PILLAGE
© 2009 powerHouse Cultural Entertainment, Inc.
Text © 2009 Brantly Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, electronic or mechanical (including photocopy, flm or video recording, Internet posting, or any other information storage and retrieval system), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in the United States by powerHouse Books,
a division of powerHouse Cultural Entertainment, Inc.
32 Adams Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201-1021
telephone 212 604 9074
website: www.powerHouseBooks.com
First edition, 2009
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Martin, Brantly.
Pillage / by Brantly Martin.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-57687-495-0 (hardcover)
1. Upper class--New York (State)--New York--Fiction. 2. Manhattan (New York, N.Y.)--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.A77776P56 2009
813’.6--dc22
2008043569
E-Book ISBN 978-1-57687-531-5
Cover: Art Direction by Valentina Ilardi
Cover Photo and Author Photo by Billy & Hells
Book design by Robert Avellan
“The autobiographical novel, which Emerson predicted would grow in importance with time, has replaced the great confessions. It is not a mixture of truth and fiction, this genre of literature, but an expansion and deepening of truth. It is more authentic, more veridical, than the diary. It is not the flimsy truth of facts, which the authors of these autobiographical novels offer but the truth of emotion, reflection and understanding, truth digested and assimilated. The being revealing himself does so on all levels simultaneously.”
—Henry Miller
“It isn’t up to the painter to define the symbols. Otherwise it would be better if he wrote them out in so many words! The public who look at the picture must interpret the symbols as they understand them. ”
—Pablo Picasso
everything’s addicting, even the truth
One
Hanging out at The Sheik’s you could learn everything you need to know about The Island. About Amoeba. He lives at 666 Madison, 13thfloor.
To be truthful, I don’t hang out there. I hide out. I come to after a blackout. I rationalize and seek a co-signer.
The Sheik’s apartment is a 24-hour onslaught. Thousands of images on rotation, spread over six 30-inch monitors. Ten seconds of manufactured perfection. One after another.
I’m the only one that’s allowed in.
He used to not let me see the befores, that was a long time ago. Now? I’ve seen them all. Every cover for Belle, Stogue, Gismo. Every contrived Amoeban Popesse that forgot to shave her cunt before the photo shoot. Every lard-infested, lip-synching, beauty pageant daughter driving the Amoeban youth to Troll-Mart. Every dignified same undone.
Sheik, we need more cleavage here, this is for French
Belle…
Sheik, we need you to take 50 pounds off this same, slim the
hips, perk the tits…
Add some nipple…
Sheik, the cat is too fat…yes, the cat…
The Sheik smokes 15 joints a day. The man is never without a joint in his hand. Never. He does yip once a year and tries to stab people, plants.
He is the only person in the Galaxy I trust implicitly with the content of my dreams.
For twelve years The Sheik has put the final touches on every image that’s caused a Midwestern same’s throat to feel her finger. He’s the only pure artist I know. Artist for hire.
photoshop
Photoshop on enriched uranium. Ayatollah. The Sheik could make me pinned on yip, saucered on D. Aeronymous trim. Give Fireman back his chest hair. Make Noddy trackless.
The Island’s microcosm and future. A creator of Amoeban fantasies. The reason you masturbate and buy diet pills.
He is both proactive and reactionary. Court jester and playwright.
He doesn’t mind if I slam speedballs in his crib.
A native Islander, The Sheik rarely leaves his apartment before midnight. I once tempted him into accompanying me to Amsterdam, he made it all the way to the Midtown Tunnel before having a panic attack and leaping from the car.
The Island’s projection of the Amoeban dream is played out every day at 666 Madison. It’s where the cattle get branded. Ten hours on the eyes. Three days on the tits, nipples. Teeth. Lips. Forehead. Inner thighs. Hair. Years.
scars
Lo que sea. It’s a great place to drink beer and rip some lines.
