Charlie and the Poo Factory

I don’t read fashion magazines because I learn things I don’t want to learn. Today I had to search for a text to give my English class students on Friday. Now, what do Chinese love to read about? Well, two things in this order: money and fashion. This is how I opened Vogue, the UK edition. As a Sons of Anarchy watcher, the image of Charlie Hunnam (Jax in the series) gave me a tingle in my fingertips. But what, oh, what do I read there? Oh, my Lordie, to paraphrase a close friend of mine, the stars of the film version of Fifty Shades of Grey were finally announced – roles that had caused months of speculation. Dakota Johnson and Charlie Hunnam are taking the leads of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey.

My views on 50 Shades of Grey are well known to the people who know me/read me, but I take the liberty to sum them up here for those who are not particularly familiar with my line of thinking. I do believe 50 Shades is a book which in order to be allowed in America had to offer characters of legal age, thus the “innocent” virgin had to be 21 which is the legal age in which an author can put his character through explicit sex scenes and still be allowed on Amazon and other American Distribution websites. In order for the character to be believable and the cliché to work (the untouched virgin, who has no idea about the universe between her legs, who has never even attempted to stick a finger in there, ah!) she should have been younger, but since the legal age in America is 21, the absolute virginity at 21 deprives the girl of what’s called “being believable.” But it’s like with everything else from zombies to porn: let’s just enjoy, not judge. Or as Mike (Teine) the main character in my latest novel puts it in his blunt manner when he talks romance: “if someone had rammed a rubber cock deep into your balloon knot, making you puke yourself to oblivion, would you call that less of a love-making than, say, a roll in the hay under the moonlight?”

As a rule, I have no problem with sex in literature. Great books such as American Psycho feature very explicit sex scenes. These being said, sex, if not used carefully, is an idiocy. I tried hard, very hard to read the book from back to back, but I failed. It’s so badly written, so boooring and blend and for fat housewives in love with the idea of being locked in the basement while bounded to a fucking machine that my mind could simply not cope with it and rather dropped it after a few pages.

However, and some of you might be surprised with my stoicism and ultimately masochism, I went through it in a random manner. Allow me the privilege of not dying an ignorant to the things en vogue. I even have a favourite passage. That is when Mr. Grey removes Anastasia’s (what a porn name, isn’t it? Anastasia Steele, especially Steele, well fucking done!) tampon by hand. Hang on a minute, here. Do I think shagging while menstruating is a taboo thing? Who cares as long as it happens, right? Great that someone put it in literature. Let us not fake here, some men have no issues with it and us girls, even the conventional of us, often dream of a filthy animal like that to bone us dry. But really, removing the tampon as a man is a bit… demising.

Maybe my definition of a man is very different from what’s fashionable these days, but I just know that a macho would never ever get near my tampon, used or unused. My husband’s face grimaces each time we are at the supermarket and I remind him I forgot to buy tampons. Maybe because he’s a rough and tough type of dude, but you know what? I’d rather be with a man-man than a half-man who knows the difference between the regular OBs and the silky type. And Mr. Grey is supposed to be a man-man.

As a connoisseur of BDSM – I say it with pride, yes, I did spank asses, I enjoyed immensely putting needles in nipples and hot wax on genitals: it was fun and always consensual – I know that blood is a fetish and it’s the submissive man or woman who enjoys the sight/feel/taste of the partner’s menstrual blood. Now, the border between dominant and submissive when it comes to fetish, might not be as clear as you think, nevertheless, Mr. Grey is a dominant, right?

There is much discordance in the structure of the characters; many things simply do not work when it comes to this book, but we live in a dumb world, where people refuse to use their brains and require instant gratification. For wanking material, it’s not bad, but any wanking material erotica book out there will do when you are horny enough. Does 50 Shades provide the twist needed to make this genuine literature? I do not think so. I think the only quality of this book is actually being shameless. There is courage in shamelessness, I agree.

Now, what do I think of Charlie Hunnam? Well, I’ve seen Charlie the first time in Cold Mountain, a film shot in Romania, very close to my hometown, Brasov. I didn’t like his character in the film – who could? – but his interpretation was remarkable. These days he’s playing Jax. He is amazing and I’m so sad he is yet to be nominated for an Emmy award. I have rarely seen a better “Hamlet” and Charlie shows in Jax a lot of that Shakespearean tension and interior struggle.

