A Clean Getaway

Home , Brendan Mullen, Magnolia (soundtrack), Strange Weirdos, Troll (gay slang)

PARAPHILIA V

1 2 CONTENTS Cover art by Chikuma Ashida ―The Ape That Exploded‖ by Ron Garmon Front and back images by Sid Graves p243 Editorial p4 ―Sounds Abound‖ edited by Kate MacDonald ―Brendan Mullen‖ by Johnny Stingray, image with Mary Leary and Craig Woods, art by by Carol Torres p5 Dolorosa de la Cruz p248 ―Elevenses‖ p8 Contributors‘ Links p269 ―A Maudlin Ballad‖ by Jim Lopez p13 Two paintings by Michael Cano p26, p216 Editors ―A Clean Getaway‖ by Charles Platt p27 ―Your Time‖ images by Brian Blur p38, p54, Díre McCain p71, p161, p202, p230, p247 DM Mitchell ―When Graverobbing Goes Wrong‖ by Audree Flynn, image by Brian Blur p39 Kate MacDonald – Musical Editor ―Interesting Times‖ by Andrew Maben p42 Jim Lopez – Columnist & Pistolero ―Mugshots‖ by Guttersaint p51, p125, p224 ―The Whole Goddamn Story‖ by Thomas Hastings p52 Contact Paraphilia ―Assassinations pt1‖ by D M Mitchell, image [email protected] by Chris Brandrick p55 ―On The Fifth Day – Lazarus‖ by Jana, image Website by Chris Brandrick p61 www.paraphiliamagazine.com ―In The Alley‖ by Claire Godden-Rowland, images by Malcolm Alcala p64 www.myspace.com/paraphiliamagazine ―Her Fire Chills Me‖ by Craig Woods, images by Max Reeves p72 Many thanks to; Evita Corby, Derek See, ―Cunt‖ by Sue Fox p86 Richard Meade, David Britton, Michael ―Playing With The Lightning‖ by D M Butterworth, Charles Platt, Chris Mitchell p96 Brandrick, Johnny Stingray, John ―Highway 59‖ – James Williamson Barrymore, Malcolm Alcala, Simon Bell, interviewed by Díre McCain p99 Orb Sinpatrabordee, and Willis O‘Brien. ―Raw Power‖ by David Britton p123 ―Felis Silvestrus Summa Cum Opprobrium‖ by Díre McCain p126 * This issue is dedicated with much love ―Deathwish Chameleon V‖ by Cricket and admiration to Brendan Mullen, who Corleone, images by Richard A. Meade p153 should have been gracing our pages with ―Fuck Tea.Fuck Toast‖ by Salena Godden p162 his words rather than as an eidolon, and ―My Secret Museum‖ by Guttersaint p165 James Williamson, who was born sixty ―The Costa Rica Eight Mile‖ by Gene years ago today. * Gregorits, image by Chris Brandrick p170 ―Automata Exhibition‖ by Pablo Vision, Submissions images by Siolo Thompson p190 ―No Time To Spare‖ by Brian Routh and This a free magazine distributed in the Patricia Wells p194 ―Postatomic‖ by Michael Butterworth p196 interests of giving culture back to the ―The Bromomaniaks‖ by Rick Grimes p203 people instead of the industry. We cannot ―Bridgette In India‖ by Hank Kirton, images pay for contributions to this publication. by Brian Blur p205 However, please see our website for ―Pimp Of The Perverse‖ by Rich Follett p214 details of our other publishing ventures. ―Un Aperativo Col Diavolo‖ by Darius James, images by Destiny McKeever p217 Any opinions or beliefs (religious, political ―Morning‖ by Nick Tosches p223 or moral) expressed anywhere in this ―Invasion Of The Body Snatchers‖ by John publication are not necessarily those of the Barrymore, image by Malcolm Alcala p225 ―A Part Apart‖ by Chris Madoch p231 editors. We take no responsibility for ―Excavated‖ by Claudia Bellocq, image by anything we have published in the interest Malcolm Alcala p239 of the freedom of speech and expression. ―Them‖ by Angela Suzanne p242

3 EDITORIAL

Staring at the sun. the prolonged death-by-installments that seems to be our lot? Do we ever find How often we find ourselves doing what it is we are looking for, and do we things – quite deliberately and with full even know what that is? Does it matter? knowledge – that defy what we have Is the search itself, sufficient? been taught to believe is ‘common sense’, things that are really not in our All we know is there is a fire in us that ‘best interests’. burns brightly or dimly yet always burns, and in the end leaves only ashes. Our parents bring us into the world from love or indifference – or often a Let’s start being honest and open about mixture of the two. We then spend the it, stop looking for excuses. Let’s see an next decade and a half being instructed end to the attempt to cover over our true by them, our teachers, the guardians of natures, to pass our vices off as virtues. society, in how to look after and educate Life is hard enough, without having to ourselves, being careful not to bring keep up the pretence of being ‘civilised’ shame on ourselves, our families, or as well. society. In fact, the worst excesses of human Get adequate sleep and nutrition, get a history seem to be at least partially the proper education, or at least a decent job result of denying our true natures, which that will pay for a home and put meals on are quite honestly more complex than the table. Be careful crossing the road. we feel comfortable with. When we try Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t have sex too hard to be civilised, when we deny with just anyone, but if you do, make our destructive sides, we ‘overwind the sure you use protection. Take regular watchspring’ – eventually something has exercise. Don’t drink too much. Don’t to snap, and all too often does. take drugs. Instead, let’s explore openly and Don’t stare directly at the sun. honestly, and share it with others who are in no position to pass judgement Yet time and again we find ourselves themselves. In fact, it may even ease perched at the edge of the abyss, gazing some of the pain of those wounds we down, stomach cramped with nausea yet voluntarily inflict on ourselves from time half-longing, waiting for the abyss to to time. look back into us. Looking and looking for something... There is no need to feel lonely on top of everything else. What is it that modern life has taken from us that’s so precious we would rather throw ourselves in the face of danger, and even destruction rather than accept

BRENDAN MULLEN (1949-2009)

By Johnny Stingray

Photo © Carol Torres

First time I laid eyes on Brendan on Brendan‘s crude but spacious Mullen was August of 1977. Kidd basement. Spike, DOA Dan, and I were loading our equipment into a building on The building, aptly called the Cherokee Ave in Hollywood, just off Hollywood Center Building, has a Hollywood Blvd, looking for the door on the Cherokee side – across practice space Kidd Spike had found from Boardner‘s Bar – that enters in The Recycler. We were a fledgling into a narrow vestibule with an band, and practicing in our living elevator. As we climbed into the room had inflamed our already elevator, a skinny and somewhat tenuous relationship with our Santa disheveled young guy quickly Monica neighbors. walked up and slid into the elevator next to us. We had no idea who he Our neighbors insisted we find was. ‗other‘ arrangements for playing loud music, and having no clue He muttered, almost inaudibly, where to turn, we literally stumbled ‖What‘s going on? Where are you

5 headed...?‖ Something like that...in echoing with the sound of drums an undefinable accent... and bass from the other rooms. The occasional laughter from someone in One of us replied that we were going the main room (where the stage to band practice. would soon be built)...the bathrooms still worked and the famous spray ―Oh, really? Who said you could paint graffiti was just beginning to come down here?‖ appear.

We thought for a moment we had Brendan was always there in those the wrong place. days. He once took offense that I described him as ‗permanently ―We are supposed to meet some guy disheveled‘, but I remember him named Brendan.‖ wearing the same pair of green polished cotton pants with a broken He gave a quick grin, ―Oh...that‘s zipper for days on end. None of us me.‖ had any money in those days and the ever frugal Scotsman spent his He was very gracious from that money on 2x4‘s and drywall rather point on, showing us the room we than clothing. could use, talking about his plans for the space, and apologizing for the Brendan will certainly be described crude appearance. We didn‘t care. I in the coming decades as the ‗Father paid him in advance for 6 hours at of L.A. Punk‘, whatever the hell that $3.00 an hour or so, as I recall. He means, and while he might not have disappeared until the wee hours of been our Dad as much as an the morning when we were loading indulgent uncle, he certainly out, and I asked him if we could provided the Petri dish that most book the same hours for the next punk rock bands of that era in Los weekend. Angeles were cultured from. Without Brendan and his dedication We didn‘t know until weeks later to keeping the place alive, there that he was actually living there. would have been no melting pot, no The Masque hadn‘t been dreamed crucible, no non-commercial for-the- up yet. This was a dark, low rent fucking-fun-of-it gigs... It would practice space inhabited by the likes have been Whiskey/ Starwood / of The Berlin Brats and their noir Troubadour ad inifinitum. Most of junkie crew, Martha Davis (The would have given up and gone back Motels), various members of an early to our day jobs, eking out a dreary version of the Skulls – and Brendan. existence, and leaving our rock and roll dreams behind us. It was mostly deserted during the Bands that thrived in the fetid hours we were there, the darkness atmosphere of the Masque, the

6 quirky geniuses, oddballs, and art either didn‘t think we were much of damaged misfits would not have a band, or we just didn‘t pique his had a home where they could interest. explore the mysteries of their psyche in the non-judgmental forums of In 1986, when I had a one-off band Masque shows. Brendan didn‘t with a few friends, he was booking supervise, didn‘t ever say turn it Club Lingerie. One phone call and down, never had a negative he not only booked my band, but comment for any band that wanted a gave us a headline gig, sight unseen. place to practice. It was as open and That is the definition of friend. free. It was our clubhouse for a few brief months. Over the years, he has slagged us in print, praised us for being a part of It was hard to piss him off, but I saw the culture and the scene, but he it a few times. He banned Rik never excluded us from important Agnew‘s Naughty Women because events, like his Class of ‗77 book they tore up his stage, spraying release gigs. In fact, the 2001 Class shaving cream and torn up Playboy of ‗77 gig brought the Controllers mags all over the place, and I still back from the dead. think they were fantastic and stupid. He almost left us out of We Got the He banned my friend and mentor, Al Neutron Bomb, but honestly, he may Hansen because Al said ‗The not have known how to get in touch Masque‘ sounded like a cocktail bar with me. for aging drag queens. He made up for any slights with the We got him drunk once, and only next book, Live at the Masque. Gave once. We didn‘t know he had a us the rock star treatment in both the fondness for Scotch whiskey. I book and the gig and we could not brought a pint of Cutty to practice have been happier. one night and normally he didn‘t hang with us while we practiced, but The last time I talked to Brendan, that night ...he drank most of it. sadly, was just after the ‗Live at the Drunk as a lord, he turned into a an Masque‘ gig. He called me at home elderly bluesman, blowing harp in and for the first time since the old the echo chamber of the empty days, we just chit-chatted. Talked Masque and singing like he was about bands that played the gig, how raised in the Mississippi delta. I people had aged...gossiped...like would never have expected such a only old friends that have known turn from this quiet, hesitant each other for decades can do. Scotsman. Goddamn it, I‘m going to miss him. We tried to draft him as Controllers‘ drummer at one point. He declined,

7 ELEVENSES

Michael, three stories he wanted to begin typing this morning upon waking. Your concerns about narcissism in your writing about Michael K are The Other is discovering Calvino‘s familiar to me. After all, I‘ve been Invisible Cities, admiring the spare writing about Michael K a lot prose at the beginning of that book longer than you and have, as you and how the story begins and ends can imagine, been through a lot of within a page. the twists and turn of perspective, looking at that character from the When K looks back at the screen outside, as a fiction I invent, as a and this text, the words are no person who, assuming the identity longer plain black text on white; of Michael K, finds himself strings of three or four words are reflected in a mirror that may no red, but that red is, the next longer be just a mirror, but the moment, shifting around colouring reflection of a mirror in whose different strings of words, taking refraction another unexpected up ‗the twists and turns of the Michael K emerges. perspective‘ one moment, but then highlighting, in turn, ‗finds in Even the above paragraph has its himself the persona‘, ‗another problems for a reader used to unexpected K emerges‘ and 'the getting clarity from the sequencing text has been typed‘. of words; some if not all of the writing about Michael K is wide He is surprised by this effect which open for interpretation even before he assumes to be some retinal effect the text has been typed. caused by the removal, suddenly, of his study from one medium to Did I talk about the Michael K that another, from the printed page to is here, with me, now? the illuminated text.

Or am I talking about the Michael He reads on: K that is with you?

Or am I talking about an Michael K: independent entity now, a Frankenstein‘s Monster of the text? Doctor, Doctor. I‘ve been experiencing physical, mental, and But I diverge now to tell you of emotional changes that, indeed, are what has been happening between occurring even as we speak; my self and Michael K: ―voices‖ speaking inside our head, a switch in consciousness without One of us is typing the above text, being aware, or without breaking off to try to recall the consciously choosing to do so. I move from singularity to

8 multiplicity, and my „I‟ becomes a direct interaction with your „We‟, I go from shame and blame to individuated ego-self, is referred to SAME. as yourself, Third Person.

Every time I point my finger, I Third Person manifestations of self realize that three fingers are are representative of the pointing back at me. unconscious mind.

And it is ALL ME, ALL THEE, and Doctor K: ALL WE.

Often, the universe bestows esoteric gifts upon those who are Michael K: not emotionally or intellectually prepared to deal with them. Such a But the mandate that humanity has situation creates fear and confusion given to science, over the past 100 in the lives of those who see the years, has been to keep me results. And it is for this reason ―normal‖ – to support my that we are approaching you now. functioning in ways that feel familiar, and to help me live longer To assist us in sorting out this and prosper and one of the assortment of alternative selves, we primary functions of science is the offer the following Levels of exploration and categorization of Fragmentation to organise your that which can be seen and thinking: observed. At any point, I can feel rage and confusion, even as a voice The Body, and its individuated within me declares: personality, is a representation of yourself, First Person. “I am watching myself go through this. I am staying aware, even as First Person perceptions are the parts of me are trying to forget.” activity of the Conscious Mind. The conflicts within me (or him) Everything and everyone that has a are manifold. I feel a sense of direct interaction with that body, restlessness, a nagging feeling of whether it is human, animal, ―purpose‖ that is, as yet, vegetable, or mineral, is referred to undiscovered. There is no sense of as yourself, Second Person. congruity, at times--no feeling of alignment, or credibility. Instead, I Second Person representations are am gripped by an innate sense of the activity of the subconscious. foreboding – a premonition of This is also the level of the Intimate something that may never be! Interface.

Everything and everyone which can be seen by you, but which has Doctor K:

9 And it is no mere accident that this Moving from the Expanded Self awareness should come upon you. means that your thinking For, even as there will always be a originates from outside the ―box‖. place for triteness and for trivia in It is crystalline and rooted in the world, there also needs to be a eternity! Such is the heritage of all place where the ―base metals‖ of who call themselves the Children life are blended and transformed of Oneness. But first, you must into gold--where the narrow and bring to completion your grand inane concerns of finite existence experiment of living as a Child of can be expanded, and mixed with Limitation. other elements, and formed into The Philosopher‟s Stone. “The definition of insanity is continuing to go back to the same The Philosopher‘s Stone is the people and places, doing the same highest aspiration of Personal things – so that we can continue to not Alchemy. It is a Universal get what we have always not gotten.” Catalyst, which has the power to mix and blend any particular essence with any other. It changes Michael K: things, but it also reveals them as well. When it manifests within How will what I‘m doing benefit human consciousness, it grants a me, or others? person the ability to see perfection in anything and everything – to see life from a transcendent point of Doctor K: view. In time, you will learn that, within The 3D Construct tends to arrange the Multiverse, everything is things in a hierarchical way. It perfect and everything is complete. categorizes and separates. You are It‘s only in fragmented universes moving now to a place where ideas where the appearance of (and selves) no longer seek imperfection is explored. While preeminence over one another. journeying through your day, you Instead of a long banqueting table, will cease from asking yourself where a King or Queen sits at the “How will what I‟m doing benefit me, ―head‖, your Inner Planes Alliance or others?” will seat themselves at a Round Table, where each voice blends to If it feels right, you will simply do create the beating of a unified it. If it feels wrong, you will notice ―heart‖. yourself doing it, and continue to expand your consciousness until In Oneness, we no longer speak you see the larger wisdom behind about a ―Higher Self‖. Instead, we what you are choosing in that tend to use terms like ―Expanded moment. The insights are there, if Self‖, which implies a unity that take time to look for them. goes out in every direction. These are such powerful and compelling times, my friend!

10 Shock after shock, rattling the the one with the most control, system. Each time a ‗missile‘ clout, and sheer force belongs to comes at you, your internal the individual viewpoint which has structure shatters and rearranges expanded his/her definition of self itself. Solar flares, economic to include everything and troubles, relationship changes, everyone. physical illnesses, career revisions and setbacks, social disarray, cosmic insights. Michael K:

It‘s all coming in now. The What does it mean to be reunited “rocket‟s red glare has bombs bursting with The All That Is? in air,” as the anthem goes.

Doctor K: Michael K: Be clear about what is being said If this is so – then the basic here. The God Position on any question that appears is ―Who is in Gameboard is not that charge of all this?‖ Who rules the consciousness that looks at roost? everything and says „Mine‟. Rather, it is that gaze of awareness that looks at everything and says Doctor K: „Me‟.

There are, indeed, many levels of power. There are ―Lords many Michael K: and Gods many‖. Each level is true, valid, and sovereign within its I am co-creating this universe with context. But, when we approach God? the top (which doesn‘t really exist, because it constantly keeps expanding), there is quite simply Doctor K: oneness. Though you are tangibly represented here in human form, Michael K: your total ‗body‘ is more vast than you have ever imagined. And you What, then, is at the centre of this have designed yourself to grow experience I am rapidly into full consciousness. approaching?

Michael K: Doctor K: But how can a person become one His/Her name is oneness. The with something or someone? The highest power in the Multiverse, word ―with‖ implies the presence

11 of two or more beings. The whole Michael K: concept is incongruent! How then, do I integrate Divinity?

Doctor K: Doctor K: Your goal structure and terminology are split between It‘s a tremendous challenge, to be universal and Multiversal concepts. sure. And, in the beginning, you In the Multiverse, it is possible for will forget far more than you will you to be two (or more) places at remember. As you walk about your once. daily world, you simply begin to initiate. You ask for what you You can be merged with someone want, and you allow yourself to in one universe, and estranged believe that what you want is also from them in another universe. what God wants. And, you can even ponder the difference between those Your reconnected viewpoint of the relationships within the same world is now beginning to include consciousness, sitting in either at least a mental recognition that universe. everything and everyone is you.

But each place experiences itself as though it was the only context of Michael K: reality wherein those things are happening. The presence of The Why does all of this cause me such Veil ensures this, so as to preserve anxiety? the integrity of the data that is being recorded there. And, even The activation of this new now, most of you find yourself ‗software‘ is what is causing your emotionally resting in the heightened sense of physical assumption (the illusion, really) anxiety and restlessness at this that your current viewpoint of time. Your personal ‗patterns‘ are reality is built upon objective truth, playing out, right in front of you, while all other ways of looking at with undeniable clarity. And, even things are merely shadows of if your conscious mind is refusing speculation. to allow those realisations in, there is still a comprehension (on some In days to come, speaking again in level) of what is being shown to a linear sense, changes will occur in you. your consciousness that will augment and expand each of your You can run, but you will not be ‗single‘ viewpoints to include able to hide from this. many other focus options as well.

COLUMN: THE LAST DREGS OF POVERTY

A MAUDLIN BALLAD

By Jim Lopez

Anxiety is freedom‟s possibility, and only such anxiety is through faith absolutely educative, because it consumes all finite ends and discovers all their deceptiveness. Søren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Anxiety

Portrait Of A Mechanical Man Yet madness may be the simplest Chico, CA way to define the social constructs Of human engineering The Mechanical Man‘s Pathological Organically stationed in known State: and unknown phenomena, Yet feels the need to engineer itself The first intimate thought the into a perfect synthesis. Mechanical Man had did not originate within him, So the Mechanical Man resorted Rather ―it‖ came from an To the chronic blurts of words and organized method of phrases, understanding his body, Mashing them together in his mind Which was constructed for him by Forming another category of Some Other. thought This method had order that was That is not designed by the Some pragmatic, functional, profitable Other. And ideologically deducible to the greatest form of Reason. Thus the Mechanical Man‘s first intimate thought Any deviance from this method Took up space in his mind. was considered disordered, And ―it‖ spawned the following: unprofitable nonsense ―It‖ is a pathological vitamin or a That merited nothing but failure. pathological quaalude. ―It‖ depends on how one swallows However, the Mechanical Man a heart that protects one from a could not help beating But take one reasonable thought Vs. swallowing a heart that from the category of the Biological administers a beating. Body And place ―it‖ in the category of an Instinctual thought became a empty space in his brain, synthesized chaotic metaphor, Where a memory was created. Attempting to create an original This memory was unattached to design form yet ―it‖ inhabited space. Resulting in fractal patterns that This self-imposed act was embraced the Mechanical Man in understood as madness by the tryptamine stasis, Some Other,

Where the Mechanical Man neither Long nights saturated with heavy gardens nor hinders, tossings, Yet he serves all others but himself. Eyes pining for unconscious darkness, For it was with the Mechanical Relieving the mind of Man‘s first intimate thought laborious thoughts, That metanoia1 gave birth to the I reach for that breath of sensation. over the counter plastic bottle With 1 “…metanoia denotes a process of the white safety cap and pour reforming the psyche as a form of self healing, a proposed explanation for the phenomenon of psychotic breakdown. 2…..3…..4…..maybe even 5 Here, metanoia is viewed as a potentially teaspoons productive process, and therefore patients' psychotic episodes are not necessarily Into the clear cup, all always to be thwarted, which may responsible like. restabilize without resolving the underlying issues causing psychopathology.” Doppelgangers dissect me, Discovering my soul‘s conscious dreams. The Battered Minger of A Service When I wake I swear Sector Employee Someone has Somerville, MA stood over my bed, On the Midnight hour every hour, I did not understand nor care for What it was that my mind Pounding my head with a was reading. brick, My eyes were pulled But at least I slept and across each word it was legal. Woven together like the drowning undertow of a river Morning And I felt nothing A black leather jacket hangs loosely But a juice bubble around a khaki-wearing slickster squished between my cheeks. who manufactures artistic expressions. The slickster may be Subversive vapors, either male of female, computer Saturated nights, literate, and has investments in Mist in the daylight, fragile capitalistic gains. Molecules that These sycophants claim no microscope magnifies: Dada without knowing who As Mr. H. once said, Tristan Tzara was. Their bifocals, ―You‘re a victim of greased hair, tattoos, and theoretical abstraction.‖ manicured extremities are satanic tentacles prostituting everything I ever wanted to be.

Rear usurping analators. tend to ignore, rather it is the It‘s a doggie…No it‘s two Rorschach test administered by the doggies sitting in the middle daily publications. of the road, Where only the self Noon prescribed drive in Malibu. I looked at book of photo news It‘s due process and false clips. information that shouts out be duly I saw a seven-year old boy notified your tax man is at your laying in a puddle of his own blood door and Cooly Williams, Tricky in Bosnia, Sam Wilson, and Bubba Marley A sniper shot him. can‘t help you when the slickster is I saw a small child twisting your arm commanding Slumped over a wooden box, you to shout, ―Uncle!‖ And you‘re resting, ambushed, reduced to a prehistoric Too tired to hold his head up creature with your irises tuning on his shoulders black as you reach deep within While waiting in a food line in your sick and tired self, attempting, Africa. to bring color back into your soul, On another page there was which is dormant and volcanic A student hanging from a tree because the tattooed, leather For protesting in Thailand. wearing slickster is controlling A rival student was beating the your dollar. murdered head Why give ten writers, With an iron steel folding chair. twenty photographers, thirty Other boys were watching, actors, fifty painters, and a Some smiling. hundred musicians the I saw James Merrideth crawling for opportunity to plough the artistic safety after having been shot. landscape, when the snake can take I saw four Indian men in fear the whole cake and create one For corroborating with mega icon; one Dan Brown, one Pakistanis, Richard Avedon, one John Surrounded by men laughing Travolta, one SOHO Painter who before being executed. really isn‘t worth a shit and one One of the men looked Courtney Love and make millions confused. all to themselves and the privileged I felt sick for all the petty few? arguments I‘ve ever had, Who is this leather wearing For all the idle threats I‘ve ever slickster? We all know who he or made, she is, driving around in classic For all the exaggerated stories cars in retro fashion. The question I‘ve ever told, is, who is the Master Mind, the For all the slander I‘ve ever King Pin, the Big Daddy, the Fine breathed, Mama, the B-I-N-G-O of it all? For all the ill I have carried in The guru slickster is not the me. unspoken knowledge that most

Samson‟s Fallen Hair I can shovel my face, roll cigarettes Los Angeles, CA and sip vodka greyhounds with tar stained hands, while my The shores cross into a crucifix favorite shirt has been riddled When the gun hammer sounds with holes by tiny flaming logs Like a cash register of Prince Albert tobacco, and I That the Muslim boy operates feel like a popper. And the Christian boy profits from. I‘m one sorry sad sack The weather girl forecasts the evening news Dying June Bugs bang against With a cocaine nose. window screens as I mash an Fate‘s deception hovers over the invading Dirt-Dobbler into the West carcinogenic carpet with my Overheating the oven as a bailout. ragged Wallaby. There‘s a The question was never asked taunting dirty-faced rug rat at So that the lie would never be the end of the street that I can‘t heard. do anything about. Free market religion selling Barbie I‘m paranoid that my blood may be Doll wars contaminated by a West Nile Where the angel is a whore Mosquito. My Springier Spaniel On top of the Christmas tree has a bloated tick on her back. Frosted with the ashes of mother‘s And the ice cubes in my cocktail burnt corpse, are sticking together causing me Fragranced with father‘s work-torn to drink like a retarded drunk. absence. Someone shouted a prayer, I‘m one sorry sad sack of sloppy ―Whose listening?‖ sheep shit Everyone answered, My only friend tonight is Lightnin‘ Declaring to know. Hopkins and he‘s dead. I got But how could they? mojo in my left hand and no Iran-Contra emboldened the mold mojo in my right. But that‘s a Of a blood clot eye pain I haven‘t felt since my That searches through muted stars French girlfriend and I rolled With hearts scared with the down a hill together when I was imprints of handcuffs. thirteen-years-old.

My right hand was benevolently Pen Hackin‟ Slacker busted in six places forcing me Coalgate, OK to become a maimed

ambidextrous ass wiper, as if I A milk sodden frosted mini-wheat never got it right the first time. falls off the edge of a spoon, And I‘m tampered by a dirty- splashes on my naked chest, mouth country cunt, because I rolls down my protruding belly can‘t get it up. and sinks into the recess of my navel. That‘s about all I can I‘m one sorry sad sack of sloppy manage today. ship shit, suckling sunflowers

I met three girls in an Indian Casino Has the most and bet my last dollar only to roll snake eyes. I can‘t stomp Yet he is no longer the host tarantulas fast enough and the Because he can‘t shake the vulture doctor says my HDL level is out of his head low, so I better get some exercise To keep it from pecking out his before I fall facedown in a field eyes of poisonous willies. And feasting off his face

I‘ve never owned a necktie. My Sleaze Knees Ain‟t So Easy When busted shoelaces are tied in She‟s A Freeze Squeeze Tease granny knots and my twelve-year- Chico, CA old nephew has more money in

his piggybank than I do. But I can The dry hay folds against a grey still wrestle him down to the sky ground and make him cry, Little boys nuzzle up for ―Uncle!‖ panties and pie I‘m one sorry sad sack of sloppy The bamboo stalks high above the sheep shit, suckling sunflowers, clouds content with no reign sweltering in a sighing submarine, She turns a corner and minus one added by zero. hopes in vein While the detonating wire severs Face Chewing Bone Smoker our cares Malaga, Spain And the plasma bottles search for salvation‘s fare Infirmity lies in a man who loses Stones flanked by the ground they his balls lie upon He loses his Pathos Mommies rest in tombs of His Ethos napalm His Argos Fathers soaked in rusted pastures His Logos Dogs demur for hungry His Holy Ghost masters His Canon Boast Buildings crumbled into calculated His Smoked Roast spectacles His Jelly and Toast Little girls fumble their His Jolly Most nubile freckles

He‘s the one that Eyebrows stretched to the backs of Fucks the most heads with worry Cries the most Toes no longer curl to Eros‘ Shares the most passionate fury Works the most Veritas spat all its venom Reasons the most All lay dead with no Flatters the most momentum Fights the most And one last General stood cracked Eats the most hands in pockets torn inside out

Because the fate of the Nipples slowly stuffed into nostrils country rests upon one man‘s clout Lenity barks on a spike

The oboe haunts us all in beauty, A gray stick of led scribbles letters mastery and formation from a mangled, stripped tree Disposing men with the A kinky blond with brown eyes stroke of the bow and string winked at me vibration The teapot pisses away at 4:20 The Whore breathes through the Sugar grains are best when curtain one last time adhesively stuck to a saliva finger While we all lie under a pile Two sheets of clear plastic sitting of lime on a table mean nothing. Stick an And if we ever assume might is advertisement, a sign, a slogan, a right picture between them and it can May we never burn in cause a person to love, kill, or make careless plight a purchase Light brown pubic hairs are rare 15 Minutes With Lee Miller‟s Nipples have no gender or do Curves they? Cambridge, MA New York, city of vampires. If you stay up all night drinking with A cup of warm tea sitting on a them you‘ll discover they‘re not copper surface vampires at all, they‘re just fashion A sign chained to the side of a brick designers If I had Weston‘s fruit, building Eluard‘s hat and Joad‘s knife…I A finely constructed crack in the might divine a surrealist kite. sidewalk A gob of phlegm splattered between the cobbles of the street Chartreuse Fairies The reflection of a hand, a book, a Madrid, Spain pen, and a dark mass in a window The cleft and form of a chin A bleach-sodden rag belonging to a long haired girl with Soaked each nipple and ball. a smirk on her face Chiggers bore into urethra walls, The slow rotation of a wheel While the Gilded Age returns passing by, blinking tail lights, one With vigor and gall. of which is cracked Gentry‘s corrosive deontological A woman tries to lick my anus gumption. while I cover it with my hand Plutocrats groaned for their just Her smile makes life beautiful consumption. When I was coming she called me Mesmerized by faun baby The Plebiscites cheered on, Her long coat concealed her breast, ―Deo juvante! Deo favente!‖ turning them into small, light mounds. They look delicate and A mousetrap sat ready to snap, mysterious While a rat strolled away

With granny and the clap. Some have university records 40proof wormwood Some have credit records Never settled the heart, Some have criminal records As the old man was the only one But all have a birth and death permitted to fart. record. So lived the bigot If there were ever a few forgers to At the end of his life. hold All flatulence banned Two birth and two death records Even his wife‘s. Then shall hope ever abide, That in all the records Not even a thought during There may exists Hemingway‘s ―Lost‖ Generation But a few good quid pro quos. Just an itch in daddy‘s crotch during Casey‘s ―Beat‖ Generation There are two kinds of people, Too loose for the ―Baby-Boom‖ Those who like to lie around in Generation their underwear Conceived in the ―Hippie‖ And those who don‘t. Generation A Pollinating Apologist is Never was invited to Hefner‘s ―Up- ―A man who was born from the Beat‖ Generation utter bottom of the land that is Too young for the ―Yuppie‖ furthest west.‖ Generation He engages in acts of Pollogy, Too old for the ―X‖ Generation Though it is not a word Raised up with the ―The Jumped- It‘s anti-matter in motion. Out‖ Generation Made up of the ―Lost-Out,‖ ―Beat- The green hued libation Out,‖ ―Banged-Out‖ Dissolved sugar cubed striations, ―Blocked-Out,‖ ―Yupped-Out,‖ As the fearless fairy hop-scotched ―X‘ed-Out‖ Generation, Through our dark broken hearts, Begging for a thumb gestation. She left us with her gentle mark.

The new political climate Root the Brute Packs its smoking pleasure in a Los Angeles, CA barrel. And Feral Carol Civility postured in her gown with Who lives down the road spear Never packed hers with anything Decrying those held so near. sterile. Her umbrella of fortune raised on She loves to sing a farrago high While she robs your cargo, As a hero rose out of her blood clad Festooning her womb thigh. Into a boondoggled tomb. To walk in society‘s gentle slumber Not caring for reflection And fight in savagery‘s unknown With a red hot declension. number. With no one to believe in him Some have work records All none but one

Who watched from high above the Matador Hat and The Bestial Clap heavens. Madrid, Spain Asclepius mended hydrogen leaven, Soft laced brim lied still Descending no lower than those In the shower of applauds. who sought motion Bull stumbled In sunshine woes of misguided Angry, bewildered notions. Unsure of attack. Impregnable eyes never belied His silver eye wiped dry In destiny‘s regret we all preside. An emaciated emancipation. ―Hail to the hero!‖ tore through The white walls ears Veiled by a red cape Landing in patterns of ventral As a whisky-drunk marauder veneers. Took a hefty stab Wind blew through the sun and Leaving the audience the moon. Lifeless in the tomb Entrails strung in fervent cocoons. Of their blood soaked stadium. In one quick motion a blink went wide. A symphony played Darkness barked in momentary As he walked through stride. A chamber of shadows. Blasting open the witch doctor‘s The electric pad head Vibrated flat line time Only to mime in an expansion in As sunshine memories time, Prey on lonesome regrets Where the worthy never bury their That ushered his wits dead Between his mother‘s tits And jackals always go unfed. Weighed in a pound of candy Civility was found in abstracts apple shits. unfound. She uttered the sound that brought The world roared and gored the man down. Down into a thought To walk in society‘s gentle slumber That turns inside out And fight in savagery‘s unknown Where the planes rolled number. Into tarnished mirrors Floggings bore criminal results Of faces heard and voices seen. And rape was pageantry‘s In wonder‘s mist sophisticated assault. The sun was stabbed Four symbols appeared from out Stuffed into the matador‘s back among her peers: pocket Star, line, circle, sublime. To orchestrate the flame Violence rooted in her eyes That blew out, ―Ole!‖ To unlock the unconscious where it lied. Etiolate the Ball Turret Gunner One rode fast, mighty and swift, Los Angeles, CA All stood a mass wagging a fist.

The same thoughts recycle through Hanging by a leg. our collective: A fifteen year old dog climbed onto Food, sex, power, love, peace, loss, the stage gain, greed, fear, loneliness. For one last pole dance. Loneliness, that ethereal wind The canon charged Bringing us back from our Digging deep into pockets distractions, Tipping with canon-ball eggs. Whispering in us to forget ourselves, The magic castle and the mad So we may remember our loss. house Lost from ourselves. Were never far away neighbors. Severed from our mothers The Angels built a city around Left to contend with our fathers, them Seeking solitude in the tender Harnessing a stench that corrodes embrace of our great grand the eye parents, Where a second takes a minute Who are hacking up what‘s left of a Which feels like an hour lung. Transpires into a day Falls short of a year Plunged into life, Sentences one to a decade So that we might become our lives, Blasting into the fodder of life. Enthroning the memories of our ancestors Demolition metaphors haunted In the actions of our character. dreams The painter in constant loss and Among barking dogs and skin torn wonder for color throats. The writer in constant loss and Ears burned into memories and wonder for metaphor scars of childhood. The musician in constant loss and Electro-Organisms moving faster wonder for note than is possible to conceive The philosopher in constant loss As hands tremor in fear of stillness. and wonder for conversation. The dead weight of a corpse falls to Harmony found in the solitude that the ground. hums, It is gathered and dragged up a We are not alone ladder In the constant loss and wonder for Shoved down the playground slide soul. In the anomaly of happy days Where accidents were arranged The Melted Cross of Krupp Crippling the body Los Angeles, CA To match the crippled mind.

Morose infused itself into position. Oviparous Adam‟s Recollution A vulture distinguished itself in the Cambridge, MA land of plague. Baby bird‘s fell from their nests The trench was blown wide, Caught in the eaves

Destroying geometrical designs Reaching out, grabbing earth, carved into the earth. Endeavoring to pull himself back Wet dirt and rock flew all about. to safety. Strewn pieces of men and their Nothing left except his mangled possessions, body, Mindful of whom they once were, Shredded military clothes, And where they came from, Which he never considered his. Where they could have been. Combs, watches, a shoe maybe Adamovicz writhed alone, two, Intestines stretched out beyond Rings, shredded letters, torn extension. handkerchiefs, Thoughts of his wife, daughter and Pictures laid waste. manhood. Tids and bits graveling for a tit. Eyes clouded, Clutching treasures with mangled Nose and gums bleeding, resurrected hands Lungs filled with war stench. Hoping to be found Reduced to a slithering earth Rendered among the faceless, no creature. longer possessed. Unable to hold his own existence. Left only with the raw interior of Humiliated, tired, their once clear voice. He tries to sit With a hand down his pants, Adamowicz crawled through mud- Finger weaving himself back holes together, With bowels discarded Tearing deeper at his core. From rectum walls, All he could do was continue to Filling army-issued trousers. crawl, Entrails lying unprotected, In hope‘s self conceit, By muscle and skin, To hide from enemy‘s incessant Sliding down pant legs consent To be found Mocking his humiliation. By a country-man or a friend. What would his daughter think of To guard and keep safe from him, avidities fate. That he was some sort of Stretched out past his foot, hypocrite? Drug behind, In the end he could not even shit Rolling in dirt. himself.

Danger rides upon the enemy‘s If a man cannot respect another brow man in our primal state Lurking to stomp linear bowels, Than what more do we have? Kick, roll, pound them in filth. God said, what you bind on earth Slime gooing down Adamowicz‘s will be held in heaven. leg It takes every single person to He tried to crawl, retreat to a make it happen trench.

Defrocked Priest & The Kingdom Until reaching the certain, Beast obtainable bye-and-bye. Coalgate, OK Losing the people we never used. I woke clench fisted, Melted on a window. Wondering if I‘d ever be wealthy in That heaven smashed with a gentle the grace of God, kiss. Aware of how tenuous and suspect change could be. Cultivated Boredom Would purity permeate the mind Los Angeles, CA I had hoped to scratch away with a pedantic bend of a note? Death is plagued by anxious Knowledge staggers happiness. virtues It‘s a peace that surpasses Lost in John Henry‘s hammer, language; Pounded in crosses In the grand land of lucid dreams. Spiked with nails of suffering. An archaic moment stuck in time The bar simultaneously bounces That whispers the ramble, what I let die, ―You‘re mine.‖ That which I planted in tender Ashes blown back into faces, anticipation. Gambling away homes, I left what was mine In hopes of new places, Took what was not, Where the Virgin Mary gathers Sobering intoxication. What's left and conceives once again. September threw us all together. Never wishing to hear the tender June, July and August solidified hush, our memories of each other. ―My Friend, Some of us learned to believe. It‘s time for me to leave.‖ Some of us never knew what to believe, Elevator Queen In A Downtown Shooting the moon, Dream Shouting out questions, Manhattan, NY Spurning generous hands that were always empty, My heart beat wild Sunday‘s syringe sounding with Threatening to jump off the train grief, At each stop Sinking in hope, That carried me to her. Stopping, never to look one way or Unknown people the other, Brushing and pressing Escaping a straight ahead Against unknown assurances of poisonous gaze, how she felt for me. Dressed in a drainage ditch, There was no deterring her Striving for the goodness attraction and form So many wish to attain, Which were embedded in my hopes. Tenacity waxed in the idea

Waned in the material of my As I walked through love‘s accounts. dissipation in the early morning Anticipation flooded my feet mist, As she rode down the elevator. I rose to another lonely day. Charm carried her grace across the The wound spiked deep hall, In vulnerabilities hidden garden, Sashaying through the front door Piercing the earth of my heart, Right into my arms. Leaving a blind vision of a There she was, highway Postured in beauty. That led back to her. Her eyes gleamed in her smile, But it‘s nothing, Erasing my anxieties. Nothing but a hatchet man Her complexity excited my sharpening his blade manhood. With a slight, sympathetic smile Her lips severed the vine that Telling the story of his final blow, imprisoned my beast Embracing pain, To lie in her lap, As he witnesses love vanish Destroying and maiming that beyond Lazarus‘ empty tomb. which threatened her heart. My sublime mime, Hope locked behind the steel bars Held tight of paralysis, As solace pines, Rather than roam bravely, Illuminating lines, Gracing impossibilities Unwittingly blowing a sacred dart With the whisper of courageous Into the spine of an immortal star, fruitions. Shooting through the cosmos, The possibilities of impossibilities Never burning out, And the impossibilities of Witnessed to the signs possibilities In distant shrines, Bled into the same unknown Unabashed in impassable probability obstacles. Of the never was and may be. Purified amazement expelled Plausibility robbed of its plurality Apollo from afar Morphed into a grand singularity As her grace sat high above That may or may not take the best Olympia‘s throne, in us all My celestial Queen And emerge into the final human Illuminates all that is divine. being that graces the theatre of God. Black Widow Shadow & The Sides were chosen long before I Tossed Out Platter Head understood what choices were, Los Angeles, CA But I made them anyway, As I walked through streets paved Eyes closed inward with a pain in tossed out broken words, that turned my back, Where work-torn hands dropped their tools long ago,

Exhaling their last breath of Humming a rhyme in broken time wonder through dry, cracked lips. Red skies spilled on mounds of We lost each other bustin‘ barrels clay in bedlam Bethlehem, That unabashedly smiled As Yesterday bid goodbye to Into hope filled shoes, Tomorrow Outside of abandoned hurts, And Tomorrow bid hello to Calloused into soft sheets, Yesterday. Cradled between welcoming legs Missing‘s shadow cast long past. Of a new world‘s unfound Remembrance sparkled possession, Somewhere With arm‘s swung hand-in-hand, As Sometimes clambered Maybe As ballads tear open wounds. To loved monsters amazed in a Unheard voices seep into saloons haze, Worn out with constant weight Hanging our darling time. Embedded in vinyl booths, None of it extended past matter Displaying milkshake As we no longer are what we were sophistications in hope. In a lonesome valley Yet we are left only with the hope Filled with nothing but tired selves. for a new found land Alone in unstained blemishes That will never bring me back to Through blackened nights fading the you that walks outside of my to red. self. The Dirty Penny‟s Irresistible Time past into loss Impetuosity With thoughts of you Chico, CA Rubbed out between inner thighs, Inciting wonder‘s irreverent roam, Fettered by Through majestic corridors of ever the delirious tug was. of a manifold vivisection. Where aches and pains solely Milieu vexation blurred struck as mine, the surgical cut Jumping high above outer planes into the domain That lied dry and decried, of lost becoming, As hallow courts flowed into blind where the splendor fortune, of mirrored mutations Dissipating into the hollows collided Of what was but never would be. into resounding spasms While sunshine warms a frown of sanctioned forms, Into a perfect soul bound aloud, thrusting beyond Festooned in illusion‘s ancient the conduit shadow, of the living Where knees mended hidden and into hearts the sagacity of torn out pockets. In constant sorrow‘s neglect,

A CLEAN GETAWAY

By Charles Platt

The house was eerily quiet. mother had put the finishing The refrigerator in the kitchen was touches on this room just a month murmuring, and the battery- ago, before— powered electric clock above the Samantha decided not to sink made a faint tick, tick, tick. think about that. She went over to Somewhere outside, Samantha the tank of tropical fish. She thought she heard a dog bark. despised their moronic eyes and She felt weird. Spacey. Her their ugly mouths that made body had a lightness to it. She spastic kissing movements while really thought she might weigh less they meandered through the than normal. She reached up and plastic water weeds, around and touched her face. It felt wider than around and around. Maybe it was she remembered it, as if it belonged time to give them something to to somebody else. think about for a change. She was happy, she realized. She took hold of the She was smiling. hammer with both hands, swung She went to the mirror in the it, and smashed the front of the front hall. Her clothes were tank. Water came surging out and spattered with blood, there were gushed across the floor, saturating smears of shit on her cheeks, but it the textured pile of the nylon was true: her usual dead, blank carpet. The fish lay among the look was gone. broken glass in the wet mess and Still holding the bloody flopped around, looking very sledge-hammer, she wandered into surprised. ―Free!‖ Samantha the living room. The cloying odor shouted at them. ―Free!‖ of air freshener settled around her She walked through to the as she surveyed the furnishings: an den, with its walls panelled in oval glass coffee table with ornate wood-grain plywood, a copy of TV brass legs, a porcelain horse-head Guide on the coffee table, and the vase holding a fake floral bouquet, VCR set to record her father‘s a tapestry-upholstered Ethan Allen favorite political programs on wing chair that only guests were Sunday mornings. Samantha eyed allowed to sit in, a sofabed the TV. Better not smash that; the recovered in tasteless flower- tube might contain harmful pattern fabric, and a curio cabinet poisonous gases. But she hated the in repulsive bleached oak. Her television. Every night, her father

would stretch out in his La-Z-Boy Samantha stared for a recliner, surrendering himself to moment at the face in the the glowing tube. Mostly he photograph, thinking of all the watched reality shows about cops times she‘d waited for her mother busting dope dealers, or World to intervene when her father was War II documentaries on the punishing her. She always History channel—anything that expected her mother to do involved people with guns telling something, no matter how many other people what to do. Samantha times it didn‘t happen. Well, there used to sit on the floor in the was no point in thinking about that corner, trying to blank the sounds anymore. Samantha picked up her out of her mind by imagining ways mother‘s photograph, dropped it to kill him. Such as, sneak up on the floor, and pounded it into behind him and plunge a fragments with the sledge hammer. screwdriver into his ear, or suck She pulled down her jeans, out his eyeballs with the vacuum squatted over the debris, and cleaner, or get the cordless drill pissed all over it. from the garage, put in a half-inch The kids at school said she bit, and cut a neat hole down into was a dweeb, a bookworm, and she his skull. didn‘t know how to have fun. Well, She felt ashamed, now, that they should see her now. The fun she had wasted so much time had only just begun. Maybe she thinking about it instead of doing should get the axe out of the tool it. ―I couldn‘t upset Mommy,‖ she shed, and start hacking up the said aloud, in a little-girl sing-song furniture. voice. ―I could never upset But—no, she was getting Mommy.” sidetracked. If she kept circling She wandered into the around in here, time would slip dining area. Above the fireplace away from her as it often did, and hung a picture of three wild horses the next thing she knew, it would running across a prairie, the kind be dark outside and Mr. Wingrove of thing they sold as an ―original and his brain-dead wife would be oil painting‖ in Bob‘s U-Frame-It at leaning on the ding-dong doorbell, the mall. Below the painting was ready for their game of Scrabble, to the mantel shelf, with family take her mind off things. What she photographs in clear plastic frames should really do (she told herself) molded to look like cut glass. In the was get the hell out. center was a large picture of Okay. She needed the cash, Samantha‘s mother, framed and the gun—and maybe a change of decked out in black lace. clothes, because driving around

covered in dried blood and was his rust-colored blood running gastrointestinal juices probably down the drain. wasn‘t a cool thing to do. She had to get her head She went to the kitchen, straight, forget the past, live in the opened the doors under the sink, present, and start enjoying herself, and picked up the can of special the way she had planned it. Today cleanser that her father kept there. was the first day of her new life, For a moment her head went blank and she was going to have a good and her thoughts seemed to jam, time. She checked her hands to the way they did sometimes when make sure that all the stains had she remembered bad things. Five gone. Her palms had faint white years ago, Samantha had said a scars across them, and she found word that her father didn‘t like. herself haunted by another She‘d said that something on TV memory. She‘d stolen a brownie was ―crap.‖ He‘d told her she was from the refrigerator, and her a bad girl for using bad language, father had caught her. He‘d told and she had to learn the difference her she was a thief, a bad girl, and between bad and good. So he‘d she had to learn her lesson. seized her by the neck and forced He had tied her wrists to the her to drink a whole bottle of dish drainer, poured boiling water Lemon Joy dishwashing liquid, and over her hands, ripped open the then he‘d made her squash herself blistered skin with a wire brush, into the tiny space under the sink, then drenched the wounds with and he‘d shut her in there hydrogen peroxide. overnight to teach her to watch her Samantha felt herself language in future. She hadn‘t trembling. Tears were pricking the minded the small space—she was corners of her eyes. She‘d killed used to being shut in closets—but him, but somehow he was still in the detergent had been terribly her head. ―Pervert bastard!‖ she painful, eating into her mouth and shouted. throat and stomach, giving her This was all wrong. She ulcers that had taken weeks to heal. needed to get out of here as quickly Pervert bastard, she muttered as possible—although, she to herself, as she started rubbing reminded herself, she needed to be the cleanser into her hands. methodical, to prevent herself from Someone ought to kill that pervert making foolish or irrational bastard. decisions. Maybe she should make But she had killed him. She a list. That was often a help, when rinsed the cleanser off, and there her thoughts got out of control. She went to the pad of paper by the

phone, and wrote down what she statement, although other aspects had to do: of her appearance didn‘t please Finish cleaning up. her. Her hair was golden blond, Put on clean clothes. she had bangs, she had freckles, Check email. and she even had a turned-up nose. Get the gun and the money. ―My little Barbie Doll‖ was what Close the garage door after her father sometimes called her, driving out, to conceal the mess on when he was in a sentimental the floor. mood and she had done absolutely She tore the sheet of paper nothing that could piss him off. off the pad, studied it, then ran The pervert bastard. She hated his upstairs to the bathroom. She fucking guts. Then she laughed, ripped off her bloodstained clothes remembering the current state of and dumped them on the pink his guts, spread out on the concrete fluffy bath mat. Quickly, she floor of the garage. washed her face. She looked at her list and She went to her bedroom. saw that the next task was to check She hated the room, with its email, because she was likely to be flowery drapes either side of the offline for a while. She switched on window and the kiddie wallpaper the computer and stared out of the with pictures of balloons and window while the hard drive candy canes on it. Her mother had started clicking and grinding and chosen all the decor, and her father doing all the weird and seemingly liked it because—well, he liked unnecessary stuff that it always anything that was young and cute did. and feminine. She looked at the house She put on a black pair of across the street. Ten-year-old jeans, black boots with neat little Jimmy Fenchurch lived there, with silver chains on them, and a black his single mother, Debbie, who T-shirt that she‘d mail-ordered used blond hair dye and wore secretly a couple of weeks ago, scooped-neck T-shirts that along with the pepper spray and displayed her bloated breasts, the handcuffs, when she started which looked about as attractive as making plans after her mother‘s barbecued pork fat. Debbie funeral. The words BAD GIRL Fenchurch bulged like a big pink were spelled out in red letters on worm, and Samantha imagined her the back of the shirt. squirming like live bait on a giant She admired the shirt in the fish hook, maybe dangling over a mirror and felt a shiver of swamp where alligators could excitement at the daringness of the swim around and take a bite

whenever they felt hungry. And people‘s opinions. She started to since Jimmy Fenchurch had thrown type the words back in. Then she a lump of mud at Samantha last realized she was getting stuck here, month and called her a weirdo, she seduced by the computer. She would serve him to the alligators as clicked the SEND button and dessert. Samantha imagined an forced herself to push her chair alligator eating Jimmy‘s head like a back. piece of popcorn. Crunch, crunch, Now she was out of range of crunch! the screen, she was free again. She She blinked, realizing that stood up and grabbed a denim the computer was waiting for her. shoulder bag that her mother had There wasn‘t any new email, but made for her long ago, now that she was online, she embroidered with a picture of a decided she should go to yellow sun with a happy face and a suburban-goths.com, her favorite little house with white smoke discussion group. Impulsively she coming out of its chimney. She started typing a post, feeling happy hesitated, struck by the thought that she didn‘t have to worry that she might never see her anymore about FBI agents reading bedroom again. Maybe she should what she wrote and trying to ―save take something with her as a her from herself‖ by locking her in memento. an institution and turning her into Suddenly she realized why a zombie with mind-altering she had been thinking about medications. alligators. Alvin the Alligator was I just mashed my Dad‟s head sitting right there on her window with a big hammer, she wrote. She sill. He was a stuffed toy that had paused, reading the words in the fallen out of a baby‘s stroller in the screen. They looked good. They street. The woman walking the made everything seem more real. stroller hadn‘t noticed, and You should see the mess :) I‟ll be out Samantha had grabbed Alvin and having some real fun for a change by taken him home. Samantha the time you read this, you losers. guessed that he must have been She hesitated. Maybe it projecting the thoughts about wasn‘t cool, telling people they Debbie Fenchurch into her head a were losers. Most of them probably few minutes ago, so that she would were losers, but she didn‘t want remember to take him with her. them to turn against her. She She was glad he reminded backspaced over the last two her, because he had a special place words. Then she felt angry that she in her life. He watched the world should be concerned about other go by with his inscrutable shiny

black eyes, and he just sat there She heard footsteps on and grinned, because the only concrete and looked up, blinking in thing that interested him was how the sunlight. When she shaded her people would taste if he had a eyes against the bright sky she saw chance to eat them from the legs Mr. Wingrove ambling toward her. up. She felt dizzy. What the hell She tucked him under her was he doing here? arm and walked quickly out of the ―Hey, Sammy!‖ He gave her room, down the hall to her father‘s a friendly wave. ―How‘s the world study. The gun and the money treating you today?‖ were there, in the bottom drawer of You already asked me that his desk. He kept it locked, of once, she screamed at him in her course, but she had discovered head. And it‟s a totally moronic long ago that if she used a paper question. clip, she could spring it open. She She forced herself to nod. had guessed that if he kept the Her head moved up and down, up drawer locked, it must contain and down. ―Everything‘s fine, Mr. something valuable, and sure Wingrove,‖ she said. enough, she had been right. He stopped when he was She hunkered down and got three feet away. She noticed a to work. Within moments, the lock brightness in his eyes, an alertness made its little scraping, clicking that hadn‘t been there before. noise, and the drawer came sliding All her muscles started out. She grabbed the gun out of the clenching, and her tense smile felt drawer, and a little Zip-Loc locked onto her face, stretching the sandwich bag with fifteen $100 skin till she must look like bills in it, which seemed to be her something out of a horror movie. father‘s emergency cash in case of a Plus she still felt dizzy, and she terrorist attack or some other wasn‘t sure if she was standing imaginary crisis. Now get the hell straight or at an angle. out, she told herself. ―Everything‘s fine,‖ she She ran downstairs with the repeated, willing him to go away. shoulder bag slapping against her He didn‘t go away. He hip, weighed down by the Beretta. paused and scratched his head. She paused in the kitchen, grabbed ―Maybe it‘s none of my business, one of the razor-sharp knives off but I heard some breaking glass the rack, and added that to her bag earlier.‖ He moved a fraction closer just in case. Then she opened the and lowered his voice. ―Any door at the side of the house and problem with your dad? I know he stepped outside.

was pretty upset when—I mean, Adrenaline surged. The world you know, after your Mom—‖ rocked around her. Samantha felt her head ―Hey, don‘t get all worked turning into a toaster oven again. up.‖ He took a step back. ―I just That was what happened when wanted—‖ people started speaking sentences ―All right! All right! You without finishing them, and want to see my dad? Go right wouldn‘t let her escape. She ahead! He‘s in the garage!‖ struggled for words. ―Look, uh, I Mr. Wingrove was silent for have to go,‖ she said. a long moment, and she heard ―Oh.‖ He frowned. ―Well, is birds twittering in the distance, and your father around?‖ a car driving past in the street. She clenched her fists. ―He He squinted at her through went to the store!‖ his half-moon eyeglasses. ―In the ―He did? That‘s odd. See, garage?‖ I‘ve been out in the front yard ―Yeah, go ahead!‖ She pruning my roses, and I didn‘t gestured clumsily at the door in the notice—‖ He broke off. ―What‘s side of the building. that, that smell? It smells—why, it‘s Wingrove hesitated. Then he just awful.‖ opened the door. The stench was Yeah, it smelled awful, all terrible, but she‘d turned off the right. It smelled like a corpse lying light, so he couldn‘t see what was in a pool of blood, shit, and vomit. causing it. Samantha stared at Mr. Wingrove, He shuffled in and groped wondering if there was any way for the switch. Behind him, she could persuade him to stop Samantha opened her bag and talking and turn around and walk pulled out the gun. back to his house. ―I‘d really The switch clicked. The light appreciate it,‖ she said, ―if you came on. She heard him make a would—you know—I mean, why little uh sound, and then a gagging don‘t you just leave me alone, okay?‖ noise. The words almost stuck in her She followed him in and throat. She felt her pulse running raised the gun in both hands. It so fast, it scared her. was very, very heavy. She had ―Sammy, what‘s wrong?” trouble aiming it, and she wished With friendly concern, he took hold she‘d had a chance to practice of her arm. shooting it. Her only source of ―No!‖ she screamed. She information about firearms had knocked his hand away. been her father‘s issues of Guns and

Ammo, which she sometimes The hot pressure in her head managed to filch out of the trash. was so intense, she was afraid her He turned and stared at her. brain would vaporize. Meanwhile, His eyes widened and his mouth Wingrove had realized that the gun looked comical. ―Why?‖ His voice wasn‘t going to fire. He was was a whisper. ―Why, Sammy?‖ making his getaway, stumbling ―Why the hell do you around her, lurching out of the side think?” she screamed at him. door. Wingrove shook his head. Samantha threw her gun, His cheeks quivered. her bag, and Alvin the Alligator Samantha grunted in onto the front seat of the Blazer, disgust. ―Oh, come on! You knew beside the handcuffs that she‘d left what was going on. You and my there while she was dealing with dad, you were his buddy, isn‘t that her dad. She dumped herself right?‖ behind the wheel, slammed the He tried to back away. door, and jammed her thumb on ―Sammy, you need help. Please, let the button of the garage-door me get help.‖ opener, the little plastic box stuck She blinked at him. ―You to the instrument panel with mean—you mean, I should wait Velcro. The big door facing the here while you go get some nice street began clanking up its metal people who‘ll take care of me?‖ She track. gave a sudden, loud bark of She started the motor with a laughter. ―You think I‘m a total roar. Her dad always backed the moron, or what?‖ Blazer in, leaving it pointing ―Please—‖ His face screwed toward the street, ready to go. up, like a little kid about to cry. Sunlight made her squint as “How‟s the world treating you the garage door opened wide. She today?” She imitated his jovial saw Wingrove reaching the bottom geriatric voice. ―Well, I‘ll tell you, of the concrete driveway, turning it‘s been treating me like shit.” along the sidewalk, waddling He let out a moan of fear. along, waving his arms to keep his She squeezed the trigger— balance. ―Martha!‖ he was and nothing happened. shouting. ―Martha, call the police!‖ She almost lost her balance. Samantha accelerated out of She pulled the trigger, harder. the garage. She felt good, now, like Harder still, so the muscles in her when she played a video game and hand wrenched painfully and the there was only one bad guy left, metal dug into her finger. and she could take her time picking The gun was jammed. him off.

