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theres waaaay to much image posting going on

Discussion in 'Channel Zero' started by Faithfull, Jul 17, 2004.

  1. Faithfull

    Faithfull New Jack

    Joined: Jul 11, 2004 Messages: 83 Likes Received: 0
    every fucking thread has like 20 motherfuckers posting images of bullshit that doesnt relate at all and makes the screens load slower and just plain fucked up useless pointless bullshit that takes more effort than posting a fucking relating comment.


    blah blah blah.. go ahead and post images, iknow you all will, thats ALL thats going on in mostly all the threads. fuck.

    I wanna give a shout out to DJ KaySlay and RIP Big Pun foreva
     
  2. Faithfull

    Faithfull New Jack

    Joined: Jul 11, 2004 Messages: 83 Likes Received: 0
  3. Dick Quickwood

    Dick Quickwood 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: Aug 25, 2002 Messages: 14,783 Likes Received: 14
  4. TURBOCAPSLOK

    TURBOCAPSLOK Elite Member

    Joined: Dec 4, 2003 Messages: 2,550 Likes Received: 1
    http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
    [img]http://kadreg.free.fr/perso/moules/plop.gif'>
     
  5. Faithfull

    Faithfull New Jack

    Joined: Jul 11, 2004 Messages: 83 Likes Received: 0
    YOUR MOTHER IS A SKUNK AND YOU ARE HER SHIT
     
  6. Faithfull

    Faithfull New Jack

    Joined: Jul 11, 2004 Messages: 83 Likes Received: 0
  7. Faithfull

    Faithfull New Jack

    Joined: Jul 11, 2004 Messages: 83 Likes Received: 0
    ^^ that logo sucks by the way
     
  8. TURBOCAPSLOK

    TURBOCAPSLOK Elite Member

    Joined: Dec 4, 2003 Messages: 2,550 Likes Received: 1
     
  9. 26SidedCube

    26SidedCube Veteran Member

    Joined: Mar 18, 2003 Messages: 6,590 Likes Received: 9
    I suppose everything could be seen as a result of the decisions she made. To take that job, to go to dinner …

    Sitting here, rattling a handful of pills, I will convince myself and try to believe that her death was a result of their imagined successes and corporate invincibility, their unhappy marriages or their repressed sadistic and pedophiliac urges. But it will make no difference who I blame or how often I shake my fist at the taint of industry, men of the streets, or the sky in all its vast and cruel indifference. She will still be gone and I will still be too thin and pale, too weak and infinitely miserable.

    Katherine and I lived together in these rooms above a grocery store. We’d moved here—to a new city, a new state—to start over, to escape our families and their disgust. We’d tried talking to them together to explain how we felt: that love shouldn’t have parameters, that we’d both always known it wouldn’t matter where we found a connection as long as it was honest. My father had been silent, my mother had said crying, But you don’t even look gay; your hair is long. For months prior to moving, I had thought that they simply needed time to adjust, to develop a change in perception, but things became worse. There had been arguments and tears. They couldn’t understand, and I don’t think we held it against them. When Katherine went to visit her father one evening and found him throwing the things she’d left in her old room into a garbage bag—his eyes wild, his hands shaking—she wasn’t bitter or resentful. He had said, Take what you need, but get the hell out of my place. If you ever come back, I swear to the Lord Himself I’ll take my belt to you. I don’t need no perversions around the house I sweat for six days a week. She hadn’t argued. We moved.

    I left a job, a cat with an old friend, some furniture and a shelf of books; Katherine left even more. We had found the apartment on our second day in the city while looking for food in the grocery store below it. The elderly man behind the counter, who owned the building, had spoken to us in nicer tones than we’d heard from anyone except each other in months. He’d asked us where we were from, what we were doing in the city, eventually offering up the room above. His name is Josef.

    As weeks passed, Josef seemed happy to have us living above. He would smile and yell to us when we passed through on cold mornings, give us free coffee and ask where our jackets were. He’d point a finger and scold, hand us paper bags full of small gifts—candy or boxes of tea—as we gripped each other’s arms laughing, teeth chattering, ears and fingers numb. Now when I see him, his smiles are infrequent and somber, his words absent of humor. He speaks to me, holding my hand in his wrinkled one: “Rachel, you still know how to smile, yes?” He hands me bigger bags, containing magazines or houseplants. “You see her at night when you dream.”

