[IC] Probity

[WTPR]

Mayor Samson was a man of habit, and habit was the vice of the thinking man. The evening cocktail for the sober and scholarly. The afternoon cigarette for philosophers of a healthier disposition. This, of course, was exactly what the mayor thought of himself as; A god-fearing, able-bodied, red-blooded American. He was a prideful man, too prideful to be aware of his own rotund shape and overexerted heart in spite of his morning walks. The town's mayor resembled the monopoly man more than he would have liked to admit, and at three hundred and fifteen pounds, was easily the weight of a young hippopotamus. Regardless of this fact, to Samson, there was no better example of what Probity's people should aspire to be than their own mayor. He stretched back in his leathery chair with a squeak, puffing on his habitual morning cigar. An old classical painting, an antiquated family of five, hung above his office's fireplace. L'incendie. Mayor Samson didn't know what it meant and frankly, he didn't care to learn. French was a language for losers, and Mayor Samson was a winner. Today, moreso than usual. He had finally finished renovating his bathroom, and was going to celebrate when he got home by ordering his favorite lady of the evening. He took another puff of his cigar, coughing for a brief few moments before wetting his throat with the dry brandy on his desk.

"It's a good day to be mayor." Samson said, pulling a phlegmy grumble of a voice up through his layers of neck meat. "It's a good day... To be me." He said, catching his breath through the thick gray smoke. More than he needed more brandy, or another puff of his cigar, Solomon needed to extract some cash at the bank. Ladies of the evening rarely took IOU's, especially Candy. Not a problem for a man such as the mayor, though driving across town to the bank was beginning to become a hassle. At least he wouldn't be lonely tonight. A single sausage finger pressed a button on his phone's receiver.

"Karen, cancel any appointments I have today... I'm going to the bank."

He waited a few moments, staring at the newfangled piece of technology in front of him.

"Sure thing, sir."

He clapped giddily, hoisting himself up with a great heave. He wobbled in his seat for a moment, beginning to pull himself up. He had become stuck in the chair as he often had, and was heaving back and forth between his desk, hoping to gain enough leverage to free himself. With a grunt, he gripped the edge of his desk tightly, pulling himself up once and for all. He felt a pinch in his side, and steadied himself on the table. His painting was oddly... Fuzzy? He hadn't drank enough for it to be --

As he analyzed his own situation, the room began to spin. Samson gripped an intense pain in his side, using his cigar-hand to grab at his desk as he fell onto his back. First, he reached towards his desk, though the pain was too unbearable to stand. He laid back, allowing the pain to wash over him. He felt as if he would pass out at any moment, and, as he could tell by the encroaching blackness around his vision, he was in the process of doing so. He grunted once more, letting out what would be his final words.

"This goddamned town."

[Darcs]

I'm down-- cest la vie.
Drowning.

This document is soaked,
Not green for the broke,
Or rather, throwaway for baroque.
Those that should go and choke.

A non-amphibian Croak.
Drown--à la mort.

---

Ede's pen fell as she wrote the last line of her newest creation. Her cheek rested upon her hand whilst a sigh escaped her ever so slightly parted lips. What had inspired this bout of creativity, she wondered? She had felt a sudden pang… inspiration coming on like a heart attack, so to speak-- and there it was.

The cloy, sexually-repressed chancer absentmindedly observed the citizens of Probity that milled about the eatery-- her eatery, as it was, the BB Bistro-- a popular haven for all aspects of life in their small town to mesh into one, over…. Some type of dish. In all honesty, Ede wasn’t really sure what they made here. Blanche, her last name, was French, or something… and Basque was… Spain/France or something… but the staff just kind of… did their own thing? Sometimes Ede just changed the menus, just to mess with people-- other times she’d eat something random from the menu, hate it, and have the chefs and sous chefs completely redo everything, mid lunch rush some days. Ede Blanche loved her job.

