‘Summers’ of 2020’ -it can kill you ; short story screenplay by BB. bbCENTURIES Painter Connoisseurs

‘Summers’ of  2020’ -it can kill you

A decent meal, clothes, transportation and safe roof over his head, he didn’t care for fame and rapping, trappings of deceptive and shiny wealth, much, that in the end ends up owning a person, stealing freedom, and wondrous natural nuances of life. He turned, looking over his shoulder, the hoards of strangers following him in hot pursuit, in the superficial, not seeing him, at all, but only an iconic marketed image of him, was increasingly concerning, mostly. He was trapped inside, in so many ways, and he knew it, though wealthier than most. He was not human but an object-thingy’, like, a fav hoped for, stuffed-animal plaything, w/out heart nor mind, for children to romp with, or upon, and at monkey-worlds self-serving leisure, and convenience. A massive high Art Talent, but with no VOICE, bc in a room of ppl who could not see, nor hear anything but their own minds, and idol child’s chatter of foolishness, has got to be a sin, he pondered, alone, surrounded by the many? PPL-worshiping spooked him a lil, when it was pointed right at him. To those with eyes, he spoke volumes w/out a word spoken, of substance, via the room he chose, w/its raw displayed decor, and his choice of attire therein. 

Aware that his chosen attire, of, white and light blue, that matched an environment of white walls and different shades of, sun-faded blue, like his over-priced, with an almost good 360-degree paradise view Hotel room suite, he pointedly went secret-agent-man.

This holds true bc he was wearing city camouflage, for that city, of, white walls and beaches, with glints of washed-out blue, and was ready for any would-be impromptu city rioting street fight, with flying bullets, disappearing against any white building structure, or even laying in the white sand, alone, he smiled, a lil, his inherent, ever-evolving wascally-wabbit' smarts or insanity, he smiled again, like a Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Fin on steroids, gentlemanly, lil, quick, barely noticeable quint smile, of romping intent of forethought, at the earliest opportune, twinkled his movie star eyes, and whole man face.

He also knew that his attire fit dozens of wanna-be, cant be them, so look like them, dressed movie-star attire, walking about, so to get lost on purpose, in life, unnoticed, as merely another tourist with money, to be nice to, as uninteresting fodder. 

He could walk about freely, basically unnoticed, but without security, making it a risky, but free day, mostly, past inherent dangerous, in travel, especially in high end tourist paradise places, he pondered often away from everyone, but a far distance, chillin', alone.
  

He was accustomed to others living vicariously through his stage-persona, via movie films, writings and Art, but none had depth to flush out a masterpiece equal to his stage-persona, bc none had his depth of genius multitalented high Artists mind, and he painfully knew that. 

Yet, the mirror said nothing in reply, as if the future refused, until he was the one who first made the first brush stroke. In quiet, he did a lil brush stroke impression, to the mirror, saying, yes, but of what should one paint, he queried the mirror? Again, it had no reply, merely mirroring the near clean, but near shabby overpriced quarters, that currently engulfed him, with a not all that great of a view, as a giant seafaring cockroach, just off the boat, for a lil R&R like him, in his overpriced room along with him, now bunkmates, gave testimony to the mirror’s true words w/out words silent response, to his mirroring query.   

Within his overpriced, so-called, suite quarters, he lol, he reflected, the place was, like, a college student’s, first crapy flat, place, on earth, for monopolized famous millionaire Performing high Artists, that was, SUPPOSED safe, safe enough, hence the parents allowed them to move in, for the first time, …on their own, in monkey-world freedom. 

It gave him the wooly’s’, a lil, and also scientifically knowing his somewhat vas studies, since boyhood, of monkey-world unending DNA, that he was rn encompassed, in a near-crap-paint-job. But he wasn’t complaining, mostly, peering out the window, for would-be hood-rats below, at paradise’s water’s edge, where all sharks lay in wait, he flashed, alone, in his room. 

      …a Viking w/out a boat, nor compass WHICH WAY HOME TO ANYWHERE AN UPRIGHT VIKING STANDS, and lounges, he imagined, bc it is true, in the mirror. He knew a Ronni Chasen has died for less, what he is thinking, knowing DHS notorious 92nd-SPS SS is watching, with all digital on him, like any Goebbels might do, bc its true. 

He peaked out the window, like, a true Prince on steroids, bc it’s true, nothing missed is SS scope of vision, ever, turning back to the mirror told. WELL, what are we today, he said, in full dont look at me so obvious, and who knows I may kill you, if ask for even one selfie today look, behind dark sunglasses, into the mirror. 

