not so rusty

the gun

from: Rusty gun + the metaphysics of globalization

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18 responses to “not so rusty”

  1. avatar crissxross Says:

    Homme fatale

    spam: baby

  2. avatar crissxross Says:

    Homme fatale

    spam: baby

  3. avatar ciccariello Says:

    Entropic weapons
    measure of the system
    the temperature of the system
    energy in the system’s disorder
    temperature of the measure
    considered to be an uncertainty in a system
    of the system’s disorder, measure of state,
    and that also usually, usually considered
    to be inevitable
    a done deal

  4. avatar ciccariello Says:

    Entropic weapons
    measure of the system
    the temperature of the system
    energy in the system’s disorder
    temperature of the measure
    considered to be an uncertainty in a system
    of the system’s disorder, measure of state,
    and that also usually, usually considered
    to be inevitable
    a done deal

  5. avatar carmen Says:

    “PRESENTS” !!!!

    IS THE GREATEST SENSATION SINCE THE MOVIES BEGAN TO TALK !!!!!

    INFECTIOUS DREAMING !
    CYCLONIC PASSION!
    RIOTOUS TRAGEDY!
    DAZZLING HEISTS!
    GORGEOUS ATTITUDES!
    SCENIC EMOTION!

    john gilbert
    in
    man woman and sin

  6. avatar carmen Says:

    “PRESENTS” !!!!

    IS THE GREATEST SENSATION SINCE THE MOVIES BEGAN TO TALK !!!!!

    INFECTIOUS DREAMING !
    CYCLONIC PASSION!
    RIOTOUS TRAGEDY!
    DAZZLING HEISTS!
    GORGEOUS ATTITUDES!
    SCENIC EMOTION!

    john gilbert
    in
    man woman and sin

  7. avatar Matina Says:

    A dark in the shot

  8. avatar Matina Says:

    A dark in the shot

  9. avatar carmen Says:

    most casualties….

  10. avatar carmen Says:

    most casualties….

  11. avatar runran Says:

    Excerpt from Turkish Moon (a work in progress):

    “I know when people touch my things,” said Albert, the words hung in the air between them. “That is why I left the pictures there. I knew you were a curious man. Do you understand?” He cocked his head and gave a quick smile. “What do you think of my pictures?” He approached the sofa. “You are a photographer. You must have some opinion.” He sat on the sofa beside Peter. “Your leg. Does it still hurt?” He reached a hand out and touched Peter’s thigh.

    “No,” Peter mumbled. He couldn’t move.

    “Do you miss your girlfriend?”

    “I haven’t really thought …”

    “Really, man,” said Albert, not waiting for an answer. “We are no different.” He shifted closer and stretched a hand behind Peter’s head. “The pictures. Did they excite you?”

    Peter’s skin went cold. Albert’s hand touched at the nape of his neck.

    “Your hair,” said the Dutchman. “Why is it always tied back?” He grasped Peter’s pony tail tight and tugged. “Do you like this?” he asked, with a hint of malice, and then moved his other hand up the inside of Peter’s thigh. “Or this?” his voice now gentle, his hand cupped Peter’s genitals.

    Peter tried to empty his mind. But it was no use. The moment had arrived and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what he wanted. But the cocaine exaggerated all sensation and his body betrayed him. His head tingled as the Dutchman pulled harder on the pony tail, and blood rushed warm to his cock. Albert kissed Peter’s neck and ran his tongue up to Peter’s ear, nipped at the lobe. Peter moaned. Albert released the pony tail and firmly squeezed Peter’s hardening cock. “Yes, man,” said the Dutchman. “Come. We must have a warm shower. It will feel good to be clean.” He stood and offered Peter a hand.

    The moblie rang again. Albert froze, his hand still outstretched, his eyes burning with anger. He looked away towards the telephone that lay on the small table next to the balcony door. His hand dropped to his side. The mobile continued to ring. Three, four times. Albert knit his brow as if trying to solve a difficult problem, then breathed a deep sigh and shrugged. Peter remained seated and reached for his drink. Albert grabbed the phone and made a motion like he wanted to toss it out the window, but answered the call on the seventh ring. Peter tried not to hear the conversation. He wanted nothing more to do with the Dutchman. Albert retreated to the balcony to finish what seemed to be a heated conversation. When he returned, Peter hadn’t moved from the sofa. “I have business,” said Albert, and without another word took his sports jacket from the back of the chair and left the room.

    Peter’s mind filled with a riot of impulses. His cock felt sucked back inside his loins. He was caked with sweat and couldn’t stop shivering. He downed his drink in two quick gulps, then noticed a couple of lines of cocaine left on the table in front of the sofa. He snorted them greedily. His mind wracked with fear. Guilt and self-loathing pounded at his brain. For some reason he’d brought his daypack into Albert’s room. He groped beside the sofa, pulled out his cap, and snugged it down tight on his head. The gesture made him feel somehow safer. He took a couple of shots of vodka straight from the bottle. There was no question, this time he would leave. He had no idea where he was going. He had about four million lira left. Enough for breakfast and a bus back to Antalya. It was probably past midnight, so he had to find a place to hole up for the night, then catch a bus in the morning. Get the hell out of the country.

