The Thursday Thief. Part I

(Roberto Matta, "untitled" - 1961)

A Nigerian ex-boxer named Godswill swings the door open and pushes me into the smoke filled room.

“I found him,” he announces to the two men waiting inside.

I’m still slow coming down from a routine mescaline trip. Godswill came pounding at my door not ten minutes after the snow-white powder had melted into my bloodstream.

Godswill hangs his coat and sits down at a typewriter placed oddly in the centre of the room. He lites a camel cigarette as I stand beside him and suck in that delicious second hand smoke. All the pleasure with none of the guilt. He cracks his knuckles and flexes his fingers as he poises over the keys of a vintage sterling silver. He adjusts the blank sheet of paper and begins to type. Louder than any typewriter I’ve ever heard, than anything I've ever heard, the racket penetrates the cloudy silence of the night.

"Thursday, February 16th, 11:42 pm," it thunders. Godswill pulls aggresively on the metal latch and descends two lines.

"The Thursday Thief," he types.

I guess that’s me.

The other two men in the room I know only by reputation. Jonathan Court. Better known as Pinball Johnny, a seasoned street boxer who also runs his own gambling ring. He’d accumulated a small fortune by betting on himself. The other man is The Shuffler, his number two, handles the accounts, orders the women, that sort of thing. He’s a long, lean, lanky man who always wears pinstripes.

The Shuffler hands Pinball a casino crisp deck of cards.

“So you believe in magic?” The Shuffler asks me.

“Do you know who I am, motherfucker?” I spit out. It’s the white powder talking; they know exactly who I am, and the limits of my influence.

Our dialogue echoes like a sledgehammer as Godswill clobbers away.

... tap tap tap tap ding.

... tap tap tap tap ding.

There’s a slight pause as Pinball Johnny takes stock of my ballsiness. Silence regains her tenuous hold on the night. Melted snow trickles through my system. I’m looking at myself through the eyes of these three men. Awfully calm and collected. Faded green polo-shirt. Neat yet non-chalant. And not a single hint of the past. A young man fully resigned to the seductive spell of the present. Godswill cracks his neck violently and re-assaults the keys. I jump back into my own skin.

The Shuffler hunches over and writes something on a pad of paper. Pinball Johnny reads and his eyeballs dart in my direction. The two of them peek at their watches like synchronized swimmers. The Shuffler nods and slides back to his upright position.

“It’s now 11:55 pm, Thursday night. ” The Shuffler says. “Time to get started.” I suddeny realize I’ve got no chance.

Godswill ashes his cigarette and gets back to work.

... tap tap tap tap tap ding.

“You see, kid,” The Shuffler begins to explain in the full splendour of metallic surround sound. “It’s always worked a certain way in this town. And then you came along and fucked it all up. Now, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But it makes us wonder. Forces us to find answers to a few questions.”

... tap tap tap tap ding.

“The cards are clean, the odds are even, and the stakes are real. Those are the basic pre-requisites for Mr. Court’s talent to take full effect, and we assume it’s the same with you, unless you're cheating. So we’re gonna conduct a little test. High-card, two out of three. You against Mr. Court. You win, you walk home. You lose, you don’t. Care to draw first or second?”

... tap tap tap tap tap ding.

“First,” I answer.

The Shuffler strolls on over and holds the deck out in front of me. I pull the top layer from that virgin deck of cards. Jack of Hearts.

... tap tap ding.

The Shuffler returns the deck to Pinball who presses his middle finger against the ominous top card. He cracks his neck and pulls the Four of Clubs.

“Your lucky day, kid.”

The Shuffler reshuffles. .

“First or second. It's after midnight now.”

I glance at my watch and shrug. The tender night has slipped into early Firday morning and the magic in the room is gone, or altered.

Pinball holds the deck and rubs his fingertip across the smooth surface of the top card.

“Your talent poses some problems for us, kid,” The Shuffler says. “But perhaps also possibilities. We are, after all, businessmen.”

Godswill’s puffing ferociously and typing up a storm. Like a bigger, meaner, blacker version of Hemingway. He’s translating every spoken word into machine-gun fire. I’ve never seen a man with such nimble oversized fingers.

... tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap ding.

Pinball begins to tease and slowly peel back an Ace of Diamonds.

“The brutal black magic of chance,” says the Shuffler. "Fucking fascinating how it works.”

... tap tap tap tap ding.

They hand me the deck and I pull a King of Hearts.

“1-1.”

... tap tap ding.

The Shuffler uses his quick hands to restore chaos to the deck. He holds it in front of me for the final round. My stomach sinks as I pull the card.

Five of Spades.

Not only is it low, but it feels like a painful card. Something that once resembled a heart turned black and crooked.

Godswill leans out of his chair and squints through stale smoke before hammering my verdict onto the page. I peek over his shoulder and re-read the past.

"The Thursday Thief pulls a Five of Spades." ding.

Johnny takes the deck and flicks his wrist quick as a knife. King of Clubs. Like there was never any doubt. Amor fati, says Nietzsche. Love of fate. Reconciling oneself to that which is inevitable.

Pinball Johhny stands and cracks his back, neck and knuckles. The Shuffler follows suit. Seems like a bad habit of the people in this room.

The Shuffler approaches and knocks me out with a quick right hand.

“Amor fati,” I think I hear Godswill say. The room fades to black and I hear the pitter-patter of raindrops like silver bullets against the fire-escape.

I listen to the rain and feel myself transported, like through a dream. Weightless, effortless. The raindrops fall harder against the steel railing, yet their melody is soft, and softer, and slowly indiscernible . . .

The Thursday Thief. Part Three

(Roberto Matta, "Eva Valliante" - 1991)

I wake-up hanging in the same place. A little more groggy. A lot more pain. And thirsty as hell. I look down at the bruises tatooed across my body. Holy fuck, I think. As I start to sway that magic African cloud gets kicked back up within me like desert sand on a windy day. I get light-headed and the room begins to spin in strange patterns. I catch a glimpse of Godswill doing situps in the corner. He swings his fists each time he comes up, like a swimmer up for air. I’m suddenly struck by bits and pieces of the days that brought me here. Rumours of a powerful man with a quick left and a sweet tooth for twisted games of chance. And an unrelenting desire to test my luck. I sway deeper into unconsciousness and dream of peanut-butter kisses and poetry.

The Thursday Thief. Part 2

(Roberto Matta, "Violent indefinissable" - 1950)

I wake-up a punching-bag. My wrists are tied as I’m strung up shirtless in the corner of some rundown boxing club. There’s a make-shift ring and a few human punching-bags swaying like raw meat in the shadows. Others who had somehow crossed Pinball Johnny in Red Creek City. His town.

Godswill’s warming up beside me. He’s not wearing gloves.

“Can I bum a smoke before you start,” I ask him.

“Sure, kid.”

He walks over to his stuff and reaches into his coat pocket. He comes back and sticks a red camel between my lips.

“Anything stronger?” I mumble.

“Hehehe,” Godswill’s got a deep, infectious laugh. “I know what you want.”

He plucks a fat juicy joint from his camel pack and lites it up.

“Special made,” he says.

The more I listen to Godswill speak the more I can detect his African accent. It sounds dignified and honest. I’ve always made a habit of never trusting anyone without an accent. Native speakers sound too damn slick for their own good. Godswill holds true to my preconception by taking two quick tokes and leaving the rest for me. The man’s a gentleman.

“Try not to scream like a bitch,” he says, and then he starts hitting.

“Gaah, brrr, ratata fucky tity fuck, brrrrrah,” I cringe and mumble.

I’ve been in situations like this before. Won too much money and payed for it. At least this is dignified and honest hitting. Nothing below the belt, easy on the face. Old school. Or maybe he’s just pacing himself. Godswill’s as nimble on his feet as he was on that typewriter. Quick, hard, and everything in rhythm. Move, stutter step, then BAM! jab jab jabs that feel like bullet trains. I bring the magic cloud deep into my lungs and pass it through every cell of my beaten body. I toke until I’m covered in smoke and bruises. I toke until pain becomes my ritual sacrifice. I toke until I realize this isn’t your average university campus weed. This is African shit. I giggle as consciousness is slipping away. And through my dreams I think I scream.

