A Bit Of Business…

I was born with artistic sensibilities, but only a smidgen of actual artistic ability. So, periodically I will post some of my novice attempts at art. Here is one, just for fun, and to getting ball rolling.


X Hits The Beast...

And there you have it. Don’t burst into applause all at once. I know my limitations.

That is X, Sugar’s mentor and adoptive father. Or my best stab a him, so to speak.

Back when I used to roll with him, doing black bag gigs for a certain clandestine branch of the military, the boy was always like wisp of mist, coming and going without leaving even the tiniest trace. Back in the good, bad ol’ days, our set called X by the handle Xyresic, meaning razor sharp, or just Sick, for short.

He lived up to his nom de guerre, in every sense, I tell you what. Even back then he was one scary son-of-a-bitch. Something ’bout him gave us all the primal shivers, and we were as mean a bunch of hardcases as you’ve ever seen. Just lookin’ at the fellah you wouldn’t think much ’bout him…until he laid those bullet-hole black eyes on you. Six foot even, lean and hard, but compared to some of the bruisers in the corps’, ol’ Sick came off as positively innocuous, but I’m tellin’ you straight, there wasn’t a one of us that would have tangled with him, lessin’ we had to.

I figure there were maybe two of us that could go toe to toe with the man, me and our CO, a righteous dude, we called Holy. I’ll speak on that particular cat in a later post. We spared around a little, now and again, like most of us did in training, but it was never an all-in, only-one-walks-away kinda’ throw-down.

Of all us comrades-in-arms, I’d say I was the closest to him, maybe the closest thing he ever had to a real friend. He was hard one to gauge. He took stony-faced to a whole other level. Never saw the man laugh, and only caught a handful of times when a hinted trace of a smile twitched on his lips. He did have a sense of humor though. It was dry and dark, bitter with jaded sarcasm, but it only occasionally made an appearance in a single snarky word or two.

Sick didn’t say much. Never did. And most of what he did say was nonverbal. A look, a flick of those black eyes. Not that he had a giveaway tell, or anything. As poker faces go, I’ve never seen one more unbreakable, and trust me, I’ve seen my share. Sick rarely spoke more than he had to. He didn’t just keep things close to the vest, he kept his secrets locked in the soul vault deep beneath the Kevlar.

I knew that he was from Lost Peaks by his slight accent. He never told me so, but by his dialectic tone I was sure he was from Magma Downs. Over time, I picked up on a few tidbits ’bout the man who would someday known as X. It was like a puzzle, a jigsaw puzzle whose owner kept hiding most of the pieces of the picture.

I would have laid down a hefty wager in gold unions, that my friend was born in The Deeps of Magma Downs, and that’s a hot, harsh crucible of a womb from which to make a start in life. Anywhere in The Deeps was a slum pit, but The Deeps to the south under Flame Peak were arguably the worst.

Living in the shadow of Flame Peak was bad enough, but all of Lost Peaks felt the looming weight of the smoldering mountain, and what it represented. But actually living under the mountain? I make no exaggeration when I say that dying and going to Hell is probably a relief to those struggling to exist there. They call it Hell’s Hearth, and I think that’s too kind.

The Family who officially control the Claim has always been the Flints, but some fifty odd years back, the Flints merged in a marriage with a family called the Raspers. When the former Sugar Peak erupted and became Flame Peak, it devastated the Valley of Lost Peaks, but nowhere was hit as hard as the former Claim on Hiney Vale. For the better part of sixty years the Flints tried to rebuild their Claim into the far more substantial Magma Downs, in a vain attempt to return to glory. The other Great Houses watched them flounder, wait like vultures for the Flints to collapse, so they could swoop in and tear at the carcass of the Claim into pieces, but the Flints took a desperate gambit in finding a new financial backer when they merged with the Raspers.

The Raspers were from the big city of Knife Wind, back east, off the edge of one of the Titan Lakes, Lake Aurora. They made their ill-gotten fortunes within a vast network of organized crime ventures, until the Raspers controlled all the syndicates within the Union’s center. They had been trying to get a foothold in Lost Peaks almost since the founding of the Claims. If the other Great Houses had bolstered the failing Flints, they might have avoided having to deal with another player in the game for the next half century.