Did he want to cry or scream, he wasn’t sure, ‘Sickles and Boats’ -it can kill you, echoed in his prepping-time mind. He didn’t know if he was really tired feeling or bod merely bored as H? He didnt know if he were bored in the moment, bc moments never stop, for Travelers, much, mostly, probably. He huffed a lil, not in grumpy grumbling, but truth, he looked upward, as if to say, wtf G?! …trying to kill one upon a tree, in the mirror? 

A child like heart weeps softly in dreams, at times, awakening, he mirrored, like a wee rabbit 1st thing morn, until remembering that its always a good day to die, and recalling that only sluggards fear lions in the streets, he flashed, cleaning his dark big dont bother moi sunglasses, in hand, in the mirror, with authority of a Professor into a not quiet fogged mirror, in dangerous paradises of illusion, and him a trillion-dollar asset, walking about, and certainly not SS expert guards for personal security.

This holds true to one’s nature, he stared into his own eyes, past Hollywood, beyond to the single white dot of LIGHT in his pupil, in the mirror, off camera, too, especially, he whispered, to his coveted million-dollar mouth, in the mirror, …is one ready, the mouth asked, in the mirror? And the millionaire words and voice that follows, he near chuckled, but not on purpose, in prepping-thought? 

It was, a, quick, non-business relaxing, brunch on holiday, but his experienced mind said, BS! BS, he whispered softly, w/out bitterness, head up. 

All he wanted rn was what his Handlers promised to the People, via his image, a mere lil peace w/no hazels’, at all, CAPEAEEESSSSH-AH? 

Art, culture, peace and privacy in total safety, mostly, for a change, even RN, he went on in thought. He had Corp by the balls, in one fist, ….calm, he smoothed under his breath, ..ssh, ssh, could be barely heard, in the mirror, in Summers’ of 2020 mirrors, in strange lands, alone. 

He needs more than one and he knew that too, and he needed it RN. He flashed the other three (3), that are near his unmatched multitalented level, but who did NOT speak DANISH, most importantly, not in vibie-vibe’, but everyone of them, brilliant Actors in their right, lethal on screen, and with Viking Armies w/them through all things. 

He pondered, more, hm, 'Sickles and Boats' he wisp out loud; and all 5 MEGA Stars, and with that high Art Actress, an armada on Voyage, holding old-school waining contract brutal Corp Media balls, between ball-smashing boat-hulls, in one fisted united hand, his ‘outside the box’ mind flew, in evolution of what can be, via high Arts. ....MAKE IT SO NUMER ONE, he shouted, in full believable, Star Trek, authority! 

Excuse me, a paid mid-staff-person, out in the hallway waiting, his exit, peeked in the door w/an appropriate head’s-up entrance, they asked again, excuse me sir? One heard moi, he 1/2-barked, in full princely authority, wearing dark sunglasses, and he knew, soon, all his Handlers would know. Pump those breaks… he’s fed up. Every high Artist goal is VOICE and freedom, total, politically immune to any outside detraction as the greatest of free-speech rights ICONS on earth, the Untouchable. This isn’t UsA-Google-China, he near whispered out loud, …or is it?

And today he was not in the mood, and he took the snap, as is, in the always fleeting moment of gone, with his hand-held device. The Arts were about selling better concepts, of what can be, not selling merchandise that rusts and breaks, was his life’s million-dollar, free, Calling', ...railroaded, whispered. 

The concept of ‘normal’ and also concept of ‘home’, that the mind seeks, in longing safe-haven, peace, understanding, mercy and empathy, ha, he no longer even bothered to ponder anymore. Home, ha, what’s that, his traveling life, his traveling mind retorted? 

Being beloved by the world for all the wrong reasons, was it better than no love at all, he wisp, putting on his ‘dont bother me’ dark sunglasses, while refusing to ponder upon that question too deep, nor too much. Monkey-world’s thoughts of his romanticized glamorous traveling the world lifestyle, in fame and wealth, was merely that. HA, he yelped a bit, as glam’ as a special forces soldier running with no sleep, no proper rest in harsh weathers conditions, nor decent strength food on-the-run, with no freedom at all, 24-7 non-stop, with evil bosses untold murderous of heart glamorous, he flashed, trying not to go pinched-face, ruining his stride in motion forward, always forward. 

He didn’t need money, he was never at home to utilize it, wherever home was, once, whenever, he dazed-gazed on, unapologetically. 

Like a male, more perfect, replica of a Marlyn, who didn’t need a nose nor bewb-job, but all natural, mostly, who knew too much, by default not by design, with an Artist for the children heart, he froze in the lost space of 12thD-time, whatever, wherever inherent trapped Art genius minds go, off earth, in a flash, POOF into, a, not too fogged-out, old garage-sale-type-mirror, for traveling high Art Millionaire Stars, in monkey-world, also known as OVERPRICED Hotels, with CRAP suspect SECURITY, he flashed, in thought, “in one shot”, in the near good mirror, he whipped out loud, in the mirror. And he only knew what he meant, by saying that, into the mirror, seemingly alone?