Wingrove heard her coming. forgotten about the garden hose. He turned to face her. ―No!‖ he One end was still clamped onto the shouted, spreading his arms. tailpipe—while the other end was The Blazer heeled over as still stuffed up her father‘s ass. The she swung the wheel, then righted Blazer had hauled his remains out itself as she aimed it along the of the garage and down the sidewalk, with Wingrove directly driveway, leaving a trail of in front of her. His face had gone reddish-brown muck; and now he white, and he was quivering all was dragging behind her along the over. sidewalk like some disgusting She accelerated toward him, mutant afterbirth. and the front of the Blazer Well, she could only deal slammed into him with a heavy, with one thing at a time. She solid thump. ―Yes!‖ she shouted. turned the Blazer up Wingrove‘s She expected him to go driveway, with him still hanging under the wheels, but that didn‘t on the front. She cut across the happen. Instinctively, his arms lawn, bumped over the grass, slammed down onto the hood. He roared across the tiled patio, and got his elbows over the orange rammed the vehicle into the brick plastic strip along the front edge of wall directly under his black-and- it—the insect deflector that her gold stick-on house number. father had installed, so they It was a soft impact. With wouldn‘t get bugs on the satisfaction, she saw Wingrove‘s windshield. eyes roll up and his face sag. His ―Let go!‖ she screamed at arms finally released their grip. Wingrove. She slammed her fist She threw the Blazer into against the steering wheel in a fit of reverse and backed away a few fury. ―Let go!” feet. Wingrove slumped down and He kept holding on. fell on his back, looking as if a giant ―George!‖ a shrill voice foot had come out of the sky and sounded. Wingrove‘s wife was stepped on him. His clothes had standing in the front door of their split open at the sides, and blood home, wearing her apron. was pulsing out. The old geezer‘s Evidently she‘d been baking her heart was evidently still beating, disgusting greasy pecan cookies. but Samantha judged that this was ―Oh my God. George!‖ unlikely to continue for much Samantha felt a longer. distraction—something jerking at Wingrove‘s wife was the steering. She looked in the rear- screeching, backing into her front view mirror and realized she‘d hall, shaking her head and

shouting ―No, no, no!‖ while trying So far, Samantha had had to stuff all her fingers entirely into the element of surprise on her side, her mouth. Samantha considered but she wasn‘t sure how long she going in after her, but the Blazer could count on this to protect her. wouldn‘t fit into the building, and Even the brain-dead neighbors on she certainly didn‘t want to Hilltop Avenue would start abandon her vehicle and pursue wondering what all the noise was the woman on foot. about, sooner or later. Well, there was no point in Still, what was she supposed getting hung up about it. Martha to do—drive off towing the bloody Wingrove wasn‘t at the top of her remains of her dad, with the dog hit list, anyway. Samantha backed, barking and ripping at his entrails? turned, and started toward the That would not be what anyone street, detouring through could describe as a clean getaway. Wingrove‘s rose bushes along the She stopped the Blazer, way. The Blazer‘s big fat tires pulled the knife out of her bag, mashed them to shreds, kicking up jumped out, strode around to the pastel-colored petals that drifted back, and sliced the hose. The dog like confetti. didn‘t notice; it was having a fine She headed for the picket time, growling and snuffling, fence at the end of his lawn, digging its snout into her father‘s rammed it, and smiled with abdominal cavity. Dogs, Samantha satisfaction as wood snapped and thought with revulsion. As far back crunched under the wheels. She as she could remember, she‘d bumped over the sidewalk—then hated dogs. noticed an annoying barking noise She got back in the Blazer from behind her. It was Wingrove‘s and turned it in the road, bumping boxer dog, she realized. up onto the curb and down again. The dog had a truly She noticed a couple of people disgusting face, all wrinkled and emerging from their houses, squashed, as if someone had hit it looking horrified and confused but with a cast-iron frying pan. Here it unable to comprehend what they came, racing across the lawn. The were seeing. She hoped she still smell of blood and entrails had had a little time to spare. made it agitated. She took careful aim at the Samantha drove the Blazer dog and hit the gas. It saw her into the street, still dragging her coming at the last moment and father‘s corpse. The dog seized him tried to jump to one side, but she by the neck and started trying to caught it with her left front wheel. tear his head off. There was a bump-bump as she

drove over it, and then a terrible rear end seemed stuck to the street. tortured yelping sound. The front wheel of the Blazer rolled ―Damn,‖ she muttered. forward, slowly and accurately. It She‘d crushed its haunches, but the forced the dog‘s head down, front half of it was still fully pinned it to the concrete, and kept functional. Its front legs made turning. There was a satisfying helpless scrabbling movements, crunch-squelch, and the dog‘s trying to drag itself away. Blood eyeballs literally popped out of its was oozing out of its rear end, head as its skull was mashed flat. though there wasn‘t nearly enough The tortured yelping stopped. for Samantha‘s liking. Finally, there was peace and quiet. She turned again and drove Samantha felt a wave of back toward the dog, more slowly relief. Now she could get moving. this time. She rolled down her She U-turned, bumping over window and leaned out, aiming the the curb again, just in time to see Blazer carefully. Jimmy Fenchurch running out, past The dog was still screaming. his mother, who tried ineffectually Some people had started yelling at to hold him back. her. Debbie Fenchurch was She felt a strong temptation. walking out of her front door, It would be a real pleasure to pick staring with her mouth open. ―Stop him off. her!‖ Wingrove‘s wife was But—if she didn‘t hit him shouting. ―Someone stop her!‖ But just right, she‘d have to go back most of the neighbors still couldn‘t and do it over, the same as with the grasp, yet, what was going on. dog. That could create all kinds of Their minds had been paralyzed by complications, especially if Jimmy years of watching TV and worrying was only partially crippled and still about mortgage payments and able to take evasive action. She PTA meetings and what type of might even have to shoot him, and insulation to put in the attic, and for all she knew, her gun was still this was too bizarre for them to jammed. absorb all at once. With regret, she passed him Samantha edged forward. by. She didn‘t even look back at The job really had to be done right him in the mirror as she reached because, as her dad had often told the end of Hilltop, turned onto her, if you didn‘t do a job right, Birchwood Road, and left her there wasn‘t any point in doing it neighborhood behind. at all. ______

The dog tried frantically to The above is the second chapter of the as- drag itself out of the way, but its yet unpublished novel BLOOD CRAZY by Charles Platt.

WHEN GRAVEROBBING GOES WRONG

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

By Audree Flynn

Image © Brian Blur

Danny‘s trial was only about a thanks to that little VannaJean we month away, and we just knew his got arrested, and that sheriff little niece was gonna sit up there wouldn‘t even let me finish my and swear in front of everybody Taco Bell. and the baby Jesus that story she told her momma was true. But I At first when I saw that recall saw how that little VannaJean was notice on Danny‘s car I thought, with my Danny at the picnic: Uncle when it rains it pours; it said some Danny I cain‟t reach the bowl fix me people even burned up, or blew up some of that jello salad Uncle Danny just turning the key in the ignition, fix me some sweet tea Uncle Danny because the plant that play horsie for me. manufactured all the ‘89 Ford Probes installed the ignition wiring Danny‘s sister will not discipline wrong. I read the recall notice to that child, and Vannajean started Danny and he got so mad he hanging all over Danny a few couldn‘t even talk, he just racked months ago after her daddy died. that rifle of his like he does when And Danny says he was just trying he gets mad, and he goes ―Elvis, to teach her about what happens come here boy‖ ...it always makes when little girls act that way me nervous when he peels out of around grown-up men. Like he the front yard that way. Then he said, what else would he want with came back a couple hours later a skinny little eight year-old girl; I when ―CSI‖ was on and he still couldn‘t let him go to prison just didn‘t say anything, just got a beer for trying to help his family. and came in to watch my program with me. ‗Course I knew he was all And Christian folk are supposed to upset about maybe going to prison be forgiving, is what I remember ‗cause of that little VannaJean; then from Sunday school, but I swear after I read him about the trouble that old lady‘s family made such a with that car of his, when Danny fuss. If they were so concerned came back in, I didn‘t even have to about her, they should‘ve kept that ask him where my dog was. plot up a little nicer; the only Me and Danny watch all those reason me and Danny picked it ―CSI‖ programs, and this one was was ‗cause those flowers looked about a man who dug up a body like they‘d been there since the from the cemetery and put the funeral. And anyway, Danny and body in his car and set the car on me were gonna put her back—‗cept fire; almost everything burned up

and he almost got away with it. him ‗cause he forgot to bring Danny and me figured with that something to start the car on fire. faulty wiring in his ignition, and But I can‘t ever stay mad at Danny; that recall letter—and you know like he said, the only reason he what they say F.O.R.D. stands forgot was ‗cause he was drinking for—we figured with all that, the so much lately, worried about all insurance company would have to the lies that little VannaJean was pay me. Seemed like the best way gonna get up there and tell on him. to keep Danny out of prison, and he promised we‘d use some of the Then Danny says, maybe him money to buy me another hound forgetting to bring a lighter or dog; I thought it was sweet, him matches was like an omen about telling me how sorry he was about tonight. And I remembered I didn‘t Elvis, and crying like a little boy. I get to read him the funnies or the was thinking about maybe getting horrorscopes like I usually do, a bluetick hound this time, ‗cause ‗cause Danny used the newspaper the first and second Elvises were that morning to carry the rest of bloodhounds—Danny just loses his Elvis out to the dump. That old temper every now and then. lady wasn‘t going anywhere, so we figured we‘d wait until I could So what was supposed to happen read our horrorscopes in the was, most of Danny‘s car and that morning so we‘d have a better idea old lady would burn up and about what to do; we thought whatever was left wouldn‘t be about putting her in that Kold- enough to tell if it was really Kween freezer Danny‘s sister gave Danny or not; I‘d get the insurance us, 'cause it's just sitting there on money, and meet him a few the front porch, empty. But we months later in another town couldn‘t remember a ―CSI‖ somewhere, and we‘d start over, is program with something like that what was supposed to happen. in it and we thought, naw, better safe than sorry. For the time being Well we already had that old lady anyway, Danny and me were on the back seat and then Danny gonna put that old lady back where goes, ―Baby—check my pockets‖ we got her from. Then we couldn't and I said ―Danny, not now‖. Then find nothing to cover her up with, he gave me that look and I knew but we weren‘t gonna be that long, that wasn‘t what he meant, so we so we moved her onto the floor of had to stop somewhere and get a Danny‘s Probe and we parked up lighter or some matches and by by the Taco Bell. that time we were both hungry. So we pulled up behind the Gas ‗N‘ Well ever since VannaJean‘s daddy Gulp next to the Taco Bell. died, I swear Danny‘s sister lets that child have whatever she wants Danny and me thought it‘d look and of course, that night she suspicious if we parked there, and I wanted Taco Bell. VannaJean starts was close to being put out with right in crying now whenever she sees Danny‘s car; she says that‘s

where ―it‖ happened, and in these hissy fits, and Danny‘s sister just little podunk towns everybody had to show her: ―See baby, Uncle knows everybody, and everybody Danny ain‟t in his car—― knows everybody‘s car too. I was trying to eat my Nachos Bell But like I said, Danny and me were Grande in peace, but then Danny just about to put that old lady back, and me hear somebody screaming soon as we were done eatin'— and wouldn‘t you know, we look except, we got arrested first thanks out in front of the Taco Bell and to that little VannaJean. That sheriff there‘s his sister and that wouldn‘t even let me finish my VannaJean snooping around Taco Bell… Danny‘s car, looking in all the windows, with the sheriff right And I am just sick to death behind them. I told you how she worrying about what‘s gonna babies that child, so we knew that happen to little Danny Jr. now. little VannaJean pitched one of her

INTERESTING TIMES: BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD

By Andrew Maben

infant respiratory distress syndrome. It seems I didn‘t feel like breathing, which all in all seems a remarkably apt reaction. It was two days until I saw my mother and was held in her arms for the first time. So in my earliest formative moments I was cared for, even nurtured, but not loved. Perhaps this has shaped my life. It certainly limns the boundaries of my emotional experience through most of my days. But, as we shall see, I am an ungrateful little snot, never properly grateful for what is given me.

The earliest perception of the world Four in the morning the labor pains that I sucked into my began. It was 9:30 a.m. in Delhi. It consciousness and was able to would be a difficult birth. Labor retain is an impressionistic went on through the day, until the patchwork seized from the dance doctors decided to intervene and at of nothingness that is the world in four thirty in the evening they which we live. The scents and dragged me out. Some four and a colors of flowers, green hedges, a half hours earlier the Mahatma had fence, a narrow lane or alley, the been assassinated. Just two days songs of birds, warmth and a blue ago a plane carrying nameless sky, sitting in a push-chair, Mexican farm workers exploded in contentment, perhaps curiosity. But ―a fireball of lightning‖ over Los all memories are fiction, stories Gatos Canyon, California. There told in an attempt to describe, were no survivors. Perhaps my explain, ascribe meaning to the reluctance to leave the comfort of world and our place in it. And so the womb was based upon some this is a work of fiction: I describe presentiment of the world I was as faithfully as I can my memories about to enter. of life, but I cannot know, and nor can anyone, if these stories describe Reluctant to be born, I also reality, still less if they define truth. displayed little enthusiasm for life. I was a ―blue baby‖, suffering from

Already I‘m running into trouble. I color the way you see me, or I see spent some or most of my first year myself? I elect to tell those things in Germany, where my father was that may amuse or interest you, a dentist in the R.A.F. serving with perhaps from their cumulative the occupation forces. Yet that effect one of us may gain some memory must be of spring or insight, understanding, even a summer, has always felt glimpse of some meaning in our completely English. It must be life. I hope you will not, at least, be from my second year, and I have bored. I wasn‘t. Most of the time. another memory. Christmas, my first, my grandfather with what I retell these childhood tales in the seemed a huge teddy bear, other order they have arranged for adults laughing encouragement as themselves in my mind, which is I tottered across the room to hug not necessarily the actual order in the bear, and promptly fall, which they really happened. laughing, happy, on my ass. This Wherever I can, or can remember, must be the earlier event. Yet the or can be bothered, I will make other persists in feeling to belong some effort to clarify, but I make no in first place. Is this because the promises. You have already been teddy bear still exists, offering warned that this is fiction. There is corroboration, whereas only I some kind of truth here, for all that. possess the lane? Or is it a product of the very development of At the age of four I found a robin‘s consciousness itself? nest in my grandfather‘s garden. One by one, knowing it was wrong As more memories gather, at first but somehow unable to stop, I took in isolation, they gradually blur the eggs and dropped them down somehow at their peripheries into a the well, while the mother flapped continuum of existence, like the frantically about, uttering cries of stars we recognize in the clear grief and frustration. ―The devil night sky, incognizant of, and made me do it‖ didn‘t work for me indifferent to the many millions then, or now, and I realized that more unseen, the background there is some dark thing in me. I‘ve radiation. Is this really how life is? I been struggling with it ever since. I cannot recall the continuity of my knew what I was doing was wrong, own existence. The best I can do is not because I had already had a pluck the recollection of incidents, sound ethical education from my events, from my life. Some parents, or anyone else. I could tell significant in some way, some the mother was grief-stricken and seemingly random and appalled by what I was doing, but meaningless. Through the selection it was not just that, I knew. But if I and retelling of these events I give knew, and I was not taught, where an apparent order to the days of did the knowledge come from? my life, present an attempt at a true Who, or what was it that self-portrait. How does my recognized the darkness within, selection and telling of these stories recognized it as darkness? What I

did was against life, purely a simple, rational explanation. Still destructive. Perhaps a small thing, magical it made a deep impression nevertheless at the end of the few on me. moments the act took the world was measurably worse than it had Every Christmas my grandfather been. I would like to be able to say threw a works party at the factory that this recognition put an end to for all the employees and their my acting upon these dark families. The highlight was the impulses, but that is not so. In fact I arrival of Santa Claus with gifts for learned, which is to say taught all the children. My gift was not myself, to enjoy cruelty. Good and enough for me, not after I saw evil may seem beyond what we another boy was happily holding a expect of a four year old, yet I Rotocopter. In the car on the way suspect that I am no rare exception, back to my grandparents‘ house that this awareness is an essential someone must have noticed my component, perhaps the essential less than delighted reaction, and component, of our humanity. It is asked if I liked my gift. Evidently I the beginning of the idea, which saw an opportunity, as I burst into must be inherent in life in itself and tears and snuffled ―I wanted a in all its forms, that life is sacred. ROTOCOPTER.‖ I told you I‘m an All ethics are born from this simple ungrateful little snot, didn‘t I? I notion, all ethics can be distilled to was ashamed of myself at the time, this idea born in our very cells, our but that didn‘t stop me accepting souls. as my due the Rotocopter that I was given the next day. It didn‘t One day I was in the park with my stop me from playing with it, but nanny. Near the pond was a thick there was always a sour feeling of stand of bamboo, I squirmed shame. through the tall stalks and found that inside there was a network of I was four when I got tonsillitis and linked gaps between the plants, went to the hospital to have my offering a passage. I pushed on, an tonsils out. All I recall of this is the intrepid explorer, and found a immediate aftermath of the treasure at the very center. One of operation, which must have been those simple fishing nets made early in the morning. I remember with wire bent and twisted in a woozily waking from the circle with a few projecting inches anaesthetic to see all the other thrust into a piece of bamboo. It children in the ward spooning was as if it had somehow, down bowls of porridge. My magically, grown there, as if it favorite breakfast, yum! Soon a were waiting for me to discover it nurse appeared at my bedside, and make it mine. When I emerged bowl in hand. proudly bearing my trophy, nanny was hard put to believe me. Who ―I‘ve brought you some lovely ice knows where it came from, how it cream,‖ she beamed. came to be there? No doubt there is

A short aside here to remember Somehow I forced myself to down that it‘s 1952, ―austerity‖ is still the the awful cold greasy paste. Until name of the game, rationing still in we started going to Cornwall for place, and ―ice cream‖ was cold our summer holidays, and but had only the barest nodding discovered a Swiss baker who acquaintance with cream, which is made perhaps the most delicious commonly understood to be the full-cream ice cream ever, I would high-fat component of cow‘s milk. only consume iced lollies. Do you As I understand it, ―ice cream‖ at blame me? this time, like margarine, was in fact manufactured from whale That afternoon Mummy came to blubber. Whether or not this was in see me. Her hands were full of fact true, and I believe the something concealed beneath a prominence given whale hunting draped tea-towel. She carefully set in various picture books of the era her burden down on the bedside bears the rumor out, it certainly table before bending to kiss me. tasted that way. Greasy tasting Then, smiling shyly, she lifted the with an unsettling grainy texture towel to reveal a green plastic and lingering on the tongue and mould of a crouching rabbit. Very palate with an unpleasant carefully she lifted the mould. For a persistence, it was quite frankly, moment there was a perfect pink disgusting. But hardy Britons were blancmange rabbit crouched expected to, and did, ―grin and quivering on its platter. Alas, bear it‖. Although I must confess disaster! The vibrations of the car my gratitude that the rationing of had undone the coherence of the the the war years, lasting into the gelatine. Before our eyes the rabbit early fifties was largely, if not collapsed, disappeared into a entirely, responsible for the shapeless pink sludge. Such a healthiest generation the United bewildered, disappointed, Kingdom has ever seen. But back to unhappy face, a look that I would my hospital bed. see echoed in another beloved face, oh, so many years later – but we‘ll ―I HATE ice cream. Can‘t I have come to that when the time comes. porridge? Everyone else is having porridge.‖ I could scarcely bear to see that look in her eyes. And I really didn‘t ―No, the coolness will soothe your care that much about the vanished throat.‖ rabbit. Then as now I was far less concerned with the the ―I don‘t mind, I‘ll wait for the presentation of food than the sheer porridge to get cold.‖ pleasure of eating a tasty dish. And pink blancmange topped my four ―No, dear, eat your ice cream, year old‘s list of tasty dishes. there‘s a good boy.‖ Implacable. ―Don‘t worry, Mummy. It will still taste good. They made me eat ice

cream for breakfast, it‘ll take the ―You‘re not leaving this table until taste away.‖ Smiling back her tears, you have eaten every bite!‖ she spooned a heaping bowlful, which I wolfed down and asked for We‘ll see about that… I pushed a more. Somehow from this incident slimy green mass onto my fork, let I developed a habit of trying to it slide into my mouth and forced suppress my own sadnesses and myself to swallow. Oh well, she disappointments to try to help couldn‘t say she hadn‘t been loved ones and friends cope with warned. I gagged, my stomach their own. This is probably less lurched horribly and I vomited the from any genuine altruism than entire meal back onto my plate and some kind of martyr complex, a the table around it. I‘m quite sure wish to appear so self-sacrificing that this is what has kept me from that others would want to offer me ever daring to eat oysters on the the same kind of sympathy. As a half-shell. strategy I must say it has only been partially successful at best. It was at the convent that I met my first friend, Peter. In the summer he At five, off I went to kindergarten. taught me to pluck honeysuckle It meant walking up Station Road blossoms and suck their nectar. A to the High Street and then an eight small pleasure that I continue to mile bus ride to Taunton and enjoy to this day. Peter also gave another walk to the convent. The me my first taste of crime. The nuns were, I imagine, strict but fair. nuns had a small kitchen garden, The place had an air of gloom, and and one afternoon we evaded our to me the nuns in their black habits overseers and went on a were rather menacing figures. I commando raid to loot the remember nothing of my lessons. gooseberry bushes. Ah, the thrill of The dreadful food is another story, doing something forbidden! We and I still vividly recall carefully slipped under the fence, crawled picking the more or less edible on our bellies through the rows of meat and potato from a tepid heap vegetables, herbs, fruit bushes, of boiled cabbage which was careful to maintain cover all the slowly oozing oleaginous green way. We came at last to a liquid onto the plate. Having gooseberry bush concealed from salvaged all I could, I pushed the sight in all directions and sat down plate aside. to gorge. Well Peter gorged. This was also my first experience of Here comes a nun: ―Eat your gooseberries. He handed me a ripe cabbage, Andrew.‖ one and I eagerly plopped it into my mouth. Ugh! The texture of all ―I don‘t like cabbage.‖ those little hairs on my tongue and palate was not at all pleasant. And ―It‘s good for you. Eat it.‖ the taste. I spat it out. I suspect there was some lesson about crime ―It makes me sick.‖ and its rewards that I took away

from that episode, but damned if I I was not a good brother to my know what it may be. Peter left the little sister Claire. Poor thing. She convent at the end of that summer was the victim of that same dark term to go off to boarding school, impulse. Two events in particular and as we said goodbye, I never continue to haunt me because of expected to see him again. the sickening pleasure I took, and hated myself for taking, in them. At some point during these childhood years I learned to read. One night as we prepared for bed, Did I teach myself, as I have often Claire‘s curiosity and been heard to claim? Honestly I unquenchable thirst for adventure have no recollection whatsoever of prompted her to climb up and fetch acquiring this skill that has meant a bottle of cough syrup from the so much to me that it seems almost medicine chest. She loved the taste, to have been a part of me since the she said, and proceeded to chug very beginning. Books have been down the whole bottle before my refuge, my solace, my climbing into bed. In moments she inspiration, my vice, my joy, a spur was sleeping, and I slipped from to action, a goad to thought, an the bedroom to go downstairs to excuse for indolence. I cannot tell my parents. Let‘s be clear, my remember a single day of my life sole motive was to get Claire in when a part of my mind was not trouble and to enjoy being witness caught somewhere between the to her punishment, which I had a covers of a book. I have always feeling would be severe. been a compulsive reader. If there are written words anywhere in ―Yes, dear?‖ asked Mummy. sight I will obsessively read them. Thomas the Tank Engine and his ―Claire just drank the whole bottle friends, Beatrix Potter‘s fanciful of cough mixture.‖ animal tales are some of my earliest memories. Later Toad of Toad Hall I had expected anger towards left me, I recall, with a strange Claire, and a reward for myself. feeling of loss, a vaguely But this was not at all the reaction. threatening sense of estrangement. Both parents developed stricken, But it was The Just So Stories that anxious faces and hurried to her entranced me. I have returned room. They roused her from her again and again to Kipling‘s slumber, put her on her feet and fancies, have always felt an oddly proceeded to walk her around the comforting affinity for The Cat bedroom in circles, talking softly, Who Walked Alone. Later of solicitously, ignoring me. I sat on course would come the Jungle my bed, watching, resentful, this Books. I spent many hours when I was not what I wanted. But of was supposed to be sleeping, head course I could hardly say. And beneath the covers, reading by the even while consumed with these light of a torch. ignoble thoughts, I was fully aware that they were base, ashamed on

that account, perhaps, but only to probably not feel so well disposed the degree that I took care to keep in a moment. I ran into the house them hidden. My only regret was yelling for Mummy, who came not over my own craven nature, running. but that my desire had been thwarted. ―Claire‘s hurt herself.‖ I led her outside, where Claire was still The other episode began, we both sitting in the same spot, weeping, remember, with my teasing her. blood all over her face. Mummy She would become so angry, scooped her up and carried her to pouting so hard that her chin Daddy‘s surgery. They called me a became corrugated. It was all but few moments later. impossible to resist, and frankly I made little or no effort to do so. ―Come on, Andrew. We‘re taking Daddy had invented the phrase Claire to the hospital.‖ ―boot face‖ to describe her pouts, and the sound of those words Daddy drove, while Mummy held enraged her. Here her memory and Claire on her lap in the front seat mine diverge, and this is surely beside him. I sat alone in the back, where I learned of the fictional, or quietly seething. Furious at the at least provisional, nature of attention Claire was receiving. memory. I know that my Angry that my afternoon‘s play recollection is the correct one. And was being curtailed for the sake of she is equally secure in the a visit to the boring hospital. knowledge of her own veracity. But if neither of us is lying, where ―She‘s going to need stitches,‖ a is the truth hiding? Anyway, she doctor pronounced. was chasing me around the house. She will tell you I was chasing her. ―Sit here and wait for us, dear,‖ She missed her footing as she said Mummy. ―The doctor‘s going rounded the corner. There was a to make your sister better.‖ large rusted nail projecting from the brick wall that separated us I sat on the straight backed wooden from the neighbors. I heard her yell waiting room chair. I swung my and turned in time to see her head heels. I looked at the boring posters crash into the wall as she fell. She on the wall. I probably counted picked herself up to sit on the tiles on the floor, I liked to count ground. The blood was gushing things when I was bored. For that from a gash on her forehead. At matter I still find myself counting least I had the decency to be scared, my paces as I walk, counting the though how much of that fear was constellations of dots in acoustic over her state and how much was tile ceilings. I was bored. I was at the prospect that I might be resentful. Then I recognized punished perhaps you can judge. Claire‘s anguished cry, rising to a Perhaps you will be more generous shriek of pain as they put in the to me than I am, but you‘ll stitches. For each stitch a shriek.

And with each shriek a mean and walked bravely home, but it spirited, gloating thought from me: does seem more probable that I ―Good. Hope it hurts. Serves you bawled every step of the way. right.‖ How I dared imagine that she in any way deserved this pain I I seem to have had a real penchant cannot begin to explain to myself. I for bouncing. Bouncing has caused will make no attempt to justify me, one way or another, a rather myself to you. I expect you‘ve disproportionate amount of grief. already come to the conclusion that Is there some kind of metaphor I was indeed a rather nasty here? As my story unfolds, you creature. In which case you may may come to feel that there is. I recognize something of the same certainly wonder about it myself. kind of feeling in yourself as you But if in fact it is so, where did the read on. On the other hand maybe metaphor come from? Would that you will feel sorry for me, but if so, not mean that some outside author thank you anyway, but pity is is somehow writing my life? It never what I needed, and besides beats me, and that is quite enough by now it is much too late. metaphysics for now, so back to bouncing and its rewards. There were two drainage ponds, known as the Basins, not far from I was jumping up and down on my our house. We would often go for bed, kicking my legs out behind me walks that way. The path ran to bounce on my stomach. It was between the two ponds, bordered really fun! I did it over and over on each side by an old and rusted again. Perhaps I got dizzy. Perhaps iron fence. The end of one fence I got over confident. I kicked by had long since lost its post, and the legs back one more time. As I fell I horizontal bars were all bent and could see that I had rather twisted in such a way that I could misjudged my move, and that there stand on the bottom one while was nothing to be done but watch grasping the top. Once in position, as the bed board rose to smash me, I was able to set myself swinging yes of course you‘ve guessed, in and bouncing, a most enjoyable the mouth. There went my other ride. Or it was until the day that I front tooth. jumped off and the top bar swung away from me, but then That Christmas I sat on my rebounded. The end of the bar grandfather‘s lap as he sang to me: smacked me in the mouth. Hard. It ―All I want for Christmas is my hurt. A lot. Yes, you are certainly two front teeth, allowed to say ―Serves you right.‖ I My two front teeth.‖ think I agree with you. I put my hand up to my mouth, it came My big teeth grew back soon away all covered in blood. and enough. Unfortunately they were there was a hole where just now big teeth, and they could not find one of my front teeth had been. In room to politely grow in a properly my mind‘s eye I suffered stoically vertical direction, finding it

necessary to set off at a Stonehenge conjure an interest in pronounced angle. The effect of the ancients and their teachings? I these huge protruding teeth was do remember standing in the endearing to adults, no doubt. I can garden to watch the Bristol still hear, or imagine hearing, the Brabazon fly overhead. Is this the coos of how sweet. But in the snake source of my childhood fascination pit that is the world of children I with flight? And does its was marked, I was different, I ignominious demise somehow became a target. I hasten to say that prefigure the fading of that when I speak of the snake pit of particular dream? Who can tell? I childhood I am not so naive, blind, had few friends, though I think stupid, as to think that the adult that was due more to circumstance world is some kind of than nature, and the habit has improvement. Indeed finding that stayed with me. the adult world promotes the vicious impulses of children into One childhood nightmare has the bitter fruits of war, crime, this remained with me, not because its has colored my whole life. content was that terrifying, in fact it is comical in retrospect. Its form And later, after my grandfather on the other hand terrifies me to had died – the news of which had this day. I awoke one night from a prompted me to ask, ―Mummy, disturbing dream to find a rooster does that mean Granny woke up perched at the foot of the bed, next to a skeleton?‖ – at my eyeing me with obviously grandmother‘s house, sitting malevolent intent. I knew I was quietly on the floor, playing. wide awake. Yet there he was. I Granny was playing bridge, and screamed. Mummy came and the one of her friends at the card table rooster disappeared. But I was left remarked, ―Isn‘t he good?‖ To with the certainty that I can never which my grandmother, ―Oh, yes. be certain in my perceptions and He has the patience of Job!‖ I had knowledge of the world. And if no idea who Job was, but her you think a child can not think words felt somehow ominous, these thoughts, well, insofar as a almost a curse. child may be unable to find the words to describe the thought that There are of course many more may be true. But the gift of memories than these few. Some are language lies first in its ability to perhaps worth a passing mention. I give at least the illusion that by was a shy child, not to say timid, naming things we can control but not fearful. The fear came later. them. And simply because a thing I certainly had my vicious and can not be named, that does not selfish side, but I was aware of it, mean it can not be known, can not which may not be so usual. And at be feared. Indeed such things are least I seem to have had also the depthless well from which all enough decency to be ashamed of our fears are drawn. my baser nature. Did our picnics at

THE WHOLE GODDAMN STORY

By Thomas Hastings

Prologue carl, roswell, 1982 we picked up something bando sigma snowbird pounce they called my brother in clovis 1949‘s project grudge to come and pick it up gave bigfoot the brushoff hired a shrink for the missing link of course at one point we turned it into a carrier pigeon 1952‘s majestic-12, magic, attacked by a hawk where there‘s foo, there‘s fire sister capistrano says it‘s so – my wife nursed it back to health twisted her wing in the deus we let it go exmachina and that was that foxtrot kilothree zero blue but they symbols leaked orthon and the mothership along with the curious properties fared well in ‘52, allen dulles the debris possessed warned off lawsuits against the contactee you know, ezekiel saw the wheel way up in the middle of the air after the medicine men told nasa turned by god...turned by faith? not to bring the moon rocks home – lordy, how they‘ve grown you try walking into the wind with your arms full of blazing ‗75‘s travails of travis in navajoland tumbleweeds snowflake, arizona chupacabra then, when we realized munching up his plasma vortex the yuccas were transmitters, well... another electronically disturbed day

pitchblend, bell raspings, incoming incunabulum swamp gas and soot 1899‘s coney island‘s dreamland hierograms from the glory hand circus sideshow and universal congress of freaks dowse your rod and grid with sorcerer‘s grease the quotidian wonders of colonel loop the leylines, ride the spoors joy to dogstar‘s dawn his contact muscle reading his telepathic punch swizzle on the way to rishekish sadhus, gurus, babas, ninety miles outside of lucky las bagwans, anandas vegas the whole skunkaroo, the ranch... pay maharishi mahish human containers and leakers ten thousand u.s. dollars groomed join the yogi mafia learn to fly auger by the river of zero point energy or be like lord buckley – microwave relay, cellular link bungie off the bicameral bridge mission critical system sailin‘ and wailin‘ serotonin codeboot: timeloss, disassociation follow kundalini down coronal discharge fractals back to his orphic egg dance behind the satellite‘s the farthest outer other ever footprints anywhere airbrushed silent blue snap back at the ranch This piece has previously appeared in Crop Circle Secrets, (Muse Rules nords and morlocks Press, Indpls., 2004) blondes and greys indentified alien craft LISTEN HERE

ASSASSINATIONS

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE SHADOW OF THE FISH

By D M Mitchell

Images © Chris Brandrick

Entering Seraphis, the assassin enormous moving city filled with dreamed again of the great fish – inhabitants going about their its enormous wooden jaws opening business. He awoke to the smell of and closing moved on brass hinges strawberries, sweating, and feeling and supported on sticks by a for his guns. throng of worshippers. The great glass eyes rolled freely on Molten light poured in at a swiveling supports and he window, blinding him. He groped shuddered whenever the beast‘s for his mirrored glasses and fixed gaze chanced in his direction. them over his clear pink eyes. Gongs and sistra assailed his Relieved of the worst of the glare, sleeping ears and smoke stung his he got up and walked naked to the nostrils as the chanting, undulating window, strapping on his gun belt procession passed him. The sides as he walked. of the Fish were dilapidated as if through much use and he could see Across the street the doors of the lights move inside. For a brief Midas Touch Saloon were moment he fancied the Fish was an swinging, indicating (as the street

was empty) that someone had just his head. The boy-girl followed gone inside. He‘d need to go across him sleepily out into the cruel soon. He had no idea when the sunlight. Flies buzzed. Somewhere Sisters would catch up with him a smell of shit. The street was and had no desire to be taken by deserted. A sign of impending surprise. death. A slight movement to his left caught his attention – someone The young boy-girl was still asleep fastening their shutters at the sight in the corner under its filthy of him. The Sisters had arrived, blanket. Its crimson hair spilled then. He unclipped his holsters, across its chalk white shoulders slid the guns out and back in to and the assassin saw the blood-red ensure their free movement and gills on its neck move as the turned to the Midas. creature dreamed. He had no idea where the thing had come from, At the door, he gestured to the how old it was or if it had ever had hermaphrodite with his chin. The a name. It could neither speak nor thing walked across and crouched write. beneath a water-trough, chin on knees, the double set of genitals After leaving Thebes in disgrace, it touching the dust. He shoved open had appeared outside the circle of the doors. illumination cast by his campfire, its huge fish-eyes staring at him. Murky inside, sawdust on the He‘d offered it food which it had floor, ―Sweet Dreams Baby‖ refused, seemingly grateful merely playing on a jukebox somewhere. for the warmth. In the morning Several hands of death-cards and a he‘d taken it with him. He‘d soon half empty bottle lay on the table discovered that it fed on semen, nearest him. He gazed around, with which he‘d been happy to grinning in spite of himself. Cliché supply it. heaped upon cliché. A pungent scent like cat piss – sharp and He pulled the blanket from it, acrid. He liked that – liked it for its exposing the small breasts, and sharpness. Hated the dull and pushed it with his foot. It rolled vague and nebulous. This was a over, opened its eyes and yawned. good sharp, clear day – a good day He indicated his erect penis with for dying. one hand and the thing crawled across, fastening its mouth around He upended the bottle without his thick shaft, milking him looking at it. More sharpness – the expertly. smell of wormwood. Ok. He was in the mood, now. He liked this When it had finished and sat there feeling. He enjoyed killing. licking its fingers, he dressed in his dirty black clothes, fastened his Overturned chairs, a lingering wisp spurs (like a fighting cock) and of cigar smoke, more abandoned placed his wide-brimmed hat atop drinks. This saloon was popular –

the owner, an ex-Vegas Mafioso, as though someone were shaking a had the magical gift for business. huge wet canvas out. They were The alchemist touch for making onto him. shit into gold. He ducked into the next building Above him. Quiet footsteps. He and waited. Almost immediately, sank as far into the shadows as scuffing and snorting like the great they would allow, one gun drawn brass bulls he‘d tamed so many and ready. A scent of lavender like months ago. For a moment, he some little old granny‘s front room. worried about the boy-girl but From where he stood, he could see quickly put it from his thoughts. most of the first floor balcony in He had enough shit pressing. the large mirror over the bar. The staircase was out of view. His He wished the sisters would talk to breathing shallowed. They knew each other, but they never seemed he was here. to need to. Then, he grinned, revealing too many teeth, too sharp Arms around each others‘ like those of a shark, grouped in shoulders, the three sisters shuffled several rows. They had split up – slowly across the landing, their one left, one right, the other more long black dresses dragging the than likely straight up. He realized dust. Beneath their little old lady this was the only chance he was hats, black veils obscured their likely to get. faces – Mercifully. They vanished at the farthest extremity of the He opened the door, aimed and mirror. fired in one mercurial movement. His aim, as ever, was perfect. The The assassin knew he had to split black clad shape was thrown them up, if he were to have any against the wooden wall of the chance. Outside, in the dust, a saloon, cut almost in half across the horse whinnied in terror – stomach by his shot. confused hoof-falls. The Sisters‘ steps faltered. He imagined them The figure slid down the wall there frozen, smelling for him. He leaving a broad red swathe on the decided to make his move. white painted surface. Hitting the ground, it began to scream like a Slowly and softly out through the cat, kicking and clawing at the rear door into a back room, across ground with great steel claws to the exit and thence to the back emerging birdlike from the sleeves alleyway. Locked. He cursed of its dress. silently. He couldn‘t let them find him here, cornered like a shithouse ―Fenton!‖ rat. Moving quickly, he kicked the door open and slid like a shadow He spun round. Another of the outside. As the reverberations died Sisters faced him, arms stretched to away, he heard a noise from within either side of the alley, blocking his

exit in that direction. Her veil had He rolled over onto his back as fallen away revealing a beautiful Alecto made another pass. She female face. veered away to avoid his gunshot, opened her black mouth ―Alecto. Leave this now. This can‘t enormously wide and screamed – end well!‖ he croaked in a voice the sound of rending metal. Atop little used. The creature cocked its her white face, snakes writhed. head. And now the third Sister joined ―Say first, did you kill your mother her. They swooped and circled just or did you not?‖ out of reach, waiting their chance. He risked a glance to the side. The Her voice spilled from her like building next to him was raised music. with a two foot crawlspace. He had three bullets left before he needed ―Yes. I killed her. There should be to reload. Bad odds. no denial of that.‖ He decided to sacrifice another ―So, then how did you kill her? bullet – they veered crazily to You are bound to say.‖ avoid it and he dived for the gap, just making it, scuttling along ―I cut her throat.‖ He grinned. under the rotten wood like a crab. Claws struck the dirt a fraction of a Alecto was slowly drawing closer, second after he‘d reached safety. dragging her long hooked fingernails along the walls. Curled ―Come on sweethearts. Come in shavings of wood fell to the dirt. and get me.‖

―By whose persuasion and advice They screeched in their fury and it did you this?‖ was enough to freeze a man‘s blood. Breaking glass and rending ―Oh fuck off! I‘ve got a headache!‖ wood. They had vile tempers. He smiled but realized he was losing White hot nuggets of lead blood. following a deadly trajectory. Alecto faster, throwing aside the The wooden fish head snapped at black dress as she leaped a great him in the darkness. Cold enclosed leap over his head. Black bat wings him. He tried to stand and banged spreading wide – a flash of steel his head. It brought him back from talons at hand and foot, like a great his delirium. It took him several eagle‘s and a sharp pain raking the more minutes to reorient himself. side of his head as she passed over. Then he wriggled towards the light coming from the far side of the Fenton fell to the dust holding the building. side of his head. The ear was still there but the gash was very deep. A voice – one of the Sisters

ribbons. Fenton was amazed at ―So, here the man has left a clear how much blood the man must trail behind…‖The other side of the have had in his huge body. And building. Good. The light stung his how much a person could lose and eyes and he realized he‘d lost his still go on struggling. Finally the glasses. Squinting he slipped from man swayed and his grip seemed cover and ran across the alley to to relax. Fenton, who had stood the blacksmith‘s forge. A huge iron watching with amused fascination, wheel stood propped against the raised his gun and emptied it rear wall, manacles attached to it at indiscriminately into giant and intervals. Sister alike. By the time he had finished there was a jigsaw puzzle Fenton ducked through the in flesh for whoever cared to try to workshop into the house at the solve it. back. As he opened the door, three people turned to look at him – one Blood. of them a huge man with almost no neck. His skin was scarred and There was always blood. cured like leather – tartar eyes like flints. A woman and an older man The Great Fish turned and he could also sat at the table. The blacksmith smell its flesh now. The music of (obviously) stood up. the worshippers was almost deafening. ―Take your dirty business out of my house, stranger!‖ He looked down at the ruined bodies in front of him. There was ―Certainly,‖ smiled Fenton. ―But still the last Sister to deal with you won‘t mind if I use your other before he could leave this town. door?‖ The man growled moving His guns were empty. The forwards, muscles rippling like a mutilated woman lay on the floor tiger‘s. Fenton saw the shadow on screaming, blood pouring between the window before anyone else her fingers. The old man merely even glimpsed it. He fell to the whimpered, staring at him in abject floor, reloaded gun in his hand as terror. the window shattered inwards. He filled the chambers of his guns, The woman screamed and fell counted out his remaining bullets. backwards, hands to her eyes, He decided he could afford to be countless glass shards making her merciful. A bullet through the look like a porcupine. The dark woman‘s head stopped her noise. Sister flew in and the giant man He smiled at the old man and bellowed, shovel-like hands closing opened the back door. on one leg and a great wing. The street was empty. Quiet. He Despite his enormous physical stepped out. Not five paces from prowess, the Sister cut him to the door he was knocked flat to the

ground by an immense force, both found he could move one hand. He guns spinning from nerveless slid it down his stomach between hands. As his gaze cleared he them until he touched her crotch found himself staring into the beneath her black dress. She made inhumanly beautiful face of the last no protest. Gaining a handful of Sister. She had him pinned to the material, he drew the dress ground, her mouth inches away upwards, bit by bit until he could from his. She licked his face. touch her skin. She wore no garment underneath the dress. His ―I expected to taste guilt on you, hand touched her warm cunt. He murderer. But it is a feeling alien to was relieved to find it wet and you, am I right?‖ parted easily to his exploring hand. She hissed and her split tongue ―I have no guilt. I go about the emerged again, swollen. world doing the God‘s work. I kill only at his decree or to defend Suddenly in a flurry of movement myself from those who would she rolled over, dragging him on harm or impede me.‖ top, her hands scrabbling at his trousers. His cock emerged erect ―This God of yours. Is he flesh? and she clutched it tightly, almost Does he speak to you with a mouth shoving it into her cunt. There in or with noises in your brain?‖ the dust with the frightened townspeople watching from ―He is as solid as you or I. He behind shuttered windows, he showed me the films of my mother fucked the last of his pursuers to and her crimes. Crimes there were exhaustion. no possibility of bringing to human account. I did the God‘s bidding.‖ He left by sundown, the boy-girl trailing a few paces behind him. ―You know that we Sisters are The sun made his shadow long answerable to no God with a cock? before him. He never liked That we are of the Mother and traveling East but the West now defenders of the Tree that springs contained a past from which he from her womb?‖ was fleeing.

―My earthly mother had no womb. Dedicated to the memory of Phillip I sprang from no womb. I was Jose Farmer. ejected from her bowels in a stream of running shit. She was no woman and gave up any right to be called so, long before my lamentable birth. ―

The Sister stared for a while, eyes golden, flecked with green. She shifted her weight and Fenton

ON THE FIFTH DAY - LAZARUS

By Jana

Image © Chris Brandrick

When he came back into the house, mouth dry and caked with dirt, I he was different. No. Not just then looked away and I steeled different but strange. I‘m not sure myself for the next time and the what we had expected, my sister next time and the next time. After and I but we did not expect this. I all he was my brother and he had think it was his eyes. It was almost returned to live with us and among impossible to look into his eyes. us again. Yes. It was his eyes. There were other changes both my When I looked into his eyes I had sister Mary and I, Martha, noted. expected to see the Glory of God Once boisterous, he now sat and shining there but this was not so. stared into seemingly nothingness When I looked into his eyes, I saw yet he murmured as though a shadow, a flicker of my own life someone or something was there. It like a candle sputtering in a brutal made us shudder. And he stank. desert sand storm. I could begin to feel the grit of the sand in my teeth For four days he had lain the maws and filling my hair, pelting my skin of the cave, a napkin covering his like tiny sand gnats. My heart felt face and his feet and hands bound wrenched and shredding, in the act in funeral cloth. And during the of being pulled into a million tiny days of deadness he had lain grains of pieces. elsewhere. Somewhere. It was after four long days that at last our I felt smothered and gagged unable Blessed Lord came, heard our cries to talk. The more I looked, the and invoked our brother and our storm became fierce and swirled brother came back to us and he into every pore and orifice of my breathed again among us. We body and into the cracks in my soul rejoiced...at first. where sin had left rot. It was only when I started to shriek despite my

We had thought for sure given of Pandora and her Box. They bit Jesus‘s love for our brother and for him and he would moan and curl ourselves for had we not been up to fend them away and then he blessed to serve him? Yes. Those would howl. were glorious, precious times, I recall them well. The days when What had our Lord unleashed our Lord Jesus rested among us. when he ordered the rock moved from my brother‘s burial cave? So I would have thought that What had our Lord unleashed during those four days when he when he moved our brother out of was dead that he would have lain death‘s slumber and removed the with the angels and smelt of the lid from the dead which silences purified bathing waters of the Holy these defiant ghosts? We knew that Temple of Jerusalem, or orange light had been let in to my rind and nutmeg and sweets and brother‘s crypt and into his soul cherubian dreams. But no, this was but we had not expected this not so. He now smelled of rot, of turmoil. decay, musty like a spinster‘s heirloom basket or vase where one We were ashamed. We were holds one‘s dowry or precious ashamed of him and for him and items which seldom see light. He then of us. The neighbors came to smelled putridly of otherness, of see. They pretended to visit with desert wolves, of famine, of good intentions and they brought invasion, of the Romans. He to us whatever they had spare from smelled of revulsion. He may have their household baking. But we been risen from the grave, but he knew they had come to investigate smelled like the dead. He smelled this man whom the Lord Christ like every lie he had ever told had had risen from the grave. They oozed out through his pores, came to ask him questions. They through his nostrils, his armpits came out of curiosity and they and between his legs. He stank came to scorn him because literally to high heaven or was it although he was indeed living hell. proof of our Lord Jesus‘ greatness, he was also proof of his failure, for When he grew weary of staring my brother stank and this was an into the walls preferring the dark abomination. corners to the lit window or open door, he would sleep and laid Purification laws were exact among himself out in the same manner as us Jews. The priests taught and the corpse he once was. He covered reminded and castigated severely his face again with a napkin, not those who did not uphold the rites the same napkin but another. This of purification. Cleanliness was not one cleansed but his face he only close to Godliness, Yaweh, it covered and he slept. But he did WAS Godliness. And our brother not sleep in peace but fitfully. Like stood in defilement of all that the the demons from the Roman story Sanhedrin and Pharisees taught.

He stank and no matter how many and they knew they were NOT hours we sponged his body, he still taken for they were still clothed wreaked of all that was rotten inside and out with deceit and within and without We were gossip and injury done to their helpless against this smell which neighbor in greed. devoured him and our house. So they gazed at my brother and He stared into nothingness, then they quickly left but left like muttered strangely, slept in fits as someone caught in a epileptic fit, though tormented and he stank. the fit of the demons and of the devil. Few left peacefully. For in his Those who visited whom we eyes, they had seen themselves treated as guests never returned. behind that rock door, lying in Instead the talk grew in Bethany shrouds, face covered with a about our brother and even about napkin and beginning to dream of us. We were now caste out like the things they had dared not when plague of which my brother smelt. alive. Once honored by the village for being a favorite of the King, we After several weeks like this my became questioned and brother one day got up and left. He questionable. We housed not a walked out into the street and out miracle of our Lord Jesus‘s work of the street and out of the town of but something macabre, not quite Bethany and he walked into the right, not quite sane, and desert scrub. At nights he would something impure. return, mute. He would return to his corner. And then there were his eyes. Holes. But holes which drilled I can only imagine that he now through those in front of him who walked between two of three dared to lift their eyes to his. They worlds. The earth and purgatory became afraid because as his pores for he had not dwelt long to have eked out every lie he may have reached the shores promised by spoke, a lie like a worm through our Lord, at the feet of God. No he flesh began to crawl its way out of was only half a man now and half a the soul at whom he glared. The phantom not quite an angel. longer the visitor looked at my brother‘s eye, the greater became Then one day, he got up and their discomfort. They, too, began soundlessly walked out, down the to wreak of cadavers locked away street, out of Bethany and his in the crevices of their mind and shadow fell across the sand and soul and heart. Their secret sins like a mirage for he had never been began to crawl to the surface of complete as a man among us, he their skin. And they recalled vanished. bluntly and hurriedly the word of Christ to come naked and unafraid We know not where.

IN THE ALLEY

By Claire Godden-Rowland

Images © Malcolm Alcala

The city was scorching hot in July: tried to deny its location in the the tarmac sizzled, the overflowing centre of the city where the heat rubbish stank like overheated was relentless and violence death, and tempers flared. Also, suddenly tore free from the sticky any pub or bar, however calm which lingered. This area of unsavoury, with an outside seating the city was the oldest; all the area or better still a garden, was streets were cobbled and near by packed with sweating people the docks belched their odour into drinking fruit ciders or icy pints the cloying air. with condensation trickling down their shafts. It was the sort of heat My metal chair rocked a little on that clung to your flesh and never the cobbles and my skirt was glued allowed you to stop sweating, your to my thighs with sweat as I clothes constantly glued to your listened to Arleen regaling me with skin, your face shining. I sat stories of this week‘s punters, outside one of these pubs which otherwise known as ‗freaks, losers

and weirdos‘ and usually It was too late. Simeon, my older identified by a strange trait of some brother, gave a huge roar sound kind. Usually I hung on every which made him sound like a word, finding her observations football hooligan as he spied me. shrewd and her tales both He was a football hooligan, one of hysterical and oddly reassuring. his more savoury endeavours, most Most women have friends who of which I tried not to consider. make them feel a little validated Today, however, it wasn‘t Sim who about their own lives however had me feeling really deficient they were, and god uncomfortable and sweating knows mine really was. harder as I shifted in this metal seat which abruptly seemed to be Arleen was just informing me of a giving me piles and making my particularly fun client who insisted arse numb. No, today it was my on having a vibrator up his rear, all cousin Sam who had me shifting was going smoothly until, inserted awkwardly, due to the fact that last the wrong way round, the battery time I saw him he had blackmailed end came away and was lost in his me into giving him oral sex. I told back passage ensuring Arleen a you my life was deficient lately. trip to A and E and far too much vending machine coffee which she ‗Alright mate?‘ Sim gave me a assured me tasted worse that punch in the arm as he sat down vibrator ass‘ spunk. She chuckled and spread his legs wide like every then, noting that she probably had good alpha male should. He a client for life now as if he ever whistled at the bar man who was stopped coming to her or defected clearing a nearby table and pointed to another prostitute she could at our own table and then at Arleen black mail the shit out of him. and myself. Anyone else would have been ignored him but Sim I was no longer listening to my and Sam were well known in these friend. My stomach rolled parts and no one ignored either of portentously as I saw two familiar them. Very hastily the bar man figures sauntering our way. I felt fetched us more drinks. the saliva dry up in my throat and my heart bolted into my mouth. I ‗How is it then girls?‘ Simeon suddenly felt barely able to breath demanded loudly, many people as Sim and Sam, my brother and glancing over their shoulders at his our cousin approached across the overwhelming volume and cobbled square, the sky seeming to confidence. He briefly stopped turn an ominous iron grey colour grinning and looked at me. ‗What‘ at their backs. I wanted to move, to up wiv your face Sis? You look like hide in the ladies, or even a slapped arse.‘ crouching under the table suddenly seemed like an option. Arleen stroked his arm intimately and I tried not to imagine what else she had stroked on my brother. She

flashed him her best nicotine utterly unaware of what his cousin yellow smile. ‗Don‘t mind her Sim, had done. she‘s been well off all night, reckon she‘s on the blob or sommat.‘ I breathed a sigh of relief that our hideous secret remained intact and They both laughed and took up stared at him. ‗Sam,‘ I hissed at him conversation together at a under my breath. I was speechless, mercifully lowered volume. Sam I could barely think of a thing to had been silent until now and I had say now faced with my abuser. studiously avoided his searching ‗Just …‘ fuck yourself again? No, I gaze. He was sat beside me and he can do better that that surely. ‗Go gently nudged my shoulder with fuck yourself,‘ apparently not then. his. ‗You alright, mate?‘ He asked nervously, his eyes flicking from Sim glanced up at us. ‗What the side to side shiftily. fuck is up wiv you mate?‘

I glared at him as subtly as I could ‗Nothing,‘ Sam replied quickly. and then looked away, unable to ‗She‘s alright, init mate?‘ He turned look at him without seeing his to me, his eyes pleading and shining purple cock or tasting the desperate. irony tang of my own blood in my mouth. I shook my hand free once more and sat back in my chair, scraping He touched my hand and I against the centuries old cobbles snatched it away in disgust. beneath. The light was fading before my eyes, the sun swallowed ‗Oh Prue, don‘t be like that,‘ he completely by rolling violet clouds almost pleaded, his voice barely which in turn bowed to the more than a whisper leaving impending dusk. Arleen and Simeon unaware of our exchange. ‗Never better,‘ I finally assured Simeon. I was horrified and all I wanted to do in the world was tell him to go He shook his head at me. ‗You ‗fuck himself‘, so I did. know what your problem is donya?‘ He seized my hand and squeezed it as if he might comfort my pain not ‗Enlighten me,‘ I requested. be the very source of my misery. ‗Is this coz I bloodied up your lip He shook his head disgustedly. like?‘ ‗Too fucking convinced that you‘re so fucking clever you are.‘ For a second I thought Sim had heard for his conversation paused ‗No she ain‘t,‘ replied Sam but then he laughed and nodded, defensively. ‗Besides she is pretty fucking clever.‘

‗She ain‘t,‘ Sim insisted dryly. he shrugged. ‗She wouldn‘t listen ‗Clever birds don‘t get knocked up to me would she?‘ when they‘re well young; they go up college an‘ all that.‘ He spat Sam was sweating now more than before he continued and then the balmy dusk warranted. ‗That‘s followed this with a loud slurp of enough Sim, she‘s proper clever, his pint. ‗Besides, clever birds are aren‘t you Prue?‘ pretty much always mingers, it‘s a known fact and our Prue‘s alright. Sim laughed loudly and the sound Shame she married that tosser but,‘ grated upon my last few frayed

nerves. He leant back in his chair I was pin-balled in the general and glanced over at Arleen with a direction of the ladies, the door mischievous glint in his eye. ‗Don‘t appearing like a heavenly mind Sam, he‘s always been apparition ahead of me when protective of her. More like her big Patrick appeared out of nowhere bruvver than I was really.‘ He and grabbed me. laughed again. ‗Either that or he shoulda married ‗er.‘ He guffawed I gazed up at him helplessly. at his own jest and Arleen‘s laugh could have shattered glass. ‗Baby?‘ He asked gently, his eyes I felt my head swim and for a full of concern. ‗What the fuck‘s moment I thought I may be sick. I happened, you look like shit so you stared blankly down at the spit do?‘ That was gentle for Patrick. globule Simeon had spat on the ‗What‘s goin‘ on, pet?‘ swell of a cobble at our feet. It was white and bubbly and it just lay I knew I was staring at him dumbly there evaporating in the hot air, and he shook me a little the way discarded on the ground. I felt out you may shake an unconscious of the two of us the spittle had the person. He smelt of smoke and best deal and would have willingly whisky and something else, maybe swapped places. it was lynx or maybe it was just him but whatever it was it felt so I couldn‘t stand it a second longer. good and so welcome I could have I felt like I would throw up every cried with sweet relief. organ within my body as my skin prickled and crawled as if fire ants Patrick dipped his head to one scurried over my flesh. Sam side, his black floppy hair falling reached for my arm and I was up across his dark eyes and in the dim and gone. I hurried into the bar light they glistened as if he were and behind me I heard Sim instruct about to cry my tears for me. When Sam not to follow leaving a twisted I‘d first met Patrick I had thought part of me grateful to my dick of a him vaguely attractive in a skinny, brother. tattooed, roguish way, but in this moment I thought he was the most Inside the pub the heat was handsome man I had ever laid eyes unbearable and my skin erupted on. I could have been in a fairy tale with sweat immediately as people being approached by a knight on a jostled and shunted me, refusing to white charger and he could never move as I burrowed my way be as perfect as Patrick was that through. Suddenly everyone was moment as he persuaded the bar so tall and solid and they stank, man to open the fire exit and sweet Jesus how they all stank, the release us into the rear alley. fetid stench of rotted meat and stale sweat. Outside in the dusky night which was rapidly fading to night I fell against him and pressed my face so

hard against his chest that my nose forced from my body with my hurt. I clung to him, pulling him to heavy sobs. I bent forward, me, pushing my face into his disabled by the force of my grief, shoulders, dragging my lips over my humiliation as I wept for the cotton of his T shirt, the sinewy myself and for who I had been muscles beneath. He held me in before that one moment. I cried like silence for an eternity, unmoving, a child who has fallen, I cried not speaking. The clouds began to without restraint or reproach. I fell fracture and the finest rain began to against him and he held me in spray down upon us. It felt like silence until the storm began to little kisses on my forehead and I wane and the rain grew stronger, hung my head back as it gently soaking us to the skin. tapped my arid lips and my eye lids, causing a film of rain to cool Patrick took my face in his hands, my sweating flesh. the tips of his fingers yellowed from roll ups, his breath hot with I finally stepped away from Patrick whiskey, and he kissed my cheeks. and for a moment we didn‘t speak, He tenderly touched his lips to my we just watched each other as if we tears, my eyelids, gentle butterfly hadn‘t spoken in years. kisses, trembling upon my chin and finally he pressed his lips to He lowered his head and his mine, and they felt wonderful, so shoulders hollowed with defeat. wonderful I began to cry once When he looked up he was biting more. He continued to kiss me, his lip. ‗Tell me. Please.‘ He eager yet tender, like a mother shrugged and shook his head. carefully healing the young, ‗There‘s nothing I can‘t hear, lovingly wiping away the pain. nothing I can‘t make better, pet.‘ Then I was no longer crying I was kissing him with an intensity to ‗You can‘t make this better.‘ My strong I thought it may kill me. I voice sounded so hollow, so bitter. sought all he offered; I wanted to I wondered if I may be damaged be lost in him, in his body. I forever, if that one afternoon at wanted to sink into him, shelter Sam‘s would define me, my sense within his devotion. of myself, forever. Patrick had had me in every He touched my cheek tenderly and position the human body could be then asked, ‗You haven‘t killed manipulated into, he had seen me anyone else have you?‘ from every angle possible, sometimes making us laugh out Despite myself I laughed out loud, loud. He had explored my body tears which seemed to deteriorate with a dedication and exploration I as my mouth cracked into an had never imagined any other agonised grimace, and I was human would afford it, a single crying. I was crying so hard I had mindedness I have never believed I to clutch my breast as breath was would deserve. He had taken me

with fervour, with violent passion, cried out in pain and ecstasy as I with twisted pleasure and with felt him enter me with urgency and drunken fumbling. Never before the gentlest love. I clung to him the had we made love, like this, like way I had never needed anyone or two people who needed more than anything. I gulped deep, I drowned physical and had only that medium in him and I allowed myself to fall to communicate, like drowning into the abyss knowing deep in my people whose only air could come heart that he would save me. He from the lover before you. We would resuscitate me just to drown drank deep of each other as the me once more only to revive my rain tumbled down into that alley, helpless body again and again. We the street lamps dancing in the moved together, the distant music gathering puddles at our feet. I beyond this wall like a heart beat tasted the salt of his flesh and I felt or a victory march as I realised. I the cold stone of the alley wall as finally realised that we loved each he lifted me and pressed me back other, truly loved each other. against it. I gasped and almost

