I publish these tales here on this site every weekend as mental escape. Enjoy them, but do not steal them. If you do, I will come to your window while you are sleeping, my friend.
The faces had changed, but the story remained the same. Put your best foot forward, place one foot in front of the other, foot the bill. It was like looking at the world through a new pair of eyes.
Sitting behind the pretty blond who would become our school’s Valedictorian, I could smell the shampoo she used. Scooby Dude on my left winked at me from behind his shades.
“Wild, man …Wild.” He nodded.
Great. Somehow word had gotten around about my car burning up in Clovis. I had no idea how much of the tale there was, how much of it was speculation, and who had let everyone know, but I could figure it out.
The Little Lion Man was an instigator, as you well know by now. Joey loved to gossip.
------------------------------
I chucked my text book and PeeChee folders into the locker and felt a pinch on my ass. Katheena. Her hot breath whispered something in my ear and I could have drifted off from the sweet scent of her perfume. When my eyes opened, she was gone. It was like I had fallen asleep or something. The hallway was empty.
Outside in the fresh, sparkly sunshine of that spring day, the Quad filled up with students grabbing plots of grass to sit upon with their lunches. There was Joey, holding court on the picnic table at the center of the food court, where I had first met him a hundred years ago.
Fucker.
I walked as the crow flew, to the parking lot where Katheena awaited me. Her gold Firebird with the gold-tinted windows and the huge black bird across the hood rumbled like a dog with a bad temper.
Yeah, it was about time she and I settled some business. One day in the future, she and I would part ways, never to meet again. But before that time came, we would develop a bond taut enough to slice diamonds.
++++++++++++++++++
“Thanks for coming. Will. Where do you want to eat?”
“Hey Katheena. I know about a place down by the Manchester Mall that has authentic Messican food. The real deal. That cool?”
She squealed her tires and we spun out of that parking lot and hit the road sideways, fishtailing and then jetting off straight as bullet.
++++++++++++++++++
“Stacy? Nope, never heard of her. But she drives a white Celica, huh? I’ll keep my eye out for her. Bitch needs a lesson.”
“Now Katheena, don’t go busting up your knuckles on account of me.”
“Nah, don’t worry about me, Will. I’m just glad you made it home alive.”
“I appreciate that. You’re the first person to say that to me.”
Home.
Huh.
Home was on the other coast.
Until I got there, I would have to accept the notion that this desert shit hole was my home.
It didn’t sit well, but what the hell else did I have?
Something more transient: Crop circles. Some people need more constructive things to do.
Like this: invent
a rocket oven. I’ve never heard of such a thing, have you? It makes a lot of sense. It’s very cool when technology combines with old school materials. This will help folks in Haiti.
Or it could help those in Detroit?
“In My Time” is going to be published this week. It’s the memoirs of that Dick, Cheney. Wonder if he will explain how everyone kept getting broken arms, black eyes and shot in the face when they were working under him?
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out
OK, One More For Ya.
Jerry has doodled a whole world. Maps. Oddly charming.
Do you have your bowl, your beverage, your towel handy?
Good.
Let’s dive into the rabbit hole. God Help You. God Help Us All.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
When you realize that there is no one left on this little blue marble to show you the way, then you must pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get the fuck back into what there is left.
Left alone, left behind, left in Fuckno, with no hope for Home.
What Do You Do?
Perhaps we are essentially all alone here on this tiny blue marble in the eternity of space, to be connected once again in the aftermath by the notes that we once played to each other when we were alive.
Your Clan may not be blood-related. Your Clan chust might be those whom you have met along your path, who will always be related to you in some way, from what you have done together, in whatever path you have chosen to follow together.
Hold these people close to you tightly, if you can expect the same from them, to you.
It will fucking matter.
You will see.
+++++++++++++++++++
I looked around at these three females in the light of the fresh spring day. This was my clan. They depended upon me to be the man of our tiny family.
We four of us, we were held by the tightest of bonds that can ever exist, and it is called Family.
One must always rise to the expectations of such a responsibility. My father had passed away three years ago, and on his deathbed, he made me promise such a thing.
I would not let him down.
I would not let them down.
I would not let myself down.
And, of course, I failed on all three counts.
Here we go, into the new chapter. Care to follow along?
Good. I knew I could count on you my friend.
PUNK
Evolution, or devolution, you decide. The air in the megalopolis of Fuckno, CaliFuckedMatilda was quite stale, even if the planet there began to bloom.
Every street erupted out of the grey paints of winter with the green promise of wondrous bougainvillea and unending sunshine. You could see it in the faces of those who stood, waiting for the next city bus, or paying their dues in the lines of the Department of Vehicle Motors and Burnt Offerings. D.V.M.-B.O.
It was all about smiles on these sun-shiny faces, everywhere you looked. Like it was the holiday season in the North East four months previous, with snowflakes dusting eyelashes.
There were only fake flakes in Fuckno.
Desert dust.
I had to declare the death of Matilda to the Fuckno DVMBO, and pay my own dues to the city of Clovis for their help in putting her fire out; cleaning up the street; and hauling her away to the nearest car-graveyard.
But I got to see her carcass one last time.
The car-graveyard clerk took my ticket, and he ushered me to her show.
Matilda.
There she sat; hollow-eyed in the cool breeze and warm sunshine. Nothing was left but a former hulk of a tiny yet powerful machine, once lovingly adorned with the blood, sweat and tears of someone who cared enough to raise her up out of the desert dust and offer her the promise of Home.
Upon her hood: a faint impression in the burnt smudging of her former desert dust-colored paint.
There were some odd designs scrawled across it, beneath the charred paint.
I recalled how Stacy had drawn her nails across Matilda’s hood and whispered something under her breath, that night at Fucky Chucky’s, before we sped off and raced.
What did it all mean?
Join me here tomorrow as we begin this new chapter.
LINKS
Portal Homage. Nice, if you have ever played Portal. Quite cool even if you have not.
For your Saturday viewing pleasure, here’s the first installment from Nuka Break: Fallout. It’s funny, and the hip to waist ratio on the nerdy ginger is something else (3:15, 7:35). The search for good Cola in the post-apocolyptic world is quite an interesting slant. Can hardly wait for the next installment.
