pulp fiction

It was 1947 a day before the murder, in the cold winter of New York; there was a murder that was driving me crazy. As I walked down the New York streets alone, it’s about midnight. It was around the winter time that the piercing cold ate me up like a swarm of bees. I couldn’t feel anything; my icy toes were ready to break off like an Alaskan Eskimo. As I swarmed into the bar for a warm brandy, working the cold case files made me a madman in the making. As I sit down upon my seat the blood rushes everywhere, and my heart runs crazy. The bartender asks me if we ever caught murder that killed, Elizabeth Short?

You see Elizabeth Short was, Born: July 29, 1924, Hyde Park, Massachusetts. I am here to tell her story. . . On the morning of January 15, 1947, a housewife named Betty Bersinger was walking down a residential street in central Los Angeles, with her 3-year-old daughter when something caught her eye. It was a cold, overcast morning, and she was on her way to pick up a pair of shoes from the shoe maker. At first glance, Bersinger thought the white figure laying a few inches from the sidewalk was a broken store mannequin. But a closer look revealed the hideous truth; it was the body of a woman that was cut in half and was laying face-up in the dirt. The woman's arms were raised over her head at 45-degree angles. Her lower half was positioned a foot over from her torso; her straight legs spread wide open. The body appeared to have been washed clean of blood, and the intestines were tucked neatly under the buttocks. Bersinger shielded her daughter's eyes, and then ran with her to a nearby home to call the police. Two detectives were assigned to the case, Harry Hansen and Finis Brown. By the time the duo arrived at the crime scene — on Norton Avenue between 39th and Coliseum Streets in Los Angeles. It was swarming with reporters and gawkers who were carelessly trampling the evidence. The detectives ordered the crowd to back off, they got down to business.

From the lack of blood on the body or in the grass, they determined the victim had been murdered elsewhere and dragged onto the lot, one piece at time. There was dew under the body, so they knew it had been placed there after 2 a.m. when the outside temperature dipped to 38 degrees. The victim's face was horribly defiled; the murderer had used a knife to slash 3-inch gashes into each corner of her mouth, giving her the death grin of a deranged clown. Rope marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she'd been restrained, and possibly tortured. By measuring the two halves of the corpse, the detectives estimated the victim's height to be 5'6” and her weight to be 115 pounds. Her mousy brown hair had been recently combed, and her fingernails were bitten to the cuticle. After calling the Los Angeles County Coroner to retrieve the body, the detectives were left with a daunting assignment: finding out who the woman was. In the 1940s, the police and the press lived in a symbiotic relationship. Reporters used the cops for inside scoops and the cops used reporters to disseminate information to the public that they hoped would help solve crimes. FBI technicians compared the prints with 104 million fingerprints they had on file, and quickly made a match to one Elizabeth Short. Elizabeth Short embodied the feminine ideal of the 40s, with her meaty legs, full hips and a small, up-turned nose. She was drama personified. She applied her ruby red lips & dyed her mousy brown locks raven black with white flowers in her hair. With her alabaster skin and startling light blue eyes, she looked like a porcelain doll. The provenance of her nickname is unclear. Some say her friends started calling her the "Black Dahlia" because of her fondness for the color black and in reference to a 1946 movie called "The Blue Dahlia". Whatever its genesis, the press ran with it, and doing so, made Elizabeth Short a legend.

Every time I opened her case file, things start running through my head. But no matter the number of theories, books and documentaries on the case, to this date it remains unsolved. No matter who considers themselves an expert on the case and who does not, the truth is that no one was ever charged for the murder of Elizabeth Short and, as far as we know, her death has never been avenged. She remains an elusive mystery from the dark side of Hollywood and the even darker side of the American landscape.

It was 1947 a day before the murder, in the cold winter of New York; there was a murder that was driving me crazy. As I walk down the New York streets alone, it’s about midnight. It was around the winter time that the piercing cold ate me up like a swarm of bugs. I couldn’t feel anything; my toes were like ice ready to break off like an Alaskan winter. As I swarmed into the bar for an ice cold beer, working under cold case files made me a madman in the making. As I sit down upon my seat the blood rushes everywhere, and my heart runs crazy. The bartender asks me if we caught murder that killed, Elizabeth Short. You see Elizabeth Short was, Born: 29 July 1924, Hyde Park, Massachusetts. I am here to tell her story. . .

On the morning of January 15, 1947, a housewife named Betty Bersinger was walking down a residential street in central Los Angeles with her 3-year-old daughter when something caught her eye. It was a cold, overcast morning, and she was on her way to pick up a pair of shoes from the cobbler. At first glance, Bersinger thought the white figure laying a few inches from the sidewalk was a broken store mannequin. But a closer look revealed the hideous truth: It was the body of a woman who'd been cut in half and was laying face-up in the dirt. The woman's arms were raised over her head at 45-degree angles. Her lower of half was positioned a foot over from her torso, the straight legs spread wide open. The body appeared to have been washed clean of blood, and the intestines were tucked neatly under the buttocks. Bersinger shielded her daughter's eyes, and then ran with her to a nearby home to call the police. Two detectives were assigned to the case, Harry Hansen and Finis Brown. By the time the duo arrived at the crime scene — on Norton Avenue between 39th and Coliseum streets in Los Angeles — it was swarming with reporters and gawkers who were carelessly trampling the evidence. The detectives ordered the crowd to back off, then got down to business.

