Sugar by 180 Proof
A man in a wheelchair without a right leg or left foot waits in a lush hotel suite for a woman half his age who goes by Sugar. Cabs and delivery trucks rumble by a few floors below and occasional shouts and laughs compete with intermittent horns or sirens. He glances at his phone but nothing since her last text saying that she was getting on the train at Greenpoint. Twenty minutes to Midtown at most. Not soon enough.
Knock at the door and he wheels over to let in the room service server and then watches the tall Mexican-looking man carefully set out a buffet of covered dishes, cloth napkins, silverware, a large ice-filled water pitcher and holder stand with a magnum of champagne which he uncorks without a pop. Sugar loves Cristal. The server offers him a glass No. Gracias Guillermo the server says. Gracias, Guillermo and hands Guillermo a twenty dollar bill before signing the room service invoice. Gracias, señor. Guillermo nods at the floral bouquet with a single pink rose Enjoy your stay and leaves.
The man wheels over to the coffee table where he has placed the bouquet and looks over the suite from buffet to champaign to the bar and foyer between the bedroom and jacuzzi. For a long moment he takes note of the unveiled corner window open on reflections of the hotel facade on the opposite windows of office buildings across from the hotel. He checks his phone again and wheels over to the couch and pulls himself from the wheelchair. The man stretches his back till the creeky disc pops in a way that wiggles his phantom toes. Hurry up, girl he says to the room and soon nods off.
The erection wakes him enough to recognize that hes not dreaming of cutlery clinking and champagne pouring. What took you so long? He rubs himself and grins. But a fart and belch loudly startle him out of his reverie, eyes wide and pulling himself up straight-backed against the couch.
Who the fuck are you! he barks at the squat unshaven, bushy-browed, man in a filthy-looking, oversized parka, with the magnum in one hand and fork of smoked salmon in the other, leering over the buffet table like a bloated gull.
Yeah, who the fuck am I?
I said
Who the fuck are you downing more pink champagne and saying, with a mouthful of fish, while stabbing another on the tray, Took the words right outta my own mouth. Was about to ask you the same.
Wheres my motherfucking cell, he thinks, feeling around the couch and noticing his wheelchair is now across the suite by the door.
Im not going to ask you again he bluffs moving down the couch towards the hotel phone on the end table.
Good. Im busy with my lunch anyways.
The handset is gone. You disconnected the goddamn handset!
Didnt want us to be disturbed. Another garbled mouthful.
I dont have any cash, you homeless fuck! The man looks more like someone cosplaying a street person than the genuine article. Just take the food and go before I
Sugar.
Before you do what, gimpy? Guzzling another glass of Cristal. Not sloppily, not like a starving man. Nice hotels like these have small safes in all the rooms with combination locks, gimpy. Yours is locked. More salmon dripping with crème. You got valuables and I want em, He winks.
Girl, stay away.
Im not giving you
And your little side-bitch is gonna have some cash, or credit cards, or bling, he intoned, locking eyes with the man on the couch for the first time. And whatever else I can take from her. Icy pale blue eyes.
Suddenly the traffic gets louder. Honking horns. The world turning. Bowel irritating. He hoists himself up from the couch onto his one stumped leg.
"Okay. You're going to hurt her." Hops a step forward. "Going to hurt me too." Hops again, further.
Blue eyes grin.
"Yknow, asshole. One foot is king in the land of the footless."
Stabbing pain numbs from stump up to knee.
"Bitch, you give me no choice." Another hop and wince.
The man picks up a knife and fork from the buffet table. "Always got a choice, asshole." Sucks his teeth and belches.
Hops again but lands wrong crashing to the carpet and rolls over with his hands above him to fend off blows, but they dont come yet. Just quiet laughter. "I'm going to fuck you up! That's my choice," he groans at the ceiling.
"Or die trying."
