The Girls

By Asaf Rubina

On the verge of releasing the most critical album in their discography, The Gears find themselves in a society where the charts tell no lies and fame dictates public necessity. Soon the boys find that the price for glory often comes at steep costs and the violence that goes hand in hand with this lifestyle cannot be ignored.

Meanwhile, Tammy cant take the heat out in Amsterdam, and Caroline cant stop getting beaten upside the head. Carla is resenting her husband while her daughter Ashly cant keep her dietary habits under control. The Girls is about sleeping around as much as it is about sitting around, and if youre not paying attention, someone might just end up going from white to black.

Set in the end of the first decade of the 2000s, a lonely apartment, a single flight, and the Johannesburg bazaar are being used as weapons. Rubina The Girls is loaded with grief stricken prose and internal self-reflections regarding the emotions that drive the decisions we make at our most critical, passionate and miserably vulnerable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466972490

Asaf Rubina

Asaf Rubina is the author of three other books and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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Copyright 2013 Asaf Rubina.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7250-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7249-0 (e)

Trafford rev. 01/02/2013

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Contents

Prologue

Disaster Trash

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 #9 #10 #11 #12 #13 #14 #15 #16 #17 #18 #19 #20

A Wretched Disguise

#21 #22 #23 #24 #25 #26 #27 #28 #29 #30 #31 #32 #33 #34 #35 #36 #37 #38 #39 #40

Crashing For The Moment

#41 #42 #43 #44 #45 #46 #47 #48 #49 #50

Improving Recognition

#51 #52 #53

The Past Still Haunts Us

#54 #55 #56 #57 #58 #59 #60

Epilogue

To Ciara

They were still young, he thought, and if he could somehow manage to forgive her, then maybe there was still a slight hope and a fair chance for them to get back together and somehow, salvage their relationship.

-Friends

I hope that one day we can somehow share this pain. At least that way, there’ll be some form of bond between us.

-Outbound telephone call made from the streets of New York to Cape Town, South Africa.

If we are never forced to truly hurt, we are never able to truly feel.

-Anonymous

PROLOGUE

Steady clouds sway up above a dark sky so black that even death goes blind. There is a slight drizzle in the outskirts of the avenue and he looks out the window as if being reprieved of capital punishment. The worst was now over. He accepted his solidarity and by now even welcomed and embraced its presence. There was to be a sudden chance for change, and an era of growth was soon becoming.

He grabs the cup of Nespresso from the counter, the tattoo on his hand clenching the mug into a deep fist. The scene was becoming more and more violent as the years went on and the shows were becoming a place for members affiliated with certain communities to prove themselves and their brutal attitudes. The Boys From The North were set to make an impression and the Dutch Swingers could hardly give a nod in their direction. A certain means of proving yourself meant inflicting a certain level of violence towards one of the heavyweights in town in any sadistic fashion to make a lasting impression of one’s respective crew. Coming of age, you could say, almost as if it were an initiation into the aforementioned. This could be seen across the subculture as artists were starting to get viciously attacked at various stops all over the country.

There was Samuel in We Weren’t Brought Up Right that got hit upside the head outside one of their shows with the back end of a hammer when he was innocently putting the leftover merch away from the night’s show back into the van. There was Shu who got hit so hard with an aluminum bat when he was locking up the trailer that he cancelled the remainder of the tour and essentially quit Disaster Trash all together when they returned from Canada.

Everything was spiraling out of control and he was relieved in knowing that this was now all behind him and exposing himself to such dangers was no longer of any concern or interest under his current condition. As he finds himself sinking deeply into the thoughts of morbid vigilance and the lonesome cold of the mutant, the dwelling is suddenly interrupted by heavy commotion from the walls separating the apartment and the hall just outside the apartment door.

Shadows criminally burst in through the door making no effort to hide or disguise the sound of forced entry. There is a rumble in the corridor, a jiggle of the handle, and a sudden POW! as the hinges break through, flying across the room, never mind the lock and doorknob. Attempting to run for cover and grab the closest thing resembling a shield, he runs into the bedroom and locks the door behind him. The voices are now in the other room and he can hear them smashing, breaking, shattering every last bit of glass and strand of any physical object that’s his possession. There goes another tv, he thought. Hij ging naar de kamer! Grijp hem! screams one of the brutes as he can hardly make out the Dutch from the bedroom. It’s only a matter of time before they break the door down and beat him upside the head one, two, three, twelve times and his mental ability to coordinate left from right soon sails into oblivion and he is swimming in a sea of darkness, sailing away into the metaphysical of his subconscious.

Damn it, that certain sea of purple again . . .

They wrap him in one of the rugs so leisurely sprawled in the apartment without a coffee table lid and cover it with several layers of bedding as if to suffocate a mule, and together, lift him from the floor and carry him out the door walking over the broken glass and debris caused from their violent behavior. They drag him out of the apartment and down the hall, and surprisingly none of the neighbors make a to do about this epic devastation occurring in their building as they are all too wrapped in their accord to mind the madness. How nobody heard any of this trauma was anybody’s guess. Certainly, the building was a lavish one of sorts and all apartments came with their own level of soundproofing and privacy, but noise of this nature was certainly a cause for alarm under anyone’s standards. There was always a looker on waiting for something to happen, as if sitting around etching at an attempt to be a part of something, anything at all even, and a crime at best would certainly be a victory to speak of. But not tonight.

The three silhouettes toss the human burrito into the truck bed and one shadow sits in the back holding a lead pipe in his hand as if anticipating the roll to break loose. How one would unravel an entire living room rug while being wrapped in several layers of heavy duvets would be up to David Blane to sort. No ordinary man was untying this binding, at least not without the ability to viciously mutate into a liquid snake.

The truck drives out far far into the outskirts of Haarlem, getting near the shore of the North Sea. It is there where they lift the worm off the truck bed and carry it off underneath a deck nearby. Neem hem van het andere einde, dom! one screams to the other in a condescending fashion and his colleague complies, helping carry him off and towards a hole that has been dug specifically for this purpose, located beneath the boardwalk. On the count of three, they toss the body into the ditch and pick up the shovels left nearby, ones they set up just hours ago while digging this hole.

Through the course of the night, the three shadows work diligently to ensure he is sealed deep beneath the earth, so that even if unraveling the folds of the rug and sheets does manage to take place this evening, the tomb will be sealed so tight, that the chance of air will be unattainable. As they continue to shovel mounds of dirt on top of the victim, the tide begins to rise steadily bringing a cool chill causing them to quickly ease their efforts. The three shadows grab the shovels and throw them in the back of the truck, where just hours ago laid the victim of a meaningless crime.

It is only after hours of laying in the ditch that he finally awakes, mortified of his presence under these current conditions, unaware of his location and inability to move, yet still capable of hearing the warm surf. As he starts to inhale in a panic, his screams suffocate him soon enough until there is not an ability to utter a single word and any shots in exchange for puffs of air are proved futile.

Buried in a nameless grave, he is roaring in a frantic frenzy and every move seems to encase him closer to the layers surrounding his minimal tomb. Tears begin to run across his face as he is left stranded, alone, and waiting to die. The rain is falling heavily now as the sky is pouring in biblical proportions and he can hear it trickle up above. Yet somewhere in the distance, the warm surf was blowing steam for the one who mattered most in the wonders of the night. What a cruel show this world was running.

DISASTER TRASH

See me at the bottom where all the friends are made.

Come hang in the deep end where we’re oh so close.

Out where we can smell each other.

The fear, the hate, the regret.

The stench of loss

Feel the pressure of our bodies close together consume you.

Feel the sense of time decay your ambitions for the future.

We are not sorry for anyone here.

We are not even capable of expressing a concern.

Forget those which you have met throughout the course of time.

For they have brought you here, and these words are not ones to speak of kindly.

Have you even given yourself time on this one?

Have you given yourself the time to think, look back and reflect?

Could you generate some sort of prose about the whole thing?

Do you think you would be able to put your emotions into words?

Just what exactly are we getting into here?

Am I coming off too strong?

I only have one question really, one question alone.

Are you sure you have thought this one through?

Enough to be able to make a decision about it?

Just what exactly are we getting into here?

Just what exactly are we getting?

It seems as if I can look back and reflect.

Can you?

#1

There was a herd of people wrapping around the corner of the Arena, and cars could hardly get through the Square as masses poured into the streets. Clearly, the scene was on a stroll tonight and the Garden was completely surrounded by people, swarming on the roads and spilling off the sidewalk. This area generally had very high population density to begin with and pedestrian traffic was always a key variable to dodge, but today this looked like one of those rallies on 42nd street that stop traffic for hours every now and again, Friday afternoons mostly, when traffic is at an all time catastrophe.

It got to a point where it was so bad and somewhere around 4:30 it was a complete bottleneck. No car was moving, and it only took about an hour or so for all the cabbies to ditch their wheels and start to chat with one another in the middle of the street. A group in the east was playing canasta on a hood. A few guys got out and started chatting about the score. You know what’s going on here? asked Ted. New to the area, and a not too into anything in particular type, Ted was a boner and his lack of whimsical skills got him a negative sneer from his hipster polio. Yeah man, it’s the fuckin’ Gears bud, just listen to ’em, sneered Alex the beardo, being emotionally in tune with the group at play and sooo connected to the movement that there just has to be attitude directed at his misinformed colleague. They listened over the walls of the arena. Usually you couldn’t hear anything at the other end, but tonight the floor underneath them was shaking.

Suddenly jets roared above them, surgically maneuvering action packed tactics in the sky and a sudden bang was shot into the atmosphere releasing several explosions that sound off as fireworks veil the scene. A speaker began to wail Ladies and gentleman! I can’t hear you! Fiends and ghouls! I can’t hear you! The moment you have all been waiting for! The main spectacular event! The greatest show on the fucking planet! We are The Gears! and the crowd goes into hysteria, glass lightning shatters through the sky. The audio clip shudders off and all that’s left is a static buzz. Gears!

At the center of the stage, all the silhouette can see as the lights go off is the gleaming waves of sparks and flashes that disable his vision into the distant forefront that go all the way up, miles into the back of the stadium. This one was supposed to be special, but yet another night of piss off trash. It had been years since they were back in New York. The international circa responded much more positively to the past few releases and the circulation of merch had been largely dominated by the European and English markets. Due to rising costs of promotional campaigns for each album, the label was forced to approach their strategies methodically and left the guys with much more demanding expectations than to just leave them strolling in their local scene. Gears!

This show however, was just like all the rest. It wasn’t the city he was in. It wasn’t the local amphitheater. It was just the whole feel of it all. The tour turned into a freak show. Geeks and enthusiasts cornered into a hole inside the major markets of the world, metropolitan areas cashing in on their attempts at a night out. Someone’s first kiss was out there. Gears! Some young couple out there was using this as their first date. Gears! Someone else out there was getting hurt. Gears! A girl is out there somewhere cheating on her boyfriend of three years. Gears! Another girl got fingered on the way here. Gears! Gears! Gears!

Right, the turnouts have been massive and the reviews have been complete explosive complements of the shows. But something just didn’t sit well with him. The Gears were ripping through two sets a night with three ten-song encores on a continual rotation, and headline news was even beginning to circulate the details. But still, nothing. As Cancer spread his feet shoulder width apart in the middle of the stage, the band kicked into The Day The Mob Died, which they all agreed would be the opener for the entire tour, despite being notorious for never playing the twelve minute epic in any set during their historic career, let alone opening with the stunning jam, and even though millions of blogs burn into flames over this debate, they decided to venture for the effort and make their best attempts to execute the score as best they could against the beat.

Robert 1 spun his Explorer surgically around his neck and Tomas felt a whimper purr from within his bones. Gears! His stomach was a sick ill and he hadn’t slept since Richmond. The trip into the States was a complete rid and Tomas used the majority of his key junk to get through the flight. Landing in Virginia wasn’t his idea of a smooth landing but Poomie claimed there was just no other way to connect with the bus. Not too many options for us out here boys! There was one flight, flight 346, I believe. I saw it. Just wasn’t going in our direction. The snow just wouldn’t let us land in time. For some reason it starts to pour down there this time of year!

The label was willing to accommodate the efforts of The Gears, since after all, a good portion of the tour’s roster was made up of Kesher’s top-shelf artists. Body Full Of Bones and Before The End Is Carried would bring direct support, and were an excellent segue-way from the boring, yawn frenzy of the first half of the night into The Gears dominating set. Each night the stage would crank out a thirty-foot stage with burning dragon torches from the pa and twisted metal that shat fire throughout the entire set, often singeing the curtains of the respective venues. None of the other bands could compete with that. More economical in this fashion though, eh? says Poomz.

Each night was going to bring in nearly twice the turnout that any other major tour in the country was attracting and the tickets for the entire tour were sold out months in advance. The label pretty much had their hands tied in regards to opposing other options for the group and had to comply with their demands, but the weather was something no one could control. For fucks sake man, the first show might as well have been in bloody Queens. The ride north was a twister gorge and Cancer could give a fuck less. Often fading in and out of consciousness, it had no weight to carry on the trip across the Atlantic. The boy was gold, a commodity, a fossil fuel, the Earth’s most valuable resource!

After this it was off to Europe again. Then the Takeover tour with Sweden’s shred master’s Oh, This Fucking Riot! Then, the Olympics in Dubai followed by a string of independent film festivals that spread from Cannes to Madrid and a collection of off dates and promo tours for the new album that was expected to blow right off the charts.

As the group joined together in their choreographed low-end jig found in minute two and forty-three seconds of Crippled Atrocity, the band’s most furious finisher, pummeling the faces of the crowd riff by killer riff, Tomas was slowly tearing away. He could see a fight break out in the arena, ripping the crowd apart, splitting it in two. This is the first show and we’re already being so merciless . . . Tomas made no attempts to stop the band or acknowledge this nonsense as the attitude in the scene clearly spiraled out of control by now and this type of violence was happening at almost every show. And for what? he thought, these are bloody love songs . . .

Tearing away into oblivion, often gripping at the edge of the stage as if to hold onto the slightest glimpse of reality thinking, Caroline . . . and as The Gears continued to tear through the crushing sounds of the breakdown and mutilated the faces of the 14k+ coming to the completion of the song, strobes in full effect alongside the sizzling heat of the pyrotechnics, all Tomas could think of was her name.

Gears! Gears! Gears!

#2

She was going beyond fat and she knew it. I’ve just been pigging the fuck out too much lately. As she sat down on her bed looking at her self in the mirror, a ring of sludge surrounded her stomach and found itself bulging through the bottom of her shirt. She felt the mattress press down a little. Baby felt the poisoned Tuesday after an ugly weekend.

She missed The Gears at the Garden and was pissed, but then realized that GLOBEfest wasn’t too far away and she could maybe, just maybe, catch up with Tommy then.

Sick to her stomach by her wretched disguise, she couldn’t even bear to look at herself in the reflection. She had been awake for what felt like