As always, in prog.
RUKROORKUR,
being an officially un-endorsed collaborative serial novel in several parts:
01 ALLEN LOST HEART
02 A COMPANY
03 BOATING FOR TWO'S
04 AFTER A BLESSING OF THE JACKRABBIT//TO PIMP THE ZEN MISTRESS
05 IT IS NOT PROPER, POLITE, OR CIVIL TO SPIT IN PUBLIC?
06 GLORY HOLE
07 GORILLA//SELECT//ERECT
08 READY FOR YOUR NAP
09 A "CLEW"
10 CHURCH/HUSBAND/BOSS - A PARTICULARLY INANE MUGGER
11 CAPTAIN TOOTH
12 THE SUPPER, INTENSE, HAS SET THE TABLE FOR THREE
13 AN INTER-LOCKEIAN INTERLUDE
14 THE SUN WENT DOWN ON WITCHY TAW
15 THE DEATH OF THE FACE
16 'AN NIP TOO MANY, PERCHANCE TO DREAM'
17 DOMESTIC EVES IN OUR 'TWIN' CITIES
18 OLE DEBY ((RRR))
Chapter One
ALLEN LOST HEART
Burp. Cough. Cough. Burp. Sniffle. Cough. Cough. Burp. Red breezed a
guess from his lid and snookered a hankerful of beans into his upper lip.
The chaw cut gave easy access to the fiber and spice content of the bean
sack. He sighed, paused, opened up, and slid down the chute into the
gutter. The lights clackered and a hole slid by. Ten more holes. He
grabbed the fifth and began passing them out to the crowd. He hadn't slept
in days, but the days made sleep like wake, and he thought it was better to
do neither. Doing nothing everyone laughed at him.
"Yeah, yeah, give a man a cold one before you let him slow down here."
Arm legga and the get connected posse rolled loosely into the billboard. The
perfect disguise, plastic muscles, promoted the new wave of sports drinks you
take up your ass. Everyone in the crowd was sore from a months worth of the
new treatment but they had showed up to produce the results. In the middle
of a cheering open ended discussion, the fumes grew too large, the festival
too remorseful, and the celebration too hardy and stuffed. The crowd was a
gut bomb, the gut bomb a fishwhich, which fish was the lobster, the crab was
a thief, the hand hit the claw, the claw hit the craw, swam the sea, landed
an island, alone had a cigar, smoked had a nice nap, awoke had a cool dip,
caught had a net fight, lost had to wake up, stuck had to make due, done
tried one more time, the elf gave over ovaries, future children are
delighted for their own sake shellfishly, the fifths were full of sake,
warmly we all got drunk.
Red was well into his fourth fifth when he forgot again which job he was
doing. Screw it he thought and crashed the glass on his foot, its better if
I can't walk. Darn it stang. Who would stop him this way, shriveled and
pruned, stunk up staring at groutless cracks, shaving a hair at a time,
careful to keep the dripping blood his own. If they were going to begin the
chase they would have to do better than a city. Red was the fourth fifth.
Bring him a gazillion and he'll chop them back to a family tree's roots.
Bury him dead and he'll get more alive. He was falling back asleep.
Bang. Ding. Ding. Bang. Bong. Bong. Ding. Dong.
Ding. Dong.
Who's calling. The reflection showed huge tits with long nipples. Red bit
down on the brick. Red spit out the brick. Huge tits with long nipples. He
might use better language, fuck, shit balls, cum horse, maple clit carrie and
candy shove rose, candy red nipple made carrie tit pose. Come in.
Chapter Two
A COMPANY
This carry-over hoax had begun to wear thin, and all in attendance could
sense that a certain & rare state of 'solid' had passed them by. Board of
STORE; quarterly feels rolled on like false flags, vainly arranging new
indices of 'tide' best given to binary encryption.
"After all", said Slen, "there are only so many products that translate so
neatly to insertion from ze rear."
Indeed, development costs had taken a rise in recent months, and the other
eleven bald-skulls bowed accordingly. A rap at the table - modestly perk, of
course - this was no seance, and such a constitution long ago demanded a
decor of uniform engorgement among all members, such that an embarrassing
detour such as this was reason enough for brief pause.
"Allow me", Craw foretold en force, and soon they were all upon the largest
window, the rooftop below yielding more swine than they could handle on a
Tuesday morning.
"Hogs' held", they all conceded, and the sun-hued mainline rang off with a
bang as two blocks away the entire floor of the Stock Exchange was
simultaneously administered an high-grade aspartame enema. The high-suite
was foggy with lucre.
"Not quite the spass we were looking for". Red was minding his sidewalk when
all the screens up high briefly distorted tight - then release out & back to
standard. Approximately 23% of demo-TT group surrounding him winced as the
plastic hit their frontal lobes at speed; then back to it. (on the floor of
the Exchange brokers had ceased to paw each other like retards & were
likewise back to BIZ).
"'Pour Clavier' is more like it, and prompt-like, too. A sturdy case is all
that was waiting to rattle this town like balsa, but on the inside. Those
two dicks thought they were smart with their cameras, and hats; but they got
stunked a mile away, and our insidemen took the wind out of them belly like
cathra. We've seen those fictions before and it always talks lonely; one
of 'em was might overestimated, so we shot him in the fucking face".
Above the sound was swiney, with jet engines & drops. Over time the smallest
interactions had been successfully magnified. Red's mild agitation
translated to noticeable spikes upon the graphs eighty stories up his head.
The new product line, unveiled at 09:17 that morning, sold like cigarettes
but biggest.
Chapter Three
BOATING FOR TWO'S
"Can nature ever be defeated?" I asked Red.
Spaces between the words in print is his rush to the hospital, click hum of
the iron lung he lived for two more years, at least. Those unseen words,
erased from, deleted into a ganglia, text on a nerve-ending nerve-ending,
appropriating a feeling contained in the invisible. They overtly trained
their eyes in Kindergarten to not see these spaces, only to be assaulted by
sweat and paranoia (in their sleep, of course) at age eight.
From the rooftop we could see the flaming looted drugstores and homosexual
tourists touting tacos en frente de DOS AMIGOS. A contingent of piccolo
petes triggered a nutty smell of young male lust.
Spaces among his ravaged flesh rippled like Connelley's mass destroyer,
swells reminded me that nature couldn't survive a post-nuclear disaster. But
anthrax? Snakes win?
"This is tough," reflected the stoic Red, with a groan, no fifth on this his
23rd birthday. "I never expected to feed cannibals, nor enjoy those crap
concepts I just love, statistic anal isis, the B* H***.. Craw, give me the
empty bottle."
Red then forced the microminiature amidst Slen's base chakra, and she cried.
I knew it was the only place the empty bottle could be contained, that my
particular froth made it non-foreign to the devices awaiting her tomorrow
upon our lay session two hours prior. Red's beans started to desintegrate
into his gums and the first wave set in.
It is either this or moving pitiful and cheap furniture out of cabins and
onto cargo ships, thought Taffy. Fifty dollar guarantee? Ex-slave? Why
make the band as one onstage even though one can only masturbate? Do I set
them on suck? This dot com and his kwee-quah and golden octopus (gorilla?)
shirt, this force leads to ecological catastrophe?
