Stale Catfood

 

A comedically dark novel that literally grows like a weed on its readers, Stale Catfood pokes fun at the social definitions of what is and isn’t a completed work of fiction.

In this wildly original satirical turf-war story, get ready for Harris, Pippa, Addison, Trent, April — and the rest of these fun-loving rivals and misfits to zoom you all over Grumble Neck County as they take care of business. Watch out, cause this book will make you laugh-out-loud-till-it-hurts-mind-u!

This book is for adults only. Parental discretion is advised.

Table of Contents

1Eyes1

2You Sure About That2

3Pippa Bored3

4Mad Driving Skills4

5When Calvarist’s Snap5

6Skinny Motel6

7Avec Pomme Fritte7

8Sit. Please.8

9Harris’ Lab Test9

10Gangs10

11Party Slash Dinner Thing11

12Simac Courts12

13Mobile Flash13

14Who’s Updike?14










Prologue


Everything, everyone underground. The Calliope. That’ll do it mister. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There. That’s better. And that’s it for the day. Class dismissed. Just kidding. SIT DOWN!! That’s where we’re going to pick up… eh hem. You… in the back. Get out of my classroom.
The fiction became it’s own fantasy adjacent the court as the S.C.’s and the d.d.g.’s went toe to toe at the Grumble Neck County Enclave.
Spring had sprung {doi-yoi-yoi-oi-io-ng} bringing once again the mindless blonde mutants, (delicious albeit) becoming it’s own reward, conditioned with the dual-action-secretarial-hair-pencil-bonnet-transcribing-legal-document-type-on-toasted-jelly-sandwiches, the Play-Doh Rewards Program, the Battery Operated Radical Paint and Powdering Shit Show, and Cedar Mushroom Contestants, surviving only on the nibbling of the outdated ‘n obsolete Snak-Wrap Value City Furniture Outlet circulars with the lil’ rubber bands ‘bout ready to snap at any second, and nothing to wash em down with but orange non-profit ink pens of the unchained genre. Mmmm. smack smack. squirt squir — ta– chase!!
Come to think of it, in hindsight it was psychological turgor pressure — verbatim alamagokis mindu!! repetition begetting skill, to the collective irony and three day forecast this time — of the most beautifully tearful of freshest air you’ve ever had enter your nostrils and filling your tired lungs; pasteurized, and there wern’t a single brass safety pin on God’s green earth that could pop this wobbly mess. Nope. Not a chance. The pain, guilt, battle scars, the Idle-Rich-Yet-Tokyo-Drifting-Shortbread-Yumminess of broken wooden bird bath day-spa and wormery with twine to fix it all after Mario Jammies later on. Go fireworks. No? Unfathomable; yet forlorn twirly drinking straws at the Morgan household after for the spitball contest under Trampoline Terrace; the golden platter at Milridge, the warm summer heat, smelling smoked meat, swatting mosquitoes, just before sunset. The two for one deal was back, juxtaposed in action and cornered into the mason jar that fell down the rocky, some might say “rumbly-tumbly” ravine — two blocks from Thesaurus Vineyard, shattering, all what matter of bouncing coins and ching sounding sound bytes. Nothing like it. And this is really where things start to pick up, so listen close. You. Put that down and open your ears.

[10 second pause]

Thank you.

PENCILS DOWN!!

[20 second pause]

(Contd…)

WE’VE got the inconsiderate wild mouth who shall go unnamed at Furtherman’s Fresh Farm and Apricot Grove, who’s lips are dripping of WW2 tanks and ranks, jabbering away like the John Deer Tractor that he is with the headliner at Charlie’s Pub down the way, making sure the curtain vs Hamster’s Dirty Bird’s still at his birdcage, a real name dropper with a slimy story that’s way too graphic for lil’ ears so wet, Shannon’s sloppy-mushy kisses in Hyannisport, all obtuse; all corny yet sufficient in spite of the crack in the rusty furnace — coated in three years of spiderwebs. Harris’ legal team was cranking up the heat full blast; still, Nic had a few aces up that sleeve of his on that particular night.

All of a sudden, Trent ran through the door, slinging around vinegar and baking powder all around the hotel room, kicking over the office chair, shoving everyone around, slipping on a Del Taco wrapper — full of two day old beans.
Pippa jumped on top, tugging away at his tank-top, proceeding to give him the biggest wedgie of his life, playfully yanking away at his dirty and dusty blond hair. Your order sir?

There shall be no ketchup? Oooh ya ya — Mambo Mambo.

Chapter 1

“Here,” said Addison, “-you’re driving.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know!?”
“I’m bored.”
“Just go. Come on!”
“Fine.”
“This is your last lesson in learning how to drive shtick. Watch his left foot and right hand in sync. Don’t look at me. See?”
“I ain’t gotta drive schtick. I already got a automatic pick-up.”
“If you want to be a man, you gotta learn stick. Right?”
“…”
“I guess.”
“Where are we going again?”
“We’re just driving around dude.”
“Why don’t we go over to the doller general for some energy drinks…. and then to MacDonersh.”
“Fine. Is any of this making any sense to you at all?”
“I don’t know!?”
“You drunk?”
“You’re a moron. Got any weed?”
“No. If you got twenty bucks we can go get some.”
“Alright. Let’s put five in the tank and let me get twenty from the machine.”
Trent sat in the back seat flicking french fries at Addison up front on the passenger side. Addison grabbed them off the dashboard and started eating them. Mmmmmm….Tastee!! (an’ a little dirt won’t hurt.)
“Hey look Harris,” pointed Trent. “He’s eating um.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the purpose of life? I’m struggling really hard to find a reason and purpose.”
“You’re a alcoholic.”
“It’s deeper than alcoholism. Forget I asked. Just going out on a limb for once. You guys ready for this week’s adventure?”
“Hey, we gon sleep in the car tonight?”
“Can’t. No room. Hey gimme a cigarette.”
“I only got two left.”
“Hey Addison. Let me get a pinch.”
“I’m getting too low — dial it back.”
“Just a small one?”
“Far be it from…”
“Thanks.”
“You guys want some Lunchables?”
“We should get some of this Gatorade gum. It really works. Come on. Please?”
“You’re already full of sugar. You can’t take your bag-pack in the store.”
“Lemme drive.”
“I don’t know Harris. How old are you again?”
“Come one. Pleeeeeeeese.”
“Chill out dude… you’ll get your chance — I’m a man of my word. Work first — play later.”
Addison threw a couple cases of product in the cart and hoisted Harris inside to keep the boxes from jumbling around. 17 units sold for the day. Could have been worse. After work, the three grabbed subs and chips and cigarillos and Bud Lite Lime and made it back to the hotel; a race to the hot tub.
“When you getting to git a girlfriend? Oh wait… you already got one. Heather.”
“She had a conniption last time you guys came over. You can’t talk to females like that. You almost got us thrown out. Quit doin’ crap like that.”
“Yeah you beat me up with her last time and she deflated.”
“And her death is just something you’re going to have to have weigh on your sub-conscious. Every night Trent. Yeah. She was totally taking her rage out on you. K?”
“Totally.”
(on phone)“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yeeeessss!!”
“What!!?”
“Come uawhn … fu..MOVE!!”
Great Wolf lodge was fun, but the abandoned quarry was even more so. Money didn’t revolve around expectation. Bumps and bruises never interrupted such positive and uplifting discourse amongst civil upkeep and various forms of admonishments in local circulation. There was always time for coffee and a cronut at said stomping grounds:
“Look at this pamphlet!”
“Straight garbage.”
“Shut up.”
“Garbage. Get rid of it.”
“Wipe your face.”
“Why yall eatin’ that crap?”


The old Lincoln Town Car was a little rusty, but not much. The whole machine reeked of wet dog and-and Windex. Slim Jim wrappers and empty candy bags strewn around the backseat with tiny 4 oz coffee cups of delicious menthol butts that no one had finished. The engine light was on, but still a real tank on pavement. Decent mileage for her size too. The Mexicans were good people. They all lined up and gave their blessing at the porch of gladness out on yonder pasture. Good natured purveyors of instinct and dialect and solidarity. Aristocratic yet gregarious, and excellent taste buds for super outlandish seafood. Nutcracker? Exactly.


Chapter 2


Pouring out of the car onto the parking lot, Trent popped the hood and grabbed some M&M’s. Everyone was tired of cheap sports and four-square, although tether ball seemed to be working with varying degrees of success.

“I’ll keep this brief guys. Your performance today was on point — everyone was bored to tears. You pass Intro to Hypnosis. Bravo. There’s ten each.”
“There’s a tricked out Trans Am.”
“How are you thinking about cars at a time like this? Focus.”
“Shut up. You’re gay. Blow up dolls don’t count.”
“You’ll be speaking with my attorney before too long. Just you wait.”
“Ha. Yeah right.”
“You think I’m joking?”
“Let’s go to Golden Corral. Oh wait that’s right. You can’t afford it. Broke ass. But if you could, I’d ride you like a horsy around the buffet and make you eat out of the toilet afterwards… dumb faggot.”
“I’m sorry guys… Tourettes?”
“Why don’t you start to keep a journal.”
“No — journals are for chicks and queers. I don’t do that shit.”
“You need a haircut. Bad.”
On the banks of a muddy creek and whipping floor, they cracked pipes of crassness and rusty fenders of gloom. Who’s barrettes and bows are these? These streamers? Someone’s flying kites around here and uncovering hornets nests with simplistic yet carefully placed squalor…and I thought I was the one who started this mess. If it cost money, no one wanted to be around the guy. But when it was time to party. Well hey — I’ll take ten. With friends like these, who cares if it’s two nickels or 2 tickets to Paris — right? Sign me right up.
“My English teacher told me I break the fourth wall too often.”
“You mean your Gym teacher. Right? Guy or girl?”
“Lady.”
“Right.”
“Meaning?”
“What?”
“Hmm?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Your point?”
“Hm?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Hmm?”
“Anyone want the last burger?”
“I’m good.”
“So now what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You guys want to…”
“Hey I know… wait…”
“What?”
“What?”
“…”
“I know where we can get a bag of weed for 5 dollers.”
“She sells wizard smoke dumb ass.”
“No she don’t. Not no more.”
“You’re an idiot if you do.”
“I need gas first. Give me three bucks.”
“Trent was that you? You fart?”
“Lemme get fifty cents for a pop.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeeese.”
“Go to the drinking fountain. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
“You suck.”
“Gimme a cigarette.”
“Man this guy is boring. One of those pervs that talk about everything and nothing with charisma and gusto; but what a lame and shallow shit show. Damn. I can tell right away what a mega creep this dude is.”
“Why you hitting yourself? Why you hitting yourself? Hmm?”
“Harris needs to poop.”
“It was you. I knew it.”
“Unlock the door bitch!!! Kick his door Harris.”
“Lemme see your phone.”
“Whose are these? Ewww. Is this what I think it is? Ugh… so nasty?”
“Why ain’t you got your stereo fixed yet?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“You suck.”
“Who wants ice cream?”
“I do!!”
“How much further till Georgia border?”
“I’m not using GPS… what’s your phone say?”
“I ain’t got service.”
“Is this our great purpose? Our lot in life? Rambling all over the map like retards?”
“I’m offended. Take that back right now. My sister has down syndrome.”
“A very mild form of it. You’re Sally-miss-parent-mc-teacher-and-coffee-cake-conference all of a sudden. Megan. Lakeesha.”
“Ow!”
“Rectal thermometer! I’ll slice you with this paper clip — bitch I’ll kill you!! Ha ha… swat I though. Yeah.. uh huh… so now what you gonna do about it? Huh? Swat I thought. Mmm hmm.”
“Hey bro come on. Bring it.”
Crack. Pop…. sure… why not? Snap.
“Guys — fellas. Twiddle your thumbs. Man you guys are infantile. Holy crap.”
“I’m unna superglue your eyes when you sleepin’.”


