The Fuckno Wars CH 16 Write Your Name On My

A horror story not for the faint of heart.

We now look at the origin of the Devil of Fuckno.

You should not follow in this fiction.

THE

FUCKNO

WARS

CH 16

THE

CHRONICLES

OF

SVEN

Rich Old Dead Woman  by Michel Warlop

Sven Slindlivrenn hummed as he worked.  He wanted to perfect his art.  He created masterpieces with his bare hands.  His palette was human pain, and he painted in one color.  His canvas was human skin, and his brush stroke sliced through tendons and fascia, the tough sheath covering each muscle.

One hour before this:

Sven asked the tiny old woman if she was the person from Obervarten Staargarten 132 who needed a plumber this late in the evening.

She shook her head through the small window in the door, holding away the tiny lace curtain that could have been a corner-table doily in another life.  She peered up into his face through the glass.  Outside, in the falling snow, there stood a tall man; wiry and taut; almost handsome.

She looked down at the large, red toolbox in his left hand and saw that he leaned away from its heft.  It must be heavy, she thought, it must be filled with metal tools.

She was correct.

He asked her if she could tell him the way to the correct house, for certainly those folks needed his assistance, at such a late hour?  His voice was muffled beyond the heavy oak door.

She nodded.

She could help him.

She opened her door to him.

I Am A Passenger  by Iggy Pop

Sven pulled the back skin across one end of the large picture frame that he’d taken from its place over the long forgotten, dusty dining room table.  This table now served another purpose.  There was no butcher’s drop cloth beneath it to catch the drippings.

He used his heavy-duty staple gun to attach the skin across and behind one end of the frame.  He turned it around clockwise and pulled the skin up and over the other end of the frame.  He pulled it taut with one hand and stapled it down with the other, with each squeeze of the handle.

CHK-CHKK.

CHK-CHKK.

CHK-

CHKK.........

Inside out, with globules and streaks of subdermal fat strewn across the sheet, he would have to do some scraping.  Usually, when you tan a hide, you use the brains of the animal to cure the skin.  You mix it with salt and you smear it on the skin after you have scraped the fat and the veins off.

But at that moment, there was not enough time.

To tan a hide will take some time.

In the late evening until early morn, the work Sven did might have continued for another three days, until after the snow storm had passed.  Her old, frail body would not be discovered until perhaps a few more days after that.  He simply did not know this, and there was no reason for him to risk such a thing as to enjoy himself for three full days.

One night’s torture and then some rape and some eating would have to be enough.

He needed to work in the heat.  Fat is most easily removed from skin when it is in the sunlight, on a warm day.  For him, crafting his art, he could only turn up the heat in the little house, in the middle of winter, in a mountainous country where heating fuel was quite expensive, and the warmth of a spring day lied ahead in four months.

He would need to escape to a warmer clime for his work.  And also, to escape being caught.

Fifty minutes before:

Sven cracked open a tiny vial of smelling salts and swung it back and forth under the nose of his victim.  She didn't know that she was a victim, yet.  She swung her head away from it and her eye opened.

The side of her face hurt, and she could see from only one eye.  The other one was swelling up.  Her jaw did not close properly.  It was broken, but she could not feel the pain yet. She was in a state of shock.  She tried to reach for her jaw with her hands, but they could not move.  They were tied at the wrists, behind her chair.

She looked up with her one good eye at the blurry man before her, and he came closer, into view.  He set her eyeglasses back upon her noggin, and she could see him a bit better.  The lens over her good eye was not broken.

The other lens was broken down the middle, but her swollen eye could not see that.

Sven leaned in and said, “What is your name?”

She coughed, and her ribs hurt.  She said, “Can you help me?  I am in pain! Who are you?!”

He said, “I am Sven Slindlivrenn.  I'm not sorry, but your pain will not end all too soon.”

She struggled with her wrist ties.  She was stuck.  She was not in a good place, she could tell. She said, “I don’t know what is going on.  Can you call for help?”  She was not thinking correctly.  She was not in her right mind.  She said, “Can you call a plumber?”