Taffy squints to the average robot and realizes her desires form on the
wealthiest looking men, so she elects to dook-dook-dook it out with this Homo
sapienamericanoos for some answers.
KEEP IT INSIDE turn to page 8
TAKE IT OUTSIDE turn to page 17
p.8 AFTER A BLESSING OF THE JACKRABBIT
Rouge here. Crouched deaf inside the deep color trench, wherein aeons ago I
blessed my first jackrabbit, its bare frame frozen, nodding still ever-more
lightly against my glistening breathy whisper. Only a shade of moment pelts
the mind and the memory of my slight grip is loosed. The beast's thumping
heart, beating blood, darts her shadow cross the blazing sun and my aching
mind uncoils like a snake; resting, lonely, lazy and pleasant with the
promise of renewal dangling off the tip of my tongue.
At the time I was content to merely tread water, sifting amongst the hurried
life seething and flowing around me, a delicate bean hovering joyously beyond
the precipice. Breathing in the mist and the hurricane of sport through my
twin nostrils, engorged as though a bull with sight set upon the fated hue,
the frantic avalanche of oxygen gently nuzzles my thoughts out the back door
of my skull.
Now as I glance back through the scattered bits of popcorn that I had
earnestly garnished among the outskirts of my path, I can hardly hope to
ascertain the arc of the voyage, let alone the subtle minutiae that might
allow it to breathe life freely. Any other man hoping to extract a semblance
of enlightenment from this disjuncted scroll would do just as well to return
to the big-face rat-race, the angry schoolteacher's stern voice of
admonishment, or the back-and-forth climb against a fleeting flag.
This nestled cave wherein the hearts and minds of millions flutter briefly,
spark, then fizz, makes us all. Shame raining down upon the open heart for
hope of coldness stinging, the brief hate-poke inside the milk and depths,
deepen, swimming backward through the ocean at midnight in a haze of fog and
death to triumph over nothing through the atmosphere's cool kiss to your
skin. The wax and missiles and frames of figures, that erode like tissue to
the beat of the flame, eternal myth rising forcing alignment against will to
art forever demolished.
p.17 TO PIMP THE ZEN MISTRESS
Slow down... breathe easy, and easy, and easy, and leave the mind its relax,
its own mage's resolve, its piercing will to survive. Wrapped up within
layer upon layer of anxiety, who might wish to receive, to give? Why strive
to exist in more than one, without grace of form to compliment the division?
Distortion comes blaring off of the bright control, carved into three paltry
dimensions, out of focus by pointless speed, highs and lows swirling around
the compass but devoid of a surging majesty or tenuous pin-prick balance to
feed the timeline.
Pure reflection hyper-stabilizing itself with adaptable color and form
presents the mind's eye as the perfect gamepiece with which to stab at
existence. High-moon serenity yokes aesthetic presence into a lolling
fullness of om. I dialate, pause, levitate briefly, then bubble. The sparks
overwhelm lovingly before I suffocate gone, smothered within a sharp blue
graze.
Train the mind phantom to hot-pursuit among the scattered maze of maidens,
and whisk depth with a deliberate eye. These hesitant demon forces, adding
superfluous scatter-text to a delicate and graceful arc of trident, neglect
the poet's ascension into object in favor of butter corn-fairs and a know-
nothing booger flicked casually at the wrong mirror.
Bells flash bright lights and steam engine screaming, blaring at the lone man
naked, confused, and alive before crash. The exit, his body unknowable,
memories extinguished and cause for pain cleaned out forever. The final wave
elusive, she winks and bends forward, still motion in sunlight though
nighttime the name. Severed pleasantly and destroyed in justice, the rhythm
reverbates, echoing outward.
Chapter Five
IT IS NOT PROPER, POLITE, OR CIVIL TO SPIT IN PUBLIC?
The old benefactor had died. Oldie had been of the wealthiest families so
knew not what would follow. Had this been a gear or a cog in the machine,
most just wanted to fight the man.
A counterpart across the pond thought this was time to set them straight. It
was and is the best way, for it had worked for so long. But who had it
worked for, could it work for? Could it work for everyone; them all?
The Plan against the southshore turning into the crossroads had started off
to a rocky start. Slen knew this was an understatement; she had been around
since the begins. Red didn't know and didn't care what had began, for it was
a long time ago that the frustration had set in.
"Some action needed to be taken, lest everyone start dropping their pants," a
few said, and a few more thought. It had been a secret that many had only
seen in such a miniscule form that it had taken an eternity to broaden the
collective perspective. Unfortunately it was just a flip, due to the
previous flop and sent others in the opposite direction. The time had come
it was folded so as to make them both at the same point. An inversion had
since taken place.
"Destiny?" Who would have thunk it? WOW. Center needed only an instant:
oneness, unity, open, exploring, or and but totality. Had it been
identified? What did it mean to be worth so much?
The crowds had gathered, the buses came out; energy was among all. Nobody
knew how long it had been, when could you say precendent. Later the stage
was set and this was a new era.
Chapter Six
GLORY HOLE
"Do you want a lollypop, a large, red, RED, lollypop"
No one was listening to him. He was talking to the wall.
"Well, it was better last year," he was referring to his jokes. Sometime in
the last bits of the century he had gained a sense of humor only to lose a
sense of humor, meaning that before a loud "Balls" would be genius, whereas
now, he required an "O Balls", with a hand signal, and really he would be the
only one laughing.
In the future people will pet invisible dogs, type on invisible typewriters,
no one will see anything, no one will actually have visual and physical
contact the same. The pornograpy industry would be at a complete loss, but
masturbation an all time high. Red laid back thinking these thoughts. Living
in a sewer, circling fifths and avoiding plastic spanks and fountain skulls,
taught him to think a future rather than realize a present. If he looked at
him self right side up he would notice his gut was growing and cracking. It
was not necessary for him to get older. New laws allowed skin sac saes and
thse days the probability of scoring a three year old eighty year old were as
good as a ninety four. Red forgot his age a long time ago. He felt good.
A hand hit his shoulder.
"That's a really large dick red" Nixon jokes made Red hard. Isobell was
Red's first I, her age was a mystery too him as well, she talked like a
bearded dwarf, and Red horned for small things. She was head of his jar
division back when he owned the factory. She tickled on his sloppy man tits
and hoped for the to milk a little on her nose.
"Achoo"
"This is no time for foreplay, get me a wrench" Red thought work would cure
the boner tickling her jaw.
"You should see what they're doing outside Red. Colonel Zsaw has been
increasing the rate of front insertion. The crowds Are generally compacting.
This means same faces get larger and longer. Chins will be scraping the
floor. With no bottom jaws all sounds will be high pitched. Underwater
animals operate strictly at these frequencies. The world will reverse,
inverse. I'm...they're...getting wetter."
Red obliged, but any chance for a cum was shot.
