Sunday, August 28, 2016

Father Martin's Insanity

When dealing with forbidden texts and questions close to your heart of hearts, there can come a breaking point.

The real-time processing of Nephilim, Rephaim, werewolves and a general re-interpretation of the flood myth would be enough to throw anyone over I suppose. Especially if you're a Jesuit.

I believe that is what Father Martin is experiencing.

While I am thankful for all of the Gonteekwa and King Og insight that he has given me, there is going to have to be a break in our communication.

His musings, and his latest Vatican reveals will be at his website

I will always have a deep respect for the man.



Wednesday, August 24, 2016

The Cosmic Egg of Fnark - By Philip Kindred Dick

It's kind of a relief to just throw that title, THE COSMIC EGG OF FNARK out there.

Let me re-tell you what I told you back here with some more details.

When I graduated from the University of Victoria in 1996, the gift that my father gave me was huge.

He'd mentioned for years that he'd collaborated with Philip K Dick on something, but never mentioned what. I'd asked him more and more over time as I studied Dick's work and bumped BLADE RUNNER up to one of my all-time favorite moves.

[I am going to call BS on Dick though. That quote of his "It is just as I imagined it!" as he watched some dailies of Ridley Scott's BLADE RUNNER has got to be a bald-faced lie. DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP does not even come close to the tone that SCOTT set. But hey, I guess it's subjective.]

So my father sent me his only copy of THE COSMIC EGG OF FNARK. In the satchel of papers that I received, there is a publishing contract, and a note from DICK's himself suggesting directions to go in.

Now I don't know exactly what my father went through with this thing, but he never landed the fish. There were no notes of his additions to the thing, it was all DICK's words.

The advice my Dad gave me was to "take a run at it." His take on it was that this was a big exercise. That there was talent of my own to sharpen. I asked him regularly what format he saw me producing it in. His response was to just start writing.

At the time I was working as a secretary at a real estate office. On-shift I pieced together a re-telling of the 26 page treatment through the eyes of a much younger man. Its nothing I'm proud of. I never let it see the light of day and parked the thing.

There have been opportunities and paroxysms of interest over the years, but nothing interesting.

A few years ago, I wound out clocking a lot of time with the TALKING MAGPIES. Those guys know how to write and have comprehension of plot and nuance that I appreciate. In fact, the draft that we wrote is one that I am proud of.

However, as we loaded up the war machine to get it published or into the hands of someone who really cares about ushering DICK's hidden writings into some sort of media form, stuff got wonky.

We got a lawyer on the job. We looking into copyright law and rights. The whole time we were pinging the DICK estate nonstop to see if they were interested in it on any level. My ultimate thought had always been that the kids of PKD would want to know something about their old man that they might not have known before. I'm left to consider that pre-production for Amazon's THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE was in full-swing and they couldn't be bothered.

I have just come off of a 3 week braintrust with the Magpies again, trying to lock the story down sans DICK. We like the work that we have done. The window-dressing around the spine of the plot is stuff that makes me excited. Its some of the best sci-fi I have dealt with in awhile. I know that I am biased because it is my own (combined with the Magpies') writing, but I'm telling you, the ramp-up that we do to the story is enough to keep you on the edge of your seat. We ramp up the mystery and the chaos up until the 3rd act, and then the revelation of the FNARK is made known.

Here is where I am finally at: The spine of plot in THE COSMIC EGG OF FNARK is corroded. What PKD originally presented was a twisting, convoluted story that ultimately questions the value of human life and immortality.  In fact, a lot of what he was wrestling with in DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP is present. However, that corroded spine isn't strong enough for the muscle that we want to hang on the limbs. That corroded spine is the last of DICK's DNA in the project, but it doesn't really hold up. Also, I find that with all of the shackles of the copyright lawyers, its hard to smooth over some of the sutures that we have done with the plot.

We're tossing in the towel.