But do I think Charlie is sexy? Do I think Jax is sexy? There’s a line between sexy and beautiful. Again, I’m a complicated person, I know. I do find Charlie, the actor, a beautiful example of a man. I find Jax, the character, a wicked, handsome family man with a criminal background. But I would not like to have sex with Jax or Charlie, for that matter. This is perhaps because when I was in the 8^th grade, we had a chain of suicides in our school. All who hurried to the other side too soon were Kurt Cobain look-alike kids: all were artistic types, all had blonde hair and blue eyes, tartan shirts and leather jackets. I guess, the sadness that came with the death of my colleagues, marked me for life and when I see someone looking the way Charlie did when he started to play Jax, I get a squeeze in my chest. Sadness is not great for sex. I am attracted by rougher, brunette types, the funnier, the better. I would very much hit Tig if I met him and I was single at the time, to answer the question in a divergent way. As a matter of fact, I’ve recently met a Tig type, even the looks seemed to fit and I remained virtuous in an otherwise sexually charged situation… But I’d still do Tig if I wasn’t married. Does this mean I fantasize sleeping with Kim Coates who plays him? No, I don’t. Kim Coates is a very different person from the character he is playing. But do I find Kim Coates sexy? Actually, yes. I told you I was complicated.

This being said, I can understand for an actor, doing a sexual role is a boost in career. However, I don’t dare imagining how bad the film is going to be given the fact the book is such a fiasco. I am also very glad not to be on Sons of Anarchy fan groups any longer. The verbal masturbation over there might cut my appetite for food and food happens to be one of my pleasures here in China.

(Source for the news: http://www.vogue.co.uk/news/2013/09/02/this-week-in-pictures—andrea-casiraghi-wedding–lady-gaga-roundhouse-concert)

Sons of Anarchy Fanfic Mr. Doomsday Is Striking Again

It’s been a long time since I started this story, but hell, I intend to finish it. Here is a new chapter for all SoA fans. If you’re familiar to the story, jump to chapter 3 directly. If not, read it all.

What’s the story about:
Toric (Mr. Doomsday) brings havoc upon the Club. In the meanwhile, Tig’s guilt for Dawn’s death finds strange ways of expression and Jax struggles to keep the raft afloat. Tara is facing some serious time behind bars and Pope’s replacement is still looking for answers after the big boss’s death.

Comments highly appreciated.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9256150/1/Mr-Doomsday

Bikes, Havoc and Lolita Is Finally Out

Okay, she’s out! For now, on SmashWords and hopefully next week on Amazon:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/316416

In short, an insomniac Chinese cook looking for a way to change her life crosses paths with a devil outlaw biker and together they seek revenge, with a thirst that evolves into something much more terrifying.

I actually researched in order to write this book. I looked into gang related crime, talked with real outlaw MC blokes and old ladies, I also interviewed legal and less legal sex workers in Amsterdam and the UK.

Although a story about child abuse and what becomes of Lolita when she grows up, this is a book rooted in the reality of the days we live in, from anarchistic outlaws and sarcastic law enforcers, to wanna-be terrorists and rioters. Those of you watching Sons of Anarchy will be pleased to discover some similarities between my character Teine (Michael Riley) and Sutter’s Tig Tragger. But if Sutter’s character is impulsive and seldom silly, Teine is a planner, although a devil, humorous, sexual deviant outlaw.

Violent scenes and explicit BDSM sexual content. Parents’ discretion advised.

Here is the first chapter:

TEINE SAVES ME from kicks to the head and then he gives me twins and rope restraints and a trip to the Police station. People don’t realize how far this goes. This is not just about me; this is about the prospects, the revolution and the bomb outside about to detonate into a solar flare sending us in chunks to our Maker. But we need to brace ourselves and keep the faith, because Teine cannot be that crazed when it comes to me and my load.
In Teine we trust all of us and Superintendent Iain Griffith doesn’t seem to understand no matter how I put it to him. He took one quick look at my face and in that quick look he could tell something wasn’t quite right and now he’s tapping on this suspicion hoping I’d break. And I? Well, I must seem mighty funny with my belly round and my cheeks pink, no make-up.
He says:
“I’m so sorry for you. For what you’ve been through. For what you’ve become.”
I’m watching Mr Superintendent’s downwards curved lower lip and I say nothing. He reasons with his cigarette, staring straight at me and he asks:
“Where is Michael Riley?”
“I have no clue,” I muffle.
This’s true. The last I saw of Teine had been this early morning. He was in the kitchen where everything had been falling apart for so long, there were little things remaining intact. Well, to be accurate, the rot had worked its way into the cupboards and floors and now there were fully grown blooming mushrooms everywhere in quirky colors: dark blue, bright orange and even a kind of red. The kitchen table was still standing and Stevie was still lying dead on it, not yet smelly, but about to and Pia came to mind.
“One Bradley down, another one injured!” a “prospect” announces.
Teine opens a bottle of scotch.
“What the fuck’s the matter with ya?” he growls to the kid and the kid stands back, taking an angry chimp stance and goes:
“One Bradley down, another badly injured!”
Teine has been pale recently. He has been pale and sad.
He goes:
“His name was Stephen B. Harper. B for Byron. He was twenty two years old. Great in the sack.”
“No way!” the other responds. “This is tricky, but I’m prepared, sir. I don’t fall for it. His name was Bradley. If the Police barge in here asking questions we’re going to answer his name was Bradley. Just like my name is Prospect.”
“So what’s my name, kid?” Teine questions with a smirk twisting his lips.
“Your name is Teine, sir.”
Teine scratches through his curls, questioning:
“How come?”
The foot-soldier retorts:
“Because you’re an officer. All officers have names.”
Teine notes:
“Right.”
And investigates:
“What other officers you know, kid?”
Do not underestimate the power of the prospects. Because they are fresh and eager, they make a formidable, dedicated bunch, more committed than a fully recruited Bradley with hundreds of completed assignments on board.
The foot-soldier prospect responds:
“Only you, sir.”
“So you could say all of this was my fault.”
“Yes, one could think this given the circumstances.”
“Clever kid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The SUN title today reads “THE UK: A FAILING ECONOMY OR A FAILING STATE?” Replace UK with any other country you want and see how well it fits.
Teine said: “This is the Zombie Apocalypse and it’s just the beginning. Hang tight to yer hats, coz the shite’s about to hit the fan at high velocity and that’s gonna get everything messy.”
Teine said: “It’s gonna be in America soon: Boston, Washington, Detroit, Houston, Oakland. They’re gonna call in the military. They’re gonna crush everyone.
“This is the governments and the multinationals against the people.
“Revolution is bad for the stock markets. They’re gonna domino fall worldwide which will force the multinationals to press the governments and the governments will have to respond in force and deploy the real guns.
“When the Americans are cool with the army on the streets, everybody is cool with that, although some folks in Europe will continue to produce humanist comments for a while.
“China will plead for calm on all sides. Revolution is bad for the manufacturing field coz during revolution there is little export and little demand for everyday goods, so perhaps the Chinese should export weaponry. But China has time to wait, coz this is the beginning of a new era and if they could wait six thousand years for it, they can wait for a few more months.
“At least London wouldn’t stand alone.
“It’s gonna be big in France and spreading like a wild fire: Grenoble, Lyon, Marseille. It’s already in Athens and Barcelona. It’s gonna be in Istanbul, Sofia, Budapest, Bucharest – I’m not sure if that’s not the same city actually, but whatever. It’s gonna hit Rome and Madrid and Lisbon. The only one spared are the damned Swiss. Again.
“Yeah, this is the twister and this baby is coming fast and ya have but two options: move outta the way or face the music.”
In Teine we trust.
Any riot has its broken heads, its spilt guts. Another Bradley walks in carrying a dark African with a deep gash to his shoulder blade.
“We’re losing people. Take him to the infirmary!”
Teine used to say:
“I thrive in chaos. I become motherfucking chaos.”
But Teine doesn’t say that anymore. He’s all quiet, drinking his scotch. He stands up and splashes the rest all over Stevie’s body, all over the table, around the table and he goes:
“I’m done. Bury him. Make room for the injured.”
This is how the “home” becomes an ad hoc hospital.
The superintendent’s face seems a cross between a rectangle and a horse due to his narrow cheek bones and his stubborn chin.
“Pearl, where is Teine?”
I shrug.
