Archive for the political fiction Category

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 5

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, noir, novels, political fiction, political novels, Politics, power, writing with tags , , , on July 29, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 5

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Babe  Kenny was cute.  Rachel  Kane had her wants.  Johnny boy could  survive.  I could laugh.  All were torch bearers for my flag.  It became hard to breathe with parodies of whatever the hell should have been coming along taking over from the parodies that were.

They were at my wedding to Kaye, Johnny boy, Rachel.  They were at my wedding to Babe.  It was all there in the pictures, the memories.  Johnny boy.  Rachel.  Dreams of perfection.  Dreams of perfect people being perfect

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed within the flowers in the photograph album of my heart.  Rachel, Johnny boy, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat beat beat of the hopeless ripple in the wind.

He was always doing a job well done, Johnny was, a job necessary for his arts, his manly arts filled with circumspection and poise.

My first wife Kaye ate up our success.

Kaye the treasure.

Lyrics were needed, clarity,

I loved the depths of hell and I loved to throw the unsuspecting into its pits so that they could be used as fodder for desires and face down the grand panoramas and vistas of those who wished to ride with the night and conquer the lights of reason.  Hope needs its loves and hope spreads the word as a present for those who could be the casting fires of forged sticks standing firm in the winds of destruction.

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.

Over time those who play in the vineyards and domains of force, dominance, debasement, cruelty, occupy positions in worlds with a thousand mothers springing unseen from backwaters of rage and passion.

Players, actors, manipulators, take their journeys through the seas of the vanquished immersed in seasons of fury, flailing in spins, rushing to conclaves with the agents of delusion.  Fog cohabits with fear, wanes in its own way and waxes poetic with memory as a sometimes wisp of smoke that traps those who wish to crave dangerously amidst cunning.

Into depths unknown, fears unknown, unidentified, peace unoffered, characters find the undersides of daunting lusts, mean cravings, waiting for opportunity, seekers of prudence.

Eyes of dementia produce in their wake challenges for those who wish to undertake killing fields unchecked, unvarnished, triumphant.  Cruelty survives the potent attributes of the habitats of daily needs while paupers vie for territory, meet on fields of conquest, demand ultimatums in fields of vision and satisfaction.

Seasons of access and executions, seasons of kills, come to fruition.  Denunciations of souls and spirits, denunciations of voided lives, voided souls and sentries exist in practiced nullification with sustenance ached for and defenses against vulnerabilities a midnight dream.

All currencies of all kills seek challengers.  Voracious primal ooze finds its way through ready achievement ready to co-opt those things that time wishes to deal with.  Effervescent dreams, grand achievements, primitive stalking horses, all would have their dreams capture force for force’s sake with powers, answers, traps, life, taken as faint somewheres fused with and left to a forever that shimmers alone in the dark.

It is a hard thing to fathom.  It is a hard thing to sit here as I do and bear witness to facts, stories, charges, sealed in time and left to embrace those plowing the earth for their winks at eternity.

Long nights and scores of deadly demons wait to pounce upon opportunity and to learn secrets of paths to want and power, secrets of division and use.  Smart, vengeful, facile, evil devils wait cautiously for lost strains of lost songs to carry them to perfect combat with trouble always a friend to those who seek it, always there to prosper and to be baited by those who choose to be special.

Strong perpetual illusions wane and wax poetic, cohabit with needed diversion, risk, cohabit with lessons, tricks, meanings that are deep and dear and that are often left to test waters of eerie endeavor in places unguarded and vengeful.

Vineyards and domains of force, dominance, debasement, cruelty, can come to occupy netherworlds of rage and passion to be run from by those of fineness and strength.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor.  Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property.  She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain.  The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles.  The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy.  The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence.  How sweet, sweet Amy craved.  How she craved.  Sweet, sweet Amy.

Jake Green was born in New York City.  Jake became Jake the Jew early on looking out over many things.  Recollections hazy, his claims on the name Green hazy, Jake parlayed a career as manipulator, dealmaker, facilitator, into a world of forceful contacts, lucrative money.  He rose through the ranks of those whom others wished to know, Jake.  Smart, Jake.  Good Jake.  Someone had to know someone who knew someone just to get to know someone to talk to Jake.

Barbara Scott, Jake the Jew.  They were interested in establishing a priority of predator.  They owned a world of lucrative contacts.  Jake knew people.  He knew how to play people.  There was no publicity.  Jake deduced.  Jake deduced with slow happy contemplation.  Men of skill were purchased.  They were exhuming the dead, Barbara Scott, Jake the Jew.  They did that.  They wished that.

Jake Green took me to New York.  He saw that I was raised in a decent manner.  I was not his blood but he did so.  That’s what I knew.  Jake told me not to mourn, not to wear the robe of Death that was placed around me.

Jake Green fathered Kaye, fathered Vivian.

Jake told me not to mourn.  They killed my father.  Probably my mother.  My sister as well.  I’m not sure.  My father they killed.  I was a convenience, a necessity.  I served purpose.  My father was an efficient protector.  He sought out enemies.

Jake thought that I had put my careful little ass in a sling and he only wanted to see how I would handle it.  He wanted to see me bent over and trapped, burnt out like a caged rat.  He could be happy.  Me, Steele, boy wonder, eyes wide in the headlights.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Tell me Michael Steele,” Kaye would say.  “Can us mere mortals at all imagine the pristine makeup of the heart of Michael Steele,” she would say.

“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” she would say.

“Tell me, brave and tortured soul,” she would say. “Tell me true,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,” Kaye would purr and sigh.

“Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me,” Kaye would say.  “Of your heart, your ideals, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of your soul’s capitulation,” Kaye would say.

 “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the love of a good woman, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of its sparkle and dew, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, young Lochinvar, of veins of ice, wills of iron, men of steel,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me young Steele,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of men so bent and weary with the weight of the problems of the world on their noble backs, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me Steele,” she would say, “can mere mortals at all imagine the pristine makeup of the heart so strong, the bearing so staunch,” Kaye would say.

* * * * * * * * * *

Babe Kenny and I got out of vehicle.  We went to the door.  I knocked.  Babe in basic black, hair blond.  No one answers.  Babe gets smug.  I knock again.  Babe gets smug again.  I hear rumbling from deep inside.  Babe hears rumbling from deep inside.  Anticipation swells up.  Phil and Kaye would be deep inside.

Phil, the useless, comes to the door.  He asks who is there and he is told.  He is not in rapture, he opens the door, wheezes, murmurs, sullies, drapes over a drink, wobbles, lets us in.  He is dressed, almost tame.  He speaks to Kaye.  She comes in and joins us.  Kaye looks like the purring cat.  She looks well behaved.

“Michael,” she said, “this is a pleasant surprise.  Miss Kenny, here, must be thrilled to be here.  I should have let you be, Michael,” Kaye said.  “I don’t know you like Miss Kenny does, Michael,” she said.  “That’s not what I’m here for tonight, though, is it, Michael,” she said.  “I’m here for bigger things aren’t I, Michael,” she said.

Phil offered a slobs outlook.  He reintroduced himself to Babe.  Phil was a strong sort of guy.  He wanted to square the circle, circle the squares, be worthwhile.

“So what gives, Mr. Wonderful,” Kaye said to me.  “What tails you have to tell, Michael,” she said.  “Are you still the boy I married,” she said.

“Michael wants to play, Phillip,” Kaye said.  “He wants to play with me,” she said.  “He wants to put on a show, Phillip,” she said.  “He came here to put on a show, Phillip,” Kaye said.

Phil sat down in the corner.  Kaye lit a cigarette.  Babe lit a cigarette.  I spit out a trim cigar.  Babe started to wonder if angels had wings.  Phil started to wonder if he was always as dull as he looked.

My Kaye was the good grace of proper form.  She was the complete necessary appendage to reality.  We would always exhume the dead, my Kaye and I.  We could always make the fates look coldly, my Kaye and I.  She would honor her family, my Kaye.

I smirked next.  Kaye was dead after that.  Plain dead.  There went Kaye.

Poor Phil.  Poor Kaye.  Beyond the pale, the script, the moth eaten rancid.  My Kaye could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet sweet little Kaye could get her sweet, sweet little tentacles on.  My Kaye could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet Kaye could get her sweet, sweet little hands on.  No more.  Loss, chasms of yearning.  Eternal emptiness for me.

“Who else are we going to kill today, Steele,” murmured Babe.  “Who else, Steele,” she said.  “More wrecks, Steele,” she said.

“Are we going to waive our magic wand and create a world of wonders, Steele,” she said.   “Are we the original fugitives, Steele,” she said.”

Sidney, Jakes driver, comes at Babe from out of the shadows, grabs her, brings her to me.  He stands over her unsmiling.  Babe was lost, Kaye was dead, the end point of desire.

Sidney had worked with Jake a long time.  He was aware of the prerogatives of survival.  Sidney was a man knew of use and utility, kept his own council, listened intently, closely with eyes grown sharp scanning rooms, crevices, doorways, the spaces of dead air.  Sidney did not wish to be surprised.  He took pride in his work.  Kiss deadly Kaye, stare down Babe, me.  Sidney would put Babe in order.  Sidney would not be made to look bad.

“Cute, Steele,” said Babe.  “Nice.  Interesting, Steele,” she said.   “That was wonderful, Steele,” she said.  “Just wonderful.  I’m glad I came now,” she said.

“Time always honors the currency of coercion, Babe,” I said.

“People die,” I said.

* * * * * * * * * *

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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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 4

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, noir, novels, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , on July 20, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 4

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Johnny boy, Rachel.  I trusted them as much as I could, as much as circumstance allowed.

Johnny boy found himself to be the attenuated hero of his dreams.

He had landed in New York at the age of six as had many before.

He hustled.  He was a smart boy, in his element.

Johnny boy was three years old, stuck in the hell hole of North Africa.  One who once knew the captain of the ship that brought him there spotted Johnny boy, claimed him, made arrangements for his custody.  Johnny boy, a much traveled little boy, made his way from the steppes of central Asia to a house on a hill outside of Washington, D. C.  He had a set of neighbors at great pains to insure his happiness.  He had a home, a maid.  He had an abundance of friends who knew not why they liked him so.  Life was good.  New York City.  The city was magic, then, the place to be.  Wonder, madness, darkness, light, dreams.  Johnny boy came shortly.

Johnny had been graduated from college with a degree in Mathematics.  There was a comparative ease of economic pressures in those years.  The school offered him necessity, not fellowship which he did not crave.  The students with whom he came in contact were nice enough, a bit banal, some naïve.  Mirrors of sophistication, they offered little more than the continuation of the sophomorics he found so prevalent.

Johnny boy found no particular use for them, no particular need to sift through the chaff to get to the wheat.  Johnny boy was quite content to let college boys and girls be college boys and girls and he was quite content to allow them all to exist as happy little children, knowledgeable and all knowing, the cream of god’s creatures on his green little earth.  There was chatter and interests.  Tonics.  Flatulence.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

There were times when they had felt themselves very much apart of each other’s lives.  There were times when the thought of the other brought no more than a nod of recognition, a remembrance of pain.  Together Johnny boy and Rachel had finally conquered the devil, so it seemed.  Too wise they were to be running around like two little horses asses.  Johnny boy would not be bothered with demonic nonsense.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.

Rachel had done, seen.  She too loved the help.  Marriage was something.  It could exist without having to immerse itself into the world of eternal indulgence.  They would run the game for a while.  They would be romantic.

Johnny boy fought a war.  It was a mean little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He had enlisted in the Army.  The life he found after college was not overpoweringly fertile

Emiliana Garcia, his maid, had died.  He was left with no one that he cared for.  Emiliana Garcia was his family.

He was empty, Johnny boy was.  There were no great distractions.  There was a lot of noise.  Johnny wanted to do something with himself, to fight.  He wanted to be a proficient killer.  The knowledge and the discipline would not hurt him.  He might spend his life drifting.  For this he was not ready.

He learned.  He served.  Johnny fought a mean little war.  It was a dirty little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He was enlisted in the Army.  Life was an indulgence.

He went.  He returned.  A commissioned man.  He learned a great deal, Johnny boy.

Soon after he went to France, then to Africa.  He served.  Mercenary life was an indulgence.  He acquired some money.  He went to enjoy the offerings of the Mediterranean coast.  It was warm.  There was sun.  In Spain he watched searchers of truth and beauty cover the southern coast.  Exotic pleasures offered much.  Pleasures, dreams.

Johnny boy did not begrudge the new order of the lost, their fun, their enjoyment, their style.  Pleasant in some ways, interesting, the grasp at life.  He had knowledge of many things, Johnny boy.  Not yet the full degree of greatness promised.  Banal predecessors had managed to cross his path. Emiliana Garcia was his maid, was his family.

He bade his time, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy found in the companionship of some of his friends some understanding of the trials of man that he did not find elsewhere.

There was the understanding of the way of life that went with trial, trouble when it was a constant.  The world had many sides to offer the lovers of all things porous and knowing.  Johnny boy had reservoirs of mean confrontations in his wake, reservoirs of mean kills.

Johnny boy left from Spain and returned to the United States, to New York, to the Village which had been his home.  He stayed only a short while.  He moved to Washington. D.C.  He knew people in government work.  He found an apartment.  He looked for things to do.  The cynical and the snide.  The adventurous and cruel.  The smart and the just.  Nonchalance and complacency.  Simpatico.  Virtue shined upon the great unwashed in the lands of dreams.

There was poetry in the spirit that loved to implement for all the best of all possible worlds, the spirit which so nobly implemented the hopes and dreams of mankind with devotion to duty, with little implementations of fond little wants.

It was very good, John had grown to think, that there were so many who were so assiduously spending so much of their time looking out for gross deployment of noble honor.  The domesticated pets were facile and they were happy.  They were domesticated.  They were frivolous creatures who opposed the good.  They were all around.

Johnny boy had often seen the dregs of unbridled, beloved ignorance valiantly go into battle, time after time, with the greater dregs of same.  Johnny boy, in America, was becoming more and more fascinated by unvarnished confrontation, unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of bloodshed, the beat, beat, beat of beloved ignorance.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Surprise, not necessarily delight.  Rachel was a wonderful girl in her way.  Rachel was smart, he had met few smarter.  She was good, very, very good.  Rachel demanded much in return for her goodness.  She wanted much in the way of hard and cold reserve.  She was warm when she had to be warm, Rachel.  She was not always to touch.  She could be ice, ice which well protected vestiges of movement.

Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel was wary and Rachel was one who liked being wary, one who could manage to be wary.  Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel would not let the thoughts of her heart come out and play.  Rachel did not care to be among those who demanded that she be wise, very, very wise.

Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to let anyone prevent Rachel from following the paths she set out to follow.  Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to open up her little heart for the sake of anything or anyone because Rachel shared her little heart with none and nothing and Rachel maneuvered from the outside looking in.  Rachel was sublime.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Rachel was not happy.

Johnny boy was true, very, very true.  Johnny would stick.  Johnny would stay and do what had to be done.  Johnny would be there if needed.  He could leave if not.  Johnny boy was true.

Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true.  He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum.  He was lazy and he cared not to move.  He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction.  Johnny boy was intent on being left alone.  He wanted his peace.  Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody.  Johnny was what his god had made him.  The world was full of poor lost bastards.  Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody’s helper, chose his company carefully.

Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone’s holy redeemer.  He didn’t trust the beautiful.  He worshipped the damned.  He thought that he was a  idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy was true.  Johnny boy was good.  Johnny boy would stick.  He would stay and do what had to be done.

Sometimes the mirror got too ugly, sometimes too nice.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  God’s gift to each other.  Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.  They would run the gamut for a while.  They would be romantic.

They were exhuming the dead, Johnny boy, Rachel .

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed with flowers in the photograph album of my life.  Johnny boy, in America, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of his heartstrings.

My Rachel was a moment in time.  She was a quick fix of a moment and she was open to challenge and she was the sweet young song playing, a riff in mood, a haunting melody, a delicate tune..

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Sucked the life out of each other.

Sucked the death out of each other.

“I will be lusts depository for you, Johnny boy,” Rachel said to Johnny boy to make him smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

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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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 3

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, noir, novels, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 3

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

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

Richard  Kenny’s wife made money.  She made money for herself.  She knew people, Richard  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  France.  There was aid and comfort given.  Richard  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  Kenny’s wife; defined realities.

Richard  Kenny’s wife had known Richard  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  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  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  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  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  Kenny’s wife.  She showed Richard  Kenny respect.  He showed her the same.  She was a woman of much substance, Richard  Kenny’s wife.  Richard  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  Kenny, was not heaven’s gift to the goodness needed somewhere, somehow on god’s green earth but Babe  Kenny knew that Daddy had the requisite degrees of meanness and joy.  Richard  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  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  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  Kenny knew that it was a bad  proposition to expect that his little girl grow up to be anything like a fine and decent person.  For sure, Richard  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  ass and try to turn her into the damned no good  whore that he would have been sure that she  had been.

Richard  Kenny wanted his Babe to have some guts.  He wanted her to be able to have a little bit of  class, have some reserve, some manners.  Given what he knew of the damned  world he knew he was hoping for too damned  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  lived except for the little dream  world he had in his  mind that would make and allow his  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  Kenny felt that someday she might very well turn out to be some poor little rich  bitch with some  asinine Italian  lover dangling from her rich  little arm and some other asinine little  peccadillo with the  cook’s  little  daughter to scream about to her worthless  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  cook would have an sick fuck assed daughter with death in her  heart, that the asinine  Italian lover would be a stiff and that he would  try to steel her money and make her crazy.

Babe  Kenny felt that there was not much more to be had for her, her father, in the South of  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  Kenny could find some  cause to see either of those places as desirable.  Babe  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  pleasure.

Babe  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.

* * * * * * * * * *

Babe Kenny was facetious.  Her mother had left her.

She loved not too wisely but too well, Babe Kenny.

She eluded the grasps of wild eyed men, Babe Kenny.

Queen of sustenance and honor reaped by  worship, Babe  Kenny.

She baited and cooed, Babe  Kenny.  She, laughed, darted, promised lusts with her hips, said goodbye with her lips, Babe  Kenny.  She, inspired trust, Babe Kenny, her voice aching want.  Specters, false bravados, itinerant needs, Babe  Kenny.  A past that wished only to collect on its debt to itself, Babe  Kenny.

She liked doing business with men who would conquer the  world, Babe  Kenny, liked helping flies lose their wings, Babe  Kenny; liked helping megalomaniacs get stronger, liked getting with those cynical, perverse to a point, Babe  Kenny.

She dealt with policy makers, Babe   Kenny.  It behooved her to skepticism.  She reserved special insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities, Babe   Kenny.  She saw and did intelligent things.  In matured and intelligent splendor she found time to exhibit depths of understanding, sharpness of vision.  Demure and outstanding, Babe   Kenny was fascinated.  She was tempted to throw herself at the feet of all overriding capacities, all overriding capabilities.  Her honor easily marshaled, her awe easily overcome, she was a rotten hostess to money and power.

Babe  Kenny, a young woman of twenty five.  When not pursuing the ferocious games she was involving herself in, she was involving herself in what she thought to be conditions in her world which could justifiably be called wanting.  She did not usually throw off the gains and relics of a misspent past.  She did not put on herself the mantel of St Joan, cloaks of sack cloth and ashes, purposes enmeshed with deep burning desires to right all of the inequities, the inequalities, of mankind.  She did not commit herself to the creation of a new and better world, did not place altruism upon the list of virtues towards which she aspired.

Much curious as to the nature of the United States, her country, her people, the well from which Daddy sprung, his problems sprung, Babe  Kenny, involved herself with some groups involved in aspects of the coming social upheaval.  She involved herself with some groups which had primary interests in preventing evil, in maintaining right.

She traveled much, also, in those years, Babe  Kenny.  She established for herself a satisfactory ability to survive, neatly, efficiently.  As a means of continuity, she involved herself with the fields of publishing, running errands, doing some light research for friends connected with national organizations.

She was able to produce what was asked of her without making undue demands, Babe  Kenny.  She established satisfactory loose relationships that served adequately the aims and desires of all parties involved, Babe  Kenny.  She went often to Washington.  Often she stayed for protracted periods.  She did not find herself over weaned, overwhelmed.  The many bright young things, the many bright young smiles ran up and down the highways and byways of goodness and charm.  This was not a heaven to capture Babe  Kenny’s fancy.

An occasional congressman, an occasional sterling thing from State, Justice, tried to convince Babe  Kenny of the goodness of his heart, the warmth of his purpose.  Babe  Kenny was not overly eager to be in the clutches of the idealistic, the cynical wonders who smiled so brightly, worked so feverishly, championed so greatly the dignity of justice, of man, of mankind.

There were media people, there were those with the key to god’s own plan for good and clean living, the revelation of his wonders.  In their hearts they knew that they were blessed with vision.  Truth and beauty followed in their wake.  All would lead the way ever after to the foundations of the noble and true.  All bright young things were of firm beliefs.  They all saw through sham and injustice.

Babe  Kenny, also in Washington, met many of the many who lobbied for the cause of all things great, all things which would make all things greater, all things which would be guaranteed to be great.  She met those representing things that had made America what it was.

They were bright and they too were young, the heroes of Babe  Kenny.  Anxiety jumped upon practicality, strength triumphed reason, disorder was a mother.  Disunity fomented.  Spring was cherished.  The earnest and so pure.  Babe  Kenny liked them best.  Babe  Kenny dealt with policy makers.  It behooved Babe to skepticism.  She reserved insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities.  They saw and did intelligent things.  Charmingly lucid.  In matured and intelligent splendor they found time to exhibit the depths of their understanding.

The earnest and pure.  Babe  Kenny liked them best.

* * * * * * * * * *

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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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 2

Posted in books, Commentary,, Drama, Fascism,, fiction, literature, Mystery, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , on July 13, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 2

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

There were foreign objects; there was pain.  It was the 6th of fucking June.

On came Richard fucking Kenny and his fellow fucking brave hearts.  On came God’s fucking crusade in some fucking death trap of a fucking landing craft in the fucking English fucking Channel just dying to help a bunch of fucked up, fuck assed fucking Frogs get their god damned, fucking fucked up fucking country back from some god damned, fucking fucked up fucking fuck assed crazy assed fucking goose assed stepping assed, fucking, rot in hell fucking Krauts.

Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.

A putrid soldier’s dreams.

Richard fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.

The young man next to Richard fucking Kenny on the fucking landing craft on the way to the fucking beach sang the praises of Christ the fucking Lord.  The one next to him puked his fucking guts out.  Richard fucking Kenny had not only come three thousand fucking miles to get his fucking ass blown off but he had to do it with some fucking idiot’s fucking puke all over his fucking gear and some other fucking idiot singing the fucking praises of Christ the fucking lord in his fucking ear.

Richard fucking Kenny was very fucking agitated, disgusted about the whole fucking thing.  He was fucking annoyed.  He would, he thought, have, at least, died a happier goddamned fucking death if he was sliced and diced by one of his old fucking playmates and left to bleed to death in some god damned fucking stink hole puddle in some god damned fucking stink hole alley behind some god damned fucking, rotten assed, fucking greasy spoon.

His god damned, fucking father, where ever the fuck he was must be turning over in his god damned, fucking grave at the thought of his only fucking son running around with a bunch of fucking red necked fucking bloody fucking American he-men about to fucking charge good old fucking Europe, from whence his god damned, fucking father ran, to play god damned, fucking wonder soldier, god damned brave fucking wonder fucking hero.

Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.

Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.

The fucking Kraut soldiers did not want to lose precious ground.  They wanted Richard fucking Kenny and his fucking friends to be fucking dead.  They appreciated fucking greatness, not Richard fucking Kenny.  Little fucking Addie Kraut was their mad fucking fool.  He was strong.

A wonder fucking soldier, wearing his spiffy little super duper little fucking uniform and traveling fucking on, Richard fucking Kenny was a thrill a minute.  Richard fucking Kenny was getting his fucking tail shot at pretty fucking good.  This day was to Richard fucking Kenny was a particular pain in the ass.

Richard fucking Kenny in the middle of a fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking, fuck assed, fucking foxhole in the middle of the fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking fuck assed screw assed fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny became a dirty, fucking hero, another fucking smart assed, wise assed fucking wise guy, wise assed fucking savior.

Two fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past.  Two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking throwbacks.  Richard fucking Kenny killed seven fucking Krauts.  Richard Kenny knocked off a fucking Kraut machine gun nest

Richard fucking Kenny barely stopped himself from killing the two fucking southern fucking fuck assed fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past, the two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking southern throwbacks.  He saved his fucking outfit.

The lieutenant who was barely fucking alive only by grace of God and the captain who was half dead were both fucking very fucking happy that Richard fucking Kenny didn’t kill all of their own fucking wonder soldiers.  They were both exceptionally proud that Richard fucking Kenny was a member of their, this man’s, fucking Army.  They were most certainly overwhelmed.  Richard fucking Kenney was their great fucking hope.

Richard fucking Kenny was put upon the god damned fucking earth to do great things, to fuck rotten fucking ladies, to be sharp as a tack, twice as mean.  He loved to save the lives of the fucking wonderful who would be very happy to hang his happy little fucking New York fucking assed neck from a god damned fucking cross when he was back in the god damned fucking fuck assed States.  Richard fucking Kenny just wanted to jump up and down and salute the god damned fucking good old fucking red, white and fucking blue’s best fucking examples of fucking class.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny demeaned dangled leaden calves, gave up on dangled fucking leaden losers.  He jack assed backward through the straights of hell.  Sanguine, straight, Richard fucking Kenny jack assed backward through low dealers, low weasels, low wants, low fucking kills.

The All fucking American fucking boy was not something Richard fucking Kenny could put up with too much longer.  Richard fucking Kenny reveled in his own fucking wonder.  He was fucking proud that he had saved the lives of all of the fucking red necked fucking fuck assed fucking hicks.  Richard fucking Kenny was tired, very, very tired, and he didn’t want the All fucking American fucking boy to wake up one fucking morning and turn on Richard fucking Kenny when Richard fucking Kenny wasn’t fucking looking

Many forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero.  He said many different fucking things.  He was sure to turn into a no good fucking asshole sooner or later.  Poor Richard fucking Kenny.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

He survived it.  The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.

Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

* * * * * * * * * *

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor.  Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property.  She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy was that which could make life worth living, a shining beacon apart from all others of a peculiar conflagration of will, of a peculiar conflagration of mood, a treasure, Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  She wished to be the ideal to which all fine young dreamers might aspire, who did not let the pedestal upon which she found herself not allow her to not do what she must.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain.  The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles.  The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy.  The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence.  How sweet, sweet Amy craved.  How she craved.  Sweet, sweet Amy.

Sweet, smart Amy.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue.  Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue.  The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives.  The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

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

Some men died for love, Sweet Amy figured.  Some men died for money, Sweet Amy figured.  Some just wanted freedom from ghosts, dead spirits, evil, she figured.  Some took the path of least resistance.  Some, the last alternative to life.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.

She baited, she cooed, Amy.  She laughed, she darted.  She promised lusts with her lips, said goodbye with her hips, Amy.  She was a gift given, Amy.  Her lips inspired trust, her voice aching want, Amy.  She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.  She drew spirits with ferocious fire.  The sweetness.  The contempt.

Get to a strong man, a weak man, a smart man, Amy figured.  Make a magic wand, Amy figured.  A turn of the screw, she figured.  A way in, a way out.  Will to will, strength to strength.  Strength to weakness, guile, subtlety.  Amy knew the equations well.  Worked them well.

* * * * * * * * * *

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.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

Leave a comment »

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 2

Posted in books, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, political fiction, political novels, Politics with tags , , , , on July 6, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 2

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

There were foreign objects; there was pain.  It was the 6th of fucking June.

On came Richard fucking Kenny and his fellow fucking brave hearts.  On came God’s fucking crusade in some fucking death trap of a fucking landing craft in the fucking English fucking Channel just dying to help a bunch of fucked up, fuck assed fucking Frogs get their god damned, fucking fucked up fucking country back from some god damned, fucking fucked up fucking fuck assed crazy assed fucking goose assed stepping assed, fucking, rot in hell fucking Krauts.

Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.

A putrid soldier’s dreams.

Richard fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.

The young man next to Richard fucking Kenny on the fucking landing craft on the way to the fucking beach sang the praises of Christ the fucking Lord.  The one next to him puked his fucking guts out.  Richard fucking Kenny had not only come three thousand fucking miles to get his fucking ass blown off but he had to do it with some fucking idiot’s fucking puke all over his fucking gear and some other fucking idiot singing the fucking praises of Christ the fucking lord in his fucking ear.

Richard fucking Kenny was very fucking agitated, disgusted about the whole fucking thing.  He was fucking annoyed.  He would, he thought, have, at least, died a happier goddamned fucking death if he was sliced and diced by one of his old fucking playmates and left to bleed to death in some god damned fucking stink hole puddle in some god damned fucking stink hole alley behind some god damned fucking, rotten assed, fucking greasy spoon.

His god damned, fucking father, where ever the fuck he was must be turning over in his god damned, fucking grave at the thought of his only fucking son running around with a bunch of fucking red necked fucking bloody fucking American he-men about to fucking charge good old fucking Europe, from whence his god damned, fucking father ran, to play god damned, fucking wonder soldier, god damned brave fucking wonder fucking hero.

Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.

Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.

The fucking Kraut soldiers did not want to lose precious ground.  They wanted Richard fucking Kenny and his fucking friends to be fucking dead.  They appreciated fucking greatness, not Richard fucking Kenny.  Little fucking Addie Kraut was their mad fucking fool.  He was strong.

A wonder fucking soldier, wearing his spiffy little super duper little fucking uniform and traveling fucking on, Richard fucking Kenny was a thrill a minute.  Richard fucking Kenny was getting his fucking tail shot at pretty fucking good.  This day was to Richard fucking Kenny was a particular pain in the ass.

Richard fucking Kenny in the middle of a fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking, fuck assed, fucking foxhole in the middle of the fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking fuck assed screw assed fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny became a dirty, fucking hero, another fucking smart assed, wise assed fucking wise guy, wise assed fucking savior.

Two fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past.  Two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking throwbacks.  Richard fucking Kenny killed seven fucking Krauts.  Richard Kenny knocked off a fucking Kraut machine gun nest

Richard fucking Kenny barely stopped himself from killing the two fucking southern fucking fuck assed fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past, the two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking southern throwbacks.  He saved his fucking outfit.

The lieutenant who was barely fucking alive only by grace of God and the captain who was half dead were both fucking very fucking happy that Richard fucking Kenny didn’t kill all of their own fucking wonder soldiers.  They were both exceptionally proud that Richard fucking Kenny was a member of their, this man’s, fucking Army.  They were most certainly overwhelmed.  Richard fucking Kenney was their great fucking hope.

Richard fucking Kenny was put upon the god damned fucking earth to do great things, to fuck rotten fucking ladies, to be sharp as a tack, twice as mean.  He loved to save the lives of the fucking wonderful who would be very happy to hang his happy little fucking New York fucking assed neck from a god damned fucking cross when he was back in the god damned fucking fuck assed States.  Richard fucking Kenny just wanted to jump up and down and salute the god damned fucking good old fucking red, white and fucking blue’s best fucking examples of fucking class.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny demeaned dangled leaden calves, gave up on dangled fucking leaden losers.  He jack assed backward through the straights of hell.  Sanguine, straight, Richard fucking Kenny jack assed backward through low dealers, low weasels, low wants, low fucking kills.

The All fucking American fucking boy was not something Richard fucking Kenny could put up with too much longer.  Richard fucking Kenny reveled in his own fucking wonder.  He was fucking proud that he had saved the lives of all of the fucking red necked fucking fuck assed fucking hicks.  Richard fucking Kenny was tired, very, very tired, and he didn’t want the All fucking American fucking boy to wake up one fucking morning and turn on Richard fucking Kenny when Richard fucking Kenny wasn’t fucking looking

Many forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero.  He said many different fucking things.  He was sure to turn into a no good fucking asshole sooner or later.  Poor Richard fucking Kenny.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

He survived it.  The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.

Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

* * * * * * * * * *

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor.  Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property.  She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy was that which could make life worth living, a shining beacon apart from all others of a peculiar conflagration of will, of a peculiar conflagration of mood, a treasure, Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  She wished to be the ideal to which all fine young dreamers might aspire, who did not let the pedestal upon which she found herself not allow her to not do what she must.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain.  The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles.  The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy.  The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence.  How sweet, sweet Amy craved.  How she craved.  Sweet, sweet Amy.

Sweet, smart Amy.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue.  Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue.  The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives.  The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

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

Some men died for love, Sweet Amy figured.  Some men died for money, Sweet Amy figured.  Some just wanted freedom from ghosts, dead spirits, evil, she figured.  Some took the path of least resistance.  Some, the last alternative to life.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.

She baited, she cooed, Amy.  She laughed, she darted.  She promised lusts with her lips, said goodbye with her hips, Amy.  She was a gift given, Amy.  Her lips inspired trust, her voice aching want, Amy.  She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.  She drew spirits with ferocious fire.  The sweetness.  The contempt.

Get to a strong man, a weak man, a smart man, Amy figured.  Make a magic wand, Amy figured.  A turn of the screw, she figured.  A way in, a way out.  Will to will, strength to strength.  Strength to weakness, guile, subtlety.  Amy knew the equations well.  Worked them well.

* * * * * * * * * *

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.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

Leave a comment »

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 1

Posted in books, dominance, political commentary, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , , on June 29, 2013 by B Schiff

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 ….

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

Posted in Commentary,, Drama, literature, political fiction, political novels, political philosophy, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , , on January 19, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Four

Babe Kenny was facetious.  Her mother had left her.

She loved not too wisely but too well, Babe Kenny.

She eluded the grasps of wild eyed men, Babe Kenny.

Queen of sustenance and honor reaped by fucking worship, Babe fucking Kenny.

She baited and cooed, Babe fucking Kenny.  She, laughed, darted, promised lusts with her hips, said goodbye with her lips, Babe fucking Kenny.  She, inspired trust, Babe Kenny, her voice aching want.  Specters, false bravados, itinerant needs, Babe fucking Kenny.  A past that wished only to collect on its debt to itself, Babe fucking Kenny.

She liked doing business with men who would conquer the fucking world, Babe fucking Kenny, liked helping flies lose their wings, Babe fucking Kenny; liked helping megalomaniacs get stronger, liked getting with those cynical, perverse to a point, Babe fucking Kenny.

She dealt with policy makers, Babe fucking  Kenny.  It behooved her to skepticism.  She reserved special insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities, Babe fucking  Kenny.  She saw and did intelligent things.  In matured and intelligent splendor she found time to exhibit depths of understanding, sharpness of vision.  Demure and outstanding, Babe fucking  Kenny was fascinated.  She was tempted to throw herself at the feet of all overriding capacities, all overriding capabilities.  Her honor easily marshaled, her awe easily overcome, she was a rotten hostess to money and power.

Babe fucking Kenny, a young woman of twenty five.  When not pursuing the ferocious games she was involving herself in, she was involving herself in what she thought to be conditions in her world which could justifiably be called wanting.  She did not usually throw off the gains and relics of a misspent past.  She did not put on herself the mantel of St Joan, cloaks of sack cloth and ashes, purposes enmeshed with deep burning desires to right all of the inequities, the inequalities, of mankind.  She did not commit herself to the creation of a new and better world, did not place altruism upon the list of virtues towards which she aspired.

Much curious as to the nature of the United States, her country, her people, the well from which Daddy sprung, his problems sprung, Babe fucking Kenny, involved herself with some groups involved in aspects of the coming social upheaval.  She involved herself with some groups which had primary interests in preventing evil, in maintaining right.

She traveled much, also, in those years, Babe fucking Kenny.  She established for herself a satisfactory ability to survive, neatly, efficiently.  As a means of continuity, she involved herself with the fields of publishing, running errands, doing some light research for friends connected with national organizations.

She was able to produce what was asked of her without making undue demands, Babe fucking Kenny.  She established satisfactory loose relationships that served adequately the aims and desires of all parties involved, Babe fucking Kenny.  She went often to Washington.  Often she stayed for protracted periods.  She did not find herself over weaned, overwhelmed.  The many bright young things, the many bright young smiles ran up and down the highways and byways of goodness and charm.  This was not a heaven to capture Babe fucking Kenny’s fancy.

An occasional congressman, an occasional sterling thing from State, Justice, tried to convince Babe fucking Kenny of the goodness of his heart, the warmth of his purpose.  Babe fucking Kenny was not overly eager to be in the clutches of the idealistic, the cynical wonders who smiled so brightly, worked so feverishly, championed so greatly the dignity of justice, of man, of mankind.

There were media people, there were those with the key to god’s own plan for good and clean living, the revelation of his wonders.  In their hearts they knew that they were blessed with vision.  Truth and beauty followed in their wake.  All would lead the way ever after to the foundations of the noble and true.  All bright young things were of firm beliefs.  They all saw through sham and injustice.

Babe fucking Kenny, also in Washington, met many of the many who lobbied for the cause of all things great, all things which would make all things greater, all things which would be guaranteed to be great.  She met those representing things that had made America what it was.

They were bright and they too were young, the heroes of Babe fucking Kenny.  Anxiety jumped upon practicality, strength triumphed reason, disorder was a mother.  Disunity fomented.  Spring was cherished.  The earnest and so pure.  Babe fucking Kenny liked them best.  Babe fucking Kenny dealt with policy makers.  It behooved Babe to skepticism.  She reserved insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities.  They saw and did intelligent things.  Charmingly lucid.  In matured and intelligent splendor they found time to exhibit the depths of their understanding.

The earnest and pure.  Babe fucking Kenny liked them best.

* * * * * * * * * *

Johnny boy, Rachel.  I trusted them as much as I could, as much as circumstance allowed.

Johnny boy found himself to be the attenuated hero of his dreams.

He had landed in New York at the age of six as had many before.

He hustled.  He was a smart boy, in his element.

Johnny boy was three years old, stuck in the hell hole of North Africa.  One who once knew the captain of the ship that brought him there spotted Johnny boy, claimed him, made arrangements for his custody.  Johnny boy, a much traveled little boy, made his way from the steppes of central Asia to a house on a hill outside of Washington, D. C.  He had a set of neighbors at great pains to insure his happiness.  He had a home, a maid.  He had an abundance of friends who knew not why they liked him so.  Life was good.  New York City.  The city was magic, then, the place to be.  Wonder, madness, darkness, light, dreams.  Johnny boy came shortly.

Johnny had been graduated from college with a degree in Mathematics.  There was a comparative ease of economic pressures in those years.  The school offered him necessity, not fellowship which he did not crave.  The students with whom he came in contact were nice enough, a bit banal, some naïve.  Mirrors of sophistication, they offered little more than the continuation of the sophomorics he found so prevalent.

Johnny boy found no particular use for them, no particular need to sift through the chaff to get to the wheat.  Johnny boy was quite content to let college boys and girls be college boys and girls and he was quite content to allow them all to exist as happy little children, knowledgeable and all knowing, the cream of god’s creatures on his green little earth.  There was chatter and interests.  Tonics.  Flatulence.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

There were times when they had felt themselves very much apart of each other’s lives.  There were times when the thought of the other brought no more than a nod of recognition, a remembrance of pain.  Together Johnny boy and Rachel had finally conquered the devil, so it seemed.  Too wise they were to be running around like two little horses asses.  Johnny boy would not be bothered with demonic nonsense.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.

Rachel had done, seen.  She too loved the help.  Marriage was something.  It could exist without having to immerse itself into the world of eternal indulgence.  They would run the game for a while.  They would be romantic.

Johnny boy fought a war.  It was a mean little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He had enlisted in the Army.  The life he found after college was not overpoweringly fertile

Emiliana Garcia, his maid, had died.  He was left with no one that he cared for.  Emiliana Garcia was his family.

He was empty, Johnny boy was.  There were no great distractions.  There was a lot of noise.  Johnny wanted to do something with himself, to fight.  He wanted to be a proficient killer.  The knowledge and the discipline would not hurt him.  He might spend his life drifting.  For this he was not ready.

He learned.  He served.  Johnny fought a mean little war.  It was a dirty little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He was enlisted in the Army.  Life was an indulgence.

He went.  He returned.  A commissioned man.  He learned a great deal, Johnny boy.

Soon after he went to France, then to Africa.  He served.  Mercenary life was an indulgence.  He acquired some money.  He went to enjoy the offerings of the Mediterranean coast.  It was warm.  There was sun.  In Spain he watched searchers of truth and beauty cover the southern coast.  Exotic pleasures offered much.  Pleasures, dreams.

Johnny boy did not begrudge the new order of the lost, their fun, their enjoyment, their style.  Pleasant in some ways, interesting, the grasp at life.  He had knowledge of many things, Johnny boy.  Not yet the full degree of greatness promised.  Banal predecessors had managed to cross his path. Emiliana Garcia was his maid, was his family.

He bade his time, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy found in the companionship of some of his friends some understanding of the trials of man that he did not find elsewhere.

There was the understanding of the way of life that went with trial, trouble when it was a constant.  The world had many sides to offer the lovers of all things porous and knowing.  Johnny boy had reservoirs of mean confrontations in his wake, reservoirs of mean kills.

Johnny boy left from Spain and returned to the United States, to New York, to the Village which had been his home.  He stayed only a short while.  He moved to Washington. D.C.  He knew people in government work.  He found an apartment.  He looked for things to do.  The cynical and the snide.  The adventurous and cruel.  The smart and the just.  Nonchalance and complacency.  Simpatico.  Virtue shined upon the great unwashed in the lands of dreams.

There was poetry in the spirit that loved to implement for all the best of all possible worlds, the spirit which so nobly implemented the hopes and dreams of mankind with devotion to duty, with little implementations of fond little wants.

It was very good, John had grown to think, that there were so many who were so assiduously spending so much of their time looking out for gross deployment of noble honor.  The domesticated pets were facile and they were happy.  They were domesticated.  They were frivolous creatures who opposed the good.  They were all around.

Johnny boy had often seen the dregs of unbridled, beloved ignorance valiantly go into battle, time after time, with the greater dregs of same.  Johnny boy, in America, was becoming more and more fascinated by unvarnished confrontation, unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of bloodshed, the beat, beat, beat of beloved ignorance.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Surprise, not necessarily delight.  Rachel was a wonderful girl in her way.  Rachel was smart, he had met few smarter.  She was good, very, very good.  Rachel demanded much in return for her goodness.  She wanted much in the way of hard and cold reserve.  She was warm when she had to be warm, Rachel.  She was not always to touch.  She could be ice, ice which well protected vestiges of movement.

Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel was wary and Rachel was one who liked being wary, one who could manage to be wary.  Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel would not let the thoughts of her heart come out and play.  Rachel did not care to be among those who demanded that she be wise, very, very wise.

Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to let anyone prevent Rachel from following the paths she set out to follow.  Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to open up her little heart for the sake of anything or anyone because Rachel shared her little heart with none and nothing and Rachel maneuvered from the outside looking in.  Rachel was sublime.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Rachel was not happy.

Johnny boy was true, very, very true.  Johnny would stick.  Johnny would stay and do what had to be done.  Johnny would be there if needed.  He could leave if not.  Johnny boy was true.

Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true.  He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum.  He was lazy and he cared not to move.  He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction.  Johnny boy was intent on being left alone.  He wanted his peace.  Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody.  Johnny was what his god had made him.  The world was full of poor lost bastards.  Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody’s helper, chose his company carefully.

Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone’s holy redeemer.  He didn’t trust the beautiful.  He worshipped the damned.  He thought that he was a fucking idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy was true.  Johnny boy was good.  Johnny boy would stick.  He would stay and do what had to be done.

Sometimes the mirror got too ugly, sometimes too nice.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  God’s gift to each other.  Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.  They would run the gamut for a while.  They would be romantic.

They were exhuming the dead, Johnny boy, Rachel .

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed with flowers in the photograph album of my life.  Johnny boy, in America, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of his heartstrings.

My Rachel was a moment in time.  She was a quick fix of a moment and she was open to challenge and she was the sweet young song playing, a riff in mood, a haunting melody, a delicate tune..

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Sucked the life out of each other.

Sucked the death out of each other.

“I will be lusts depository for you, Johnny boy,” Rachel said to Johnny boy to make him smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

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