The Bux Blog

The Funeral will be at the the following location:

Friday, March 12th 2010 @ 6:30PM

Angeleno Valley Mortuary

5423 Tujunga Ave.

North Hollywood, CA 91602

Hello,

We are currently trying to secure and location near starbucks for a service. We will post once we have a date and time. Any questions feel free to email brainscott @ gmail.com or saspiro @ aol.com.

Thank You

Most of your stories probably start, “I met him at Starbucks…” mine is no different. Elliott was a unique character among life’s cast of the usually mundane. He was a great friend and always had a dime to lend. He will be greatly missed by so many who barely even knew him let alone those of us who who knew him as well as he would let you. I am glad to have know him and shared many a morning sitting in starbucks commenting on other peoples flaws and inadequacies, I’ll miss that more than anything I think. Tonight many friends gather at his final residence and share a drink and a toast over stories of how he’s influences and changed their lives. He was always able to bring people together to form lasting friendships. The world has lost a good writer and just a great person today. We will all miss you! See you when I see you.

Sitting in Starbucks, I look out the window and see a young girl on her extra long skate board. It is almost impossible not to watch her, she stands erect and is almost motionless on the board. Not motionless, but her moves are so precise that the board seems guided by some force distant from her. Imperious is she astride her four wheel steed. The board comes to a stop and she is transformed back into an attractive, intelligent eighteen year old. No long Imperious Rex, powerful still in herself. The commander of her own destiny.

Today I have begun to understand the sacrifices made in the pursuit of art. I watched a young actress float in a swimming pool just a few degrees above freezing. I watched as she trooped on, never showing how cold she was until the director yell cut. The camera man who was in a wet suit complained above how tough the shoot had been. Anna Wilson never said a word, as people on the set carried her to put her into a hot shower. I could hear crying but only in the shower.
I had trouble standing in the cold rain that was falling, I could never have courage to do what she had done, I tip my hat to her. To the sacrifice made in the pursuit of her art.

By:  G.P.K.

A simple, undeniable feeling swept through him without reservation. RAGE. He was furious with it. No matter how much he reasoned with himself there was no way to keep it in check. He was boundless, running through the night like an un-caged animal. The blood-lust, his tongue salivating, glands pumping on overdrive. His legs an un-wielding machine, sinew, tendons, muscle. He could not stop, would not stop. Must get further, farther away. He does not know where he is going, only that he must keep moving and never look back, turn back, go back. GO BACK! The voice inside his head was screaming, had been screaming for so long now he barely could recall a time when it wasn’t there bellowing away. He had long ago learned that voice could not only be unreliable, it could lie with mischievous intent. When you can no longer trust the voice inside of your head it becomes equally impossible to trust the voice of another.

The point where the meadow touched the forest loomed ahead in the distance, a great dark unknown. A turret fortified barb-wired eastern European wall. Not withstanding, the great oaks where Tolkien beasts in their own right. Majestic creatures to be feared as well as revered. Ages of life-gone wisdom seeded in their roots. Tonight they would guide him, hide him, protect him. The world is a scary place with the likes of those who prey on others circling endlessly, slowly closing in on the next victim.

In the middle of the night he awoke in a panic. When did I stop running? How long have I been asleep? Where am I? Am I alone? Is she here with me? No, she has been gone for some time now. What was that noise? In a flash everything came back to him. Running through the night into the forest…no, before that…legs pumping, asphalt black…further still…the setting sun golden-orange on the horizon…cactus lined road…a one horse town…thirst, been running for days, weeks…the bar, the Biker with the black beard…THE BIKER!

He gasped, his heart racing. He felt his chest for the leather strap, it was still there. Thank God! The satchel swung over one shoulder contained all in life which he possessed…an old flint kit, Swiss Army knife minus plastic toothpick, length of rope, couple hand fulls of assorted nuts, two sticks of cinnamon chewing gum and a 9mm Beretta with ten rounds to match. This was all he allowed himself, all he needed to survive, everything else was want. Want and Need, two lifelong adversaries. Long ago he had bowed down before want, thrown himself in the middle of the road, run over by a semi-tractor trailer of possessions. Trapped beneath an avalanche of wants and desires. Needlessly suffocated by it. It is all my fault. I lost sight of what was truly important and now I have nothing.

He set to making it out of the forest by first light. There was no path to follow which meant he had to forge his own, something he was all too used to doing at this point in his life. The night was dark and the canopy overhead made the forest floor even darker. He made his way with barely a stumble or missed step. As though he was guided by a preternatural force which flowed within himself and outward through everything he touched. He moved through the night with a measure of speed. His mind a singular focus. He hoped to watch the sun rise over the mountains he knew to be towering in the distance but, when he reached the clearing, he realized that his hopes had been dashed by a layer of clouds which blanketed the snow topped peaks.