Look here for some munchies: a link from Entropy_Happens. Potato chips are now a complete meal.
Here’s an easy way to lose some pounds. Visit Acapulco.
Stranded in the desert three thousand, three hundred and thirty three miles from my home in a river valley, I had hit rock bottom.
Actually, it was the first rock bottom, but not the last.
----------------------------
The warm orange glow exploded into a steam dragon that howled and hissed and flew away into the night sky. Fire trucks circled the tiny, melted rocket ship, and the pastel stucco on the houses across the street flashed blue and then red between orange, lime green or dusty rose.
Officer Tingletot wanted to know why I had set my car on fire tonight. He seemed particularly curious about why tonight, during the work week, instead of on the weekend, as was the usual.
“I killed her.” My own voice seemed to be phoning in from a thousand miles of string stretched between two tin cans.
Tingletot’s eyes went big. “Is she in the trunk?”
“She’s gone, man. She’s in heaven now.” I just stared at Matilda, not feeling much of anything at all.
“But what about her body?”
“What a body indeed. Tig-assed bitties, and a rear that wouldn’t quit. Friggin biker boyfriend, can you believe it? Asshole. But she was a bitch for not telling me about him.”
Tingletot wrote this all down. “Where is her home?”
“Off-skirts. Way up north. House sits on a bluff. Just follow the trail of butter drippings. You’ll end up there.”
“Butter trail. OK. Gotcha.”
At first they had deemed me unfit to stand trial for murder, but then the steam died down and they got the trunk open to look inside. No bones, nothing but a chest of ruined tools, a burned up Chilton’s guide to automotive repair and engine rebuilding for a 1972 Toyota Celica, and a toasted spare tire that didn’t have a single mile on its treads...
“Sir, I could arrest you for making a false statement to me. You said you killed someone.”
“Yeah, Matilda. My car. Just look at her.”
Tingletot flipped his little notebook closed as loudly as he could for such a floppy little notebook, then he simply turned on his heel and stalked off.
--------------------------------------
“Weeeee-ill! What the fuck dude? Get yo ass in the car brutha!”
“Thanks Joseph. Ffffffuuuuuuck.”
“What the hell you doing way the fuck up in Clovis anyways?”
“I was running from an angry biker dude. I fucked his girlfriend in his driveway.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
----------------------------------------
Before the memories of milk jugs and skydiving bikers came slipping back to me like burning coffins down a muddy hillside, the sun awoke me in my crisp, clean sheets, and the fresh scent of a cool spring breeze came in through the open window.
It was early.
I’d gone to sleep early, exhausted from one hell of a date. First I’d eaten at my favorite place with a hot chick who had a good sense of humor. Then I was winning in a race, how awesome is that feeling, ya know? Then we rode to heights of glory in the saddle of my mighty little steed. Next thing you know, I was fleeing in terror for my life. And it all ended with the death of my rocket ship.
Yeah, I’d had some strange dreams that night I tell you.
But there, in the fresh, clean amnesia of the bright morning light, I stretched in my sheets and let out a big yawn. My door opened in a couple of minutes and little Galen came in, dripping splotches of sweet, creamed coffee on the floor from the huge mug she carried in both hands, halting with every step.
She smiled big for me, little morning person that she was.
She set the mug on my night stand and I grabbed her and tossed her into my bed and tickled the shit out of her.
Then Spamela appeared at the door and next thing you know she was tossed into the ruckus as well.
-----------------------------------
My mom set her paper down when I came in with Galen and Spamela over my left shoulder and my mug in my right hand. “Good morning Will. How was your night?”
Ah. Yes. Thanks for the reminder, Mom. It started to come back to me. I set Galen down on the couch next to Spamela, facing the television. Strawberry Shortcake was on.
“It was pretty interesting.”
“I should say so. The police called because they needed a mailing address to send the bill.”
“Ahhhh. Jeez. I have to pay for all that?”
“Well, Will, when you set fire to your own car in the middle of the street, they aren’t going to foot the bill to put it out and then clean it up and haul it away.”
Shit. That’s how my coffee tasted now. Like shit.
“Does this involve drugs, Will? Were you drunk or something? Why would you do that to your car? I thought you had so much invested in it.”
“I had everything invested in her. She was our ticket out, Mom. I would never torch her.” So I told her everything except about the fucking.
Her eyes grew big each step of the way, and when she was done, she said, “We need to press charges and make that mother fucker foot the bill. He owes you a new god damned car, Will!”
Good ole Mom. But I explained that it was me; I’d blown my own engine showing off, and then, instead of standing up and fighting the old biker dude, I ran off like a scared little bitch and burned up my car in the process.
“Will. You are a sixteen year old high school kid. You had no reason to stand up to an old scrapper on his Harley.”
“I’ll be seventeen in a month. I’m almost a man. And I’ll never, ever, run again. I can promise you that, Mom.”
Of course, that was the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear from me.
And it would turn out to be wrong, but that is another chapter.
Now we can store data in glass. Nano-style. Awesome.
Here are The Outcasts. From the 80’s, in England. Badass Bikers.
For our troops returning home missing legs, and anyone else who wants to become a cyborg, a real bionic leg.
Long ago, pit bulls were called Nanny Dogs, because they are fiercely loyal and protectively maternal to kids. These dogs had to be inter-bred and mistreated to become fighters. Anyhoo, here’s a baby that loves his Pit Bull. Good doggie.
Cool pics. Some actually have not been Photoshopped. See if you can tell which.
Russians and Eurodicks will put a human on Mars before USA. What The Fuck?
Prank pics from people who have way too much time on their hands and need to do something productive and constructive instead.
Demotivational pics. Incase you haven’t seen these yet.
What is your mental currency? The most vocal objector to an assertion of insanity is often the craziest person. Sanity can’t be bought or borrowed, but it surely can be spent.
Here are some pics of what a 1972 Toyota Celica looked like. Imagine them painted in a desert dust color, and you will see Matilda in your mind.
The headlamp from the motorcycle flooded Matilda’s interior with the heat of a hundred suns.
There came a gentle tapping at the passenger window, from a crow bar.
Then a hoarse, scratchy voice said,
“Stacy. Get out.”