use once and destroy use u-100 insulin only
Houston Austin El Paso Mexico City Chicago New Orleans Boston Denver Miami London Paris Milan Rome Amsterdam Tenochtitlan Brussels Berlin Hamburg Munich Prague Moscow St. Pete Stockholm Uptown Athens Halkidiki Thessaloniki Rotterdam Antwerp Bangkok Authaya Chiang Mai Luangprbong Gleisica Ho Chi Minh Phnom Penh Babylon Hanoi Sapa Delhi Siem Reap Shianoukville Jakarta Scrotum Bali Montreal Vancouver Calgary Medicine Hat Winnipeg Havana Matamoros Fetus Cadequés Anal Shank Caracas Santiago Rio São Paulo San Salvador Buenos Aires Punta Montevideo Seattle Darby A Saba Jacksonville Empty Baggies Philadelphia Woodstock Wernersville St. Charles Limbic St. Louis Dallas Tokyo Lisbon Perpignan Barcelona Dropper’s Neck Bangladesh Stems Lost Aimless The Island.
the coke yack gack crack gear smack ya ba poppers acid speed ecstasy meth g k peyote luudes d opium morphine vicodin mdma dust shrooms hash pure powder shooting smoking snorting whiskey tequila bourbon vodka gin reds whites beer cigs stoges fags spirits resin
Oh dear lord all of it. Sum it up, throw it in my ass—a suppository. Allow me to regurgitate it for you.
Two
I contemplate my place.
Not 109 Spring, my place in the world. The Galaxy, Milky Way and beyond. The Drake’s Equation. The possibilities, the lack of. 27 years.
Sweating like a priest in the Reeperbahn, I stroll my loft. Blue eyes black, the two love valleys sunk deep into my sarong’s drought. Posing and flowing, introspecting and projecting. No one is there. Everyone’s there! Alone, surrounded, ridiculous, beautiful, superfluous, divine, virile, impotent. Ahh…crack.
My orbit is cocaine—my sun, my god. I’ll be born again tomorrow, or that tomorrow. But tonight the axis is set. My satellites are in motion, perpetual.
One can get mad at his satellites, but to denounce them would be to give up one’s star status.
Dark, Lark, and the same sames carry on their pre-determined fates in the living room—no evolution, just revolution. Corona, cocaine, Patrón, stems, rocks. One of the sames sweats a particular blend of whorish exuberance. A sommelier might describe it to the table as a Red-Light district, Patpong road, Upper East Side, South of France, Rio Grande Valley fusion— table wine.
I settle opposite my only window—ribs protruding, rest of the bone family available. Blue and white oval flags flapping red and black, I’m seeing life through an alternate lens. My speech pattern matched only by heartbeats per minute.
‘I don’t know…I don’t really like a guy all metro,’ declares Dulce, hitting shuffle on the iPod.
‘I know honey, but do you really wanna feel back hair on some fella? I know I don’t, especially if he’s rich and I gotta stick it out for a bit.’ Thanks Brittice.
‘Oh my gaawd, I know,’ fumbles coke-lipped same same number three, jolting me into speaking condition.
‘Well my dear, you can’t feed from both tits. We live in The Island, the goddamn Eden of loot, the fucking cock of capitalism! We’re fisted daily with the rules of engagement, gotta take the good with the bad, yin-yang, all that shit. The exact epidemic tha
t allows all these ladder dwellers to be rewarded for getting electrolysis, teeth-whitening, manicures, pedicures, Portofino memberships, bi-weekly haircuts…all the while taking out just enough time to name drop at the latest jappy run restaurant that paid its way into Page Fix…one by one proliferating anti-thought and diseasing the world with it…well that’s why we have the iPod and cocaine home delivery.’
Soapbox clearly undermined by the yip, I journey to genuflect in the mirror. Rock-filled stem in hand, I move to firing position.
zippo? fire
stem? lit
suck. hard
exhale
I begin to roam again, thankful I’ve expounded some thoughts prior to departure.
Dulce remains detached in conversation: where are you from…yeah…I love Paris...oh my god, I slept with him too…I know for such a big guy…can you pass the bag…yeah…
‘So girls, have you ever had a hit blown up your arse?’
Dark Hose has a way with words. His cousin Lark Taker looks on in astonishment. As unlikely as it might seem, the hit up your ass line invariably returns the intended results. No sooner has Dark inhaled the rock than Brittice pulls down her panties and is on all fours.
