“Motif, where is it?” I whispered.

     The laced cigar was hitting him hard and from an unforeseen angle. As Motif took another long inhale of the cigar his black pupils blossomed, overshadowing the brown soil from which they grew. His big eyes darted from the files in front of him, to me, back to the files, and finally to Prince Paye's dead men who hung in a circle around his chair. All eyes in the motor home, living and dead, were affixed on Motif's response. That is, except for Prince Paye whose pounds against the inside of the wood crate continued to grow.

     “You know Motif," the dead Man Wearing the Dog Collar said, "you are not really in a position to negotiate.”

     In shock, Motif averted his eyes towards the floor. I removed my hand from the skull of my new puppet and ran it down Motif’s face. The puppet's blood left a crimson, teary trail. I raised Motif's lowered chin so he could see me.

     “Hey,” I whispered, “open your eyes." Motif did as demanded. "You should listen to your friend,” I continued.

     “Friend!?” he asked, “What are these people?” The cocaine got him talking... finally.

     “You know these guys,” I reminded him.

     “What?” Motif remained puzzled, “No, I do not.” Motif closely examined the lifeless faces of the men circled around him. “I don’t know these men,” he said.

     Another long drag of the laced cigar got his knee bouncing, or possibly it was the crate's rhythmic pounding, which also kept Prince Paye’s presence pronouncing.

     “You’ve never seen these men before?” I asked once more. “Tell the truuuth,” I pleaded, “or I’ll kill your first, second, and third born!”

     “Never. I swear. I swear on my life!”

     I pondered which to accept: his truth or his lie. Yet still, his soul was no longer his to oath. Only my direct discretion dictated his breath to dispose. Despite my sped eyes, I could tell from his cries, that Motif told the truth. Few men could stare down, the mayhem around, if any of the dead he previously knew. And from those few men, Motif not among them, his heart was not full of hate. Bang! Another pound, vibrated the ground, which made me wonder about the man in the crate.

     “Fuck it,” I thought.

     The incessant banging had brought, a desire to dismantle the dings. My abrupt change of course, curious of Prince Paye’s discourse, when he saw his dead men in this state; caused Motif ’s remorse, ridiculous of course, tears are a true disgrace. Maybe Motif thought, the crowbar I sought, was about to be part of his face. Then, seeing me seethe, persuaded premature sighs of relief, Motif became grateful for his place.

     “Let’s find out,” I said, trouncing towards the back bed, to meet Prince Paye the mob king. I did not hesitate, popped the top off the crate, screaming, “Surprise mother fucker! It’s me!”

     A surprise indeed, Prince Paye sprung from his knees and bit my nose off clean. Yes, there was pain, as my face no longer contained, my second most important part. Never a looker, loved Rose but banged hookers, my appearance meant little to me. But venom arose, about my missing nose, upon realizing fat lines of blow were now just a ding.

     My fury enraged--hand to God I prayed--no one has suffered like Prince Paye’s sealed doom. Bash to the head? Gash his balls off instead? Perhaps have a racoon eat his eyes out with a spoon. No! Just relax. There's time to come back. Besides, it’s too easy; too soon.

     Plus, Prince Paye recognized the dangling dead guys inside, and uncontrollably sobbed on the floor. I’ve never gained glee making men bleed, but it seemed a special evening was in store. Cuz' Prince Paye, still chained in dismay, laid crying in pain, gave me an unquenchable thirst for gore. And just got to say, Prince Paye got me that day--but like Poe's way--I got him forevermore.

     Finally, the pounding stopped.

    Libby, Montana was once a booming little logging community, as well as, my home town. The tiny town lays low in a valley which is smack-dab in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Therefore, Libby’s location affords a stunning panoramic view of high-reaching mountains in whichever direction one looks. In the summer, the sun illuminates the luscious green trees that reside on the surrounding mountains and once fueled Libby’s local economy. In the Winter, on the other hand, deep blankets of snow don the mountains in pure white, like a bride’s veil as she walks down the church’s aisle.

     There are only three roads to get out of Libby. Needless to say, any major crime that requires fleeing from the scene was next to impossible. Of course a masked scallywag may initially succeed confiscating the only bank in town’s, however, there is no way to escape without detection once the robber acquired his new found fortune.

