Installment 1
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
A Novel
Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.
Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.
She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.
Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.
Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.
Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.
Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.
Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.
A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.
Death seeks his muse.
* * * * * * * * * *
Richard Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined. Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.
Sweet Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized. Cheap bastards always knew their names, Richard Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Cheap bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid jungles of open pits of open sores.
Richard Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.
Richard Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All of the men at the table of Richard Kenny’s life found Richard Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.
In 1942, in New York City, Richard Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry. Richard Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade. Richard Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.
Fuck the deranged lunatics.
Little Addie, this Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned world, no sense of proportion, no reason. The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their cages could make a fine little life for himself. Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard Kenny’s beliefs.
Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and his goose assed , crazed fuck assed friends knew all the games that Richard Kenny, his friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little fuck assed tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard Kenny knew them well, taught them well.
Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose assed friends were stench, bad medicine, bad assholes, Jew baiters, bad mean grief, medicine, bad assed times. Richard Kenny. The world could fuck itself silly. Richard Kenny could fuck himself silly.
Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.
He was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their disposal. That this was the way of things Richard Kenny knew. He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others sorry that they disliked him so.
In the fall of 1943 Richard Kenny and his fuck assed friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of England. Richard Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less. Admiral Dewey, Black Jack Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy Doolittle and his whole bunch of damned friggin’ Flying Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to end on their god damned limey stained ass stained bellies couldn’t make god damned Richard Hymie Kharnovski give two shits about this god damned war.
Richard Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned yo-yo of a Kraut paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last breath in some god damned stinking European stink hole.
The goddamned krauts ought to have their goddamned asses mangled just for getting Richard Kenny into this goddamned mess. The goddamned Japs should also rot in fuck assed, rotten, saki hell.
Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/
books… http://bschiff.com/
Books …… Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …….. Lust Games: An Essay on Honor A Novel ……… Void Games: An Essay on Revenge A novel ….
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39291
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39730
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff
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This entry was posted on June 29, 2013 at 2:12 pm and is filed under books, dominance, political commentary, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags drama, noir, political drama, political intrigue, political satire, politics noir, writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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Dominance Games / Politics 
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 1
Installment 1
Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
A Novel
Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.
Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.
She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.
Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.
Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.
Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.
Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.
Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.
A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.
Death seeks his muse.
* * * * * * * * * *
Richard Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined. Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.
Sweet Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized. Cheap bastards always knew their names, Richard Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Cheap bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid jungles of open pits of open sores.
Richard Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.
Richard Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All of the men at the table of Richard Kenny’s life found Richard Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.
In 1942, in New York City, Richard Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry. Richard Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade. Richard Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.
Fuck the deranged lunatics.
Little Addie, this Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned world, no sense of proportion, no reason. The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their cages could make a fine little life for himself. Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard Kenny’s beliefs.
Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and his goose assed , crazed fuck assed friends knew all the games that Richard Kenny, his friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little fuck assed tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard Kenny knew them well, taught them well.
Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose assed friends were stench, bad medicine, bad assholes, Jew baiters, bad mean grief, medicine, bad assed times. Richard Kenny. The world could fuck itself silly. Richard Kenny could fuck himself silly.
Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.
He was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their disposal. That this was the way of things Richard Kenny knew. He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others sorry that they disliked him so.
In the fall of 1943 Richard Kenny and his fuck assed friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of England. Richard Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less. Admiral Dewey, Black Jack Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy Doolittle and his whole bunch of damned friggin’ Flying Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to end on their god damned limey stained ass stained bellies couldn’t make god damned Richard Hymie Kharnovski give two shits about this god damned war.
Richard Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned yo-yo of a Kraut paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last breath in some god damned stinking European stink hole.
The goddamned krauts ought to have their goddamned asses mangled just for getting Richard Kenny into this goddamned mess. The goddamned Japs should also rot in fuck assed, rotten, saki hell.
Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/
books… http://bschiff.com/
Books …… Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …….. Lust Games: An Essay on Honor A Novel ……… Void Games: An Essay on Revenge A novel ….
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39291
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39730
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff
Share this:
Like this:
Related
This entry was posted on June 29, 2013 at 2:12 pm and is filed under books, dominance, political commentary, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags drama, noir, political drama, political intrigue, political satire, politics noir, writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.