male wiener dog, you little bitch!' It runs and hides under the kitchen table, evading your kick attempts and barking like a Chihuahua. You go into the living room. Uh-oh. You turn around. Your plasma-jet solar flare goldfish bowl 190" 32K Supa-ultra-HHD10nth non-steroidal TV is gone.

You're thinkin' about going in to the gun safe. 

No, you had some range time yesterday. Then you remember the garage...'Oh, f*ck,' you say, and run into the garage. Yep, the illegal gas-guzzling candy apple glitter pink VS logo Dodge Viper is gone. They left you the puke-green Tesla, but took the charging cable. You walk to the back of the garage where you have a secret Get-Smart invisa-rainbow unicorn door, that opens when you say 'Poppyseed Bagel.' The door opens and your Harley Fatboy is still there. Thank the God Astronauts. You thumb up the pipes and drive right through the garage door with your Terminator Arnie sunglasses on. You ride down to the river. The water is still brown, like it was before the last Ice Age. You gotta lotta thinkin' to do. You park the bike, and start walking along the river. You walk for a while. You decide to take a break at a fallen tree. Damn thing fell halfway into the river. You sit on the fallen tree and look around. FTFW. You catch a glint of sun rays in a shallow pool of water, formed mostly by the disruption of the tree branches near the banks. You get up and walk over to the spot where you saw the sparkle. You get down there and look down. You looking for a while, cant figure out what you're looking at. A sign from the heavens? A way out of the way you're in? 
Nope. It's my reflection.

The Way I'm In Mix

You wake up one day, and are driving a yellow 1978 Chevy Nova, at a high rate of speed, down Highway One, Pacific Coast Highway.  You look at your speedometer, the orange indicator is pegged past the 120-mph mark. On the bench front seat, in the passenger area, is a wooden crate. It's made of pallet wood. In stenciled red spray paint and big capital letters, it says, "DYNAMITE."  Maybe you should slow down.  You look in the rearview mirror. What is in the back seat? You chance a head check to the back seat. Oh, no. It's another crate, this one, longer and thinner. Made from black plastic.  It has some white stenciled letters, but they are small, and there are too many to read. It has one of those yellow placards, the three curved yellow geometrical shapes, the outer curve forming a broken circle. A mangled mess of wrought iron fence pieces are strewn about. Attached to one of the pieces is a sign, and it says "Cemetery Gate." You just woke up and already this is a bad idea. Maybe you shoulda thought twice. About what? Well, for one, you're in a '78 Nova speeding on PCH with a nuke, a case of dynamite, and a cemetery gate. You decide you need to pull over. You are coming up on an intersection. You turn left and pull over at what looks like a park. A little nature and prayer would be good.  Something, anything. But you can't leave the car. 
   You're sitting in the car, looking through the windshield, watching some people playing basketball.  And then...tap, tap, tap. Someone is tapping on your driver side window, taking advantage of the fact you were watching the game. Very slowly, you turn your head, expecting either a police officer, a vagrant, the park chief of security, or a member of the "KickYourBurro" Cartel. Okay, it's a white, blond lady. Slim and sleek in a black professional sport suit, she keeps tapping. Her straight blond hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. Not beautiful but better looking than you. She has a black briefcase. "Oh, No," you say. FBI. CIA. NSA. KGB. DHS. MI6. ICE. She shows you her business card through the window. Fragrance saleswomen. Oh. You roll down your window. She asks you if you'd like to try a new fragrance for women. You are a man, so you take a moment to ponder the strange question. She looks at the case of dynamite, the nuke, the mess in the backseat. Apparently not fazed, the woman shows you a bottle of perfume. Small, square and black, with a phallic symbolled pop-off lid, the French calligraphed label says, "Chanel #GO". You look up from the bottle. Then without warning, she sprays it in your face. You gag a little. The Beatles start playing on the radio, and there is no radio. You smell coffee. After a moment, you realize you're not in the Chevy Nova anymore.  
   You just set Kirk Douglas and his favorite sword ablaze, and you are trying to get off the burning Viking boat. You dive into the crashing waves. A rip current pulls you under water. You think your dead, but you pull yourself out of the waves, and a nude Jack Reacher is staring at you. Uh-oh. Don't look now, but a tornado is about to pick you up and take you for a ride. Up you go. You hear a small dog barking. John Wayne tells you to mount up and says, “Them there's Ned Peppers boys.” Robert Redford gives his Hawken, and points at a caribou. The tornado set you down in a field of poppies. Now you are standing on a platform, an old wooden structure. Smells like the dirt. A loathing Brutus just slipped a black hood over your head. Before you can say anything, protest your inhumane conditions, he drops a thick rope noose over your hooded head and gives it a tug. You hear muted gasps, from what must be a crowd of onlookers. Some women are moaning, but overall, the crowd is jovial. Someone is playing "Hallowed be Thy Name," by Iron Maiden, on a banjo. Then, a megaphone barks out some orders in Eskimo. Off to your left you hear a faint creak from a wooden lever being pulled. Guess you shoulda stayed home.

Way Outta Line

Why do I do this? Because, well...I know it might sound crazy, but I do it for you. It's a longer story, but ya, for you.

Way Outta Line

DAG RIPLEY

Related tracks