I used to lay awake and eyes into the ceiling, big, dilated pupils. I used to think that if I had fallen asleep even for a second, my cousin would have materialized like one of those horror film monsters, snatching me to his boat, demanding me to lay with my legs opened while repeating over and over just how much I cared. I thought that was my greatest fear. And then I met Metal-Teeth and the gang and the near-snuff happened and that made me think I was yet to meet my greatest fear.
At least now I’m not alone in my vigil. Now I have Teine to join me and sometimes I manage to catch a nap, because he’s there, but Teine cannot afford my kind of luxury.
One night Teine asks me:
“Pumpkin, do you think any of this is real?”
The question chills me to the bones. I was about to suggest Matrix had been just as real as our life or anybody’s life for that matter. And Teine continues:
“Ya know what? What if all of it is just me? What if I planned this for years? This revolution or whatever it is, this madness… What if there isn’t any IRA ordered grand robbery behind it? What if there isn’t any Club support? What if it’s always been me?”
I shush Teine and explain him what lack of sleep does to the brain. But nobody ever died from lack of sleep. Really. Look at me. Just look.
But Teine says:
“No. It’s not that. Think about it… What was I doing in Madrid? What was I doing in Paris? What was I doing in Athens? What was I doing in Detroit? Think!”
But now Superintendent Hot Shot Griffith is staring at me with his dumb horse face and I’m outraged just how narrow it actually is: my vision field seems to compress on the vertical each time I gaze in his direction and he utters between the teeth:
“Miss, you suffer from what’s called the Stockholm Syndrome.”
Whoa!
“The fact that you’re suffering from it is not enough to save you. You’re still going to jail, yeah? Brainwashing is no excuse, yeah?”
The clock behind shows 3:30. Everything had been falling apart for so long, I grew tired waiting for the ultimate collapse. It’s now thirty minutes to go.
I’m stretching cat-like, tangling my arms in front of me.
Teine said:
“Each and every one of us has failed, coz the game we’re born in is everything about seeing us failing and mocking us for it later. So we’re pissed.”
Teine said:
“We can’t win. Think about it: when everything you have is a lie, you have nothing. Then someone gives you a plan to vent your anger. Would you not invest in it? There’s no chance the plan’s gonna work, but would you not invest in it anyway?”
Everything had been falling apart. Teine’s tattoos have been reduced to bloodied darkened shadows everywhere, except for the old military crossed daggers and my name. That means Teine left the Club without privileges, like one who gets kicked out for misconduct. But Teine doesn’t care. He says he asked for this and he did it for the Club’s sake, so that nobody could associate him with his former crew.
“After the Zombie Apocalypse things are going to stay pretty tensed. I can’t drag my brothers into this mess.”
Time went quicker between the two of us and before we knew it, the daylight rushed through the cheap plastic blinds in the police station.
Superintendent Iain Griffith says:
“This is who Michael Riley, aka Teine is, yeah?”
That’s good. If I were you I’d be more concerned about the others. The foot-soldiers, they’re everywhere. They are everywhere and they know everything you do, because they are everyday people, the kinds that cook and laundry and clean after you, the kinds that cut you open to fix your insides, the kinds that mend your teeth, that fill your tank, that walk your pooch, that set up your PC and protect your borders. There’s no escape from this, it’s just war: everybody’s beef with everybody.
Superintendent Iain Griffith throws a folder under my nose.
He says:
“Read!”
I pull the elastic strap slowly. It goes: flap! as I release it behind the folded thin cardboard.
I see Teine’s face and profile and his crime record. The name is Aiden Hyde, an alias, for sure.
Superintendent Iain Griffith crosses his fingers with a satisfied grin illuminating his narrow cheeks.
“Strong Irish ties. Father, very vehemently against what he calls: the unlawful occupation of Northern Ireland. Doesn’t surprise me your Teine played with the separatists for a while. Have you heard of the IRA, miss? Your boyfriend blew up buildings. He killed people. Women and children. Have you heard of Omagh? No? Don’t you care?”
Superintendent Iain Griffith was “terribly sorry” moments ago. Now he’s asking me if I cared. A big act.
“Aiden Hyde had many names in America: Martin Baxter, Eoin Kelly, Gerard Aitkins, Tiernan McDonald. Michael Riley lasted longer than the others. Do you know who Michael Riley was? He was a Caltech graduate, hitchhiking his way across America. Your sweetheart killed him soon after engaging in sexual intercourse. We believe that had been consensual. That’s right, miss: your Teine likes boys.”
What is this? The Talented Mr Ripley? What is this? Brokeback Mountain meets geek? Hey! I know, it’s Carlos the Jackal.
“We know he killed that young man, but we can’t prove it. The circumstantial evidence is no evidence. What’s worse is no-one can stop Aiden Hyde from changing his name and becoming Michael Riley. This is not illegal.”
I’m looking straight at Mr Horse Face here and he is looking at me expecting to falter into one of those pathetic sobbing episodes under the light of his grand revelation. Michael Riley is not Teine’s real name. Whoa!
“Possession of narcotics with intent to distribute, arson, illegal possession of firearms, ammunition and explosives, other firearms violations, driving under the influence, public indecency.”
Superintendent Iain Griffith puffs:
“You’re scared, yeah?”
Superintendent Iain Griffith has no idea what fear I’ve been through. He continues oblivious imagining I’m shitting my pants right now.
“Suspect in a chain of brutal murders of rival gang members.”
Superintendent’s finger points towards the papers in my hands and his knuckles are pale.
“Aidan Hyde’s military file is “classified”. We know he had been discharged: Other Than Honorable Conditions. That’s a very bad discharge, yeah? Two months later he walks into a strip club and bashes a worker with a pool stick. The poor woman had to be hospitalized for a whole month. She’s still taking drugs to cope with the long-term effects of those injuries. Trouble is she had withdrawn her testimony and he never did time for this.”
I’m telling you, we are in the movies and this is Bourne Supremacy.
My growing belly and my sleepy eyes sit like thorns in the Superintendant’s mind. The superintendent’s finger is still pointing and for a moment I’m thinking I could bite that off.
He shakes the blonde corn silk covered head asking:
“Did he do that? How far along are you?”
I tell him:
“I don’t know. Must be four months, can’t tell.”
“Has anyone seen you? A medical professional, I mean.”
I shrug pushing the folder aside.
Superintendent Iain Griffith is mildly satisfied because it also makes him feel half-way-god being able to take this devastated, debilitated, corrupted piece of arse I am and drizzle his pampering generous nature all over the place.
“We can help you,” he says. “You don’t need to be scared anymore.”
Superintendent Iain Griffith sticks a paper under my nose. He puts the pen across it, ordering:
“Write.”
I lift my tired green, Menthol Listerine-colored eyes towards him and I utter a tiny:
“What?”
He says:
“Where is Teine?”
I answer:
“I have no clue.”
He says:
“All right.”
Superintendent Iain Griffith is losing hope. And there are fifteen minutes to go on the clock behind him.
You imagine him driving home to his plump wife every evening, making love to her while eyeing the wall, her back turned towards him, nightgown on, her ass pressing against his parts, he needs to feel the right hole with his fingers first. Ah, ah, ah! It’s done! The same position every time. Fast humping.
Perhaps she wants another baby. Iain Griffith, stripped of his superintendent badge has been just another dick trying to inseminate having half-dead sperms to offer.
You imagine him and his little escape, perhaps he’s singing in a band, perhaps he’s playing soccer with his mates. At this stage he must hate himself, although there is comfort in the feeling of an ever-growing family, the smell of dirty nappies and baby food.
The last thing he needs is a revolution.
“Once again, miss, any information you bring forward now might just save you from a very long time in prison.”
There’s music in the background and I’m a pack of crackers the superintendent Iain Griffith is stomping.
I shake my head then I roll my eyes drowsy as if I need to splash all over the table, all over the statements, all over the smart phone recording our conversation. A big act.
My only hope is Teine loving me in my mind, his words after watching “Desperados” for the thirteenth time together, because Teine had a thing for Banderas.
“We gotta run, baby.”
Superintendent Iain Griffith frowns.
“Think about it: this man is not worth sacrificing the rest of your life. You’ve been through enough already. We can do pretty much anything when it comes to suspects in acts of terrorism and you are a suspect in an act of terrorism. I can keep you for as long as I want. I’m the good guy here. Have you heard of Guantanamo? At least Guantanamo is warm. This is the UK. Here is rainy and cold.”
I shrug.
Superintendent Iain Griffith hates me, but he is determined to rescue me from this lunacy I believe in with all my heart. This is on his mind just like the Brighton Rock story.
He says:
“What are you? Chinese, yeah? Father Chinese, mother French. Ha! French! The worst combination, yeah? You keep pouring in from everywhere, rootless desperados, thinking you can make a living here, living like ghosts, yeah? Living your shady little lives undetected. You contribute nothing to this country. You pay no taxes, your kids don’t go to school, you’re not in the system. This place has turned into a kind of sewage. You know what the problem is, yeah? The problem is you’re slowly turning us into you. Our children are becoming more and more like you. White people are turning black and yellow in everything but the color of their skin.”
Our shady little lives… My little life ceased nearly a year ago in a Rotterdam garage, by means of kicks and punches in the face.
I shoot my eyes down towards my hands crossed on the table and I keep my mouth shut.
He puffs:
“You were one of those gang whores, yeah?”
I respond nothing.
“How much you charged, you anarchist-revolutionary-gang-bang trash?”
I used to do both, but now, right now I’m a cook, not a hooker, even worse: a laid off cook. But that has little relevance anyway.
Superintendent Iain Griffith says:
“But we’re not gonna let this riot go on, yeah. Hey, Juno, imagine your children never knowing who their mom was, yeah? Imagine: giving birth in the Jailhouse, your babies being taken away from you right after that, before having the chance to hold them, yeah? I’m the good guy, here. Imagine being an old woman when you finally come out of prison. You have to talk to me, yeah? I’m the good guy, trust me, yeah?”
