Blog

So today I was sitting at Solar De Cahuenga on the corner of Cahuenga and Franklin, which is my usual haunt if anyone I owe money to ever wants to come find me, and after a particularly draining and bizarro phone call which I shouldn’t have answered but did anyway, the guy siting next to me made a comment about something I’d said on the phone- something about my hair. I looked at him for a second and then cracked a smile. We started talking about writing, books, I told him about Narcisa and all my other projects and he told me he runs a magazine. I said which one and he said “have you heard of FOUND?” to which I replied “umm yes, I am obsessed.”

FOUND is a compilation of love letters, grocery lists, photographs and other things that people find on the street. Send all your found shit to them and they will publish it.

some letters people found on FOUND

Now I’ve spent hours and hours of my lowly existence sitting on Howie Pyro’s couch laughing at this magazine and the sheer brilliance of the effect that looking into other people’s lives, even for just a glimpse, has on the human psyche. I don’t know if it’s therapeutic or just entertaining to live vicariously through other people for moments in time.

That is why I enjoy Jonathan’s work so much. I think I get off on it, being there but not being there. It’s like something I experienced last time I was in Brazil, riding through the favelas on the back of the motorcycle. At first I was scared shitless and did not want to go in to Rocinha, did not understand the De Facto government of the Drug Lords and why I had to take my helmet off when we passed the police barricade or why I had to show my face at all times and take off my glasses too. It was so foreign and I didn’t want to be there. So we left.

But as soon as we left, I wanted to go back in. I was curious, I wanted a taste. I wanted to live it, just a little. And then get out on command.

That is what FOUND magazine allows the reader to do.
That is what NARCISA allows the reader to do.

Fucking brilliant. Now I’m here, reading the issue of FOUND that Davy gave me before I left the coffee shop, between bouts of editing Narcisa and watching Forensic Files and smoking cigarette butts.

The whole conversation was inspiring though. It really put some fire under my ass to get this new project going with Jonathan, a book that will feature scanned journal entries that we’ve each saved over the years. It’s eerie how some of them mirror each other exactly. I am still kind of freaked out at how much our minds have melded.

I gotta go.

A

Another excerpt from Jonathan Shaw’s upcoming novel Narcisa- Our Lady of Ashes

NARCISA LIKED: Bad Brazilian TV, Soap Operas and asinine American sitcoms dubbed in Portuguese. She also liked children’s shows, cartoons, pizza, chocolate, Coca Cola with lots of ice cubes. She liked to chew up ice cubes. They say it’s a sign of sexual frustration for a woman to chew up ice cubes. That would’ve made sense, given her surreal background of abuse and trauma. She also liked eating messy snacks in bed or on the toilet, in the shower too. She liked to eat and chew on ice cubes while I fucked her. Go figure. Sometimes she liked to sing during sex, mostly when she was good and high.
Narcisa liked attention. Lots of attention, especially the negative kind, and she talked real loud and cursed a lot, especially in public. She dressed eccentrically and sometimes liked to wear her bra and panties outside her clothes, then hurl evil venomous curses and insults at people on the streets of Rio de Janeiro when they stared and gawked.
She liked the mountains, but didn’t like the solitude. She liked rain, didn’t even mind getting soaked to the bone, caught in an apocalyptic tropical downpour. Probably because it gave her something good to complain about. Narcisa liked to complain a lot. When not complaining, she liked Classical music, old Brazilian rock and roll, bubble baths, bubble gum, and anything to do with smoke and fire.