    My parents, sister, and I lived in an enormous blue house lined with white trim. At least, it was enormous to my toddler eyes. More important than the size of our home is the fact that it was right around the corner from my Nana and Papa; my father’s parents.

    Nana was a Southern Bell and local substitute teacher. Papa made his living by owning his own logging truck. He set out each morning to drive his 16-wheeler out to the narrow dirt roads to load the logs that others had already cut. He then would haul the logs into town to be processed at the local saw mill. My father followed in his footsteps, although not for long.

    Since Libby is so small and remote, there was not a lot to do as a child except visit my grandparents and do chores. Papa especially enjoyed bestowing the value of hard work on his grandchildren, especially splitting wood for the fireplace. In hindsight, I know that he just wanted me to learn the family business, whether I decided to pursue that path or not.

I was eight years old the first time Papa told me to cut up some firewood. My tiny hands barely had the strength to pick the axe up over my head. When I did muster the power to bring it up, my downswing was so inaccurate that I would simply chip off the edges of the log, and that only occurred if I even hit the log at all. That was the first time I had ever developed blisters and I quickly understood why my grandfather’s hands were so rough and callous.

    Throughout the day I repeated the process over and over and over until I actually starting hitting the center of the logs and split them in two. Oh the pride I felt when I eventually split a log with one mighty stroke of the axe.

    “Papa!” I yelled from the garage into the house, “I did it! I did it!”

    My grandfather was at the door looking out at me. He wasn’t a big man, but somehow he always managed to fill the doorway.

    “Good,” he said, “that should make the rest of them much easier.”

    Turning around revealed to me that I wasn’t even a third of the way done and all of that excitement from my single accomplishment drained from my body. Yet, he was still right. I maintained my focus on each log one at a time and it the task did become easier, but still not easy. By the time I got to the final log my arms were jelly. Sweat, dust, and wood chips covered my face, and the excitement of finishing the task exuded from within. My excitement did not stem from the learning how to chop wood. Rather, I was happy the chore was over and I assumed I would get something out of all of this hard work.

    As I thought about the riches that were inevitable after such a long day of hard work I raised the axe and swung down harder than I had on any other previous piece of wood. With all of my might I reigned the axe down and missed the log and the chopping block completely, striking the concrete floor of my grandfather’s garage. Intense pain ran through my hands, into my arms, and exploded through my shoulders. The axe dropped from my hands and fell to the floor. Tears swelled up in my eyes as Papa picked up the axe. I hadn’t noticed that he stood right next to me. My full attention was focused on the pain that ran through my body. He simply held the axe out to me and said, “Finish up, it almost time for dinner.”

     Fine dining is limited in Libby, Montana and there is only one grocery store, Rosauers. Nana told me that since I did such a great job splitting the wood we would have fried chicken that night, which was my favorite meal from our limited options. Nevertheless, today nostalgia prances through my heart when I look back at that day in Libby with Nana and Papa. I would give anything to struggle with the axe all day again, if it meant just one more moment with my grandparents. It taught me that every moment is special, even if it seems turbulent at the time.

        Ugh, Christ. The things you got to do to get what you want out of life.

Trigger—brains—wall. The quicker a figure gains reign, the richer I get from the call. This time was no different. Same result. Same ole’ shit. He bent his will. The man that held the gun just killed his best friend. They always do. Can’t blame em’.

         Slowly, I pulled the blade back away from his wife’s neck and slipped her fallen nightgown back upon her shoulders. It’s a shame that it came to this, yet it always does. People are a lot braver at the end. They have a lot more courage when it’s not their life on the line but that of a loved one. Unbeknownst to them that their lineage is already in the ground.

         Hiroki knows this.

                 That’s why He sends me.

         The quivering man could not loosen his grip on the still smoking pistol. His eyes did not divert from the now faceless body that sprawled out before him. After a few seconds, the bullet’s ring roared its way out of the basement's dungeon and into Zimbabwe’s bare desert above. In the freed echo’s haste it left behind deafening silence. Neither the quivering man nor his family made a peep. In fact, the only sound came from the faceless man’s physical life spiraling down the drain in the floor. The gunman’s wife laid crumpled in the fetal position on the concrete. It was quite impressive actually. She remained in complete silence even as I stepped over her to approach her still trembling husband.