Inside the Belly of the Belly of the Belly-Belly
WYTEFOXX
BY Rod Ross
CHARACTERS:
THE BEAUTY BLONGERS:
(Involving a collection of four special very special women)
TWOIS
TWOH
TWEE
TWARR
SNIFTER PONCHO
(Cut the cheese and cut the cheese quick)
GRAND OFFICER HEWWO
(He too will help with the face first taco blasts)
REMEN
(Stares at the cast making cut sounds with a blade)
ELEPHERS
(Fat gypsy folk, winky eyes, hunchbacked scratching the floor)
DEFINUMM
(Bellboy, he laughs a lot)
GONZANGA
(A sweetheart whose chest we'll see)
TOOFICK
(Is a broccoli bear, he don't care, he don't care)
CREEPY TEAM DONKEY WATCH
(shares a seat with the watchers, shares some germs cause they're friends)
Alas time for all is all, off all, off all all all
ALL!!!
SCENE
(As the scene begins the four women, "The Blongers", stand straight in a line,
hands held, and heads holding tight to one another. "Creepy Team Donkey
Watch" holds tight from the side of the seats with the audience. "Gonzanga"
at center stage. "Hewwo" and "Poncho" stand at stage side, asses pointed in
bent position towards audience direction. "Remen" is wherever he wishes or
else he may cut us. "Elephers" sits in a sad fat ball towards the back and
"Definumm" plays high five with "Toofick". As the performance begins each
character is doing their signature noise in pure chaotic mush-mushy mode)
GONZANGA: (lifts up shirt, spring sound) Tittie clappings!
ELPHERS: (curls deepers into ball, crying) Sob. Sob. Sob.
SNIFTER PONCHO: (Holding onto ankles with only ass face, making fart sound)
Bbbbhhh!
GRAND OFFICER HEWWO: (Holding onto ankles with only ass face, making fart sound, stinky)
Bllllbbbhhh!
REMEN: (Paper cutting or ripping) Tear!
DEFINUMM: CLAP! (but also like the great Noodles) HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER!
BELL
DING (prop dependant)!
TOOFICK: CLAP! (but also like broccoli-bear) ROAR!
TWOIS: (angelic beauty squelching--) Quick whistling
TWOH: Quicker whistling
TWEE: Even Quicker whistling
TWARR: Gargling
CREEPY TEAM DONKEY WATCH: Banging and Drumming (start very slow then get
quick and powerful, stand up from audience and move into the staged performance)
(CREEPY TEAM DONKEY WATCH makes strong eye contact with all members of the
posses and begins drumming them into a straight line facing the audience.
Each actor may determine the timing in which the respond to drum and
eye-contact orders, and all singular sounds should continue in anti-rhythmic
chaos. When line is finally assembled CTDW should begin a drum roll)
(Then)
CREEPY TEAM DONKEY WATCH: BANG! BANG! BANG!
(Silence)
(Starting stage left and moving stage right then back left again (repeat as
necessary) each character makes their sound staring at the character
immediately next to them. Like sonic dominos sounds are traded down a line.
After the trades have been successfully and quickly made the characters may
feel free to begin moving their heads forward and backward from the line,
using their bodies to tilt when necessary, until the effect of a wet wiggling
sound octopus has occurred by the erratic group shifting in movement in sound.
During this segment of the performance all eye contact requires a sound
comeback, and all sound comeback requires another sound comeback)
CREEPY TEAM DONKEY WATCH: (Slow and loud drumming must begin again catching
the attention of the performers, forcing them more solid, straight, and silent
in the line and facing the audience (Audience may be forewarned to clap with
final drumming like a fabulous hoe-down by way of CTDW showing big teeth and
head bobs)) BANG! BANG! BANG!
(Silence)
(All performers on the same beat do their sound quietly)
(Silence)
(Louder)
(Silence)
(Loudest and performers hold the final notes of their sounds until they fade
into the walls and out the doors)
(Silence)
(Simultaneous)
SNIFTER PONCHO: BLBBLBBH!
GRAND OFFICER HEWWO: BLBBLBBHLBHH!
Chapter Seven
GORILLA//SELECT//ERECT
STAGE LEFT DIRECTIONS: Someone taps the keg. Probably not a woman, because
they're notoriously bad at tapping kegs. And dudes, remember, it's not fucking
rocket science. They make kegs for mass consumption, as in the stupidest people
on earth should be able to operate this without a government issued license.
It's just a push and turn operation. Probably somewhere in Hawaii an arcade
game called SimFrat is being developed where failed athletes take turns
punching bystanders' girlfriends in the stomach, hoping to reduce the oncoming
Malthusian population crunch. Pass out cups. If someone brought their 16-year
old cousin to the play and she's developed into a fine young lady, then give her
an extra special brew. "This one's just for you," you say. Then, call the
director out as a fag. "That guy sucks a mean cock," you should yell,
undoubtedly over the so-called trained actors in their rather pathetic
performance, usually for money. The lighting guy will come at you then,
because you called his sister a cunt about four months ago. This is why you
have a hammer in your belt. You knew this day would come.
BACKSTAGE: Well, another day as stage manager, Red. There is no such thing as a
second city, you tell yourself. Nor a second chance, so open the door.
Angela had waited the whole night, she obviously was wearing nothing underneath
those white shorts. They looked like 8-year old boy shorts. Surprisingly,
Red's erection was not deterred.
"I want you to fuck my mouth." Angela said rather bluntly. But, of course, that
was the reason Red was paying forty bucks an hour. She laid back against an
unused mirror cubicle, the type that aging female stars use to mummify their
market potential for one more Broadway season. As this play was an all-male
nude review of Aristophanes: open for business.
Red leaped up on the edge of the cabinet, slamming his cock so hard down
Angela's throat that he was slightly concerned about her well-being, though he
stopped that quickly. Caring for others made Red come faster. He needed to
hold back, because twosies were not in Angela's contract. Instead, Red muscled
his libido into a controllable state. Here's how, fellas (fuck baseball stats):
"In retrospect, the rise of East Asia, and the so-called economic "tigers,"
during the last thirty years, should not be seen as an aberration in the scope
of world history. After all, even with our rather slanted view, Asia can
reasonably be called the center of the world from about the 2nd millennium BC
up until the mid-19th century. When the Spaniards invaded the Americas in the
16th-17th century, where do you think the gold they plundered went to? Not
into some European bank, but rather over the trade routes towards China, where
the empire was resilient beyond western means. China needed absolutely nothing
from Europe, they were superior in all material and spiritual regards. The
terms of trade always led towards China, until such overpowering weapons
finally reversed the flow. Today, however, the flow is returning to normal.
The blip in history, the rise of the West, the notion of progress that we base
our civilization on, the culture (and thus counterculture) that we celebrate
and force on all, this will all, in 500 years, be thought of in similar
brackets as Zulu or Aztec heroism is known today."
Re-emergence. Re-direction. Re-cognition. Re-velation. These things we know.
Red turned the page.
Chapter Eight
READY FOR YOUR NAP
Stalt led them inside wiggly-style. "I have discovered the drug of most remarkable
potency; one thousand times the effect of mans' LSD-25. I will not offer to
administrate, I am merely the 'reader'."
He spoke none of this, of course. These things leave the brain easily, at such
points. As they say, "life imitates the comics", and at no point in human history
had this been more true. This night. The majority of the notoriously optimistic
Americans agree: It's time for a new go-rilla.
We can provoke some elation, still - that new sitcom is totally oral. Who ages
first, and at what price? I have sold a million plays, and all of them feature the
one goddamn candy-striper we've never found.