With the influx of cash provided by the Raspers, House Flint rose in prominance again, but ever after everyone in the know understood which Family actually controlled Magma Downs. More than anywhere else, the Downs were rife with crime and poverty. Up in the soaring, volcanic black, skyscraper Aeries lived the disgustingly rich, while the tourist zones remained fairly safe, most of the rest of the Claim was untamed and extremely dangerous. No more exponentially so than The Deeps of the Downs, Hell’s Hearth.

I did not know for a surety, back when Sick kept my six safe in the Corps’, that he was indeed from that infernal place, but in times anon I was to be privy to much intel, including his true origin, given to me from the lips of none other than Sugar herself.

Like I said, the man was a puzzle. His life’s journey was stranger than I could have ever anticipated. But then everything was about to change, and in ways beyond comprehension. In retrospect, I should not find it all that unusual what path anyone took to survive.

My friend, who came from literally nothing…well, it always make me smile bittersweet while I get teary. And me? It makes me shake my head to say it… I was born into the most extravagantly wealthy family in the world, and gifted with not a little talent. Yes, I birthed with not just a silver spoon, but a platinum one with a jewels encrusted handle, stuck firmly in my squalling mouth. Despite (or maybe because of) all my advantages, I was a selfish, callous, overindulgent, little shit as a youth.

My parents tried, but I was as bullheaded as they come. And as fame found me as a teenager, I tore up the town. I thought I was above it all, above the law, above the plebs, above my Family. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and fuck all who said otherwise. I tried most of the lesser vices Lost Peaks had to offer, and I’m sure I would have fallen prey to much worse, but for a mistake. I got in a fight. Just like many I’d been in before. I always had bodyguards, but I was as tough as any of them. Stupider too.

I killed a man in that fight. Didn’t really mean to, but that doesn’t fix dead. One too many punches, one too hard, and a man was dead. All that he ever would be in this life snuffed forever.

My father, he didn’t come to my rescue, at least not in the way I wanted, and thought I deserved and was entitled to. Any other scion of a Great Family would have skated, but House Eternal is of different stuff, or at least we like to think so. No, my pop left me at the mercy of a Zionite judge, and, well, the rest is history.

Before the fight, I was a very famous son of a very famous clan. I was a rockin’ pop star, and everything was handed to me on a solid gold platter, not just because of who my Family were, but because I was Little Jimmy, heartthrob for millions and millions of screaming females the world over, and the envy of jealous males everywhere. After that fight, I was stripped of my station, my wealth, even my name, and it was the best damn thing that could ever have happened to me.

The only price I had to pay to over coming being a total asshole, was living with the fact of that life I petulantly took. I didn’t pay the price at all. A fellow who was only defending his wife’s honor, the mother of his unborn child, when I, like a brutish cad, groped her while on one of my infamous drunken rampages across the Claims. He stood his ground against me, my bodyguards, and the hangers-on of my entourage. It didn’t matter that I was famous, or that she was too shocked and shy to scream or refuse. He stood up to me, told me what a punk I was, then surprised me by bloodying my nose, even though he was just a stick of a guy. I can’t undo what did in reaction. He was the price for my change, and he paid it. I can still see the light go out in his eyes as he fell. I can still hear the scream of his beautiful girl as she found he wasn’t breathing. I can still feel my torn knuckles, wet with his blood and mine.

I hope I always will.

I’ve killed many others since then. War and combat are like that. I don’t know how many exactly. I don’t want to take stock. I never take a life without paying a price. I see every face in my dreams. Even though I know many of them were villains. They were still someone to somebody.

If that man had not paid the price, I would have never met X, never known Sugar, never have been who I am. He paid for my change, and I’ll forever be in his debt. So, I live my life trying to live up to the price paid for me to become who I am. I strive (and often fail) to be the better man. The man who holds the line when all hope is lost. The man who never gives in, or gives up.

I fight for the woman without a husband, the boy without a father, the mother without a son. I fight on, because fighting is the price I pay every day until I can draw breath no more, and I go to see if I have made up for the price paid for me.


Jimmy Is In The Building…Giving You Sugar, And A Whole Lot More.

For lo these many years, I have lived an interesting and event filled existence (to say the understated least,) but sometimes, in quiet moments of reflection and introspection it all feels but a dream, a fantastic flight of fancy, and I am but a mere, poor, mundane player on a paltry stage in some backwater dinner theater, that, in actuality, I am someone else entirely.

