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20 Minutes Into The Future: Do My Kisses Burn, Baby?
The Meandering Vicissitudes of Crispin Sands
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The afternoon was drop-dead gorgeous, with a temperature of some 75° and the warming yellow yolk of a sun shining down upon our little contingent. Evie Takahashi and your loving narrator were hanging out on the dais of Westlake Plaza with Broadway Billy the Bum, Bart the Bagman, Ekaterina Spivakova (freshly divorced from the nefarious Bud Yoyo), and Hazy Davy Hardin. Behind us, on the wooden benches, there sat a legion of winos and vagrants quaffing cans of malt liquor and bottles of Night Train. All around us were shoppers hastening from Macy's to Nordstrom's and points of retail in-between. Gutterpunks milled about, listening to My Chemical Romance and Avenged Sevenfold on their boomboxes. But we were just a lazy cadre of friends drinking in the sunshine (and Miss Takahashi's hip flask of Jägermeister), without a care in the world.

However, our gentle idylls were destined to be shattered by the likes of Ekaterina's ex-husband and Ernie “Spats” Turkle, Seattle's sleaziest private dick and Bud Yoyo's new best friend. Spats was the shimmering bongohead who discovered and photographed Ekaterina and Hazy Davy in their most romantic moments. Bud, suspecting his wife of such doings, felt vindicated and proceeded to beat Ekaterina mercilessly for the slightest marital infractions. But, far from bringing his wife to heel, Bud merely drove her further into Davy's arms. I subsequently put my lawyer—one Margarita Solis—onto Ekaterina's case, and she was soon represented in divorce proceedings. Bud beat her one last time before she moved out of his house and temporarily stayed with me, as Davy was out-of-town at this juncture, and we had a metric ton of fun playing Battleship and dominoes.

But, as much joy as we shared, it hurt to look at Ekaterina. Both of her beautiful cerulean blue eyes were blackened by Bud's savage beating. One side of her face, including the lips, were badly swollen and discolored with a reddish-brown tone. Up and down her arms were a multitude of bruises, abrasions, and cuts. Worse yet, after the thrashing, Bud proceeded to rape her. The way Ekaterina limped told me that Bud had been particularly brutal in his violation of her. The assault on Ekaterina maddened me beyond words. She was part of my cadre, and I loved her dearly. I wanted vengeance against Bud; in his treatment of Ekaterina, he'd lost any consideration as a human being. But Ekaterina bade me not to move against Bud—she didn't want anyone going to jail on her behalf. At least, she said, her marriage was over and she could now embrace Hazy Davy fully. She didn't care about Bud.

As fate would have it, Bud and Spats exited Westlake Mall—each carrying a sack from Candy Tyme—and immediately spotted us on the granite stage. Even from that distance, Pine Street to Starbuck's to the retail carts and across the mall's patio, I could see Bud's mouth become a hairpin of disgust and heard Ekaterina moan with dread. Bud and Spats turned to face each other, and began an animated conversation which none of us could hear. After a moment or two, Spats finally seemed to acquiesce to something Bud had said, and the pair made for Pine Street. It was readily apparent that they were headed toward us as Spats caressed the handgun I knew to be concealed inside his cheap polyester double-knit sport jacket. No matter, I thought; if push came to shove, Takahashi had a Beretta 2032 Tomcat secreted in her purse.

“So,” Bud said to Ekaterina upon stopping just in front of us, “what are you doing here, bitch?”

“I'll stomp your ass if you call her a bitch one more time,” Broadway Billy said. “You can bet that Crispin, Bart, and Davy will take a fucking piece out of you, too. Maybe even Evie.”

“Shut up, old man.” Bud contemptuously said. “You couldn't beat down a squirrel. And, anyway, Spats has a gun.”

“Make no mistake about it, dickhead” I said firmly. “Takahashi has her own pistol close at hand.”

“Whatever,” Bud said dismissively. “I'm just here to give Ekaterina a piece of my mind.”

You have a mind?” I said in a mocking tome. “And all this time I thought you were just a malfunctioning clockwork toy.”

“Fuck off, Sands,” Bud said. “I'm not talking to you, or any of you clowns except for Ekaterina, the greatest clown of them all.”

“What do you want?” Ekaterina said with her sultry Russian accent.

“Where to start,” Bud said, stroking his chin. “Well, you seem to have forgotten that I'm the man who brought you to America. I took you out of that hellhole called St. Petersburg. And I paid Blue Sapphires a fortune, never mind three trips to Russia to meet you and get to know you. The cost to me was something like $45,000 in total. And what do you do to thank me? You take up with another man, specifically Davy Hardin, behind my back. You owe me.”

“I owe you nothing, Bud,” Ekaterina firmly said. “You are not as you represented yourself. You are a cruel man, Bud, and all you ever wanted was a whore to do your bidding. I never loved you—not really. I thought I might grow into it, but it never happened because of your cruelty. I mourn for the next woman you entrap with your lies and brutality.”

“Look, bitch—.” Bud started to say.

“That's it, asshole,” Broadway Billy said, rising from the dais. “You've just earned yourself a righteous beat-down.”

“Fuck off, you old derelict. You ain't gonna do shit.”

I jumped from the dais and got directly into Bud's grill. At just that moment, Spats drew his gun and leveled it at me. He told me to back off Bud, or he'd ventilate me. I heard Takahashi say, “You just try it, gumshoe.” I turned to see my girlfriend aiming her tasty little Beretta at Spats. She pointed out that she had more witnesses than Spats did—five to the private dick's one. "And just who do you think the badges will take seriously, a well-supported woman merely defending herself or a poorly-supported PI who had pulled his gun first?" Bemused, I watched as Spats's gun hand wavered and his face flushed bright red. Holding the gun by its barrel, Spats smiled wanly and slid the heater back into his coat. At that point, I seized my opportunity and kneed Bud in his groin. As he bent over in unspeakable pain, I struck his nose hard enough to hear bones break. Davy, Billy, and Bart poured off the stage, lighting into both Bud and Spats. By this time, Bud was rolling on the ground in pain, and I proceeded to shatter two or three of his ribs. I saw Spats fall to the ground as Bart and Billy kicked him mercilessly.

“How does it feel,?” I said, “getting thrashed just like you thrashed Ekaterina?”

“Pardon me, Crispin,” Davy Said, “but I have a score to settle with this asshole.”

“Be my guest.”

“This is for Ekaterina,” Davy said as he proceeded to grind Bud's face, broken nose and all, into the cement. Bud yelped in pain and misery.

Once Bud and Spats were on the ground, soaking up a world of misery, I decided that retreat would be the better part of valor. Since the cops were nearly an ever-present fact around the vicinity of Westlake Plaza, we'd be well-advised to depart before one or more of them discovered our mischief. So, almost as a single entity, we broke off from our beating of Bud And Spats, and decided to make a beeline for Lowell's in the Market, a full-service bar with the best view in Seattle. In no time, we were sidling up to the bar and ordering our favorite beverages—all on my dime, since I'd done well at the cockroach races at the Wah Mee Massacre. In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I set myself up with a boilermaker and a Corona back. Takahashi was on one side of me, Ekaterina on the other, and I wrapped my arms around both of them.

“You all make me so happy,” Ekaterina said, almost on the verge of tears. “You are truly good friends. I feel safe with you.”

“And I hope,” Davy said, “that you feel the safest with me. I'll never let anything bad happen to you.”

“I love you, Davy.”

With that, I turned and planted a big, wet kiss on Takahashi's mouth. She never ceased to amaze me; she could be outrageously sexy at the strangest moments. Seeing her with that pistol pointed at Spats had turned me on something fierce. Watching her defend me, as well as our friends, stimulated a hot tingling sensation in my chest. I'd never known a woman like Evie Takahashi before, and imagined I never would again. She's one of a kind.
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Today signals the commencement of International Clitoris Awareness Week. In the spirit of this festive event, I urge you to be kind to your friendly neighborhood clitoris. As for me, I plan to positively worship Takahashi's clitoris, as it has given so much to me over the past four years.

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington: Belltown
Noise: Diamanda Galás · Malediction and Prayer

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The following verses represent my first attempt at haikus, I'm trying to investigate various forms of poetry for the purpose of expanding my skills in the realm of writing. I got the idea to do haikus from Evie—herself a very adept practitioner of the art—and she gave me a book called The Haiku Handbook to help me along. Anyway, here are my first three attempts:


Little buzzing fly,
     you bother me no more:
          You are the Buddha.

Friend, what is writing?
     It demands nothing less than
          the rape of my soul.

Bright paper dragons
     winding through Chinatown
     atop the dancing men's backs:
          The Year of the Rat.

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington: Chinatown
Noise: Gary Numan · Listen To My Voice

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OMG! Maker's Mark has reduced its alcohol content from 90° to 84°! What will my lady, Evie Takahashi, and I ever do? This is most likely an action undertaken by the FBI to punish us for our sins, which are plentiful. I guess it's time to switch to Jim Beam or Johnny Walker. Or maybe our favorite bartender at the Streamline Tavern can make a suggestion. She's a fine alcoholic, and possesses an encyclopᴂdic knowledge of ways to get high. The classic extra-dry, very dirty vodka martini is a possibility, but the things are so damnably expensive in Seattle, (and most of our favorite dives don't offer them) that we invariably wind up with empty pockets before 9PM or 10PM. That will never do. When Takahashi and I go on a bender, it's imperative to drink all the way to morning and watch the sun rise over Puget Sound.

Well, we'll see what happens.

Namaste, my little superstars!

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington
Mental Illness: annoyed
Noise: Alien Sex Fiend · All the Madmen

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Any of you young 'uns ever wonder what passed for American culture in the 1980s? Ronald Reagan and Alf. that's what. Case closed.

Be most excellent to one another, my little superstars.

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington
Mental Illness: high
Noise: The Cure · Close To Me

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The Rat City Rollergirls are back in action!

I've missed their first bout, but you can be assured that's it's the only one I'll miss. The next bout is on February 9th and I'm prolly gonna spring for a seat on the floor in the pursuit of enhancing my viewing experience. I love me the Rat City Rollergirls, and I also plan to invest in (black only, of course) teamwear like a t-shirt and a hoodie with the ever-enticing RCR logo prominently displayed. I can't wait for the excitement to begin!


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Namaste, my little superstars!

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington
Noise: Daft Punk · Digital Love

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Why is it that so many Australian actors and actresses are able to produce flawless American accents, yet almost no American performers can maintain a convincing Aussie accent for more than 30 seconds? This really bothers me for some damn reason.

Dark Alley: Seattle, Washington
Noise: Kate Bush · Them Heavy People

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Well, my little superstars, it seems that we—here in the State of Washington—have approved R74, the same-sex marriage referendum, and made marijuana legal. Not all of the precincts have chimed in yet, but the prospects are quite good. Once again, the über-liberal Washington State has apparently come down on the right side of history, led forward by the Evergreen State's Queen City of Seattle. It makes me proud to be a Northwesterner.

Noise: Tom Waits · Never Let Go

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Well, I bought my first ticket to a Rat City Rollergirls match, this one against the Rose City Rollergirls from Portland. Takahashi ain't too interested in roller derby, so she's going to make July 14th, the day of the bout, a girl's night out with her sister, Gracie, and several other folks of the female persuasion. But, I'm really excited. I used to sometimes watch roller derby on the TV when I was but a mere tadpole, but those matches were usually all-male. I'm jazzed at the prospect of watching Seattle ladies kick the shit out of Portland ladies. There's some kinda bizarro sexy in that image.

Namaste, my little superstars!


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Well, yesterday your devoted narrator went to see the new movie Battleship, and just let me tell you one thing: It's a resounding stinker! Don't waste your hard-earned lucre on this heinous frittering away of more than $200,000,000. The writers and the director throw every fawkin' military cliché ever conceived at the audience, and the plot line is so simple-minded that it does nothing but insult the viewer's intelligence. The so-called "humor" falls flatter than a pancake; I could do nothing but groan when the movie's (predictably and stereotypically geeky) PhD ducks in fear upon encountering a guy with pair of metallic prosthetic legs, horrified that he may be encountering a "cyborg." Jeez! And the aliens are just laughable, looking pretty much like slightly malformed homo sapiens. I wasted $9.50 and almost two hours of life watching this dog, and I don't want you to make the same mistake.

(Methinks this cinematic travesty is what you get when you decide to base a movie on nothing more than a silly damn board game.}

In other news, the die is cast: I'm off to Portland on or about July 3rd. I'm going to take the Sounder down, as I've never ridden on a train before and this move will afford me the perfect chance. At $32, the tickets are enticing. Once in Portland, I'll set myself up in a hostel for a few days while looking for a more permanent abode. I'm really excited about this change of scenery, as 1) it provides me with an ideal chance to rewrite my life in the grandest Jack London sense, and 2) Portland is a much more politically radical city than Seattle, as well as a supremely quirky and eccentric one. So, in just one month, I'll shake the Californicated dust of Seattle off my heels, and blow into Oregon with a song on my lips and a flutter in my chest.


Mahalo, my little superstars!

Dark Alley: 47.61322°N 122.3465°W
Noise: DNA · Egomaniac's Kiss

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The internationally-ignored D. B. Callaghan is a Seattle-based, bourbon-addled scrivener writing for a frightening legion of dissolute freaks.