Sven stood back up and he laughed.  He said, “I am going to help you out.”  He held up his tin snips and he used them to cut away the front of her night gown.  He was a very bad person, and he was going to take his time with her.

He set the tin snips down on the dining room table, next to the red tool box. 

He picked up the blow torch and the sparker.

He would take his time.

He was hungry.

It was time to cook.   

He would eat.

The he would have her dessert.

Then he would paint.

Then he would look for her valuables, and he would discover that her hoard would be quite enough to fund his travel to another country.

CHK-CHKK.

CHK-CHKK...

After he was satiated...

Sven placed the framed skin canvas down next to the body of the frail old woman on the dining room table.

He dipped the tip of his penis into the pool of blood inside her opened heart.

He began to paint.

That is the what became of the City of Fuckno.

Sven had created a minion.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Chalk Outline   Three Days Grace

The Fuckno Wars CH 15 Voy Contigo

If You’re Ready  by the Staple Singers

“A Teacher is one who has the opportunity and also the responsibility to share what they have learned with others, for the betterment of all.”   ---Sinister Minister Glinty McFlintlock, ca. 1872.

THE

FUCKNO

WARS

CH 15

VOY

CONTIGO

“I go with you.”

I adjusted my tie and I got my shit together.  I would follow this one to the ends of the ocean.  Trust.

I followed Lorelei’s ghost down to the empty room below, and paused before entering that room at the hidden panel/door.  I put my ear up against it and tried to listen, but all I could hear was rapid thudding from my heartbeat. 

Do Not Panic.

I was indeed (as Sean had once said): “Pussy whipped by two bitches, from the Pacific to the Atlantic.”  Sean had been talking about the girl from Thailand and the girl from Germany, and they were both dead now.  This ice-cold lady next to me held my key in her hand, but I could not find her keyhole. 

I smelled her perfume all over me, and that put me at ease.  Perhaps in another time, on another “plane” of existence, her body would be warm and silky to the touch, and we would be lying upon the white powder of a beach before the turquoise, clear ocean that stretched for a thousand nautical miles in every direction from our tiny island. 

You can dream, but a dream is only that.

I stood back to take one more look at the ghost girl.  Lorelei shook her head at me.  She said, “You know, Veeeee-ill,  you have something that they do not.”

I had no clue.  I said, “hah?”

She said, “You have me.”

She threw that hidden panel open, and she left me standing in the secret stairwell.

All of a sudden, I felt alone.

I was truly alone.

Tellesco was shouting at himself way down below in the baptized mansion, and I was there on the second floor, about to enter my exit, my exodus.

The ghost girl had left me, and I was left with the feeling of departure, of remaining, of being left alone.  I saw the blue glow of the ghost girl in the room before me, and I was in the dark.  Did she exist at all?

I kept thinking about how this did not make any sense at all, and I tried to figure it out, in that brief instance.  But do you know, another feeling washed over me, from the depths of the ocean, and it was this:

I wanted to catch up.  I saw the trail she left ahead, in the powdery, fresh-fallen snow of a Maine woods in the deep, blue light of early evening, and the sky was growing darker and darker by the second.  I wanted to run forth, to catch up, and each step I took in the deep snow slowed me from her vanishing light up ahead.  I could not keep up.  I struggled like a man in a nightmare, sleeping in his bed with his legs all tangled up in the sheets and the blankets, and I would not wake up.

I could not catch up.

Her light faded:

out,

out,

gone.

Black as pitch from a pine tree.

I faltered. 

And then, I heard boots stomping from a light-year away.

Well, mister, that made me get back to the surface of reality. 

I charged forth, and Lorelei was waiting there for me.

She smiled.

She said, “Come go with me.”

And I did.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Rollin’ and Tumblin’   by R.L. Burnside 

The Fuckno Wars CH 14 Smashing Good Time

Railroad Track   by Willy Moon

Purple Robes came to the desert to practice their own religion.  The open door policy of the first immigrants who discovered that there were folks already living here was still wide open back then, in the 1950’s. 

