Goth gone mad. A character, protagonist or antagonist, walks with a slight supination or underpronation, and feels compelled to spend their time hanging out in graveyards, refusing to eat or bathe for extended periods. Known as “walking corpse syndrome.” Or The Walking Dead as pyschosis. This character firmly believes they, or parts of their body are dead.
This is not to be confused with a death obsession or staged death enactments as cleverly explicated in Harold and Maude.
How did this character’s behavior come to be? The walk is the tell. Without standing in front of the mirror or dropping forty lines of head-time backstory between two lines of dialog or going Disease of the Week, there’s Dactylolysis Spontanea. A disease where the little toe (or even another appendage) decides to amputate itself. There is no known cure nor explanation. A disease and the resulting psychology that can be explained in a line of dialog. My toe fell off. I must be dead.
I continue to offer the Character Bullpen Series in an effort to do my part for expanding inclusivity and diversity in fiction. I feel it’s my duty since we have reached a point in extreme political correctness where a person with an incredibly rare one-in-the-whole-of-Earth’s-human-population affliction must be accommodated and granted access to fast food meal delivery through an elaborate device required by law to be installed, at considerable expense, in every greasy spoon on the planet. Just in case that one someone from, say, Zimbabwe or outer Mongolia decides to collect their ICU unit’s complete array of support devices into a van and hit the Steak and Shake in Clermont, Florida.
Like the myriad of disgusting headlines my friend sends me or I discover in my own local news, I’m sharing another one I haven’t seen beaten to death (yet). Not that it’s not out there by any means, but I haven’t seen it circulating in print or TV.
Here you go – Death by beach umbrella.
Many accidents and injuries involving errant beach umbrellas go unreported, but you should know that between 2008 and 2017 at least 31,000 were reported and required emergency medical treatment. Several deaths by beach umbrella have even been reported along with quite a few maimings, including loss of eyeballs, feet, appendages and abdominal parts.
What a fucking great setup. PI or Bounty Hunter Barbie on the beach with Hunky Ken. After the fashion observations and minute accessory descriptions, the wind kicks up.
“Damn!” She exclaimed, pissedoffedly. “I paid twenty dollars for that hat.”
“Hat?” Ken said, absently studying her perfect buns that sported a confectioners dusting of sand.
“Yes, my white straw sun hat with the blue and fuscia Kate Spade knock-off bandana. There it goes!” She pointed into the mess of tumbling, rollicking beach umbrellas, picnic baskets, beer coolers, plastic starfish and towels piling up against the pier and tourist gift shop.
“Isn’t Kate Spade like, dead?”
“That’s why the knock off is so valuable, moron.”
“Check that.” Hunky ex NATO superspy Ken tapped his temple saying “Be right back.” He dashed recklessly into the melee. Upon grabbing her fashion statement hat he stopped in his tracks and began blocking incoming beach debris with his forearms like Wonder Woman in a speedo. The wind abated as suddenly as it started.
“What’s wrong?” Bounty Hunter Barbie asked.
“This one has your name on it, Barb babe,” he shouted, then muttered “or is it babe Barb…?”
When she arrived, he pushed the upside-down umbrellas and coolers aside to give her a clear, yet disturbingly grim view.
“Jeez, Hunky Ken. It’s Benson Ekoreck, the witness protection skip I’ve been looking for.”
“With a beach umbrella stuck in his chest.” Ken reached to remove the umbrella.
“Stop!” Barbie screeched in that shrill voice she hated but just came out when she was upset or orgasmic. “That’s my umbrella!”
Well, of course it is. Was. Whatever. Anyway, there you go, a free plot device. Remember, you heard it here first. Evanovich owes me five-spot if she uses it.
Seriously – Umbrella deaths and bodily damage are a reality. So much so that several Democratic Senators, two from Virginia and one from New Jersey on a day with nothing better to do sent a letter to the Consumer Safety Commission demanding the effects of errant beach umbrellas be looked into.
Well no shit, Sherlock.
Can’t help myself – If the fictional scene started above had gone on, it might have ended this way –
“That cop thinks you whipped up the windstorm with your hoo-ha somehow so you could get the Bail Bond on that dude refunded,” Hunky Ken said, disaffectedly brushing sand from his glistening bicep.
“He’s just a hairy scrotum in a cheap suit looking for an easy way out. I didn’t do it, so he can kiss my ass and go pound sand. Hey, what’s that on your shoulder?”
“Souvenir? You can’t just take things from a closed crime scene just because it started out as an Act of God, Hunky Ken.”