Chapter 3


“There is nothing to do,” said Trent.
“What I don’t get is how your boringness can still be fun — like tension relief I suppose. All I’m sayin’ is that it wouldn’t hurt for you need to learn how to indulge in the fragilities of life a little more often. Try and live cheap. Dirt cheap! Economize in this pitiful… economical…. what have you… uh… environment we got going on. What do you offer? No homo, but what do you bring to the table other than a cute lil’ baby face? Hell, maybe that’s all you need. Lots of people collect paychecks in the Big Apple with looks alone. Y’ever get out to New York City?”
“Nope.”
“Go if you get the chance. For me, it was mostly itinerary stuff dozen or so times I been, but I soak up a different vibe each time I go back. That city stays engraved in your head when you’re long gone afterward.”
“How bout Boston? Massachusetts?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. So you learning anything at all from me? It’s kind of like a paid internship if you play your cards right.”
“I guess.”
“You guess what?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“Nothing. Forget it. Hungry?”
“No.”
“Is this some exercise in spontaneity. Oh ok. Continue. Sorry to interrupt. Continue.”
“What then?”
“There’s nothing to do!”
“This might be all there is to life man. Why do you want to waste it? There’s EVERYTHING to do. Get down on the good foot dude.”
“I’m just a big ol’ ATM and sack of dope to you and that’s it then?”
“I guess.”
“You’re so ungrateful man. You hear the words coming out of your mouth? I can’t believe you’d say that to me. After all I’ve done for you. There’s something you’re not telling me. You don’t want to talk about it… that’s cool… cause if the shoe was on the other foot — forget I even brought it up. I should learn to be more responsible anyway; less impulsive with my current financial situation. If I could get things ironed out better, conversations like these would fail to exist.”
“You can’t drink.”
“I know. I’m far from perfect, but with everything going on in my life right now I’m making a personal inventory of my life and what has worth and value, and how one drink can lead to a thousand and all that personal hell and torment. I’m growing to despise that state of sickness and depravity more every day and look realistically at the negatives, because believe you me — they sure outweigh the positives.”
“…”
“Look… it just seems like with all my family and friends the conversation always becomes interrogation, accusation, yet sometimes helpful suggestions or ideas to improve in certain areas. But I’m a good teacher. I believe in my talents and abilities, and work diligently everyday I stay clean. I carefully consider the correlation between addiction and financial duress. Everyday. Every single day. I have to. This ain’t new territory. I’m not trying to manage some sort of game or deck of cards or whatever, cause life ain’t a game Addison. I’m teaching a class and none of the students are buying the text book if you catch my drift.”
“…”
“And you don’t need me or Pippa or anyone else to elaborate any further on what I need to fix in my own life.”
“…”
“It’s just good to see you man.” Slap.
“Ow! Chill man. Take me home.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“No. Tired.”
“Sure ya are. Look at those big droopy eyes. That takes the cake. White trash heaven. Now you’ve really done it. That’s the look of too much steak and fun if I ever saw.”
“Yep.”
“…”
“Alright. So be it Mr. Collegiate. Cone Each e-Waw!! ”
“What kind of conditioner does April use?”
“I don’t know. Pantene Pro V. You know… the one with all the nourishing vitamins and minerals to make her locks all nutritious and such.”
“She’s not into that network marketing stuff is she?”
“Well… kind of.”
“What? The make-up? The soap? Pots and pans? What?”
“And you’re bringing this up because?”
“Hey. Gimme the remote.”
“Who’s got one?”
“I can’t believe you.”
“What’s with all the marmalade smeared all over the table? You’re gonna get a bunch of flies in here if you don’t get that wiped up.”
“Why don’t you go get a nice hot damp rag and wipe it up for everyone? I’m not your housekeeper kid.”
“Why do you type two sarcastic pages at a time like this?”
“You need coffee. Things will be better with coffee.”
“…”
“…”
“What?”
“Swut-I-thought. Huh.”
“Dingus.”
“Comic strip.”
“Enough.”


Chapter 4


“You guys ever read any Mario Puzo?”
“What?”
“Reading sucks.”
“Once I smoked two blunts, picked up some Melville, and it straight jumped right out of my hands onto the pavement within five pages of reading it. Single spaced too.”
“Sounds like acid.”
“Who cares.”
“You’re writing right now. You’re writing silence. And when you’re not doing that you’re interviewing everyone. Like a game show host. Cept you’re getting paid in peanuts. when you lucky.”
“You guys like any Paul Simon?”
“It’s a pay to play world. That ain’t no lie.”
“Nope.”
“He sucks too.”
“What don’t suck then?”
“Your mom.”
“Why is that?’
“Let’s go get some Chick-Fil-A.”
“Why?”
“Why ain’t you fix your stereo?”
“Why don’t you fix it grandpa. Go get your duct tape and scissors.”
“I actually haven’t had any physical contact with anyone for the past… uh…. eight… maybe nine years.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m broke.”
“Why don’t you just go and be a sugar daddy then? Cassa-blow-doll.”
“How fine that thin red line. No?”
“There you go with that fourth wall thing again. Who are you Pepe Le Pew now? You need to screw your head on straight … and not two hours into the future… but this instant!!”
“What you sayin’ is you mean he need a sugar momma is what you mean. You know… em dude who that act all tough around they friends, don’t have no muh fuh job, and cry like little babies on they phone for hours… I mean muh fuh wah wah muh fuh three straight hours wh e-e-e-e-e when they can’t scow for they boo. Straight taxidermy. On they check now. Hep.”
“Can’s say it hasn’t crossed my mind. Eh. That’s not how I roll. I need my ‘me’ time, and you don’t get that when you’re in a serious relationship.”
“You don’t really like people all that much. Do you?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Is that how I come off? I like people on my terms… I’ll agree with you there. I’m no master at morals and ethics, but I understand the human condition to a certain extent I guess. Some days I do feel like an alien though. I ain’t gonna lie. Ain’t life funny?”
“You’re crazy. That goes without saying.”
“Nice observation professor.”
“I was a little less selfish today.”
“You’re telling me this because?”
“Sorry. You take AMEX right?”
“What?”
“Kidding. How’s the fam?”
“Eh. These fries are cold. Don’t eat in the car. Wait till we’re home.”
“Did she forget the ranch? She did. Didn’t she?”
“I… eh.. I don…”
“How bout the ketchup?”
“A few packets… I think… wait…”
“You got this down solid.”
“What are ‘yall doin’ tonight. Man you wasted.”
“You’re high. You guys like sweatshirts? I don’t know where all of these sweatshirts came from.”
“I’m good.”
“Nah. Why he drivin?”
“Huh?”
“Hmm”
“What?”
“Hands off.”
“Nah.”
“OK.”
“Yeah. Give me one… actually…. Actshy…gimme two.”
“Man yall eat a lot of burgers. Damn look at them wrappers.”
“You want some?”
“I’m good thanks.”
Aprils house wasn’t far. She was an expert at jumping jacks and pickle ball. Her cartwheels… about a six — but sometimes a seven or eight on rare nights when she was wearing her Jordache overalls — I think they were tailor made. We’re talking gymnastics instructor American style. Man could this girl eat though. I seen her shovel down boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts in the gas station parking lot and then go hit a speed bag for an hour in her apartment complex rec-room. She’d turn off The Carpenters and play a Pantera album full blast, and start chain smoking Doral Lights in front of the whole bloody choir. All of her makeup was from either Big Lots or Marshalls — a real fabric queen of sonar and intellect. The words cascaded out of her lips like the world was her business… hers alone… and every head of hers in that tiny little corporation of hers had to roll baby. Somehow. Someway I guess. Mirror mirror how’s you’re drawl? Bingo.
“Where did April say she was going again?” said Harris on his cell, switching ears. “Mm hm. Yep. You got a pen? Write this down.”
“She better have it.”
“She’ll have it. Chill.”
“Right. Mm… hm. Yep. Righteous canker sore. Yep. Mm hm, Ok… look…Eighty-six the corn syrup, cause remember, she’s already got the food coloring. Yes. Yeees. Forget the pen and paper and listen to me. You listening? Shut up. Good. Listen to me… she’s at the fire pit ain’t she? AIN’T SHE?!?! Bye.”
“She’s got my headphones. Go. You can’t stay parked here.”
“I look like a ninja turtle to you?”
“I uh…..”
“You … uh… yall better get out of here now. Aw hell….”
“Easy on the clutch. Please.”
“Go go go go go!!!!”


Chapter 5


“How much you make this week?”
“See Trent, this is why you have no friends.”
“You want some?”
“I don’t want to talk about. Where are you going with this?”
“Why don’t you answer my questions?”
“You’re not asking the right questions… not very good ones anyway… like… I don’t know… it’s like you’re trying to pull off layers of yesteryear or something. Hard to put my finger on. Hey, you want to go to the movies?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“It’s boring. Not a scratch though.”
“Boo-ya…”
“What now?”
“I don’t know.”
“We could just drive around.”
“I don’t want to waste gas.”
“We could just sit here.”
“OK.”
“April?”
“What?”
“April?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Metaphorically speaking, Harris and April made a wonderful couple. The relief came swiftly and without discourse and vertically and horizontally and vivid supreme gesture and spasm uplifting term papers and hi-jinks with the Calvarist Border Intelligence. The scientists, Legions of Ta, Vessels of Prim Rose and Tonto all gathered together in the vestibule for the Realm of Oltep and Dear T Chais velour to promise the antiquity of the suburban rats nest that pours over at Interrogation Station (.b1) with satisfied customers, sturdy housewives, the warehouse that doesn’t exist, and verbs that conjugate themselves without a moment to spare. Everyone was in ship shape hustle that night over at the contemptuous up-bringers away from their personal dementia and prolific undertone. Satch calls for more corn and gravy. But there isn’t any gravy left. The lightbulbs are no longer lightbulbs. For they have all been nibbled away at by this quadrant of RaT doo doo gooders. The Turdulent Turds. They are not dual purposed for chatter and squabble. First and foremost to identify the client away from the imperialist. There one finds the infermiable necking and soul swapping adjacent to the head rush of Egg-Parton. Stay away from the boring sag. The droop. The foul. The abominable and formidable persuasion I beseech thee. Up and down Mountain and Wood with Camelot pondry and honeysuckle stew for des-breakfast at 4 AM without a drop of sleep to spare but to work and communicate these ambitions and to nudge and to push and perpetuate these quasi-Calverist quandary mind you… NOT Calvinist… that will be Saved for another Day. You call this wasting paper? You call what I’m doing here wasting paper? Bad for the environment? Wasting paper like this? Wasting oxygen and paper together. Simultaneously. I’ve used cuff links like these before. Using my lungs and vocal chords and larynx and diaphragm and host of other internal and external organs to spew what most of you call gibberish? I’m not jaded. Nah. This is waaaaaay too much fun. All this beautiful Paper that could have actually seen some ad time and not just gone to waste. Something to read. Something to communicate and interact with destroying all rational thought and state of confusion to unsearchable hypothetical simplistic Commencement cornucopia hallucinator tical out of siege & structure to make one think about how the mind doesn’t play tricks on itself. It will if you let it, but I’ve put that time of experimentation to rest eons ago. I’m not progressive like you’d like to think but somewhere with all of this my friends will understand the way I waste paper, but not like the kind you crumble or fold to take care of dirty business, but completely all the way around circles of hostile tongue that could be fun but leads to nowhere to lunch box of wet graham cracker and banana peel. These are really savage papers that don’t deserve a drop of Starbucks on them. For they are sacred I tell you. You don’t believe me? Look it up. This bouncy road. This busty rusty bouncy road ahead of stink and filth and jambalaya comin forth. Comin forth to rarity horny-tootin-toad on the wallop of canon dry? Break another string? Is that pumpernickel tavern of cheesehead Wisconsin? I believe it is. And I am not. Repeat: NOT on top of surnames without any physical or even cyber locale. Up the border Arctic infatuation with trips to the wild museums and cotton candy carnivals with little pink bunnies wearing erotic candy canes. Is this what the advertising and marketing world is all about? I’ve never been known to have fun with words. Wordplay is for the lower*class*rumplestiltskin demographic. The clock is always ticking. Tick tock tick tock tock tick.
“Get me out of China.”
“China is what you love and China you shall stay.”
“Only the good kind.”
“You really disgust me. Where’s that sloppy tongue of yours? There it is. Spit. Is that your ball?” said April, putting away the vacuum cleaner.
“Where’s my phone?” said Harris, his muscles twitching in euphoria. “Wait. Hey.”
“Dresser. Battery’s dead.”
“Plug it in for me.”
“No.”
“Pleeeese.”
“Fine.”
“There. See? That wasn’t so hard now… was it?”
“Nope.”
“I could really use a whopper.”
“I bet.”
“No. I mean from Burger King.”
“That’s horse meat you know. Unless you’ve been living under a rock.”
“I don’t care. I need it. I’ve gotta have it.”
“You’re way right away? Hmm?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Is this your hat?”
“Gimme that.”
“You need to go to the dry cleaners.”
“What are we married now? You got two legs.”
“Fine.”


