An Organized Chaos*

[Kaishi*]

Erick Rischio rubbed the wet rag so hard on the stove that he thought his fingers would burst.

The pounding of an old Anthrax album coming from the basement kept him from sleep. Every now and then, Joe Belladonna's vocals would filter through with a rip-roaring guitar riff, reaching up from under the lit door and getting close to slap silly. To tell the truth, it was beginning to become too much. Every night was another one of his brother's stupid parties. Always in the basement, and, sometimes, (Erick shuddered) even in his own bedroom. Disgusting, yes, but completely understandable. As a gang member punk, Mark "Churchill" Rischio got everything he asked for by default. Not without some rebellion, of course, as you should know, when you're living in a family where you get whatever you should ask for, no matter what the delay, you should "kick it to the man".

Arthur and Tetna made ends meet. And that was it. Things were pretty borderline. It was Erick's guess that Mark (he refused to call him by that God awful, no-reason-why, nickname) was completely oblivious. Then again, if he did know, Mark would probably amp up his partying worse. The electric and water bills were skyrocketing. They had most likely broken a pump downstairs, like the idiots they truly were.

"You're doing it wrong."

He stopped and Tetna went on.

"When you clean it like that, you're only hitting the surface." She stepped forward, lifting out those circular, coily things. Erick winced, moving away, almost as if he expected them to heat to red hot in her bony hands. Tetna wasn't the prettiest of women, and that could be chalked up to having two wild children and a twin miscarriage. Twin girls, they would've been. "You have to use a scour on whatever's still stuck to the stove. Otherwise, you're just making things wet and soapy. See, next time your father makes cheeseburgers, he's going to have to clean this himself. Look at all that grease fat!"

"I see it," The words rolled out of Erick's mouth monotonously. Tetna handed him a spare scouring pad and pointed to the mess. Clean it, y'hear? Then, she turned to tend to the dishes. The sound of the running water mellowed him. It was just loud enough to drown out whatever other old slop was playing downstairs. When it came to music, Erick Rischio was a picky soul. He'd take Radiohead over everything else in a heart beat. That, and his father's radiocassette tape of Black Flag's My War. It was just about the only metal he truly liked. Everything else he boasted about was him putting on a poser show. Well, maybe not exactly, he actually did know a wide range of music. The guy didn't exactly like much of the music he knew of. Including whatever that nu-metal crap they had switched to downstairs.

"Gentle, you might scratch the stove."

So, he stopped again, calmed down to the sound of the sink, then continued once more. Before he knew it, the stove-top was spic and span clean. It felt good to accomplish something, and that was probably the reason why Erick much preferred this to whatever that was in the basement. There was a lurking feeling of suspicion that he had a somewhat severe case of OCD, but, hey. The aftermath of cleaning was fun. Nothing fairy about it.

"What are you doing up so late, anyway, Richard?" That wasn't his name. It was actually Erick, Rick, Ricky, Ey-Ricky, Air-Rick, Air-Ricky, Risch, Rischio, Erick Rischio, or, as his brother liked to call him, Erdick, or some variation thereof. Richard was not on the list. But, he could understand why she had become confused. Hear your son being called Rick too much, and his name's gotta really be Richard, right?

"I can't fall asleep. Mark's music is too loud."

"Oh, you've got to let him do what he wants."

What're you trying to do, woman? It's obvious your "smother him with love" technique isn't working. He still hates our guts. Erick nodded, surveying his work more closely. The spot he had missed was quickly scrubbed away, along with a layer of paint. Shoot. That'd come out of his lowly allowance, for sure. Shame, he'd care about that if his allowance wasn't three dollars anyway. It was beginning to become embarassing to have to go places with only three dollars, but, whatever. Rischio knew how to deal. Simply beat up a Bathurst brat for money. The nerdy ones with the ironned shirts were the best bet. Oh, and the fat kids, too. Pork meant money. He loved it when they squealed under his fist. Erick put three weeks ago's paycheck on the stove to pay off his mistake. Seventeen dollars, plus his allowance, should be more than enough.

Ignorance is so frustrating
Always taking, always taking
Ignorance is,
No way, no way, no way, no way out!

Anthrax was right. Tetna's ignorance was frustrating. Mark would always be taking things. Arthur was ignorant, too, blinding himself with work papers. And, Erick simply had no way out of this. His family deserved to drown, or something. Die in a big fire. Then, they'd see.
...Or not. That might've been the whiskey thinking.

"Can I go back to school tomorrow?" Erick was, sadly, beginning to miss being apart of the Bloody Fists. Three weeks away was far too long. Tetna looked at him quizically.

"Who's been stopping you?"

"Okay."

The answer to her question was her and Arthur. Erick had been banned from the school bus and didn't have a ride. Now, he did. The neighbor's old bike. They had planned on throwing it away, replacing it with a newer model. Erick, on the other hand, had a thing for older rides. The honk-bell was sweet. And the wheels turned with a loud sputtering sound. Something had been stuck somewhere. A card? Yeah, one of those Survival of the Fittest trading game cards, now that Rischio thought about it, it was the card of some Chinese freakgirl. Chan? Whatever. She hadn't lasted long enough, so, really, she was worthless in Erick's eyes. If you're going to be in SOTF, you've gotta atleast survive to the top ten. You're weak if you don't.

What was the slogan? The strong will survive; the weak must die? It was so cheesy but it summed the game up well. If he had been in that game, Rischio'd be at the end. Top five, oh yeah, he'd go out with a bang. If he died, he would bring them all down with him. (Of course, he forgot the fact that Xian Chun had gone out with a "bang" herself.)

"I'm going back to bed. Try not to make too much noise, Richard." Then, she was gone, almost floating on her feet. Erick whistled through his teeth, then returned to washing the dishes. His mother had missed several spots, by the look-closely of it. But, that was fine, really, he thought, ringing out the dish towel.

Just.

Fine.

((Continued in: SHAH-K-MATE))