Stacy climbed into the driver seat, and I dug around on the floor for my pants. She was all dressed and ready to go up there in the front seat, like she had done this before or someshit.
Like they had done this before.
A shadow passed around to the driver’s side, and then this ugly old face appeared in her window, lit on one side from the headlamp. Being lit from one side only emphasized the many lines, wrinkles and scars all over his face. He looked like he had been carved out of old desert wood.
“Open the door Stacy. We need to talk.”
I almost puked. What the fuck? Why was I led into this trap? Who had done this to me?
Of course, you know that I had done this to myself. It was inevitable, that along this sort of sordid path I had been traveling, one must eventually end up at the crossroads.
TAP TAP TAP. The crow bar glinted with sparkly dents in the light of his motorcycle. It had been used many times for whatever work he did.
I had a dry mouth. “Uh, sir? I had nothing to do with this.”
Yeah, great. Now he knew my mettle. Or lack thereof. He could tell that he held the upper hand. Now he knew that I prolly wouldn’t be jumping out with guns a-blazing.
Damn.
Stacy slid over to the passenger seat, opened the door and jumped out.
Two shadows faced each other over Matilda from each side, and I clambered into the driver’s seat completely naked.
I locked the door.
Biker Boyfriend looked down and shouted at my window.
“Get The Fuck Out Now!”
Yeah, OK, of course I would.
Be right there dude, just let me put on my drawers first, cool?
The hood of my little rocket ship slammed down, and Biker Dude disappeared. Stacy had bought me time. I saw two shadows wrestling with the crow bar and then one of them ran off to the right. The other one swung around and grew larger. He was coming for me.
I cranked her over, and Matilda caught her breath, amazing little girl with the great big heart.
I sped bass-ackwards down the hill of that driveway with that big bastard chasing after me and he fell face down in the shadowed dip of the hill. I hoped he was knocked out.
At the street I spun my steering wheel to swing her around to the left, then threw her into first gear and punched her accelerator. She slowly chugged up to twenty miles an hour. He ran after me in the street, growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
I found the highway and opened her up. 40 was all that I had. I was chugging along for a bit, and then a tiny headlamp in the rearview mirror appeared.
Shit.
Go back home and deal with your cheating girlfriend, you ugly fucker. Forget about me. You thought this was intentional against you? Fuck you.
I meant, Please leave me alone dude.
I was driving naked in a slowly moving car that was about to finally give up the ghost if I let her overheat.
Then I remembered that I had not brought any water along for the ride. There was no point in pulling over now. This was it. I would have to run her into the ground to escape the mental case following me.
The Asshole Biker caught up to me. I looked over at him on my right, and he was shouting something at me. His bloody face was all scowled up and what few teeth he had were flashing as he recited his love poem to me. I guess he had indeed planted his face on his own driveway. But I suspected that he had lost his teeth years ago.
I swung a bit to the right and his eyes went huge, and then his face got red. He came up against the window and smashed it with a tire iron in his left hand. “Try it again you fucking coward!”
Then he beat at Matilda’s side over and over again, from the tail light to the head lamp.
I braked hard and he went on ahead, then swung around up ahead and started back towards me. Was this a came of chicken? Who the hell was this crazy guy anyways?
He passed by on my side and the windshield exploded. Glass flew everywhere, but none got in my eyes. I spat out bits of popcorn glass, and saw that the imprint of the tire iron showed that it met the window lengthwise. The plastic sheeting between the two glass panes held most of it in place. I could still see through it, if I looked through the clear parts here and there.
Fucker had swung it, and not heaved it like a javelin at my head. Thank Gawd for that bruthas and sistahs.
The tinkle of the tire iron tumbling down the road behind me came in through the open window.
Damn.
I needed to get the hell off this straightaway. I needed me some curves and some dips.
No, not Stacy. Fuck that bitch hard.
I needed the winding streets and drainage ditches of Clovis.
And there it was, the first exit to Clovis. Fuck yeah.
These northern streets were sparsely populated, but they had been recently constructed for the ongoing and unending conversion of the hard-gotten farmland into bedroom communities, suburbia, and inevitable urban sprawl.
Hard pan begat farms through the use of dynamite, and farms relented to million dollar McMansion gated-neighborhoods through the use of greed.
To the south were the relatively older parts of Clovis, now lit in the orange glow of mercury vapor lamp posts, which cast the daytime pastels of painted stucco into a monochromatic similar orange. Only the house numbers and weird angles to which they faced the curvy streets indicated whose house was whose.
If you didn’t know your way around, if this was your first time through the quiet side streets blatting on your stinky, loud hog, then you most certainly would be getting fucking lost.
He kept up a bit at first, but the deep, cement drainage ditches that lined each intersection slowed him down. Many a low-rider had lost an oil pan by going too fast across them. If you drove too fast, you would first bottom out on the rise out of them, and then go air borne, like on a ramp.
I kept my eye on him. He kept getting right up on my ass and then his shocks would bottom out on his forks as we came into each intersection. It was hilarious to see his front wheel flip sideways and he went skydiving over the handlebars.
Matilda began to blow steam quite hard, and I saw that her oil light was on, and her temp was topping out. I chugged her along, taking turns here and there, avoiding the cul-de-sacs, and staying off the thoroughfares here and there, which were themselves straight ways.
Dude must have folded his front rim. Or he was taking a nice tar nap.
I knew I was near the Clovis Police Station. I was going to grab my pants and run in there and seek protection.
The steam stopped roiling out from under the hood. Matilda was dry. Her engine began to make weird squealing noises, which became grinding rumbles. I was going on at a good 20 when she suddenly stopped, on a dime.
I woke up, forehead throbbing, to the smell of burning rubber, plastic, and paint. Her hood glowed red and smoke seeped out from under it.
Matilda was smoldering.
I grabbed my clothes from the rear foot well and jumped out. I put on my pants and shoes and heard glass tinkling.
Have you ever killed a car? Matilda was my first bitch, and I killed her. She would not be the last car I killed. Young, ten feet tall, invincible and cock-sure. That attitude will fuck you up every time.
The stars beyond the windshield looked close enough to touch. I was in the off-skirts of Fuckno, even beyond Clovis which shined heavenward off behind on the right.