9/11 had not woken us up yet.

“Give me your weak, your downtrodden, your oppressed, your filthy unwashed heathen, and we will make them clean.  We will bathe them.  We will baptize them in the desert.”

---Pastor Glinty McFlintlock, ca. 1872.

Them Purple Robes numbered in the hundreds, and they had made their home in the desert of the Sans Joking River Valley.  Their kingdom was the megalopolis called Fuckno, centrally located between five smaller cities, including the tidy, pretty little city of Clovis up on the north east of it.

They had come to America to seek refuge from their own oppression and persecution from the Ruskies upon their orthodox church devotion and belief.

The odd thing that happens when you become separated from your land is that you develop your own dialect.

They developed their own religious dialect, and it became a sect.

Formed out of oppression and fear, it had become a religion of self-preservation and anger.

From that, in the ensuing years, it devolved into it’s own form of oppression and persecution.  Protection, self-preservation, wariness of the outsider, and a clique mentality distilled their original intention of God-Seek to become a refined mentality of  pure liquid hatred and evil.

They became the Purple Robes, originally from Armedmenia, and they had congregated in Fuckno.

They took over the King Of The Desert.

They came to own Fuckno.

I think that we punks had stepped into a hornet nest.

Jimi's   Red House

 

Now, a group of their protectors, warriors, young men were searching the baptized mansion in furtive effort to find its destructors. 

They could not get into the ceremonial chamber (in which I hid) from the hallway.  They knew that I was inside, and they knew about the hidden entrance in the floor below. 

It was a race between them and me now to reach the second floor below.

Fuck.

Never the easy way out for we punks.

I hefted the heavy sack of splintered crystal goblets and bone china on my back and gave a thought about chucking it off and just bailing.

Lorelei’s ghost glared into my eyes.  She shook her head, and then she said, “Follow me.”

I about shit my pants.  Was she reading my mind?  No.  I think that it was the look on my face.  I was a scared little bitch, and I had fucked up our escape route.  I was the dumbass who roared when he should have been quiet in the hallway.

Everything would have been better if I’d simply followed her down the hallway.

No excuse for roaring, because that was how I regained my strength at that moment.

The reason was that she had slinted through me, and when she passed through me from the chamber into the hallway, she had imparted to me her emotions.

Ghosts are recordings etched upon the surface of reality, right?

They hold no weight?

I guess I was wrong about that.

Now she wanted me to follow her.

I did not want to fuck up again.

So I followed her.

We went down the stairwell at the back of the ceremonial chamber, and I could see only by the glow of her light. It was a couple of turns to the left, because the chamber had been built between floors, and the ceiling in the chamber was low, while all of the rest of the rooms in the palace went up a good ten feet to their ceilings.

As we entered the room below, I heard a shout from way down in the cellar of the mansion.  I paused, but Lorelei beckoned me. 

I said, “It sounds like an army is waiting for us!”

She smiled.  She said, “Yes. There is an army now.”

I said, “I don’t want to die!  I can’t fight an army!”

She put her hand up to my face and she bent forward.  I smelled her perfume, from a hundred years ago, from the bottom of the sea, and I felt her lips against my own.  She was ice cold, but her kiss warmed my---

She stepped back and said, “This is our army.  Tellesco has an army now.  For us.”

I licked my lips to take in her kiss from them.  I said, “What the fuck happened to your German accent?”

She smiled.  “Zat iss somezhing vich don’t exist anymore.  At zee bottom of zee Ocean.”

I faltered.

She was truly dead.

Her voice now existed in my mind.

Was I going crazy?

What if I was just a lonely guy, all fucked up in the head, trespassing in the broken mansion, hallucinating and about to be killed?

Was this all just a dream?

I awoke at that, and my little sister Spamela entered my bedroom with a giant mug of sweet, creamy coffee like a dessert, splotching drops of it onto the ice-hard floor tiles with each halted step.

She was trying not to spill it, but I didn’t care about the mess.

