Poet's Pursuit of Pleasure Book 2.5 Simony Chiavari Episode 3

Episode 3 "Shots Fired"

     Naive Niesha what have you gotten yourself into this time? Her weary heart is straining against the date rape drug just to beat fast. It makes her grab at the space between her tear shaped breast trying to relieve the pain by rubbing her chest plate while she tries to control her breathing. She rest her other hand on the edge of the sink while she looks at how much of a mess she is in the bathroom's mirror. "I don't belong here" she says to her tattered reflection as it speaks back at the same pace in the same style. "Everything about this place is cheap" she says again to her only friend before scanning the tiny space looking to be proven wrong. She looks over the cheap faucets and cheap sink, the cheap paper towels and the cheap flickering light above her head. Mostly she listens more than looks. She listens to the running water from the sink made by whoever is in the men's bathroom. She listens to the distant mumbled conversation making its way easily thorough the cheap bathroom door. Although the male voice she hears isn't crystal clear, she can tell that its Trevor's by the bass tone and the island flavor. His voice is getting louder. Not closer, but definitely louder. It sounds as if the woman who helped her is arguing with Trevor. She looks at herself in the mirror again before she examines the dexterity of the door. It's not the cheapest door ever made by man, but its close. What really gets her attention is the single little brass lock on the bathroom door. The only real barrier between her and Mr attempted rapist is a dead bolt lock no thicker than a plastic straw. "Shit" she says under her breath while beyond the door, Trevor's loud talk turns into loud yelling. Splashing water on her face to try and snap out of her chemical spell, decides to make a move. "What can he really do to me while people are in here?" she tries to rationalize while unlocking the brass lock. The loudness of a shouting match gets even louder as she slowly opens the door. She turns pale and loses strenght in her arms and legs as she now looks down the barrel of a police officers standard issue Glock 9mm. The barrel is just inches from the tip of her nose. She keeps waiting for the flash of light before the silence but it never comes. Yet she can still hear Trevor's voice so she knows she isn't dead. The edgy policeman finally lowers his gun while placing his opposite hand next to his face putting his pointer finger over his mouth. She recognizes the "be quiet" signal and just nods while she trembles uncontrollably. He leads her down the rust colored, oily tiled floor of the hallway with his gun drawn with his right hand while reaching across his body with his left to whisper for back up through a CB radio on his opposite shoulder. The officer is a prime grade "A" specimen of Georgia's finest corn fed big as hell, country boy. Bigger than a young Hulk Hogan and whiter than John Wayne himself. She can barely see what's going on beyond the hallway with his giant shoulders in the way. She hates cops, but she's glad he's here. Her joy ends when the hallway finally runs out and they both see the madness of what's going on. The officer yells so loudly it drives the invisible axe she had in her skull the rest of the way through.

FREEZE! BOTH OF YOU DROP YOUR WEAPONS!!!

     Niesha couldn't believe what she saw. There, toe to toe was a good old fashioned Mexican stand off. The policeman had his gun pointed at Trevor. Trevor had his gun pointed at the nice lady that helped me behind the counter and she had a sawed off shot gun pointed to Trevor's belly. WTF??? Nobody seems to move until everyone flinches when the cop yells even louder.

"BOTH OF YOU, I SAID DROP YOUR WEAPONS!!!"