Sometime later the one-leg man without a left foot wakes from a kick in the head, rusty taste in his mouth and knife in his belly. The door to his suite is open but from the floor he can't survey the damage done or tell what's been taken if anything. Tears and trembling. He knows moving around will only bleed him out sooner. Ringtone. Somewhere. Close. Her ringtone again. "Where?" He looks around frantically as if pinned to the floor. Crying out, "Where are you?!" Doubling over he sits up to listen better but then the ringtone stops. And then, suddenly, there is nothing but the incessant traffic.
Knock at the door and he wheels over to let in the room service server and then watches the tall Mexican-looking man carefully set out a buffet of covered dishes, cloth napkins, silverware, a large ice-filled water pitcher and holder stand with a magnum of champagne which he uncorks without a pop. Sugar loves Cristal. The server offers him a glass No. Gracias Guillermo the server says. Gracias, Guillermo and hands Guillermo a twenty dollar bill before signing the room service invoice. Gracias, señor. Guillermo nods at the floral bouquet with a single pink rose Enjoy your stay and leaves.
The man wheels over to the coffee table where he has placed the bouquet and looks over the suite from buffet to champaign to the bar and foyer between the bedroom and jacuzzi. For a long moment he takes note of the unveiled corner window open on reflections of the hotel facade on the opposite windows of office buildings across from the hotel. He checks his phone again and wheels over to the couch and pulls himself from the wheelchair. The man stretches his back till the creeky disc pops in a way that wiggles his phantom toes. Hurry up, girl he says to the room and soon nods off.
The erection wakes him enough to recognize that hes not dreaming of cutlery clinking and champagne pouring. What took you so long? He rubs himself and grins. But a fart and belch loudly startle him out of his reverie, eyes wide and pulling himself up straight-backed against the couch.
Who the fuck are you! he barks at the squat unshaven, bushy-browed, man in a filthy-looking, oversized parka, with the magnum in one hand and fork of smoked salmon in the other, leering over the buffet table like a bloated gull.
Yeah, who the fuck am I?
I said
Who the fuck are you downing more pink champagne and saying, with a mouthful of fish, while stabbing another on the tray, Took the words right outta my own mouth. Was about to ask you the same.
Wheres my motherfucking cell, he thinks, feeling around the couch and noticing his wheelchair is now across the suite by the door.
Im not going to ask you again he bluffs moving down the couch towards the hotel phone on the end table.
Good. Im busy with my lunch anyways.
The handset is gone. You disconnected the goddamn handset!
Didnt want us to be disturbed. Another garbled mouthful.
I dont have any cash, you homeless fuck! The man looks more like someone cosplaying a street person than the genuine article. Just take the food and go before I
Sugar.
Before you do what, gimpy? Guzzling another glass of Cristal. Not sloppily, not like a starving man. Nice hotels like these have small safes in all the rooms with combination locks, gimpy. Yours is locked. More salmon dripping with crème. You got valuables and I want em, He winks.
Girl, stay away.
Im not giving you
And your little side-bitch is gonna have some cash, or credit cards, or bling, he intoned, locking eyes with the man on the couch for the first time. And whatever else I can take from her. Icy pale blue eyes.
Suddenly the traffic gets louder. Honking horns. The world turning. Bowel irritating. He hoists himself up from the couch onto his one stumped leg.
"Okay. You're going to hurt her." Hops a step forward. "Going to hurt me too." Hops again, further.
Blue eyes grin.
"Yknow, asshole. One foot is king in the land of the footless."
Stabbing pain numbs from stump up to knee.
"Bitch, you give me no choice." Another hop and wince.
The man picks up a knife and fork from the buffet table. "Always got a choice, asshole." Sucks his teeth and belches.
Hops again but lands wrong crashing to the carpet and rolls over with his hands above him to fend off blows, but they dont come yet. Just quiet laughter. "I'm going to fuck you up! That's my choice," he groans at the ceiling.
"Or die trying."