         Although the gun still had 15 bullets left in its clip, no trigger ripped at me, as if I didn't exist . Instead, he held the gun in the same position that he had shot his friend—dazed. A few more quick steps and I stood directly next to him. Still, his eyes did not divert from his slain friend.

         “I… I did it,” he admitted. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself. Not that it mattered. He certainly was no longer the man he was that morning. As expected.

         “Yep,” I replied and put my hand on his shoulder. We stood like that for a moment—or a lifetime—depending on which of us you asked.

         “I did it,” he repeated. The marinade of his acts bubbled into self-realization.

          I could have explained to him that he didn’t have a choice, nor that it really mattered since he would soon be joining his newly departed friend. Fuck it. What’s the point in that? He’s not the only one with problems. Instead, I simply reached down and took the gun from his hands.

         “Congratulations,” I said. “This must be a big day for you.” The man turned to me revealing his newly hollowed eyes.

        “What now?” he asked.

        Trigger—brains—ceiling. The man’s wife was no longer silent.

         Brain matter drips from the ceiling like red, white, and blue stalagmites. His wife’s wails are understandable considering she just witnessed a “murder-suicide.” Nevertheless, her screeches intensified when she rushed over to grieve her dead husband’s body. The screams pierced my ear drums so I pistol whipped her upside of her head. She fell unconscious between the two decapitated bodies and unknowingly bathed herself in a tub of their blood. But she would not die today… at least not physically. If her inevitable hysteria ever subsided she may even have went to the police with her story. Not that it mattered. The two highest-level UNITA rebel leaders were now gone and the Zimbawebean government received what they asked from Him. From then to eternity’s end, Zimbawebe government officials were happy to be forever in debt to Hiroki. As expected.

        Meanwhile, I just hoped the bullet didn’t strike the soul—his or mine.

No disguise needed,

no cries bequeath the blessed.

No alibis needed,

no lies need to rest.

Know my devotion never depleted,

know you had me at first breath.

Know I’m committed to your side,

no matter the depth.

Like the past, pass this lifetime,

I'll find you again in the next.

Ugh, Christ. The things you got to do to get what you want out of life.

     Trigger—brains—wall. The quicker a figure gains reign, the richer I get from the call. This time was no different. Same result. Same ole’ shit. He bent his will. The man that held the gun just killed his best friend. They always do. Can’t blame em’.

     Slowly, I pulled the blade back away from his wife’s neck and slipped her fallen nightgown back upon her shoulders. It’s a shame that it came to this, yet it always does. People are a lot braver at the end. They have a lot more courage when it’s not their life on the line but that of a loved one. Unbeknownst to them that their lineage is already in the ground.

         Hiroki knows this.

                 That’s why He sends me.

     The quivering man could not loosen his grip on the still smoking pistol. His eyes did not divert from the now faceless body that sprawled out before him. After a few seconds, the bullet’s ring roared its way out of the basement's dungeon and into Zimbabwe’s bare desert above. In the freed echo’s haste it left behind deafening silence. Neither the quivering man nor his family made a peep. In fact, the only sound came from the faceless man’s physical life spiraling down the drain in the floor. The gunman’s wife laid crumpled in the fetal position on the concrete. It was quite impressive actually. She remained in complete silence even as I stepped over her to approach her still trembling husband.

     Although the gun still had 15 bullets left in its clip, no trigger ripped at me, as if I didn't exist . Instead, he held the gun in the same position that he had shot his friend—dazed. A few more quick steps and I stood directly next to him. Still, his eyes did not divert from his slain friend.

     “I… I did it,” he admitted. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself. Not that it mattered. He certainly was no longer the man he was that morning. As expected.

     “Yep,” I replied and put my hand on his shoulder. We stood like that for a moment—or a lifetime—depending on which of us you asked.

    “I did it,” he repeated. The marinade of his acts bubbled into self-realization.

     I could have explained to him that he didn’t have a choice, nor that it really mattered since he would soon be joining his newly departed friend. Fuck it. What’s the point in that? He’s not the only one with problems. Instead, I simply reached down and took the gun from his hands.

     “Congratulations,” I said. “This must be a big day for you.” The man turned to me revealing his newly hollowed eyes.

     “What now?” he asked.

       Trigger—brains—ceiling. The man’s wife was no longer silent.