Chapter 6


The Mediterranean check-point was only two miles away from the Mecca — Niquelle Portal of bottled up rage, baby brown sugariffic, and pent-up anger, so they had to be forthcoming and swifter than Tom Dickens. Everyone was head on traffic for one another. Keen Eyes like Oliver and Co. Purriffic. Trent noticed a small cyst on the upper left side of his abdomen, believing it to be an ingrown hair of some kind — dismissing the possibility of a malignant tumor but not a spider bite within five minutes or so. He sat in the lobby recliner vaping wax by himself, watching a first season episode of Roseanne for the next half hour, thinking about how to lance it himself with a safety pin or knife… but ultimately opting against it. Then the nurse walked in:
“You need to be more assertive.”
“What do I look like lady?” said Trent, “John the Baptist?”
“You can’t just sit in the lobby doc. Please hurry.”
“I’m off the clock,” said Trent putting a leg up on the chair next door, gnawing away on a pack of Nutter Butter cookies. Just then, Harris waltzed in out of nowhere:
“When you become a doctor?”
“…”
“…”
“Me?”
“He’s a candy striper,” said Addison as seriously as possible. “24/7. Don’t make fun of him.”
“That mouse pocket of yours is eekin’ for some cheese.”
“What did I just say?”
“Shut up mommy -look at that little critter… ha!”
“Watch it bub!”
Nobody had health insurance much less proper identification, so routine check-ups and physicals were out of the question. Harris’ leg started to bleed from the Po-Zer Straight-Wheel-Cyde-Infestation he had instigated a week prior to all of this. He began to pick and eat scab and booger casserole when no one was looking. The following morning the hotel room stunk to high hell of stale beer, Maverick kings, and freezer burned lunch room pizza, and this instantly reminded everyone of the chicken strip bombastic flamethrower episode over the grumble neck county line.
“Pretty decent shower. Super hot water if yall need one. I’m ready to get this beast fired up… I don’t know about ‘yall though. Ere.”
“You save me any shampoo? Where did April go?”
“Stop using that stuff right now. It’s a toxic marketing ploy that will leave you with frizz till kingdom come. You’re not stripping away natural oils on my watch. I didn’t touch the conditioner though… I asked the maid for a handful about an hour ago. And we gon take care of your blackheads later on too. Get you fixed up right.”
“Nice. Yess!”
“I’m starving.”
“Better move quick… it’s all going bye bye in ten minutes. Better hurry. It’s all you can eat too. Denny’s style. Bacon’s soggy though.”
“Pancakes? Wow… April… outside. See?”
“Yep. Mrs. Butterworths.”
“You still drinking? Damn son.”
“You guys need to learn to be good stewards of flat beer. A little more appreciation… that’s all.”
“Let’s leave this place cleaner than when we got here gentlemen. Deal? I’m gonna leave housekeeping a gulping tip and thank you note for all their hospitality. Mm K? Great.”
“You bring an extra pair of undies Lumbergh? I bet your sack is full of em. Weirdo.”
“No.”
“Here. You don’t want to put those on after you hose off.”
“I know right?”
“Who did this calligraphy? Someone’s taking calligraphy lessons.”
Down the staircase and out the back door, Addison noticed the tire that had deflated overnight in the hotel parking lot and started cursing under his breath.
“That’s nothing,” said Harris. “I can fix that with a can of Reddi Whip.”
“And a cherry on top? This ain’t some clown mobile. It’s a university with wheels and you’ve desecrated her for the last time you rube. Judas Priest.”
“Hey everyone… look at THIS camera.”
“Ouch.”
“You know I’m joking right?”
“Where’s the lidocaine?”
“Harris. Dude. Man. Slim. Whatever…walk your lazy ass to the gas station for everyone and contribute a can of fix-a-flat. Help out a little… come on… tighten up bro… and why were you running around in your boxers like a flamer last night? So unnecessary.”
“WHICH REMINDS ME…LISTEN YOU FUCKIN’ SLOB THAT WAS YOU WHO DONE THAT SHIT ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR LAST NIGHT!!!………”
“?”
“WHY WERE YOU PISSING ON THE DAMN TOILET BOWL AND ALL OVER THE GODDAM FLOOR?!? …………………….”
“It’s not time for…”
“SHUT UP!……… I’M TALKING… please help me Lord God oh Jesus– THINK ABOUT HOUSEKEEPING!!! I SHOULD MARCH YOU UP THERE RIGHT NOW WITH A CAN OF LYSOL AND BRILLO PADS AND UGHHHH…………………… SO INCONSIDERATE OF THE WORKERS …WHO ….FURNISHED …..THIS ….PLACE!!!!!!!!!… FOR YOUUUU!!!!……….. ……….. ………………………………. BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHERS THAT HAVE TO USE THAT SAME COMMODE and clean up after yourself please NOW I..”
“I wasn’t the..”
“YES YOU FUCKIN’ WERE!…..”
“Ipe…”
“YES YOU FUCKIN’ WERE YOU ………….YOU LISTEN HERE YOU LISTEN-LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!!!!!. …. …….….…………………………………………. PISSIN’ ALL OVER THE GODDAM RIM AND FLOOR!”
“Ease up man… it’s just a little piss.”
“…”
“I don’t have the time or patience. Not now. Not ever. Take the keys. You’re driving.”
“Fine.”
“Shotgun beaotch!!”



Chapter 7


Everyone got settled in and the equipment worked better than initially anticipated. Some of these tropical birds you could smell right through the LEEDEODrONE… on certain nights. Kinda like Hawaiian Punch… but more bitter if that makes any sense. The skeptics had their handy work in front of them and these nuts and bolts came together pretty quickly and all at once… everyone on P’s and Q’s…

“It was the west of times… no wait. One sec… I’m gonna have to proof read that. Yes. Nope. I’m gonna have to see.. Yep… I’m gonna have to give that an honest look there were a few lines in there that… well I’m just gonna have to… look I don’t want to waste anymore… Any verbal critique right now is a colossal waste of time. Agreed. OK. Sure.. Uh huh. OK… Fine… Sounds great. Mhmm… Chevy Chase the actor or city? Did what? OK.. How dirty did he leave the place? Squawking mad huh? Ouch. Sounds like a monumental mid-life crisis if you ask me…cheap K-Mart suits the whole nine… one sec. Thanks babe. Boy do you… Mpfsss… look… dainty… Mm… that…. Mpfsss. Mph…. That’s some fresh peanut butter babe — new jar? Mmm thank you. Mmmm.. Where were we… yep… right– City Tour. Look, this zoning here isn’t right if I’m reading correctly… right here and here, because we can’t just set up camp with no physical… exactly… undeniably hypocritical on so many levels. Well the coordinates are fuzzy and the mapping doesn’t mat…come again?… well you need to do your homework then. I’m not going to set up surveillance and micro-manage… we’re all adults here. Look.. not trying to be a jerk man… Yeah… well tell Sergio his story’s a little lopsided if you know what I … right. Mhmm. Diversions? Tupperwhat? Get off your high horse and stop talking down to everyone like this or I’ll have you committed. What did Lorne say? Yep. Nah. OK. hang on… Room service? Yeah. How far along? One sec… swat they said on the shit yeah… You don’t say. Yeah. Set that down next to the fireplace. Thanks. Stay… 30 seconds… hold that thought. They explained the situation and had a sit down at the BBQ on the lake. Yeah. Real colonial type shit. Yeah… sure ok sure — yes tomorrow on the dot. Stop it. You’re breakin’ my heart kid… that’s the one… yep… 2:30 Panera and I’m out of your hair. See ya Old Bay. Eesh.”
“The swag?”
“Yeah.”
“Kinda seedy to be handing stuff like these out… ehh my 2 cents… You check the readouts?”
“Nope.”
10 seconds later:
“Gimme the phone. Here… gimme that… lemme talk to her…”
“Hey they stopped sending the paper. Why?”
“You’re not listening to me. Fine…get one of the girls to do it. Flicka, can you come in here for a minute?”
“Stay right th…”
“These mustard stains. Where these come from?”
“I don’t think that’s mustard… marme?”
“Oui.”
“Ahhhh.”
“Avec pomme fritte?”
“We sold it. Yeah. Party’s on Wednesday can you believe it?”
“Those heels. Nope. Only on hallow-”
“Hang on a sec.. Hold up yall, whaduya need cat?”
“Look man, this little workshop connection tour of yours is really something — but borderline deranged… Zero structure. No rhyme or reason or anything.”
“It’s art.”
“It completely degrades the reader. Brutal. This guy should be on display at MOMA. You wouldn’t believe it if you re-wrote it longhand with a fountain pen… so….real piece of…”
“So what?”
“Ugh…GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE HUMPTY DUMPTY!!”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“We’re done here?”
“What are you eating?”
“Hot fudge sundae. The works.”
“You’re boring me to tears but this piece has longevity potential like Gunsmoke. I’m setting up a video conference for all of us next week. And I hate to trank the elephant in the room but what aBOUT the Ranchers Quarterly? You’re the fuckin’ editor capn’… Why are you doing this to me? Us? Why? You can’t just leave the best team of scientists and doctors this side of the Missip now.”
“I have to. Look. It’s for the best.”
5 seconds later:
“I guess so but no one’s laughing anymore. Jokes’ damn worn off.”
“Is that garlic?”
“Easy on that stuff, please. I got enough on my plate right now as you can tell.”
“Willy Wonka on the Side-Wheel Express.”
“Bah-dunk…. Cha!”
“Pardon?”
“That’s deet — not Binaca now… you’ve been warned.”
“Might be cologne. What? You’re breaking up on me…one more time. That’s better. This connection sucks I apologize…”
“Or perfume.”
“OK. Time. What do you got?”
“Not enough… script’s not French enough for me, but it’s full of Germanic undertones that are a little on the racy side don’t you think? Even by our standards. You can fly material like this 20 maybe 25 years ago, but nowadays it’s a little sketch… and this part here has to go. You ever hear the term ‘subliminally sarcastic?’… yeah.”
“So many rules and regs at this paper.”
“They’re there for a reason… Listen, I need to grab some lunch and get back to work, or I’m never gonna get a thing done today, and it’s all your fault…bastard.”
“Gimme the keys.”
“Party’s…”
“Just begun.”
“…”


Chapter 8

::Bad Bad Be-Boy Brown Buh B-Ball Bum::

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Jordy!

JORDY: What!?!

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Hustle!!

JORDY: You want me to swindle coach?

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Watch it! You know what I’m talking about. Give me the ball.

JORDY: That’s the definition of hustle. You mean you want me to be more aggressive and persistent.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: That’s it. Hit the showers. Your done for the day. We’ll talk later. I’m not going to let a little brat like you insult my intelligence and authority. Let’s go. Hit it.
JORDY: Whatever. I ain’t your hustler. Weirdo.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: I’m having a word with your folks after practice.

JORDY: Fuck if I care.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Chip.

CHIP: Coach?


PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Run ten consecutive 2–3 zone drills until I get back. LET’S GO!!
Turquoise bonnet where art thou staff and slime of radical coordinates and talky talky talky talk? Ruh row, insignificant failing to realize the implications of the collective thought, the Skirt Chasers and Do-Do-Gooders made their way to the entrance of the facility. Harris was there with the bow in his hand, standing next to his friend Harry from down the street with Tatiana and the rest of the film crew. No one but Trent or Addison were around because they had to run off to see April and Goliath and the sanctuary with the tent inside the raptor canal. Tug boats and frumpness and gnarly whip cream sundaes are great products at this newsstand but the bubblegum is a little too powdered for my liking and I wish these magazines and Papers from around the world had less chalk and offensive language. That really bothers me. The offensive language. Not so much the cussing, but the swearing. There will be punishment for the unjust cussing when workbooks are fully… and I mean fully open to page fifty-eight where onside kicking is not permitted at any time unless there is fresh hot apple cider for everyone to drink with nutmeg flavored whip cream. Who wants whip cream here? Is that… hey I want to read him. Of course it doesn’t make sense. Does anyone really? Nah.. TV and Internet culture are ploys generated by TraycCorp as a diversion for Tonka Truck, Dream Houses, and iPhone integration methodologists and semantic critics and are for communicating information in the document you are reading until you become completely and utterly bored and the pens and papers and things you type on turn into nothing more than boring sewing machines and ovens that don’t quite get the heat high enough for everyone… These charms will be delicious enough to watch and admire — but not eat. They sure doo Doo look like gingersnap heaven crispers don’t they now. Did you bake all that for everyone? We sure do like eating… Hey that’s not real. Is there even and sug… you lil sassafrass fancy pance dinner slider. That sure DOES have plenty of separation anxiety… does everyone know the phrase. Not the spiderman comic boringness that seems cool until you begin to realize all the koo koo fantasies that await when you re-read it for a second, third, fourth, and well… oh my… fifth read. Is that your bow. Look what you’ve done. Karen said Trent could come to the potluck so everyone was dressed to the nine. No room for minnow frantic pre-dinner chaos for the injunctions clause of you look at this and can read through this in one sitting type nonsense or gibberish. For these Americans at the table speak fluent Mandarin and Creole… their tongues are doused in who-done-it-ness and get up from the table bathroom breaks for gramagrampa. Isn’t this totally outrageous how this does all of this? I smell it too. Doesn’t that smell so good? The Jurassic aroma and quality conversation occurred at the pinching of the chili dinner. Way too many trade secrets were feathered and tucked away for good measure = post haste mindu. No one dared touch the cakes and pies that had been donated at the townhome supper that night, still, the blue ribbons were passed around the dainty gazebo next to the lake and square-and-country-folk with pride and fly paper and rusted Bratenahl hate. “This is MY Story. My song. My Dance,” said the committee. “We don’t have the resources for shopping malls of any kind here. Not the kind you’re thinking of anyway. I’m talking about the son of rachetity persnickety where’s my hacksaw interwrenchin… where something wasn’t correctly placed on top of the cold cut Samurai squabble,” they’d say. “This isn’t a movie. It will never be greenlit. It will never be made into a Full-Length Motion Picture, or even Maybelina Fractalle commercialle. For the patchwork has been completed until sun-up. The Calvary wants to put the brigade to rest and there’s waaaaaay too much Folgers in the tanks of rye and cOLE slop. I’ll show you how to cook that back one open. Chew. How does that taste? Do you like the texture. You think I should throw them out or just add pepper. Because there are a whole gobbins of sodium in this meat. This here meat right here. The meat in my hands that I am serving you for the breakfast luncheon at the Mimosa Sandlot full of Kools and recipe barby-q sauce packets that are dual purposed for reason that are beyond knownst to you. Where does this powder go? On the table that’s right. Granulated all purpose powder. There it is. You sit tight, and… I have a big carton of coffee for you to hold. Wait till I get back though. I have kittens for stale catfood and stale catfood for kitty cats with no claws in sight. Where did their claws go? Where o Where? Oh my! For there are thy lil scratching posts. Itch itch. Scratch scratch. Doesn’t that feel more wonderful than any mulberry pie you’ve ever had at a potluck giveaway raffle hullabaloo for endangered swarms of hitherto? I find the name Paula Poundstone quite hilarious actually. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it. IS there a rest area nearby? Where’s the next exit? That rest area has frozen yogurt and we’re going because it’s not healthy to eat ice as much as yo fro. It’s that fun to say?? Yo Fro… it’s got kind of a trashy-hipster-I’m–broke-but-my-folks-host-lightning-round-Dinner-Partys-where-the-jokes-roll-for-fragments-of-slice of-pie-and-place-one-dollop-ha-dollop-funny-word-in the-mashed-potatoes — how untraditional! How dare she do this to this festive gathering. Everyone knows that sour cream does not belong in mashed potatoes or any kind of comfort food. Why isn’t this coming across as funny? The casserole doesn’t go there. You know better than that. Would anyone like to finish my pie? I’m not hungry. But I will be in about five minutes. I’m going to go get some beef jerky out of the fridge while you gnaw on this rib roast done to perfection. When your teeth become tired with beef jerky mastication, please do everyone a favor and transverse back to the medium rare awesomeness of rib roast of cow and tortellini … such wondrous seafood creations better than any Read Lopster really. I can’t believe how nutritious the tea or cranberry juice is because you need to pick up the tab and take me to the nearest facility to let my ego deflate. And this is why most Europeans don’t like the car or commercial culture. They laugh at McDonalds Corp not WITH them if that makes any sense at all? Many don’t like my sense of humor and that’s OK… That’s fine. I’m not here to laugh or degrade you in any manner like this. Because isn’t mental abuse much more satisfactory than physical altercation? Have you thought about dying your hair or changing the part just a hair. One tiny little lock please? I will not envelope and send to the physical host of hosts or any such integral nongravitationalpullupagus generals they were fearful of, just light headed bubbly random choice thoughts and gestures smeared all over the campaign trails of predilection and carnival infractions that don’t stay put. They had to stay on top of these swine like mongoose and Marenthawal shatter champagne stems. Every turn undisclosed for business and channel surfing and channel surfing and donut dunking with sugarless coffee dimples and rosy bath pattern. Trinklesauratops wow what have we done here? What a mighty work the Lord has done. Let us share this with THESE pamphlets, because I prefer it to be done with no blinking or chicken stew with carrots that aren’t quite done. The pasture picking outrage — the clickings on at makeup counters with 20 year old monitors that are caked in dust and storm cake batter — going nuts at the conversations around picture rooms that aren’t quite done up enough for everyone’s liking. How many more layers of this shall we ad? One more. That’s it. One more layer and then we shall close the box of health biscuit and place them properly on the mantle of the ‘I know where you’re going with this radar detector that doesn’t work but suits everyone’s needs just fine with no opportunity for any objection or in-flayt-uactuary ||||||..|| beep hey..where u go fancy pance… oh that pensive sole swapper… there they go again type that are never hostile to evening news report squads.’

“You’re not leaving the house looking like that,” said Trent.
“What’s a house?” laughed Melody, wide-eyed.
“A place where people go to…”
“Hey, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Swat I figured.”
“Hey.”
“Come on — don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Play games.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah! What!?”
“The games.”
“Please.”
“Hand.”
“Ya.”
“Uh.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Games.”
“Yo!”
“Airhead.”
“Bimbo.”
“Shimbo.”
“What the hell’s a shimbo? I know you didn’t just call me a shimbo.”
“You want to go do a nature run with me?”
“Nah.”
“Come on. Exercise will do you a globe of good. I don’t think you should wear those glasses. Please remove them. You don’t need them. They make you look like a nerd.”
“I need ’em.”
“You should try some different frames or think about wearing contacts.”
“I’m not playing house with you babe.”
“I’m not playing house with you, I’m just making some suggestions that might help…”
“I thought you loved me just the way I was.”
“And I DO Trent, but there is a ton of work to be done. Forget I even brought it up.”
Several months later, Melody became impatient with Trent’s inability to find any stable work, and moved in with her cousin in San Bernadino. They tried the long distance thing for a while, but really it was just Melody weaning him off. She knew about his short temper and didn’t want to ensure he wasn’t going to try anything dumb like steal a car and drive to California, screaming and crying outside of her bedroom window, or something ten times worse. Trent applied for work at fast food restaurants, coffee houses, even freelance landscaping and car washing jobs. He’d do just about anything to make a cheap quick buck as his options were starting to run out. He thought about dying his hair purple, but decided not to, because purple headed people belonged working behind the counters at adult novelty stores and counter-culture fashion shops at the mall. He thought about getting ink or going a gauge higher in the ears, and thought about how he could get the money to do it. The cotton candy dreams began to flood his memory of the time they had shared, a constant reminder about his future goals and aspirations. The need to travel. The desire to take drastic action into taking the reigns of life. These were concepts that Melody had firmly planted in his subconscious, starting the day they had met at Zaxby’s. After she had left, Trent began to drink more water and jog more often. There were simple and very complicated systematic brainwaves that Melody had left him with — such as how to meditate and be resourceful in any situation, all the way down to making a bubble gum buying decision. The Hubba Bubba. The Bubble Yum — and so forth. He began to understand deeper parts of the human condition on how and why wars and violence throughout world history had started and found resolution. Why some people don’t think at all — their minds completely controlled by various corporations and enterprises — because they have no direction or ambitions of their own though but to be used a vessel for something much bigger and meaningful. Harris’ mind began to shrivel and retract — not in horror mindu — still, he didn’t really know what was happening, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop it, nor did he care to at any time. He started to think about flying — sexy flight attendants with mascara and high heels — the mile high breadwinners and what it truly means to become one that has been enlightened with the Vision of the Lankorym to the tip of Shakoonta. This wasn’t a form of sexual titillation in any way, but a consideration and study of the human mind and all of its neurons bouncing and popping into one another. Holy cow — that’s a ton of neurons!! But this wasn’t a subconscious or subliminal notion like an advertising trick done by the good people of Johnson & Johnson — because no one could understand marketing tricks better than Melody. This is something Trent began to admire more each day about her. He began to watch her blog, her video’s, her YouTube channels, and read her books. She did none of it for money, but for something much more integral and systematic than mere personal finance. She felt happier when she was in Scotland studying horticulture and fashion, but now that she was stateside, was looking to put a new particular skill set to work. Most of Europe she found agonizingly boring ad nauseam, but a challenging learning experience nonetheless, and that was just what her strawberry shortcake girly mind needed– no water, no war of the Boyles — it was rewarding and just the education she needed to make life in the US a better, more fulfilled one. When Melody was a little girl no older than 8, she had every intention of becoming a ballet instructor for the underprivileged. She wanted her own studio, he own line of tutu’s, rooms full of mirrors, carefully placed water bottles and ankle warmers, and a voice activated heating and cooling air conditioning unit that would only work on her command. Trent, Harris, and Addison found the campfire story amusing yet insightful. It wasn’t the content of her story, but the way she delivered it that they found unique and worth considering for extended periods of time, although they didn’t understand why. Lycra syntax among hilltop ragamuffin antics and weather reports of cool breezes enveloped the collective jargon circulating around the town. Even the mayor, county commissioner, all park rangers in a sixty-mile radius, and local paw enforcement came with ribbons and fliers and correct grammar and pronunciation. Many of these were dressed up like doggies from some kind of twisted Don Bluth production that never really existed, but realms of antiquity abounded wholly until the Reign of the Skirt Chasers came for a visit. “Look at her hair. Check out her halter top! Can you believe that?,” and other phrases began to circulate within the community and with the funny hat people — you know — they type that talk like they’re reading a teleplay by Dick Wolf or a journal of science and medicine. It was impossible for anyone to talk with a straight face when they talked because they knew every syllable uttered from their lips were complete and total fallacies. The doodoo gooders™ (they switched to lower case and trade marked the company by unanimous decision) and the Skirt Chasers started their pretend turf war with the entire grumble neck county church crew system and began to devise a more efficient and tactile method of achieving their collective goals. Shots were fired, necks were sliced — sure — it wasn’t a complete bed of roses, but insight and the culmination of what followed brought a better realization to the complex code of ethics that permeated most of the resident’s mind at all times. Before too long, drivers were not wearing seatbelts. Some would go as far to remove the seatbelts from their cars and trucks without even thinking about it — and just get up and do it. What did they need seatbelts for? They didn’t. There was a higher percentage of the population within the community that didn’t have anywhere to drive to anyway, other than into a pond or lake. So this is why they figured they didn’t need to have their seatbelts — as sort of a worst case scenario if you will. Over the dangerous ravines came a multitude of transverse thought and hypothesis with the board of calisthenics and inquiry of the fort track mind. Construction continued along highways and interstates — tirelessly along the entire eastern corridor, although out of towners would say they were building and constructing every 24 hours in a loop to confuse certain snoopy government officials that were part of a higher team of intelligence outside of the jurisdiction of the United States government. Nothing was safe but still remained as part of the collective group within the misguided intentions of the doo doo Gooders™ and Skirt Chasing glue tape legion. The bumps and bruises they left would be forever locked into the subconscious minds of the individual and taken to the posture marketing troupe of funny-ha-ha type monkey business that was also in a perpetual looping pattern. These collective thoughts were as shallow as a single droplet of water on the searing hot sands of the Windinghouse desert. And the Mull Cree Freeway began their construction zoning meetings every other Tuesday night at the biker bar that was overrun by the upper class gated community type. “Put that down!” shouted Paula as the bikers ignored her outbursts. They saw what she was doing, but they weren’t on her side. They could see the gleaming Cleopatra eyes and most had already experienced her Ringling Brothers make up soirees on a number of occasions. They saw where she was going without even batting an eye. Harris came to the conclusion that the entire scenario was a bad dream and carried out his original plan in the weeks that followed. Trent agreed that he should seek professional help and put a personal game plan together that would suit everyone’s needs and purposes. This wasn’t going to be an easy task to achieve, but the results would continue to remain conclusive throughout. The Action Wrecker was a big ol truck of straw that swung by the phone store for turn of some peanut. “We couldn’t be any happier, you dating anyone Miss Sewer Homewrecker Poppuri Holly Crackenstumula?” — like a bull whip. “Halleluia!” they responded. “We can’t get enough of this place. Can we stay here forever?” Simultaneously full of angry trance and synapse and Saratoga sadness.”

