Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment 0ne

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Time a strange longing myth.  The world an art.  Muses watch blandly from the sidelines.  The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock.  From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.

Mean and lust are tempo.  Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.

She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension.  Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen.  Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.

Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth.  Truth floats through gauzy mists.  There is fear, intimidation, loss.  There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief.  There is passion.  There is wisdom.  There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers.  There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough.  There are memories, cold hard facts.

Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival.  Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption.  Many walk in uneasy terrain.  The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock.  Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all.  Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.

Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.

Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase.  Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand.  There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.

Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them.  Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow.  There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts.  Life is full.  It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.

A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.

Death seeks his muse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny developed his modicum of veneer.  He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty.  It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds.  Richard fucking Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning.  Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard fucking Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined.  Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.

Sweet Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized.  Cheap bastards always knew their names, Richard fucking Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy.   Cheap bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid jungles of open pits of open sores.

Richard fucking Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.

Richard fucking Kenny’s entry.  The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain.  All of the fucking men at the fucking table of Richard fucking Kenny’s life found Richard fucking Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.

In 1942, in New York City, Richard fucking Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the fucking army.  There were no fruits for his labors.  He was sorry.  Richard fucking Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade.  Richard fucking Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.

Fuck the deranged fucking lunatics.

Little Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned fucking world, no fucking sense of proportion, no fucking reason.  The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers.  Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their fucking cages could make a fine little life for himself.  Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard fucking Kenny’s fucking beliefs.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and his goose assed fucking, crazed fuck assed fucking friends knew all the fucking games that Richard fucking Kenny, his fucking friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well.  All of the neat little fuck assed fucking tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed fucking suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard fucking Kenny knew them well, taught them well.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose assed fucking friends were fucking stench, bad fucking medicine, bad fucking assholes, fucking Jew baiters, fucking bad mean grief, fucking medicine, bad assed fucking times.  Richard fucking Kenny.  The fucking world could fuck itself silly.  Richard fucking Kenny could fucking fuck himself silly.

Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard fucking Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.

He was shipped south.  He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations.  Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their fucking disposal.  That this was the way of things Richard fucking Kenny knew.  He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others fucking sorry that they disliked him so.

In the fall of 1943 Richard fucking Kenny and his fuck assed fucking friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of fucking England.  Richard fucking Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less.  Fucking Admiral fucking Dewey, Black Jack fucking Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that fucking crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy fucking Doolittle and his whole fucking bunch of damned friggin’ Flying fucking Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to fucking end on their god damned fucking limey stained ass stained fucking bellies couldn’t make god damned fucking Richard fucking Hymie Kharnovski give two fucking shits about this god damned fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned fucking yo-yo of a fucking Kraut fucking paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last fucking breath in some god damned fucking stinking European fucking stink hole.

The goddamned fucking krauts ought to have their goddamned fucking asses mangled just for getting Richard fucking Kenny into this goddamned fucking mess.  The goddamned fucking Japs should also rot in fucking fuck assed, rotten, fucking saki hell.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games / Politics…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…



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