260121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 4

   Angela woke up as the horse carts began to clatter below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled it close to wake up against. “Good morning little darlin’” wiping off his sturdy frame, Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night, and asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. “The First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap it up here,” stepping out the doorway down the stairs naked. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” came his voice from the bottom of the stairs,”or would you like some more sleep?”

   “Good idea,” she called from the door before pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she had never been enticed by the habits of bistros preferring instead the endorphin fix of a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guidern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace up her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of running barefoot, of the many things she’d learned from her first love. With the sound of a key in the door lock Guildern sprinted up the stairs.

   “Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise chirped merrily, “entertaining naked men again in the empty bistro, I see. Arghh yuh be a bawdy one - doubt my blinded-by-love mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” he chirped planting a peck in her forehead. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her. She could tell from the writing it was Paqual’s.

Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand - 

The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept

your offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight

to DaNang for tomorrow evening late. Pasqual

Angela wasn’t prepared for this news, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving over her shoulder just as Guildern reached the table. The two men watched the door close, then looked at each other in the manner that only old men can.

Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday and the two men retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired very little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise asked, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking, so he waited while Mordecaise stared into his goblet of Tinto Rojo. “I’ve never seen anything like this before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; a large estate with no one claiming, or at least no one talking about it; feels like something’s hinky.” Guildern watched his friend folding and refolding Pasqual’s note.

The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta guay, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando tengo un puto cuchillo,” fairly spitting this into his trembling face. Knowing only that music loosened their pursestrings and the cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog, rabid, but very gifted dog.

“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out while moving heavy objects to the nearest table Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats at the nearest table. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a materialized glass of water, lifting it to her fearsome, but calming face, Guildern was all ears: except a dropped conversation 3 tables away, Angela’s curious goodbye; who would be entertaining tonight; why was Pasqual on his way to Vietnam? . .. 

The painted lady relaxed visibly and pointed to the red-faced recently released man-child: “fucking puta hit on some extrana in running clothes after pleading for a ‘raise.’ What would you do¿? besides cutting of his pinche verga? Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and enticed the painted lady’s surprise act; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am.” She was placid in her reply; simply standing.

“Yes, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion and leading him from the table toward their quarters of last night’s surprise opening. Guildern, stood and bowed, pinching his fingers together in the universal “filthy lucre” gesture, then the more recognizable, however ambiguous peace sign with splayed finger; meaning in this case, times 2. The painted lady nodded, with her perceptibly truculent, however compliant poodle in tow. 

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Leslei was in her seat on the runway when the text message arrived while taxiing. “will apprise M of ur dest; deprtng now for VN: kpn tch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had become during the 1st pandemic, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained to the former “charm of distance”.

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Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding passes and his passport when the bell called from the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s eyes staring at the camera in the entryway on his phone. 

She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her front, though she’d never hear it from him, he pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?

They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his itinerary - curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s nimble intelligence. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul. 

“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into his new home. She knew, nothing she would say could change his “pigheaded” mind, so she spoke from the heart.

“I want you to be safe,” then turned to the door that hadn’t quite shut; she pulled it to her like a lover, and blew Pasqual a kiss gazing at him as though through time. 

Pasqual had completely closed down like a burglar when the light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door lock clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the to do list:

1) cat food

2) fish to manager - pay rent 3 months

3) pay electricity - 3 months

4) vaccination record 

5) scooter lock l

6) birth certificate

He knew if he did not sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea laid himself onto his pallet and breathed into a deep, deep sleep.

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When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table  uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full Sunday night, and Angela did not have a minute until the end of ‘Rojita & Rojo’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him all the more. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and was able to open himself to her abrupt ways.

“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like into a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the sea is a healing body.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He rose and touched her shoulder with a finger raised .  .. Mordecaise looked up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with satchel stopping next to Angela and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.

Angela listened intently during the train ride to Guildern’s recounting of a story that explained Pasqual’s journey but did little to soothe her anxiety: they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.

Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuckall that could be done, but remain alert and open: hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century. 

