Servant of the Flame, Part One

At the heart of the compound, the engine burns with blue fire. The whirring, grinding noises rattle the minds of the men in their quarters, trying to sleep. Many of them try earplugs or headphones. Nothing stops the noise of the engine. At night, they say, you can hear it in your bones.

It's been burning for decades. We don't know how to stop it, but we can slow it down and contain it. In the fortress, we caged the fire and learned to yoke it.

Our car pulls up and stops along a nondescript stretch of road. Too far from civilization for anything to be too well maintained. There's a patch of dirt where we always make the tranfer. Brown, scratchy weeds poke through the cracked asphalt, only to wither under the dry, Arizona heat. Seems like a waste trying to grow roots out in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

The bus is already waiting for us when we pull off the road. These things go like clockwork. The guards climb down out of the bus. I've seen them all before, though I don't know their names. It's a courtesy, really. They know enough about what's going on to know it's bad. And since we're always collecting, they must assume we're bad people. You don't want to get too friendly with bad people.

The guards lead the prisoner off the bus. We climb out of the car. One guard has a clipboard that he shows me. I flip through it. It lists the prisoner's information, criminal records, aliases, accomplices, family. He wants me to sign off on something, but I never sign anything. He puts away the clipboard and nods. All part of the routine. Clockwork.

The prisoner is a skinny looking thing, like cold gristle. He's got tattoos creeping down his arms and up his neck under the orange jumpsuit. The clipboard said he was a killer, but I could've guessed without looking. I spend enough time with killers.

This guy was all calm and careful till he got off the bus. He started sizing us up, likely imagining how he'd most like to kill each of us had he the chance. He didn't seem worried till he noticed the guards' faces.

The guards are fucking terrified of us. I love this part. They've all got pistols, and mace, and batons. One of them always has a shotgun, and yet they're scared of us, two guys in dark suits driving a company car. They're scared because they have no idea who we are or why they regularly hand over prisoners to us out in the middle of nowhere.

So now this animal is jerking his arms around and shouting. Even with the hand-and-ankle cuffs, he's still dangerous. The guards are shouting and struggling to hold him. They shove him up against the bus, but this guy won't quit. We just wait by the car for all the drama to die down.

The guy with the shotgun gives me a nervous glance. I nod. He walks over and smashes the butt of the weapon against the prisoner's face. I can hear that nose crack all the way over by the car. Blood is pouring like a garden hose from the murderer's face. That guard hit him really fucking hard. Fear can do crazy things to people.

After that it was easy enough to get him to cooperate. I brought some tranquilizers with me just in case, but we normally don't like to use them. It sometimes messes up the process.

We load the creep into the back of the car. He's getting blood all over the place, but that's okay too. The lab guys put some kind of special coat on the upholstery. You wouldn't believe the shit we have to clean out of there and it all just comes right off.

We fix his chains to a couple of special hooks at the bottom of his seat. He just sits there, playing hurt, but I can see those little eyes of his flicking around. The hooks look really fragile and he probably thinks he can just rip them right out and kill us. The real hard asses always try some shit like that. He's in for a motherfucking surprise when he does it.

The guards are already back on the bus. I can see the driver sweating behind the wheel. They can't wait for us to leave. Three guards, one driver, and a big-ass bus. They could have hauled forty prisoners out here, but they just took one. Whenever the order comes down, they only take one prisoner. And when things go like clockwork, they get big fat paychecks.

That's how things like this work. A little bit of money and a whole lot of fear. No one asks questions, everyone goes home happy.

Drinkey O' Drinkey

Lazy blonde curls, she's drawing loops around a currency of time hunched over the bar. She's a bolt from the blue with a tiny tattoo I can't quite make out on her arm. The men brush past and she snickers at their jokes, but cringes when our elbows accidently touch.

Like I'm supposed to apologize.

She looks like a lesbian, but she's not. That's supposed to be a compliment, but I know she won't take it that way so I shut my mouth. She dresses like she doesn't care. Not it'd matter what I think. It never matters what I think.

She says she believes in love and I can't say that I believe in anything.

You ever believe in anything? Looking back, can you honestly recommend it?

There's a little laugh and I see someone's propped their baby up on the bar. They tickle and giggle with it in between sips. I can't fucking take it anymore. I have to get up and run out of there. I have to go anywhere else.

But then, I'm thirsty. There's no beer outside, or back at my apartment, but there's beer here. So I stay and drink. And I order another. And another.

I don't know if I have enough money to cover the tab. I'm hurting so much I can't count.

For a Moment...

I held her all night, it was easy
The ground fell away as we slept
And I had no way of knowing
About the morning
And all the secrets she's kept

Old Romantic

In summertime, in sunny weather
On a remote, golden beach
My sins did gather together
To invite me to a feast

Pickled limes, fried legumes
With buttered pineal gland
No table, no plate, no spoon
The food thrown down in the sand

My hate picked up a fiddle
Hypocrisy began to clap
The rest danced and sang a little
Even though he played like crap

The main course was my lovely wife
They cut and pissed upon her
They offered me the biggest slice
For I was the guest of honor

With the dinner done, they'd had their fun
And almost nothing left of me
They left the food to rot in the sun
And laughing, led me to the sea

All the Sticky Bits

I've almost finished pulling all my pieces together
One was under the sink
One rolled behind the sofa
One was tucked into an old shoe
in a box in the attic
of the house that burned down
when I was just a boy
One was in my cereal
One was in my fist
One was stuck in my lover's eye
and blinking...blinking
blinked it free
One's still stuck on the ceiling
One can't move on with his life
no matter what he tells you
One still pretends to be happy
so you'll fucking hang up
I've almost got all of them rounded up
in a big pile on my bed
Now all I gotta do is stick them back together
All these broken bits