She smoked cigarettes, copious quantities of weed, Crack, tobacco pipes, and even cigars. She said she’d smoke anything and insisted on being cremated, not buried under any circumstances, when she died, which she hoped would be very soon… Often, she’d leave several cigarettes burning on the furniture in random places around my apartment, maybe in hopes of fulfilling her death wish and smoking herself as a final act.
Narcisa.
Our Lady of the Ashes.
One time as she dropped her cigarette ashes on the freshly swept floor of my apartment, I handed her an ashtray. She looked at me with utter disgust for a beat before speaking. Spitting on the floor for emphasis.
“The world is my ashtray, Cigano!”
She liked to argue with anybody about anything and dreamed of becoming a lawyer someday. She would criticize everything she saw, machine-gunning an endless barrage of terrible hurtful insults at everybody who was ever close to her. By the time I found her there weren’t any more people close to her, so it pretty much was all for me. Somehow I didn’t mind.
Narcisa loved the color Purple. The color of Redemption and rebirth, oddly enough. Everything she owned and wore had to be purple. Sometimes she couldn’t find stuff in purple, so she would settle for pink. Even her food had to be purple or pink, and she ate heaps of beets, big plates of beet salad at the Kilograma restaurant downtown we ate at sometimes. Maybe in hopes of shitting purple. Just for good measure.
She also chewed great quantities of pink bubble gum and stuck it to the walls and furniture all over my place like a dog pissing to mark its Territory. One time she bitched me out on a busy downtown street for ten minutes straight because I bought her blue bubble gum.
“This shit is blue, Cigano, blue!” She yelled, throwing a wadded up ball of gum at me, bouncing it off my head as passersby stopped and stared on the crowded sidewalk.
“Blue is for the boys, Cigano, don’ you know?” She ranted on. “Could it be you didn’t noticed I am the girl and my color is the pink?”
I stood there watching, horrified as she suddenly pulled her pants down right there on the street, flashing her bald, shaved pussy at me accusingly, like an undernourished pet I’d forgotten to feed. A crowd gathered and stood watching, gawking.
“You know what this is, Cigano? This shit is a poo’sy! The very nice one too, don’ you think so, peoples?”
She stood there defiantly flashing the shocked crowd gathering. Some of the men leered, agreeing vociferously, as I cringed in shame and embarrassment.
“You like it, this Poo’sy, Cigano? This is what the girl got, Cigano. The Girl, No the boy, got it? The color for the girl is pink, Cigano, no the blue, no the black, no the yellow, no to any other color, got it? The Purple she ok, very good for Narcisa, Cigano. And after the purple, only the pink, got it? No the any other color. Now you got it!”
I got it.

….

NARCISA HATED: Waiters, uniforms, Police, fat people, Argentines, country music, newspapers, newscasts, poor people, rich people, soccer, bad taste, the beach, airplanes, old people, especially her family, or so she said.
She hated her body, and punished it every chance she got, often provoking street fights with random strangers, getting them to do it for her. Battle scars and stitches and bruises and contusions everywhere. She hated her bodily functions as an extension of the body- she hated, hated going to the bathroom, shitting… defecating, she called it, not liking even saying the word shit… She hated her period, her pussy, her tits especially, and she talked about having them cut off, tiny as they were, if she ever got enough money from peddling her odious snatch to afford plastic surgery… she hated the fact that she was a female, and didn’t like women, but was tolerant of teenagers and young girls, probably because she wanted something from them - usually sex. Narcisa also hated men. Or that’s what she said sometimes.
Being- despite her eccentric and abrasive ways- quite charismatic and charming in a most surreal manner, Narcisa usually got what she wanted. She professed to be something of an expert at mind control techniques she’d picked up reading books on Satanism and black magic. She also claimed to have participated, from an early age, in more sinister, ritualistic pacts with The Devil…
She especially hated any words printed on clothing, particularly clothing labels, and she would cut all the labels off her clothes, even the expensive designer stuff she latched onto. One time I gave her a tee shirt, and the first thing she did was take scissors and cut out the words on the front, leaving her hated breasts exposed, rather than be a walking advertisement for parasites she didn’t derive any benefit from.
She also hated machines, and was fond of breaking radios, telephones, blenders, and televisions. She hated the sunshine. Narcisa despised food. Eating was an unpleasant necessity. She said she wished she could just dehydrate her food and smoke it up in a pipe for the unpleasant but admittedly necessary chore of nourishment, that someday she would invent a way to do just that and get rich selling it to other people like herself. Problem was that there wasn’t anybody else like her. One day she realized this, and as the terrible reality of it sunk in, she sulked and pouted for days on end. A very dark time for her…
“Everything’s going to be alright, Narcisa,” I said, trying to soothe her.
“Is never gonna be alright!” She screamed hysterically.
And for just that moment, I almost believed her.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa vivo ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