Sometime later the one-leg man without a left foot wakes from a kick in the head, rusty taste in his mouth and knife in his belly. The door to his suite is open but from the floor he can't survey the damage done or tell what's been taken if anything. Tears and trembling. He knows moving around will only bleed him out sooner. Ringtone. Somewhere. Close. Her ringtone again. "Where?" He looks around frantically as if pinned to the floor. Crying out, "Where are you?!" Doubling over he sits up to listen better but then the ringtone stops. And then, suddenly, there is nothing but the incessant traffic.
Comments (52)
Quoting 180 Proof
I think the above quote is one of 180's unmistakeable signatures.
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting 180 Proof
Am I barmy, or do the above lines carry a strong flavor of Ebonics?
Since it's possible for a black man from the 'hood to have pale blue eyes, I can't see him as anything else. Also, the one-leg man's thought balloons sans clarifications from the narrator -- initially disorienting -- so far as I know, have only one source, 180.
As always, 180's work is interesting.
The scenario herein gives us a short pop of black-on-black crime with reenforcement of the short expected lifespan of USA black males.
The pop is a quick taste that deserves much elaboration, although I'm not hopeful because novel writing is a Mt. Everest most refuse to consider.
A funny note, as a transplant who's lived in NY nearly 10 years, I would say a lot of stops without the "ave" or "st", but Greenpoint is always said as Greenpoint Ave. :lol: might just be the younger generation, I don't know.
Quoting Baden
:grimace:
As always, your points are cogent & thought-provoking.
Regarding your big signature, the window reflections, if that's not you, then you've already got an imitator, a good one.
Yes. I think the English in the dialog of this story is black as Georgia's best arable. I own my racialised POV, and I do it without shame.
Something about being reviled by the establishment makes people creative, so much dialect & slang have their origins within the black community before going national.
If the killer isn't black, either he grew up around blacks -- maybe his dad was a musician -- or he's tuned into black mass media, like masses of other "conservatives."
Quoting 180 Proof
Somebody ought to poll readers for stats on who thinks the above quote is the characteristic dialog of a white cop with "icy pale blue eyes."
If you want to see a black man with icy pale blue eyes, go to IMDB.com & check-out director Michael Schultz (Cooley High).
As for Ebonics, when black folks invent names like Raquilla, LaShonda, Andray (not Andre) & Deshaun, I theorize these black dialect names are excavations from genetic race memory tracing back to the African continent.
It's a good story, very worthwhile reading, regardless of whomever wrote it. My only quibble is that another evil cop with icy pale blue eyes murdering a helpless victim is cliche, whereas the same crime done black-on-black is getting into some real shit.
That's a profoundly ignorant statement. :brow:
Are you a Black American, ucarr, raised in the 'hood? Maybe I'm mistaken but I get a very distinct impression you are not. Confusing slang (or even jive) with "Ebonics" and referring to a cinematic depiction of 1960s blacks in the ghetto to make your point are ludicrous tells. No doubt, we all have prejudices experiential shorthands and your reading of this story (and others I'm sure) certainly shows yours.
Btw, care to explain what makes this passage
Quoting Baden
a signature of mine?
Quoting 180 Proof
Yes. I am a black man from Chicago now living in Los Angeles County.
I was raised with mom & dad in a single-family home at the bottom of the black middle class. I remember regular visits to one of my aunts living in the projects. Poor black kids from broken homes were an integral part of my culture. Sis & I interacted with them every day during our childhoods & teens.
Every now & then I return to the old neighborhood when I visit my sister & her family.
Quoting 180 Proof, Sugar
Quoting 180 Proof, Felice
Quoting god must be atheist
god must be atheist alerted me to the fact that in Felice you give the reader a complex visual provoking sight of a machine sentience & a human sentience facing each other across the void.
In Sugar (quoted in italics above) we have another complex visual provoking sight of a light show of facades & reflections.
Each line is a grace note giving distinction to the author's voice while burnishing the narrative.