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                        I

jts 26/01/2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

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210121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 3

   Mordecaise savored this information like it was a tender morsel just off the grill smiling past the curious expression of his important asset - Pasqual Ortega. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the cacophony of the “Croc.” It was that cheerful hour before the “sauce” had yet begun to corrode natural kindness in the hearts and mouths of its quaffing patrons. Pasqual could feel his mentor’s interest, though there was no physical indication that he’d heard a word, other than a quiet murmuring in the general direction of Pasqual. His phone began to vibrate on the table doing a shuffle toward the ashtray full of marijuana butts from the afternoon. “Hello, Leslea - thank you. Yeah it’s weird enough; can you talk¿ are you encrypted?” Knowing this precaution only slowed the “state’s surveillance, it did serve to dust the digital trail of amuture interlopers.

   “I’m as quiet as I’ve means to be; never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; with the two brother’s estates intestate, then cascading to Domhall who is also apparently intestate, with ‘no known heirs’. Their estimated combined assets are over $12.9 million; I can almost hear the wolves howling in the background. What have you learned?”

   Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one instead, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked not waiting for an answer.

   Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died in Aix en Provence, my French will suffice, but for Reynaldo who died in Hoi An Vietnam Google Translate will really require email communication to be effective, or an operative fluent in Vietnamese; I’ll let you know when I get that information.”

   “See if the local police can help, they may have translators. Text me when you hear anything. Gotta go” Pasqual turned off his phone and looked back toward Mordecaise who’d been listening while jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslea got as far as she could; the bad news is they are both considered foreign decedents, so the estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have been going to Reynaldo - then to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”

   Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than to interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to Mordecaise’ eidetic memory and tried to be prepared for questions before they were asked.

   “Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone’ ring tone “Mephisto’s Waltz” signaled the rare occasion of an incoming call.

   Mordecaise had already unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against a rising client tide that had been swelling for the evening crescendo that was the “Croc’s” bread and butter; telephone nestled with attention into the crook of his towering figure, elbows akimbo dodging noggins unaware. Angela was aware as the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior in Punta Este dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros and knee high crocodile skin boots began to elbow their way toward the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had gently exited. Angela turned to the voice in her ear, “The Cuban Rasta band canceled 45 minutes ago - These two are ‘Roja and Rojito’, please try and help them set up, it’s all we got for the night.” Guildern was receding toward the alcove with a handful of bills before Angela could reply while watching the restive crowd watching the red duet perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.

   The Red Dame nodded as Angela approached giving no indication that she remembered Angela from their exchange the day before at the Excelsior, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously attended to the slightest gesture from the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired shifting stools and tables to fit with the slight instrumentals and equipment the couple had already commandeered. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if that’s the best you can do. He’ll drink water”, nodding to her paramour and his seemingly tattooed salacious smirk. The crowd like a grove of old growth trees had digested the gossip from the night before and began to twitch like a shiver of sharks with blood in the water. 

What happened next will remain etched in what was left of Angela’s presumptions about the world and her ability to ‘know everything’: after the death of her child, the loss of her homeland, and her 1st love. Three chords into the opening set, the painted woman broke into a haunting spot on rendition of Lila Downs’ cover of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela stood rooted unable to turn away from the haunting sound of a mute room filled with the ache of a song; before the sound faded “La Cumbia del Mole” began to fill every empty space of that transfixed room, and thrummed with the congas of the more-than pretty lad. Guildern was as struck dumb as any block of rock that comprised the essence of very that very old, and aging room, but continued to prepare deposits from the till.

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   As an elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslea Corkturn was accustomed to being cutoff and so unfazed she focused her substantial attention back to the task at hand, focusing on the facts she possessed: 3 dead brothers worth millions; a colleague dodging direct inquiry; deaths under questionable circumstances associated with estates leading nowhere. She signed on to her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, and texted Pasqual advising him of same, requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when rested.” She commenced packing, while adding notes to her phone, bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel and then deleted all previous threads; leaving a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.

She was able to live out of a single carryon wheeled valise and kept a separate traveling wardrobe in the ready, so was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. Leslea had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s; this proved helpful in booking a room on short notice. Part of the Demsford Schmuck estate that Leslea was able to uncover was a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry. It was as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the first of the Schmuck brothers - she hoped.

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   “Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, listening closely while trying to decipher the incoming number from the 1,000s in his memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “le défunt a succombé aux blessures d'un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à de vastes demandes de renseignements. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 3 millions USD.” Though they’d never met Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?” 

   Not wishing to alert his able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants; Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signaling the demands of business, Mordecaise - responded buoyantly, “Bon, Bon - mais .  ..” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke. 

Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked to Pasqual and asked, “Can Leslea travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual was thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo realizing the city he died in was close to where his uncle Ernesto died during the Tet offensive of ’68 in Viet Nam. It was as close to revery as Pasqual got; he loved his uncle and felt again the dull ache when told of Tio Ernesto’s death.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    I

jts 21/01/2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

170121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter, 2 (i used to care)

 

   Not given to revery, Pasqual wasn’t sure how to process his feelings of that moment. He’d been raised on the “Tejas” border in Brownsville, TX and only through a series of fluke accidents ended up married to Angela Vigoda, a Jewish American Princess (JAP) from North Hollywood, CA - his now ex-wife and concubine to his current employer Mordecaise Lizt’s best friend Guildern Seur owner of the “Crocodile Cafe.” Pasqual and she had barely escaped the 1st Wave Lockdown at the end of 2021 - “the year that was, still”, 9 years and a 2nd pandemic later. Pasqual’s mother was full-blooded Chiricahua Apache - a direct descendent of Geronimo, and his father had been an apparatchik with the Partido Communista Mexicano (PCM). Angela materialized at his elbow, and what ever revery he’d been feeling vanished like a coastal vapor.

   “Well done vaquero.” Angela sounded quietly in his direction glancing at the more muted agitation of the roped, gagged and no longer stepped on Tito. “Guildern is much appreciative for your help.” Pasqual, didn’t turn or look, but nodded to the gelded threat. Their dead baby David Jesus still floated over every exchange they’d had since his death from the more contagious strain of Covid-19 months after their arrival in Montevideo when Pasqual was inconsolable and out of his mind with grief until Angela inadvertently stabbed him through to his liver one night as he descended into his Mezcal stupor - after that it was “heal or die,” for Pasqual.

   “Yeah, that brought up a lot of shit I didn’t see coming,” looking deeply into Angela’s emerald green eyes for maybe the first time since that fateful evening she’d stabbed him in the gut some 7 years ago. Angela didn’t turn away from seeing the deep remorse in Pasqual’s expression.

    “Lad.” Guildern’s gentle voice burst through their fog of memory; as he cloaked Tito’s quiescent form with a canvas cloak amidst the gathering evening crowd nodding first to Pasqual, then to the backed up Toyota pickup that had materialized in the darkening entryway. “Give us a hand, will ya’ friend?” Pasqual shifted the weight away from Guildern’s wounded arm and they lifted the inert form into pickup’s bed, as Mordecaise shifted into gear and very slowly moved truck down the alleyway. Guildern took Pasqual’s hand, murmuring into his ear, “I owe you, Again.”

Angela had vanished inside as the two stood side by side watching the evening descend along with the advance of the night’s clientele looking thirsty, fresh, and oblivious to the drama of the past 18 hours.

 

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   Mordecaise navigated toward the wharfs North of Old Town careful not to disturb his cargo or draw attention to his coffee cup full of Tinto Rojo. The warehouse door was ajar and two figures dropped the tailgate, transporting the draped figure through to the inside of the cavernous building before Mordecaise had turned off the ignition. 

   “Da’ fuck are you doing?” Tito hissed as Modecaise ripped the Duct Tape from Tito’s haggard, unrepentant face. This is “Fucking kidnapping you dumb ox,” Tito snarled, too whacked to understand the delicacy of his circumstance. “I got friends that are gonna fuck you up;” he blustered trying to patch together the ‘how and wherefore’ from his spotted memory. The ache in his head from the night before and had receded into a clocklike tic in his right eye that made it appear as though he was winking with each empty threat.

   Mordacaise seated Tito in the dead center of the large empty space on a stool with a single pole to lean against right at the height of Tito’s solar plexus. He had to splay his legs to seat comfortably, but found when he leaned forward the pole would impede his breathing, his restrained wrists were draped to the outside of the pole preventing him from any real leverage; it also kept him from pivoting in his seat limiting any peripheral vision. What there was to see radiated from a small circular window high on the wall behind him lighting the wall in front of him with a luminous orb that was slowly rising, dimming and diminishing with the setting sun, giving the bizarre impression of sunrise in an alternate universe . . . Tito began to “jones” for a fix, or from fear; he had trouble distinguishing the two. “¿Comfy amigo?” Mordecaise voice was close, flat and icy. Tito began to tremble.

   “I’m gonna fuck you up, pinche guay.” Tito said more to himself than the disembodied voice. “I got friends; you fuckin’ with the wrong guy;” gasping from the pressure at his solar plexus when he thrust out his chest for effect, just as a talon-like grip grasped his head and pulled it up and forward.

   “Stay just like that if you wish to continue breathing,” commanded a voice just as a knee pressed his thorax into the pole for emphasis. Wheezing assent, Tito’s frame became uncharacteristically compliant and still. From his days working, Tito recognized the smell and feel of a welder’s helmet as it was set tightly onto his pained cranium. With a hiss, the sound of gas from an open valve startled the already terrified tough guy to a pitch. . . What was that odor¿ Tito frantically searched his blunted memory for an answer; he knew what it was, but couldn’t reach what he knew, like so much of his life . . The knee pressed again; now into the small of his back forcing him to gulp air; instead he laughed out loud - way too loud, instantly rememebering that odor - Nitrous Oxide. “¿What are you laughing at Tito?” The tiny orb of natural light had risen and vanished into the ceiling to be replaced by a flickering red beacon that began to strobe, brighter and brighter; then painfully bright. 

Tears were streaming down Tito’s face from laughing so hard, and still that icy voice at his shoulder pressed for an answer, “Tito, you stabbed my friend - I’m not laughing, why are you?” Though addled by substance abuse from an early age; veteran of many gun battles and dodgy drug deals with vicious clients, Tito did not know when he’d been so confused, or frightened - he began to urinate, only to find the stool electrified with a low voltage charge at his damp crotch. Now he was weeping and peeing; from a distance, if one’s vision was not too clear and in possession of a vivid imagination, it would almost appear as though our hapless victim was a cheerful welder dancing his/her day through another day’s labor with hysterical gales of laughter.

“Tito; what is so damn funny? You stabbed my friend; I’m not laughing.”

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   “Angela, table 3 is on their 4th round of “White Russians.” She glanced out over the crowd easily spotting the seated 5, who were beginning to spill out of their seats; their drinks and from the sound of it - the deepest recesses of their souls. “Shall I cut them off, or can you ween them slowly?” Guildern had great respect for Angela’s people skills and relied on her to calm the waters.

   It was close to the witching hour when clients began to shed more than their inhibitions. There was a fine line between commerce and mayhem, to which Guildern’s bandaged arm testified. “Let me see if they can be cautioned back to the hotel by imaginary muggers lurking in late-night old town.” Angela kissed Guildern’s cheek, and caressed his wounded arm, before she balanced her tray full of drinks out over the crowd, whispering something to table three which had the effect of a storm cloud over a spring picnic. 

   Mordecaise was just returning through the door as table 3 hailed the check. When he’d retrieved his full goblet of Tinto Rojo, Mordecaise ambled over to Pasqual who’d been quietly on the phone at a back table the entire night. “Where’d ya’ go boss,” searching the face of his bemused mentor; “What’s so damn funny?” Pasqual’s question only served to brighten the twinkle in his friend’s eyes.

   “Business Lad, always business.” Mordecaise checked over Pasqual’s copious notes, beginning to recognize some of the ciphers and notations of Pasqual’s unique script. “How far did you get with Sr Schmuck?” Mordecaise had developed a deep respect for Pasqual’s research skills and relentless curiosity, but wasn’t prepared for his report.

   “This one is fucking strange, and just gets stranger the deeper i dig.” Peering into his notes, Pasqual bent back his hunched shoulders while taking a deep breath, trying to distill his thoughts into a single thread of simple facts. 

“The decedent Domhall Schmuck, until a month ago had two brothers: Demsford and Reynaldo Schmuck; the three had been orphaned in 1976, when their parent’s private plane crashed while in transit between NYC and their hometown Philadelphia. They were raised by their guardian and family attorney Lammele Dama. Domhall was the eldest at 16, Reynaldo 14 and Demsford 12 - each inherited 1/3 of the $3.3 million estate on their 21st birthday; Reynaldo died in Hoi An Vietnam 6 months ago, and Demsford in Paris France, 1 year ago to the day that Domhall died here in Montevideo” Pasqual let out a small sigh, like a young student who’d just recited his first book report, while Mordecaise marveled at his dumb luck to have found such a gifted investigator without even looking - fucking synchronicity he thought to himself while beaming with genuine affection at Pasqual. “Like i said, boss - this is the strangest thing i’ve seen yet.” oblivious to the admiration in his mentor’s cobalt blue eyes. 

 

jts 01/17/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

all rights reserved

∞

090121 - "Pre Extinction People" · Chapter 1 part i

 “Pre Extinction People”

She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in a dim dawn light determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior - Punta del Este; Uruguay” Sleep was fitful and fruitful with vivid images of baby Jesus along with answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next ‘fucking day in paradise,’ and still she pondered.

Angela arrived 10 minutes late and could feel the whine of stranded rich people curdling her employer’s good will. Sysa Phish growled lowly and pointedly - “get the fuck out there” · Angela processed tasks well and Sysa knew by requests of the uber-Vips for Angela’s table, she also understood her place in the food chain and nodded quickly as she gathered her iPad and towel to her apron and fled onto the marble floor of good food at Punta del Este. 

The afternoon sun was setting and the tables were filling with the charmed evacuees from a collapsed world economy looking to transplant their confused importance onto a new landscape without knowing much about the culture in which they’d landed - armed with little more than Noblesse oblige that had served them so well in “the capital” Capitols of New York, Brussels and London for the past 200 years, but now required nuanced cultural sensitivity that was not part of their patrician upbringing. 

“Can I help you?” Angela mimed to the garish redhead at her first table unsure which language to use. The brightly painted woman didn’t look up while she ordered catfish, potatoes and salsa in flawless Spanish for herself and her very pretty male companion who was leering from under his eylashes at Angela while fingering the redhead’s diamond bracelet. “Thank god it’ll be a short shift,” Angela thought “The train’ll get to Montevideo by 20:00, and i can be at the “Crocodile by quarter past, if I’m lucky.” Though the “Punte Este” was steady, work at the Crocodile Cafe” was far more lucrative and entertaining.

The ambulance was just pulling away as she arrived at the “Croc” about 10:20; the crowd at the  doorway did not include the owner Guildern Suer, which struck Angela odd while Mordecais Lizt was pacing slowly in a tight circle, but still clutching his goblet of Tinto Rojo. He was able to focus his hoary blue eyes deeply on her when she posted herself at a tangent to his slow pacing; he stopped in front of her, stooped over and quietly muttered, “Guildern was stabbed in the arm evicting that puta speed freak - Tito. Angela tottered for a moment leaning on Mordacais’ elbow, and asked quietly, “is it busy?”

“Not too very; glad you’re here, Guildern was worried you missed the train; had to force him in the van - too much blood, we slowed it with a belt - he’ll be okay.” Angela focused by distress moved through the crowd to the back door like a battalion and commenced taking orders in the rapidly swelling Bistro - mayhem seems to draw clients like flies; Angela noted, meaning to say nothing of this to Guildern, feeling certain he’d known this before he ever gave the landmark cafe it’s name. Located deep within moss covered archways overgrown by ancient wisteria leaving a cloying scent of sweet decay, the aged stone archway and massive oak doors more resembled the landing for a dank terminus in a subterranean grotto than the customs office of its former life.

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Guildern sat up too quickly and felt his sight dimming in time to sit back against the cool pillow cloth. He glanced around for his phone hoping it was included with his pouch containing passport and wallet - his “bug bag.” He’d managed to knock Tito unconscious with the crack of a beer bottle to the skull and remained standing over the motionless body until the policía confirmed that Tito was still breathing; Guildern then allowed someone to quell the dripping blood at his elbow that had formed a crimson pool at the shoulder of his assailant. They used his own belt for a tourniquet so has pants kept drooping on his journey from the “Croc” to emergency room.

It wasn’t until well passed 3 AM before he stepped out of the taxi into the darkened doorway of the cafe. The door was propped open and a faint light lit the dampened paving stone - a peculiar moss green contrasted against the dark red of spilt blood. Angela looked up as he stepped inside, the after-hours crowd ignored them, peering into their drinks like a tired heard in semi-stupor. Guildern and Angela settled onto stools in a tiny alcove at the bar’s end. Their mutual fatigue somehow fortified each as they gazed into each other’s eyes with a silent “WTF just happened” expression that only longtime lovers can understand. His hand rested comfortably in the valley of her crotch and thigh while she tenderly examined the dressings covering the thirty stitches necessary to seal his gash.

 

By 4:30 AM end of trade allowed the cafe to be closed and darkened, and the two weary friends carried each other’s hand up the staircase to the welcoming loft and beckoning downy berth. Hours later the clattering of fish carts on cobblestones signaled the early evening preparation for the evening trade and prospects of further economic recovery. The borders had reopened 6 months earlier after 18 months of lockdown. Like the necessary bomb shelters of WWII people adapted to the intervals of interruption, gradually succumbing to an inevitable depression and surrender to circumstance punctuated by emotional conflagrations that often left injured parties in their wakes. 