Then Matilda coughed and began to sputter. She slowed herself right down as I pressed harder on the accelerator. Now we were going about forty, and headlights behind me grew larger quite quickly.
Stacy appeared on my left, with her fancy powered passenger side window all the way down. She slowed down to my speed and yelled, “You letting me win? Such a gentleman!”
Then she took off again and way up ahead she signaled for the next exit. I followed her.
Matilda kept chugging along at 40 MPH, but she wouldn’t go any faster. I could feel her heartbeat through the accelerator. It was like she was hiccupping.
Stacy paused at each intersection to wait for me to catch up, and then she pulled into a driveway that rose up above a hump. Her home sat on a bit of a bluff, and the sky behind it shined a billion galaxies.
She hopped out of her ride and came skipping over to me. Yup, she was barefoot. A barefooted country chick, can ya hand me some hot apple pie and freshly squirted cow juice, ma’am?
Her eyes went big and she stopped mid-skip when she saw the steam coming out from underneath Matilda’s hood. “Pop it open!”
I did and she pushed it up and put the bar in place. “I think you blew the head gasket!”
“Oh? I thought she threw a rod?” I jumped out and went to see. Off course, there was nothing to see. “I’ll get a flashlight.” I grabbed it out of my glove box. You know, they should be called “Flashlight/ Car reg-insurance wallet/ CDs/ condoms/ tire gauge/ gun/ paraphernalia boxes.
Stacy said, “If she had thrown a rod, you would haven’t gotten very far. She’d be mangled, on the inside. Let’s check your dipstick.”
Normally, when someone says this to you, either they are about to hold your balls in their hand and tell you to turn your head and cough, or else, they are going to have some fun with you. Either way, it’ll cost you some hard earned cash money.
Stacy pulled my dipstick out of its sheath and I shined the light on it. There was a yellow cream covering it.
I shrugged. “Should I see a doctor about this?”
She frowned. “The water from your coolant system has gotten into your oil pan and the crankshaft done whipped the water and oil into butter. You need to let her cool down. I’ll go get some hot water to put in the radiator. Don’t want to crack her block. And no, don’t try to taste it. It’s not real butter.”
I laughed at that, but inside, it felt like I had been sucker punched in the gut. Shit.
My flashlight followed the Latina country girl’s bumped-out rear as she went off towards her house, and she giggled and waved her hands away at me when she saw what I was doing.
All that work… gone. I sat against the open grill and shined the flashlight up into the stars. No one up there responded in kind.
I could forget about flying off back to my Rez now. That plan was pushed away into the future by, what, weeks? Months? Needed to replace her head gasket. Prolly have to get her towed back into town, and that would not be cheap.
What the fuck had I done? What the fuck was I about to do? Well, the answer to both is that I was in the process of fucking myself over. The night would go first into ecstasy, and then, abruptly, into quaking fear.
Stacy came back out with a large milking container she carried with both hands, and I saw a rack of brewskies dangling from her left hand.
She was a strong girl.
She set everything down and offered me a beer. “Here’s to your little car, Matilda?”
“Yeah, Matilda. Thanks Stacy.” We drank. Stacy finished hers first, burped loudly, punched me in the gut and shot-gunned the rest to her own head.
Yeah, right.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around me and pressed her big boobies against my chest. Then she tilted her head, slightly parted her lips, and closed her eyes as she came in. It was refreshing. She smelled quite good, and her mouth tasted like nectar. By which I mean ice cold beer.
She smiled as she pulled away and said, “You have some work to do.” Her eyes glanced down at the only member of my club, who was straining his neck up to get a look-see.
Stacy motioned to the large milk jug, but I had my eyes on some other ones.
“You should fill her up to the top.”
She had no idea how inviting that sounded right then and there.
I used a rag to slowly open the radiator cap. Steam hissed out at the first stop, so I let go until it sputtered and wafted away into silence. Then I pushed down and turned it the rest of the way and removed it. It smelled a bit like bread that had been baked in an auto shop.
The first bit of hot water that I poured down Matilda’s smoky throat caused a couple of gurgling steam clouds to come busting out, but then she took it all in. The water ran down all over the radiator and I set the jug down and put the cap back in place.
“You should fill the reservoir up too. I’ll get some plastic jugs for you if you think you want to try to drive her back home…”
“I can do that?”
“If you’re careful. You’ll have to drive in the break-down lane, go no faster than 20 or 25 tops, and keep your eyes on her temp gauge. Each time she gets too hot, pull over and let her cool down. When she’s cooled down, put more water to her. You’ll be fine.”
If only that were true.
“Well, Stacy, thank you. I guess I---“
“Oh, you can’t leave just yet. She’s still quite hot.”
I smiled.
++++++++++++++++++++++
We made out in the back seat of my little rocket ship, and she began to undo my pants. I felt those wonderful blessings of hers, and yes, they were real, and they were magnificent. Stacy was very hot as she rode high, and her breath became husky, as we eased into things, and then began to rock back and forth. She was taching high RPMs when the head lamp appeared in the rear window.
I looked up at her face, which was now lit up like it was on stage, big eyes and open mouth.
The headlight came slowly along the right side and went up to the front of Matilda. Someone had come up over the hill on a motorcycle.
“Oh no. I lost track of the time.”
“Is it your dad?”
“No, it’s my boyfriend.”
Oh, come on man.
Really?
Really?
LINKS
Well now, how does this fare for those of us who write books? Evidently, the rioters in London left bookstores untouched. Yay. I mean, wait, ...what? Ain’t my writin’s good enough to steal? ...Prolly not… Wankers...
Speaking of Cancer, U.S. Debt explained here, short, compact, and in a cartoon. Really? Yes. Really.
Be aware of injury to yourself. Here are some pic guides to help out.
In order to help with cancer and other forms of injury that may leaving you facing the future with a blank stare from your Botox injections, here is how to harvest a face, for plastic surgery. With gross and nasty pics. ---willies style.
Antidote: Excellent multimedia work by Hae-Joon Lee. Claymation/ video/ paper sketch… well just look. The song is by The National: “Exile, Vilify.” Wonder if any of you know the reference to a certain video game?