We have a cooler story we're working on anydamnways. One that touches on such grand subjects such as immortality and infanticide. Its much truer and closer to the zeitgeist than THE COSMIC EGG OF FNARK.

So for all of you who surfed in here based on the title of this blog, yes, its true. There is another PKD manuscript out there and I have it. The MAGPIES have a copy of it too. That's it. We really tried to get it out, but we couldn't do it. The story captivates my imagination, but without the DICK estate involved, its dead in the water.

I have to bring it all back to my old man (who died in 2007). I followed my marching orders. I did in fact "take a run at it." I know he would have liked what we did. He also would have liked the TALKING MAGPIES as well. At the end of the day, this project was a salute to the old man. I feel I did right by him.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

I shaved the beard btw. links directly to

Still tuning the Gonteekwa up. There are passages that need more teeth. Specifically, a character named LESTER WHEELER ANTIQUITIES DEALER who I have been throwing words at.

Been working on Nelson's backstory in THE GONTEEKWA. Tying the politics of Jamaica in 1980 and the  800 murders somehow. I was toying with Nelson being a disgraced cop on the run. Now I'm not sure which way to go. Lots of fun researching it. In fact, I was considering making an official looking Rastafari document.

speaking of religious documents online:

The KING OG front continues to grow and fester. It has been fun to see what websites think it is a serious document and those that aren't sure. There will be more. I have a second chapter that is tied in with LESTER WHEELER above. I might put it on the KING OG site. Not sure yet. I have one foot out the door with this stuff as I am peppering publishers with it.

If you are unfamiliar with the KING OG activity, I suggest you check this REDDIT PAGE that I made concerning it.

I sent emails to Jimmy Bakker and Quayle's camp to let them know that there is bad intelligence in their "Christian recordings" regarding King Og of Bashan. I let them know that when King Og of Bashan is being quoted, that those are my words. But those spirit-filled vessels of Christ's pure message can't be bothered. Sometimes, I just don't understand this withered hangnail on the Body of Christ. God bless 'em.

Also, been working on a definitely bent short story about a crazy woman named CATHARINE DEVICE. There was a lot of research I had to do to get her together. I have all of the moving parts in different notepad files and now I have to work the blender. It should clock in at about 10,000 words.

If you have questions or want to interact, you should probably hit up my main Twitter account:


PS. I am aiming for the top of the Google search engine with this. Some guy who may not be Peter Demmon has a podbean spam website at the tippy top. I had to pull my domain before someone spammy got it. Such is the Internet these days. Give me about a month here.

Monday, May 9, 2016

Scroll forward 20 minutes

These guys are citing THE LOST BOOK OF KING OG as part of their end-times podcast.

Amazing. I have to explain this to that Luddite Father Martin.


I'm gonna publish my editor's note and the o.g. text right here:

*Editor’s note:
This is the only Aramaic translation of the remaining chapter from THE BOOK OF KING OG the Giant.  This text (which was lost/hidden because of a historic, calculated move by Pope Pius XII to separate it from the Manichean Book of the Giants) has been the source of great speculation within the research halls of the Vatican for centuries. Originally, both Latin and Aramaic versions existed. 
The Latin version was censored and destroyed by the Catholic Church in the 5th century CE. 
In fact, the Catholic Church originally posted the following words of anathema in regards to THE BOOK OF KING OG and other forbidden texts:

… and whatever disciples of heresy and of the heretics or schismatics, whose names we have scarcely preserved, have taught or compiled, we declare to be not merely rejected but excluded from the whole Roman catholic and apostolic church, and its authors and their adherents to be damned in the inextricable shackles of anathema for ever.

Chapter 7 from the Aramaic has been recently authorized as “publishable” and is mostly complete. There are light fragments of the first 6 chapters that I will post as they get cleared by the Vatican.
THE LOST BOOK OF KING OG is referenced by association throughout (relatively) recent history, perhaps most notably in the NEW HISTORY OF ECCLESIASTICAL WRITERS published in 1693. In this reference book, the BOOK OF KING OG is described as, “Forged by Jews and Hereticks both Fabulous and Erroneous.” What I have come to conclude is that this has been an elaborate Catholic-ordained suppression of key Biblical knowledge.