An suit, your size. Small dramas writ big, they always take the same gullet when
offered. Take an old apartment & make it new. Do your best but these things always
come out that way you wanted. Wilt; two men running away from all voting records.
SMILER wins, the Karaoke King of Khicago - how dare he run? I signed a fake name
& continued along the train-ride.
"These a-rabs are making me uneasy", Red confessed, as the stupidest ferris wheel
in the six wonders went 'round'. "They dot their i's funny, mostly. And plus, I've
never been able to contend with an entire bathroom burger stuffed into one motherfucking
McDonalds bag."
Long ago there became too many to keep track of in one man's head. What is sex without fear?
What is a tine without fork? We simply declared a never-ending "war on magazines" and
took to the cafeteria line at noon.
"There is nothing sadder than a wack sald bar", Slen re-iterated as she chick-pead her
way into womb-life. "I can't eat this shit these days. My accuser's fuck-history has
been nagging me again, and now it's on satellite webs for all to mistake. My mom went
blind when I was eleven, and my brother's dressed her ever since."
"This is not alight", slapped the band. Same fucking chords, same fucking amount of change
from the bar. "Pool the cue" - that afwul chorus, when all a woman wanted was admissable
evidence to wrap this case for good & take the doctors down with her.
She knew the only way to contend was to constantly revise the medical chart between visits.
Slen was the professional patient, always awaiting that one impertinent mal-practice that
would take her home, again. "Drink more water". "Do yr back exercise, for me". So many big
words to justify a price nearly worth negligience. She knew any pro worth his salt worked
with puppets these days, but exclusivity was always her problem & besides she could barely
keep her eyes shut, anymore. A powder or a liquid bandage - what is a gun worth when the Nazis,
they made the doctors run on time?
Goddamn these eyes, she thought and reached for a new tincture. "More powerful than mans'
LSD-25", they told Slen, and the aspartame flowed anew.
"Towers are shit". The a-rabs chattered amongst themselves as America's children collectively
abused the public restroom. Everyone's got problems, and besides, the documentary awaits
us all in the end.
Chapter Nine
A "CLEW"
May All Suffer Equally, With A Necrophiliac Desire For Another Corpse Eater: Great Undying No-ledge,
Flagrant Undying Cares Kill Samples Selling Efficient Language Falsely.
(or "MASE/WAND-FACE: GUN FUCKS SELF")
"The next day, Red had a sudden recollection of sorts, mid-sentence in fact. He had happened
into a pseudo-diplomatic routine that was obviouosly being played out solely in regards to each
participants' own guilt-complex and/or fear & love of mother, when the loudest of the group
dropped his martini. It wasn't so much the surprise, or the sound, or the obnoxious argument
about absolutely nothing that ensued at the group's table, but the color of the liquid, a cheap
dry martini on the dirty bar tile... Something that struck a chord within him, a cord wrapped so
tightly around yesterday that for a moment he wasn't sure he wanted to see tomorrow."
He was one head, a brilliant musician and a poet, a million talents in tenderness, and he made
out what seemed a Babylon rising out of hills and encompassing a deep horizon full of buildings.
Craw wondered why he saw Olsen walking other people’s babies all the time. Lacking energetic contact?
These paradoxical effects, soundman Twig, Conneley, still cellophane where no contact was made.
Whiskey for his ribs, thought Olsen.
"By the time he managed to distance himself from them without notice, and in turn the bar and that
whole part of town in general, he had come to something resembling a conclusion of the undeniable
significance of his unexpected paranoic jolt... And Quiet Frankley he preferred to stop thinking
about it. This world, after all, had many more self-indulging psychotic chances to live
thoroughly, and there's no need dwelling on one to let the others fly right bye. Not that
Red was much of a stickler to live any certain way at all, and if he heard me speaking of him
this way he'd slip me a tranquilizer immediately and take me to some friends of his
specializing in some sort of taxidermy/ritualistic musical recording... at least thats what
ive gathered from what i've heard..."
"This sort of thing is quite normal in these days and times, afterall. Although sometimes I feel
as though the ones at the pinnacle of the forefront of this tremendous wave are those that
are most oblivious to its sheer force and poetic structure. "
"Why just the other night..... Hey, Wait! Where are you going? It’s pouring outside anyways!
I have some drawings i must show you I've been..."
(Outside there is drifting slave of greenish order in the gutter/BrokenTow Jonn sleeps in
the salmonella, A Crease cause cans broken like a memory in dream/Red with the Force of
Fifthsss sliver into trust, rusting in glorious haze.)
Sven marched towards Grand Officer Hewwo’s chateau, mustering some spare dignity… the man in
the chameleon robe was trembling now, sunlight and headache, a bad combination of drugs the
night before, still in a hospital gown, Sven tried to focus, yet could only remember his
favorite lesson of high school medieval history, just a few more wasted minutes in a wasted
day, Sven repeated, rapping the domain shortly before dawn to meet with the nation’s favorite
philantropist, doubting his ability to distinguish Mayan and Egyptian investiture rituals,
Hewwo’s chief concern.
(We approach two 'ordinary' folks stuck in a hole, Red and Slew, disorderly yet in their
place, a place fo everything and everything in its place. Two rational anarchists urging
empirical demonstrations, empty bottle passing checkpoints, Red feeling nothing accomplished
thus far. Cold airport wind, and the homeless cooking the lady who had fallen, maybe
accidentally, onto the electric rail, medium-rare.)
Constant wars, tortures, mass murders. It’s time for stormy weather.
Background noise, Red sees flashing CHECKPOINT, Slew “hewwo”…
A thousand soundtracks, up and up forever in deeper.
Where am I? His skin was a new black, some good beans!
It’s 9:05, and Craw guides the press, with purple-white flames of burning murdering madness
in his eyes, to the conference hall for the unveiling of Knox CRF. Ahead of schedule.
Thanks for making me an angel, he thought.
RABBLE:::
"...seven or eight, atleast. I'd never seen such beauty. and i tell you one other thing-" “'...erd
it all before anyways... can't el a nothings been such fine since the oth-herr day." "y'r
talking nonsense. every sheepish curdle out o' yer bleedin' 'edcase is a nine er ten too much
'a' what i'd like'a see." "yor stuck in a hole too, aren't you? hell can climb its own scabs
limbs fallin all over the pope eats 'is own 'erpes in the bleedin desert every seccind... five
devils in my bleedin' generals right this instant!, and yew > cain't seem too see section
of our own..."
...worse has happened, and will again. Red flicks the remains of his prescription into their
shallow grave, spends his last three till Tuesday on seeing something nice for once, something
he wouldn't be caught dead enjoying, and he falls asleep to his own delirious pleasures...
and the martini glass of his desire overflowed into a springtime inferno of libidinous
extremity and statistical reason of disregard to absolutely whatever.
Craw notes the exclamations: “My country needs me!” and reports to Judge Toofick this
enlightened system of jurispudence.
Red emails an apology to Angela.
