Dominance Games / Politics

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.

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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 ….

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