The tattoo on the side of his calf muscle was a little place to contemplate and get lost in the void of nothingness. A little pagoda, on the top of a high mountain top and a vertical cliff and a few stylized trees that took on the real form of calligraphy.
I was reading a book once. The author was Michael Davidson. And the book was called Kyrstal.
I went along with it. It was gripping me. It was when the author entered the neurons of the brain cells of the killer that I realized this guy knew more about serial killers than he was letting on. They don’t blink. It’s not a one hundred yard stare, it’s a long blinkless look which can unnerve the supposed saner earthlings.
You could also say that there’s something not right about people who wink. I like to throw in a nudge too.
For the FBI to get involved, the case had to fall under a serial kill.
The build-up was profound.
The offending lady didn’t even know she was in the same category as Ted Bundy and Jeffry Dahmer. That’s the beauty of being a serial killer, the ability to bury that evil cradling deep in the recesses of the brain. But Mr. Davidson teased it out. He wasn’t being clever about it. Well he was. He was also actually quite sympathetic. I’m sure he’s met a few unhinged people in his life, and not all of them were bad.
I’m now reading Mako by Clabe Taylor. It’s a referral from Mr. Davidson.
I really dig being referred books that reflect my outlook.
The stuff on Nicaragua and Ortega’s Sandinistas is brilliant. It reminded me of my time in Guatemala and being picked up by the President’s son, hitchhiking in insurgent territory. The President wasn’t impressed that I was making international calls on his phone. And I wasn’t impressed with his son for telling his father that. The least he could do was say I was making a local call.
Did you know that Putin is cloning world leaders? Thought you didn’t.
Did you know that Saddam Hussein was a double? The real one was kidnapped and is in a little Siberian town in a lab funded by the KGB and operated by a brilliant but mad scientist. And who funded the lab, that’s right, Putin. And who rigged the US elections, yep that’s right Putin.
It’s all in Mako.
The cloned Sadam was killed by the Americans.
I know, it sounds weird because it is.
I believe this shit. Or I want to believe it. And Mako Sloane was mates with Boris Yelsin. In fact they are family. The CIA penetrated the Evil Empire though a Casanova.
The cloning theory has been around for ages, and a silly law not allowing stem cell research isn’t going to stop those with money to research it.
It seems more plausible than the one floating around that the US never landed on the moon. The jury is still out on that one. It’s been over 45 years since the last manned mission out of sub orbit.
It’s the Van Allen belt man, its gunna fry your brains.
The tattoo belonged to a Chinese man who ran a coffee shop around the corner.
His wife said her niece was studying and working in Australia.
I said Australia was good for foreigners. But not for old farts like myself. No one will employ me at my age and I’m not a good enough actor to get on the sickness benefit.
She looked at me, but there was no connection.
‘Look at it this way,’ I said, ‘ the Malays in Malaysia can’t get work because the Chinese or Indians (sometimes) won’t employ them. Also there’s too many Indonesians, Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistanis who are taking most of the local jobs.’
But the Malays don’t want to do the dirty work, I hear the argument.
And how convenient hay? Better to import labour and pay them peanuts. It’s what they are doing in Australia with the students, who usually work for under award wages.
The coffee was great and I said I’d be back.
I really love these one way monologues.
The receptionist asked me casually if I’ve had a shower.
He said that Indonesians shower twice a day.
Fuck that, I said, the smellier the better. Besides, my shower is cold. I use a towel and wash myself that way. I have a sprayer I use after I take a shit.
I got it, he thought I smelt and needed a shower. Well as Wreck It Ralph would say, tough shit.