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Characters continue to settle and revolve in the second part of this sci-fi mystery. The plot indeed thickens, and someone will have Hell to pay.

Enjoy and thank you for reading.


Submitted:Dec 13, 2012    Reads: 10    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Popsicle Shtick
A Noir Romp in Consciousness Expansion
best digested alongside 'It Won't Go Away'
The trigger had already been armed; now, it came home with a smash. A quick ignition, spark to the flame, the complete synthesis of the gunshot complete, a literal lifetime in a moment, and infinite itself slows down, in a pause for it's second wind.
Except.
The trigger follows it's destination true, yet the bullet does not fire. This small man (according to those his opposite) for now remains unscathed. Ultimately, it is quickly implied, and with much frustration, that the ancient pistol had failed. It was later to be considered a net loss, much too expensive to fix, added on the extra risk that it might fail again.
Oh, older handguns can be fickle things, and one could clean it out proper, even rifle the barrel a bit if one cared to (is that possible? I'm talking out of my ass, here. Quite literally, and there is a considerable amount of methane in this room as of now, to take note. Gasmasks? Fuck! Oxygen deficiency is a serious condition, and must be treated thusly).
Eventually, well, later, it could also be inferred that there were peach blossoms at least everywhere in and around the location of the beating. Bloodied and full of sorrow, the man limps from the scene, in naught but a daze, totally unawares of the awkwardly lovely things to whom he was host.
Fragments, stumbles, curious lookers on, and a collapse onto a seemingly infinite checkered marble floor. It's been a slow night, the nurse is foolishly off necking with a custodial engineer. It takes minutes, more ons and offs- until she runs rounds and finds our fallen hero in his undone state. Scabs abound and bizarre hallucinations brought on as an afterglow of sorts to the adrenaline the medical team had had to inject him with. There were ghosts within palaces of glass, showing him the falsehood of Heaven, why should he even pity the thought of heading in that direction now?
The place was utterly deserted, so the scene was double-surreal: an irresponsible and inexperience nurse and a bitter janitor carry this limp and ruined body on either side, to the E.R., which is not far away. Fuck!
Our hero was then placed in the proper hands, and disappeared from sight for a time, as the wounded do. Sometimes the wounded disappear in a way entirely, and upon their respected return(s) to reality and society, are henceforth never the same again, not really, anyway. A wet towel was placed on his head, and again he fell in and out of consciousness. There was a giant cat-man feeding him balloons, a bizarre memory he couldn't identify from his youth.
THE FOLLOWING NOVELLA COULD CONTAIN:
A complex mini-plot involving a society of tiny peoples that survive by cultivating and selling (i.e., fashioning into myriad products and then selling) of human ear wax. This plot could go into specificities, detailing the excursions made by the micro people into the inner ear of homo sapiens to extract the wax, the refining of the wax and its' productions into several different products the people of that tiny community could then use to barter with other tiny communities. Said plot could even tap into the exploits of other micro communities.
Cool Runnings IV: A really awesome sub-plot concerning a world renowned bobsledding team from Jamaica becoming unknowingly ensnared between two dimensions. This is a bad place for the team to be because, lodged in such a state, they are left in the open for any weird elements or denizens of either dimension that they may encounter (that may themselves have been affected by the ripple in aforementioned space-time continuum, leaving it/them potentially enraged and/or otherwise hazardous).
Consider the Man O' War: A particular kind of (or relative to the) jellyfish is as magnificent as it is deadly (as are most jellies), but what philosophy could be extracted from a life adrift on the surface of mysterious waters, led toward and from destiny by random current? Fuck! With tentacles that sometimes stretch down for hundreds of feet, snaring and mercilessly stinging to death anything in it's long tentacles? Furthermore, we tap into what amounts to the last moments had by a randomly chosen organism that has found itself in the previous situation: what philosophy could be had from an animal dying in a naturally horrendous way?
A woman who compulsively steals underwear is exposed by a cruel paparazzi group, waiting for whoever might try to retrieve their misfortunate undergarments - no matter the cost.
Life continues unabated in a small Midwest town called Voddville
A Disassociated Thought (Fuck!)
Billions, perhaps trillions (and beyond) of people will find themselves irrevocably apart from jokes or plot devices revolving around or relying upon answering machines or landline phones, and the ensuing situations cause by either/or. On a side note, the vaudeville acting scene was wiped out primarily (and omitting a few other minor causes) by the inevitable rise Fuck! in cost of theatre production and the colonization of the major motion picture studio.
_______________________________________________
07/07/12
Our hero spent weeks recovering, drifting between opiate nightmares (something akin to finding oneself lost within a painting by Clyfford Still) and tender moments with caretakers and family; he noticed he was on a feeding tube and probably had some machine doing the breathing for him too, at one point.
Weeks pass, though, and the man starts to heal significantly. He is now taking physical therapy and is walking some on his own again. He can eat solid foods and pass a normal bowel movement. Our hero was on his way to a clean bill of health. Chicken fried steak on a motherfuckin' bun.
'All my time is lying on the factory floor.' - B. Fay
The gunmen introduce themselves one at a time. There is a very specific sense of loss lingering in the room, even detectable to some stranger happening in on the scene. These aren't the folks whom one just stumbles in upon, mind you. The fobs practically had weapons installed into their fucking hair follicles, and they spat grenades and napalms between curse-laden sentence fragments.
"Fuck…. Should'a with the… shit-lickin' fryin' pan…" mused one of the greasy apes, who had only recently addressed himself as Feet Nelson, a gun runner from Philly. Then farther down the table we had Spiny Wilson, the mysterious knife thrower, adorned in his legendary hot pink fez; the Toothbrush Bandit, just one more seat down… the Toothbrush Bandit had yet to divulge the true nature of his practices in treachery. There was a new grunt, Spigots O'Tooh, who had (discovered through discussion) apparently displayed promise in a drunken, blindfolded broken-wine-bottle fight. The man his opposite was not so fortunate. O'Tooh carried with him the awful wounds he succumbed in the brawl, making him seem all the more menacing. The list goes on, grunts and goons, hobgoblins and spooks abound, until finally the introductions come full circle, and we meet #'s one and two, respectively: Carrots Krueger and Zuup Kabaaz.