    I see Katherine at night in dreams, only faceless, tipping the hanging baskets of the plants Josef has given me, letting spill hundreds of kittens that writhe on the floor snapping at their own limbs and at each other in panic. I wake, only after watching them eat each other alive, with the shadow of her smile in my eyes.

    A few weeks after we’d moved, Katherine found a job downtown at a place that sold coffee in the mornings, wine at night. I worked at the public library near the apartment. We told each other, and ourselves, that they were only temporary positions, necessary until we were settled or became familiar with the area, sure that we wanted to stay. My shift ended at nine o’clock, hers sometimes not until one or two. We saw each other infrequently, mostly at night or in the early morning after one of us had gotten off work. The time was often spent on things like coloring in scuffs on our shoes with markers or sewing up holes in sweaters that had been held together with safety pins; trying to be positive about the fact that we were usually too tired to have a decent conversation and too broke to do anything about it. No matter how I tried not to, I began resenting Katherine’s bar job—because in essence, that’s what it was: a job at a bar. Maybe an upscale one with better, more expensive drinks and fancy customers, but it served the same function as every other bar. Even if it sold as much coffee as it did gin. I would struggle to fall asleep some nights, imagining her behind the counter in that place, cheeks flushed and smiling. I’d picture people ogling her—the way they will anyone when they’ve had too much to drink; men drooling at the necklines of her shirts, making passes, and never thinking to ask if she was in love with someone, somewhere. Just assuming she’d want to follow them to the parking lot, to lie across the backseats of their fancy cars, to let them run hands along her skin and disregard her in moments of feral subjectivity. I’d lie awake growing angry and suspicious, fearing that she might become uncertain of me in the midst of expensive clothes and wealth; fearing she’d surrender to propositions from rigid yet attractive men, who would tug down the fronts of their cashmere sweaters while talking to her, to conceal the lack of control they hoped they could convince her to tame. I drove myself to neurosis and greeted her embraces, when she returned home, with sour silence and feigned sleep.

    Almost four months after Katherine started her job, after I’d found their names and office phone numbers on the flaps of matchbooks in a pocket of her jeans while doing laundry, it was as if my brooding had caused the materialization of all my fears. Scribbled beneath the numeric invitations were men’s names: Al, Jim, Steve. I had shaken and cried and expected the worst, asked her when she came home, almost yelling, Whose fucking numbers are these? She’d laughed, shaken her head, held her arms out to me. Freak.… They’re lawyers or bankers or something stuffy like that, from the same firm. They get coffee every morning. These are their office numbers; they wanted me to work there. They’re just nice, old married men. She’d said over and over that night that I had nothing to worry about, though it wasn’t her I had difficulty trusting. I’ve never known a woman to take a man without his consent.

    My first sexual experience was at the hands of a nineteen-year-old male when I had just turned sixteen. On our first date, he’d brought a friend and given me a sixty-four-ounce jug of malt liquor, said we had to drive around until I finished it. Nervous and unfamiliar with alcohol, I drank and drank from the heavy bottle in the backseat of his car, encouraged by their looks of satisfaction. When I’d emptied the bottle, we went into a movie theatre where I vomited in a bathroom stall and again on the floor in the dark, under the movie screen. The three of us were asked to leave, and back in the car, he’d handed me a piece of chewing gum then climbed over the front seat to sit in back with me while his friend drove. I hadn’t understood what it was then that made him press himself into me so forcefully, eyes dead and hollow, grabbing my breasts and putting his hands and mouth on my neck in ways that left bruises everywhere. And I was too dulled and weighty to do anything about it. When I got home that night, my mother had asked excitedly how things went, and whether or not I liked the boy after spending time with him. Crying, I’d lied, saying, He told me he loved me and I don’t even know him. I think it’s weird, and I don’t I want to see him anymore. Many times since, I’ve noticed similar flashes in the eyes of men, young and old. Have heard whispered invitations and observed those same eyes, dull with longing, empty of life, searching for someone to absorb their solicitation. And many times since, I’ve heard women making excuses for them.