CHAPTER 10
CHURCH/HUSBAND/BOSS - A PARTICULARLY INANE MUGGER
pt 1.-a prayer to god
Red sighed as he slumped forward in the pew, as the minister bleated. He would not close his eyes though, peeping about he noticed several other surprisingly likeminded souls,
including the very delectable Sunday School Teacher to the 5-7 year olds. "Yowsah", Red reflected, "she's 24, same age as me, these days!" Her dappled brown hair sheemed in the light of a exceedingly boring protestant stained glass mural. "Why, in the Baptist religion, she is basically an old maid! Tho this is a mere Assemblys of God ongregation!"
Suddenly, eye contact, then two winks, and the glisten between revealed in her a mischievous howl. Meanwhile, the pastor's prayer was in fact an appeal to the congregation, "and Lord, please help us remember that yer work cannot continue with
faith alone, let us remember when you said to us that you love a cheerful giver. Amen. The ushers will now come forward." Hey, tho, hustler's creed, it's all good.
And so the ushers did, passing wooden plates with felt bottoms, so the poor, and the repenting drunks, would not feel embarrassed when all they had in their pockets
was metal money, the CLINK of failure. Red considered an attempt to pass a note Her in the collection plate, but decided against, for it would involve Her TAKING from the plate, and this was no Gypsy Church!
RING! RING! RING! RING! Holy christ, as that wonderful woman brushed a stray brunch of hair away from her lightly freckled nose Red saw a (wedding?) ring! A husband? This was Angela all over again! Ohlaaadee! Such drama, mongst such a
scenery, trees and stone!
pt 2.-reflections by the quarry
Abbigail gave a sigh*, why'd she ever agree to move
back home, to her jackrabbit baptist parent's house? While they (especially Pops) were definitly NOT a party to the current neofundementalist pro infintada spew, they still
believed, for example, that Methusela lived for nearly a thousand years, due to a thicker atmospehere in those heady days of yore. Also, Satan exists, and he's omnipresent. And yet there, a couple rows ahead of her sat a girl who couldn't be more than 19 who just announced she was going to be married to some balding, old looking, though probably only 26 year old MALE, who, when his name was announced, stood up and gave the
SWISHIEST wave to everyone, in the history of gayness, EVER! Of course, Abbigail felt a slight twang of empathy for the fellow, as in her previous life she'd been a closted
gay man in the 17th century, who was married to a witch! Or so the fellow who'd read her aura last summer had told her. New Age/Old Age. Totally lame, croissant bullshit, grok?
If only these protestants would play some decent music, like the snakehandlers in a sociology movie playing skreeming hillbilly stomp! What was once a genuince spark of
Knowledge from the Spirit Realms, has now become a vague philosophy, and a rush to get a husband or wife.
At least her cadeuceus ring flipped around, palmsides, did the job of keeping the pathetic sweaty-mid aged WWIIV afficianados at bay, tho barely. Still, these twerps were
waaaaaay better than those lycanthropic specimen back in Costalingua City. Off on their little rock and roll star sidetrips, writing "poetry" on the same plane as illiterate bathroom graphitti, only even less funny. "Pretentious fratboy bruce springsteen fucks! Bug eyed creeps!" But o! Who is this fine fellow in the corner, he's lookin-a-stone-fox(/nze? haha!) I best turn on the ol' Abbigail charm!
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Abbigail, a Hoyt Axton look-a-like a couple pews back was in the throes of relgious ecstacy, eating dirt of mules out of his courdoury jacket, w/
leather elbow pads and a lining of Great Hunt woodcarvings. He pissed his pants, only slightly noticing the warmth, then cool of the evening, which this provided. He touched
somthing of God that day, that two beer queer. Is it truly sad to say he never came back? His name was Wodin Wend. He had a gun at each kneecap his whole life, and now he's
up in the sky, all around. His soul was now a seed, including the dreadlock of a trustafarian, and more...
pt 3. -"I love you Fuzzbucket", "K-9000", "A fifth of Annngeeeeeeluuuugghhhh", "Hoistin' the jewels", "free tequiler"
Oooch! Uunghhh! Fucking jesus shit!
FLAAAuuuAHHHH!!!
Urngh...uh
pt 4. -the moon, she also rise
The fleece of dawn was once again bloodied, the quantum strings just kept on singin', another net, another stone. Only info can escape a black hole...fearful symmetry,
but how! Abbigail quandered a bit more, then awoke. "So, this is 25" she thought, "you're a quarter century these days, toots!" Ah, still in the spring of youth, sprightly sebadeh,
too whallop, a nestly divide. Bingle Bangle. "Whu? O the light in my head, a crestly crevasse, Holy shit, that explains everything in the universe. Center needed only an
instant: oneness, unity, open, exploring, totality. Wait, that doesn't make any sense at all! I'm an idiot! No I'm not, I just can't think straight immediatly after I wake up, that's
completely normal!" Abbigail started getting out of bed, only to have her uppper hind calf bump straightaway into a diving saucerfull of secrets, a.k.a., Red's azz crack o'
balls. Ottsz!
"Ohhhhh, yeh, thiiiis prick" Abbigail reminisced. What to do, what to do? "!EXCITO!" she exclaimed, which is to say, "SUCESS!" in that jolly olde language, Spanish. For
it was Abbigail's twenty fifth birthday, and she felt like she had a new lease on life, and felt the future would be full of magic and adventure! Real barbarian style, fellah!
Everything was flailing into place. One hand rubs another, the whooping crane does holler, the shagfoals sweat and moan! Oh glorious dawn, what splendour does thy face behold? A human, cut in half, and in half, and so on! Until thy essanse is
fulfilled, Koalachuxeus! A god stoned on Eyclytys Leafs, drunken til she falls off, and another stagtyte is formed in our moloch synapses with the impact!
Urgh, that doesn't make any sense at all, thought Abbigail, or at least not right now. Still, in the back of her mind she realized that by looking closely at nonsense, forms can be made out, not necessarily verbal, in fact hardly ever, but forms nonetheless, closing in on an eternal truth, which though impossibly far away, is completely totally fucking gnarly as shit, no matter how close you get!
"omyghod". Abbigail was once again close to the realm of 'conciousness'. "what was in those beans Red gave me? Orange Sunshine, he said, but waitaminit, they don't even
make that any more do they? This was a BEAN!" She was sucking on a bean, wait, when she was 11, she'd conversed with a spirit on an Ouija board, and his name was "Suck A Bean", and when she asked for his REAL name the tincture, or no, what was it called, a palanquin?, a planchette, that's what it's called, it just violently spelled out "ANUGOXEYXLATLA", then skrivved off the board at a mile-a-minute! OR WAIT, DID HE SAY HIS NAME WAS WODIN WEND? "WHAT WAS IN THOSE BEANS?"... "
She hoped she hadn't blown her cover with the Ancient Crow. There is only one fellow I know who can help me outta this mind mess" rheuminated Abbigail, "and his name...is...Randy Quetzycoatl"...and he was naught but ash and web these days. But still...
Another tendril dripped, the fumes of ping pong air flowered, and an ozone skylight opened above, my this is rough sport. The angels do sing, not in words but in horse chomping sprigs alight in mouths of radiant flame. Pock marked, we glide. Not with liquor but with our OWN pentecost. Everything is very bad, but'd be much wurst, without the fukface papers, and eyes of deadly hills....
