The Book of Jesse - Contact

DIATRIBES GALORE! LISTEN TO PIERRE AND WILD BILL SPEAK!

Every day Pierre and Wild Bill will come at you with fresh INVECTIVE! Sometimes witty, sometimes sobering, and sometimes just down right livid, The Book of Jesse will feed your ire! Want to read past invectives? You can access them via our new Pierre Archive and Wild Bill Archive

August 18, 2007

The Transmission.

One of the American cell phones went off.

He took the call. I could feel Bertie Ernesto tighten beside me.

Another ring; this one amongst security. The suited man turned and took it bent to the wall. Tumulty quietly observed.

I could see Betsy grow restless as she kept watch on the door.

The Canadian was still wan and restless, dabbing his forehead with a wet handkerchief.

I reached out to touch Bernie Ernesto’s elbow, just to have it, ready to leap into escape.

Pierre

August 17, 2007

This is all bullshit.

None of this was real. I had nothing to fear from Ford or from the fat cats lining the bleachers. In fact the entire scene started to remind me of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man and I knew that I was in the loose, beginning stage clutches, of the nerve agent the Republicans were pumping Bill full of. My good old fashion liberal arts education had literally come back to haunt me. I was in the midst of the consciously manipulated sub-conscious delusion made manifest that the drug was intended to evoke. I knew now what I had to be aware of. The gas would put me in situations ripped right from the pages of classic twentieth century literature, particularly those novels that focused on minority anti-heroes and their scenes of greatest persecution. I was going to need so much fucking therapy when I got Bill out of here.

I calmly removed my gloves and walked straight out of the ring, past Ford and through the hostile crowd, treating them all like the ghosts that they were.

Wild Bill

August 16, 2007

Back in the Parlour.

Betsy kept guard now in the parlour, I assumed to keep close eye, and we all re-gathered. The Canadian was resuscitated, the Japanese returned to their seats. The Americans took fifteen minutes to change and arrived, all and none left out, in black suits, white shirts, black ties. Bertie twisted his hands together pensively.

Sheriff Tumulty came into the room, clearing his throat like a bear howl. 'It appears that your killer here, now two bodies into the count, is, first, a woman. Two, she is left handed. I also note the smell, the scent of perfume; if I'm not incorrect, it's German. Joop. A floral warmth with a distinctive oriental signature.'

My mind was blown! I recognized immediately where the scent was from; troubled myself desperately to orient the facts to the impossible facts.

'You might think that narrows my list of suspects,' growled Tumulty. 'It may, it may not.'

I turned my head down, my mind washed in impossible thought.

Pierre

August 15, 2007

The Projectile.

I froze. A forty-ounce Coors Light was on track to shatter on the crown of my head. My shoulders rose instinctually into a nervous crunch and I could feel the acid churning in my stomach. Ford and the referee did not seem to notice or care and even the man who threw the bottle had settled back into his seat as if to be a spectator of his own handiwork. The bottle rolled in mid air end over end like an out of control space capsule until, without thinking, I quickly sidestepped the projectile and close my eyes awaiting the impact of the bottle on the ring floor.

Nothing happened. No shower of glass digging holes into my flesh, no chandelier crash. I opened my eyes to a normal boxing ring without hint or trace of the bottle that not ten seconds previous had been on a collision course with my head.

I returned to my corner. I had no trainer, not even a water bottle or a towel. I just rested my body on the ropes. And then, staring blankly at the spot on the floor that should have been caked in foam, hops and shards of glass, then, I got it.

Wild Bill

August 14, 2007

The Body of Sully.

I squirmed me way past the others to follow the sheriff. Why not? I knew what was happening, perhaps more than anyone! I followed directly into the tunnel the tight-jeaned deputy until we came to a carved out room beneath the Chateau. There, on the floor, the cold limestone floor, was the body of Sully Berkovitz. His throat was slit, blood congealed in horror movie fan around his head like a halo of wrong. Inside the smell of sanguine dank, I detected something floral, like a presence. I could see the eyes of Sheriff Tumulty and knew he was of the same mind, his keen detective sense well on the trail, utilizing nose and eyes, touch and experience.

I shook my head in dismay. Poor Sully. He'd only wanted justice: we'd promised him too much. That smell. Tumulty lurched of a sudden, finished with his inspection of the scene, and turned back to the head of the tunnel. We had no choice but to follow. Betsy touched my shoulder as I passed through back into the maid's quarters. I looked Bertie in the eye. His wouldn't meet mine.

Pierre

August 13, 2007

Round Two.

Now, my head still ringing, I took stock of my surroundings. There were the squat toddler height stools that were trotted out between rounds, but I was determined to outsmart Ford, not to cheat. Plus, I had no idea whether I could even make contact with his vaporous body. He seemed intent on playing it mostly fair; he certainly moved faster and more nimbly than he had since World War II, but he had yet to act on the numerous options available to him as a non-corporeal being. As my head cleared, I danced nimbly on my toes, shying away from contact as much as possible. My eyes darted back and forth from my opponent to the ring and then out into the crowd. Ford was too focused on his Ali like footwork to take stock of my appraisal. The fat heads perched on top of hospital white tuxedos bellowed with impatience hurling vitriol and contumely my way, egging me on more and more to make this the kind of fight they had paid to see. Ford jabbed at the air in front of me nearly connecting with my left cheekbone.

A single, rippling mound of fat and lucre stood up in his chair in the third row. His anti-Semitic invective has no place on these pages and some of the worst was drowned out by the bell signaling the end of the second round. But the mass of chins, sweat and bourbon was not satiated. As I turned back toward my corner I could not resist the temptation to look back at the mountainous disaster casting out his self-abasement at me. I expected to see an animate man yelling, but as I turned my head, the first thing that caught my eye was a glint of light bursting off a projectile beer bottle that the man had lobbed directly at me.

Wild Bill