The Thursday Thief. Part V

(Roberto Matta, "El Ano de los Tres 000" - 2002)

“What day is it?” I ask Godswill.

“Hehehe, that’s the point kid” He holds a bowl of water to my mouth. I drink frantically to sooth the concrete cracking of my lips. He places the empty bowl down on the ground and The Shuffler shoves a little white pill into my mouth.

“Time to swallow, kid,” and he knocks me out with a ferocious hook to the jaw.

Hours or days pass as I wake intermittently to white pills, powders, drops of water, and heavy-metal hitting. I’m loosing track of time as I slip between this world and that of dreams.

“Skippy the Squirrel,” I mumble.

I kiss a young girl in the dark closet and slip into unconsciousness as the dominos come tumbling down.

... tap tap tap tap tap ding.

The Thursday Thief. Part IV

“What day is it?” I manage to breath.

I’m praying for Thursday and I hate the feeling of not knowing when it is.

The Thursday Thief. Part VI

(Roberto Matta, "Vertige du doute" - 1991)

“What day is it?” I stutter through the cracks.

“Time to pull a card.” It’s The Shuffler.

I realize I’m no longer hanging or swaying. I’m sitting in a chair blindfolded but awake. Strangely awake. Like after three bottles of jolt-cola mixed with espresso. Or just crack. My body’s tingling. I can’t feel the days of the week like I used to.

“Pull a card, kid.”

I reach out tentatively in search of a young girl’s shivering hand and feel the cold surface of fate. I pull, get punched, and fall back asleep.

“Red or black, kid?”

I mumble something about Skippy the Squirrel and precious awkward fingertips. I can hear the machine-gun typewriter taking notes.

Like a rat in a maze, the routine repeats itself countless times. How many weeks or months go by? Wake, pull a card, say a number, pick a colour, drink, and get knocked out. I don’t know what I’m on, but I don’t like it. It’s not like the intense focus on the moment of mescaline. The powder that teaches you to love the present. These are drugs that kick the past up into the tranquil air. I can hear the thundering of Godswill’s nimble fingers recording everything. Even my dreams follow the quick rhythms of his sterling silver typewriter.

They were analyzing this thing much more thouroughly than I could ever bare. Blanket-covered reasons were beginning to reveal the shape of a young girl’s tender waist and lollipop lips. One spun bottle and our twisted fates had collided in a closet-room kiss. Boxers don’t know how to ask questions, only how to hit the present hard enough that the past swells to the surface. Forever stuck in their own sadistic ways.

For the thrilling conclusion, feel free to contact spcmnspff (he may or may not agree to give it to you). Also, keep an eye out for the board-game version of this story coming soon!

Click, Fire, Foreshadowing

Outside, raindrops falling like Adam and Eve, and puddles forming of cumulate remorse. Rafter Sousa gathered his things and exited down the hall.

“Time to get wet,” he thought.

He moved deliberately to the elevator, black suitcase swinging at his side. He pressed the button and waited. He dropped the suitcase and sat down, and he waited. He turned the ring on his finger and ...

The metallic doors slid open. Elevator full. Seven other men and seven other black suitcases.

“Guess, I’ll grab the next one,” he said. And so Rafter Sousa waited. Strange hotel, he thought. Convention of dreary single men. He cracked his neck violently and he waited.

“That won’t do you no good,” an echo from down the hall. The maid.
“What won’t?”
“Being impatient,” she said. “It’s 9:30 hon, check out time. There’s fifteen floors above us, about a hundred guests itching to leave , and only one little grey box. The other two are broken.”

Rafter paused in the staircase to light a cigarette. Fifteen above us, but fifteen below, he told his lighter. He sat down. Click, fire, and instant composure. He tilted his head back and looked up into the spiral of capitalist ascent. They only provide a porter on the way up, he thought. Slick fuckers.

A Fringe Suburban Murder

The unidentified body lay hacked in chicken mcnugget pieces on the cold, steel factory floor.