The most unmatched market and/or power industry, on earth, where worlds go to war, Viking style, Sickles and Boats, the sacred, high Arts, chained, to, waining, old-school, Corp dungeons, upon Princess DRAGON talons, of, waining, Corp Goebbels Media by GOV., and its Leading Men too. Seriously, he felt that that scratch in his throat, was a tale’. 

Get stoned, his biz, get visual and get GONE, in where shadow meets light invisible day and night, the Summers’s of 2020, it can kill you, he thought. 

He was smarter than a Charlie Chaplin, handing off his costume to a fool, soon, to be, shot in the head, in the night, doing, eyebrow-raising, dandy' things, night. He was seldom, seen, nor doing, dandy' things, in dandy' places, at dandy' times, of, morning-moon hours, mostly. Being way too smart, with scars to prove it, he was beyond that, fool's-snare, for the lustful, base, low IQ, monkey-world-wanting, of, dandy' men, of dandy' carousing ways, mostly, having been stung, too many times, in naive, young, dupid', yut', he remembered.

He was from, centuries ancient, in wise costly experience, Denmark and he historically played n nobody’s shanghaied-fool game, for long. Rn, if he nodded left the stock-market would go down. If he bumped right, it would go up. 

Not fully known, at the time, to him, leaving his future-fortune-telling-cystalball, at home, with Dorothy, and her lil dog Toe-Doe too, wherever that is, his brilliant mind flashed further, he found himself, evolved, into, ICONIC ALL WORLD WIDE OWNED BY CORP.

Thus, logically, he knew, that he had, waining, world-Corp-Media by a one fisted balls hold, that he kept ssh, to himself, in the mirror, mostly. 

There were ppl, down there, at that so-called light recovery brunch, with a STAR, him, that would kill him via posing or poisoning him whatever, w/out a very well paid thought, and he knew that too. 

He had become, ‘indispensable’ in a trillion-dollar Art BOOM, as with all economic depressions, like, a DiCaprio rug on steroids, he moaned, a bit, before leaving, for the so-called light and quick brunch affair thingy, in paradise, with a god MEGA STAR, him…he moaned a lil more bear, but this time in deeper bear-rug thought, into the mirror. Standing for 5-minutes, as his protective self-appointed security BBF SS Artist friend learnt him, before ever turning that knob, ….go SS 5-minutes prior, at full attention, into a full length mirror, true, he remembered. He pondered further. 

Would he even live to see the stars tonight? Thinking, of at mammoth cost high risk to rn waining old-school Corp, knowing that he held, rn, waining Media Goebbels balls, in one fist rn, it was, most likely, than not, a moment in time, of, either bend over, like, the best whore, since guilty Eve, as first sinner on earth, according to organized man-god-religion, he flashed, or go Voyage. His heart THUMPED in these exciting times! !!

He was in a life-sport, that has no boundaries, nor rule, nor safe guard protection, but God’s. And he wisely slipped, most, every noose of states’ choking laws, at his will, doing as he wished, at will, mostly, since boyhood. 

With flare, he tossed his lite flying cig. into the old polished sink, that grannies now only remember, via WWII, ...not vibrant men like him, he meant.

He knew that becoming, now known, as ‘indispensable’ w/in any arena of business nor play arena in monkey-world, hence inherently to monkey-world, soon enough, will evolve into, from idol conversation, to, madness, as one as ‘the most dispensable’, like a jesus-on-steroids-dispensable, fellow, in waining, faintly, barely standing sanctioned monkey-world, of, a total complete bunch of overpaid morons, on steroids, as the Queen says, controlling MEDIA, he flashed, …and he was their Media Spearhead of Whatever.

A near 5-minutes at attention in the mirror SS style, he said, moving his jaw, he needs a Viking army armada on Voyage. 

His dress was as a wardrobe, a weapon, a shield, that said nothing about its owner, but roots of solid character, and high, quiet AWARENESS, upon his hard-earned, inherent, schooled, noted princely persona, without apologies, with scars to prove it.

This holds true, as, a heart-shaped glowing pattern of light, an optic halo, seen on film, radiating behind him, shadowed him in God controls all light, unnoticed about him, his back against a cheap wall, a glow radiating from a positioned lighting, upon the ceiling, aimed at dark corners, on purpose. 

He hated dark-corners, his mind flashed again, like geniuses do between genius’s, rushing, Art vision, multilevel, conceptual concepts, bolts of thought, in milliseconds, of thoughts FLYIN his on-fences problem-solving brain, mostly, as his mind quieted a bit, to, the what-IF in real-time?