Superintendent Iain Griffith had never made love in the basement, among bottles of nitroglycerin. He has no idea what that does to you even if you explain him. He lives in the world advertised to him ever since he could open his eyes and see, a world where at work he can achieve great things like fighting the war on terror, not getting shot and saving abused, prego youths from their own defect minds.
I want to puke. He notices I turned pale. I can do pale very well. I have an intensive training.
This morning at five o’clock sharp, the prospects picked me up from bed, forced-dressed me and tied my hands Shibari style.
And Teine smiled at the Bradley who was tying me murmuring:
“Ye little shite, ya have no idea what this is yer messed up into.”
The lad pulled a piece and set it at Teine’s temple and right then Teine resembled Stevie.
“Sir, this revolution is going to happen. You told us rule number one is to improve your position. That sometimes means taking down the people who stand in your path, you explained us. You told us exactly what to do when that needs to be done.”
Teine laughed then; he howled and laughed.
“Remember, sir, what that was? Remember?”
What was that?
“Kill the bitch. That’s what you told us to do. Yoko Ono is my Kryptonite, you said. When the shite hits the fan, shoot that bitch, burn this place to the ground.”
Teine stood there and listened. He didn’t laugh anymore. He just stood there listening.
“You told us to kill you, because you were going to be pissed and when you’re pissed you go after the people who got you pissed. We can’t have this happening, sir. That’d be bad for the revolution. Sir?”
And Teine answered to me:
“Muffin, now would be the right time to call the kung fu fighter. Now would be the right time to give the grand panda thrashing.”
Bradley puffed and Teine turned towards him grinning large.
“Fuck the world, right?”
In Teine we trust.
I’m looking at the clock and I know I can finally say something, because when the prospects cut the rope loose, picking me up to put me on the concrete steps, Teine’s hands hugged my head one last time and he whispered:
“I’m not giving up on ya. Wait till it gets close to four. I’m coming to get ya.”
In Teine we trust.
So I tell Mr Superintendent:
“From your story this Teine bloke is a crazy person. Crazy dudes are extremely dangerous.
I tell him:
“A guy like that doesn’t stop at anything.
I tell him:
“He might be coming here, but from what you ranted so far, he seems smart. So perhaps he’s not going to fall for this trap of yours. But he’s not going to give up either.
I tell him:
“What if he or one of his fans parked a lorry full of fireworks in front of this police station? Chinese fireworks. Do you know what fireworks are made of? Have you heard of the Gunpowder Plot? Sure you did. Well, fireworks light up because of the gunpowder.
Is it easy to make gunpowder? Hell, yeah!
Better: ask me how you make dynamite. Go on, ask me. If Teine knows, so do I.
Ask me how to make napalm.
Neah, what did you think I was going to tell? God knows what goes through your mind one day and you decide to become an urban terrorist.”
I keep staring at Mr Hot Shot Superintendent Iain Griffith as I’m telling him all these things. He is a petite wheel in a ginormous system. In less than ten minutes the Superintendent and this shiny table Made in China will disintegrate into pieces, into parts and dust and molecules and atoms.
I tell him:
“You’re a smart dude. Think about it. What if I’m right?
I tell him:
“Take a look. There’s a lorry parked in front of the station. It has “Chandra’s fresh seafood” written on its side.
I tell him:
“Oklahoma City. Have you heard of it? Don’t you care?
I tell him:
“Kaboom!
I tell him:
“Think about it. What if the lorry contained one of those smart detonators? The problem with bombs is not that the genies team cannot get to the bottom of a complex detonating device. The problem is they might run out of time before the device sets things in motion.
I tell him:
“Few survivors! Less than a handful. All fucked up.
I tell him:
“But what do I know? I’m not the one who built the bomb.
I tell him:
“Maybe I guess what button you need to push to disarm it.
I tell him:
“Think about it!”
Superintendent Iain Griffith stands up and heads for the window. And I point out:
“You’d better watch out: these crazy, dangerous people could be out there armed with L115A3 rifles, just waiting for you to poke your nose out.
I add:
“Some used to be SAS.”
But the Superintendent notices the lorry and now he believes me.
I laugh and say:
“They can shoot anyone, including you, right between the eyes. You know they can. They have the training and they’re crazy enough. You said it yourself.
The Superintendant moves back, pulling the blinds.
I laugh and say to him:
“You ranted Teine killed women and children. It means he may kill me. Yeah, he may shoot me right in my pregnant belly. This is a risk we have to take.
I tell him:
“I’m not even surprised. Are you?
Superintendent Iain Griffith has a dilemma and he’s now rubbing his chin vigorously and his long face creases under his fingers. His blonde head shakes:
“You are right to feel angry, but blowing us up doesn’t make it right, yeah? This leads nowhere, but to havoc. You need to tell me where is Teine, yeah?”
But the clock behind shows three fifty seven in the afternoon and three minutes from now the building together with me and Iain Griffith are going up in smoke. We’re all going to be Lady Gaga’s meat dress.
I say:
“You fool, we’re in this together.”
An odd scent of burnt rubber diffuses through the space right between me and the superintendent. This is dead drop, not a tomb. In Teine we trust.
I say:
“Teine is an abstraction. He doesn’t even exist.”
Can I even recall how everything started? Ah, yes! The havoc started with my death.