“Ohh… But the cops said to pick out what we wanted…” Hunky Ken stopped, looked glumly back at the pile of beach crap being picked through by once happy beach goers. “I guess I better take them back.”
“I guess. Wait. Them?”
“I got you one, too.” In a quick move based on years of training and reflex perfection, he whipped two beach towels off his shoulder, snapped them out in front of himself before handing one to Bounty Hunter Barbie.
“Oh my God!” She inhaled a big breath. “A Versace beach towel! You don’t see many of these.”
“Or these.” Hunky Ken held up an oversize Def Leppard towel. “This is major killer.”
Bounty Hunter Barbie rolled her eyes. “What’s so special about a Def Leppard towel?”
“It’s a collector’s item, babe, Barb, uh Barb — ”
“Never mind.” Barbie pouted, unaffected by his enthusiasm.
“No, really. Check it out, Babe, uh, Barb uh… In this picture?” Hunky Ken palmed up the silkscreened band photo on the towel for her. “The drummer dude still has both arms!”
Since no one is paying attention I’m gonna pull random scenes out and sharpen my editorial scythe for a diegesis rework of The Great Kerrigan Bank Robbery – This one is out of sync with Jackson going to the airport, but I’ll get back to that. That whole episode was in draft mode word overkill and the scenes are coming out whittled one by one. It’s still rough, but it’s lost some weight…
I Like You and I Don’t
OR – How the Charity Softball Team Came to Be (Warning – 2k+ read)
Saturday, April 25, 1981, Los Angeles, CA.
Jackson wheeled the mismatched two-tone Gremlin into the Chasewoods Sports Complex parking area, located diamond 5 and parked by a new, metallic pearl white Corvette with #1 AM vanity plates. Hollywood. He shook his head, pulled on his Peaches Garage ball cap, climbed out, careful to avoid the ‘Vette. The Gremlin’s door squeaked, groaned, produced two loud, dull thunks on the way to closed. He covered the twenty yards of parking lot concrete to a sidewalk that split a path between artificially green grass and a patch of dirt and gravel Xeriscape where embedded in the middle like a headstone stood a four-foot-tall welded 5.
“A Gremlin?” Trace said with mock sincerity. “Thought those things lived under bridges.”
“Those are trolls. You plan on tellin’ me why I’m here, or is it like a forever surprise?”
“Obvious, even to a blind man.” Trace waved a slow arc around the diamonds. “Softball is why you’re here. You’re now part of Give Some Back.”
“Give some what back?”
“They’re a non-profit that uses an auditor to make sure the money raised for charities gets where it’s supposed to go. Something that doesn’t happen like it should all the time. Lori over there in the bleachers can explain all that later.”
“Yeah?” Jackson shot a glance at the bleachers. “That Lori? As in Lori Sorens, from the sitcom, uh, um—”
“House on Fire. I don’t watch it, either, but it’s a hit, and that’s her. Bottom line, bro. Hollywood types play civilians for serious donations, auditors handle the money. This team needed another warm body with modest athletic ability. Here you are. Don’t sweat it, J. Unlike your last exercise gig, no ballet tights or talent required.”
“Everybody loves a clown.”
“Careful. Heard that’s how the clown caught the clap.” Trace bumped Jackson’s glove with his own. “Showtime, bro. This is a tough room for anybody with external plumbing, so put your just-happy-to-be-an-idiot-man face on.”
“Been told that comes stock with the plumbing.”
Trace nodded agreement, ushered him in front of the bench at the empty diamond five where they faced seven females spread out in the bleachers.
“I said I’d find you a new guy.” Trace announced to the disinterested bleacher crew. “My brother from another mother, Jackson.” Silence. Not even seat shuffling.
“Told you it was a tough room. Jax, clockwise from the left, the ladies are Lori Sorens from House on Fire and the actual Treasurer of Give Some Back. Next over and up a row, if you watch television in your underwear in the morning, you’ve seen Randi Navarro. Channel Seven and El Lay’s Number One in the morning. Right next to her is another watch in your underwear lady, Weather Seven Cicily Warren.” They acknowledged with barely perceptible nods. Jackson’s gaze shifted next to a tall girl with the most not huge but amazingly perfect set of t-shirt boobs he had ever seen.
“Jackson, meet Zane Rialta. From somewhere women are all tall and in your shit about a lie somebody told them about you.”