He glanced the over-priced, sea-air-crumbling building’s cool-looking, Artsy, but cheap-looking enough, near crap, paint-job interior, …s clean, mostly, with only one cockroach witnessed, thus far, he thought, with a near un-fogged mirror, for millionaires, on holiday, w/old-school EU plumbing and wimpy utilities accommodations, that even a college student would B about! He thought?

Reluctantly, in rn, needed, mature not manure, responsibility, he glanced the secret place, that hid his, Super Hero, secret-agent-man, who never misses, ever, two-shot, 32-cal, derringer, with its no-gloss, tiny double short pistol barrel, a bull-dog of beastly palm-shooters, and he never missed, ever, …his jaw tightened, still at attention, in the SS mirror, for Summers’ of 2020 survivors, in the mirror, on purpose. 

Sanely, he knew that is was time to seriously consider killing and permanently disabling, as no accident Hollywood-guy overdose, again in the tabloids, nor depression story headlines of alcoholic spoiled Actor secret-lush, doused in whisky, off a bridge suicide, nor his house disappearing, merely by leaving it out in the open. 

His jaw tightened again, he thought, rightly. Further, he reflected current changing society’s Tuesday mood, that was rioting, an open invitation to street muggings, rape, car-jackings, assaults, home invasions and murder, historically, currently, probably. 

Early days he found himself in a pickle, when happy I want to eat you lion faces near tore him to pieces in a mob, in a alley back-stage door until his body-guards began beating the s of them, to safety. And he had no intention of becoming a Lennon Martyr today, nor any day, by a mental monkey-world fan under the influence.

Some used their wealth towards whatever. He used his towards near unheard of, latest, high tech, security and latest gadgets, even in his car and home, that are, uh, lethal, bc police in Summers’ of 2020 are only after the fact, that he also had no intention of becoming, in a very remote place, though he secretly had a power sea-boat, chartered, standing by, via a fake name, of, Mr. Peiwabbit, with more than a derringer preloaded on board.

A party, Viking, stand-by escape-hatch, every Dan had one, and boat of eat drink be merry, with horrible weapons hidden under floorboards, he sighed. One needs a drink, he said to himself and whatever in the mirror standing, and, he did, and would well, and wise that whole coming evening, though death all around, in paradise. And he ruled in quiet secret, avoiding the herd, after a main entrance, usually during biz brunches for investors whatever, and with enough cheesecake face persona, of,  have fun POOF then he’d disappear, to a shoreline alone, walking bare-foot, glancing over his shoulder, in wise inherent solider like discipline, loving the sky with all that was in him, and still rightly glancing his shoulder.

He continued in the mirror, his ritual prior leaving the traveling Art Cave, upon his so-called free Summer Schedule 2020, as soldiers never get a day off ever, feeling a lil 1/2-buzzed, 1/2-asleep, 1/2-jet-lagged, 1/2-agitated, 1/2-at peace, 1/2 EU, 1/2-American, or simply near 1/2-insane, he wasn’t quite sure? He was in perfect form and in breathing, on purpose. He 1/2-an hour ago, awoke in usual solider’s ‘fight or flight’ mode, of, a wise Traveler of where is one at this waking moment, in time travel, w/out moving, and is this place safe mode?! He didn’t feel hungover at all, mostly, and merely a lil sleepy-wimpy bc he had slept like a stone. 

The giant organic double burger and fine beers, last night, seemed a good marriage to his eat drink be merry alone Summer affair 2020, even the morning after, it seemed so far, having had danced most of the night away, literally, with grand untold screenplays of Art’s heart, dancing with him, in his mind and heart, burger and beer in hand, twirling about the place, in true Art-form living. 

It was fun, his Muse wisp, inside. Yup, he replied to her in the mirror, one had fun. Thank you for leaving moi the full glass of beer, for this morning, he thanked her, out loud. You’re welcome she replied graciously, inside, the mirror reflecting back into him, as one. 

The burnt toast the way he liked it was ready but with no jam. He had already heated up left over coffee in his mug, but there was no cream. He was not detoured, nor vexed, concerning the awfulness of it, in paradise.

It was a most glorious beautiful day, with indictable yet indescribable wondrous sea breeze scents, that freely wisp about, like, dancing sweet lil girls w/no reason to lie, like pure freedom untouched nor spoiled yet, that could easily lift souls up from depths of H. It was a grand muring morning, in Summers’ of 2020 paradise, alone in thought and duty. 

And he was already bathed, smelling fresh, dressed, and near relaxed, with a nice morning, near brunch-time, buzz-on, with wise mind, and he was fit for duty, mostly. 

