Grit: Tricks 1

Forget the hooker with a heart of gold bullshit – that was the kind of crap that shitheads who championed the double-standard opted for; mealy-mouthed bullshit that they used to convince themselves that people who they hated the very idea of were worth bothering about. Grit hated that shit – fucking hypocrites bastards who’d get their dicks sucked for a twenty one minute then beat themselves up about it the next, then offload the blame onto the women they saw as loathsome whores out to taint their purity; out to corrupt their steadfast morality, or the appearance of it at least.

He’d been dealing with the kind of people who would smile at you while harbouring ideas of dispensing with you for as long as he could remember. You had to watch the fork-tongued bastards closely and if you even suspected that they were going to make a move on you you got rid of them quick smart.

He’d known Shirley for a long time and he had always had a soft spot for her. They never talked about what they each did for a living but they understood each other, and they talked when they needed to, knowing that there were no limits to what they might discuss: they were friends.

Eddie, her pimp, was not popular with Grit, but Grit left him alone per their agreement. Anyone else though – anyone who he got a problem with in regards to their treatment of her, they were fair game … at least on the understanding that it didn’t hurt business too much.

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Grit: Vacuum 3

Marsh had a bit of a better poker game than Samson but he still came up woefully short – grit knew lots of people who would chew him up and spit him out in ten seconds. If these were the kind of monkeys who were making it into important positions these days then he had to wonder what the hell the rest of the crews were made up of.

Marsh had a suitcase of money that he flipped open and it looked full enough to satisfy Grit; looked full enough to fund a few different things which grit had been looking to do with his spare time.

Marsh didn’t speak much – none of his men did either. Grit could tell that they knew their words weren’t their strong point so they kept them to a minimum – no point advertising your weaknesses. Some people had to talk up a good fight before they ever landed a blow on their opponent, and some people just went for the knockdown in the first ten seconds. It was the difference, he supposed, between a street fighter and one of those pretty boys who stood in a ring fighting for a big glittery belt. Sure, Grit probably identified with Marsh more – didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill him, but it was reassuring to meet someone who he at least could stomach.

The transaction was smooth – the death would be smooth too. Grit was kind of suprised about how easy it was to play this game but he was damned well enjoying it.

So, he had two of the so-called big wigs lined up – time to draw in some of the next level players and get them suckered into the scheme as well. Just the promise of a leg up at the hands of someone like Grit would have them chomping at the bit. Grit allowed himself an uncharacteristic smile – he would enjoy delivering the punchline to this elaborate joke.

Grit: First Round 2

When the moment came to put the plan into action all that extra legwork which he had carried out started to come in useful. He’d found from experience that, when you want them to, things never run exactly per routine, and anything can cause a break in habits, but getting to know how someone is going to react to any given situation gives you the upper hand – means you can throw your hand in there too; you can make a play for the pot.

The guy’s other half, or one of them at least, was giving him some problems and he was having to run around after her, which was causing a delay in his arrival at the place which Grit had marked out for his execution.

It reached a time when it became obvious that the target just wasn’t going to play ball and arrive at the designated destination where Grit would be able to despatch him with no hassle. It reached an hour where Baker was calling him and expecting results and he had nothing whatsoever to report – and if he didn’t get something done soon someone else was going to swoop in and solve the problem for him; well, they would solve one problem and create a whole raft of others.

It served him well that he knew secrets about this man, and that certain secrets he had were not shared with anyone. He was sat across from one of those secrets right now. He had her on speaker phone and she was pulling in the fish he wanted to catch on an easy line that he could not resist.

His target was an expert at lying to one partner to get with another, so Grit had faith that he would not have to wait long at all to meet him in the flesh.

Half an hour later he was sat across from both of these people that he would be shortly killing, and he was wondering what this would do to him. He had no qualms about killing the shithead he had the folder on – that folder made a good case for this scumbag’s execution, but her? She was collateral damage, and that was something he didn’t like. That bullshit about how there were no innocents was a poor excuse for killing people and one he didn’t buy into. Still, he couldn’t afford loose ends – he was lucky that she was a hooker and there wouldn’t be too many people pushing to find her when she went missing.