     Trevor smiles and the lady behind the counter starts shaking. You can tell because you can see the tip of her shot gun moving fast. Just then the officer's CB "chirps" as dispatch starts talking through his mouthpiece on his shoulder. "Officer Martin, this is dispatch, please confirm" Nobody moves, everyone is as still as a tree on a breeze less day. That is with the exception of the shotgun's tip that is shaking with the rhythm of the owner’s nervousness. "Officer Martin, this is dispatch, please confirm" The officer slowly puts his left hand across his body to his left shoulder squeezes a button and then speaks. "Dispatch, I have a hostile enviorment with two armed civilians and a known fugitive" "I'm located at... Niesha doesn't hear the rest of the words because all she heard was "Fugitive" meaning the cop recognized her. (Damn) "Fuck this, I can’t go back to prison" Niesha says to herself before making a dash for the door. The officer takes his gun off of Trevor for a second trying to reach for Niesha, and that’s exactly the window Trevor needed apparently. He took his pistol off of the Waffle House clerk and started blasting wholes in the policeman's legs. The cop returned fire as he was falling quickly behind his own blood to the floor beneath his flat feet. Trevor's yell sounds like he's gargling after a bullet passes through his windpipe. He drops his gun so he can clutch his own neck. Confused he reaches for the gun that fell. That’s when the real hell broke loose. BOOM! BOOM! Grandma started blasting that damn shot gun but she wasn't hitting anything but the windows. Niesha found herself in the same spot on the same floor, with broken glass and blood everywhere. The smell of gun powder is very distinctive, just like the smell of crack cocaine is. Only hood ratz like Niesha know the smell of both. Just as it started sudden it ended the same way.

Everything is quiet.

     All Niesha can hear is the hum of the refrigerator with all of those tiny orange juices in it. Niesha hops to her feet. The excitement must have helped push the last of that poison out of her system. But it looks as if everyone is dead. "Ill" she says out loud as she hears the sirens in the distance. Instinctively she looks at the door, but she looks down at Trevor's lifeless body first. The giant whole in his neck with the pink and red meat hanging out of it almost makes her blow chunks. As she bends over with a few dry heaves she notices a set of keys with a Mercedes symbol on the end sticking out of his pants pocket...

Poet's Pursuit of Pleasure Book 2.5 Simony Chiavary Episode 2

Episode 2 "Slow Motion"

     Naive Niesha what have you gotten yourself into this time? She asks herself as her mind races at the speed of teenage love. Trevor has been inside the gas station for only a minute but Niesha feels as if she's waited for a lifetime. This independent woman does not want to meet her fate without a fight. A piece of her says stay still here in the car and let the chips fall where they may. Hell "It's not like I haven't shaken this ass for some cash before" she mumbles under her breath while still scanning the cluttered gas station window. But the fact that he tried to drug her doesn't sit well in her diamond pierced belly. Even if she did play it cool and let him have his way with her, who's to say she would score some cash from him? His Mercedes is smoking hot. But a man's car tells the story of his debt more than his wealth. Besides, who's to say he only wants sex? He is a great looking man with more game than rugby, so he might be into murder. Or maybe some other freaky shit if he pulled out the date rape drug before we even spoke good. “I pissed on a businessman's face all night for $3000.00 once, but I needed paper and I was awake!” She looks at the lone woman in the Waffle House and decides it time to bounce. Not before she hits Trevor's glove box though. Once again she looks through the window of the gas station that's cluttered with 2 liter bottles of soda, motor oil and pictures of half naked women selling alcoholic beverages. She finally sees the back of Trevor's head as he waits in line to pay with one person in front of him. There's not much time. She tries to open his glove box but it’s locked. "shit" She says to herself as she reaches up to turn the dome light off in the car so it wont light up when she opens the door. 

     As she does she peeks again through the cluttered window and Trevor turns around and looks directly in her direction. 

(She freezes as she suddenly feels the urge to wet herself, for she is not leaning against the passenger side glass like she was when he left) The one person that was in front of him is gone and now Trevor is next in line. Niesha feels that she should run but she knows she can’t. The little drug she received from the little sip she took has her moving in slow motion. Trevor turns back around to face the attendant and she realizes the smoke black tint of this Benz is too thick for him to see through! She must hurry. She looks in the center console for the key to the glove box but finds Trevor's iphone instead. She opens the door and stumbles out of the car almost falling flat on her face. She doesn't bother closing the car door.