With his genius mind, he knew it was most likely a relaxing, enjoyable affair, the evening prior, if he could not quite remember, all said details of the prior evenings affair, from start to finish. And bc he was of native blood, he made it a lifelong mantra, in secret, to stay way clear of any hard-alcohol, unless tricked into it, all wanting an A-List show, at hand.

Wearing a RAD, small, well-fitted, in size and princely attire, the evening's host's, priceless, fam heirloom lamp-shade, as a crown, atop his perfect head, hanging by only one, athletic, perfect, shaped, man arm, and leg, within a grand tree, way high up, quoting great lines, of truth, from his cultured library, of education and Arts, VOICED high, in several bilingual tongues, with at times, with unusual inflections, performing to the Art gods' camera, high above him, totally ignoring monkey-world below, would not be, entirely, unheard of, well, uh ...until women fainted, either from fear, of his falling, to his early demise, mixed with too much fine booze, fine rich cream-sauces, with high-grade, designer feel-good-pills, at party's end, or faint of glad heart, from his spirit's-induced, buzzed-Muse triggered unchained, his A-List, performing, swoons, of, upright, believable persona, in another language, nor was it, altogether, completely, out of the equation, n these types of biz, foreign affairs, and maters, he remembered, unapologetically. 

W/out shame, blame, nor games, mostly, oh he could be a Flynn' indeed, in a tree, when all Mused-up, or boozed-up, with genius Muse on steroids mind unleashed, unbridled, unashamed, with lil reason to lie, mostly, and unchecked, but never rude, nor un-princely, mostly, blowing monkey-world minds, saying, that is shocking, ...and they loved it, even more. 

This holds true should he have inadvertently passed inherent life-boundaries, that cannot be moved. A genius uncertified IQ w/a romping unmatched Muse, when sober, can be near unimaginably unmanageable, in monkey-world. His inherent indigenous DNA required a near scientifically equal balance of organic earth-food vs sleep, vs alcohol, vs stress, mostly, probably, he pondered on, at attention, at the mirror, of truth. 

Mysterious, and if quietly, directed by angels, upon on his man shoulders, he was playing his Anne Frank 'silent game', all day, moving silent, as a monk, in perfect motor-skills, not a bump, not a tiny clank nor gong, as if nazi informants were listening, through thin walls, for hidden treasure, behind fake-walls, with escape-hatch secret hidden routes, for the standard, going rate, reward price, offered. 

It often came in handy, his, Anne-Frank-survival-game, for high awareness masters, he pondered, even rn, ...quiet as mouse, all senses tweaked to MACH-5, high Art awareness. He heard a bee at his window, yards behind his back, ...he felt the vibie-vibe of that place, and the immediate area, on purpose, and beyond overpriced Hotel white walls in paradise, like, an Anne Frank on steroids. He loved her young old soul, dearly, in memory, forever.

It was a grand day and he felt, uh, considerably well, and, uh, free, he thought. He, one with creation, he somehow, knew, felt the weakness of all his current enemies, or would-be enemies, in that fleeting moment, ...they’re bluffing, he whispered, they are weak rn, losing their bank accounts, during, winnowing,  pandemics. 

He held all the ace cards, in the mirror, even more than monkey-world knew, bc, uh, they are monkey-world, never knowing his ssh-ed, untold, inner Viking, on Voyage, who takes no prisoners, who never loses, in the end, historically, with a wake, of, once smiling, bushwhacking, ambitious, blood-thirsty, prince-wanna-be's his stead, men’s entire careers, and reputations, disassembled, in bloody-pieces, behind him, who dare tried impede his, upright, hard-earned, path, on Voyage, and he knew that too.

Not quite knowing, unable to see around life's river-course bend, of rushing waters, with hidden shallow boulders be, surely, he evolved to ICON, for all upright, male, high Artists, of education and culture, globally, universally, by default. 

Now by design, he leaned over a bit, and picked up the reigns, he imagined. He was no Jesus, and certainly, no die-young man, of the clothe, he said, to himself, often, on purpose. 

He is a high Artist, who never promises, anything, mostly, he flashed, bc it is true. Only God can promise, he pondered, quickly on, in mind and stage-persona life-spend, and he certainly was not that either, God, he meant, mostly. Nor was he a Jesus neither, ...maybe a wascally-wabbit, he envisioned, a high Art, serious minded, Prince, without fences, he imagined, near out loud, standing at perfect, relaxed, solid, attention, in the mirror, as if the earth's Art Designer were about to walk in, at any, unseen, moment in time, always? 

He also thought, in the mirror, waiting to venture outside, that the whole island would know that he is here, by now. His attire said it all for him, in that place and moment, w/what lil traveling attire available to him, least planes crash, from too a heavy a cargo, in MNTS, historically. 

It wasn’t like him. He had donned a well tailored beautiful sports coat, shirt buttoned up to the hilt. 