For starters, Carrots Krueger, the personal bodyguard of and second in command to, Zuup Kabaaz, is just plain awful. He once fed glass to a Galapagos tortoise in a drunken parlor bet with his then fraternity brothers. The limits of his sinister behaviors only lie within the boundaries of your imagination, reader. Fuck! Krueger is terribly addicted to huffing paint, and has developed a demon-like personality as a side effect to this, as well. He will stop at nothing to complete his mission, and is compensated luxuriously by Kabaaz. Carrots Krueger is something of a boogeyman story to children at the time, placing himself eerily somewhere between reality and mythos; naturally, he used this to his advantage, installing fear in people throughout the countryside. He preferred the aroma and character of stale cigarettes, and sometimes he enjoyed good port he would loot from those he butchered.
All the children in all the neighborhoods have heard the nursery rhyme at some point; it's sort of a warning parents would teach their children:
"Better tell Daddy to go get his Ruger, 'cause out from the dark's comin' old Carrots Krueger."
Fuck!
With umpteen trillions of navy beans to prepare, and an unlimited supply of time and self determination, our small hero sets about his task with fervor and gusto. He hopped into the massive silo of dry beans and swam down into it. This was no easy feat within itself and required preemptive training as well. Our man needed significant upper body strength to work through the beans as if they were water or perhaps Kool-Aid. The sons of bitches were threatening some far-gone tactical nuclear strike, and the end is imminent… all that. Gots to swims through this ocean o' beans and lettem know on the other side. The whole better-safe-than-sorry bit, too. Kind of like a psychic gravy to sum the whole thing up, huh?
Thoughts swarmed our hero's mind. His body was pecked with cuts and abrasions caused by what looked like broken glass maybe, or shredded heavy metal latticework or something (or both). Escape was on his mind, yes, but he had accomplished anything but. It was dark outside and that night was filled with howling snow. Candles whispered in secrecy. The owls cackle not far above in the rafters. Selfish shits, the birds rarely fended for themselves anymore, subsisting off of any number of scraps that such nocturnal fowl would never eat in the real world. A turkey leg here, some gristle and old corn there. Chicken fried steak on a motherfuckin' bun.
Again the music changes tempo: time is ours, now. Either arm of this age old clock comes home and never leaves again. We are everything and nothing, quite comfortable within or outside the confines of this… Elsewhere. Such a place is figurative, indeed, and as such it's boundaries and perimeters are case sensitive and wholly personal. We each of us carries the symbolic tongue that brays, on and on, the noxious dogma that seems to seep through the cracks of time and resurface in our youth. Fuck! We hold within us the holy music with which we shall vanquish fear and terror, or at least hold those things at bay; we share some common idea and agree to work towards those goals. God is with us and yet we go against God in our toils. Timeless maths lay strewn about the cosmos now like so much used cardboard.
The room reeks of emotional freedom as I enter, and the free-lovers sit, strung out or dead or dying or otherwise. Some held hands and were singing an exhausted tune. A sad few were making to fuck, and failing miserably. This abandoned home had been occupied and then subsequently abandoned again. Yes, I lingered about and absorbed the folly. No, I did not participate in any 'activities,' other than said lollygagging. I sort of just hung around with my hands in my pockets, taking care to avoid any sharp objects or fragile dispositions. I laughed awkwardly at their silly jokes. One of the junkies had a fondness for non-sequiturs. For some reason unknown to me, he demanded that I address him solely as the Goodbye Man. His temperament with this request frightened me to some extent, so I made no inquiry. The Goodbye Man went on for hours; luckily, he had good port with him and was not afraid to share it. I listened intently to his stories at first, but admittedly, after a few hours and several glasses of port, the tales began to blur together, and lose definition.
"…So then what happened to the socks? I asked him sloppily, and obviously in a daze.
This angered the Goodbye Man somewhat. "Socks? My God, man! The devil d'you think I've been relating to you all along, then, eh? Socks? I ought to find a better place to rattle on."
To this I replied, "Oughtn't you?"
The Goodbye Man quickly gathered his things then, and without a word, and with a shit licking grin that more than compensated for his silence, he walked away, seemingly toward something far off in the distance. I couldn't tell… it was his eyes. They seemed focused on something, and when I asked him where he'd go, as he left, he made no attempt at a response. Instead, he just stared blankly on, and walked away at a calm pace.
"Goodbye." I said to him, quietly. I was sure he couldn't hear me. Things between us, though rather instant and trivial, made much more sense now. I watched him go until long after he was just a speck of dust on the horizon. The sun set. I died. My body decomposed, and I eventually became the plants there. Fuck! People visited me and slept there among my fronds and leaves. People sometimes left, too, but then others came to visit after.
Flank steak was, then, the centerpiece of the meal, alongside roast potatoes and a grilled asparagus casserole. The steak was tough when it was purchased, so it was tenderized with a special hammer, and then soaked overnight in bourbon and spices. The table was elaborately adorned with fine china. Under the carpet were all their secret mistakes; things were running smoothly.
A knock on the door. Coarse laughter from the other side of the solid cedar. There was no peephole, nor convenient means to identify their unexpected guest. All was momentarily lost in a shroud. The people looked at each other, from one face to another in response to the surprise. No one made any direct attempt for the door at first; a small time passed, and as a second knocking came, the group stirred to life. A younger man makes to answer the door as the rest of the room waits behind him in vague anticipation. The rest… Fuck! Their longing to identify the knocker was numb at best. Mostly, it was neither here or there. Likely it was a mistaken package, a neighbor with some random question, or even a neighborhood kid. Jehovah's Witnesses, maybe. I sharted, and it made everyone in the room with me start crying.
Empty-handed artists litter the city street-scape as I navigate the bowels of Metropolis. The creative had been posited here. It was complex and multifaceted, yes, but with Chomsky as our beacon, the information was out there, waiting for our discovery. Time was a poor sauce spread over too much linen; they were the hungry thousands, reduced to despots years ago. It was a dark irony, that the area was decorated with such grand murals and wonderful textiles, yet the people that populated it could hardly make ends meet. It seemed, then, that art and life-related necessities lay on two clearly separate planes. All was certainly lost. I flagged the flask of cheap bourbon from my back pocket and took a liberal swig; it burned my concentration to nothing as it made its way down my throat. A towering pile of dead or dying bugs. Fruit flies, no less.