“I thought you were nuts. OK… I see what you did here,” said Trent… “you go on a short mind bender and then come back to reality in this paragraph right….. Here.”
”I do?”
“It’s supposed to be a no frills comedy….so…”
Crumble, crumble.
“Thus.”
“Wep…”



Chapter 9



“Lets make sure our homework is submitted on time next time… Understood? Pippa, you really need to focus on your schooling more and your goals and dreams less. Yes, you are a wonderful artist. All the girls in class want to be like you, comb their hair like you, drink from the same fountain as you, even turn your nose up like you. But for what? Think about how your ongoing drama performances and how they have disrupted and continue to disrupt the student body and faculty. You lied to me about the soiled panty incident you started last week. We’re all limp to excitement thanks to you. Bring me the yardstick.”
“No. I don’t care.”
“Why?”
“Tear.”
“What do you need?”
“The drop or rip.”
“Smudge.”
“You’re insidious. Fine. Starting tomorrow, if I catch you texting on your Girly Koala iPhone, it will be turned into the Dean and…”
“What. The raffle and fundraiser?”
“What about it? Oh yes. I’m sorry. That will be kissed goodbye as well. You should have thought this through a little harder sissy. Sign here. Dot here. Initial here. Great.”
“Can we get started? I’m not getting any younger.”
“Oh we’ll see about that. But I’m not sure if this is covered in your health insurance. Nurse?”
“Yes doc.”
“Nevermind.”
“…”
“Can I keep the pom poms?”
“Honey, you’ve had plastic pom poms before day one. This is what you’ve asked for and this is what you have received. Welcome to the trIbe. Don’t you get it?”
“…”
“Lets have a look. Shall we?”
This is all Paula ever wanted. To be in charge of the student body and administration queen. She knew she was walking a very tight rope, but all the ballet lessons and snooty English classes had paid off. She was in charge now. Just a few more Cczzzzz……

Greetings from the afterlife!! It’s hard to describe, but you wouldn’t believe me if I tried;) I didn’t ask to be brought into this world, but the obstetrician must have smacked my bum just a little too hard. I was perfectly content with nothingness, but then came the 80’s and out I popped.

“You get the news?” said Harris.
“No what?” said Trent.
“Hang on… let me send you the link.”
“What? Holy shit.”
“I know right. Writing was on the wall though — are you surprised?”
“No. Addison was super depressed.”
“What do you think it was ultimately?”
“I hate to theorize. I don’t know…boredom, poverty, loneliness?”
“Sure… or any combination of those three. I think he was sexually frustrated.”
“Yeah… well who isn’t?”
“I don’t want to get into that.”
“Ultimately, he pushed almost everyone out of his life who really loved and cared about him.”
“He sure took a lot of guff from his family about his constant drinking.”
“I warned him.”
“Yeah. Sad really. What a great guy.”
“How did he do it? Alcohol poisoning? Gun to the head?”
“The report didn’t say. Look man, he let his pride, perfectionism, and ego get in the way of his personal and professional life. He isolated himself constantly, and… lets face it. He suffered from delusions of grandeur.”
“See, I disagree with you there man. Too much confidence and way too many unrealistic expectations, but clearly a host of skeletons in his closet. Man was that guy talented though — like Kurt Cobain meets David Foster Wallace or something.”
“Yeah. Real tormented misfit — diamond in the rough. Way too ahead of his time.”
“Real H.P. Lovecraft… sure.”
“Probably possessed by demonic spirits… judging by the content of his work. His interior life must have been some kind of hell I’d imagine.”
“Great story teller… a coping mechanism that ended up poisoning his own ass in the end — and he wasn’t even a Scorpio!”
“That’s really unnecessary.”
“I… ugh…. sorry man I make light of heavy situations.”
“Coping mechanisms. Right. Funny.”
“Regardless, I’m going to have to work on a eulogy.”
“This sucks dude. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“So now what?”
“I don’t know. I need to call Paula.”
“Did she even know Addison?”
“Well she knew OF him.”
“Right.”
“You have anything else to add to this?”



Harris and Trent took their seats in the hospital food court and started to text their girlfriends.
“I’m bored,” said Trent.
“Go ride a bike.”
“Hey…”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Pictures.”
“Scanners?”
“No duh.”
“Hey are these changes permanent?”
“What do you think?
“I think so. It feels awesome.”
“That’s a guy you know.”
“Who… this?”
“No… this.”
“Oh yeah. I know.”
“I’m gonna shoot him an irreverent text to make sure he’s not using his noodle to perfectionary twit.”
“A little rough on the didactic rhetoric today aren’t we doc?”
“He’s really good at charades… watch out. He’ll turn your mind into a block party.”
“Get out the caviar jelly and cracker type…”
“Yep.”
“Rog told me you’re thinking about moving?”
“Well… we’re talking about it… not seriously though. Maybe after the surgery.”
“Some of these jokes in here are darkly coded.”
“No shit Sherlock.”
“Welll…”
“What?”
“I ughh…”
“Swat I though. Hurry up… I got some sculpting to do.”
“How long have you dreamed of this life?”
“I’ve always been this way. Since I can remember.”

Harris was the first to greet Pippa after the operation.
“Success!”
“I know.”
“I love the balloons.”
“I don’t know who brought them. Several of them are anonymous.”
“I see. Tell me. What do you think about starting a new diet and exercising regimen after we break you out of here?”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“It’s just kind of…”
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts…. Little late in the game for that… don’t you feel?”
“Oh I feel and am feeling great.”
“I just hope it doesn’t get infected.”
“It won’t. I’ve been deep in prayer and meditation.”
“The Lord will take care of you sweetie. Look, I gotta split. I spoke with Nina… the nurse on duty. She’s going to bring you a salad in about an hour. Do you think you can hold any food down?”
“Not really, but I’ll try.”
“Good.”
“Is this a hospital recovery room party or what?” said Trent resting his longboard next to the dresser, perfectly. “I brought you some books on tape… I’m not allowed to bring you anything to eat.”
“Don’t worry… I’m not hungry in the slighte…”
“Good. How ya feeling?”
“Minty fresh!!”
“I bet.”
Several weeks later Addison arranged for Harris and Pippa to be together in a trashy little Arby’s ceremony that the whole town had planned. It was sort of a surprise party, metaphorically speaking of course, with all the rage of a death metal concert and Proper Princess Pandemonium. In retrospect, Pippa’s mommy was helping since day one and coaxing and nodding for this to happen. Peter had to be let go. One for the road and three to go out the experimental science factory across the bridges of Winemust and Randi-ness of Wilcox that were no longer. For this is what happens when little nuances of the mind entrap the tiniest most microscopic pricks of pain and pleasure and Squash for breakfast, lunch, dinner, midnight snack where Paul’s best friend’s mom knows they’re taking a break from gaming to raid the nacho’s in the fourth quarter. Oh, Paul is keeping his Football Jerseys. He’s having loads and gobs of fun. Oh wait. That’s right. Where did Richard run off to? His girlfriend worked at a car dealership just over the borderline and had to spit copper for thrusts of galviston for the fun experiment time that no one wanted to talk about but feel go deeper and deeper into her tiny little train depot she had created for herself, back when Nixon was still president. They could smell the fresh meat, the sloppy French Fries that everyone seemed to be laughing at. The ice cream parlors that were savage and downright funner than all hell. And now Harris, spending most of his time at local grocery stores, of previously non-sensical aisles he shouldn’t have been in were now making him smile from ear to ear. They too shall join together in this Wholy Matron-nomy of chabing and all of the acetone in the cupboard remaining bare ass smooth as silk and lavender for the piercing of the Taurus. HA! Wond’rous calamity. Where is thy toothbrush?
“So let me get this straight,” said Pippa, taking a break from her crossword puzzle. “What do you think of nails like these?”
“I think you’re a million times more shallow.”
“You’re getting every penny’s worth.”
“Oh I can see that. I gotta run to Kohls real quick. Need anything?”
“I can’t. Actually… sneak me a bottle of Evian if you can. NOT Dasani… pleeese? Come awahn!!”
Wink.


Chapter 10


The correspondence between the doo doo Gooders™ and Skirt Chasers began to take a turn for the worse during another arduous town hall meeting. This would be another nerve-wracking pissing contest that couldn’t be avoided. Tension was at an all-time high, and the Mercenaries of Padelle were up to no good as usual, with all their smoke and mirrors in tandem. Restitution was paid back to Trent over the 4 wheeler proto-slam demolition and was done so discreetly. This unfortunate incident caused his squad to come in dead last during the finals and then the inevitable happened when an all-out turf war broke out at 3:55 AM on Thursday morning across the street from the Shell. Most of the machinery was caked in mud, twigs, and grass by 7:32 AM and left for future rampage and salvage. Harris, the new leader of the Skirt Chasers, would be giving the key note address — confronting many of the collective concerns and goals that were brought to the table from four appointed delegates — two from each side.
“Some of you,” said Harris, “have been looking and smelling like you’ve been living under saggy cardboard boxes this week.” With the microphone to his side, Harris paced behind the podium in complete silence, his eyes glaring at certain members in the crowd. “You know who you are………………..” The mic spurting back with crackle and feedback. “Matter of fact, I can smell that very stench from the far back row this very moment, wafting — all the way to my nostrils as I stand here speaking to each and every one of you filthy mongrels. The Skirt Chasers have been in business for almost three years now, and everyone knows this is not the image we want to perpetuate. It’s disrespectful to our local business partners, as it is to any new members considering active roles in either of our organizations. When some of you close a huge deal, do you take the team out for steak dinner? Hell fuckin no… you-you you run around like little schoolgirls in pigtails who won a blue ribbon for the prettiest pumpkin at the county fair, passing around cotton candy and rainbow colored popcorn balls. This needs to stop immediately!!!!!………………. We’re not a bunch of derelicts. You… in the back… you think this is funny? Some kind of laughing contest?”
“No.”
“You think I’m joking?”
“No.”
“You were laughing a second ago.”
“I eh…”
“Didn’t think so. Yes. Fenton. Your question?”
“Not so much a question as much as a formal complaint.”
“Go ahead.”
“The recruiting system is horrifically flawed.”
“What recruiting system isn’t. Hang on now… alright… let me speak… done?… To answer your question, the answer is ‘yes’ — the website has been down for two months, but we have Nick — wave Nick — hey — who is in the final stages of launching a brand new one. Those of you with active smartphones need to keep them turned on at all times to be informed of the new URL when it becomes available. Next? Yes. Crystal.”
“The checkpoint timing grids aren’t collaborated correctly, and the use of an archaic walkie-talkie system has become nothing more than an exercise in futility.”
“Speak with Cory about that. I don’t have an answer for you. Last question. You.”
“Thanks Harris. Um… I forgot. Oh wait… I remember. Who is your official speechwriter?”
“That’s none of your business, and you’re out to lunch — nurse — lets get this guy checked out. This meeting is adjourned.”
Later that week, Harris and Pippa took a vacation in the Mountains of Gandaliere, twitching and fussing, smoking up a storm of wrath and insignificant boredom. This became a place for Harris to take a sabbatical of sorts — away from dermatology and into the world of dentistry and oral hygiene. Come on folks, some of these peasants can’t afford a good cleaning of the enamels, yanking of yellow molar — much less join the eternally bored and heaven bound shaquina glory of the mad dog rampage — where’s my relief after a procedure like this that is Constitutional comin for to Paris me home with a letter from the Vatican and Resolute for Absynthe related quandary. O Honeysuckle. Gimme a lick. Just a real quick one. Like a ten second jingle you love to put on repeat, or an overworld theme that never gets annoying but should. This is sort of like playing Frogger on Atari, but not quite. Only one life? Yikes. Posterity, posterity, location of the informed: I say it’s time to get up out of these chairs. To Arms! To Arms! Ye quadrant of unsatisfactory squabble and loose toothy. Owie. Open? You like Shakespeare? Funny ha ha. Right. High five. Ouch… that’s gotta hurt. Chipped bicuspid? Ouch. Calamity. Don’t worry… I’m a dentist. Right there. Hold this.. There that wasn’t so bad. Spit. That’s a short term remedy now. Alkeyhol will eat you up and diahreah shit you right out kid. I ain’t fuckin around. Don’t you be a dumb ass and get hooked now. Or it’s a life of AA meetings for you, and you don’t want that. You may NEED that one day, if you think I’m kidding and choose that path, but for now, only use this here jug for severe pain. When the pain stops, so does the drink. Understand? And I’m talkin you prayin for Jesus to kill you right now cause your mouth hurtin so bad — that’s the only time you take a drink. You got me? You got me now? Alright. I trust your judgment. But don’t you treat this like it’s recreation now, cause it AIN’T! You hear me? Open. And I mean using this stuff to loosen you up so you can run around with easy girls — wine, women, and song — don’t you do it now… ya hear? Open. Now lets have a looksy. Get you some cotton — you bleeding a little now. Keep these in for 72 hours. Watch the swelling. Man these teeth are a work of art. I grew up around dentists… don’t you worry about a thing. I’m more worried ‘bout you looking for more drink and bars and opiates after we’re done mindu. Open. Which tastes better… the peach or grape fluoride? Take your pick. Thanks Laura. The world may never know. Ainchu funny. Yeah. Xrays? It’s heavy, but it ain’t cold. So you see the big game? Yeah. Oh sure, but their defense needs help. If they can keep that same offense and just tweak their defense next season… they’ll get their shot… just you… open… just you wait. I’m serious about that drinkin and druggin now. Turned my grandpa into a walrus. He died a red nosed walrus. Don’t you end up like that. Not a Beatles song. Funny. Dats no yoke. Open. You ever think about donating your set to science? After you leave this place? Jesse James would have killed for a mold like these. Geesh. Send them chompers right over to the ADA labs… thanks Claire… love that dress… she’s somethin’ ain’t she? Like I was sayin… if you donate to science you’ll be doin everyone’s nibblers a huge public service yes sir. Mmmm. Done. Yeah. High five. Way to go. Alright. A++. High five. Giddyup now. Yay!!! Next!!” Slap.