He clearly was not in a game-playing mood, on this gorgeous morning of his, he smiled a lil, in silence, only his deep athletic breathing, heard doused, with the heavy sounds and smells of free seagulls delighting, winds and sounding ocean mixed, reflected off of his torso-length-mirror, in a highly over-priced Hotel, with questionable top-notch security personnel and security management. 

Always, first thing, guarding the free continental buffet breakfast, gorgeously displayed, for guests, each morning, like clockwork, that consisted mainly of donuts and suspect dont-drink-the-water-fruits, Fat-Franky, they called him, was, as usual, guarding the long table buffet, of, crap-food, mostly, with donut in hand, wearing a T-shirt that, read, security, in tiny letters, on the back, with a walki-talki, and a last years model, big, proudly displayed, gold sparkle encased, Android cellphone, a big, pop-belly, slow moving, flat-footed food heavy, friendly, 2nd-cousin to the Hotel owner, and his shady, hired street friend, drug-dealer, was not his idea of high Hotel security, for, walking billion-dollar-assets, of, a the globes leading World-Trade Trillion-Dollar industry, the Arts, also known as the Media, that controls everything.

He always went American causal, in attire, mostly, to these thingys, that literally showed off lil line and form, of the human bod, and that was his strongest suite, line and form, as a Dancer, Performing Artists, Actor, Model, high Artist thingy. Besides, he was a suite and tie kind of guy, he merely was. Education, culture and sophistication was in his blood, from birth. 

Unlike the unFAMED and poor, at his, famed, golden, status, he was not allowed to dress his truer self princely, bc in monkey-world its seen as being a brainless, caviler, self-serving, gaudy and guilty Queen Antoinette, without empathy, flaunting godawful wealth, at the have-nots, of the the world. He was golden caged, in so many ways, he reflected, and she was totally innocent, still, he said to the mirror, in matter of fact tones.   

Prior the brunch-thingy, or required dog and pony show, for would-be rich flat-head investors, sucking up to Talent living, he drove by himself, on his own, in a rented SUV. 

And on the way there, a mere few minutes down and around paradise lane, he chuckled inside almost, looking out the window, his eyes hurt his Artist heart, the unkept cow-ppl walking about. Oh holy-land', he said, the slouch sluggard, turd, unkept, whore of society, slack, one has become hopeless, in stature in day's light, he went on, that only a mother would love, or imprisoned spouse, he figured. 

All dressed like thugs, from his car window shade, men, fam’s, women and children alike. Where he came from, swaggering, malingering-walking, slumped-shouldered ppl, wearing underwear-t-shirts, in public, and/or hoody, are thugs easily defined, or local, town, socially acceptable, town-drunks. 

And, in this place, outside the secret land, of, Secret Super Heroes, also known as SS Heroes for morons, everyone dressed like thugs. 

And most were known for carrying, illegal, concealed, weapons of any sort. He whipped a lightening Moo-Duk-Quan front-snap, nose crushing, blood-splattering, invisible, high speed induced, well-praticed, punch, to his best friend, mirror in paradise, that snapped his coat sleeve, before disappearing, as quickly as it came, as if it had never happened, he smiled a nothing bad has ever happened to me believable face, in the mirror, mere moments to exiting.

Excuse me, a manly male voice spooked him, back too real-time on the beach at moonless night walking in introverted digestion of day’s events, under gobs of ski, splattered visually with countless brilliant stars, and forceful ocean breeze, and luscious sounding waves in paradise. His SS high awareness Art super hero powers skills kicked in. 

You want a swig of ace vodka, friend, he held up a clear glass UsA pint, walking from shadows, as his bud, from nowhere, suddenly, slowly, appeared from shadows in the sand, approaching his right side, both at a starting, timed, beginning 45-degree angles, from his other side, smiling a cheerio-look, near believable, for retail counter ppl, like a would-be perp in the night, about ready to eat the birdie', in their, unbeknownst to them, at the time, limp trap, for mindless tourists, or also, power-house MEGA STARS, w/heart and VOICE, needed taking down, a peg or two, via thugs in the night, hired by faceless, billion-dollar, god powerful, heartless, gold-plated, cheap, weasel, pop-belly, boxer-shorts-wearing, saggy-balls, weak in the knees, bad complexion, Corp, silent, bored, paranoid, Stock-Holder group, on the board, of whatever, connected to God-Media-Waining-Old-School-Goebbels 2020, on fire, in the street on fire? 

NO, he did NOT want a swig, but did so via a princely thingy, prior noting that his unknown surprise-bud had flanked his R-ear, and then suddenly a third fellow came running straight at him head-on from forward shadows at pointed rush, upon a moonless beach starlet, beautiful evening in paradise, from shadows, in that instant screaming to kill him. 

