{Throwback Thursdays. Soon To Be A Regular Feature}

And by the time Big Cat's lithe helo lighted upon the narrow, blunted pyramid roof--- the helo at first invisible with ultra-finagled flage, whisper smooth--- the chrome-like edifice was fully under siege.

Only gun cabinets were unlocked.

Jorge phonechattered upstairs to Lola while Bennie and L struggled to reload the 12 gauge with a supply of rock salt, ka-blam ka-blam Bennie pump-actioned blasts over the desperate attackers through the magnesium lobby gate into the fully drenching water spray from above as the gate swayed near breaking in front of the street crowd panicked inward anywhere everywhere toward the locked doors, the throng in stout coats over mostly layered pajama clothing shouting obscenities. "Let us in!" the pushing mass yelled, crushing into the flattening fetal cowered people of all ages pinned between the near-sprung gate and the broken, smattering plate glass of the atrium.

The cacophony of alarms and extreme danger sirens screeched and wailed as though all the maxed decimals of the big bang fought into a soda straw piercing devilishly, almost liquid in its merciless punctures, as though a cosmic mist flew from infinity reverberating, a deathly screech beyond urgency, bending with remorse.

The crowd finally subsided after the sunrise dog walker---tethered and yanked behind a leashed foray of terrified mutts--- came home from the park across the street trying to nip the heels of the frail mob, and in pairs or alone the women grasping babies and small children, the winos along with menacing thieves and the tattooed, piano fingered pick-pockets moved off on down the street and in bumping opposite directions within the mayhem, toward the forest, the bluffs, the cold lake beach and other buildings on the way such as the drug store, the Monday-quiet barbershop where L often rested beneath the obligatory steamed towel; and they easily looted and fed as though locusts on lactated sweet honeycombs, a maniacal cloud of pneumatic fear and revenge, impulsed as though an algorithmic wavelet of dancing focused- charging, parading fools; they hit the $2 store, swarmed through the night janitors and commenced filling their knapsacks and all pockets and toted aprons and ramming bascarts with every sundry, cans of oil, canned meats, bags of cereal, shrink-wrapped spark plugs, and they fought for every last scattered, crumbled-glistening-plastic-shiny-sugared-case of cookies, donuts, frozen vegetable, sardine tins, garden tools, sack of pet food; trampling on top of the highest warehouse shelves, cranking up fume-less forklifts with tines extended too high to escape laden with skids of Kleenex, sanitary essentials, Q-tips boxes torn open then twirling like thousands of tiny batons imploding into racked, bloodorangeblue sparking ceiling fans, aisle by aisle stripping bare the shelves, and then ripping the shelves of commerce from their foundation, crazily falling onto one another, pushing, shoving, crawling, swinging wildly round-housing and nose punching, face pulverizing, cheek shattering, full choking, eye-gouging, crotch-kicking; and then a teenager who'd busied herself climbing for and foisting out every security camera she could find overhead, began swinging down over the melee on a corrugated wire strand, armed with a florescent light bulb, until she jolted back and flung herself --- the light bulb straight across before her --- into a pack of linemen-height skinheads.

Then all hell broke loose.


"I wondered if they'd choose sides, and they did right away", L thought he heard Big Cat say almost hoarsely above the helo's subtle din, the mid-morning heavy sound of sirens now diminished as batteries waned and failed, sputtered and died, while Big Cat waved his sniper back toward them from his disciplined corner post where he'd methodically scanned with binoculars, and now collapsing a tripod without having had fired a shot. Lola wore an apricot colored running suit beneath her flak vest, and what you could see of her face was beautiful and bright and sun-flushed beneath the black helmet and opaque goggles.