THE PRISMS OUTSIDE PASADENA
Or,
THE REAL DEAL WITH ADAM'S APPLE
Go figure. I spend half a lifetime trying to find this one particular kite (an exercise owed to one who is very particular, mind you), and upon equestrian return, I go on and get crushed by this buffoon fuck, says it ain't colorful enough, well fuck that it ain't. It's got so many colors it makes me want to puke. Whole leagues more of it than this kite's competitors, and I found plenty, actually I found thousands over the years probably. The guy is this ultra wealthy blind Chinese guy that calls himself Hank. I don't get paid to ask questions, but I have some, from time to time, while out on the job. I keep them to myself, or did up until now.
Hank just rests in a hammock most of the time, or that's his custom when I come to visit and to hear assignments. Go get this, go do this, kill this person, steal this, promote this, give this away; anything under the sun for this strange blind Chinese named Hank. The hammock he lurked in was huge and seemed lavish and comfortable. I found myself wanting to leap into it, to throw Hank out of it and claim ownership of the hammock. I had done so many things for Hank, you would imagine this one gesture as nothing if not completely natural. Ghosts of the Great Highway.
The knocking continued. The family, likewise: the foods make their way around the table as time slows down. Fuck! This is but a moment, you see, and the younger man is to the door now. He grasps and operates the handle, opens the door. The man stares through the threshold. An eerie metallic ambience is coming from outside, something like Feldman's The Rothko Chapel, but the family, all still and watching this young man, cannot see what he sees from their angles. The dumb group watched on for a few minutes as the young man (the proverbial son?) stands, his legs trembling a bit, and stares at whatever may be his opposite.
The young man collapses then like a rag doll. It doesn't appear he was struck by any force or fell due to any trauma. He just collapsed under the weight of whatever he faced on the other side of that door.
Our hero made an impaired leap toward the pendulum, which heeded him in no way whatsoever. It swung back and forth; it has, and will continue on it's present course, unless the whole machine were somehow disrupted unexpectedly. Such an unseen event could prove equally hazardous to, if only much quicker than, the pendulum acting naturally. The slow death versus the clumsy and brutal but fast one. In either case, he passes well in range of but manages to dodge the blade. Our mangled hero then discovers there are infinitesimally many more pendulums, swinging at different rates, and his view stretched on like so, as far he could see. It was as if someone held the image up to a mirror, and then another, trapping him within millions and millions of smaller and smaller representations of himself. He began to feel much like an insect, and began treating his houseguests accordingly. Fuck!
"…The devil! What's the meaning of all this, then?!" A guest would inquire at, while sleeping deeply, our hero had slipped into the guest's bedchamber, dressed head to toe as a grasshopper-person. The terrified guest had woken to him climbing on the wall, using adhesive gloves he had spent company money to inquire some months ago.
"Why, I'm the grasshopper man, you fuck! You little fuck! You fuckin' fuck!"
Frightened beyond belief, the guest would flee the hotel as soon our hero would leave the room (still in full insect garb), back to his own ambiguous and seemingly twisted devices.
"Fuck you! Go ahead and fuck off, then! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Our hero would exclaim, in a general reactive nature towards all these goings on, these dandy happenings that are taking place around him now. He certainly was digging the simple pleasure of that wild bug suit, that guy.
Isolated thoughts appear and diminish sporadically. The lights in the room change from normal to a sickly green, then blue, red, and so on. The color was vibrant and intoxicating. Weird lizard people accompanied me there, but any attempt at communication at this point seems futile. Upon further study, it seems these things are actually parts of the giant chamber I was in, that they belong here. Fuck! I decide then to douse the place in diesel and give 'er the ol' burn, but I haven't the equipment, alas. Stony and lonesome, I inquire upon the weird lights. They seemed to be coming from a massive ornate glass piece hung high above, from an equally elaborate support system. There was some strange control room up there, as well, and the only window was filled with an awful looking bug eyed monster, or man, or something…
The old folks sat around sipping wine from fashioned bones. Their eyes closed, still they never ceased from looking at each other with superstition, with furrowed brow. One after the other though, they nodded off, until nearly all of them had succumbed to the grand soup had earlier that night. It was then that the fabled few left standing truly looked foolish in their paranoia.
The lamp came on in absence of sleep. They were in between days, in some grey gap. A sad moose came upon them, then, seemingly desperate for alms. All we did was cry alongside him, misguided as we were. The moose was with dagger. Fuck!
The bickerers three were caught; they'd been duped, shanghaied even. One of them, a tall, slender sportsman, fumbled with small words as he slouched about in his casual stupor. The others, a man who seemed to work with lawns, as he closely inspected everyday hedges and grassy knolls; lastly, a complete incompetent, some shabbily garbed old man with a broken umbrella. All he could say to anyone was 'Charles!' People would, therefore, rely on his usage of one or two utterances of the name to say 'yes' (one 'Charles!') or 'no' (you figure it out). The three of them shared a taste for fine curry. Thus was the reason for their current bizarre union. The three fobs had somehow found themselves disintegrated and then gone and done got and with the doing, did done had themselves re-materialized and whatnot within some infinite crystal theoretical triangle that explains everything. Fuck! That man up there on the cross, he sits there and laughs, laughs at you and me, not with us. Him and his bearded fucker-laugh, that shellacking cocksucker. Went and got himself up there, hoisted by deeds. Smelly marmot fuckers incapable of conceiving divine goings on.
I dabbled in tongue depressors; I suppose one could say I was a collector of sorts. It was a hobby of particulars, obviously once thought of, because there can only be so many differences between tongue depressors. They follow a specific shape for their utility, and so the companies that produce them rely of the tactic of creating subtle differences, nuances that define each particular brand of 'stick' (as we collectors affectionately call them). Fuck! Only a seasoned and properly informed collector of tongue depressors knows what to look for: type of wood, age of batch, vintage of container, etc. Indeed, the value of tongue depressors ages beyond that of fine wine. The older the product, barring condition and whatnot, the value increases favorably. I sharted, creating quite a stir in the room I'm in. I feel that most of the people here know it was me, but no one is willing to confront the problem outright. They are all lounging about still, albeit in an uncomfortable fashion. The room is starting to smell more. Soon I'll get up and go. But not yet. Not yet.
