Thursday, December 25, 2008

Merry Christmas To All...Unless You Don't Celebrate Christmas.

The holidays are kind of boring, especially the ones you do not celebrate. Sure, if you get to open present then Christmas morning is the tits but if Christmas is just another day then it's the pits. The same can be said of Easter, another boring day for anyone not searching for eggs, but to a lesser degree.
Christmas is the worst because EVERYTHING is closed. It's not just the Postal Workers and Bank Tellers that inconvenience the rest of us by taking the day off, it's every-fucking-body. I mean, even WAL-MART is closed today. WAL-MART?!
The only places, that I can think of, that are open on Christmas Day are: gas stations, Asian cuisine restaurants and movie theaters. That doesn't leave a lot of options for the non-Christians that are excluded from a day of unwrapping and playing with new toys and gadgets.
Everyone likes to go to the movies, that's part of the problem for me. I live in a Jew-heavy town, which means the movie theater is fucking crowded on Christmas Day. This is made even worse by the Christian families, with nothing left to say to each other (even though this is probably the one time of year they're ALL together), that show up in large parties for a Christmas Day matinee. Honestly I don't think you should be allowed to go to the movies if you're not a Jew or non-practicing Christian, it's the one day of the year where the theaters are crowded enough with people that have, literally, NOTHING ELSE TO DO. Christians should stay home and play with their new toys or stare at the their Tree, or drink eggnog and sing song or whatever. Fuck, there's enough Christmas themed programming on TV and radio that any TRUE Christ-Worshiping person SHOULD have a full schedule on the BIG DAY.
I forgot, there are a few Jewish Deli's in my area that were opened today as well but as you can imagine they were crowded by 9am and stayed that way throughout the day. I got lucky this morning and made it to breakfast before the crowd arrived but as I was paying my bill I could see a line of SUV's pulling into the parking lot.
Needless to say, today was pretty boring for me. I ate breakfast, as I mentioned and then a few hours later (after killing some time visiting my Grandma in the hospital) I ordered Chinese with my sisters and then sat down to watch some movies (Pineapple Express and Kung-Fu Panda). It was a boring day that has now settled into a boring night (I've decided, barring some unforeseen cool event to attend, that I will spend the rest of the evening in bed writing and watching DVR'd TV shows that I've had sitting on my machine for some time now).

In other news, Eartha Kitt (one of three Catwomen in the cheesy 60's BATMAN series) died today. Other than playing Catwoman for a short stint she's the singer of one of my favorite Christmas songs, "Santa Baby". She was also in one of my favorite films by another dead superstar, "Ernest Scared Stupid", starring Jim Varney. RIP guys.


This blog was really more of a test than anything else. I've recently linked my facebook and blogger accounts to auto-sync. I'm hoping when I publish this post it'll automatically show up on my Facebook notes. We'll see. Keep you fingers crossed for me.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Untitled Novel: Chapters 1 and 2

                                      CHAPTER I

Sleep or Die, Whatever

I didn't want to answer their questions.

No matter what I said they were going to kill me. I didn't want

to give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd gotten what they

wanted. If they were going to kill me it would be out of sheer

frustration .

No one was coming to rescue me. I knew that much for certain. I

was alone in this and I had failed but at least I was going to go

out fighting. I sure as shit wasn't going to give these two

douche's the chance to pull any information out of me.

Even if I had wanted to talk I wouldn't have been able to. The

two pair of duds that kidnapped me and tied me up had stuffed a

pair of dirty boxers into my mouth. Black electrical tape was

stretched over the boxers and was wrapped around my head several


times to hold the boxers in place and prevent me from doing

anything but moaning and shaking my head. I did a lot of that,

especially when they took turns punching me in the ribs.

All the possible pain and all I could focus on were those damn

boxers in my mouth. They weren't my boxers. I wasn't positive

but I was pretty sure they belonged to the heavier of my two

torturers. If that was so then it made sense to reason that we

were in his apartment. Not that any of that information would do

me any good when they shot me in the head and left me tied to

this chair.

Impending death aside, why couldn't they have gagged me with

something normal? Or even if they had taped my mouth shut. I

can feel the boxers tickle the back of my throat and soak up the

saliva that floods my mouth in response to the tickle.

That's all I thought about as they continued their ridiculous

questioning, not about the blood flowing from the stab wound in

my thigh, not about the way the rope around my wrists was cutting

into my skin and grinding against the bone, only the boxers. They

aren't clean and they're at least an extra large or bigger.

“Where is she?”

PUNCH. That time it was a head shot. The skinny guy has a mean

right hook and the hit was wide, clipping my ear. This added a

nice ringing sound to the buzzing in my head. I'd have a full

orchestra in my brain if this kept up much longer.

