Although my lack of ink made manliness is still a factor, I have just been informed that I draw women the way a man would draw them...

so yes... 

optimistic view: I have a little of both in that talent smoothie

pessimistic view: I suck at drawing, and if I wish to pursue it I should go knock on hentai's door. If this is the case, please replace the rope with a tentacle or something similar and give me 1000000 dollars. 

 

http://spookshowbabyx.deviantart.com/#/d2veoxs

 

The end. For real this time. 

I should not draw men. 

I can not draw men.

When I draw men they look like girls. I can't NOT add effeminate features!

My men look like women or little children!... With beards!!!

Just thought I would share this woe....

Take a look for yourself!

http://spookshowbabyx.deviantart.com/#/d2v7paf

oh and point numero dos: when I draw laughter, it looks like pain....

the end.

Twenty years ago, Jenah said:
‘People… most people anyway, do not take well to being gassed’

All these years later, after all dreams realized and failed, after births, deaths, barmitsvahs and that most unfortunate pie-eating… incident… when the subject of my childhood is brought up, I immediately think of Jenah; black lipstick smudged around her mouth, toy wings with their straps cutting into the dirty flesh at her shoulders, and Jenah said:

‘People…most people anyway, do not take well to being gassed’.


*
And so we sit, my husband and I.
Teddy shoves mouthfuls of mashed potatoes saturated with gravy into the great cavernous hole in his face. A steaming heap of the stuff falls onto his chest and dribbles slowly through the black wire-hairs trailing down his gut.
I hate him more than ever.
The ever present stench of chemicals I am doused in does nothing to cover the smell of the salt and oil I can see glistening in that gravy skid mark clinging to his stomach.
I still wear my lab coat; reluctant to let go of my one shred of cleanliness from the outside world. The coat might suggest to some unknown observer that I do not belong here, in this shithole with this pig of a man. I have often fantasized of such an observer; a clean-shaven man in a suit, perhaps with a mild case of OCD, and he crashes into this kitchen and whisks me away from this…. this.
My anally retentive Prince Charming.
Teddy burp-sneezes; large chunks of partially masticated sausage spraying onto the white front of my coat.

And like that… like that my husband of eight years signed his death warrant.


*

It was during my second year at university, while sitting in on chemistry 101 that I received the second most important piece of information I ever would. Jenah Bailey stood at the podium far below me in the great hall, telling the semi-conscious class the dangers of mixing Coco Pops with B-class explosives. My childhood neighbour was an average professor; commanding attention with her tits rather than tips. However, for the second time, Jenah was about to divulge a piece of life changing information. Second year, chemistry 101, Dr Jenah said:

‘Pure naivety alone is to toy with death. Take for example the potentially fatal reaction when ammonia and bleach or any other chlorine based chemical come into contact; creating a gas molecularly similar to that used in the First World War but each of you owns the components…’

From one of the front rows I heard a whistle as Jenah bent over to retrieve something from her briefcase. Jenah’s rolling eyes matched my own, as she brought the lecture to a close.
She asked if there were any questions.
I asked her where ammonia would be found
Jenah said:
‘It’s everywhere in small doses, in the atmosphere, in fertilizer, even urine’
The boy-man next to me snickered and asked if she would give us a demonstration under his breath.
Chemistry 101, Jenah said:

‘Potentially fatal’.

*

I sit bent over the toilet bowl. I can see the shape of my face reflected murkily back at me. I sigh and start scooping at the water with my coffee mug, depositing it into the tub to my right. The smell invades my air; tainting my oxygen with the stench of Teddy. I remove as much water as I can before refilling the bowl with bleach. This new violation to my senses makes me gag, and I turn sharply and dry heave over the tub, staggering out the room fast and closing the door.
*

By the time Teddy squeezes himself through the front door I’m ready. His jaw drops slack, giving me a money-shot view of the fillings at the back of his dirty mouth. I force my mouth to smile- all teeth- and turn round slowly to give him the pervert’s view of my naked ass as I walk to the kitchen in what I hope is a seductive manner.
I offer him the bottle of wine and he licks his lips with his slug-tongue in what is most definitely not a seductive manner.
After the first bottle he looks ready to drop into a glutinous heap, but I urge him to take another glass and another sip. I tell him a sexy stream of lies and coax him to improve the rouge already deep at his cheeks.

*

Jenah was drunk. She no longer taught at the university. She no longer did much at all. I had tried to creep past her when I recognized the sad hunched figure at the Kings Arms pub, but she had hailed me over.
We sat there for a long time. Jenah drank and talked and I breathed and listened. Jenah lamented her current situation, she despised her children that had stopped calling and her dog had been put down after the discovery of a cancerous tumour. Jenah could see me getting bored. She changed track and talked chemistry, appealing to my interests. I nodded politely to the incoherent torrent of facts. Jenah swallowed the last of her wine and turned to me, one eye half closed.
Jenah said:

‘Heh… I’ve got l-large amounts of ammonia in my piss now after that sh-shitload of wine…. You know… like you asked? Ammonia? I know all…. About it’

She began to cry and recite the periodic table as I paid the bill and crept on out.

*

Teddy is still lying on top of me, his sweat draining into my pores. I grimace in the dark and wait desperately for him to stir. I wait for his bladder to demand attention. After twenty minutes it happens.
Teddy rolls off me and stumbles over to the bathroom, dick ready in hand. I creep after him. Silent. I wait for him to close the door. I listen through the crack between wall and wood as the piss starts to stream into the toilet bowl. I grab the chair next to the bed and jam it hard under the doorknob, immediately going on to push his discarded jeans against the crack under the door. I push and shove hard, knowing my survival hangs on this simple task.
From inside the bathroom I hear the first retch.
I watch the doorknob rattle; the door shaking in its frame.
‘What the…’
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
‘Baby! Something’s wrong… wake up! Shit, Baby, help me out here, I think the doors stuck!’
More coughing. Wet.
‘Baby!! Help me!’
‘No’
‘What?!’
‘No’
The hacking is seriously congested now. A loud thud confirms that the bastard is now on his knees.
‘Bitch! What the fuck!?...What are you… talking… about..?’
I remain silent and revel in the splattering rain of the dying. I sit motionless until my silence is reflected on the other side. And then I sit a little longer. Enjoying myself for the first time since I uttered ‘I do’.
To hell I did.
And then I stand, and I open the window.
I open all the windows.
Jenah’s obituary said: she had suffocated after forgetting to air the room she was working in.

Pepper yells at the sleeping lump, tornado-punching it to try and wake the rodent within.
Nothing but pillows.
Pepper feels hands on her arms and kicks savagely at the air.
/Shut up!/
Mustard manages to cup her mouth and hiss at her. She wears black as usual.
The dress gone. Donned by the crazed black-haired creature.
/Whats going on?!/
/Jen/
/...what?/
/Quiet and follow me/
*
Mustard kicks open the window and drags Pepper out onto the balcony.
They are one floor up and the grass below is winter-brittle crispy.
Mustard swings herself over the railings, grabbing the foot of the iron bars so that she is only four feet of the ground and lets go.
/Hurry!/
/This is insane! Shes not a fucking monster!/
More glass smashes and haughty cackles seep up to their outside refuge like cancerous smoke.
Pepper follows Mustard down and they sprint on carpets of frosty grass.
/Well, what now then?.. What happened to taking care of it?/
Mustard clenches her teeth, grinding fangs and grabs Peppers wrist at the last second, hurling her into a shed that Pepper could have sworn was previously invisible.
*
/Whats going on, Mustard? What is she doing here?/
/Taking care of something/
/Man, what IS this?/
/Its an axe/
Mustard thrusts a heavy murder-obscure object, but Pepper drops it, smashing it into the floor.
/And this is a scythe/
Curved silver flashes around the dark, whistling through the hushed air and disappears.
*
/Whats your plan then? Howd you figure youd sort this one out? Im guessing sane suggestions such as calling for the crazy lady to be evacuated from your property are out of the question?/
/Im doing this her way/
/And you figured youd invite me along why?/
/Well, I figured shed be doing drag shows in Vegas/
/...that would have been more entertaining... unfortunately, right now, you and I are in a sticky situation, and Im dying to hear your solution/
/We play her game/
/Im sorry... I dont think I heard what you just said correctly/
Mustard disintegrates. Pepper snatches at the air but there truly is no substantial matter left.
The only proof of Mustards recent presence is the diminishing whistle of a curved blade slicing the air.
/Alright...two crazy ladies with blades... Bring it on/
*
Pepper stalks back to the house, kicking open the front door and converting her angry-fear into death-stares.
/Mustard?!/
/In here/
Pepper storms into the living room and stumble-stops, blinking confusedly.
A woman sits in the large leather armchair, her dress red and torn up at the thighs, one leg crossed over the other. Marlboro Red in suicide-crimson lips.
/...you!/
/Pepper! How nice to meet you, however unfortunate the circumstances may seem/
She smiles and sliver-scars cross grotesquely from either side of her mouth.
/Charmed/
/What are you girlies doing here then?/
/Well, Mustard thought itd be fun for us all to play a game of hide and go seek/
/I see/
/Seems its your turn to be it/
/I should probably explain the rules then/
*
Pepper grins facelessly
/I know how to play/
/Oh, my rules are very different and make the game so much more interesting/
/Now, Jen, we all play by the same rules or its not fair/
Blue eyes under black mist flash dangerously
/Youd better get running, I get bored of counting very quickly/
/And when you find me??/
/Why ruin the best bit?/
/Just wondering, you know, in case you didnt find me/
/I will find you/
*
The house seems to bubble and crumble and its molecular stability seems questionable.
Pepper wonders how a mansion can look so huge and yet have nowhere to hide.
The doors to sanity have been locked.
The other doors gape open like ravenous jaws.
The door opposite the goddess bedroom screams and she darts inside.
The walls are concrete.
The floors are concrete.
Its cold. Too cold. Somewhere a tap drips.
Pepper smells something rotten and the iron shackles on the wall gleam with rust.
*
Footsteps. Pepper freaks and tries to find an exit, but only the door she came in through exists.
And the steps are tripping nearer.
She runs and pulls the door shut with a force that hurls her to the cold damp floor.
Silence.
/Little pig, little pig, please let me come in/
Oh, shed play this game alright
/Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin!/
Laughter. Beautiful, happy, mirthless laughter.
/Well, then Ill huff and Ill puff, and Ill BLOW YOUR HOUSE DOWN!/
Pepper falls down as a curved blade splinters through the heavy wood door, catching her shoulder.
*
Pepper pain-grinds on the floor, clutching at the red glass leaking from her arm.
Its just raspberry coulee!
She stands up and backs away from the door
/You bitch!/
The door creaks open and Jen stands against the frame, fingering her hair
/Who...me?/
/Ill get you!/
/You cant get me... just try it and see!/
/Oh quit kidding yourself! Youre not as ethereal as you like to think; youre nothing but flesh and bone!/
*
Jens face confuse-contorts
What is this? She doesnt understand. She still thinks shes magic.
She still holds a blade.
She runs at pepper, once more smiling, once more happy.
Happiness is power. Ecstasy is control.
A crack thunders, coating them in needle-sharp vibrations.
Jen cartwheels to the far side of the room and collides with the wall.
Mustard stands in the doorway holding a long leather cord.
/How do you like it!?/
Jen bares her fangs and screams to her feet but fails onto her hands and knees
*
Pepper darts beside her and snatches up the blade into her own strong grip.
For a second the anger in Jens face leaves her blank and ugly, and then the tears start bleeding and she coughs fitfully
/Please! You cant do this! You cant kill me…. You love me!/
Mustard shakes her head as pepper cackles, clutching her wound
/Please dont, Mustard! Dont you see? Give me a chance! You love me... you love me! YOU LOVE ME!/
Mustard falls to her knees beside Jen and cradles her close.
/No. I hate you. I hate you with every drop of blood that courses through this body you tried to destroy. I hate you with my blackened lungs and my eroding liver. I hate you with every twist of my deluded mind/
/But... youre my baby!/
/And youre a cruel, cold bitch, escaped from some work of fiction I pity those who have read/
*
Jen sinks into herself, weeping imaginary feelings.
Crying for the Baftas, the Oscars, the Emmys. Overshadowing these petty support actresses.
Mustards own bones seem suddenly hollow and she bites her lip angrily.
Taking her chance, Jen springs forward. A slash of silver and Mustard crumbles.
Pepper forces hilt of the blade into Jens stomach and she cries out, motionless.
Mustard rolls over, seething anger and black.
Razor blade taped to the back of the neck.
That damn old trick.
She wipes the blood from her cheek and grabs Jens hands; forcing them into the shackles on the wall.
Pepper clicks the heavy metal shut and pulls Mustard to her feet.
*
Mustard pulls out the last syringe and Jens eyes tremble with water,
Its not real tears. Just excess salt.
/And whats my death to be? I saw what you did to Cris. Very nice. Youre a talented girl, Mustard, but you feel too much/
/Shut up/
/Go on then! Paralyze me! Bleed me!/
Mustard shakes her head, pressing a finger to Jens lips
/Honey, Im not gonna paralyze you/
Pepper blinks from her front row seat. She and Jen are momentarily conjoined in confusion.
Mustard loads the vial, licking her fingers as the residue trickles down.
Enough smack to stop the heart of a mule.
*
Pepper grimaces as she watches Mustards uncharacteristically steady fingers empty the syringe into dirty veins.
Mustard watches as Jens eyes close and tears spill down her hideously mistreated face.
Mustard rises and starts to arrange the room.
The needle is still submerged in Jens flesh, swaying as she moves, her eyes trained on it, whimpering. She tries to get it out but she has no hands. She looks up at Pepper, pleading for help, but Pepper shakes her head, transfixed.
Hard light falls on Jens face, illuminating silver scars, gray complexion, feverish cold sweat.
Mustard switches on a hazy light and angles it so that Jen is a shuddering silhouette.
*
As the color begins to drain from Jens face, Pepper kneels down and watches her with hard eyes.
A tattoo visible on Jens graying thigh reads; you look so messy when you dress up in dreams
The needle still erect in Jens skin loses support and flicks out onto the floor, splitter-splattering Pepper in dark red blood.
Pepper shudders and smears the foreign liquid away off her face.
Mustard has finished arranging the set and she takes a strip of brown stained material off a hook on the wall.
Jen separates her lips slightly in exhausted instinct and Mustard ties the rag at the back of her dark hair.
Reaching into the shadows, she smiles, there’s a flash of silver and Mustard falls on top of Jen, holding her tight as the rag drenches red and Jens body shakes and stops.
Dark blood leaks from Jens crudely pierced heart. Scarlet dreams seep from sliced open ribs onto Mustards corseted abdomen.
The scythe lies next to Mustard. Red.
Pepper picks it up and hangs it from the hook on the wall.
*
Pepper and Mustard sit on the old railway tracks. They write their names in the dirt.
They compose breathtaking poetry.
Pepper sketches the meaning of life.
Mustard draws a cure for cancer.
They eat Chinese out of cardboard take-out cartons.
They sing nonsense and smile subliminal irrationality.
The sun begins to go down and somewhere a life is lost with the fragility of a fraying thread.
Somewhere a baby is being conceived.
Somewhere a heart is broken. Somewhere a proposal is made.
Right there and then, the air is stationary and light.
Right then and there they are singing, Lord.
Kumbaya
They are laughing, Lord
Kumbaya
They are living, Lord
Kumbaya.