Science news. Gluten free will be up held, for those of you who have become celiac. This is a growing concern, no pun intended.
Non-Science news. Meet Rick Perry. Entropy_Happens ribbed DROFSNEDT in our forums about him, concerning his “wife” Katy Perry. Food for thought? LOLZ
Well, just beware of your lady. She might be a spy, ya know.
Thanks for coming by all this week. Richie will be back soon. Safe travels to you and your little family, young man.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
OK, One More For Ya.
By now, you know that I quite enjoy genius, and as well, talent. So here is a duo that holds both: Trent Reznor on keyboards, and Karen O with her amazing vocal capabilities. Then, Trent fucks with your ears as this song ends.
It's Immigrant Song, by Led Zeppelin, redux. Amen.
Stacy could handle her own bitch quite well. If you recall, that was the name of her car. “Bitch.” How cool is that for a chick?
My own car was bored-out in her cylinders, but she never bored me. If you ever get the chance to experience operating a machine that you have put together, I highly recommend it. Especially if it is made out of metal, can ride you at high speeds, and can cause death and mayhem.
Like having a sound system of which you use only half of it’s capability for bowel-shaking volume-awesomeness, you do not need to actually have to perform mayhem to appreciate such power.
It’s about restraint.
I didn’t have any restraint during this part of the tale, and it would fuck me up big time.
Oh, shit.
Stacy wore a little black dress that showed off her prodigious top parts, (no, not pop tarts) and also the sort of backside that could hold an ashtray. While she was standing. No shit brutha. Some Latinas are constructed this way, especially in Brasil.
She wore high heels, but I suspect that she took them off in order to push her dainty feet onto the gas pedal, the brake pedal, and yes, the clutch.
I’ve always opted for the clutch. Having the automatic transmission is nice if you are holding a coffee in your hand, or if you are texting on your phone and don’t mind killing yourself and someone else as you make your way to your hair appointment.
There was no such thing as texting back then, nor were there any Starbucks to be found.
But, the idea here is that this chick took her shoes off in order to feel her vehicle. Feel. Driving bare-footed is not something I would ever advocate for anyone who does not understand a simple concept, which is this:
When you drive a high performance vehicle in the way that is was intended to be driven, you simply must be connected to it, in every manner possible.
There are no cup holders.
You must not be distracted. You have to engage. You need to become a part of the vehicle, to join it. Like a cyborg or someshit.
When you are married like this to your vehicle, only then will you be able to appreciate its capability, and also its limitations. Both are equally important.
++++++++++++++++++
Stacy took her shoes off. She was fully engaged.
Gawd damn son. I could not keep up.
We set off to the north. She closed lanes, she swept, she dusted me and Matilda. I could see her red tail lights way ahead. I was losing her. I could not believe it.
Except, there was one thing I had in my favor. I had built my bitch with my bare hands. I knew her inside and out. I caught up to Stacy at the red light, but I was behind three cars on each side.
I had her.
Green. The cars behind her were stopped, probably writing down her license plate number. I snailed along behind those in front of me until there was an opening on my left from the stopped cars, all pissed off behind her, and then I stuck myself in her lane.
She revved hard, but I punched Matilda into high RPMs almost to the red line, and the Positraction kept me from sway.
She was driving with factory, and my ride was Special Ed, with bored-out loveliness. And I knew Matilda.
I had brought her back to life, constructed a new heart for her.
I swung into the right lane and passed Stacy.
I was gone, baby, gone.
---------------------------------
Stacy tried to keep up, but Matilda wasn’t having it. Can you imagine that? God Bless Matilda. She was taching high, and she did not mind.
I looked off into the black night through the windshield in front, as we left the off skirts of Fuckno, and Clovis, further north, into space.
Stars came into view, away from the light-pollution of those dusty cities, and I felt like I was flying.
One more time.
I was going to the stars, and Matilda and I would pick up Lorelei for a ride back home to Earth.
As I rocketed off to the stars, I did not keep an eye on things. I did not notice the oil pressure, nor the engine temp, nor even the tach. I red lined my little rocket ship, even though she was telling me to ease off and let her cool; please let Stacy catch up a bit up and we could still win the race.
I wasn’t hearing her. I wasn’t reading her. I didn’t have my shoes off.
Man……………
I rode in the red for too long, and then she threw a rod.
“What’s her name?” Stacy touched the front hood with her painted nails.
“I dunno. What d’ya mean?”
She murmured something under her breath and slid the soft tips of her fingers along the gleaming paint, which was the color of desert dust.
Stacy looked back up into my face. “All young guys have a name for their cars. I know that you must have one for her. She’s cute.”
I smiled. “I call her Matilda.”
“That’s a cool name. It sounds old fashioned. Is it a family name? Your grandmother?”
“No, my grandmother’s name was Adelaide. I call my little rocket ship ‘Matilda’ because it’s a name from a scary story I read back when I was eight.”
“Adelaide is a pretty name. You should have used that. Why call this little car a name that reminds you of a scary story?”
“I dunno. Prolly trying to reclaim something.”
“What was the scary story about?”
“You sure you want to hear? It’s pretty weird.”
“You’re pretty weird. I’m kidding! Yes, I’d like to hear this scary story of yours.”
========================
“Well, it was about these sisters, and one is really pretty, and one is jealous. The pretty one is about to get married, but she dies in a farming accident. At the funeral, the jealous sister knows that the pretty one is being buried in some shoes that everyone always admired. So she steals them shoes off her dead sister’s body when no one is looking. Then they bury her sister.
“It was a dark and stormy night, and the rain falls so hard that it causes the freshly shoveled dirt on the grave to wash away. The front door to their house is directly below the cemetery that sits on the top of a hill that is soggy now. The jealous sister can hear her dead, beautiful sister calling to her all through the storm.
“I want my shoes back.”
“It friggin creeps her out, big time. Matilda’s coffin washes down the mudslide and her jealous sister opens the door to see what is making all the ruckus, and the coffin smashes into the front steps. Matilda’s body crashes into her, killing her.”
“Dayam Will, that’s pretty creepy.”