Residents of note in her fine patisserie-- that was it! She snapped her fingers as the realization washed over her. That was why the place smelled different today! She’d come in last night, high out of her mind, and converted the entire restaurant into a British-styled patisserie-- a word, that before her trip last night, she was uncertain was even in her vocabulary. Apparently, as evidence by the sweet smell that hung in the air, her little worker bees had dutifully committed to her spur of the moment decision, and the place was alive with cakes, pies, and pastries of all types-- so long as they were British. She supposed that made the Blanche Basque Bistro the Blanche British Bistro, for today. Like a cat playing with caught prey, Ede played with a puff pastry that she’d gotten some time before working on her poem, and frowned.

She hated baked goods! They were overrated as far as she was concerned. Ice cream was the perfect counterpoint when concerning savory dishes. And everyone knew stovetop is how true bohemians enjoyed meals. Clearly. Cakes were the mush of the conformist, no thank you!

Stabbing her pastry with the tiny fork, she yelled to the back, “I want this place serving dishes that scream non-conformity! I’ll have nothing so weak that it requires the womb-like embrace of an oven served in my family’s establishment!” She nodded, assuring herself of the split-second decision, “Italian is the cuisine of the cosmopolitan! Only the best for my customers!” She gave a wry smirk.

Customers were never an issue for Ede-- Probity wasn’t a town of much substance, so of course they’d flock to her establishment-- she was probably the closest thing to an artist the hell-hole had spawned in decades. “Of course, this means our remaining stock is now half off!” Applause from the consumers. Most of them, anyway-- a few higher profile individuals simply went about their morning routines, one of particular interest to Ede was the sheriff, a man of, to her eyes, anyway-- hidden depth. He was one interesting case. Another was Dwight Kelly.

Closing her tome of poetry and short stories, Ede made her way over to the man. As she found him, he was alone in a brown leather booth, with the paper and coffee darker than the secrets shared between the two of them. She plopped herself down across from the man.

“Morning D.D.!”

[MissCapnCrunch]

Teacher workshop days were a poor excuse for a day off of work.

The kids loved it surely, not having to wake up in the morning and drag their body to a classroom for several hours became a simple blessing. That time that could instead be spent playing kick the can or red rover. Days off were not to be spent crossing your t's and dotting your i's. For Joanne though, it meant she had to go to work and not do any work. She would spend the day in meetings, taking notes and nodding in agreement to her colleagues suggestions of what could be improved in the already perfect system. The kids test scores were above average for the state, Probity was a model idea for how a school could be run and yet they still wanted to see constant improvement.

"Joanne, write that down."

Mr. Jackson, a colleague of Joanne's tapped diligently on her notepad. Simultaneously Jo noticed the dirt under the man's pointer fingernail. He tapped again, what seemed like slow motion as Joanne used her slender fingers to move her belongings out of the man's reach. "I will write it down." she said in a hushed tone. "Good girl." the man said, resting his hand on her forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Tensing up, Joanne's breathing became non-existent for a moment. His grubby little hand removed itself. "Please excuse me." she called, pushing back her chair as she hurried out of the room and went straight for the nearest single stall, staff bathroom. Closing the door, she locked it and turned on the water to the hottest setting the old lead piping could muster. Scrubbing herself with several pumps of soap, she washed, scalded, washed, and scalded again until she felt a bit better about the situation. Eventually she found herself back in the meeting, and then after that she found herself back home in the living room of her parent's home.

Joanne's father sat in his chair, a newspaper open in hand. He turned the pages in silence besides a clearing of the throat now and again. Joanne's mother sat in an adjacent chair, as the two women talked about their days. Both bland, but small talk was all the rage, gossip the main contender of any conversation. "I heard her daughter is being sent away for awhile, you know with the pregnancy and all." Joanne's mother said in a hush tone as if the neighbors or passing car could hear into their home. "Yes, she is being taken out of school, they spoke about it during the meeting." Jo responded, her voice tone matched to her mother's. "It's a shame." They both thought, for their own individual reasons.