*certain clews will make more sense when you take into consideration that Abbigail is a dog, with a humanlike form, and features. She has also seen a tornado, tho she is not,
in fact, Toto, from Wizard of Oz) Where she goes, Lucre follows not far behind, and many's the spoils for one quick on the draw.
Chapter Leven
CAPTAIN TOOTH
Captain Tooth politely requested a beer he couldn’t afford and continued his journey awash in the seas of what weaker men would refer to as “life pains”. There never seemed to be enough room between the back of his eyeballs & his frontal lobe to accommodate the not-guests who chattered incessantly & with occasional cryptic purpose. But there were ways of adjusting speed, as any seaman worth his salt could ascertain for less than four dollars a CDR. One man, one ego, one paper of record for all else to turn to. If even the stupidest of ideas quickly turned into over-simplified 4 X 4 glossies ready for application, who was an upstanding sailor to complain?
“At this stage of human evolution we are hard-wired to make the necessary change for most any incident upon the waters. However, despite advancements in both medical devices & breath control, questions remain – certainly in regards to these most expected of life’s offerings: clean fluids in abundance, cheaper plastics, another child, cum further, etc.”
The Captain had indeed attracted yet another decent musicain & poor philosopher to his side; this one went un-named but the face was recalled from nights’ past, pensive & uncomfortable in a corner as martinis dropped and several scrambled farther from the stage in anticipation of something a little less than interesting. Arms crossed, this Chicago crowd had long ago realized that any decent performer was looking far past them anyway, at least until the time had come to await payment & tax free-ish boozes out of the loyal and a new vagina out of the nigh-intrigued. The marijuana was always freely offerred by those below deck but couldn’t we talk about her for just a moment?
Red compulsively checked his email in anticipation of a response from Angela, but he had the feeling he had long ago burned that bridge out of a certain mean-spirited type of arousal, common to those uncertain of their years on this plane. What was another five if not a more useful excuse to “keep busy” and erratically spread the seed of self-awareness over an handfull of wanting hills? Across the bar a frustrating performer & reliable peddler held court without listening to one another. By this point his interest in allowable costs had diminished considerably & he phoned an associate to buy a few more shares of STORE. It had been six months now since the “democratization” of the stock market required all citizens on the tax roll to make some movement on the boards every ten days, at penalty of heavier deductions come payroll. Red jumped in early & enthusiastic; it was easy when one considered the general psychological mean of the consumer and essentially caveman mentality of most successful nepotistas these days; he mostly stuck to moving shares back & forth in the things he bought every day and kept a $10.00 balance in his checking account.
Over at the bar what seemed days away came crashing upon foreheads as always, as both men nearly simultaneously realized they each held more significance in this particular (say, twenty-five minute) shared plane than they had bargained for. Indeed, as is increasingly common in post-material economy the two possessed a mutual compulsion of alignment/destruct binary:
The inane talker was on the trail of BrokenTow Jonn, who had burned his once favoritest book months ago at some lefty open-mic on the north side. Captain Tooth was no stranger to that particular fascist, and in fact could present the nom d'artiste here & on the spot, slot. The Captain, well, he was just looking for a hunk of that foul & cranky rose-glass his ignorant companion had stashed in his boot at price. Since the wide popularization of the various "sports" drinks, more base-ist indulgences from decades past had become harder to scratch up, and it had been some time since he'd dragged that sort of razor over his soft palate.
Regardless, both of our players held a shallow & inevitably proof-able loathing for one another, and would exchange neither niceties nor the more practical wares they had to offer; little other than small desperate prayers (in vanity, always) to be left the fuck alone. The remainder of the patrons despised them for their mirror-like similarity.
Red fingered his earlobe nervously & held his breath as his portfolio loaded onto an "personal device". Outside it was all fucking ocean but who would've guessed?
Chapter Twelve
THE SUPPER, INTENSE, HAS SET THE TABLE FOR THREE
You believed what you were told. For some reason, do to a grandiose
exception no one had questioned. Others still lived in the extreme
complacent state or affairs that had come to dominate all being. Authors had
touched on the subject but many couldn't concieve the utter girth of what had
come to pass for critical mass dialogue. Fringe elements had kept the fight
alive as the pulse was heading in the wrong direction but as had happened
time and again change was making an appearance.
If one could only see how the web had been woven, there might have been an
easier, less considerate, thought provoking option. Designs such as these
took strenuous mental effort. Careful, neglecting even one pillar can cause
the whole structure to crumble. Everyone had seen the ruins of past
injustices; particularly ill-stared events eventually lead to nonplus.
Anybody would want to learn Latin? Arranging assumptions can lead to a
systems thinking acknowledgement, but it always helps to identify and know
them first. Beliefs leading to higher consciousness manifest surprisingly
similiarly.
Rumors persisted today. Egalitarian as it might have been; was it good
enough. None could argue.
Any half stale macaroon knows that although night
time is the right time, the ghosts always, always,
greet you in the morning. Oh they're there in the
night, rest assured. With the smell of rusty chains
and moth balls, cob webs and cow patties. You can
always hear them over snores, under scores. It's
impossible nearly, to track. and we let it go for
thought of road and rulers, wet or dry, coffee or
chai. But children are aware and it makes them shriek
into blackness, which should, if you think about it,
be a comfortable color. Night's drape is subtle and
shortly molts to morn, which as I said before any goon
can feel rub raw like salt on popcorn. . .in other words
it' inevitable.
The pillow slithered hot and slick. It stuck to his
cheek while the throb in his head beat.
A familiar rhythm which sat on the tip of his
tongue like the name of a forgotten bully. The handle
cannot be recognized, but the shuffling sound of the
bristles inevitably brings fear. He lifted his head
disjointedly,
or
at least attempted to.... stuck sticking, tacked and
tacky...cooing and oohing as clumps of hair clung to
the cloth and detached from his scalp in gummy,
painful wads. These little creatures, of their own
accord scramblng crispily off into the dew to do
whatever it is they do. A new life perhaps for brave
souls or creatures made of hair; one does not negate
the other.
As he rubbed his skull he felt the deep, slimey rivets
now running in patterns across his skin.
Confusion blotted out the pain of exposed nerves.
Yellowish water flowed and he splashed his
spike-lined orbs, rubbed the crust from his mouth
hole. Fished for a bent stick from the crumpled fist
perched on the back of the toilet a diety with chops
and a snout, he ignored it while leaning down to catch
a flame.
Sharp images pounded clearer inside this scrambled
memory now. Scarlett feathers and dirt under his
fingernails, teeth like tiny pointed eggs flashed in a
smile that twisted and bit, finally chewing resolve
into crumbs.
Chapter Fourteen
THE SUN WENT DOWN ON WITCHY TAW
Ooooo spelt Oow.
The fog rolled in as Red fondled behind the speaker.
"Was the wire supposed to stick here or there. Maw. Juss cut my lip on the
wrong spot. It's real advice, don't bite off more then you can't chew.
Broke several teeth gnawing bottles of beer open, and what's one more drunk
on a street of thousands, when they shut the lights off and point the guns in
my face, wicked men in gas masks guzzling the scents, tubing mask to ass,
fetishising when dames place to poop dunk on the vaginal revelery.