“Don’t start him out by fucking with me, Trace. I’m from—”
“Hollywood In Sight Tonight,” Jackson said. “You could dial it back once in a while, see if anybody besides you might have something to say. The girl from Pine Nuts has a ranch in Tennessee where she takes in retired and abused racehorses and show dogs, finds homes for ‘em, and you fucking blew her out. You could have hit the boyfriend hard for being a first-class dipshit and wrapped it with her being humane, made everybody love her, donate food or cash and help her out, but no. You had to go all into some animal hoarding thing you got all wrong.”
It got even quieter on diamond five. Zane Rialta was self-made, syndicated in all fifty states, half a dozen foreign countries and had her own cable channel in development. She was smart and nosey and dangerous if you had anything to hide. Most of Hollywood gave her a wide berth, not a raft of shit.
“You bring him along to help you tell me how to do my job? If you did, that’s bullshit and I’m out.”
“If you’re going to talk about me, talk to me,” Jackson climbed to the second row.
“Okay, I’m done.” Zane stood, all five-eleven of her, a row up and now eighteen inches taller than Jackson.
He looked up at her, wished he could part the boobs. “Sit down. You know we can’t play if you leave. We’ll work this out between us, okay? But right now? Sit. Down.” He tacked on “Please?” before the timing betrayed him.
She sat, steaming. It was uncomfortably quiet again. Trace continued. “Right there, um, to the right? That’s Tina Bowen. Seven in the Morning traffic control. ‘Keep it Flowin’ with Bowen.’ She has a baby named Owen, poor kid.” She was the only one to lift a hand off her thigh in a small wave.
“Last but not least, and the only woman on the team who can play this or any other sport, Seven Sports in the A-M with Ray-Gun Vaughn.” Reagan smiled, reached down, shook his hand. She was a ball of lean muscle like the weightlifter girls on the beach, only black and not as bulky. She walked through locker rooms full of naked, sweaty jocks asking pointed questions about the quality of their performances and got answers, not sex loaded bullshit. Jackson was known to watch a bad game just for Reagan’s commentary.
“Hey.” Jackson took in the women he saw every morning on Channel Seven and the prime timers. “Nice to meet all of you.” He looked back up at Zane Rialta. “What’s your real name?”
“Your real name. What your mom called you when she was mad. Come on.”
“Suzanne. If it’s—”
“All of it.”
“Florentina,” her eyes flashed through a squint. “Suzanne. Florentina. Rialta. My married name is Shively. You’re about to really piss—”
“What do your friends call you?”
“It’s not something you’ll ever need, so—”
“We don’t know that.”
“God…” Her exasperation became tactile. “Zanie. From my little sister.”
“That’s where Zane came from? Not Zane Grey westerns your dad left around the house?”
“Fuck you, Trace’s friend. He didn’t read westerns, he read John D. MacDonald until he caught me with one. Then he hid them in an old suitcase in his closet.”
“You get busted again when you found them ‘cause you couldn’t resist all that sex, violence and moralizing?”
“I skipped the moralizing, and I’m out of—”
He leaned in, whispered the quick story of how he got busted checking out Mimi Van Doren in one of the old Playboys that his dad kept in a closet suitcase. She laughed out loud and took the hand he held out.
“Jackson? That’s it, either way? Now I remember.” She squeezed the shit out of his hand, leaned back a little then leaned in. “I didn’t recognize you without the I’m-so-sexy beard. Kaitlin Everson sued you for sticking your middle finger up her nose at the Globe Press Party. You had that pretty French lawyer who sued half of L.A. to shut Everson up, all over a no-money Kleenex movie from nowhere full of nobodies that blew up. For the middle finger and suing that bitch, you are my newest best friend. Who do you know that’s done something stupid lately?”
“That list is too long, and I’m on it. Tell me who the coach or manager is, since we’re friends?”
“Excuse me,” Randi interjected. “Mr. one finger and it’s the middle one? If you can pull yourself away from Zanie’s T-shirt stuffing qualifications for a sec, I’ll tell you.” Randi Navarro was as perfectly turned out in a softball uniform as she was the day Jackson had seen her in Dwight’s studio. She leaned forward, waited until she had his full attention.
“I’m Randi. Navarro? We were introduced? I’m the manager. We don’t have a coach. We could use one because the other teams just laugh at us. We get a lot of requests as the pretty girls who can’t play, and to raise money we play against whoever rents us. Except we don’t have a sponsor or a designated charity so we’re dumping buckets of money into a holding account waiting for someone to say ‘yes’ and give us a reason to be here.” She studied him for a moment. “We need a sponsor, and what really pisses all of us off more than being the softball laughingstock of L.A. is that we’ve been asking for a sponsor for over a year. It’s like we’re lepers because we’re women, right?” There were murmurs of agreement, but she held Jackson’s eyes as long as he kept them on her.