A few more words were exchanged before the two were in the kitchen, starting on some food for the company they were expecting.

[Skelm]

Dwight Kelly

---

With a thin smile, Dwight disengaged himself from the sports page and glanced up to appraise the delicate features of the brunette sitting across from him. Judging by the way his eyes roamed freely over her gentle curves, pausing ever so briefly on her midsection, he was thoroughly enjoying the view. Like so many other men who frequented her quaint establishment, it hadn’t taken Dwight very long to discover Ede Blanche’s charm. She was captivating in an odd sort of way, luring unsuspecting customers in with her eccentric attitude and lavish hospitality. While some folks in town viewed her curious behavior as disgraceful, others lauded her for her artistic ingenuity, both for her culinary expertise and her poetic prose. But beneath all of that, Dwight knew that she had something else to offer. Only a select few were invited to learn of her more...remarkable talents. That revelation had sparked a daily routine that bordered on the obsessive.

Every weekday was the same – Dwight would arrive at the restaurant among the patrons of the breakfast rush to seek out the same corner booth, overlooking the same busy thoroughfare, with the same newspaper tucked under his arm, and ordered the same cup of black coffee to start his day. Occasionally, he would change it up and order a pastry, or some other specialty item featured on the menu that day, but overall, it was the same ritual – day in, day out – for weeks on end. All of it culminated in the fleeting chance that he would gain the opportunity to talk to the elusive proprietor as she made her rounds. Fortunately, on most days, she went out of her way to indulge him, and on this particular morning, it was no different. They had reached a mutual understanding in that regard, and as a result, had exchanged their fair share of intimate secrets along the way. At this point, it was safe to assume that Dwight had been accepted among the lucky few to partake in her favors.

“Hi, Ede,” he returned coolly, leaning forward and folding his hands on top of his paper. He noted the use of his nickname, something that had developed in the sales sector, but had apparently seeped into other facets of his everyday life. Not that it mattered; he found that he liked it when she used it. Maybe he even preferred it that way. That thought made his smile grow even wider.

“I see you’re keeping everyone on their toes again this morning.” He quirked a brow and glanced beyond her to observe the different reactions to Ede’s ‘half-off’ deal. It wasn’t exactly bedlam, but it was enough to generate a handful of extra sales, and in turn, increase her profits for the morning till. A slow shake of his head showed that he approved of her methods. Anything for a bargain. In that sense, they spoke the same language.

Exhaling softly, he reclined back and brought the coffee cup to his lips. “I take it those custard tarts weren’t working out for you?” Another grin. “You know I’m always good for inspiration. All you have to do is ask.”

@Darcs

[Briza]

Filthy Frank.

---

Streets’re gray. They’re movin’ slowly, like the sky. If I lookin’ up, the sky is movin’ slowly too. Sometimes the clouds look different. I keep fo’gettin’, but mah jaw hurts. Mah hand feels sweat against this skin, all stubble and stick. I can smell mah fingers. They remind me of me. I can smell them again. They dirty, and I have dirt inside the nose, now, too. Like Ma use tuh tell me, wash ‘tween ‘me ears. I think I should wash between mah noses, aight. So, I do. I do it, again. It feels good. I stop washin’ and lookin’ at mah hands. Mah fingers are stick. I put ‘em in mah mouth. The man says tuh stop doing that, and I remembe’ed. I fo’get some how many times I ‘membered or forgetted. It don’t mattuh. I put the stick in mah hair. It cures all knotty-knack. Not like Ma’s. Hers was knotty fer nottin’. I like her hair. All dark like bedtime. Smelleds good too.

I think ‘bout her sometimes. All teeth face witt soggy skin. She wasn’t always real soft like clouds. ‘Cept I play like she could be. All snooped and hurt and ready tuh love me witt her arms. She’d rock me like a boat at night. If I move mah head real fastly I get that similar feel. I do it right now and hum a lil’bit. Mah voice sounds the same as it did the last time I hea’d it. That wasn’t not tuh long ago. I like the sound.