I sojourn an advent in this otherwhere, seeing my life though someone else’s eyes, leading a life, following a path, something, somewhen, somehow, in someway, altogether different than who I am now. And then I return to this reality that I live and breath and know so well.

But then again, at oft times this other me, who at once feels so very familiar, seems as distant and strange as the farthest fringe of the universe. This other me, has many eyes, oh, so many lives, lived all simultaneously, some unfathomable gestalt, progressing through eternity. In these moments of uncanny epiphany, I am but a stray electron whizzing in void, and yet…I am a part of some endless majesty that I could never hope to fully comprehend within the limitations of this particular sphere.

My apologies for waxing philosophical and metaphysical into a brief glimpse of my personal cosmology. It is not proffered in an attempt to garner adherents, but to lay down the whys and wherefores of my further endeavors henceforth.

So, I lay the proceeding paltry verses upon the virtual page for the edifiction of all the other manifestations of my unlimited self, we, or better said I, will discover afar off beyond the beyond the full measure of enlightenment and being.

That stated, let us sally forth into the breach…

In my days I’ve had many titles and many names, some honorific, some pejorative, but my given name is James Omega Eternus. The Family has Britannized our surname to Eternal. Within my perview I am commonly known as Slick Jimmy. However, to my friends, I am simply Jimmy, or Jim, if you’re in a hurry.

In time I will relate to you, the esteemed reader, some of my more colorful  monikers and appellations, but for now let’s not muddy the waters. For those of you who already know my name, and all that is associated with it, try not to let your mind be colored with hasty assumptions. For those of you out in the far flung reaches of the Omniverse, as these tales progress, please, don’t judge this poor soul to harshly. For in the end of all things, I am still yet but a man.

Hereafter, entry upon entry, it is my fervent hope to compile a repository of tales chronicling only an infinitismal fraction of the adventures and misadventures, the comedies and tragedies, the wonders and horrors, transpiring in the place where I call home.

A place known as Lost Peaks.

Lost Peaks. The Big Nugget. Bloody Creeks. Doomtown. Just a few of Her names She’s earned since Her founding, and all of them well deserved. One hundred million plus souls dwell in Her confines, and everyone of them with a tale to tell. The biggest, baddest, most wicked City in the world. The Monster-In-The-Mountains. Lost Peaks.

Yes, one hundred million stories and more waiting to be unleashed, a hundred million laughs, cries, screams, moans, whimpers of joy, horror, greed, courage, and a hundred million other emotions of a hundred million colors. I shall persevere to give a glimpse through the curtain of limitless wealth and excess, to peer under the scintillating veneer of Lost Peaks’ soaring spires and towers, with Her penthouse Aeries, home to the Elite, see into Her Cracks and Canyons, the burbs bastioned in the periphery, and finally delve down into Her Deeps, where uncounted masses dwell, and secrets hide, and demons lurk.

From top to bottom, Her denizens, the Lost Ones, all have their tales to tell.

I know this City like no other. This is my City. I am Her most notable son among a galaxy in constellation of luminaries and dark stars weighing the benighted velvet canvas of Her cosmos. But it is not my own story I seek chiefly to tell. No, it is of Lost Peaks’ most notorious and infamous daughter of whom I will primarily give record in these chronicled annals.

Damsel Of Destruction. Daughter Of Doom. Avatrix Of The Apocalypse. A Golden Goddess Of Sex & Death. The Little Girl Lethal.

Sugar Lightspeed.

Every story is unique, but Sugar’s story is truly like no other, inextricably linked to the capricious nature of Lost Peaks. She is a vessel of cause and effect. And if Fate seemed to have laid its heavy weight upon her slight shoulders, it is just one more burden of many she was called upon to bear. She is a child of portent. Tiny of stature though she was, the whole world trembled as she came into the fullness of her power.

Her existence is a dichotomy, her soul and psyche reft in twain by the dueling experiences impressed upon her during the two portions of her young life. Lost Peaks consumes many souls to feed Her hunger. The iniquity of Doomtown must be fed. All fall prey, men, women, children. No one is exempt.

And Sugar was, at least in this instance, no exception. The darkness seething under the glitzy glamor of The Big Nugget snatched up Sugar even before her first memories became coherent and fully formed. She was given over into the perverted clutches of lecherous monsters, who acted out their depraved obscenities upon her, violating the sanctity of her innocence forever. Planting the atomic germ of hate and rage, and the endlessly driving need for carnality within her coil.