Knowing he had made good time getting there he felt confident, had the clouds not been there, he would be sitting back watching a sunrise that could only be described as ethereal. It would have been breath-taking. For that, truly, was what he was after, something to take his breath away in every conceivable sense. All he was anymore was a wash of emotions, mismanaged and completely out of check. All he did was react. Knee-jerk stimulus fueled neanderthal-like bouts of hate, anger, sadness, loneliness, despair, hopelessness and above all rage. Rage because of what he could not do. What he did not do. Rage because he is here and she is not. Rage because everything went so far off course. RAGE…The Biker with the black beard….

He took a seat on some long-ago-fallen deadwood. A small brown lizard scurried out from under the log. He reached down with lightning-like reflexes snatching the little reptile into the palm of his hand. The lizard’s head wiggled around just outside the confines of his fist struggling for freedom. He raised the creature’s head up toward his own and bit its off in one clean motion. He chewed ravenously not making any mind of the bones and skull fragments grinding between his rotting teeth. He was starving. He finished up the rest of the lizard and reached into his satchel. He fished out several nuts, eating them one at a time, placing the Brazil nut back in his bag for later, he might need to start a fire. “Nigger toes” his father used to call them.  A world of difference separated father from son.

His father was the type of blue collar man that worked hard all day and wanted nothing more than to come home and be left alone with his bottle. He was a faithful man, to both his wife and his God. He never went to church but he never took the Lord’s name in vain either. When he wasn’t working he was usually drinking, which is how he liked it. As long as there was a hot meal on the table by six-thirty there would be no hell to pay. But when there was hell to pay, it was rough and the payments were never cheap. The alcoholism blurred the lines of family and friends. When it had finally become unbearable and he old enough to take the beating of his drunk father, he would put himself between his father and his mother. He knew one day his father would hit her one too many times just a little too hard. He could not let that happen.

For the better part of a year he took his fathers abuse, both his own and that intended for his mother. She was a timid frail broken down women aged beyond her years. She had no fight left in her. He was young, ten at most. He remembers his father was on a tirade because “the god damn roast was overcooked again”. His father stormed into the kitchen demanding something else to eat. There was nothing else. His father flew off the handle, “I work all day to support this god damn ungrateful family and what do I expect when I come home? A god damn hot meal! God damn it if I could actually chew it.” He stepped into the kitchen just in time to see his mother trying to defend her roast, he could not hear her words. All he could focus on was the knife in his father’s threatening hand. What happened after that would replay itself in his dreams for the rest of his life. His mother’s lips screaming but no sound coming out. The reflection glaring off the the steel blade. Feeling the weight of the gun he somehow found in his hands. Pointing the cold barrel at his father. Looking to his mother, then back to his father. A flash. A thunderous deafening sound. The smell of sulfur in his nose. His father falling to the ground. The look in his mother’s eyes, a look of gratefulness and betrayal, confusion and freedom. The fear subsiding.

The distant crack of a shotgun brought him back. He looked around. Must have fallen asleep. He was still seated on the deadwood at the forests eastern most edge. The purple, snow topped mountains were still before him. The clouds were starting to burn off as the warming sun advanced its position across the sky. Sounded like a shotgun…who is firing…at me? No…must be hunting season…got to keep moving…can not turn back…can not go back…never go back.

(to be continued…)

Why do I listen

Broken, that was the only word to describe how Bryce felt. This was one of the rare days when nothing on his body was broken, it was just his life was broken. Goals none, loves none, prospects murder, dreams nightmares, reasons to go none. The sad truth was that he would go on, moving deeper into the lives of others; marveling at what it would be like to be human. Like some kid at Christmas looking at store windows knowing full well that he would never have the things on display.
The man he had killed last night had all the things that cause Bryce his uncomfortable curiosity, and today he is dead, Bryce is alive, broken but alive. Sometime today his phone would ring and Bryce would again start collecting bits and pieces of another clients life for the purpose of ending it.
To the outside world he might have seemed exemplary, tall, handsome, rich, and well connected. Someone the majority of humankind fawned over and worshiped, none of them noticed that he was not one of them. The only human emotion he had ever recognized as having felt was that passing curiosity. What would it be like to be a human, his mother and father had been human. In the end it had done them no good, they died like all of them do. Most of them without reason, at least the people he killed died for something. The reasons were not his, but reasons there were, judgments were not his province. He was a mere facilitator , one of  a small guild of remorseless professionals. He had removed several members for developing one of  the two fatal flaws of the job; enjoying the killing, and guilt. Both of then led to the same conclusion, sloppiness. With sloppiness came death, he had killed one of the founders of the guild, the man had begged for his life, as if the pleading or his life mattered to Bryce.
After that assignment Bryce had taken a while to come to grips with the entire episode, not the killing; that was routine, it had it’s difficulties, but in the end routine. No,  he was distantly curious about the man lack of decorum, what had made him want to hold on to life so much. In his preparation for the job, Bryce had made a through examination of the man’s activities and relationships  nothing in the man’s life had changed much in years. His habits were ordinary, his interaction with humans limited, but something changed him. Maybe all beings fear death, but why would he not accept the fact that death is implacable and cannot be deflected once the  time came.
The guild required that when someone of his stature left the guild certain procedures were required, a debriefing with prejudice was one of them. He had known  it was unavoidable, but he had tried to bargain, he elicited promises about how his dog should be treated. In the end he had killed them both and disposed of the bodies together.

