Friday, August 7, 2009


Part 3 of The Daizy Trilogy

3 short stories by Walter Cessna

Photographs of Brandon & Lindsey by Walt Cessna NYC 07

There were very few things that actually intrigued me anymore. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and send goose pimples racing down my spine. Sometimes I still got a kick out of the fact that I never went to school, although at this point in my checkered youth it hardly mattered anymore. Shoplifting actually had a grip on me for a bit, but the things I wanted to steal could hardly be concealed in my jacket. There were moments when all I could do was fantasize about living in a reality that had nothing to do with the fucked up one I was already trying to escape. I had developed a steely reserve for counterfeit alarm and intrigue, blending in with my own disillusionment until even I couldn’t see the real me. I used to be a nice guy. A regular Joe, but that was before he came along.

I mean, how easy is it to understand what it’s like for a fifteen year old kid whose sister just stabbed her new boyfriend and shot her ex boyfriend, both to death, right in front of you? And it was mostly your fault. In fact, it was all your fault. You set the whole thing up. To add a little more excitement to the mix, you discover that you’re in love with your sister and from the way she just kissed you, she seems to be on the same wave length, but you are starting to realize that it is a sexless love you share, almost a pseudo incestuous charade, a mind fuck, pure and simple.

That was a few months ago. Daizy and I had left New York the night of the killing, hopping a plane to San Francisco using the extremely unsuspicious sounding monikers of Lourdes and Rocko Ciccone. I may have been on the lam, but I still had a sense of humor. We had withdrawn as much money from our mothers bank and our own as we could. Twelve hundred bucks wasn’t going to last long. Daisy had charged the plane tickets using an old boyfriends credit card number that she had held onto for emergencies, the sneaky little thing. The plane ride seemed short since both of us fell into fitful sleeps until Daizy woke up and realized she hadn’t quite washed all the blood off her hands. In our rush to leave the apartment in case the gunshots had attracted the police, we only got to pack a bag each. For a girl as obsessed with clothes as my sister, this was not a happy situation. She bitched the entire time she was in the shower washing away the blood of Jude, the bug dude and good ol’ Scratchy, our weed dealer and her disgruntled ex.

Daizy blew her sharp black bangs straight and then slipped into a short Anna Sui sage corduroy jacket and skinny calf length trousers. She pulled on a pair of worn in black suede boots and tied a black cashmere kerchief around her head. Day-glow pink sunglasses and fingerless suede motorcycle gloves complimented her black polar fleece turtleneck and matching shoulder satchel into which she threw her make-up, Palm V, cell phone, trip book and assorted markers and colored pencils. After a brief moment of hesitation, she walked into her closet and blindly pulled the first two outfits she could reach out and into her bag. A few pairs of hastily chosen bra’s and panties were a last thought, a luxury that Daizy knew she would not be able to live with out.

I decided to travel equally as light. I stuffed my well-worn Yak-Pak with some t-shirts, a few pairs of socks and underpants (tighty whities). My lap top would weigh me down a bit, but it was worth it I reasoned as I shoved it between my clothes and then covered it with a pair of super old but really comfortable Caffeine cargo pants. My bag already contained a toothbrush with paste, condoms, a tin of Oribe silver tinted pomade and my major necessity; Kheil’s lip balm #1. I looked at Daizy and signaled her to follow me. As we walked over the two dead bodies, my mind simply blocked out the evenings previous events and I grabbed Daizy’s hand as we walked out the door. We never even looked back. It was as if New York had simply ceased to exist. So what were a few dead bodies when it comes down to the bigger picture of our getting the fuck outta there?

I open my eyes and step back into the reality of the plane ride. Daizy gets up to wash her hands for the millionth time as I stare silently out the window, desperately trying to picture what San Francisco might hold for us, if anything at all. Daizy returns from the rest room and sits back into her chair. She leans against me and rests her head on my shoulder. I can tell by her moist cheeks seeping into my shirt that she has been crying. I draw her closer to me and stroke her beautiful, shiny, liquid hair until the familiar sound of her sleepy breathing washes over me, providing a strange comfort, one part soothing, another part annoying and distracting like a fly in my soup.


My sister Daizy had warned me about going out with the first available fag that happened my way, but did I ever listen to her? No fuckin’ way. We had been in San Francisco for about a week and were staying in a residential hotel on Ninth and Market called The Chase. It was a pretty low key, easy to remain anonymous type place, even if it made both of us visibly cringe as we opened the door to our room and realized it resembled a broom closet without ambience. Daizy and I seemed to blend right in with all the other assorted characters that milled about, probably because we were hiding under the same dark cloak of acid soaked ambiguousness as the rest of them.

Now you’re probably wondering where the sudden fag situation came from. Well, it turns out that Daizy and I tried to have sex the first night we stayed at the hotel. We were both exhausted but pent up with the excitement of a new city and a future that could only be lived day to day. After struggling with our pent up desires and finding no way to reciprocate anything other than feigned horniness, we gave up, lit a cigarette and got down to the business of finally telling each other exactly what we wanted. She wanted to fuck everything in sight and so did I. But I still wanted her to be mine and this would pose to be a problem later on.

I confessed to being pre-occupied to the point of manic masturbation when it came to her long and steady stream of boyfriends. I was especially enamored for some sick, fucked up reason with Jude, which was most likely why I had gone to all the trouble of setting up a confrontation with Scratch to fuck things up between him and Daizy. This seemed to amuse Daizy, which made me curious as to whether she actually had any feelings for the bug dude in the first place. There were much more pressing matters at hand though. We had to change our identity.

Daizy had been reading books about famous San Francisco strippers and decided to name herself after a late 1800’s saloon gal named Dandy Outlaw who had a penchant for loose men, blazing six shooters and an appetite for Scotch that would soon only rival Daizy’s own. I myself liked to keep things simpler. I chose my nickname Bas for my first and simply spelled our last name, Tomas backwards. Bas Samot. Not bad and only vaguely tacky sounding. I hooked us up with a couple of phony Social Security cards, even a fake drivers license for the non-driving Daizy, or Dandy as she now preferred to be called (gotta keep in character after all). My connection turned out to be a funny little fellow, name of Shamus McGlinty O’Guire, a courtly fellow prone to coughing fits and small bouts of breathlessness, followed by an inordinate amount of gasping for air, any air still available to his selfish, hog like lungs.

He hung out at a bar called the Wooden Horse, down on lower Polk St. I had discovered it upon one of my initial “walk-about’s” when we first got here. I would literally spend entire days just walking around San Francisco, not knowing where the fuck I was or how to get anywhere specific. Just feeling it the entire way, like a blind man with an exceptionally large amount of trust in his guide, only mine didn’t even exist. I may have only been fifteen, but I knew how to work my way with a conversation and the very over the top gay bars of Polk St. were just like an open air theater in the fucking round for me. It was during one of my slightly drunken performances at my new favorite dive, the Wooden Horse, that Shamus introduced himself, praising my bravado and looking none too distressed when I offered to refresh his cocktail (a lethal yet simple potion of bottom shelf gin mixed with a dash of even cheaper vodka and some vermouth).

We took a booth way in the back and I listened in rapt, awed attention as the geezer proceeded to tell me his life story starting from the womb to two minutes ago that very day. He kept feeling me up, but I managed to keep shooing him on with his stories and out of my pants, until we were both exhausted with his tale and in need of more cocktail companionship. After a few more chance afternoons like this one, I finally invited him over to the hotel where Daizy, uh Dandy greeted us with all the warmth and sincerity of a battered wife faking it for the ten millionth time. That soon changed when Shamus let it be known that he had the correct phony I.D. hook up and would take care of our shit like that (snap of my fingers extremely fiercely!).

Trouble with Shamus though, he was hard to shake once he had done his deed. Kind of like plankton on the bottom of a boat, except he wasn’t hidden underwater and his expectations for social entertainment (getting totally fucked out of his gord) far exceeded those of some crusty barnacles. On top of that, he was sort of threatening to expose us if we didn’t keep him happy. One day, he stopped by, unannounced as usual and expected Dandy to get him something to drink, even if it meant going down to the corner for a cold forty. This brought the Daizy up in Dandy and Shamus was soon laid bare, sprawled across one of our cheap hotel beds like fresh game after a kill. Dandy just couldn’t stand listening to him bitch anymore, so when he bugged her to service his lazy ass she snapped and simply walked up to him and plunged a pair of scissors into the side of his head, which kept talkin’ like nothing had gone down and everything was normal. Yeah, sure. Let’s talk normal when you have half of your brains oozing onto your shoulders in mid conversation and hopefully nobody has fuckin’ noticed.

Ever try disposing of a still bleeding body in a rather crowded and always busy residential hotel? Let me tell you, it’s not exactly easy. First you gotta find something big enough to put it in that doesn’t leak. Then you gotta shlep it outta the building at some god awful hour in the middle of the night when hopefully the only person on duty will be asleep and not notice that were dragging the remains of a dead drunken Irishman.

Anyway, after the demise of dear old Shamus, Dandy and I realized that after two months of workless living, we were almost broke. Our mother had cut off both our bank accounts (something I’m sure the bitch had no trouble doing) and we had gone through the $1200 we stole from her within the first month. Dandy had maxed out the ex-pieces credit card and we had each hocked the expensive Cartier watches that our Grandma had given us as kids. To put it bluntly, we was broke as fuckin’ hell and with my new-found drinking habit, cash became our main priority.

I still had my lap top, but that was the only portal back into my soul I had left. It was where I had obsessively kept all my hidden desires and fantasies stored for the past few years, most of them centering around Daizy. If I sold my lap-top, where would I exercise the knowledge of my forbidden lust and demented longing for a sister that no longer appeared innocent. Not even in my naïve, affection starved eyes. If I couldn’t find a place to store my memories and hopes for her then I might as well be dead, since it was obvious I would never share the same reciprocation with her personally that I did by myself.

Now you gotta understand that neither Dandy nor I were exactly used to roughing it. We may have been raised by bourgeoisie, bohemian wannabe parents, but the most we ever had to struggle for was more volume on the TV. Being in a strange city, with no money, suspicious friends and a lackluster social life was more than two spoiled brats like us could actually tolerate. It seemed like things were about to get desperate and neither of us had any inclination how twisted, fucked up and blown out of proportion our very existence was about to become.


Sometimes you find yourself having to do things you never even imagined in your worst dreams. The kinds of things you’re ashamed to tell your parents about even though they’ve seen it all before. That’s where I found myself on a shit ass rainy day, stuck down at the corner of Sixth & Mission waiting for Daizy to show her late as usual self. Just as I was about to give up hope and succumb to the wafting advances of a smoldering Wendy’s burger, she shows up, actually giving me attitude even though I was on time. Fuckin’ girls.

Fuckin’ me, was more like it. I was more of a mess than Daizy, who was strangely kind of keeping it all together. I had been drinking like a fish, swimming through my own murky ocean of memories both imaginary and real. I was quietly losing my mind. Reliving the murder in slow moe, fast moe, medium moe, all the time moe, eenie meenie miney moe. Daizy had been spending her time chasing boys as usual, only now they were men. And they weren’t as cute as they used to be. And I certainly wasn’t attracted to any of them so I spent a lot less time with Daizy, which meant that most of the time I felt cold, alone and miserable. I was still in love with her, fucked up as it may seem and even I couldn’t fuckin’ understand it.

Daizy looked freshly fucked and smelled spunky clean. It was more than I could take so I bit my lip and got to the business of hand. Daizy and I were about to turn our first brother and sister five hundred dollar trick. I had hooked up with the john by placing a rather coy ad in The Bay Are Reporter, or B.A.R. as it was popularly called. It was a local fag paper that disguised it’s hustler classifieds with some camp reviews and grassroots politics. All I knew was a lot of horny old fuckin’ men read it and liked to call up the boys for hire in the back pages. And some of them were pretty kinky, which was ok with me cause that meant that they paid more. And we needed more. Lots more. Daizy wasn’t exactly hauling the cash in, if you know what I mean and what her “dates” showered on her was more likely golden than green.

Yeah, Daizy had developed a taste for rough trade in the most cliché of forms. Total losers. Guys so down on their luck that sometimes I could smell the desperateness on them like some stank cologne. Her latest turned out to have a taste for boys as well and I coincidentally hooked up with him one afternoon when I answered a mysterious phone call beckoning me to the W hotel. Room 222. Knock 3 times. I did and to my surprise he answered the door. After a bit of uncomfortable quietness and quirky stares, he recognized me as Daizy’s brother and we both proceeded to laugh our asses off.

Then he fucked me. For along time, till the thought of walking straight again temporarily alluded me. That’s when he first told me his idea for a threesome. With his favorite brother and sister. Funny, I never remember him acting interested when I walked in on him taking a shit in our bathroom after he had just fucked Daizy, who was still naked on the couch and playing with her twat, the horny little bitch and ignoring me. So I went to take a leak and bumped into him. That was then. This, weirdly, but I guess not so weirdly considering the course my life had taken recently, was now. Surprises were a thing of the past. Expected displeasure seemed to be the course of the day.

Daizy grabbed my hand and we walked the three blocks down Market to Third, hooked a right and stomped our way through the crowded sidewalk and into the W hotel. Room 454 this time. Five knocks. And a cough. Either this guy was wack or an ex secret service freak. Daizy looked fierce, but the wear and tear of our new underground existence was starting to take a toll on her once porcelain beauty and fearless resolve. She was changing. So was I, but Daizy’s was more external, whereas I was completely internalizing my confusion and pain. She was starting to look like shit, but I still had my cute looks and wily demeanor. She had recently dyed the tips of her now shoulder length black hair blueberry and had taken to wearing retro Norma Kamali sweatshirt tops with those weird 80’s padded shoulders and little cheerleader striped mini skirts. She had given up on heels and scuffed about the street in Wallgreens slippers like the rest of the fashionable walking dead that congregated at the Civic Center all day and made their deteriorating presence known. She wasn’t that far gone, but for some reason, I kept imagining it in her future.

The guy answers the door and to my fucking non-amazement he’s already naked and wacking off his big fat, curved cock. Daizy said the curve made him fuck her better. Maybe that’s why she was walking so funny all the time? All I knew was that it choked the back of my throat the fuck up when he would pump my face so I had begged Daizy to do most of the work. He was her piece after all. I just ran into him due to the strange and mysterious irony of life. The next three hours blazed before us as we each quickly downed large, soda glasses full of warm, bitter rum. I drank mine quick and then downed two more as I watched him grab Daizy from behind and rub his cock up against her thin jersey mini skirt until he was practically fucking her ass.

I don’t recall much after I blacked out, but if I recall, things were going pretty smoothly. Daizy was sitting on his face while I was giving him a rather good blow-job. It was my specialty after all. But then things got a little weird and he kept running into the bathroom and coming back into the room all hyped up and shit. Speed freak. The only explanation that made sense. It would also explain his now flaccid dick and growing frustration with me and Daizy’s attempts to re-arouse him. The next thing I knew I’m in pain and my face is stinging as if I had just gotten slapped with a phone book. I blacked out soon after and when I finally came back to reality I was lying in bed with his dead body, a telephone receiver permanently embedded into his face.

Daizy was smoking a joint and sitting on the toilet quietly talking to herself as she puffed away. I yelled for her, but the bitch ignored me. As usual. I get up and walk into the bathroom, pull the joint out of Daizy’s fingers and take a good long deep toke. She shoots me a whatever look and pulls a few pieces of TP off the roll, wipes herself and flushes the john. As she gets up and brushes past me, I grab hold of her arm and stop her mid track.

I look at her and ask for an explanation through my stare, unable to form words and hoping not to express too much fear with my eyes. But the point is I was scared shitless. Daizy was developing a frightening knack for knocking people off in a flick of a well mascaraed lash of the eye and didn’t seem too bothered with her new killer bitch status. I however was not featuring it. I got up and walked into the other room, unable to contain my anger, nor wanting to suppress it. So I decided to go back to our room, pack my things up and leave the next morning without telling Daizy. I mean Dandy. I mean, do I even know what I mean anymore. My life had become a sequel to a remake of a mini series based on something even more far out than Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls. Funny, I always imagined super vixens when I day dreamed. I never thought Dandy would turn into a demented version of one.

I got dressed silently and Dandy did the same. We just left the guy there dead in the bed, blood soaked sheets and all. Yeah, it had come to this, sloppy slayings that we practically trailed behind us like footprints dipped in fresh wrung blood. Dandy was still talking to herself and it occurred to me that she might have slipped a little further off the edge than any of had ever planned. She had changed and it certainly didn’t appear for the better. Her clothes were hanging off of her like a sale gone bad and I didn’t exactly give the appearance of a sophisticated gentleman, but we managed to straggle past the front desk without anyone paying us too much notice. That was until Dandy caught the eye of a desk clerk giving her an odd look and she screamed a stream of unintelligible epithets at him.

I grabbed her hand and we ran out of the hotel, not stopping for red lights and hopping over cars that suddenly got in our way. People must have thought we were crazy, but I imagined we were extras in a movie, escaping some harm about to destroy us. The cars were dragons, the buildings were giants and the other humans that got in our way were the trolls of the universe, dispersed randomly for our annoyance and pleasure. Little did I know in that in the next twenty-four hours she would betray me in the most vile of ways possible. Dandy. The love of my life.


So I didn’t exactly leave. I was planning to, but by the time we got back to our room, smoked another joint and got over the paranoid suspicion that a gaggle of cops were on our tail, we had fallen asleep and it was morning before either of us opened our eyes. Dandy got up first and by the time I actually crawled out of our cramped single bed, she was already out and about, oblivious to yesterdays murder and most likely on the scent of her next kill. I mean thrill. It was almost an hour before I realized my beloved lap top was missing and with it a million memories and thoughts that were for my eyes only.

I had no idea what to do, where to begin, how to start. I was frozen. She must be completely fucked up and not care a stitch about me any longer to take my lap-top. So I waited, hoping, praying, cursing that she showed the fuck up as instantly as possible. Minutes turned to hours and I passed the time watching a cockroach crawl across the floor and then onto the wall and then finally behind a mirror. Amazing how lackadaisical roaches truly are. Just like us humans, only more resilient. I wish I could be so fucking resilient, but my layers of strength were slowly peeling away, exposing my true self. A weak, scared little mouse. Nothing more than a would be milquetoast and not even a good one at that.

After midnight came and went without Dandy showing up, I decided to spring myself from my self-imposed fortress and search for her myself. I headed in the only direction I knew and before I could say crack whore, there I was. On the border of 6th and Mission, unsure of whether or not to proceed or do what my brain says and run the hell away. My heart still loved her and there was no way I was going to let it end without at least a final confrontation. I wasn’t searching for closure. I was offering it. And if Dandy knew what was good for her she would take whatever I had to give. I hoped.


Bas was never exactly the brother I had hoped for, much less expected. Yet I was his sister, blood and even I couldn’t deny the deep bond we shared or the kinky yet appealing incestuous love affair we had been indulging in. I never expected to fuck my brother and although it was basically masturbatory manipulation, we both seemed to need it. I don’t know if we ever really wanted it though. At least I didn’t. I had never come with Bas. Not even close. Where as it seemed he was experiencing the most ecstatic of experiences simply by touching me. Frankly, it had started to creep me out. That’s why I was attracted to all these other guys. Older guys. Scary guys. Edgy, dangerous, obviously fucked up and might have nowhere to go but straight to hell guys.

So that’s where I found myself. Sitting in the lobby of a very fucked up building over on 6th and Mission waiting for one of my admirers to show his ass up and help me hock my brothers most valuable possession and get me some much needed cash. See, Bas wasn’t the only one who had developed a drinking problem. So did I, but my true love was crystal. Speed. Crystalina Tina. It had taken over my life and I was out of it and that was not a good thing. I wanted more and this asshole I had met a few days ago, just by chance of course, was going to provide me with a connection, some correct shit and maybe even a place to crash and hide for a bit while Bas cooled his jets.

And there he was. All four foot three of him. He was short, but he wasn’t a midget. At least not to me. I was willing to overlook his deficiencies in height if he could and would provide me with a much-needed change of scenery. He greeted me with a big hug around my thigh and a rough, bearded scratch of a kiss on my belly button. He said that was his favorite part of me. His treasure. Who was I to deny him? This was actually going to be easier than I thought and as he pulled off my clothes and made a kind of awkward, retarded love to me, I imagined what Bas must be up to right now and just how freaked out I had gotten him. He’d have to deal for once. It was my time in the sun and now that I had made the decision to get the fuck away from his monopolizing ass, I wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for him and allowing myself to get all pathetic and guilty and shit. I was not going out like that. No fucking way.

His name was Massimiliano and he was an illegal alien from Italy. We had met at the change booth in the Powell Bart station and he had offered me a crisp dollar bill when my rumpled to the point of destruction one had ceased to work in the machine. I had just had a fight with Bas about turning that fateful trick at the W before we realized it’s fatal finale. I had gone for a walk, but one of those suddenly out of nowhere rain storms swept through the Frisco sky’s and I found myself escaping a quick soak by going underground. After a brief exchange he asked if I would like to have some coffee. I said I’d rather do a bump. He said that could be arranged. Like I said, it was love at first sight.

So here I was, fucking this wiry little Italian stallion and contemplating my future. I was about to be twenty-one. Bas and I had been on the run for a year now and it was obvious that nobody was coming to get us. It was as if we had disappeared off the face of the earth whether we liked it or not. So now it was time to do things on my one, without his shadow hovering over me. I deserved a break and thanks to Massamiliano it was all about to come true.

After we fucked a few more times, I managed to shift the focus away from his constantly erect cock and to the fact that we needed to score some crystal, which meant we had to get rid of the lap top. If we were lucky, it might score us a few grams of speed and a little cash left over to party with. One thing was bugging me though, like a nagging itch in a hard to reach place. It was him. I was starting to think about getting rid of him, when I caught myself, reversed my train of thought and got to the business of hand.

Have you ever sold stolen merchandise in the middle of the day? Smack in the middle of the Civic Center, with a perfect view of the gold domed capital building and a million lost and cracked out souls congregating in its shadow? There is some seriously shady shit going down today, so me and Massamiliano have to be extra careful that we don’t approach the wrong freak or we might end up not only not getting what the fucking thing is worth, but possibly get ripped off altogether. It took the two of our tweaked asses a good hour before we even got out the door and were immediately assaulted by the twisted street symphony taking place before our feet.

Massamiliano claimed to know this guy named Gerald who always hung by the fountain. I knew nothing of this guy called Gerald, he could have been some guy named Sam with the head of a clam for all I knew (props to MC Lyte), but if he was willing to take a hot lap top off our hands, for at least $200 worth of tweak, then I would be one very happy camper, yes in-deedy. We brushed past the frozen zombies stuck in the sidewalk like pieces of discarded chewing gum and stopped once we reached the fountain. It was one of those post-modern cubist type of things that spouted water in a few far-flung places. Through a stream of liquid deflection, Massimiliano saw this guy named Gerald and called out to him. Mother-fucker walked right through the water and across the fountain, only stopping when he was about a foot away from us.

“Taking a quick bath?” Massamiliano asked him, a look of mockery in his gaze.

“You know me,” answered this guy named Gerald. “I can’t be held responsible for my seemingly insane actions as I am a product of not only a broken home, but suffer from a severe sense of self denial as well.”

“In other words you’re fucked,” I chuckled, swallowing my last laugh with a mouthful of air when this guy named Gerald shot me a dirty look. Instead of smacking me, he simply answered;

“You could say that.”

Then he stepped out of the fountain, reached for the lap-top under Massimiliano’s arm and checked it out with an air of authority worthy of the most trusted Microsoft employee. He turned it on, ran his corroded fingertips slowly over the keys and smiled as he sat down and rested it on his lap. After almost two straight minutes of non-stop fiddling, he looked up at us and nodded his head, quickly shut the computer and then pulled a small plastic sandwich bag, tightly twisted and filled with two gleaming grams of beautiful, gorgeous, supa dupa tweak. I could feel my body twitch as he handed it over to Massamiliano, hopped up on his feet, spun around and blew a sweet kiss first to us and then up to some angel of his in the sky.

Then this guy named Gerald disappeared as quickly as he appeared, but we couldn’t have cared less or even noticed. We were already enmeshed in the game of getting high, giggling like kids as we raced back to the tiny room which we would end up cracked out in for the next week. A week of blissful high’s, evil come-downs and all out psycho babble battles. I never thought of Bas, not even once. My mind had become zapped and there was no way I could find out. In fact, it was almost as if I was looking to get even more lost. Gone. Without a trace. Massimiliano provided that for me, an easy out. And if I had to break my brothers fucked up heart then so fucking be it. Who knew that I was about to meet someone who would alter my life forever and one day rescue me from a once child like sibling that had grown into a bitter and extremely spiteful man, intent on taking me back into his life as his one true love. Yeah, sure.


I gave up looking for Daizy, I mean Dandy after about three months. I realized she was gone, but knew it wasn’t forever. I might not find her for years, or I could stumble upon her tomorrow. It was up to chance, fate and karma, even if my severely voided brain wouldn’t allow me to even contemplate that scenario. I left San Francisco after a few more months of quiet soul searching and demented realizations that I might be responsible for pushing Dandy so close to the edge. I initiated everything. I set the ball rolling. Yet in the end I wasn’t prepared for the consequences spurred by my hasty and selfish actions.

I met a guy named Malcolm who invited me to move back to New York and live with him in this newly fashionable section of Brooklyn Heights. I wasn’t afraid to go back. I knew nothing bad would come my way. The worst was over and the rest of my life, without Dandy, had begun. Still, I loved her, even though she had fucked me over and kicked my feelings straight down my throat. You can’t stop that kind of passion, that kind of love. Yes, it was twisted love, but it was the only love I ever knew. One day, it would be mine again and this time, Dandy would never get the chance to runaway. I’d make very sure of that. I loved her after-all, just like a brother should.

1 comment:

Christopher Stribley said...

Fantastic, as always.
I have that Oribe silver pomade! I also have it in burgundy. I should have bought more of them...