HER FIRE CHILLS ME

By Craig Woods

Images © Max Reeves

Tim the Sound Engineer walked spatial and temporal permutations. phantom miles through lifeless Soon a rain came, whipping the streets and vacant yards to the old torn fragments of the universe into power station. In the aftermath of an electric fury. the murderous carnage immeasurable weeks previously, Arriving at the station, Tim found the world had seemed to splinter shelter in a rusted steel hut. around him, his environment Detritus littered the interior: revealing new and ever more tattered pages from newspapers complex dimensions enmeshed and magazines, strips left by with one another like layers of livid scissor cuts. He bunched the paper flesh. As he walked, the streets as best he could into a singular erupted into chasms and mountain mass in order to make a bed and ranges, the yards into deserts and sat there in the endless blue noon, plains, all in an insubordinate flux - listening to the portentous myriad landscapes in boundless drumbeat of rain on the shabby

roof. Flexing the rheumatism from In the ensuing days he had set his bones, he noticed that the dark about destroying the knife in a residue of the female Agent‘s blood variety of ways: snapping it into was still visible under two several pieces, melting it down in fingernails of his left hand. He had an industrial stove… But with each scrubbed those nails vigorously in sunrise it returned, its blade intact, the intervening weeks but the the stain of his crime setting an stains proved as irremovable as impervious flame to the cool grey tattoos, as though he had dawn. This inexplicable routine physically assimilated his own continued unabated until finally guilt. More significantly, the knife one morning, exhausted and with which he had committed the careworn, he had not bothered to crimes - the same modest utensil he pull the blade from his pocket, had used to cut a coffee cake in the accepting lethargically its cryptic placid moments before the Agents‘ claim upon his being. Cold, damp tumultuous intrusion - had refused and shivering in the rusted hut, he to take leave of him, despite his patted at the shape of the makeshift best efforts. Immediately following weapon now pressed flat against the incident, he had tossed this his buttock. The knife exuded a slender culinary tool into the savage heat in which he now took murky urban river where it had an illicit comfort. Through the appeared to sink without glassless window he gazed out impediment. He awakened the with insomniac eyes at the endless following day to find the same symmetrical rows of pylons. This elegant blade stained with the order of megaliths encroached same dark blood resting in the back upon his mind, their steel veneer pocket of his jeans. Disturbed and and subliminal hum encrypting his incredulous he had wandered back cerebrum with the software for a to the riverside, his heart pounding new psychology beyond time and furiously, paranoid eyes flickering space. The first flakes of snow back and forth across the desolate descended from a darkening sky banks for any sign of a pursuer. and his eyes drooped heavily with Pondering the possibility that the fatigue. Red-hot impulse had previous day‘s violence had shaken brought him here. Smiling his psyche to the point of nightmare turned to embrace hallucination, he tossed the knife him… into the brown water, watching it sink once again through a prism of A dull knot of pain bloomed at the white-knuckle uncertainty. base of his spine. He pulled out the magazine pressing into his back Next day it had returned, glinting and it flopped open at a full page impudently from his pocket, a photograph of the abducted girl. vicious red smile across its cold He recognised her waxen side. cosmopolitan features from the proliferation of similar snapshots routinely splashed across the pages

of celebrity gossip rags and tabloid of their own inexplicable means. spreads, an abundance which had Inestimable minutes delivered momentarily escalated following them to a second door - splintered her disappearance. Since the initial wood painted white with the reports, Tim had paid little number 77 nailed in black brass. attention to the unfolding story. The door staggered inward on a Nonetheless he was vaguely aware rusty hinge to reveal a windowless that some considerable harm had apartment; uncarpeted floor strewn come to this blandly beautiful with shreds of newspapers and young woman whose self- magazines; a few rickety chairs and immersed blue eyes glinted sideboards straining under the obdurately and glasslike from the weight of books and art supplies; disintegrating page. candles flickering dimly at opposing corners; scraps of image ―There are new skies those eyes and text glued in a single colossal couldn‘t see in the wounds she collage across the walls; a quarter suffered.‖ of the room partitioned off by a thick oil-stained tarpaulin draped A short, thin woman stood in the over dusty clothesline. The room‘s doorway. Her willowy form cast musty odour stirred Tim‘s no shadow in the austere light. memories of his brief career as a Scandinavian ghosts sang in her roadie during the 1980s: ageless voice: interminable nights spent in the cramped, sweat-scented bellies of ―I am Lois Strandberg, collage anonymous tour buses trundling artist and space splicer. I‘ve been across equally anonymous waiting for you. I need a new set of landscapes of foreign shadow. ears for my visions.‖ Queasy, Tim leaned against one of the sideboards to survey his Tim followed the collage artist surroundings. A cold sting of pain across the frozen station to a caused him to recoil. Blood swelled concrete cubicle fronted by a darkly from a small puncture on padlocked iron door. From an the flat of his thumb. On the inside jacket pocket she pulled a sideboard a pair of scissors with pair of red-handled scissors, serrated edges sat open in the dust, immaculate blades reflecting metal jaws yawning ravenously. boundless silver aeons. With a modest snap, the blades cut ―Be careful what you touch. My through the heavy chain as though pets have quite indomitable wills,‖ it were paper. The padlock fell the woman waved a languid arm, upon the harsh ground with a low intimating the innumerable thud and the door swung open. presences of unseen scissors. Here She led him down eternal stairs, and there among the shadowy their footfalls echoing blankly in wreckage vigilant blades glinted the gloom, the scissors lighting with infernal elegance in the their way with a luminous gleam candlelight. ―Some less than

savoury folks have met quite a wounded fragments in an ongoing comeuppance on these blades. Back overhaul of temporal and spatial when I was whoring in Stockholm foundations. Almost overwhelmed this sleazy executive-type son-of-a- by this barrage of word and image, bitch tries to get all fresh - real it seemed to Tim that he had dangerous like with fists flying and become enveloped in the big buck-fuck-ugly teeth snap- blueprints of evolution. A whole snap-snapping at my face. Grabbed new logic was laid bare before him, a little pair of scissors - the little like the script for the most epic of dinky kind they make for cutting movies yearning to be filmed and the flimsiest of paper - caught his edited into existence. As filthy sweaty wrist in the jaws. Be phenomenal as Lois‘s talent damned if his whole hand didn‘t undoubtedly was, Tim identified a come right off there and then - crucial ingredient absent from her popped right off the wrist like his composition: soundtrack. flesh and his bones were no more Something infinitely more than papier-mâché. Fucker squeals profound than aimless whimsy had like an infant, drops to his knees, lured him here. blood pumping out of the stump like rusty water from a radiator ―So the dumb fuck rushes into the valve. So funny to see him like that hall, severed hand stuffed in the y‘know - all big fucking tough guy liner from a waste basket, trailing one second, the next? - big his filthy blood behind him,‖ the overgrown baby, butt-naked, his woman continued in unhurried saggy flesh all flushed and wet tone as she rummaged through with terror-sweat, his miserable papers and magazines, ―Goes to cock shrivelling in on itself like a the ice machine and starts filling up little pink slug.‖ the bag, thinking he can save the hand and have it reattached. Tim moved away from the Machine runs dry after only a sideboard and took a few cautious handful. Enraged and panicked - steps into the centre of the and still butt-naked remember - he apartment. A cornucopia of runs to reception screaming for Ice! imagery inundated his senses: faces - Ice! -Ice! I run in after him, my of celebrities, politicians, face all bruised and bleeding anonymous strangers from past y‘know, screaming that this fucker and present were spliced and tried to rape me. Fella at reception intercut in infinite variations with goes to dial for an ambulance and shreds of cityscapes, desert vistas, the cops too. Son-of-a-bitch Mr arboreal panoramas, the surfaces of Executive swings the bag - with his other planets, real and fictional. hand in it, yeah? - slugs the guy Within these four humble walls, around the head, screaming: Ice!- Lois Strandberg had reconstructed Ice!. Pair of security guards at the the universe - torn its every door pile in to take him down. component between the teeth of Crazy son-of-a-bitch is swinging her scissors and scattered the the bag around like a cudgel, his

jelly belly wibbling-wobbling, cock sandwiched between a smiling flopping ridiculously while these couple in their sixties. ―This?‖ two heavies come at him - you can make out the mix of shock and ―Oh yes, those are my parents.‖ amusement in their stunned faces. A real sight to see. Another day at ―Hm. Well we‘ll have to do away the office … Ah-hah!‖ she pulled a with that. There‘s no room for any pair of shears free from the clutter attachments to the primordial and waved the rusted blades swamp I‘m afraid. Could bring our cheerily by their cracked wooden whole train crashing down around handles, ―I need to see your wallet. us.‖ Would you hand it to me please?‖ ―That‘s quite alright.‖ A tide of ―ID check?‖ Tim queried as he relief washed over the floor of fumbled in his back pocket. Tim‘s psyche. He had given no thought to his parents, nor indeed ―Oh no, no. I know who you are, to any member of his family in Tim. That‘s in no doubt. But we quite some time. This realisation need to lighten your baggage a caused him to feel quite liberated. little before either of us can go As Lois calmly attacked the photo anywhere from here. Only those with her shears, he could feel the who travel light may ride this claws of the material world train.‖ surrendering their grip upon him - all the archaic structures, customs He handed her the slim leather and hierarchies with which he had accessory without further question. been raised falling away like the Ignoring his cash, she pulled out shells of drained insects from a his ATM card. ―No other cards? wind-blown web. His pulse began Credit or Debit?‖ to ease, his muscles loosen.

―No, none.‖ Lois scrunched the mutilated photo in a small but fierce fist and tossed ―Good boy,‖ her red lips curled it onto the sideboard. Between upward in a sincere smile, ―that thumb and forefinger she held aloft makes my job easier.‖ The card fell the portion she‘d cut free. The to the mercy of her blades with a younger Tim‘s face, shoulders and dry conclusive snap. ―Now, what chest remained intact, all evidence about photos? Any family snaps in of his progenitors amputated. here?‖ ―Consider yourself duly liberated.‖ ―I‘m not sure,‖ he responded She turned back to the sideboard honestly, ―I don‘t remember.‖ and busied herself with the rifling of magazine pages. ―Now, while I She pulled out a colour snapshot in find the first appropriate which he recognised his own face, background for this handsome about ten years younger,

fella, you can do us both a favour unknown source; the built-in by disposing of the bodies.‖ mirrored wardrobe, a spider-web wound in the glass of the left hand Tim retrieved the screwed up door; the old stereo unit flanked by photo and moved to the opposite towers of tatty vinyl albums and cabinet where he fed the ruined sleeveless 45s; the bedside cabinet remains to the candle‘s eager stocked with pulp paperbacks and flame. As the fire went to work, he assorted comic books … Even the did not bother to look back at the scent was familiar: that stale smouldering faces of his parents summer smell of night sweat and whose very existence now seemed the dull ammoniate odour of as inconsequential as those of staid dreary masturbating adolescent fictional characters in a banal afternoons. television soap opera. Instead, he found his gaze wandering the A taste hit the back of his throat, convoluted details of the collage brackish and bittersweet like around him, his psyche reaching stagnant saltwater mixed with out to those fragmented images cheap cider. Images came flooding and texts with tenacious tendrils of in: illicit nights of teenage desire, feeling out new identities in drunkenness by the old viaduct the myriad time tracks enmeshed and urgent fumblings in the there. bracken with a promiscuous neighbourhood girl named Vicky. ―That‘ll do,‖ Lois broke the silence Her face - all huge eyes and in cheerful tone, smoothing the hollowed cheeks - surfaced from glue-backed photo fragment on to the swamp of his memory, as clear a network of other images and text and defined as she was back then: he could not quite make out in the the rosy, rustic features spread in a gloom. She spun around on a lascivious grin; the chestnut hair slender heel and fixed him with a collecting at the thorax where her keen expression, her eyes aglow young breast heaved in her blue with blue fire. ―You may have the dress, pointing exultantly towards honour of unveiling now.‖ a forgotten sun. He recalled the sting of pinched skin between the Tim crossed the room to the two bracelets she wore on one partitioned corner and pulled aside willowy forearm. Blue rings of the tarpaulin which slumped bruised shadow festered around soundlessly to the floor. Beyond her eyes. He‘d heard the rumours lay an identical replica of the of her abusive father: a faceless bedroom in which he had spent his beast peering malignantly from pubertal years, recreated with between the midnight doors of an almost maddening exactness; the imagined wardrobe - her heart narrow single bed with its blue skewered by rusty coat hangers - duvet covers jammed against the ignominy of red nights creased wall with one dusty window upon the velvet of her kiss. permitting sour light from an

Then the doll swam leadenly to Blood throbbed in Tim‘s temples inky surface waters - white ceramic and loins, his arm-hairs standing to face as ancient as the ocean pierced attention. A red-hot fury of with sad blue eyes topped with a excitement wracked his body with ragged swirl of strawberry curls - an intensity he had not experienced that ragged bundle Vicky dragged since youth. Through this perpetually and dejectedly behind maelstrom of wild sensation, his her would whip the local tongues ears - ever responsive to the into a clucking frenzy - such a surreptitious frequencies of the queer and unsettling child such a fractured universe - alerted him to strange and worrisome habit for a a sound, small but sharp and girl on the cusp of womanhood oh incessant as the resonance of me oh my... mosquito wings. Electricity sparked in the base of his spine. ―Little Poppy just loves to ride the Time swelled like a thunderhead, sea breeze‖ the girl would proclaim its rage manifest in a haze around holding the doll aloft its arms him. spread in quasi-crucifixion its impervious face staring down the ―Grab that melody roughly by the sun. tail. Let‘s see where she leads us…‖

Tim leaned in close to the bed. The train station spread out before him sound was emanating from gnarled carriages of solid bone beneath the musty duvet, its careering noisily on tracks of cadence familiar like that of an erogenous flesh clickety-clackety- ancient lullaby. Astutely the pillow click-click-clack. Electricity couldn‘t turn his head for a tune… hummed and sparked in the air the He whipped back the duvet song‘s minute frequency gliding in revealing a navy blue fitted sheet spiral patterns. Tim followed the where a white liquid mass sound across cold dusty stone trembled in the creased centre… a platforms past blackened fresh load of teenage ejaculate brickwork smeared with blood and simmering in impudent rebuttal of excrement steel benches eaten with time‘s gathering tempest… Sad rust in endless rows. silent music turned white for a commuters crowded the platforms moment… streams of white cum and benches stoic faces rigid and trailing from the pool to map expressionless eyes focussed on psychic journeys across velvet something unseen each tuned to horizons… He went on pouring other melodies replayed for them bad in there… thunder in the chest exclusively obeying their coda to lowered his face to the hot rise as the correct train comes puddle… its departed outline rushing in on black winds of time. began to search for details… Voice concourses spread out in all against his ear did no good… directions connected by endless experienced a chill of the black iron stairwells and bone courtyard… her blue dress of escalators from distant foundations memory… inhaling the scent of mired in shadow to an ill-defined revolution in the spent cells… sky of slate. He found his train on Blood-red light punctured by an oil-black platform utterly megaliths of desire… no dream deserted the melody lilting sadly seen before at the foot of those towards sickly pale light behind emerging towers… Held his breath glaucous windows and doors of and was submerged in the chaos of gristle. destiny sped him onward youthful lusts… glaucous tides doubts and babble of nostalgia searing the treacherous skin… regaling him with hallucinational innards oozing out on to the lucidity. sad needles picked his surface of insomnia… tendrils skull through the years he clasped. reaching for his breathing to pylons… Couldn‘t turn his head A phosphorescent sky cracked like for a response signal… hurrying a whip as his image was spliced the blood to outmoded season… into a rainswept street. The landscape ruffled backs to a Tim slid through doors of human sudden onslaught of buildings: tissue pungent smell of semen nineteenth century terraces and mingling with the glue on his back storefronts with the desolate shells as he was pasted into other of 1970s automobiles parked along avenues. A colossal subterranean the kerbside. Rows of tenements

opposite falling in on themselves his own identity fading out into with thunderous despair their musky canine scent which these foundations attacked by a swarm dead had reared like the hands of of bulldozers cold metal beasts history - competing for the kill. Tim‘s melody danced in the pale light of ―It‘s all about what‘s underneath, the second-hand store windows sonny.‖ where a porcelain doll stood queenly marble eyes reflecting Other stars fell on a wardrobe in nothing. Liquid burst in acrid the centre of the road - knife particles and he was breathing the playing on the light from his voice - protein of old summer orgasms in sensed strange thoughts less than a musty adolescent tissues. Decades foot from the door - Pasts and he wasn‘t cured of communication. futures clashing in hot droplets Burning had paved the road for his from a young cock - mattress under loins. Festering dog shit glimmered temporal world viewing the base of on this street through the half-light. his skull - Merciless glimpse of air chilled phantom memories into something at gargling death rattles doorways of age… sound of in throats of shadow - doors of crickets following his shadow from timber giving way to yawning the summer‘s wound. Half-light umbilicus of brickwork coated in ruined streets approximating wet alien moss - dropped to their gunfire to cut the cake. Melody like knees in a crawl - Eyes wild come a sad clarinet falling westward. level once or twice with characters from dead past - Signal to He knew an old fence in this crumbling textures imparted his shabby neighbourhood out by the desire bare after that - could disused warehouses and thought struggle no image free from the he might track him down. He hazards of lust - could visualise the man‘s haggard face a red network of veins Finally daylight and the passage painting a mesh of mutiny around inclined to an opening in the the sunken eyes and toothless darkness - bland urban smells and mouth but the name had dissolved a chorus of gulls - pushed their into rubble and dust. His will way through broken bottles egg turned eternity for its knife - cartons cereal boxes rusted cans to entered the store to find the old the grey empty back lots of a man perusing out-of-date chocolate mammoth shopping complex - all Easter eggs stuffed animals stained else was silence falling neglected. with blood broken toys bearing wounds of war - ―Not one to suffer ―This is not like back in primary fools, sonny‖ - daily headache of school - no hide and seeker gets to his voice - His own eyes struck shout ‗home free‘ around here - No three by the window - The form of way - Not bitin‘ - I got us some a young man in close proximity ghost memories though we can had approached animal dreams - swap for a shot at other images -

Don‘t need to know whose glue in the rubble of her clothes - The your riding - that‘s your business - artist glues me to other time Stagger westward in old viaduct tracks.‖ vapour is it? - pull your young face out from the storm between her Deep-drawn breath to the mall‘s thighs the distant razors on her boundless borders - first flakes cigarette breath - knife caged her falling to frigid floor - words in any star flexing - Move out to the temple she left you with (Time had come to his erect penis plaster dust from old lungs - Don‘t throbbing into mutinous waves - dawdle - pick up your feet, kid - streams of white cum ravaged the not here to wipe your arse for concrete.) you.‖ Tragedy stood upright and The sound of snoring came without surmised his riot of emotions - warning into that concrete from between two tall steel refuse wasteground - shattered gate of cylinders emerged a deformed time dozing on its hinge - In the figure traversing the lot in a distance a viaduct silhouette cut a pathetic hobble - The man was dark wound across emerald miles - faceless, his warped body entirely Trees melt into the image in his naked, the featureless head slung arms but Tim could not close the back on a broken neck - The left sky and felt himself drifting into side of his collarbone flexed roofs of abandoned schoolhouses - elastically against the uppermost knew a deserted trailer park in an rib forming two makeshift lips - a old desire to kill - Against her then metallic insect voice exuded from these hands might yet thrust a this cruel distortion: knife - acid ghost of inebriation working his vocal chords: ―Don‘t you remember me? - sure we tore it up a little on tour with ―I almost feel it dripping on my Iggy way back when - DIY is my hands towards the building - gig this weather - though I don‘t go intolerable burning ran up my preaching what I practice of course heart - My concern in a stream of eh? - too many brothers doing it for warm blood - The old dusty themselves puts me right back to apartment after seven when last propping up landfill despite daylight glimmered across the grey government patter about No float - Billowing around her scream Skilled Tradesman Left Behind - In I felt the girl grasp the night to a the junkyard is where you‘ll find it cut - twisting her face into a all - dusty gems of the galaxy more slender blade - tasted her falling priceless than all the gold discs on tenements in my own eyes - She the walls of Hard Cock Café - Past was fast asleep leaning on the doll imagining the girl‘s longing at last by tangled hair and half-open she brought her one lifetime - The mouth - Perhaps she had not told body kept bad houses before the me the story that blossomed there gash - she was lying on his roost

among ruined breath - waiting glass doors shattered - here and always waiting in other images there mannequins had been other words - glued to a circle ransacked from their ruined unbroken in bittersweet cider outposts and placed around the aeons - It‘s the chemicals they put balconies each one garbed in the in the varnish you see - all the guilt costume of a dead rock star - John and rage and despair of her world Lennon knelt sprawled against a invading the lungs as I fixed that blackened glass barrier a yellow- wardrobe together - done broken jacketed Freddie Mercury poised like a summer reed - You would over him fucking one of four come here undone in the wounds in the ex-Beatle‘s back breakdown - the knife oppressed in with a makeshift carrot cock - A the darkness, the red domain lay in fat-suited Elvis sat awkwardly wait…‖ upon the pristine seat of a lavatory pulled from the window of a Black smoke billowed from behind nearby home furnishings the complex the air heavy and showroom - Where a shattered acrid with screams and the martial wall of glass opened out towards stink of fire - of anger - of an the extensive parking area Marc exploding sun rampant with Bolan lay prone at the edge of an forgotten summers - Shop automobile graveyard - burning windows sailed past in military shells of luxury saloons and SUVs formation - life-size plastic figures pumping toxic plumes into the torn preparing for war - flicker of no sky - return in the featureless eyes - mannequin mothers rallying With surrealistic will the viaduct snubbed-nose children to the had swerved off-course its stone frontlines of Armageddon - death bulk stretched like a pagan icon tremors in phosphorous aquarium across the ceiling of that glass waters - He knew she would be temple - red flesh fires in the sun- sitting beside her words - her face kissed waters - Feral children had rising blackly from within the emerged from its prehistoric building in that time of her first backside - he felt his heart with tune - Fear came running across the them lobbing Molotovs from bottomless knees - he had behind bellows-like contractions - something like it in saliva - familiar blades of petrol to look at the clock melody on his back felt the heart - velvet of a breath into animal working - her blue dress of dreams of ammunition - The memory - (tasted her ghost in the bulldozer‘s advance had been more corridors - spectral fingertips or less correct - brick and concrete painting trails of nervous sweat sending that dream of every age across affectless walls - streams of and environment to faceless sound white cum ran down the concourse - Linear time longed for days in -) those large stores where brutal Solemnity claimed the mall‘s heart machines would send life-size every escalator ground to a halt plastic figures beyond life and

death - (Streams of white cum ―It‘s not like back rolling hot limbs fertilised the desolate food court) - in the bracken - Little Poppy just Clocks feasting on the wings of loves to ride the shit of my stone insects popping in dusty striplights snake - You know enough to catch - History like a virus depositing them in bed like a vague black spores of despair in his lungs - maybe - Years had known my Santa‘s Grotto smouldering at the dream from that coincidence to sun‘s threshold - radioactive swap for a courtyard looming with shadows in forlorn teen hopeless terror - Click my heels to pantomimes blasted against focus on the glue you‘re riding - derelict storefronts - first kisses and my name filled with substance and first dates rusted upon a vacant then at windows a straight black soda fountain - festival of corrosion shirt you left on a dead branch - - sad ghosts of the twentieth watched another shadow catch my century rallying towards a vagrant breath - placed the doll violently - horizon - hurrying the blood in empty warehouses - My heart‘s In a pose of quasi-crucifixion Vicky disappearance was no tragedy to waited - Astutely his knuckles freeze in that instant - whole face went back into tune - He addressed wore no expression at this the girl‘s good looks excited - sandstone enclave - I began to race brought her announcements in the - arriving at apartment block rot first motion - She was thin and and melt away everything inside- taller like the hands of history - her awakened by phantom time zone face was no longer riding upon the of crippled memories ripped open - roller coaster for which the boy had rented a room ten weeks before the braved death - promise of her rosy power lines connected - these rustic features assured the human cheeks looked hollowed in the interval - thick chestnut hair falling skull of their own mother - slave- loose reflected in static eyes - Her mask of domestic concubine - bled eyes picked the base of his skull filthy secrets in the wardrobe he from her dead past - mortal built me - blood of my future passport to jejune miles - her fermenting to a black cancer - lucidity had paved the road for this language could manage other times breastbone - silky urban heart of smiling Chance - caught my feeling warm in a desolate lonely breath back - My heart doing place - the doll clenched like a here…? - On the low wall of a crippled child of Chernobyl to her strange friendly pity - breathe me chest - Knife lying on the material in air from other lungs with the cat world passed the light from on her lap - I shall be the landscape windows as it wept onto his hands in insomnia -‖ - network of veins told him nothing - whole building quivered at her Siren hands into transparent girl electric tongue: grasped summer night - all the opaque air of this jail spun its head in his direction - Children

dissipated in the noon sky - elms mother - Give us some honey - and poplars came to demolish the don‘t breathe a word now …‖ tenements beyond and a black thunderhead loomed in wait for Mental imprint pulled its them - Aquarium thoughts arrived companion up to her cheeks - at the final block to counter the blood-red light on the queenly doll ghostly shapes of two bracelets - growing cold - arms outstretched - No tragedy breathed more easily - frigid hands cupping concrete surmised his eyes would not close dreams of catastrophe - she was the knife in her chest - The lying on his disappearance - His landscape was red - the stove out - will turned eternity for its knife - (the room can dissolve suddenly Triumph seduced would be not from other collages) - Desire to kill long in coming within the details of her childhood among the condemned throat - Her brackish spine as the mattress under her tongue slid under his buttocks and eyes grew wild - Into any orifice accelerated the clock - his knees nightmare he turned towards the throbbed and hummed upon throng by utilising their light of the sandstone - cursing the lingering snow - words - At other gash he could struggle no more - the window Arms on that slender blade pressed timeless for a few moments looked his body from her hair and skin - so upon her deep-drawn breath - many years at her open mouth that pained walls expanding for her he did not wish to live - hands timeless zone - pity for her ageless falling obliquely to find that face no longer concrete - wordless journey westward given way - sigh slipping out of time - (streams pained him of saliva descending of white cum dissolved stone and from her life while falling to a blob glass) - as man and wife - sad heart threatened the red network - Vicky Thirty times the knife went riding gasped excitedly at the steel length the roller coaster only he could - frenzied laugh echoed throughout slake - blood oozing out for a few well of memory - erect penis moments uneventfully smiling - throbbing cider over coarse livid The doll remained committed to throat - his hands but they were now reflected in her control - stronger Two tiger heartbeats curled on the than his will - geometry of floor - wounded children dying in buildings embedded in a stream of those stores where he pictured her warm crimson - the body kept a heart in a wardrobe - plastic figures boundary-free mineral in this reaching out to embrace them in audacious gash - liberated in a dead time-bound arms moved post-emotional spine - blood-red about fishlike in the Grotto - black light on the ceiling of constant flux insect voices chattering from - perfidious incubus mouths: ―Give us some honey - don‘t tell your

Clasped on his stomach her words full glory of some passion in the to him fast with the weight of his shadows - body: ―Gone last cigarette - done smoked the lot - Nothing hidden in A public park on a cool bright the wardrobe - no more for his spring morning - low stone wall damn eyes to see - Get my arms out along the emerald border blue sea in the sea air - this is where the itch haze beyond - Girl aged about ends‖ fourteen perched there slender hands clasped upon a book in her He felt her falling with low lap - frail scrupulous young voice wretched eyes - The doll remained from behind breeze-blown auburn silver and dark drifting obliquely tresses: in her static journey westward - all tragedy burst upon his face with ―Excuse me, sir. Do you have the the contractions of a distant sun - time? I think I‘m supposed to be Streams of white cum swept her somewhere.‖ astral ghosts across the vertebrae of the universe - ―Sorry, love. I haven‘t much use for it.‖ (Furniture of the courtyard, her blue dress appeared in the The girl shrugged, the sad features wardrobe. All the unwelcome eyes of her pale freckled face flexing put out on a coat-hanger hook. Her lackadaisically. ―That‘s okay,‖ she father‘s fists cuffed in those rusted whispered in a soft mid-Atlantic claws. Phoenix flare in the suburbs accent, ―I‘m sure whatever it is will and a noon dust formed a fuzz find me one way or another.‖ upon the wood. Tim knew surreptitious daylights in the She stuffed the book - The Cat in protein sex smells of impatient the Hat Comes Back - into a adolescents. Cheap gum phantoms knapsack and turned her attention caressing him with red bubbles in to the blue horizon. the broken bottle graveyard. Seditious puberty tasted like lead Saltwater smells sailed in with a on his tongue. Her blood watered squabble of gulls on a breeze thick the dry bouquet of his memory. He with the frenetic promise of breathed her heels but his eyes summer. Tim watched as the girl, would not close. Cider breath of seemingly unmindful of his lost summer paints new stars in presence, spread her arms wide, other skies. Inside him she walks ready to embrace the turmoil that prolonged silences.) loomed like a thunderhead upon the capricious causeway of her From memory forty minutes later youth. pocket watch pointed last daylight - white cum pasted him to Sad clarinet melodies dispersed another‘s reverie - watching in the into vapour above the incoming tide.

CUNT

By Sue Fox

Step back. Enter space. grass, with mumbling bees, Watch the play of cunt like a nest. intercourse going on. Find Let cunt expand and find its the sense of ‘core’, running form wrapped like moss without the high drama, around trees, clinging to jinxed stage sets and ham flower stalks. Find the cunt actors for lovers. in the land, holes that are in the earth, or shapes made by birds, scissor hands or in the form of shallow graves – a new kind of cuntography. Cunt is only mute when she is laid bare, submerged in the primordial cusps and spillages of nature. Cunt consoles and weeps for the souls of the land, not the flesh that creeps upon it. Cunt applauds all the other cunts and shares in their tales of ‘cock-love’. And the stalking of ‘man-meat’ till it winds up Seek the distant island of hot bless-ed or in heaps of muck sand, uninhabited – go there or else dead matter! and hibernate strictly alone and savor the deluxe place. There is no-one to converse Install the heart, move into with or to take my mind offa third gear, saunter and this brutal thing. Cunt is swing along in time to the fucking king. Fuck-ing thing. singing blades of long-eared Cunt is the noble Queen. Cunt is counterpart and

consort and the licked. Cunt born of flesh. They rob the is worn like a pocket in my time away in their plight to pants unpicked. Cunt is the be adult. I am rarely alone damned. at holiday breaks. My mind is flooded by little presences My cunt is the most perverse of cheeky princesses on high. little cunt. I was thinking I want to be wandering in a earlier about her being forest, naked, where it is rubbed into raw shiny-pink deathly silent and ecstasy, with a little violence wonderfully vacant, except thrown in the mix and for the slant of shadows and broken sea shells. I want to the bowing of tender young hear her scream and kick. wood. What do we leave that See her lashing out and is of any use to anyone after hitting and spitting, while we are dead? Are we even she endures the pain of a interested in talking from fleshy twisted clit, pulled and that dead place? Does a smacked. work of art change a life or Racked. Thwacked. Hard does literature alter a soul? punishment for being a bad Can we make a mark on girl. Bend over! Bashed into someone by leaving messages submission with a precision after we are no more? Why of thick fingers, tied up and do I feel I can look into gagged; wadded in rope someone’s head and intuit the burning knots. Feel this outcome? Why do I see cunt. Hold it down. Make it heaven and hell combined in swell. Torture it. Defile me a minute? against the earth. Make me Is it right to want to ‘come’ wince while my cunt is hurt all the time? I guess if it is a and I will ‘come’. bodily expression then Mirror reflection. Inversion. nature can’t be wrong. I feel Twin Souls. sex in my body at every turn, even when I am My cunt needs to come for interlocuting spiritual the 3rd time, indeed for all propensities! I came three the day if I had the time. I times yesterday, the third am surrounded by children

time late last night was discarded soul. Cunt wants harder but I just turned up a to be mischievous in the gear, added some volume, fields where few play. and went into the perverted thought module and I was releasing homogeneous cunt tensions, or tent cunsions. It is if once I start playing I can’t stop. It is endless. I want endless. Ad infinitum. On and on. I want eternal pleasure. I am an addict for my cunt arousal. I am hooked on the bodily form and the perks that ‘come’ with it!

My cunt is wrenched from her prime ordeal of fuckland. Cunt is nowhere but residing Cunt has plans to make and in her own private cave. She ideas to perform. Must it all whispers so many secrets to be displayed in a vacuum? I me. And I splash them out long for interaction. on the page like blood from a New directions. The theatre. suicide’s wrists. I write in I am sick of being in no blood from feather quills and man’s land. I walk on razor milk straws. I get tangled up blades in the street with in the mass of barbed white naked feet and sliced heels. I wires. Twisted and sore like a want to put on stockings concentration camp escapee. with one seam of blood on Red bleeds onto white, each and lie on a ruby chaise transfusion-like. longue reading anarchist I swell through gigantic lips. poetry by Rimbaud. I feel An out pouring of the heart. like a reject, a punk, a defect. To feel alone one can really I am fucking nothing. go right to the nerve centre and pluck the venom out of a

I long for great things, to take your mouth off it. Put happen! I want to cry. I do. your breath upon it and lie A little. No-one cares. I your head there, I beseech breathe in tears. Sigh. you! My ‘come’ was quick Nicotine stains my teeth. I and perfect she says, watch stars. Strain. I catch standing with her g-string traffic lights drifting in and half way down her leg and out of the wet nebulae of my half way up her crack, a eyes. I stare out into total half-cocked pose when in darkness. writing mode on the pc. I have just polished off the My lips taste of extract-of- dildo from my wet cunt with cunt, and I smell sex like it is the centre of my nervous a sordid affair! I am system, sucking on it, mouth- enthralled by my body. I licking-it like a stray bitch want to be raped by my eyes. does on a meatless bone. It I am on the curious ‘carousel tastes of me; earthy, creamy, of arousal’. I am blazing in with a slightly salty my saddle. I feel the rub of bitterness. the leather stitches between my legs. My cunt lies open The bite of a tongue in an like a valley, wet with sleet- irreparable place! It is the rain. I hear her calling ‘fuck pungent cunt. I thought of me’. Fuck me till I can be being held down and used by wet no more. older men, taking it in turns, punished for looking like a Fuck me when I am tight young girl and making me and dry. Steal me along the dress like one. The other men way. Hijack me. Put me in watch and interact with my a trunk. And haul me out aching performance cunt. A when the boot opens and I house full of cocks are am blinded by scorched rapt preying on me round a table light. Kidnap me against my and I am made to go and sit will. Take my cunt and on each man’s cock whilst the speak into the megaphone of others rub me, spitting on my its airway. Lick it like some clit, making me suck cock or never ending wound. Try to eating me out. My cunt is stem the swell of it. Never

pulled open wide for meditation as a youth so in everyone to see into it whilst that practise you get a mass they dip their feet in the of that timeless, egolessness inches of my wet pooling which is experienced in ‘come’. orgasm.

Fingers are everywhere like And with meditation it is a classical pianists. I lose long-lasting and count of the number of digits cumulatively builds and in me! The pitch grows remains so. When I get into higher like a Galas voice sex I feel untamed, like I cresting up the many octaves want to be more profane and of demon-like-soul drifters, outrageous, like I am and eventually there is a plundering into the depths of nature’s depravity and her joy, her link to the dysmorphic, avaricious differences and anomalies that take one to somewhere undefined, beyond nature and comprehension! I want to be absolutely fucked forever! I want to stay in these alternative states, floating into near- nothingness.

Space and quiet leads me down the altars of mind and magical release of stardust in stairs. I am lusting for a smoky puff of breaths. The introspection and solace plummet, the cum-down through ritual. I want to leads downwards into pure clean the debris out and live contentment and ecstasy. I in new altered spaces. I wonder why this sexual lust want Arizonian desert vistas has only come to me now; and miles of pure sand and get to thinking I studied stretching into nowhere particular… (this is a

memory of my first piece of world he could be different art I had as a child). I want and not present me with to reside in emptiness for anything fluid. He might be there is the fuel of all a dysfunctional idiot who intangible creative matter. can’t initiate a hard wet We come from nothing. We prick or know where to go to nothing. Nothing is our stretch his fingers. framework in which to Excitement of the movement negotiate in! towards orgasm leads me to We rapidly cut off between push it further still. We conscious and unconscious want to strip away layers of modes. So whilst prohibition. Is sex to do with masturbating I got to such a abuse? Giving up the body point where I felt I wanted to for penetration, deification, be abused by anyone – an old vilification, subjugation, man and his mother together empowerment and even. I wanted them to demonisation. Is it because sexually assault me all day, sex is partially unconscious imprison me against my will. that all things reside there? I would suck on her and then As an artist I dwell in the suck him, like the male and taboo, the hidden, and so all female Buddha consorts. possibilities are conceivable – Now in reality when I see the why go there? Or why not? I old pervert man in the street, see everything, my mind is so I blank him. I wouldn’t give vast so I can do anything him the time of day in the right? I can see what it is light of consciousness but in like to be fucked by three the dark, where I draw closer men in a toilet to the point of to the unconscious, he is the collapse. I can imagine 5 perpetrator of sins of mine, dwarf men fingering my and gets on me, mouth to cunt in a caravan till I am mouth. He resuscitates me. sore. If it doesn’t happen in In my imagination he would reality, then it can and will be the sexual heathen all happen in the seeming without any limits, the reality of my mind. I can lift grotesque even! In the real the lid off Pandora ’s Box

and see all manner of things. dirty as your heart, Fuck ‘hope’. Give me ‘joy’, unleashing white chalk cum ‘passion’, ‘dirt’ and stains on brown. I never ‘decadence’. I want knew a cunt as rabid as fornication and extremities mine, as robust as a jelly fish of the highest order! Let me in a mould. I didn’t know she fuck wild beasts, fathers and could feel so much in these sons, mothers and their nerve fibres, in the filaments young lovers; let me fuck the of such a rose-pink bud. I old, the disabled, the will grow cunts in my deranged, the amputees, the garden for people’s noses. strange, the undesired, and They will meet the scent with the corpses. Let me fuck the toss of their head and anything that enters my remember all the shades of mind – let me conjoin with pink that they ever saw even all beings in all their the hue of rosy-pink apples. manifestations. Let me fuck Those pink-after-glows will be anything moving about, even left in the eye socket long the worms. after death, leaving only the silence and a great longing Cunt gets off on interaction! for something that goes She abounds in voices and beyond. play…. Cunt is a junkie- martyr to anything phallic and rhythmic. She wants to spurt out of her lady-mouth again. She is a continual spitter and a bed-wetter. Cunt is the woman’s hand bag or the glove of secretion which you can hide your sins in, laced with lipsticks and a hair brush. Little cock-size things to put in roomy-sized slits. Cunt will play rude games on the surface of a clean sheet, and make it as

giggling and a-wriggling others are misses. The pistol inside like some pubescent and the gun evoke young thing, high on a undulating responses in her cocktail of hormones. She is majora. There is one tiny sexed up to fuck and can’t spot that sends her eyes a- wait to exercise some tactile spinning like cold marbles on fantasies even in the light! grey stone. Cunt is a sneaky teaser. Cunt My cunt feels madly and is the make-up of snake absurdly alive. It is itching artists. Artisans of the inside. It longs for a flesh carnal. Lusters of the member to mimic the shape twisted lips of labia. The of the interior walls. Copy mons pubis of out of data. me inside. The cunt shouts Cunt extols the virtues of sex for attention please, all look play like some public over here and watch the declaration in the street with great entrance hall opening, bells on. Cunt is calling for a a few volunteers if you pilgrimage to the Mecca of please. My, what do we have the flesh of a woman. Come here? More eager arrivals. visit her and see inside the And a hard intoxicating quantum hole. Cunt wants to flesh piece that squirts out spray out on unsuspecting white juice? A head like a people from out the top floor hat. A trunk like the gristle window. She wants to make of meat. Truncheons all all things wet in the round. Let me raise cocks up pleasuring of her, in the for you like only a magician inciting of her name. can with a belief in Hallowed be her name, telekinesis. She wants to be cunton. She wants to see fucked again. Once fucked, heads turn and mouths open the addiction flows and she is tasting her like rain drops on incited to do violence on the naked tongues. Cunt is in a cock, taking it for herself, state of excitation of making it go in and out wondering which barrel the many times, innumerable. bullet lies in. She is ready for Oh let me be the goddess of a game of Russian roulette. fuck. Let me take you into One of the six is a hit, all the

the cunt hole and anoint Made her get mad and all your head with my fluids. I red. Made her lose her shape will suck you in like a lost and shift into a less child. Let me kiss you with prohibited form. I have my cunt vapour. Let me enticed her to become herself enshrine you in my muscular and to open out into sheer vulvic arms. Let the balm of sexual dirt. the content of my cunt save I throw her down in the dust, you. legs apart. I let go of the guilt and tell myself I can cum when I want to. I am a beryl tiger strolling round like I own the place. I can command my body to do what I want it to do. I am in the lap of the gods. Oh, sleaze, fornications and roses, such high-up feelings that take you all over the span of your self.

I find new spots that feel unique. There is a never- ending finding in the cunt. I I have played today in my am meeting new pathways summery bed, laced with and tunnels and unexplained pockets of warm air. I have arenas of my cunt. I find felt so full of sensual myself deep and imaginings, creeping out like unfathomable. My cunt is some medusa’s snake-head. I the primordial template of have been so high on my an ineffable corporeal cunt. I have played with her understanding. Cunt relief is and made her spit up two vital to sustain such times. Oozing out clear and sensibilities. milky egg-white things from broken shells. I have Cunt is pounding in my tormented the life out of her. groin. Cunt is seriously get

rolling round the bed to off-the-wall. Where did I go sights and sounds of for an hour? I melted into pornography. my organs. I went higher and higher and I didn’t think Porn makes me cum in I would release it. Shut up minutes. My cunt-mouth and cum. So I did. I have contorts and hurls abuse. It been in and out of battery feels so risk-taking to enter in packets and I need new sex to the pinkness of sex, for the toys, I have fucked them all mind and body expand to disintegration with over- through others’ erotic gaze. body? Can you hear the clit At once I become a larger shout? Does it scream and person with more sexual pout? Can you ever put the knowledge. There is more to flames out? NEVER baby muster up in bed. I can jump never. Play. The cunt will into scenarios and cum like never cease. It is a fire bird. some pornocidal maniac. I am gonna really get into these sporadic quick cums. I am gonna shoot loads. I will push the limits. I will know the burn out clause. I will see cunt in inebriated circles, spinning like a penny, grabbing walls to steady herself. Cunt will be spangled and smouldered. Cunt lust will prevail. Cunt is in charge! Hey, listen up!

Cunt likes the clit butterfly on the rabbit vibrator but the plastic dildo irritates my skin. What is this fucker made of? My cunt just went

PRELUDE: PLAYING WITH THE LIGHTNING

By DM Mitchell

Michigan Palace, Detroit, February A whole generation of kids, myself 9, 1974 – five young men take the included, were swept along in a stage to commit artistic sepukku. lemming-like rush to immolate To say that the audience was ourselves in imitation of our hostile is like saying that Hitler Stooge-idols. Throwing objects at wasn‘t a very nice person. In fact, the stage, spitting at the band, even certain members of the audience (a self-mutilation all become ‗hip‘. In bike gang, who called themselves reality, those five young men who the Scorpions) had only the day recorded that album were flying in before phoned radio station the face of real danger. Their WABX-FM and promised to kill audience that night were not these same young men if they behaving in a fashionable way; dared to take the stage that they seriously hated the band and particular night. intended them very real harm.

In a scene (which I‘ve only heard “Above them along the sharp and but never witnessed) that makes sunlit ridge of the high chalk hill, the me think of the Viking Death Corn King pranced on his way, Earth Prayer scene at the culmination of Mother‟s way, his head held high and the film The 13th Warrior, Iggy & jerking this way and that, his back The Stooges faced down an arched so that his chest was flung out embodiment, an avatar of what with arrogance, his thighs rising William S Burroughs had named higher and higher with each toe- ‗The Ugly Spirit‘. pointing step, one hand before him, one behind him, like some stiff-jointed doll The recording, Metallic KO, is still from under the soil, from the womb of Earth Mother herself. harrowing to listen to. Bottles smash, unidentifiable objects break, The drums began to speak faster, and the audience scream abuse as stuttering now in their relief. Drm- the singer goads the crowd on to Drm-Drm-Drm-Drm.” outdo its efforts, inviting them almost to kill him. (The Golden Strangers Henry Treece)

By some twist of irony, not many When the Romans found years later, the British ‗punk rock‘ themselves facing the barbarian scene would take elements of this hordes of Europe and Britain, one experience and by some sleight-of- of the things they found most hand (thanks mostly to the PT daunting was the total lack of Barnumesque talents of one snake regard for personal safety McClaren), change this act of displayed by their seemingly ill- foolhardy heroism into a equipped enemies. Celtic warriors masochistic aesthetics of self-hate.

in particular would often go in to strictures and constraints imposed battle stark naked bar for weapons on the natural currents of and body-paint, their bodies instinctive and sensual life. The numbed to the pricks of arrows or followers of Dionysus are mostly minor wounds through the prior women – Maenads. ingesting of belladonna, hemlock and other toxic substances. Shaman Dionysus offered healing through warriors who engaged in warfare music, dancing, group emotion and as if dancing with their tribal Gods a feeling of power gained by mass- of Death. surrender to primal forces. By the end of the play, Dionysus has The Stooges on stage. The singer wreaked havoc and bloody gyrates and flings himself around violence, not through intent but the stage with almost double- simply because the forces of jointed grace, almost naked. ‗civilisation‘ opposed to his Beautiful and ugly at the same message have tried to do him and time. Behind him the guitarist what he represents violence. But it stands stoically like some leather would be easier to attempt to tame clad samurai staring down the the lightning and probably as future, the sound of his instrument sensible. carving sonic swathes through the collective psyche of the bewildered The music of the Stooges grew out audience and the rhythm section of the Psychedelic Sixties and pound and pummel, goading their formed itself from a primal stew of front-man to greater excesses and primitive blues and rock mixed feats of shamanic abandon. with chaotic experimentalism akin to the free jazz of Beefheart and Those who had come to see this Sun Ra and the dark doom-ridden spectacle looking for a freak show dronescapes of the Velvet or simply for its shock value were Underground. After two albums of probably left feeling bewildered. crash & burn intensity, James This wasn‘t entertainment. This Williamson threw his lot in and was more like a primal and pulled them bucking and cathartic ritual, dredging the soul screaming into a more focused rock and uncovering the psychic ‗n‘ roll sensibility. Had it not been wounds left on a nation by more for Raw Power then The Stooges than a decade of betrayal and lies would even now be remembered on the part of its so-called leaders. only as oddities or mavericks and mentioned in the same breath as In his play The Bacchae, Euripedes the Monks, The Seeds or the 13th painted a picture of Greek society Floor Elevators. at the time, one which the West has normally accepted as the How unique was this album? How foundation of western ‗civilisation‘. much a product of its time, of the The character of Dionysus enters right individuals being in the right like a storm, challenging the place at the right time? To what

extent is it a logical link in a chain conclusion of certain experiments of the natural development of and styles, in much the same way American culture and/or music that Trout Mask Replica and Sgt and how much a fluke of chance? Pepper’s were. None of them could Less unlikely obviously than the be taken further in their particular emergence of life onto a lifeless direction. planet over 200 million years ago, obviously, but leaving teleological Raw Power opened new doors – in agendas out of the discussion, it‘s fact pretty much kicked them off still a pretty amazing and their hinges and took part of the fortuitous event, akin to the frames with them. The other collision of a comet with the quality unique to this album is its surface of the planet, with equally nakedness. The preceding albums far-reaching though not were emotionally armoured and immediately obvious aloof; Raw Power displayed a repercussions. frankness and vulnerability that gave it a psychological power Raw Power took the minimal previously unseen. A nakedness hammering force of Little Richard that was mirrored by Iggy‘s and Jerry Lee Lewis and cranked it tendency to disrobe physically on up to an agonising pitch, with a stage, a nudity that Anton LaVey guitar sound that sounded has likened to aspiring to an alternately like shrapnel and a infantile state, but which also napalm attack. Such intensity seemed to contribute to the singer‘s however, is impossible to sustain seeming invulnerability in the face overlong. of adversity.

The music created by The Stooges At a time when everything cultural at that point in time possesses has been commodified and pigeon- paradoxical qualities. Firstly, holed into genres, thus rendered unlike the aforementioned safe, the reforming of The Stooges – preceding two albums, Raw Power more specifically THAT line-up – poses more questions than seems to be creating waves of answers. Those first two albums excitement that are not explicable were idiosyncratic and self- in terms of retro-revivalism or contained. Ron Asheton‘s droning, nostalgia. It‘s almost like the mixolydian riffs and progressions heralded return of some lost band were unique and impossible to of mythical heroes returning to a replicate exactly. So in many ways, beleaguered and harassed battle- The Stooges and Funhouse were front. dead-ends, discrete and hermetic, ______the culmination and logical

HIGHWAY 59

By Díre McCain

endured, which is why it seems only natural, that after an extended intermission, he‘s returning to the stage for what could be seen as the dénouement. Of course, his re- emergence has been far from simple or painless. How could it be when it was triggered by an unexpected tragedy?

Over the years, a considerable amount has been written about the man who chose to remain in the shadows even after his band began to receive long overdue and well- deserved recognition. As expected, his silence not only intensified the curiosity of his growing legion of fans, but also prompted writers to seek out second-hand sources, and in some cases, manipulate the “Music makes time collapse, yet truth, thus spawning a time lets music erect itself.” doppelganger, who bears little The same could be said about a resemblance to the man you‘re living, breathing, sentient being. In about to meet. this case, the man who spoke those The following exchange was ten words, the man who was compiled from a three-way captured reclining on Bessie correspondence, featuring DM Scaplehorn‘s grave in autumn 1972. Mitchell, and a lengthy tête-à-tête The exact whereabouts of the semi- that took place last month, the anonymous photographer – known night before James stepped into a only as ―Byron‖ – are a mystery, rehearsal space with his friend and much like the subject, until former collaborator for the first recently. time in three decades. Since it can Another lifetime ago – after a be difficult to convey tone, tenor, prolonged, wild, and at times, and emotion via the written form, ferocious ride – James Williamson let‘s just say that it was a found himself at a crossroads. refreshingly open, highly enjoyable Acumen and instinct led him conversation, spiced with humor toward survival, and subsequently, and replete with laughter... ataraxia, but his intrinsic spirit

Raw Power Sessions – Photographer Unknown

Dave: Music is a real physical as music. Remember that I didn‘t well as psychological force that‘s play music nor have I really been been proven to have definite effects tuned into music for the past 35 on the listener, sometimes lasting years or so, so I‘m a little like Rip effects. It can change personalities. Van Winkle or some kind of Back You often hear people saying that To The Future character in that listening to Little Richard or John way, just waking up to find that Coltrane, or whoever changed their the world has changed lives forever. As the wielder of one considerably while I was away. of the most uncompromisingly powerful sonic attacks in rock Anyway, to your point, yes music music, did you ever feel worried has the power to move emotions about the power you were and they are the catalysts of channelling in your music? The passion, both creative and destructive or creative possibilities? destructive. I‘m not sure I want that power over others, but if I am James: That‘s an interesting to play my music, I‘m stuck with observation. Frankly, I‘m often a the consequences, so I accept that little surprised lately as I hear from responsibility and try my best to so many people whose lives have channel it in a positive way. been lived to the soundtrack of my

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Díre: I‘ve always believed that forgot that night and years later, he certain people – usually creative asked me to join the Stooges as he souls – are born with an had seen the potential in this style. indescribable inner quality that He remembers that night when he enables them to be free, in the truest heard me play for the first time to sense of the word, regardless of this day. As I told him recently, where life may lead them. It‘s an God only knows what I‘d have essential part of their being, like the been doing in Detroit if you hadn‘t vital organs, and while it can be seen the potential in my playing rendered dormant it can never be that night… eradicated. All one has to do is listen to your musical offerings, The guitar was always an and it immediately becomes clear emotional outlet for me and I think that you possess this rare trait. The that‘s what you are hearing is unbridled, fiercely soulful, and emotion expressed by my fingers to galvanic manner in which you your ears… I have no other way of played the guitar was truly saying it, although I like the way groundbreaking. You didn‘t just you describe me better… sort of tear down the barriers, but blew sounds important. them to smithereens. You influenced, and paved the way for Dave: On Raw Power, even under a multitude who came to follow. all that white noise and shrapnel- In fact, in the past month alone, sound, you can still detect the several musicians have made a voodoo vibe of strong blues roots, point of telling me to tell you how albeit cranked right up into the red. incomparably influential you were. It‘s a marriage of the primitive or At the time, did you have any idea primal with the civilised – at least of the impact you were making? in the form of using modern technology to boost its energy. Iggy James: None whatsoever. I always has talked about his desire to played somewhat this way… sort marry the Dionysian with the of very fast with lots of chord Apollonian – from Nietzsche. I changes… this is how I learned to think the Stooges succeeded in this play… it was much harder to learn better than any other band before other peoples songs so I simply or since. How conscious was all wrote my own. Anyway, along the this among the band? line, I met up with Iggy one night during a frat party gig in Ann James: Nietzsche came much later Arbor and as I had my guitar I with Bowie and Berlin, and mind started playing some of my songs you, Iggy was always a good for him during a break and he reader. However, make no mistake listened intently…which was quite about it, the Stooges were always a thrill for me as he was a member visceral not cerebral. We were all of The Prime Movers blues band, about doing and not about who was très cool as far as I was thinking and talking about doing. concerned. Anyway, he never What we did was real for us and

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was executed in the moment for and the guitar player had just pretty much the first and only learned to play guitar, and the bass time… it wasn‘t thought out or player had just learned to play analyzed for its impact. We were bass, and they played all this wild definitely Dionysian not stuff because they were coming Apollonian… yet as we matured, from a kind of experimental music we became more so, but by very era thing… Sun Ra… you know, small steps. kind of a different place. On their first gig, Iggy played a vacuum Dave: Those four Stooges albums – cleaner, for Christ‘s sake. That was I always include Metallic KO when his instrument… he moved the I think of The Stooges – were all mike back and forth. And he examples of pretty extreme played a blender. It was a whole Dionysian fervour. The first two different deal, but it worked were pretty unconventional in somehow. They had a show that terms of structure and production they did, and it was unique…and alike. There were a lot of elements they evolved that into a song of free jazz and the avant-garde – structure kind of thing when they stuff like Sun Ra and The Velvet got their first record deal, but they Underground. Raw Power seems didn‘t really have any songs, and to have more traditional ―rock‖ so they literally wrote those songs song structures, but the resulting in the studio on the first album… album was no more palatable to right there. And so, it was very the average listener back then. primitive. And then the next Something like ―Death Trip‖ is as album was a little more scary in terms of throwing the sophisticated, but not much, listener into an unfamiliar territory because while they had become as anything before had done. more proficient, they were still nonetheless, not that proficient. James: The Stooges come from a People love that album, actually different place. The original both albums, but in terms of song Stooges… some of them had some form and song craft, they were not music background, but on different that well-developed. So, when I instruments. So, Iggy went from came along, I had a lot more drums to singing, and Ron went musical form, musical from bass to guitar, and the bass development than they did. I‘d player had never played... he was been playing guitar for a long time, just a buddy of theirs, and so they and so, I guess I brought that to the started out from a very different party. But by the same token, I also place. They created their sound, brought my own original music and you had never seen anything that was truly original, and so what like this band when they started, you hear is that music, and so, it really. When I used to go see them, has some underpinnings of you know, visit them at their house traditional form, but it‘s my take on when they first started, the that, and that‘s what you‘re drummer was playing oil drums, hearing.

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Dave: The media tends to create a absorbed into some weird re- mythology around celebrities in enactment of ritual sacrifice or self- general. Around the time of Raw sacrifice. Jim Morrison, Jimi Power, rock stars were the prime Hendrix, Brian Jones all recipients of this treatment. How succumbed to it. The Stooges closely did the ―mythical seemed to self-destruct at almost portrayal‖ of the Stooges in the every gig. How did you manage to media parallel the reality? survive it?

James: I‘m not sure of which James: We were all very lucky version of ―the myth‖ you might be really. It‘s a little like when people referring to. But, I‘d say the look back on their childhood and Stooges were as ―mythical‖ as a wonder how they made it. Who band can get. We lived truly hand knows… many of my friends from to mouth for most of the four or so back then didn‘t. Zeke, Dave, years that I was with the band. Yes Bill… many others you wouldn‘t we had moments of glory and know… we certainly did our share income, but they were very of self destruction, and things got fleeting. Mostly, we ground out bad from time to time, but we all our music as best we could with pulled through to one degree or little to work with other than our another. I guess in the limit, my belief in the band and in our music own case is that I had wonderful and in rock ‗n‘ roll. In the end, that people who loved me and wasn‘t enough to keep us going grounded me from near and afar because the people we were and I was able to navigate my way playing it for didn‘t share our into a life style that was belief for the most part. sustainable. Life‘s all about livin‘ or dyin… if you don‘t have enough Fast forward 20-30 years and it‘s a livin‘ in you, then you‘re goin‘ to different story… the people believe be doin‘ some dyin... and that‘s not in us and our music the way we what I wanted. At least not now. wish they had then… now we‘ve just got to renew the belief in Dave: There was a lot of other ourselves enough to satisfy them material recorded around that and ourselves that it was all period, some of which is more worthwhile. On the other hand, straight-ahead in terms of who cares? It‘s only rock ‗n‘ roll, rock‘n‘roll sound – Sick of You, but we do like it. It‘s good to be Open Up and Bleed, etc – and some appreciated. that‘s beyond the pale. I remember my first listening to Metallic KO Dave: It‘s been observed that in a was akin to staring into the sun. I sporting event, the amount of think that album seriously violence that occurs off-pitch is damaged me. Was that an accurate inversely proportional to what document of that period for the occurs on the pitch. In a similar band? way, rock stars seem to become

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Photo courtesy of Evita Corby

James: Yes, that album captured where your head was at that point better than I can write in words the in time? sum total of our previous months of the ―Death March Tour‖ across James: Kill City was just the next the country in our final days as a evolution of our song writing. If band. We were better than we ever you listen to the material that we had been, yet we were also more were writing up until that time it desperate and without much hope was very different. I guess this is of success we Soldiered on until where the Apollonian comes in. that final night. Since it was recorded as a demo to get a record deal, we were trying to Dave: Kill City consisted of far make it sound like we could more conventional material – at actually sell some records, but as least compared to the earlier you can tell, that didn‘t work. albums. What was the thinking Anyway, I think it holds up as the behind this? Was it an attempt at first ever ―Indie‖ record and I‘m commercialism? Of making the really proud of that record and am music more digestible to the pleased that so many people love it average listener? Or was it simply as perhaps the best.

