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Today she’s in manic mode. Dancing her crazy sensual extraterrestrialDakini dances, hyperactive, tweaked, spun, musica musica, go go go!I love it and I hate it, like everything else about Narcisa, whenshe’s in go go mode.But, like everything else about Narcisa, I can’t change it and I can’t escape.I am in love with Narcisa, the good, the bad and the ugly.Shit.I’m sitting out on the balcony here in the big empty house, lookingout over my city, Rio de Janeiro, sky, sun, city, sea.It’s a beautiful day and I can feel the cool ocean breeze blowing inoff the expansive blue of the bay, caressing my tired flesh… Tiredfrom fucking Narcisa long and hard into the misty dawn this morning. OUR NEW FRIEND HERE AT THE HOUSE…

 Pet Buzzard, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.

Sex with Narcisa is like smoking crack for me. Powerful, compelling,impossibly ecstatic, debilitating and raw. Compulsive. Addictive.The more I get, the more I want.Want want want. Go go go, till way past dawn this morning, before Ifinally limped home to my tiny dark apartment and closed the coffinand slept for a few hours of deep, silent rest.Now I’m awake again, back up at the house on the hill with Narcisa.I am tired, exhausted still from last nights endless fuck-a-thon.Narcisa hasn’t slept, of course. And Narcisa isn’t tiredOf course….I’m sitting up on the balcony looking out over the bay. A parrotflies by squawking overhead. Distant dogs bark and the wind isblowing, rustling through the clattering fronds of the coconut palmtrees up here on the hill. A ship blows its deep, soulful farawayhorn, heading out to sea…I enjoy the sleepy sights and sounds of afternoon. I want to lay inthe thick blue raw cotton comfort of my hammock and go back to sleephere now.There is no hammock now. Narcisa took it down last week to use tocover the windows, to block out the sun, the sea, the beautiful view of Rio de Janeiro.Before she set it on fire.Ashes.Narcisa doesn’t care about the view.Narcisa likes to smoke crack in the dark.Ashes.Now the dark of night has turned to day. Another day she hasn’teaten or slept and its daytime and the nighttime phantoms have fadedaway for now, blended into the daytime air and Narcisa is in manicmode again, dancing wildly, her perfect taut wiry young body gyratinglike a deranged marionette in the pink polka dot bikini she hasn’ttaken off for three days now, except to get fucked.

Now she’s on fire, twisting and turning and writhing and shimmyingthrough time and space, dancing wild and insane to the earsplittingnoise and frantic distortion of mindless monkey music on the infernallittle boom box I gave her to listen to after she sold my stereo up inthe favela to buy crack to smoke in the dark.The noise from the boom box invades my ears, makes me want to kill.I wonder if she knows I want to kill her.It doesn’t matter. I will not kill her.Just for today she will live and I will live and this is our life today, frantic, disturbed, compulsive, deranged. Passionate. Real.Insane.Finally she turns the radio off again, and again there is silence.But it isn’t the peaceful silence of before.This new silence is haunted by the creepy crack monster and all itsfrantic, manic insane demands for attention, movement, hyperactivity,action… Confusion.I can hear the sounds of her crashing and banging around the bigempty house now, desperately dragging furniture across the floor,building barricades to hide from the phantoms… breaking things.Clumsy violent banging noises coming from a disturbed mind…punctuated by the sound of her little red plastic Cricket lighterflicking flicking. Then silence.”Cigano…”"What?”"Cigano…”"What?”Silence.”Cigano…”This time I don’t answer. She’s tweaking. Spun. Crazy.”CIGANO!!!”"WHAT?”"Where are you?”"I’m right here.”"Where?”"On the balcony, Narcisa. Where I’ve been the whole time.”Silence.Crash!She’s banging around in the dark. Breaking shit.Silence.Flick. Flick.Her plastic lighter. Smoking another hit of crack.Silence.”Cigano…”Silence”Cigano…”Silence”CIGANO!!!”"Shut the fuck up!!!”She appears in the doorway, tweaking, demented, spun, grey, frightened.She creeps like a crippled spider over to where I’m sitting andstarts to examine my tattoos, carefully, one by one. Checking to seeif I’m not a clone.I sigh and roll my eyes in disgust.She picks up on it and sits at my feet, lowering her head like asick parakeet.

“You’re sick of me now, Cigano… I know.”"What makes you say that, baby?” I say as I run my hand through herdirty brown hair.My dick is already getting hard again, like a big fleshy compasshand pointing me south, right down the road to Hell…And, just for today, I don’t mind being on my way. 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.