I do not pretend to fathom the mind of the Almighty God, or even those lesser deities, godlings, angels, devils, or demons, good, evil, or indifferent. But in my time, I have encountered those select few, blessed or cursed, to have been touched by destiny, marked by Fate. Some might say that I am such a soul, but I am no agent of change. For all my gifts, I am simply a stablizer, striving to keep my domain from flying apart, before and after the tipping point.

I don’t have that kind of fortitude. I’m just King of the Lost Ones; big bad ol’ Lost Peaks has Her hooks deep in me as anyone. Sink or swim, I’m Hers until the plug is pulled, one way or another.

Sugar. God’s Mercy. The first time I laid eyes upon that girl… Oh, that was somethin’. Worst spike of deja vu I ever had. A puff of mist could have keeled me flat.

For a visage so young, it should have not carried such knowledge. And yet, she did. Those eyes of her; like icy-blue lasers, hot with deep needs, burning appetites, never sated. I’ve never been one to flinch. Not from anything. It’s not in me. But that first glance in her eyes…I came as close to wilting as I ever have.

Her father, he, I have known for many years. Back in the day, when our association was tight, I knew him by another name. He was always a man of dark mood, cold, calculated, precise.

I never thought of him as the type to take in a damaged urchin, let along nurture one. I knew the man was loyal, and had his own code of honor and integrity that he would never violate. There was a time when he and I had been comrades-in-arms. He always had my back, there was never anyone better to have with you when everything went to hell in a hurry. I considered him my friend, but he was never warm or sociable.

Since those times, we had kept in touch sporadically, but he had never stayed close. Whenever I was in his company, he seemed never to have emotions, but that was before Sugar. When I saw him look upon his adopted daughter, I saw displayed in him for the first time the noble emotions of pride, patience, and pure love. I never would have believed him capable.

He goes by the handle of X. Just the letter. He has aliases, to be sure, and many of them do begin with the letter X. In Lost Peaks, he is generally known as Xavier Lightspeed, an import-exporter of antiquities, and classic and exotic vehicles. I do not know his true given name, but what I do know is that his legitimate profession is a facade. He is a killer. Possibly the deadliest person alive. I have no definitive proof of this, but I know he is an assassin. Most likely one of the legendary and infamous Hearsemen. There have only ever been five Hearsemen. One is dead, one is retired, while three remain active, to the best of my considerable knowledge.

Hearsemen are elite independent contractors. Assassins, forces of elemental destruction, so deadly even the fell Assassin’s Guild fears their wrath, so lethal their names are spoken in whispers, even after their passing beyond this realm. Dread names; The Evangelist, who it rumored is out of the game, but still lurking, The Scythe, supposed to be of an ancient house of assassins, the last of his line, and a complete psychopath, The Paladin, for those in the know, the government’s top wetwork boy, even if he has gone freelance, The Ronin, who some called The Boogieman, who moves in shadows, and the deceased Grey The Ghost, the invisible man, the deadliest assassin to ever live. It is said that The Ronin killed Grey, but it is also said that The Ronin was Grey’s protégé.

But I’m boring myself, and probably you as well. See, truth is, I know X and The Ronin are one and the same. No proof, but all the pieces fit. And that brings us back to Sugar. When X found her a decade back or so, she was in bondage to the sickest scum to infest Lost Peaks. X, according to his modus operandi, should have killed her, even though she was but a child. I have no doubt he would have. He was a cold one when needs must, but to my knowledge, The Ronin has never been credited with snuffing a child. He is too careful, to precise to make such amateurish mistakes that would require the killing of one so young. And he would never take a contract on a child.

So…the very fact that he made the mistake that allowed Sugar to see his face, forcing him to make a decision whether to eliminate her or not; speaks something of Fate. She looked on him with those hopeless, icy-hot blue eyes hers, with all of their buried sorrow and rage, and her gaze melted the flinty, frozen heart and soul of a Hearseman. And that too speaks libraries about what moves and shapes destiny.

Once brought into his care, Sugar left behind her cruel life of degradation and sexual enthrallment. But there were lasting residual aftereffects that colored her mental and emotional processes, which in turn bred her decidedly risque actions and general behavior. However, X gave her education and skills in martial training to a degree few have ever achieved. Her father molded her from sexual plaything, into a human weapon so lethal that, even during the later years her training, few other humans could have stood against her and yet lived.