Bang bang and a bath of hydrochloric acid later and all those loose ends were tied off.

Else City 4: This Shit That Is Reality

Pursey was head of the Clean Up Crew and he was a famously bad tempered bastard; he did not like dealing with people from other departments: dealing with the inanimate and decimated had fractured his mind into compartments where quiet horror constituted the biggest drawer and social niceties had one of the smaller allotments.
He hawked up a healthy wad of phlegm and targetted the ground just in front of O’Halligan. Normally O’Halligan would have cracked him upside his head but he just thought to himself how this guy was going to fit right in with whatever it was residing in that place.
As Pursey and his men entered the property there was an atmospheric shift – it felt as if the space they were occupying was collapsing in on itself; everyone looked as oppressed as they obviously felt. The high pitched whine which pierced the air had been building so gradually a few of them had thought they were suffering tinnitus, but it became apparent that all of them were hearing it, and then it turned into a hybrid scream / drill noise that had them all clutching their heads. A few people started to leak blood from the ears – they were all paralysed by the pain, all looking towards the place where Pursey had gone.
O’Halligan was expecting the place to explode and all of them to come stumbling out aflame and shrieking in agony but it was much more mundane – Pursey looked totally unfazed, as if he dealt with this kind of shit everyday, and in some ways that was exactly what he did.
He exited with a large specimen jar, a huge grin spread across his face.
‘Know what we have here, ladies and gentleman?’
When he got no response, he continued: ‘We have a pocket universe – that thing which started to dissolve O’Halligan’s suit was not acid, but a supercondensed pocket of reality, one antithetical to our own universe. Whilst it is held in what, for the moment I am going to call an egg, it runs just like our universe would (an hermetically sealed continuum) but when the thing is burst or broken it becomes something less stable – a hybrid entity which can no longer subsist by itself and which attacks that around it.’
‘Ok, Pursey, so where does this little scientific miracle come from?’
‘Glad you asked, O’Halligan, where it comes from is the anus of the thing which consumed those people in there.’
‘Run that by me again.’
‘OK, so the thing which ate those human beings in there digested them and shit out brand new universes.’
‘And how is that possible?’
‘That part I haven’t quite worked out. One has to wonder, if reality is the waste product this thing craps out, then what exactly is it that it is digesting?’
‘Forbes, tell me this isn’t fucking with your head.’
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that, O’Halligan – it is a skullfuck and no mistake.’
‘So, what do we do about it?’
‘Well, while Pursey takes this boil back to the lab and looks at it, we go and have a drink in some dive bars and see of anything doesn’t float to the top.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’

word gains 8

now the point, he is thinking, is, do i continue on with this or do i allow it to die a dignified death? can the pursuit of a furtherance to the story achieve anything other than to perpetuate an inwards collapsing of the narrative so it will resemble a souffle that has been left in the oven too long?
his second thought, following closely on the heels of that thought, is, well, what if i let that happen and try to pass it off as commentary on the nature of metatextual texts?
but having built that into the framework as yet another expectation which can either lead to disappointment or fulfilment, yet another question that is being asked of the reader, how can it be a surprise if i jump either way?
has he painted himself into a corner – that is the important question? the corner in a sense is an ever unfurling series fo questions, form-lead experimentations, narrative tricks, etc, etc.
a writer chasing his tail like a dog, a reader bored and licking his own balls.
so he comes up with another idea – superpositional fiction, where the fiction as a whole exists in a state of having ended and having not ended and existing in the superposition state of both of those outcomes. so he can tie it off here like a bleeding stump – eight being a nice number that suggest an infinite loop, and the next piece will do something entirely different with the game.
he scans through all previous entries to see where he might go, sees that the loose ends he will be leaving are actually integral to the nature of the experiment, and is happy that he can write
THE END
and it will be the end of something, though not technically this.
so he types
THE END
for real this time
considers typing pass GO and collect $200
wonders how many will consider remaining engaged in the game and how many will loop back to word gains 1 and try and re-read to glean the meaning of it all. he wonders if he truly understands the meaning himself.
he will type ‘THE END’ and will finish of this section with a footnote*.
THE END
* I am the I and the he and this may not be fictional or it may be, at the end of it one has to ask the question, do they really care?