“Yeah, shit gave me nightmares. But that’s not all. I was haunted by that ghost story. One day later, me and Ralphie, who lived down the hill from me, well, we’d been playing digger in my front yard, with the Tonka Toys, and we dug up a bone. From then on, I could not sleep at night. I kept thinking that it was Matilda, and she was coming for me next.”
“You need help.”
“Huh. Guess I do.”
“So you named your car Matilda because of that creepy story?”
“Yup. Trying to reclaim my fear of the dark. You name things in order to have control over them.”
“Reclaim it from who?”
“From the dark.”
“Did it work?”
Huh.
“You know, I met a devil once. He has a place he hides. He’s like Anarchy or someshit.”
“Will, you need to take a breath from all this. You need a mental escape. Let’s go watch a movie like you said at Manchester Cinemas.”
“Mental Escape. I like that. But East Cinemas has a flick I was hoping to show you.”
“You’re gonna take me to Enemas? Oh my gawd?”
“Easy now. It’s just a comedy. Son Of Frankenstein. It’s awesome.”
“Wait, I have a better idea. Let’s see what Matilda can do against my car.”
“What’s her name?”
“I just call her a bitch when she doesn’t start.”
“That’s funny.”
“It’ll be funny when you eat my dust.”
“Me and Matilda will make you cry when you are covered in dust.”
Game was ON.
-------------------------------
“Dear Matilda, I found you smoking and drinking, and I tore you apart in my bedroom. I rebuilt you back up with my own bare hands. You were my rocket ship. Lorelei became my captain to the moon, but you were the rocket.
Then I broke your heart.
You went on saving me when I was in panic mode until your last breath, beside that police station in Clovis.”
What is it about a man and his bitch? Why do they have such an effect on us?
There are some things in your life that will make a great difference, in the grand scheme of things. Even if, perhaps, there is no grand scheme.
Perhaps we are essentially all alone here on this tiny blue marble in the eternity of space, to be connected once again in the aftermath by the strings to each other that we once forged when we were alive.
Yeah, we lost the race against Stacy and her own bitch. And we all lost each other in the desert dust.
I put the following tune into the intartubes 20 days ago for this part of the tale.
TDC WEAW ESCAPE
You can attempt to escape a bad situation, one wrought with personal danger, or from explosive doom for those in the immediate vicinity, or even from your situation, whatever that may hold for you.
But you can’t escape from yourself.
Mental vacations such as this here do not apply.
++++++++++++++++++
I needed to escape Fuckno with my little sisters, and my mom, if she would come along. We would bail on that huge desert city and head back to our Rez: our birthplace and our homeland.
There, everything would be made right. Our river, which is named after us, would cleanse the sins of the past.
As I amassed money for our travel and our relocation, I would partake of sin just one more time.
After that, everything would change. It would change in a big way.
It would all be good, wouldn’t it?
+++++++++++++++++++
Stacy drove a white Celica made out of plastic on the bumpers, and her engine was meant for high RPMs. Some ladies are built for speed, and some are built for pleasure. Occasionally, they are built for both. Lucky for you if you happen to encounter one of these magnificent creations.
Or not.
Yes, I was a cheap bastard, sitting down to dine in our place of employment for a free meal as our first date.
One could compile a month’s worth of weekly free meals at Fucky Chucky’s to use in a single meal, but a month’s worth was the maximum. I had compiled only two week’s worth before our date, simply because I quite like the food there.
Everyone did.
But that was enough to show her an excellent time there. I would have to spend only a few bucks out of my pocket for the movie at East Cinemas afterwards, and then we would have dessert. It was a local joke to call that place Enemas, due to the steady run of Hollywood B-films that they always showed.
We didn’t even make it there. Here we go.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+======
“Those prime rib patties look lovely Stacy. No buns?”
“They are very tasty Will. I don’t have anything to do with the buns. Want a taste?”
They were indeed quite tender, yet a bit spongy. “Uh, why didn’t you get the buns too?”
“You should know, Will, that I stay away from them. I’m trying to keep my shape. Someday, someone should write a book about carbs.”
I got my engine blown that night, and perhaps it was due to my rocket ship’s carburetor, which had no governor. Stacey’s engine ran with them new-fangled fuel injectors, and she had a wider margin for error than I did, in driving fast and hard.
My own meal was comprised of Black Angus beef, simply because Kobi beef hadn’t been invented at that time. I would have ordered that if it had been possible.
The Japanese cattlemen feed those cows the best of organic hay and grass; they allow these beasts to grow up to slaughter-weight without any stress at all, and they hand massage the muscles of them beasts daily to ensure proper muscle growth.
Kobi should be tasted at least once in your life. I’d come hunt you down if you were to pour steak sauce upon your plate. Salt and pepper my friend: that is all you need for a good cut and a proper cooking method for any high quality beef. Butter and perhaps that horseradish stuff is allowable, but damn, dude, why the fuck do that?
++++++++++++++++++++++
She wiped her mouth with her cloth napkin after each bite. That always got to me, every time a lady did that. Some chicks just maw and juices everywhere and some scrape their teeth on the fork with their lips wide open so as to not ruin their lipstick.
Then there are those simply forgo worries about make-up during the meal and go for it, but they are not pigs. They wipe away facial juices and that is enough for the next taste, when they are in public.
At home? Put on the rubber apron and gloves, and have at it.
LINKS
Here are some good ways to enjoy your summer, before we start shoveling snow again.
Hopefully, the weather will be good.
Some opt for the tourist thing, others opt for the beach thing. It depends on your desires, having kids along, and the desire to do no work at all when you escape. Here’s the Californication thing.
Here’s a nice booty shot, for those of you men who pretend to be looking at the waves behind your shades on the beach. God help you.
Here are places that look different depending on the weather. WARNING: SNOW.
Now don’t anyone get sick before traveling. Being ill on a vacation would suck.
In another direction, willies’ style.
Jeffery Dahmer’s effect lives on. The kid who escaped him, naked and confused in the streets, has been homeless all these years, and then he… well, check it out.
Another winner, Kevin Chang, voted “most Likely To Kill Everyone.”
Now, you will see how the Internets will kill you. Or, at least, why you should practice private browsing. Or you should simply be a lamb for the slaughter?