“We play as the Seven In the Morning coed team.” It was Lori, the one from the sitcom. “But Seven won’t pick a charity and we’re really not endorsed by Seven—”
“Fuck no we aren’t,” Randi trolled her coworkers with her eyes. “We’re making them a fortune in ad revenue by being all women and owning the morning market share, right? But will they back us as a softball team? Even as a promo op? No. Rodney Sheridan writes off a Corvette I don’t give a shit about,” she sidearm waved at the parking lot. “But Seven says it’s in my contract to drive it, smile and say, ‘Drop by Sheridan for a deal that’ll make you wanna dance,’ twenty times a morning. Sheridan won’t sign off on underwriting a women’s charity softball team, but he’ll hand off a Corvette?” She fumed for a few beats. “Sorry. Not your problem. So it’s Jackson? Got anything shorter?” She saw it coming. “Don’t you say that shit to me.”
“Don’t say, ‘That’s what she said?’’’
“I told you don’t.” She leaned further, smacked his shoulder, glared him out.
“Jax, Jay. Hey, you. Your call.” He smiled so hard his face hurt. “Sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. For now.” She gave him a lady handshake, waited a little long to let go, followed it with a big, expensive TV anchor smile. “I like you and I don’t, Jacksass Jackson. So as of now, you are the new manager of whoever the hell we are.” She handed Jackson a brown manila envelope she’d been sitting on. “I kept it warm with my best ass-et, just for you. Ladies?” She found everyone else with her gaze. “I’ve captained this ship of fools for a year and we’re still where we started. So this is my last roundup as manager, phone girl, booking queen and sponsor hunter. After today, our new middle-finger-forward cowboy is up. We play Country Safe Insurance in twenty minutes, right here.”
Jackson and Trace watched the parade of broadcast butts in tight baseball pants while they all rattled their way out of the aluminum bleachers and headed for the parking lot to open doors and trunks on clean, new, expensive cars where they pulled out gloves, bats and promo for Hollywood In Sight, Seven in the Morning and House on Fire. Randi reached in the white Corvette, handed a box of Sheridan Chevy promo to one of the other girls before she wrestled a team duffel bag out of the passenger seat. He considered offering to help, but they all looked to be working a decent case of pissed off. Jesus. Too much camera candy, too much unfocused promo paper, no team identity.
“Trace, my brother,” he dumped a frustrated through-the-nose sigh. “You fucked me right into the dirt on this one.”
“Man, a year ago you couldn’t wait to meet Randi Navarro. Here you are. I knew she’d like you.” He picked a couple of bats out of the dirt, leaned them against the fence behind the bench, tossed a baby pop fly for Jackson.
“Randi…” he caught the fly, tossed on back. “I said I wanted to meet her, yeah. And now a shit-load of excellent dreams and wasted morning wood are out the window and right on down the road ‘cause she’s on my softball team. Mine. It’s against all the fucking rules to go butt sniffing my own softball team. How the hell did that happen?”
“ ‘How’ never matters in Hollywood. Take what comes your way and run with it. Besides, your ‘tell a painful truth’ turd polishing skills are exactly what this team needs. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
Trace pulled his glove, popped Jackson on the shoulder with it. “You don’t have to play it straight on the no in-team sex, but know this as fact. These chicks compete about everything, not just ratings points. So you’ll start an extra-large avalanche of pain for yourself if you get wet and wild with anything female connected to this. Add a hundred times more grief than that from your new best friend, Zanie. This gig is high profile with her name attached, so she’s like your personal moral compass. The woman’s got a camera, a crew, a mouth, a syndicated outlet for all of it, a million places to hide and twice that many snitches. Fuck around or fuck up in Hollywood after today and you’ll find out the hard way it’ll be out on the wire before your zipper’s up, your mouth’s shut or your middle finger’s back in your pocket.”
Politicians, God love ‘em, have done it again. The poor, the marginalized, the illegal, the forgotten, the hand to mouth service industry people kicked hardest by Covid – the people who just voted in the Obiden Administration, are the first ones to get the shaft!
In the current debate for a relief package Republicans want money for small businesses. Democrats say no. But they want to bail out state and local governments. Democrats are now pro big business/government? Pelosi and the Hair Farmer’s latest sticking point for the new free money bail out is that they want funds direct deposited. Only. Well, let’s take the poor, the marginalized, the illegal, the forgotten and the Covid fucked right out of that equation because 6.5% of Americans have no bank account.
That’s over 14,000,000 people.