From the lack of blood on the body or in the grass, they determined the victim had been murdered elsewhere and dragged onto the lot, one piece at time. There was dew under the body, so they knew it had been placed there after 2 a.m., when the outside temperature dipped to 38 degrees. The victim's face was horribly defiled: the murderer had used a knife to slash 3-inch gashes into each corner of her mouth, giving her the death grin of a deranged clown. Rope marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she'd been restrained, and possibly tortured. By measuring the two halves of the corpse, the detectives estimated the victim's height to be 5'6 and her weight to be 115 pounds. Her mousy brown hair had been recently hennaed, and her fingernails were bitten to the quick. After calling the Los Angeles County Coroner to retrieve the body, the detectives were left with a daunting assignment: finding out who the woman was. In the 1940s, the police and the press lived in a symbiotic relationship. Reporters used the cops for inside scoops and the cops used reporters to disseminate information to the public that they hoped would help solve crimes. FBI technicians compared the prints with 104 million fingerprints they had on file, and quickly made a match to one Elizabeth Short.

Elizabeth Short embodied the feminine ideal of the 40s, with her meaty legs, full hips and a small, up-turned nose. She was drama personified. She dyed her mousy brown locks raven black, painted her lips blood red and pinned white flowers in her hair. With her alabaster skin and startling light blue eyes, she looked like porcelain doll. The provenance of her nickname is unclear. Some say her friends started calling her the "Black Dahlia" because of her fondness for the color black and in reference to a 1946 movie called "The Blue Dahlia." Whatever its genesis, the press ran with it, and doing so, made Elizabeth Short a legend.

Every time I opened her case file, things start running through my head. I mean what kind of perv would ever think of doing that, ha it was almost a bad as the case where ten teen body’s hanging from tree guts n’ all removed perfectly. There was a sad looks coming from everyone when the story was being told, some other couldn’t handle the fact that it happened. It replayed over and over again in my mind, I could never forget the day when Elizabeth Short was disassembled by some freak that had the balls to kill and not be seen or heard of again. . .

i get up whenever

Dancing on the ballroom floor i see colors of two or three,as it starts to hit me i just want more and more.As i move to the middle of the floor the body touches isn't what it should be,he wants more i could care less.It's almost time to go and i give him the satisfaction that he needs,i'm getting tired and selling my soul to this man his where abouts unknown.It's midnight and we kick it to my place,his hands touched mine things started to get violent. As hit hand strikes and i start to crumble to the floor like a helpless solider in action.Tears arnt enough for this heartless boy,he likes to hit is witnesses until proven guilty.

v.2 55 word

Show No Mercy, Here Comes The Pain…

Do not join the others, they are deceivers, they are damned. Deep in the fire the monster slays
Laughing the constant whispers, killing me softly “Fire doesn't cleanse, it blackens”
Trembling inside, she’s the angel of death “Into the fire, she swallowed their hate.” as the church bells ring. No sleep, a soothing heartbeat mourns...

hahha yaaay [:

i luffles them i like love a bloody duffle bag :D

v.3 what i needed to say

The Bleeding Hearts Club

Your piercing eyes ate me up until there was nothing left

And I hate you for it

Hate is just a word kind of like this…

“Note To You I Hate You Terribly
This Is Not A Damn Tradgedy
Back Away From Me Away From Me
From Me [ha-ha yeah]”

Maybe it’s the ways you’ve threatened to kick my ass

When I was joking around with you

Taking my words seriously

Or just to get a rise outta me when I get real angry

before that I used to love and adore you

But using me wont get you places

Just like that one guy you had your eyes on for the longest time

Tall and handsome he was

Lying behind my back never worked

so I stand here screaming

“L-o-v-e's just another word I never learned to pronounce”

I sit and stare forever and a year and ask myself why?

Why should I even waste my time

It was funny how I just stood there and took so much of your sh#@

Like making up random feelings

And trying to make me happy

It ate me like acid

skin

leads down to the beating of a drum

with no soul left to wander

Some scars are easier to heal than most

Remember the ones you found lying on my body

Leaving crimson red tears

That never stop flowing

And now I’m begging myself to stop

But yours are the worst

I have so much left to say

It felt like you left me crazy and broken

Crazy

Is what I thought I lost my mind to

Broken

This Is what I should be feeling like

Taking every word you said

And throw them in your face…




Lyrics from my boys of:

Note to you By: Dot Dot Curve :)
Starstrukk by: 3oh!3

what lies beneath

My actions are a result of hurting you
I don’t want to hurt you anymore
Even myself
I hate it when I do dumb stuff
I feel like a failure
For being such a fool
And I still keep lying
And telling you that I’ll be okay
But everything’s not
I know who this isn’t fair for the both of us
It’s tearing me apart
And deep down inside
I want to say
I’m sorry, but I feel like sorry just doesn’t cut it
No matter what I do
I want to protect you from my own demons
Cause the scars do show
They show how my life need’s help
Until you see what’s inside
What’s inside of me is, a broken girl
Just trying to live her life
Happy
And painless
But how happy can I make myself
When I all I want is for you to be okay
As I lie awake, here in this bed
The acid burns a hole in my stomach
Deep down I just hold myself and cry
Until this storm subsides