Blockchain Bandit

Submission Draft (6-28)

Him being all tall and handsome, in a cool dark suit with that stainless steel gun strapped to his leg. He walks up to the front of the security line at LAX and says, “I’m leaving this shit town.” The two TSA chicks open the gate, eye fucking the shit out of him. An entire city filled with whores. He’s had his fill of young blondes though. Has had his fill of beaches and ocean breeze. He wants to get back to what he knows, the clean streets and bright pillars of D.C.

First, before his return to that, he has some off the path stop in Wyoming. Riverside. He looked at a map earlier, asked for one at breakfast. It didn’t show no river in Wyoming. Not much of one anyway.

Him grabbing his nuts and adjusting the gun strap with a funny leg kick as he walks on the dirty carpet. He is a monster out here, glaring and lethal, but all of these people pretend he is a ghost. Another chick, fat with colored hair. At the gate desk, eating pudding. She tries kicking two people off the plane because there isn’t a first class seat for him. Says the planes that fly into Wyoming don’t have first class, but she can give him two seats. Doesn’t want that though, wants to maybe break her nose in fact, more even. What the hell is he doing out here. People like her think such things, live this way?

D.C. ooze they call it, just wait for it, they say. But it don’t ooze very fast. These people are from years ago. A decade even, before the little wars. Comes back after calling his wife. He asks the woman creature who volunteered to give up their seat. Wants to pistol whip her but bites his lip.

It’s a young man. Kid really. Says he’s in no hurry. Probably wants to be a Newagent someday. Wants to build the world. Give him a few thousand tokens of that South African crew experimenting with token curated drone strikes. A dangerous economy that Newagents will probably end up shutting down, but the kid will love it. Let him look at your gun now, hold it. Let him look into your eyes. Show him the future. Good kid.

Him grabbing his nuts and gun again, settling into his seat. Hasn’t sat in coach for a while. Hard for a big guy, uncomfortable really. The lady next to him is old, and over by the window is a weak man. The pilot comes to introduce himself. How long till Riverside you ask? Oh, well, you see we aren’t going to Riverside. There isn’t an airport there. Got to land at the capital, go on ground from there I guess. Maybe they’ll have a helicopter there, but I doubt it.

Him, imagining a place without an airport, laughing. And the pilot laughs too. The pilot has a nice smile that shows a crooked tooth. Shakes his hand and laughs. Pats his back. A good man, a nice handshake and a big heart. Gives him a wink and then off to fly the plane. Off to Wyoming.

He steps onto Wyoming and bam, it’s a different world. Some local sheriff, woman of course, green vest with a badge and all that, asks for his identification. WTF...Him grabbing his nuts and pulling out his pistol in one motion. An athlete. We all call it the Pulse. It shines silver in the sun. It’s beautiful, a gem of the movement. The Pulse pumps blood, driving the tenants. Fulfills manhood.

They aren’t even inside yet, stalled at this two bit check point right on the tarmac. At the bottom of rickety stairs welded onto an old pickup. On the concrete under a million degree sun. On my time.

The Pulse has nine rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Special caliber. The Red Snake curls around the barrel and poises to strike the dumb bitch’s forehead. Him, feeling the blood come. The special murder blood. Pulsing. Coming.

The captain running down the stairs, stops. Children peak out from behind him. Curious. Mom above them scared. Frozen.

Finally the gun comes down and a little white circle surrounded by a red corona lingers between her eyes.

He asks if this is still his country. Screaming. Him, with the murder blood pulsing. Still with the murder blood but without murder. Asks if the pilot has taken him to Russia. Spits. Fire murder eyes. Asks where the hell he is at. Him scratching his nuts with the barrel of the gun before locking it back onto his hip.

The pilot finishes his run down the stairs and grabs his arm, says Wyoming is fine. Tells him that out loud. Says he used to visit all the time. Him being led away a few steps, the pilot pulling.