I grabbed the coffee mug from her and set it on the nightstand, and then I tossed her onto the comforter and tickled her as she laughed.

It had all been a dream.

Whew.

See you next week.

That would have been nice, but no...

Lorelei grabbed my arm.  “There is only one way out now.  We have to go out the way you came in.  Tellesco is heading there now.”

Believe   by The Bravery

Tellesco hefted up the little girl on his back as he stood up.  He said, “Will we be OK if we do this here and now?”

Avison Talon said in his ear, “We are Okies.  Now you are.  It is all up to you now.  Show these people that they have someone to follow out of this death place.  They need something to believe in.  You will do, at this moment.  Just help them, mister king.”

You see, it is not about a grand plan.  In your own life, whatever you are engaged in, whatever you do, it is about one simple thing.  It is about your ability to rise to each occasion.  It is not what happens to you that decides your future, it's what you do about it.

We have the capacity for “leadership” within each of us.

A “Leader” is a title, an elected office to seek, a place in your work force from which you hope to make bigger bucks and get the golden Cadillac.  True “leadership” is the ability, the learned skill to see an opportunity to do the right thing, even if it may cost you.  

Tellesco whispered back at the little girl on his back.  He said, “Ok.  Let’s do this.”

He turned around and faced the crowd of a thousand blue ghosts and took a deep breath.  He shouted at them.  He had never done such a thing before.  He had been quiet in speech class that his father had made him take, whimpering and trembling when it was his turn to read his paper out loud each time in front of the rest of the class.  He had failed.

He was not a born leader.  But he showed leadership that night in the dusty cavern below the baptized palace.

He raised his arms up in his burned leather jacket, and he shouted at them ghosts.

He said, “Listen to me!  I want you to follow me up and out of here!  You do not belong down here!  You will be set free if you follow me!  Evil things await us all, but if you trust me, then we can leave this fucking place!  Now is your chance to go onward!  If you choose to stay, then god help you.  If you choose to follow, then I will show you the way out of this hell!”

Their third shout of fealty cemented their resolve.  They would follow him, come what may.  It would be ugly for many of them.

I’m Not Over  by Carolina Liar

Joey stood up and he grinded his teeth.  He swept the dirt off from the arms of his leather and he adjusted his tie, which is a phrase that means this: you get your shit together.

He ran forward at the person holding the flashlight by the power station and when he reached him, he leapt and he roared.  He grabbed the man and tumbled onto the tar and began to swing his fists as soon as he could.  He punched the man in the face and throat, over and over again.  He had the fear and the adrenaline.

Never punch someone in the throat unless you mean to kill him.  It is a douchedick thing to do, like kicking someone when they are on the ground.  Fuck you if you do that sort of thing.

Joey stood back up, with his knees bleeding from the fall, and the man below him was unconscious.  Joey left him alone and ran over to the little Mazda truck he’d stolen from the hostibal.  (Hostibal is a word for Hospital, and I use it in homage to my son, when he was very young, and he was in there, and that is what he called it.)

The little truck was still running, because there were no keys in the ignition to turn it off.  You would have to disconnect the twisted wires underneath the dashboard to shut it down, or else wait for the fuel to empty from the tank.

He put that little bitch in gear and eased around the huge white truck in front of him.   He was angry at himself.  He had bailed on his friends, and now he was in the escape vehicle for them all.

You never leave anyone behind.

That is the most important thing, whatever you do.

Especially when you have made such an oath to your friends, you will never forgive yourself if you bail on them.

He looked over at the big white truck as he passed by it, and he got an idea.

He pulled the little truck out of gear and set the parking brake and left it humming.  He got out and he went to the white service truck. He opened the door and climbed up and got into the driver’s seat.   He reached around the steering wheel and felt for the ignition.  The keys were still in it.  Thank goodness.  He had no idea about how to spark up such a huge beast from the wiring under the dashboard. 

He turned the keys, and it awoke.

He gunned the engine, and he put her in reverse.  He pulled past his little stolen truck, all the way to the entrance of the street, and then he put that bitch in 1^st gear.  Then he pressed all the way down on the accelerator, and he pointed it at the cement brick structure.  Joey was going to fuck shit up.