Way more than the difference of the vote tally between “choices” that were piss poor to start with. How would the vote have gone if 14,000,000 had known they would be disenfranchised by the new regime before it got started? Who cares, Pelosi has plenty of designer ice cream in a $30k fridge. Fuck the poor, disenfranchised, marginalized… But thanks for the votes. Not.
The good news is that when asked what he plans to do about anything, instead of tweeting something childish, inflammatory, arrogant and sometimes decisive, Obiden keeps saying “We’ll get everyone together at the table and have a meeting.”
Meetings? WTF? Nobody in Washington can decide whether they need to take a shit or wind their watch!
Get the man violin lessons and a match. Because if I was one of the 14,000,000 Americans the New Regime just shit on I’d be raising all sorts of hell.
Since no one is paying attention I’m gonna pull random scenes out and sharpen my editorial scythe for a diegesis rework of The Great Kerrigan Bank Robbery – This one is out of sync with Jackson going to the airport, but I’ll get back to that. That whole episode was in draft mode word overkill and the scenes are coming out whittled one by one. Yesterday this one sat at 1006. It’s still rough, but it’s lost some weight…
Cow’s Asses and Banjos
Jackson looked around his first pre-game huddle as coach, tossed his canned speech. “I’ve talked to all of you since last week’s game. About what you’d like to see change, what you expect. What you want. If you missed the big hint in those conversations, here it is. You’re a team. I know y’all think you suck so bad no one would come out to help. Well, last week between lunches I made a couple of calls, and a couple of mistakes, so… Meet the newest misery loves company members of Team Sucks. Logan Burns is a –“
“Bevan-Burns. With the hyphen thing? I am like so totally mega stoked –”
“Thank you Logan. Ms. Bevan-Burns is a ballerina, off tour for the summer. Taisia whose last name is nothing but consonants is a FedEx driver, reserve EMT and ex-professional Russian hockey player who can roller skate faster than most people drive. Cynthia is a psychologist finishing her Masters. And was, uh,” he rushed “foldout of the year in seventy-nine and is fully clothed in her current publicity shot.” He put his arm around the shoulder of a petite girl with shiny, jet black hair saying “For all of you who’re pissed off about how shitty it is to be women sometimes? Out of the wig and jumpsuit after almost a year on the road with her shred rockin’, man-ass-kickin’ band Skanque, give it up for Hon-eee Muffin.”
“My CaliMex ass, Cowboy.” Randi punched Jackson’s shoulder, her eyes bounced between him and her lone modern heroine. “You’re Honey Muffin? And you know this guy?”
“My real name’s Melika.” She reached out, accepted all the hands and compliments she was offered. “Jax and I sat on a beach once, traded shit ticket stories. I decided to take him home for Christmas dinner. We even lived together for a few months.” She returned his one-armed hug. “Platonically.”
“I… Damn. When you said you’d find us some more girls, I didn’t —”
“Don’t grovel, Navarro,” Zanie elbowed her. “It doesn’t matter who you’ve brought with you Cowboy, we’ll still suck. We’ll never win and you can’t fix that.”
“Zanie, I promise you we will never win.” His eyes wandered the huddle again. “Never. We win when the check clears, got it? We aren’t here to win charity softball, we’re here to have fun, bank some money for a good cause. Listen,” he caught eyes this trip around. “This is amateur… slow pitch… coed… softball. The people we play are paying real money to play a stupid game with you so they can hang with a team full of celebrities, go back to work Monday morning, and show everybody in the office their pictures and autographs and tell them all how much fun they had. That’s all they’re paying for and y’all bitches are doin’ your best to screw that up trying to make it —”
“Bitches!? Goddammit, don’t you even.” Randi pointed at his two male teammates. “What about you guys? It’s still all our fault? Even though we’re the reason all those people are here?”
“Randi, we’re all bitches. All of us. And it stops now. Nobody has any fun playin’ softball with a bunch of whiny, bummed out, I wish it was different or better some kind of way bitches. Don’t you get it? Winning or losing doesn’t matter. Nobody’ll care because while nine of us are on the field the rest are gonna be workin’ the crowd. So right now, today? I don’t care if any of you can hit a cow’s ass with a fuckin’ banjo. Today I need you to whack each other on the butt, get sweaty and dusty and scream ‘till you’re hoarse. Rock this softball diamond and show the…” he checked the clipboard, “Combine Bank Tellers more G-rated fun than they thought was possible.”
“Well, ladies? Let’s go play softball. Like we can’t get out of our own way and it’s a beautiful thing. And do it so well when we’re done all those people over there will tell everybody how much fun they had because y’all weren’t a bunch of snotty, bummed out, no-playin’ whiny assed… ”
“There it is.” He resisted the urge to smack any butts with the clipboard when his team scattered to welcome the bank tellers, their vocational and familial entourages filling the bleachers.
Zane stayed behind, lifted her chin slightly. “You actually believe you’re going to make this work, don’t you.”
“Somehow, I do too.” That hung between them in the diamond’s dust for a few. “I feel like I just found something I didn’t even know I was looking for… Dressed up like a pathetic, lost, heartbroken little softball team.” She watched while her teammates turned a set of bleachers loaded with anxious, uncertain citizens into happy. “I think we all have.”
Since no one is paying attention I’m gonna pull random scenes out and sharpen my editorial scythe for a diegesis rework of The Great Kerrigan Bank Robbery
Not a Full English
Cathedral bells tripped, stumbled, bounced off the walls of the narrow alley. Globular pieces found their way through the open-an-inch-at-the-bottom window, hit the floor and rolled into the back of Meyers’ head where they exploded like steel bubbles. The grimy, threadbare oriental rug felt like part of his cheek. He wanted to spit out the cotton balls and lick his lips, didn’t want to risk finding the rug with his tongue. After what seemed like days, the last cathedral bell bubble shattered, echoed away. He opened his left eye enough to see through his lashes. From an iron bed frame a filthy, once pale blue chenille bedspread draped off a filthier sock-covered foot onto the floor. He listened, the only sounds a light snore from the bed and rats on the windowsill. He reached up, felt the burn in his left shoulder blade, tugged on the sock. The girl wearing it shot upright, peered over the edge of the bed.
“I expected a rat.” She tilted her head. “You were supposed to be dead, but I guess he messed it up. You messed it all up.”
“Granted. What happened?”
“You walked in, that one on the floor jumped out from behind the door and tried to give you a ginormous shot of something… ” Her gaze shifted beyond him. “You broke his neck when he tried to stick you. The needle must’ve broken when–”
“Can you see it?”
“Yeah,” she tilted her head as far to the left as it would go, stuck her tongue out. “Doing the blue face would be a stretch.”
“The bloody needle, girl, not him.”
“Oh. There is some blood on your jacket where he poked you… ” She slid off the bed and next to him, ran her finger over the small circle of blood.
“Shhh. Found it.”
“So you have. Pull it out.”
“Can’t? Goddammit –”
“No… It’s only sticking out a little. I can’t…”
“Don’t you have fingernails?
“I keep them short, now. I… ”
“What? That’s way too gross. Wait… ” She pulled the shoulder of his jacket down. “Don’t make any noise.” She pushed down with her thumb and forefinger on either side of the broken needle. Meyers held his breath. An extreme burning sensation flashed through his left side, faded.
“Jesus, Mister…” The girl held up a bent two-inch-long hypo needle so thick he could see the fluting on the business end. He rotated his shoulder. Not much residual pain, free range of motion. He came up to all fours, nodded at the body.
“They know he’s dead?”
“Nope.” She sat back on the bed, cross-legged.
“When do they come back?”
“They go home at night to argue or screw or something. They’ll bring breakfast when they get around to it.”
He sat back on his heels, shook his head like a wet dog, rubbed both eyes with his thumbs.
“The window. Nailed in?”
“Nails. Screws. Won’t go up or down.”
He reached out, tried to lift the bed.
“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have thrown it through the window by now if it wasn’t bolted to the floor? What is it with England? All the fucking furniture is bolted down.”
“Oxford. Students. Lease agents don’t want it stolen.”
“That some thousand-year-old rule? You can’t steal what you can’t use, or don’t want?”
“You’d be surprised. My last secretary stole cheap toilet paper from the office.”
“The really cheap stuff?”
“God. Tight ass. You fire her?”
“Looking for a raise and better toilet paper, I bet.”
“Didn’t ask.” He pulled her off the bed, raised the thin, stained beyond rusty brown mattress to find welded slats, no springs. “Damn.”
“I told you.”
“Yeah, you did.” He looked around. Nothing else in the room except the nasty rug and the dead man.
“He’s wearing high top Connies. I checked that, too. Nothing useful in his pockets, either.”
The door downstairs opened and closed. Two muffled voices.
“That’s probably breakfast. Now what, hero?”
Meyers weighed the percentages in breaking two more necks, or using the dead man to create an electrical loop from the light switch to the doorknob. Instead he drug the dead man to the window. The flat was a walk down, the street only six feet below.
“Give me a hand.”