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Dave: I was just thinking, in terms bunch of songs. He was of ―accessibility‖ – distinct from immediately impressed, because I ―commerciality‖ – the transition to played in a unique way… even Kill City is more obvious in the then. It‘s funny how these things wake of what was documented on work out… he always remembered the Metallic KO album, than as a that, and so years later, when I successor to Raw Power. Metallic came to Ann Arbor and was KO really is an example of ―out buddies with the band, when he there‖ as much as any other album needed a guitar player, he around at the time. It was like remembered that, and brought me watching a diamond falling apart into the band. I almost in your hands. Kill City was like immediately started playing new the backwash after a tsunami, and music with the band. So that it‘s when you listen to the two in evolved a little bit and, I think succession that you can see how some of that is on that album that‘s wounded Iggy was – and you being released, 1971… the two were, possibly – at the time, just in guitar line-up. Anyway, the reason the songs. why he wanted me to come to London with him was to make a I‘m always interested in the actual new album, completely different process that lies behind any from the Stooges, you know, a specific piece of music. With some whole new start, with just me. So, artists, the process itself is visible in we got over there, and I couldn‘t the end result. I‘m thinking of relate to the English bands at the people like Brian Eno, for instance. time… the thought of having guys How did you an Iggy create the with big hair and all in my rhythm songs on those albums? How did section just wasn‘t working for they mutate and develop? Did they me… and so I told him, ―Hey, let‘s start with lyrics or music? bring the Asheton brothers over and we‘ll move Ron to bass. You James: Generally speaking, they know, they‘re good, right? Let‘s started with music. In all cases, use those guys.‖ So that‘s what we they actually started with some ended up doing. And so we went music. The earlier on, when I about writing songs. We started began playing with the Stooges in out just recording the stuff we 1971, I was immediately… well, let already had, and all of it was me step back… before I met Iggy, I rejected by our management. Later always wrote my own music, it‘s been released, and people love because it was easier for me to play it… but anyway, we started out by my own music than it was to play writing all this new music, and it other people‘s music, so I naturally always was the same, I would wanted to do that. And so I had write the songs in my room, on my written a bunch of stuff, and when acoustic guitar… the riffs, not the I first met Iggy at that frat party in songs… then show them to him, Ann Arbor Michigan, I had my and we‘d work through them and guitar with me, and I played him a modify the music to fit the different

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lyrics that he would come up with. It was a very tight little group of And so we would kind of fit it musicians and frankly I hadn‘t together… it was always that way. been playing much since 1974, so I pretty much sat out musically and Díre: In 1979, after a prolonged concentrated on the production. hiatus, you returned to the studio Although, I did play guitar on my to produce Iggy‘s third solo effort, own song ―Don‘t Look Down‖. New Values. To my viscerally Scott Thurston is a very fine inclined ears – which automatically musician and a very dear friend of tune out that officious, mine. He can play anything he preconceived-notion-dispensing puts his mind too...no doubt about creature known as ―The Music it. Journalist‖ – it still holds up superbly thirty years on. The Dave: When I first heard that common misconception is that you album I was pretty puzzled by the played guitar on the entire album, mix. It was very tight and minimal when in fact it was primarily multi- but also ―dry‖ in places. It was a bit instrumentalist and fellow Stooge, confusing after the ―baroque‖ Scott Thurston. What were your sound of the preceding albums, reasons for collaborating on the both Stooges and Iggy‘s solo work. album? And why did you choose I really only appreciated it much to minimize your role as a later. What was behind that sound? performer? And out of curiosity – for the fans watching at home – is James: That‘s a very good question. there any instrument Scott can‟t It‘s very true, and I took a lot of play? flack for that album. Again, I came back after doing something entirely James: Well, I was going to school different. It was an interesting at the time, studying electronics thing, because Iggy was off on his engineering. Jim called me up and solo thing with Bowie, and I asked me if I‘d be interested in released Kill City then. And at producing an album for him and first, they hated that album, after looking at my empty wallet because they thought it was not and considering all the good times professional. It was like the first we‘ll had at one time, I agreed to indie record ever, but it was not do it. It was also a good what they thought should be. You opportunity to use the skills that I know, he was a professional, and had acquired during my time that was not professional. But working at Paramount Recording then, it did real well… it actually Studios, so it was like a fun project got him another record deal, and so for me. I immediately called up my then he thought, ‗Ahh well, there‘s buddy Scott Thurston and my Kill something to this,‘ and pretty soon City Engineer Peter Haden to help he thought, ‗Well, maybe I‘d better me out with this… Iggy also had a call James.‘ And so he did, and we drummer in mind, but we added did that album, and to this day, I‘m Jackie Clack on Bass as well. extremely proud of that album.

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We came in with a lot of partially eventually, Jim and I had just had formed music and ideas, and we it… and we got into each others‘ took those and filled them out, and faces… and I quit and he fired me put together a strong band of all at the same time… and that was musicians. So the musicians were the end of that for a long time. good, the material got improved, and we tried hard to make it so you Díre: Was that the album that can hear the album, and the mix David Bowie came popping his was only part of that. We recorded head in on? the instruments very cleanly, and we spent a lot of time getting the James: It was only one weekend. takes right. I mean, we really spent a lot of time… it was a lot of work Díre: And that was all it took? to do that album. I think in the end, it holds up, and it sounds James: Yea, that was all it took. good today, it sounds really good (laughs) Well, that was sort of the on the radio. But at the time I took culmination, everything sort of a lot of flack from the record exploded. company, because… it was Arista, these people were English that Díre: Was that toward the end? were pushing this whole thing, and they wanted to hear the old James: No, we had finished the Stooges, right? And that was not basic tracks, and that was about as what this record was about. And far as we were, so we were stuck so, they were very disappointed by sort of toward the tail-end of the it actually, and it didn‘t do that beginning. And that album was a well at the time. And… well, you disaster, I mean, it never did know, it‘s the story of my life… anything. (laughs) Dave: I‘ve only recently heard the Then the next album, Soldier, was excellent bonus tracks from the supposed to correct that problem, New Values sessions for the first and so they wanted us to come to time – ―Chains‖ and ―Pretty Wales, come to the UK, and bring Flamingo‖. Why were they omitted in kind of punky guys. The bass from the final cut while something player was from the Sex Pistols, the like ―African Man‖ got on there? guitar player was a young dude. (Sorry) And what‘s the story They were supposed to add that behind the lost ―Hey Coco‖ track? dimension, and I just hated the whole thing. It was just wrong. James: There‘s a bunch of stuff… The material was bad, the like I said, when we first started, musicians were bad, the studio was the material was undeveloped, and bad… it was awful. When you there was a lot of work that went know it‘s bad, when it feels bad, into developing it. I particularly it‘s bad. I probably wasn‘t the only liked ―Pretty Flamingo‖… I one feeling that way… and enjoyed it a lot. I thought it was a

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good track, but it didn‘t quite fit, so we‘ve hit a dead end? What current in the end we sidelined it. And artists or bands do you like, if any? some of this also comes with And what are your views on the dialogue with the A & R people, present state of the music industry? which is funny because I talked to Ben Edmonds when he did the James: I might not be the best liner notes for the re-release and he person to ask these questions to, wanted the other tracks, but he Dave, as I‘m not an avid follower didn‘t even know which tracks of the music scene – at least from were real, for that matter, he never the past 20-30 years or so. What I remembered any of it. Maybe I have heard lately leaves me feeling should have fought harder. I that the young musicians either always hated ―African Man‖ don‘t know how to or simply can‘t (laughs) and I‘m not too fond of ―rock‖… they‘re busy doing ―Billy is a Runaway‖ either, but something else which I don‘t quite you know, you got to go with the understand… maybe ―emote‖… I artist sometimes. He was into it, don‘t know. There are plenty of and so there were some things that the raw ingredients for great new probably should have got lost on music around and I‘d personally there, but they made it. like to make some more of it myself. Díre: And what about ―Hey Coco‖? There are some pretty great craftsman out there like Gillian James: That‘s another track that Welsh and Joe Henry who both can didn‘t make it. really put together a song and deliver it, but neither of them Díre: Where is it? In limbo? actually rock. The Killers used to make records that I liked better James: Yea, it‘s in limbo. I don‘t than what they are doing now think we ever developed that song. which seems to be more accessible but without soul… always liked Dave: Music, like most of the other the Chilli Peppers but they‘re now arts, has always built on what has dated as are the Stooges… Black gone before. The Yardbirds, for Keys have some potential… and of instance, took old blues standards course there‘s the ever popular Jack and added guitar distortion, which White… also always liked Johnny then inspired people like The Marr… currently in the Cribs… but Stooges and Bowie and Bolan etc. to answer your question, no there Then the New Wave bands took are no ―dead ends‖ in music only that sound and mutated it further. ebbs and flows and they‘ll be Nowadays everybody seems to be others who will create new music in a band and most of it seems to and I hope that I can also add to be facilely derivative, without my legacy further. adding anything new or particularly relevant. Do you think

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I do see a few bands, but a lot of it James: Well, it is a little bit. is devoid of, it‘s... I don‘t know (laughs) how to describe it... they just don‘t ROCK. And so, they‘re missing the In my main time in music, it was substance of the whole thing. all about making hit records. If That‘s what people like about you couldn‘t make hit records for music, is that they feel like it moves the record company, you couldn‘t them. survive... and so therefore, we didn‘t survive. But today, I don‘t Díre: Well, there seems to be a lot think it‘s that way so much, of ―affection‖, as in pretension or because there‘s a very small group phoniness. Now it‘s cool to have a of people who can actually make wild past... people make it up, they any money for the record start making stuff up, and there‘s companies anymore… and the an affection to it... it‘s not real, like record companies, the big ones, you said. You can tell it‘s not can‘t survive because everybody‘s coming from inside… it‘s coming downloading songs and ripping from trying to project something music, and so records are no good they think people want to hear. Or anymore. I mean, they‘re not a they‘re trying to copy someone money maker. It‘s all about live without adding anything new to it. now… and the music has become I don‘t mind listening to something so fragmented that there‘s little that sounds similar to something niches here and little niches there, else if it has its own vibe going on but there‘s no broad appeal, so if as well, but why am I going to you can‘t draw a big crowd you listen to someone doing Captain can‘t make money live either… so, Beefheart? Why don‘t I just listen it‘s a really weird environment. So to Captain Beefheart? there‘s a bunch of us old guys that people know, and know our songs, James: Yea, it‘s always going to be so we can go play larger audiences. better that way. I don‘t know, like Or there are the really big acts like you are, I don‘t really listen to that Tom Petty, or you know, some many new bands. You know, some people of that ilk that can draw people are interesting, but it‘s sort huge crowds. And everybody else of hard to find authentic music is relegated to small clubs and now. eking out a living at it, and it‘s really tough. I mean, it always Díre: It‘s the industry itself… was, but... god knows for the everything is commodified. And Stooges, we never made any it‘s not just because I‘m older, or money. you‘re older, and we‘re like, (in crochety old harridan voice) “Argh, Díre: And see, that‘s an interesting those blasted kids! It was better back point, because I‘ve heard some fans in my day!” It‘s not like that… say, “How could James walk away?” What they don‘t seem to

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understand is that it was not this lowest priority for us, and that was great, glamorous life… part of our deal. We were always writing new material, always James: Right! playing new stuff for people, and the people never knew what we Díre: You guys were not popular were doing because they‘d never back then… heard it before. You know, this is not a recipe for success. We were James: No, not at all. playing for us, we weren‘t playing for them, and you could dig it or Díre: I mean, it doesn‘t take a not dig it... it‘s okay with us, we genius… you can go on the internet don‘t care. Let‘s just say that we and look that up and find out… weren‘t very professional. We were all about us, and not the James: Let me put it to you this commercial world. Right or wrong, way, my own girlfriend, Evita, who that‘s the way it was. was a music fan, when I first met her, and I brought home Raw Power, which had just been released, and played it for her, it was all she could do to not really give me her true opinion. She hated it, just because it was not like anything else. You know, you can‘t take a person who‘s used to listening to 60s and 70s music give them that music and say, “Dig this honey.” You know what I mean? It just wasn‘t happening. And that‘s the way most people felt about it. It was tough.

I mean, we existed completely on the belief that we had something... we existed entirely on creativity, Photo courtesy of James Williamson that‘s what we existed on. We all felt that we had a reason for being, Díre: You‘ve stated before, in so and that we were out there doing many words, that you had an that, we really did, and that‘s what intense emotional relationship with kept us going. But it was really the guitar. The analogy of an really very brutal. I mean, we had impassioned, and at times, no money, we had nothing… and tempestuous love affair in the end we couldn‘t take it immediately pops into my mind(s). anymore, none of us could. The Why did you part with the commerciality of it just wasn‘t instrument? Or, did it part with there at all. In fact, that was the you?

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James: Well yes, perhaps that‘s a more than the guy who was selling romantic way of stating it, Díre. I it, so I got it for a steal, and had it put down the guitar because I had restored by Bill Asher, who is a become overwhelmed by the fantastic luthier in L.A. and son of business of the music business and Elizabeth Montgomery I might all of its trappings and hangers on. add… really great guy. And that It had gotten the best of me and I guitar was like MAGIC. I mean, needed to walk away from it in really, it spoke to me. It‘s actually order to pursue my new interest in quite rare, the guy who made it is a electronics… so, I put it down. very famous luthier from the 30s… There‘s so much of me and my he was famous for Hawaiian steel emotions tied up in the guitar that I guitars that he made back in the couldn‘t separate myself... I day, which are all hauntingly couldn‘t change myself without beautiful. And he made some changing that too… and so I had to Spanish-neck guitars, which is just put it down, and get on with it. what this was, but very few. Anyway, I got this guitar and it just Díre: How many years was that? inspired me to play it… and so I played a lot of Hawaiian music on James: That was a long time, thirty it, and I love that guitar to this day. some odd years. So that got me going a little bit, and then it started mushrooming from Díre: When did you pick it up there. I haven‘t really played again? electric guitar until the last year or so… not that long ago. James: I briefly picked it up for my kids from time to time, but I only Díre: How did that start again? really picked it up again after... well, first of all, my son had been James: I think it started because of hounding me for a long time to the Careless Hearts, really… I was start playing again, and I have a lot playing electric guitar, but it was of respect for my son, so I had lap steel, not rock ‗n‘ roll style… thought about it, but I really didn‘t but once we got started with all think about it seriously. this stuff, you know, the old stuff started coming back. And I have a My wife and I spend a lot of time unique style, and so when people in Hawaii, and one day, I hear me and they think it sounds happened upon this amazing so great, it‘s not really anything looking guitar made out of Koa special, it‘s just me, it‘s just the way wood at a swap meet, and I started I do it. As I‘ve told many people, messing around with it, and it just the Stooges were actually the only sounded amazing… and I saw band that would ever hire me. I inside of it, it said ―H. mean, that‘s my music and that‘s Weissenborn‖ and I knew a little the way I play, and that‘s the bit about this person who made the sound, and there‘s no other band guitar, not very much, but I knew that could integrate that, so I need

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them and they need me, and that‘s You can hear my Weissenborn the way it is. guitar and a song in this style that I created on my website. It‘s called Dave: Hawaiian music is not Pokii which means ―Little Sister‖ in something I‘m familiar with, Hawaiian. There are many many outside of the mock-exotica of sources of recording for Slack Key Martin Denny et al. Can you tell us Guitar and I‘d suggest some a bit more about that please? If anthologies of Hawaiian Slack Key someone were interested in Guitar to begin with. Lap Steel is exploring that, where would you another matter altogether and as it recommend they start, short of is so specialized, I would suggest going to Hawaii? that aside from listening to the masters like Jerry Byrd, the best James: This is a very good segue thing to do is to join the Steel into this section. Guitar Forum (under the non-pedal section) and start talking to the I became enchanted by the ―Slack guys there who really know what Key‖ guitar style and eventually they‘re talking about… it‘s a whole the Lap Steel of the Hawaiian world unto itself, but truly Islands. The Slack Key style is one beautiful music in the handles of a which evolved from the days when master such as Mike Neer or Greg cattle roamed freely in Hawaii and Leize. the King was forced to ask Spain and Mexico to send their cowboys Díre: How did the reunion come to Hawaii to teach them how to about? Being away from the music heard cattle. In the process many industry for seemingly eons, living of them brought guitars and when a very ―stable‖ and relatively they left, many Hawaiians received obscure existence, it‘s quite a these guitars as gifts… however, decision to make. After all, we are they didn‘t always know how to talking about Iggy and the Stooges tune them, so they developed their here, not Little River Band. The own tunings and this became a band‘s legendary past, as well as its source of pride for generations of current popularity guarantees that families who guarded their own you‘re going to be thrust into the secret tunings. Of course today spotlight again, at least to some with the internet, nothing is degree. From an outsider‘s secret… not even James perspective, it sounds incredibly Williamson anymore… so we can exciting, and there‘s an underlying all share the many tunings. This redemptive vibe as well. music has some distinct Wondering what your feelings are? characteristics, like the familiar Are you in any way viewing it as a Hawaiian ―turnaround‖ and is a chance to finish what you started lovely sounding mostly happy so many years ago? Or are you music. going into it with an entirely fresh outlook?

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James: Well, life‘s a funny thing 80s with the hardcore punk bands isn‘t it? A year ago I wouldn‘t – Black Flag, etc – who were have dreamed that I would be obviously influenced by Raw considering such a thing. Power, but they never had any However, a series of events took kind of commercial success. place that fall into the category of ―life happens to you when you‘re James: I only recently became making other plans.‖ First, Ron aware of Kurt Cobain, very Asheton passed away recently. I guess what started to unexpectedly at the early age of 60 happen that made me take notice – in January 2009. Second, I had ‗cause I put my guitar down and I decided by March of 2009 to take walked away, and I didn‘t really early retirement from my position follow the music business, I‘d at Sony. When Iggy called me up moved on, I had another focus and in March/April at first I needed to I really wasn‘t involved in it – was think about it further, but that I started getting these checks. eventually I realized that I was the I got Guitar Hero II, lots and lots only person who could do this job. and lots of films, and a lot bands… There are no other Stooges left. you know, the Chilli Peppers, and Without me, it would have to be Guns and Roses… a bunch of stuff ―Iggy and the Stooge‖ or simply a like that started happening, so all Tribute band with Iggy as the of the sudden you say, ―Okay gosh, singer… of course none of this I guess people like this.‖ would be acceptable to the audiences. Díre: Do you remember when that was? Was it the 90s? It must have I thought long and hard about it all been the 90s, I‘m guessing, right? and realized that I go back so far with these guys that I owe it to James: Yea it was the 90s. That them and to myself to stand and be was when it was really starting to counted as the last remaining snowball. And Iggy‘s like iconic Stooge who can stand by their side now… I mean, he‘s on freakin‘ and go out and do it one more time Legos! (laughs) Can you imagine for the fun of it and to reach some that? He‘s on Legos! He just got a kind of closure while we still can. Legos deal. He‘s like the lead So I said I‘d do it and I will. singer of a Lego band! Unbelievable! I can‘t even imagine Yea, our outlook is good, we‘re this happening. And so, you going to have a lot of fun doing this know, all this stuff is happening, and so is our audience. and you have to say, ―Well, okay, this is kind of cool.‖ Díre: And when did you first become aware that the Stooges had Díre: You can‘t hide from it finally become popular? I mean, anymore. It‘s blatant, and in your Kurt Cobain name checked in the face. 90s, and there was a period in the

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James: No, I can‘t… but for me, I James: Exactly. And I‘m loving don‘t really care about any of that. that it sounds like it used to… you I mean, it‘s kind of cool… but I‘m know, it‘s cool… it sounds good, like, okay, I‘ve lived my whole life I‘m having fun with my old without this, I don‘t need this, but friends, and I just don‘t want to let the thing that is interesting to me is all the other stuff ruin that. the music itself. So I got that when I found that guitar in Hawaii. I Díre: Override it… take the mean, something happened to me enjoyment out of it. at the end, and I got in touch with that, and it was really important to James: But it‘s getting like that. me. And that‟s the thing I‘m most ‗Cause the fact is that band is kind worried about, to be honest with of... it‘s not huge, but it‘s pretty big. you, because I don‘t want to lose that, and it‘s so easy to lose it, Díre: It‘s big enough. because you get tied up in all the other stuff. And being, you know... James: Yea, it‘s big enough. This I guess I‘m a popstar, and I don‘t first gig in November is 20,000 want to be a popstar. seats. I just played a 200 seater, which was actually a lot of fun… but you know, when you play 20,000 seats then it‘s a whole nother matter.

Díre: That‘s going to be interesting… and going set the precedent, I guess, for what‘s to come…

We‘ve talked a little bit about your decision to come back… with the circumstances of Ron‘s passing away, of course... you had to think about it all for a while, I‘m sure.

James: Yea, I did, and in the end, it was all about the people involved. I mean, I don‘t need to do this, and I did it because these guys are people I‘ve known from when I was a kid. We go back a long way, there‘s a lot of really very deep Photo © Richard A. Meade background, and they needed me …they do need me… they can‘t do Díre: For you it‘s still about the this without me. Without me, they music. become something entirely

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different. They know it and I know Díre: I stumble… people think I‘m it, so I just said, ―Why not? I can joking, but that‘s it, I just goooo. do it, so let‘s do it.‖ ―Okay this seems like a good idea, let‘s go, let‘s try it.‖ Sometimes it And it‘s been hard deal to come works out and sometimes it back and do this, because it‘s a big doesn‘t. act, so they have to have a certain level of musicianship, of James: Exactly. showmanship involved, and you know, I haven‘t been doing this for Díre: And as you said, it‘s a whole a long time. It‘s been a lot more different game now. This is not work than I had bargained for. But your livelihood... it‘s just it‘s been fun, and I think we‘re just something you‘re doing, you‘re about there now. giving it another go, and you‘re in it for completely different reasons Díre: Hmmmm, interesting. than you were the first time around. James: Well, we‘ll see how it all goes. James: I‘m looking for closure, and I‘m looking for a little bit of fun. Díre: Yeah, you don‘t even know And it‘s with the guys I used to how it‘s going to go yet. know... and I just want us to try to enjoy ourselves a little bit. We‘re not going to get another shot at this... this is it.

Díre: Now, closure on your end… I take anything I read or hear with a grain of salt, because you were silent for many years, you didn‘t talk to anyone.

James: Right.

Díre: Some people made shit up. Photo © Richard A. Meade James: A lot of people made shit James: No, I have no idea! (laughs) up. Sometimes I look at it, and I go, ―What the hell am I doing here?‖ Díre: They talked to other people, You know? and got second-hand stories, etc, etc, etc... Díre: That‘s my entire life! James: I have a whole life! James: Right! (laughs) You see, that‘s the thing about it, when you stop talking to

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people, all of the sudden… it‘s like chance to wrap it up? Go back, and being dead. You know, people finish it up? become quite famous, and it‘s like the best of both worlds... you‘re James: I guess... I mean, that was dead but you‘re not dead, right? not my motivation, but I think part of Jim‟s motivation is that he really Díre: Okay, one thing Dave and I does want me to see that people want to do with this story is... actually love my music. basically, this is your chance to tell it like it is, from your perspective… Díre: And that will be great. and someone had said something about you perceiving yourself as having failed in the music industry, or with the Stooges... what do you have to say about that?

James: Well, that‘s true. I think all of us felt that we had failed, and that‘s why we quit…

When you go out and do something year after year, and you make no money at it, you are just killing yourself, and nobody likes you, and then people start throwing shit at you... you know, it kind of gets to you after a while.

Díre: It‘s not good for the self- esteem. Photo © Richard A. Meade James: No, no, it‘s not good. (laughs) James: And I think now I‘m coming around to that viewpoint, And it was like a one-two punch at that it‘s kind of cool. You know, the end there, where Iggy got cold everybody loves to be accepted, cocked by a biker and then two and to feel like they‘ve days later, people are throwing shit accomplished something, and I‘m at us. And then the final indignity no different. So yea, it‘s wonderful. was that we tried to get this record deal and nobody was having any Díre: That‘s where the of it. ―redemption‖ comes in.

Díre: So, you did see it that way. James: Yea, yea, it‘s sort of… Now, the question is, is this your validation.

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Díre: You can get up there and triggered this evolution? Or was it see… “They like me! They really more progressive, resulting from really like me!” the accumulation of your experiences combined with some James: Yea! It took a while, but profound soul searching? thanks anyway! (laughs)

Of course, I feel like I could have not done it and it would have been just fine.

Díre: Because you‘ve been seeing what‘s going on. First, the checks started coming... and you can go on the internet, that‘s all you have to do to see that the music is being appreciated now.

James: Right. And that‘s not the closure I was referring to, although Photo © Richard A. Meade that‘s wonderful. The closure I‘m referring to is the band, sort of James: To begin with, I don‘t know finishing off the job, if you will, anyone from that era who wasn‘t and that‘s why I rejoined the band. using drugs in some form. As a rock n roll musician it was Díre: Everyone and their granny practically required that we use know that you struggled with drug drugs and we were all too happy to abuse at various times throughout comply. However, it is not well your musical career, but to my understood or believed that I was knowledge, no one has ever never addicted to drugs. Everyone bothered to explore what I view as assumes that I was, but I was just a decisive and commendable what they call a ―chipper‖. triumph. Having been at a similar Anyway, drugs got me into plenty crossroads myself another lifetime of trouble throughout my teens ago, I‘m beyond impressed that and well into my twenties and I you kicked the drugs, and took the just decided that along with initiative to transform your life in a leaving the music business, I‘d also remarkably positive way. Of leave the drug business and try to course, you ultimately became Vice find a more sustainable way of President of Technology Standards living for myself. I did that along with Sony Electronics whereas I‘m with the help of my wonderful still a scatterbrained, irresponsible, wife, and we created a life that we disoriented teenager trapped in a are very proud of. grown woman‘s body, but I digress. Can you recall any But there were lots of moments, particular moment or event that you know, a progression of

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moments. There was the end of the he was trying to draw me back into band… we went out with a bang, it, and I needed the money, so I did and that‘s where it disintegrated. the gig, and I enjoyed the gig, but I Some of us played one more job... had no intention of becoming a or at least Iggy and I and some musician again. I was having fun other people, at the Hollywood with it, and you know, my buddies Palladium. And then later, Iggy were playing… and we had a great and I were doing the Kill City time, really. But I‘d already seen a thing, trying to get another record different world that I was quite deal, and so forth, but by that time, interested in, something things were spiraling out of completely different. And then I control. And while that‘s a did it one more time, in Wales for wonderful album in its own right, I the Soldier album, but that was think that was really the end. Once terrible. I was very very unhappy that was finished, we didn‘t really about everything to do with that, have anything else to do. We and so eventually, we had a huge couldn‘t get a record deal, Iggy‘s in falling out, and that was it. a mental institution... you know, it was broken, that was it. Díre: How long was it before you guys spoke again after that? So, then I did have to figure out what I was going to do, and it took James: About twenty years. me a progression of time to do that. First it was recording… a studio Díre: Really… was it that long? gig… I did that for a while. I think the thing that started dawning on James: Yea, so now we‘re trying to me was that I was really fascinated keep a civil tongue, because we by this world of electronics that don‘t have another twenty years to was starting to appear then, with wait it out. (laughs) the personal computer. That, to me, was really fascinating. I was Díre: But you guys are getting like, wow, okay, this has along okay? I mean, you‘re both excitement for me, more so than different people. the rock ‗n‘ roll did. It was better than rock ‗n‘ roll, and it actually James: Exactly. Well, we are and has been for me. we aren‘t. We are the same people… we‘re just a little more So, then I finally… I don‘t know careful around each other, because when the exact day was, when the we‘re both strong-headed and exact decision was made… but it strong-willed. Hopefully, I‘ve kind of slowly dawned on me, matured and he‘s matured and we okay screw this, I‘m going to do just don‘t let loose on each other. something different, and I did. We didn‘t used to do that much, but when it happened, it was not a I did come back, and produced that pretty sight. album for Iggy. At a certain point,

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Díre: Now, let‘s go back to the so, I came off as being kind of drug thing… that‘s interesting, and heavy, because I was quiet, because I‘m glad you clarified that. You‘ve I was shy and insecure, so I would been painted as being... always overcompensate by acting, oh, I don‘t know, supercool, and I James: Oh, I know, like the worst think that was misinterpreted. junkie ever! You know, I really am And then the drug thing was... oh, I vilified for that. I don‘t know, I did my share of drugs, there‘s no think that part of my... well, part of doubt about it, but I was never an it is just people write stuff about addict. That was the part that was me... I don‘t know what they‘re really, really misconstrued. So yea, doing with that. I guess that‘s one of the nice things about starting to talk to people again, is that people see...

Díre: You can set the record straight...

James: Yea, that I... you know, I‘m no angel, but...

Díre: You‘re lovely!

James: I‘m just a regular guy, you know?

Díre: That‘s what I tell everyone... he‘s simply wonderful.

James: And life‘s too short.

Díre: Well, you‘re very personable, and you have a genuine quality about you, and people aren‘t always going to get that. They‘re Photo © Richard A. Meade going to read what they read, and

they‘re going to form their own Díre: Well, people like to read the opinions. And the other thing is… lurid tabloidish crap. Dave and I people like to have a baaad guy. are completely avoiding that. A lot of people like to read that, but we James: Yea, apparently so. don‘t.

Díre: They like that. You know, James: But I did have a certain... (in stoner fanboy voice) ―You especially when I was in my 20s… bumped Ron to bass, and you were well, and in my teenage years, I giving everybody drugs, and…” was very, very, very insecure. And

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You‘re the bad guy… the people know who this person is they needed one, I guess. created, but it‘s not me.

James: I guess... I don‘t know. Díre: Looking back, what‘s your (laughs) And some people hate me overall assessment of your body of because of that… it‘s just weird. work? Do any albums, songs, performances, etc in particular Díre: That‘s crazy. stand out as favorites, or accomplishments you‘re most James: It is crazy. There are proud of? people who have this emotional bond with these musicians, like James: You know, I just did that Ron, who feel like nothing can be live gig with The Careless Hearts, the same after his passing. and I was struck by how much fun it was to just play these songs… Díre: Are these fans you‘re getting every one of them. I‘m not this from? More so than people necessarily talking about for an you know, right? audience, I just mean to simply play these songs… they are just James: Oh yea, oh yea, fans. fun! I‘m very pleased and humbled really that so many people are now Díre: It‘s very interesting to float enjoying them the way that I do. I around and see what the fans are think they all stand on their own, saying. There‘s a divisiveness. Of I‘m content with everything, but course, I think it‘s safe to say that when I see an audience go berzerk more people are with you than over a song like ―Search and against you, but you do get your Destroy‖ or ―Cock in my Pocket‖, occasional troll… but people do then I take special pride in that that, you know? They have these accomplishment. silly ideas, and... Díre: A bit premature, seeing as James: Yea, but where does that you‘ve only begun rehearsing and come from? I don‘t know. haven‘t even played the first show yet, but myriad fans are Díre: They have no life. HA! undoubtedly wondering if there are plans to record any new James: I don‘t know… I can‘t material? figure any of this out. James: Well, right now, we‘re just Díre: They‘re hiding in their head down, gotta play some gigs. parents‘ basement, on their But beyond that, there‘s a lot of computer, typing… recording possibilities. We‘ve already got some new material that James: It‘s scary, though, you we‘ve been kicking around, and so, know? But anyway… Yea… I don‘t we‘re talking about that, and

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seeing how that feels, and seeing if something about our relationship we have enough of it. that allows us to write music together. Bounce ideas off of each You know, my preference is always other, and there are only certain to write new material, ‗cause I like people that you can do that with. I to do that… but there‘s a part of don‘t know about you, but that‘s both Jim and I that feels like, okay, the way I am. there‘s some really great material out there that never was recorded Díre: That‘s like Dave and I with for the same reason that we were the magazine. working it up live, and we never got a chance to record it… and so it James: Yea… and you either have never had the proper treatment, it or you don‘t. and maybe we should do that as kind of a thing for the fans if Díre: It‘s not something that can nothing else… so who knows what be forced, or created, it just will happen. We could do one happens. album of new stuff, and one album of the old stuff together, or we James: No, it can‘t. And I think it could do a variety of it… those are was Johnny Marr from… well, now the possibilities… it‘s just an idea. from Cribs, but from the Smiths originally that said, ―You can‘t play Díre: Now these songs you‘re music with people you don‘t like.‖ speaking of, are these ones that you And that‘s really really true… and co-wrote recently? Or are these you can‘t write music with people ones that were done... that you really don‘t have a very strong bond with because it just James: Yea. doesn‘t work, because you‘re dealing with a lot of really strong Díre: Ooh, good, good. feelings that are being expressed.

James: Just little fragments of Díre: Let‘s talk a bit more about the things... just starting… recent gig. On September 5, you stepped on stage for the first time Díre: Just throwing some ideas in over three decades, with that around… that must be interesting. local band you spoke of earlier, The Careless Hearts, at the Blank Club James: Yea, it is. in San Jose… I‘d imagine it elicited a variety of thoughts and Díre: A lot of years. emotions? How did you feel about the performance itself? And how James: Yea, well we picked up has the experience made you feel kind of where we left off. ‗Cause about jumping back into the game we‘re... like I said, we actually know with the Stooges? each other quite well, we have a very strong relationship… there‘s

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James: Well, to begin with, it was a I guess I‘m still feeling like I‘ve lot of work to get ready for this been given another life or show, but that was the whole point something in that I‘ve completed of doing it. The Careless Hearts my career in the electronics had offered to stand in as my world… well not really as I‘m still surrogate band to help me rehearse consulting, but I‘m no longer for the Stooges and as a thank you bound by a day to day job… and I to them, I said I‘d do a gig with can now return to this thing I love them. and have rediscovered, which is music... not the business of music, It was such fun to work up these but the music of music. I‘m songs and play them and also to banging my guitar as hard as ever hang with these other musicians and coming up with new material who were truly enthusiastic about for god knows what, and then I can the music. By the time the gig sit back and play Hawaiian music came, we were very tight and I felt when I want to… and life is good. like we rocked the crowd hard that night and they responded with all I‘m a very lucky man. they had... it was a lot of fun.

Photo © Richard A. Meade

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CODA: RAW POWER

On The Infamous Cover Version by Lord Horror As Recounted By David Britton

In 1987, Savoy Books (as Savoy was their finest hour. Despite the Records) released a scabrous, febrile run of classics Iggy has had, this is cover version of The Stooges‟ „Raw still the one that lays waste to Power‟ as a 12” single. It was the everything else he did. latest in a series of releases intended to put the fire back in rock‟n‟roll and Quote: ―Let‘s dance to the beat of destined to raise hell and cause trouble the living dead…‖ Here‘s the son for Savoy. David Britton tells the of ―Rock‘n‘roll by the light of the story; silvery moon.‖ Raw Power is a righteous ancestor of Bony Moronie. James‘s quote ―…What I have When Michael and I decided that heard lately leaves me feeling that we were going to attempt the the young musicians either don‘t impossible, we did so with our know how to or simply cannot hands tied. We had no Iggy or ‗rock‘ …‖ hits the nail on the head. James Williamson to inject the Somewhere in the last twenty years DNA. I fantasised about Little the ability to conjure primeval rock Richard being on hand with that has died. fabulous band of his that cut Keep A-Knockin‟. If Raw Power had a If pressed, to my mind the last twin, this song was it. Why not try really convincing rock record a bit of fancy footwork and invert would be the Pistols‘ Anarchy, and the riffs? Take Chuck Connors‘ a few short years before that, drumming on Keep A Knockin‟ and almost standing alone, is Iggy‘s substitute for James‘s Raw Power Raw Power complete with James guitar riff. Try and contribute Williamson‘s apocalyptic slash- something different while still and-rip guitar. It‘s like coming adhering to the spirit. across the lost land of the Incas. You‘re amazed that this thing The band we eventually went in exists in the world. with, Inner Sense Percussion, were a multi-ethnic group that played In the 50‘s this kind of record was Olodum-style Brasilian rhythms achievable. Somewhere past the with cuica twitterings. Their whole advent of the Beatles the ability sound floated and surged with seemed to shift into some Shangri- exotic thunder. The session was La. Lennon always said that to recorded live. Of course, like write real rock‘n‘roll was the Lennon we couldn‘t travel to hardest thing to achieve. Quite where we wanted to get to, but we right. He never really got there, made a credible attempt. Along God bless his heart. But Iggy, and James Williamson did. Raw Power

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with the Savoy version of Blue The best live DVD I‘ve seen of Monday it was our best rocker. Iggy‘s stage show was the French Kiss My Blood. He‘s in a maniacal The biggest disappointment with frenzy. Right from the opening Raw Power occurred before we ever number – Raw Power – he‘s up for went into the studios. Kingsize it, beside himself, spinning and Taylor, who we had envisioned to jumping, exhorting his band, be lead vocals on both Raw Power ―Come on, you motherfuckers.‖ and Blue Monday, couldn‘t be Iggy dances, he seems to be persuaded. He‘d left the music attempting levitation, to free business twenty-five years before himself from earthly chains, and if and didn‘t want to return [though you could bottle that wonderful he has now done so, perhaps aching riff the energy would propel because of these Savoy records – you to Mars without a rocket ship. Ed]. Real rock‘n‘roll always starts Raw Power; the pure DNA of with the voice and the conviction rock‘n‘roll. Wonderful. that the voice gives to the song. Iggy had this in spades. And ………………………………………... likewise Kingsize Taylor. With his voice we could have staked more Anyone devoted to the truly maverick of a claim to be the genuine article. spirit of rock n roll, is recommended to We used his second lead singer in get hold of this record, plus others at the Dominos, Bobby Thompson, the Savoy site. „Raw Power‟ is and coupled him with Alan included on the compilation CD Hempsall, the sometime Joy Savoy Wars but the vinyl has much Division singer. Hindsight‘s a the best sound, cut by George Peckham wonderful thing. Even in those at Porkies who did Zeppelin and the days James Williamson was an Pistols. If anyone has decks, then that's elusive, legendary character. What the best way to hear it. we should have done is tried to contact him to come and put guitar http://www.savoy.abel.co.uk/HTML/rp on the track. That would have ow.html definitely recompensed for It can be sampled at an inferior bit-rate Kingsize‘s absence! here;

We‘d seen Iggy live with Bowie on RAW POWER his first tour of England in the 70‘s doing Raw Power, and the power Only the best cuts for Savoy! and immediacy of this was still fresh in our mind when we came to The Savoy Toy Boys. Always handy do the records. with the jelly.

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FELIS SILVESTRIS SUMMA CUM OPPROBRIUM

By Díre McCain

School was an ever-increasing powers that be were absurdly nuisance that refused to fuck off. oblivious. It was a one-sided game Throughout my freshman year, I if there ever was one. Or so I ditched more often than not, thought. causing my already poor grades to slip dramatically. By the end of the It was on a cool November second semester, I‘d flunked morning that an actual human History and English, and earned an being called to report my multiple unprecedented ―F-―in Physical truancies. An unforeseen snag Education. Yes, it does exist, and I indeed. Worse yet, my mother‘s have the report card to prove it. boyfriend beat me to the phone.

I‘d come to realize that the people When she came home that evening, in charge had limited power. Sure, the first words out of her mouth they could assign detentions and were: ―The Dean of Attendance Saturday work details, but couldn‘t called today. He said that you‘ve force me to attend. And I viewed been truant for over a month! Is suspensions as bonus vacation that true?‖ days, the more the better. In other words, the faculty‘s iron hands There was no sense in lying, the jig were tied by my arrant lack of was up. regard for the rules and potential consequences. ―Yeah,‖ I mumbled, ―it‘s true.‖

One month into my sophomore ―You‘re in serious trouble, did you year, I‘d had enough. I hated know that? They‘re going to send school more than ever, and having you to juvenile hall! Is that what convinced myself that it wasn‘t you want?‖ conducive to my well-being, I dropped out. Risky move, since I ―Hell no!‖ I exclaimed. was technically violating the law. But I was adept at forging my ―I didn‘t think so. We have an mother‘s signature, and even more appointment with him, and a adept at diverting the school‘s county probation officer tomorrow automated calls. Moreover, the

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morning. He thinks we may be on Monday, and was dreading the able reach a compromise.‖ three bus commute, which meant I‘d have to get up an hour earlier, And I knew exactly what that but I certainly wasn‘t going to compromise would be. I‘d be complain, as it beat the alternative. transferred out of Los Alcatraz and into a penitentiary tailor-made for Before setting foot on the campus delinquents, which was relatively itself, I knew that Meanwell was agreeable, since these institutions the school for me, and the faculty‘s typically had shorter days. But blindness was the icing on the cake. what if I was mistaken? What if I Every morning before class, the did end up in juvenile hall? students would congregate at the grocery store parking lot across the Five minutes into the meeting I street to exchange drugs and get turned on the waterworks, hoping wasted. It was tragic, but what do it would hit a soft spot, which it you expect? When you dump a did. After an hour-long lecture, bunch of incorrigible delinquents they handed down a comparatively into the same habitat, they‘re lenient sentence – one year of certainly not going to influence probation and a ten-month stretch each other in a positive way. I can at Meanwell, a year-round see why prisoners are rarely probation school located in Garden rehabilitated. Grove. That‘s right, no summer vacation for me. Meanwell was stocked with characters straight out of a black The Dean wrapped up the comedy. One of my favorites was a festivities by shaking a contract in long-haired, flannel-clad Hessian front of my face and stating sternly, named Jay, who‘d recently served a ―If you do not abide by the stretch for bludgeoning his mother conditions stated in this agreement, with a Wiffle Ball Bat. I repeat, a you will be sent to juvenile hall!‖ Wiffle Ball Bat. His security blanket was a dog-eared paperback copy of Knowing damn well that I‘d Golding‘s Lord of the Flies. He dodged a major bullet, I snatched was never seen without it. He was the paperwork from his hands, and never seen reading it either. He signed it immediately, before they also held full-length conversations changed their minds. Then I with himself, and performed emptied out my locker, and bid Los medleys of barnyard animal Alcatraz adieu forever. I was sounds from his desk at the back of scheduled to start at the new place the classroom. For reasons

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unknown, he thought I was and I felt privileged to be a Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, a member of the student body. Not misconception that was only was I allowed to work at my immediately shattered when we own pace, but ―normal‖ collided in the pit at a party one pedagogics were virtually night. He was so delightedly nonexistent. Because of my deep- astonished, come that Monday, he seated issues with strict began lavishing drugs on me. authoritarians and rules, it turned out to be the ideal educational I have myriad fond memories of environment. For the first time in Jay, including the time he climbed my life, I excelled scholastically, onto my desk, assumed a fetal proving to myself and others that I position, gazed at me with his was not learning-disabled after all. lopsided eyes, and asked, ―Why do I found that when I didn‘t have a you have a heart-shaped ass?‖ drill sergeant breathing down my repeatedly for ten minutes straight. neck, barking orders at me, I But perhaps my most cherished wanted to learn, and earned high memory was the time he rescued a marks to boot. group of female students from a flasher who was jacking off in front Blind though they were, the of the campus one morning. Well, teachers were all exceptional ―rescued‖ isn‘t quite accurate. human beings. Every student at After an unsuccessful attempt at Meanwell was unstable to some tackling the creep, he chased him degree, and some were downright down Magnolia Avenue for several volatile individuals who could blocks while singing, “No apparent have snapped without any motive, just kill and kill again! warning. Instead of censuring or Survive my brutal thrashing, I’ll imposing punishment, the teachers hunt you till the end! My life’s a did their level best to understand constant battle, the rage of many our shortcomings and cultivate our men! Homicidal maniac!” at the talents. They also enriched our top of his lungs. The kid was a riot young minds with learning – clearly psychotic, but highly materials that ―normal‖ high entertaining. school students were not exposed to. Rather than putting us to sleep On a more serious note, with a tedious educational film on continuation schools do not get the American history, they stimulated recognition and praise they us with compelling cinema, such as deserve. Meanwell was so much The Deer Hunter, Easy Rider, and more than an academy for rejects, Medium Cool. And while ―normal‖

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high school students were ―normals‖ at a five-star hotel plodding through The Scarlet ballroom somewhere in Orange Letter, Ethan Frome, and some County. Apparently, the fact that watered-down biography that I‘d been admitted to the highly never should have been penned in competitive program, along with the first place, I was devouring the exceptional grade point average Last Exit to Brooklyn, Ham on I‘d maintained during my junior Rye, and Hellfire. college years was not enough to deem me worthy of the elitist God knows I‘m no genius. I‘m plutocrats‘ dough. My parents perpetually scatterbrained, to say could not afford to help me with that my comprehension skills are the astronomical tuition, and deficient would be an though I was offered financial understatement, and at best, only assistance in the form of work- twenty-five percent of what I do study, loans, and a grant, the assimilate remains in my long-term scholarship incident had left such a memory. That said, I honestly rotten taste in my mouth I was believe that the education I altogether repulsed by the received at Meanwell was on a par establishment. It may sound with, or better than that offered at childishly bullheaded, but even if any ―normal‖ secondary school in those bitches had changed their the state. Of course, some have minds and begged me to take the begged to differ, but that‘s another money, I would have told them to story, which I‘ll refrain from telling shove it up their shriveled twats. It at the moment. Ah, what the hell, was a matter of principle. Who the you‘ve talked me into it. Let‘s just hell did they think they were sizing say that I was denied a much me up in such a discriminatory needed scholarship to a prominent manner? I‘d done nothing wrong, Southern California business yet they were interrogating me as school by a clique of uptight, though I were the prime suspect in pompous, condescending sorority an unconscionable crime. Christ, I alumnae, simply because I didn‘t was pissed off. I was angrier at wave pompoms, sing in the glee myself, though, I should have club, run for student council, or known better than to put myself in take the SATs. Furthermore, I‘d the hot seat. What kind of committed an unforgivable sin by questions did I expect them to ask? failing to blow hundreds of dollars These women epitomized on a hideous satin dress I‘d never ―normal‖, and therefore, were only wear again, only to waste a few interested in ―normal‖ symbolic hours of my life among a horde of achievements. When in high

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school, a proper young lady was transferred to Meanwell, and expected to associate with clean- another arrived a week after me. cut, well-behaved teenyboppers, take part in a variety of Maxine was a dangerously extracurricular activities, and precocious, Nat Sherman-smoking, attend the prom. Most of my mowhawked girl who had the playmates were twentyish, perfect setup. Neither of her disorderly, tattooed criminals, my grossly negligent parents wanted extracurricular activities were to assume the responsibility of limited to drinking, drugging, raising her, so they rented her an stealing, vandalizing, and raising apartment, and cut her loose. hell, and on prom night, I was at a nightclub, smashed and drugged Then there was the Earl, fresh out out of my mind. It didn‘t matter of juvenile hall. I‘d heard rumors that by the early 90s I‘d gotten my that he‘d joined up with a neo-Nazi act together and was striving to gang while inside, but never better myself in every possible bothered asking him about it. I way, including working my ass off suppose I didn‘t want to know. to earn a college degree. Oh no, all And if he had temporarily, I‘m sure that mattered was that I did not he‘d only done so to protect receive a ―normal‖ high school himself from the other, equally education. violent factions. Anyone who‘s been an inmate in a correctional Needless to say, it was not the only facility will tell you that in order to time my ―abnormal‖ background survive you‘re often forced to take returned to haunt me, and it‘s no actions that may conflict with your wonder I tried to erase my past – beliefs, including aligning yourself the ―normal‖ world is teeming with a group of extremists. The with insentient, judgmental, self- way I see it, unless you‘ve been in righteous hypocrites who haven‘t a that situation yourself, you have no shred of tolerance for anything or right to opine, judge, or criticize. anyone that is ―abnormal‖. Well, guess what? The ―normal‖ world You‘re probably wondering what can kiss my heart-shaped ass! Earl had done to get himself locked up. Well, in autumn of ‘85, he‘d Going to a new school was always gone on a lunchtime shooting spree difficult, but at least I wouldn‘t be in the riverbed directly behind Los entirely friendless. Some of my Alcatraz. Contrary to what you comrades had already been may be thinking, his victims weren‘t students, but seagulls. It

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was a front-page story in our – he accepted me as I was, and I typically dead city. The area was him. A girl couldn‘t have asked for swarming with cops, who a better drug buddy, but such is mistakenly believed that there was life. It wasn‘t long before Earl was a homicidal sniper on the loose, nailed, and promptly returned to when in reality, it was just a baby- the slammer. I didn‘t hear much faced kid with a latent aversion to about him until summer of 2006, our salty-feathered friends. Like when I was deeply saddened to everyone else, I was curious to hear that he‘d accidentally know why Earl had embarked on overdosed a few years prior. I‘m that avian massacre, so I asked, and still trying to confirm his death, but here‘s what he had to say: ―I if he did indeed buy the farm, he‘s dunno. I just don‘t like ‗em. Never only one in a staggeringly long line have.‖ Hmmmm, had they shat on of former comrades who died him one too many times, perhaps? tragically and prematurely. I wondered. Wouldn‘t you? Just prior to Earl‘s re-incarceration, Shortly after his release, Earl found Maxine and I began to hang out his calling as a cat burglar. The kid more frequently. She was was a crackerjack of a thief, almost mourning the loss of her ex- as if the racket had chosen him boyfriend, Ray, who‘d recently instead of the other way around. been gunned down by the law. I He‘d slip in stealthily, like a chilly was shocked when I heard the draft through a sagging door, and news, since he appeared to be such clean out the places in a matter of a calm and gentle soul. By his own minutes. Then he‘d fence the loot admission, he was a drug-gorging for cocaine, which he‘d generously party animal, but as far as I could share with yours truly. It may be tell, he was easy-going to a fault, difficult to believe, but he was a and far from violent. You‘re really nice guy. I recently looked at probably wondering what Ray had an old snapshot of him, and apart done to get himself riddled with from the sack of weed that‘s bullets. Well, I never got specific covering his muzzle like a feedbag, details, but allegedly, he‘d refused he looks fairly innocent. I always to pull over for a minor traffic wondered where he made that violation, then led the cops on a wrong turn in life. He was so high speed chase, and tried to run young, yet so troubled, which was them down after he‘d been probably why we got along so cornered. Naturally, his kith and fabulously. I never felt as though I kin suspected there was more to had to check myself in his presence the story, and there probably was,

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but it wasn‘t as if they could prove for cash. He was a hoot and a half it. The only people who knew the to party with, but impossibly truth were the officers at the scene, obnoxious, which made it and of course Ray, but he wouldn‘t extremely difficult to take him in be talking any time soon. large doses. He also suffered from a severe case of Instant Horny One temperate Saturday night, Octopus, Just Add Booze Maxine and I went out for dinner Syndrome. at a restaurant in Sunset Beach. I was perusing the tome of a menu, ―You‘re shitting me,‖ I whispered, struggling to make a decision, as also hiding behind my menu, even usual, when she kicked my leg though he could only see the back under the table. of my head. ―Who‘s he with?‖

―What the fuck?‖ I exclaimed, ―That dude, you know, the one looking up at her. with the short brown hair?‖

―Shhhh,‖ she whispered, ducking ―That narrows it down.‖ behind her menu, ―whatever you do, don‘t turn around.‖ She started to laugh.

―Why?‖ So did I.

―You‘re not gonna believe who just ―Shhhh,‖ she whispered, ―they‘re sat down behind you.‖ gonna hear us.‖

―Who?‖ ―Maybe that‘s not such a bad thing,‖ I said quietly. ―They can ―Rood.‖ foot the bill for this meal, and knowing Rood, he‘s probably Rood was an impish manchild who holding.‖ was invariably up to some sort of shenanigans. I never knew his I was referring to cocaine, by the actual age. He claimed to be way. twenty-five, but looked forty-five. I never knew how he earned his ―You think so?‖ she asked, peering living either, for it seemed as over her menu discreetly. though he spent half his time on a skateboard, and the other half on a ―There‘s a 70-30 chance,‖ I said, surfboard, but was never strapped peering back at her.

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―Yeah, but if he isn‘t, we‘re never I burst out laughing. gonna be able to ditch him. We‘ll be stuck with him and his fuckin‘ ―Shhhh,‖ she giggled, ―they‘re tentacles till dawn.‖ gonna hear us.‖

―Ugh,‖ I sneered, ―I hadn‘t thought ―What should we do?‖ I asked, of that.‖ struggling to stifle my laughter. ―We can‘t hide behind these ―And you‟re the one he‘s gonna fucking menus till they leave, and lavish his affection on ‗cause I I‘m famished, I need food.‖ fucked him already.‖ ―Just lemme think for a sec,‖ she ―You did?‖ I exclaimed. said, chewing on her thumbnail, ―I‘ll come up with somethin‘.‖ ―Shhhh. Unfortunately.‖ Much to her frustration, she ―When?‖ wouldn‘t have an opportunity to think for a sec, or come up with ―A coupla weeks ago. I thought anything, for right at that moment, it‘d help me forget about Ray.‖ Rood spotted her.

―Did it work?‖ ―Max!‖ he yelled. ―I thought that was yoooo!‖ ―Fuck no! It only made me miss him more.‖ She simpered and waved.

―Really? Why?‖ ―Shit, I didn‘t recognize ya with yer hair down! And who‘s that with ―‘Cause it was the worse fuckin‘ ya?‖ sex I‘ve ever had,‖ she whispered, rolling her eyes, ―easily.‖ I turned around, revealing my identity. ―Are you serious?‖ ―Hey, sweetheart!‖ he yelled even ―No contest,‖ she replied louder, with a disturbingly wide emphatically. ―He‘s hung like grin. ―How fuckin‘ cool is this! It‘s Secretariat, I‘ll give him that much, like serendipity or somethin‘!‖ but he shot his fuckin‘ load before I could blink.‖ ―Yeah, or somethin‘,‖ Maxine mumbled.

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―You remember Keith, right?‖ he I had to choose one or the other, said, pointing at his companion and he was the lesser of two pervs. whose face was now one centimeter from mine. Maxine glared at me.

―Yeah,‖ I replied, leaning away. I winked at her.

―How‘s it going, Keith?‖ She flipped me off.

―Pretty good,‖ he said, leaning I reciprocated. forward and peeking down my shirt. ―How‘s it goin‘ with you?‖ ―So ladies, what‘s on the agenda tonight?‖ Rood asked, reading the ―I‘ve been better,‖ I replied, menu upside down. shielding my chest with my menu. ―Not much,‖ Maxine replied, ―Well shit!‖ Rood yelled. ―There‘s lighting a kelly green cigarette. no reason for two fine lookin‘ girls ―We‘re just gonna chow down, to dine alone now, is there?‖ then head back to my pad and watch videos.‖ ―Mind if we join you?‖ Keith asked, still attempting to cop a ―Damn, that sounds fuckin‘ dull!‖ gander at my chest. he said, reading the menu sideways. Maxine and I didn‘t respond. ―You have something better in ―We‘ll buy you dinner,‖ he added mind?‖ I asked smartly. with a pitiable smile. ―Don‘t I always?‖ he replied, ―Okay,‖ Maxine sighed, motioning raising his eyebrows and grinning. with her hand, ―get the fuck over here.‖ That ―something better‖ turned out to be a private party at a local drug They gathered up their utensils and house. I was a bit reluctant, but menus, and walked the three steps after learning that the host was one it took to reach our table. of the most successful cocaine dealers in the area, I changed my ―Here, Keith,‖ I said, tugging on tune. his shirt, ―you can sit next to me.‖

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Upon arriving at our destination, ―The fucking Feds, man! They‘ve Rood rang the doorbell twice. been staking me out for a month!‖

Seconds later, a frightfully dilated Rood and Keith started to laugh. pupil appeared in the peephole. ―I‘m not fucking around!‖ he Then the voice behind the pupil in snapped, grabbing Rood by the the peephole asked, ―Who‘s there?‖ arm and yanking him over the threshold. ―Get the hell in here ―Geraldo Rivera,‖ Rood giggled. before they see you!‖

―Who‘s with you?‖ the voice asked. Once inside, Maxine and I were introduced to the other guests. ―The fuckin‘ DEA, man! Who the There was a ball team – all men in fuck do ya think?‖ their mid to late twenties, except Joe appeared to be a bit older, ―Just a coupla chicks, Joe,‖ Keith perhaps in his early thirties. interjected, ―they‘re cool.‖ ―Here,‖ he muttered, handing ―Are you sure?‖ the voice asked. Maxine a loaded crack pipe, ―help yourselves.‖ ―Yeah!‖ Rood laughed. ―Now open the fuckin‘ door, ya paranoid ―Thanks,‖ she said, smiling, ―don‘t kook! I‘m freezin‘ my balls off out mind if we do.‖ here!‖ ―And make yourselves ―Maybe if you wore pants for a comfortable,‖ he added, pointing change,‖ Maxine scoffed. toward the loveseat, ―it‘s gonna be a long night.‖ Three separate locks unlatched, then the door slowly creaked open, The next few hours were spent revealing a creature that was the freebasing relentlessly, then Joe personification of cocaine induced and some of the others started to paranoia. mainline. Maxine had dabbled with needles before, and found it ―Hurry up!‖ he whispered angrily. exhilarating, but was squeamish ―Get in here before they see you!‖ about injecting herself, so Joe played doctor. Naturally, I was ―Before who sees us?‖ Rood asked encouraged to join in on the fun, mockingly, looking around. but politely declined and stuck

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with the pipe. Again, I had no haggard looking women who were intention of crossing over into that standing by the door with Keith. doomed dimension – the purgatory I was trapped in was hellish ―Yeah,‖ Maxine said, taking a drag enough. on her thin red cigarette, ―what about ‗em?‖ As I explained several chapters back, cocaine often provokes the ―They want me and Keith to go overwhelming desire to DO back their place with ‗em. Is that SOMETHING!!!!! no matter how cool?‖ pointless and nonsensical that activity may be. What Joe and ―Whatever floats your boat,‖ she crew proceeded to DO!!!!! over the said, exhaling. ―Just make sure course of the next hour was a case you double wrap your cocks before in point. Even though the house divin‘ in, the brunette looks like a was already immaculate, they walkin‘ herpes sore.‖ cleaned it frantically and meticulously, like a team of raving, ―Ya think so?‖ he asked, glancing mysophobic maids. One of them over at the brunette. ―I think she was vacuuming, another dusting, looks more like a genital wart.‖ another cleaning the windows, another washing the dishes, ―You should know,‖ Maxine another scrubbing the bathroom scoffed. from floor to ceiling, etc – all of them working at hypersonic speed. ―Look who‘s talkin‘!‖ he retorted. It was like watching an infomercial in fast forward mode, or better yet, ―Skank!‖ she shot back. an undercranked Benny Hill skit. ―Takes one to know one!‖ When the madness finally ended, Maxine and I gave them a standing They fell silent for a second, then ovation. burst out laughing.