Furthermore,  there is an element of disregard for the text in the court documents of the Blasphemy Trial of C. Southwell in 1841 (which was ground zero for the modern atheist movement).  In those trial documents, there is a reference to THE BOOK OF KING OG that has been “lost” and is full of “fables and errors.” However, what I have been learning is that this is a forbidden text that questions the very roots of modern Christianity. Chapters 1-6 tell the story of an antidiluvian and postdiluvian (prior to and post flood) world  that has never been told before.

With Constantine’s systematic destruction of non-Christian texts in and around 326 CE, and the following Gelasian Decree of the 5th century CE, knowledge and/or reproduction of Og’s verses were rendered impossible. The remaining damaged tablets of THE BOOK OF KING OG are currently under lock and key deep in the Vatican. What is transcribed below has been culled from the last remaining tablet/chapter housed in the Secret Vatican Library at the Department of Ancient Documents and Surviving Occult Findings. This department is curated under the Vatican’s residing American Bishop and translator, Father Martin (currently traveling abroad).

In short, Father Martin has access to sections of the Manichean text that has been unknown and unavailable to any other scholar in this field until now.

An interesting aspect of chapter 7 is the speculation that King Og himself dictated the words in preparation for the incoming attack from Moses that is cited in the Bible in Numbers 21.  As far as Father Martin has informed me, these are the only known writings of any of the Rephaim.

I apologize for breaks in text. I will cite them in brackets. I will also transcribe that which Father Martin was unable to translate as follows: [. . .]. Speculative text will have no ellipses, for example: The[quick brown fox] jumps [over] the[lazy] dog.

Regarding speculative text: Most of the words that Father Martin used in his translation of the original Aramaic have been the source of many, many discussions. I argued for “broader strokes” for brevity’s sake. It was painstakingly agreed between Father Martin and myself that italicized words now signify “broader translations.”

All translation liberties taken have been cleared by Father Martin and a panel of his direct Catholic superiors. What you see below is the most efficient reading of Chapter 7 of the Lost Book of King Og.

This website is the result of months of late night discussions and study stateside with Father Martin, a close personal friend of mine. – DEMMON
Numbers 21.
“Do not be afraid of him, for I have delivered him into your hands, along with his whole army and his land, Do to him what you did to Sihon King of the Amorites.”
#Og #KingOg #Nephilim #Rephraim #OldTestament #Catholic #Canaan #Giants #PreAdamicCreation #HundredThousandGiantWar