“Grab him on the other side there, by his jacket. Up. Backward and forward.” They swung the corpse head-first toward the window, then back. “Got it. On three. One, the glass breaks, two, you get the hell out, three…” They launched the body at the thick, ancient glass. It cracked, didn’t break, the body thumped to the floor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Move,” Meyers shoved the girl against the wall.
The door banged open, Meyers grabbed the first person inside, spun him in a wild series of fancy footwork Fandango pirouettes, threw him at the window that shattered this time. He turned, the girl had her shirt wrapped around a short, fat woman’s head. He yanked the shirt like a top string, spinning the woman to the window where she screamed. He slugged her, she followed her partner into the street. He looked down. Bent galvanized trash bins rolled side to side, their contents scattered. Rats scampered away like wind-blown leaves, dogs barked. The man was another broken neck. The woman tried to stand. One leg wouldn’t work.
“Who hired them?”
“Dunno.” She shrugged into her flannel shirt. “My money’s on the old lady.”
“Doesn’t want you to be a Duchess?”
“With her son his Royal Gayness in their high-dollar six-hundred-year-old rooms-by-the-hour fuck shack? No way.”
“She’s doesn’t know you’re not much for Duchessing over a knocking shop?”
“Must not or we wouldn’t be here.” She tossed him a croissan’wich from the Burger King bag the fat woman dropped. “Where I’m from? Nobody’ll ever believe this shit.”
Meyers opened the sandwich wrapper, knitted his brows. “Where I’m from, no one will believe I threw two people out a window for calling this shit breakfast.”
Every day Martin Luther ate a spoonful of his own excrement.
He wrote praises to God for His generosity in giving man such an important and useful remedy.
And this is the guy who was fed up with the Roman Catholic Church’s rhetorical, dogmatic and behavioral shit? Was all that too “intangible”?
Did he get it first hand? Did he catch it fresh and warm or collect it cold? Condiments? Bread? On a toasted ‘bun’? Is this where that old shit sandwiches joke came from? Martin and his poop really make me wonder about Lutheran communion.
I keep hearing a medley of Cream’s “Spoonful, spoonful, spooooon-ful” and Aerosmith’s “Gimme a little kiss. Like this.”
Never mind, I could beat this one to death. Have fun!
We all probably know this guy whether we’d admit it, or even know. The old guy at Mass with too many hugs for everything with a vagina and a heartbeat from cradle to one foot in the grave. The guy you worked with on that construction job who painted your fender for you while he told you about the most disgusting things he did with hot dogs and his obese wife. The guy at sales meetings who always has a hard drive full of PowerPoints of ‘stuff’.
I remember working for this man. He wasn’t a perv, that I knew about anyway. He and the other business leaders in his industry bought each other ‘novelty’ gifts for birthdays. They’d drop by and show off their wind up penises that hopped around the boss’s desktop. I walked into his office one afternoon and on the desk sat a box about five inches square, emblazoned with “Pocket Pussy” on every visible side. I acted like it wasn’t there. He said “That’s for Mr. so and so,” picked up the box, took out the pink donut, examined it. “I was wondering if one of us shouldn’t try it out first.” Long pause, reloads the box, sets it down saying “Just kidding. What’s on your mind?” WTF? I forgot because the visual of my boss’s pecker in the wrinkly rubber donut was too much.
I worked at a hardware store for a couple of months with this old fart, had to be a hundred. When you’re 20 that’s anyone over 50. On Saturdays, he’d sit in his office and read Penthouse Letters because all the rest of the admin people were gone and he had the space to himself. If you needed something you’d walk up the stairs, tap on his door frame, walk in just in time for him to slam a desk drawer on the mag and stand up to greet you with a suspicious wet spot on his slacks. And offer to shake your hand. I made it point to always have my hands full of hinges or orders that needed to be ‘pulled’. (Couldn’t resist)
In my extreme youth as an Avant Garde theater co-conspirator (read that as ‘space music’ synth arteest) there was a director in residence at the Contemporary Arts Foundation (a cinder block warehouse) who made extra money writing pulp porn. We’d sit around the tiny living room of his rented pad in a smoky haze and he’d regale us with his latest. He’d often speak as he wrote, and ask for contributions. He wasn’t a serious pornographer, more of a porn humorist. An X rated Carl Hiaasen. Talk about adverbial and adjectival descriptive excess. I heard shit in that room at a tender age still makes me laugh at the sheer audacity of it.
All that to say, unfortunately, we know this guy even if we wish we didn’t, and thank God he found an outlet for his urge before he hurt someone. But really? I mean that’s the epitome of “Hey fellas! Watch this!”