He got going fast in a short amount of time, which was pretty impressive for such a heavy vehicle with heavy iron guardrails bolted to the front.  He dived out of the driver’s side door and hit his head on the tar and fell asleep as his body rolled.

The huge truck smashed into the small cement structure and though the walls and continued on in its trajectory and then pummeled the control panels that fed the electricity to the huge city from the mountains to the east.

Fuckno got turned off, baby.

So did the surrounding cities that fed off of the grid.

The while valley went dark.

Joey didn’t know what power he held.

Until he did.

But now he was taking a nice tar-nap.

=   =   =   =   =   =   =

Bryan saw the whole desert city of Fuckno shut down as he neared the location of the huge mansion to where the icy girl on the seat beside him pointed.

Pitch black.

He got the willies.  Nothing good awaited him.

The icy ghost girl next to him pointed at the driveway up ahead in the dark, and the headlamps of the gleaming black semi rig shined at this new direction for him.  As he slowed and turn that rig on a dime, he saw that there were many vehicles parked along the long driveway that led to their destination.

He had no idea what laid ahead for him on his path, but he trusted his passenger.  He was going to save his friends.  That was the only thing in his head at that moment.  The big man would never let his friends down, no matter come what may.

Katheena’s ghost whissssspered to him, “They are in danger.  You sssshould be careful.”

Big Bryan shook his head.  He sped up and he roared that huge engine and he lowed through all of those vehicles and smashed them into each other and made a huge mess.

The truck slowed as it ended its heavy and massive trajectory and no one would be able to get out of that place from the driveway.

He climbed out of the busted up rig and grabbed the huge metal tire iron.

The generator still powered the lights, and he stalked to the front doors underneath their glow.

He was heading to the front doors of the once-lovely mansion.

He was ready, come what may.

The sounds of guns firing gave him pause.  Then he saw a bluish glow off behind the mansion. 

He crept behind the remaining automobiles and reconsidered his plan of attack.

You Know Me   by Air Traffic Controller

Far down below, on the ass end of Fuckno, all of the lights went out.

The Walkin looked up, and he could see only stars.

Those who followed him saw this as a signal that their time had come.

They had free use of the city.

They would make use of this opportunity.

See you next time.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

Beta Test for CH 14

VERSION ONE

After this First Engagement, when the furious Sun awoke and dragged his ugly melon up over the tops of the Sierra Valley Mountain Range to the east, there would be twenty eight hours until the War Of Fuckno started. 

Before we collected the bones of the dead on that fateful morning, while we were engaged in the first fight, the many police departments of the ugly king of the desert began to amass.  Calls came to them from the southern areas, the nether regions of Fuckno.

The Walkin had grown an army, a legion, although that wasn’t his intention.

When you are an infected Walkin because you have eaten the flesh of the dead, then those you have killed, after you have eaten something from their body, well, they are left looking for an answer.

They are open.

The answer, for them, was the hunger of the hell spawn.   The gates of Hell opened, and the fresh dead innocents who happened to be addicted to drugs, who were thieves, and also those in various states of unconsciousness from their disease or coma or black-outs or any other way that they lost their mind from their body,

Well,

They were soon to become taken over by the freshly dead.

New Walkins.

Demons would help them.

Would you care to see this?

Let’s go, baby.   It will be ugly.

HELL SPAWN ESCAPE AND ENTRANCE

…Don’t forget the blood compact between Katheena and Joey on the roof, when they first saw the Glinty. 153…

http://williesthestories.blogspot.com/2011/11/153-glinty-and-mettle-of-katheena.html

.

The Fuckno Wars CH 13 Engagement Is Dedication

Rocking Horse   by The Dead Weather

As of today, I have been married to a strong, full-blooded native woman who has put up with me for 19 years, through thick and thin, hardship and merriment, and also, unyielding support and commitment. 

God Help Her.   

And also, Thank You Lisa.

I have nothing pretty to offer you like poetry or songs played on your guitar.  I can only attempt to do my best to write a tale, and it is not pretty.  Yet, there is redemption at the end.

It’s all I have for you.

But,

You know me.

THE FUCKNO WARS

CHAPTER 13

ENGAGEMENT

The sounds of folks running up the stairwells echoed down the hallways.  They were going to flush us out.  We would leave in a hail of bullets.  It was a gauntlet, which is an Olde Britland term that means, “A tight sleeve of metal pieces woven into a glove.”  It also means that you will feel metal pieces upon you like you were putting on a glove.

Bullets.

The blue ones faded from the hallway.  The ghost of the dead girl beside me was my only company now.  I did not know what had happened, or why, and with their sudden departure, now I was truly alone.

Well, fuck that shit.

I ran back in the small ceremonial chamber with the altar from which I had stolen all of its talismans.  Them purple robes understood what it was that I now carried in the heavy sack over my good shoulder. 

I had hurt my other shoulder minutes before, if you recall, by wrenching it trying to get through one of those hidden doors. 

I was not going to run down the grand staircase and bow to a hail of bullets.

If only I hadn’t roared in my anger, I might have been able to escape with stealth, following the dead girl’s ghost to safety.

You know, there was never the easy way out, for us punks.

Damn.

I scrambled across to the empty chamber in the dark and smashed into a pew.  I fell on the sack, and heard the tinkle of crystal goblets and bone china as they turned into splinters.

The ghost girl, Lorelei, well, she stood above me with an angry look upon her face.

I had failed her.  I was a coward.

But, do you know, she was angry at something else.

Herself.

She had failed me.   She was not infallible.  She knew things that I did not, and never would, until I crossed over to the other side as well.

We all will, someday.

It was simply this:  The future is not chiseled in stone.  As Vern Gosdin once sang, it is indeed wise to change your path, once you get a better view of your situation.  You don’t know, baby, until you do.

She pointed at the other entrance, and it led down to the second floor.  We had come in through there.  I rolled over as the shards in the bag under my back crinkled and tinkled like a glass menagerie.  I stood back up, rubbing my thighs, and I whispered to her.

I said, “Where are the other ghosts?”

She said, “They gave their all.  They gone now.  But they fought well.  They are redeemed.”

She pointed at the way out.

I hefted that bag up on my good shoulder, and I felt the shards poking me in the back, through the purple cloth.  I said, “They coming back?”

She slowly shook her head and looked right into my eyes.

She said, “No.  They saved you. They sacrificed themselves to protect you.  They have earned their way out of this prison.  They will not be back here.”

I faltered.  I said, “I caused them to perish?”

She smiled.  She said, “No.  They are free now.  They can pass on now.  Because of you, they finally had a reason to fight.”

Huh.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

The Fuckno Wars Chapter 12 INCHES

“Please don’t tell me everything will be wonderful now.”  -Arthur Alexakis, 411 B.C.

Nothing would end up well for anyone.

THE FUCKNO WARS

 CHAPTER 12 



INCHES

Civilian  by Wye Oak

Glinty McFlintlock’s Cabin On The Moon was the shack that had gone missing in the desert.  141 Mettle.  The hearse in the desert and the carriage on the moon were married to each other.  The fat punk rocker and the old cowboy preacher ghost were connected by blood, and also Tellesco, whom was now known as No One,  The King Of Tears.

THE KING OF TEARS

A young man who was descended from the kings of Scotland stood before his army of Blue Faces in a secret cemetery.  He held a young child on his back, and she could finally see.  She held sight that No One could see at all.

A young punk in a corridor high up in the drowned mansion witnessed the power of the Blue Faces.  There were now many more of the enemy running up the stairwells to do one thing.

Kill.

A little punk with the heart of a lion decided to fight, after all.  He had only his bare hands.  He would get that small pick-up truck parked and running by the power station, because he understood that when it comes down to the bare essence, one must ride or die.