Fatty pulled Skinny aside and they discussed something in hushed

tones. They keep their backs to me in order to further prevent

my overhearing. I don't mind because it's the first breather


I've had since they nabbed me near the club.

These guys were looking more familiar as my head stopped swimming

and I realized I must know them somehow because they were going

through an awful lot of trouble to hide their identities, the ski

masks were enough but they were also masking their voices, dropping

down an octave or two. I tried to listen to them talking amongst

themselves but I must have been falling in and out of consciousness

because I don't remember hearing anything.

Next thing I do remember is Fatty standing over me. He and Skinny

must've decided that they'd get better answers out of my if I

didn't have shitty-boxers shoved down my throat. He yanked off

the tape (which hurts worse than the knife wound in my thigh,

especially as it pulled on my facial stubble) and pulled out the

boxer shorts.

I vomited everywhere. The puke and bile splashed my chest and my

legs and stung the open wound in my thigh. Some of the spew landed

on the two hundred dollar wing-tipped shoes the fat guy was

wearing. This made me laugh. The laughing made me burp and that

made me laugh some more. Maybe it’s my nerves or maybe I was just

delirious from lack of sleep, whatever the reason the result was

the same: I laughed. For a moment I actually forgot the events of

the past three days, I forgot the two idiots who had been torturing

me for the past twenty minutes, I forgot the reason this whole

thing started, I forgot my fear and I laughed.

Skinny took out his pistol and pressed it to my eye, “Stop fucking

laughing and answer the fucking question. You've gotten annoying

and way to gross for my tastes. I'm done. Talk.” I pissed myself


a little bit and then all the blood rushed to my ears and everyone

sounds muffled, as if they are talking through a mouthful of dirty

underwear. Fat Guy and Tall Guy were starting to argue but I

couldn't understand what they were saying. Then Tall Guy kicked

the chair I was sitting in and the world went sideways. I passed

out.

I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s not really how this story

begins. It’s not how it ends either, I mean Christ, I wouldn’t

tell you the end of the story in the beginning. I may be an asshole

but I still know how to tell a good story. That was the hook.

Now let me start at the beginning.


CHAPTER II

A mass grave for the living dead

Three days earlier I didn't have the knife wound yet or the shitty

boxers in my mouth. I didn't have the bruises on my face or body

and my pinkie finger wasn't broken. Considering how I would end

up I should have been in a great mood that day but like many of

the days before I was miserable. Miserable and broke. Emphasis on

the broke.

Not having any money was a big concern because of several factors:

1.I had nothing to eat in many days.

2.I owed a few debts to some not so nice people.

3.I had less than a quarter tank of gas in my car.

This third option was the most pressing issue at the moment because

in order to make money I needed the car and in order for the car

to drive it needed gas and in order for me to get the gas I needed

the money. In other words, I was fuuuucked.

Strangely enough situations like this force me to do some of my

best thinking. I'm inspired by chaos and disorder. The fear of

starvation and possible death make my brain work faster than it

usually does forcing it to produce some fantastic results. When

asked to solve a problem I react with a limp, “Meh.” When forced

to solve a problem I react with unusual tenacity.

Starting with the most pressing issue, the lack of gas, I followed

the road from my small efficiency in the nice part of town and

headed to the small ghetto on the outskirts of the suburban

wonderland known as Coral Springs, Fl.

If you ever find yourself in similar circumstances here is an


important bit of advice to keep in mind: always formulate a plan

before you leave the house. The last thing you want to do with

little gas and even less money is drive around aimlessly trying

to score a few dollars or figure out where you're going to get

free gas.

Let me be clear on the use of the word “ghetto”; the city I live

in, Coral Springs, is a small community just east of the swampy

everglades, twenty minutes west of the beach, an hour north of

Miami and three hours south of Disney World. It is a wasteland of

upper-middle class and regular middle-class yuppies and old people.

Coral Springs used to be just as hoity-toity but resent economic

depression and a general passing of time have made this a middle-

class town. When I say ghetto I'm talking about the least of the

three income brackets that make up the city of Coral Springs,

twenty grand a year or less.

These neighborhoods tend to be dirtier than the others, less

vigilantly patrolled by the local police. It's that last bit that

enticed me to enact the first part of my plan in this area and as

I pulled off the main road I glanced around for any black and

white squad cars and saw none.