08/19/2012
Fish, followed by more fish. We've been on this island, trying to keep out of sight from those fucking freak robots for years. You're generous, old sport, you really are. Important rules we've had engraved upon our collective psyche (can there be such a thing?) begin to erode. Wires become unwound, and we are left to deal with the acoustics therein. The wind, she howls and screams for Josephine, who can only whimper in response. The triangles had her badly now; shackled as she was, Josie was in no condition to lend a hand. More fish? Wild greens had whilst foraging. Strange berries which were discovered to be quite delicious (at considerable risk) for dessert. Then, well drink fermented berries and forget it all until tomorrow.
The robots aren't that bad, really. I've talked to them, and I think it's a whole paranoia thing on the part of us humans. I mean, the robots, their whole thing isn't that irrational, it's just an outside-the-box perspective, dig? They want us dead, and we don't want to die, obviously… not on the surface, anyway… So we run, cat and mouse, and is this so very different from life back home, beyond all the materials? It's like we've all been running from something, or to something, more or less.
So we run through the trees, carefully avoiding the debris and shrapnel created by the massive whirring, slashing, and smashing of mechanical doom not far behind us. Fuck! Awful freak-screams of pissed-off robots echo through the massive limbs, disorienting us and the animals around us as we flee. Chicken fried steak.
The cabinet closed. The deed done, and in doing so undone. The rocks around miss being mountains; but then again, they still are, in some way. The moon counts down and gets fatter, fatter, totally round - only to become skinnier and skinnier until it completely disappears - this is how we know time, in a way. It works in a cycle, that celestial brute beats on like that, gaining and losing, waxing and waning, whether directly alongside the main theme of a given subject, or parallel or even totally dissimilar to said subject/theme. Need I say marmalade? Well, then.
Marmalade.
It seems outside me to throw a rock at this glass house, so to speak. To paint purple what's meant to be white. I don't want to be stark, or whim over this or that trifle: I'd like to be thought of as 'easy-going!'
Smelly chestnuts, either Floomgarbit and the sham-wozzle seems to FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
We were building the glass house, then. Kevin, Josie, and I. There were others there to, let me think…. I remember us having to worry about O'Tooh… Kevin had just dealt with him hours ago.. O'Tooh showed up out of nowhere and trashed his place. He ran through a wall, which seemingly lead both nowhere and everywhere, rather than simply leading into another living space. The whole thing was bizarre. Anyhow, we all had dark slingshots and cruel sticks for the beating, and were lollygagging about, waiting for unsuspecting fobs to stumble into our trap.
A small fat man wearing felt shows up, then. He has a bright red face like he has to poop and he's hairy, but hark! The little tike's only 4' 9!" His hair reflects light, which can be useful whilst spelunking, albeit for little else. He inquires about the mustard. I can see immediately that this man is in desperate need of mustard. Who was I to stand in his way, theoretically, if this came to that?
I was toast, I saw it then. Completely fucked: this small hairy gentleman, out on lunch between some corporate meetings, I'll wager- he's gonna destroy me, here and now, if I don't accommodate him. Fuck! I spend five minutes or so, completely dumbfounded, an obvious face of stupor induced by effort I have to exert for the concept now in front of me.
I hand the man a few packets of the mustard.
The man idly counts them there, maybe three or four seconds, then nods and leaves. His moustache quivers in the wind methodically. It makes me think about Akira Kurosawa for some reason. I fart, then, quietly and to myself, as the man disappears. It smells awful, but I keep it to myself.
IT ISN'T OFTEN
She entered quietly, through the first narrow corridor. There was a vast juxtaposition of fine wooden doors, stretching down either way outside the place, like a surrealist painting, very dada. Suddenly Feng shui stands alone so crucial, so paramount to our survival, and I suppose we just sit there, in a furious stupor all at the fact that this is what we have to reckon with, here. This, this thing, this system, these crooked deals, the spills we take for ill-gotten friends…. An umbrella for Susan and a ride across state lines (effectively becoming an accomplice to felony theft) for Kyle-Bob. Everyone and every whom is accounted for here, today. Their skins tanned a worn leather, their minds' boiled beyond recognition, the fools are managed with cheap parlor tricks and simple rewards. Everybody working for the weekend.
Leaving off where he started the last time (hence, getting nowhere- accomplishing nothing whatsoever), Lyle Van der Graaf had delved far down into the depths of invertebracy. He felt infantile and insignificant, much like a wandering beaver would feel, finding itself in the middle of the Gobi Desert. Fuck! Lyle was utterly disgusted with the course he'd taken in life, and had recently decided that doing nothing about this was by far the best course of action to rectify the situation. Sure, he's continue to plumb the dank and stupid pipes of nothingness, whilst cliché and rather racist 'Indian chants' fill the halls of his subconscious. He knew too much defeat, too much sorrow. The fucker hadn't been fishing in years, and, to make matters worse, as these thoughts ebbed and flowed through his mind, Lyle van der Graaf lost control of his bowels (forgot to control them, really), and went and done did with the doing and that's how we got with the going and did shit his silly pants. The shit was mostly fluid, similar to pulpy orange juice in everything but the hue. The poop was a horrid greenish yellow, clearly depicting a diet without fiber and with far too much processed this or that.
To make matters simple, reader, our new friend Lyle was a hopeless mess. Or was he? Yes. Yes, he was a failure in every single capacity, short just one: an uncanny ability to recognize the correct course of action, and then to do the exact opposite of aforementioned proper modus operandi. What a sad state of affairs things seemed to be on the surface for this poor, dirty and small man.
Except.
Except the trigger didn't work, or the gun misfired, or something. Either way Lyle was left alive for now, and our unseen antagonist properly disposes of the useless ancient pistol in some shrubbery whilst fleeing. Lyle made a feeble attempt to go after the crook, but alas.
His sad heart did for the crook what the gun couldn't. Lyle collapsed, his ticker all seized up, and lay still. Eventually, other heroes from some other author's stories show up to try an resuscitate our fallen and only recently identified friend. These attempts to revive Lyle on the street corner don't work, and so they pack up in a car (those that can fit into the small sedan available) and head to the nearest medical facility. Fuck! There, he is immediately cared for by the proper hands of our glorious American health care industry.