This is neither here nor there, but here she goes anyway:
In my psychology class on the first day when we talked about racism, the teacher asked, of the entire class (about 20 students) whether they believed if the girl in the first row, visible by face only to the teacher, had blue eyes. Some said yes, some said no. The "no"-s were probably screaming non-racists, as the girl was of Black ethnicity. Then the teacher asked her to turn around and face the class.
She had icy pale-blue eyes.
I'll remember that lecture part to the day I die.
For the record, I'm an entitled and privileged white middle-class fat balding and sweaty over middle age maelmale person.
You mean, there are racial differences between African Americans, dividing them along the lines of living in Ghettos or living elsewhere? That's what your question necessarily presupposes, and therefore your ideation is, in my opinion, mistaken. African Americans may be ethnically diverse, but they are not cut along demarcation lines as you indicated.
If that's not a coincidence, I guess it's quite the tell. Anyway, hats off to the author (probably gmba who made you notice it. :smirk:)
If this song doesn't scream about being from the hood, I don't know what does.
I like the song. I guess it's a side of Lou Reed I've never before heard.
Wish I could hear Joan Baez sing this one. People would think it's about Dylan, but I want to hear it from a singer who can carry a tune.
I can't stand Joan Baez.
Musically or politically? If it's both, elaborate how she offends your sensibilities. If you know her personally, I especially want to hear the dish (if you might be willing).
Regarding membership WRT the Native Americans (from the tribe) & the African Americans (from the 'hood), why is the question of authenticity such a flashpoint? Is it because there's romance attached to those branches of humanity facing extinction?
How does my being an ignoramus cast doubt upon my membership within AA? It's pleasing to think all members of our own group are enlightened, but practical people know better.
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting The Apple Dictionary
So, idiolect = one-person dialect and, in your context, idiolect = dialect of a specific people (African American). Whereas
Quoting The Apple Dictionary
Since idiolect = dialect & (per the definition above) Ebonics ? dialect, your equation of the two is incorrect, and thus your authority for dissing my understanding of Ebonics stands upon shaky ground. Moreover
Quoting The Apple Dictionary
It looks to me as if idiolect ? slang holds more water than Ebonics = idiolect.
If Ebonics can't verify a distinct grammar, syntax & declension for itself (I've seen nothing to this effect), then maybe Ebonics ? idiolect ? slang hold true.
I just think she has a caricature high pitched hippy wail.
I do know Joan Baez personally. We used to hang out in Greenwich Village in the 60s where we would talk about the coming revolution, make love in back alleys, and smoke clove cigarettes. Our relationship became tumultuous as I moved from peyote to heroin, resulting in a nasty shouting match in Times Square, where I brought up her hygiene habits. The media skewered both of us, leaving my reputation in shambles. I returned to my hovel in Guadalajara, spending my days drinking indigenous beer and searching for the next high. I was finally remembered by Jamalrob, who came to my rescue and gave me a second chance with my job here, who then for some reason changed his name to Jamal, leaving me once again confused and lost.
Anyway, thanks for asking about my relationship with Joan Baez. I haven't shared that in a while.
I have. You can read them here
I really have no idea how that story motivated all this back and forth regarding ebonics. I didn't see any racial element to it at all. The only stereotype in the story was the server who was Hispanic, which I didn't focus on. Interesting thought though of how it might have changed the story if the server's name were Vladimir. It might have left the reader thinking the server was part of the robbery, playing on a Russian mafia idea.
All sorts of fun ways to play with racial stereotypes.
Usually, folks from Malibu don't sound exactly like folks from Compton.
Does the dialogue sound to your ear like generic English?
If it were the guy from The Ennui of Hungthor the Great doing the robbery, would you still imagine it might be anyone on Earth speaking?
It sounds well within the range of standard English, without any clear indicator otherwise. If someone tried to write within a particular dialect (as in the tales of Uncle Remus with Brer Rabbit getting thrown in the briar patch), of course it would sound different, but nothing here screams anything other than a generally educated English speaker who is posting in a philosophy forum.