It was the middle of the day at the end of the week which meant

most people are at school or work. I cruised past a lot of houses

with vacant driveways. If any of these people were home I couldn't

tell because they would have their cars parked in the garage. I

turned left at the end of the street and found myself looking at

a strip of duplex homes. The second to last house from the corner

had a 1971 Super Beetle in the driveway. A sticker on the bumper


said the owner is the proud grandmother of an honor student. Middle

of the day on a Friday, most people are at work or school, except

the old people. Florida, especially South Florida, has plenty of

old people. My friend Kevin, calls South Florida a “mass grave

for the living dead.” I pulled into the driveway, right next to

the VW, and put the car in park but left the engine running. I

also had an old car, a beat up Corolla, and the two cars looked

natural parked next to each other. I gave a quick look around and

then popped the trunk.

First I took out the red gas can and placed it on the ground next

to my feet. Next I reached in and pulled out the black rubber

hose that was coiled next to the can. Pulling out this long black

rubber tube is the most suspicious part of what I was about to do

and as I did it I stole a quick glance at the duplex just to make

sure Honor Student Grandma wasn't staring out the front curtains

at me describing me to the police dispatcher on the phone. She's

wasn't.

Moving fast now I popped my gas cap off and then pried off the

VW's. I fed one end of the rubber hose down into the gas tank of

the VW, praying Grandma had filled up that week. Most people from

movies and TV think you have to suck on the end of the hose, get

a mouthful of gasoline and then you're good to go. Most people,

are idiots.

The truth is you don't have to suck on the hose at all nor do you

have to fill your mouth with gasoline. There is a very simple

tool called a squeeze bulb which does all the sucking for you.

Once the gas is up through the hose I pulled my end out of the


bulb and stuck it into the gas can. The squeeze bulb is available

at Wal-Mart and a worthy investment if you plan on spending your

life as a common thief or shiftless vagabond.

The gas flowed freely from the VW into the red gas can and I

scannned the street for police or approaching riffraff. I must've

been distracted a moment to long because all of the sudden I

smelled gas and looked down to see the can was overflowing.

“Shit,” I said as I pulled the hose out of the can and the other

end out of the VW. I tossed the rubber hose into my open trunk

and slammed it closed. I picked up the gas can poured the contents

into my car's tank. When the gas can was empty I closed my gas

cap and tossed the empty gas can into the backseat of my Corolla.

Everything smelled like gas as I got into the drivers seat and

started my car. I looked at the gage on the dash, a little over

half a tank, well worth the stink on my hands.

Pulling out of the ghetto, with gas in my car and no incidents to

speak of, I was just about considering this the start of a lucky

day when my cell phone rang. Not my cell phone actually, don't

think I'm one of those assholes walking around with a Blackberry

and nothing to eat. There's nothing worse than some broke-ass bum

checking his texts while he waits for his food stamps.

I dug for the phone in my old brown Dickies. The pockets were

deep and filled with a variety of items making it easy for the

tiny phone to disappear. I'm just starting to panic and think I'm

going to miss the call when my index finger wrapped around the

tiny Nokia. I flipped open the top and pressed the phone to my

ear, “Hello?”


“Hello? Miles? Is this Miles?”

“I'm sorry I,” but before I could finish she's talking again.

“Shit. Did I call the wrong number?”

“You got the right number,” I answered.

“Miles?” She paused, unsure if she's called me by the right name

or not. Obviously Joy had told this girl my name and that there

was a possibility I could answer when she called.

“Yeah, this is Miles and you are?” I must have caught her off

guard with my cavalier tone because she didn't answer for a full

minute. “Hello?”

“Joy...your sister gave me this number, she said I could call...”

she trailed off at the end of her sentence, she was starting to

calm down but still sounded a wreck. “I'm Amanda. We work at the

club together.” She said her name like I would know who she was,

maybe I met her at the club once or twice, it's possible we slept

together but I don't remember.

“Hi Amanda.”

“You don't remember me do you?” defeat in her voice.

I don't know why but I decided not to bullshit this girl and

answered her honestly. “To be honest, I really don't,” I trailed

off, hoping the silence would force her to spew forth some details.

When you're talking on a stolen cell phone every minute could be

your last and I was hoping she would get to the point before that

happened.

“Joy told me to call you. She said if anything happened I should

call Miles. I have something she told me to give you. I never

thought...I never thought anything would happen....oh GOD...” she


started to sob.

I waited a few seconds and let her collect herself but her mention

of my sister put me on edge. I wanted to know what was wrong. I

wanted to know if it involved my sister and if it did would there

be someone for me to punch...I wanted this fucking crying broad

to shut the fuck up already and get to the fucking point. I want--

“I'm sorry. I'm scared and I'm...something happened.” She stopped

talking. Who stops talking after saying, “something happened”?

Silence.