Mah eyes don’t think they like workin’, though. I try, again. They do, too. Closed mah eyes fer so long, tryin’ tuh ‘member and not fo’get Ma. The man says tuh stop bein’ a fool. He seems sad. All pent and got no family. His wife never done shown up, so he ain’t can marry her. I look fer ‘em, but the womyn get squirrelleh witt me. Like, Miss-uh Joanne-uh. She got so much o’pretty most faces. Her eyehairs are nice. All pretty and girl. She look bright, yeah. Too bright like the lights at night, I think her flaw is.

The light make it hard tuh see. Really can’t see. I cunt see in the dark ‘cause o’them. Mah eyes don’t think they don’t like workin’ then. It makes sleepin’s harder than this here bench. It don’t mattuh. Night is gone for a lil’while. Might as well enjoy the sun and dem slow movin’ clouds, all fluffleh and cute. I wipe mah fingers, still stick and gooey, on mah jacket. Pullin’ a smile from mah pocket, I wipe mah fingers over mah grin. Today’s a good day tuh be alive.

Got ‘em flowers from the rose ga’den. Remind me e’ryday tuh be thankful I got life in me. Ma always say, Life’s a gift, Frank. An’ I believe her. She knew what she sayin’. I hum a bit mo’ an’ look up at those purty clouds and sky and say tuh the Sun, “Good morning sun! Rise and shine today!” Legs kick a bit witt excitement against the seat. I got the perfect spot t’day. Gunna fine the man a wife o’his and maybe tell Miss-uh-miss Jo-uh-anne she got a spa’kle in her eye. Kinduh nervous witt mah fingers, fiddlin’ witt the floweh stems. Mah cheeks feel it, too. Yeh, it’s uh good day, 'specially tuh be Frank.

---

[Darcs]

On Dwight Kelly

Body electric, my body is electric
And
Eclectic

Who sings it, but that which is kissed by Death's favored relative.
The prodigal cousin, fills eyes with sand, and song--

Sing:

Life, is but a dream.
And you, are but a thought.

Such words do my mind’s eye gleam,
Taking me astray, quite away in such a... this way, that way, or the other whimsical way, keeping me taught.

What is?

Do these words mean to demean?
No-- but instead, distraught, at the idea that my hallucinations of this reality I plunder and wonder are… wrought?

Well, they are, aren't they young spirited away subject, so what is the worry? Ahh, who knows with kids these days.

Empty, like the heart-shaped box. We crumble to cardboard after years of knowledge bores holes in our weak chambers. Cardboard crumbles. Cardboard crumbles. And the world continues and crumbles, like that rat eater of the scientist.

The wrapper is recycled. Our walls are consumed like pastries. Dirt.
A thought, in a dream. Housing such vibrant thunder, and journeys, and gifts.

Dirt, still.

---

Ede Blanche

---

Ede’s pupils widened at the sight of the man before her. The small town didn’t offer much variety when it came to lovers-- Dwight certainly rose above the rest. Perhaps it was the years of experience, etched into his face and body? The fact that hidden under the suit-- clearly more expensive than those of his compatriots, tailored to his masculine form, was an understated strength. An animal ferocity that hid behind the polite veneer. Ede needed that power-- that electricity-- it was something many men and women in her town had lost. Where it came from was something Ede had yet to figure out-- the conversations post-coital only went so far, only got so deep. Just as she felt his eye glance over her body with a hunger, unique to Dwight Kelly-- she too, had her own selfish desires sparked, when she saw the man.

Less physical? Of course. But sex was always related to power. Ede could at least determine the Dwight had begun sleeping with her because he had a desire to exert his over someone all too willing to submit to that power. And that was why she slept with him-- the investigation. The dynamics of being overpowered by a man utterly bot a part and apart from his society. Did he resent his job? Did he resent that he couldn’t be more forceful with her? Did he resent not being enough?

What is enough?

