THE MONROE GANG PART II

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Chara Kokkiou releases the demons from the souls of this weird and dark gang and bring the end of our noir drama story..                                

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Monroe Gang is a dark diamond of Literature,Photography and Fashion..a diamond so unique,

so passionate crafted by all the creators who i had the honour to contribute to this Conceptual Brand project.

The Monroe Gang is an example par excellence of what Aris Moskov loves to do,

of what we can create in Art & Fashion Industry, of what really High Art Production means for me...

I can name my services to Brands,Photographers, Writers and Models as a Soul Crafting, an Aesthetic Preach. 

And this Preach is for all and for no one, it depends on the understanding of me from you,

it is a Preach for the luxury few, the club, the elite , the minority who really love and work for the ART n' BEAUTY..

 

I will give my love again here to Chara Kokkiou, the writer, the fantastic friend, the excellent dark mind who elevated my Concept with this amazing fiction drama story.

I will hug with respect and love Maria Chatziathanasiadis, who created the fantastic images that host the words, the ideas, the figures of this gang..Her Photography is unparalleled!

Our Fashion designers too, Eleanna Katsira & Irini Louisa Andrikopoulou, who contribute the dresses and accessories of the Monroe Gang..

And of course to our stylist, mua artist,hair artist, assistant photographers,videographer..without them all the above words would never be real!

Last but not least my respect, love and admiration to our models..their cooperation and their disciplined performance allowed us to embodied on their persons the roles and images of our ART!

Enjoy the last PART and love the ART n' FASHION as ONE!

Aris Moskov

@chatziathanasiadis @revolutionisingaesthetics @lefkon_designerclothes @eleanna_katsira 

@kajsalindstedt @ubeslutsom @zhenya_vs @emmiethall @natasha_kout @marinosmilionis

 

 

 

ACT IV  First double murder: Carl and Paul

 

[Change of scene – Marilyn’s body lying on the floor, facing upwards. A little poetry never did anybody any harm, you guys! Especially if it is Nobel-prize winning. And Greek. Narrator]

                        And behold, total quietness ... Which is, above all, distance.

                        The necessary distance to justify a real life, a real existence.

                        Look at the naked girl. Look at her hair, her breasts, her thighs.

                        Almost everyone can see the obvious beauty,

                        but how many can grasp the notion of “ageless”?

                        How many can realize that,

                        beyond the earthly,

                        the visible charm,

                        there is an incarnation of perfection that knows how to avenge?

 

[Lights to the girls]

Grace: Carl. It’s weird, but I always knew something is wrong with this guy. Any clues on how he did it?

Irina: Yes, we got lucky on that. Didn’t I tell you? I found his diary. He describes every visit to Marilyn with absolute detail. I have it here, actually. Fatal injection. He was present when Paul payed the last visit, you see. It was all planned.

Grace: Can you read the page?

Irina: “I gave her the shot. With steady hand. Paul was there, by me. She left us abruptly, her naturally firm voice almost failing to speak those last words. Why, my friends? I had known her for several years; I treated her for more than a decade. I had seen her tested again and again, falling into crisis and getting over it, and my long experience, surprisingly, did not help me keep a distance from her. A distance from my patient, my friend even. But I was afraid. She was… I cannot simply describe it. I should certainly not have felt like this for another woman before. I should certainly not have felt like this for another patient. But she made me unsettled, uneasy, I was scared. With all these lovers, all these affairs. I was there for her, every single day, every minute of every day. I was sleeping in her bed sometimes. We were sharing thoughts, laughs, cries, moments. But she had this talent of totally ignoring me. She used to kiss me in this careless, superficial manner, which I despised. I hated her for that. I hated her so much that I couldn’t stop loving her; but I wanted her for me. And I hated me, I pitied me, a pathetic, sad person. And it is this piercing urge that really seized me every night; that turns everything bitter and ugly. Every face, expression, color. Every dream was turning into a nightmare. Every sleep into a horrible, horrible, insufferable experience full of sweat and spasms. She was eroding my mortality. I couldn’t help it. They said “do it” and I did. I just did. Simply. No doubts. One fatal dose. I should have been worried, afraid, I don’t know, somehow upset or irritated with my unreasonable state of mind. In my age, in my position, I should have known better; and I knew better. My one redeeming feature was that she was mocking me, while I made her immortal. Afterwards, I beat her at the face, at her legs, at the arms. I was into a frenzy, I was a mad person! But I gave her immortality, I did, and I felt free. At last, free!”