Now, tomorrow, the excellent TDC forum member smcasey will be interviewing another subject, with her sharp wit and instinctive intuition. Chick is wicked smart. Don’t piss her off in the forums, matey.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
OK, One more for ya. The safest place to view pron in the whole internets. Cranberry Zero’s I Heart Chaos version of NSFW.
In my dream, I awoke next to a girl who spooned me. That is the best thing in the world my friend. Soft arms and legs all over you, in free abandon, sheets twisted and strewn about, with a heat between you two that can never be felt again until the next time it happens.
If you are fortunate, it happens every day.
If you are lucky, then it has happened at least once to you.
In my dream, I got up quietly and gently without rousing her, and went into the kitchen to grind coffee beans and roast slices of bacon on a baking sheet in the oven, whipping up eggs to scramble them into foam.
I never wanted to wake up, ever again. But I wanted to see those green eyes, the color of the ocean at it’s deepest and most clear, just one more time.
“Lorelei.”
I woke up.
Damn.
----------------------------
At Fucky Chuckies, you were allowed a single free meal each week if you worked there. Now, I know that some of you who have worked at places like Dunkin Donuts or Friendlies probably got tired of the foods they sold there due to shrinkage.
In the Food Service Industry, this is the term used to described attrition, which means, “Stealing.” Hey, we are humans, we are hungry, the food smells so good, and shit happens.
It’s standard practice to acknowledge this. No, it is not a ticket to be a greedy pig, nor an excuse for embezzlement. It’s just that, well, shit happens.
Fucky Chuckies sought to circumvent this by offering a free meal to it’s employees once a week for two reasons, which are these:
1. It would stop folks from stealing food, and the free food was tracked, accounted for, and such a profit loss was safe for audits and then reports to stakeholders.. 2. It built employee loyalty.
They did it right. Pretty damn smart, if you ask me.
Of course, they put a dollar limit on the meal, lest employees order twenty one-pound burgers for take-out.
Or a couple cakes.
That was fine by us. We just ordered the prime rib patties.
This was how I had a date with the counter girl with the huge boobies. Did I mention that I was a cheap bastard? Fuck it, I had better plans for my cash money savings. I was headed back East in a little bit.
“Hey Will, you sure know how to treat a lady to a nice place.”
“Well, at least we know what to expect.”
Stacy looked even better out of her work uniform. I mean, in her civvies. Out of her clothing would come a little bit later that night.
She said, “There are rumors about you, ya know.”
I said, “Don’t believe them.”
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t told you about Joey’s talk with me before this, once he cornered me.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
JOEY TALK
Before that date with Stacy, Joey caught me outside my home, on my way to work.
“Weeeee-ill! You been avoiding me and Katheeee-na. I know, we kinda cornered you at her tea ceremony at her place. I apologize for that.”
“Joey, it don’t matter if it don’t matter.”
"Weeeee-ill. Don’t be like that. I know that I still got Nolei, someday, but we are here for you.”
I thought about that. He didn’t know that Nolei was pregnant with his offspring. Nolei had made me promise not to tell him until she did.
So, I was an asshole to him, to our friendship, to myself, for keeping such a secret.
You recall all this, don’t you? Please keep up. It gets even weirder.
----------------------
“Yeah, Joey, that Minacca is kind of a bitch.”
“You mean Sean’s lady? Huh. How about that.”
“Yup. Kinda a know-it-all. Like she knows all about me.”
“Weeeee-ill. Sean don’t cotton to that shit. I know he likes them rich folks, but he don’t hang with dummies.”
“Fuck them both. Sean almost killed us.”
“Huh. That’s true. Dude’s fearless.”
"Joey, you don’t even know what that means. But you’re right. He is dangerous. He’s all into his own thing. No respect for anyone. I saw him puke up food and eat more again once his belly was empty.”
“For real?”
“Yup. For real.”
“I didn’t know about all that. But Katheeeee-na, she---“
“Fuck Katheena. I’m done with her.”
“Why you say that? We three have history dude! We----“
“Joey, she don’t have her shit together. She’s like a wild animal. She is so hot, but she doesn’t even know her own true worth. She’s dangerous, too.”
The Little Lion Man was silent. Imagine that. Joey didn’t have shit to say. I couldn’t believe it. I figure that he needed to process this new data and analyse it.
------------------------------
Stacy would have liked Joey. He would have loved her. They could have made a great pair. A really huge pair. The kind of pair that bulges out from over a skimpy black dress, low-cut and high water.
I would need a glass of water as well. Or a gallon or two. For my radiator.
Remember when I blew my engine and had to travel back to safety with an angry biker dude chasing me on his Harley?
After I fucked his chick in the rear seat of my rocket ship?
And then he came home and found us?
Fuck.
We will probably need to re-illustrate this.
That's cool.
Even if it wasn't.
LINKS
Jim Meskimen shows how you do impressions the right way. Shakespeare’s Richard III.
In the opposite direction, what happens if you show your true lack of talent?
Rebecca Black WITHOUT Autotune. Huh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTNquPzvbWY
How about those orgs like Amway, or ACN, or other Ponzi Schemes that draw in those who want to have a better life? How do they work?
Here’s how.
(Need more links. Don't use all the following tunes.)
Frank Turner. Peggy Snag The Blues. Better Days Will Come?
The following will be gross. Go down to the "+++++++" below to pass by this part if you have a queasy stomach. No harsh on you my friend.
When you have been away from eating copious amounts of fat laden foods, perhaps in a vision quest, or maybe from a hostibal stay, your insides will revolt against such intrusion.
You need to take it easy, and not be a pig.
Your guts do not like sudden changes, ever. Surgery, fasting, diet changes and such are to be done incrementally, and not all at once.
You will pay.
Big time.
Sean lied on the floor with his pants around his ankles, from pooping, and then spinning around to vomit into the toilet.
When such an occurrence occurs, your bowels will release from both ends.
Yes, there was a line of shit spray on one side of the toilet and vomit on the other.
Indeed, food particles of a size and shape that indicated gulped bites without much chewing were in array on both sides, dripping down the lovely Italian mosaic fresco, which means “Masonic artistry.”
Sean had exploded from both ends, and it looked to be the same coloration and textures. His body had revolted from the sudden onslaught on heavy, rich food, in large amounts, and simply pushed it all out.
