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Finally it’s 6 in the morning and the sun is coming up over the bay. As I ride her up the hill to cop, I can see the first pin point of a devil red sun peeking through the steamy tropical cloud cover out over the green hills across the bay.
And we’re riding along and she’s clinging to me on the back of the bike again in the fuzzy warm afterglow of the last hour’s super intense lovemaking… Yeh I will really call it that now.
Because somewhere in the course of our ongoing habitual crack stupor dementia sex party, we’ve somehow stumbled across some invisible line between fucking and lovemaking…
As she clung to me with that drowning rat desperation, I could actually feel that subtle shift again…
It’s as if she’s somehow being infused with the very will to live as I screw again and again her hard into the mattress, into the physical world, back into life itself, injecting her with lust and love and passion and some weird abstract will to just keep living for one more fucking day, filling her being with a variety of living, tactile sensations and earthly energy… And sensations….
Sensations.
It’s kinda funny, but since I’ve been back with her, after our four month seperation, lately now, whenever she gets hungry for snacks, for sustenance between bouts with the crack monster, whenever I ask what she wants to eat she invariably tells me “sensaçãoes”.
Sensations.
The first time she said it, I thought she was just waxing poetic, speaking metaphorically, talking in tounges again….
Whatever.
And maybe she was.
Unconsciously. Speaking in symbols, esoteric poetry rhymes, riddles, speaking the language of the subconscious, talking the tongue of angels… the way it always is with Narcisa.
“Sensaçãoes”
It turned out though to just be the name of some new potato chip brand she’d sudenly become all fanatical about since the old times.
It used to be “Baconzitos,” these fake-food bacon-flavored corn chips that, if you leave them out on a plate for five minutes, they go all soft and stale, and taste like little chunks of bacony cardboard.
But there’s always some strange subtext to these things with Narcisa…
The other day she decided to try something new.
She bought a pack of Cheese flavored Cheetos or whatever… 

dog-shit cheetos, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.


She didn’t really buy ‘em for the taste or even the sensation now anyway.
Now she’s just become totally addicted to the little cards that come in the packages of chips. Some childish “Dungeons and Dragons” type game.
She’s got the whole fucking collection going now, all these little cards with with silly little pictures of weird little creatures with exotic little names like “Pegasus” and “Scarlet Witch” and “Golden Angel” and “White Dragon”.
She says she must have the elusive “Black Dragon” card now to complete her set, so we can play.
Sweet child.
Narcisa likes to play play play, God bless her.
But now she desperately needs the “Black Dragon” card, and she keeps getting me to buy her endless bags of these fucking chips and opening em up and eating whatever’s inside…
Whatever the fuck it tastes like.
Whatever…
We were at the beach the other day, sitting at my little office kiosk at the end of Copacabana, hanging out, watching the waves, both of us stinging with the endless boredom that seems to consume us both during any of her periods of self-enforced abstinence.


She’d just bought this new bag of cheese flavored chips from the kiosk boy.
She opened it up and started munching away.
She even offered me some, probably trying to munch her way faster to the precious card hidden at the bottom of the bag…
I wasn’t hungry though. Especially since having noticed a lingering smell of dog shit in the air.
Fucking people bringing their stupid mutts down to my beach to shit.
Fuck.
Soon enough, Narcisa was bored again, her habitual state whenever suffering from any significant period of prolonged abstinence from the crack.
“Let’s get the fuck out, Cigano. I wanna go. Go go go! Moooove!”
I got on the bike and she got on behind me. I could still smell it as we pulled away, the vague lingering odor of dog shit in my nostrils, so I didn’t mind getting out of there anyway.
We rode off down the beach, Narcisa muching away at her chips behind me, like a contented baby cow.
Half way home! as we pulled up to a stoplight, there it was again.
The irritating smell of dogshit.
I told her and she said I was just imagining it.
Whatever.
One of us had probably stepped in shit. She told me they say it’s good luck and I told her they probably just say that to feel less pissed off for having stepped in a pile of stinky old dog shit, that’s all.
The light turned green and we blasted off down the beach and the smell was gone.
When we pulled the bike up in front of my place a few minutes later, we got off.
And there it was again, that unmistakable dog shit smell.
I told her I could definately smell it, and now she said she smelled it too.
At my insistence, she checked the bottom of her shoes.
No dog shit.
I got off the bike and looked at the bottom of my own boots, first one, then the other.
Clean.
Nothing.
Weird.
We walked up into my building and got into the elevator as Narcisa munched and crunched away, finishing off the chips.
“Black Dragon!” She squealed, jumping up and down. “I got it, Cigano!”
I scrunched up my nose, smelling dog shit again.
What the fuck?
Our feet were clean. Maybe we’d sat in it or something. I turned Narcisa around, checking the seat of her pants.
Clean.
Then she handed me the empty Cheetos bag.
“Maybe you smell inside the bag, Cigano,” she smirked.
I don’t know what I was thinking she was thinking I was thinking.
I put my nose up to the bag and took a wiff.
Dog shit!
“THAT’S where it was coming from!” I howled. “Ya KNEW! You been fucking with me the whole time, ya little witch.”
“Is the new flavor, Cigano,” she cackled madly. “Swiss cheese!”
Swiss cheese.
Dog shit.
Shit.
Pure chemical shit.
But that’s Narcisa, weaned on the worst junk food and junk tv… mixed with advanced esoteric occultism, massive preteen LSD experimentation, Nietzsche and years of adolescent prostitution… just for shits and giggles.
Narcisa.
If I can just survive her long enough to keep fucking her and loving her back to earth and somehow breathe her alive for long enough, she might very well just continue to surprise us all.
The other day while she was flying high on day three of another crack mission, she picked up the new book by David Icke that I’d been reading. She turned to a page and copied a phrase sown on one of the stolen postcards she always carries around to bend and shape into all her weird geometric patterns.JS and David Icke

David Icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.


“I don’ need to read any book Cigano.” She declared firmly.
I just looked at her, waiting for further explanation.
“Waste of the time for the Narcisa,” she continued.
I waited. She spoke.
“Only what I need do is open any book on any page an’ right there is the thing I need to see…”
Later on, after she’d flown off into the steamy night like a psychedelic vampire bat, I looked at the postcard lying on my table and saw what she’d scribbled there.
Another clue for me who finds himself compelled, for whatever reasons that even I cannot fully know, to try and decipher her mind and her life… like a underworld miner, digging up whatever hidden message is there for us all.
I looked at the postcard.
I read it again and again.
This is what it said, I swear to fucking god:“It is the same with so many children consuming chemical-infested food and drink who become subject to hyperactivity and other behavior modification.”That’s it.
Now, not to change the subject, but I really do believe that everybody alive should read up on David Icke’s research as quickly as possible. If they all did, I feel it would probably start the ball of truth rolling to heal the whole fucking planet…
Regardless, that one particular phrase, out of everything in the whole 400-plus page book, is exactly what Narcisa spit out of her crooked little paranormal snout, her psychic mental computer that day. Then she left it sitting there scribbled on a postcard on my table for me to contemplate her prophetic existense once again.
And once again, I am reminded not to take anything concerning Narcisa for granted at its face value.
Ever.
Junk food, behavior modification, hyperactivity.
Dog shit-flavored Cheetos.
Hmmmmm… David Icke

david icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção 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 viva 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.