Dated in or around 1400 BCE.
CHAPTER 7 – The Final Words of King Og
¹Did you think, O [corrupt worm] of [Israel], that I did not stand above [. . . the great wa[ter..] in the [mountains]? ²You who have never touched the sky or stood two cubits over another man. My meditation [my dreams] are your [. . .][death]. Baal will see to it, worm. Behold, I am Og, the largest man in the land. What can you possibly do to me? Are you [prepared to die]?
³I have watched you[. . .] crawl into the [light] as a corrupt [fecal worm]. I have watched your mother Egypt [. . .] eat your young. ⁴I watch now and  I [ponder] is this why you now war with me, O [worm] of Israel? [You have sl]ain my neighbor in Sihon. Baal will avenge [. . .]. Both Baal and Baalat will [. . .empower me. . .] to sever the corrupt [worm] with force. ⁵[ . . .your false god. . .your weak [little] men. . .] I Og spit upon your warriors who trail like ants [. . .beneath. . .][feces]. I [wipe] the spittle from my beard. I will arise when ready. […] [the strength in] but one arm will [break] the [horn] of [Israel].
⁶Are the tales of my [exploits] not [traveling] to your itching ears O corrupt [fecal worm] of [Israel]? Of my power [. . .how I did battle. . .] against the [unspeakable] [monsters] in the renowned fields alongside my [Watcher] and [Nephilim] parentage? [. . .how we moulded to murder. . .] How we turned our wrath [. . .mercy. . .a foreigner. . .] where the old world [monsters] stood. Stupid, [fecal worm]. Stupid corrupt [fecal worm]. Your ox-like stupidity tires me to [sleep].
⁷O bitter, [blackened] corrupt [fecal worm]. Did not my [royal] [sorceresses] of Baal dance and prophesy of your arrival? Have we in Bashan not dreamed of your [murder]? My soothsayers tell of our [. . .victory. . .worship. . .sacrifices. . .]. My priests speak of [sorcery.and perversion] Baal has spoken [. . .] of when I will [tear] the [child skull] of the corrupt [fecal worm] Moses from his soft body and [. . .] hold it over Bashan as [. . .blood sign to Baal]. Your barren women will sing my praises. My dream needs no interpretation.
⁸How will I [murder] [. . .] corrupt one? [. . .] [as [a] dog. . .torn by a bull at the slaughter]. Should I lift [an entire  [. . . ] mountain [of earth] over my head [. . . ]?  Is not [Baal the god] of this [earth] I live in? The kingdom [. . .] supreme Baal has thousands of [. . .] answers to [. . .the pathetic] [fecal] [insect sized] god [. . .] [Israel]. Come here, that I might b[ind you with] cords [empowered by] Baal.
⁹[. . .How many . .] castaways have you killed, since your [insect sized] god told you not to kill? Hypocrite. [. . .the spirits of the sl[ain] complain about you and cry out. [. . .] Moses, you [blood drunk feaster] upon feces.  Like a cowardly [child] with gift toys [you run] from the [skirts] of your mother Egypt to me, that we may do [battle]? I will grind your [bones]. I will [eat] all of your [fingers] to the stump. [. . .great fear] shall seize you and you shall fall upon your face.
¹⁰My [wives] concubines and [sorceresses] shall witness [. . .the. . ] slaughter of the corrupt [fecal worm] of  [Israel]. [And they will] disrobe and paint their [flesh] with [Moses’ blood] and [. . entrails. . .] before Baal.  When we celebrate on high [my] sons will carry his severed stupid [child skull] on high [over the roads. . .]. There will be screams of praise to Og. To Baal. There will be roast [flesh served. . .] To Baal. To Og. [. . .]Moses head [held high] through the [. . .] roads of Bashan. Because you want it so, I will anoint my head and beard with oil before I go to make war, with you, [insect] worshiping fecal [child skull] [defeated].
¹¹Corrupt [little worm] Moses. My spies have told me [. . .your. . .] army, and their [. . .worship. . .] for any god but yours [. . .your murder(ous). . .] Of your time in Egypt. Of your [. . .commandments. . . of laws] your barbarism and insanity all in the name of your [fecal][insect-sized] god.
¹²Corrupt [fecal worm] Moses My spies [. . .] you [made] a bronze snake [. . .] to look upon when poisoned. [. . .] you would kill your own, for not worshiping your senseless corrupt god who kills yet [. . .].
¹³Murderous little [Israel] now at the foot of my kingdom. I will gird my loins to squash [. . .]. As the last of my [. . .Rephaim. . .] The Hundred Thousand Giant War and the survivor of the great wa[ters I now. . . ].
¹⁴[. . .] after killing the [. . .King Arid. . .] then the King of Shihon and [drenched in] their wives and children’s blood? [. . .] You would gird your loins against the last of the [Rephraim]? Gird them well. It is time to stand. My hands are ready for warfare.
¹⁵In my 900th year, the stray dogs of Bashan will feast on the flesh of Israel and the [fecal worm] Moses on the roads and in the paths.
¹⁶My spies [. . .say. . .] King of  Shihon. Killing the women and children, keeping the spoils¹⁷Your corrupt [fecal] god has driven you mad. [. . .murder. . .slaughter. . .destruction] at the [. . .] hands of [Israel]. Of war madness [. . .drunk with. . .] the blood and spoils [. . .] enemies learned. ¹⁸Life is still lost even when the battle is won, [worm].
¹⁹I will release the wild beast [gonteekwa] to you O corrupt [fecal worm Israel. . .] learn its ways of connection [from] before [your time].²⁰Before your [flood] before [your Adam] we were there. From the time of monsters.²¹ My brethren [. . .in the fields] their livestock and the greater [beasts] of old.²²Creeping, cloven hoofed [monsters] that ruled [in the] [. . .] the giants those men of reknown.²³Connected in heart and mind, and unstoppable before the [gods][. . .] one mind and of one heart they ruled. These men of old and their beasts [driven] [before] [them]²⁴Beasts that controlled the men as the men controlled the beasts. O stupid corrupt [fecal worm] Moses, the heart of an animal and the mind of a giant.²⁵ It [is time] for you to share your [soul] with [other] greater.
²⁶[I want no] victory [spoils] [just your. . .] stupid head.
²⁷[. . .] train for [. . .] [strange] weapons.
²⁸Make war [. . .] little man. Make war [. . . ] corrupt little worm. For Baal I’ll spread [. . .]blood [. . .]
²⁹ I have been training as one trains their oxen. My back and arms are ready. My life [. . .] is to [. . .] [fecal worm]. I will tear your backbone [. . .]  [your backside. . .]
³⁰ For Baal I will pull the [. . .] bearded [fecal] [child skull] of Moses from that [stupid] body. I  Og the last of the [Rephaim] [. . .]how long Moses has to live [. . .] since the Hundred Thousand Giant War.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


