Cass A No Va Fig Are Oh (A La False Et O)

By, Ignatius B. Cadence Inquirer Pig Voucher V

Sunday, 12:56 PM, November II, 2000
(Remorse… of course)

She had always wondered, did her other half remember her since all those years back? Did her lover still love her? She was considering the weak way out, a professionally fashioned noose lay on her bed in its morbid glory, made of barn hemp and wire. She glanced across the room, a darkly lit hole containing little but her bed, the aforementioned rope, a bland mahogany nightstand and that wretched squalid, rusty chair. Atop the nightstand there was a lonely phone and its set, a glossy white, which sharply contrasted the ghastly dim shade of blue, especially under the current lighting conditions. Should she call her hearts desire? Was she even remembered? She stood in the door way, her shoulders length hair falling in an abundance of curls that seemed to have mocked the ocean, it was too dark to see much but the phone and the walls shade of paint that always stood out against everything; even the pitch black void of night that hovered over the woman's cramped window. She lunged towards the phone desperately from her doorway positioning, wrenching the plastic device from its cradle… she stared at the phone, the buttons, and antenna… what would she say? Was the number still active? Would her last hope respond, or was her love detached? She fiercely gazed upon the device, her face wet with shock…

Monday, 10: 33 AM, November III, 2000
(Entrance of the horsepersons)
… finally, after hours of nothing but words, paroxysms and simpers flowing through her mind; she violently jammed at the small plastic buttons, nearly breaking them off, was her love still there? The phone rang, seconds stretched into minutes, minutes composed themselves into hours by her perspective… seven seconds later, someone picked up the call,
"Hello," said a voice familiar, "may I ask who this is?" her call had not been another failed idea, she took to the last pieces of glee she could collect at the moment and she responded, "Hello, remember me? My name is," to be cut off with,

"Alice, is that you?"

"Yes,"
"Do you still,"
"Yes, and you?"
"… Yes, very much," a pause… "I'd,"
"Big K, I'm…" she stared at the noose… no… to extreme… "Moving this Wednesday… and I'm not sure I'll be able to keep in contact with you…"
"Uh,"
"Please feel free to come down here one last time, it would mean so much to me, we may even be able to…"

"Get back together?"
"Yeah… just, please remember, I still live where you remember and there are only three days left; no more."
"… Love you,"

"Love you, too…"
"Bye,"
"Bye," And she slowly, but surely hung up, a harsh click emitted as she delicately placed the phone onto the receiver…

Monday, 10:37 AM, November III, 2000
(And the hearses rolled off their tongues)

Big K almost dropped the phone as Big K spirited out of the apartment, which had been occupied by said person for most of Big Ks life since making the mistake of leaving Alice. Big K smashed through the front door and a neighbor called out,

"Hey, Big K, what's got you running?" as Big K ran down the needlessly intricate staircase, there was not time to spare, as the trip to Alice's was almost three days long… why couldn't the railing be metal, not wood? There is a motorcycle parked out in the street in front of the building amongst a bunch of ratty, rusted and generally dilapidated old cars, the vehicle in question; an old Indian motorcycle that was well maintained, except for its polish and paint… which was an odd, earthy light blue at this point in time, the tires were absolutely drowned in dirt; the leather seating had all but deteriorated, the chrome was slightly caked in rust… but that didn't matter, the engine, hydraulics and everything that mattered to functionality was there and in tact. The bike belonged to Big K, and Big K loved that bike, saddened at the state of it; but without the necessary funds or know-how of how to bring it back to its former glory… that didn't matter now, Big K mounted the bike, produced a key; started the damned thing after a couple of sputters and drove off, the next eight hours from San Palindrome to Los Fatalist would be long and nigh unending, save one or two stops for gas.
(The neighbor, The Man)
As Big K flew out of town, a neighbor, a local referred to only as,
"The Man," was left somewhat speechless, Big K always had a reason… but what did this mean? The Man is a lounge lizard, donning a beige bathrobe, rabbit flip-flops and a rather bland belt, his hair, curly, blond… The Man was the laziest bastard in town, and everyone was sure to know. A car pulled up, an old 69' Duster, its dull orange paint peeling with age, the only thing one could see in its windows were two big, fuzzy dice… the door opened majestically and out stepped a man who was stuck in the spirit of disco; whose afro rippled like water in the winds that had been picking up in the dry, arid desert for weeks, now… he stepped in struts, with his high heel boots walking on the top of the world all day in his retro get-up. The fellow walked up to the man, and said,
"Yo, Man… you seen Big K, lately? I need to speak with the motherfucker…" To which the Man replied,
"Man, like Biggie K like, just totally split the scene; man,"
"Shit, man, this is bad…"
"Why, man?"
"Okay… remember that serial killer, went by," The Man cut him off, making frantic gestures,
"Oh, shit! That guy?"
"Yeah,"
"He's back, now?"
"Yeah," the fellow said, hesitantly,

"Oh, fuck me," he echoed several times, grabbing at his hair,
"I know," said the fellow, coolly,
"I know," he mimicked enraged, "I know? Jake, man, look; this fucker is crazy, you would not believe what that… that… thing," he punctuated, "could do, no; can do!"
"Whoa, man, calm down; crazy bastard isn't even coming 'round here!"
"Really?" The Man inquired, "Where, like is he going?"
"Heard he's going straight to Pan le Santo,"
"That doesn't change anything, he still going to be through, here!" he stressed, exaggerating, "through,"
"Look, man, just; just read this!" He produced a note, written in either blood or red ink and shoved into the Mans hands, as the Man read the note; he became noticeably paler, and said,
"Oh, fuck this, I'm out of here!" The man ran down to a beaten Volkswagen, turning back only to say, "Get out of here while you still can, motherfucker's gonna go on a rampage!" As the Man drove madly out of town, Jake hesitantly moved and stopped several times before he ran back to that car and drove off to warn his old friend…

