I’m sitting at home waiting to get picked up and Ed is late so I’m on my fifth whisky & ginger and then the phone rings and it’s Ed and he says we’re fucked because Charlie Potatoes got stabbed to death outside Quinto’s Wine Lodge last night and then he hangs up.
Once again, Frank checked his exterminator’s suit for insects. That was how the redbugs got you. They landed on your clothing or your skin, and within 24 hours the poison on their legs and feelers ruined you. Rash, fever, seizures, skin necrosis, death.
He sat spaced out on the pavement.
His feet hanging over the edge.
“Over the edge.”
… big business meets small town in devil’s teeth …
When a brother and sister discover unopened letters hidden in their mother’s house they hire an investigator who already knows who is responsible for the mother’s death.
Devil’s teeth is a nickname for islands offshore San Francisco, the Farrallons, home to great white sharks. But all the rocks on that coastline are weathered and look like teeth. There is much offshore oil drilling planned for the north California coast. So I used the image of devil’s teeth to describe big oil business tactics for acquiring permits, land and small town compliance in their strategy.
You can also watch it here: http://vimeo.com/77926154
Susanne Hafenscher, Matthias Boss, Marcello Magliocchi track Music for a Quiet Night.
Kristina Barvels, investigator. Ignacio Palma, brother. Alexa Oliva, sister. Anthony, bodyguard.
Cecelia Chapman 2013.
The governments of the world have failed. The people are tired of their constant bickering, corruption, and inability to bring back the 1980s sitcom Webster.
The people riot for four years. This concludes in the dissolution of all government bodies and the creation of a single world government.
Through the light rain the black limo sped along the long ribbon of empty asphalt. Headlights knifing through therain and gathering dusk with narrow beams of white/yellow intensity.
The countryside. A few miles outside the city.
It had been another one of those seemingly endless days when, like King Midas in reverse, everything I touched turned to shit. True, cold calling was a thankless and futile task at the best of times. In fact, most people in the company hated it but me, well, I just seemed to have a knack for it. A silver tongue. An innate ability to worm my way into peoples affections. To get them to fork out their hard earned cash for something they neither needed nor desired. To sell ice cream to Eskimos, as Foley, my boss, said. But Continue reading The Weather Prophet by Paul D. Brazill