He hated fighting with her. He hated it with a passion. But there they were, deadlocked and neither were going to back down anytime soon.

And as he drove, he pushed it on the gas a little harder. The car was a little older, but it was strong. A workhorse. All cars are workhorses if you treat them right. When he turned, he carved into the corners a little more. He could hear the slightest of squalling from the tires. It felt good to take the anger out on the road. It probably wasn't good for the car or the tires, but she had really gotten under his skin this time. And on this straightaway, he knew he had a half of a mile before a stop sign. He knew that the speed limit was 35mph, but he also knew that he could probably double that before he had to hit his brakes.

She had dug her heels in, as stubborn as ever. She wasn't ever going to apologize. That wasn't how she operated. Years and years of this misery. This dealing with a self-serving individual who couldn't see her own faults but sure could see his. he hadn't really thought of it as bad. it wasn't until he was backed up against a wall as he was now that he actually realized his situation. He had these moments of clarity, and then he was lulled back into his life, away from the crisp coherence that she was indeed a poison to his soul.

His foot leaned on the gas pedal and the tires grabbed the road a little harder, pulled him a little faster. Just a little bit. He was ten miles over the speed limit, but it probably wasn't enough for a ticket. She had goaded him this time. Really laid it on thick. She knew he was angry and she had leaned her face right into his. She had dared him to hit her. She told him to hit her. Perhaps he should have. The tension as he stepped away from her had been remarkable. Like she had won somehow by his not following through with the belting she'd deserved. If he'd hit her, then maybe he wouldn't be out here speeding around, asking for trouble on his way to the bank.

Now he was at 55. 55 was manageable, but he was still pissed. He pushed it a bit more. He was a a quarter-tank. He would hit the bank, and then the gas station. The houses lolled by, unrecognizeable. Lots of picket fences. No one seemed to be out this afternoon. This was fine with him, because he was ready to force some air into that carburator.

He had to go to the bank to cover a credit card that she was abusing. Of course she could made it look like he benefited from her abuse of this card. Of course she demonstrated how everyone in the household benefited from her lack of control. But these were benefits that weren't necessary. It didn't need to be this way. What happened to waiting for clothes and dishes and fun things? What happened to jars where you tucked money away? That was how his mother had handled it. Not by getting an American Express card and racking the hell out of it. He'd stood by his point. His point was that he'd told her not to get it. Now she had it and the minimum payment was bigger than they had budgeted for. The part that had triggered him was that it had been manageable the month before. He had no idea what the money was actually being spent on. She wasn't really copping to it either.

