Getting to know you: Boligard Doomey
Ted Rorschalk: Judging by the numerous news clippings attributed to your seemingly unending misadventures and run ins with the law and the Yakuza, what led you to settle for the humble pastime of vetting capital on the Floor?
Boligard Doomey: my life had been sordid, true, true. as stated in prior notes and chapbooks and unpublished offal, i have had a difficult time with living the straight and the true. after leaving MA for the last time (and this time i mean it, i don't have a masterbation problem, i masterbate and i fall down, no problem) and severing ties with MAMS (a pornography outfit that used media as a whore to promote their own ideology, and they used me to promote their sadism), i found myself at a crossroads. should i persue the wiles of an id-steered freeman, or should i jump upon the horse called Judgement and ride the rough road. deciding to forge ahead as my true self, i took up gambling off the coast of texas, the gulf of mexico, the badlands my soul knew all too well. after the boat fire, as you know ted, i was fed to the judicial system and they sucked me dry over the course of 5 entire hours before i made a break for it and escaped into the bowels of galveston's sewer system. found that beat up rambler just outside corpus christi and headed for new mexico, sister. once in those flats, just outside las vegas, i stripped down and gave myself my true name (notice the constant refenece to Truth) that only i and a few select spanish whores in various ports are privy to.
i settled down and began my bait bussiness, worm farming. as i got bored i took up boxing. no big deal, just something to keep me preoccupied, out of trouble. that's when you got in contact with me, ted. how could i refuse you, you sounded so sure this TQR bussiness would fly, sister. i moved onto the Floor and i haven't looked back since.
Ted Rorschalk: How does one from a long line of circus performers find themselves farming worms? The devil (and God) is in the details, Mr Doomey. Please, explain some of the more cogent intricacies of this earth-based biz. Oh, and for the more cromagnon inclined investors, a brief explanation of the sweet science, please. Have you ever been knocked out?
Boligard Doomey: i'd become bored with the common day life, sir. or rather, strike that, the uncommon life. while i am sure you all know the origins of a boy and his circus geek mother (i won't go into that; boring for some, route for others, gross to the rest), as we all either had friends or relatives who'd grown up circus-side, i will point one particular from my upbringing. my mother was not of the chicken-head-eating-geek variety, she was a bug eater. that's where my fondness for worms developed. while i never ate one myself (tempting), i was appreciative of the fact that one worm might taste better than the next. when i stumbled into the worm farming biz, i was determined to make the best tasting worm out there. and i think i developed success in those dark soils, those boxes of dirt i proudly called my farm. in cultivating the best damn bait in the world, i was emulating my mother in reverse, you see. some desire to crawl back into the womb, while i desired to pull the womb free. instead of gnashing the worms to meal with my teeth under the goggling eyes of the circus crowds, i was birthing the little rascals anew, whole and plump. as to the intricacies? it's kind of like having a real kickass potato salad recipe; i am hesitant to list out my technique, ted. breeding worm is a difficult task. you don't just put a bull worm in a dirt box with a couple dozen worm bitches and expect to have little baby wormites, you know. you must coax them toward love making rather than rutting, the gentler the tastier, we worm farmers have, on rare occasion, been known to say.
the sweet science? ted, explain yourself. i will gladly answer once i understand. are you talking of the canvas dance? the sweaty two-step?
in my circles (twisted dark chanting smelly circles), the sweet science is mixology, wherein i am not a zen master, but i've been known to step behind a bar on occasion.
Ted Rorschalk: Well, I suppose there is no 'sweet' about what you do in the ring. You smoke Pall Malls for God's sake! So, moving right along... what are the origins of your feud with one John Slavens? In the Prince of Darkness's Boliography on the bottom menu bar, there seems to be a strong homoerotic connection.
Boligard Doomey: ah, yes. i'd nearly forgotten those London days. slavens was a very close friend at a certain weak point in his waverying sexual boundery-line days. me, i've never been confused, i just go with what stirs me; man, female, goat. i am a lover, oh, yes, a lover, indeed. slavens and i? lovers, nay. we were enemies, oh fer sure! we may have gotten it on (hot steamy manlove in the dirt, etc.), but only once, and at my gentle guidance and persuasion, not his. if i remember right, he was juiced on rum. a foreign affair to remember, but, alas, a subject that lay sore and bleeding in his heart of hearts. poor chap. i wonder whatever happened to him. he, as stated in the narrative, was "not a fag", and that is the whole basis of our cat and mouse, our cops and robbers, our cowboys and native americans. he was a proud man, a bit dense, weighing in on the stupid side rather than the brainy. but we were close, tis true. the origins of our relationship? that cocksucker's the bastard who birthed my bones, ted. i've never admitted to being... to being. i've said it from the start; i am Character made flesh, not the other way around. slavens had the nerve to create me, which, i am nearly sure, will be or has been his downfall, and which i am eternally grateful (in a pissy sort of way).
as you've probably guessed, the narrative did not end with me dying on the train. that was just a tale i told to an aspiring author back in my brawl-room days, a story we thought needed telling, and a story the author (who seems to have added a bit of pomp and flowers, a poetical tilt i could hardly ever be capible of seeing as how i am NOT a writer -- what the hell was his name? was it kiev handson? that might be it. obviously a non-smoker. didn't mention cigarettes through the entire narrative. hardly realistic) thought might land him in some journal or get him laid. slavens gathered me up after the ink stopped running, he took me to the Kowloon Peninsula and he laid me out before a woman known for her herbal talents. she was also famous for her braided body hair, but that's beside the point, or behind the point. she healed my wounds. Namjimbo would have roared his dismay if he'd been "with head". slavens vanished sometime during my "down time" at the temple. haven't seen him since, though i most always have this funny feeling that he's watching me, or perhaps controling me, though i am positive those puppet strings have been severed. they must have been severed.
