Dominance Games: An Essay on Power
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.
* * * * * * * * * *
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