As she reached the completion of her father’s tutelage, the time when he had imparted to her all that he could, he gave her into the hands of one who could set her on the path to finding her own zenith of powers. She would call this singular person The Prophet, though to others he was known by too many names to count. Every student of the deadly arts will come to a juncture when he or she will have to discover his or her own uniqueness; for lack of a better word, discover his or her own style, and the powers and abilities that are individual to that person, and to him or her alone.

Sugar found the salacious foundations her of previous life greatly influenced her lethal style. As she dealt death, there was always a libidinous component to her slaying. A lascivious hunger for sex and death. Even her motion was more like an erotic ballet than the staid form and kata of martial expression. Most souls found themselves strangely and intensely aroused as she shuffled off their mortal coil.

The title of prodigy gets bandied about quite a bit when someone is exceptional at a skill. In Sugar’s particular case, she was a prodigy on several levels. Firstly, the girl was an eidetic with all her senses. She never forgot anything, whether she saw, heard, tasted, touched, or smelled it. This allowed her an almost six sense in anticipating people’s behavior, even from a very young age. Later, her father’s training heightened her senses to an almost superhuman degree, coupled with matching strength, balance, dexterity, and speed, as he honed her body’s conditioning to the peak of her capabilities.

Apart from being petite, her physicality and pulchridude are astounding, not to mention awe inspiring. Through my years as an entertainer, I have seen more beautiful females than I can count, but I can honestly say that Sugar is without peer to a ravishingly gorgeous degree, and in her sad case, unfortunately quite literal, whereas her innate esthetics had been more of curse to her than a blessing.

But as beautiful as she is, she is even tougher in constitution. She has been brutalized by trials physical, mental, emotional, and I believe spiritual, and survived, but not always unscathed in terms of the last three.

Her mind walks a monofilament edge of sanity, and she can’t always from help teetering and slipping occasionally, but seemingly she always catches herself tenaciously by the barest margins, and hauls herself back up on the wire, to continue her life’s journey in relative lucidity.

Not to make a complete non sequitur, yet I’m going to anyway. You see, my friends, there are truisms I hope for, some I believe in, while others I know for a matter of fact.

The individual know as The Prophet, he taught Sugar wisdom, much of it conceptualizations she could barely process. She once tried to tell mean some of what she could comprehend, and I must confess that most of what she relayed blasted over my head like an interstellar rocket. But here is some of what I gleaned.

All that we percieve with our senses is just a infinitismal sliver of a fraction of what actually is. The what WAS, the what IS, the what MIGHT BE, and the what WILL BE, they are all part and parcel of the same thing on the ultra-cosmic stage. The limitations of the our bodies and senses preclude our mere perceptions from understanding what truly IS. Each one of us in this shallow mortal sphere, great or small, good or evil, have existed long before and will exist long after this all too brief incarnation. We are all eternal. Souls are eternal. We are simply moving on a path of progression or regression, dependent upon our actions in life.

And what of the lives we lived, live now, and will live to come? The endless estates of being, or existences before and after? Hmm? What will really whip your noodle is the overwhelming thought of all those uncountable timelines where other yous and mes exist and move through endless possibilities. Each other self is just a quantum fiber of a far greater whole of the true soul, the combined sum total of which is the real you and me.

All those simultaneous universes, superverses, ultraverses, which combined form the Omniverse… What’s it all for? What’s the point of you, me, and Everything? Distillation. Refinement. Tempering. An eternity for just one perfect soul to rise clean and pure out of the mechanism of process, ready to ascend to the next plane Beyond.

Sugar musingly related this to me once, almost in passing. I don’t know if she intended to or not. There are times when she is outside herself, moved by something else. Something unimaginable, too vast to conceptualize in cognition. I hope that whatever IT is has all our best interests at heart, even so, I believe that everything has a purpose preordained, given to us to choose or not, and though empirical evidence may fail to completely support the my contention, I know that the shuddering truth of her words scares the living shit out of me.

Even if it costs me my own sanity, I will gaze into the grasping Void, as well as the blinding light of the Divine, to tell what small truth is granted unto me. As ever, I remain steadfast in delivering to you the epic of Sugar’s saga, and all those other stories matrixed in a vortex around her, including, at times, my own.