The red salsa made it look like a murder scene.
I saw actual whole slices of jalapenos stuck to the walls on both sides of the stall area.
Sean needed an ambulance, in case he had hurt himself on the inside. But as Minacca and I went to his side, slipping in the mess, he said, “I beed to blow a burbig chuck outta by bose.”
He blew a snot rocket, and yes indeed, a slice of jalapeno hit the waste basket.
That must have burned like a muthafucka.
His eyes were red, his nose was dripping red salsa, and he climbed over and got into the bathtub. He was wallowed in his own filth, along with all the food he had eaten and wasted.
Pig.
Minacca was losing it. “Sean! We need to get you to the hospital!”
Sean looked up at her and said, “Just ribse me off. I’b cool. Eberytig’s fibe.”
She looked at me, and I shrugged. “He looks perfectly fine to me.”
Her eyes said, “Fuck You.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Minacca got a Neti Pot ready and brought it to him. She showed him how to rinse out his nose. Why is it that rich people know about such worldly shit? It’s stuff the rest of us only find out by accident.
To her credit, Minacca did not ask the staff to clean up Sean’s mess. She did it herself. Dayam girl, I think you loved that man.
Check this shit out, here:
Minacca used her phone to call down to the servants' quarters to tell them that she was entertaining guests, and not to worry.
It was like living in a fucking hotel. Except, the maintenance room on the third floor did not have a lock on the door. She came back from it with a mop, bucket, cleaning accoutrement, and rubber gloves.
She cleaned her own bathroom, God Help Her.
------------------------
Sean’s eyes were bloodshot, and his nose glowed fire engine red, complete with water dripping out of it. He stuffed cotton balls up into his nostrils. He wore her father’s plaid golf shorts that went below his knees and some old Birkenstock sandals from the hippie days, found on the bottom row at the rear of the shoes section in her father’s closet.
Minacca followed him down the rear stairwell and I followed suit. The stairwell opened to a hallway that led to several servants’ quarters on one end, and a large galley on the other. It looked like a kitchen built for a restaurant, probably due to the popular dinner parties that Minacca’s folks always held.
None of the rest of we mere poor folks ever new about such wondrous delicacies that were cooked and tasted in the offskirts of Fuckno as those rich bastards enjoyed.
Here is when Sean began a dance with a demon that would haunt him to the day he died. His belly was empty, and he was hungry, all over again.
Imagine that; enjoying food and then puking it back up in order to enjoy more. He would do this at my house, he would do it everywhere, once he got into smokaang. He would also learn that he could maintain his trim weight, even after he got physically huge from weight lifting, and then began to dump steroids into his body.
This would not end well for him. Binge and Purge is a devastating syndrome that knows no difference between gender in welcoming its newcomers into its deathly grip.
Damn.
Sean carried loads of food out of the walk-in fridge. Minacca sat across from me at the breakfast table in the familial section of the kitchen, which opened up to a communal entertainment area beyond. She was frowning at me.
I sipped my RC Cola and looked around at all the shit everywhere that spoke of money. I felt her eyes piercing my face, drilling into my skull. Fuck it. “What you got to say, Minacca?”
I turned back to her and her mouth opened. But she was quiet. She didn’t know what to say, I figured. I was wrong. She had plenty to say. She just didn’t know where to begin.
Yeah, Minacca was smart. But she wasn’t going to save the world with a few well chosen words, or even a stomach full of them. She wasn’t going to fix what she saw as broken, because nothing was indeed broken. It was more like a slow descent into chaos, a sort of entropy that was happening.
“Will. I wish I knew you before you lost your way.”
I thought about that. She and I had met just after Lorelei and I parted ways. She was there that night when we had gone figgin, when we had crashed. She was there when Sean’s mom verbally attacked me and called my mom names. And she was there when I learned about what had happened to Lorelei. It kinda seemed like Minacca was a harbinger of doom or someshit. Omen lady. Crow.
“Minacca, you have brought me nothing but misery.”
Well, that was sorta mean. She had been there all those awful times, but so had I. So had Sean. We three were an odd recipe, really.
Minacca’s kind intentions and any good will towards me that might have been left over, well, it then dissipated. No anger in her eyes. Only impassive disgust.
She stood up, and so did I. She did not reach out to slap my face in sudden, reactive anger, nor did she say anything. She didn’t have to.
Sean was in the walk-in. I followed Minacca through the entertainment area and down a long, walnut-paneled hallway with several closed doors in the high walls, past a larger hall, like a sort of ballroom from what I could see through high double doors.
I had no desire to check out her curvy hips and buttocks anymore, but I did anyway.
We entered into the foyer that could fit my duplex inside. She stopped at the end of the curved, gilded rail of the grand staircase and watched me as I kept walking, over the marble tiles toward the immense entry doors.
--------------------------------
In my car, I flipped off her grotesque mansion, and said, “Fuck bitches.” I wouldn’t be back there ever again.
Fuck that place.
I didn’t even squeal my tires. Save my rubber for traveling back east. Leave this high desert shit hole behind, with it’s rich bastards who lived on the off-skirts of the city but did not engage with it.
They were fucking Pigs.
A Pig is greedy. A Pig will grab all the food and eat it, waste it, and then go back for more. A person who has power, or money, or political influence, or a combination of these tools, who will take it all for themselves and then say Fuck You to the rest of us is a Pig.
Fuck the Pig.
I would leave the smell of fertilizer, say goodbye to all the gawd-damned dust and the fucking rattlesnakes, scorpions, and vultures.
No more scary punk assholes, no more broken-hearted memories of what might have been but could never again be.
I’d be just fine. Of course I would.
LINKS
From my son Gabriel.
Haunted dolls. Yup, we just got done watching Insidious, which is exactly how you write a solid horror movie, and he said he was going into his apartment and saw this on the stairs to the attic.
Funny cartoon for your Saturday. Something Of That Ilk. Explore.
Girls making faces. So he says. I think he likes their tongues.
Stay young, if you like. Here’s a Watchumentary, so to speak.
Dioramas. Remember when you were told to make some tiny scene shit as a kid? This dude just kept going. If I was a creepy old man, I’d place an emoticon like this:
