Abiz206′s thoughts on life

Oh, and my reason why can be summed up in “Too the dark water to your easter is the wood oil clock rabbit. Michael Jackson pope death. Fish oil, @11.000000 pesos. No espanol? Me es muy bueno American/ Norwegish.” I love spam. Like seriously, there’s a special place in my heart for it.Luckily, the new site doesn’t have comments enabled, so I can post stuff without getting offers to sell my soul. (Which I did. For a dollar.)

For anyone who’s noticed/cared about the lack of new posts, its becuase I’ve changed blogs for the most part.

Chapter 1

“Give me your poison pills because I’m
digging my star-crossed grave tonight
No longer living a lie, no longer living”

-Gravedigging by Classic Crime

The hotel room was dimly lit, a single bulb hung alone in the center of the room. It glowed sickly, as if it was on the verge of death. Drak sighed, and set down his bag. It landed with a thud on the stained carpet. An ambulance’s sirens screamed across the street, their red and blue light flickering through the thin curtains. Gunshots rang out; a sound that was as common as birds chirping in this neighborhood. But there were no birds anymore. Drak strolled over to the uncovered mattress in the far corner of the room, and laid down. His eyes closed, and sleep encompassed him, pulling him deeper into his dreams. His nightmares.

            The chirping of an alarm clock woke Drak up, at half past five. He rolled out of bed, and into the small shower, trying to avoid the black moss on the tile floor. He hated Las Vegas with a burning fury. It was a desolate wasteland, full of fat gray haired men, gambling away their money, and full of young women wasting away their lives.  But it was also the best place to run a scam. And that’s what Drak had been doing for the past three days. He would steal cars of drunken tourists, and sell them to different used dealerships. But today, his goals were a bit bigger. Apparently, someone had been cheating one of the mob operated casinos, and no one was happy about that. But as the mob that controlled it was under surveillance, their hands were tied. They hired Drak to do a hit, when the man visited another casino. An informant had tipped them off he would be visiting the Mauritian casino today.

            Drak rubbed off with a threadbare towel, wiping off his short black hair. He picked up a toothbrush, and squeezed some overly minty toothpaste on it. The taste was sickeningly sweet and almost an over powering burst of flavor for the morning. Drak wondered what had ever happened to plain old toothpaste; instead of this…He wasn’t even sure what to call it.  He pulled on a black suit, with a special pistol holster sown in. He carefully placed an extremely modified pistol into it. He put on a black tie, getting the lengths perfect the first time, and tightened it up, bringing it to his neck. He looked at himself in the dirty mirror one last time, and walked out to the second story walkway of the motel. Directly below him was the parking lot, and he walked down the crumbling concrete stairs to his car. It was a custom Mustang, with a shiny black paint job, chrome everywhere, and the best security system money could buy. Drak was thrifty when it came to where he slept, but his car was his pride and joy. He slipped in, and caressed the black leather seats. The engine purred to life, the pure power seemed to course through Drak’s hands. He pulled out of the dingy parking lot, and onto the highway. Immediately, he pressed the car to ninety miles per hour. In Vegas, he may as well have committed suicide. But Drak swerved around cars, cutting in and out of traffic, without even tightening his grasp on the steering wheel. 

            Twenty minutes later, he rolled into the parking lot for the Mauritian, and got out, nudging the door closed. He flicked the key to a valet, and strolled into the casino and hotel half-breed. The target was Michael Scotts, known for being a card counter. He had been banned in all of Atlantic City, and had come here to press his luck. Drak didn’t feel like letting him get away with it. Although, in all truth, all Drak cared about was the paycheck. He passed through rows and rows of slot machines, and black jack tables, until he finally saw a man who matched the pictures.

            The man spun around as Drak called his name, and pushed away his chair. He ran like a scared rabbit deeper into the casino. Drak ran after him, intentionally keeping his hands away from the holster. The man pulled out a gun, and let loose a string of automatic fire, the noise ripping through the crowd’s voices. Some lady screamed, and all hell broke loose. Drak whipped out the pistol, and started firing, still running towards Michael. Michael was scared, and already out of breath. He wasn’t built for this kind of a thing, with his small build, curly hair, and large glasses. Bullet’s rushed past his head, so he kept blind firing towards the hit man. Innocent lives meant nothing to him, as long as he saved his pale hide. He turned a corner, nearly hitting the wall on the opposite side, he was running so fast. Drak turned it immediately, as if he hadn’t turned at all. The distance between the two closed to around six feet. Directly in front of the target was a giant glass window, overlooking the hotel’s huge pool, full of frolicking couples, and retirees wasting away their Social Security checks. Michael dropped the gun, and turned towards Drak, with his hands held towards the sky. Drak stopped firing, not because of Michael, but because he could hear the Fed’s rushing in, grunting orders to each other.

            Drak ran towards Michael, and tackled him, crashing through the glass window. Glass fell like rain around them, shining in the sun. He rolled Michael so Drak lay underneath him as they fell, which turned out to be the thing that saved Drak. The bullets of the police thudded into Michael’s limp body, until the pair hit the water of the pool. The pool turned a crimson red, the blood flowing towards the edges.  Drak swam as close to the bottom as he could, bullets still slicing into the water like- well, like bullets.  He came up at the far end of the pool, and hoisted himself up. He desperately needed to just bow over and gasp for breath, but there was no time. He ran, face red, towards the poolside exit. A single guard stood resiliently in front of the gate, as if a paycheck was worth his life. It was almost ironic, two desperate men, battling for their paychecks.  Drak barrel rushed the man, and threw him to the ground, causing an audible crack that was most likely the guard’s neck.

            Drak walked calmly towards his car, until he saw a shoe sticking out of a bush. Curious, he dragged the body out of the shrubbery, revealing the valet. Drak kneeled down and frowned. The poor valet had only been a teen, perhaps working for his college tuition. Drak stood back up, and turned towards his car, and took a step forward. The car exploded violently, a fireball smelling of gasoline and homemade explosives.  Shrapnel ripped through Drak’s arm, causing him to scream, the blood flowing from his shoulder. Something hit him hard on the back of his head, a sharp crack on his skull. He turned around, only to see a baton crashing down again. 

            Police stared down at the bloody body in the pool, and the dead security guard. It looked extremely professional, the work of a highly paid hit man. The chief investigator kneeled down and whistled at the well-honed survival skills of the killer, to attack the most highly guarded Casino in all of Las Vegas, and get out alive.

The boy sits at the computer, lashing at the keyboard. The faint glow of the monitor dances on his face as new words, stories, even books come into shape. But the boy hates these stories. The writer, if one can call him that, wants to be able to create a character, someone real. But the characters on his stage were cliché and saccharine. He despised them, hated how perfect they were. So he took his words, and shaped them like clay.  He made a character so flawed, hideous and imperfect, that no one would love him. The words slashed across the page, replacing the invisible cuts on the storyteller’s heart, painting them, putting them up as a verbal picture. The man in his story was scarred, alone, and hurt so deeply on the inside. The man mirrored the boy. And the man grew with the boy. The boy could hardly be called a boy, seeing as he too was now scarred and alone.  So the boy wrote more because that was his escape. He shredded across page and page, slashing his way through journals. He wrote about death, he scrawled about life. But most of all, he wrote about humanity. The highs and lows. The bitterness and joy. The agony and the ecstasy of life. And the writer, who was not a child anymore, wrote more. He wasn’t innocent, anymore. He knew too much for him to be innocent. The parables and stories of his youth were but shattered fairy tales. He had no compass anymore. It seemed as he was lost in a forest. But he would carve his story on the trees.

I have to say, I don’t like bibliographies or commercials. Business books, yes, even inspirational pices. But not a 200 page infomercial.

George Foreman’s auto biography is one small book full of anecdotes, and a distinct feel of an infomercial. We’ve all heard of his amazing grill, but he keeps bringing it up, over and over. Some of his stories are amusing, interesting at best, but far from inspirational. The good part of the book is th his values are worth thinking about. “Know Your Foe, Listen to Your Corner, Keep Answering the Bell, and Make it Good ” are all great ideas, and he tries to explore them. Unforunently, they are all buried under a pile of gleaming grills.

Reading the book was more of a task then a pleasure, and one I resented for the weeks it took me. Its a small book, but one could only read a chapter at a time, without hearing “Call now, only $29.00!” repeating in their heads.Knockout Entrpreneur is a book that seems more propaganda then literature,  perhaps one that could be sold at boxing rings for a $5.00 donation, not a $20.00 hardcover. But maybe thats just becuase I don’t like boxing, or infomercials.

Lauren, Megan, Ashley, Kurt, Makari, Kyle, Josh, Megan L, Kelsie, Karis, Theresa, Preston, Ethan, Lizzie, Sean, Kendrick, Valerie, Corrine, Julia, Joy, Jaime, Lindsay, Fae, Colin,Justine, Josh C., Lily, Nikki, Anna, Cassie, Danielle, Drew, Samantha, Hunter, Jessica, Josiah, Kelly, Conor, Luke, Marrisa, Mike, Sara, Shosh, and a ton of others. Yeah, I miss you all

Seeing “God” in one’s life-  Specifically on seeing God after a struggle. Perhaps it is human nature for one to try and justify their troubles by saying that God was just “shaping them”, or “making good out of bad.”  What if the good was already there? And we just had no reason to realize it? In one situation, I got really hurt in a friendship, but I realized I liked helping people, and listening. God, random fate, or being oblivious before hand?

Ghosts/Huantings- Maybe there is a deeply rooted psychological reason behind this phenomenon. Perhaps neurological, or just such a deep want to see the spiritual, that they truly believe what they’re  “seeing is real. For other “cases”, almost all have a scientific explanation, as cliche as that sounds. Mysterious voices while rocking out? Speaker echo, white noize buzz. Seeing ghosts in a room, has often been becuase of deep bass noises, which can cuase minor hallucinations.

It’s getting hard to keep coming out with more controversial blog posts, but here’s another one.

In the title, I bet you thought I meant life. No, no I didn’t. Why? Becuase so many of us live a lie.  We all take part in a grand masquerade, wearing out smiling masks, to cover our scarred faces.  Our masks smile, our gloves wave, but a tear runs down our faces.  Some of us dance under the cloak of religion, twirling it fast to hide their bruised bodies. Other cower behind a shield of power, hiding their face in a mask.

We all waltz away, hiding our problems, and blind to others.  Some of the dancers wear long, flowing sleeves  to hide the deep gashes on the wrists. And the band plays on.  Others cover venomous lips in waxy lipstick. And the dancers dance on.

Do we dare take off our masks?

I don’t like Christians. Why? Becuase that is a religion. Religions are flawed, religions are corrupt, becuase anything a human makes is corrupt. You have a faith? That’s a different story. Suddenly, you’ve gone beyond your little whitewashed church walls, and thought about God, morality, and ethics out if there. Faith is following a answers, religion is following someone elses answers. Now, do I want people to act on faith alone? No.Blind faith is what kills us, and otherts. You faith is the most important part in yuor life, don’t just accept it!

    People naturally will either love religion or hate it. For some, religion is the best thing ever. They were raised into it, never questioned it, never wondered if God is more than just what this little group of human’s say, if God is more than just what we can stick in our megachurches. Once you do, and once you’ve started to look for answers, then you have a faith. The disciples might have found answers, I don’t know. The pope might have found the answers, and quite simply, Saddahm may have found the answers. I’m not saying that there are different answers. No, there can only be one answer, for the whole world. Not to search for that answer, not to question, not to wander, is the worst thing someone can do. Wanderers, travelers, seekers, are the brilliant ones. Not the ones who pretend to know the answers. I don’t have the answers, maybe you found the answer, maybe you think you’ve found the answer. Maybe no one has yet. But God’s out there, and he’s the answer. What’s the question? That’s for you to find as well. Life’s a adventure, live it like one. Be the hero, find the treaure. The treasure of all treasures is answers. Answers are the most powerful thing out there.

Dracula-Bram Stoker     Man, I loved this book. Written as a journal, with a narrator, it reads like an old fashioned Dekker/Stephan King novel

Party up front…-Family Force 5     I was really dissapointed with this one, but I did like Love Addict and a few others

Soccer   I have got to practice more if I want to make the HS team.

Boneman’s Daughters-Ted Dekker  I loved this book!!!! So amazing!!!! GO! buy it now, foolish mortals! haha, I’ve gotten about ten people at my school wanting to read it now.

Storm the Gates of Hell-Demon Hunter   I think this is a sweet CD, I especially loved follow the Wolves and carry me down