Ede’s smile, calculated, was genuine-- but it appeared to Dwight as if it was forced. She knew he liked that. Her guess? It made him feel more incharge. She supposed that was nice to feel. If she could provide that to a man so handsome, why shouldn't she? As she crossed her fingers, lacing them one over the other, as if to appear guarded to him, and the world around the pair. They did this dance-- delicate-- she’d sing right now, if he asked her to. But he wouldn’t, because that would hurt them both. Him, the married man, moreso than her, the spinster. But still-- in this fair microcosm of theirs-- social stock was like gold.

The fray around the pair gave her leeway to be a bit more open than she otherwise could. It was amazing how the nosiest neighbors were the first to leap at deals that weren’t even to their benefit. “Half off” was perhaps, a metaphor for the state of their brains-- certainly not their eyes, which otherwise would have caught Ede leaning nearer to Dwight than socially acceptable. What would have been a clear kiss on the cheek-- became a blur to those around them, milling their way about in lines. As Ede backed off, she took a sip of his coffee, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the mug-- another tradition of theirs.

As if to say; “I’ll be tasting more of that soon enough,”

What is enough?

She moved back quickly, a sly smile still firmly painted across her lips. “I honestly don’t know what I was thinking!” Gesturing to the whole restaurant, “I pretty much hate baked anything… Especially if it comes from the Brits, those tarts wouldn’t know flavor if it curdled their custard!”

Ede gave a shrug.

“We all know the orient and the third world is where the best flavor comes from--” Shaking her head, she continued, as if disappointed in her patrons for causing such a fuss over overpriced puffs of stale sourdough. “That’s what I like about you D.D.” She moved closer-- “It’s why I appreciate you coming in each morning, inspiring me…” Her lips quivered, “You see things like they are, with such a cool-head… and you take it from there… I need more of that in my life… to just know… what is enough?”

@Skelm

---

---

Lottie Yates

---

Charlotte V. Yates-- Lottie-- let out an uncomfortable sigh.

She had a gala to plan for the family reunion coming up, as if the stress of being the golden child to please the entirety of the notoriously finicky Blanche clan wasn’t enough. She hadn’t spoken a word to her husband in days-- about this, or anything. Her sister hadn’t gotten back to her, because of course she wouldn’t. Her mother wanted to know why she wasn’t pregnant-- she herself wanted to know why she wasn’t pregnant!

You can’t join the PTA without a child-- and she’d be damned if she was going to let Karen Stevenson one up her in that regard. She already beat that heartless harpy out in coaching all of the girls sports for the school-- so of course she had tp have the PTA. She was sleeping with the principle for christs sake! Talk about setting an example for the future.

The golden elevator she was in felt claustrophobic. The attendant, dressed in red and black, looked over at her uneasy. With narrowed eyes, she gave him a forced smile, and the man nodded his head and turned away. Damn right he’d better turn away! Who the hell did he think he was? Judging her nerves? She had a right to be nervous-- he was a mongrel-- hardly a man! Her husband was on the fast track to becoming the law! She could have him arrested, and then make sure he was put away! She knew the DA!

The elevator dinged as the floors passed. The man needed a penthouse suite-- he’d earned it, more than that, though-- he deserved it. Her only complaint was that, in his gaudy golden elevator-- she had to sit in silence for nearly a minute with his judgemental, mongoloid elevator boy.

She looked down. Her blouse was immaculate-- white satin folds blended with her silver suit jacket and a pencil skirt she knew he’d like. Purple accents made her olive skin shine like a purer gold than the mirrors that surrounded the two.

She needed to make this trip. A man had been found innocent who was clearly guilty. She needed to speak to the DA about it. Later she’d attend a dinner at Joanne’s-- right! She was a teacher… maybe she could do something about that skank Karen Stevenson. She could reconnect with her husband there too… then later, she’d finish planning for the reunion. All after getting this scumbag put away. She could do this.

Another sigh. Top floor.

---