“Count it,” ordered Detective Graff in a cigarette stained voice.
“Pardon me, sir,” asked Officer Blake hesitantly. “But count what, exactly?”
“Her,” he pointed at the shattered pieces of female flesh. “Count how many pieces the bastard left us. It’s a clue.”

Detective Graff turned away and headed toward the open delivery gate, toward the delusive air of sleeping contentment. He stood in midnight solitude and fumbled in his pocket for a black bic lighter.

“Panzy fascist bastard,” he mumbled.

He stood at the edge of suburban reason and lit a filterless cigarette.

“Panzy fascist bastards!” he screamed, suddenly aware of plurality.

Mocking glow of letters obscured the star studded sky. A FEDEx warehouse on the other side of the street from this beaten down old manufacturing plant. Or was it a processing plant? Shipping? Storage? The oversized FEDEx symbol stared down at him.

"You saw it all didn't you?"

He could of sworn the neon letters winked at him.

"Yeah, you saw it all."

Detective Graff spat the tunisian tobacco that stuck to his lips.

“Find out what kind of plant this is," he ordered. "Then find out about that FEDEx warehouse across the street. Maybe someone saw something. And when you’re done counting get some yellow tape up around the scene. We want to keep everything exactly as it is."

Officer Blake knelt down beside the victim and thought of jigsaw puzzles scattered across his apartment floor.

“You have to play with the pieces,” he thought. “If you hope to see the whole.”

Blake was a rookie, first week on the job. Retired poet at the age of twenty-five, gave up and became a cop.

He began counting but stopped suddenly at sixteen – a thumb – to open a thin, yellow notepad tucked in his breast pocket.

Reconciliations with space, he jotted.

Seventeen, nipple. Eighteen, earlobe. Nineteen, index finger. The rookie paused again; he picked up her index finger, dipped it in blood and left its print on the page.

But it’s time that tears us, he added."

Kiwi Mouldy

Detective Graff dropped his shoulders like so many high expectations. A gorgeous wife. A fast car. An easy case.

“Nothing,” he said.

He looked about the fraught little apartment belonging to one Luke Jonathan Drake. He’d inspected every crevice.

“Nothing.”

Officer Blake sat down at the computer. Still on, still warm. He opened the internet browser and clicked on bookmarks. A goldmine of places Drake had visited, traces Drake had left.

A list of sites popped up like a police line-up. He began to interrogate each one in turn.

http://clik.clak.free.fr/film_high.htm

"You got something, rookie?"

Blake closed the site.

"Nope, sir. Notta."

Kiwi mouldy, he thought. Blake still wasn't sure whether this was police work or poetry. He emailed himself Drake's bookmarks and history while Detective Graff was taking a piss.

As they were about to leave Blake took one last lingering look at the apartment. He opened his notepad to a different page.

Kiwi mouldy, he scribbled.

Connecting the Dots

The door swung open and the air-conditioning held its breath.

"Blake!"

Officer Blake searched for a sheet of names upon his crowded desk.

He entered the office and shut the door behind him.

Detective Graff was sitting back in his chair spitting tobacco.

"What do we have?"

"So, there were 67 pieces."

"Hm."

"I referenced them and found that it more or less adds up to a single female body. But there were only two fingers. And, here's the weird part, the two fingers had two different prints. One belonging to a ... miss Nila Jones of San Fracisco.. And an Isabella Sousa. Italian citizen."

"Hm."

"Yeah."

Something's missing, thought Blake.

"And?"

"Well, the DNA lab did the whole DNA thing. The rest of the body belongs to a Krystal Tumano of West Vancouver Island. She died in a car crash two weeks ago. Body was supposedly burried. And then, three other sets of prints all over the body. Johnny "pinball" Court, boyfriend, boxer. Then, a Luke Jonathan Drake, a FEDEx employee from guess which FEDEx?"

"Hm, our FEDEx."

"Our FEDEx," repeated Blake.

"And, finally, a Miss Fae-ling Rhyter. Asian girl who gets high and wears a cape."

"Hm."

Things are out of place.