Lyle lay still like so for quite some time, hooked up to all sorts of expensive gadgets and gizmos, and the smell of bleach is (unaware to him, of course) overwhelming. Good Samaritans wait by his side for Lyle to come out of his state, and others try to contact the next of kin. Family trickles in and out days later; the deed-doers now gone, and after a few days, Lyle is all alone with the machines keeping him alive.
It has been three weeks since the heart attack, and Lyle van der Graaf remains in his coma. His ordinary life drops off completely, and where his responsibilities formerly were, he'd been replaced, at least temporarily. Hearts went out to our fallen friend, sad as he was, but life had to go on. Those who knew him felt uneasy when they thought about him or the coma. It was a strange sort of limbo to be involved in such a thing. Those involved felt like they were in their own personal comas, in a way.
***
So then the spooks came out to play: the goofs were on the haunt. Kevin was nowhere to be found. O'Tooh lurked somewhere not far off, in the shadows. Kabaaz sat on his perch in absentia, much like the buzzard that he was. Josie was now much more of a state of mind to be sure, and what of Carrots Krueger? Margaret? Silent partners in this grand charade, they were somewhere and everywhere, and somehow they never existed in the first place. The great chamber where the plot of this novel smelled heavily of cayenne pepper, and one would soon find him or herself curiously stumbling over the thought of sodomy as he or she entered the room. Indeed, the foyer was damp and there was no light at all. It wasn't exactly comfortable, that weird freak place that housed our plot.
I digress. If you trip and tip-toe through this vast expanse of stink and fear, not only will you find that which you seek, but Kiev Cave-Dwella will be there, too, needlessly sweeping up an already-swept corner of the chamber. One might ask him what he was up to, that old seemingly mentally handicapped plot device, but in response, Cave-Dwella would likely (as he often would in reaction to myriad stimuli) begin to scream profusely as he violently picked his nose. Fuck!
What a strange time we live in.
So Noah was completely full of shit, and the whole Ark spiel never actually happened. Yep. More conspiracy theorists digging waaaay too deep. Let me explain, quite simply. These two ethereal (albeit alcoholic) celestial beings started a fuckfest whislt continuously mutating and changing form, rematerializing as one fantastic creature or another, all right while they were fucking. I'm talking a giraffe-locust balls deep in a fish-fence-lion, and just a few seconds later, the whole mass of flesh repurposes like a soft clay into some other format, into some other amalgamation of nature as we never knew it. After several millennia of coitus, the male-female-male-female (etc.) releases a massive amount of spermy stardust into the womb of the world, so much come that both the creatures explode with the building pressure, spraying blood and piss and shit and love and creation all over the fucking place.
That's creation, that's evolution, and man just kept digging, kept refining and P.C.'ing the whole truth until it became something else entirely. Who wants to drink a watered down Bloody Mary? Nobody. The whole religion thing is funny to me, really, when set against what actually happened. The big bang was messy, dig?
Just now, Cachao came blasting through the stereo, careening back to Earth, and an overwhelming sense of jollity fills my soul. No, no it isn't easy being a voodoo priestess, but, then again, what comes around nowadays without a little force? What joy can be produced from a life without effort? On the opposite end of the spectrum, with life as finite as it now seems, here in my 40s, what elations, brought about by my own toil, merit some small fraction of my short time here on this plane of reality? These questions and more swam around in my oily mind. More so, they lingered about near the docks of that same strange lake like rock fish, venomous and waiting for the right ankle to bite. I remember the first time I had cow tongue, it was a semi-religious experience, complete with the unnerving feeling that I could never go back to that point before, if I make a move forward now. I ordered a tongue burrito, and the whole thing was served with rice, beans and salsa. Was it good? Fuck.
It was great.
SOMEWHERE WITHIN THE GREY EXPANSE OF THE NIXON ERA:
Libido flourishes if it's left in the right pot to stew. It was almost four-thirty in the morning, and I discarded another spent cigarette in the tray nearest my bed. I have receptacles all over my house for this very purpose. The keyword here is ease. Fuck! A witty cactus scoffs at my indolence, and I toss the little shitbag in one of my equally common trash bins. Like I said, I also have a lot of trash cans and whatnot. Some are different sizes to serve different specific purposes. It's really very simple, and that's the way I enjoy things. Maybe it wasn't so simple at first, but once the system became mundane like it is now, once I was able to run through my chores and daily tasks hung over, exhausted, hungry, sad or mad, the entire thing became just so fucking easy. It was like taking a course in paper airplane method, were there to be such a thing. I hear they do things that way in Massachusetts.
The phone rings. I know it's either Josie or Kevin. The problem was, Josie was now more than ever practically a ball of gas waiting to explode, sort of like Jupiter. I really hoped it was just Kev. He's know what to do.
The body lay strewn across the couch, racked with rigor mortis in a pretty unnatural looking position. The body lay exactly where it fell once the knife ran true and through. The man's throat had been slashed, and, gasping and gurgling for a moment, he lost balance and came to rest like so. His arms were reaching up for something, his legs twisted in agony. I had to get out of here, but I couldn't yet. Who could have done this?
Krueger. Carrots Krueger. It had all the markings of his handiwork. The milk was absent from the fridge, and someone had masturbated into the towel closet, leaving it nearly impossible or just very unpleasant for anyone taking a shower to properly dry off. Mississippi Mudslide: where did it all go wrong? Chicken fried steak on a motherfucking bun. Three 'angels' arguing over the same infernal horn, just so they can sing their silly hymn. It's the same hymn between them, but they're all so set on stealing one another's thunder, so to speak. It goes as follows:
We are angels, aren't we great?
We do all kinds of celestial things.
Watch out for that seraphim, amen.
So it was written, and so shall it be told for generations spreading out through infinite and the cosmos itself. Granted, there have been a few edits and alterations. How I met the funky razzmatazz time machine technician. Strange cave noises all around me. I think I may have farted, but the echoes play their tricks; perhaps it was the baying of a small coyote, just as lost in these caverns as I. The stakes are high here. Umpteenth goblins and their whimsical masquerade, featuring not lastly the rising piles of manure that go hand in hand with such events. We need shovels, but all the corner stores are closed. An advanced lot, we no longer shop at Wal-Mart.