word gains 7

he finds himself to be disappearing up his own posterior, kind of like ourobouros, but less dignified. and he decides that he needs to add some kind of humour into the proceedings lest he become an insufferable pompous ass choking on his own post-modernity. he briefly considers writing himself a haiku but then he has the cognition that nothing could be more pretentious than to sit down and write a haiku.
minimalism brings out the insufferable boors as much as hyperbolic manifestations of intellect can do, but god, what does that leave? the middle road? the one taken by all those beige conservatives with less imagination than your average toilet cleaner?
he ponders writing some fast food fiction; not literally being fiction about fast food, but fiction which can be consumed in the same manner. but how ironic and full of metatextuality would it be to write about fast food in that way?
circle jerk fiction comes to mind too – get a whole load of self-involved egotistical bastards with typewriters together and get them to write about what they are writing about, what their neighbours are writing about, and the relation between the two. it could even turn into an exquisite corpse eventually; a game of musical chairs with typewriters. a choreographed typewriting pool set to a voiceover by william burroughs talking about his cut-up technique, whilst brion gysin pictures are flashed in tryptichs upon three carefully positioned screens.
he wonders about non-fiction fiction because he feels like he has been writing fictional non-fiction. hmm, selling actual events as fictional events and then blending in the fictional to accounts of real moments in time. where does that get you? confused? enlightened? does it make you a liar or does it make you creative?
circle after circle after circle: chains of self-reflexive loops linked by titles that suggest a cohesive push to an answer but never deliver one because the whole process of asking questions about the nature of the thing being written is the point. provocation, narrative dislocation, and interpenetration of the diegetic and non-diegetic realms which the writing interacts with; shapes and is shaped by. interactivity is not limited to intentionally interactive mediums Рa piece of static writing is still, in some senses created from the  relationship of the author to the work and the reader, and of the reader to the author and the work. but he wants his work to exist as both Рin the writing of it it is meant to be interactive; in its final incarnation it will be in traditional print media and will adopt a new relation to the concept of interactivity.
he imagines each instalment of the piece of work called word gains turned into a series of beads in a kaleidoscope and he twists it and notes down the new patterns.

word gains 6

conversations with fictional constructs aside, he is happy with the latest piece. well, it was really an extrapolated conversation with himself: an internal dialogue externalised. he wonders at other formats that he might explore in a way that adds to the already convoluted form of the narrative – a film about the writer who creates the fictional writer given a voice over by someone other than the real writer himself?
infinite regression may indeed be the game – the aim to pull the whole world into the mirror, turn the mirror into a black hole. crush time, space, light, everything, and push it through a wormhole eventuality in another universe where the laws of physics are completely different.
what if he were to suddenly start adding elements of transhumanism into the mix – tell that science fictional lie that all of this was embedded into the brain in a series of flashing lights that locked a patterned behaviour onto a physical alien structure implanted by an invisible society that wants to control everything? the fluid nature of the story thus far would allow it. it would represent a shift perhaps from writing where the inner workings are worn on the outside like an exoskeleton to a form of writing where there is no reference to the external world, the process of writing, or anything self referential. except the science fictional constructs would most likely be metaphorical representations of real world constructs.
but he doesn’t really want to do that with this piece – his use of suggestion by means of paradiastole means he can throw red herrings at people left right and centre and not worry about the outcome. it distorts the fiction, plays with the reader’s imagination and offers cul-de-sac promises which may eventually come to infuriate.
he wonders how long the game will allow itself to be played. how long before boredom attacks and destroys forward momentum in the motion of the reader and the author. again – to ask the question tempts fate; invites expectation.