He also knew that this move was called, the, triangle-bushwhack, that detracted, by incoming threat, hence, inherently, losing one’s peripheral-vision, going tunnel-vision, at the incoming decoy, while bushwhacked from behind, and sides. 

Well, yes, it was a mugging, sort of. 

Two lay wounded, one with a surgery needed rn gushing blood broken nose, the other with internal bleeding from two snapped ribs, and the 3rd limping off in the dark, where he came, where all bushwhackers come, from the shadows, with a dislocated eye-socket, with a well placed derrière derringer pistol butt at the upper cheekbone, bleeding a 3-inch clean cut on his face, and fractured upper-jaw. 

He, himself, was merely missed bing bashed in the skull, with a big, nasty, rock, when his vision went tunnel vision, as the other two had immediately flanked his left and right ear, out of his peripheral vision sight. But, uh, they failed. He also noticed, immediately, that they were not wearing mask, unusual under the circumstances, it seemed, to him, dumb, big, bulky, slow-moving, heavy, perps, with 'authority-conflict issues', his Harvard/Yale human-science studies, of A-typical personality disorders, quickly flashed, his, tenacious, fast, forward, thinking, mind, on fire, rn!? !

Poomp-poomp, his heart went, poomp-poomp!

He knew the Triangle-bushwhack, lol, he was BFF with an official, declassified, decorated, Yankee White House Security Sanctioned, DHS SS, and wasn't walking alone, w/out security, for no reason, as most, every inherent, Prince, is well trained in self-defense, from early boyhood, for good reason, paradise's beaches, he flashed.

He glanced his hands, to see if they were shaking, they were not. Not knowing if the two moaning DiCaprio-frozen-bear-rug-perps, were armed or not, blowing snot and blood, belly dragging, bully scumbags, as it were, they were clearly in septic-metaphysical-shock, moaning and wiggling about, like, big-squid, out of water, mostly, ...in white, paradise, sand. 

Agitated-face, at hand, on steroids, metaphorically, mostly, bleeding himself, standing bare-ankled-deep, in, fine, white sand, ...he could not tell if they had a firearm, or not, his quick mind flashed, …he cocked his drawn, practiced, precision handled, tiny bull-dog derringer, waving it expertly between them, saying, make a move F’s, one is friggin’ Viking rn, and one will shoot the F out of you, he made clear enough, quick enough, over great ocean sounds, as a leg-length feeding hammerhead shark splashed the wading shoreline, snapping up its prey, with one gulping CRUNCH, as if in testimony, to, his I will shoot you moment. 

The moaning DiCaprio wanna-be’s, dripping snot and blood, from noses and eyes, immediately stoped moving, and played dead, to his declaration, of, ‘Area 51’ at hand, with fierce hammerhead, man-eating, sharks pounding. Yes, they played dead, guns in pocket. 

Back to the party thingy, lights in the far distance, that was to be a quick brunch thingy, turning to 9PM thingy, and it was an erotic evening, and certainly it was not bc he had been street-jumped, in paradise, by stupid, untrained, very bad guys. 

He had no idea if these guys were mere locals, or his faceless Handlers, sending a wimp message, intended to intimate and shock? A Super Hero in Arts, he was NOT going to end up a Superman, break-lines in LA. and trees. He needed a toned Viking army armada, and he knew that too, but he didn’t speak Hollywood.

His knuckles ached pleasantly, their victory, as did the balls of his feet, and side foot, bit swollen, from their lethal bone-crushing blows, of, SURPRISE, FY, in uprightness with targeted strikes, at soft parts of the human bod. He wiped and spit, a lil, on the cut at his left eyebrow outer corner, bleeding into his eye. He gentle nursed and a lil bleeding cut, out his outer lower R-lower lip, to stop the bleeding. 

Good thing they hit like lil boys, he whispered, though he was expert at sliding punches, anywhere upon his head and bod. He liked his anatomy merely the way it was, and God help anyone who dare cross that boundary, he spit, and flexed his attractive man hand Artist strong hands, with long shapely fingers, pronouncing a fist, from time to time, feeling his solid lethal front two stones, gone hard, feeling good, front knuckles, when fisted form. 

One never, ever, touches a Viking with ill-intent, or die, at least forever wheel-chair bound, he consoled himself in no wrong-doing, in seriously harming every one of them, on purpose, with vicious intent, to do great harm, with very pointed, aimed strikes, ...they could have killed moi, he defended, walking back to the party thingy, he hated parties. 