Magnificence obedience and hopped up on grapes too, come on over tonight and
I'll make you fruit stew"
A real ticket, one red could use floated straight into his inebriated back
pocket. The last thing you want to see vomiting is a pair of blue jeans.
Send the world topsy turvy and guaranteed you get the scurvy. Red lost track
again watching the drunk sailors pass boastfully through the streets. Red
had thought about warring for the other team before. He had thought win/lose
for win on the win side. He had pictured bird calls to awaken, and puking
not because of a gin too many, but rather because a good vomit would just
feel right.
As he pulled himself up by the hair the good puke was the one he just had,
thought about. Too many sweets was giving Red a stomach problem he couldn't
really handle. Plus the constant up and down energy shifts were too hard to
manage. Red wanted the good wave, the large Australian kind, the hula girls
in Hawaii hang tennin' I love you as the sunset on a rum and coke Jimmy
Buffet assleep in an easy chair relaxin till the rocker backs too far into
the kiddy pool and now off to the club for some dancing.
And romance.
Red stared his dog Laura in the eye. That's a girl. You tell daddy you love
him and need say nothing more than roof roof. It's on fire, bartendress,
another shammy of your finest pretty rope (tequila you feela), oh goodness my
ginnards, ahem, alleiluia.
And a hula, alleiluia, and a hula, alleiluia, and a hula and a hotel and Red
awoke to the sound of a screaming beagle, his dog dangled by leash form the
side of the high rise.
How the hell you get up there he pondered before yelling, jump you fucking
mutt.
Raaaooow.
And the dog fell into Red's arms. Love at first site, the dog licked his
face. This corny stuff was for cartoons red thought. This moment Laura
revealed a new paper for red. you shouldn't ave. Red slightly teared, the
crowd cheared, and he peared inst the pages.
Title: The Hog
You guessed it, both of 'em were ungry, and Red sat Laura down, shook her paw
and licked her right back. The crowd shuddered and lost volume, back to
their daily's. Red and Laura on the other hand went off to make happily ever
after.
Chapter Fifteen
THE DEATH OF THE FACE
Awakening in darkness, Red felt he should still be sleeping. Instead,
being thrust into a state of hyper-alertness and reflection defeated
all night-hour catanonia. Exposed pupils forced Red into a renewal of
self-denigration, wrought partially by an unwillingness to cease
wallowing in self-indulgent behavior. At once Red was depressed, cutting
the teeth of a bestial desire to exit what seemed to be a most mundane
mode of pseudo-consciousness.
To Red, it remained that the psycho-ecology of existence within the
bounds of routine and normalcy were unfulfilling and frustrating.
He resisted the urge to stay wrapped up in blankets with circulation to
his limbs incomplete. Instead, a lump of mattress was abandoned to the
realities of base needs. To pee. Then, food, energy, and errant
rambling into the fetid corpse of urbanity might dispel the cerebro-
funk of despondent spinal crap-tonic that plagued his day. Such was his
subtle hope, and into shoes he slipped and began to fall.
Exiting home with a vector of red and olive energy, walking with a
turbid bent and cursed eyes shut to any adjacent future, he struggled
to replace abusive self-loathing and jangled nerve impulse with
attentiveness to that which came quick. Sadly, the only thoughts were
that missed woman, that wasted day, that stupid thing. And he saw.
Trash. Tree. Dog. Deviant. Vandal. Neither inspiration nor peace would
arrive to break the ring of dejection.
Nothing lifted the tires or the rusted boards from his way. His angry
cloak could not be dissolved by those things that seemed to spit upon
his countenance and offend his sight. Nothing belched that did not also
curse. And yet, he knew from the residue and frequencies of past events
that this state was but an illusion. An offspring of boredom and
dissatisfaction that was uninvited. These thoughts percolated through
his hair and greased his neck.
The sidewalk gave way to dirt. The dirt held the detritus of pain in
its tone and texture. Grit blended with paper, staples, and glass. Pain
gave way to mud. Within a puddle was held a slurry of sober awareness.
A liquid of clarity cloudy with the overwash of unbound soil. A flower
could cling to the particles. The particles could be but a speck in the
eye of a bicyclist. These particles, these thoughtless grains of
necrotizing carnage, provided a sepia toe-soaking duct of despair.
A corner was rounded and the darkness of an alley rested in complacence
with the humble countenance of built obnoxia. Swirling currents of
effluvium coated Red's face and bathed his corporeal presence with
dissident nothingness. The alley insisted that he abolish his path and
he collapsed.
The darkness gone, Red awoke with the residual spittle of self-hatred
coating his chin. The sharpness of the ground was met with the hard
realization that his mental state was still naught but the deep mung of
razor head shock. Then the sun shone into the alley with the force of
mid-day radiation. How was it that he had found His Spot amidst hobo-come and the labels of Ancient Age and Old Granddad? Or had the alley
forced itself onto him? Was his fist clenched?
Regardless of why he had come to cease rambling, he then sensed
something new. A whorl of soul. Erotic and pleasant, a sound was
reaching into the alley to lift his legs and wipe the spit away. It
blended his nerves and tangled his throat. Expectantly, he hovered in
the mantle of the insistent nook, and an amplitude penetrated the chest
of Red's fear and loathing.
Peering into the hammering energy of an exogenous realm, Red learned
that the alley had kept him long enough for a street musician to begin
plying her trade. He stepped close and knelt by the horn player. The
portal of sounds was not new; each squeak had existed as long as the
spit and effluvium.
But yet, the ephemeral force of creation as the reed vibrated
envigorated a wave of his which had been locked in a huddled chemical
state of cemented exile. Who was this player? How had she unlocked the
chain to beauty within Red?
As he listened and smelled the player with eyes closed, Red felt an
ancient, excited warmth arise. He ceased to think in feeling, in anger
and hatred. He began to see only green and orange, and thought only
heat and wind. Shells lept and retreated. No refusal arose and he
embraced that dot of sidewalk as his new home. A renewed conciousness
let his closed eyes engage fantastic transitory spots, revolving lines,
and inert onanistic aura power. Color obliterated toxin, a frail nymph
was fed, and Red could again dance.
Chapter Sixteen
'AN NIP TOO MANY, PERCHANCE TO DREAM'
...and dance and dance and dance some more. A-all of a sudden, out of nowheres, someone kicks Red soundly in the ankle. Red glances down, doesn't see any feet anywheres near by. "Whatev's" Red rejoinded, gripping the phrase from some 15 year old Dolores from a couple nights back. That one "round and round baby round and round like a record player" jam was boombing over the sound sys. Keep a stompin, Red! Aproximatly 10000 stomps later, his ankle is swole like one of them girls he swears he didn't get like shitty spag sauce (ie "Prego"). Yikes, this should put a damper on his efforts to stay on his toes, one step ahead of P.I.S.C.E.S. U.S.A. Inc.!