Maxing out all lung capacity, Dark takes off his sarong, crawls over to the same—balls pendulating—and unleashes a funnel cloud of rock, up her ass. A couple uninvited licks follow.
‘Oh wow, that was...uhmm…I’m fucked up.’
‘It’s a bloody rush my love.’
Dulce knows the rush well. She is a creature without guilt—no rear view, no binoculars. She knows I live with my same, but Slutskia’s in Taiwan. Until she comes back there’s nothing to think about, other than yack. Vida es simple.
The shenanigans carry on between Dark and the sames, a regular neighborhood upperware party.
Living in the moment has its moments—elapsing as they are. At this point in the game I enjoy ever shrinking bubbles of serenity.
past and future…(silence)…helicopters
Slutskia’s good for half the rent, half the deposit, half the broker’s fee, a tenth the time. It’s possible I’m falling in love with Dulce. After all, Slutskia’s been away for two months (we speak once a week and confess our love). At least that’s what I reckon is coming through a three-second delay in Ruskenglish.
So yeah, I think I’m falling in love with Dulce—if I was mad enough to believe in such things.
I love you? currency, the biggest. Fuck the Dollar, Pound, Crown, Euro. And why not? You never need a deposit, guarantor, co-signer or credit approval. But make no mistake, it’s always a loan with interest. And when the spurned come to collect…oh boy! I’d be ecstatic with two broken legs.
Dark has moved to my sauna—stems, rocks, and sames in tow.
My place. I’m on the third floor, straight shot with the stairs. You immediately take in the carpet—grey, very. Perhaps at one time it was lovely Korean black, not now. The first bathroom to the left is an all ‘70s tile-laden concoction, the stock of which nuevo rich Islanders scoff and trust fund Islanders marvel. Snorkeling forward in the cesspool of grey you bump into a Billy’s Antique dining room table, the only window, an island on your right. The island floats on pseudo tile whose delta presents you with a washer/dryer, 50 cabinets, and 371 bottles of flavored whiskey from a past business deal gone awry.
Wading vomit stains, you take three steps down to the dying room. Lurking on the wall is the only thing of value in the place, conveniently the only thing that’s not mine. Aside from the painting, there’s two couches, a Sixth Avenue flea market iron rocking chair, turntables, loads of DVDs and books.
Up the stairs is an open bedroom, my quarters. A Slutskia bought flat-screen hangs on the wall, along with a picture of my dead Abuela, empty baggies, rigs, tinfoil, stoge boxes. Beneath the bed is a walk-in closet, sharing a wall with the sauna and the second bathroom. A hop away is the other bedroom.
With Dark in the sauna discussing the devil knows what, I’m eye-fucking Dulce. She’s the only same I’ve come across where yip dick is not an option. Not a once has her triple-pierced shaved twat falsetto failed to bring me to attention.
Dulce. Indian-style on my white couch. Eskimo skin, red g-string, portrait perfect flapper bangs—slave black. If she were West African she’d be famished, in The Island she’s just heavily ribbed. The hip bone handles leading to her cunt were sculpted by Jesus and Satan during a campaign stop in purgatory. Dulce’s smile could make serfs noble, pedophiles blush, Jews call their father, Dalí rethink Gala. Arouse a eunuch. And her tits! A famished villager with C’s! At the right angle they even cover her ribs. And the nerve to want to get loaded after a session. I take back that I love you garbage. Dulce, the only same same in the land that owns it—all of it. I met her inkless, she’s now Island Adorned three times over. I love her.
We devour rails, down Patrón.
Ascend to my quarters.
Copulate. Fornicate.
Another hit and I’m dog-paddling in thought.
the what ifs
Yack with no snipers, dope with no itch, beer with no calories, blue eyes on crack, Fireman with no same addiction, Noddy with no slamming, Aeronymous with discipline, Lousifer with perspective, Slave straight, Tambourine on literature. Dulce as Slutskia. Slutskia as Dulce. Sanity?
Despite my session with Dulce, I can’t sleep. I bid her farewell and get back to jaw grinding. Is there any H here? Xanax at least? Dark, Lark, and crew gone, I plop down sans clothes on my holy couch. Precisely how geeked I am beginning to reveal itself. I put on my iPod, hit shuffle.
Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you
g thanks kurt
KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK.
fuck
KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK.
fight it Cracula, no one’s there
KNOCK KNOCK.
Well maybe the neighbors heard the racket. There were three yacked up sames here, Dark and Lark. Maybe those bastards did something and bailed. Maybe they just want tea? After all I haven’t broken bread with my neighbors in the year I’ve been here. That makes sense.
KNOCK KNOCK.
damn it, it’s some dealer I’ve been avoiding
KNOCK KNOCK
fuck it
I dump out the rest of the gear on the table and roll a single. Right nostril, left nostril, right, left, right, left…I’m marching, a goddamn soldier in the army of yip. I don a sarong, grab my knife, and float to the door—the peephole. No one. The fucker is hiding in the hall. Well I’m not waiting for him to shoot the door in. I open the door, blade in hand, step into the hall. Nobody. Wait, coming up the stairs. Son it’s on. I stealth to the stairs, I’ll beat him to the punch. As I glide, he ascends. Fate intercedes and we are two feet away, separated by the landing. My sarong falls to the floor. No worries, I’ll stab this motherfucker naked.
‘Ahhh….Help!’
Mother of God, it’s my upstairs neighbor. She’s been in the building since 1972 (only pays $500 a month). I’m naked, sweating, and brandishing a switchblade. My candy-red cock at half-mast.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m your neighbor.’
Retreat.
With sleep not an option, the helicopters, snipers, and anti-tank missiles begin closing in. I decide to brave the world.
I slide on my black Levis, thermal, Hugo shearling, St. Mark’s scarf, Island Adorned hoodie, pupil-hiding shades and hit Spring. The ghosts of Soho past all around—cheap lofts, graffiti, golden eggs. Only now it’s all been airbrushed, photoshopped to death. The lofts no longer belong to artists, but to formulaic Amoebans or Native gazillionaires. The only graffiti left, just down Spring, is on death row since an inventor bought the building. The phonies that are left all channeling the same slice of 80s. And the same sames? Forget it, they think it’s still happening. Please don’t get me started on the weekend—it’s a fucking EU field trip. I would have thought it impossible to extract every Parmigiani-Ex
change wearing, Smart Car-driving bastard and deposit them on Dead Broadway. Lo que sea.
Escaping the Feds, CIA, KGB—I head east toward Mercer— passing what was Mekong and what is now Wrong Hunch. Could it be more tragic?
My paranoia subsided to a non-life threatening level I might be able to pull off a coffee at Balthazar.
Forging ahead, I feel the presence of something…something debilitatingly immense. He’s catty-corner to me, heading west on the south side of Spring.
Aeronymous has a patented stroll—more like a meticulous waddle. He is a contorter, Cult member, friend. Moving forward he swallows the sidewalk like it’s black spaghetti at Frank’s. In spite of it being 15 degrees out, he has an iced coffee (extra sugar) in his left hand, a buy-one/get-one-pack-free Turkish gold stoge in his right. I’m not sure if I want to be seen or not.
Too late.
‘Yo Cracula! What’s up son?’
A quite familiar, and bastardly, superiority washes over me as I await his ever so difficult crossing of Spring.
Really studying the waddle for the first time, I can’t ascertain how Aeronymous moves forward. To the naked, or cracked out eye, it appears as if he simply strides left and right. Perhaps he does, with his gargantuan girth pulling him forward. Throw in the alarming green BAPE sweater and you have an optical illusion—an endangered species—a waddling, Sidekick-wielding, chain-smoking urban wildebeest.
As he crosses Spring cabbies slam on their breaks, Range Rovers thank god for airbags, hot-dog vendors smile in anticipation.
‘What’s up Aeronymous?’
‘Chillin son. What’s the deal? How you been, I miss you son.’
Aeronymous never fails to greet as though you’re a long-lost lover exiting customs at JFK.
‘No different than I was two day ago son.’
‘Word, I just saw Dulce going to Narc. Did you handle that son?’
Despite (because of?) the amount of space Aeronymous possesses in the world, I love him. So I’m never sure if sharing my exploits produces a vicarious kick or contributes to his medicating via parmesan.
‘What the fuck do you think?’
Pillage Page 1