Ted Rorschalk: You have taken your position as Floorite to a level of dedication even I am astonished at, seeing as how I take the weekends off and don't even think about this place til Monday morning comes around. To what to you owe this strong work ethic? Is it more that you believe in the business model here at TQR or simply a convenient place to duck the Yakuza?
Boligard Doomey: hah. believe in the biz model here at TQR? you actually think i have any idea what's going on around here, ted? i am a broker, took night classes over the internet, paid my dues on the selling floor, did some home visits, filled out my portfolio. you said you needed a broker, i have been your broker. you all seem to think these capital assets are something over than investment opportunities, while i look soley at their value. see, i have collected quite a few cliets, got this little black book with my clients names and addresses and phone numbers and emails listed down. now, if you were to gather my clients into a room (wouldn't have to be large, but my clients are used to lots of room, so let's pretend it's a large room, otherwise fists would fly, no doubt) and examine them as a whole, you would look upon the ugly mug of high-grade opulence powered by complementary rounds of pocketed ammo and the blue glint of steel under-coat. please don't mention the mafia, 'cause dat ain't what they be, sister. these guys are bigger than the mob, from any country. the mob is my clients' bitch. they happen to like art, and they seem to need very valuable art, and i cannot supply enough of it. i not only grab what i can from here, i also brave the deluge and ferret out out capital i can find in the streets, i yank it from the sewers and i charm it from the skies. i am busy, and i am threatened.
i am not dedicated, ted. christ's balls, mister, i am scared for my life.
Ted Rorschalk: As Sportcenter's Dan Patrick once said, "We're all day-to-day." So, yes, don't fear the Reaper. Don't be afraid. Take my hand. We can become like they are. Forty thousand men and women everyday. ... Regardless and so forth, I read somewhere in one of your dossiers that you detested Big Tobacco, but, no small irony here, monsieur, you are one of their biggest clients. If you are so afraid for your life, don't you think it would behoove you to stop smoking those Pall Malls? At least go to something with a filter!
Boligard Doomey: a silly question, ted. hardly deserves an answer. i smoke cigarettes because i like the taste.
my clients don't just downright chop at your neck till it finally falls off, they do things slow and painful. if i were to upset them i am sure they would sit me down for a talk, strap me into the chair, lower the lights, shove toothpicks in my eyes, brand me, break some fingers, peel off a few fingernails, hook the nodes up to my ballsack and give me a couple of good jolts, play Pussy Cat Dolls real loud, tap on my spine with a rattle for hours on end, shove one of those spreaders up my ass and spread, shave my entire body with a dull razor, make me eat that stuff they make people eat on fear factor, tape my eyes open and make me watch Get Rich or Die Tryin', make me listen to one of those books tapes of any Dan Brown novel, slice open the soft flesh behind my knees, sever tendons and string me up and make me dance like a puppet, domesticate my favorite spanish whore, pluck out my teeth, make me their bitch, tie my prick in a knot, etc. i never said they would kill me, ted.
Ted Rorschalk: With clients like that, who needs competitors? Ba dump bump! Anyways. I feel the investors have gained some insight into the capital man-excuse me, my mistake, allow me to re-word that-...some insight into the broker that is Floorite 001 Boligard Doomey. If there's any parting shot and/or wisdom you'd like to leave the investors with, please do. Your personal technique on the art of capital discrimination perhaps. Again, thank you for your time.
Boligard Doomey: in the end, time is all we have to give. hah. i've no words of wisdom, ted. for one to be wise, one knows one knows nada. however, if there are any VCs out there who need encouragement, i would like to say keep your day job. there are way too many people crafting their "art" these days, ask me. poke around and you'll find a lot of folks are writing a screenplay, others are noting an opus, a few are taking a crack at tree stump carving, and everyone is in a band. i say, if a few days away from the creative process (whichever that might be; inking, sculpting, painting, dancing, Legoing, etc.) causes manic distress, if you can't take vacations away from home because you must stay close to the "magic place", if you'd gladly take a hot brand on the ass cheek rather than give up on your dream, might be you've got what it takes to continue on your quest toward Goodstuff. if not, you should just give it all up, pack it in and let the freaks do the creating and the bleeding and the whoring for the sake of art. too many spoons in the pot, i say. but if you are a person prone to diarrhea when seperated from your "process", snaps, sister. do that thang, man. do it.