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Valhalla Underground?
If I am I And you are you Then who is X
By R.W. Garcia
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 R.W. Garcia
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6265-5
Chapter One
My heavy heart only gets in the way. As the brilliant burden perspires, a smile wipes away my lack of confidence and inhibitions. I am at a bank pulling off the most classic of heists.
"Stay down! You don't wanna fuck with Xavier Basch. As far as everyone here is concerned, my lust for money is top priority!"
This particular bank houses the finances of global corporations. Businesses like Wal-mart, Lowe's, and McDonald's deposit their funds here. All the small town businesses use another bank on the other side of town. Doing your research can greatly increase personal merits. But don't think me a Robin Hood. I'm just in it for the game.
The interior of the bank is a blinding white. There are island tables topped with shiny silver, draped in a skirt of fake wooden finish to make it appear more welcoming and less antiseptic. Firm thin carpet covers the concrete floor with spiraling androgynous floral patterns that hex their way into the mind of the customer. The well-conditioned air is soiled with the voice of greed and false courtesy. The few customers and workers, the required animation for this scene, are now mere spectators.
My heart accelerates with excitement at their fear. I take pride in my work. If these people fear me, then they will respect me. The only true respect is spawned from fear. The shrieks of men sound like Johann Sebastian Bach to me. It is my finesse, my pleasure.
"Goddamn it, hurry up!"
I stare down the teller as I scream at him. He is your typical bottom level, white-collar worker - short, bald, and middle-aged: just trying to make an impression. His blue tie with a corporate logo brings my bile to a boil. His crisp slacks are pressed so neatly, the creases could slice butter. He's the kind of corporate monkey that reminds me of the American version of Nazis. Clean cut, strong jawed, wide-eyed fascists. Fascism through economic control is this old man's legacy. He's the kind you see feigning righteous obedience at a catholic mass, the kind that makes me fucking sick. His shamelessly manicured hands are shaking as he reaches below him.
"Fuck you old man!" I shove my shotgun barrel into his face. "You think I'm a dumbass? Keep your hands up. Bring my fuckin' money NOW!!!"
Being passive or weak in any manner has never suited me. If you want something then grow a set and take it. I'll never let anything come between me and my goals. This is my pursuit of happiness.
The teller continues to shake uncontrollably, struggling to keep his composure. He is the only one that is giving the spectators of this event any sense of safety. My anger is rising with every word that spills out of his wretched mouth, middle-aged and covered in braces. All in all, he is a brave man. Pushing my buttons and such, I admire him. He is completely unaware of how much I despise him. The old teller struggles for control with rhetorical comments, attempting to persuade my intentions. My ears are numb from the ringing bell of silence. I hear nothing, feel nothing, and see only the task at hand.
A beautiful lady hurries out from the back with a bag stuffed full of money. She is a forgotten beauty. She has no make-up, no harsh hair treatment. Her complexion and figure remind me of a female Elf in classic high fantasy. Or even as the weak, frail damsel on the front of a trashy romance novel. Very unlike the plastic doll look that has taken reign. As she hands the bag of money to me, the old teller looks at her in disgust. I'm sure he just wanted a few more minutes to reason with me before giving in so he could appear to be the hero. He is trying to call my bluff. But this pretty young woman is dripping with the salty perspiration of fear and sadness. The two show disappointment toward each other with wincing glances. She obviously just wants me to take my shotgun threats elsewhere. I'm sure she will get fired for going against her boss' wishes. It's sad really. No good deed goes unpunished. The sweet rite of avarice fills the room. Doesn't matter, well-manicured hands hand the bag to me.
"Ah ha! There we go."
With the bag of money in hand, I cackle. I stand still to take in the moment, to enjoy the moment. My maniacal laugh fades into a soft smile of success. I wink at the beauty and run. Skipping and hopping over bodies as motionless as corpses, I brace myself to ram the door. Shoulders burst through doors like an intrusive phallus to the hymen of weak resolve. Scissors cut through the red tape spilling the blood of my deed into the bank and onto the streets. Soon, this building of greed, covered in the sea of chaotic righteousness, will be overrun with yellow tape and blue men. Delighted and drunk with adrenaline, this rapist of innocent greed must leave his victims to the corrupt blue vultures of our society.
I know they will call the pigs. Let them. I have devised the perfect escape plan. My sweet ride is waiting out side for me. The Harley hasn't been registered yet. The bike was in the back of a factory truck being delivered that day. The local lake will be it's final resting place. But first, I need to get moving so that they can talk about my amazing escape.