See more chapters on Wattpad (http://www.wattpad.com/story/5391678-bikes-havoc-and-lolita) or at Smashwords.

 

I’ll Be Watching Cautiously

Attention! If you are a fanatic fan of Sons of Anarchy, don’t read this: this is a critique and you will not like it. If you haven’t seen season 5, don’t read this, it contains spoilers.

Disclaimer: when I refer to rednecks I refer to a certain mentality mostly present among white male, but it can be sometimes recognized in women too. It’s a macho mentality, an emotional immaturity, a thirst for explosions and guns, for blood and useless killing, an eye for an eye kind of thing, etc. Overall this can be very detrimental to the individual and to the community, encouraging extreme behavior and racial or else rejection. I’ve met many rednecks who were people of real consistency, who shared similar values to mine and were overall fully integrated in their communities. The satirical phrases below do not refer to them.

 

So after a grand wait and countless fans wet panties episodes, finally Sons of Anarchy is back with bangs and a barbie. The bangs stretch from gang bangs (Gemma and the new dude, Nero) to killing “niggas” big style. Basically the entire “nigger” gang, the Niners, had been wiped out. Jax is now the President, unfortunately for the character he is a 9 inch pussy (Charlie Hunan, the guy who plays this Adonis/Hamlet declared in an interview Jax had six packs and a 9 inch cock) and he’s even a dumb pussy because he’s played by everyone from his father’s murderer and his lovely mom to the CIA, the Irish and soon, his mommy’s latest fucker, the “companiador” called Nero. Ayayay, Gemma is not wasting time, actually it was only Clay who could provide her with some dignity and now that she’s a loose cannon, she’s getting doggy style shag from this Latino man whore, not to mention shares him with some of his escorts, which is not bad, I’m wondering when is she going to be put on sale for “granny fetish” clients. Then we see a new character coming into play, a merciless shit head with slick suits and a passion for the community, the typical gangsta’ businessman, Damon Pope, who kidnaps Tig’s teen age daughter, drugs and dumps her in an iron container and sets her ablaze, while her dad is tied down and forced to watch the entire scene in horror. The reason for this cruelty is Tig’s mistaken attack on the Niners, back in season 4, provoked by Clay’s and Jax’s lies and cover ups, which ended in the accidental killing of the gangsta’s daughter. Mind you, Pope first takes out some of his own colored people because they fucked up, which is not exactly true and there was hardly any need to take on his own numbers of supporters, but whatever, the public craves blood and violence sells the show together with “kinky” sex scenes. Do you think any of the rednecks loving this show actually gave a shit about the fact the girl was a TEEN and had no interference with her father’s business? Actually, we’ve never met her before. And yeah, what a great way to meet someone! Set the bitch on fire, like witches in the Middle Ages. Or maybe, the director, Sutter wanted to turn her into a martyr who could somehow purify her father’s sinful soul through her tortured death. Are we talking Al Quaida here? they seem very keen on martyrs, but it looks like the rednecks are not far from that psychology. As for Tig, yeah man, I felt sorry for him as did most of the fans who like him for a reason or another. There are now two tribes: the ones who have always wanted to see Tig suffer for his crimes and the other, the ones who see Tig as a monster, a maniac, therefore satisfactory in terms of blood thirst. I like Tig because I recognize in him a lot of human vulnerability and torment which can turn someone into a ruthless person without taking away his humanity. Unlike Pope for whom the revenge was rather secondary to his business propositions. I’m pretty sure we will see him (Pope) taking over the Sons, turning them into his humble puppies. Jaxhole is quite keen to sacrifice someone for his own survival. He’s by far not the moral man so many wet panties fans see him to be, after all, he happened to be by Clay’s side dealing drugs regardless of the fact his first wife used to have a huge addiction which resulted in the near death of his first born. What sorts of morality does a man like that have? And in turn, this deal nearly landed them in prison for good, grace to another smart ass, Juice, who ratted to the Feds