grace by the gun

at the end of it all i was sitting in the kitchen with Dom. after some good times drifting bikes like madmen, he asked me outright if i truly accepted his relationship with Jules. "my father always believed i had sent my brother back in time to do the dirty work - you know, iron out the kinks so i would have it all figured out in this life," he explained. i could feel his persistence. it was hard to deny. and somewhere in my mind i heard Jules tell him that even if the other band mates simply humoured him with their one good eye on the prize, he was the only one who actually listened and took the time to learn what he really wanted; the only one who was able to look into his eyes and see through his soul. it was hard to deny the connection. but I never admitted so, assuming the silence was enough. he had already asked me when i'd be coming back to LA to visit again. not right away, i replied. i would let them do their thing. besides, i don't even remember being in LA at all. all i could remember was a desert, somewhere between Damascus and Beirut. and i remembered Reda but not Dom. and it was no vacation. Jules and i were being stalked by fighter jets and hounded by a militia jeep. i had been amazed by Jules' calm in the whole situation, like he had been there before. so i followed his lead. i hid where he hid and shot where he shot. still, there came a point where the only place to escape the streaking jet and his wild-eyed pilot was in some cannibalistic town where you were allowed to choose how you were executed. some of the guys caught before us had been shot and then emptied like ripe avocados. their bodies were then filled and used to flavour whatever food was being cooked inside them. i got an image of those edible soup bowls and then those soft shells they used to serve ice cream in at weddings. it was disgusting to watch. and yet, somehow, there was a tinge of poetic justice. like it all made sense out there in the lonely desert.