     She never looks back. She puts one high heeled shoe in front of the other. The tapping noise of her heels hitting the asphalt of the parking lot makes the two fellas in the car in front of Trevor's take notice of her making a break for it. Her legs feel like they don't belong to her. Her body feels like she's run a marathon and her head now feels like it has an Axe down the middle of it. A very ungraceful Niesha enters the empty Waffle House and collapses on the floor. The lone woman rushes from behind the counter to help just as Trevor exits the gas station to look at his open passenger door. "Sugar are you OK???" She says to the fallen princess. "No!" Niesha says with an obvious attitude but then she falls back because she knows she's in a jam. "He's trying to rape me!" Niesha says to the older woman who reminds her of her auntie Gloria. "Where is he now?" Niesha says while sitting up slightly by leaning on her elbows against the cold oily tiles of the floor. The lone woman peeked her head above the level of the windows and sees an irate Trevor talking to the men in the car in front of the Mercedes. "Sugar, is your boyfriend the Jamaican looking fella with the nice car?” That's him! What is he doing?!? Niesha says eagerly while turning over to face the floor on her hands and knees. Some other fellas are pointing this way Sugar, looks like he's coming up here. (Fuck) Niesha looks left and then right in a panic before noticing the bathrooms down the long hallway behind her. She asks the lone woman "Please don't tell him I'm here and please don't call the police" She stays on all fours as she crawls her way to the ladies bathroom. As she passes the men's room she hears the toilet flushing. WTF??? She hits the ladies room and pulls the cheap latch on the cheap lock of the cheap door.

     (At least the bathroom is clean) She checks her pockets frantically for her cell phone but she can only find the iphone she snatched for Trevor's car and wonders what use she can make of it. (Dammit) Technology has her so spoiled; she can’t remember any number that was plugged into her phone. All she did was use voice recognition anyway. She hears some commotion going on outside in the distance but obviously inside of the store. Now she waits...

Simony Chiavary Episode 1

Episode 1. "Naughty Girl"

    Naive Niesha was a naughty girl. At 21 years young she was a hot mess. She was built by the gods of lust and sin and stacked like a card shark's deck in Vegas. From toe to crown she was all that, a bag of chips and a 50 cent juice. Her tender size sevens always wore steep heels with nails that stayed done always. Body butter drenched her long thick legs colored like a dark Kahlua splashed with milk. They were always exposed for she wore nothing but the shortest of dresses made shorter by her ridiculously healthy rounded ass and hips. This was no baby fat, this was muscle made to look supple. You can tell by the flatness of her adorable navel, which like her toes and legs stay exposed as well. She flosses a 2 karat diamond in the closed door of her belly. A trophy from one of the many men she seduced with her tear shaped breast that suggested that the lobby was chilly. Most men would only glance at her face for the shortest of moments, for she had a swagger of older women who never felt the pain of loss. Some of us feel this pain early, while others don’t till late in life. It just depends on when the devil decides to look us in the face. Speaking of which, having the thickest red lips, almond shaped eyes and a short bob cut that complimented her face which was simply beautiful.

     She has always looked at men with great disdain. Figuring “they all just want one thing anyway” so she would dress provocatively and hit them up for every penny. This night she was tired of the scams and bullshit chit-chat. Tired of the corny lines men say and tired of acting like she was interested in their fictional conquest of power and status. She was tired of running from city to city, with another fake name, and another fake ID. But most of all she was tired of feeling empty as well as paranoid that the cops would finally catch up with her. On this night we find her inside of the trendy lobby of the “W” hotel on the perimeter of Atlanta, GA. She splurged her “winnings” on a cocktail dress; she bought at the mall across the street just to change things up. She sat at the bar and flirted to get some free sushi from the ever blushing bartender. She did not people watch like she always does nor did she look for her next black credit card owning victim.