Guess we'll have to set the alarms and make a concerted effort to rise from bed sometime before four in the afternoon. Most storeowners, like everyday common folk (after all, beneath their smocks these businessmen are just that, like you and I), have somewhere to be other than their respective posts. I tried to build a fence once for my eldest aunt. She was older, like I said, and she couldn't do things like that, but she was really good at buying pets and things that needed accommodating like so. So, I built her the fence, or tried to, and it didn't go well, meaning I made it a ways and irreparably damaged the project. That followed with me furthering the damage out of anger, until most of the material was destroyed or worse. Some I coated with a lacquer of my aunt's dogs' feces. I screamed a lot throughout, and my aunt herself was there to cheer me on as I wiped the days-old dog poop all over the place. What a scene!
MORE ABOUT BONK
The group was steadily building their repertoire as well as their notoriety around town. Tony puts out a cigarette. Dave squawks like a ferret, and I linger in the small corners, playing grab-ass with the farm cats. Fuck! The success of Mildred Bonk has led to the group's newly found financial 'comfort,' and now they had much more time to focus on highly experimental practices further beyond the realms of layman's music. They made massive amunts of pancakes and jettisoned them out into the crowds at shows. They filled hotel swimming pools with boiling hot pudding, killing countless tourists. They scalped at least one fat cop in every town.
Mildred Bonk also frequented local cemeteries and fixed up unkempt tombstones and monuments for no charge to the owners of the site. They visited elementary schools and embraced song and dance with the youth of out great country. They gave away food they prepared themselves using money out-of-pocket and also gave free haircuts. The Bonk were regular philanthropists and good-deed-doers, make no mistake. Fuck!
So you see, there is an undeniable sense of duality among the key members of the music collective known as Mildred Bonk. They were hair stylists, Hessian metal freaks, and vegans all wrapped up into one supreme package. They were yogurt with olives, whatever that means. I don't really understand the analogy myself. I basically just typed out the first two items that came to me, whether or not they related, so I suppose those last two (yogurt and olives) don't count. Sorry.
It's nearly five A.M. Ghosts converge at this hour. Glass melts. How I feel about the Illuminati. Ghost-tron Particles (how Kevin done did live again). Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, and how I feel about getting fucked over by Swans' booking manager. Windows slamming shut at 5 A.M. People actually sleep. There's no exaggeration there.
Yes, in response to those Flaming Tunes, I suppose we are beguiling the hours, really just watching them waste away like the walls around one's heart. Really, though, I'd enjoy proposing a shout-out of sorts to Charles Hayward and the rest of the crew of This Heat. Honestly. I can think of few other moments in music history, throughout my extensive research, that such an act has behaved so ahead of their time; that a band made some psychic choice and struck gold some decades later. The Heat enjoyed little to no notoriety in their own time, from what I can tell, yet they live on as an inspirational group, as musician's music. Thought provoking: jazz.
I uncork another bottle of wine.
The wax came undone from the inner walls of the cavernous and sickly human ear. Joseph scooped up what he could, and continued toward his wheelbarrow, and furthermore the main hive and the finally, the wax repurposing facility, commonly referred to as 'Wax Zero.' That's where it's all made: Wax Zero. Fuck!
They managed a cheap living confusing local hoods about the pros and cons of smoking black tar heroin. It was a backwards sort of training program. They implemented a desire, an addiction in the employee to impress or make happy the managers or employers of a given job. It was business as usual. These were just complex number systems represented by human holograms in place of sheer mathematical figure. Rhinos are nearly extinct everywhere except the realm of explanation of arithmetic.
Upon arrival, the wax was placed upon a conveyor belt leading into vast machines composed on ancient iron. One would only suppose that this old forged stuff resisted many common problems had buy newer and more flimsy materials. The freak beast crooned as the goop melted down, and fell into a deep ponder concerning what he would craft today: a holding container for food storage or more; a container to store ammunition; both? I farted, and a mixture of blood and shit came leaking out my asshole, years long now deprived of much needed foods rich in fiber and magnesium. We're all fucked.
The ghost caught within a prism. Nightfall, followed by instant-fast springtime. Flowers fuck, somewhere far off in the distance. I think I can hear the faint signal of a door opened on some modern-ish car somewhere in the area. It's quiet but consistent. Meager honking, like the battery has been juiced for some time now, and is now fading like a pulse. Only lightning judges my ecstatic fall. I whimper in the midst of ghosts, and squander in the face of bankers. I'm everyone's' #1 catch and no one's favorite umpire. I'm a shitlicking cocksucker, and worse still, I knew it. I took these things in and contrasting them upon financial earnings. At the end of the day, I don't know which is worse. I've also been mysteriously accosted by a Otoe-like figure in neon-glowing robes composed of pure carbon and light.
I badly have to fart, but I don't want to waste years of potential research on a few moments of gas that will only replenish themselves. These qualms are soon pickled in a vat of possible deceits and near-tragedies
Everyone I know reaches for the door, but that's only saying so much. Kevin Ayers is singing in my head.
La la la la la la la la laa…
Disregard previous whimsy. I'm at fault. I'm far too intoxicated to type, and so I apologize. Fuck! I hope the next time I open these pages, I find myself amidst a friendlier tide. Finding myself strangely without humor when concerning the subject of the dawning autumn and beyond, I retract into a deep sleep like a salamander.
BACKYARD PEOPLE
Or,
THE MUSIC ROARS ONWARD
I find myself some supposedly spent cigarettes then. My HUD sucker fidget went and done with the draining again; had to find myself a dark stony alley then. Decided weeks prior to play music with some folks, at a house, then. Down, down, down we go, descending into depths unknown. One would relish quantifying the place as 'dark,' but such a word retains no meaning down here. A few moments of silence, then the keys come crashing back in (randomly). There's no one here to hear you laugh.
It was a shallow and cramped room, with mildew somewhere not far off, but served as a venue more than effectively. Rather, the room seemed to amplify the true D.I.Y. stylings of the Bonk. The other bands were swell, too: Blue Sky Angel Parade, featuring the musics of some of our companions on the local circuit; headlining the show were The Shivas, a musically apt if maybe standoffish group from good old Portland, Oregon. How swell it was too have them, too, reader, then.
We had a cameraman (also very capable in his assignment, Tolemy Kneally). The footage is somewhat dark, but worth the watch for the sheer fury that the Bonk dished out for those lucky fifty-something odd people that attended the show that night. Ten cornets, not far behind, all a hum with the gospel of our good lord and savior Jesus Christ (the previous passage was written originally by the author via coding, and can also be translated as follows: 'Chicken fried steak on a motherfucking bun!' The editors merely inserted the former for it's obviously superior literary merit (?). We apologize for any inconvenience.
There were lollygaggers just shitting around outside all night, though! These trippy backyard folk that simply refused to come inside and enjoy the music, preferring to utilize their live music consumption like a spicy sauce, only dabbing their attention in it, and only for the flavor. These fobs are only at shows on pretense and have no real appreciation for music. And fuck that: I'd like to stab one of those fuckers in the throat for that cowardly shit. Fucking anti-intellectual pigs. I want a big ol' aquarium someday soon, so I can watch all the fishies fuck 'til oblivion takes us all!
We're all just shit-licking pricks, anyway. We hire roofers and pay them a pittance. Gouda cheese is completely underrated in today's culinary zeitgeist. It's obvious upon a simple scan of an inspection that this cell I've found myself in has never been cleaned. There's shit crusting around every edge of the toilet, and somehow, likewise, the toilet. The mirror is just gone. The windows are rusting in their metal frames and the bed smells like piss and dead bugs. There are bugs, still very much alive, living on the ceiling. They sometimes venture down for a morsel or whatever they can scavenge off my person, but mostly, they keep to themselves. Roaches, I think. I first heard them early on in my stay here at the stony lonesome. It took me a couple days in the flickering miserable lighting they give us at night to finally see one, and once I figured how, I found there were many of the fucks up there! Fuck! Oh well. I went about business as best I could, having stumbled upon this unfortunate fact.
Once when I got way too fucked up on the fumes of my own fermented (and probably cultured) shit, I tried to eat one of the roaches that dared down onto my belly. I remember it tasting like stale popcorn and bologna. I haven't tried one again since then.
The mantra I've followed these forsaken decades has led me now far outside myself. I've only just recently found this out, mostly by mistake. I was pissing into the wind when the wind pissed back, and as I retracted in disgust, I smacked the side of my face on some unknown metal obtrusion. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be a UFO or something, some foreign spacecraft. I decided I have enough on my plate already, and journey on toward more pertinent destinations. That ship didn't exactly look like it was going anywhere, at any rate. Space pirates? At this late stage, such happenstance seemed unlikely. Munchkins come clamoring into my bedchamber again! Oh, fuck it all!
I'm tasked with going to the local grocer to pick up some donuts for the guys back at Ice House; apparently, I'm supposed to get a couple apple crisps especially for Deborah. The other guys are fine with whatever I grab, really. Danish, bear claws, long johns, crullers… it's all good. The more chocolate, the better, I think is the only real guiding light in this situation (not that I need one). I scream loudly in the parking lot for no reason whatsoever, and a young woman walking her baby (or empty stroller) watches me curiously as I make the rest of the way to my car. I notice this and debate attacking her, even though I'm a lawman, or yelling at her to shut her fucking mouth (although she hasn't spoken a word to me or anyone throughout this small encounter), but, the baby and all. You know.
She begins to wonder if she ever really knew Juan Colorado in the first place, if she'd been had from the get-go. The robots weren't far behind now; she could hear the terrifying roars of the buzzers and whats-its performing their tasks- awful mechanical sounds- through the thick evergreen wood. The tortoise shell had ultimately done her no service short of weigh her down in her flight. Freak tentacles writhe in the setting sun!
After all, she surmised- there was, in theory, a little bit, some small fraction of Juan Colorado's primordial stuff within us all. It drives us and it nurtures us. Without Juan Colorado, we'd be truly screwed as a society, probably reduced to some oaf-gathering that quarreled over the least ugly cinders left behind in our apocalypse.
WAXEN GOLD
The small man loaded the boogery mess into his self-fashioned barrow, to haul the material back to market to be sold. This whole process was repeated then numerous times within the span of one day, or until the wax for the day ran out in the canals- in which case, the small man would have to pack up and head home with a head hung in sorrow. No wax meant no money, no food, family members upset, and all the fun little details that emerge from said unhappy family. Basically, if you didn't go to market four or five times with full loads of the wax, you were fucked. I suppose that's the energy that kept this small man focused on his task with such earnest. He had a small spade with him that he would use to chip the wax off the walls of their host's inner ear, and then he'd do the best he could to scoop the stuff up, or roll it up and stow it in the wheelbarrow until he had enough to make the trek into town worthwhile.
He was a short, fat and hairy little imp, but he was an honest worker, and he reaped the fruits of his hard work. He had many of life's little gifts, after all- a fairly happy family, a house of his own, and a manageable amount of debt coupled with low interest due to good credit scores on his part. Yep, that earwax goblin had it made in the shade.
Kinda.
The camel made it's way slowly across the field, spied on by some wary osprey a few hundred feet overhead. The bird moves on, undaunted: creepy sex-thrill-ride noises. It had always wanted to be a barn owl, in some small facet. Oh well.
The beastly mammal drooled sheepishly. One could tell the camel was completely exhausted with little inspection. It must have traveled nearly all it's way through the desert thus far in one stint; only that could explain such fatigue. A creature needs sleep and water. What could have forced it such a distance, and so quickly? A much more apropos inquiry. Oops, I farted again. Sorry.
After all, as previously suggested, no wax meant no money, food or other goods, and also it meant all the things the prior deprivations might provoke. Without morphine, with no more fame to go around, how will Man then come to any clear resolutions? I haven't assembled a resolution, but here's what I got:
WAXEN GOLD
The small man loaded the boogery mess into his self-fashioned barrow, to haul the material back to market to be sold. This whole process was repeated then numerous times within the span of one day, or until the wax for the day ran out in the canals- in which case, the small man would have to pack up and head home with a head hung in sorrow. No wax meant no money, no food, family members upset, and all the fun little details that emerge from said unhappy family. Basically, if you didn't go to market four or five times with full loads of the wax, you were fucked. I suppose that's the energy that kept this small man focused on his task with such earnest. He had a small spade with him that he would use to chip the wax off the walls of their host's inner ear, and then he'd do the best he could to scoop the stuff up, or roll it up and stow it in the wheelbarrow until he had enough to make the trek into town worthwhile.