Above, the widely spaced synchronization of the long-bladed helo lopped sunlight shadow sunlight shadow sunlight shadow sunlight shadow----

L nudged the microphone tip and they went on radio, nodding and exhaling to calm down.
Nothing fit Jorge. He sat across from Big Cat holding his chin up, allowing his helmet to rest on his lower neck, his arms folded tightly (over his chest) snugging his flacjac, his torso already triple-wrapped with money belts. He nodded twice rapidly at Big Cat and loosened the Velcro straps nonchalantly, as the sentry entered, sat on the floor between all of them opening the several floor ports, his nautical flage suit the color of many skies, water drops, blue icebergs, lagoons, ponds, lakes, rivers, seas, oceans.
The pilot looked all around twice and then they took off with a tremendous jarring G force almost like a super-sonic dragonfly instantaneously immersed in a solitary dark grey rain cloud then abruptly slowed staying within the soft cold moisture wafting high and already far off, just before Lola began screaming into the radio as Big Cat tore off Jorge's helmet and, opening the door --- then with both hands--- pulling the hunchback to him and in the same motion flung the bent boy/man out through the cloud, plummeting him easily whooshing him away and down, for a second anyone on the ground would have discerned a black speck silhouetted by the sun.
Jorge lost his breath. Then with all his might and a manic full force shout he clawed the ripcord over his heart and his hunchback exploded into a shell-ribbed parachute the brilliant colors of a rainbow.


Here's wishing Jorge success in his many splendoured mission. I'm bedazzled!

Damon E Walters
MAY 10, 2010 12:30 PM
DEW: thanks. Whatdayah think of my idea of a blog/raffel of a Monarch Crew Boat's blueprint ... you're the only participant at the moment (Z and I are off to Dollywood for a few days so I'm rushed, here) and absolutely destroyedhererollingonthefloordestroyed whatwith your transient avatar.

J.P. Hart
MAY 11, 2010 06:54 AM
Perhaps I've missed something, as I often do, but at the moment I am bereft of an understanding of a possible incentive for our heretofore protagonists' enabling of what Daniel suggests is the solo stage of Jorge's "mission." Having read Chapt. III already, I am apprised of the cancer-healing lip-flubbering, flek adhering vision, but, as I believe I mentioned earlier, the motivation at this juncture from a Stanislavskian point of view, continues to elude me.

Not that this is a hindrance, in any way, to my appreciating the aesthetic brilliance that virtually explodes from the screen to overpower my synaptic grapplings. Just saying. (My apologies for the OS cliche, BTW. It was spontaneous, and shall not recur.)

Chicken Mãâàn
MAY 23, 2010 10:13 AM
Sorry that I'm somewhat tardy gettin back to you. I was unfamiliar with Stanislavsky's dictum but now realize that I should thank you for pointing to the fork in the road. Further along in my Wikipedia flash/crash perusal of Konstantin Stanislavsky's 'work' points out some damn cool stuff that I was not aware of. I'm more of a 'Jack-in-Box' structuralist (not the river, the waterfall). You know always writing.
I'm thinking of giving away show candy, here at Hart's/Fiction. Kind of a loss-leader marketing ploy, if you know what I mean....

Views: 37

Comment by J.P. Hart on February 28, 2019 at 7:33pm

I so love Our Salon! They continue to publish everything I write...now if I could get the residue from my mitten warmers off my finger tips...! How's the sayin' go?

every hurricane begins with one drop of rain

Comment by Robert B. James on March 2, 2019 at 6:45pm

...he could have been champion of the world

Comment by J.P. Hart on March 2, 2019 at 9:04pm

4 Prepare what to say, and thus you will be heard;
bind together your instructions,
and make your answer,
5 The heart of of a fool is like a cart wheel,
and his thoughts like a turning axle.
06 A stallion is like a mocking friend; neighs under
every one who sits on him. -SIRACH

O! hell 0!
Robert B. James,
It's been quite a summer...
My Bojangle -ish 'act' markedly improved as the rock salt
stuck to my sneaker soles helps when I love to dance.

Jesuit venues.

Right on the spot.

Gone, too, that robin's egg blue '57 Chevy ragtop.
smooth as Flander's snow
I kept the blue jeans, yo.
like an old sweet song

Through the wash 0 so many times.

Alas the the number on the watch pocket
matchbook is old and faded.

Wouldn't cha, know
now I know,
once upon time


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