Her divorce papers were finally served today. She had just woken me up again at ten in the morning and, after I’d gotten over the urge to just fucking slaughter her as she stood in my doorway with that shit-eating beggar’s grin on her sweet little face, I let her in.
Now we we were laying up in my loft bed getting ready to do the evil deed that gives her the money to smoke the crack that supposedly helps her to forget the guilty conscience that plagues her for needing the money and having to do all the terrible things in the first place that she must do to get the money to keep smoking the crack that rules her life now, and makes her do anything to get it - including having sex all day long with a man, the one fucking thing she always dreaded most of all, due to all the rape and abuse and prostitution trauma that plagues her mind’s troubled memory banks.
A confirmed lesbian who has spent so much time in the last year with my dick tucked up deep inside her, she’s now become as addicted to the dick and the man attached to it as she is to the crack-cocaine habit it supports.
The other day she sheepishly confessed she was in love with me, whatever the fuck that means.
She said something about being a happy whore with one steady client. I am pretty happy with the arrangement too.
Shit.
What a strange, perversely poetic, twisted karma to endure again and again and again…
Narcisa.
She was in a pretty good mood though at ten in the morning of her third day up tweaking her brains out, and I was gonna make the most of it now, playing with her perfect ass, that wonderful, magical ass I’ve loved and lusted after for years, but could never lay claim to… until the crack monster got her a year and change ago and dropped her right into my hungry clutches like a cat laying a crippled bird at its masters feet..
What a strange and twisted karma for us both.
So there we were, laying up in my loft bed, fooling around, having a pretty good time for two evildoing, karmatically-enslaved, hopelessly addicted lost souls…
Suddenly, there’s a loud knock at the door.
Who the fuck is that, I’m thinking, wondering if it’s her evil, Bible-thumping fat old mother, finally making good on her threats to come over with a mob of fanatacal Jesus Freaks to kidnap Narcisa away from me again and throw her back into that hated Born-Again Christian brainwash camp she just spent four months at, giving the crack monster a well needed rest… before she managed to escape from there and bring it all back to me.
All of it…
Well fuck it, I think, I’ll just deal with it, God’s will, whatever… and if it’s time to pistol whip and choke that old bitch and drag her inside here and slice and dice her and flush her nasty old carcass down the fucking toilet with Narcisa, so be it then.
Another evil little adventure for us…
The Christians say we are two evil, anti-social people… So why not do some evil, anti-social shit this morning?
What a strange and twisted karma to endure.
I tucked the hard dick down into my pants as it slunk south like a whipped old dog. Then I climbed down the ladder.
I grabbed the battered old .38 Special off the dresser and yanked the door open, ready to kill or be killed by that evil Christian lynch mob.
I looked out and it’s not her mother standing there at all. It’s only the dimminuitive “oficial da justicia” again, back to re-serve the subpoena he’d been unable to deliver a fortnight ago when she was still locked up in the nuthouse at Pinel.
Now the time had come.
Too relieved to be annoyed, I quickly tucked the pistol in my back pocket and smiled. No need to shoot or even pistol whip this one. I just told him to come on in, and he did.
She stayed there in the bed, silent as a corpse, hiding under the covers up in the loft, where the little man would never see her.
Narcisa is good at hiding, a trick she learned by cowering in closets and under beds as a little girl while her insane whore mother heated up coat hangers on the stove to beat her older siblings with, leaving her sister with a permanant disfiguring dueling scar across her face and still deeper scars that can’t be seen on the outside.
Narcisa’s soul is covered in such invisible battle wounds.
So is mine. Birds of a feather.
What a strange and twisted karma.
Like me, she learned early on in life the importance of knowing how to hide. And how to run too.
And over the years of her adolescence, she’d run far and wide, scrambling around trying to dodge her own terrible memories, running all across the length and breadth of Brazil by hook and by crook and by thumb by the time she was fourteen. Eventually running all the way to Israel and New York City in a ridiculous, impossible marrage that had blown up in both of their clueless little faces.
Just another futile attempt to run away from herself, her past, her strange and twisted karma.
Now there was nowhere else to run, and the little man stood there with the divorce papers in his hand.
“Is she out of the mental hospital yet?” He asked me with a strange look of uncomfortable concern on his face. I felt bad for him. I vaguely hoped he hadn’t seen me pocketing the gun.
My first instinct was to just lie like she’d told me to and say I didn’t know where she was.
But when I opened my mouth to tell the little man she was gone, I heard myself saying something else.
“Just sign the fucking papers and get it over with, baby,” I yelled up to her in her hiding place, feeling a bit like a rat.
The little man looked startled when her heard her crazy rasping growl from the loft bed above our heads.
“Fuck!” She said.