Find peace and love while you can, for who knows when the whirlwind cometh? Until we next commune, I, Slick Jimmy, bid you the greatest of fortune, fair travels, and the joy of a warm bed and a soft touch to sooth you.


El Trifecta Terrifique

When a soul who has lived a path as strange and convoluted as I have, you tend not to sweat the itty-bitty, or take everything so gotdamned seriously. It just ain’t worth the time and energy. Life’s too fuckin’ short, even if you lived to a thousand. As Julianus Seazarian Omnimaximus, the Primiere Emperator of the First Age of the Romantic Empirium would command you all, “Seize The muthafuckin’ day by the balls, you lazy shit!”

So…I keep busy. Never a shortage of things to do in ol’ Doomtown. Lost Peaks will keep a body running, one way or another, until She kills you. From The Aeries to The Deeps, from the The Isles to The Cracks and Canyons, the Claims of Bloody Creeks never ever stops. Vice never sleeps, and oh, the rot grows, and the money rolls, in an endless, merciless cycle of avarice, obscenity, and violence.

That’s the Bitch of it. Millions want a piece of the action, and Lost Peaks is willing to give generously, but just as easily take it all away. The gold is always plentiful, and life is so fucking cheap. The combo breeds the very worst in humanity.

Union agents have tried for decades to control Lost Peaks, but the corruption that is epidemic in the City has a long reach, much longer than federal law. The Elite of Lost Peaks, the Great Houses, (technically of which I’m a part,) and to an extend the Lesser Houses, control the Claims of the City, but the influence and power of the Houses extend to all the nations of the globe.

In the Union capital of Heartland, the politico bootlickers pay fealty to the burgeoning troves of the Houses, before the needs of the People. The voice of the People. The Union is a unique culture, an experimental civilization, unlike anything ever seen in history. An empire amalgamated, fused together, from autonomous countries and cultures. The nation states, provinces, territories, and protectorates of the Union have long treasured their autonomy as much as they do their individual cultures. The cohesion enjoyed by the Union has come from the collective military and economic might that came from the borders of each member nation being porous. Every citizen takes pride in being part of the Union, the greatest empire the world has ever known, but they also have a great pride in the nation of their birth.

As feudal as Lost Peaks high society appears, the state of Lost Peaks has no desire to destroy the largess Union membership provides. The Houses prop up the Union as much as any other member nation, but they hate federal interference in their individual Claims, their City in general, and their state at large. Still the Federals have authority to conduct investigations into a vast array of criminal activities, and that covers a considerable amount of vice in Doomtown.

Like I said, technically I’m of one those Great Houses. Coming clean, my family technically owns the State Of Lost Peaks, but we lost control of it long ago. House Eternus is the most powerful of the Great Houses, but as a body, the rest of the Houses swing far more clout. And my family no longer has any allies among the Houses, not after the fall of House Magnus.

The rest of my family has left Lost Peaks. I’m the last representative of my clan in The Big Nugget. I watch over our interests in the City, and make sure the other Houses honor their contracts and commitments with my Family. I watch over the Claim of Spike Island, the forming holding of the fallen Magnus. I take it as an honor, and I take pride that Spike Island is the only truly safe Claim in the City.

There is little, officially, I can do to effect true change in the other ten Claims, but in my domain I can make sure life, liberty, and happiness is safeguarded. This is not to say that Spike Island is not a wild place. It’s a Claim of Lost Peaks, and I also take great pride that the island is the premier party designation in all of The Big Nugget. There is nowhere you will find a better time than The Spike, and my place, The Source Resort, is the center of of the island’s hedonistic abandon.

My door is always open. Not sayin’ you’ll get past the gate into the club to see me perform, ’cause tickets are hard to come by, but there’s always the casino and spa, and plenty of other distractions to occupy your energies and spend your hard earned (or easily  won) unions like water down the gullet in the noonday heat of the deep desert.

But on my island, no one goes hungry, no one goes without shelter, no one goes without clothes upon the body, but there are rules, and you better mind your P&Q’s, people. You break ’em, you’re on the first ferry off the isle. See if the other Claims and their denizens will be so kind and gentile.