    He hurried from the hotel and into the street. Before him lay the harbour, with dozens of freighters, tankers, and smaller ships rolling at anchor. He felt small, weightless, as if he wasn’t a real person in a real world. He turned left before realizing that it led into the parking lot. The Mercedes was parked not twenty paces away. He froze. There were two people in the car. The passenger door on the far side was open. There was a sound like a loud spit and the person in the driver’s seat, presumably Albert, collapsed forward, striking his head on the steering wheel. The horn blared for a long second until the other man yanked the body back, then jumped from the car to look around. It was the man in the leather jacket, the man named Tefon. They saw each other at the same instant, but a small Renault pulled into the lot and its headlights washed over the Mercedes. Tefon closed the door and moved quickly into the maze of parked cars, hands pressed deep into the pockets of his jacket. The Renault parked a few spaces down from the Mercedes and two people, a man and a woman, both Turkish, got out laughing. They walked arm in arm past Peter, who remained frozen to the spot. “Merhaba,” said Peter, the sound of his voice resonated loud inside his head.

    The man nodded once, his eyes narrowed. “Yakshumlar,” he said, and manoeuvred around so that he passed between Peter and the woman. Peter pivoted slowly around, just to be moving. Fear gripped his gut, but there was no sign of Tefon. He didn’t know which way to turn. There was no movement in the car, so it was certain that the Dutchman had been shot. Shit, thought Peter, I don’t owe the guy anything. Yet the Dutchman had been generous, and Peter had played the game willingly. Nothing, thought Peter, nothing could get him to return to the room. But he had to see if Albert was alive. He looked around to assure himself that Tefon wasn’t lurking nearby, then he walked to the Mercedes and peered through the driver’s window. Albert slouched with his head on the headrest. Peter opened the door and the Dutchman fell half out of the car, limp and bloody. It’s too fucking real, thought Peter, and shoved the body back onto the seat, where it crumpled over the centre armrest.

    It was then Peter noticed the small handgun that the Dutchman had been sitting on. A warning voice said, you’re stoned. And from somewhere a voice said, don’t be afraid of the gun, you might need it. All the while every fibre of his being screamed, get out, run. He knew better but he scooped the gun up anyways and stuffed it into his pack. There was something else, the corner of what looked like a large brown envelope peeked from under the Dutchman’s seat. Peter snatched it up into his pack too. He closed the door and stood breathing hard. He waited. For what? There was nobody in sight. Then a horn sounded from the harbour and the parking lot seemed all of a sudden to get brighter, as if the very air glowed with a visibly white electrical charge. He sensed forces all around, on the periphery, trying to move him this way and that. He was more stoned than he had ever been in his life.

  12. avatar runran Says:

    Excerpt from Turkish Moon (a work in progress):

    “I know when people touch my things,” said Albert, the words hung in the air between them. “That is why I left the pictures there. I knew you were a curious man. Do you understand?” He cocked his head and gave a quick smile. “What do you think of my pictures?” He approached the sofa. “You are a photographer. You must have some opinion.” He sat on the sofa beside Peter. “Your leg. Does it still hurt?” He reached a hand out and touched Peter’s thigh.

    “No,” Peter mumbled. He couldn’t move.

    “Do you miss your girlfriend?”

    “I haven’t really thought …”

    “Really, man,” said Albert, not waiting for an answer. “We are no different.” He shifted closer and stretched a hand behind Peter’s head. “The pictures. Did they excite you?”

    Peter’s skin went cold. Albert’s hand touched at the nape of his neck.

    “Your hair,” said the Dutchman. “Why is it always tied back?” He grasped Peter’s pony tail tight and tugged. “Do you like this?” he asked, with a hint of malice, and then moved his other hand up the inside of Peter’s thigh. “Or this?” his voice now gentle, his hand cupped Peter’s genitals.

    Peter tried to empty his mind. But it was no use. The moment had arrived and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what he wanted. But the cocaine exaggerated all sensation and his body betrayed him. His head tingled as the Dutchman pulled harder on the pony tail, and blood rushed warm to his cock. Albert kissed Peter’s neck and ran his tongue up to Peter’s ear, nipped at the lobe. Peter moaned. Albert released the pony tail and firmly squeezed Peter’s hardening cock. “Yes, man,” said the Dutchman. “Come. We must have a warm shower. It will feel good to be clean.” He stood and offered Peter a hand.