“Hello?” That's was me trying not to sound annoyed and scared,

even though I was equal parts of both. I was also out of the

neighborhoods now and back on the main street. I made a quick

left and stepped on the gas to make the light which went from

Amber to Red right as I passed through the intersection.

She sniffled and I heard her take a deep breath in and then slowly

exhale.

I realized she's going to need more coaching than I'm providing

and I force myself to take a deep breath. If I scared her or yelled

at her I might have had to listen to her sobbing for another twenty

minutes. “Listen, Amanda, I need you to calm down and tell me

what happened. Take some deep breaths and tell me what's wrong

with my sister...”

“She's missing.”

Monday, November 24, 2008

South Florida prostitution ring busted, feds say

This story is completely amazing and happening right under my nose.

South Florida Sun-Sentinel.com

South Florida prostitution ring busted, feds say

By John Holland and Luis F. Perez

South Florida Sun-Sentinel

November 22, 2008

They spent the hours between the beatings and threats and forced sexual encounters cloaked in suburbia, stashed invisibly in quiet family homes.

Now they are free, and the ring of smugglers who prosecutors say kidnapped them in Mexico and shuttled them to brothels across South Florida to service as many as 100 clients per week are behind bars.

Federal agents this week charged five people with operating a prostitution gang that targeted girls as young as 14, smuggled them across the border and forced them into a "modern day form of slavery," the U.S. Attorney's Office said.

Arturo Rojas-Gonzalez, Timoteo Reyes-Perez, Rosalio Valdez, Fidel Gonzalez and Elodia Capilla Diego are being held without bond on charges of federal sex trafficking. They will be back in court next week; the investigation is continuing.

The arrest affidavits outline the victims' lives spent bouncing between homes and brothels in West Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, Homestead, Miami and elsewhere, always watched over by vicious handlers. At least one was held captive for nine years.

According to the affidavits:

The women collected $25 per encounter. Nearly all of the money went to their pimps. Some called the men their husbands, but all said they lived in constant fear that they or their families back home would be harmed.

The plot began unraveling in January when a victim started cooperating with law enforcement agents. From then until this week, investigators talked to more victims and tracked the smugglers.

The first woman to come forward had been kidnapped in Mexico in 1999, smuggled through Arizona and wound up on the streets of New York.

"She had no freedom of movement whatsoever, and was closely watched by her husband and his associates," Immigration & Customs Enforcement agent Mildred Laboy wrote in the criminal complaint. "She attempted to escape several times, but was unsuccessful and severely beaten for her attempts. She also attempted to take her life on numerous occasions."

Eventually she was ushered to South Florida, joining an organized and elaborate network of "stash houses" where the women were kept. Often, the cover included families, some with children, living in the same house. The women were imprisoned there until they were shipped out to spend up to a week in various brothels, a 15-year-old girl told investigators.

On June 23, law enforcement officers stopped a van carrying three of the women near Naples.

"All three women had small notebooks containing phone numbers and dates," the affidavit said, along with "tallies indicating how many customers they had seen on the particular date."

Officers let the group go, but federal agents installed a global positioning system tracker on the van. Investigators traced it to a Homestead home where the teenager lived and to "some of the brothels that Victim 2 has identified."

On Wednesday, agents searched a home occupied by Valdez, "who matched the descriptions of the pimp running the locations," agents wrote.

They found passports and luggage belonging to the victims, along with $2,000 in cash. Inside Valdez' car agents found "20-50 condoms and a commercial size bottle of lubricant."

With the first batch of arrests complete, prosecutors Friday released a statement that served as a reminder of the dangers the women faced: the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner's Office had been brought into the investigation, because of fears that the beatings could turn into murder.

John Holland can be reached at jholland@sun-sentinel.com or at 954-385-7909.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Gaining Steam

I know, I know. You guys are all like, "Shawn, seriously, what the hell are you doing? Why aren't you posting more often?"

And I'm all, "I promise more posts are coming soon."

Then you guys go, "But Shawn, you've been saying hat for a while now I think it's time you followed through or else we're going to think your a bullshitter who has no follow through."

And then I'd say, "you nkow you used 'follow through' twice in the same sentence?"

To which you'll reply, "Hey, it's YOU writing."

Bruno should be sending some art soon. In the meantime I think tomorrow I'll post some script pages.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

It's All Happening

Hi. Let me dust off some of the cobwebs in this place.


COUGH.


Okay, I'm going to be doing some maintenance over the next few weeks . Improvements, change some things around. Once we get all settled in aesthetically I'll be posting about the production of "Detectives in Space" the 88 page Graphic Novel I have in production with Arcana Comics.

I'll be talking about other things as well, mostly whatever is going on at the time. Plus I'll use this as a place to post articles and research I find on my interweb travels.