Cannibalistic Black Market Castrators Arrested In Eastern Oklahoma…
October 22, 2020
Here’s a story from Oklahoma that even Joe Exotic would think is nuts!
Earlier this week, the happily married couple pictured above – Bobby Lee Allen, 53, and Thomas Evans Gates, 42 – were arrested after they botched a “surgical procedure” at their makeshift black-market castration clinic located in the backwoods of eastern Oklahoma.
That sentence, on its own, is enough to make this story a typical “Only in Oklahoma” classic, but as you know, we’re in 2020, and nothing is typical anymore.
After interviewing the patient who voluntarily sought out the surgery, and following a search of the pair’s property, authorities discovered that Allen and Gates – who apparently ran their clinic under the online name “The Eunuch Maker” – allegedly saved the discarded body parts (a.k.a. testicles) of their patients/victims in a deep freezer for possible human consumption.
Yeah, that’s right. They would allegedly eat the discarded human testicles. In the eastern part of the state, I think they’re called Kiamichi Oysters.
Queen Isabella of Spain lived to be 50, but bathed only twice in her lifetime.
Paint Me a Picture
“Whatta they call you?”
“Well Queenie,” the cop said, trying to keep his nose upwind. “You can’t stay here so we have to take you in.”
“Not takin’ no goddam bath.”
“That’s fine.” The cop used a gloved hand to guide her head through the back door of the cruiser.
“Maybe the firehose for drunk tank control,” his partner suggested, fanning his nose.
“You want that runoff in the ground water? I mean think about it.”
His partner thought for a few seconds, blew lunch in the storm drain, stood up, wiped his chin with a paper napkin from the dash.
“Whatsa matter? Think too much about that runoff?”
“Don’t know why, but it just got too big in my mind.”
“Too big in your mind?”
“Yeah, you see somethin’ somebody says, and your brain adds shit to it.”
“My brain don’t add shit to –“
“You hosed down Queenie there in the drunk tank with all that puke and shit in there and somehow that went to… You ever pulled cottage cheese that’s been around too long outta the fridge, that stink it’s got goin’ everywhere, and gagged when you flushed it down your disposal with the sprayer? Yeah, now see? That’s the shit I’m talkin’ about. An it’s ridin’ in the back seat of our car.” He grabbed another napkin off the dash, handed it off. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”
Plus a Handgun, a Suspended License and a Stolen Car
Character Study +
John D MacDonald, Elmore Leonard, Dashiell Hammett, Laura Levine, Fitzgerald – A few words and a reasonably complete picture. From characters to towns. Solid. You know who and where and aren’t bogged down in details. His suit looked dirty but wasn’t. Avocado appliances, a small box-store table for two. A Grand Canyon dishtowel hung from the oven handle. A big man. Pink. Rubbery. Thin and nervous enough to make it contagious. Yellowish skin. Dark circles under unsteady eyes. He was wide and plodding. Neckless, shoulderless, bald. His necktie short, loose, the knot partially buried by a third chin.
Okay, enough fun. Gambits is about writing prompts, cues, unusual manners of death. Here’s another one from an old friend of mine. From The Daily Oklahoman. A paper I threw in my youth (quite accurately) from a red Sting Ray.
GUTHRIE (AP) — Police in Oklahoma say they found a rattlesnake, a canister of radioactive powdered uranium and an open bottle of Kentucky Deluxe whiskey during a traffic stop of a vehicle that had been reported stolen.
The traffic stop happened June 26 in Guthrie, about 30 miles (45 kilometers) north of Oklahoma City. Guthrie police Sgt. Anthony Gibbs told Oklahoma City TV station KFOR that police don’t know why the uranium was in the vehicle or how it was obtained, though uranium ore can be bought on Amazon.
Gibbs says police also found a gun in the console and a terrarium in the backseat containing a pet Timber rattlesnake.
Gibbs says the driver, Stephen Jennings, was charged with possession of a stolen vehicle, transporting an open container of liquor and driving with a suspended license.
There’s the setup, here’s the character – What the hell was this guy up to? A hit man gone to seed?
Trivia – Guthrie was the original state capital of Oklahoma. A handful of bu$ine$$ men wanted it in Oklahoma City. Guthrie, the original territorial capital didn’t want to give it up. The capital is where the state seal resides, by God, and it’s in Guthrie. As bu$ine$$ men will do, they arranged to have it stolen from Guthrie. When it arrived they removed it from a canvas bag and set up shop in a downtown OKC hotel. Where there were smart enough to keep it locked up and guarded.