He was a short, fat and hairy little imp, but he was an honest worker, and he reaped the fruits of his hard work. He had many of life's little gifts, after all- a fairly happy family, a house of his own, and a manageable amount of debt coupled with low interest due to good credit scores on his part. Yep, that earwax goblin had it made in the shade.
Kinda.
The camel made it's way slowly across the field, spied on by some wary osprey a few hundred feet overhead. The bird moves on, undaunted: creepy sex-thrill-ride noises. It had always wanted to be a barn owl, in some small facet. Oh well.
The beastly mammal drooled sheepishly. One could tell the camel was completely exhausted with little inspection. It must have traveled nearly all it's way through the desert thus far in one stint; only that could explain such fatigue. A creature needs sleep and water. What could have forced it such a distance, and so quickly? A much more apropos inquiry. Oops, I farted again. Sorry.
After all, as previously suggested, no wax meant no money, food or other goods, and also it meant all the things the prior deprivations might provoke. Without morphine, with no more fame to go around, how will Man then come to any clear resolutions? I haven't assembled a resolution, but here's what I got:
The tentacles seemed to be covered in soft spines: I found myself wondering if this aided the creature's transportation. A strange biological proportion, indeed, but that was far from the weirdest thing about this fucking monster. It's eyes were concave and made a funhouse-mirror of whatever it gazed at, only in return. As it stalked me from afar, I could sort of see a small fat man with a distorted face running from it. That was me. Fuck! I brandish an aluminum scratch pad, and attack the mildew that overwhelmed the floor below me. The starfish mutant hesitated at this point, considering at length this rather random change in pace. My technique had stupefied the beast.
Spigots rose, there somewhere in the dark. Some shadows tried to creep in through the freak-light, I guess. It didn't really matter to me at all. I decided from then on, I would adorn odd hats, like wear them all the fucking time, until people associated me and referred to me as 'that weird hat guy.' The music spins on.
I dream of far-off desert paradise, as ice lingers in the aforementioned forefront. Oops, I shat my fuckin' pants. Smelly narcolepsy: why not forever? Why, because of the butts that would smell so awful, presenting themselves first, in twos. Then come the fours and sixty-eights and then, you're fucked. Exponents, baby. Dale had had a particularly hard time coming up from the coma. He'd never spent much time on a professional grade golf course, nor pondering an interventionist God, until just recently. He walked confidently, now, with the common folk, strolling leisurely down some endless marble causeway: the sound of running water is not far, just audible.
Through and under grand and ancient viaducts cast of stone, bone, blood and sinew! I briefly thought about beginning a new hobby in aquariums - saltwater, mind you. Probably instigated by old memories of my father. He'd always had aquariums, until only recently, and now, at 22, I have memories of trippy fish twilight.
A man on the street recently asked me, coming up to me out of the blue, what Harrison had accomplished, or 'done,' during his presidency. He also asked the same of former presidents Cleveland and Garfield.
This whole dance would take some thought, and I lingered at the gates. I thought about my answers long and hard, milling over them alongside pancakes and eggs at Josie's place.
Phillip! Richard! Wayne! Abner! Susan! Josh! Allison! Fred! Nelson! Harold! Chuck! Filmore! Evan! Jessica! Maril! Maude! Helen! Duke! Judd! Wanda! Sydney! Aurora! Glenn! Gus! Marvin! Marsha! Bob! Tim! Tammi! Steve! Abernathy! Caspar! George! Rodney! Gloria! Cindy! Sara!
-who's that lingering in my spine? A pitter-patter of whimsied mirror. She wants to confess to some turquoise boy, but it seems some sweet liberation has come. The boy's hard of hearing. I don't have one of those, but I do have really bad chronic diarrhea! Just stepping into the can at my place, you can easily detect I've got something really awful going on with my colon. I'm dreadfully scared of the paramedics, you see, and so has this terrible dilemma gone on. They used to call it Searching for Bobby Fischer, but nowadays, what with it being a bit more common, or even hip... they [magic pueblo people] call it socialism.
She dances with the mysterious bumblebees; I know because I heard her far-off snoring. Chicken fried motherfuckin' steak on a bun! Fuck! FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!
I suppose I've found the blues again. Those old wanton colors that wash away the fine textures of reality, those infernal hues that do nothing but blur. The caves of ice we're lost in, and it's blue walls. Your eyes are blue, though I could swear they weren't 'til just a moment ago. I guess blue. I seem to climb up the walls, entirely beside myself. Their shoes are blue, and I wonder if it means those little people out there aren't real. That makes me blue, too. An ugly blue on blue. I have to get out, get some new air, but I fear the pleasant sky. I don't know how much more blue I can stomach. The weight of the situation was quite literally crushing my bones and I was slowly dying.
It just makes for a rusted and flimsy America, is all. A finite, somnolent sort of luster that only clings to us at the foot of dream. I'm lost in a word of hashish, heroin and box cutters. What to do diddly do.
09.21.2012
Witnessed an amazing performance at the Bourbon theater tonight. Swans. Michael Gira came towering out onto the stage looking like a wild animal, and was in full form as the band played. The rest of the band, all members either from the genesis of the band or somewhere within the Swans catalogue, were also very good. It was loud. I could feel the music in my chest. I brought ear plugs, but it just felt wrong somehow to use them. Unsportsmanlike. As I type this, there is a dead silverfish stuck to the wall just above my desk, still adhered there by his deathly glues from when I smashed him or her, good and proper. It does, however, provide a sort of distraction, and with a double take, I realize the pestilent insect may have one this battle, after all.
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The beavers continued to pick away at the forest from the riverside, season after season, out of pace with the growth of the trees. The stupid animals were taking too much for the forest to compensate. Within a few years it wouldn't really be a wood anymore, more just a patch of trees and saplings; a wetland at best. The beavers would likely then have to move on to another, hopefully more prosperous life elsewater.
As for the camels that didn't exist in any relevant context to me as I write this, or you, the reader, as you scan these very letters with your optic sensory system: they don't give much of a fuck likewise. Probably migrating from one dry place to another? Why the trivial fretting in a time like this? I have to pee. I had too much scotch earlier, and now I'm faded, my body finally processing the toxins. Fuck! Thanks to those fucking beavers, it's 7% more difficult for me to find a suitable tree to pee next to, at least in this particular area. I decide when I next visit this place to come with a high powered rifle and plenty of ammo: I was gonna kill each and every fucking beaver




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