A few minutes later, Rood came ―You guys are fucking nuts,‖ I over to the loveseat, and planted laughed, shaking my head. himself in between us. He kissed Maxine on the cheek and ―See those chicks over there?‖ he asked, ―Sure yer not gonna be asked, pointing toward a pair of pissed off?‖

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―Fuck no!‖ she replied, looking Keith gestured for him to hurry the around at the roomful of men. hell up. ―You dudes gotta go where the action is, and it sure as hell ain‘t He flipped Keith off. here.‖ ―Maybe I‘ll drop by yer place next ―Ya can say that again,‖ he week, Max?‖ he said, nonchalantly. grumbled, leering at me. ―I won‘t be there,‖ she replied, ―Quit looking at me like that, you exhaling. fucking pig,‖ I said, pushing him. ―Why, where ya goin‘?‖ ―Ooooh, baby!‖ he said, grinning lasciviously. ―I love it when ya talk ―Anywhere you‘re not.‖ dirty to me!‖ ―Ouch!‖ he laughed, holding his I smacked the side of his head. hand on his heart. ―Yer fuckin‘ cruel!‖ ―Resist me all ya want, sweetheart, but I‘m not givin‘ up. I‘m gonna She hissed at him. get ya in the sack yet, then I‘ll show ya what a real man can do.‖ ―Awright, girlies,‖ he said, still laughing, ―I‘m outta here.‖ ―Don‘t hold your breath,‖ I snickered, remembering the juicy ―Later,‖ Maxine and I replied in tidbit Maxine had revealed earlier. unison.

―Here,‖ he said, slipping me a Keith waved at us from the door. Grant. ―Joe‘s gonna set ya up all night, and when yer ready to split, We waved back. call a cab.‖ And they were gone. ―Thanks,‖ I said, stuffing the bill into my bra and smiling. ―Now get As I mentioned, Joe was a highly the fuck out of my sight.‖ successful dealer who specialized in crack, which by this time, was at He sprang to his feet, and signaled the peak of its popularity. to Keith that he was coming. Although he ran a closed shop, he was open for business twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,

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and was definitely not hurting for up with a worthy substitute, I‘m customers. Throughout the night, simply going to call him the that doorbell must have ringed a Scotch-Irishman. hundred times, and I couldn‘t help noticing the diversity of his ―So, how long have you known clientele. When crack had become Joe?‖ he asked, leading me back a nationwide epidemic, the media over to the loveseat. had led the public to believe that it was a solely a ghetto problem. As ―I just met him tonight,‖ I replied, usual, the media was completely sitting down Indian style. off base. I was in a chic little bungalow in the whitest of He sat down beside me, and neighborhoods, and only one black strategically wrapped his arm person came knocking the entire around the seatback, placing his time I was there. It was absurd. chiseled face merely centimeters from mine. Thankfully, he wasn‘t Never one to pass up an suffering from halitosis. In fact, his opportunity to make new overall scent was quite pleasant – a connections, I spent a good portion sublime blend of fresh spearmint, of the night schmoozing, and as Chanel Por Monsieur, and manly luck would have it, my efforts paid musk. off. Around midnight I made the acquaintance of a tall, sinewy, ―And what do you think of him so sable-haired bull who I hoped to far?‖ he asked, eyeing me exploit in the near future. His discreetly. sonorous voice and imposing presence oozed masculinity and ―He seems pretty cool,‖ I replied, commanded attention. He had a sensing that he was eyeing me, strong, euphonic name, like that of ―and he‘s definitely not stingy.‖ a mythical Celtic warrior. It rolled off the tongue beautifully, which is ―With you, he isn‘t,‖ he said, why I‘ve never forgotten it. My pointing to his face with his thumb, mother probably hasn‘t forgotten it ―with this mug, I‘m lucky he even either. His business card was one sells it to me.‖ of many she found while conducting an unconstitutional I chuckled. He was far from search and seizure on the one day I homely and he knew it. He was forgot to lock my bedroom door. being affectedly modest, or For legal reasons I cannot use his perhaps clever. real name, and since I cannot come

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―You must be Swedish, Danish, or ―I am so sorry,‖ he said sheepishly, Norwegian,‖ he said, after placing his hand on my thigh, one studying my face for a moment. inch from my crotch. ―I meant intriguing, not disturbing.‖ ―I‘m none of the above.‖ ―Yeah, sure you did,‖ I said, ―Really?‖ moving his hand away from my privates in a gingerly manner. ―Yeah, really. I‘m Irish and ―You don‘t have to apologize. I German with a trace of Alsatian on know I‘m a fucking weirdo. Do I my dad‘s side and a trace of scare you?‖ Bohemian on my mom‘s.‖ ―Absolutely not,‖ he replied ―Is that so? You look emphatically, staring into my Scandinavian.‖ vastly dilated pupils, ―you fascinate me.‖ ―Yeah, I guess so. Except for my humungous fucking noggin, it‘s I had eye contact with him for all of Irish all the way.‖ five seconds before averting my gaze to the center of the room, ―It‘s not big at all.‖ where Joe was giving Maxine another injection. ―Easy for you to say, you don‘t have to schlep it around.‖ An awkward lull ensued, which the Scotch-Irishman promptly ―Looks just right to me,‖ he said, broke. smiling. ―I‘m a lot older than you, and ―You should have your eyes should know this, but where in the checked.‖ world is Bohemia?‖

He burst out laughing. ―It‘s called Czechoslovakia now.‖

―Whoa!‖ he exclaimed. ―You‘re a ―Oh, okay. I thought it was a strange one! I have to tell you, it‘s counter-culture district in the Bay a little disturbing!‖ Area.‖

―How kind of you to notice,‖ I I chuckled again. smirked.

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―I‘m not joking,‖ he laughed. ―Yes, I know, but most people refer ―Ignorant, isn‘t it? I guess it goes to them as Indians.‖ to show that college degrees are overrated.‖ ―And it makes no fucking sense. They‘re not from India or the I chuckled once more and asked, Indies.‖ ―What are you?‖ He tried to respond, but I cut him ―Three-quarters Scotch-Irish and off. one-quarter Cherokee on my mother‘s side.‖ ―When I was a little kid, my dad took me to meet Iron Eyes Cody.‖ ―Hmmmm, interesting,‖ I said, cracking my knuckles. ―How does your father know Iron Eyes Cody?‖ It wasn‘t that interesting. In fact, the whole conversation was about ―He doesn‘t. He teaches at Cal as exciting as shaving your State Long Beach, and Iron Eyes armpits, but when you‘re Cody came to the campus TOTALLY WIRED-UH, the dullest, powwow a few years back.‖ most trivial conversations seem riveting. ―Oh, I see,‖ he said, nodding.

―My mom‘s boyfriend is part ―Anyway, when it was my turn to Cherokee,‖ I continued, cracking meet him, he pulled me onto his my neck, ―one-third, I think.‖ lap and asked if I was doing my part to keep America beautiful. I ―Is that so?‖ told him I‘d never littered once in my whole life. Then I asked him if ―Uh-huh. She‘s been obsessed he preferred being called Indian, with Native American culture since American Indian, or Native before I was born.‖ American.‖

―It‘s interesting that you used the ―And what did he say?‖ term Native American,‖ he said, after a brief pause. ―That all three were cool with him, but he knew people who hated ―Why? That‘s what they are, being called Indian.‖ technically speaking, except they didn‘t call this shithole America.‖

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―I would imagine he‘s grown ―I told him he should find himself accustomed it, he‘s been known as a nice squaw, and maybe then he the Crying Indian for years now.‖ wouldn‘t be so sad.‖

―Yeah, that‘s what all the palefaces ―You didn‟t,‖ he said, placing his were calling him, and he didn‘t hand over his face. coldcock anyone over it.‖ ―Yeah, I did,‖ I said, smiling. ―Was that it then?‖ he asked, grinning. ―Why doesn‘t that surprise me.‖

―Of course not, he was a captive I stuck my tongue out at him. listener.‖ ―What did he say, that he had one, ―That poor man,‖ he laughed. and she was the cause of his grief?‖ ―What did you do to him?‖ ―No,‖ I laughed, ―but that would ―Nothing,‖ I replied innocently. ―I have been hilarious if he had. He just asked him if he preferred didn‘t say anything, actually. He playing good guys or bad guys.‖ just laughed and patted my head, then gave me a cherry lollipop and ―And what did he say?‖ sent me on my way. To make a long story longer, a few days later, ―That he liked playing both, but I found out that his wife was dead, that he wished there were more and I felt like shit about what I‘d good-guy roles available for Native said.‖ American actors.‖ ―That is so sweet,‖ he said, ―I have to agree with him there. grinning warmly. Hollywood has always pigeonholed them, and in a ―No it isn‘t!‖ I exclaimed. ―It negative way.‖ totally fucked me up! I still feel guilty about it!‖ ―Yeah, I think that‘s what he was implying.‖ He burst out laughing again.

―So, what happened next?‖ ―I‘m fucking serious!‖ I said, glaring wildly. ―Why do you think I remember it so clearly? It‘s been haunting me for years!‖

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―It‘s all right,‖ he said in a the shit out of me, but I can‘t stop. tranquilizing tone, while gently If that‘s not an addiction, then I rubbing my upper thigh. ―Just take don‘t know what the fuck is.‖ a deep breath and relax, before you have a stroke.‖ He was noticeably uncomfortable. I often had this effect on humans, ―I don‘t know how to relax,‖ I said, and still do at times. I haven‘t the redirecting his hand toward my faintest idea why, but most people knee. ―That word‘s not in my are put off by sincerity and vocabulary.‖ spontaneity, even those who consider themselves receptive and ―I‘m sure it doesn‘t help that unshockable – they seem to prefer you‘re as high as a kite.‖ the safety and comfort of facades. I didn‘t want to repel the potential ―I am coked-up, but it makes no drug ticket, and it was too late to difference. I came into this world a backpedal, so I spit out the first restless spaz, even when I‘m sound thing that popped into my jumbled asleep, I‘m not relaxed.‖ head.

―And why is that?‖ ―So, how about them Dodgers?‖

―Because I‘m a neurotic freak who He stared at me with a puzzled belongs in a loony bin,‖ I replied look in his face, as though he bluntly, ―and I‘m sure all the acid weren‘t sure if he should laugh at I‘ve been dropping is only making my stupid quip or offer his opinion me worse.‖ about Fernando Valenzuela‘s phenomenal ‗86 season. He did ―Then why do you do it?‖ neither. He simply smiled, then returned to the original topic ―Because I‘m a self-destructive seamlessly, as though we‘d never masochist,‖ I replied, even more digressed. bluntly. ―You know, some Native He didn‘t react, so I kept rambling Americans actually prefer the in the same vein. Indian label, but I think it‘s inappropriate.‖ ―If I ever run into the genius who said that acid isn‘t addictive, my ―You do?‖ I asked, cracking my knee and his gonads are going to knuckles again. have a little talk. That drug scares

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―Absolutely, but try telling that to ―Are you fucking kidding?‖ I the general public, they‘re very exclaimed. ―Some of my all time attached to Columbus‘ misnomer.‖ favorite films are westerns!‖

―I think the general public‘s been ―But you don‘t like John Wayne? watching too many John Wayne That‘s a little contradictory, don‘t flicks.‖ you think?‖

He laughed and asked, ―You mean I smirked and replied, ―Whatever you‘re not a John Wayne fan?‖ you say, pilgrim.‖

―Not really. I don‘t hate him, but I ―You‘re a real wiseass,‖ he said, don‘t like him either.‖ leering at me, ―and you have a dirty mouth.‖ ―That‘s funny.‖ ―I can‘t help it,‖ I said, returning ―Why?‖ his leer. ―Is it offensive?‖

―Because you‘re from Orange ―A little.‖ County.‖ ―Good.‖ ―So what?‖ ―Good?‖ he laughed. ―Well, John Wayne was one of Orange County‘s most famous ―Yeah, good.‖ residents. They even named the airport after him.‖ Another awkward lull ensued, which he broke more quickly than ―Yeah, I know,‖ I said smartly. the first. ―It‘s not my fucking fault. If it were up to me, I would have ―I hope you don‘t mind my asking, named it after Leo Fender.‖ but how old are you?‖

―Leo Fender? How about Dick ―How old do you think I am?‖ Dale?‖ ―It‘s difficult to tell, but if I had to ―That would have been cool too.‖ venture a guess, I‘d say twenty- one.‖ ―So, I guess you don‘t like westerns, huh?‖

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―I wish! It would make my life a ―I‘m thirty-seven,‖ he blurted out hell of a lot easier.‖ guiltily, as though he were revealing some unthinkably ―Does that mean you‘re younger?‖ horrific secret. ―I‘m old enough to be your father.‖ I nodded. I didn‘t respond verbally or ―How much younger?‖ otherwise. I simply gazed at him blankly, as though I were in a ―The truth?‖ catatonic state.

―Please.‖ ―Say something,‖ he said, laughing nervously. ―You look a little ―I‘m fifteen.‖ thunderstruck.‖

Like every other ephebophile I‘d ―Don‘t flatter yourself,‖ I scoffed. encountered, it didn‘t faze him at ―I don‘t shock that easily.‖ all. I was lying. I was thunderstruck, ―Would you like to go out dumbfounded, and flabbergasted, sometime?‖ he asked. but he was far too valuable to let go, thirty-seven or not. I quickly I was expecting this, and already pulled myself together, and tried to knew what my response would be. act impassive.

―Yeah, why the hell not.‖ ―There must be something running through that mind of yours,‖ he ―Are you sure you don‘t want to said, staring at me inquisitively. know how old I am before answering so definitively?‖ ―There is,‖ I replied, smacking my lips. ―I was thinking about how I studied his face for a moment. He yummy an ice-cold beer would couldn‘t have been a day over taste right now.‖ twenty-five, if that. I had no intention of touching him anyway, ―Is that all?‖ he laughed, after so his age was irrelevant. letting out a sigh of relief. ―I thought you were going to tell me ―Not really,‖ I replied indifferently. to get lost! Don‘t move, I‘ll be right back.‖

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Less than a minute later, he from my face with his long fingers, returned with a frosty bottle of ―nothing I wouldn‘t give my own Becks. I liked Becks, it was one of mother.‖ my favorite brews. Maybe he despised his mother. ―So,‖ he said, sitting down, ―are we Maybe she was a mean, vicious, still on?‖ wretched, spiteful, straight-razor- toting woman who beat him I chugalugged the entire bottle, mercilessly with a rolling pin as a then let out a long, resonant belch boy. and replied, ―Sure, Pops.‖ I stared at the pills for a moment What a graceless slob. For the longer then carefully tucked them record, I no longer burp in public, into the coin pocket of my jeans. but at the time, it was second nature. ―Look,‖ he said, checking his watch, ―I have to run, but will you He laughed while shaking his head call me in a couple of days?‖ in what appeared to be disgust, then handed me his business card ―Yeah,‖ I replied coolly. and a pair of unmarked capsules that resembled miniature jelly ―Is that a promise?‖ beans. I liked jelly beans, especially red and pink ones. ―Yeah, I promise I‘ll call you by Tuesday.‖ ―Those will help you come down,‖ he said with a shifty smile. ―I look forward to it.‖

Without looking at it, I shoved the ―Yeah, me too,‖ I mumbled. card into my pocket, then examined the capsules for a ―And please don‘t overdo it moment and asked, ―What the tonight,‖ he added. ―It would be a fuck‘s in them?‖ shame if you died before our first date.‖ ―Just a mild soporific.‖ With that, I expected him to go on I looked at him dubiously. his merry way, but much to my surprise, he placed his hand behind ―They‘re perfectly safe,‖ he said, my neck, pulled me toward him, brushing my tousled hair away and planted a firm smooch on my

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mouth. Although his move was I flashed him a saucy smile and the somewhat aggressive, he kept his bird. lips closed, and his tongue to himself, which indicated that: 1) he He grinned and blew me a kiss, wasn‘t overly pushy, and 2) it was then walked out. going to be a cinch to string him along. I wish to god I‘d heeded his admonition, but I was an incurable, After removing his mouth from reckless glutton. I smoked more mine, he began caressing my face crack on that particular night than with his forefinger while gazing any other, before or after. That into my eyes amorously. sooty glass tube became an extension of my dry, viscid lips. I For a split second I thought about was so wired I could actually see snapping his finger in two, but I my toiling ticker pulsating through was mesmerized by his hypnotic my bony chest. Breathing became brown eyes. Suddenly, I felt a laborious task, and my thorax felt explosively hot, and when I went as though a two-ton hippopotamus to switch on the AC, it were perched upon it. malfunctioned. What can I say? He was not hard to look at, and I By five a.m. I was convinced I was was always a sucker for a smooth, a goner, and it drove me into a deep voice. Too bad I was in the state of unmitigated panic. Before midst of adolescence while he was anyone noticed, I slunk into Joe‘s on the brink of middle age. bedroom, climbed into the sack, pulled the covers over my head, He kissed me once more, on the and swallowed the pills the Scotch- cheek this time, then stood up and Irishman had given me, hoping headed for the door. they‘d alleviate the maddening discomfort. Whatever was in those Before exiting, he turned around magic beans did the trick. Within and said sternly, ―Remember, do twenty minutes I was out cold. not overdo it tonight!‖ A short while later I awoke to a I found his tone a bit annoying. He familiar, yet troubling sound. sounded like a strict, overbearing Familiar in the sense that I‘d heard father. We‘d just met, and he was it before, and troubling because of already fitting me with a collar and its close proximity. I couldn‘t place leash. it at first, but after listening carefully for a minute or so, I was

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able to make an accurate duet, I played possum until I dozed identification. Joe and Maxine off. were fucking violently right there next to me! I opened my eyes a bit Around two that afternoon, to see if I was hallucinating. After Maxine and I hopped into a cab, all, I‘d just spent several hours and though I was definitely inhaling toxic fumes, but tempted, I refrained from unfortunately, it was no chemical- mentioning one word about her induced illusion. The two maniacs romp with Joe. I figured if she were virtually on top of me, in the wanted to talk about it, she would. anvil position, while the bed shook, I couldn‘t help wondering how rolled, and creaked, as though it they‘d wound up in bed, though. were in the midst of a catastrophic Was she crassly propositioned or earthquake. did she willingly offer herself? Either way, I thought she was Her legs were wrapped around his crazy. Putting out was not neck, and he was pounding her like mandatory. The trick was to resist a madman as she moaned in until the ―benefactor‖ became ecstasy, ―Ooooooooh, Joe! frustrated, and consequently Ooooooooh, yeah! Fuck me, baby! tightfisted, then move on to the Fuck me harder!‖ next mark. Besides, Joe wasn‘t exactly Steve Reeves, what the hell She repeated the lustful chant over was she thinking? Rumor had it and over again while he chimed in that Maxine was pathologically periodically with, ―Oooooooh promiscuous, but I always took yeah, baby! Fuck yeah!‖ such rumors with a grain of salt, particularly when they were I was pissed off, mortified, and coming from the mouths of men. slightly nauseated. I hadn‘t asked In this case, however, the rumors to be a spectator, and it was far turned out to be true. I soon more graphic and sickening than learned that Maxine was a self- any skin flick I‘d seen. I wasn‘t proclaimed nymphomaniac, who‘d sure if I should ignore them or get have sex with any man who was up the hell out of that bed. Before I for it, free of charge. I dug this girl had a chance to decide, they immensely, and if she was hooked climaxed simultaneously, and what on penis, more power to her. But I a repugnant harmony that was. was automatically found guilty by Not wanting them to know that I‘d association, which only rubbed salt witnessed one second of the nasty into the wounds caused by the rape, since sleeping around was the

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most reprehensible offense a girl Orleans Times-Picayune revealed could commit. Yes, I‘m being that Iron Eyes Cody was in fact of sarcastic. For some inexplicable Sicilian ancestry, not Cherokee and reason, promiscuous women have Cree, as he‘d always claimed. It always been viewed with far less surprised the hell out of me, but tolerance than promiscuous men, from what I gather, his ethnic and often stigmatized by both heritage was of trivial importance genders. It‘s a flagrantly sexist to those who knew and loved the double standard that makes no man. sense whatsoever. As far as I know, most STDs are unisex and I have the innate ability to conjure one size fits all, so why the hell is a up the exact emotions from nearly loose man hailed as a virile stud, every significant moment of my while an equally loose woman is life. Even when I cannot recall any branded a filthy slut? It doesn‘t of the other details, the feelings are add up, but what can you do? Our always vivid and crisp, as though problematic planet has at least one I‘ve just experienced them. I‘ve enigma for every denizen, most of found this to be both an asset and a which are unsolvable. curse, depending on whether the emotions are pleasant or afflictive I last saw Maxine in summer of in nature. Shame falls into the 1990. She was drug-free, pregnant, latter category, and if given the and planning her wedding. More choice, I‘d rather shove a scalpel importantly, the girl who‘d been into my abdomen than suffer its treated as an inconvenience by the degrading impalement. That said, people who‘d brought her into the the feeling is not entirely without world, had finally found security purpose. I firmly believe that a and unconditional love. spoonful of shame can be healthy, but by the same token, an overdose Maxine is proof positive that can be fatal. I‘ve never forgotten people do indeed change, as do that night at Joe‘s, because it was many other things on this the most shameful situation I‘ve unpredictable spinning ball. For ever found myself in, hands down. example, in 1989, the Velvet Even though I was merely an Revolution brought an end to innocent bysleeper, who happened communist rule in Czechoslovakia, to be in the wrong bed at the and three years later, it was wrong time, I still felt like a divided into two independent miserable, unwilling crack whore, countries, the Czech Republic and who allowed herself to be violated, Slovakia. Then in 1996, the New when her gut feeling was to

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eviscerate the son of a bitch. In my speed. Nearly ten years had wounded mind, it was tantamount passed, and I couldn‘t believe to sexual assault, and the rawest where life had taken me. I was a nerve in my being was not only naive child whose days had merely touched, but brutally manhandled. begun, yet I felt like a cunning I was deeply hurt and utterly adult with one foot in the grave. ashamed. So much so, that it My relationship with drugs was prompted me to question my like a viciously abusive marriage, ruinously self-indulgent lifestyle but no matter how many times I for the first time. Up until that was battered and raped, I couldn‘t point I‘d been driven solely by two bring myself to leave. I drew the motives: the overpowering urge to line at sodomy, though, and vowed use drugs, and the desperate urge right then and there to never return to use whoever I could to get those to Joe‘s place again, no matter how drugs. desperate I got. I also passed on the Scotch-Irishman. As my fifteen-year-old carcass lay on that cum-stained mattress of a When you‘re a chemically thirtysomething, whacked-out dependent, manipulative leech, drug trafficker, who‘d just shot you must switch off two things in semen into my fifteen-year-old order to achieve greatness in the friend after shooting cocaine into sport: your conscience and your her veins all night, I found myself pride. The former posed no reminiscing about the D.C. trip in problem, it had conked out back in July of ‗77. It was the last family ‘85, but the latter was stuck in the trip before dumping the ON position. I was a devious, homemaker for the homewrecker. opportunistic hustler, who The clan had visited our nation‘s probably deserved to be shot capital on numerous occasions, execution style, but miraculously, only this time, the primary purpose my dignity was still intact. I hadn‘t was to trade in our beat-up Ford the slightest intention of divorcing station wagon for the used Dodge drugs, but if I expected to retain van that would bring us to my self-respect, it was time to California. I don‘t know why this rethink my game. I simply memory popped into my mind couldn‘t conduct myself in this other than that it carried me away disgraceful manner any longer. At to a simpler, happier time – a time least that‘s what I temporarily when I desired ice cream, bubble fooled myself into believing. Who gum, and a Lincoln Memorial snow the fuck was I kidding? globe, rather than acid, coke, and

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Less than two weeks later, I found though he were about to devour myself sitting across from the me headfirst, like a white chocolate Scotch-Irishman at a seafood joint Easter bunny. I smiled modestly, in Seal Beach. I‘d chosen the and gave him a look which restaurant specifically for its low- indicated that I was listening. key ambiance. Brightly lit, overcrowded dining rooms made ―Look,‖ he said, ―let‘s stop beating me edgy, paranoid, and self- around the bush. We both know conscious. More importantly, I‘d why we‘re here. I have an chosen the place because the object insatiable drug habit, and a lot of of my obsession worked there. I money. As far as I can tell, you hoped that when he got a load of have an equally insatiable drug my handsome, virile escort, he‘d habit, and judging from your age, become overwrought with jealousy no source of income. Correct me if and challenge him to a duel. What I‘m wrong, but I would imagine an immature fool I was, his heart this puts you at a disadvantage. I belonged to another. And besides, don‘t know how you‘ve supported it was his night off. your habit in the past, nor do I care to know, but from now on, I‘ll be The Scotch-Irishman and I feasted more than happy to take care of on grilled halibut and a variety of your needs provided that you take side dishes, which I washed down care of mine.‖ with a slice of decadent cheesecake drowning in fresh whipped cream. ―What do you mean?‖ I asked The conversation during dinner innocently, looking up at him with had been relatively tame, but over doe eyes. dessert it took a rather wild turn. I knew exactly what he meant, but He leaned forward, placed his was curious to hear his response. forearms on the table, and fastened his arresting brown eyes onto my ―I‘ll spell it out for you. It was no face. I was blissfully immersed in accident that I approached you at my rich, creamy cheesecake, but his Joe‘s that night. I have a thing for commanding presence was too blondes, especially underage, hard to ignore, especially when I sassy, wayward blondes. I find could sense that he was staring at you very attractive, and forgive my me seductively. I glanced up to forwardness, but I‘d like to fuck discover much more than your your brains out, repeatedly.‖ average come-hither look. He was gazing at me rapaciously, as

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I started choking on the bite of Arbor, who I invariably associated cheesecake I was masticating. I with two things: the Vietnam War, admired candor, but needless to in which he served as a CW2 pilot, say, this was a bit excessive. and my middle name, which was his first name. No doubt about it, ―Are you all right?‖ he said, the suave Scotch-Irishman was pushing my glass toward me. nothing more than a slimy, ―Here, have some water.‖ degenerate pig. I was insulted, not only by his words, but by their I took a few sips. implication. But you know what? I had it coming, and then some. Of ―Are you all right?‖ he reiterated. course, admitting that I was getting my just deserts certainly didn‘t I nodded then ducked back into the make it any easier to swallow it. I sanctuary of my cheesecake. hoped that he was finished, but unfortunately, I hadn‘t heard ―As I was saying, you arouse me nothin‘ yet. something fierce. You‘re provocatively insolent, uncouth, ―Here‘s my proposal,‖ he and naughty. You need to be continued, ―I‘ll supply you with all tamed and disciplined, and I want the drugs you want, as long as you to be the man who carries out the grant me the pleasure of fucking task.‖ you whenever I want, starting tonight. I‘m a very busy man, I I couldn‘t believe my ears! It was probably won‘t require your too absurd to be true! I felt as services more than twice a week, though I‘d been dropped into the but when I do call I expect you to middle of a raunchy, twisted be available, open-minded, and version of Pygmalion! I‘d dealt prepared to do whatever I ask. My with my share of perverts, but this time is limited, I can‘t afford to be bloke took the Dundee cake! His chasing you around, so I‘m going frankness and effrontery were to give you a pager, and I want you unprecedented! Christ, I‘d pegged to leave it on. Have I made myself him wrong! Perhaps if I were clear?‖ twenty-one – or at least legal – and we were madly in love, I would ―Crystal,‖ I replied. have found it alluring, in a kinky way, but he was a complete ―Well, do we have a deal?‖ stranger who was almost the same age as my favorite uncle from Ann

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I scooped up the last chunk of “FUUUUCK!” he yelped, retracting cheesecake with my spoon, stuffed the wounded paw, and holding it it into my mouth, and let it melt with the other. slowly on my tongue. I leaned over the table and ―Speak up,‖ he said, smiling growled, “Eat shit and die, you lasciviously. ―I don‘t think I can motherfucking pig.” restrain myself much longer. I‘ve had a hard-on since I saw you strut Then I walked out of the restaurant in here in that dress.‖ and up the street to 7-11, where I called a cab. I had exactly zero ―Oh yeah?‖ I said teasingly, glaring dollars and 25 cents, so I directed at him. the driver to Mia‘s house. Thankfully, she was home, and ―Oh yeah,‖ he sighed. ―I‘ve never covered the fare. had a fifteen year old before. I‘m dying to get inside your tight little As she led me into the house she cunt, only I can‘t decide what I asked the expected question. want to do first, make sweet love to ―What the fuck happened? I you in the missionary position or thought you went out with Daddy bend you over and fuck you like a Bigbucks tonight?‖ bitch.‖ When I tried to explain, I broke My blood had already passed the down and cried like a helpless boiling point, but the moment infant sitting in an acidic shit-filled those words crossed his lips I was diaper. I thought I was so tough consumed with murderous and thick-skinned. What a joke. I indignation. It took every ounce of was nothing more than a damaged self-control I had to keep from little girl who grew up way too leaping over that table and fast, hid behind a shuck of moxie, severing his carotid artery with the and infused her still-developing hilt of my spoon. body with anesthetics so she wouldn‘t have to feel. I wiped my mouth with my ______napkin, scooted out of the booth, “Felis Silvestris Summa Cum picked up my unused dessert fork, Opprobrium” is an excerpt from a and proceeded to drive it into his larger work in progress. hand, the same hand that had been caressing my face just two weeks prior.

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DEATH WISH CHAMELEON V By Cricket Corleone Photos © Richard A. Meade

But as soon as she gets that first puff in her lungs, she is interrupted by a knock at her apartment door. Dustin looks at the clock on the bedside table, it is way too late for anyone to be coming around. But, that thought alone, which would normal warn a person not to answer, compelled her to answer anyway. Because after all, if you are at war with the world, you are at war with yourself, and all personal safety bets are off, that is when the madness kicks in. The denial of what is right there in your gut gets the better of you.

Upon unlocking the dead bolt, Dustin opens the door to see Greta freezing outside, with a look in her eyes that says she had been crying, Sirens come through the bedroom a lot, judging from the puffiness. window of Dustin‘s bedroom Greta looks to the floor as if not room. It is still dark outside and sure whether she is invited, but her head is struggling to break free desperate for a place to go. Greta from the drinking binge she went holds herself tight and looks to the on the night before. She had gotten ground, ―I miss him Dustin... I so drunk, that her plans to get laid really do... I wanted to go to him were deterred by the fact that she tonight. And I am trying so hard to couldn‘t even stand up straight stop myself. I didn‘t know...‖ Greta enough to flirt with anyone. So that can‘t seem to get the words out plan got ruined. before she chokes on some tears, As soon as the sounds of the city ―look, I know you are mad at me, outside her wooden cage settle, she but...‖ sets her head back down on the Dustin rolls her eyes, ―Well come bed trying not to recap too much of in for Christ sake. It fucking her drunken excursion. Instead she freezing and my buzz has worn off. reaches for a half burnt cigarette in The last thing I need is a fucking a nearby ashtray, and lights it up. Kodak moment. I need a shot.‖

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Dustin raises her eyebrows and Dustin scoffs again, ―Neither did I? opens the door for Greta. I was just shocked that you said ―fucking.‖ You seem so innocent Greta smiles a little and comes in and pure. I wasn‘t sure if you were sniffling, whether from the cold or going to drag me into some girlie from the pain, or both. fucking sleepover where we did Greta sits on the couch and decides braids on one another and talked to smoke a cigarette with Dustin. about Martha Stewart. Fuck, that‘s a relief.‖ They have done a few shots together and are enjoying the buzz, They both laugh. although both are aware of an Greta returns the cynicism, ―Oh underlying sadness in the room. come on! I am not THAT bad. Am Dustin sits back in an arm chair I?‖ letting her legs fall lazily to the Dustin shrugs a little. Silence falls sides of a simple tattered white again, slip-dress. Greta, is sitting with a towel draped around her neck and ―Give me another shot woman,‖ her wet hair is in a mess, Greta demands. suggesting that the rain outside from earlier had certainly ―Well, yes MA‘AM.‖ Dustin says persisted. A few candles light the with a slight grin as she pours coffee table before them. another shot for Greta.

Greta watches for a moment as the Greta downs the shot in one gulp. light flickers beautifully, something ―Hey, slow down there lady. That‘s that is warm and comforting, some good shit.‖ instantly disturbed by more yearning and sadness. She looks Greta looks at the bottle of tequila down at the ashtray and tries not to on the coffee table and cocks her cry more. head to the side looking at Greta, ―It‘s Jose Cuervo?‖ Dustin sees this and scoffs, ―Oh for fuck‘s sake. Out with it all ready. They laugh. Time is a wasting.‖ Dustin swallows another shot. ―I know, I heard that line in a movie once and just wanted a Greta laughs a little, ―Jeez, you are chance to use it. I figure, you about as sympathetic as... fucking wouldn‘t know the difference Stalin or something. Thanks.‖ between the good shit and the bad shit anyway, so I thought I could Dustin looks at Greta confused, get away with it.‖ ―Fucking Stalin?‖ They laugh again. Greta leans back, ―I didn‘t mean FUCKING him...‖ ―I KNOW the good shit. In fact, there is a really awesome tequila

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bar you should go to with me one of these nights. Then you can taste the REAL shit for once. But hell, this shit works too.‖

Dustin smiles, ―You‘re on a roll tonight with the ―swears.‖ You must be at the end of your rope. Just don‘t get all drunk and suicidal on me.‖

Greta scoffs, ―You‘re one to talk.‖

Dustin agrees with sarcastic ginger.

Greta sighs, ―I fight this feeling every damn night. I can‘t seem to shake it. This stupid love for him won‘t let me go. As time goes on, it just gets worse and doesn‘t seem to be getting any better. They say time can mend a broken heart... but in ―Have I what? Been burnt?‖ Dustin this case... I don‘t think I have ever says as she starts to itch for the next loved someone so much? It‘s shot. ―Yeah... who hasn‘t? But, it‘s totally fucked up. I am totally stupid to even let it get to you FUCKED UP.‖ when it makes absolutely no Dustin laughs a little, ―No, you are difference what happens to your normal. And I hate to say it, but heart... or YOU for that matter. The your situation is normal. You are sooner you realize that, the better not fucked up if...‖ Dustin sighs off you are. No one cares about and continues, ―there are a million anyone else, everyone is out for and one songs to go with the themselves. And fuck everyone broken hearted... the unrequited... else if they get in your way. That is the girl or guy who gets burnt by just the way the world works.‖ the flames of a forbidden Greta looks at Dustin and then romance... or whatever the fuck leans back to call her bluff, kind of poetry we tell ourselves to ―Bullshit. You don‘t believe that for milk the pain for all it‘s worth. one minute. I think you just tell Therefore, if it seems to be a yourself that to make others think common theme in expression, then you don‘t care. But you wouldn‘t it has to be a common theme in life. torture yourself unless you DID Art imitates life, they say.‖ care.‖ Greta leans forward and starts to Dustin looks at the ceiling, ―Or play with the light of the candle. maybe you mistake masochism for ―Have you?‖ She says focusing on empathy?‖ There is a silence. ―Fuck the flame.

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it, finish off that bottle. I am gonna you get from any of it? Except less get another one from the kitchen.‖ hope then when you went into it and this nagging feeling you have Dustin goes to the cupboards in the been humiliated and bruised for kitchen and searches for another life?‖ bottle of booze. She finds a cheap bottle of wine and opens it up. Greta shakes her head as if Dustin ―Well, no more tequila, we are onto is just saying the horrible things wine now... so, it‘s gonna be one of that have been plaguing her own THOSE nights.‖ She pulls out two brain since her heart was broken by glasses, ―Like every night.‖ She the married man she fell for. ―I says to herself. know all that, I do... but, it is always easier to look at it clearly Dustin goes back into the living from the outside. We don‘t have to and joins Greta. ―I just don‘t want BE each other when we go through to love the fucker anymore. I keep this. You can only sympathize or telling myself that if he cared at give out tough love... or you can ALL about me, he wouldn‘t hurt shut the fuck up with all that and me so much. Then I think, if he remember how hard it was to be didn‘t care about me, why would there in the first place.‖ he even bother to TRY and get to me? Then again, why does he And with those words the room ignore me until I am right in front goes silent a moment, ―Tis true my of him? It‘s just endless circles! friend...‖ Dustin agrees for once as GOD! Fuck... I CAN‘T BELIEVE we she is nodding out. broke into his house. Talk about taking the low road.‖ Greta is surprised for a moment that Dustin used the ―friend‖ word Dustin sits back down, ―Oh, and he so loosely, but remembering the is just so god damned perfect? I amount of booze they have think you give that asshole way too consumed and feeling the room much credit. Don‘t you think that if spinning and the weight crashing he loved you he would respect you in from her own drunkenness, she a little bit more? I mean, I know it‘s lets this one go. easy to get clouded when you are all fucked up in love... but look at it ―I know what it‘s like to be fucked this way... I KNOW what it‘s like to with, Greta. Believe me.‖ be fucked with by a man. Hell, I Greta too lays her head back as have let men fuck with me all my Dustin‘s drunken words fade into life so I am pretty much a passing out. And soon, both of professional at it. I KNOW what it them are passed out. And the looks like, feels like, and IS like... flames on the living room table so, you can try and convince me disappear into the dawning of a otherwise that this bastard might new day. have love for you, but who wants that kind of love anyway? I mean, in the end, what do you... or DID

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Greta wakes up as well. ―What was that?‖ Greta asks as she holds her head.

Dustin gets up, ―It‘s called a hangover.‖ She goes for anything in the kitchen that will ease it.

―No... I thought I heard a loud noise?‖ Greta notices that Dustin is opening another bottle of wine. ―You can‘t be seriously thinking of drinking right now?‖

Dustin playfully snaps, ―Oh yes I can! And you are too. Just have one glass, see if that doesn‘t take away some of the ―noise.‖

The two of them sit back in the living room once again while they sip their wine. But everything While passed out, both Greta and seems much more uncomfortable Dustin have vivid and horrible in the daylight while the two of dreams. Not nightmares so much them attempt to achieve a buzz. as memories twisted from the heavy conversation from the night Soon after, drunk again, starring before. Greta dreams about being down at the traffic on the city street rejected in horrible ways by the from Dustin‘s apartment window, man she is in love with. The same the two of them contemplate a nap dreams she has had since he first while they make fun of passing broke her heart. Dustin dreams people. about friends who have died, lovers who have come and gone, ―Oh hey, I know that guy!‖ Greta and serial killers taking her for a says as she points to a shaved ride through back alleys and headed man walking down the graveyards. Though every time the street wearing a flight jacket and killers start to come at her, stabbing black boots with white laces. or strangling her, they seem to get ―Should we invite him up?‖ Dustin further and further away. And says devilishly. what should feel like hammers against her skull, only feel like ―NO! I HATE THAT GUY. He‘s a feathers beating down softly upon local skinhead that once beat the her. The frustration wakens Dustin shit out of one of my friends for in which she barley remembers ―looking‖ Jewish... or whatever the shouting, ―FUCK!‖ In her fuck his excuse was. That guy is frustration. SCUM.‖

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Dustin waves around an empty After the two of them compose bottle of wine from the window, themselves, they sneak back up to ―Well, in that case...‖ She chucks the window. The skin head is now the bottle down at the skinhead. walking off into the distance.

Greta ducks into the apartment ―Man, that guy is such an asshole. I pulling Dustin down with her. would love to see him get his ―Are you nuts?‖ Greta says with a someday.‖ Greta says shaking her glimmer of excitement in her eyes. head and watching him walk off.

―You do realize who you are ―Well, maybe he will? You never speaking to, right? Of course I‘m know.‖ Dustin lights a cigarette nuts.‖ Dustin says as she breaks and stares down at the sidewalk into uncontrollable laughter. below them. ―Hmmm... do you think if I jumped right now... I‘d Greta tries not to laugh as well, land on my feet? Or my head? Let‘s ―Look, as much as I would have find out!‖ Dustin attempts to get loved to have seen that bottle hit out of the window with no ledge the fucker, that guy is crazier than below her, Greta stops her and even YOU are. He will KILL us. I pulls her back. ―Oh come on, mean that... I was told he HAS where is your sense of adventure?‖ killed.‖ Dustin says laughing.

Dustin pretends to be shocked and ―Interrupted by a sense of SANITY, impressed, ―Ooooh... sounds like Dustin. That wasn‘t funny.‖ my kinda man.‖ She keeps laughing hysterically until Greta Dustin pats Greta‘s head can‘t control her own laughter as drunkenly, ―There there little bird, well. ―Is he gone?‖ we all have to go sometime. Hopefully some of us sooner than The two of them slowly peek up others.‖ through the window until they barely make out the asshole skin Greta watches Dustin struggle with head starring confused at the street control over her thoughts. ―What is around him and swearing loudly. your obsession with death? You The girls fall over and roll with talk like you want to die or laughter. something?‖ Greta waits for a response but never gets one. ―Shhhh... he‘ll hear us!‖ Greta says while still laughing.‖ The two of them drop the subject.

Dustin provokes more, ―Oh, is he ―I‘m starving, you?‖ Dustin asks to like Santa? Does he know when we break the silence. are sleeping and when we are awake?‖ Greta holds her belly, ―Totally.‖

Greta is trying to cover Dustin‘s And as if to read the other ones mouth now so that she can‘t make thoughts, they enthusiastically her laugh anymore.

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jump up and scramble for the Dustin continues, ―I have some shit kitchen in a race. I need to do today! I forgot!‖

While cooking away, Dustin lets Greta takes over the chopping another secret slip, ―You know, block, ―That‘s... fine! At least have Greta? You are the first person I some breakfast first?‖ have liked in a long time.‖ Back in the restroom Dustin is still Greta, trying not to scare Dustin‘s looking at her reflection, ―I‘m not sensitivity away and sarcastically hungry anymore.‖ She says to responds, ―And I am thinking I am herself. ―I‘m tired.‖ the first person that has liked YOU in a long time.‖

The two laugh.

―Oh, BURN! You‘re probably right though.‖ A moment of sobriety creeps over Dustin who stares at the cupboard walls before herself as she chops some vegetables. The chopping stops and Dustin looks uneasy, ―But... I wouldn‘t get too attached to me.‖ Dustin leaves the room.

Greta does not notice at first. When she turns to look at the cutting board, she sees she is alone now. ―Hey, where did ya go, lady?‖

Dustin calls from the restroom, ―I need a shower! Help yourself to whatever!‖ And once again the togetherness of these two young women has In the restroom, Dustin starts the disappeared over the shadow of shower water and waits for it to Dustin‘s death wish, and Greta‘s heat up. She sits on the floor for a sudden reoccurring sense of moment and holds herself. Then desperately wanting to run to her she stands up with determination. married man. As she stares at her reflection in the mirror, dead-pan, she shouts out Greta reaches into her coat pocket, again, ―I... I uhhh.. need you to take which is still slightly wet from the off soon!‖ night before, and pulls out a cell phone. She peeks to make sure From the kitchen Greta listens in. Dustin is still in the restroom and She can sense something is wrong. then quickly scrolls through her ―Ummm... okay?‖ phone numbers. Greta speed dials

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her loves number. When he much... maybe work on some answers, she has an impulse to photos or something? Boring.‖ hang up. The two are so consumed in their The man‘s voice on the other end own lies that they avoid the pink keeps saying ―Hello?‖ elephant in the room, being the uneasy feeling they are both giving Through the silence that passes she off. hears him say her name in question. ―Yeah... it‘s me... sorry... ―Well... let‘s eat!‖ Dustin says as I... just... I need to see you.‖ she pulls some plates out from the cupboard. ―I suddenly feel... The man is silent for a moment, ―I hungry again.‖ Dustin says with a need to see you too. I can‘t break look in her eyes telling herself, away right now, dealing with a ―Maybe tonight... maybe tonight...‖ robbery situation here at home... or... something? But, I am stressed. And death is in the air once again. I could use a break. Can you meet me at our hotel... maybe later tonight? Say, eleven?‖

Greta holds her head wanting to apologize for what he obviously doesn‘t realize is her fault, being the break in. But she can‘t bring herself to tell him. ―Yeah... I‘ll be there.‖ Greta says quietly.

Once the two are back in the kitchen together, they are distant. One keeping their secrets from the other.

―So, what are you doing later?‖ Greta asks.

―Oh... I... have to meet with someone... it‘s work related. Boring really. And you?‖ Dustin says as she turns her eye contact away from Greta for fear of the lie giving itself away. ______

Greta does the same as she responds avoidably, ―Oh... nothing

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FUCK TEA. FUCK TOAST.

By Salena Godden fuck being safe, fuck playing safe. fuck all now? fuck fucking in fact fuck playing. fuck being fuck…he said. careful. fuck giving a fuck. fuck killing it and fuck damping it he said, of course it fucking hurts down. fuck blocking it and fuck that‘s why it‘s called fucking sun ticking the boxes. fuck the burn, clues in the fucking name for rehearsals and fuck the show. fuck it right there…and when it hurts fuck fuck. fuck doing what‘s best you just think, oh it hurts, and then and fuck being a good girl. fuck you think so what if it hurts, get on being a good boy. fuck routine. with it, cos what else are you going fuck the system. fuck money and to fucking do? waste of time that, fuck the banks. fuck the power and saying oh it hurts, deal with it, fuck the mind fuck. fuck control that‘s why it‘s called fucking sun and fuck being controlled and fuck burn, cos its burnt for fucks sake. being controlling. fuck the dream look at my sunburn, he said… and fuck the sleep. fuck food. fuck does it hurt? I asked… tea. fuck toast. fuck it. fuck being reasonable and fuck being sensible. of course it hurts, it just pain and fuck. fuck holding back and fuck being alive has got pain in it. that‘s fighting with one arm behind your life. life is hard and full of things fucking back. fuck. fuck holding it that hurt. wear a fucking crash hat. in and fuck sucking it up and fuck deal with it. fucking cunts. not you, holding it back. fuck holding on to you are not a cunt…of course. are anything. fuck holding your you laughing? why are you breath. fuck wondering when it‘s laughing? is it because I‘m funny? going to begin and fuck wondering do you think I am funny? I like if it‘s over yet. fuck. fuck hoping your laugh it makes me laugh. can it's going to start and fuck hoping it I ask you something? are you will end. fuck. fuck home and fuck wearing contact lenses? am I there is no such place as home. wearing contact lenses? no, why fuck playing safe. fuck playing at did you ask if I am? because I all. fuck being serious about asked if you were? they are blue. anything and fuck not being real blue. your‘s are kind of blue as serious enough. fuck faking. fuck well. look see no lenses, just taking. fuck making all that fucking eyeball, poke it if you like, if you carry on about some fucking shit don‘t believe me, poke my fucking you don‘t even give enough of a eye, it don‘t hurt. gimme your fuck about to even give a minute of finger and touch my eyeball, see no your fucking time to fucking contact lens there, just me fucking remember to give a fuck, so why eyeball. are you fucking cracking on about

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I am on the tube and the drunk boy I mean, the next thing I know, he is on the train is pretty. his eyebrows following me down the escalators are pale gold and his lips are loose. and every few steps he drops his the back of his tan neck begs money, pound coins roll across the kissing and nibbling. he is polished tube station floor. I bend convinced he is coming home with down and pick them up and give me. how come? let‘s go back one them to him and each time after move, ten minutes ago, he got into time, he says thank you. thank you. the train carriage with me. go back thank you. I laugh and he laughs another move, twenty minutes ago too. then he puts them back into his we talked at the ticket machine. go trouser pockets full of holes, again back further, he was outside the and again. pub and he followed me into the tube station. rushing to catch the he says, fucking holes. should sew last tube to north london. hang on, them holes up. you are right, he now go back one more scene about repeats himself, I fucking should forty five minutes ago, we were in sew them up. do you know I have the same pub. his friend spilt my seven pairs of trousers and do you drink. then insisted on buying me know all of them have no pockets another. then they made us do a that work, all got holes, he says. shot of something. I laughed and said that was how they got to talk oh let me sew your trouser pockets, to hot girls, spill their drinks on make you pies, soap your back into them and make them talk to them. a lather and gently pet your are you hot girls then? he winked sleeping head. I think and I smile at arrogantly. well I haven‘t heard him. I like him, I like people with any complaints lately I volleyed broken teeth, ripped pockets and back. well you seem to be talking to worn down heels. I love him, I love us anyway. yes I do now don‘t I. you and your damaged goods. you are a chink in the china and a closing time. as I was leaving, he, tarnished tea spoon. I know that that one, the one with the soft you and me, we could hold onto cheeks, flushed with alcohol, the the torn sails together of a sinking one there, with that one freckle ship and weather a storm and I between the bristle and his top lip. know we‘d find dry land. we could imagine that soft cheek and that smash up the furniture and throw freckle against your inner the splinters on a fire to keep thigh…but yes, he leaned over and warm. we could blag it, rinse them said lady, take me home with you all and get away with murder. and I paused and then nodded and you‘d repair some of my fractures. yesnoyesnomaybenoyesnoyno no but still match my broken parts. no….he must have only heard the but you could never damage me nodding part. any more than I already am or my ill repaired patchwork head would next thing I know…he‘s adorable. already allow. we‘d be good as new. we‘d be held together with

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saftey pins and the bitterness of tomorrow morning. daylight disparage and sour experience ripping open the darkness, would force us to work together, to morningness screaming onto get along and get on with it. We‘d twisted sheets. sweat and spunk. peel the eyes off potatoes and make spit and exchange. tea and toast. them chips all good again, eat them headaches and mess. deadlines and on the grand sofa of this journey. socks. conscience and guilt. and we may as well get condoms and awkwardness. emails comfortable since we are here, we and phones ringing. lips and eyes. chose the path, we‘ll find our way eventually, the long way around. but what eyes he has, what eyes he Darling, I keep picking up stray has indeed, so blue. they are so cats and underdogs, I never learn, I blue. it always begins with the eyes have no umbrella and in London it and ends, ends with the eyes too is raining cats and dogs. remember. lashes fluttering, battering down the doors and walls he thinks I will take him home with of my give a fuck. fuck. fuck. me. In fact he is sure of it. I am tottenham court road. where do thinking I might take him home you live? I ask him, where do you too. and for a few stops, I am live? again I ask him where do you convinced of it as clapham bleeds live? that was tottenham court into waterloo and chunders into road. he mumbles, siddenham. charing cross. we are in central where? siddenham. where is london now. the halfway point, no siddenham? he laughs. I ask him turning back or is there? he is again. eventually he replies south beside me, engaged and east london. then you are on the gnegrossed in chatting to me about wrong train. but I am coming home anything and everything. is it too with you. no. you cannot come late to turn back? home with me. yes I can. no you can‘t. I can. no. I thought I was his eyes are a blue fire, lively as life coming home with you. oh go on. itself, self assured and his nature is no. oh. oh. oh ok am I not coming true to form, a drunk and plucky home with you then? no. if you get young man. now there‘s a truth. I off here you can catch the last train wonder what I will do with him at back south just cross the platform my house anyway. I picture him in and… my kitchen and then I imagine him in my bed. then even worse than gone. the eyes. goodbye blue eyes. that, I begin to wonder how old he goodbye freckle. gone away now. might be. and once I start thinking just me and my own reflection and that it‘s a downward spiral. I my fucking head going home realise now that he must be much, alone. fuck being sensible. fuck much younger than me. and worst being careful. fuck deadlines. fuck of all for once it bothers me. that he giving a fuck. fuck getting an early is so young and wasted. and I don‘t night and fucking fuck fuck know his name. I fast forward to fuck….fuck tea. fuck toast.

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MY SECRET MUSEUM

By GUTTERSAINT

I‘m not really sure what caused me towards picture postcards, CV‘s to start collecting photographs. I (carte de visite), tin-types, cabinet think it must have been a cards, and other actual photos, I fascination for the strange, the discovered the most wonderful old beauty of the unfamiliar, and an and antique prints that were added interest in the history of to my collection. It became a sort photography. The attraction to the of secret museum, a private odd images that began to develop menagerie of forgotten images that as I first struggled to find my way only I possessed, as if I could as a photographer and as an artist. breathe new life into these people Combing street fairs, antique far gone into oblivion. stores, and junk shops of American and European, it would always be I‘d spend hours sifting through the photographs that would be hundreds if not thousands of brought home as souvenirs. It was photos at flea markets, often the the most unusual images that remnants of estates whose previous spoke strongest to me, that asked owners had died. I felt as if my to be investigated and pondered hands were prying into the secret over. Where others were taught lives of families now forgotten, or not to gawk and look, I hungrily that I had gained access to the feasted and wanted more. Drawn visual diaries of a stranger‘s

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private life. There were secrets to the only person not smiling at a be learned if you simply looked 19th-century party… why was he so long enough. Was I intruding? sad? What was the reason for him not enjoying himself? The images became a catalyst for my creative imagination.

Sometimes I‘d buy a picture simply because it was a portrait of a man I was sexually attracted to, and I could sexually fantasize what he was like. Like the picture of a British sailor taken in the 1930s, sitting in a patio garden in Alexandria, Egypt, underneath a Katherine Hepburn movie poster. He reveals a classic profile. A man whose beauty could still, after eighty or ninety years, enrapture and titillate me. Was I cruising the dead and forgotten? Perhaps I am guilty of creating a new fetish, in the sexual attracting of the images I would feel a tinge of sadness of beautiful, dead males. when gazing at these people, knowing they had died years before I was born. What were their lives like? Who were they, and what were their personal histories? I longed to know the unknowable, wanted to know their most intimate details. My pupils became the mirror in which the dead reflect. Their images frozen, stiff postures from having to sit still so long for a daguerreotype, spoke to me in whispers. Their heirs may have discarded them into the dustbin of time, but for me, they were reborn. They ask for recognition, ask to be remembered. I would sometimes make up stories about them, quite elaborate and fantastic, like the two sisters who Indeed, it is the power of the image poisoned an entire town. Or the that invokes romance, sexual lust, sad face of a young man who was and fascination that makes the

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photograph such a spellbinding phenomena. As in pornography, the image can incite, stir, excite and sometimes seem to have a strange power over the viewer. The Magic Gaze. As an infusion of fantasy- adrenalin, it works wonders. Why shouldn‘t one revel in it?

As I hunted for images, I began to notice that I was collecting thematically, at first unconsciously and then more determined. I would categorize my prized images into families, men, women, male couples, children, houses, bizarre (mostly freaks and oddities), or entertainers. Then came the snake charmers. And let us not forget the burlesque strippers. Or the Mexican recognized by others of their kind. entertainer. And in the vicinity of San

Francisco, which had always been a sort of free zone for earlier gay men and women, I began to find what surely were pictorial examples of men in love with men. I thought that I was the only person collecting such images until the book ―Dear Friends‖ by David Deitcher showed me that others were also interested in the history of male couples in photography. As I hunted for images, I began to His collection far surpassed my find pictures of male couples, own, and his insightful many locked in embrace or holding commentary is worth reading if hands, a knee pressed close to a one is interested in the history of friend‘s leg, perhaps another man male love. resting his head in the lap of another. Were these pictures proof Midgets and dwarfs were also of male love when homosexuality featured in images I collected, first was not even really defined as a out of simple curiosity, but then category? I‘d read of 18th and 19th perhaps in a desire to assemble my century male homosexuals creating own private Lilliput. Midget hidden signals for each other, such revues in picture postcards, usually as flashy neckties, in order to be sold by the performers for extra

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income as souvenirs, seemed to with their trauma. They‟ve already leap out at me in flea markets. I passed their test in life. They‟re would find CV‘s or cabinet cards of aristocrats.” early performers, including the legendary General Tom Thumb, perhaps history‘s most celebrated small person who traveled the world with impresario P.T. Barnum. The photos I purchased were not bought to gawk and laugh at. I never saw my small friends as something to deride or mock. Instead, I became aware that I identified with them. Not by their size, but I think it was more by their ability to turn a disadvantage into an advantage, to shine rather than to fade.

Gradually the images of freak shows or human oddities also became part of my collection, not only to oogle at but also out of

sheer respect for them. They were Their outsider status reflected my my aristocrats. Frances O‘Connor, own, and I saw them as kindred who acted in Todd Browning‘s spirits – however imagined their Freaks, is toasting us with her feet stance on life was in my mind. (her autograph is on the reverse of Theirs was a secret world, one in the picture). An unfortunate man which I longed to be a part of, to be reveals his monstrous testicles, accepted in. As I have always felt swollen beyond belief due to the most comfortable in the company parasitic sickness elephantiasis. of those deemed freakish or unacceptable by common standards of society, my dwarfs and midgets became my very good friends.

I must agree with Diane Arbus, who stated that, ―Most people go through life dreading they‟ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born

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Siamese twin babies, connected at photographer that I am, and am the top of the head, sold as a still becoming. They have taught souvenir picture postcard – did me to look beyond the surface, to their parents hawk their image? A examine the hidden meaning, and picture of a dead baby (funeral even to use my creative pictures were common in imagination in the most photography‘s adolescent years) or pleasurable way. a jungle native holding a severed Japanese WWII soldier‘s head… all In my ―secret museum‖, I‘m of these were images that horrified gathering the aesthetical the gazer, repelled and then gunpowder on which to further my strangely commanded you to look own artistic sensibilities. The again. And again and again. It is discarded faces and figures of the the combination of shock and past are still very much alive for curiosity that give such images me, and hopefully I will somehow their riveting hold over the viewer. find the method to renew the memories of their lives, perhaps in using them in future works of art. I think just showing them to other people brings life back to them again. And certainly they infuse me with an energy and a sense of the celebratory. I hope you feel the same.