     

     That’s when she met Trevor. Like a magician, out of nowhere he appeared deep inside her personal space. His rugged good looks and his smooth sense of whit laid her guard down casually. He lightly poked fun at the way she held her chop sticks for the sushi as well as teased her for still having the tag on her cocktail dress. (She was not used to being on the defensive and that made her curious) Curious enough to have a drink on him, (Which she spilled most of when he went to the bathroom) curious enough to chop up a well needed intellectual conversation and curious enough to accept a passenger seat inside of his pearl black Mercedes Benz. Off they go, into the chilled air of the north Georgian suburbs enjoying the ride and conversation until a strong feeling of sleepiness blankets her like cold sheets in a strange home. She rests her head on the passenger side glass because her head feels heavy. "Did this guy try to drug me?" she thinks to herself as she remembered spilling most of her drink while he was off checking leakage. Trevor stares at her a few seconds before snapping his attention back on the road. He then looks at his wrist watch as well as the one on the car’s radio lit up with a dim green glow. She has one eye slightly open. Niesha is watching him through thin strands of the bob cut that covers her left eye. "Something isn't right" she thinks to herself as she watches him watching her. She plays it cool by making believe she is sleeping. Trevor kept repeating the same cycle of actions. He was looking at the road, then the clock and then her until finally tapping on her leg before speaking.

     "Are you up? Are you awake? Hello!" Trevor says and continues. I'm not sure if you can hear me but if you can I just want you to know that I own you now" Niesha heart stops its African rhythm as she desperately tries not to flinch during his lyrical rape foreplay. "You belong to me all night long" he repeats to the beat of the song that plays before pulling over to a gas station connected to a Waffle House franchise. He pulls parallel to the pump and slides his rough callous hand up her dress before exiting his dark tinted Benz. Niesha's act is paying off but she is not sure of her next play. She can hear the sound of the gas nozzle pumping into the vehicle. She doesn't want to move too much to give herself away. So she opens her eyes slowly to see what she can see. She can see a lone woman inside of the open Waffle House. She can see 2 men from behind inside of a SUV in at the pump in front of them. She can see empty police car at the edge of the gas station's property. She turns her head slightly and now she can tell that Trevor isn't pumping gas.

"He must be inside" she thinks to herself.

What should I do?

The 1-Man Worldwide Philosophy

1-MWW is not a conglomerate, company or corporate structure. It is an idea forged with the dreams of all things greater than ourselves. It is a belief, a feather in the cap of all who have spilled blood for the sake of unity. It is the missing link in the chain of our creative evolution. It is an inner freedom not known without a complete trust in yourself and your own abilities. It is humility and acceptance. It is the many moving like the few and the few moving as one. This philosophy is forged in flame. The heat brings all of the impurities out of the precious minerals which we are. Only to make our bonds stronger once we are out of the flame. To appreciate this level you would have to identify with great struggle. To excel at this level one would have had to endure a great struggle. I invite you into the tiny piece of the cosmos which is the realm of our collective creative minds. A jazz band always plays when we brain storm. I am blessed be surrounded by talented street savvy spirits that think along the same lines. We now navigate through an ocean of ideas with a compass of unified energy some call intellectual magnetism. This can work but I am not mature enough to handle this level.

      I still live by the essential principles in this philosophy, regardless of my corporate failures. The failure was right in front of my nose the whole time and I never saw it. I tried to contain passion, and sell it. Creating the supply before the demand, this can be risky. My team and I looked inside of ourselves soon after our bond showed signs of ware and tare. We are all at peace; we all love and respect one another but 1-MWW as a company has to evolve. The best way to evolve is to die and be reborn. So 1-MWW is no more and this is not a bad thing. My creative life is reaching further than I imagined it would. However, this philosophy has to have a new name if 1-Man Worldwide is six feet beneath cold dirt and fresh grass. So I call this philosophy “The Trade Philosophy” This new philosophy will need a different set of words to describe it. I tried to help others before I learned how to help myself. Instead I will acknowledge other artists that understand the importance of sharing art as well as the value of the art created. I will speak less, listen more and save my wisdom for the pages. With a new creative mission I find inspiration easier which is a good thing. The bottom line in the trade philosophy is sacrifice. You have to give to get, and the physics is that simple. I will see you all from behind the mic.

 Anthony, La Mont, Graffiti Bleu.