    The day Katherine’s heart stopped on the floor of our bedroom, I had come home early, heard the shower running. Found her half-dressed lying on her side with her fingers twisted in her hair. Her eyes dripped and, emblazoned with some kind of terror, they rolled, searching each corner and wall of the room without resting on me. Her lips appeared to struggle between smiles and frowns, and were wet from tears or sweat or an undecipherable, uncompleted string of words and sound. I said her name and she’d tried to reach her arms towards me, fingers shaking. I noticed her eyes: clouded and dimmed, red vessels spreading like cracked glass. Not right. Her mouth moved slowly, almost no sound. Formed please. Please. I knew, yet it was long—much too long—before I found my way down to Josef’s store to scream and shake and hate having left her in the room above.

    Later I was to learn that she’d been with the men from the matchbooks: fancy men in striped suits and shining shoes; proud purveyors of designer drugs peddling their powders and serums to the employees under them at their firm, to the young of the city, their children’s friends. Katherine’s co-workers told me they had noticed for months the ways these men had looked admiringly at her behind the counter of the bar, the ways they’d joked with her, glanced at the skin beneath her necklace. I imagine that they had often thought of her at night while lying next to their wives, had sublimated their thoughts by touching the neck of the woman in the bed, kissing between her legs until she whispered that she had gone numb. I imagine that they spoke only of Katherine’s nice smile when together, how quick she was with their coffees. How she always remembered what they liked. And I try to believe that it was without premeditation, that one of them asked her to join them for their usual “Thursday after-work kick-back”: sushi and drinks at four. Come on, you, me, Jim and Al. We all know each other; it’ll be like a party. You’re so much fun, he might have said. We’ll all have a good time.

    Katherine’s co-workers had watched her leave with one of them that day, to meet the other two at the bar inside the Japanese restaurant four buildings from her workplace. At night, waiting for a prescribed sedative to take hold of my thoughts, I see them greeting her there, patting her shoulder, ordering her a drink with a cherry garnish while waiting for a table, hoping to see her pull the fruit from the stem with her teeth. In the scenario I return to most often, they swallow large mouthfuls of bourbon, try not to think of their wives or the way the wet of her drink stays on her lips when she takes the glass away. They’re in their regular booth in a dark corner at the back of the place, watching her hold chopsticks, wanting not to feel anything more than they would if another co-worker had joined them, trying to ignore the desire in each other’s eyes. Drunk from the scent of her so close and free of the coffee counter’s obstruction, they find themselves saying things they’d thought for months, and imagine that the thoughts are only just occurring to them. They tell her she is gorgeous, a perfect woman, that they wish their wives laughed the way she does. They buy her more drinks, expensive scotch and brandy. Feeling freer, they ask her if she likes cocaine or if she’s ever had morphine. In some scenes, she will use drugs with them. Her eyes will grow heavy and she will seem near sleep. They will carry her to a car to drive her home, to make sure she gets inside our apartment safely. One will insist that he sit with her to make sure she is all right. This could be one of our daughters, he’ll say sternly. The two others will burn in their stomachs, and wish they had thought of this first. He will hold her slumped forward, between his legs in the backseat, pat her back and say into her ear that they are taking her home to rest, that she will be fine. Smelling the warmth of her neck, the perspiration under her arms, he will put a hand into her hair, let black strands run through his fingers again and again. He will push their thickness over her head with the heel of his hand. He will reach to straighten the bottom of her dress that has been wrinkled by the seat, wanting to make her look less rumpled. He will pull its hem and notice that the fabric is bunched around her, not under her. It will become easy to lift, necessary to glimpse hidden skin. Inevitable to touch it. He will trace the ridges of her spine with his fingers, and I will try to believe that it is without premeditation when he licks the places where her ribs show, when he feels how soft she is everywhere.

    Sometimes I still find strands of Katherine’s hair behind the couch, in a corner of the bathroom on the tiled floor. I will take them between two fingers and straighten them, adding them to the others I’ve collected, in the small pile of things I have left of her. The strangeness of being able to grasp some tangible trace of a person who isn’t anymore is, every time, more than I can bear. It shatters my delusions of that man’s inability to resist himself, of the inability of three men to resist themselves or stop each other. It forces me to recall things she told me, and to wonder about all of the things she didn’t.

    The nights following those days—after I have found bits of her hair or notes hidden in drawers that say Smile today Rachel, I’ll be thinking of you, or have imagined I heard her keys in the hallway—I will sit on the bed with pills in my hand. I will twist them in my palm to catch light through their gelatin shells, to listen to them clacking like marbles, like ice. I will hate their smells—of sulfur, black licorice, of the promise of so many nights of sleep—and will roll them between my hands the way I’ve seen teachers roll chalk, gamblers roll dice. I will funnel them through the lengths of my fingers in a loose fist, searching for one that stands out. One that might make everything dissolve upon digestion into a prickling, electric sort of calm.

    And I will remember what I know for sure, filling the uncertainties with details, however terrifying, so that at least I can believe I know something. There had been wounds along her back: long, neat strokes from the blade of a knife, cigarette burns and bruises. Three different types of DNA in the sperm crusted along the inside of her thigh. It was not these that had killed her. Her blood alcohol level had increased the toxicity of the cocaine she had put into her nose, the crack she had smoked, the morphine injected into a vein on her neck. Her blood pressure had risen, her breathing and heart rates had become increasingly abnormal while she trembled and sweated. Her small heart had not been strong or fast enough to manage it. I’ve read her medical files, have forced myself to research overdose symptoms and words like arrhythmia or tachycardia. I have examined facts a thousand times until I know them as well as anything. But there is too much that I don’t know. At night, I can’t sleep for thinking about the indefinite things, and even after swallowing sedatives, I force myself to stay awake through the first influxes of drowsiness, to sort evidence, create details, anticipate possibilities before they can materialize to frighten me in dreams. Then I’ll see him—the one who insists on sitting with her in back—taking up a knife from under the seat to draw the lines across the skin of her back. He will wet his hands in her blood and use it to dull the friction on the thin skin he was hoping she’d have put her mouth on. The one in the front passenger seat will notice, call him Sick bastard, and say You’re fucked up. He will be frightened and not like what he sees but will cross his legs and lean forward, pressing his groin to his thighs, aching. The car will stop on a side street on the outskirts of the city, and the driver will try to wake her. He wants her to breathe heavily, whisper things in his ear. He will hold her around the waist, her stomach against the hood of the car, not caring if anyone sees. They will take turns and press themselves into her forcefully, grab her breasts and put their hands and mouth on her back in ways that will leave bruises everywhere. They will take turns, and she will be too weak and ill to protest. She will be too dulled and weighted to do anything about it. They will leave the shadows of their fingers, pink on her wrists, and will be caught up in ways they will forget later at their wives’ dinner tables over mashed potatoes and peas. They will leave these desires with their pink fingerprints, have nothing of them in the kisses they offer to the cheeks of their children, or their children’s children, or in their eyes when they thank the wrinkled secretaries who will bring them their coffees from now on. They will finish and drive her to the grocery store, maybe carry her up the back entrance, to the room above. They will turn on the shower, tell her to rinse off as they’re leaving and she will try to take off her dress, but will collapse on the floor before she can wash away their adoration. I will leave the library early, walk up the stairs and find her.

    At night, I will convince myself, try to believe that I’d felt her last breath, grown cold and trembled at the strange pulsing in my own chest. But I will know that the only truth in all of my memory is the silence in that room, the glimmer of her wristwatch still ticking, the scent of perfume still alive and warm on her skin.
     
  10. TheoHuxtable

    TheoHuxtable Senior Member

    Joined: Jan 5, 2004 Messages: 2,113 Likes Received: 1
    [​IMG]
     
  11. Dick Quickwood

    Dick Quickwood 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: Aug 25, 2002 Messages: 14,783 Likes Received: 14
    26, that story was excellent. where did you find it?
     
  12. sarcasm

    sarcasm Elite Member

    Joined: Oct 30, 2003 Messages: 3,352 Likes Received: 35
    a single picture is worth a thousand words

    we're just trying to help you read
     
  13. WebsterUno

    WebsterUno Guest

    *believe*

    we want eazy!!

    http://gfunk4life.free.fr/eazye/photos/imgeazye/eazye006.jpg'>

    :cool:
     
  14. Brewster Baker

    Brewster Baker 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: Sep 11, 2003 Messages: 13,010 Likes Received: 527
    Re: *believe*

     
  15. $360

    $360 Elite Member

    Joined: Oct 2, 2002 Messages: 2,600 Likes Received: 1
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