the loft

Then her long, elegant, crack-stained hand appeared, gesturing for him to hand her the paperwork.
He passed the papers up, and the phantom hand disappeared with them, like one of those crazy hand-in-the-little-black-box toys.
The little man and I stood there in silence, waiting.
I heard her laugh. Then she started to have one of her terrible, gut wrenching coughing fits.
Finally she stopped hacking and choking like an old hag and spoke again.
“E’stupid bastard!” She grumbled.
I gestured for the little man to wait as I climbed up the ladder and sat down on the bed beside her where she was looking over the paperwork, shaking her head as if, once again, she was the innocent Little victim of yet another great injustice.
“Look what these e’stupid guy saying bout me here…”
I looked at the papers…
“The defendant abandoned the conjuntal home over a year ago and has since been involved with hard drug use, and keeping terrible company with criminals, engaging in drug traffic, prostitution and other activities unbefitting a married woman… Bla bla bla…”
“Just sign the fucking thing and get it over with, baby,” I said. “Its over now. Let it go.”
After waxing indignant for a couple more minutes, finally she caved in. “Gimme a pen,”
I climbed back down the ladder. The little man was only too eager to hand me his pen to put into the pale, ghostly gesturing hand that appeared again from the shadows above.
He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, obviously dying to get the fuck out of there.
I can’t say I blamed him.
But I couldn’t get the fuck out. I was trapped by my strange and twisted karma.
I almost envied him for a moment. He could leave. He was just doing his job, delivering papers…
What a way to make a living, poor bastard, I thought.
Then I didn’t want to leave anymore. He still hadn’t seen her beautiful face… and I’m certain he was plenty content not to.
Finally the signed papers came floating down from the loft bed like a flock of dying albino bats fluttering from the sky, struck down by an angry deity displeased with his own flawed creations.
The little man and I scrambled to capture the casualties and put them back together. It was a half dozen pages long altogether, a sordid pile of incomprehensibly dry legal words and clauses and language and formulas, all adding up to a sad litany of curt, irrefutable accusations of disappointment, betrayal, wreckage, crippled hopes and failed dreams.
Shadows. Ghosts.
Her husband just hadn’t been ready for the insane, brutal, heartless crack monster she quickly became there in the Big Apple while he was off at work, struggling to build the American Dream for the unlikely newlyweds.
Poor bastard.
Now she’d lost her American Dream and he’d lost her to the crack monster.
He lost her and I found her. And she found me.
Lost and found.
Finders keepers.
What a strange and twisted karma…
I remember her once telling me that her favorite movie back when she was living in New York with the well-heeled Jewish Gringo she’d snatched up off the ho-strool in Copacabana and conned into marrying her and taking her away to Gringolandia where she would live happily ever after, was none other then that all-time feel-bad classic, “Requiem For A Dream.”
How fitting.
She said she’d liked the movie so much, she’d gone out and bought the DVD on her husband’s platinum credit card, and then watched it a dozen times.
It must have really inspired her…
She went out to live it.
She’s still living it today.
What a strange and twisted karma indeed…
Stranger still, when I consider that the terrifying story itself was written by none other than my old friend and one-time screenwriting collaborator, Hubert Selby Jr.
Small fucking world, aint it?
The little man checked his little pile of papers. Satisfied with the signature he’d come for, he nodded and smiled weakly. His job was done.
“From today,” he whispered, “she has fifteen days to contact a lawyer and respond to the legal action of the plaintiff, her… estranged husband. In the absence of a legal response on her part, the judgement on his demand for divorce will be decreed in his favor by a court.”
I nodded, knowing full well that she would never bother to speak to a lawyer or ask for anything she hadn’t already taken him for.
She’d long sucked that poor john dry and moved on to the next poor bastard - me.
Why waste time dwelling on an old dried up sting when you’ve got yourself a new one who knows the score and doesn’t even mind?
Turn the page and move on. That’s the pirate way.
Like me, Narcisa’s a pirate. That’s why we don’t mind playing together. It’s all just a big, fascinating game of chess for us.
Game over? Next game? Your move baby… That’s how we roll, me and Narcisa.
Now that she was gonna be divorced, we could finally get married, just like we’d been talking about for so long.
Lucky us.
What a strange and twisted karma.
I let the little man out. He looked relieved. I was happy for him.
Then I heard Narcisa moving around up there on the bed, and I felt the call of the wild on my dick again.
I dropped my pants, gun and all, onto the floor and climbed back up there. Time to get busy with Narcisa.
She had that mischiveous, precious shit-eating grin on her crooked pirate’s mug again.
As I lay down beside her, fondling that cherished flawless white ass, she showed me what she was grinning about.
“Look what I got, Cigano!”
She’d kept the sad little man’s pen.
I looked at it. A pretty nice pen, for a lowly, underpaid Brazilian process server. Stainless steel ball point.
Poor bastard.
He’d been in such a rush to get the fuck out of here, he’d forgotten all about his nice stainless steel pen.
He wouldn’t be back.
Now it was Narcisa’s pen. And she was grinning proudly.
My crooked-toothed little baby pirate princess….
Finders keepers.
“This pen she gonna make into a good new crack pipe for me,” she growled happily.
I grinned back at her, flashing my gold teeth in her shiny bright eyes as I grabbed that fine, crack-smoking ass and worked it on home again.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa vivo ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

