Blackthorne Episode 142

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 142

Trinity Down

“The trinity is mere Abracadabra of the

mountebanks calling themselves the

priests of Jesus.”--Thomas Jefferson.

1(sound cue) soft piano

2(medium close-up) Buck chewed the chicken and

waited. He heard no one. His eyes glowed red,

reflecting his rage and the fire.

3(medium wide shot) He moved out into the open,

and moved swiftly to the staircase.

4(sound cue) low cello throbs and Indian seed rattle.

5(cut to the top of the stairs) watching Buck ascend 

the stairs two at a time like a stalking cat.

6(medium close-up) He paused on the landing for the

second floor. He froze, listening. Shuffling boots and

loud voices suddenly rose up from below. He 

unholstered the sawed-off.

7(medium wide-shot) The stairs to the third floor 

seemed to go to the attic. The small door at the top

was padlocked. He cocked the sawed-off and crept

down a dark corridor, passing closed doors.

  A light came on in one of the rooms ahead of him.

Beams of light bent under the door and brightly

penciled an outline around it. Buck stood to one

side of it. He could hear soft moans. The voices

downstairs became audible. Cash Bronson was in

the house.

   Buck tried the door knob. It was locked. He

lowered his shoulder and crashed into the door

like a raging bull.

8(sound cue) Coronet and electric guitar.

9(cut to interior of the room) as the door

disintegrated into kindling, and Buck lurched

into the room.

10(two-shot) Thor Bronson rose up off the bed, with

his cock in one hand and a framed picture of Salina

in the other. The gunman was holding the picture in

his injured right hand, and his .38 was cross-holstered

on his right hip. The two men faced each other, frozen

in time, one with a double barreled sawed-off shotgun,

and the other with an erect penis.

11(sound cue) breaking glass

12(close-up) Salina’s picture hit the floor and the 

glass cover shattered.

13(close-up) Thor’s left hand went for his .38.

Even with his left hand, he was fast, as he drew

the pistol.

14(sound cue) a gutteral scream, a Colt 

discharging, and a shotgun roaring--all

simultaneously. 

15(two-shot)  both men firing.

16(close-up) A mirror behind buck exploding.

17(close-up) Thor being hit in the left hand and 

the right hip.

18(close-up) buckshot tearing up the wall behind

Thor.

19(two-shot) the impact knocked Thor onto the

bed. His eyes were glassy. He was in shock, so he

felt no pain yet. He gripped his gunshot left hand

with his crippled right hand, and gasped:

Goddamn, why did you come back? You were home

free. No one was chasing you.

Buck holstered his sawed-off and roughly jerked Thor

to his feet.

Time to meet the Devil.

20(cut to hallway) as Buck pushed Thor back toward

the landing.

21(sound cue) Cash Bronson from downstairs:

Thor! Are you still standing?

22(close up) Thor, screaming: C A S H !!

23(two-shot) Buck rammed his fist into the small of

Thor’s back, spinning him around.

Buck: He is fine, Cash! He’s coming right down to

see you!

Buck drew the Thunderer, and fired once into the

gunman’s genitals. Then he shoved him down the

stairs. Thor rolled down the stairs like a broken

scarecrow, his feet flashing into the air, as he

followed his cock down to hell.

24(sound cue) three gunshots.

Buck shot him three times as he tumbled down.

Thor’s body jerked to the left, crashed through a

bannister, and fell ten feet to the floor, landing

stone dead.

  Seven guns reciprocating Buck’s fire.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

 

From Harry James to Santana

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 From Harry James to Santana

June 14, 1944--little Butch came into this world

kicking and screaming, as Harry James’ band

played I’LL GET BY; and I have.

As a two-year old in ’45, I began my SENTIMENTAL

JOURNEY with Doris Day; loved her freckles.

Turning four in ’48, I swayed to Nat King Cole and

NATURE BOY. I always wanted to be a mountain

man.

Becoming five in ’49, I remember singing along with

Vaughn Monroe for GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY.

I still recall the lyrics.

When I was seven in ’51, I flipped out over HOW HIGH

THE MOON with Les Paul & Mary Ford. The guitar

became my favorite instrument.

Turning eleven in ’55, I swiveled my hips along with

Elvis and HEARTBREAK HOTEL, and became an

official Rock’N’Roller.

Starting high school at fourteen in ’58, I laughed at

Sheb Wooley’s PURPLE PEOPLE EATER. I never

did find any to eat myself.

At fifteen in ’59, I started liking Country Music thanks

to Johnny Horton and THE BATTLE OF NEW 

ORLEANS.