My collection grew by the year. As I took photographs myself, it was in the collecting of images that changed me from a struggling amateur with a camera, to a professional photographer dedicated to learning the craft and art form. I began to see the different kinds of quality and methods of printing, and became influenced by them. I wanted to take photographs and capture images as evocative and startling as the ones I collected. It was a long process, but I have realized that my ―friends‖ have educated and guided me as well as developed me into the art

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THE COSTA RICA EIGHT MILE

By Gene Gregorits, Pecker on a Downward Spiral

Image © Chris Brandrick

Do you understand, gentleman, not the sedan, but the mini-SUV- that all the horror is in just this – thing. It‘s like a large toaster on that there is no horror! wheels. ―Only an asshole drives a car like that,‖ my greasemonkey -A. KUPRIN friend Delbert says frequently about many vehicles when we‘re Much more affliction than already crossing the blighted plains of felt suburban Detroit together, and They can not well impose, nor I although I am sickened by cars, car sustain. prattle, and car worship, I do respect his opinion. In this car, -J. MILTON submerged in the wet, Lovecraftian

murk which rose off the In the wrong lane Chesapeake Bay and rolled rogue- Trying to turn against the flow like as if smirking at me across the I’m the ocean cobblestone streets of Fell‘s Point, I’m the giant undertow fiend and prey were working it out

naturally, developing certain -N. YOUNG rhythms at times (at 02:15:37 EST

her legs encased him, bent at the BALTIMORE: LATE DECEMBER, knees and gripping desperately his 2009 hips, her feet curled tightly against

the back of his thighs, her hands It was a straight up rape, after 2 contorted into reptillian things, A.M., on Thames Street, one block etching deep, angry grooves into from what is perhaps the greatest her assailant‘s clammy shoulders of all American television as the passenger side armrest landmarks, the Homicide: Life on caused the victim mild internal the Streets building. As we bleeding around her lower back), approach, we can hear the Mills lapsing into barbarism at others (at Brothers‘ ―Someday (You‘ll Want 02:31:12 EST there could be heard Me to Want You)‖ drifting lazily as far away as the Apex Adult out of a restaurant‘s empty kitchen Cinema four blocks north the entrance. The fiend has repeated cracks of her skull against overpowered his victim and is the ridiculous car‘s windows and having his beastly way with her in dashboard). From a few feet away, one of those goofy little Scion cars- had there been any witnesses, the

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roles assumed within this forced sending the scene crashing back to coupling were indiscernible, as was Earth, from Hell. their cries, at once more obvious and less ominous than the parked I know this to be true, and consider car‘s strained movements. Had this it often, because I am a fiend. assault transpired on a weekend, the streets flooded with frat boys One / your precious children and frat girls obsessed with Irish whiskey and group sex, it is I‘d met with a 24 year old heathen doubtful that much fuss would named Izabel Slutzky at Lexington have been made of it, given the Market earlier in the day. There prehistoric nature of that culture‘s was a heavy, dank air of mating rituals. But on this calm foreboding redolent of diesel weekend night, while just a few exhaust, which approached the days before Christmas, belligerent supernatural in its baleful mob activity was nil. The phosphorescence and which likelihood of such a disturbance as loomed over the already angrier- was in progress within that eyesore than-usual Baltimore stink-haze, of an auto alarming the sensibilities the cumulative effect being a of a passerby would seem to be mournful soak in vaporized bilge much greater. It seems that most water, and cursed with a wretched people cling with a fiery passion – and eternal hurt, the air thick with and, of course, zero substance- to ash, so that one was reminded of notions of altruism, of brotherly exactly how far from God one truly love, sacrifice, and other such was, particularly on this wintry generic Christian claptrap. But the and sullen Baltimore dusk when surreal cognitive shock of inner city little Negro children cried but no violence will set upon the civilized birds did sing...(et cetera). human psyche with the velocity of Category 3 hurricane winds, and Actually, I honestly don‘t believe sadly, when perilously close to a there was anything exceptional stranger in crisis, flight is a about the weather at all, but yeah, witness‘s dominant instinctive sure, it was cold I guess, because it reaction. Perhaps, when at a safe was fucking December. And it distance, the witness will report the stank and was damp, sure, because incident to local authorities, but the it was fucking Baltimore. But I‘m fiend works quickly, the thinking of the pomposity of procedural quality and integrity of confused slobs like Izabela, and his transgressions is sacrosanct to their monstrous hunger for terrible him, and unless his mind is torn writing. Jesus wept. completely asunder by chemicals or spirits, the fiend will be long Izabela studied writing for several gone before any red flashing lights years at a prestigious college, cut through the nightmare‘s dank because no one had taken the time - old cloth and ectomorphic tendrils, or, more likely, no one ever had the good sense to explain to her- that

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pure writing can not be taught. She I‘ve always cherished most, above rejected my anti-establishment all else. I was the first to announce convictions as the vulgar bigotry of its obscenity to anyone who‘d a roughneck menace, a severely listen. I also tried to apologize to troubled autodidact, and similarly anyone who cared. But few would failed to see the fundamental listen, and fewer still cared. No wrongness of the gimmick- matter the remorse I felt, the stigma dependant, Nice Guy Badge- was indelible and it was eternal: flaunting, publicity-crazed Muppet ―death for the rotten scum called Dave Eggers, who she Gregorits and his anti-human, anti- dutifully took on as her own art hatespeak…to hell with him! personal lord and savior, along Don‘t even mention his name with countless other de-fanged, de- around here!‖ Second was a clawed, and de-balled spokesmen monthly sex diary I wrote for an for middle class mediocritons and obscure B-movie journal which had smug little art school cunts. I cemented my reputation as a sex suppose that chapped my ass a pervert and all-round hapless little. (Okay, it chapped my ass a goon, at least in the LOT. I become something other Maryland/D.C. area where I was than sweet-natured when my back currently floundering through a is to the wall and I‘m forced into series of farcical trysts exclusively, the futile task of trying to explain as it happened, with wealthy myself to a silly, simple-minded young girls enrolled at the child with whom I have entangled legendary Maryland Institute of myself for appallingly shallow and Cartoon Animals (MICA). These blatantly venal reasons.) The mentally imbalanced, problem wasn‘t only Izabel‘s amphetamine-driven sprites utterly cosmetic view of and demanded of their sex partners offensively bourgeois approach to prodigious intake of their the art of writing, but also the deep pharmaceutical speed, which had a dissatisfaction I so flagrantly had profoundly sexual effect on me, with my own work. I have to debilitating me at times, and best admit, my most recent publications characterized by a crazed obsession were not going to ensnare the with oral copulation, golden attention nor provoke the affection showers, and chain smoking. These of any respectable literary agent. girls simultaneously and seemingly First, there was an altogether snide independent of one another had arts and culture book about New taken to referring to me as ―dirty York performance artists who Gene‖. It‘s true that I was not well, commit suicide onstage while in my writing, in my body, or in engaged in relations (of a sexual my life. It all began in April with nature, obviously) with children, the savage murder of my cat, and various farm animals. This Hank, the world‘s gentlest little book shamed me most deeply, and soul, by the pit bulls my house on cost me the love of my parents, Ash Street was completely which as you‘d probably guess, surrounded by, and who had

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terrorized all occupants of that my grief, the owners of the dogs house (including a young pug dog, would have to die violently, at my a death metal guitarist, a MICA girl hands. And then, I slipped into a addicted to cocaine, or more state of shock. specifically, cocaine sex, and a couple of impassioned His death was slow and environmentalists who were also unimaginably painful. fearsome sociopaths, the kind that make your poor beaten-down I unraveled quickly and violently. Gregorits look like Mary Poppins) for over one year. I was pleading I was surrounded by degenerate on my knees one evening before drinkers, slobs, and vampires; lost my infernal teenage daughter- between the crashing waves in my fixation, the girl called Sarah own sea of equal opportunity Tilapia. This Lolita-kick of mine abuse and neglect. had gotten way out of hand: I‘d been seeing the globetrotting It was before and during that twenty-something frat-girl since grievously ghoulish and death- February, and the night of Hank‘s ridden period that I came to love scourging by redneck terror-dogs, I Sarah, the most libidinous girl I‘ve was in tears, beseeching her to known. She had awoken a few remain with me, making the usual good things in me, sparked to life a promises, clinging to her-or, rather, bit of my old self with her childish the idea of us, clinging to this invocations and small gestures, hopeless dream as a drowning man who had smothered me, my soul would to a piece of disintegrating not to keep, with a tender, driftwood. The very minute she vulnerable, and trusting gaze such had given in to my pitiful wailing, as I had never felt, and the most there was a commotion outside, rapturous of all cunt, who adored and I broke from her embrace to me and dreaded me, and it was too charge over a low wire fence head- good in a sense, because the on into a gore-smeared pit bull, undeniable transience of our tearing open most of my fingertips affections was always the white on its teeth in a hopeless attempt to elephant in the room, never more free Hank. His small face was omnipresent than during our sad, cracked and broken like a beer prolonged bouts of lovemaking, pretzel. I understood within which continued to escalate in seconds, in a flash of concentrated frequency and in mutual psychotic lucidity that my life wasn‘t worth determination all the way up to the jack shit anymore, not in Baltimore, last one, like some demonic white- or Berlin, or Tokyo, or anywhere, trash re-tread of Last Tango in not without Hank…my dearest Paris, and the all-consuming fear I friend. A 15 year relationship, all had of the end could only hasten it, that mattered, raped and ruined. I what was an unnatural, sad, and understood within seconds that probably risible affair in the first eventually, if I were ever to lessen place; and so it was aborted after

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I‘d become so fatally, unspeakably razor wounds resulted in an ER cuntstruck that I couldn‘t tie my visit and psychiatric evaluation shoes or count backwards from ten during which I was deemed a without giving up, my every threat and placed under protective thought collapsing in a weary, care. I escaped quickly, over a deconstructed heap only moments barbed wire fence early in the after arrival. I groveled, wept, morning, and hotfooted it -shoeless spent weeks crashed out in strange on July Baltimore asphalt- back to apartments, going through all the that haunted place where I slapstick motions of deadly resumed my diet of Colt 45, withdrawal. I blubbered and freeloaded marijuana, and one raw blustered in shifts. That god egg per day, usually letting the damned devil Lolita…7,10, a dozen squalid, clammy afternoons (like fucks a day! I couldn‘t get enough NYC, Baltimore makes its own of her little body, and all that kind of fecal gravy in the euphoric, unnaturally good fucking summertime) pass minute by had built up in me like poison. I miserable minute with the black was a raving jackass, sleeping in folks next door, a pleasant mixture creekbeds, moaning like an old of Vietnam vets, welfare mothers, ghost in between the blaring of car security guards, and drug dealers. horns up and down Falls Road. I No one was quite so kind to me chain-smoked until my chest during this time, which also rattled and my gums bled. I made included jail, and police beatings, it so that in the end, it was easy for as my neighbors. Pablo was a her to choose younger, untroubled Special Ops Marine, who‘d no men, and a new life in New York doubt killed more men with his City, over anything even remotely bare hands than he could even close to my flaming little death begin to count. Panda Bear was a pageant in a dank Charles Village lazy bum, whose only interest was rowhome. in getting high- who could blame him? I can still hear Mama Dolores I set immediately to murdering cackling as I stumbled out onto the myself, first via starvation, because porch at 7 A.M. with a warm bottle I had no money for a pistol, and of malt liquor: ―good morning, knew no one who owned guns. I Mister Gene! Oh honey, HOW you could not bear the thought of doin‘, baby? I done SAW you crash failing yet another attempt with a into that station wagon on your blade, so the too-slow starvation bike yessaday, honey you oughts to method was followed by an IV be on television!‖ and then, her overdose of cocaine, which caused customary farewell, ―stop to think, a stroke that did nothing more than and THINK to STOP, awwright leave me paralyzed for a few days, baby? You gone be fine, Gene!‖ 62 and then, not without a great years old, in a cloud of pot smoke, resignation, the blade once again. I loving me more than my own wilted down from 220 pounds to a mother, despite my mental illness skeletal 150, and my most recent and my four illegitimate infant

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children scattered throughout ASSHOLE,‖ she would protest, but Baltimore City proper. Who knows very much in vain because it had how many years it would be before for several years been known to all I could act as a decent role model and sundry-except me-that Iz was to any of them? I sold my cherished indeed the most well-fondled, record and book collections to a fiddled, faddled, fucked, sucked, shop around the corner, caring no shtupped, slippery-dicked, longer for anything but booze, sex, diddled, deep-dished, dorked, dog and whatever cheap laughter I and ponied, double-derriere‘d could find. There was nothing else young dilettante in Baltimore‘s for me. I had long since stopped burgeoning Jim Henson and Rocco going to work. Instead, I took Sefriedi-influenced ―Fraggle Rock advantage of a gratis video store Porn‖ music scene. The frisky little membership, renting six films a frau fronted what I could only day, shoplifting cheap steaks from assume to be an unfunny joke band the Giant supermarket, and called ―Padre Papoose‖ that I had determinedly working up intricate always despised intensely, while new ploys with which to cheat the loitering in doorways when they righteously stoned young clerks at played the local bars only long the Greenmount Avenue Rite Aid enough to visually combine the out of wine and liquor. I taunted nastily sexy plumpness of her sleazy homicide detectives in the thighs with the rather off-putting, most cutthroat ghetto barrooms disingenuously precocious Alfred and fucked anything in a skirt. I E. Neumann grin she proudly slept behind fried chicken joints displayed while stumbling drunk with shell shocked veterans, and in and giggling, loathsomely making the woods behind Johns Hopkins, a fool of herself through each set of rescued stray cats from roadsides their sloppy indie-rock / cartoon and alleys in the early morning folk garbage as I continued whiskey fog of bars that opened at juxtaposing the two images in my 5 A.M., and enjoyed the disgust of fevered imagination to remind me those who watched me disappear, how easily obtainable she seemed, a pound, five pounds, ten pounds as I power-pumped my pulsating at a time. This time, I was going all pork in some repugnant men‘s the way, I had the guts for it, room, leaving me hormonally finally, and that brought me a crashed so as to be able to enjoy my strange peace. numbing alcohol sessions without the moronic but hideously potent It was also at this time that I mania of sexualized grief. Yes, it discovered the legs which would was Izabela whose shows I secure yet another level of frequented, because I was damnation, those of the hirsute, becoming in my big fried bean gap-toothed Polish dingbat named determinedly fixated on those legs Izabela Slutsky. This unfortunate of hers, because after only a few surname was pronounced SLOOT- months I made the decision that skee- ―it‘s SLOOTSKEE, you those legs answered something,

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and I suspect this came about my stinking failure in that that mainly because each of my post- dead city. Sarah, my frat-girl love, Lolita MICA girls was rather tiny was long gone, and my tabby, and so speed-shriveled that Hank, after having his poor opulent thighs like Izabela‘s pulverized little body dragged brought me warmly towards through the court system and something a little more disinterred no less than three times recognizably maternal, a buffer, by cat-hating Baltimore police for perhaps, against the unwavering rabies tests (the pit bulls‘ owner threat of Fatal Panic. was suing me), was finally rotting alone but in peace, in a barren Two / talk to my agent Jarretsville horse pasture, his grave unmarked save for a $2 plastic Yes, my treacherous Miss Slutsky rose, a doghouse flower, surely was indeed a voracious little sex blown into a nearby creek or beast, I knew that right off, but she reservoir by this time. I myself had was also a bogus bohemian nitwit emerged from a solid 7 months of currently $75,000 in debt, which I institutional confusion and gross learned later was the general price public scenes, and emerged for just that confused young people pay in one more, with my only platonic order to call themselves writers. female friend, Kirstie Faust. Izabela was an immigrant, and former prostitute, having grown up I‘d been told to remain indoors, as I in Poland where she apparently was by now a marked man, but learned to be evil personified, considerably emboldened by a already turning tricks at the age of bottle and a half of my favorite ten in the crude provincial cheap Chilean red (compliments of outskirts of Krakow. Her father Rite Aid), we hopped into Kirstie‘s was a thug ex-mercenary who had mangled compact car and drove a helped fill mass graves with mile west to a scummy rock club women and children during the where I‘d had some luck in recent, Balkan wars, and, she liked to similar outings. Kirstie was remind me frequently, had just thoroughly disinterested in sex: been promoted to a rather high why bother with such an odious ranking position within the Central enterprise when the possibility of Intelligence Agency in Langley, random psychological VA. Badly worn black and white manipulation in a crowd of photos of her old man frolicking at drunkards was perpetually one such death site with Slobodan imminent? She was a striking Milosevich more than quashed any young creature, with huge suspicion her claims had aroused. scheming g eyes, eerily childlike, It was to be one of my final nights markedly extraterrestrial in her in Baltimore. I‘d made a firm staggering arrogance and esoteric, commitment to myself; the time delicate mannerisms, and she was had come to wash off the wrathful always on a Fascism / mind damage of my sins and my sloth, control kick. (She‘d taunted me

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during our first weeks of contact, just the most wonderful thing, with amphetamine and nakedness, because ―you feel like you‘re still but I got over it, when I realized being fucked the next day.‖ I that the 19 year old scamp was in nodded politely, hoping that she most if not all ways the was drunk, and not really a intellectually sophisticated and disgusting pig of a whore. He of morally bankrupt little sister I‘d the freak-penis was acting manager always wanted but never had.) at the arthouse cinema where, Kirstie had enjoyed great success arguably, I was still employed (the when assisting me in my quests for nature of this confusion was such young women, guiding or re- that the subject of my employment centering my awkward advances in was consciously avoided by them bars and clubs. She delighted in my all…after all, it brought with it a swinishness and prurience, basked feeling of something arcane, ecstatically in my willing malevolent, coming out of some descriptiveness of the fruits her darkness of evil, and my true status deeply corrupt sisterly concern there was and would remain would often bear. I was feeling my forever shrouded in mystery. No long-absent beer paunch begin to one, not me, not even the theater‘s return, sucking down one owner could remember if I‘d been Budweiser after another, against fired, and the entire staff -save for the bar with the other ruinous and the underage workers, whom I irredeemable bastards. Kirstie plied with booze and dope- was elbowed me when Izabela began to afraid to approach me in my approach me from behind. skeletal condition, or to even look ―Quicken up, Gene‖, she said. At in my direction as I walked that moment, I felt more than ever through the lobby, muttering before like an older brother to curses to myself and openly Kirstie. (But an older brother who slurping down pints of Evan wants to fuck his little sister.) Williams or Old Grand Dad…so I came and went freely, collecting no Be it the moon, the wine, the paycheck, but coffee and chocolate culmination of so much doom bars aplenty, staying abreast of film having such an effect that I was just culture, sometimes sleeping in the drained, whatever the cause, I was back rows of one of the five relaxed and confident that night. auditoriums for 3 or more Any shyness exhibited was false, consecutive nights, such as when and Izabela and I chatted for over the best film of 2008, In Bruges an hour, mostly about her last returned for a weeklong run). lover‘s footlong penis. She called the young Lothario a ―chew toy‖ I informed Izabela of my (which effectively destroyed her permanent departure from youthfulness, immediately causing Baltimore in the next week, and me to think of her as not only a apologized that there wasn‘t time dirty whore, but an OLD whore) to get to know each other a little confiding also that a 12 inch dick is better. We were interrupted every 4

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seconds by yet another young adulthood during which I hipster fellow, his many delicate obviously had not learned nearly manufactured affectations enough. (But especially Anka…and invariably dropping from him like he‘s right, you know. ) as he spoke, but a conversation transpired nonetheless. I don‘t There was to be no late night remember anything she said meeting, romantic pretense or (anything unrelated to that fellow‘s otherwise. Instead, I agreed to an genitals, that is), as even then, afternoon lunch date, less than 72 despite the fact that neither of us hours before my final departure could or would admit it, the from this city, to which I had attraction was, though mutual, a vowed never to return. The night purely physical thing. She too, in before this date (I suggested the her swaggering infantilism, in her Lexington Market, for its ―fuck me‖ skirt and ―I‘m wet for considerable romantic potential), I your prick at this very minute‖ staggered home from an all night calfskin boots, saw me as a Dirty drinking session at a frat house Loser, and I, in my compromised / littered with middle aged contaminated idealism, in my eccentrics spouting intellectual basement-scented hobo rags, saw yuppie rubbish, where I felt the her as a ditzy piece of art-school doom once again, from out of tail worth the abusive array of Cat nowhere, and so slashed my wrists Power or Bright Eyes or Bat For with a brand new Wilkinson Arms Lashes or Peter Bjorn & John double edged razor blade I had albums she‘d inevitably force me to found in my coat during the 5 listen to in her car. That night, I block walk home. reminded myself what outsized egos rock‘n‘roll singers, even lousy Three / all things put together ones, nurture and cultivate daily, and how this is permissible and Our first date commenced then at even encouraged in female singers the Lexington Market, an other- particularly…and stripped of worldly spectacle which does merit romantic pretense, I allowed a thorough rendering by The myself to push for a good old Artist, a necessity to which I will fashioned one night stand, on that unhappily submit, because it seems night. Perhaps if I‘d been quicker to be the city‘s only to determine how little she recommendable spot. Imagine the understood or appreciated the very choking olfactory bluster of stale things she claimed to love most sweat, raw meat, cooking meat, urgently, chiefly writing, if I‘d disinfectant, fish funk, deep-fry known what a homicidal, hate- grease pits, and fresh baked goods fueled cunt this cougar-in-training that any large and ancient inner- truly was….well, you know what‘s city market lays singular claim to, usually said of regrets. Paul Anka‘s and top that off with cheap famous song comes to mind, as whiskey, cigarette smoke, human well as my previous 15 years of shit, and more fish funk. Imagine a

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massive indoor sprawl of vendors, cops and the maintenance tables, stalls, booths and counters men…never a cross word spoken, encompassing the cuisine of every never an angry voice, drunkards significantly industrialized nation retiring quietly to hide in the on earth, except for, perhaps, walloping stench of the restrooms France, and imagine that stifling until recharged, ready to rejoice odor met or exceeded by the righteously in the rarified market number and concentration of air. I‘d spend $2 at the Japanese human bodies (either drunken and stall, $3 at the Korean stall, another grossly overdrawn, or speed- 4 on authentic Mexican tacos, cranked and tireless) creating the maybe throw a few to one of the vaguely sub-Roman spectacle thirteen seafood merchants, person by person, each with his or keeping the beer flowing, a good, her own special role, in all their hearty knosh there in the roiling various un-magical endeavors, and morass of SERIOUS HUMANITY. then you have it: a sensory immersion which maybe itself is I‘d been waiting for only a minute somewhat magical, and certainly or two, standing at one of the tables outdoes any urban market in the west end‘s lower level dining experience I‘ve ever had. Also, platform, when Izabela arrived. you‘re never more than 50 paces The vibe was BAD. I gave her a from a large, well-stocked liquor quick, impersonal hug, unsure – stall, and you‘re the only white and distrustful- of her intentions, person there. Now you‘ve got it. and took her first to the beer stand, then to the adjacent sushi counter. I‘d had the routine down, having We adjourned to the dirty dining haunted the Lex regularly since area on the second level, where she making the most catastrophic questioned my heavily bandaged choice of my life three years ago, arm, and asked me if the rumors when I fled Detroit for Baltimore. about me being a heroin addict The routine developed quickly, were true. I told her the arm was a first hitting the Korean-operated moving accident, and that anyone pizzeria for their daily special of who told her I was a junkie was $2.50 Heinekens (from the bottle, obviously trying to scare her away but served in a white plastic cup), from me because I was a sex fiend, savoring the crowd, the dopers and a wolfen rapist, and a putrid the dose-y whores, the laid back alcoholic. This ―bad boy‖ routine truckers and deranged fisherman, works so well it‘s positively the hawkers and spooners, the sickening. But little did I know choplickers and hammerheads, the then how supremely revolted her strawberry tarts and stingray friends were by the lumbering pimps, the phebes and the phoids, specter of me, and my local infamy the pickpockets and people as ―Crazy Gene‖, ―Scumbag Gene‖ watchers, the jokers and croakers, or, as her winsome art school the dinks and the coffee addicts, playmates seemed to insist upon, the aged and the homeless, the ―old writer dude‖. Of course, most

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of them had carnal knowledge of ―What makes them so high and this girl, and I was pleased as mighty? From what I‘ve heard, punch, being an old crazy scumbag those M.I.C.A. kids are far worse writer dude, that I could steal the than I ever was. Or am.‖ closest thing these soft young boys had to a diva. And to think, I ―Uh huh.‖ hadn‘t lifted a finger, hadn‘t stuck out my little toe that night, but, ―Yeah, a whole new level of apathetic and careworn in my old scumbaggery. It just doesn‘t seem age, had simply leaned there as bad, because they‘re all grunting and sucking suds, letting Muppets. If you talk and act and her do all the work and embarrass dress like a Muppet, you can get herself, learning the pros and cons away with anything.‖ of a freakishly large unit from a morbidly passionate size queen! ―Uh huh. That‘s brilliant.‖ That‘s what works best for me, you see: as long as I can keep my big ―Looks like I‘m going to need stupid mouth shut… another beer.‖

And she continued: ―I saw you one A sarcastic art school girl was night on 36th Street. You were looking at me over a greasy table smoking in front of Townie‘s Bar, like I was a test monkey and I and I said to my friends, ‗now didn‘t care. I‘d already been fed to that‘s the guy I want.‘ I thought the pit bulls by one insatiable you looked like James Dean, heathen who gleefully danced on standing there.‖ my grave, so nothing looked very romantic to me anymore. I was I was grinning like a real asshole, I reduced to the level of a mange- couldn‘t help it. I was thinking, ridden half-Alsatian / half-Mongol ―keep going, honey. Maybe Heath creature who hangs out behind the Ledger, as well? What else did you Kroger supermarket caked in his think?‖ own feces licking his own asshole, riding only once a day to tell jokes ―But they all said, ‗that‘s Gene, he‘s for quarters until security guards a junkie‘.‖ half-heartedly chase him into hiding again. It was only a matter I drained my cup and said, ―well, a of time, maybe a month, maybe a drug addict isn‘t necessarily a year, before I snapped, unable to junkie. I believe they may have cope with my condition at such a their terms confused.‖ late stage in life, and developed a plot of mass carnage, painstakingly ―And they said you were an researched to insure that Total alcoholic. They said you‘ll fuck Damage was inflicted upon those anything in a skirt.‖ (including myself) whom I held responsible.

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We shared another beer, and natural guilt and self-consciousness talked, mostly about my nasty I feel is, if not fleeting, then at least reputation. I was becoming fed up minimal, held in check by with the subject, she was making whatever level of derangement, me quite unhappy, but I‘d made estrangement, or basic meanness the trip already, all the way from I‘m experiencing that day (and Charles Village, so I remained, and also, by the guilt of others, which serviced her ego without shame you can see quite plainly on so when I confessed to what I chose to many smashnosed faces). Those call ―infatuation‖ (although I didn‘t feelings run deep, stubbornly, and specify which part of her they are such that my presence is specifically I was infatuated with). not challenged, maybe not even Izabela confessed to being drunk resented. But with a pretty girl on already, so after trespassing my arm, I am not the same feral throughout the Lex‘s many narrow creep, now softened, perhaps maintenance and management celebratory in my mood, a normal corridors, running at a good clip, no-good o-fay motherfucker….I pretending to be lost, me then appear in the eyes of the pretending to find this juvenile hardcore Lex regulars as a sore John Hughes bullshit endlessly thumb, an insensitive gloater, a charming, and then, after contemptuous little shit, a grinning insincerely proposing that we punk cocksucker way out of his collaborate on an article about the depth, dependent upon police for place (interviewing the janitors and his safety, a tourist, a rubbernecker, such), we began to make our exit, all manner of things no one but eliciting many hostile stares from those actual smug cocksuckers the crowd. I walked too fast, would ever want to be associated something I do when my mind is with, much less mistaken for. But elsewhere, but kept an arm around it‘s true, the Lex summons forth her waist, navigating our way some comforting voices in me, I through the throng of juiceheads can drink there and melt into it all and panhandlers, as if afraid for with ease, the hours skulking by her safety or concerned that she like bored alleycats, in the blur of was too precious to remain among wide open, public sensory the rabble one second more than distortion, in a rare, uncorrupted necessary. Of course, it was those place that allows for thought, very people who have my deepest allows BREATH to enter my lungs, respect, and in a sense, we‘d been and I‘m readied for some trespassers the minute we entered meaningful, thoughtful, soulful the market, because Izabela exchanges with my fellow man… behaved like an exhibitionist, yet I am exceedingly picky when it rather than a guest in someone‘s comes to companionship there. home. This sort of deliberate Several months before, my first straying into a house of ―other‖ is date with Sarah transpired at the normally something I‘ll permit Lex, and on that day I did not myself when alone, because the drink at all, instead focusing all of

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my available energies on making somehow lacking, was nonetheless the most of what I suspected (what an essential component of this, and truly felt like, I mean to say) was a was therefore unassailable, utterly clear head and a bright mood. I without fault, because this was limited myself to casual perfect: our romance writ large on observations, and never let my their walls and in their time. And I enthusiasms or my staccato was maybe a bit sheepish, but it narration grow tiresome or was light we brought with us that strident, holding it together. I did day, it was a glow I gave off not mumble, as I often do out of because of her, and those poor old nerves, I did not babble or lisp or bastards saw it. A few even winked soapbox. On that day, I was COOL, at me, perhaps sensing that she my last twenty bucks and no was too good for me, and while I cigarettes and ―anything you want, still couldn‘t wait to get the hell out baby, I‘m loaded!‖ On that day, I of there (lying almost dormant in was sober as a hanging judge and me was the dread of the moment at concerned only with her happiness, which the pair of us would I played ―normal‖ as we toured the overstay our welcome, find market from one end to another, ourselves the source of some then back again, without any affront, no matter how small, discomfort or worry or fear, we because this would bother the shit were smooth and sober and out of me, and what good am I to a attentive to each other, we were in girl like Sarah when bothered in love and letting a beautiful day just that way?), I knew in my heart that happen, as one so seldom does. I we were having the best fucking found a way to lose myself a little afternoon together, maybe the best in those crowds with her as I did we‘d ever have (it was), that no alone, and the old men smiled at us other place could have paved the as we walked past. There was in way for these moments, could have Sarah and I both a profound allowed me to be as reassuring to respect for their tolerance of us, for her, to have given her that time. their endurance, a gratitude for Leaving the Market, this 5‖2‘ Irish their acceptance, an acute beauty looking all the world like awareness that their old school Olivia Hussey in the 1960s, with toughness, all that mean street cool, her brown hair and after-storm made our short time there eyes, pulled herself up to me and something more than it would kissed my cheek: ―thank you for have been without them, with a the most perfect date ever‖. I am middle class crowd, such as the left with a kind of delirium, of both collegiate hordes of Federal detachment and an aggressive, Hill…like me, I believe Sarah‘s almost bludgeoning wonderment experience there was permeated by when reflecting on it today, an implicit awareness that astounded by the notion that anything we lacked, or that any something as superficially aspect of us in which we, for any unremarkable as a Lexington multitude of possible reasons, were Market date can assume such

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proportions, and even more vulgar child who possessed none shocking that the day was of Sarah‘s sweetness, I did feel as I exceptional in the minds of us both, feared I might on that day with in the moment, on the spot, Sarah. She was gone and what was without even a week to begin the left saddened and angered me dimming of the sharp neon, the beyond reason, so I simply let the obscuring of the rough edges, the beer work its effect on me, losing process by which the mundane myself falsely in the possibilities of becomes mythical. My memories of the hours ahead, in which Izabela that afternoon are among my would simply remain at my side, fondest ever, and that somehow or not. I suppose I was jubilant transcends whether or not we went when she agreed to accompany me our separate ways or stayed further into the evening, but not in together another month or two, a reverential way of being jubilant, whether our failure was mutually as you might be without skepticism engineered in fits of excessive or unease, inhabiting your truest dysfunction, a rather tired example and purest self, as it were, but of sustained sexual obsession gone rather soaking up the 3rd rate glory sour, the result of circumstantial of pulling off some petty thieving misfortune, or simply a foregone bullshit, of scoring drugs or kiting conclusion due to basic a bad check, when you know your generational incompatability. No luck is shot but getting away with matter what we were or why we it one more time, OUT of time, feels ended, nothing could ever have good for all the wrong reasons. It‘s been as good as that day. (The like a crack rush. Giving yourself subsequent evening was also good, over to vice a little more deeply out if rather dull by comparison to the of desperation. The law of high flying adventure of Lexington diminished kicks, my crackhead Market . I probably gave her a long pal Tracy used to say when the massage, and maybe I licked some stuff ran out or just wasn‘t any strawberry ice cream out of her good. If I‘d taken the time to think butt. Maybe we just watched the about it, if I fucking cared at all, I talk shows and picked at our cold would have realized that Izabela, mekrob with chopsticks. But we far more than Sarah, was a thrill didn‘t fight, which is good for the seeker and a tourist, and I was longevity of the thing, I guess. indeed the train wreck, the Sarah and I had a month or so left, funhouse, I was the atrocity the clock ticking away, the exhibition. All fine and dandy by resentments soon to be formed, the me, anyway, as long as I got her outrageous errors, mostly mine, all out of those black leggings, and soon to begin erupting like land that particular event was looking mines underneath our soft, furtive, like a sure thing. We snaked our increasingly panicked footsteps.) way through Fell‘s Point, bar hopping, flirting ferociously, Walking there on my first date settling finally on a small punk with Izabela, a mean spirited, rock dive a block from the water,

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where I‘d found myself one dark bitten bobcat hatred: SAM (he‘s a night shortly after my arrival from ―fixer‖). And cheap shag carpet, Detroit, hopelessly lost in the bookshelves with bottles, no books, strange cobblestone streets after the DVD menu for Martin midnight. I explained to her the Scorsese‘s Gangs of New York sinister nature of having my two repeating endlessly on the 27 inch year Baltimore residence Philips monitor, wine-on-top-of- bookended by nighttime drinking beer soreness, jackhammer in my sessions, both entirely by chance, in head, someone‘s Chuck Taylor the same little Fell‘s Point dive, the sneakers at my transom window, geography of which I was only their god damned Camel Light somewhat clearer on at that carbon monoxide causing surges of moment than I was the first time. self-righteous loathing and We spoke openly about our past contempt for the vile habit, and promiscuity, our families, our ideas shady old Barclay Street is on writing. She seemed to find me jumping, Northwest Baltimore only sincere, if disturbed, and I was inches from my heavy clouds of wondering if I‘d misjudged the dreamstuff and bladder-denial, my girl, for the talk came easy, and I lair like a street theatre, the naked wasn‘t faking my laughter. The bulb flooding the asphalt with light night was going better than most, when the sun goes down, a beacon, my composure holding out an invitation, warm and private, unnaturally long, because without you might like to come inside, the stimulant of nicotine (I was not snuggle up, get a glass, do you like smoking), panic did not attack my Bryan Ferry?, or what about entire nervous system as angrily. Alejandro Escovedo?, but now the Still, I was rosy-hued and a day is here, and I‘m smiling into guzzling fool, encouraging Izabela my gore-caked pillow, to down shots of liquor with me, remembering bits of Izabela and even sneaking extras from the Thames Street, then remembering barmaid, our new friend, while my all of Izabela and Thames Street, no date was in the ladies room. As longer smiling: I‘ve really outdone would become our tradition during myself this time! Surely, the police the ensuing three month affair, would be on my doorstep before I Izabela and I necked without guile could find my bathrobe or make or tact all the way back to her some tea. Not even a vitamin drink obnoxious vehicle. or a shower. I couldn‘t move, because This is what Happens. I Four / Kangaroo Courting could only wait, the horror no longer even new, but as ugly as AFTERNOON: radio static and ever. spiders and silverfish abound in a cozily furnished but unfinished Over the radio and the annoying cellar storage room, newly U2 song from Gangs comes the acquired rescue beast, claws the sound of air being blown into still size of tennis balls, all hissing flea water, vigorous bubbling, which is

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the announcement of an incoming Caller: Yeah, yeah. Half hour? call picked up by jerry-rigged pirate Internet hardware, so I GG: Sure. sweep the covers off myself and the bobcat, make a dive for the After a scalding hot shower and a desk, the computer, the keyboard, close shave, I was raw from a not- fumbling for the cheap radio Shack yet-beaten hangover, a little ringy microphone which caught the self- and hyper, cleaning the house loving babble of 200 sub-cultural fitfully, emptied of everything jackasses between the years of 95 except black tea and hormonal and 03, find it, then click the fireworks. The Scion pulled to the ―accept‖ button. curb while I wiped down the table and counters of the house‘s PAMELA CALL RECORDER © communal kitchen, and I was SKYPE TECHNOLOGIES INC. beating some eggs with a fork TRANSCRIPT 12.21.08 (13.52.16 when a most pleasing shape EST) appeared through the curtained windows of the front door and the Caller: Gene? violent doorbell made me spasm and whimper, speed-pulsed with a GG: Yeah. heart murmur and a hard-on. I turned down the right wing talk Caller: It‘s Izabela. radio I listened to for cheap laughs and let Izabela in. GG: Oh. We spent the next several days Caller: Good morning? together, mostly in my bunker-like basement room. I took full GG: Look, I‘m really sorry, I know I advantage of the opportunity to got a little- smother her with attention, engaging in many of the things I‘d Caller: Rough? loved doing with Sarah: cooking, drinking wine, watching films, and GG: Yeah, uh…how are you? screwing. Izabela and I cavorted like pigs at least four times in the Caller: BRUTAL! You were SO evening, and always at least once rough. My god! in the morning. I gave her the good news in alleyways, storage areas, GG: Yeah. How- public restrooms, movie theatres, parking lots, and small wooded Caller: You are insane. What are areas all over Baltimore. I you doing right now? sleepwalked through the public and social rituals, and I uttered GG: You wanna come over? I‘ll every term of endearment on auto- make you breakfast. pilot, not knowing or caring whether it was a Sarah hangover

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which distanced me, or a very real Freaks, the reincarnation of that fat and increasingly acute dislike of pig charlatan Aleister Crowley Izabela. It was hard to tell, because without the retarded Luciferian I‘d taken a considerable step out of shock-jive. And I had my own reality, and had come to DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY. An accept all things as by remote, and entire community of effete, big- observed the various occurrences headed piss-artists forced by the and random events from afar, with stranglehold of their own an objective curiosity that only suffocating scene-vamp manners flagged at night; I only re-inhabited and hippie affectations to swallow my subjective mind fully when every swollen insult which begged inebriated. for release, forced to eat their own outrage as I too went through the We were tender with one another, motions of dishonest civility, mostly, yet through her girlish shaking hands and laughing adoration I could detect the faintest pleasantly, aghast at the unchecked evidence of skepticism, related narcissism and infantilism on most directly, I presume, to my display before me. I was no longer poverty and joblessness, and there sleepwalking, but quivering in was also fear, unquestionably in mortal shame, for I had been response to my gluttonous shoved roughly before THE consumption of beer and cheap ENEMY: urban bohemia! It was a wine. Equally obvious to me was world I‘d always lingered the delight Izabela took in tentatively on the outskirts of, not introducing me to her little Muppet belonging to the roughneck legions friends, who were unanimously either, but caught rather inexorably disturbed by her latest ―chew toy‖, in a spectral no-zone between concerned to the point of visible mutually exclusive parties, both of worry for their vulnerable and which were teeming with the witless young Iz. She‘d made the fevered bloodlust and unrelenting less-than-judicious choice of beaus sadism of a million treacherous, a longstanding tradition, and just piss-brained cunts. as it pleased me to witness the barely contained ire of the Izabela‘s albino roommate, Wendy estimated 5,000 Muppets I was Querelle Rothstein-Worthington, introduced to in clubs and galleries was a frumpy, overbearing during our first 4 or 5 days megalomaniac who looked like an together, nothing could touch the exceptionally ill-humored lesbian. unrestrained grandeur and prestige Wendy Querelle Rothstein- of the role I knew I‘d bumbled into: Worthington had a bulging frontal SATAN! Before, only ―Dirty Gene‖, lobe, beady little black eyes, and or ―Mr. Bad Vibes‖, but now…an like Izabela, was always sorely in unearthly demon spirit feasting on need of a bath. But Wendy the souls of innocents, ruthless and Querelle Rothstein-Worthington primal, I was the sum of Charles was not a homosexual. In fact, she Manson and his Topanga Canyon was an insatiable groupie who

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routinely left her heartbroken main tawdry and ridiculous as fucking squeeze (a sweet-natured, Fozzie (which I must be intoxicated to Bear-ish gent named Thurston) to even enjoy), reminding her that by hungrily service the American comparison to the soul rape of Eurotrash icon Vincent Gallo. The allowing oneself to be pussy- painfully aloof young Wendy whipped by a bohemian grotesque Querelle Rothstein-Worthington such as Wendy Querelle Rothstein- would squirm and flail and fidget Worthington, drag queens -or upon the cluttered front room‘s red ―chicks with dicks‖- seemed a velvet sofa like a hypersexual 7 healthy and reasonable alternative. year old, feigning rage, ennui, I also explained that, bearing in restlessness, and fatigue as the mind the inhuman misery poor mood struck her. I was warned by Thurston had adapted to during Izabela, who worshipped the his indentured servitude with bristling femi-Nazism of Wendy Wendy Querelle Rothstein- Querelle Rothstein-Worthington, to Worthington, it seemed only stay on her good side, and to never decent and compassionate that I go make eye contact with her. I was to him immediately and beat him also forbidden from drinking in the into the nearest emergency room home. Wendy Querelle Rothstein- with a hammer, iron bar, or similar Worthington, a New Age priestess object which, if used correctly, who worked as a hair stylist in an might relieve him of his identity ―organic‖ hair salon, had and, one would hope, his shame. announced the arrival of her Izabela laughed, but I no longer ―professionalism‖ at age 24 with a remember how she defended her swearing off of drugs and alcohol, mentor on that occasion, or if she and all those ―welcome within the defended Wendy Querelle Rothstein-Worthington sanctum‖ Rothstein-Worthington at all: I had were honored with the highest already begun to tune her out trust: a gesture of respect for her automatically, because she was chastity, by making the Rothstein- never anything less than petulant Worthington vow oneself, was and disrespectful. I focused instead automatically assumed of all on the logistic practicalities of my guests. I thought Wendy Querelle upcoming move out of Baltimore. I Rothstein-Worthington was a was returning to the city of my hellish nightmare of a human birth, Harrisburg, where my being, and said as much to Izabela, bastarding bureaucrat brother furiously warning her that Western Mike had secured a cheap civilization, or indeed the entire efficiency apartment from a planet, could drift as deeply into colleague of his, a bloated hog of a the vagina-rule of the modern age slimeball yuppie son of a bitch who as they-or the cosmos (or Wendy owned property in the same gay Querelle Rothstein-Worthington) neighborhood I‘d lived in back in demanded, while I could not 1995, when I accepted bribes and possibly EVER submit to such overlooked scum-ridden debasement for something as misconduct at the YMCA, working

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the graveyard shift. (This was jutted belts, shoes, CDs, following my first divorce, and was photographs, notebooks, and to be my first explicitly criminal multi-colored bottles of hair enterprise.) product. Izabela‘s loathsome lavatorial lair somehow managed After resuming a 15 year old to be at once German sophisticate security guard position for the art-slob and acne-ravaged Pinkerton Agency, I was to remain Kentuckian meth-head. Several in Harrisburg for a minimum of six cheap Ikea bookshelves crammed months: enough time to glue my tight with an impressive array of head back together, finish my titles confirmed that, while our novel, re-pay the grand I owed my taste in writers was far from father, and put away enough similar, we could at least push new dough for another move south, this material on each other. This was time to Savannah, GA, where I heartening to me; Sarah was a frat would do nothing but rent a girl whose pussy got wet when she clapboard shack, work dog labor thought of the fight to end world and lay on the beach with the other hunger; she read books by Mitch clapboard shack dwelling dog fucking Albom. Leslie before her laborers. It had come to me in a had read only one book in her dream. I‘m that rare demon who lifetime: Motley Crue goes through with such things. I Unauthorized. Also, my own am ruthless and I am focused on library was almost completely whatever it takes to extricate wiped out for the summer‘s rent myself from The Problem. and drinking money, and I‘d just stopped reading. It was looking as I lay semi-prostrate upon Izabela‘s if I‘d never manage my oft-planned dirt-strewn bed, thinking about and oft-dismissed weeklong binge Harrisburg, dreading the town yet on Dos Passos‘ USA trilogy, or any almost delirious with excitement at time at all with the Frenchmen like the prospect of leaving Baltimore. Gide and Zola I‘d been curious Izabela lived in Wendy Querelle about for so long, and had never Rothstein-Worthington‘s basement, read. Izabela loaned me a stack of a vastly different type of bunker books by Pynchon, Rimbaud, than my own, which was by Grass, Capote, and others. I comparison a rustic vacation cabin wondered how a woman so well- on the Northern California read could be so airheaded, but I coastline. Izabela‘s bunker was an dismissed her vapidity as being eye-wrecking institutional white symptomatic of her tender from floor to ceiling. Barren and age…then again, I wasn‘t like that freezing cold, even in the at 24, was I? In any case, she summertime, the uninviting snapped at me when I selected a sterility was offset by the presence lurid 60s pulp novel called I Spit of a poorly maintained litter box On Your Graves, rebuking me for and waist-high mounds of my rotten taste. ―It figures you‘d unwashed clothing, amid which gravitate right to the trashiest piece

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of shit book I‘ve ever bought.‖ I And was it snowing like this beamed with demented pride, and tonight in Jarretsville, over that became vaguely fond of Izabela in field where I laid down my old that fleeting moment. We dropped friend? That‘s where I really was down onto her unclean sheets, she too, without a doubt. whining and grunting like a harpooned seal pup, while I tried But ―keep fighting‖, that‘s what I to pretend she was Ellen Barkin. It was told. In the meantime, all I had was a rotten trap I‘d found myself was fucking Izabela. Fucking in, but fortunately for you, dear Baltimore. Fucking booze. I voyeurs, I was a somnambulant slumped up the stairs, through the casualty, tormented beyond hope, party, and into the snow outside. and far past the point of There was nothing in that night but disentangling myself. alcohol, in places where I was not exactly protected. Well, one more Before we were finished, Izabela night couldn‘t hurt, could it? I lit a asked me if I wanted her to speak cigarette and started north towards Polish. Guys always liked the 36th street, crunching slowly and immigrant bit. clumsily through small snowdrifts, block after block of ugly, cheaply ―Oh. No…no, that‘s alright,‖ I said. built old rowhomes, kicking in the I slept soundly for a few hours in occasional car door and wincing at the never-washed bedsheets, the taste of my bloody gums and at drooling absently into the cum the sight of it all. stains of other young men, other afternoons and other evenings, (For Hanna Badalova) while upstairs, Wendy Querelle Rothstein-Worthington made a NEXT: Yuletide vegan feast for pallid, anemic Christmas revelers and danced unemotionally to a ZZ Top record. When I awoke, Izabela was gone. I got out of bed and plucked three pieces of fresh cat shit off the floor with a fabric softener sheet.

I shivered.

I gagged.

Would I ever find a civilized town? Was there a kind -and clean- woman somewhere, I wondered also.

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AUTOMATA EXHIBITION

By Pablo Vision

Images © Siolo Thompson

They gathered like vultures around babes in the woods instead. But I the installation of the starving child think it was the endearment of chained to the wall. Those who ‗sweetheart‘, and honest appraisal spoke with the most sincere of her breasts, that really pissed her indignation at ‗this moral outrage‘, off. were the ones who came back most: it would be necessary for them to witness the exact moment of death in order to really ‗feel‘ this piece, and to truly absorb the horror that their coffee-table- liberal-hearts require to bleed so copiously. I wandered through the conversations of the assorted throng, dismayed at how the ego of each person speaking clamoured desperately for attention. How I had grown to hate covering these sorts of events, and how I had grown less able to disguise my misanthropy.

I was contemplating the possibly carcinogenic effects of passive pretension, when I overheard the bitch from the Herald talking about The Fallen Ipo Rousseau abandoning his five children at the orphanage to My eyes avert to the vulture probable death, but having the prowling with indecent impatience audacity to opine with authority on - wings occasionally spreading, the nature of education and the and flapping frustration and rearing of children. I told her, in hunger; how Carter would have most emphatic tones, that it was prayed for this particular most surely a matter of grave scavenger to have landed instead. misjudgement, and that in order to The baldhead and the sparse be consistent with his views that matted feathers remind me of young children live like animals, he monks; and the cogs, chains, and should have deserted them as wheels - by virtue of which the bird moves, and flaps its ominous

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wings - makes me think of large brightly coloured arm that vivisection and human connects that platform to the experimentation: it is the grotesque central hub, so round and round hybrid automaton that interests me the monkey perpetually orbits, the more than the Sudanese girl‘s movement generating the power emaciated statement. At least here for the cacophony of calliopes, and she will have her fifteen showings the machinery that crushes, grinds, of fame, rather than the cultural and minces the amputated modifications that will take away a genitalia of bullocks, before different kind of life. A small child depositing the meat into large tins, asks her mother if she can throw resplendent with silk-screen-print- some of her popcorn to the dying labels of mastectomised movie girl, and, as I leave, I tell her, stars. sternly, not to feed the exhibits.

The art gallery was once a pauper‘s asylum, and the corridors, that connect the installations, still suggest lingering disinfectant and the echoes of sickening screams. A sequence of paintings – ―The Oppressed‖ - adorns the walls. I stand before one – ―The Fallen Ipo‖ – and imagine Heath Robinson shackled to the walls of Goya‘s House of the Deaf Man; the improbable machinery unites all these paintings – but it is the devastatingly desperate look in the eyes that resounds most profoundly. I close my eyes, but still see; and screams reverberate into a crescendo of accusation. What wiring of the brain allows for Poor Sad Bear such connection with paint and canvas, when humanity leaves me ―Poor, Sad Bear‖ seems even more so cold, distant, and disdainful? tragic now; the very first of these animal automata hybrids, he now ―The Monkey and the Organ occupies a rarely viewed corner of Grinder‖ interests me greatly. The the gallery, like a neglected and legs have been removed from our forgotten teddy bear, or a distant relative, and the torso is discarded memory. Without the attached to a wooden platform hindrance of other people I am able with wheels; both arms have been to observe, up close, how the replaced with metal rods, and cylindrical metal cage below steam powered pistons. There is a attaches to his upper torso, and

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how the metal prosthetic is fused to incongruent fears and weak the stump of his upper arm: the desires?‖ crudely sawn bone, the metal pins, and the rods and wires Still she remains by the window, as disappearing into flesh and matted seemingly disinterested in the fur. The large wheels and cogs that events outside as those inside. I try replace his lower body no longer to keep the image of the missing move. He must either be wheeled eyelids in my mind, and summon out here, or left in this lonely the cruelty I will need, but her corner. His metal arm is flawless beauty, and confident outstretched, and one bent and arrogance, invoke a much stronger, rusty finger points towards the and more prurient impulse. newer and more exciting exhibits; his eyes resigned to his terrible, poor, sad fate. This sure ain‘t no picnic, I think, before noticing that his eyelids have been surgically removed. Even with my jaded nature, I cannot help but stare in genuine pity, and debilitating disgust; and even though I can close my eyes – I find that I cannot. I hope that I am able to hold onto these emotions, as I leave the bear to his lonely agony, to interview the artist: the architect of his despair. For Pablo

She stands at the window, ―So really, casting aside the bullshit statuesque, and coldly impassive, which we are both clearly tired of, as I ask the standard questions; exactly what artistic statement are questions that clearly bore her. I you trying to make?‖ too, have little interest in adding column inches to an already ―Yawn, yawn, yawn. When was overexposed topic, and decide – if the last time anyone cared about only for the poor, sad bear – to art? Last century? The century attempt to provoke some sort of before? Would there be anyone at animation in her. this showing if there were not something incidental to talk about? ―Do you not think that these Would your newspaper sell more creations are an abomination in the copies if you had any interest at all eyes of God?‖ I ask, fully aware of in art, rather than hoping to find her devout atheism. out something to destroy the artist?‖ ―And God not a Frankenstein‘s monster… constructed from ―Perfectly reasonable then, to allow

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these animals to suffer for your art, these exhibits are subject to the law knowing that money and publicity of diminishing returns, and already are all that count?‖ the number of visitors are starting to decrease; what can you possibly ―I note you neglect to mention the do next?‖ starving child in your impassioned outrage. You are no more human As she looks at me, I imagine than I – don‘t contrive some kind of wheels turning in her head; the moral superiority. You have no teeth of cogs grinding; valves interest in art, and you have little warm and glowing; interest in me, other than wanting neurotransmitters binding to to fuck me. I may have my receptors; and a vast array of reputation, but you also have positives and negatives being yours.‖ sorted and decoded – a riot of activity underneath the beautiful Even the most world-weary, and cold marble of her inert gaze. I try quietly proud, misanthropist and resolve her physical perfection wishes occasionally for some with the hideous nature of her empathy and connection with creations; try to fathom the icy another - the accusation of being as depths of a heart that could cut inhuman as her, stung me with away eyelids; try to imagine the both its precision, and its journey that has brought her to this inaccuracy: true that I cared little place – but, instead, only visualize about anything anymore, but not at bodies being picked clean by all true that I could ever divorce vultures on towers of silence. myself entirely from every emotion. And although I was able ―I, the artist, will become the to provoke responses from her, the exhibit. No one cares about art; let words were delivered without them dissect me, as they do in emotion – almost as if each word words anyway; let them look upon was just its binary equivalent. And the only kind of beauty they can yes, I did want to fuck her, but ever appreciate; let them touch the more than that, to make love, or at unobtainable; and let them see, least something sensual. even then, that they cannot possess me.‖ ―Maybe I would like to fuck you, but if we are indeed so similar, She removes her dress with the would that not be the ultimate act fluidity of a ghost leaving a body, of narcissism? Maybe I would also and stands naked before me: love, like to hurt you, but again, that hate, fear, desire, and horror collide would be too much like self-harm. and summersault, as I see the scars Assuming that neither will take that run across her body: she place, and accepting that I care as herself: artist and creator: also the little as you do about anything, let created. me ask instead: where do you go from here? The shock-value of

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NO TIME TO SPARE

By Brian Routh

Image Transmission from Vegas © Patricia Wells

I ran as swift as the wind through the freezing hail towards safety and sanity but the warmth of haven and host was rapidly fading as my being continued to melt and my body seemed insignificant.

‗Hold up there sir!‘ shouted an ugly looking vessel that sailed on by me.

I could not and would not stop.

The end was waiting and I eagerly and feverishly rushed blindly towards it.

‗Hope man!‘ screeched the steamship as it puffed and chugged to catch up with me.

I dared not turn around to see the face of pimples,

Grease stains, gouges debauchery and bad living.

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I focused all my concentration on the whirlwind ahead

And stretched my body and being to greater and greater limits, hurtling myself faster and faster.

My feet left the ground and I began to sore higher and higher above the earth.

I flew through the air with grace and elegance.

I looked down with a bird‘s eye view of the pulsating world below.

All was blissful and wondrous.

‗Look ahead! Dive man, dive!‘ yelled my pursuer,

He was also airborne and some distance below me.

I mocked this rude order from this over-weight rooster

And as I indulged myself in negative thoughts about him, I flew head on into the heart of the whirlwind.

I was picked out of my flight path and spun around in ever increasing circles and finally flung at jet speed

Deeper into the sombre purple tunnel of clouds

That was lit up here and there by flashes of lightning.

I don‘t know for how long I traveled at this speed as I was in and out of consciousness throughout the experience.

I remember my clothes being sucked from my body by biting winds that blew at me from all sides and threw oceans of icy water at me with such velocity and force

That I was instantly drowning and completely frozen.

The sounds that filled my ears were deafening unearthly howls and screams.

Explosions shook my bones, ripped off the top of my head and engulfed me in flames that were repeatedly extinguished by the swirling waters.

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POSTATOMIC

By Michael Butterworth

The silence sounds. His ear could The silence sounds. His ear could always pick them up: the sound of always pick them up. But the Overpopulation Speeds (like a essential part of Postatomic was in the drying sound in the back of his Past — when the City was defeated, mind); the sound of Uniform Tears (a Postatomic would cease to exist. Pop Group, a Happening, a Riot); the sound of Broadcasting Space (a Collectively, perpetually, the sounds Show Room, a News Paper, a Girl); rocketed softly upwards in the wind the sound of Umbrage (like little of the ventilator grills, to form a children playing). beaded erection over the City. The erection collapsed in a gale of particle Nobody ever looked like Postatomic. ruins on the City floor. It rose again. His face was a wide-open expanse of clinkered skin. His brain was layered, glazed levels of desert. His skull King Trash was uneven and thus deformed, pushed out at birth to make way for Back into my cold nest. cancerous growth from the brain. The rest of him was imaginary. I am circulating the blood system of a robin. Poor creature came in from If you looked in his eyes both sides the heat ten days ago. I think of your brain would simultaneously something of it because it acts like flood with histamine — part of him, me. Because it does so I am not going you remember, was always in the to kill it. It is a wreck. There‘s no sign Future. of competition. It would be a bloody thoughtless act to kill it. In days gone by, he would fly through the open windows of The castle is glowing again tonight. skyscrapers, and haunt the long This means the weather will be dry corridors, mournfully playing the tomorrow. The castle turrets are part of the wind and decrying the sad armed with nerve coils. The Main silence sounds of the City. You Archway protects the castle with a remember the stains that dripped device which gives leucotomy to any from the skyscraper roofs at night, person who happens to stray within covering a whole side in tears? the castle grounds. The best device is

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one that shoots up vertical from the me today. In those days they had a Castle Keep. It sprays sound waves of god who didn‘t really know it was a a special frequency to combat air god because the god in it didn‘t attack. This is a very helpful device. exist at all as one god but fragmented More recently I‘ve had attached an into little ones. They had churches electronic brain deactivator to one of filled with mumbling congregations the castle walls. I am quite safe from who were just not with it. I‘ve got no robot attack. I‘m King of England in sympathy with them at all. the year 2030. And nobody‘s going to stop me. The god they were working to get money out of was a god of their I‘ve just come in from the hot children‘s making. It was a god outside after rescuing this robin which was made up of famous from a nest of rodents. The whole personalities. Large business world is hot and filled with red mist. combines. Vehicles and things which I‘ve just come back into my cold nest. shoot up suddenly and fall down The Crown is on my head. again. In fact I thought of calling their god the Mighty Erection. This seems a There‘s no real use for a crown. It is good idea. a worthless thing. In fact one day I‘m going to throw it away. I don‘t The trouble was they did have a god. A think it plays any particular role as very dicy sort of god though perhaps a far as I‘m concerned. It channels good god for the age. But they had prestige and glory into a pinhead. nowhere to worship it which seems It's a symbol. I‘ll lock it up in the rather silly to me — a glass church is Symbol Room and keep it there. In always falling to bits! Nevertheless, the meantime I‘ll keep this little robin despite the Discjockey Priests that on my finger. attempted to put things right, their wine was good so I‘ve heard and it was I have two problems that irritate me. cheap. One, out of necessity, must remain unnamed. The other is the peasant's In later times it came so bad for the wine. It is a peasant produce and ancients that they had no GO in them. tastes awful. Far too expensive. I After leaving childhood for good they shall have to do something about this. did not climb up the ladder but fell through it. A spirit of adventure was In the old days wine was cheap. But lacking in them. They did not make the peasants of that time (unlike the full use of their brains. Wherever they mutants of this) were nowhere near looked they saw political shit. so loyal to their gods as mine are to Whenever they bent down they got

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hooked. Wherever they went they When they arrived they trampled the arrived back at the beginning. carefully tended flower-beds, and wrecked the station in their effort to If they looked in a bush they saw some get away. commercial drunkard had been sick there. If they looked in the sick they Mr Zero, they used to say, is a man saw their own face. If they then of frost and icy conditions. For looked into a church they got their instance, he weeded the station hands tied behind their backs and fell gardens regularly throughout the down. If they looked in on anything aftermath, cool and unperturbed at they got their hands tied. To cap it the slightest blast from the skies. In a all they often looked into the real guts way I wish Mr Zero had reserved his of the world and turned away puking gardening phobia for an earlier time, — they couldn‘t take it. They weren‘t for an age which I hadn‘t known. conditioned to. If they looked Out of ignorance, I only know this anywhere they saw somebody had shit age, or rather the last age, with any in their way. The obvious outcome of certainty. The last age was an Ice all this is plain to me. At one stage Cream Age, easily licked, and unlike things and people shat on one another. other ages in that it was a terminal Then the rockets were called in. And time, motivated by senseless I‘ve got the legacy. rejoicing. An age of constant anxieties and pressures … brought to As far as I can see in any direction, bear its collective weights upon the that's all there is. Trash. Miles of it. mind of Mr Zero. Mr Zero is a This robin's probably the last straw. lunatic reject from a lunatic past, I‘ll kill it and maybe get rid of the trash. finding sanity in the wide open I‘m King of England in 2030 and expanses of earth, security amongst its nobody‘s going to stop me. electrified flowers.