Grace: How shall we approach this pitiful man?

Irina: His wife is an old darling from college. I can easily get into their house.

Grace: You should go there yourself. More as a patient, less as a friend. Myself, I should deal with the other cold-blooded snake.

Irina: Paul? The Big Boys’ protector? The guy with the hazy memory? Well, he definitely knew a lot and he had too many secrets. More than he could handle. A dark figure.

Grace: They used to run, swim, eat together and talk for hours. He knew everyone in Hollywood and Monroe was easily impressed, of course. Indoor information gap filled straight from her housekeeper, thank you very much! When things got really tight he revealed Marilyn’s alleged last words to him: “Say goodbye to the president…and say goodbye to yourself, because you’re a nice guy.” Do you really believe this man? A mediocre actor, an unsuccessful manager with all sorts of Hollywood friends and acquaintances, a man who married to get into politics and become the helping hand of the soon-to-be president, a man who hated his parents and would do anything to move up the social ladder? Even now, he doesn’t care to tarnish Jack’s reputation and give it to the dogs provided he is exonerated.

Irina: He was also attracted to her, but she was never attracted to him, as far as I know.

Grace: Well, true, but he didn’t kill her for that. He killed her when his house of cards was about to collapse.

Irina: Let’s play then! I suggest that we should set up a stage. A crime of passion for our passionate doc, a crime to remember for her dearest snake.

Grace: Okay, since you’re taking the doctor, I have to be less inventive. What do you say for a long run in the park? He goes out very late, after work, usually on his own. I think I’ll join him tonight.

Irina: Sounds like a plan. We’ll meet again here after letting them collect our enchanted charms before the clock strikes twelve.

 

[We watch Grace and Irina’s preparations.

     Grace puts on a black pantyhose, a black dress with sweetheart neckline to emphasize her bust, peep-toe high heels, a bit of black eyeliner along the top eyelid, two coats of lash-lengthening mascara, red lipstick, Chanel no.5. and long, silky, black gloves to complete the look. 

     Irina puts on workout leggings, a black and white striped turtleneck t-shirt, running shoes and workout gloves (to improve her grip!).

     Suddenly the lights come off; when they come on again, we watch Grace half-naked, with red smeared lipstick on her lips, and several blood spots on her face and hands. She looks around and leaves quickly from the back door. As soon as Grace leaves the room, we see doctor’s diary open at the page of his terrible confession and placed on his chest. A woman’s scream is heard immediately afterwards.

       The lights to Irina, who keeps it simple and leaves Paul to the dogs, just as promised. She says: “Your knife – My back. My gun – your head”, turns on the other side and keeps running.]

 

[Narrator]

For the record, Marilyn’s last words to both of them were: “One day I’m gonna hurt you. I promise.”

ACT V Second double murder: Alfrede and Gabriel

 

[Narrator]

Anne and Marie were walking up and down in the dark room, while Grace and Irina were washing the death off their skins. It was about time they planned their next step. They seemed calm, but they were really trying hard to get their thoughts together. The clock struck 11. They felt that they were restored to consciousness in the right nick of time. An ode to Dickens, you see.]

 

Anne: Alfrede and Gabriel. Waging war against mafia? Well, it doesn’t sound like a piece of cake.

Marie: It can be extremely risky, we have to take care of every small detail wisely. But we’ll make it in the end.

Anne: I always had this rooted belief that I am prepared for almost anything. Now, I feel I am not prepared for nothing at all.

Marie: We’ll be fine, as long as the Ghostly Beauty keeps protecting us.

Anne: Tomorrow they are both called to testify about their relationship with Monroe and the Ks, you know that, right?