Guildern woke to Angela pulling his flaccid member into her mouth with a gentleness he’d forgotten she possessed. Still woozy from depleted fluids his arousal was a more sacred and  ejaculation complete than he could remember having. Angela swallowed all his come and left his limp penis in her mouth as she began to doze. The sun was pouring through the windows as he stroked her hair and reflected on their past 6 years together. Her petite physique and auburn tresses belied a physical power that still surprised him to see when she hoisted cases of wine onto the top stacks, or shifted crates across uneven floors. When she began to stir, he crawled between her legs and did his best to aid her to find a peak the could both gaze from in their private hearts.

Mordecaise was in the process of stocking the bar for the early afternoon stream when the two returned back down the stairs they’d climbed up for refuge the night before. “‘sup” Mordecaise grunted in his best imitation of “hood-speak,” just as Pasqual burst through the door slamming it shut before a loud crash echoed through the cafe.

“Fucking Tito is out there with crowbar, swears he’s gonna kill you Guildern - high as a fucking kite.” Guildern didn’t know if he was gonna laugh or cry, so he returned to counting the receipts from the night before. “Man did you hear me?” Angela was hanging up the phone.

Commenting to no one in particular she remarked, “Cops said we’ve exceeded our allowance for the month, fix it yourselves, or wait ’til next month.” The pounding at the door had ceased and there was an ominous silence, while Guildern continued to count the receipts.

Pssqual rose from his seat and grabbed the lariat he used during the winter festivals to attract customers and exited out the back. 10 minutes latter there was came a loud mewling like a stuck pig so Mordecaise stuck his head out the door to see if it was safe again. He saw  Pasqual standing with a foot poised awkwardly on a tormented Tito who was squirming like a hogtied caterpillar seeking a new life. Mordecaise turned to refill his goblet with Tinto Rojo, then stepped back outside to consult with Pasqual.

Mordecaise set his goblet down on the low table where Pasqual sat admiring his handiwork, having gagged Tito to cut down on the squealing. Mordecaise lowered his voice and peered into Pasqual’s eyes - the goblet being the tipoff, so when Mordecaise began to speak Pasqual had his phone ready for notes. “There is a decedent, Domhall Schmuck from Rio who died here last Wednesday; the estate is sizable and there is no family member claiming the body. I want you to check with your friend Gonzo Benino in Rio for blood relatives and then contact Leslea Corkturn in Saltlake; he lived in the States for 20 years prior to 2021 so there may be “blood” claiming. The guy was a recluse with few known associates. When you can, I want anything you can turn up about his business interests before the Public Administrator files; there may not be a will, so you can expect a lot of interest we don’t need, please make sure Gonzo and Leslea understand that.” As he rose to leave, he turned back and mentioned to Paqual, “there’s a Renoir shipping from NYC to Punta Este next month, I want it insured for $3.5 million USD, same for the bonded carrier.”

Pasqual watched the gangly hirsute man receeding back through the too small doorway and thought to himself, “life is a real hoot.”

jts 01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

all rights reserved

∞ 

100121 - “Pre-Extinction People” · PEP plot

    She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in the dim dawn light of the determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior, Bar & Grill” in Punta del Este, Uruguay. Sleep was fitful and rich with the answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next conscious ‘fucking day in paradise.’

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Prologue

What was left of the corporate hegemony understood, if there was ever to be continuation of their empire-based business model it would require a population capable of utilizing the technology which had both enriched the corporate overlords and doomed their customer base to extinction resulting in the unexpected outcome of “no product, no profit”, ergo free tele-communication/media access, free housing and “free lunch” provided by a guaranteed universal income. The social media platform of Zchnarkzy Marskburgh’s became a public utility providing news and interpersonal telecommunications, regulated by the “Federation,” formerly United Nations. Public Records, banking and the judicial system was consolidated under “Googol,” a resource tool that had been assigned the controversial task of uploading the “human experience” into its Artificial Intelligence (Art Intel) silicon matrix secreted in the salt caverns of an abandoned nuclear waste dump in the wastelands of Utah, a former state within the Western Hemisphere North Territory of USA.