*
Pepper swirls around buyers and sellers, smiles and eyes, a tall glass of pink champagne in her hand.
She talks to old rich men and stands in front of orange-skinned blonde dolls, blocking their fake dazzles as she, the mad-hatter, takes centre stage.
She stalks a good-looking suit and detours back to her own works.
The glass is half full.
*
Mustard sniffs the stale air nostalgically.
She grins at the three amber Jack Daniels bottles.
The lids are missing but the bottles remain half full, the smell an obscure perfume.
She passes the living room, spotting an ashtray of wasted cigarettes; just the ends burnt for incense.
It seems she is not alone in suffering nostalgia.
She carries on to the back-room where she can hear the murmur of electrical voices.
Cris sits asleep, dreaming of the distorted faces on the television set.
Mustard pulls the plug as her own face swims by and it disappears into the abyss.
*
Cris stirs but remains unconscious to the rooms new occupant and Mustard slowly circles him and climbs into his lap.
Shrunken eyelids flitter-flutter.
Mustard ties her silk scarf around his arm, above the elbow until a vein emerges.
Taking out her needle she renders him paralyzed. Vulnerable.
She plugs the television back in and pries open his eyes. He watches her and then her image as she climbs back into his lap.
She cuts his wrists and guides them above his head.
Pushing his head back, his mouth gaping open she holds his dripping arms above his jaws until his lips overflow and his breathing gags to an eternal halt.
*

Pepper scowls at a woman in a red dress standing by the door, tossing back black hair.
A waiter comes by with tall glasses balancing on a silver platter and the woman takes two.
One for each hand.
She disappears and Peppers glass is empty.
Cue Mustard, tip-tapping in, smiling and dressy.
She takes two glasses.
One for each hand
But when she finds Pepper she hands her a glass so that they are just two bodies normal-drinking in harsh white strobe lights.
*
Morning shows its ugly head and the artists disperse to dream of Van Gough.
Pepper packs away her remaining works, a number of cheques in her right shoe.
Mustard stands against the wall licking red supposedly raspberry coulee off her hand.
She bends down to adjust her shoes and the lights reflect off raspberry stains on her dress.
Pepper watched and then resumes packing.
/Whoever you borrowed that dress off might not be happy/
/Whys that/
/You managed to stain it, and reds not really your color/
/Itll be ok; fortunately this particular shade suits the owner perfectly/
*
Pepper and Mustard sit in their pyjamas, eating breakfast in the claw foot bath.
Its three in the afternoon.
They’ve dragged the television set into the bathroom and they watch twisted cartoons.
Pepper gasses about the night before the morning after while Mustard listens, fixated on the screen.
/You still havent told me what you were doing while I was with Vixen/
/I was seeing Amber/
/Oh... how is she?/
/Busy/
/What did you want from her?/
/Some stuff I couldnt get over the counter at the local pharmacy/
/Oh/
*
Laughing, Mustard pulls a dress off the railings and holds it against herself, pouting.
They are both lopsided, wearing shoes of varying heights.
Wearing layer upon layer of quality gauze, lace and velvet.
Pepper wears a top made entirely of black laced webbing over a pair of Hard Rock cheerleading pants. One green heel, one red boot.
Mustard wears a yellow wedding dress under a velvet cape with red-silk lining.
Stiletto and sneaker.
Jens wardrobe unlocked. The white goddess-fit bedroom strewn with millions in material.
Mustard hop-clunks downstairs to put on music.
Pepper pulls a full layered floor-length skirt from a top shelf, pulling down a dusted picture frame.
The glass cracks. A spider web over the face of a woman in a red dress.
*
Pepper flicks through songs on the old juke-box, watching Mustards skirts and hair fly as she attacks the giant-sized trampoline in the yard.
Pepper feels suddenly aware of the grotesque obesity of the house, sitting in one of its many chambers.
This concrete beating heart.
She turns back to the window and mustard is gone.
She hears excessive creaking, mumbling, cracking, until finally the screech is loud and close as the doorknob turns.
Mustard is stood, red in face from the cold, red in a dress Pepper just cant place.
/Look what I found/
/Its nice/
/Nice?! Its bloody Gucci, now all my dreams will come true/
*
/Whered you find that dress?/
/On my bed/
/...who put it there?/
/You did/
/I didnt/
/Leprechauns then/
/You dont find that strange?/
/Youve never lived in this house/
Pumping, laughing, beating, cancerous heart.
*
/When are we going home?/
Pepper sits on the kitchen table eating rice out the pan for breakfast.
Mustard sits on the work surface, stirring coffee, still wearing the red dress, obscenely creased.
/Soon, I have one more thing to take care of/
/The last thing you took care of happens to be on CNN by the way/
/What makes you think I did that?/
/No prints, thousands of suspects, sadistically familiar/
/You flatter me/
/You scare me/
/You love me really/
/Ha! What choice do I have?! I happen to like being alive, its much more convenient/
/Couldnt agree more/
*
Pepper edges out of bed, trying to guess if Mustard is asleep or pretending, but Mustard remains motionless, snuggle-engulfed completely by blanket.
Pepper drinks from the tap in the icy bathroom before stumbling back to bed.
She screams.
A crouched figure in a red dress is crouched at the top of the stairs with a knife, long hair falling over her face
/Mustard?/
The figure laughs and flees down the stairs at a ghostly speed.
A crash echoes from upstairs.
*

right. well. may as well use this site to post work on, I know thats what sites like livejournal are for but that would mean signing up... eh, youll do... this is a story Im working on a proper version thats a lot better, this is just a small piece i wrote thats based on the future... well what COULD be the future lol. its written in odd paragraphs because i used it for photography and the stars are where there were pictures... characters are based on us. enjoy (not for people who get offended by blood, overly cynical rodents or cacti... you have been warned)... (Mustard=me...)... NARG i have to take out all the apostrophes or it looks odd.. my grammer isnt really THAT awful... i promise:S

~.~
Friday thirteenth and of course theres thunder. And lightning.
Unlucky for some, but it makes the pavements all sparkle-shiny and there are imaginary stars on the floor.
Solitary wisps of smoke curl out of the highest window of the tallest building over looking the rain-shimmer roads.
Pepper stares at the city through a kaleidoscope and sees greens and blues and reds.
She is crouched on the balcony railing; a living breathing gargoyle over the city.
Mustard sits on a white water-soggy deck-chair wearing Mickey Mouse sunglasses.
Marlboro Red in suicide-crimson lips.
*
The television gray-fuzzes and burble-blasts quietly in the corner.
Foreign take-out food rests in boxes on tables.
Pepper and Mustard lie on the floor and look up at the ceiling.
The ceiling is the color of burnt mushrooms
The room is filled with smoke and the bitter sweet smell of alcohol
The clock tick-tocks loudly and both get up, ready for night.
The door click-locks shut and they vampire-glide down the doom-gloomy stairs.
*
Music vibrates off cellar walls as a million bodies jerk to its waves.
Mustard sits at the bar with iced vodka, nibbling the flesh off olives.
Pepper flies around the dancers, lights flying off rainbow hair.
Eyes of other bodies flicker-meet with hers and she winks and laughs and evaporates.
The strangers are interesting with their lack of emotional substance.
No backgrounds, no history, just dancers in flish-flashing lights.
Mustard swallows ice and walks away from the bar and into the pit of movement, her movements disjointed by strobe lights.
Just two pairs of outlined eyes, gray and blue and so many others.
Pepper leaves with a pair of brown eyes and Mustard returns to the bar, invisible, just body matter in a crowd of flesh and bones and blood.
*
Pepper plucks the metal guitar strings fast and flawless.
The microphone makes the song loud and it washes over the room.
The words make Mustard laugh as she sits behind the drum-kit and her noise is made a thousand times louder by her own microphone.
Pepper jumps around, her chord deafeningly awful and grins at the rodent with drumsticks.
The words are nonsense words to the empty room, but tangy tributes to people that blend along in life and made impressions worthy of song.
The eyes of the club owner and some techies search the room as they await a regain of composure, but the laughing is endless.
*
The room is covered in art. In paint and clay and paper and plaster and glue and sequins and glass and stone and metal and plastic and spray-can smelling air.
Pepper sits in the very centre of the room.
Pages are scattered all around and pinned on the walls.
All art. All substance. All recorded thought.
A paintbrush behind each ear and one in her mouth, she manipulates the metal into new shapes and being.
These are the pieces that have yet to be sold. These are the bedroom keepsakes.
For it was a bedroom, distinguishable by a bed pushed up against the wall. Covered in colors.
The money pieces are in the studio down the block.
And they are money pieces. Good money.
*
Mustard sits in the shadow casted by the tall oak tree, blocking out the moon.
Muscles cramp-painful from sitting immobile for an amount of time.
She shiver-shakes her eyes nervously over the park.
Footsteps.
Climbing into the tree, Mustard stops breathing as a tall figure walks below her.
The figure is unconscious to her being and passes on down the path.
Mustard counts his ridiculously loud steps until he is a distant shadow and flies from the tree to the floor. Silently.
She slowly starts casual-gliding after the shadow man.
The moon glows but she wears black corsets and coats. Invisible bat.
*
Pepper and Mustard sit in the widow of Starbucks on the bustling main street. Coffees in front of them. Sweet and sour.
Pepper runs her pen over creased paper with liquid speed and looks up at Mustard for input.
Mustard drags deeply on rolled tobacco and shrugs, eye-glittering as ideas surface.
The songs have no structure or reason.
Pepper will pick out the chords and they will work instantaneously. The beat of the drums will shape them. Music is art. Structure is irrelevant.
Occasionally there is pause in which life-snippets are swapped and chewed and masticated about.
There is much more laughter coming from their area than others. Always more laughter. Mixing sarcasm and wit and general stupidity with intelligence is an art in itself.
*
The man has a blue suit on which emits wealth and Pepper watches intensely as he marches from one painting to another.
She sees he is an upright man so she shows him upright paintings.
The money he hands her is iron-crisp and so she puts his purchase in a crease free bag.
He nods to her and twitches his lips, so she twitches back.
The art of people-reading.
Not as easy as it seems.
*
Mustard slips the credit card down the crack in the door.
The lock springs open, silently.
She floats into the room she decides is a kitchen and picks up an apple.
She bites into it and the noise is loud
The silence in the house is suddenly buzzing and she breathes quicker, heart rate higher.
There are no pictures on the walls. No artefacts. No personality.
This is the right house.
She ascends the stairs and stalks down the hallway. Leather boots making their leathery sound but otherwise silence.
*
Pepper turns the key in the lock and enters the apartment.
On the table she sees yellow paper and a thermos with a bag bursting with sugar beside it.
An old joke. No longer funny. But important tradition all the same.
The coffee in the thermos is cold.
The note warns her that this may be so, but that the thought is what counted, so Pepper takes a quick complimentary sip anyway.
The note reads: out. Dont wait up. Maybe late. Made you coffee. Probably cold.
Pepper turns on the stereo and smokes lazily on the sofa before taking off paint splattered Converse and closes her eyes.
She doesnt wait up.
*
Mustard opens the door with military precision and smiles as it becomes a wide black mouth.
She can make out a bed. And a body.
From her coat she removes complimentary items.
A syringe with a pre-loaded vial.
A ten inch bladed Japanese straight knife.
Quivering with adrenaline she savage-forces the needle into the vein under the jawbone she knows is blue.
The body shakes and bucks and rages and then is still. Paralysed. Staring up into her eyes as she smiles back.
She quarters the torso and sections off the best pieces of meat from the buttocks. She removes the manhood and tosses it to the side.
Kissing the bullet-shaped tattoo on the cooling forehead she leaves.
Gone.
*
The bang of the door wakes Pepper from dreaming and she hisses as Mustard opens the fridge and removes a carton of milk.
/Ive told you not to drink from the bottle/
Mustard grins cattily and then grimaces, pouring the rest down the sink.
The splashes are irregular. Congealed.
/Thats off/
Pepper grins back
/I know/
Mustard collapses into the sofa opposite Pepper and turns on the half-working television, removing her coat.
It glistens with moisture.
Pepper looks out the fogged up window. Its not raining.
/Whats that wet stuff?/
/Blood/
Pepper blinks and then turns back to the television.
/Please dont sit there with that knife, put it away/
Mustard places the knife on the floor and they carry on watching blurs.
*
/What did you mean; blood?/
/Blood/
/Whos? Yours?/
/Tres/
Pepper blinks and forces eye contact
/Youre serious.../
/Of course/
/Oh/
/What?/
/Nothing... How do you feel?/
/Better/
/...Ok/
/Ok./
*
Pepper sits in the park, strumming the guitar and hum-singing along.
She wears a top hat with playing cards slipped into a red ribbon tied at the base.
She amuses herself by looking over the top of red-rimmed glasses at passers-by.
The old ones smirk; smug at their maturity over the top-hatted, waist-coated guitarist.
The young ones smile; acknowledging that top hats are hard to pull off and that music is an art.
The babies pick their noses and suck at their fingers; too self-absorbed in soiling themselves to pay Pepper any notice.
The strumming of her guitar strings lulling their fat-squishy heads into sleep.
Some wise-ass throws her money and walks off, gleaming with his own wit.
Pepper shrugs and pockets the money for coffee and carries on strumming.
*
Mustard lies on the sofa, spilt ash fizzle-burning the cuff of her coat.
She watches the television.
Some ugly blonde news reporter stands outside a white house with dusty windows.
Mustard notes that there is no sign of forced entry; her credit card slip-sliding trick was well honed.
There are hordes of suspects. A gallery of enemies. A museum of angry haters.
But no evidence of her. No evidence at all.
No witnesses. No prints.
Mustard half-smiles and runs a gloved hand through red hair.
*
Pepper grimaces at an emaciated Santa with dark circles under his eyes.
Mustard darts across the street, narrow-dodging honking cars to join her, mime-grabbing Santas ass.
Pepper grins and throws her copper-change into Santas plastic bucket as he hiccups thankyous and seasons greetings.
She offers Mustard a newly purchased cigar and the two mafia-puff down to a snow-soggy bench.
Behind them; an army of mutant snowmen plot to exploit the city.
*
/Snow sucks/
/-cock/
/That was mature/
/Yeah, I try. Snow is like Santas powdered semen, reminding us that the holidays are upon us/
/Ive never heard it put that way. You need to get a job instead of sitting around thinking of...that/
/Like you don’t think up innuendos while painting phallics all day/
/I dont paint cocks/
/Its so much more fun for me to believe you do though/
/Well... I guess I know what I’m getting you for Christmas/
*
Pepper and Mustard sit, wrapped inside duvets like cheese wrapped in fajitas.
They lazy-glaze watch the Grinch steal Christmas as they eat apple pancakes and syrup.
Pepper looks around at the two packages under the cactus.
/Its odd not having a tree/
/Hey!thats what I bought the cactus for/
/Yeah... but its a cactus.../
/You can decorate it if it makes you happy/
Pepper fork-catapults her pancake onto the top of the Christmas-cactus.
/You wanna open up presents now or were you waiting for Santa?/
*
Mustard sits cross-legged by the Christmas-cactus, gurgle-gulping her vodka-snakes contently.
Pepper sits wide-eyed on the other side, watching Mustard through a web of spikes.
/Is this a joke?/
/No./
/Two tickets to America and its not a joke?!/
/Well, one is for me/
/Right. But... I’m gonna have to get you another bottle of vodka arent I./
/That would be much appreciated, now go pack a bag/
/But my work-/
/Took care of it/
/Oh. I thought Id known you for too long to get surprised./
/What, Im not allowed to buy expensive presents?/
/No thats fine. Just didnt think you had the sense to take care of things./
/Watch it or Ill throw you out the plane/
/Do it over the Mediterranean if possible./
/I'm not detouring to throw you off the plane/
*
The plane is full of people trying to sleep.
Mustard pokes Pepper repeatedly to keep her awake.
The little boxes they call televisions are not working and the women with the trolleys with the vodka in miniature bottles are dreaming of land over by the cock-pit.
/Hey, what did the blonde say when she spilt cheerios out the box onto the floor?/
Pepper turns slowly to give Mustard her please-leave-me-alone look
/Look!!! Donut-seeds!/
Pepper lets out a hiccup-giggle as Mustard collapses into tornado-loud hysterics.
Around them, angry eyes blurry-open and mouths snarl.
/shhh, youre keeping the sleeping beauties awake/
/So bite me!/
*

name: mouse
loaction: some cafe, amsterdam
subject: poem i came up with while eating a cake and watching an old couple argue about whether or not they fed the cat (yes i speak dutch, and yes i am concerned about the feeding of the cat, yes i evesdrop, no im not going to stalk them home to take away the malnourished cat)

~:~
i met a girl made up of cokecans, cardboard and poems written but never sent
i asked her if she would smile
she could not was her answer for her lips were contructed of ash and dirt
and real smiles are made up of butterfly wings
i asked her if she would laugh just once
she shook her head, she could not, for her voice box was made up of takeaway cartons
and real laughter is the sound of thunder and lightning
i asked her what she could do
'nothing' she sighed 'until i get recycled and turned into somebody new'
i turned to go, 'i like you like this, a compound of memories' i smiled
she shrugged... 'its time to take out the trash'
~:~

well.. there we go
hope you enjoyed
lol

ok so now theyv added yet another thing to fill in so that people can read about u! yay how intresting for u lot!
ok well a journal is like a diary and in a diary you write down what u did in a day...so:
today i painted my friends kids face. i asked her what she wanted to be. she said 'a potato'. so i painted her brown. i showed my friend i could juggle knives and cut my finger. i wore my pyjama pants under my jeans all day for warmth... i decided to only eat red foods today....
there u go
wasnt that EXCITING!
it surely was for me! i can barely contain myself!!