“Jonathan Shaw is the great nightmare Antihero of the new age.”

-Iggy Pop

The best time is crash day. It only comes around two or three times a week, but it’s well worth the wait, and even all the often deadly drama that invariably leads up to it.

 Cuz that’s when she comes in for a much needed crash-landing and goes belly up for any amount of time between ten and thirty five hours, depending on how long and grueling the preceeding mission was and how much food and sedatives she’ll let me feed her over the course of the long hibernation.

 Today she’s right in the middle of an especially good one. She got home and went flat out and stayed out for over eight hours, letting me get the same amount of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in I don’t know how long. She woke up bellowing for food and snacks and I gladly tended to her every need and we even watched a movie together and cuddled on the sofa for hours while she fell in and out of consciousness. When she was awake she was unusually warm and sweet.

 Now she’s fallen into a deep delta rest again and shes been sleeping peacefully ever since, even when I fucked her sleeping cunt gentle and long and slow at the end of the movie.

  Now, eighteen hours into this big crash, its 3 in the afternoon and pouring a steady rain outside my window and I’m up in the loft bed looking down at her amazing ethereal beauty, sleeping as peaceful as an angel sprawled out on the sofa, as I get ready to dive into my pillows for another trip to Dreamland myself.

 Soft classical music is massaging my ears from the radio as the rain falls and the steady ceiling fan lulls me down into the heavenly relief of that soporific comfort zone of an ideal crash day.

 My phones are turned off and the doorman downstairs has been given strict orders: No visitors.

This is as peaceful a day as it gets, in stark contrast to the last few days of deadly battle on a deadly tightrope duel between angels and demons of Heaven and Hell… Somehow, the recent memory of all that and the dramatic contrast with this Nirvana of peace and contentment all makes it even more delightful somehow.

 Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa vivo ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

A few days ago there was another big shooting war up in the crowded complex of favelas where Narcisa buys her crack and, more and more often lately, smokes it.
I was sitting out on the balcony of the house on the hill, watching the sky when I heard it all jumping off just across the way.
It was a stormy afternoon, just before dark. Distant lightning flashes covered the cloudy skies, as thunder aproached dramatically from all around.
Suddenly the stacatto pop of machine gun bursts, then a booming rally of exploding grenades filled my ears, coming from over the hill. I could see the muzzle flash of automatic weapons firing wildly in the dark maze of ghettos just across from where I stood watching.