Marie: But they won’t be there, darling. We have done our research, we know their daily schedule, we can’t go wrong.

Anne: What happened that night? What do we know about them?

Marie: Well, these were clever enough not to leave any traces. Marilyn spent the night before her death at Fred’s lodge at the Lake in the company of the mob bosses.

Anne: What was she doing with them? Why did they kill her, how?

Marie: You know her. She was turning every day of her life into a challenge. They were rich and powerful and they hated the brothers, good enough reasons for her. They still do, actually. Rob was fighting to put Alfred in jail last year and Jack is in constant war against Gabriel. Monroe was the perfect weapon against the Big Boys, so they used it! After a savage party with a lot of alcohol and drugs, they took her to a room; she was wasted and she was laughing hysterically. After an intense ménage à trois, after marring the perfection of her skin, they gave her an hypnotic drug as an enema. They had already been using it in a number of brutal underworld killings. It was extremely effective, but with slow action and didn’t leave any traces in the stomach.

Anne: Where are they now?

Marie: Hopefully, sitting at their favorite restaurant after a long day of ... spilling blood for nothing? Let’s check the off menu specials for tonight!

Anne: And congratulate the cook!

Marie: We should be back before midnight, our night isn’t finished yet.

 

[We watch Marie and Anne getting dressed. They don’t wear anything evoking admiration. No makeup, flat shoes, a ponytail, wide clothes. They are off to Red Fox Restaurant. They go straight to the kitchen. The cook, Ellen, and old family friend, gives them access. She doesn’t bother asking anything, so they don’t bother explaining. They wash their hands thoroughly. Ellen is too busy supervising everyone that, thank God, she doesn’t have time to taste the “juicy” desserts before they reach the bosses’ stomachs. Chloral hydrate, it won’t leave any traces, same old story, let’s not hear it again... No blood this time, just an invisible substance injected by a pair of invisible hands in the rich layer of chocolate and served with a drop of revenge and a cherry on top. Revenge sounds mean, we prefer calling it “returning the favor.”]

 

ACT VI Last double murder: The Big Ks

 

[Change of scene – All the girls are sitting on the chairs around the table. They look … suspicious (Okay, I’ll say no more).]

 

Grace: I thought she loved Jack. At least that’s what she thought, too, but then we learned about her affair with Robby.

Irina: J. was in love with her. I am not quite sure about her. She certainly loved his mind. They were always meeting there, at Roosevelt, they were having discussions on literature, music, politics. They were talking about Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness style, Heidegger’s and Arendt’s love letters, René Char, Elvis, about his wife, his career, about Cuba. She always had a strong opinion about everything and they were usually arguing about everything. They were fighting a lot. They were laughing.

Anne: Did he treat her kindly? Was she happier with him than with her husband?

Marie: Seems so. He was writing long, romantic, letters to her, always sending them by morning post. All his letters started like that: Little / rose, / roselet, / at times, / tiny and naked, / it seems / as though you would fit / in one of my hands, / as though I’ll clasp you like this / and carry you to my mouth, / but / suddenly / my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips.

Grace: Pablo. Always charged with sensuality, with passion. As was she.

Anne: But Jack was cruel in the end. He chose to save his ass. He was a cynic and he cannot be forgiven, he shouldn’t, right? He didn’t even show up for a final goodbye. He rested on his brother’s shoulders even for this, our beloved, intelligent, unscrupulous president!

Marie: His brother was worse, but she was more into him. Because she loved pleasure and he is, indeed, very handsome. She was locked into this beauty: after having sex with Rob, she was leaving this sexual pleasure to overwhelm her body for a few moments. Until she was rejecting it; above all, she didn’t want to show any weakness, she was Queen. She was always whispering to him when he was asleep: “oh, my future life is your face – asleep.” After that, her hands were covering every inch of his body. These were simple moments of greatness, elegance, originality.