A Girl Named Fae-ling

Fae-ling donned a silver hooded cape whenever she was alone in her room. And nothing else. She tied a careful knot and let the smooth silk hang at her naked back. So many jedi weapons and so few jedi, she thought. She opened the balcony doors, fifth floor, sat at her typewriter and carefully lit her pet candle Tinker. Her mind was sharp and her fingers poised. Both seldom inspired to action.

Night in and night out she repeated the same routine. Cape. Balcony doors. Typewriter. Tinker. She stared intently at Tinker’s trembling flame and, after a few minutes, her gaze moved like clockwork to the street lamp outside her window, then the red, yellow, green of the traffic-light just beyond, and then the endless row upon row of more streetlamps, more red-yellow-greens, and in the distance the bright dupont colours of twenty-four hour shell and esso gas-stations, golden arches, pizza-huts and ginormous buckets of chicken. The flashing lights of consumer capitalism and midnight hunger pressed against a near forgotten sky.

Night in and night out she stared at the beating heart-cells of suburbia, fingers poised, caped nakedness kept warm by candle-light, and she connected these dots until they led her well beyond, to neighbouring towns and distant galaxies, orange coke and agent orange, african children and suicide teens, General-Major Godswill Tamuno and scratched Joan Baez records. She was determined, fingers poised, to connect all the dots, all the pieces, all the social, geo-political, historical and philosophical elements without leaving anything out or anyone behind. She breathed.

Fae-ling analyzed, fingers poised, she catalogued and scattegorized (she bracketed), fingers poised, she deconstructed and destroyed, reassembled and recovered, all the while fingers ready and fingers poised and fingers twitching as her silver hooded cape fluttered in the wind.

She breathed. Everything, everything in anticipation of that one night, that one glorious moment of one night when the puzzle would fit . . .

A Motel Scene

Though the moonlight was faint and her naked body beautiful she wandered to the window and shut the blinds.

“Because in darkness we’re as one,” she explained as her hands reached toward him.

Pinball Johnny

Today Johnny woke up in a pinball machine. Fast and deteriorated.

To slow down. To stop. To wait. Johnny begged Krystal to relearn these talents impoverished by the death of time. But she didn’t, or couldn’t. Not for him, and not for the traffic lights of Red Creek City. Her red sports car sped out of the driveway and it was the rlast time he saw either her or it in one piece. Her head through the windshield, they said. Pavement smeared with tinted glass and Italian engineering, they said. Parts he used to touch, he told them. The pigs came to his door that same afternoon. Entirely her fault, they said. Entered the busy intersection at over two hundred.

Accelerate a process and determine its efficiency, Officer Blake scribbled in his book. Slow down a process and peer into its heartbreaking beauty.

Today Johnny woke up in a pinball machine. He was left with nothing but speed and shards of alpha romeo.

The Actress and the Writer. Part I

(Joan Miro, "Femme au Miroir" - 1957)

Nila loved the sound of his voice when he left her a message; Joseph preferred her words unspoken. She was a stage actress, by day and by night. He was a sports columnist, and poet of few themes.

“You’re overdramatic,” he whispered when they made love.
“Fuck me like you write,” she demanded, “Long and incomprehensible.”

It was through art that Joseph and Nila struggled to understand themselves and the complexity of their relationship. They were an esoteric couple; he was dangerously introspective and her moods swung like corollaries of April weather. “A couple of failed artists,” they used to joke. But in the waning months of that year she had become vaguely successful, while his sports columns were increasingly opaque and unread.

Joseph enjoyed gin and metaphysics. “The writer as the world’s failed hero” was his favourite theme, made explicit by the tattered black cape he too often wore. He spent sleepless nights on his laptop, writing sentences without endings, peeling through language toward some greater truth. Unsuccessful, he’d tiptoe from the apartment, wander to the local pub and analyze despondent men and their drinks. Nila would wake to the sound of the front door closing, feeling somehow betrayed in the hum and glow of the abandoned laptop. There were parts of Joseph that were always inaccessible, his inclinations and choice of attire dark and unpredictable. She no longer bothered to read the words on the screen.