The Whitefish tapes

  Chapter 2 Gravity "Fuckit.  Gimmie the cinamin roll with the cinamin cream cheese frosting and some black coffee, hot as you can get it." Just a nod from her.  I shuffle and bump and distance-jockey the four feet to where payment will occur but contains three people and still too much time to be worth the effort.  It's not excruciating, it's not even awkward.  Its flipping through channels while someone is talking to you, it's on and off a bus with tourists for only a stop as you hustle between comfort and home while they see every moment too brightly, to adoringly to ever enter it, and so wander in dolor, snowblind but herded, and never able to really get off the bus, not really.  God save the Archetypes.   I get my coffee and dip back to my table.  I come here for many reasons, one of which is that they still pour the drip themselves.  Out ...

Chapter 1 Parallax Demming New Mexico, 1985 I learned to properly worship Satan from a guy named Cole, in the mid-eighties, in a hotel room, in Demming New Mexico.  It was also the first time I paid for sex, and the first time I shot a man; both unrelated to my "dark mentor".  Some generational wind had blown his great grandparents across the whole of the US after blowing them over an ocean, between here and Wales, or Ireland and all the way up to a damned barbed wire fence in the southern New Mexican dessert, which is already rare on barbed wire.  There they stayed until the Welsh washed off and three generations worth came, bloomed, hungered and went down into red dirt, until poverty, and powerlessness was all that was left, that and Cole.  His lineage survived the Romans but was beaten by the welfare state, and now he barely shared a trailer with his ex-sister-n-law and her progeny and just didn't fucking eat in favor of cigarettes and whisky.  We mostly stay...