Grace: It’s true. She was obsessed with him. She knew that he was not like his brother, not so intelligent, not so kind, not so faithful … to her. He was young, ambitious, indecisive, he was in fact playing, he couldn’t treat her the way she deserved. When she went through the streets and everyone screamed her name and everyone stared at the carpet of gold she used to pass, “the nonexistent carpet,” right Pablo? He couldn’t see all that. And he was a cynic, too. He killed her along with his brother.  There are the letters, you know? There are photos. Eye-witnesses. He went there the day of her death, to tell her she was leaving her? That he and his brother have been watched by too many people: FBI, mafia, paparazzi. That it was over and that she was over? She was over. She was over. She was over. I don’t know how many more times he repeated it. She gave her a small bottle of pills (from him and his brother) and a passionate kiss goodbye (from him and his brother). She left her no choice. The brothers, ah, the Big Boys.

Marie: I know Jack’s bodyguard, Pete. The one he escorts him everywhere. He is cute and sufficiently naive. I don’t think he ever sleeps, you know?

Irina: Good, let’s use that. Call him. And meet him tonight after his shift. He will be glad to see you after so many years!

Anne: What about Rob? What’s the connection there?

Irina: Oh, that I can handle. I know him personally. He was always very fond of my high heels ... and my hotel’s room. I have his number. Trust me, I’ll be fine.

Marie: It has to be done the same time. Quickly and silently; in the middle of the night. We’ll meet up here after everything’s done, for the grand finale!

 

[Narrator]

    Marie and Irina put on their red dresses that matched the color of their lips, très chic black strappy stiletto heels, long, silky, black gloves (of course) and left.

    Marie was quick. She stole the keys from John’s pant’s pocket. That was so easy, everyone knows the geography. She sneaked into the Whitehouse, found the President sitting at his desk, all alone, writing and drinking scotch. He was calm. She didn’t let him talk. “I’ll do the talking this time, sir. You will hear about the sun leaving its plough to fall in with the liar. I don’t need to go public, sir!” Two bullets: head and chest. The rest is history.

    Irina was equally effective; but she took her time. Before shooting him, in the Ambassador, she whispered some verses, for Marilyn’s love, for old times’ sake. Oh, this smile: “Through the lengths of summer’s brightness, he will weave amidst shadows, through midnight’s shutters. // There are no eyes to hold him. His whole being is his voice. A rifle is going to shoot him down. Just like the heart.”

The rest is blood. And history.

 

 

[Loud music/noise] Breaking News: President dead. President is killed. This morning, President J K left us.

 

 

[Music/noise fading] Continuing is even simpler: R K SHOT. Dead from wounds.

A sort of epilogue

 

[The whole gang is in the room. Flashback from Monroe’s death scene. Narrator]

There she lay, unconscious that we were looking at her – quiet, more quiet than we had dared to accept. Pale, white, pure. Her eyes closed: the traces of tears glistened between her eyelids. A telephone lay on the table at her bedside. We waited a moment, looking at her from behind her pillow, as she lay beneath us, with one arm and hand hanging on the white coverlid, so still, lifeless. We waited, looking at her, as we have seen her thousands of times, as we shall never see her again. Our goddess. Our inspiration. With all her beauty, with all her heart. Leave her this way. For it heightens her form, the energy of her spirits. Leave her in character.

 

[Return to the day of vengeance. Grace]

The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no one in the house really knew how it passed. The confusion of events, all huddled together one on the other, bewildered everybody. We were all needlessly hurried.

 

[Here and now: a last tribute to Wilkie Collins. Narrator sitting on his desk, an open journal in front of him]

On looking back, I find myself always regretting for every little thing in my life. I always thought my whole life was wrong. Wrongly lived. My thoughts, my texts, my efforts were wrong. At least trifling, inessential, negligible. Illusions merely. I am entirely conscious of how little I have understood of the significance of whole tracts of this story. In the turn events have now taken, I must and will free myself from the shadows. I will break myself of this unworthy tendency, even though the effort should force me to close my journal. I will write no more. But, should I forget?

The sound

                                                of the waves of beauty and revenge

                                                                        is heard

                                                                                                                        by the trembling of eyes

                                                                                                                                    before the tears.

 THE END.

 

 
 
                               
 

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