In any event, your attempt to decipher the race of the speaker isn't interesting, and I doubt the author has gained much insight by this pretty useless diversion.
What I need to think about -- The Following Premise: Regarding Localizing Vernacular,
In England, in the early 20th Century, when Henry Higgins does it, we get INSIGHTFUL whereas, in America, in the early 21st Century, when ucarr tries to do it, we get PETTY.
Possible Guiding Value -- Regarding vernacular & its spectrum of slangs, for persons with a certain type of interest in language, local color is never uninteresting.
Possible Pertinent Observation -- Quoting paraphrasing Roger Ebert
The language of the speakers wasn't especially indicative of a specific race/culture. Though a strong patois might enrich the scene.
I'm glad it wasn't just a meet up with Sugar but it left me wanting a bit more. Was that intruder Sugar's wanna-be pimp? We know nothing about Sugar but I'm curious now... Is she in any way responsible for what happened?
Quoting Tobias
Perfect. :up:
Weer perfect, mijn vriend! :smirk:
Quoting Tobias
:fire:
My future self, if I let my recent diabetes get out of control, clashing with "memories" of my not-so-distant past-self and the urbanite anxiety of these wolf-bites-dog days in "Trumpistan". The relief of these last few months having relocated from midtown-Atlanta, Georgia to a small, sleepy town across the river from Portland, Oregon had conjured up this "tale". Thanks for reading "Sugar" like a writer, Tobias. :cool:
A Czech stripper living in Polish BK. :chin:
Yep. Same.
When I read the story I felt that I was missing something important but couldn't put finger on it. Now, I realise what it was: diabetes. I should have picked it up, because I have worked in healthcare and both type 1 and type 2 diabetes are in my father's side of the family.
The title sugar and the amputated leg were hints, especially as some people have lost limbs due to deep vein complications. I guess that I interpreted the loss of limb as signifying heroin addiction or homelessness though, because I know of a homeless man who lost a leg due to frostbite. I wonder if you would be best to give a couple more obvious clues about diabetes, although I am unsure to what extent this matters to the reading and understanding of the story as a whole.
Actually the story of your life would not fit a short story, even a book would scarcely do it justice. I wonder if such would ever happen. I'd be the first in line at the book store, pen ready for an autograph mijn vriend. :cool:
(By "coincidence", this old song just played on my local radio station while I wrote this post.)
If only I was interesting enough to myself... :sweat:
Btw, I wrote a long essay during quarantine in 2020 which I've been revising and polishing (minimizing) since then but slowly due to persisting 'covid brain fog'. It began as an 'intellectual memoir' that is now a sustained philosophical ramble which I intend to self-publish (with the vaguely ominous title [s]philosophy of No[/s]) sooner rather than later. Maybe before publishing I'll post the manuscript somewhere on TPF for some critical / constructive feedback. This is as close to "my story" (in nonfiction) as I'll probably ever manage.
Gut punch of a story. Like others, for me, the intricacies of dialogue didn't seem foregrounded as much as the mood of menace which your blunt and direct style fits like a glove. I agree with a lot else of what was said but my overriding feeling was I wanted a slower boil and/or some narrative closure. The set up puts the reader immediately on edge but it's over all too quick. Make us suffer our own perverse enjoyment for longer! Roast us on the thought that we just shouldn't be rooting for the murderer but we can't help ourselves! Or shock us with a twist. You had us. Keep us there. Maybe you would have if you had more time to write it? Still, despite the brevity, it stayed with me and rewarded my rereading.
I guess the hint is now blaring. Sugar did this even if she didn't fully intend to. Is it just a consequence of the world she moves within? Maybe there was a silent gesture she unconsciously gave to the stabber that precipitated the event and perhaps she'll feel incredible guilt for what she learns transpired. Now we just need a private investigator, ex-endocrinologist, to probe the sordid workings of this neighborhood and unearth the motive.
Hopefully it wasn't Sugar's pimps who shot up the protagonist's legs in a previous scenario.
Or not.
Quoting 180 Proof
I would love to read it and offer commentary / feedback if it could be helpful.
:cool: Thanks.
"Sugar" was my "Rosebud", a macguffin. Her actual role (off-screen), while a mystery to me as well, I prefer to think is more or less unrelated to her trick's demise. :smirk:
:smile:
:smirk:
The wink meant you were kidding, right?
OK @180 Proof
Here's my take. ( hindsight helps :wink: )
I read the story, scribbled some notes along the way and will now try to decipher them...
Title: Sugar
What's the importance of 'Sugar'?
Well, right away we're told that it's the name of a woman but how central to the plot? But 'Sugar' can mean so much more, as you explained.
(I once wrote, when on a diet, that I tried to see white sugar as a poison...)
The first sentence sets the scene and we wonder about the man in the wheelchair waiting for his "Sugar". Someone who will give him much-needed pleasure. I think of and sing 'Brown Sugar':
"Brown sugar, how come you taste so good?
Brown sugar, just like a young girl should, uh huh..."
So, a young, black girl...how innocent or worldly-wise, both?
What happened in his life so that he is now footless and lop-sided missing a leg?
Perhaps a veteran, injured in action? I already see him as Al Pacino in 'Scent of a Woman'.
That trip to NYC - the luxury of the last day?
We hear the sounds of the traffic and people going about their everyday business.
The importance of the phone for contact. (reminds me of Felice).
The impatience of the man.
The knowledge of the city and the train times from run-down to uptown. I don't know NY at all.
---
Yes, this story has the quality of a film. The description in next para is detailed and yet not too much.
We see the service server - who has a careful attitude as he sets out the buffet and the expensive champagne. The way he uncorks without a 'pop' - no waste, no big bang of bubbles.
Sugar loves Cristal.
How come she's got this expensive taste? She mixes in rich company?
The man refuses a glass. Hmmm...is it to be drunk from a stilleto? A footless foot fetishist?
Supped or sucked from the body...
The server gives his name when asked. The man cares about people and rewards good care.
Guillermo nods at the floral bouquet with a single pink rose Enjoy your stay and leaves.
A special moment of contact. A connection. A recognition of the meaning of the single rose?
Your signature :flower: memento vivere. Remember you die, so remember to live.
The "Enjoy your stay" more than the throw-away "Have a nice day!".
---
While the man waits, he looks around. He lingers on the 'unveiled corner window open on reflections of the hotel facade on the opposite windows of office buildings across from the hotel'.
I have to read again to see what he sees. It's a corner room open to view, both ways.
Reflections and a mingling of rich comfort with office work. Did he work there in the past?
Did he use the hotel for overnights? ( again I think of Felice)
His inner life hidden - the externals exposed in faces, bodies, buildings, streetscapes and sounds.
Now, the man readies his body for Sugar. His arms are strong as he pulls himself from the wheelchair to the couch.
I'm amazed at this description:
'The man stretches his back till the creeky disc pops in a way that wiggles his phantom toes.'
How do you know that effect on the phantom toes?
It must please the man to know he has the power or control to feel movement...
He wants the girl right now...but he nods off. The physical effort or the heat getting to him.
---
We feel his shock and alarm as he is rudely awakened from his wet dream.
A fart and a belch. Not his Sugar.
I love this Face Off with the filthy, unkempt monster with the magnum. I think gun or champagne.
Both can pop, or not.
"Who the fuck are you!"
They both want to know who they are. Good question or exclamation!
Took the words right outta my own mouth. Was about to ask you the same.
Wow. It's Meatloaf! 1977 *
But this time there's the added 'own' mouth.
It's the aggressor's own mouth. Emphasis on identity. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it...
An aside:
*
[ 'On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
Would he offer me his mouth/teeth/jaws/hunger/hunger? Yes. Yes.
Will he starve without me? Yes. Yes.
And does he love me? Yes. YES.
I bet you say that to all the boys...' ]
What kind of interaction is going on in the story? It's a puzzle.
A sexual frisson?
The handset is gone. You disconnected the goddamn handset!
Is this unspoken?
But yet picked up on...
"Didnt want us to be disturbed.
'DO NOT DISTURB' sign might already be hanging outside the door. For obvious reasons.
But this? This is menacing.
---
That's all I got so far.
Your writing is superb :fire:
'Sugar' continued:
So, what is it that the intruder wants? Why is he here?
He is hungry for more than food.
And here comes the bluff and threats. The victim needs to save Sugar. Forever there but not.
The intruder's insulting and childish name-calling and calling out, 'gimpy'.
Guzzling another glass of Cristal...what, where did the glass come from? The bar raided?
How do you guzzle not sloppily? I suppose quickly and eagerly but still with care. Hmmm.
Not like a starving man. So, again - he isn't what he seems.
He appreciates or had a fine life.
He wants to steal the valuables of others; apparently more fortunate, even if footless.
Has he staked out this victim...the vulnerable he can control, exert power over?
The powerless and the victimised seeking revenge...
He winks.
His victim still thinking of Sugar more than himself.
Sends out a telepathic message; hopes she's receiving.
Girl, stay away.
Im not giving you
The intruder seems to know about Sugar. How?
His icy pale blue eyes menace and mock.
He will have her too. He's on a power trip.
His victim acknowledges the hurt to come to both and tries to gain physical momentum.
By hopping on his one stumped leg.
The picture is painful. The external and internal elements turn and churn.
We feel the rhythm and sounds of the city on high. His world turning.
This is wonderful writing - all senses on alert.
---
"Yknow, asshole. One foot is king in the land of the footless."
Talk about rubbing it in. The intruder is lording it over his victim.
Isn't he the clever one?
We can imagine he knows the original:
'In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king'.
The victim still shows courage; he carries on in the face of death :death:
The following scene really hits home. Physically and philosophically.
Choice. How will we react when adversity hits? Vice v Virtue.
"Bitch, you give me no choice." Another hop and wince.
The man picks up a knife and fork from the buffet table. "Always got a choice, asshole." Sucks his teeth and belches.
The victim to be consumed. What choice? To fight or give up...
He is tortured with the knowledge of what is to come...quiet laughter.
The sinister.
"I'm going to fuck you up! That's my choice," he groans at the ceiling.
"Or die trying."
Who is saying what here? I'm confused. And I don't know why.
Is it first the aggressor... the groans those of pleasure.
Or the victim...
---
Final paragraph.
'Sometime later the one-leg man without a left foot wakes from a kick in the head, rusty taste in his mouth and knife in his belly.'
Lying on the floor. Bloodied, beaten and...dying?
'Tears and trembling.'
Ah, Kierkegaard's 'Fear and Trembling'.
What do we know about the victim's religious beliefs?
I would guess he has none. He is resigned to death. He has no fear of heaven or hell.
It is only in the act of dying or wondering about Sugar that he becomes frantic.
I love the staccato. The sharp detachment and slow disconnect. The breath gasping the words:
'Ringtone. Somewhere. Close.'
The Crying out of: "Where are you?!" as he is pinned to the floor.
Like Jesus on the Cross?
The Cavalry Cross with 3 crosses; two for thieves, either side of Jesus.
Is this a cry of "Why have you forsaken me?"
'Sugar' is his 'Goddess', a petty thief, his downfall?
He can't see but tries to hear...
No. Nothing. No sound of cavalry coming to save him.
There's nothing but the incessant traffic.
Life goes on. With or without him.
:death: :flower:
"The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new." ~Samuel Beckett
Quoting Amity
:fire: :hearts: