Pageviews. Day 8

The more posts I have the more page views I get.  Quantity over quality.  But you'll also be reading this first line, and leaving after that.

Reading Bradbury's Farenheit 451.  Gives you the idea what he means by making it up as you go along.  he likes these characters and the places they live in.  That's better than whatever I'm doing.  So I'm going to try to really like my characters today.

I had a dream about the day of work that I'm going to have today, except the visiting corporate big wig was in a wheelchair.  I'm pretty sure my name is on this blog somewhere?


Think I'm going to actually try to do an entire short story this week, complete it and everything.  I've got a great main character, this shitty dude named Johnny.  He's got a nemesis, Raul.  Trial and error trial and error.  Might have written this a little hurriedly, but I don't think it'll be awful.

            He tried to even his tan out by wearing shorter cut-off shirts and taking his sunglasses off while at the beach, but when he was at the beach was the best time to be wearing sunglasses.  Not to keep the sunlight out of his eyes, but to look cool for the ladies.  And he could do that thing where he adjusted those dark black Men in Black 2 style Raybans with one hand and peered over them at an unsuspecting philly, his eyes chasing hers like a cowboy lassoing in a steer.

            His moves hadn’t paid off for him so often lately.  He knew he was in a slump, that powerful home run hitter who cannot make contact with the ball to drive it those 700 feet to the height of the moon.  The league had found out his weak spot and was refusing to pitch him inside where he could get his hips squared and drive it.  Still, he kept the stiff upper lip, his over sized headphones covering his head and blasting hits by the Scorpions, Quiet Riot, and AC-DC directly into his cerebral cortex.  He was feeding his mind, and it should be clear to those onlookers that he was a man of action, a man of business.

He looked down the boardwalk at the rising sun spitting phosphorus clouds over the horizon line from an infinitesimal breeding point.  It was the Phoenix, tossing fireballs at cosmic dragonflies which dodged and rearranged these bursts like a Boston album cover. And his motorcycle, sitting at the end of a long line of bikes hitched to the peer.             

Homeless people performing tricks lined both sides of the strip.  There was the juggling guy who had three normal balls and one bowling pin with spikes in it, the one armed moustachoed older man drawing masterful charicatures which bore little resemblance to their hosts.  High school couples bought cotton candy and separated into groups based on dress.

“Hey, Johnny!”  He heard a voice call out.  It could be anyone, they love me here, he thought to himself without a hint of conceit.  “Johnny! Johnny!”  Peering over his glasses, he saw Oscar, a fellow tough guy, struggling to hitch his hike by the peer.  After making a “There, stay!” motion standing with his hands in front of him, he broke in a lazy jog towards Johnny.

Johnny treasured those moments of the morning where he didn’t have to entertain any guests.  It was taking it’s toll on him, being the coolest guy on this beach.  Running his hands through his hair, Johnny put his cool guy face on.

“Are you ready for the race?!”  Oscar did his best cookie monster impression.  Turning down his headphones but not removing them or turning them off, Johnny shrugged and nodded, solemn and serious.  “You aren’t afraid after what happened last week, John?”

“It’s Johnny,”  Johnny corrected.  “Those punks can mess with my bike, they can throw shit at me, their girlfriends can call me names, it doesn’t matter.  I was born to race… I bought a crowbar earlier in case they try any funny stuff.

On the adjacent peer, the ethnic version of Johnny’s crew hung out.  Their hatred for Johnny was more than the healthy rivalry which was required, and he feared one of them may know his secret. 

Johnny’s counterpart on the opposite peer was Raul.  He could picture him sitting there sharpening his knife, laughing as two beautiful chicanes caressed his shoulder pads.  Flanked on both sides by a multiplicity of supporters, with a boom box blaring La Cucaracha or whatever these types listened to, hand-tossing tamales, Johnny frankly didn’t care what Raul was up to.  He knew what he had to do; tonight he would kill Raul.

Johnny’s crowd grew hushed as he walked to the peer.  The groups of high school aged supporters who normally hung out on the dock had moved just out of shouting distance this week, afraid to get too involved with the action.  Like the crowd of picnicers in the fields during the battle of Antietam, they exhibited a nonchalance which bordered on the cross-section of Callous Disregard of Human Life Avenue and Ignorance Lane.  Lifting his pant leg, Johnny retrieved his crowbar, and brandishing it he was relieved that his sunglasses concealed the fire in those eyes.

“Someone get me an icecream sandwich,”  Johnny called out to the silent crowd.  A big weasely looking guy wearing a leather jacket nudged a shorter weasely looking guy wearing a black denim coat with a shark on it, who begrudgingly stormed over to a cooler.

“Sorry man, no more sandwiches!”  He called out in a high pitch warble. 

Johnny stood with his chest thrust out in front of him and stomped across the peer toward the cooler.  Shoving him out of the way with the back of his hand, Johnny pulled the lid off the cooler and threw it into the ocean like Poseidon’s trident.  He dug around in the bottom of the icy box, retrieving a cream soda and popping it open coolly.  He kicked the cooler over, flexing to the crowd of onlookers.

“He’s lost it, dude, last week was out of control but I think he might hurt himself or one of us,”  A onlooker whispered to his neighbor.  “This is going to get completely out of control.”

Still, the onlookers raced down to find the best seats on the rocks overlooking the course by the beach when they saw Johnny get on his bike. 

Johnny didn’t normally wear a helmet, but pulling one on over his head he knew today should be an exception.  He knew if he got stabbed in the ear his racing days were done for.  The knife sliding in through one ear and out the other wouldn’t stop flashing through his mind, the blood pouring out of every orifice.  Raul will brain me the way he killed my mentor Tony if he gets the chance, Johnny thought.  I better do this for Tony.

Eight days of 1,000 words.  I'll get to 2,000 in a couple of weeks.