Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Three

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Three

Memory is a sometimes wisp of smoke, a fog that traps those who wish to run with the fires and furies of the whirlwinds that spin dangerously amidst the cunning who understand the fragility of the soul and the meanness of the spirit.  There are those deep and dear and those of substance and depth are often taken for granted and given rides to test the waters of eerie endeavor and feel the heat of vile creatures.

Characters that spring upon the hidden planes of existence, hidden planes of attack may be of an interesting kind, may be of a rancid, sinister kind and play in dominance, survival, and find themselves oriented to the mysteries of life with stories following around roots and edifices, movements through time and fate.  Dreams and drama induce momentous rides and searing portraits of self and season.

My world is a wanton place with playthings in long spacious corridors angling in to slice and vanquish as they present their great homage to prosperity and glitter.

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.

She drew spirits with ferocious fire.

Purges were purges.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Death took Amy as his own.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Amy took as Death her own.

Somewhere in her passions she fused with fulfillment.

* * * * * * * * * *

Disembarked from Europe, the damned war, discharged, Richard fucking Kenny went home.  He would pick up his life.  He would pick up his wife.  He would settle his life.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife made money.  She made money for herself.  She knew people, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife.  She could take her pick of all different kinds of suave, Richard Kenny’s wife.  She could dance naked in the streets of the Bowery when snow was in season, Richard Kenny’s wife.

Recuperating Soldiers had been assigned to areas in the South of fucking France.  There was aid and comfort given.  Richard fucking Kenny took pleasure, rest, recreation.

There were not many people there not of French citizenry, sans armies; there was one woman there, an expatriated American.  She gloried in the life there.  Her money was safe.  She was a political sparrow, a rare bird of hidden prey.  She respected her politics.  She grappled with the circumstance of war.  She had been widowed in New York, had found it in her best interests not to remarry.  Her husband was precocious in corruption, precocious in death.  She had refined sensibilities, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife; defined realities.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had known Richard fucking Kenny in New York.  She had known Sweet Amy.  She had been seen and left by all of the usual snakes.  There was usual carnage she had seen on the battle fields of the slick and willful.

The once and past husband of Richard fucking Kenny’s wife married smartly.  He was older, she, younger.  Her own background had been moneyed, once.  Much of what held it went the way of all flesh.  She was alluring, attractive.  She was lean and lithe, had sincere, perceptive eyes.  She was smart enough not to be slain by inches.

Rational thinkers.  She was descended from rational thinkers.  She was educated, fascinated, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife.  She knew pity.  Never young and callow, tribute was hers.  Those who were not saved was not saved.  She garnered respect for the infinities of presumed strength.  Richard fucking Kenny’s wife knew the games of her fathers, her mothers.

* * * * * * * * * *

There were newspaper people, those with the key to plans for good and clean living, blessed vision, truth, beauty.  Faith, hope, charity.  An abundance of knowledge Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had.  She would enter Richard’s party, sleek deviate, naked, fallow, susceptible to the weak, marginal and strong, a scholar herself in the study and practice of her arts.

She was pleasant, perfunctory, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife.  She showed Richard fucking Kenny respect.  He showed her the same.  She was a woman of much substance, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife.  Richard fucking Kenny showed her respect.  It was more than respect for a wife.  That she was the mother of Babe only seems right.  Babe was of her.  Babe was special.

Like her mommy and daddy before her Babe Kenny loved the dance.  It allowed her enjoyment, companionship.  It gave her pleasure.  Daddy, Richard fucking Kenny, was not heaven’s gift to the goodness needed somewhere, somehow on god’s green earth but Babe fucking Kenny knew that Daddy had the requisite degrees of meanness and joy.  Richard fucking Kenny had his points.  Daddy was a good man.  He had shame in his past.  About such things as Babe was concerned, daddy was one who understood.

Richard fucking Kenny did not want that his Babe should have the type of life that he had had.  He vowed to remove her from the types of pressures that had made life for him, at times, a very trying experience.  If little Babe grew up to be just another run of the mill flighty little bitch then so be it.  He would try his best to help make her canny and wise to the ways of the world as he saw it, smart enough to know when and how to speak, to whom and for what reason to speak.

Richard fucking Kenny had great hopes that he would have his little girl grow up to not be a damned little whiner, to not be one enmeshed of trivial nonsensical banal emptiness.  He did not want his Babe to be married to the damned pretentious, the usual clowns and hangers on, the high place and good breeding numbing flag waving absurd.

Between the jumping fools he knew that paraded as men and the laughing idiots he knew that paraded as women, Richard fucking Kenny knew that it was a bad fucking proposition to expect that his little girl grow up to be anything like a fine and decent person.  For sure, Richard fucking Kenny knew that there was no damned such thing.  He also knew that his dream was cock-eyed and dumb and that if he had ever met such a woman as he had to himself described he would probably kick her in the fucking ass and try to turn her into the damned no good fucking whore that he would have been sure that she fucking had been.

Richard fucking Kenny wanted his Babe to have some guts.  He wanted her to be able to have a little bit of fucking class, have some reserve, some manners.  Given what he knew of the damned fucking world he knew he was hoping for too damned fucking much.  There were many things which were simply not in the repertoires of the worlds in which he lived, probably not in the repertoires of any world in which anyone fucking lived except for the little dream fucking world he had in his fucking mind that would make and allow his fucking little girl to be at least bearable.

She, Babe Kenny knew herself to be an American citizen and she felt that New York, offering what she thought to be at least a different world from the one in which she lived, offered the largest chance for her to attain the understandings and plays she so clamored after.  She, Babe fucking Kenny felt that someday she might very well turn out to be some poor little rich fucking bitch with some fucking asinine Italian fucking lover dangling from her rich fucking little arm and some other asinine little fucking peccadillo with the fucking cook’s fucking little fucking daughter to scream about to her worthless fucking friends.  For the mean, though, she would look towards, for, something else.  If she failed there would be all of those rancid little pleasures waiting.  If she failed to find that which she was looking for she knew that the fucking cook would have an sick fuck assed daughter with death in her fucking heart, that the asinine fucking Italian lover would be a stiff and that he would fucking try to steel her money and make her crazy.

Babe fucking Kenny felt that there was not much more to be had for her, her father, in the South of fucking France.  It had become a poisoned well.

She had then a fondness for the English speaking peoples, and she would not have been adverse to either London or Paris if Richard fucking Kenny could find some fucking cause to see either of those places as desirable.  Babe fucking Kenny knew that daddy was not one who held New York as his favorite place, having long since given up its ghost, and from what she could make out, having long since given up its ghost with fucking pleasure.

Babe fucking Kenny, then, would try to find a way to force movement to London, or at least Paris, but she would hope for a way to return the family to New York from whence it came.  She would, she knew, be able to move where and when she wanted.  She was free, she had means.  She could do as she damn well pleased.

* * * * * * * * * *

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



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