Angela Vigoda

Guildern Seur 

Pasqual Ortega–

Mordecais Liszt

Domhall Schmuck, Reynaldo Schmuck, Demsford Schmuck 

Lammele Dama - executor Schmuck’s estate

Thich Tok Longh - Bhikkhu @ Từ Hiếu ‘Root Pagoda’ Hue · Pasqual’s uncle Jose Ortega had been in contact prior to becoming MIA during the Tết offensive of 1968

Perma Cauldron - grief counselor to Angela and Pasqual · Montevideo

Faik Besos 

Zchnarkzy Marskburgh

Reiman Curzewel

Leslei Coerktern - operative par excellence · researching death of Demsford, France

Tieh Ngong - owner of “Duyên Dáng” (Graceful) Homestay

Ngài Trâu - artist, guide

Archdai Tryump - foil at cottage of Demsford Schmuck · Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon. Aix-en-s Provence 

Sysa Phish - Angela´s superior · Excelsior Bar & Grill, Punta del Este

Gonzo Veneno - operative Mexico, DF

Corina Abeja - last companion, Domhall Schmuck · owner of Artist Colony, Buena Vista Oaxaca; bruja, paramour to Mordecaise in transit

Sra Luz de Ley - Mordecaise Abogada in Oaxaca

Comandante Fernando Gonzalez - Oaxaca, Chief of Detectives

Rojita y Rojo - entertainers “Crocodile Cafe” Montevideo

Venceramos Brigade - entertainers sharing the venue at the Croc. due to missing a gig 

- Che Chimera - charismatic front man

- Jaime Quioxote roady, 

Tito - meth addict, stabbed Guildern in the arm, was punished by Mordecaise · nemesis, later tried to gang rape Angela

Madame Ouvière - landlady at Demsford’s cottage near Bibemus quarry Aix. 

Prologue: 2021 - 2026

The body count in ‘merica had grown exponentially for 5 years after D.J. Trump, 45th POTUS was deposed following an unsuccessful putsch in 2021, reaching a peak of 10.5 k deaths per day in 2024. This eviscerated the health care system and neutered every effort to counter the ever increasing death toll. When Jamie Dimond sold American Health Care Inc. to China for 37¢ on the dollar in late 2023, 4.76% of the population had received the 1st vaccine inoculation, but only 3.14% received the 2nd dose in time to protect against Covid’s mutations. Angela Vigoda and Pasqual Ortega had quick-deeded their home in Simi Valley in 2023 straight across to a “coyote” for transit to Uruguay where the daily death toll at 1.5 k per day was amongst the lowest in the world of semi-permeable borders - those nations with closed borders since the beginning of the pandemic were charging a premium for entry visas.

By late 2031, internet and Wifi telecommunication channels had been automated and ruggedized to the extent that any abandoned phone could be activated by a universal sequence necessitated by the enormous number of dead and dying during the 2nd Wave. This radical corporate measure allowed for a consumer supply chain which was all that remained of the Amazon empire, after its founder hung himself at the end of the 2nd wave when his fortune was reduced by 75%

The May/December marriage of Angela (35 yo) and Pasqual (55 yo) had not survived the death of their only child baby Jesus soon after their arrival in Punte del Este, Uruguay. They parted company after she stabbed Pasqual in the liver during a violent quarrel over a too friendly waiter a year and half after their arrival. Pasqual moved to Montevideo and began working as an apprentice for Mordecaise Lizt a Bavarian piano tuner/organ builder - estate industry wunderkind. Mordecaise ran a spider web of enterprises, from international estate tracking, to a shipping concern for delicate instruments and fine art

Part I chap 4 Leslei left the continental U.S. to investigate the death of Demsord Schmuck (1 in France; Pasqual left Uruguay to research the death of Reynaldo (2, six months later at the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, though he was interred in Hoi An Vietnam,) Chap 6 Mordecaise arrived in Oaxaca; Mexico - arrested · to investigate the death of Domhall Schmuck (3 who materialized after his recorded death in Oaxaca, Mexico in Montevideo, Uruguay minus any travel documentation

Angela and Pasqual had been able to bridge the chasm of grief from the loss of their child Jesus during their divorce and remained friends. It was through Mordecaise Liszt that she had met Guildern Seur in 2026 and began commuting between Punta del Este and Montevideo where she worked weekends at the Crocodile Cafe. There had been a 2nd killing wave in 2027, and a 3rd “killing” wave erupted in late 2031 that by all known statistical models exceeded the boundaries of repopulation leaving nothing but a dwindling window during which the homo sapiens faced certain extinction, or transfiguration.