Riding off into the distance I hear the wails of the bacon-mobiles. I jump to ninety miles per hour in less then thirty seconds. The back roads were my playground as a youngster. I used to sell drugs, do drugs, and even grow drugs on these back roads. At one hundred and thirty miles per hour, I cross the bridge to safety. The forest chokes out the squealing pig vehicles. The dirt and gravel roads twist like a helix through this green labyrinth. I slow the bike down to a more manageable speed. The sweet moist air and the summer heat slowly begin to roast me as I reach one of the bigger sections of the lake. I pull over and stop as previously planned. A little ramp of dirt waits to boost my bike into the center of the water. With shotgun in hand, I send my metallic accomplice to her grave.
"Later Harley." I say with a smile on my face.
Yeah, I am a typical egotistical bastard. I love myself just like Charles Manson loved Squeaky. Can't stand the sight of my own face, yet fate can't ever let me quit myself. I'm sure even Jesus Christ himself would be ashamed to love me. But he would still love me!
With my new funds, I begin making plans to soak my loins in some feminine nectar. Well, not really. I just want a good blowjob. What can I say? I am addicted to the shit. Well, I am more a connoisseur of filth. Personally, I think vaginal penetration is overrated since it means nothing without the emotions. All of the rough play is unnecessary. I'm much more a fan of mental games than I am of whips and chains.
My car is strategically placed next to the watery Harley grave. Tossing my shotgun into the passenger seat, I stare at the lake filled with bubbles of the choking motorbike. I think the epitaph should read, 'Help me! I'm drowning!' Laughing, I roll down the windows to let a cool breeze whisper through the vehicle. My day at the office was rough!
I take a short detour to the house, which is only a block or two down the road. My house is in reality not a house, but a shitty trailer covered in cigarette butts and dried whiskey. I've never used my kitchen, or the bedroom. It is a storage place for my clothes, television, DVDs, and other simple vices like porn and alcohol.
I grew up in it for most of my life and am now the sole owner since my dead family left it to me. But I'm in no mood to go down memory lane today. I've got my girlfriend waiting for me downtown! With that thought in mind, I hastily plop the money on the floor in the foyer, toss my shotgun in the closet, grab a few Ben Franks and scram.
I put on an old CD in my stereo. 'Fuck the USA' by the Exploited always makes my day. The blown speakers rattle because I always have the sound on full blast. Traveling around town pumping political blasphemy throughout town gets me off. This country is fucked! All our media ever promotes is tragedy. No wonder Europe, Asia, hell ... everybody thinks we Americans are such cocksuckers.
Off I go to the red light, to meet some young filthy cunt. Yeah, I like the word. It is so dirty. I find the objectification that the word tends to denote is ill suited. It's just a word. People are way too uptight about being politically correct.
Having such good music to keep me occupied erases all memory of the drive to the red light. Losing myself in the reverie of rhapsody is nothing less than orgasmic! Putting my brain on autopilot leads me to a curbside of a shitty motel. The paint on the sides of the motel is as cracked as the sidewalk.
As I pull over and park my car, my boy Richie comes up to me from his poorly pimped out car. It's decked out with frayed beads made of fake suede and two of the spinning hubcaps have been stolen.
"What up, Rich? Where's Stacy workin' tonight?" I say as I open the door and look over the car with my arms on the hood of my Ford P.O.S.
"She's workin' main, man. If ya want 'er to keep away from getting a bruisin' ya best pay top dolla. Never have I seen a bitch work so hard fah so little. But as long as I get my shit taken care of, I'm fine." He replies with that fake tough act he puts on.
Richie is your typical poser black pimp. He works hard to take care of his mother since he is her sole support. She has gone mostly blind and probably developed Alzheimer's. Pimping to take care of your dying mother. That's the kind of dude Richie is at heart. Richie is also one of the most pussy-whipped pimps I have ever seen. He once bought Stacy's mom a mother's day gift. What a punk move. When he went to deliver the present, her mom told Richie that she was going on vacation with Stacy. Richie just took it like a bitch! You see, Stacy is Richie's main source of income - mostly because of my considerable patronage. When Stacy went on that vacation, Richie ended up eating nothing but ramen and t.v. dinners for a month! So, not only did I have blue balls, but Richie ended up staying with me while Stacy was strolling the beach with her mother.
"How can you treat a woman this way man? What if this was your mother? You mother fucker." I say this just to get a rise out of him.
"Hehe, you always a clown man. Come see me when you ain't a virgin. Heard ya momma wants some dick. Go see her, mother fucker! But, if ya lookin' fo' Stacy, she's workin' main." We laugh. We grew up together, even went to the same school. When racial or turf wars went down, we just acted like we didn't see each other.
After waiving good-bye to Richie, I duck my head down and sit. The cigarette burns in the upholstery scratch my legs when I wear shorts. My car seat makes me feel like I've got poison ivy. I turn the ignition and pop in some psychobilly band you have probably never heard of. Psychobilly is a mix between punk and rockabilly. Imagine the Misfits playing with Elvis and you will still have no fucking clue. Anyway, still, it is the closest description of what psychobilly sounds like. It is funny how the lyrics talk about death and zombies to such a happy sounding background. I like that. When things blend well but you can't explain why.