It is all cold desert and broken-down Mr Zero weather conditions. Mr Zero is not the best of company, especially The deserts are very cold now. Which amongst the nerve-racking silence is not surprising, considering there are cones that invade the deserts — no clouds, no sun. And earth has been society noises of the silent mind that depopulated. Overnight. You might leak out of the drains of space and say that people of all nationalities bump softly and invisibly against the decided to become passengers, and cold sands. His speciality, apart from took the overnight express, which gardening and collecting, is arrived punctually at Platform Zero. conservancy, a wasted art. Listening

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to him talking about his impressions things of importance. Mr. Zero is a of a past age is better than listening magpie. to the radio waves coming back from the quasars. It is unlikely that a train will pass him by, and wake him from his Mr Zero‘s station is probably the sleep — the last trainload was best-kept station for miles around. It shunted under the auspices of the is probably the best-kept station in tunnel. the world, now that his arduous labours have repaired the damage At this time of the night, his flowers done to the flower-beds by the are looking very pretty in their beds clumsy feet of the stampeding of weeds, and seem to try to reach crowds. Although he owns four the very harsh and empty vacuum platforms, two flower-beds, plus a of space, letting drop the stars into fairly large siding, he lives in a a vortex, and settling them so that hastily-habitated signal box which is they look immovable in the deepest perched on top of a sooty, filthy- black. It is the silence cones that are dirty tunnel, of the old kind that eventually attracted to the flowers, were around with the steam engine. and they come lifting their skirts off the desert floor, protecting the This faded yellow building, built up flowers from the vengeance of the of horizontal planks of wood, resting stars, gently silencing the snores on a tall foundation of bricks, is coming from the signal box. Ah, situated more towards the end of the there is a sun, at last. station‘s longest platform, on this side of the tunnel. It overlooks the four All day, as the sun sinks into the scrubbed platforms and the two neat ground several miles away, having flower-beds, and the so-polished risen into the sky from a point rails that run away into the tunnel. several miles in the other direction, and as the missiles continually fly Inside the signal box, he has a through the ether of the old man's collection of mattresses, old wooden dreams, towards a target chairs, tables, bookcases, and a filing unspeakably remote, and about cabinet containing bits and pieces of which I must discourse with him material reminiscent of the earlier some day soon, I have seen the age. His other hobby is collecting same toiling with his weeds — Mr. junk and bright objects, and stacks of Zero, the ice-cold man of a cardboard boxes, drawers, and forgotten society, the only one who other containers in which to store ever really understood, who had to suffer, who lives in a signal box on

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the top of a filthy-dirty tunnel, and flesh invisibly and took her on long, writes postcards to a non-existent circular rides to the places of postman. interest she desired — to the sources of powerfully foaming rivers, that as It is a pity, or rather it is a stroke of they aged, passed through the good fortune for him, that his concrete sweeps of the Power Stations weeds in the flower-beds are dying of the world; or she could fly much off, of their own accord — and I closer to Baby‘s face. She could hear have had to tell him, through my the pounding hooves taking her over great kindness and dishonesty, that the brick-red deserts, and Baby's I sprayed a potent weed killer over screams of delight as he rolled over his bed of flowers. on to his back and kicked at the sky. When she returned he will be gone, she thought. Baby At night, as the sun lowered, the The skies were dull metallic darkening beams of the football streamers of baby colours — blue stadiums began to herald the start of and red, the colour of Baby‘s bricks a match. Brass band music was or the small wooden trucks that he played, but the notes floated across the pulls around with dirty, frayed too-long green pitch, so soluble in lengths of string. So long ago, the the yellow stadium lights they had images of childhood seemed, but died almost, before they reached flashed without warning into her ears. And the roar of the Pauline‘s head. Her being was crowd, as the first kick of the ball of dipped for a moment into the green- the night was played, became so yellow glow that came from behind much more static and crackle over the streaming clouds. Baby sat and the radio. played with the missiles on its own under the gigantic skies. Pauline turned the dead set off, as Sometimes he would be as high as she turned it on every morning a skyscraper, and his head would before she left her bed. It was no use bump through the sky. Pauline even, to go outside her House laughed, for a moment into the anymore. A silence, that made her Mothered structure of a child's bones harden and that put a gentle paranoia. collapsing vacuum into her throat, met her when she opened the back She went to lean against a white ranch door once. The Houses over the way fence, where the souls of the dead were empty, and for a moment she horses that lived there gripped her was blocked and wooden,

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wandering amongst their Kitchens draught of air, the red of the and Bedrooms. The growth of the double-decker was dissolving away Houses, in the withered Flowers into the red-and-blue streamers in and Trees, sent a deep mahogany the sky. Eventually it disappeared root into her toes; it hurt like it hurt altogether, but she saw it once more, to take damp fingers from a cold receding child along the roadway metal surface, to move, though there into the distance. was no cold, and the roots became suddenly soft. She cried the large tears of Baby at this point. Her tears were blue and It was time for her meal, though she tinted with a muddy yellow, was not hungry. The Tubes will be elongated globes drawn into straight full at this time of the day, she lines and rails. Sometimes, polished thought. The Clock on the and shiny, Baby looked as if he were Mantelpiece over the aged ashes in being held up in the air under the the Fire Grate, said six o‘clock. large skies of the desert, and moved only with the aid of these steel, A bus was coming her way by the inverted puppet strings. Likewise, time she had dressed herself up and they became her guidelines: each was stepping out of her front door rod that dropped or heightened her and on to the porch tiles. A red limbs as she walked back to her double-decker bus that wore a sad house, was a long picture of a green expression on its face and forehead. electric train rushing through a It had a bib on its front, and clunks tunnel, a sizzling tremor of patterns of black soil littered its roof, falling from the smiling wrinkles of her like tears in front of its eyes. It dead husband‘s face, or else approached slowly from out of the another older memory she had fuzz in the distance, swelling in size forgotten. and increasing its momentum as it ______slid silently over the tarmac, passing the dead occupants of the silent First published in The New SF houses. It slowed down edited by Langdon Jones, 1969 imperceptibly, to allow her time to reach the bus stop before it rolled past, and on into the fuzz. As it appeared to stop, she tried to mount its black rubber deck Baby! her heart warmed for an instant her stomach shuddered her legs turned to sand her check felt a warm

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BRIDGETTE IN INDIA

By Hank Kirton

Images © Brian Blur

When Bridgette returned from in bloody mud. The sky is thick India, she came back changed. She with black acrid smoke and a dying also came back without her red sun casts a murky glow over daughter and dark rumors started the dismal landscape. The only following her around. She moved sound is the buzzing of flies. back with her family - into that madhouse - and when I learned And then, floating from the dim she‘d returned I had a strange horizon, Bridgette appears. She‘s dream about her: nude, her dark body festooned with a garland of severed heads. I‘m walking across a dark, desolate She holds a sword. She approaches battlefield. Torn bodies and limbs me, smiling with bright white stretch before me, half submerged teeth. When she reaches me I see

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that her skin is smeared with still holding her hands out, strands bloody ash. She says, ―Hi, Hank,‖ of puke-mucus stretching across and kisses me, filling my mouth her trembling fingers like a cat‘s with her tongue and the taste of cradle. blood. Bridgette jumped up and sat beside I awoke gasping and sick. me. ―I‘m sitting with you,‖ she told me and laughed. The dream haunted me for days. I called her the next week. I don‘t know why or what I expected. It was an insane impulse I couldn‘t stop myself from following. I hadn‘t spoken to her in almost twenty years.

About Bridgette Blake: Bridgette Blake lived on Indian Run Road, four addresses down from the small green house where I‘d grown up. My parents had retired to Florida long ago. I now lived about forty miles south of Indian Run Road. Bridgette Blake was my age (36 at the time). We met when we were five and entering the chaotic shock of 1st grade. I saw her at the bus stop. She was the only 1st grader who wasn‘t accompanied We quickly became friends. by a parent. Once on board the bus, we ended up across the aisle from She‘d been a startlingly beautiful each other (the boys and girls child with a round, intelligent face, magically parted down the middle big brown eyes, and long auburn of the bus, segregating themselves hair that she usually wore in on either side). I sat alone. braids. I remember her nervous Bridgette sat next to Tina Feeney habit of chewing and sucking on who was so nervous and upset the ends of her braids until they about being sentenced to school were sodden with saliva. We were that she promptly vomited - best friends at first, playing launching her breakfast into her together within the Cinemascope hands as if she‘d hoped to catch the grandeur of our restless gooey transgression and stuff it imaginations. My memories of into her pockets before anyone those days are baroque and noticed. But of course, all eyes impossible, like fevered turned toward the spectacle and Renaissance paintings. Tina Feeney began to cry. She was

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As we grew, our affections memories of him are wreathed in matured along with our bodies - smoke. He‘d lost his left leg in our mutual lure intensified by the Vietnam and seemed to live his life kinetics of over-charged hormones. at the kitchen table, chain-smoking She became a stunning beauty. I Camels between hits of a joint, a got tall. She became my first crush, bottomless glass of red wine close my first kiss, my first lover. My at hand. His drooping red eyes had first love. Bridgette Blake was always seemed friendly (in a beautiful and brilliant and witty weird, dopey kind of way) and it and the only true miracle I‘ve ever wasn‘t until years later that I come across. learned he‘d molested Bridgette and her two brothers. His name And she lived in an insane asylum. was Stuart.

Bridgette‘s mother Patty was a plump, incredibly high-strung woman with dark venomous eyes who could fly into a sudden irrational rage at the slightest provocation. Bridgette often sported bruises or welts she‘d incur for the slightest adolescent infractions. Her mother was a cracked china teacup balanced on the edge of a glass table.

We were both terrified of her.

Her brother Casey was ten when I met him. When he was nine, he found his dad‘s stash of acid and ate twelve tabs of Yellow Sunshine. About the Blake family: Bridgette‘s He didn‘t talk much after that and parents were the first people I‘d when he did, made little sense. He ever met to whom I could assign went to a special school called the word ―hippie.‖ My own ―Living and Learning‖ over in parents were older and avoided Ashland. becoming infected by the 60‘s zeitgeist as if it were some kind of Her big brother Toby was painfully druggy, tie-dyed influenza. They thin. His hair was long and greasy, remained hopelessly square, falling into a face forever erupting clinging to conformist 50‘s culture with angry red acne. Even though like a demented Ward and June he was ten years older than I was, Cleaver. But Bridgette‘s parents whenever I looked at him I felt like were something else. Her father I was looking into the eyes of a had long hair and a beard and my dumb child. The one (and only)

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time I was alone with Toby, he Silence for several beats. I listened pulled his penis out of his pants to her breathe. Then she said, ―I and told me to, ―Play with it.‖ I ran was hoping you‘d call.‖ all the way home. ―You were? Really?‖ I said, And yet, amid this derangement surprised. and squalor, Bridgette somehow managed to grow and mature into ―M-hmmmmm...‖ a bright, beautiful, reasonably normal girl. The only real shock A return to silence. she ever handed me was when she became pregnant in our senior year I said, ―Sooo, I heard you were in and told me, ―The baby isn‘t India. That right?‖ yours...‖ ―Can you come over?‖ she said. She promptly dropped out of school and disappeared. ―Come over? To your house?‖

And now I was calling her. ―M-hmmmm...‖

The phone rang six times and I was ―When?‖ about to hang up and consider myself lucky that no one was ―Now, silly...‖ home, when the rings suddenly ceased and I heard the hiss of open And so I did. And the whole drive air. over there I kept thinking, ―What the hell am I doing? This is nuts!‖ ―Hello?‖ I said.

And then Bridgette‘s voice was in my ear: ―Hello?‖ And I realized that I actually missed her. After all these years I still missed her. Incredible.

―Hi. Bridgette? It‘s me, Hank. Hank Kirton...‖

―Hi, Hank,‖ she said, as if I called her every morning just to say ―Hi.‖ Her voice had grown smooth and slow over the years. It trickled like liquid.

―Um, Hi. So. How you been?‖

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The old neighborhood had I climbed the front steps and changed. When I was a kid, it had knocked on the door. It creaked been populated by hard-working, open and I felt like I was in an old blue-collar families, but the plant corny horror movie. closings of the late 80‘s had hit hard. A lot of the houses were I stuck my head inside and said, empty and falling apart – burnt-out ―Hello?‖ husks that sheltered a few crack- smoking squatters and homeless And from the darkness I heard alcoholics. There was more litter Bridgette‘s voice, ―Hellooooo... than lawn around them. Come in.‖

The house was unlighted and filthy and smelled of pot, rotting garbage and incense. I moved through the cluttered living room not wanting to touch anything. Spectral residue from my childhood seemed to hang over the dusty furniture like cobwebs.

I found Bridgette in the darkened kitchen, sitting at the same table her father had camped-out at for most of his adult life. A German shepherd was sleeping by her feet.

She was slow to notice me in the gloom. When she finally saw me she smiled and said, ―Hank. Sit The Blake house was in the same doooown.‖ abject condition. The old brown paint had peeled to a few stubborn She was obviously stoned. strips; the windows had missing panes and were patched with I moved toward the table and as cardboard and tape. The house had Bridgette came into sharper focus I been tagged with spray-paint was quietly shocked. several times. The splintered front door sported an enigmatic, Day- Had I also gotten that old? Glo legend: Spookjump 00. She was drawn and thin, her pretty As I approached the house, the round face now sunken and filled thought, ―How can these people with hollows. Her skin was still live here?‖ repeatedly wrinkled and parched, her hair interrupted the stream of disheveled and salted with gray. childhood memories.

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When she smiled I saw that her then ate a forkful of grits – or teeth were brown and decayed. whatever it was.

I wanted to run away. ―I‘ve been doing okay. And you?‖

―Sit dooooown,‖ she said again. She put down the fork and picked up the joint. She inhaled a hit and ―Thanks.‖ I sat across from her. then held it out. ―Ganja?‖ she The awful smell of rot hit me again croaked. but I tried to maintain a friendly, unassuming expression. I looked at ―No thanks.‖ Bridgette. After she exhaled, she said, ―You don‘t smoke anymore?‖

I shook my head. ―It doesn‘t agree with me.‖

She smiled at that.

I looked around the room, waving flies away from my face. ―Where is everybody?‖

―Who?‖

―Your folks. Toby and Casey.‖

―They‘re downstairs.‖

―Downstairs?‖ A smoldering joint rested in an ashtray at her elbow. There was a She took another hit from the joint small dish of what looked like grits and nodded. in front of her. She held a plastic fork in her right hand. I noticed ―In the cellar?‖ several flies crawling atop the mysterious gruel. The kitchen was ―In the cellar,‖ she croaked, alive with flies. Her left hand holding the smoke. She put the rested flat and upturned on the joint down, exhaled, and then ate table and a small cone of incense another forkful of gritty gray goop. burned on her open palm. ―What are you eating?‖ I asked. She said, ―Hi, Hank. Long time no see. How have you been?‖ and

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She swallowed and said, ―I don‘t yellow robe and begged for change know. I think it‘s cereal.‖ Then she in the subways. Whenever I was in laughed and said, ―Want some?‖ New York I looked for her.

―No thanks.‖ And then in 1994, The Children of Om made the news. Silence fell for a long time and we just looked at each other. Finally, I A seven-year-old boy named Hilly said, ―So, how was India?‖ Cotton disappeared from his home, just a few miles south of the She shrugged. ―It was okay.‖ ashram. As the police search entered its second day, The ―Yeah? Whereabouts were you?‖ Children of Om abruptly disbanded and scattered. The ―All over. Mostly Barha in Khurja, leader of the sect, a middle-aged Uttar Pradesh.‖ guru who called himself Sri Baba Biswas (formerly Melvin Finkel), ―Oh yeah? Is that nice?‖ fled to India with a few select members of his flock - Bridgette She gave me a strange grin I and her daughter among them. couldn‘t decipher. ―It has its Neither Hilly Cotton nor his moments,‖ she said. remains were ever found, but many believed he‘d been ritually ―How‘s Candi?‖ I said, and then ―sacrificed‖ by the cult. Tales of wanted to withdraw the question. black magic, satanic rituals and even necrophilia and cannibalism About Bridgette‘s daughter, Candi: still hovered over the history of She was a severely mentally- The Children of Om. retarded child of incest. Stuart Blake raped Bridgette when she was seventeen. When she learned she was pregnant, she ran away to New York City. She lived on the streets for a few months before hooking up with a new-age cult called The Children of Om. They invited her to deliver her baby at their 12-acre ashram, upstate.

It was there that she gave birth to Candi in June of 1985.

She remained at the ashram for several years. The rumor at our five-year high school reunion was that she shaved her head, wore a

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―Candi‘s okay,‖ Bridgette told me. The dog did not stir. ―I left her in India.‖ Now that the incense had died out, ―Really? So, are you going back the smell of decay had grown there?‖ stronger and something hideous suddenly occurred to me. With ―Yeah. I just came home to take mounting fear and disgust, I bent care of some long overdue down and looked under the table. business.‖ The dog had been dead for awhile. ―I see.‖ I looked at her palm. The It was crawling with flies and incense had burned to spent ash surrounded by a squirming nimbus and I detected a whiff of scorched of maggots. skin. Both her hands were spotted with burn scars. I don‘t know how I kept from throwing up. I jumped away from the table and backed into the sink, causing a stack of dirty dishes to topple and shatter on the tile floor.

Bridgette stared at me through stoned, bloodshot eyes and said, ―What‘s the matter?‖

And then I remembered her family in the cellar and realized I hadn‘t heard so much as a murmur or a cough since I‘d entered the house. The basement was directly beneath the kitchen.

―I have to go,‖ I told her, already halfway across the room. ―I don‘t feel well...‖ She picked up the joint and offered it to me again. ―Sure you don‘t I heard her say, ―Well, you want want some?‖ she said. ―It‘s some aspirin or something?‖ And dynamite reefer, grown in the then I was outside and back in the mountains of Nepal.‖ clean fresh air. I drove home with all the windows down, trying to I raised my hands and said, ―No, get the smell of smoke and decay thanks. I actually have to get out of my nose, out of my clothes. going.‖ And I stretched my legs, About Bridgette Blake: Bridgette accidentally kicking the sleeping may have endured the madness German shepherd under the table. and moral corruption of her family I‘d forgotten it was there. with an amazing degree of self-

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possession, and even seemed to Her father had been castrated, his triumph over her appalling legacy genitals stuffed down his throat. for awhile, but I‘d always detected a certain amount of sadness and The autopsy indicated he‘d choked wrath just below the surface, even to death. Toby and Casey were when we were small. I‘ll never found with their ears, noses and know the full extent of the horrors hands cut off, their tongues cut out. she suffered in that house on They had bled to death. Patty Blake Indian Run Road, or what bizarre had been repeatedly stabbed in the horrors she fled to in The Children abdomen and gutted. Her autopsy of Om, and the dark, squalid revealed that the half-digested corners of India. But I believe she contents of her stomach (Rice internalized every cruel Krispies, bananas and milk) had abomination she‘d ever suffered or been removed. Police found traces witnessed, and these vile, violent of Patty‘s stomach contents on a experiences slowly devoured her small dish on the kitchen table. soul, until finally the suppressed evil inside her couldn‘t be Bridgette Blake is still at large four contained anymore. years later.

An anonymous tip led police to the I assume she returned to India to Blake house the next day (and no, it be with her daughter. wasn‘t me). They discovered Bridgette‘s family in the basement.

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PIMP OF THE PERVERSE

By Rich Follett psssssssssssst… bowing nightly to your own tumescent hype – You. you dickless, simpering poseur Victim. (oh, save the feigned indignation – Boy Wonder. we knew all along). Pedophile‘s puppet. Still; You hear me, I know you do. what a fucking production!

You liked it, didn‘t you? Tonight, on the occasion of your umpteenth Delectable, ineluctable; triumphant performance, a petit mal serial melodrama of your supporting cast has gathered repugnant submission – to honor you with an après matinée that final furtive flush of toast. excruciating, exquisite surrender calls to you still. You may recall Hoover, the chorus girl? That‘s your big secret, isn‘t it, She can suck the chrome off a freak? hubcap without smearing her lipstick. For years now How many times has she finished a you‘ve been telling anyone who‘ll scene listen when you choked? how you‘ve devoted your life to healing and forgiveness And this is UPS Guy – (thank God for expert therapy and the stage manager – good drugs); whenever you needed to look great in shorts you‘ve fooled the masses; or accept deliveries at the rear dazzled the critics; he never missed his cue. Butch

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(your straight man) I run the whole goddamn show. is here, too: always happy to take the fall See this contract? when stock gags failed to entertain I own you. and the garish light of truth threatened Pathetic parasite – to expose your artless farce. you were nobody when I found you; Lorelei, you‘d be nobody still, if … (your understudy) still waits in the wings Well, never mind. if ever you feel unsafe, unsure. this is an open-ended engagement, If ever it seemed you couldn‘t go the box office is boffo on, and your adoring public waits. she always found you a new leading man – different – Just don‘t get any big ideas about with strong, sheltering arms retirement to keep you from being afraid in the presence of all the others (let us merely say (it was just a touch of stage fright I‘d be willing, if necessary, to tell now and again). the press She‘d rehearse him into a lather your tastes once ran to the…exotic). and turn him right over to you for the climax Goodness, how ‗bout that time? (before he sensed how the plot had They‘re seating for the evening twisted). show already! Lorelei, now appearing: On stage, Olivier. one night only – it has really always been her show. Try not to trip over the scenery.

They‘re all here for you, kid … you‘ve been with each of them; Ladies and gentlemen, you‘ve been each of them. GIMCRACK THEATRE Oh … me? I‘m your agent, is proud to present ... remember? The Pimp of the Perverse. I pull the strings;

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UN APERITIVO COL DIAVOLO

By Darius James

mean no family, no friends, no feast. This most important of holidays had been reduced to an endless supply of wine and a galaxy of drugs.

By the time I settled into the last bar I would visit that Christmas eve, my brain was pulsating with dizzy swirls and throbbing lines. My vision had skewed into flipping horizontal patterns. Everything was in fish-eyed perspective. I could no longer tell the difference between day or night.

―Money Dissolves in My Mouth”

Manhattan had peaked in the summer of nineteen eighty-seven. The Lower Eastside was a circus of The air was heavy with the cloying openings and exhibitions. There aroma of glazed nuts simmering in was an abundance of money and an artificial syrup. Ku‘dam glowed yuppies. Parties and coke. Bad in a frost of lights. And shoppers women and smack. trundled along the boulevard bundled in furs. I wandered from The battle cry in the squats on East bar to café with one drink bleeding Thirteenth Street was ―DIE YUPPIE into another, one drug morphing SCUM!!!”. But fuck that bullshit. into the next, without finding a Yuppies spent money. They bought soul with whom I could tipple and us dinner. We couriered drugs. commiserate. The loneliness was European tourists were our crippling. I drank prodigiously. It favorite targets. In the shade of the bordered on the suicidal. Tompkins Square Park bandshell, they approach and asked where to Since moving to Europe, I had cop blow. Cocaine was cheap that estranged myself from the friends I summer. So we charged eighty, had left behind and those I knew in while it was only twenty, and Berlin. Christmas had come to pocketed the rest. Our foreign-born

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guests were always happy with the But we ate, survived and had fun. fat white bags of laxative we scored Our gratification was in the from the Puerto Ricans at the company of each other. There was laundrymat on E. 7th Street. always a party, always an opening, with a case of wine and a tray of It was an undemanding life of food. unending night, even during daylight hours. I made the rounds Summer ended. The leaves of galleries; dance clubs; after- withered. And our ‗endless night‘ hours bars; all-night diners and, was over. freak that I am, bondage clubs in the meat-packing district. I never Of course, we still gathered in the knew where or with whom I might park. And went to parties thrown wake up. Some mornings I was on by flatulent art-world frauds with the floor of a plush loft with a more money than taste. We still ate neon-haired floozie naked in torn on the Yuppie dime. And short- fishnets reeking of sweat and changed constipated Europeans. alcohol. On others, I was sprawled with limbs akimbo in the stairwell But it was all by rote, all routine. of a low-income housing project on The inspired exuberance was gone. Avenue D. It really didn‘t matter Then Christmas came. Corpses because it would start all over turned up in the park. Some again on a bench in the park. stewed and served in the shelters. There were rumors of a brandy- soaked pudding for desert. Derelicts were raped in the bandshell; brutal cluster-fucks illuminated by a halo of blinking holiday lights. Friends succumbed to the lure of heroin. I became a drunk.

And, as the illness of addiction took over, I watched my friends turn their backs on their own humanity:

Don‟t fuck up and o‟d. That was the unspoken rule. Handle your shit. We ain‟t fuckin‟ „round wid‟ no po‟ leese. So if you do fuck up, kiss your sorry ass goodbye. Ain‟t gonna be no last- minute miracles in the emergency room. We just gonna dump your ass in a lot and let you die. It‟s your last Where did the money come from? dance, pardner. Party over. The D.J. No one knew. has left the building.

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―Latex Skin Glows in the Dark” difference. I was sipping a glass of putrid red one moment. And he I sat alone at a corner table, was sitting across the table the unnoticed by the others in the bar. next. I don‘t even remember Normally, I preferred anonymity in closing my eyes. It happened that Berlin. Generally, the average fast. German ignored me. This was because I was both a stranger and I was sitting quietly with my an American. We were Europe‘s thoughts, lost in some Grosz- equivalent of New York‘s vagrant inspired jangle of vibrating lines, ‗euro-trash‘ population. Trust-fund obviously influenced by the backpackers and off-the-rack drunkards crowding the bar, when, hipsters – with their ridiculous after a moment-tary sensation of claim of never setting foot on U.S. vertigo, there he was – a hawk- soil until the president of the faced leprechaun with reddened United States was removed from jowls and two wisps of hair jutting office – had turned the idea of an over his brow like the dying ―American Expat‖ into a grotesque tendrils of a dehydrated house- joke. plant. They looked like the budding horns of a young goat. His These people were awful. They shirt was an eye-aching yellow needed to die in New York. They spotted with gobbling green needed to die in Berlin. I tried to PacMen. beat one of them to death one night. Long-haired P.C. Vegan I recovered consciousness during asshole thought I was his art- the tail end of some jabber about commune's ‗kitchen nigger‘. Popped waiting tables in New York. ―I‘d go that muthafucka in the forehead down to Christopher Street after with a soup ladle. work,‖ he said, sounding like Don Knotts (with a brogue) in The Ghost However, these were unusual and Mr. Chicken; ―and have a beer circumstances. It was the holidays. at the Ramrod. You‘re an I was alone in a foreign country. I American. You look like a New missed my family. I missed the Yorker. Ever been to the Ramrod?‖ warmth of human friendship. And I missed the moist warmth of Did they dig this guy up from under Holly-wreathed XXX-Mass pussy the Paradise Garage and pull him out wrapped and ribboned under my of a pink time-capsule stamped with a Christmas tree. smiley face?

―Tom of Finland Travels By I knew the Ramrod. I used to live Transparent Escalator” on Grove Street in those days; a block over from Christopher. I‘d I dozed off after my fourth glass of come up out of the Sheridan wine. Or maybe I blacked out. It Square subway station and Seventh was impossible to tell the Avenue would be mobbed with

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protesters disrupting principal She wouldn‘t. But once her affair photography on Cruising. with Pacino was over, she began cross-dressing in leatherboy drag Stone-wall was still fresh in and hanging out on the docks. people‘s minds. She‘d always come back to my apartment with raccooned eyes, At the time, I was friends with an begging for food or drugs, banged off-broadway actress whose acting, up and bruised, smelling really bad. so she said, was guided by the Little did I realize she was the voices of a Semitic demoness prototype for a succession of named Lilith. She was the first sociopathic girlfriends I would woman she said. She was created have later in life. out of the same earth as Adam. She was supposed to be his ‗help The Ramrod was by the West Side mate‘ under his direct command. Highway, across from the pier Lilith said: along the Hudson River. The building looked like it was once a ―Fuck you and your daddy! Why drive-through burger joint in the should I help a muthafucka who can‟t ‗fifties; the kind that serviced long- even find my g-spot? Take out one of distance truckers. Apparently, it them ribs and make you a dumb bitch still did. The lot surrounding it was to pluck your apples!” filled with motorcycles; all individually customized, all And split. That‘s why she‘s a looking like the boudoir of an demon. She was the first ‗Badd expensive 19th century whore: pink Nigga‘ of record. upholstery, rhinestone studding and flashing neon tubing. Not the My friend was a dynamic if kind of stripped-down putt-putts frightening performer – the sort parked in front of the Angels‘ who enjoyed covering herself in clubhouse on East Third Street. clay and blood and brandishing machetes. But you could always The Ramrod was a little like hear, just under the surface of her Charlottenberg‘s scatological fun- mind, the jaunty pipe-whistles of a house, Klo, without the obnoxious Loony Tunes cartoon. heterosexuals or infantile sense of humor. It was just infantile. The Anyway, she used to fuck Al place was a urinal with a bar in the Pacino in his trailer between set- middle of the floor. Literally. ups so he wouldn‘t lose his mind Gangs of Tom of Finland playing a troubled stud-cop in leatherboys quaffed a few drafts at campy leather gear with a yellow the rail; then, full bladdered, snot-rag hanging out of his back cracked open ampules under their pocket. noses, whiffing a delirious mix of amyl-nitrate, Lysol and ammonia- ―Kiss and tell...” pungent piss, headed over to the porcelain trough built along the

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walls for some real mouth-opened ―There must be black people in wide fun and games. Ireland,‖ I told him. ―Otherwise, Sammy Davis, Jr., wouldn‘t know ―Ruby Slippers My Dear: Or how to tap dance. Cromwell‘s Black People Before The European niggas clog-dancin‟ in Invention of Hiphop” Jamaica, y‘know? Black people are everywhere. I even met a Black I lied and told the leprechaun I was Czech chick once. Didn‘t speak a a Canadian. word of English. Only spoke Czech and Russian. Took me on a tour of ―Really? Where‘re you from? Theresienstadt. Besides, my great Vancouver? Toronto? Montreal?‖ grandfather was an Irishman.‖

―Saskatoon.‖ Saskatoon is ―No!” Canada‘s answer to the wheat fields of Kansas; all flatlands and ―Yes. Except he was white. Said to infinite sky. himself there are no potatoes in Ireland, sailed to Saskatoon, ―I‘m from Dublin‖ he said. ―I married a black woman and didn‘t know they had black people bought a farm. I grew up just like in Canada.‖ Dorthy before she spun off to Oz and found those ruby slippers.‖ ―After pickin‘ cotton for all them white folks, we had to go ―You‘re a Black-Canadian farm somewhere. Couldn‘t very well boy?!! Oh, this is too much!‖ walk back to Africa, could we? So it was Little Negroes on the Prairie. ―Why not? Haven‘t you ever That‘s a Saskatoon joke.‖ listened to Negro Spirituals? The ones sung in the fields? Those I made that up, too. I can‘t even songs were code for fuck the white blame my gay Canadian friend, man, throw down your hoe and Michael, for that one. It‘s called chase that star to Canada. Check it Jeffin‟. That‘s what you do to out. Go Down Moses, Let My foolish white folks; dubious dinge People Go: ‗Harriett Tubman, hurry queens like the leprechaun in front and get your black ass down to of me and otherwise. Willie Best Alabama so these niggas can go pick made plenty of crinkly Jeffin‟ whitie snowflakes up in Canada!‟ My out in Hollywood. grandmother told me that.‖

Actually, I‘m not from New York, ―Topography of a Phantom either. I grew up in Connecticut, Shopping Mall” state of the now generally ignored U.S. Constitution. Black people Tito Puente and his orchestra populate that place, too. The followed Heino on the jukebox. obstreperous kind with crack pipes That‘s what I loved about Berliners. and guns. Even they knew you couldn‘t get

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drunk without Puerto Rican music. Stonewall and Marsha Wallace, of I wondered if Puerto Ricans would Cruising and The Ramrod – listen to Shlager? disappeared along with Times Square, its peepshows, its hustlers ―What brings you to Berlin?‖ I and its tricks. How can a tv set and asked the leprechaun. ―Rotkohl dvd player ever replace the lap- with the family?‖ stiffening grandeur of Vanessa Del Rio on the screen of a Forty-second ―God, no!! What on earth is Street grind house? ‗rotkohl‟?‖ The New York I knew was a co- ―Red cabbage. It‘s a German mingling, a transcultural hybrid, of Christmas favorite. Mit ganse und classes, races, religions, genders kartoffel.‖ and generations. It was an open space without borders. A place of Frankly, I didn‘t get it. Bondage, possibility. That space was erased. rubber and chunks of metal Avarice had turned the heart and rumbling in a throbbing orifice I mind of Manhattan into a got. But wallowing in steaming simulacrum of itself. It had piss?!! That was beyond me. What become a phantom city replicated potty-manual did their parents on the broadway stage – the read? The Charles Mingus CAT-alog Theater of No Surprise. for Toilet Training your Cat?!! It was no longer a matter of My roommate on Grove, however, recognizing the shifting planes and swore by it. He loved the leather queer angles in the urban sprawl – freakazoids in dives like The the Flâneur turning corners in the Ramrod and The Toilet. That‘s why psychic cityscape; discovering I‘m familiar with those places. He strange new worlds. Those worlds told me about it. – those psychic worlds – don‘t exist in Manhattan anymore. There are Usually, in the morning. Over only ghosts. Ghosts on the breakfast. In gruesome detail. landscape. Ghosts fishhooked in the mind. This is why I left the U.S. I used to see these characters all the My house was haunted. Money time in the West Village. The air in dissolved in my mouth. Smiler‘s deli was rank with the odor of soggy pee-queens at four The odd thing is I‘ve become a a.m.; forlornly ribboned Judy ghost here, too… Garlands all pressed against the cashier‘s counter under the weight of multiple six-packs. For: Maresa Lippolis

But that‘s a Christopher Street of an ______erased New York. That Christopher Street – the Christopher Street of

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MORNING

By Nick Tosches

Wake up, baby:

gimme a fucking drink.

Wake up, baby:

gimme a million bucks.

Wake up, baby:

gimme a fucking blowjob.

Wake up, baby:

gimme pork chops, onions, and spuds.

Wake up, baby:

gimme the fucking world

Wake up, baby:

gimme it all and speed it up.

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INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS

A TRUE STORY

By John Barrymore

We paced back and forth in front of to pay off these debts. Everything, the mausoleum and waited for the that is, except what my Mexican grave diggers to finish grandmother, Dolores Costello (an their lunch. Bruce Pedy, my actress in silent and talking father‘s lawyer, looked very pictures), managed to ―acquire‖ nervous and kept looking toward from him before, during and after the gate of the cemetery while their marriage. My grandfather playing with the volume controls was quite a collector. on his hearing aids, as if he expected the police to come Upon my grandmother‘s death in screaming up the driveway with March of 1979, my father, John their sirens blaring. We were there Barrymore Jr., and I, began to enjoy not to make a deposit, but a a greatly improved standard of withdrawal, and maybe the papers living supported by selling off the were forged, but I still think Bruce Barrymorabelia we had pirated was being a little paranoid. I really from her estate. There must have didn‘t care. I had gotten very been 500 pounds of silver, drunk with my father on the way including Georgian Knights over to the cemetery, and the candelabra, Georgian silver whole undertaking (no pun flatware and dozens and dozens of intended) had already taken on a silver plates and bowls. There were surreal quality. many sets of china and porcelain, as well as Staffordshire and wall My grandfather, John Barrymore, sconces by such manufacturers as made a great deal of money in his Meisen, Dresden, Beleek, pre-war time. He also managed to live in a Japanese, ancient Chinese, Lalique style grossly in excess of what even crystal, etc. Also antique furniture his ludicrous income justified. from Versailles, Louis XV, and When he died in 1942, he was others. But the greatest treasures destitute. Not only broke, but were the books. There were cases several hundred thousand dollars and cases of rare first editions, an in debt. Everything he owned was early 16th century printing of sold by the executors of his estate Terence‘s ―Book of Comedies‖ (an

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incunabila) and a 13th century last name as I) ―I‘ve got a poem French ―Book of Hours‖-a hand here I think you‘ll like.‖ executed, illuminated Catholic doctrine which chronicles the story He proceeded to read us ―The of Jesus, or what my father used to Cremation of Sam McGee‖ by call the ―immaculate deception.‖ Robert Service. The poem is a tale Also several triptychs and other of the frozen north, about a blood old, valuable religious icons and a oath given by one man to cremate set of plique-a-jour goblets made the remains of another. When Red for the coronation of Czar Nicholas Dog finished reading, I looked over by Anton Kopolvnik, a at my father. He was crying. I contemporary of Faberge. knew what was on his mind. He was thinking of his own father‘s After several years of abject wishes, and of the dishonorable poverty, we were now comfortably acts that had left him entombed in ensconced in adjacent one- Los Angeles. He looked over at me bedroom apartments at 8440 Sunset and said, ―Jake, we‘ve got to get Boulevard-now the site of the my daddy up.‖ I had already made trendy Hotel Mondrian. the same decision.

One of the people we ―fenced‖ the John Barrymore had left specific Barrymorabelia off to on a regular instructions in his will that his basis was a notorious Hollywood body be cremated and his ashes be reprobate who was widely known laid to rest next to his father and as Red Dog. Red Dog was an avid mother in the family cemetery in reader and collector, and we sold Philadelphia. However, due to the him many rare books. He usually fact that his brother Lionel and paid us more than they were sister Ethel were Catholic and worth. Whenever we went to his cremation had not at that time been house, he would read us something sanctioned by the Catholic Church, by Neitzsche, Stevenson, the executors (Lionel and Mervyn DeQuincey or some other author. Leroy) pulled some fancy judicial On one particular occasion, we manipulations and my were up there to sell him an edition grandfather‘s remains were of Hawkins‘ ―Compleat Angler‖. entombed at Calvary Cemetery, in He gave me about twice what the Los Angeles. It had always book was worth and then said, bothered my father deeply that his ―Buzz‖ (a nickname of mine he father‘s wishes were ignored. used to distinguish me from my father, who has the same first and

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Soon after, we were sitting in my and Colt. Dolores Costello father‘s apartment with Bruce Barrymore and her sister, Helene Pedy. We brought up the subject of Costello LeBlanc, were both how one would exhume, or lay outside in the cemetery proper one‘s hands on such a body. OK, with their mother, Mae Costello, perhaps the word ―steal‖ was used, and father, Maurice Costello. It was just for the sake of clarity. It clearly the west coast family involved getting a dispensation cemetery, located in a portion of from the Catholic Church (since Los Angeles which had, by 1980, cremation was now sanctioned) become the mutual border of and permission for an exhumation various ghettos. from the Health Department, as well as a few other documents The grave diggers finally finished including permission from all their lunch, and we went inside. living heirs. Bruce got the They removed the marble dispensation from the church, and monument which served as the gave me the other documents to be front wall of the tomb. It read signed by the heirs. There was no ―John Barrymore‖ across the way I was going to deal with my middle and ―Good Night, Sweet insane Barrymore relatives, and Prince‖ in the lower left hand being a rather skillful forger, I took corner. Bruce wanted it for a coffee the path of least resistance. When I table but the administrators of returned the documents to Bruce Calvary Cemetery made a big stink the next day, he looked at me as if about not being able to match the he had anticipated more trouble in marble and we gave it up so as to getting the signatures, but being an not make waves. Once they got it officer of the Court, I think he off the smell of the thing assaulted knew better than to ask about the us. He had been dead for thirty- details. eight years, and in spite of the fact that the body was embalmed it had By the time we got to Calvary still been decomposing. The casket Cemetery, my grandfather had was solid bronze, and although it been joined by Lionel, his brother, had a glass liner, it must have and Ethel, his sister, as well as cracked or something, because the Irene Fenwick, Lionel‘s wife, all in fluids from the body had leaked crypts adjacent to or in the vicinity out and had formed a kind of glue of my grandfather‘s. The between the casket and the floor of mausoleum was also inhabited by the crypt. The burly grave diggers various persons with our family pulled with all their weight on the names of Drew, Blyth, Devereaux, end handle, but they couldn‘t seem

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to move the casket. My father got My father insisted on having a look impatient. ―Out of the way!‖ he inside the casket before we left. shouted, and shouldered them aside. He handed them each a red The body had been stolen once apple. It‘s a tradition in my family before. Thirty-eight years earlier, to give red apples on opening when he first died, some of night, and, this being an opening, Grandad‘s cronies boosted the Dad had stopped to pick up a bag corpse and took it up to Errol on the way over. He kicked off his Flynn‘s house as a practical joke, so rubber go-aheads, put one bare Dad wanted to make sure that his foot up on Ethel‘s crypt and the father was in the box. The other up on Lionel‘s, and yanked employees at the Odd Fellows on the handle. He only weighs begged me to talk him out of it. I about 150 pounds, but he managed think that even these professional to pull that casket halfway out with ghouls were a little squeamish one jerk. about viewing a body that had been fermenting that long. Dad We muscled the thing up on the was his usual intractable self, hand truck; the smell was really though, so after passing out apples bad now, but somehow I managed to all the employees he and Bruce to keep from choking. The went in to have a look. I decided to Barrymore crypts were on the pass on this one and only chance to second floor of the mausoleum and see my grandfather ―in the flesh‖- the four of us-Bruce, Dad, a one- the smell had been more than eyed Carpathian pirate named John enough for me. They came out Desko, and myself-wheeled the together a few minutes later. Dad casket down a long ramp and out was white as a sheet and crying. to the plain brown Ford van we He got in the car and said to me, had waiting outside. The body ―Thank God I‘m drunk, I‘ll never fluids were leaking out all the way. remember it.‖ I got a graphic We cruised over to the Odd description later from Bruce. Fellows Cemetery, which had the Apparently all the bouncing nearest crematorium. We flashed around we had subjected it to had our phony papers and lots of cash sort of busted the jaw apart from and told them we wanted it what was left of the head. They torched. They said it would take were convinced it was John several hours, so we picked out a Barrymore by the very high quality square urn in the shape of a book dental work, and because although and made arrangements for me to most of the flesh on the nose had pick up the cremains the next day. decomposed, an incredibly long

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nose cartilage remained. At any After showing one of the nuns my rate, he was in there. grandfather‘s cremains and the Book of Hours, the nun said to We went home and I returned the Dad, ―Wait here, I‘ll call you a next day for the cremains. They taxi.‖ She then telephoned the handed me a square package police, who took Dad down to the wrapped in plain brown paper station and had him interviewed with a little label on the side that by the police psychiatrist. The said ―contains cremated remains of psychiatrist declared him ―sane John Barrymore‖ in nice funereal enough‖ and he was released. By script. It was going to take Dad the time Dad called me from Philly, some time to raise the money for he was at the end of his rope. He the trip to Philadelphia by selling was almost out of money, had been off more of the Barrymorebelia. He all over town and still not found went on a sales campaign. the proper cemetery. He said to me, ―I can‘t go on, man. Fuck it; Meanwhile, I kept my he‘s in Philadelphia.‖ I said, ―Well, grandfather‘s remains stashed in you can‘t just leave him the top drawer of my dresser anywhere.‖ To which Dad replied, underneath my shirts, like a stroke ―Hey, man, he‘s at the Fairmont book. In about two weeks Dad had Hotel! I‘ll just toss him in the the cash together and went over to corner and bribe the janitor not to my pad when I wasn‘t home and sweep up.‖ I finally prevailed on picked up the body, my best suit Dad to continue his quest, and a and three of my shirts. He took couple of days later the Historical them and the Book of Hours with Society came up with the proper him to Philadelphia. I received a cemetery. Dad went there and call from him in Philadelphia about fulfilled his father‘s wishes. Back in 5 days later. The content of our Los Angeles, the marble monument conversation was as follows: was replaced over John Barrymore‘s now empty tomb. He had gone to the site of the Philadelphia cemetery where many of our family were interred only to discover that it had been moved. He spent the next few days trying to find out where. He went to the Historical Society, the Edwin Booth home for retired actors, and finally to the residence of Cardinal Krull.

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230

A PART APART

Text and Images By Chris Madoch

come and go when he pleased where he was prized and also demonised by a junior partnership. Law firms ran in the family as did truncated marriages to doctors and unseemly divorces.

He picked at the brie and rocket sandwich he‘d purchased from Starbucks, scattered crumbs exciting the sky rats, felt in a blink like some demi-god. Odd as a peg with no hole at all.

London‘s many smaller, mostly walk-thru parks, were active pockets of intrigue, places of He was at it again- bitterly consequence where stories, indeed obsessively regretting being films, either began or ended or, in christened with such a burdensome the case of some European name, a name that bit at both his directors, both. Shit, all of life‘s ganglia and prostrate, a name detritus, sifted through them in a never meant for greatness: giant cycle of glory, boredom and Godfried Dick. He knew of Phillip regret. Dick, Bladerunner, the sheep, the weeping of the lambs. He got there, This particular bench, the one fair and square in Thomas Harris marked in dedication to Sybil Fort- territory, in a flash. Lately he was a maverick female banker was, he prone to do this, the domestic knew, to be his first fresh circumstances predisposing him to benchmark, the start of a new life introspection and morbid without a cunt of a surgeon wife depression. when the bells eventually chime four. It was ironically apt. On this It was early afternoon, a Friday, bench he‘d get the call to say the and he was watch-watching whilst deal was done- his substantial eyeing inbred pigeons with an assets duly raped; the West Sussex intense envy. Manor and the Colombian gardener gone along with two He‘d ended the working week million in pristine sterling. He kept early with a sense of glee, boyishly exercising his freedom to virtually

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telling himself how liberating it was.

It was an obvious loss. Even whenever he‘d been a phenomenal success he‘d thought himself a loser. Well, with a name like that, a name that defied a halfway decent nick-name. No-one was going to call him God. Dick was obvious and consequently ubiquitous even at a Public school- Winchester. Winchester, followed by a first in Law at Oxford. Fried Dick always hurt him the most. She who was noted for her heart bypass technique had persistently called him Dickie- the one trifle that had A DONE DEAL. always made him feel rather sick. The scalpel adept bitch. Free. But he was suddenly at a loss as how to feel. Glad? Yes. Three albino pigeons chopping the At least he had the de rigueur sunlight like ‗copter wings, the bachelor pad in Covent Garden- vision slabs of white and black, not with garage, a state of the art Audi unlike the precursor of a migraine and a legitimate million. Not attack. The arms of The Isle Of exactly a setback to anyone fresh Man. He covered his blue eyes with out of the closet about to embark both hands, began sobbing like a on a new life as a gay man. The much bullied boy. head of his firm was a very understanding old queen with a Traffic police found the abandoned wicked glint in his eye that spoke Audi, doors agape, keys in the of tit for tat and prospective ignition, the engine purring. Blood promotion. So fuck Ms bleached at jam set stage, sticky, viscous, skin and her endless theses on the mocked the custard yellow hide of refinements of suturing. the driver‘s and the passenger side. No sign of structural damage. No His Blackberry played Elgar, theft. An SLR digital and a cutting the ambient silence like Macbook had been left along with he‘d seen MP‘s from The Treasury all of the vehicle‘s accreditation. slice the end off of fat Cuban cigars. Nearby a major hospital- a great white toad with NHS blue eyes held ghastly court across the urban sprawl where anything of any possible predilection might actually breathe air and reside.

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All he has said over and over is pocket training manual. I couldn‘t ‗The bag. The bag. The [expletive] look at him. He was smart though. plastic bag.‘ Nice shoes. Probably tailored I surmised. Bespoke. You can always No-one is surprised. tell a lot about a man by the gib of his shoes.‖

The assessment nurse arrived. An obese flap of youth, badges and an upside down watch, sensibly shod. She called out almost immediately. The back-up arrived in double time, seeming like too many chefs spoiling the buffet of flesh and flannel, but the froth of chrome and green was altogether necessary. God was whisked away to a semi- intensive surgical bay, the curtains cerulean blue with not a cloud to suggest rain in their softly pleated sky. Sharp scissors attacked his Paul Smith jeans. Quick fingers sought a wallet, diary, any form of THE A&E RECEPTIONIST identity. Godfried Dick, Queens Counsel. Forty two. Next of kin- ―I was fresh on. He was my first. Mrs Priscilla Dick, Consultant You always remember them. Dead Cardiac Surgeon. It suddenly on ten pm he was. Never late me. seemed he was one of theirs. We were pretty slack- just a broken foot and a suspected heart attack I In went a multi-valve for a variety knew full well was dyspepsia. No of lines- saline, morphine. Swabs. medical qualifications just years of Machine bots all singing and all experience. You see it all the time. dancing mountain ranges. Shocked He was a walk-in. Well, I say a eyes locked then criss-crossing, walk-in. Two, in uniform, door asking, no-one answering, doing security men helped him stagger to the routine on injuries anything but a seat. They‘re plastic. The routine. The whole team breathy Accident and Emergency seating. and agog. Their silence much Totally washable and bolted to the louder than when encountering the floor. His face was as white as a usual run-of-the-mill proximity to sheet. His hands and his lower half death, to infant burns victims, to were covered with blood, totally nuns miscarrying. In that covered, and he was shouting out profession you do become inured about this bag he was holding. to the topography of tragedy until Very unpleasant. Major. I a new volcano suddenly erupts as immediately pressed the if to deliberately trip you out of emergency triage bell as per our

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auto-pilot. Sandra threw up in a blood matching. Transfusion. recycled paper dish, adding to the Rigorous monitoring. Transfer to scent of shitted Calvin Kleins and theatre and the safe hands of a tissue damage. Leanne fainted, plastic surgeon who was qualified for her own bay, a cold fortuitously available. No. He sponge to the forehead and never uttered a word other than regularly tapped hands. Eventually was sufficient to draw our done with the humdrum, a junior attention to the bag he brought in doctor turned to the transparent with him. Speed is crucial in these bag whose contents, at that stage, cases. He‘s in intensive care now needed no medical judgement and drifting in and out of sleep offered no surprise tangents of supported by a raft of drugs. I thought- half melted ice-cubes, wouldn‘t expect him to be reliably blood, meat, a pathetic human lucid for at least 48hrs. Yes. With piece, a part apart. severe subcutaneous injury there is always danger of infection and yes, some of those infections can be life- threatening. Mrs Dick. No. No, I can‘t say that I have.‖

Still sobbing, he stopped when a young man tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the Blackberry he‘d just dropped. God was taken aback. The lad loped off- lank blonde hair, thread worn street threads, careless and awash with honesty. A miracle.

It was four thirty.

A whole half an hour of freedom wasted. A&E SENIOR NURSE A new cycle of self chastisement ―I‘d seen him before. Lovely began keeping him pre-occupied as couple. We have a Cardiac Suite, he sauntered from the City to the fifth floor- all of it. Very Covent Garden. The gate porter handsome. I shouldn‘t say it but smiled. Then, as he entered his everyone remarked on it- his good G&Q domain- the home she hated, looks. Televisual I think they call it he discovered a scrap of paper in these days. Yes. Of course. The his pocket; unfolding it he read the hospital ant‘s nest being the hotbed rather cryptic ‗www.squirt.org‘ of rumours that it is we all had an and decided to investigate the site inkling of the impending divorce. later, after his long bath. Minutes after we laid hands on him he lost all consciousness. Swift

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Physical nakedness often begets their wedlocked totty learn. Maybe more denuding. Immersion in they come to yearn, to long to have warm water with all its residual their man shove it up their next to references to the womb where kitty shitter. sound and motion both seduced, produces an inclination in us to ‗Oh! Come back, loping boy and undress our beasts of lies, to lay soft soap me into aping raping you. bare their reality as unkempt rent Lick me dry. I wish. I wish.‘ or sloppy trollops; at least God thought as much. He‘d lied enough He screamed but soundlessly. The and often blamed the legal bar- the overhead lights seemed stolen from greatest liars always made the best a set by Spielberg- crafty the defence briefs. They could turn the Germans, spinning, always going theft of a Blackberry into the mere back to a beginning, being ‗oversight‘ much beloved by dazzling, dizzying. His movement fraudulent members of The on the pillow rang a bell. It came- Commons. The Lords too he opaque with hands outstretched quickly remembered- how sweet and spoke in tongues. It flapped the unsavoury relationship fabric, switched switches, checked between The Crown and honesty. both wrists. It twists, spiralling like The joy in that impossibly honest smoke, a much sucked curly-wurly boy. Maybe he was gay too, felt it chew bar. You show me yours and on his radar. He was showing I‘ll show you mine. Rub it. There, I empathy. told you, Fried Dick, isn‘t cock divine. ‗Mother‘ he whispers and A London blonde boy glowing she turns- a face with vast almond empathy. That was real, not the eyes staring intently as he drifts prejudicial preconception that he back into fretful sleep. He‘s was bound to steal. chalking in white chalk on a black blackboard ‗YOU FOOLS. THERE Why the fuck speak posh. ARE NO RULES‘. It spots a drift of spittle and gently cleanses his pale God‘s cock was soft, moist cheek. Dickbrain- ever had moleskin; sac relaxed. Best wash poppers, d‘you know what Crisco Priscilla fully off with oils alive is, fancy a bit of felching, fuck a bit with vetiver. Never. How clever more go for second helpings. Get the mind. No more the torture of your kit off. Blimey, that‘s a beauty. that ever present question- is this a Take a gander at this one son, geezer‘s cunt or a front arse bloody lovely. It‘s your lucky night passing itself off as a fucking rose, tonight. Tonight I‘m gonna let ya a blood red origami rose with shoot right into me mouth. thorns that prick your swollen bell- end into spending millions for the Mummy wouldn‘t like it. Mummy dubious pleasure of an overblown didn‘t ever like what daddy did. wank. Men, God thought, are She slept with nanny. fuckwits to put up with it. Maybe

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It was then God wet the hospital There are residual non-palpable bed. scars. PTSD. MDD. Frequent suicidal tendencies. Would you like In intensive care wetting the bed to see? makes a discreet light glow at the nearby nurse‘s station. I beg your pardon?

Now why would the It was a joke. You‘re being so psychotherapist have made quite frosty. such a pointed point about the fact that he was a happy heterosexual. I understand that you own a small It is a huge fucking leap from side- boutique hotel in… effect bonding to random buggery- how insecure was he in his Brighton… sexuality, his Marks & Spencer‘s off the rail suit, his no tie casualness Brighton. Yes. and his Next loafers? God guessed he was the Positive Obsessive type …London by the sea- very who regularly looked in the hall cosmopolitan, gulls, immigrants, a mirror on the way out and told it, gay ghetto, rock candy in the shape Hey shiny guy! If ever I were a of cocks, drag bars, drugs, drop- lady I‘d go moist for you. Please! outs, loads of homeless, Big Issue What was that aftershave. Oh yes. sellers on every corner, a shop NHS. where you can buy grow-your-own magic mushrooms and every And you‘re British, God thought, conceivable variety of skunk seeds. not a fucking American mime Very high incidence of drink artist. related, sex related violence and disease. It‘s breezy. It‘s the seaside. It was not a good start. The door There are lairs for bears, bars for was deliberately left ajar. The men with beefy bellies and gents utilitarian room was beige and with a bent for the hairy likes of institutionally stuffy and even the them. Rent boys, prostitutes, succulent plants were in dire need gangsters, mobsters, big time of a crash team. God could hear crime. Any of that lot take your them whimpering on a higher fancy? Crystal meth for the frequency. weekend?

So. How is the healing coming This is not about me. along. I mean the physical healing. Oh. Healing. Healing to the point God was totally crap at mind of being pretty much healed. But games, wonderfully good at there are scars and it is not a pretty writing, writing and prodigiously sight. Would you like to see? remembering. On the day that he was meant to he created a word file No. That won‘t be necessary.

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and began divulging the the usual dives. I was hungry for unforgettable. action, simple as that. The sign was full on but the sissy fish weren‘t He was still rather afraid of the biting. Wankers. All talk and no dark so, unlike God Almighty, he fucking walk- ball-breaking spoil began by first creating light. He lit sports. You‘re supposed to be a ludicrously expensive scented queers. Well then, start acting it candle in a cut crystal jar- it glowed dear. It was all beer and bleeding whilst diffusing the lily rich aroma braces with not one geezer at the of ‗Giorgio Of Beverly Hills‘. He jump races. was rich but didn‘t give a shit that he was burning money. Besides, I kept hearing two things, just the that scent, plus a couple of blue two over and over. The first was- diamond meds, and a raging hard- go home, put porn on the HD on was a virtual certainty. God widescreen TV, butt plug, lube, bless restorative British surgery. wank in a hanky, no sweat; sleep like a baby. The other said- that destination west, the cottage in a lay-by you got off the internet, give it a look see. Glory holes that site said. I liked that. I liked the semantics of the juxtaposition of the words glory and hole. It thrilled me, made me feel proper queer, dirty, clean, wonderfully obscene, free to be- fingered by a mystery, sucked by a nobody, a mouth for the most part, a mouth attached to a nobody. Anonymous. Sex with strangers. No poncing about with dates. No apologising for being late. Just a place, somewhere soft and warm to jettison my load, drive home alive THE END FILE with endorphins, dreaming of a hot shower, a scotch and a late night ...there are 350 prior pages to this movie. Sexy Beast. Yeah Sexy Beast one but I‘m cutting to the chase with Ray Winstone that would do purely in the interest of the short it for me. So I gets to the car and story genre. educates the sat nav.

Yes. This was my first time. True. That‘s what life is for- breaking the I was coked up and cocky as fuck hymen of all them screaming first strutting through Old Compton times. Street. Nothing worth mentioning but a few casual bum fumbles in

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It was easy. Fulham East. I heard him unlock his door. He washed and dried his hands. The door‘s locked. I was sat on the pottery lavatory pan wanking a It‘s taken years to put together stonker. Something in me yearning what came next. I heard the rip of for home. To my left there‘s this cellophane. I heard what I now hole in the dividing wall, a drilled believe to be the sound of a fat hole filled with an active eye. The cigar cutter. It cut through a cigar. more I rub myself the more it He struck a match. I understand. I bleeding winks. A hazel eye- not know I smelled that. old, not young. Through this prick sized hole comes a glistening I have a long-time lover now. Life tongue. I let it lick my prepuce and partner. Business partner. He is frenum. It withdraws. My turn to holistically enormously kind. We spy. My! He‘s Latino, Cuban have a relationship I had never maybe, well hung. Yum. He dared to dream possible. I think beckons and I reckon why not. This I‘ve told him everything. The is hot. This is the action that Soho whole. And the whole does seem so is not. I stick my throbbing bang glorious. But, most importantly, I stick through the hole and he don‘t want one small part of my envelops it with wet lips and spit past life to cause us to be apart and gives it deep throat kisses ever. stoked with bliss. Equally we lay no wilful traps for I come spasms into him a back-up each other. We‘re queer and of frustrating stress-filled months constantly err on the side of and then he jumps. queerness.

And then the lights blow. I‘m part of the judiciary now. Part- time. Soft on the young. I feel something cold slide onto me, hand-cuffs, cock-cuffs, what the OK. I still reason, albeit insanely- if fuck. that is at all possible, that the vindictive bitch paid to have this This is where I get a little confused. happen to me. A part of me wants Damn. Now, how was it really, did it to be plausible but it just doesn‘t the sound of the cut come before stack up. the pain set in or was it the other way around? I don‘t remember And yes. I still shudder and feel and, in truth, it don‘t matter much. sick at the smell of cigars.

It was pitch dark. Velveteen. And ______in the pitch black, hearing me scream, he had the grace to push my severed part back through to me.

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EXCAVATED

By Claudia Bellocq

Images © Malcolm Alcala we were walking beside the canal, excavated last week. down that pit you and me. kicking the odd stone not far from here?‖ into the river, poking at the odd dog turd with a stick, flicking each ―no,‖ I said, ―where‘s that then?‖ other with the sharp ends of old bits of flotsam we found drifting ―the old tin mine round the end of along in the current. it was sunny. the canal; wanna go?‖ you stopped and turned to me and and that‘s when our lives changed. said, ―you read about that girl they from stick tricks to death licks in one moment. one tiny decision. one

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second of no hesitation. adventure our mothers hated: like it pissed were‘nt‘ it.... them off so bad we'd do it more. you looked me in the eye, ―you the mine. serious,‖ you said. ―you really wanna go," and I said, ―yeah, why Alfie and rosie arrive at the mine. not...nothing else to do.‖ it‘s late afternoon. hot sunny and there are midges everywhere. the so we walked down the canal smell of sun on skin is arousing different already. we started them. there are cordoned off areas young, innocent kind of, on that ―POLICE. SCENE OF walk. sticks and turds and playful INVESTIGATION. NO ENTRY.‖ prods. by the time we left at dusk but there‘s no-one around. we were all grown up. dark, Yesterday‘s news, well a bit more cynical and changed beyond than yesterday but the tape is still measure. I liked you both ways there. Alfie says, ―rosie, see there,‖ though but i couldn‘t understand and points, ―that‘s where it was.‖ you dark. for a while, i thought i‘d and rosie says, ―oh.‖ lost you. before that, i would go ―hey, alfie, you remember that time Alfie looks at rosie and they when we chased those boys and approach the ‗scene of the crime‘. got to them, all breathlesss and tentative. looking at their own sweet and didn‘t know what to say, shadows crossing the ‗scene‘. ―your so we just stared at them and left?‖ shadow is massive,‖ says rosie, not And you heard, ―blah blah blah knowing what else to say. blah blah blah blah,‖ least it ridiculous. ‗god he‘ll think i‘m so seemed that way. Then you said, stupid.‘ blush. ―hey rosie, i fuckin‘ love you you know,‖ and i heard, ―you‘re really ―stand next to me rosie.‖ it‘s weird sweet,‖ and I didn‘t want to be here. intense. brooding. sweet any more. that‘s why i said yes when you asked me to go to Alfie imagines the girl, then leans the mine. to the excavation. to rosie, friends since nursery, and kisses her. we walked slower after we‘d agreed to go. kind of rosie looks suprised. rosie is subconsciously delaying the suprised. rosie liked it though and moment of change, when our lives so her hot little lips respond to her would never be the same. i knew it, hot little friend. before you know it so did you. slow walk. dawdle like rosie and alfie are pulling at each

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others‘ clothes and falling to their they fucked hard and rosie thinks knees. what is it about teenage sex she ‗came‘. alfie knows he did. they that makes them all fall to their button up their clothes and leave knees. no finesse. no style. the mine. they hear the girls cries grabbing. grabbing tits. fingers on their backs but they keep inside panties. pushing. begging. walking. changed. breathing heavy. alfie still imagining the girl they found. rosie excavated. oblivious, except to the sun on her skin. and alfie inside her now.

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THEM

By Angela Suzzanne

From “other worlds”, they say for ages seen in the skies stalking in the dead of night slipping in time leaving marks scars impressions if shared will damn you insane knowledge screams silence but don’t sleep take note of the signs From “other worlds”, they say for ages seen in the skies stalking in the dead of night slipping in time intangibility grants absolute power those who control know whose only interest in science the power of the ultimate sword subverting all under the sharpest blade of ignorance From “other worlds”, they say for ages seen in the skies stalking in the dead of night slipping in time planting seeds making believers in a grand ruse helpless victims against the unseen enemy ruling in their yards culling without regard nor remorse while they blindly look to the sky visible monsters reign all around Pay no mind to the men behind the curtain

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THE APE THAT EXPLODED

By Ron Garmon

Great big gobs of greasy, grimy gorilla bowdlerized 1933 film premiered. guts New Yorkers, however, had few Mutilated monkey meat illusions during the previous long Amputated human feet Depression winter about the King Kong eyeballs hideous consequences on Fifth Rolling down a dirty street Avenue of a thirty-eight ton I forgot my spoon silverback gorilla‘s transformation into civilization‘s first bio-bomb. -Traditional President Hoover himself first turned on the lights on this new Already considerable by even world‘s-tallest structure not two extraordinary standards of Gotham years before, but few of even the happenstance like 9/11 and the most hardened Democrats among 1863 Draft Riots, the casualty toll Manhattanites were prepared on attributed to ―King‖ Kong didn‘t the night of Nov. 12th, 1932 to take end with the great ape‘s this as harbinger of even worse notoriously messy plummet from times to come. the Empire State Building. Death continued to fan out from the Kong‘s forty-one second drop from disaster scene for many days, the building‘s observation platform confounding compilers of statistics. was accompanied by a roar heard as far away as Union Hill, NJ, and The popular press, in the weeks the monster simian hit Fifth leading up to the ill-fated exhibit of Avenue concrete with the ―the Eighth Wonder of the World‖ annihilative force of twenty tons of lovingly detailed the fates of the TNT. twoscore adventurers who‘d perished on Carl Denham‘s first On impact, the ape detonated like a expedition to Skull Island. Scenes bomb made of stupendous of men hurled into ravines, quantities of hair, hide, bone, butchered by giant spiders or muscle, viscera and enough quick- stomped to paste by the ape were congealing blood to make even cabled across civilization (and veteran cops green decades later in passed mouth-to-ear by awestruck remembrance. That the giant ape - schoolboys across civilization), but thrashing, bullet-pocked and would eventually land on RKO‘s streaming gore, but still living- cutting-room floor well before the landed in a crowd estimated in the

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thousands may pardonably be midtown Manhattan with immense seen, with the distance of years, as force. Efforts by NYPD officers to one truly awesome full-sized effect. clear the area met with little No Hollywood visualization has success, so precise casualty figures ever caught Kong‘s Homeric from impact are unobtainable. faceplant with anywhere near the Bellevue Hospital made heroic historical detail as remembered by efforts at totting up the remains of New Yorkers. some 842 individual victims blown thrown windows at Macy‘s, The resultant seismic shock slathered over the Flatiron registered 2.7 on the prototype Building, rained down on the dome Richter equipment then operating of St. Patrick‘s or dumped messily at the Hidalgo Trading Company from the nighttime sky over Bryant on the building‘s eighty-sixth floor. Park, picking through an enormous Owned by fabled multimillionaire gross tonnage of pulped adventurer Clark ―Doc‖ Savage, Jr., xenosimian. No one knows how this shadowy concern continued to many onlookers were similarly show up on the periphery of puréed on the spot, with anecdotal historical events during the 1930s evidence like painted toes raining and 1940s and we owe it much of down on Secaucus or the human the data available about the ear that plopped onto a Reuben tragedy. This was done despite the sandwich at Rockaway Beach firm‘s initial insistence on releasing indicating formidable obstacles little more than a heavily-squiggled remain in compiling reliable length of paper with the figures. A startling red mist was deathlessly cryptic comment of plainly visibly across the river at ―This time, I really will be Weehawken and veterans of the superamalgamated!‖ from Great War compared the sound to company geologist William Harper the opening bombardment at Littlejohn. Verdun collapsed into a single hellish crash. Thanks to Littlejohn‘s posthumously released notes, Along the Fifth Avenue corridor, along with spot reportage by flying concrete, metal, glass survivors and the usual mountain mingled with lethal cuts of of secondary and anecdotal calcium-studded meat, all flung evidence, we know the upper 40% like grapeshot as far north as the of the great ape‘s mass was steps of the New York Public irrecoverably destroyed, most of it Library (where five perished in the sprayed into the air around rain of blood-soaked protein) and

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south as the corner at 26th St., extraordinarily lethal means used where the perambulator of little by city authorities to put it down. Salvatore Sacco was crushed by the The fast-disintegrating Hoover front-bumper of a 1931 Hudson administration proved totally later identified as belonging to unequal to the task of organizing Walter Winchell. The columnist help and interim mayor Joseph famously perished at Point Zero, ―Holy Joe‖ McKee was little more with other celebrities claimed by than a moralist soon unhinged by Kong‘s rampage including movie- unprecedented responsibility, so folk Karl Dane and John Gilbert, the sufferings of gore-imbued speakeasy-hostess Texas Guinan, Manhattan were intense and and gangster Otto ―Abbadabba‖ prolonged. Berman, all present when the Eighth Wonder overbore its bonds This was, if not the first, then and leapt into the audience, certainly the most crudely ripping off limbs and biting open emblematic bio-catastrophe of the heads in a gory spasm of violence twentieth century. Despite the that killed nine and injured 18. seeming avalanche of tissue, much Novelist Nathaniel West survived of it lay concentrated in and Kong‘s attack on the Ninth Avenue around the new fifteen-foot crater. IRT minutes later, but 49 others Police difficulty in restoring order didn‘t. Among the confirmed dead and clearing traffic meant the next at ESB were Mayor James J. Walker morning was well-advanced before -whose heroic dash up 33rd Street municipal hoses could even forever ended all threat of approach the fast-decomposing indictment- and at least twenty mess. Traumatized citizens movie cameramen, all paying with wandered the streets jabbering and their lives for the miraculous shrieking for weeks after, scarcely survival of seventy frames of able to recognize a New York, or screenable footage from the impact. even a material reality, that rained ape flesh. Carrion birds blackened All told, Kong‘s one-night run on the sky over midtown for several Broadway claimed the lives of days as the island was cordoned off 1,096 people and left a toxic crater by outgoing Governor (then at the foot of its tallest, most President-elect) Franklin D. famous structure. The biological Roosevelt, who imposed a effects of this sudden explosion of censorship even veteran journalists animal tissue pushed the death toll had trouble cracking. The national up another 355 victims from the economy, already in ensuing typhus outbreak and unprecedented straits, constricted

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further with the long shutdown of monstrosities for eventual display Manhattan. Politically, Denham‘s in fascist Italy. With the author of stunt pushed the nation into a pre- so much misery forever beyond revolutionary slide. reach of authorities after his death in Rome in 1940, there was little The state Board of Censors political capital to be wrought from officially seized the great bulk of the widespread public grief and newsreel footage shot during the New Yorkers were left to get on event, putting hundreds of hours with ever-skimpy lives. of priceless (and pricelessly harrowing) film under moratorium The winter of 1932 was ghastly until 1996. Still, what images did enough for the city, but the Kong get out paved the way for the next cleanup would soon kickstart the year‘s blockbuster movie, in which municipal economy, priming the the Willis O‘Brien and Marcel pump for First, Second, Third New Delgado‘s 18-inch tall puppet ape Deals, along many other badly capered its way into icon status. needed reforms. Even as broken Much of the runtime of the film fragments of the beast‘s lower torso was buttressed by scenes scrapped were being wrapped and hauled from an abandoned dinosaur away to Washington by gasmasked production titled Creation. The workers from the Smithsonian, miniature‘s almost-endearing enterprising merchants were anthropomorphism, despite King wrestling huge chines and wedges Kong‘s record run at Radio City of gorilla steak down Broadway to Music Hall cut little ice with some fry up for sale in Central Park, their locals, who heavily picketed carts streaming congealed gore the showings of it, the 1935 sequel Son whole horse-drawn way. For many of Kong and other random RKO of the ravenous, sunken-eyed product until well into the Forties. human skeletons who had been The brass plaque on the pavement gathering there in increasing outside the main entrance numbers throughout the year, it commemorating the mayor and all was bounty like they‘d only see on the other victims was added with Election night or Christmas Eve, little comment at the time or later. back when the charities were still Denham avoided arrest by simply operating. mounting another- if impromptu- expedition to Skull Island. This With love and thanks to Lester Dent half-mythical place itself sank in and P.J. Farmer, two brilliant 1934, but not before the fugitive Midwestern boys with imaginations far gentler than mine. impresario could grab a few more

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SOUNDS ABOUND

Compiled by Kate MacDonald OUT OF THE BOX: your sounds through Austin‘s streets from a loudspeaker atop the Audio Musings and vehicle! Pile cartons of CDs in the Reviews by Mary Leary backseat, threatening to avalanche the unwary passenger…‖ Troubadours of the Apocalypse: Nathan Payne The problem is, months ago I said I and other Alcoholic Clowns would write this damned profile. Also: Some things about Nathan

beg not only attention but Achhhhh! I‘m not entirely sure consideration. That consideration what to write about Nathan Payne. doesn‘t lend itself to easy At 35, per widespread ageism, he‘s summation. The man‘s a shape- past his marketable prime. Nathan shifter if ever I saw one, a likes Mexican food and was born particular American sub-species on Patuxent River Naval Air that a musicologist like Greil Station in Maryland. He currently Marcus might liken to Harmonica drives a cab, performs at (outcast, wanderer, possible coffeehouses and other venues, and charlatan) Frank. attempts to sell his outpourings for a living, which tempts me to spout, Until 2005-‘06, Payne‘s nourish ―Make it performance art! Blast movements (living in his car and roach-ridden flophouses in L.A., then roaming the country) would have made it easier to paint an intriguing picture: A disturbed, highly intelligent personality, who without a creative outlet might have been a serial killer. That image was underscored by the languorous, murky Black Dahlia video starring Nathan and his song of that name: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v =guwkSScuGeE. But the shape has kept shifting. Shrieks and barks emanating from the bathetic mayhem of active addiction have shifted into transmissions with more humor, maturity and even finesse, regularly veined with socio-political carping. A few years

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ago, Payne expelled a few more applaud his maverick freedom, drops of sweat into the L.A. smog Payne could use some self-editing. before driving to Austin and But just when I get sick of mining parking his trailer on the outskirts. for gold, splendor raises its head. He then went on tour, slammed out Right now, with ―Sleeping Sea #3‖ two albums (Blinded by Faggots and (Slow Burning Fun) on, it‘s hard to Vampire Cats) at a friend‘s in 11 concentrate as he vehemently days, and repaired to Texas, after mouths, ―What will become/of the which he recorded the two-CD sparkling spoon?/How long will Slow Burning Fun. we scrape our knuckles/across the surface of a chuckling moon?‖ At The shape‘s still an uneasy cross of such moments I feel all of Payne‘s realism with abstract work is an epic prose-poem or expressionism. Following mood autobiography set to music, and and/or subject, Payne sound and that the spoken word arena awaits production utilize various his arrival. American roots styles. And then there‘s Payne-as-rocker. In Los I‘m not sure his time was well Angeles, with a band (Nathan spent on the breakneck recording Payne Memorial Service), he of Vampire Cats, which has a lot of accelerated from threatening to rockabilly and fast country songs ferociously acidic, at best a not-for- crying for a well-honed band. But the-weak-of-psyche mix of Janis there‘s also some shimmering Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Sonic cabaret (―One Last Kiss‖), a mood Youth (California Death Trip‘s ―I then disrupted by country Don‘t Want,‖ ―A Man Called yodeling, a few dull tracks, and an Horse‖). At times Payne even abrasive kneeslapper, ―Telephone.‖ enters Lux Interiorville. Yet more After that, ―Ghost inside a Girl‖ confounding is his wide assortment unveils a sound I hadn‘t heard or of voices. Along with the psychotic noticed – a light, ingenious melody roar just described, there‘s the realized via a hodge-podge of straightforward folkie, a acoustic influences. Annoying! descendent of Country Joe Now I can‘t just dismiss Cats by MacDonald, Phil Ochs, and Tom suggesting it would all work better Paxton that also recalls satirist Tom in a roadhouse, with a few pitchers. Lehrer . This voice is sometimes punctuated by country rasps and yelps. Then there‘s the noir monotone delivering line after line of venom. There‘s a demonic sneer that pops up, sometimes mixed with one of the other voices (―Princess of No Return,‖ on SBF).

His work, to date, is uneven. Unless we want to unconditionally

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Three albums are more cohesive: a lake of naked girls. With the the offensively titled Blinded by vampiric cachet of Weill/Brecht‘s Faggots (at one point he explained ―Alabama Song;‖ ―Happiness‖ the name on one of his Myspaces), would go well with Nick Cave‘s American Infidel, and All The take on ―Mack the Knife‖ Diamonds You Can Eat (which was (September Songs: The Music of Kurt recorded with a broken four-track, Weill). The next three tracks are on cassettes procured at a $1 store). good, and the muted beauty of Payne opens All The Diamonds with ―Peace & Contentment Blues‖ is the forlorn, beer-bottle-clink better. punctuated, ―A Beautiful Place.‖ Next is a folk song, ―California Payne‘s a bitch to profile. Once the Hills,‖ which Fred Kiko of KXLU door was kicked open two years called his ―favorite song about ago, I haven‘t been able to close it. I California ever‖ and which secured was initially hooked by a song on guest spots on Kiko‘s Demolisten. his Myspace. ―Sin on Wheels,‖ To me this is Payne at his least with its bare-boned cowboy lope, interesting – the song reeks with has often been on my playlist there, (albeit sometimes appropriate) holding its own against Link Wray clichés about southern California, and Television. And there‘s a tale particularly L.A. This brings me to being told, one that raises one of the challenges plaguing any questions: Is he the narrator or the attempt to characterize or even protagonist? Did he murder a listen to Payne at times. While woman, or is he on the lam with ―CH‖ is a fairly innocuous her… or another one…? example, some of his socio-religio- political hammering makes me “…and now her tongue is turnin‟ purple want to throw raw eggs at the her face is turnin‟ white somebody give her mouth-to-mouth soapbox – not only have I heard a resuscitation lot of the same through at least don‟t be so impolite!” three grassroots movements, I long ago opted for more oblique “the cops are right behind us strategies. so try to stay awake keep your foot up on that trigger Diamonds really hits its stride with keep yer finger on the brake ―Dark Side of the Dog,‖ which take me off to the asylum while I‟m still good enough to go combines Payne‘s off-the-cuff I‟m outta my mind poetic observations with a but don‟t let anybody know” compelling riff and good phrasing. Then there‘s a sleeper junkie While Payne‘s music and classic, ―Happiness is Mine.‖ It‘s production have been uneven to not just the anthemic chorus: date, he fashions his abundant ―we‘re on drugs because/the flies thoughts into consistently fresh go/buzz buzz buzz/an‘ love lyrics that often ring as blood-and- covers over everything,‖ or great dirt true as Hopper‘s diner throwaways: ―wake up shakin‘ /in paintings (not the doctored ones,

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like Santa perched at the counter had started pulling a Goofy T-shirt with a bunch of elves)—well, over his head maybe: Payne sometimes breaks so the dog could only be seen into absurdity, or just silliness, from behind. after a stream of darkness. On ―Someone to Taste‖ (SBF,) he Worst of all mouths, straight-faced: ―So pass was the way he played an old 45 of me the tissues if your love is true/I It‟s a Small World backwards got chased by a police officer with until it said he should kill the producers abandonment issues‖ (which is of Beauty and the Beast surrounded by a mix of funhouse and the Herbie remake laughter and dry-heave wheezing). along with bombing the revamped Times Square and infecting Las Vegas with the original neon, greasy burgers, and hustlers.

People didn‟t realize how much he threatened the upstanding, family-friendly everything: Who notices an upside-down Mickey A few more elements make his Mouse watch? work compelling. One is Payne‘s Who has the time? ongoing hate-hate (he wants to love it, but there are PROBLEMS, detailed in dozens of songs) relationship with contemporary America. Another is his consideration of the road, along with the twilight tales he‘s often experienced firsthand, albeit at times through a hind-sighted bird‘s eye. Re: loving/seeing a purpose in the underbelly (I could cite Jung but would probably drown), I‘ll let this poem speak – I wrote it after hearing how remodeling had altered Times Square and Las And there are the little Vegas: psychodramas weaving through

many songs. In ―Dirty Magazine‖ Disney Satanist (SBF), a man has locked his woman

in the bathroom, she‘s locked him It was time to come out of the closet. in, or they‘re taking turns. Payne He kept wearing his Mickey Mouse watch repeatedly gets under the skin of with the rodent upside down, couples who grow so over-

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enmeshed, they forget how much ranted for nine-plus minutes on they hate capitalism or Republicans ―Licking the Fist that Feeds.‖ If the and start tearing each other apart. more exhausting or below-par As many poor artists and ―misfits‖ tracks were shortened or deleted, know, this can happen. I‘m SBF would probably end up on my generally riveted by interpersonal ―Best of 2009‖ list. dynamics, especially when they‘re well-drawn. One of my favorite Among Payne‘s prolific output (8-9 portraits of purgatory is Sam CDs and an EP), there are at least Shephard‘s exhausting (for other 25 exemplary tracks (I haven‘t people, maybe) examination of heard one of the albums, Angels on failed and fading Americana, The Fire). Some are good enough to True West (especially the version make me say something rash as we with Malkovich/Sinise). near the end of October, with millions (well, at least tens of Some lyrics from SBF‘s ―Tragic thousands) mourning The Cramps, Neurons‖: who traditionally tore it up on Halloween. Some of Payne‘s work “baby what‟s your handle? does its bit to fill the gap left by they call me Roamin‟ Candle that band. If Bryan Gregory, the cuz I roam around from town to guitarist who pushed the Cramps town into wild sublimity, were alive, I loosen all my lugnuts these pigs are repugnant believe he‘d at least sit in with always tryna keep me down” Nathan Payne.

“my baby she‟s the bitchinest most delicious exhibitionist to put her tragic neurons on display leanin‟ on the fender in all her psychotic splendor if you ain‟t nice to her she‟ll never go away”

Payne‘s wife Alyssa is starting to sing on some of his songs. The grit of their ―Dirty Magazine‖ duet approaches Exene with John Doe Suggested tracks by Nathan Payne (keeping in mind that album circa The Knitters. progression can be more

illuminating or yield a different I wouldn‘t care about his words if experience): the music weren‘t generally good to very good, with flashes of Slow Burning Fun: Cheshire Moon, brilliance. Happily, with SBF Payne Don‘t Say Please, Someone to is getting better at mixing the more Taste, Bleeding Heart, If Hell is a listenable with the more Party (I‘m the hors d‘oeuvres), challenging. Sure, I shot the stereo Dirty Magazine, Drive You into the a few dirty looks as Payne quietly

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Sea, A Crime in Progress, Love covered by a cartoonlike drawing Will Save Me, The Princess of No of a swamp. Out of the swamp Return, Sleeping Sea #3 rises a torso wearing a Little Lord California Death Trip: Don‘t Wake Fauntleroy-type jacket and string Me Up, I Don‘t Want, A Man tie and, in place of a head, a large Called Horse, All I Want hand with an eyeball in the middle. Blinded by Faggots: Mulholland On the back of the mailer are Love Song, Damaged Goods, My rubber stampings of skulls and Ass Is Hooked on Dynamite, bones. This reminds me of the mail Telepathic Proposal, Too Much, art I used to exchange and of all the Too Soon, Baby Don‘t Cry cool stuff passing through postal American Infidel: My Girlfriend workers‘ hands back when Hates My Guts, Taco Truck Waltz, underground actually meant Neon Signs, Sunny Day, Love in a underground (record labels, Room fetishists, wiccans, artists, No Destination (3-song EP): $6 Tux – insurgents). I remember, on some hell, just buy the EP - the spoken dreary days, howling and grinning word/sound track is interesting all the way back from the mailbox. Sideburns in the Sun: (upcoming, for These are very, very good things. Sin on Wheels and to see what else he throws on)

Alcoholic Clown Records

The Slow Poisoner does other good things. There‘s lots of roots-of-rock riffing (recalling Buddy Holly and seminal rockabilly). There‘s lots of guitar reverb and a pretty varied assortment of songs about things that matter, and that don‘t get Speaking of the Cramps, my enough coverage, like how people enquiry about an Alcoholic Clown really originated at the bottom of a named The Slow Poisoner was muddy river, and that the ―Wood promptly answered by a large Full O‘ Witches‖ can mean all mailer, the front of which was kinds of odd occurrences, and

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lusting after a ―Swamp Gal.‖ ―The Shriek!‖ features at least three blood-curdling screams. The Slow Poisoner evens warns us, to galloping gospel, of the ―Thundering Fists of the Lord.‖ This strikes me as rather open- minded of Payne, who helms the label with fellow A.C., Brad Hahn. Payne seems serious about Christianity, and if he supports free expression, he might even be a real one (Christian). It‘s a thought. problem is his location, San Francisco – he seems so So. Cal. – and there is already enough wonder and creativity by the Bay. Also, I might not like his CD so much if he hadn‘t had the sense to keep it at 11 three-minutes-or-less tracks. I need to write something concise about the magic of restraint (or restraints).

This is Payne‘s label statement: ―Alcoholic Clown Records was founded in Austin, Texas in 2007 to serve as a means of financial, recording, & tour support for artists who we like. Unless they suck.‖ Besides Payne, there are five A.C.s, most of whom seem to There are low-fi/vi videos of the embody different Payne facets. Poisoner on his website. But I think we could use an interlude NOW, so Making TSP seem like a here‘s a slightly superior televangelist‘s guest star is a duo representation (selecting that calls itself Juggernut, for HQ/‖high quality‖ helps a little): whom I don‘t have a CD. I‘ve just http://www.youtube.com/watch? checked out some of their videos v=9TsH4iu01bU and tracks – but that was enough – so much, in fact, that I must pause I even like the feel of TSP‘s Magic for another interruption: Casket CD cover – a smooth, shiny http://www.youtube.com/watch? digipak with his irresistible, v=Y0OKVGYFVrY Halloweeny graphix, The only

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The other thing that sold me on entrenched in the populist these gagaists, other than the fact neighborhood re-annexed in the that I need more (why, oh why did ‗50s-‗60s to ―singer- I leave NYC and the amazing dada songwriter/folk‖ by Woody wacko stuff that only seems to Guthrie and Bob Dylan, among happen there, or San Francisco, or others. While I lean toward more Budapest? Why didn‘t I join the exciting (to me) or intricate tones Neoists?)-- the other great thing is (British Isles/Celtic, French, Rom that they have a track called ―A gypsy, Hungarian), with Pless‘s Woman‘s Ass,‖ which includes latest, Alarm Clock Time Bomb, I did these pronouncements: ―A less fast-forwarding than expected woman‘s ass… will make you buy to see if the songs would diverge a beer… and forget your beer… from predictable progressions. and leave your beer at the bar next Several do, as well as benefiting to your friend… that‟s your fucking from fairly sophisticated beer!‖ ―A woman‘s ass… is a dump arrangements and collaborative truck of love… a mosh pit of energy (cello, bass, dobro, drums, flowers..‖ ―A woman‘s ass… is a and lead guitar). The repetitive crack house on fire...your form supporting social grandma‘s face on fucking fire!‖ … commentary on ―White Picket and on, into anarchistic epiphanies. Fences‖ is surrounded with enough spice to earn Pless a tenuous perch in the new generation of musical protesters.

It seems to me that there are far too few odes to women‘s asses by non- Africans. The sound, you ask? From what I can tell it‘s mostly recorded tracks, maybe with live rhythm box. ―A Woman‘s Ass‖ sounds like Suicide, or Soft Cell if it had not been gay, and had gone mad. When Juggernut uses rock, it‘s acidic and hits the spot. The CD is called Down But Nut Out. At best, Pless is retracing the trajectory of folk-rockers like the After an abrupt hairpin turn we‘re Byrds (―Boomerang,‖ ―When the at Matt Pless, who‘s firmly Helmets Hit the Ground‖) or, in a

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reverse trajectory, Jorma Kaukonen Cloudy‖), I wonder if he should with Hot Tuna (opener ―The have studied accounting. When I Flowers in the Furnace‖). Despite a hear some Marshall Crenshaw in tendency to lean toward the Lightfoot (―Imaginary Weezer/Pavement on his more Strings‖), I want to encourage him straightforward rock, Pless to keep working on his abandons any hope of coolness by songwriting. When his ―Gold holding forth on subjects rarely Rush‖ brings to mind the manic mentioned by below-‗30s, like the freedom of the Holy Modal dominance of cyber activity. You‘d Rounders, I want to know if he‘s think the Dylan-rippin‘ ―Talkin‘ available. Information Blues‖ was by a writer 30 years his senior. http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=vcPM0oLNTsc&feature=related

We‘ve arrived at the last two Clowns, Andrew Scandal and Brad Hahn. Without CDs, my assessments are based on online tracks and an A.C. sampler. Andrew Scandal is attractive, has high, precious vocals, sometimes adopts a chunky, acoustic Jason Mraz/Bushwalla form, and I guess also has a Coldplay sound -- whatever it is, it makes me want to slap him. I could see ―Heart Attacks;‖ ―License Plate Eyes,‖ or ―Straight Shooters‖ on the Gossip Girl soundtrack. Other than being friends with Payne, and his Myspace statement, re: liking ―Jim And when he unexpectedly Beam, arguments, and chocolate,‖ I amalgamates John Doe with Jesse don‘t see how Scandal rolls with Colin Young and the unlikely lyrics the other A.C.‘s. to ―I Wish We Were All Punk Rockers,‖ I want to see what Hahn Perhaps straddled atop the would do with Young‘s ―Sunlight,‖ Alcoholic Clown car is the rangy as well as hoping he‘s seeking Brad Hahn, who declares on his psychiatric attention. I‘ve come up Myspace, ―Life is a tragedy to the with songs like that, which never man that feels and a comedy to the made it beyond my practice room - man what thinks.” His folk or folk- - a Franken-song occasionally rock resists easy branding. When works, but some elements can‘t be he leans toward Gordon palatably meshed. Since he has Lightfoot/Neil Diamond (―Partly thrown caution to the wind, or is

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insane, I will call him a genius, Juggernut: suggest back-up singers, and leave http://www.thndrbox.com/juggernut a wide berth. .html Several months ago, Nathan Payne My review blog/pseudo-intellectual- with-a-short-attention-span asked me if Alcoholic Clown was amusement park: in fact an independent, or a label at http://offthebeatentrack- all. I assured him that what‘s he‘s reviews.blogspot.com/ doing – putting out and promoting CDs by a few artists he wants to support (and, based on the bundle I received, hastily making copies REVIEWS when needed; the titles often hand-scribbled on the discs), along By Craig Woods with letting label-mates follow their production muses – well, that this is the essence of ―Indie.‖ Given Payne‘s gravity re: issues of capitalism, human rights, and so forth, he may have been testing me with the question. Which gives me some assurance that the term ―merch‖ will never be associated with A.C. Wheeeee! Or, from the main A.C. page, ―Click on the album covers below to order the discs directly from the artists! (unfortunately, Juggernut's cover was deleted by Myspace because it's a drawing of a giant testicle with arms & legs and they think it's Lullabye Arkestra :: offensive.We disagreeeeeeeee!‖ Threats/Worship Vice Records The Alcoholic Clown picture is by Jim http://www.viceland.com/vicerecords Terry. “Disney Satanist,” by Mary Leary, There‘s clearly something special was previously published in Gypsy3 about a band who can move Information on all the A.C.s can be effortlessly from Constellation found on the label‟s Myspace. Records to the Vice stable. While the former stands as the Montreal Nathan Payne: independent music scene‘s http://www.myspace.com/nathanpa foremost anti-corporate label yne Alcoholic Clown: complete with a full roster of http://www.myspace.com/alcoholicc politically progressive orchestral lownrecords ensembles, the latter is the The Slow Poisoner: infinitely glitzier offshoot of an http://www.theslowpoisoner.com empire built upon a celebration of

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all things crass, crude and hip with approach to the textures of each some more questionable political bowel-shaking riff and foot- motivations. Yet, with this stomping rhythm. sophomore album, Lullabye Arkestra have managed to cross Opening track ‗Get Nervous‘ sets that divide without losing an iota the tone with its sludgy bass grind of integrity and have successfully and a riff that would make most delivered an impressively metal bands quiver in their boots. uncompromising record to boot. As with each of the tracks on which Justin Small assumes the lead The band consisting of core vocal, the prevailing vibe is of a husband and wife duo Justin Small nostalgia for 1980s thrash and (drums/vocals) and Kat Taylor hardcore albeit with a fresh playful (bass/vocals) has its origins as a intensity. Things take a more side project of Toronto-based soulful turn whenever Taylor steps Constellation stalwarts Do Make up to the mike as in the next track Say Think in which founding ‗Icy Hands‘ which combines an member Small continues to play irresistibly infectious blues groove guitar. As such, it took a while for with anarchic punk attitude (right the Arkestra train to gather speed - down to the obligatory chanting of forming in 2001, the duo acquired ―Oi! Oi! Oi!‖). Something of an and shed a succession of guest instrument in itself, Taylor‘s voice players, augmenting the core punk- is a formidably versatile medium soul sound with an array of jazz for the band‘s genre-bending horns, strings, electronics and the fortitude, veering as it does from a occasional snatch of guitar. When Janis Joplin-esque whisky bar their debut record Ampgrave swagger to a laidback country finally surfaced on constellation in inflection to a downright 2006 it proved an enthralling intimidating feral snarl. This powerhouse of an album but one flexibility is one of several notable bloated with the presence of a assets of which Lullabye Arkestra revolving crew of additional make thorough use in the rich musicians -- a state-of-affairs which texturing of their sound, proving would cause the core duo some beyond all doubt that minimalism problems in recreating the tracks does not necessitate monotony. live during their subsequent tour. As a promotional single for the Forsaking these extravagances, album, the band have chosen ‗We Lullabye Arkestra have pulled off Fuck The Night‘ (for which they something of a double whammy have also filmed an enjoyable with Threats/Worship. Not only video clip featuring a mosh-pit of have they stripped their sound zombies which is worth checking exhilaratingly back down to its out) and it‘s not difficult to see bare bones but have why. While by no means the simultaneously bolstered their album‘s strongest track, ‗We Fuck central assets with a refined The Night‘ is a catchy riff-tastic

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stomper which showcases Lullabye the distinctive sounds of Do Make Arkestra at their most crowd- Say Think, from the evidence pleasing. Justin Small‘s driving presented on Threats/Worship it‘s cymbal-heavy rhythm and difficult not to feel that it would be flamboyant fills crash like a nothing short of criminal for his tsunami against the resilient shore equally impressive talent behind of Kat Taylor‘s audacious bass- the drum-kit to go unappreciated. lines while the couple‘s shared Each track on this album is driven vocals during the chorus resound by a rhythmic sensibility which is with the fury of revolutionary equal parts hardcore rage and jazz slogans. Where the more whimsical innovation, the drums pulsating duets of Ampgrave had lent a with a personality rarely found in tongue-in-cheek air to the rock music and which characterises proceedings, here the patent Small as a delightfully deviant solidarity of Mr and Mrs Small is bastard offspring of Max Roach both refreshing and humbling. This and Slayer‘s Dave Lombardo. impression of genuine inter-gender Likewise, Kat Taylor not only camaraderie is a rare one in music boasts the voice and charisma of a and its admirably unsentimental latter day Joplin, but her presentation here on a record that impossibly infectious playing style is also consistently strong in marks her as that rarest of musical terms does rather reveal phenomena - a true bass hero(ine) The White Stripes and their ilk as who proves beyond all doubt that the flatulent poseurs that they sometimes four strings are always were. It‘s a notion that is infinitely superior to six. Seriously, hammered conclusively home on I challenge you to listen to ‗Fog ‗Voodoo‘, a rerecording of an Machine‘ at full volume without Ampgrave-era song now stripped exploding into impromptu air-bass. bare in which Justin and Kat unite I declare that it cannot be done! in unapologetically savage cries of ―Baby-baby-baby!‖. True love has Having effectively come full circle never seemed so simultaneously since their inception, the question unglamorous and unequivocally of where Lullabye Arkestra might appealing. go next is perhaps a troubling one to contemplate -- it‘s difficult to Having made the audacious imagine that any future record will decision to unmask themselves not incorporate a smidgen of from behind the jazz and orchestral backtracking or repetition, perhaps excesses of their debut, Lullabye good reason for the band to have Arkestra have joined that small but remained a side-project. That being determined breed of bands who said, Threats/Worship presents an insist on placing the often- enthralling example of minimalism neglected elements of the at its most paradoxically grand and traditional rhythm section centre sees a band capitalising on their stage. While Justin Small‘s melodic appeal on no-one‘s terms but their inventiveness has helped to define own. Should their creativity take a

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downturn, I personally look thankfully falls into the more forward to Mr and Mrs Small‘s favourable end of the concept subsequent career in rock-n-roll album spectrum. While not quite in relationship advice -- I wager the the same league as The Beach Boys‘ couples out there who have not Smile or Bowie‘s Ziggy Stardust, ―fucked the night‖ since forever Foot Village‘s Anti-Magic is a bold and would pay through the nose and boisterous affair from a band for a taste of the magic on show with more than enough talent and here are legion. acumen to back up their wayward ______ambitions.

In fact, in the interests of accuracy, it should be explained that Foot Village are no newcomers to the perils of high concept - their entire creative output and artistic persona are part and parcel of a complex analogy in which the band have positioned themselves as an autonomous nation with their own idiosyncratic culture, customs and moral codes. Their first album, 2005‘s World Fantasy, was a blatant celebration of established

cultures, each track bearing the Foot Village :: Anti-Magic name of a specific country. This Upset The Rhythm was followed a little over two years later with Friendship Nation in

http://www.upsettherhythm.co.uk which Foot Village declared their ambitions intentions as a If you‘re anything at all like this burgeoning composite country reviewer, then the term ―concept comprised of disparate elements of album‖ is one which will existing cultures. As their own immediately set off alarm bells, if press release candidly states: not in fact send you off on a mallet- ―Erecting civilisation with drums swinging frenzy, storming into and voices alone, Foot Village are record stores across the land to the first nation built after the deliver swift brutal justice to foreseeable apocalypse‖. It‘s an hapless copies of Lovesexy, all intriguing impetus for any band, roger Waters-era Pink Floyd, and particularly one of such limited the entire mournful back catalogue instrumentation, and providing of professional passé poseur one is willing to suspend one‘s Marilyn Manson. But wait! Don‘t disbelief, it‘s a premise which they head for the hills just yet, as this fulfil with gripping and latest effort from L.A.‘s drum-and- unpretentious passion. vocal ensemble Foot Village

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This latest release finds the nation and more imperative level. of Foot Village embroiled in its first post-apocalyptic war, and the sonic Arguably more than any other result is convincingly turbulent underground act performing whilst maintaining an appropriate today, Foot Village are quite militaristic efficiency. On previous conclusively impervious to releases, this band have invariably criticism. There are moments impressed with their ability to coax where listening to this record all raw emotional and primal too easily induces the image of a responses with what is essentially group of mental patients running the most restricted of aural amok and unsupervised in the palettes. Anti-Magic is no percussion section of a respectable exception and, if anything, sees the high street music store. If you‘re band at something of a creative able to make it from the first track apex. With absolutely no melody to to the last without cracking a single lean on other than the fevered yells laugh then it‘s quite possible that and screams of its four members, you‘re over-thinking the concept at Foot Village is an unapologetic play here, and therefore falling machine of thunderous power and straight into the trap of those who the tracks on this collection display would criticise this band for their a new confidence at work in its infantile excesses. While they forge infernal gears. Realising that their their artistic vision with appeal lies precisely in the nature indisputable conviction, it‘s of their limitations, the band have blatantly clear that the four thrust the most violent aspects of members of Foot Village are not the their sound to the fore this time sort to take themselves too around, to a large extent forsaking seriously and that any cerebrally- the gentler and subtler passages motivated critique would be which punctuated Friendship tantamount to gratuitous Nation. That they have done so churlishness on the part of any without losing any of their reviewer. characteristic frisky charm in the process is a creative feat which Anti-Magic is not exactly an easy cannot be overstated. The bulk of listening experience -- the rawness the tracks on offer here literally and incessancy of this tribal explode with a magnitude rarely onslaught is to an acquired taste -- attained by even the most abrasive but in pushing the boundaries of of noise-rock and metal bands. The extreme minimalism Foot Village fact that Foot Village successfully have successfully crafted one of the scale such cacophonic heights most honest documents of without the employment of riffage humanity at its most primal, or the aid of electricity is in itself a stripped down to the most basic radical achievement. That it also methods of creative expression - fulfils the thematic parameters of screaming like lunatics and hitting their playfully apocalyptic artistic shit with sticks. That the end result vision is a success on a whole other is every bit as amusing as it is

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stimulating (and, on occasion, and boundaries- art that terrifying) is to the credit of the challenges, art that combines band‘s all-encompassing vision elements and art that refuses to and communicable enthusiasm. bow to trends or public pressure. The music scene is certainly no Should the tin foil hat brigade exception and .Angle.Rec., a label currently fretting about the alleged dedicated to propagating apocalyptic promise of the Mayan experimental sounds to the calendar turn out to be right, then discerning listener, is a great Foot Village have at least drawn up example of what this milieu can a more than satisfying blueprint for produce. cultural survival in the radioactive ruins. You won‘t encounter a more Label owner Martin Lemoine satisfying slab of scream-and- discusses the inspiration, the thump anthems this side of considerable challenges and the Armageddon, that‘s for sure. things that keep his dream alive. ______What was it that originally made you want to start a record label?

I don‘t know, maybe the need to express my interest in sound, music and non-music in yet another way. Sound in various forms has always been one of my greatest passions and fascinations. Concerning the label, the mere challenge of it was appealing as well. I had been into radio programming/hosting, for various radio shows at community college and community radio level between 1986 and 2003 (most notably Bulle-O-Tron on CFOU 89.1 and Dans L‘Oeil De La Comète on CINQ 102.3, both focussing on ambient and dark-ambient and LABEL MAKERS experimental and idm and By Kate MacDonald whatnot), had done the dj thing, in various clubs & raves as well Images © Dolorosa de la (everything via psytrance/chillout Cruz to hardcore/metal and electro- industrial to indie), back in the day, Montreal is a city known for its a bit of reviewing. Maybe the label strong arts scene and particularly journey was just some next natural for art that flits around the fringes step or experiment? This or music

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making. But I never really MADE abstract, minimal tech among music. To this day, I am still too others. absorbed in discovering all the available music made by others, Also, over time I dug deeper and friends or not…which is a full-time deeper into ambient, drone & job in itself. There are not enough noise/experimental music. I am listeners I think, in this world…so I not even talking about all the other shall remain on this side of the fnce stuff I am into! I have always been for some time. all over the place in terms of musical interests and I guess it Both my parents were and still are kinda shows in the .ANGLE.REC. interested in music, with a strong and MONDES ELLIPTIQUES focus on chanson française but a catalogue, even if, overall, the feel few other things, jazz, also a bit of might be perceived mainly as rock. I guess my earliest interests ‗‘experimental‘‘ by some or many. stem from what they played at Which it actually is a bit…I think home. Then in 1979-1980, when I we are an experimental label in the was 10, bigger kids introduced me sense we did not stood still; we to Tangerine Dream, Kraftwerk, embraced drone, dark-ambient, Aphrodite‘s Child, Pink Floyd rhythmic-noise, pure DIY indie- …and it had a deep impact on me. noise, lowercase sounds, technoid My earliest roots and encounters in rhythms, analog sounds. We electronic and experimental music investigated various non- lie there. The sound of those artists commercial forms with great was so personal yet so seductive. pleasure in doing so. From that point, sky was just the limit. Back to the formation of the label: when I met Mr. B in 2000 in Then came new wave, and all the Montreal, not only did we connect eighties; in 1985, thanks in great in terms of many musical interests part to Brave New Waves on CBC but also, the city was experiencing FM Radio, I jumped head first into another boom in electronic, noise darker and grittier musical and experimental music. Mr B. also universes – TG & PTV, S.P.K., wanted to share his musical visions Merzbow, Z‘ev, Virgin Prunes, with the world, too. He was the Playdead, Joy Division, Test Dept, perfect partner to start the label! Skinny Puppy, Coil…At the same Even if a few years ago, he retired time for me came ebm … some from the day-to-day activities of early incarnations of it: Portion running the label, to focus on Control, F242, Klinik, and all that music making for example, he still followed…and after, 90‘s is a good friend and a strong electronica and electro: techno, the helping hand! The label was infamous chillout-sound, conceived around 2000 but it electro-dub, the Detroit sound, finally became a reality in June trance, also rhythmic-noise, 2003.

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At start, we did not have a with a more abstract/‘‘lowercase‘‘ complete and/or definite idea of feel. In Montreal, big influences for where we wanted to go sonically us were Alien8 Recordings and with the label. But one thing for Disques Hushush (they are in semi- sure, I remember we initially dormancy now and we have the wanted to release only vinyl! pleasure to distribute their catalog). Things turned otherwise a bit, but hey, out of 18 productions, we What do you think is the common finally have 6 vinyl releases under element between the different our belt, in all 3 most common artists whose work you've formats (7‘‘, 10‘‘, 12‘‘). The rest is released? mainly CD, with a few mini-cds and cdrs. A couple of days ago, we Earlier I mentioned the released the SEE SAW SAV ANN ‗‘experimental‘‘ aspect which AH! 7inch by Montreal duo seems to permeate most, if not all HYENA HIVE. This is intens(iv)e of our releases, whatever style or noise with a strong power- sub-style or sub-sub-style of this or electronics feel. I think that at the that they belong to. Also, most if end of the day, we ‗‘chose ‗‘ - not all of the releases on consciously and unconsciously at .ANGLE.REC. imprint have that the same time - to explore some gritty, rather unclean and/or often lesser-known and less-promoted old-school sounding feel and most sides of the of the times, make the listener land post-industrial/noise/drone/exper on not-that-easy shores. All are not imental spectrum of things and, always totally bleak and / or plain along the process, highlight dark and/or plain noisy but they common grounds between all those carry a feeling of uncertainty or different sub-sectors of the vast mystery. For example, this is why spectrum of underground sounds some people saw/heard a (I will get back to that later). similarity between, on one hand, something rather harsh, rhythmic Our goal was not to compete with and abrasive like LCEDP‘s ‘‘De existing structures but to L‘Utilité Des Convoyeurs‘‘ and, on complement them with special the other hand, a thing that was projects, also with a focus on the beatless, floating and way more quality of the packaging…so we introspective like AIDAN BAKER‘s were willing to produce unknown ‗‘An Intricate Course Of projects with a special vision but Deception‘‘. Even ventures which, also a few existing and well- at first sight, seemed cleaner like established names having a VROMB‘ ‗‘Locomotive‘‘, with its particular concept or idea to bring dark-technoid approach, were not to the table for a release through that clean at the end of the day. our structure(s). The side label / This was not totally planned but, I parallel label MONDES think we achieved a specific ELLIPTIQUES was started in 2006 ‗‘angular‘‘ sound. On our to showcase artists and/or projects MONDES ELLIPTIQUES imprint,

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there is a more obvious similarity bring us somewhere, whatever the between all three releases (THE ‗‘flavour‘‘ is …Cordell Klier MISSING ENSEMBLE, MATHIAS (MONSTRARE) and James Keeler DELPLANQUE, (WILT) were shopping their NETHERWORLD); sounds are GRAVEFLOWERS project around, more aerial, minimal, streamlined I asked them a demo of it, being a and CLEAN, this time! fan of both artists. AIDAN BAKER personally contacted me in 2003 Also, behind most of the and sent the INTRICATE… demo .Angle.REC and MONDES in and we were pleased a lot with ELLIPTIQUES releases lies a this approach of the drone (his concept; it happened like that, but now-famous NADJA project had well…we like it! Montreal just begun at that time). The rhythmic noise project LCEDP was LCEDP rhythmic noise project into the urban exploration thing from Montreal was totally and ‗‘urban decay‘‘ theme, THE unknown to us (and to everyone in MISSING ENSEMBLE was about Montreal and elsewhere for that ‗‘looking for those hidden doors‘‘, matter and we considered we MATHIAS DELPLANQUE wanted definitely had to change that). to extract sounds hidden within Antoine‘s first demo was handed silence, WILT and MONSTRARE to me at the very first C.O.M.A wanted to express ‗‘the passing of rhythmic noise festival in Montreal life into subharmonic spirituality‘‘. in 2004, while I was doing my FLINT GLASS and merch table. As for the FLINT TELEPHERIQUE made a sonic GLASS and TELEPHERIQUE interpretation and clash about the collaboration. Gwenn of FLINT topic of information overload (a GLASS contacted me directly to topic, I should say, that is more ask me if I was interested. After crucial than ever). Montreal power- hearing the first mixes I said yes drone duo SKINWELL shared their wholeheartedly. obsessions about tunnels and weird underground damp and Concerning DREAMCATCHER, enclosed spaces… we discovered them when they opened for EMIL BEAULIAU in How do you select artists to be on 2005 at Casa Del Popolo. We were Angle. Rec? struck by their personal DIY/old- school approach and found their We do not really actively select indie-noise mesmerizing and artists at this moment…but when it groovy…and so on and so on. happens, it is stuff that we are submitted and are subjected to, Concerning VROMB, I had known sometimes from artists we know, him from the BUNKER days in sometimes not…or stuff we ask Montreal, in 90-92, had followed from artists we like. It really varies. his career, and we stumbled upon One thing for sure, we have to be each other again when I definitely 100% convinced about it, it has to moved here 10 years ago.

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Concerning VISIONS…time was What is the biggest challenge you ripe for a good ol‘ 10inch slab of face as a label? nicest dark-ambient from here…GRKZGL had gone through As I just mentioned, money. I will many transformations throughout explain more here. The market has his progression and it is when he shrunk and furthermore, got into his more abstract and .Angle.Rec. chose the ‗‘eclectic‘‘ noisier sound that we finally and, overall uneasy way, which worked together as it was does not always make sense in exquisitely fit with our overall terms of marketing…but we would approach. 15 DEGREES BELOW not have had it otherwise I think. ZERO from the States, LOW END Lots of people in the ENSEMBLE from Montreal experimental/post-industrial approached us with release scene/ambient-drone scene will projects and we totally liked the tell you the same thing: market is material. MATHIAS not as big as it used to be. Of DELPLANQUE had presented his course, in 2009, it‘s become harder MA CHAMBRE …installation in and harder to sell overall, it is a Montreal and I asked him for a known fact…and the more stereo version of it, just for my underground you go, the more it personal use. I eventually decided shows, you have to print limited to release it! number of copies. It already was like this a few years ago before the Are there any particular artists advent of mp3 and the you would be interested in democratization of music making working with in the future? and promoting….but the operating margin has narrowed now with the Hmmm…lots! There are so many explosion of production; market is project offers I had to turn down in flooded and less and less people recent years. Most of the time, it‘s a want to buy physical products. The matter of money. I actually don‘t budget you have for promotion is know what the future holds for my smaller and smaller…kind of a label(s). Sometimes I guess it vicious circle. Many people point would make more sense to pull the to the mp3 as the source of all plug …but…old love dies hard. problems, but I do not totally agree One thing for sure, I scaled down with that. As I said the amount of the ‗‘operations‘‘ and now I release music available these days plays a less per year, to keep it going for a role! There‘s shitloads out there; while! I could consider some more too many actors, too many artists, ‗‘accessible‘‘ projects and / or big too many labels, not enough big names who releases 15 albums listeners/consumers…as pointed per year but I personally don‘t out in my answer to a previous want to go that route. I feel it question. But well, yeah, it is would defeat the purpose… human and normal, the more it goes, most people want the max bang for their buck, and also some

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don‘t even want to pay for music Also, the speculation thing, which anymore and have as much as actually has been going on forever possible. Also, finding distribution in collectors‘ circles (not only in the nowadays for some items is hard, record collecting world, but also in really hard…Many people in the the universe of comics, antiques circuit seem to have the same etc. etc. etc), seems to become more problem at this point. and more ridiculous. That specific other manifestation of the ‗‘profit I‘ve encountered non- logic‘‘ which rules the world makes professionalism and/or double me say that some people in standards in various forms. ‗‘underground‘‘ circles sometimes Examples include big do not act different from the labels/distros (ones I have ‗‘mainstream‘‘ they say they supported in the past) who never despise. Hell, some of the bothered to reply to any of my .Angle.Rec. releases weren‘t even various personal (versus mass sold-out and I saw them sold on mailings) distro requests over a the Web for twice or thrice the long time frame. Even consignment price. of a limited number of copies was ok with me…A very quick ‗‘No, Back to the cool stuff : apart from because etc.‘‘ would have been releasing special projects with a nice too. At least you know your different aesthetic, what kept me message(s) got through and were going on was my passion for considered. sounds and also all the very kind and dedicated people we met along There are also radio/club djs who the way; this includes of course all copy promo cds to their friends; the music fans we have been in bookers who never reply and/or contact with and/or met in real who take 1-2 weeks to reply to life, in Montreal or elsewhere, important questions about a live musicians we worked with or not, show at their venue; reviewers (I promoters, labels/distributors, had this experience with one in graphic designers, curators, visual particular) who use their position artists…I have fond memories simply to insult and denigrate attached to every release; the long work submitted to them (I‘m not afternoons and evening and nights speaking here of a simple negative spent designing, folding, review- negative reviews are not assembling, numbering (we bad per se). There are people who numbered most of our releases), steal from merch tables- I‘ve seen it the events we put up : VENETIAN on various occasions and a certain SNARES in 2002 (Hushush, number of label owners I know had .Angle.Rec. & friends collab); the problem at least once. Oh, and MLADA people stealing gear before/after FRONTA/MIMETIC/ISZOLOSCO shows… PE in 2003 (.Angle.Rec. & Geska recs. collab); SALT/SZKIEVE in 2003 (for the launch of the VROMB

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10‘‘ and the label itself); distribution stuff interested not NAW/AIDAN BAKER/NATHAN only people from here, but also MCNINCH in 2004 (.Angle.Rec. & music fans in remote far countries Petite Sono collab); LAW-RAH such as Japan and Australia. COLLECTIVE/XINGU Needless to say, Internet definitely HILL/VISIONS/SZKIEVE in 2005 has been an invaluable tool! Of (Cyclic Law & .Angle.Rec. collab); course the help of our distributors TROUM/TIM HECKER/AIDAN was priceless as well. BAKER/THISQUIETARMY (Oral recs. & .Angle.Rec. collab) in 2006; http://www.angle-rec.net OBLIVION ENSEMBLE & SAMARKANDE (S.R.I. & .Angle.Rec. collab);

SISTRENATUS/GRKZGL/AUN/ VISIONS in 2007 (.Angle.Rec. & Cyclic Law collab); SLEEP RESEARCH FACILITY/SKINWELL/VISIONS (Cyclic Law/.Angle.Rec./Kali/Aun presentation) in 2008…but there are others…the Montreal leg of the Suction tour (w/SKANFROM, LOWFISH, SOLVENT..) in 2004… Most of all, we are really proud of each and every project we have been a part of! We are happy with every release, be it on the main .Angle.Rec. imprint or the Mondes Elliptiques parallel venture. And if we had to do everything all over again, we would not change lots of things. Very few actually. So this is it.

As a label, we also strived to be a voice for artists who do not have a strong ‗‘commercial‘‘ potential but are nonetheless visionary in their own terms. One thing we like is that we managed to gather a very fair number of artists from here, Montreal, in our roster… I am happy the .Angle.Rec. & Mondes Elliptiques as well as our

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CONTRIBUTORS‟ LINKS

CHIKUMA ASHIDA JANA http://www.heavy.com/video/kung-fu- [email protected] clowns-60666 CLAIRE GODDEN ROWLAND SID GRAVES http://www.facebook.com/people/Clair http://www.cemeteryprints.com e-Godden-Rowland/657867184

JOHNNY STINGRAY MALCOLM ALCALA http://www.thecontrollers.net http://www.myspace.com/mal_inger http://www.myspace.com/johnnystingra ymusic CRAIG WOODS http://www.myspace.com/lightningpaw MICHAEL K _de_cleyre http://dirty.uuuq.com MAX REEVES JIM LOPEZ http://www.s-kollective.com http://www.ncix.Gov http://www.myspace.com/maxreeves

MICHAEL CANO SUE FOX http://www.facebook.com/people/Mich http://www.myspace.com/bloodredfox6 ael-Cano/1178413330 http://www.rogueartistsstudios.co.uk

CHARLES PLATT JAMES WILLIAMSON http://www.davidpascal.com/charlesplat http://straightjameswilliamson.com t/bio.html http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Pl DIRE MCCAIN att_(science-fiction_author) http://www.diremccain.com

BRIAN BLUR DAVID BRITTON http://www.myspace.com/ministryofpin http://www.savoy.abel.co.uk kpropaganda http://www.briandavidbraun.com CRICKET CORLEONE http://www.apertureswfl.com http://www.myspace.com/bluevanities http://www.myspace.com/beautyispain ANDREW MABEN publications http://art.andrewmaben.net/blacknight http://art.andrewmaben.net RICHARD A MEADE [email protected] http://www. visualdata. net

TOM GARRETSON SALENA GODDEN http://www.guttersaint.org http://www.myspace.com/wearesaltpete r THOMAS HASTINGS http://www.myspace.com/bookclubbout http://www.facebook.com/coupcoupdad ique dy GENE GREGORITS DAVE KELSO-MITCHELL [email protected] http://www.thebrowncorporation.com http://www.facebook.com/gregorits http://www.myspace.com/gritzprime CHRIS BRANDRICK c/o Paraphilia Magazine

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PABLO VISION CHRIS MADOCH http://pablovision.blogspot.com http://www.chrismadoch.com http://www. epicrites. org http://www.facebook.com/pages/Chris- Madoch-Art/130948425164 SIOLO THOMPSON http://www.eye2eyedesignsinternational. http://www.siolothompson.com com

BRIAN ROUTH CLAUDIA BELLOCQ http://vimeo.com/brianrouth http://claudiabellocq.blogspot.com http://www.dilettantemusic.com/membe r/d101148 ANGELA SUZZANNE c/o Paraphilia Magazine PATRICIA WELLS http://www.patriciawells.net RON GARMON http://patriciawells.wordpress.com http://larecord.com http://virb.com/patricia_wells KATE MACDONALD MICHAEL BUTTERWORTH http://www.morelikespace.blogspot.com http://www.savoy.abel.co.uk/HTML/mi http://www.myspace.com/morelikespac ke.html e http://www.michael-butterworth.co.uk MARY LEARY RICK GRIMES http://www.myspace.com/acertainblue http://rickgrimesfansite.net http://www.breadandlightning.net http://www.facebook.com/people/Rick- Grimes/100000040662738 DOLOROSA DE LA CRUZ HANK KIRTON http://www.myspace.com/dolorosadelac http://www. myspace. com/hankkirton ruz

RICH FOLLETT http://www.counterexamplepoetics.com /2009/05/rich-follett-featured-artist.html http://www.myspace.com/richfoll

DARIUS JAMES http://www.myspace.com/drsnakeskin

DESTINY MCKEEVER http://www.myspace.com/tragicvirtues http://www.paintlab.ne

NICK TOSCHES http://www.amazon.com/Hand-Dante- Novel-Nick- Tosches/dp/0316735647/ref=sr_1_9?ie=U TF8&s=books&qid=1256174620&sr=1-9

JOHN BARRYMORE [email protected]

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