A young man who had served his time, and also the time of his best friends, well, he drove a large semi-rig to save them.  He would cause great damage.  He was haunted by a dead girl who spoke in sibilance, and she frosted the air with her presence across the seat from him.

The Purple Robes were on their way as well, for this was the nexus of the first engagement of the Fuckno Wars.

And yet, there was something else happening.

It was the viral spread of the curse of the diseased Walkin.

Sven infected Seen, once known as Sean,  and his infection spread like wildfire.

That was the cause of the destruction of the desert megalopolis of Fuckno.

WALKINS ARE WELCOME

Seen, the Walkin who now infected Sean, our lost friend, had been infected by Sven, the serial killer.

The Walkin infected the soul of each person he now killed, in his rampage.

The bodies he left behind would be discovered, and they would be ugly to see.

However, this is not a tale about the living dead.  The dead cannot simply become undead.  There is no such thing as a zombie.  This is a tale about Walkins, of which not much is known.  There is a knowledge gap about Walkins.

Please allow me to fill in your gap. 

Evidently, the folks who had met their end in such an ungraceful manner at the hands of the infected Walkin were now left without their bodies.  In their departure, they had become infected by him.  He was a Walkin without a true north anymore.  He had eaten the flesh of the dead.

They acquired both the knowledge and the diseases of each other.

Addict, thief, serial killer.

Now they went looking for new bodies to inhabit. 

Now, they were Walkins.

They did not bother with the dead.

Walkins seek living bodies of those who have temporarily left, gone away, taken a dive, succumbed, passed out, blacked out, in a coma, or even just day-dreamed.

Always mind your leather.

Your leather is your skin.

There were plenty of hollow souls in the south of Fuckno, and that was like a parking garage of automobiles with the keys in the ignition, and the engines running.

That there, my friend, was how the Walkin built an army.

He simply hadn’t intended to do such a thing.

The Regulator   by Clutch

THE BIG TRUCK

The gleaming black semi rig hummed on the old, crumbly tar, lit by the red moon overhead.  It had lost its trailer, but it had gained a passenger.

The young man at the wheel looked over to his hitch hiker, and she pointed left.  She indicated the lane to head toward the drowned mansion.

The heavy engine vibrated the broken, crumbly tar beneath it.  This old road had not been built to hold such a huge beast.  Chunks of tar weakened beneath the giant wheels and fell apart.  The big truck was making a mess of the skinny road.

The young man nodded at the direction his cold passenger pointed towards, and then he put that huge bitch in gear.  He would have to go slowly.  He would have to inch along.

He didn’t need to wake the neighbors, nor alarm the purple robes before he arrived.

Inches, baby, can be miles long.

You got it ?

Let’s go.

On Sunday.  I got a surprise for you.  Me and my favorite redneck ‘Tucky been working on something for you.

First him, and then me.

The Fuckno Wars will commence tomorrow.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Chopin’s Opus 27 Numba 2 in D flat major, from a Stradivari Quartet.  Them fiddles are those fancy violins, you know.  I once knew a dude called Lenny Sostenuto, so perhaps he should be included in this tale.  He will go to sleep slowly, if anything at all.

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The Fuck-Up Chapter 12

My apologies to you.

You may have been following this The Fuckno Wars tale and if you have, Thank you very much, and also, God Help You.


If you have been following this sordid tale with redemption at the end, perhaps you've noticed that Chapter 12 was kind of messed up.

I offer no excuse, for excuses are the pitfall of the weak man who gets little done.  I should have double checked my post.

The reason, (no excuse) is that I was back from the desert, and so I have been with my family.


You are a considerate person who checks in here to view my stuff, and for that, I consider you family.

In recompense to you, I will put up a quite lengthy post this Saturday, for a weekend at willies sort of thing.


It will be long, and it may be a bit hard to take all in.



God Help You.


God Help Us All.



---willies out.





(Promises are spoken by those who have broken them, like treaties.  A man's word is his honor, and that is all that is required.  "I do."   When you tell someone that you will do it, do not say, "I promise."  Just frigging deliver.)


Ya know.






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