I put the car in gear and cruise slowly down to Main Street. As I pull into the parking lot, I see Stacy. Damn! She may be a fucking whore but man, the things she does to me. I pull up beside her.
"Hello there, my love, my darling, the girl of my dreams!" She hates this. As would any hooker I would imagine.
"What the fuck you want, X? You know the cheese has to be sweeter this time right?" She plays with me this way.
"C'mon baby, you know no other woman in my life matters. My mom is dead so all my world revolves around you." She probably has never heard this in her whole life.
"You know I love you, so let me put it in your ass, please!" Saying something to ruin the moment is my definition of humor.
"You can be as sweet as salt. You know that?" She must get off playing with me like this.
"So where we gonna do this? In that dark alley? Or do you trust me yet to go to a hotel?"
"Fuck no! At least that alley has running water. I am not sayin' I'd drink the shit, but it's the principle of the matter."
Stacy is a very intelligent woman. Not sure how she got involved with this line of work. She could have been a very successful businesswoman, or retail manager, or something other than a whore. Stacy usually holds decent conversations. I really admire that. But she is still a typical woman. And that, I hate. Women simply cannot understand simple social situations. For example, I am out with my guy friends and my girlfriend walks through the room. The guys howl and whistle at her like a piece of meat and she decides since I am there to keep an eye on her, she can just strut her stuff for them. Stupid cunts, all of them, they have no understanding of the rules. I would never physically harm a girl, but they can be so goddamn stupid.
"Let's just go to the usual ok, X?" She can be so damn lame sometimes. I wanted to role-play some more. "Fine." I punctuate coldly.
Stacy gets in the car and we leave for our usual spot. I turn up the music to drown out any conversation. The ride over is so awkward. What could we even talk about? 'Hey, so this blowjob is going to be awesome! Let me tell ya! I can't wait! Ooh baby, ooh baby ...' I mean ... all I ever want to talk about are the three taboos, sex, politics and religion. And the last thing I want is to piss her off to the point she charges me double or refuses service all together. Maybe I'm more pussy-whipped than Richie. Well, I guess 'mouth-whipped' is more accurate.
I take a short detour just short of a bridge. I park my car on an off-road so that we can walk under the bridge. Most Johns could never have this kind of trust from a hooker. But, I guess she trusts me because of how frequently I pay for her services. Or maybe it's because she knows how tight Richie and I are. Or maybe she's just that stupid. Who knows?
We get under the bridge where there is a little cardboard box spread out on the ground where we have been so many times before. Graffiti covered walls color in the gray shelter. Covered in algae from the rising and lowering tides, the underbelly smells like a moldy basement apartment. The evening sun darkens the shade like tinted glass of a limousine. No one can see down here from the road. That makes this place perfect. Reaching into my pocket where I put my daily spending, I fork over five hundred dollars.
"Are tips included, you ass?" God I love the way she plays with me.
"Of course not, honey. I will give you all and more because I love you." I try to continue a little role-playing before the big ace in the hole.
"Well now that I know you love me." It always takes a little change to make her see it my way. My libido grows inch by inch with every line of her stellar acting.
"Let me love you like I always do.... Let me show you...." The last little bit of her sentence was muffled when she went down. My hands grasp her hair and I push into her mouth. She swats my hands away from her hair as she continues. I can't let her refusal to touch her ruin my good time!
"I loved you from the minute I saw you. You with that little green skirt and your newly weaved hair. You are my everything!"
You see, I have a bit of what my family calls 'jungle fever'. Of course my family is a bunch of racist asses. I think it's only natural for me to be attracted to a woman. If she looks good, she looks good. Besides, what better way to stick it to my bigot parents than to get down with every black woman possible? Regardless, I'm just happy to get my dick sucked.
"You taste so...." Again muffled by me.
"Oh ... oh ... LACEY!!!" Oh my god! What did I just say?
"... Who the fuck is Lacey? You been cheatin' on.....?"
Though she laughed I could not laugh back. I hadn't heard that name in over a year. That name startled me. Because, well let's face it. We have all thought we were in love at least once. So it is no surprise that that name came out of my mouth.
"Lacey broke my heart. Now all that matters is you, my love." Though corny, it kept the ruse going.
Things continually escalated as things like this always do. With her mouth and her pocketbook full, I paid her a handsome tip afterwards. Kindness should be bold. Especially since it's all going to my boy Richie anyway! As she got back in the car my hair stood on end and my neck twitched, causing my head to face left just like in the military. It always happens. My heart can't take the abuse.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Valhalla Underground? by R.W. Garcia Copyright © 2010 by R.W. Garcia. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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