I keep an eye on more than just The Spike. I know many things. Sometimes I  have to get my hands dirty. Lost Peaks is like that. She makes you do things. Expedient exigencies. But it’s never enough, and my reach can’t be everywhere.  You grow a thick skin to the things you can’t change, can’t stop.

I’m a hard case. Don’t have a choice. Maybe one of my brothers would have done the job better, but one’s dead, and the other…has other concerns. And he walks his own way. My Father has long since forsaken the City. The City he founded.

My dad. I don’t think he approves of me or my methods, but he never says anything. I’m the one who took the job, towed the family line. My pop. The plebs call him Mr. E. The old man. If they only knew.

I get tired. Real tired. But I love Lost Peaks, damn Her. There are good people here, just struggling to survive, to prosper, and if you can keep yourself clean in Doomtown, you deserve a good cut man in your corner when the round run late and the leather is heavy.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

Everybody has secrets. Chinks in the armor. There are flaws in even the most perfect diamond if you look deep enough.

Yeah, I get tired. But I ain’t hearin’ no zaftig frau singin’ that last tune, so I just keep pluggin’ n’ sluggin’ away.

Ya’ll keep at it. Ya’ hear?


Secundo Impetum

I have been told that what makes successful blog is a writer has to be disciplined, and post some nattering bromide everyday, because people like to get to know those they follow. Well, I don’t know about all that nonsense, but from Hell’s heart I’ll make a stab at it.

I can assure you, dear reader, of the utter lack of profundity in anything that sallies forth out of my virtual pen. Stark and unremitting bullshit shall always be word of the day, and the letter of the law. For I, good souls, am a bullshit artist of the first order extraordinaire.

That said…

A frequent query I get asked of late is “Jimmy, why, with all your success and vast wealth, would you ever want to become a writer?” and my simple (maybe simpleton) answer is that there are 100 million plus stories hidden in the loins of that naked, gorgeous gorgon called Lost Peaks, and I am privy to the best (and at the same time, worst) of them, and in my humble opinion they deserve to be told.

In the future, I will not spend an inordinate amount of time upon my other profession. Most are at least passing familiar with my career and family ties. I don’t feel a pressing need to rehash what the media vultures have picked to pieces and strewn the bones about; being the dead horse that is the topic of my younger life.

I’ve lived a good portion of my life in The Big Nugget. I was born here. Cut my teeth here. Some call me Lost Peaks’ First Son. I’m not sure what that means. I suppose it’s an honorific. What I do know is that I’ve tried to keep a lid on the boiling caldera of graft, greed, and perversion that is Doomtown, desperately attempting to keep Her from exploding. By the evidence of the past, I have, in general, failed miserably.

There is only so much a single Lost One can do to stem the tide of vice in Bloody Creeks, even a soul with my skilled staff and substantial resources. Vice is part of the endemic culture of the town. Always has been, even from the beginning. Even after all my family has done and sacrificed to effect some sort of reform and change. Just the nature of the beast, I suppose. I too, am not untainted by Her seductive tendrils either. There was a time, when I could have become everything I strive to cull from the City. It was a near thing, I tell you what.

Lost Peaks is a hard, mean bitch like that. She’ll bring you to climax while slitting your throat with a husky chuckle. For those born in town, you grow up knowing it’s survival of the baddest. But even with that understanding in your DNA, Doomtown will shiv you in the back when you least expect it.

My Goddaughter, Sugar, is all too aware of the caprice of Lost Peaks. In fact, I’d say that she knows the perils of this burg better than just about anybody. There are times when I ponder her life, especially her preteen years, and I have to avert my thoughts. The truth of her suffering and experience is too much to bear in deep cognition. And yet, I have to broach certain aspects of her formative life to tell her story effectively, to give her justice. It hurts me. It vexes me. It rises my bile and roils my wrath.

So, I can’t even imagine the maelstrom of hate and sorrow that is compressed inside her. What she has to keep in control every instant of her existence, just hold the frayed fabric of her sanity together boggles me.

I’ve known the sweet kid for years. Despite what you might think, after all the shit she’s swum through, Sugar is so sweet (pardon the pun,) and down right lovable. I’ve watched her grow, evolve into something straight out of legend, but underneath it all, all that sex and violence, is a wounded innocence flickering, a guttering spark in the deep woods. And it tears me up. It kills me. Keeps me up at night sometimes. It really does.