in order to hide his “black” heritage. I didn’t like at all the race story brought into the gang thing. I’m not saying this doesn’t happen in reality, but come on, this is so primitive and it ends up looking like this: if you’re Latino you’re not as bad as if you were black; being nigger is the worst. It leads me to the evolutionist theory. I’m sorry but ever since the Juice narrative, I can’t help but looking at SoA as a show from the perspective of a researcher studying chimps. We have two groups, one is light colored, the other dark colored and they both engage in sporadic fights over resources and territory, bearing fire arms. Pretty amazing stuff, monkeys with guns! Really! Returning to Tig and his sad story, first of all Kim Coates seemed very tired in the first part of the show, tired and full of shit. Tig had some lines which would characterize a scum and Tig we used to know was not, but he was crazy, freaky, sexually weird, etc., just not a scum. The scene where the girl dies is haunting, yet his screams don’t necessarily make it more convincing, au contraire. The real talent shows later after he takes out the guys who handle him, when he falls apart and he shows remorse, destruction. That is indeed spot on. Now the tribe who likes Tig expect him to retaliate and set the world on fire. Blood, blood, blood! the crowd yells. As if it was that simple. Tig is not allowed grief. The hillbillies never stop to feel sad over anything, perhaps that’s why they’re such a bunch of psychotic, armed to the teeth morons who kill and kill and kill without ever taking time to wonder about their own deeds and to what end. That includes putting your child to fire a weapon before he can walk or going hunting deer with the machine gun. So why not? If you ask me, Tig should go rogue, he should take out Pope, Clay and Jaxhole. I believe Tig will go ballistic at the end of this season’s show as Sutter has this habit of setting the death of a character at the end of the season. Yeah Tig will die. KC is not very keen of this role anymore, I reckon.
Back to Pope now, the man has no problem killing his own kind and business associates. He has no problem slaughtering teen age girls (killing women is already enough to make my stomach turn, but now kids?!!) and he is black. I wonder why put a black man to commit the most brutal act we’ve ever seen on the show so far? What is he, a representation of Obama in the mafia world? Slick but merciless? I bet rednecks love it; if you watch the Fox shows, even you, a non-redneck might feel a little amused. It’s almost as good as reading pravda.ru! And SoA runs on FX networks, a Fox thing. The other brutal act, the rape of the big whore Gemma, oh, sorry, the matriarch and pure, virtuous, family woman, was instructed and carried out by Neo-Nazis under the command of, that’s right, a foreigner. I know Americans, especially rednecks have a problem trusting foreigners and an American citizen is above the law no matter what he does anywhere around the world, but really, do they have to be so obvious as to put on telly? Anyway, so far I enjoyed the show more or less, but I’m starting to doubt it. I’ll be watching cautiously from now on.

Puffing the Magic Dragon, Squashing Bugs…

Listening to ’70’s music, when music was music and not acoustic wallpaper. Crimson&Clover, Over and over. I think I got the bug watching Sons of Anarchy. I like the scene when crazed up Tig drives his car through the Niners’ ranks like a Mad Max without a cause. And the song plays nicely in the background, so intense and beautiful and in total disagreement with the dude’s actions. Poor Niners.
Talking about bugs, my husband brought home some student assignments and we spent about 10min trying to kill off the bugs coming out between the hand written pages. My husband is depressed, I reckon he needs some kind of mushrooms to feed his brain as the Dormouse said. It feels almost as nuts as the Moro advertisements: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuUtf8bFJFE (there’s more on youtube)

Sons of Anarchy

I don’t even know why I’ve got the craze for this show, but I have it, what can I do about it now? Heh, good story, powerful characters… my secret (until I discovered others with the same obsession) favorite actor, Mr. Kim Coates in the cast and I’m still wondering why I like to watch it so much. Talking about Mr. Coates (aka Tig in the show) I found him very inspirational from a graphic point of view, here is the result: