14

This here story was written by me on February 27th, 2010.


Happy Sword Swallowing Day. Hopefully you know someone who can help you out with that.

Now why don't you sit down with your favorite beverage, steaming or frosty, and/or something else you might ignite, while I put this last chapter to bed for you.

Here is a song for you to get into the proper state of mind for this ongoing True Story Series.



At that time back in the late 80's, crack had been discovered, and this new evolution of the potency of cocai--- , um, powder, had come into play on the bleak streets of the high-desert megalopolis of Fuckno, Californication.

With this new trade came a quick and amazingly huge amount of economic power. Some folks had begun to choose sides, wearing bandannas of either Red or Blue. These folks did not come to a knife fight with a gun. Instead, they showed up uninvited, curb-side at your home, while you were relaxing after work with a nice, dry martini, and even while you slept.

They would then proceed to remodel your siding for free, with lead. Mind you; "for free" sometimes does not mean, "at no cost to you."

It was after the Aftermath that Muy Largo and his small clan, healing in traction and casts, and shit in the "Hosstibal", found themselves looked upon with disdain from these new echelons of power. The only person who rose above the Aftermath was the "Flora Du Mal." She finally saw Muy for what he was; a huge Messican with an even larger ego, but nothing to back it up.

She distanced herself from him. Took her awhile, because of a simple reason. She was excellent at what she did. Now, when you are excellent at what you do, there is a downfall, and it is this:

You expect everyone else to be excellent as well.

This was not the case, of course. So what does a girl do? Well, she finds people who can match her excellence. People who are good with armament. There would be no more knife fights. She never forgave Little Joey for his betrayal of her.

In fact, she---


But I digress. I promised to tell you about the Aftermath of the Punk Fight Story today, and so I shall.

We were in escape mode. I should have been driving the Hearse. Joey's arm was bleeding and he was slipping into shock. The Hearse is a huge and heavy vehicle, built for hauling weight, and we had that weight in the back, with Big Bryan and Fat Jerry, but the Hearse is not built for speed and maneuverability. It is built to transport Dead People.

We could end up needing our own Hearse, because there were some people whom we had made quite angry. These bastards showed up earlier for the little tea party, the "Machismo Meet," in order to witness the glory of Muy and his gunners.

And perhaps to purchase some of his wares. They were disappointed, ya think?

Sean and Tellesco zoomed past us on the right, with that Green Bitch Ford LTD with the 429 racing engine. Sean flipped us off. Fucker. He was enjoying this. Why?

Here's why, in case you have forgotten. Recall from earlier stories how I described Sean's propensity for exploring the very edge of safety versus insanity. He walked the edge. If you recall, his experiment in crack became his downfall. He'd finally met his match.

But not tonight. Consider this: You might feel safe in the company of a young, huge man who held so much confidence in his fighting ability, and you would be correct. If he was on your side, that is.

But the other consideration is that with such physical prowess and the need to prove it, this young man went and looked for situations to showcase his ability. God help you if you were there when he found trouble, because you would be involved in it along with him. And you might not be as huge as he.

Sean swung that Green Bitch around and he went past us again, back the way we came from. He threw a half-full beer can at us as he passed. This thing hit the windshield and sprayed beer all over the glass. Fucking Sean.

As he disappeared in the door's rear view mirror, a thought occurred to me. What if Joey tried to follow suit? I looked over at Little Joey, the little Lion Man, and saw that he was just barely hanging on.

This was not good. Dude was about to pass out.

Now, I don't know about you, but there are things you can do when you are about to die in a car accident.

You have heard quite a bit about a certain foreign car manufacturer who has recalled many vehicles due to bad design. I can recall many of those in my own life.

But check this out: If you find yourself in a vehicle that suddenly goes full throttle and wants to kill you, what do you do?

Why, simply this: You put that transmission in neutral. Let the bitch over rev and blow her engine, you can use the brakes at your leisure. (When an engine "blows," it doesn't actually explode. It just makes some nasty metallic noises as it throws a rod, and all sorts of steam comes out, and the engine stops. It doesn't catch fire.

Joey slumped over the wheel.

I chucked that stick into "N," careful not to go into "R" because we weren't done with the Tranny; no need to drop him/ her out of the chassis just yet.

Little Joey told me later on that he had somehow received a long and dark purple (with green fringes) bruise down his right shin that night. Must have hurt like a mutha fucka.

I held the wheel steady as I slammed my Doc Marten at the Brake, no matter what might be in the way. Lucky for Little Joey that I didn't take his right leg off below the knee.

We squealed to a stop in the middle of that street, and Big Bryan and Fat Jerry tumbled into the back of the front bench seat, which made the vehicle lurch forward another foot.

I carefully pulled Joey over to my side, just as Fat Jerry got out of the little side door and jumped into the front. Good thing I got Joey out of the way. He would have been crushed.

Just then, Sean came squealing to a stop beside us, on my side.

He leaned out of the window of the Green Bitch.

"Hey. There are some angry Messicans behind us. Time to git!"

A thought occurred to me. I was reminded of the time I'd been chased by a biker dude and had gotten away by cruising through the side streets of Clovis.

"Sean! Head to Clovis! Those low-riders will have a hell of a time with the drain ditches."

It was true. We lost them after the first couple of drainage ditches that lined each intersection. We look a few more turns and then headed back to the apartment on Shields Avenue. We were going to have to bandage up Joey.

More, tomorrow, if ya like.

Now for your links.


This is pretty cool. Whom do you know who likes the adrenaline rush? (Think...think... snowboarding off a mountain...think...) Here's a link to Designer Thrills.



This is a no-brainer for me. I will totally visit RobotLand when it opens.



I'll have to totally get a little Stetson hat like this dude.


I get a boner for bots, you understand. But these are art pieces. Nothing sexual.



Some get a boner for their own appendage.


Going even further below in intelligence, here's this. Science is always changing its mind. When new intel is discovered. Some think that this is wishy washy. Ummm...hokay...


I didn't think that intelligence could get any lower. Or is the correct phrase, "stupidity get any higher?" My brain hurts now from that last oxymoron. But if you are dumb enough to fuck a sheep, well, yes, perhaps ewe should marry her, she, it. I bet the dowry chest will have a lot of wool sweaters in it...



The only excuse for such behavior is stupidity. But are you stupid or simply prudent when you find a package delivered to your door and discover pot in it, and alert the Popo? You decide...



Isn't there someone who might find a better use for it than the popo? It'll probably lose weight on the way to the evidence locker, and some will get burned, but in a way not useful to anyone. Of course, yours truly has never smoked that shit, and even when I did, I never inhaled, and even when I did, I didn't enjoy it, and even... wait, what was I saying?

Anyways, here's some more stupidity, this time from home-owners. Damn those lucky few these days, they are indeed a rare breed. And their associations. Dumb rules.


On the other end of the spectrum, my very own dotta contributed these four following links. She's 15 and finally thinks that her dad is OK. The years of thinking her dad is a loser are gone. For now. (Miss them old hero days, "Wow, you totally opened up that jar of pickles/ jelly/ Balut with, like, no sweat!"


Here she goes.


Links for Daddy's TDC Columns. Here is a place I find a lot of interesting stuff.


This is pretty cool. I wondered about the difference in size between a cell and an atom.

People are strange.

Stereo mood.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Thank you Dotta. Nice. Here's that song you like.




Happy Saturday, and thanks for partaking of these stories, my friend.

Here are some more links for ya, bonus.

Family pic of me and mum and dad and uncle Leo.


Well, since we have touch sensitive screens on our phones, someone go the idea to give this to robots in the form of skin. Now robots can feel. Isn't that nice and creepy?

Odd bits about WWII.


A small war, fought old school, recently. Only those in the war got hurt. Interesting concept. Why don't we just get the oil execs to duke it out with the sand dwellers themselves? Anyways, this is tribal, from Africa. They have oil, don't they? See you dudes in the near future...


More 'Oh Shit" moments.



God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.