To be a big hit at any monkey-world party affair, he pondered, merely stand for hours, in perfect form, and stage-persona, holding tiny dishes of food and drink, w/out spilling, while asking all the 5-W's with whomever is before one, as if so interested, so enthralled that one must ask, even, more questions, about their greatness in views of WHATEVER, and without hardly speaking at all, bc no one cares, nor listening, but to their own chapters of chattering, and F-all to anyone who doesnt long to suck up to it, as if really interested, parties. Beyond the gourmet organic food and pretty ppl walking about, chattering, he hated parties, he yawned in testimony to its truth.

If flashback moments could speak

Methodically, his photogenic, mind, flashed Tuesday's mood early morn beginnings, at closing evening's rest-time hour. He had, already, laid out, on the floor, his camping-pad and sleeping-bag, to his princely liking, under an open, night-air, Summer's of 2020, window, on supposed holiday. Laying there, alone, and not hurting, much, eyes wide open. He had used a spray bottle, to draw an invisible border, around his, chosen, preferred, resting area, a wet line, in unbroken circle, of 100% isopropyl alcohol, protecting his fort, in dark nights, knowing it was unlikely, that any creepy-crawler, nor snake in the grass, creature, dare dance upon his, gorgeous-face, he nicknamed it, EVER again, while sleeping, nope, he said! 

Even residue of isopropyl alcohol, upon sticky, no-good, parasites' foot-pads was instant, godawful, painful, death, like, nitric-acid, to their, lil, creepy-crawler-bods, and instant death, if bathed in it, or if inhaled, by creepy-crawlers, or flying stinging thingys, of any size, ...well-uh, except for, Godzilla, man-eating, hairy, giant spiders, who still would not cross, nor get near his circle of death, for stupid lil things, in the night. 

He had a different safeguard against 2-legged creepy-crawlers, big things, in the night, that wisely, he refused to mention, at such a late hour, in his head.

Easily, he could envision, coming, Wednesday mood attire or armor, slipping out, prior sunrise, early morning fresh, even too early for would-be volatile bums, in bushes, stirring, in psst-off, hungover moods, at his passing, walking to the men's clothing and tailor shop, acquiring that, serious, dark mediterranean-blue, summer, lightweight, seersucker sports-coat, with near matching collar, button-down, shirt, in the display window. He would wear it out of the shop, loaded for bear, as it were, before sunrise, like, a DiCaprio alone in silent wood, knowing something beastly is nearby, merely unseen. 

Mystically, he saw, coming, Thursday's mood, attire, in a flash. He had started Monday off, with a pull-over, long-sleeve, sporty top, like a large, refusing to die, fashionable enough, seafaring cockroach, just off the boat. It was his summer holiday, supposedly, they said, like, overseeing, high-ranking SS officers do, too often, and he was going to take what was his, therein, the end. 

By mid-week, he would have acclimated parties around him, dawned with, sloppy, I dont give a flying s anymore, shuffleboard slouch, all know that he was sailing, as, putting-on-heirs, guilty-Marie-Antoinette, Princely untouchable, armor, this Summers' of 2020, of his own choosing, he scrutinized the week ahead. How does a prince know what to put on, unless said princess knows where it is that he is going, wisdom danced, in his head?

Both Wednesday's and Thursday's, foreseen mood, jostling, in arenas of power, would find those around him, asking, aren't you afraid of ruining your suite? He lol, inside, of the many, who thought that, potentially, getting princely attire dirty, as a sin, that cant be rectified with a good laundry, was hilariously funny, and dopy, to him. 

What worth is one's own social stature, seen, in daylight's sun, he pondered? His reputation was worth more than gold, to him, bc it is, he feathered on, in evening's closing time of day, all-rug-ed-up, 1/2-naked, lounging, in perfect, healthy, form of longevity, upon his portable, magic-carpet, sleeping-bag, he reflected, in near peace, probably. 

Confidently, adorned, in full, serious, mediterranean-blue, day tuxedo, and even bigger, RAD, dont look at me, dark sunglasses, he envisioned Thursday. It didn't bother him, much, when monkey-world around him, gossiped, a bit, about the oddness of a man, who lounges on holiday, in a fabulous suite, vs mom-jeans, a meme T-shirt, with comfy mom-trainers footwear, with a Coors beer in hand, not ever, once, reading Emily Post, nor Ancient-Text.   

His Viking surged, and he felt great, and he wanted more, and another designer beer, and a sativa high grade joint, and a giant burger, and …

Acknowledgments to Mads Mikkelsen's borrowed stage-persona

[It is not a genre-Artist's goal, within any medium, to be famous, but more importantly, always, the chosen topic-matter, in society and culture, via a trusted, feared, beloved vehicle or subject-matter's worthy, than most, universal stage-persona, timeless in time, with VOICE, forever, on museum walls, famed or unFAMED, of, guarded truth, Time's costly experience, foretold, CENTURIES passed. -BB. 2020 bbCENTURIES Painter Connoisseur]

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