Anarcho, Chapter One

The protagonist presided over the overturning of a cop car. Drinks were served. None of the crew belonged to the scene. If they were caught, if cops showed, they'd have naught to offer but him. And that was fine with him. He'd hired alley bums to guard the streets, keep their bugged eyes looking out. A homeless couple and their great dane crouched beside their grocery cart stationed at the nearest intersection arguing about the Lakers game while listening for all incoming calls. Nice change of pace, his phone's real-time scores feature offered them something new to yell about every other minute at ever increasing decibels. He'd known Ron and Rhonda for enough years to feel some comfort joshing them their predilection toward grievous volume and caustic scenery but tonight he wasn't in the mood for talking or listening or even dealing with people, homeless couples or otherwise. Ahh, but what choice did the artist have? He schmoozed with each and all from the food dude to the actress he bought off of Sunset. Ahh, but he was tense. His neck twitched ever 10 seconds or so which may or may not have had anything to do with his inability to hold his head up straight. As it was, his skull wobbled on his shoulders, dipping down into his chest. He looked like a pill popper conspiring for a scam at the corner table of a club, checking his figurative rearviews every few seconds, incapable of performing a steady nod or shake of the head at a constant pace but jittery. The consummate artist watches his breath pool in the night.

A lot of time had gone into re-painting that sedan, a lot of concentration. He'd figured it out back in college that his one gift wasn't originality or passion of metaphor or even meaningfulness. As a self-described artist he'd happily plugged all of the above into the formula of his self but times like this when disolate daydreams materialize, when all the time he'd put into collecting the cash, buying the junker, painting it, planning pre-production prep-work...he knew better. It was too cold too harsh a night to wash & wax his safe & cozy bubble to a nice and shielding sheen. He'd figured out that his gift was concentration. Like Michelangelo dissecting a stone in his mind or Milton composing complete epics in his head like tending a zen garden of synaptic activity. He didn't have their talent or vision but he had that focus. Looking in the mirror in the morning he could see himself at 40 just as easily as he could see his present self. By the time he'd hit 40 he'd have hoed deep lines into his forehead, no seeds to sew though. He'd have room for musical notation. He'd...he'd be laughing at himself all night until the high wore down and he'd worry again.

The shoot took less than 4 minutes. Within ten minutes the car was loaded up into the non-descript truck and taken far away. Clockwork doesn't run that well. Ron and Rhonda got 35 dollars, the actors and crew got their 30 each and everyone else got 12. A couple of watchouts got nothing as a couple of smartphones went missing. It was an unprofitable day aside from the culmination of a dream project. He'd forgotten three-fouths of the dream projects he'd conceived sober or otherwise. It didn't mean much but he was looking forward to presenting it.

The gallery was held underneath a metro station. Upon pillars were placed the paintings. Like fliers stapled to a telephone pole. Some of them were fliers and the they may as well have been stapled. Sculptures guarded the perimeter, clay and stone and found art barriers to the shrubbery by the off-ramp, the bushes behind which teens smoked and gangs did what they do. It was dusk. A taped recording intentionally warped and warbled trumpeted welcoming messages in a dozen languages poorly spoken on a loop. Welcome to the Anarcho Art Festival, the underground network of anarchist artists, fashionistas, critics and provacateurs. Wine was served. Brie and crackers. Salsa for the vegans.

"Pasture Output" was a popular performance piece. On a rickety stage stood a couple of women. One wore corpse paint. She hugged the other woman who proceeded to mime going to bed. The corpse tucked her in. A black and red banner was walked in front of the stage to signify a curtain. Again they stood silent. This time the corpse went to bed. While the banner passed another woman in corpse paint jumped on stage. A cycle was born. Within 5 iterations the small stage was overrun by corpses. End scene.

"Survive: Trance End" was not accorded as much buzz but was still very well recieved. The author, Will Diego, was quickly ascending the ranks of The Undergound County, a splintered offshoot of Aztlan Thundergound that formed during their last crisis in leadership. While the majority of the Aztlan artists wanted to continue the soviet council system, the Underground wished to experiment with a Bakunin styled parliament. Diego's latest work was undoubtedly a reflection of this turmoil. On a matte canvas too large to hang from any one pillar (and for this reason pinned on a long clip attached to a clay pedestal) Diego had scrawled a mispelled expletive on a background of spray-painted, multi-colored words using multiple typefaces and font settings. The juxtaposition was impressive. Our protagonist was less than impressive but he spoke only the kindest words to the artist, his arm wrapped around the artist's shoulder.

Now that we're reminded of him: next to an installation consisting of fashion magazines dunked in mud and wrapped into a full body cast for a mannequin, sat a table upon which sat a 17'' laptop running our protagonist Chris Turner's fifth short film "Short film number 7." Using a total of 1 minute 16 seconds of film and extensive techniques of visual and audio manipulation, both manual and digital, "Short film number 7" offered an 8 minute exploration of the uprooting, overturning and fire-bomb burning of an ersatz cop car by 2 poorly paid actors made up in muslum gang fashion. It didn't have the buzz of some of the other works that night but it attracted a substantial number of observers and a fine critical reception. He wasn't disappointed. He'd done what he always does in these situations, besides drinking heavily. Hope for the best. Expect the worst. No, he wasn't disappointed at all.

Around midnight MC Sugarbeat began his show with support from the local band Jerking White Tears. They did a nerdcored take on JWT's "One Ton of Sugar":

I like my tea strong, I like my cocks longer, not a damn thing wrong wanting wider, weighty, fuller, more filling than fingers, more filling to savor, fulfilling is the feel & coffee is the flavor. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, one ton of sugar or two, I ask you. Assholes are like opinions , full of hot air, everyone's got one so no need to stare. We can each have a slice, we can each have a share, we can each overreach 'til we have a couple pairs. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, on ton of sugar or two, I ask you....

Turner was mingling with some colleagues when a young man approached. His hair was short and spiked. On his wrists were the snapped ends of handcuffs, chains dangling. He was holding a flashlight. They'd arranged enough lamps euphemistically borrowed from a production company "to clear the air of night" but connoisseurs carried their own lights, the better to appreciate the festivities and, more importantly, the art. The young man lied and said he loved Turner's work.