Chapter 11


Isn’t it funny what keeps a family together? Strange and amazing? With all the frailties of human existence, everything holding back the individual to be successful and content. Successful and content are not in cahoots. No sir — in order to take the Reigns of financial fortitude, one must learn to never be satisfied — always striving to hit bigger numbers than the previous fiscal year, The Risk, The Sick, The Gathering. Mansions of boredom and Fox trail and triumphant feast of never ever ever having the wrong true blooded American mindset and all the unspoken hip-hop that sounds more like a children’s song about bunnies than the injustices of what certain people of color have to deal with. This is why I’m about the individualist, because what I’m driving at is that it’s really everyone for themselves, and no one can be helped unless they know how and where to ask at the exact microsecond. The Cains, The Freedom Fighter Squadron and Tuckaseegee cockpits of doom that come with — along for the ride of ‘who cares,’ the get up and go — go sleep in the car for a few weeks to find the love of your life flipping and frying liver mush at the Gwaltneneir Piano Grille. Getting out of bed in the morning for bacon and egg. Going to your appointed Workstation, shoveling shovels and pens and lumber and pride? The nag of looping conversations of all I’ve ever wanted to do is love you — for us all to be together. Only kissing on cheeks is appropriate and Christian Wholesomeness unless you’re giggling frantically after the initial greeting and turn your head at the last second, and now we’re kiss boxing… Holy Cow that’s a ton of un-Biblical. No I don’t want a bite of banana. Could I be anymore publicly transparent about what I deal with to try and keep this family together? Let’s dig into His Word a little deeper tomorrow and make sure we’ve taken down the proper notes so this doesn’t happen again. I smell a sermon coming on again… you should really write a book for enabling musicians and bottom tier pro athletes who are backstage gym rats, like Big Ben from Middle Skewer. Really — don’t you think? Again, I thought I started this mess, and I hate to repeat myself over and over, but I don’t think I can get anymore grunge feedback on my Heavenly Hardware Solid State Amp from the Graduation Gymboree. Maybe some strong magnet would help with copperware, a car battery, jumper cable, some tin-foil shock naperino bambino, 8 — no wait — 9 salvaged Phillips head screws, 4 — flat head screw — just in case — two gallons of petroleum wax, a ten mile drive to Home Depot for one air conditioner filter that doesn’t fit and needs to be returned, so lets all pile in the car and look at woodland creatures and turn around and slowly around desirable real estate and free coffee at open houses with the clipboard walking ladies who need to walk the honeymooners all over the place for an hour while the dog sits in the car, slobbering all over the back seat window and spotless ashtray. But we’re also going to need one can of shitake mushroom soup before I forget, they’re on sale, and a shit ton of Elmer’s Rubber Cement. Now my day is planned once I get back from the Used Book Store off of Pal-ber-marle Toad. I’ll turn on the work fan and fire up a pot of java. You take cream? No? Sugar? Never. Black like you like your women… the mud I brew will have you sprouting chest hairs in a few hours. I hope you have a strong bladder the way I make it. The Hornet Swarm of Bee-Stack-Ti-Cyde Infirmary has all the spokes for good nutrition. Healthy home cooked nutrition of yesteryear. We’re talking Rack of Lamb Baby. Lil bite? Just a small one. I’m not hungry. NO! Damn what’s next… you gonna throw me in a high chair? I can’t believe this: CAVALO… but can’t say as if I’m not surprised so I’ll eat when I’m good and hungry. Shit. Not that stew meat from Eat-N-Sav Grocer. Let’s have a nice meal. Pile on the grapefruit with cinnamon and…. Oooh… have you ever had grapefruit blended with crayfish? You haven’t? It sounds strange, but don’t knock it till you try it. Staying in the Realm and True Spirit of Good American Tradition Pride and Cookery, let’s nix all that for the get-together and just stick with the Fillay Meen-yon and Scallop Potatoe with butter, cream, and garlic. The clam chowder has curdled oh phooey. Deep-fried Butternut Pie-Cakes with a sprig of fresh saffron, and just a splaysh of Henry Miller Vinaigrette on the side thank you. Where’s our napkins at this banquet? Our NAPKINS! Now… who would like a hot dog. Let me serve you at this faux-buffet-style-Big-Boy-Prayer-Commencement-and-Vineyard-of-ruh-roh. Thanks for the coffee babe, how’s dad? Is he going to get his checkups. What did the MRI say? Sounds invasive. Bedrest too. Well his bedside manners are second to none ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh. He sure is. Not a doubt in my mind. Well she’s such a dingbat sometimes, but enough about Janice… And his heart. Still ticking. Good. How’s the garden. And the wallpaper. Cooking classes. Hat sales. Good. Sill in the choir related culinary side show I see. Quite a spin-off if I do say so myself. Three thousand dollar couch that didn’t sit well in the solarium?!?! I have an idea after dinner, after we’re full of Rib Roast and Pasta Casserole with Punkin pie, lets all help move furniture around until we puke into each others arms. Help us lift. One two go! I’m so proud of you. Push! Up the stairs with the dresser and couch so we can all be burning with sweat and indigestion after this 7-course meal. What fun! Now if this ain’t togetherness, I sure as heck don’t know what is. Your mascara is dripping like a Tammy-Faye-Look-A-Like-Contest. How appropriate!! Now that’s comedy. For pure comedy is sick and depraved tragicness. Oh yeah.. I know. Don’t get me started or I’ll make you binge watch every Woody Allen feature film in chronological order with banana splits and wheat grass soy shakes to make you feel like you’re trying to do the right thing diet-wise and id/ego-wise. Who want’s to see all these wedding pictures? Maybe after the ballgame with the chewy skittles that I ate all of even though they were there only for Easter Decor. My bad. Who are you kidding with one leg of rabbit and a lil piece of corn on the cob? Look at your belly. Pile it high, eat up, you made all this, dig in bitch! Who are you kidding. Ah yes… clown school… right… Well, all that aside and back to that couch you thought was going to work out but isn’t quite right… yes, get all your money back. How rude of the dealer to con you like that, but cha can’t go off of pictures — those colors aren’t the same when you have the Mexican’s haul it in and out of the warehouse through the garage of prissy slobber mutt. You have to see the junk first hand. The musty dingy stuff… that’s where all that treasure is. Real sturdy, cornfed. Mmph. No? Everyone here seems retired. We’re all concerned. Small phrases like pitching a surrealist European film to Mantellio’s cousin from Bulgaria. You know, son of the Ambassador of the Firework Corporation Testing Facility. That sounds like really challenging news progrum. Is that your GOP screensaver? Hmph.. Burp.. Uhh…Hume.. Mutley.. Hmph.. Fart… I’m a republican … hmph… woof woof… America Great… hmph… burp… floppy floppy… hmpp… dinner nap… hmphFox… Hume Hume… GO TO WORK MEXICAN ILLEGAL!… hmph.. Burp… time and again … fart… ppt… woof woo wooo!!! I’m kidding really. Don’t let the lefties in here, or there will be picketing on the lawn with their lil burro signs in front of the screened in porch, but leave just one scoop of the Purina Cat Chow for Mittens… the outdoor kitty who gets screamed at when he tries to come inside… what a savage lil Samoan… a dark kind of cute, mindu. And you don’t want to give them any hot tea or stale baguette or anything. Not the Stale Catfood Cats, but the outdoor Mexican Moving Alien Group and Associates. I wouldn’t… yucky!! Incidentally, you wouldn’t believe all the cattails on the nature trail of hi hello and how are you I’m a retired wood worker.
Wha t is this Tr-Ash Heap up-Here/?
“Do you believe in love?” said Harris, picking away at a scab.
“Where are you going with this?” said April, folding a pair of the green cashmere sweaters.
“Eh… not my thing. Sorry.”
“You see this thing Addison wrote about you on the computer?”
“I don’t give a shit. Guy’s was a fag. I’m glad he killed himself. He was secretly obsessed with me, and it was getting annoying as fuck.”
“You’re way faggier than he ever was. You can’t even get me wet.”
“You trying to make me go limp or something? I thought you wanted a quickie before work but I guess not.”
“Put on this shirt.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t like anything I wear.”
“Bingo. Lay on your back. OW!”
“Sorry… there… better?”
“Yeah.” Slap Slap.
“And you hate my make-up and the way my moisturizer tastes. Don’t you?”
“No… It’s a little fruity though.”
“Why don’t you like my make-up? I did it for you baby.”
“It tastes like I’m licking a warm candle every time I move in on your lips. You should just go natural. Make-up is for ugly girls anyway.”
“Well haven’t we become quite the fashionista?” asked April, grinning.
“Whatever. Sure.”
“Why don’t we go to the ch..”
“Why don’t you fry me some eggs and sausage?”
“If I do, I won’t make it to the bus stop on time. Can you drive me to work?”
“Fine. Gimme two bucks for gas.”