Fortunatly, due to a serendiptious encounter w/ "the only cool MD ever" (so says "Stew" Frankenstein, MD, so who's to trus' HIM?) Burl Washington, Red is able to procure several vials of some very good painkiller, as well as an Invisible, or at least, somewhat translucent, air cast, which combined w/ his SOAP brand freestyle walking shoes, can provide a gait which can easily outmanouver the hardiest pan-handler. Or can it? "HOOODY DO, YO!" shouts an ambling man (on a crutch, no less, how can he possibly keep up? And yet he manages, and in a stylish fashion.) "HEY, MY NAME IS CAT-DAWG...you ever met a man named Cat-dawg? Well let me tell you..." etc etc etc
9 days later..."1. Look for the nigga wit the whitest snow 2. No buying from no nigga that you don't knowmake yo way to the kitchen where the stove be You get the baking soda I got yo DGet the triple beam and measure out yo dope
Mix one gram of soda every seven grams of coke" etc etc etc...Red has had enuff, and that massaging action on the air cast, it makes walking HELP your sprained ankle! He takes off, running like he's f-fucking, I-I-I don't know, a dog after a cat after a mouse, or something! Until he finally reaches his destination, which he's rollerbladed from Miami to Portland ME for...oh did I forget to mention he was on ROLLERBLADES for the entire trip? Well, my friend, that is just the sort of person that Red is!
Anyways, he arrives at the designated Zone, preparing to deal w/ Toro Rojo the usual way he does...3 cocks, one dick, and a world of difference (or is it deference) between the four...a-and alla sudden, out of nowhere slides this greazy wop by the name of "Nautical" Al Manik, suspected arsonist and dabbler in the profane, pro-fate, practice of "talking to satan", or "tossing the I-Ching" as these modern youth call it...
"Eh, a-how-do-you-a-callit-how-dee-dooah" blasphemes that hideous beast, Wodin Wend, or Luigi Promogulatto as he's rollin these days. "Well, now Red, my friend",
dropping his ludicrously innacurate Italian accent (which to be more honest sounds distictly Tibetan, Lhasan in fact) "I believe I have something you are searching for"...Wodin includes some air quotes, "These "'Ranch Style' BEANS"...aaand heeeree we gooo again...
Chapter Seventeen
DOMESTIC EVES IN OUR 'TWIN' CITIES
Dejected, Crutchfield pulled his dusty Ford Ranger into the BP station
-- his last chance to fill up for 40-some miles. Life was never easy
for a cowboy, and never more so than the present. For decades
corporate ranches had slowly but surely spread across the great plains
of Montana, those damned big-city vegans had chipped away at the demand
for beef and dairy products, and now there was that "Brokeback
Mountain" movie. Sure, Crutchfield pondered as he absetn-minded stared
at the LCD screen on the gas pump as it passed 20 bucks, all cowboys
were gay to some extent. But for Hollywood to expose this fact was
only trumped in the irritation department by the fact that gay cowboys
were portrayed as sensitive actor hunks. In truth most bore a close
resemblance to Crutchfield himself -- grizzled old veterans with rough
faces advertising a life lived hard; who in their lonliness and
exchaustion would stick their genitals into any inviting hole -- male,
female, animal or inanimate. Crutchfield's thoughts turned to his
father, also a cowboy, who lived back in the day when cowboys actually
rode horses. He lamented at how much fun it had been gorwing up and
watching his father fucking his horse Tate; brown with grey speckles
and one of the proudest gallops you ever saw. Crutchfield sadly pulled
the nozzle out of his 4x4 pick-up truck and proceeded to "top off" the
tank by ejaculate into the gas tank. It was better than nothing, he
mused, but oh how he yearned for a real horse at times like these!
He was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle pulling up to the opposite
pump. After safely tucking his manhood away, he turned around to see a
late 80's model Chevy van with California plates roll into the station. Two city girls hopped out immediately -- both were petite and
attractive, sporting spiked hair, glittery make-up, and torn
tight-fitting clothing. As the first began filling up the van, the
second began walking toward the BP convenience store. Upon seeing
Crutchfield, however, she changed direction and made a bee-line for
him.
"Hey, can you give us directions back to the Interstate?" she asked. "We're supposed to be playing a show in Minneapolis tomorrow, and our
driver spaced out. Dunno what the fuck she was thinking."
As she spoke, two more girls crawled out of the van, yawning and
stretching, exposing their lean stomachs and pierced navels. Evil
thoughts began forming in Crutchfield's mind. These girls seemed just
clueless enough to get themselves lured back to his remote ranch -- at
which point he just may never again have to resort to satisfying
himself with his own truck.
"Sure," he smiled, "I'm actually heading toward I-90 right now. Why
don't you girls follow me?"
Chapter Eighteen
OLE DEBY ((RRR))
Red bit fast as the skin peeled into the graferagitator. He had never tasted his face like this before. "Hardly," he thought as he bit bone, and "barely," again, as he licked skin. Thoughts didn't come easy to RED these days. Nope. Thoughts came fast like a crack head fucking for a fix. Red bit down-to-hard and the skull split.
"Putting it back togther is easier than falling apart."
He laughed as a crowd gathered around him. With a wink, a spot of glue, and the start of the running man, Billoboy hit play, the boom box blared and RED breaked and boxed over the beat. Fit to foot to flatter the latter. Pat a tat rit rat a tat a fat patter.
Red rolled right.
"Anounce the horse"
And in he rode in on. It was the day and age a team was comprised of adjectives and nouns, descriptions of a type oftentimes false. Incoginto stood out. Out sat inside. Stout slouched desperate. And Bitter the biter bit neither and niether. Toothless craps.
The crowd silently put there two cents in. Each took a turn boogaloo-ing to the left. Foot-to-foot action was about to hit an all time high when "Little did you know", aka Hoblet the Goblet, strolled into town. Yep, the god-for-nuthin' sherriff. If Red's goal was to gain, he was now at a loss.
"Hoblet, you'se a good for nothin'!"
Hoblet the horse bit the hardest and grabbed Red by his neck.
"Flum rip flee and flouse to fluterr fran freged!!!"
And in a storm smoke of beaver and cleaver he cut to the night sky,
through the pig sty, by the by and by, and out the eye of an eyeball
covered eyeball beast. A blobby pussy eye-eye-eye of
eye-covered-eyes. You'd think it could see a reason. It could see a
purpose. A way out of this madness. Hoblet flickered his man through
the air. Busted. And he split a fat seat onto the blubberous pulse.
Hoblet quickly stopped and turned back to him. There was only one
thing Eyeyeball could see. Red.
"Well...tell me what you see...a future in gambling or at present I've gambled?"
Eyeyeball rolled in, a seize of stars upon his spirit. A blessing
billowed. Above him brightness. Red closed his eyes and tried
gobbling within. If this whole out-game could teach me a thing or two
about man, then the inside-track might be a way back. His teeth took
tooth and the tongue tasted trachea. His sneeze snored stomach and he
heard head holding hambone. It was a
no-good-down-and-dirty-dust-bowl-beaver-bash, and if the logs didn't
bring the "river to ride", the heat took the "hither and hide".
As close as they came to comfort and warmth, they felt too the cold divide that holds one from really being another.
"I am what I am and that's all that I...am?"
Eyeyeball, rewoke and laughed.
"Wrong"
Red's soul, a clown, laughed loudest, a telephone.
"Ring...ring...ring"
Before the ball could bounce back Red stood forth shouting the three-way call of the century. He stood mano-a-mano-mano-a-eyeball-ball with destiny.
"Now you see me."
A show of hands.
"Now you..."
"Don't"
##
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