    The moblie rang again. Albert froze, his hand still outstretched, his eyes burning with anger. He looked away towards the telephone that lay on the small table next to the balcony door. His hand dropped to his side. The mobile continued to ring. Three, four times. Albert knit his brow as if trying to solve a difficult problem, then breathed a deep sigh and shrugged. Peter remained seated and reached for his drink. Albert grabbed the phone and made a motion like he wanted to toss it out the window, but answered the call on the seventh ring. Peter tried not to hear the conversation. He wanted nothing more to do with the Dutchman. Albert retreated to the balcony to finish what seemed to be a heated conversation. When he returned, Peter hadn’t moved from the sofa. “I have business,” said Albert, and without another word took his sports jacket from the back of the chair and left the room.

    Peter’s mind filled with a riot of impulses. His cock felt sucked back inside his loins. He was caked with sweat and couldn’t stop shivering. He downed his drink in two quick gulps, then noticed a couple of lines of cocaine left on the table in front of the sofa. He snorted them greedily. His mind wracked with fear. Guilt and self-loathing pounded at his brain. For some reason he’d brought his daypack into Albert’s room. He groped beside the sofa, pulled out his cap, and snugged it down tight on his head. The gesture made him feel somehow safer. He took a couple of shots of vodka straight from the bottle. There was no question, this time he would leave. He had no idea where he was going. He had about four million lira left. Enough for breakfast and a bus back to Antalya. It was probably past midnight, so he had to find a place to hole up for the night, then catch a bus in the morning. Get the hell out of the country.

    He hurried from the hotel and into the street. Before him lay the harbour, with dozens of freighters, tankers, and smaller ships rolling at anchor. He felt small, weightless, as if he wasn’t a real person in a real world. He turned left before realizing that it led into the parking lot. The Mercedes was parked not twenty paces away. He froze. There were two people in the car. The passenger door on the far side was open. There was a sound like a loud spit and the person in the driver’s seat, presumably Albert, collapsed forward, striking his head on the steering wheel. The horn blared for a long second until the other man yanked the body back, then jumped from the car to look around. It was the man in the leather jacket, the man named Tefon. They saw each other at the same instant, but a small Renault pulled into the lot and its headlights washed over the Mercedes. Tefon closed the door and moved quickly into the maze of parked cars, hands pressed deep into the pockets of his jacket. The Renault parked a few spaces down from the Mercedes and two people, a man and a woman, both Turkish, got out laughing. They walked arm in arm past Peter, who remained frozen to the spot. “Merhaba,” said Peter, the sound of his voice resonated loud inside his head.

    The man nodded once, his eyes narrowed. “Yakshumlar,” he said, and manoeuvred around so that he passed between Peter and the woman. Peter pivoted slowly around, just to be moving. Fear gripped his gut, but there was no sign of Tefon. He didn’t know which way to turn. There was no movement in the car, so it was certain that the Dutchman had been shot. Shit, thought Peter, I don’t owe the guy anything. Yet the Dutchman had been generous, and Peter had played the game willingly. Nothing, thought Peter, nothing could get him to return to the room. But he had to see if Albert was alive. He looked around to assure himself that Tefon wasn’t lurking nearby, then he walked to the Mercedes and peered through the driver’s window. Albert slouched with his head on the headrest. Peter opened the door and the Dutchman fell half out of the car, limp and bloody. It’s too fucking real, thought Peter, and shoved the body back onto the seat, where it crumpled over the centre armrest.

    It was then Peter noticed the small handgun that the Dutchman had been sitting on. A warning voice said, you’re stoned. And from somewhere a voice said, don’t be afraid of the gun, you might need it. All the while every fibre of his being screamed, get out, run. He knew better but he scooped the gun up anyways and stuffed it into his pack. There was something else, the corner of what looked like a large brown envelope peeked from under the Dutchman’s seat. Peter snatched it up into his pack too. He closed the door and stood breathing hard. He waited. For what? There was nobody in sight. Then a horn sounded from the harbour and the parking lot seemed all of a sudden to get brighter, as if the very air glowed with a visibly white electrical charge. He sensed forces all around, on the periphery, trying to move him this way and that. He was more stoned than he had ever been in his life.

  13. avatar crissxross Says:

    What an intriguing development, in every sense.

  14. avatar crissxross Says:

    What an intriguing development, in every sense.

  15. avatar runran Says:

    noir is not everyone’s cup of tea

    seemed to fit here though
    with the imaginary dvd cover

    >:r

  16. avatar runran Says:

    noir is not everyone’s cup of tea

    seemed to fit here though
    with the imaginary dvd cover

    >:r

  17. avatar R3//1X//0RX » Blog Archive » for david Says:

    […] to: not so rusty + The transformation of a charming white and black mammal into a film noir bete noir […]

  18. avatar R3//1X//0RX » Blog Archive » for david Says:

    […] to: not so rusty + The transformation of a charming white and black mammal into a film noir bete noir […]

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