68 now. Almost to the doubling point. He felt better. He could look at the road and concentrate on it. This took his mind off of the here and now. The wind whistled outside the car. The radio was off, and all he could hear was the hum of the engine, the hum that had a lot more growl to it if he wanted to use it. It was a smooth hum. There were no ticks and no pops. No grinding sounds and nothing scraping. It sounded healthy, and it was. He let off the gas. He would roll into the stop sign and hopefully feel a little better. There was no traffic on the road. No one was out to see him whizzing by in the family jalopy. The road was his, and with no one out, he felt entitled to it. Hitting 68 in the city limits was always a positive accomplishment.

But what was he going to do about her? He had been raised to think that separation and divorce were bad things...but there was no other way to deal with this one. This one was a serious pain in the neck. This one had issues way beyond him.

The coasting down was smooth and 55 felt like a slow speed. It could have been 25, the way it felt. After almost being at 70, 55 was completely small potatoes.

He would knuckle under again. he would apologize again. He would try and make it work one more time. He would pick up flowers on the way from the bank. There was enough cash in his wallet to pull of a slight bouquet, and that was what he was going to do. It would be better to apologize and try to make nice out of this whole thing than to have another cold night like what had been in his personal weather pattern for the past month. Flowers would do the trick.

And now he could see the stop sign ahead. He touched the brakes just a bit to bring it down to 40. 40 miles per hour. A cop would have to be a complete prick to ticket him now. However, if a cop was anywhere nearby, they would probably have him at the 68. He mused how the signs always said that speed was patrolled by aircraft, but he'd never received a ticket as a result of some pilot.

So tired of fighting. Their relationship was like a glass of water. He wanted to keep the water clean and drinkable. She was willing to allow all sorts of pollutants in, and remain satisfied that there was indeed still a glass of water. Shit water. Well, flowers might kill off some of the pollutants. Counselling maybe? He needed to think. With a sigh, he brought his right hand up to massage his temples.

That was when the kid on the bicycle shot out in front of him. That was when he felt the impact. That was when the windshield bent abnormally and at its last second of stability, it shattered. It blew in patterns of small things too quick to record. Like a thousand dandelion seeds being pushed in random directions by several straight, strong winds. The glass was hard, angry, and it ripped at him. The boy's body went sprawling off of the buckled hood, and for a second he saw the shock in the kid's eyes. The locked brakes caused the car to slow with a lurch and a nosing tip down in the front before settling. It was all quiet, except for the crinkle of glass covering him like a layer of chipped ice. The radiator began to hiss, angrily.


His engine froze and the front wheels locked, spinning the rear of the vehicle to the left with a squeal. Instinctively, Willie pumped the brake which forced the vehicle into a three-hundred and sixty degree reverse spin into the opposite lane. The Taurus flew into a parked Toyota pickup with a two-syllable crunch and forced it up onto the curb breaking two of its wheels off of their axles. The impact forced Willie’s head into the windshield with a spray of cube-shaped safety glass, which knocked him immediately unconscious. The wreckage tore into the worn concrete wall of the Sheraton Hotel with sparks and the groan of twisting metal before it ground to a halt with a vulgar hiss.