Chapters 1-9

Part II

Chapter 10

Part III

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Conclusion: 

There was no vaccine devised for the rapidly mutating virus in time for the 3rd killing wave of the original Corona Virus and the remaining population lived with the unspoken reality of extinction. Guildern was the 1st of the quartet to expire, leaving his estate divided between to Angela and Mordecaise. Leslei, had traveled to France where the 3rd brother had died first at Plum Village - a Thich Nhat Hanh monastery in the South of France. Pasqual had left for Vietnam where the 2nd brother Reynaldo had died in Hue at the root pagoda of the Master Thich Nhat Hanh. Mordecaise was following the trail of a possible heir in Oaxaca, Mexico. He was joined by a Bruja poetess/artist from Oaxaca who mysteriously spoke an ancient dialect of Chiricahua that Pasqual inexplicably understood. 

jts 10/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

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090121 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Not sure if i’m anti-social or no; i’d have to imagine if you base your opinion on accounts of others - that’d be an affirmative · yet .  ..  ··· just now it is raining - a cold rain the day of a wake for a stranger i know not at all. His passing was tragic and i represented out of solidarity with a widow and son facing humongous “right@xmas” hospital bills in a foreign land. Mustering in the early afternoon rain, i saw no reason to remain and commune with strangers mourning his passing and so vacated the social field for “friendlier” terrain, then the power grid of the more congenial bistro i retreated to collapsed, and reignited just as i was getting into my musical laptop workaround. Yesterday my nation was faced with the first occupation of its capitol since 1824 when the British invaded just prior or after the Constitutional Congress. These insurrectionists were homegrown fascists incited by scurrilous claims of a stolen election from the outgoing MT Suit #45, and left unanswered by the incoming corporately ensconced #46.

I’ve elected to ride the crest of the coming maelstrom within the conceit of a novel - something i’ve been threatening since “My Life in a Sea of Anonymity” bobbed into my 20 year-old something imagination. In the unlikely event some of you search for “Extinction Chronicles” they may be found under “Extinction Chronicles - "The Post Extinction Inception · stay tuned, its hardly a weight i welcome on this cold afternoon, friendless in a community that prides itself on friendship but gorges on ______ fill in the blank; a clue: t’ain’t “friendship,” near as i can tell, but you should know that i am well represented in every anomaly about that meaning known to man/woman or governing agency - a renegade with regards to language signifiers. My attention to such fine points hasn’t as yet seemed to bridge the gap from “weird” to un-weird. 

Luckily this personal evolution occurs just in time for me to die in peace alone and without external reinforcement for what i feel or what i think - so i say · Whether that is spiritual acceptance of the incontrovertible fact that i will die alone regardless of the proximity of a loving expression of personal affection, or utter indifference about my particular passing in the midst of hordes of other dying humans is unimportant. To me what counts is the feeling i bring to that instant i become an inanimate object of collected corpuscles continuing to decay just lacking consciousness, into a film resembling spontaneous combustion, only at a much slower pace. Ergo the possibility of my words and ideas receding at a much slower pace possibly providing aid and comfort i was unable to manifest while breathing.

If there is a residue from people’s experience that distinguishes happy from sad, or fulfilled from desperate, I D K, i do know from witnessing the pathetic expressions of wannabe patriots trapped into lies of their own conceit, and cowardice, i’d rather not commingle my tenuous wants and desires with the vagaries of vanity, prefer to leave my traces amongst the more vital fields of promise, hope and honesty - whatever that may cost me in dignity or humiliation, (for g_d’s sake, look out over the horizon and ask your supple intellect how many persons have crashed and burned in an effort to leave a footprint on the face of this planet when not welcomed by the ultimate editor, happenstance.)

I’m not afraid, i’m terrified, but have lived so long with this curious condition that to persist for a few more months before i am crushed by the weight of my own blood pump is a small sacrifice if even a single new sentence i might conjure through innocent play allows one child from one family to procreate in a loving way with one other human and thereby continue our miraculous strand of DNA which barely has become aware of its potential before being evicted by appetites and hungers that required distinction one from the other, more than providing something for the sake of other. Oh well - maybe if we remain playful and non-judgmental in support of enjoyment and loving recourse, others might follow suit, if not a scent toward a place we may once again propagate with gusto and kindness into unknown, less frightening realities.

jts 09/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

all rights reserved

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