Partial chapter from “Is.” (first draft finished)

    “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.