Chapter 12



“You need some serious guidance,” said Addison, rising from beneath the floorboards.
“Your shock value is uncanny,” said April, putting down a short story collection. “So how the hell is purgatory?”
“Eh… boring.”
“Does it burn?”
“Well what do you think I’m doing above your ceiling fan?”
“It was because of me — wasn’t it.”
“…”
“Can you come and go at will?”
“Let’s just chill.”
Paula put down the rusty razor blade and turned on the tub, cranking up the heat. She grabbed a stalk of celery from the fridge and cleaned up the tail end of a two-month-old jar of crunchy Skippy. The house was a mess — full of body lotion, hair care products, mouthwash bottles lion on the floor there, with old receipts from all over the place, and empty popcorn bags and cans of Moxie and empty bags of chips with the pomegranate lemonade containers, air fresheners, three month old turkey sandwiches half eaten, wrapped in Bounty paper towels — forgotten about to turn into nothing more than moldy rocks, loose tobacco, plastic plates with ketchup and hot sauce stains there, and coffee cans with piss in em there, cardboard boxes with nothin’ in em — coupla damp towels. Empty 2 liters of Cheerwine, buncha dirty clothes strewn about, various sweaters and jackets with many pockets, small trash can heaping with coffee grounds, linens, some multi-vitamins only half eaten, old cell phones that no one wants or could ever hope to activate, no better than paper weights, and wires and crunchy taco wrappers with the cheese crusted on em there — and stinky blankets and socks. Old old training manuals, Hefty Cinch Sacks Not Full, staples and cotton swabs for the earwax problem, large tooth comb, coupla empty bottles of medicated body powder, some roasted chicken bones with mold on em and some Top butts on the side, some old Franz Kafka jokes written on dirty napkin and tossed aside, crumbled up, some decals and fingerboards, two pairs of headphones where one of the ears don’t work there, Styrofoam boxes with a little fuzzy chili leftover from Cook-Out, two pairs of church shoes, whole lotta hangers, some wire some plastic, mostly wire though — beard trimmer dat don’t work no more, shuts down after bout a minute — two black bras, 8 pairs of Hanes boy shorts, two bikini– one PlayStation controller, a toenail clipper, some grocery sacks, more cups with pee in em, metal forks with caked on egg, buncha Saltine cracker wrappers, an old pair of sunglasses with the yellow lenses that look like they belong on Iris Apfel, a snowmobile helmet, four pairs of gloves, and some old junk mail with a bunch of funny names on em there.
“I fixed the internet. Sorry — something wrong with the outlet.”
“What do you about this little workstation? Huh?”
“I can’t really give you any opinions about this stuff.”
Down to the letter, they all slithered into the office door. There was one crate of hard copy on the floor in the corner next to one of the windows — a small coffee stain. Looked about a week old. Trent walked inside think pulling up a chair in front of Jules.
“Take a seat.”
“Thanks.”
“I had a chance to pull out your resume, and I’m really liking your track record in sales.”
“I don’t really sell much.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I adapt to certain situations very well.”
“Well it doesn’t seem like you want the job very much? You seem trapped? Aloof.”
“Aloof, yes — well — I do, but more than anything else Jules, I really want to put my mind to something that really pushes my brain a little harder. It’s never good to lose focus.”
“Well we can’t teach you focus here Trent, but we can teach you several other fundamental components to become successful at this firm. There is money to be made here if you just pay attention and learn everything you can. Soak it all up — study the pitch. Because if you make yourself coach-able; mold-able, we’ll give you the tools for success. How much revenue did you generate for Lawton and Associates last year?”
“10 mil.”
“We’ll teach you how to double that. Look Trent, I’d be shooting myself in the foot if I asked you about all your sins over the years. Clearly, you’re a talented guy. I think you’d fit in right here.”
“So what’s next?”
“Can you be here Monday?”
“Sure.”
“You have reliable transportation?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“To the wolves,” said Trent, standing up shaking his hand.
“Yeah. To the wolves.”

Right when Addison bought that Ford F-150 was when things started to get dicey. He was able to find work — mostly hauling timber and junk, but he pretty much lived in that truck. There were a few girls he would shack up with on occasions, sleep on their couch, eat their food, get a shower, drive them to work — that kind of thing — but with his criminal record, finding anything long term seemed highly improbable. The doo doo Gooders™ posted a list of formal complaints at the Napalm Plant at Royherntenbaum. The funny business continued with all the chain link fence name calling and chromie contests. Everything seemed important all at once. The collective thought process was put to task one afternoon at Simac Courts.

“Give me something I can actually return guys,” said Addison, tying his shoelace. “Nevermind that. Harris. I’m gonna serve you a cannonball. You ready?”
Addison hit a very fast serve right on the baseline — and Harris returned a can opener, right on the back corner of the singles tramline. Addison sliced the ball back over and Harris power slammed it right on the Addison’s center service line.
“Sneaky,” said Addison.
“Fifteen-love,” said Harris, spinning his racquet, grinning.
“Fifteen-love?” said Trent. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You don’t know a thing about tennis man. You paying attention? Cause I’ve seen some wicked shots dude… need to see you get a little more accurate with that. Pretend you’re Cyclops if you have to. Focus. You guys aren’t ready to start keeping score yet. Let’s keep volleying — see some nice returns. Come on. Don’t worry about brute force tonight. That will come the more you develop your technique. I know I told you the entire point of tennis is to injure the other player with the ball. It’s called jamming your opponent in technical terms. Trent, if we were playing at Wimbeldon, my whole objective would be to hit you in the eye to blind you. That would be game, set, match, and you run home crying to mommy. Got it?”
Trent threw his racquet at Addison and put him in a headlock.
“How bout I just beat your face in.”
“Guys,” said Harris.
Addison spun around, putting Trent in a choke-hold.
“Attacking your opponent would cause you to forfeit. Gotta play fair. Not to say stuff like this doesn’t happen during a match. Get off me.”
Harris grabbed the racquet off the court and walked to the baseline.
“Are we gonna play?”
“Exactly,” said Addison. “Come on.”
“I’m bored,” said Trent.
“I know you are. This is new stuff. There’s a pretty sharp learning curve, and once you begin to grasp some of the basic fundamentals, you’ll start to have fun with it.”
“Tennis sucks.”
“You give up too easy. Gotta put the time in dude.”
“You tell him Harris.”
“And you lack finesse. I’m repeating myself when I say that you’ve hit some great returns, but those are far and few between. I think you just got lucky. This requires an element of focus. Think four or more moves ahead when the ball leaves your racquet after the serve.”
“Huh?”
“It’s just like chess. Don’t think in real time. Try to make your opponent scramble to stay alive, and at the right moment, a gentle tap over the net will beat a power slam. Look I can generalize all day long, but the only way to really see how good you can be is to just keep playing.”



Chapter 13


It was all hibachi and hot rods for the next week. Extending all the way to the ravine and beyond the trail of infantry and gnarliness, back through the Mecca — Niquelle Portal — mind over matter. Trent had been dreaming of chicken parm on noodles all day — couldn’t stop licking his lips. Paula had stuck to cranberry juice and Salem Lights regimen. Harris couldn’t keep away from his scabs and bruises, and Melody wanted nothing but egg drop soup. Something was amiss. The shoelaces weren’t tying right. The pennies didn’t sound like pennies when they fell to the floor. The air had this strange Dumpster like fragrance to it. Hard to describe. The phrase was Quotient Parallel to the Random Catchphrase-a-phobia monstrosity interrogation station (2.b) around the radical and manipulator-y invention that had been created on a whim — mindu — out of laughter and cadence and emotional trauma. Still, the solidarity continued. After the forest fire off of Canister Boulevard came the agents — one right after the other in hot pursuit of the stealth memory and conflict surfacing at the Pop Cell Paraplex. Out came Morgan and Brooke along with Paula’s two second cousins — the red heads from Staten Island — and I can’t reiterate any of this enough… but they were starving — ready for anything.

“Let’s just walk over to IHOP like last time. You can get whatever you want there too.”
“Screw that place. It’s alright in the morning, but I want all you can eat surf and turf. What did Pippa say at the convention? Man she looked like hell this morning.”
“Eh… things like, ‘My Internet’s Not Working,’ and ‘Shiver Me Timbers’.”
“And…”
“That’s about it.”
“Any word on the next install?”
“I’m sick of talking about work and business… it’s dream time. Enough’s enough for 72 hours. Let’s talk about you. What is the next step?”
“I don’t know. The world is full of possibilities. My oyster. Remember?”
“That’s the spirit. Waiter? Grab my friend a… ginger ale.”
“Make that a Virgin Bloody Mary instead.”
“Who are you? ‘Lil Hunter Thompson? Lemme see if I can order you a pair of goggles while we’re at it. WAITER! Uggg… we’ll stop at the dollar store afterwards.”
“You got any?”
“Nah. Sorry. You?”
“Nope.”
“What are you doing wasting all that real estate on wan ton tooey? Go to the grill — get you a real steak with some scallop and margarine. Buncha soy on it. I’m serious.”
“When you flying to Baltimore?”
“Next week.”
“Yeah.”
“You got anything going on over there?”
“Funny you should ask, but now that you mention it, lets have a looksie. Five car washes, eight, wow, eight nail salons, coupla chicken shacks, three liquor stores, two pet groomers, and check out this florist.”
“Mmmmmph.”
“Yeah?”
“And you should hear her on the phone…she has the voice to match.”
“Wow. What a babe.”
“Yeah.”
“Another Dr. Pepper. Thanks!”
“So how was court?”
“OK.”
“Yeah.”
“Yip.”
“You’re leaking a ton of oil I noticed.”
“That gets expensive. Not as bad as a tranny or power steering leak, but it’s not fun. I have some tundra stories I could tell you about trudging over the overpass of I-90 in the dead of winter, lugging bottles of Lucas power steering fluid for an old Volvo. A trail of red every time I made a turn — no quick fix — but I’m getting full. Some other time.”
“How’s the exercise going?”
“Not too bad. I need to get to the foot doctor though — get these plantar warts taken care of. It’s heredity — I usually do a pretty good job with some urea cream and blades, but it would be good to get them taken care of professionally. I don’t have the fatigue I used to since I stopped drinking.”
“Good. I’m going to still drink though.”
“I’m not stopping you — just warning you though. The irony is it gives you confidence that’s not based in reality. I need to work on being more down to earth. A better communicator. Phone a friend. Prioritize. Yeah.”
“Is that your gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Loaded?”
“No.”
“Don’t you lie to me.”
“Nope.”
“Let me see.”
Addison grabbed the gun from the table and emptied three bullets from the chamber.
“What’d you pay for this?”
“80.”
“You some rust here and here, but I’d say you got a pretty decent deal.”
“You got a permit?”
“Nope.”
“You gonna try and get one?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Can’t hurt.”
“No point.”
“At least watch some gun safety videos before you go doing any target practice.”
“Sure.”
“Yall ready?”
“To where?”
“I don’t know.”


Chapter 14


GoldiLocks Coroner and Grumble Neck County Paramedic Squad — {.05//}


Now it was up to the Skirt Chasers to get the entire team to realize the implications of the Fragment Edification, putting all their fidelity on the line with the purchase and advent of the new Porch Radar Control System. Being the first of its kind, all jokes were put aside, and this put the Skirt Chasers at a huge disadvantage.
“Get up!” said Harris, gently nudging Pippa, she turns and curls up.
“What do you want?”
“I want to get some weed.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“I know a guy. You remember Fenton?”
“No. Oh wait. Yeah. I know you you’re talking about. It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning baby. Real stoners don’t get up until after twelve,” raspy as ever.
“That’s a stereotype.”
“You don’t even know what a stereotype is.”
“Let me get ten bucks.”
“I’m not giving you money for weed.”
“Come awhnnnn… pleeease?” he whimpered.
“No. Go watch TV in the other room.”
“Please!”
“Stop it. No! Here’s an idea. Why don’t you go to school!”
“I don’t have school.”
“Yeah you do,” said Pippa. “You just don’t go.”
“All my friends are homeschooled anyway.”
“I can’t make you any promises, but if you can write me an essay on the art of duplication and how it applies to business, and you let me sleep till one, I’ll call Nic and see if he has any. Deal?”
“Fine.”