I was sixteen in ’60, loving the harmony of the

Everly Brothers and CATHY’S CLOWN. I knew

a Cathy. She was a cheerleader, and I never gave her

a chance to dump me.

Out of high school, being eighteen in ’62, I went to the

World’s Fair in Seattle, and saw Elvis making a movie.

I started to dig Ray Charles and I CAN’T STOP

LOVING YOU. 

Turning twenty-two in ’66, my mother died, I was

drafted, and The Rolling Stones sang PAINT IT

BLACK, and it was.

In ’68, when I was 24, I returned home to MRS.

ROBINSON by Simon & Garfunkel. Ironically,

I actually had an affair with a Mrs. Robinson.

Turning 25 in ’69, I returned to college, to kick-

start my dreams as the Beatles sang GET BACK.

When I was 29 in ’73, I became an Actor, that had

been one of my fantasies, as I listened to MY LOVE

by Paul McCartney.

By ’83, at 39, my career as an Actor was over, and

I turned my gaze to teaching,  as Irene Cara sang

WHAT A FEELING.

I turned 45 in ’89, a new bachelor (again), as my

“Pretend Wife” and “Practice Wife” faded, and

I knew someone else was in the mix as Bette

Midler sang WIND BENEATH MY WINGS.

I was 56 in 2000, and I loved listening to MARIA,

MARIA by Santana, realizing how much I missed

honest-to-God rock-and-roll.

With the rise of Rap, and all the overly produced

groups that all sounded the same to me, I quit

listening to music, and quit letting it be a 

landmark as birthdays marched along.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

The Moving Finger

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 The Moving Finger

“The moving finger writes, and having writ,

moves on.”--Rubaiyat Of Omar Kayyham.

Oddly but honestly, I have never experienced

Writer’s Block; perhaps it is my overarching ego.

I used to write poetry only when something in my

life moved me which created an emotional state;

anger, disgust, joy, heartache or love.

It seems my imagination is stocked 24/7. I just 

have never been blocked, except by editors,

teachers or my own blue-penciling. If anything,

my verbose scribbling constantly has to be

trimmed or shortened. Writing is one of the few

pleasures left to me at this point in my life.

Bears will hibernate

soon, like in a coma for months;

no one dies ‘til Spring. 

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Ratjam

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 Ratjam

“We were fierce and beautiful, before they came

with armor and rages, with their Jesus and crosses

--and we have never been wild again.”

--Benjamin Alure Saenz.

We’ve got BP cowboys wrangling at the border.

They claim they were just keeping order.

We cling to freedom like an obsessed hoarder.

Biden is like an old lone bull

elephant, attacked by hyenas, never full;

just fangs and claws, no push or pull.

creating chaos and civil disorder.

One crisis after another Biden has to deal with,

and no crisis solved, not first or fifth.

Because functional Democracy is but a myth.

It’s just very hard work, with no way shorter.

Yet the stink and stain of Trump

still lingers like a cancerous lump,

while his cultists are ever ready to jump

at his Fascist behest or putrid order.

  Glenn Buttkus

Zejel

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

I Got Your Fruit

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 I Got Your Fruit

“Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit,

Wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad.

--Brian O’Driscoll.

Poetry

can be the fruit of my mind,

or it can be lost words

lining a bird cage.

When it is about fruit,

I have no idea where that can lead.

Like it’s always

kind of bothered me

that underwear can be called

Fruit of the Loom. 

I get the weaver’s loom reference,

but it still bugs me 

to have apples and grapes

near the crack in my butt.

The company started

in 1851 in Rhode Island.

Makes me smile

thinking about cowboys

in red long johns

with that label on them.

There seems to have been,

a biblical connection;

fruit of the womb, and such.

I suspect that my three daughters

are the fruit of my loin,

from that aspect.

They make sports bras now too,

which i can dig, since

breast size can vary

from small grapefruits

to large melons.

I recall a joke from the 50’s,

What do you call a gay bar that has no chairs?

A fruit stand,

badda-boom.

Why do they call gay guys fruits?

Perhaps

they are a tad too sweet.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Chichis

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 Chichis

“Scientists now believe that the primary biological

function of breasts is to make males stupid.”

--Dave Barry.

For a man,

there should be

a lot of pauses

during lovemaking.

I always

detested those

selfish arrogant

lunkheads who,

after a kiss

to the forehead,

reaches

for their zipper.

Personally,

I linger

at the first glimpse

of breasts.

Nothing

thrills me more.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at d'Verse Port's Pub