Breakfast,  now that was something he understood;  bacon, eggs, toast, and  black coffee.  Always the same and mostly from the same diner half a block from his apartment. Rae’s diner was never going to be on anyone’s lists of great places to eat, it barely passed the health inspections. It was one of those places that had been around so long it survived on  just being Rae’s, sleazy but not so sleazy it would bring in hordes of uber hip euro trash types.  The morning was colder than normal for the time of year, he walked quickly and took his usual seat. Without uttering a word the steaming black coffee was at his hand and a copy of the paper was folded neatly in front of it. Bryce never looked at the front page, nothing there was of any interest to him. He did look at the sports, he usually had a bet or two around town on what ever sport was in season. The waitress came just as he took his last sip of coffee, he laid down a twenty dollar bill to pay the five dollar check. The waitress never acknowledged the tip, and that was fine with Bryce he would not have been comfortable with any thanks.

As Bryce left the diner he saw someone he recognized, a member of the guild driving past the diner. For the most part knowing each other would be both counter productive and dangerous. It wasn’t like they were going to have banquets celebrating anyone’s retirement. His name was Rodney, Rodney had recruited Bryce straight out of college. There was no such thing as coincidence in Bryce’s world, seeing Rodney probably meant it was Bryce’s turn to be phased out. He would have to be particularly on guard, not that he ever was not.

It was obvious to Bryce that his routine provided anyone that wanted to attack him an opening, but Bryce also felt to change because of the danger would represent a hypocrisy. He would face death and it’s possibilities head on. What the hell, maybe it was what he needed to breakout of his funk.  Why should he listen to the voice of fear, it never told him anything he didn’t already know.

Miami

To Bryce’s surprise the assignment did come, his target was a whale of a man, a loud mouth blowhard of middling intelligence and loathsome habits, drugs and the sexual exploitation of young boys.  He had amassed a fortune exploiting the mass of humanity that would follow any Pied Piper whose hyper confident braying gave them direction in their floundering lives. The blow hard at  knew that along with his acolytes  his hyperbole, and bluster would also create a large number of others who would wish him harm. His fortune allowed him to hire a force of very professional men to protect him. It was on this force that Bryce centered his attention.  It had taken Bryce a couple weeks and remarkably little of the more than ample funds he had been allocated for his mission to find his key. Two of the guards were extremely closeted gay men, and attended a devoutly anti homosexual church. A word of two in the wrong ears and the fuse was lit. All Bryce had to do was wait, buy a few drinks and keep the flames fanned.

In such a passive role he had time to do what passed for enjoyment in his world, Starbucks and people watching. He was working on a crossword puzzle and his third Venti of black coffee when he saw the girl.  What she was not; was sexy in the Playboy or MTV way.  Pretty would be stretching what she was, feminine not in the glass fragile way Hollywood likes to portray feminine women; she joyous, free spirited. She was a giggle in the throat of a thirteen year old. Seeing her struck Bryce with such a force he was stunned, it took him a minute or two regain his composure. He was transfixed he could not take his eyes off her. She was twenty at the most and expressed herself with passion and abandon. She seemed to leap from one thing to the next always laughing. Her friends paid little attention to her manic behavior other than the occasional laugh. Bryce never heard what was being said the show was pantomime.

One instant she was there and in the next she was gone, Bryce’s mind shifted to another issue; Rodney. Bryce was not one to let unresolved issues remain unresolved.

The magazine rack at one of the neighborhood liquor stores, full of the usual, tattoo magazines, car magazine, and of course porn and naked women magazine. The thing that I found disturbing is that right next to the girlie mags is a wide selection of gun magazine.
I can only question if there are those among the magazine buying populace that derive sexual excitement from both types of material. Of course some of the women on the magazine covers are far from what I would think of as attractive

Today is the last day before Halloween, and as a result the nerds from across the street are wearing their costumes to work. To my surprise so far no elves or wizards. Four uber nerds came in wearing Guido outfits. For those of you not in the know, slicked back hair, pointy toed shoes, mustachioed with lots of gold chains.
Wizards would have been better, at least there was a hope of pulling that off. Mafia zombies will be crawling out of their graves seeking to expunge such an insult.

I was walking in the area of Hows, behind me I hear a girls voice practically screaming ‘ you dirty little virgin girl’. I turn and see two young women who look to be around twenty years old each. When they see me laughing the one who had yelled said, ‘ What makes you think virgin girls can’t be dirty”. I thought about it and had to admit that when I was a virgin male I had thoughts that make me blush to this day.
That being said I still wonder what kind of thought would have made her friend react with such suprise and volume. Her appearence gave no glue she looked like a perfectly innocent young woman, but what has outward appearence to do with anything. Corruption starts on the inside even in the most delicate fruits.
What ever she thought brought both of them gales of laughter and laughter and curiosity.