the Favela from my house

It was on.
I crouched down behind the little balcony wall, taking cover to avoid catching a stray one. That happens to a lot of people around here. That would suck.
So I huddled down, got my back to the wall and listened as all holy fucking hell broke loose over there…
I knew Narcisa had gone up a few hours ago to cop, and I hoped she hadn’t stuck around there to smoke it.
I felt kinda bad, guilty for not just letting her hole up here and do her thing where at least she’d be safer from immediate annihilation.
But I just don’t like to let her smoke it around me anymore, don’t like watching her change from Jekyll to Hyde, don’t like the little heaps of ashes that pile up all around her and become her whole fucking world when she’s smoking that shit.
I don’t like the smell of it, and I especially dislike all those creepy bottom-feeding supernatural entities who posess her after she flicks her Bic and opens the roaring gates of Hell right before my eyes..
Sometimes she smokes it in a little crack shack right there in the “boca”, the drug spot up in the favela - usually when she wants to avoid the shuffling zombie hordes of the Casa Verde, which by now has become a full-time crack-house, with all the attending horror-show cast of psychotic characters and their spooky, low minded paranoid antics.
Other times though, she just buys her stuff up there on the morro, then splits to go off and smoke it in the bushes somewhere else, up in the hills around Santa Teresa, or whatever… Cowering in the shadows, talking to spiders and ants and monkeys and bats and darting shadows and whatever the fuck else she winds up with up there in the trees and jungle.
The other day she told me she’d been invited by one of the armed teenaged thugs who run the spot into a dark room in a run down shack at the back of a narrow alley to smoke in there.
But when she took her first hit, which is usually the worst and most paranoia provoking, she saw in the glow of her cheap plastic lighter that the walls of that little room were all covered in streaks of dried blood and riddled with bullet holes.
She was smoking crack in a fucking makeshift execution chamber.
And soon enough, in her hyper-aware state of raw fear and supernatural sensitivity, the anguished ghosts of murdered rats and deadbeats and informers and crackheads and undercover cops were all clamoring so loudly in her ears that she had to beat it right the fuck out of there.
After that she didn’t go back there to smoke again for awhile.

Just as well, I thought now, as I listened to the raging gunfire. I really hoped her boycott of the volatile deadly favela was still in effect today.
But with Narcisa you never know.
After half an hour, the machine gun bursts became more sporadic… then finally it quieted down over there and I stood up and looked at the sky.
The lightning was getting closer, giant mile-long white rays of fierce raw electricity crackling down over the city and all around as far as I could see, the heavens rumbling as if to answer the puny gun shots below with a raging spirit war overhead.
Just as I felt the first big raindrops falling from the sky, Narcisa appeared out of the dark house behind me, looking like a pale hollow-eyed zombie ghost.
“Tudo bem, Cigano?” She croaked.
“Baby! Come give me a hug! I was worried about you,” I said as she melted like a flaming rubber doll into my arms.
“Worry? For me? Por que, Cigano? Que foi?”
I told her about the big shootout I’d just witnessed. Told her it sounded like a serious one.
“Shit! I just miss it again.”
“You sound disapointed, baby. You should be glad you weren’t up there. I’m sure there’s quite a few bodies laying around your favorite spot right now…”
“Is incredible, man! So much as I wan’ get a bullet in my head an’ get the fuck out from these shit world, it can never happen! I only just was in there, only two hour before. I start to e’smoke in there, an’ everything was cool. Then something just say to me get the fuck out right now from these place, so I go! These all ways happen with me. What the fuck, man? The death she always keep missing me. Every time! Why, Cigano?”
“Maybe God just don’t want you to die right now, baby. Who the fuck knows about such things?”
“Fucking God!” She spat.
I just shook my head.
Fucking God.
Narcisa.

War Zone

The next day she went back up there to the favela. Looking for drugs. There’s hundreds of other favelas all over town where she could go. But she had to go right back to that one.
When she got up there, the whole place was like a ghost town, all commerce closed, not a soul in sight.
War zone.
That didn’t stop Narcisa from walking boldly right down the empty alley to the spot.
Right into the heart of a raging guerrilla war where even the local bandidos, armed to the teeth, didn’t tread that day.
Narcisa didn’t care. She wanted to cop. Or die trying.
She stumbled along the labyrinthine bullet-scarred alleys of the deserted, post-shootout favela, raving, yelling, “Show your face! Shoot me, kill me! Where are you, cowards!”
“Where the fuck is everybody?” She cried out desperately, an abandoned child running around like a frantic white rat in a maze.
The only answer was her own echo in the eerily still kill-zone.
“Show you face, you shits!” She shouted again and again to the invisible Drug War snipers hidden in the shadows, holding her long white arms out like Christ the Redeemer.
“I wan’ some crack, porra! Show you fucking faggot faces or just go an’ shoot me… I wan’ it the DRUGS, man, got it?”
Nobody showed their face. Nobody shot her. Nobody sold her any drugs.
Finally she got bored hearing her own lonely voice echo there in those lifeless empty alleys of the dead.
Then she finally gave up and went away to look for drugs or death or whatever she could find somewhere else.
The end.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa vivo ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.