       Brain matter drips from the ceiling like red, white, and blue stalagmites. His wife’s wails are understandable considering she just witnessed a “murder-suicide.” Nevertheless, her screeches intensified when she rushed over to grieve her dead husband’s body. The screams pierced my ear drums so I pistol whipped her upside of her head. She fell unconscious between the two decapitated bodies and unknowingly bathed herself in a tub of their blood. But she would not die today… at least not physically. If her inevitable hysteria ever subsided she may even have went to the police with her story. Not that it mattered. The two highest-level UNITA rebel leaders were now gone and the Zimbawebean government received what they asked from Him. From then to eternity’s end, Zimbawebe government officials were happy to be forever in debt to Hiroki. As expected. Meanwhile, I just hoped the bullet didn’t strike the soul—his or mine.

        Nevertheless, both men brought this upon themselves. In this world, opposing the powers that be will leave you looking like a Pollock painting. And they went too far. Much further than a simple Van Gogh, where I just cut off their ears and staple their severed noses to their forehead.

        But did they really have a choice? Both men were recruited into the

Zimbaweben rebel group, UNITA, at the age of eleven to oppose oppression from the reigning Zimbawebe government, the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola. Twenty-five years later, his continuing promotion and involvement in the civil strife caught up to him. Now, both he and his lifelong pal lye vessel less in the infinite sea. In hind sight, I bet he wished he would not have written the newspaper article describing the election fraud that is all-to-common in shit boxes like Zimbawebe. Nobody likes a tattle tail.

        My only wonder is if his daughter will be alright after this. Life in Angola is hard enough, let alone, being nine and beautiful. And now parent less. Don’t get me wrong, I did not send her mother on the same journey I sent her father. The mother did nothing wrong. Just married the wrong asshole. A guy that actually thought he could make a difference in his country and bring justice to the people. Bitches love that shit. A man with a purpose to save the world. But she’s gone now too. Maybe not in body, but in mind. And she does not have the tools to reawaken from her grief.

        The daughter on the other hand, she still has a fighting chance. She’s young, beautiful, and as bright as an eleven year old can be. At least she was. But the fact that children are always taken advantage of in this world remains. That’s universal.

Your soul transfix me.

But fear holds my loving gaze.

Scared my stare won't stop.

Only we exist.

Embrace my love for our bliss.

Never look away.

These violent delights have violent ends... the culmination of carnage

trends higher than Kardashians.

Yet nothing can finish before it begins,

and chaotic conclusions derive from illusions of sins.

Starts by supplies supplied rely on swapping dope for dolla bills.

Three times delinquent determine when brain blood spills.

The booming lightening strikes, following a flash of thunder.

Survival on the streets derive dealers to gunners.

Frequent Late Fines,

debts due don't dismiss in any event, done doubled.

Despite dope deviants disappear dodging trouble.

Deliver digits by dawn! Or your life turns to rubble.

Delinquency's frequency pop-pop-pops his own bubble.

Violence Ends In Rough Times,

cuz' thrice threatened is enough. Time limits terminated turn torrential teary eyes to puff.

Dared to distinguish, now mere mirrored words not enough.

Dealt a King with his Jack, but greed made him bust.

Now the King's cash is ash and the Joker's life is dust.

Rumi said, “My soul is from elsewhere.”

Truly told, although he misses from where.

Our souls recycle through the universe like every other element of the infinite natural Being.

After all,

are we beyond nature? And not just waves in the sea?

Do we float as we wish to defy the laws of gravity?

Do we think about breathing? Do birds think to fly?

Do lakes weigh the benefits of reflecting the heavenly sky?

Why would man be different than all we can and cannot see?

Possibly it's impossible to fathom our own natural conformity?

Or,

could it be men's egos? Could it be women's roars?

Could it be from zealots pushing black books door to door?

Pimping out the best intended to Satan as a whore?

Religion teaches morals, love, and characters to adore.

Keep the beautiful stories, just add a little more.

Stare into your eyes and contemplate the Milky Way.

The two portray the same pupil patterns,

Go look! Go see what I say.

Just as winter is cold and summer sun is ablaze,

just as devoted knees pain from countless days of pray.

The only constraint in nature is consistency cannot fade.

Thus,

man comes from nature, like a leaf he will wilt.

Fear thy not, existence is one pattern on the ever-warming quilt.

Eternity is the seamstress, always stitching the same patch.

On a quilt woven together, keeping our bonds of love in tact.

Forever.