He wants the pilot now. Pulls free. Says so again. Wants him. Walks back, leaves a huge stack of crypto cards on the little checkpoint podium. Pulls them from his backpack. Most are Newagent internals, but there is a grab bag of fringe tokens from his work over the past month. Sort of says sorry, or grunts something that might be interpreted as sorry. Says to the dumb bitch, tells her softly that he wants the pilot now. Says that he didn’t know that before, thought he might go on alone, but now he does indeed want the pilot.

Him feeling the murder blood leave. Draining away. Smiles even. He wants the pilot for the land traveling too. Leave the plane for when they get back, won’t need the copilot, split up the loot among the passengers. Take some for yourself. We are getting a car. Pilot suggests a truck. We are getting a truck then, and we are driving to Riverside.

Him and the pilot pick a nice big truck, red like an engine and with a shotgun in the back window. Big tires. Him putting his own gun on the dash, driving. Him asking the pilot all about these people. Trying to figure it out.

No traffic on the interstate. All on the trains now. Asks the pilot to check if that cannon hanging in the back is loaded. It is. Finds some more shells under the seat. Three boxes. Pilot wants to see the Pulse, shining, chambered in .333, masterpiece, given to every Newagent. Him plunging his hand between his legs, smashing his junk with his knuckles. In a good mood with the sun and the wind and the driving. Hasn’t driven in years. Tells the pilot sure. Blast a few out the window. Try to hit that stump out there. Got it! Nice shot!

Drive on land and do not talk. Revolutions have been won this way.

What is that? Those are rocks. Jesus, it’s beautiful. Yes it is. They were brought here by a glacier, and this is where they were dropped by a warming earth. Suddenly done with her ice-fueled labors. Dropped, like the plow of a man off to war. Him having to piss anyway, pulls off the big road and drives towards the stacked up boulders, slower now on a bumpy dirt two-track. Makes it to the base, beneath these towers. Gets out to piss on the tire. It is not getting better. Simple fact. He flops his dick up and moves his balls around. It is getting worse.

Him with a wife and three kids in D.C. A boy and two girls. A strong house. The finish line. Humans on earth have made it. It is all over. Let me live now! Still though they send me out into the badlands. Still I carry this sword to slay savages and fuck their women till my dick falls off. D.C. ooze. D.C. ooze they say. Let it cover the earth. Be patient. Got the D.C. ooze oozing out my dick hole!

Pilot pissed on a tree. Throws a rock. Then there are more sounds. Him grabbing the Pulse. Telling the pilot to grab the shotgun. No time though. Come the children running down a steep path between a couple hundred million ton rocks. Laughing as they try to climb onto a ten thousand ton rock, shaped like a melting coffee mug. They can’t quite make it up the handle. Him, wondering at the scene. A half a billion year old playground. Still so fun.

Him in the passenger seat now. Copilot. Pilot drives like a man used to flying. Him looking out the window. The last of the rocks gets left behind and then the grass starts, endless. Rolling like a lazy sea. What is out there? Pilot looks over and thinks, then says ‘nothing.’ Says nothing like it is something though. Makes it sound pretty good. Him wanting now to see this ‘nothing.’ Wants to keep moving, finish the mission. No, wants to see the nothing. It is a fever now, making him panic. Pull off again, take me out there. Way way out there, to the nothing.

The truck has been shaking for an hour. Has hit a dozen hiding rocks and badger holes along the way, on the sea floor beneath the froth of green-gold prairie. They sail across this grass under the sun. Windows down. Sometimes insets jump inside the cab like spray from the waves. Stop. What is it? What’s that? Pilot squints. It’s a rider. On horseback. No herd, but that ain’t saying there ain’t no herd in the draws. Could be more men in them draws too. Would never know if there was, not until we were right there on top of them. Could hide an aircraft carrier in one of them draws. The rider was broadside, then not, then so again. Pacing slowly, watching them back.

Him wanting to go of course. Getting the guns ready and all. Following a ghost-guide in his heart. Lost in the badlands, spirit tripping or some such thing. Itching his nuts and–

It’s a woman. Pilot looks behind them. Then back at her, and beyond. Could be alone.

A single female rider, one with her horse, alone on the waves. This, this was the nothing. There is after all something out here in the nothing. Him chatty in a strange way.

Her being all pretty up on that beast. Shakes her hair about after taking her hat off. She is covered with earth. An old .45 in a worn holster sewn with strong leather strokes onto her saddlebag. Black hair. Straight. Brown eyes. Her not smiling. Licks her dry lips. Scar above her eye, neat across her brow. She. Her.

Her, being slow the way she gets off the horse. Kneeling now. Touch the earth and pick some up. Move like that. Become the earth. Leave the animal and rejoin the earth. Now come to me.

Him, not even bringing the Pulse. Leaving the pilot too. Walking slow. Fifty yard yet. Grass up to his waist. Enough cover to sneak a quick nut scratch. Wading through the sea. Going towards her. Her waiting now, touching the earth some more, switching forms out here. Animal again. Back to the earth now. Animal.

Both are under the sun. Him and her. In the middle of a place called nothing.
Him, suit a bit torn from thorns. No gun. Naked. Her, at home. Dismounted from her loved sweet beast, standing now in front of a strange new one. Newagent. Here at her home. So the world really is as they say. Her, sick at the thought. Sad, sad, and sad some more at this confirmation.

Nothing ever must change if it doesn’t first change to begin with. Things didn’t change here! She is mad now. Nothing needs to change here. Go away. Go away. Go away.

He is not here to change things, not here. I’m not here for that. I know you are fine here. Her, not understanding. She is near tears. Two brothers died joining that world. Out there world. Tide meets rock world. Violent bashing, relentless. Trusting in erosion. Crazy world.

Feels it creeping in all the time. It comes for all they say. The rock will become the sea, on a long enough timeline. Blablablablabla. Now this! A Newagent on the back side, not ten miles from where she sleeps. Her in her bed in her thoughts waiting for her dreams, thinking of the day, of the day yet to come too, at peace and with love, her small time a comfort...and now here a Newagent.

No! She has murder blood too. He sees this. Means she is halfway to understanding.

Got to fight, had to. Out there we had to. Built a place not to unlike here, call it D.C. Mean to move out from there. I think we should stay put. Don’t see you moving out from here. You got a nice thing and I bet you are fine to just stay here. I’m fine to stay at my home too. But we gotta creep, gotta ooze. Even if we don’t have to. It is what we are doing. What I will do too. See?

We are falling now. Have fallen. Past the brush of her hand against his. Past the pilot’s smile. Past the mission in Riverside. We fall further, and they are back at her door. Rotted wood that only the strongest paint has clung to over all these years. The weak always die. The weak are left behind. Like those men in Riverside. Flaked off and forgotten. The strong are here still, pale blue paint in the sun, refusing to budge. Scratched up and dirty but here still. We fall past strong and weak alike though, dead and dying. We fall to feel it. The time against our face, rushing. And then we grab on here, at the ooze line. D.C.

He notices with a nervous smile the distance it has traveled away from its beautiful center since the last saw it. Oozing.

Him on the comms, bringing in his men, the young ones who will do anything for him. They leave their families and come to him.

Him with his new curse. Pacing the voids of his mind. He wants to pull his knife out and slice his dick off. They teach in alpha school about how people used to chop up the dicks of baby boys. He imagines the sweet relief of pain, flushing, as he stabs down into his groin.

Him, calculating the time it will take for the ooze to make it to L.A. He wants that place burned to the ground tonight. Wishes it had been destroyed last year. The ooze must be slow for a reason, sure, but then why send me out into it? Why do I leave my wife and children? Am I the ooze? Am I Jesus Christ? I die for them? For you?

Wants the D.C. ooze to wipe the earth clean. No doubt about that. Wants it still, even as a victim now. Calls on it like never before. Flush like rain, a real rain. We need a flush. Flush of pain, flush of palate, flush those ghostly hues of yore.

But now think, if that is the case then why is he here. Him, gathered at a checkpoint on the ooze line with her, the pilot, and his youngest men. He knows why. Can’t lie to us, can you? Try it, sit there and watch those clean white tents, tell a joke to the pilot, nod to your men, look her in the eyes...for God sake look her in the eyes and try to lie about why you are here.

Him leading this odd crew, balls on fire and mind confused, but still knowing, clearly, that he wants simply for the pilot, and for her, to see it. I want you both to see. This is why. He wants to hear them– He wants to see them see it. Then they will tell him something as he’s looking on. He will hear them say: “This place is beautiful, and look over there at that!” “Did you notice how nice they all are?” “Incredible. I’ve heard people talk about it, but I never could have imagined.” “How clean. As clean as a dream.” “Will they let me stay? Darling, will they?”

Wait until the pilot sees the rockets! Him, optimistic now. The way people are optimistic when you are taking them outside to be shot. Him walking, her hand in his, and the pilot smiling. His men have cut the power. The neat white tents are splashed here and there with blood. His men are amazing. They flow together, like a flock of deadly birds, and these guards out here on the line have no chance at all. It is strange, seeing the tents smashed up and fallen down. It is out of place hearing cries of pain inside D.C.

Her shock, bolts of it flashing inside of her, freezing her body. And when she comes around, snaps out of it, she throws his hand from hers. The pilot doesn’t look so great either.

This is the only way inside. They don’t just open the door for people like you. I had to do it this way. I need for you two to see what’s in here. Tell me if it is good. If it is good then we are fine. But if we should try to stop it I want to know.

She is pale. And the pilot doesn’t smile. Him, wanting to feel something normal, a thing that makes sense, orders his men. Commandments. Set a perimeter, bring a car, keep sharp. They move. His words make them do things in a world that now makes more sense. You, pilot, you smile when I make this silly face. And you, women, blow out your horror and buck the fuck up, you’re a god damned cowboy!

They, one black car with the three inside, flanked by two of his men winged out and trailing on matching motorcycles. This silent motorcade stops in front of the White House. A street sweeper hunts in vain for dust. A couple, their child running far ahead of them. The sun, so bright against all this white. Paths of marble at rest, green lined and inviting, with flowers scenting the gentle breezes passing with lazy summer slowness between the giant monuments. And the sun. The sun is here. Perfect.

Him now realizing what he has done. Him with his fucked up cock, the stinger of an L.A. scorpion still inside of him, poisoning him. Look at his hand trembling. I’m going to die. Look at his sweat. I’m going to die. Feel it on his brow. I’m going to die.

Just because his men follow him doesn’t mean he is still good. Not the way that works.

I was good that once though, right?

I know the point of the ooze. Of course I do. It goes slow and doesn’t let any bad inside. I am a Newagent. My men are the finest. Evil stands no chance. God is walking now upon our earth. His voice is thunder. His voice is fucking thunder!

She says it is pretty. And the pilot smiles as a rocket lands with silent grace across a field of green.

Him wondering if those little yellow flowers mixed up on that lawn are an accident, or if maybe they are planted there on purpose. In the end it doesn’t matter. They are lovely.
Be I man or be I god, matters not for what I build.

Him, refusing to scratch himself, using the frantic nature of this runaway reaction in his body. Steady now.

Pulse shining he shoots her first. She never sees it. The pilot is shocked, but is himself soon dead as well. He drops it, lets it settle on the marble and shine like a gem. He tells his men what to do. His last order.

They are good men. This is a good place. He slides his battle knife inside of his stomach. One of his men shoots him where brain meets spine.

I’ll end it here.

His men take the bodies back to the smashed up tents and wait. A Newagent will be here shortly to fix things.

Stay calm. Everyone should hope the street sweeper’s heart does not sink when he sees the blood stained marble. Listen to me about protecting the street sweeper. The ooze will seep, good will prevail. Him who died will be forgotten. And the pale blue specks of sun burnt paint will be for those still here.