Monday, 5:15 PM, November III, 2000

(The Law)
Big K rode getting ever closer, the only thing at minds grasp being her, Alice… Big K was unsure of the time, but knew that the first leg of the journey was nearing its end… time had evaporated so long ago the stretches of road seemed infinite in length, until the sign appeared,
"El Guido, fifteen miles," it read… a stop for gas and a quick bite to eat, then there'd only be six more towns between Big K and Pan le Santo… Big K was in town for a total of thirteen minutes, and spent the rest of the day riding to the next town in line, San Gerardo; famed for its inn and its inn alone, Big K would be there by 12:00 PM sharp…

Monday, 6:30 PM, November III, 2000
(Jake's disco action grip)

Jake arrives at El Guido, a small town with a variety of family run businesses and a famed dining spot, Captain Zack's Burger Stand. Captain Zack's burger Stand was a place of legend, standing solid since the nineteen-fifties, producing the best damn burgers in the country; albeit its darker side, a common scene for shootouts and other such dealings, but that hadn't happened for years. Jake drives to a slow halt in a plaza parking lot, Jake had some business to attend to, nothing personal. Just business, there was a quota to be filled, transactions to be made; not exactly top secret shit. Jake was known about the county as,
"Big J," horribly original, I know, you've heard a similar title not long ago; there is an underground council of nine, they are all given such aliases with the first letter of their name preceded by,
"Big," simplistic, yes, but at least it's not as bad as color coded names; right? The council, fittingly titled,
"The Big Nine," was the authoritative collection of local mobsters; they held absolute authority over the county. Sure, the government didn't like that, but the government didn't really like anything any which way… so that point was rather moot. That aside, the collective was defunct, nowadays; the only thing remaining of their legacy was their names. But that didn't exactly matter now…
Big Jake walked across the motley, sand scarred plaza several worn muscle cars were parked in the same lot, the plaza was composed of a string of pseudo-adobe buildings… thrift stores, uninteresting novelty shops and bad Mexican restaurants, what the town was built on. Jake was to meet his contact, Al Reeder, a pudgy little balding man. Al did business for the mob; he was infatuated with everything the plaza offered… maybe that's why he was so very useless… he didn't do much except for the odd weapons deal, the only thing the bastard was good at was supplying such tools of destruction, seemed to just magically acquire everything; those who worked with him learned not to ask, they'd never get a straight answer, any ways…
These days Jake worked for a gun-runner in the west, going all through the country and occasionally participating in the odd skirmish. He walked into the nearby restaurant,
"El Diablo," which brought much shame to its name; none of the food there was spicy or, indeed palatable to the normal human being. The place was doing so badly, the only customer the place ever had was Al, and he loved that shit. This was the meeting place, unfortunately for Jake, as Al would doubtlessly order something horrid in for him… and he'd have to pretend to like it, as that bastard Al had climbed his way up the ladder a bit higher than he, and that meant he was to show obedience in this mobster sect. Jake scanned the broken down joint and its roughened features to look for Al… he wasn't here, yet… Jake decided to wait… this would prove to consume a good hour and a half.

Monday, 8:00 PM, November III, 2000
(The revenge of Jake's disco action grip)

Jake was bored to tears, sitting at a small table outside of the place so the waitresses wouldn't bother him and Al still wasn't here… he wouldn't be here for a long ass time, to Jakes utter inconvenience.

Monday, 8:00 PM, November III, 2000
(The Bastard, The Felon, The Grim Reaper anathema)

Thomas Welkins was a bastard of the worst degree, he was wanted in all states for counts of murder, rape, abduction, possession of illegal substances and various hate crimes too numerous to dare count. The man was racist, sexist, regressive thinking and other wise dangerous… even sociopaths referred to him with fear as,
"Not a man, but an animal," and animalistic was a word that fit Thom like a form fitting dress to a fashion model. He was a scruffy, messy fellow, perpetually maddened and drowning in hair, dirt and various filth; his eyes were yellow with insomnia, which he inflicted upon himself as he had for the past fourteen years, before that time he had been such a nice young fellow… somewhere along the line he just snapped and became crazy and a bigot… he had sent a letter on the second in his own blood, it read,
"Dear fellows,
It seems I have some unfinished business in the tribunal county of Gerardo Dulci…

Good day, Thom W. The Bastard of the Mojave." Sure, the letter seems innocent enough, until you learn that he sends letters only to places that are to be terrorized with arson, rape, murder and disturbing acts… anybody worth their salt reading that would get the fuck out of dodge in an instance. Thom was a true madman of Encino…
Thom had been driving for three hours down the highway, now, a maniacal grin drawn upon his marred face; he would reach the county by dawn… a frightening prospect.

Monday, 12:00 PM, November III
(The rolling of lovers thoughts)
Big K had arrived at the hotel and it's nigh vacant parking lot, parking the Indian and stumbling to the building… Big K registered a room for the night and fell to sleep upon reaching the bed, Alice on mind…
(Mean-whilst)
Alice lay down on her lonely bed and ponders… did she do the right thing? She was tired and worn, but she couldn't wait for the day after tomorrow, which she wanted so badly… a resolution to her solutions. Big K had to come… she just knew it… she fell to sleep and dreamed for the best of times.
(Mean-whilst)

Jake had long been sleeping at the table…
(Mean-whilst)

Thom was still driving, a damnable lust for hate in his eyes, as he rolled down the highway, one could hear the spirits of those whose lives he took shriek in tones not meant for human ears…

(End Day I of III)