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