I shall enjoy
my fireplace on side the transcontinental slab
dedicated to the movement of narcotics West to East -- an
hyperbolic Woody Guthrie pharmacolonized mix of this land is our land in the deep
wretched South of my birth -- wretched, but still howling -- dinning rubber meet road through nightlong, high-whining
Formulae Straightaway -- where races won are cacophonous to God-- to
the Devil--fun; inner-perturbation, discomfit in
dreaming finds you amidst a Track Crew who are quick-changing muling drug vehicle vehicles back and forth
in predictable one-percent loss rates which compete with mass mailings and Facebook Ads for Cold Mass Marketing -- and those whose lot or acumen it is swearing luck every time, buying larger and larger Cartel Skeleton Saints and Altars, to be stopped -- there is a certain prison cred to getting a gang sign thrown through the back window of the Grande Cabron as he takes the White Flag to the Finish Line.
Never
respite--pitstop tintinnabulation of inner ear, the
clangor you enjoy, and enjoy you now think of Hearth, the quiet popping
of burning logs sounds like New Years Eve in Chihuahua or Paris -- guns firing from a distance or Veuve Cliquot --like home to
see through.
But religion is absolute mortal Glory, promised death of sin waiting to commit as you wake-- your first sentient thought of this sub-tropical locus of 90 degree and same humidity wed through torpor in 90 degrees midnight next to I-10 I-12 Split Baton Rouge (38th and Chip Streetcorner boys call it da Slab, no Sound Barrier this side to muffle the roar, where we, embracing the preclusion of not speaking are similar to those real Ganstas, whose perfect protection this would be for John Gotti and Sammy the Bull, who loved nothing more than eluding, through Bridge and Tunnel massing of Manhattan's Little Italy Gravy Joint Weekend Nights.
FBI packing up surveillance, enough to hear a whisper, until the Don got wise that there was something added to his Ravenite Social Club on Mullberry near the Church, that didn't really belong, and where from that day, he started his walk and talks, like a Sharkskin donned Dr. Geisel, trying to see what he could see, and kill what he couldn't.
From my third story window, like the painting by Munch, I cannot hear, you, but the shape of your mouth and the your face appear as if you are screaming.
See 225-924-6500 Front Desk 24 Hours Trudi Veals, GM 12.27.2020
by mrjyn (@mrjyn) on CodePen.
Veals, whose attempted force-out by proxy-- GM status could only be extortive or corrupting -- her first principal co-conspirator / Front Desk Clerk Faith, tried for the same reason which Mike the Janitor, was to succeed temporarily: to impress or satiate a sullen, smarting from censure, her discovery and emergency intervention stopping momentum John Holmstrom, Vice President of Operations, SMC Hotels Group--ordered Veals to fire Faith, but her faithful effort in earlier schemes to force out a tenant, having backfired, refused--forcing John Holmstrom (he had promised to meet with me to speak about this issue becoming compounded by his actions, to which he had agreed--ignoring any such promise of a meeting, and disappearing back to Shreveport on the morning on which I woke to a pall throughout the property of employees faces--Faith had been fired, and everyone blamed me.
Dispatching a one-year employee in order to preserve the stability and smooth running of his property, while hopefully assuaging a resident offended, was a necessary exercise by his Corporate peers at SMC, in order to stop the machinations attributable to their GM, whose dissatisfaction at the decision to fire her employee, she had rabidly disputed among her group of confidants and helpers. I knew that it would be me next.