Willie reached under the seat. He knew that he’d wrecked his car. He knew that he was in Monterey. He knew that he needed something to defend himself with. His hand felt the tire iron. The blood from his forehead had caked his hair and was in the corner of his eye. Willie was careful as he pulled on the tire iron; everything felt fine, but his back could very well be broken.
“Gimme your hand, I’ll pull you through the window!” A voice said from the passenger side. Willie looked up and looked into the eyes of a really thin face attached to a lanky body that was hunched over the passenger side. Willie didn’t like the face, or the yellow teeth.
“I got it.” He said.
“Like hell you do. You need medical attention!” The man said.
“Is there a hospital in Monterey?” Willie mumbled, as he tried to make his pulling on his tire iron inconspicuous. Willie started towards the window, planting his right palm into the seat and leaning on it with his shoulder. He dragged himself out of his seat into sort of a half crawl towards the window. The driver’s side of the Taurus was completely destroyed. It was also totally entangled in the Toyota which had become part of the wall.
“Got you right where I wantcha!” The thin man with the yellow teeth snarled. His hand shot into the window and grabbed Willie by the ear. Yellow Tooth pulled and pulled, bracing his other hand against the top of the door, and Willie slowly complied.
“Let go! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Willie shrieked. He could feel something popping in his ear, he knew that his cartilage was giving away. The temptation for him was to let go of the tire iron and deal with Yellow Tooth some other way, but Willie didn’t know what Yellow Tooth was armed with, or what drugs he was hopped up on. Willie’s upper torso had cleared through the window when Yellow Tooth let go of his ear. Willie fell out of the vehicle, crashing onto the sidewalk, dimly aware that there was a crowd forming. The tire iron clanged to the ground beside him.
“Busted.” Willie mumbled to himself.
Yellow Tooth had reached into his belt and pulled out a knife. He lunged forward and grabbed Willie by the ear again.
“Was you gonna hit me with that? I don’t like being hit.”
Willie looked into his skeletal face and noticed for the first time the blond, stringy hair that wisped about his face. Yellow Tooth leaned in, hunkering down, pulling on the ear and raising the blade.
“Somebody help me!” Willie shouted at the crowd that was gathering. No one moved. They all watched, stupidly.
Willie heard the report. Then his face was spattered with blood. Suddenly, he had a burning pain in his shoulder, as if someone had just punched him with a jackhammer. Yellow Tooth grabbed his stomach and slowly turned around, to face the gun that was aimed at him. There was another shot, and Yellow Tooth twisted further around on his feet, he had been hit in the side of the head; knees buckled, one of his dark, cowboy-booted feet slipped on the pavement and Yellow Tooth collapsed in a twisted bleeding mess. The man who’d shot Yellow Tooth stepped forward. His arms were massive. He was wearing a tank top. His hair was short and he had a wicked grin on his face. His teeth weren’t yellow, they were gold. His eyes were locked on Willie’s as he walked up. Then he looked down at Yellow Tooth. Yellow tooth was twisted into an unnatural position from spinning and constricting in pain. The back of his head had been blown off, but his eyes were still tracking. Yellow Tooth looked up at the man and began to scramble as much as he could, but it was more of a spasm than a controlled motion. Gold Tooth squatted beside him and held the gun’s barrel in Yellow Tooth’s face. Yellow Tooth gritted his teeth and looked directly into Gold Tooth’s eyes. The barrel went up against Yellow Tooth’s yellow teeth with a mild click. Gold Tooth pulled the trigger and Willie recoiled, working on processing the image of someone with a bullet shattering their teeth. There was another click.
“Damn. Looks like I’m empty.” Gold Tooth said. He flashed his smile at Willie. Willie felt the pain in his shoulder and hoped that the bullet had gone through his back. He’s seen medical footage of what it takes to remove a bullet from a wound, and he wasn’t really up to it.
“Get up, I’ll take you somewhere where you can get fixed up.” Gold Tooth said. Willie staggered to his feet and began to limp after Gold Tooth. The crowd began to disperse. They had seen violence like this before. Some were actually put out that they hadn’t been able to witness a murder. People stepped away from the twisted car wreckage and stepped over Yellow Tooth. Someone kicked the tire iron and it slid and re-clanked somewhere else. Yellow Tooth clawed at the ground, multiple pools of blood had started around him. As far as the crowd was concerned, he didn’t exist anymore. He was a medium of entertainment that had just been turned off. He was going to die, and no one was going to do anything about it.