And it when you know the full disclosure, it’ll do the same to you.

Sleep tight…


A Gift To Those Intrepid Souls Who Desire To Brave My Madness…Enjoy

Ah, Well Met, My Fair Friends and Phenoms,

Slick Jimmy at your service (at least for all you fine, frisky females out there.)

Welcome to the inaugural post of my soon-to-be-illustious blog. From this never-to-be-humble platform I intend to introduce to the world a universe straight out of the fetid depths of my most psychotic yet fertile imagination, or maybe I’m just a conduit channeling this other universe which is just as real as our own, but for the flap of a butterfly’s wing, or an inaudible mouse fart, or random electron bouncing at obtuse angles in the primordial ooze, or whatever the minuscule force is that hyper-ripples out into space-time, and changes the very fabric and course of reality to something more of a surreality. Yep. Who is to say? Least of all, me.

As this is my first missile of a missive to the teeming masses, of both hoi polloi and highfalutti snotty-snooty, just waiting to devour my every last syllable with ribald relish and gushing gusto (hopefully) I am proffering a gift to any who wish to receive it. This minor present with a bloody red bow on top comes in the paltry form of a tiny bit of writing. It is the titular short story from my soon-to-be-dropping-like-a-world-bustin’-bomb-and-blowing-everyone’s-minds-away-into-cosmic-dust, forthcoming collection of interconnected Lost Peaks yarns, featuring in the sizzling spotlight the inimitable, irrepressible Miss Sugar Lightspeed, my very favorite daughter of the wickedest of all cities of iniquity.

Lost Peaks, you ask?

Yes, Lost Peaks, sometimes known as The Big Nugget, or Bloody Creeks, or Doomtown, or any number of other monikers. SHE is the biggest, richest, craziest, baddest, meanest, nastiest, glitzy-glamiest City in an infinity of multiverses known as the Omniverse™ (my coinage, trademarked and copyrighted, patent pending.) Lost Peaks is that beautiful bitch that you can’t get shuck of, because no matter what you do, she has her hooks sunk deep in your vitals, and She keeps drawing you inexorably back, ever back to her irresistible charms, even though you know without any reservations or shadows of doubt, and probably sooner than later, she’s going to rip your still pumping, crimson-squirting heart out and eat it right before your not-so-astonished eyes, and that ain’t metaphorical, sweet pea.

Oh, and Sugar Lightspeed, you asked with even more eager inquisitiveness?

Only Lost Peaks could give birth to a singularly unique creature like lil’ Sugar Lightspeed, She’s the oh-so-very-sweet, but extra-special, ultra-spicy stuff dreams are made of, kiddo. Both the steamy wet kind of nocturnal fornicating flight of fancy, and the really wet kind of night terrors, where you awake in a pool of your own cold sweat and warm piss. I will not belabor your mind with more detail, but suffice to say that Sugar is…well, you’ll just have to buy the book to get even an inkling of the type hot-ticket chick you got your greedy-needy hands on. Ya’ know whut’ ‘da Pusher Man say – First taste’s free. Den you’s gotta’ pay ta’ pack ya’ pipe. Dig?

So…if you think n’ feel you’re man enough, or woman enough, (as the case may be,) sack up, getcha’ shit together, an’ untwist that knot in your panties, ’cause you’re in for just a wee taste of the wild ride into the dark side that’s coming like comet on collision course in the months and years ahead, and, baby, those afterburners are about to go critical and melt your face off. Feel me? This is a 200 proof, crack-crank-acid molotov cocktail with angel dust sprinkles and a cherry bomb on top, knock you skidding on your ass into traffic, blackout and wake up naked in Tijuana at midnight, make you walk funny for a month like a two-buck-for-a-fuck whore after fleet week, hardcore, muthafuckin’, badass business right here. You betta’ recognize, cuz’…

Beware! Here Be Monsters…

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

And without further ado, and away we go.

Come on, you cute lil’ chicken livers.

Don’t be afraid.

It won’t hurt cha’.

At least not much.

Who knows?

Maybe you’ll get to liking the sting…

Needing it…

Craving it…

Can’t live without it…

I Triple Dog Dare Ya’.

Just click right here below.

—-> Sugar Cookies <—- 

Enjoy, me lovelies…

Stay Cool, Be Solid, And Live Hard.

Slick Jimmy Has Left The Building…