//The Art of Duplication//

The Art of Duplication is a commonly used phrase in the network marketing or MLM industry. In essence, sales leaders and coaches want to teach those beneath them to adopt their methods of doing business, and transfer that model of success to others — typically colleagues who are working within their own organization. This translates into less work for the business owner. If I can find two or three aggressive self-starters to copy how I approach prospecting and closing deals, this will be doing all of my light work and ultimately creating money for myself in the form of bonuses, override percentages, and other monetary incentives such as a residual income stream. Please, however, keep in mind The Jewel Confession: The cows who were and are out to pasture, chewing their bluish green cud along with Ian and Emily and her two Greyhounds. All symmetrical standard protocol they had been operating with had to be re-calibrated with extreme caution. FOR ONCE: There were no sarcastic undertones or underlying causes or underwriting synopsis of perpetual gladness compendium radical nothing or something to cling to. The merry bells keep tingling along the faucets or the tri-athalon or walk by the park of hot dog and drippy mustard. For where have thy onions gone? Where’s the piccalilli? Just in time for a hot dog and a piece of sausage to match with a bag of some peanut. I seen her Girly Koala iPhone Brigade into the obligatory phases unto the spoons make their way along the kitchen sink to the bagpipe Skylark… you know… the older model with the missing chromies. What ever happened to Bill Schultz? Huh? Inquisitive data extends between the realm and turf war that rages on into the interior abyss of perpetual fundamental cataclysmic environmental study of complex and simple organic life compound. Upon the old sci-fly movies of that golden era and into the forensic slump that shouldn’t be. Keep your back straight! Posture posture Location! Mindu. Hello! Wake up and smell the moreover upon stairwells and ping-pong craziness of charisma and horse fly. Those mares eat them oates and dotes for cinnamon snicker-doodle after the call into the grass off the freeway. Waaaaay way way back. All the way. It’s a chrome run. There. Get that over to the breedlove pick-up. Right off the interstate where it all adds up. No more practicalities for you, because you’ve really been one hell of a shot to the arm. Your mom won’t speak to you, nor your wife or girlfriend or even your agent. I’m buying the next round for everyone. Where did that blonde come from? Hey blondie! Hey Skipper! Hey Flick, can you come in here for… I reacon. Alleluia, I’m a bum that’s repeating himself over and over just for the taste of it. Diet Cocaine. Comes highly recommended. Sniff sniff and away. That’s really for the true marketeer in defining a generation. I don’t do that though, because I always think it’s gonna shut my ticker right down, and things could be a heck of a lot worse. Direction in the workplace is critical to understanding the way to get in and out of the picture, and DOES the kid stay in the picture? We’ll see, cause I NEED A BIG PORTERHOUSE THAT DOES CARTWHEELS ON MY DESK WITH A tiny straw to continue my road to success. Always keep it irrational. Rational Sucks.
“Get it in!”
“For what?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey… when you coming to bed?”
“Once you…”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“I’m ravenous.”
“Keep working through lunch. You are way more productive when you’re not eating. Keeps you sharp and hungry.”
“Who you think you’re talking to?”
“I’m on a roll baby.”
“You better believe it baby.”
“So what’s next?”
“Easy on the clutch.”
“GO GO GO GO GO!”
I’m really liking the way this deal is shaping up. I’m on a real time crunch here. I got all these contractors I’m dealing with and my headline is shrinking by the millisecond. Yeah Yeah.. What else. What can you do for me on the two for one deal? I never said anything about a two for one deal are you out of your mind? Back up the train. I’m getting sick and tired of you pulling all the punches and winning all the big fights like Apollo on the biggest rampage comin from the rafters of gloom and despair in the final round of incredible form and rumbling out for the big turn at the Sinclair Roundabout off of the winding desert procrastination outfit. Not like a ‘ha ha’ funny outfit, but a brood if you will, to bring to the entire paradigm circulation amongst the doo doo Gooder workout in the basement of the Y. Go play sports and get a good workout in. Cause if you don’t you’re gonna start seeing all these dead cells and saggy eye lids before too long. All them sleepless nights starting to creep in on you, making their way into your skull as you flick another Marlboro butt to the curb. Again, I really have to know who’s been passing out all these pamphlets willy nilly. This isn’t some sort of joke. What a turn of events when we see the big deals come through hot out of the gate. So what’s the deal? You gonna jerk me around or what? We got a deal? Talk to me! I gotta know. Right now!! Today dammit. Not next month not next week today today today. Get off your fly course you whimsical nut job and stop wasting all my time. This isn’t a rant. Deal. Lemme get your email. Time to get out the red meat and spin around the floor with last years reports and project next years winner. Who’s got the score here? I saw them play a few years back at the horseshoe. Yeah, you done your homework, go the movies at all? Hey you better do yourself a favor tomorrow and treat yourself to a nice clean shave. Keep them whiskers off your ears now, they really creeping up into your eyelids if I see so myself. Whatchu got in the satchel of yours there pilgrim? Who’s is this? Where’d this come from? Remember the yofro incident back at the last exit? I need to go back there. Turn this car around. I left my wallet and all my papers and passport there. You gotta turn this car around. Right now. Thanks. Put on the radio. Geez. Thanks. Can you roll the window down? Damn. Coldern’ I though? On second thought can you roll it back up? It’s freezing in here babe. Sit next to me. Here. There. Get that out of your mouth. Let me get a piece of gum. A nap. Some downtime or I’ll never get this ego of mine to deflate. Hey get me the paper and have this on my desk in the am. I like more toast on my butter. That’s not where that goes. Lets get out the hacksaw baby and see some skulls crunch this year guys. Tomorrow is Morocco, and let’s keep all of this in mind. Jets and Bulls and Angry Incision better than any social networking system ever conceived exist if you just put your nose to the grindstone and get the job done. Think about what you’re doing for once and get to work. Stretch your limbs and get in the game. I’ll slap you across the face unless I see results you morons. Get to work you slime! You think this is a game? You lazy buncha… that will be all. BACK TO WORK!!!
“So what happened to you today?”
“Got engaged.”
“She’s it.”
“You ain’t kidding. Yeah. It’s time.”
“Good for you. Look at these renders.”
“Hey that’s pretty out of service.”
“Let’s get up on this corner.”
“Skip that freeze. Puttin’ me up to task.”
Fast forward to Proper Princess Pandemonium Court Marshall Citation: WARD 3F, written in large bold font on the door to the sanitarium by the well at the quarry. What happened that night is inexplicable and deplorable and may have involved the ill-intended board meeting from the well written Hymnal of Togetherness. What are you apologizing for? Stop saying you’re sorry. What do you have to be sorry about? You haven’t hurt anyone, killed anyone, stolen anything — make up your mind with what it is you want to achieve. The journey isn’t all that self explanatory… I ain’t gonna lie. You’re right. Some of this stuff you can’t teach a class on. Better off finding those free seminars where you least expect it. Jump on the opportunity and don’t second guess nature’s course. Cling to your rifles and your parchment. Your kilts. Thy Kindred Spirits of Limerick and Cue bAll. No more hyphens for you. That is the last hyphen, and then we shall once again, place the health biscuit on the samauri squabble thank you. I won’t repeat myself once more… NAPKINS!!!! Now. Who would like some chocolate covered pretzel? They come in all sizes, shapes and flavors, and are included in every box of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes — all part of this balanced breakfast. So let me get this straight Tony; if I wake up in the morning and it’s 4 pancakes with real butter and real — I mean REAL — maple syrup with the bacon and sausage. BURN IT! Toast? Wheat. BURN IT!! Eggs sunny side up and extra orange slice on the side… but not on the hot side of the plate, I want the orange slices chilled… on ICE!!! Oi… As for the rest of you, what’s on today’s agenda? I hear Pippa got the word out about another one of Harris’ mental block parties. He’s way in the zone. Gatozone.
“Can you swing by,” asked April, “scoop me up?”
“How did you get stuck again?”
“It doesn’t matter right now Harris. I’m freezing cold, drinking stale coffee, all by myself in a crusty waiting room at Tom’s Tire and Body. Are you coming?”
“Yeeesss. I’m on my way, but don’t hang up, I need to talk to you about Pippa. Why isn’t she with you?”
“She got called into work?”
“That’s a question?”
“Yes. A statement. Called into work. Understaffed.”
“Don’t you lie to me.”
“I’m not lying baby.”
“You said she had the day off this morning. This is BS. Your story’s not congruent.”
“I’m not my sister’s keeper babe. She’ll turn up.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“There has to be something other than vegetable oil here.”
“Sorry. You eat that, I can’t see it being bad for orifices.”
“Good point.”
“You call this fun?”
“For me it is, even though you don’t really like it. I appreciate you letting me try, but you know — It’s all relative. Some call the circus colossal. I call it a colossal waste of time. Shopping at Macy’s is torture for Bob, and euphoria for Nancy. Depends who you’re talking to I guess.”
“You have a very high pain threshold. Don’t you?”
“Some might say.”
“It’s time to get organized. To stay out of psycho babble loops that lead to nothing and plan ahead. I’m not talking about looking at yourself in the mirror like Stuart Smalley or anything, but try and have a better sense of goals and capturing the world as I see it.
“You need to have your algorithms checked out.:
“Urine deep.”
“What’s that? Oh, you mean ‘you’re in deep’ with what’s happening. Gotta stop it with the wordplay dude… cut it out. Feel like I’m talking to a dodo salesman. Geez.”
“You understand business finance. Yes. Absolutely. But a very minute percentage of what you’re saying and trying to teach me is difficult to wrap my brain around because any insight you may have is nothing that you apply to your personal budgeting or lifestyle choices. That’s really the problem we’re facing here. For starters, I’ve done my homework on your little operation and it seems to me that you’re a chain smoking felonious drug addict and alcoholic with all caution being thrown to the wind continually. I don’t think you’re a violent guy. That being said dude, I’d like to try and get something figured out hopefully soon, but to me it doesn’t sound like you want to join the winners circle, cause that’s the firm you’re working with. Matter of fact, to me right now if you ask, you sound heavily intoxicated, and I feel like I’m talking to the scum of the earth you douche.”
“There’s a rebuttal for that.”
“Let’s listen to your calls for training purposes. Not your really good ones that you could write an article in Forbes about, but one where you sound like a complete idiot who knows not a thing he’s talking about; no more than a lap dog or chimpanzee in business attire talking about buttholes like it involves interest rates and risk assessment.”
“At ease general. Damn.”
“Ughhhh,…”
“Are you role playing with me?”
“This is nuts. Can you believe this?”
“You’re really fast at typing. How long you been doing this?”
“I try not to think along lines like those.”
“Why not?”
“Just leave it at bay man. Chill for once.”

You Break it You Buy It: Vol. 1གྷ

A Documentary by Harris Bedwell
In 4K Ultra High Definition
Mature Audiences Only

The doo doo gooder’s embroidery division began to show a spike in productivity when the Skirt Chasers started popping wheelies down Adair Street at four in the morning. Every once in a while, one of the Wampum Warriors would ride by, shaking their fists in aggression, marking their territory. Fifty plus miles down and around the circle with fireworks mindu. Out at the business park, everyone was seated in the boardroom sipping their mochas and hot chocolates from mugs that looked like they were stolen from a LaQuinta conference room. Pippa knew failure wasn’t an option. She had told herself this time and again during those rare quiet moments that would seem to fly by in her cranium every 48 hours or so. The deli sandwiches on the big table by now were probably very crusty and coagulated. Stale Mayo. Food poisoning on a hot tin tray for sure. Addison shrugged and grabbed a quarter piece of a ham and pimento club. He said he didn’t care, that it was mostly sodium anyway. She shrugged back in silence.
“OK guys,” she said finally, standing up next to her Family Dollar dry erase board with marker in hand, “let’s get started. Lets talk goals. Nic?”
“Uh, not enough?”
“You got that right. You’re having a piss poor week.”
“7.”
“That’s it?” said Pippa, looking, scribbling.
“8. Is 8 good enough?”
“Is it good enough for you? What are you going to do with all that money?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a baby. Fine. 10. How’s that sound?”
“Better,” said Pippa erasing the 8, replacing with a 10. “Git you a nice new pair of jeans this week.”
“Tim?”
“It’s Timmy.”
“Timmy… whatever. Sure it is.”
“Ummmmm…..”
“Spit it out.”
“14.”
“Can you live on that?”
“I’ll have to I guess.”
“New record for you? I think it’s attainable.”
“Cool.”
“Trent? Harris?”
“…?”
“How about team night?”
“At the rec center!?!?!”
“No. The nature trail like last time. Yes the Rec Center off Albermarle Toad… sit down you… all in for rollerskating night at the Rec Center and Free Scoop Night at Pritchell’s afterward?”
“I want pizza!!”
“Video-games! Yeah!!”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Who’s in charge of frozen gummy bears?”
“April?”

Then along came Joe. Joe is a guy who is obsessed with witches and not just any soap opera, but one in particular called “Passions.” It ran from 1999–2008 on NBC. There is a girl named Sheridan. To him, she looks exactly like Natasha Richardson. Not to be confused with the Natasha from “The Rocky & Bullwinkle sub show”, “Boris & Natasha.” Joe’s completely obsessed with her. Her movies, her television appearances, and interviews. Lets talk about some of her films then. Shall we? She plays in the Parent Trap, Maid in Manhattan, Asylum, Evening, and The White Countess. Natasha looks like Joe’s Aunt Ashley. And here my friends is where the real scuttle-butt commences:

Then Harris said, “Your writing is really starting to mess up our conversation.”

Joe fell silent. Everyone shut their mouths. With every eye bowed and every knee closed, the silent prayer cut through the atmosphere and all anyone could hear would be gentle laughter and the pitter patter of typing laptops and tablets and phones. For there were reports to be done. The giggling continued and grew louder. Joe rubbed his head and scratched his foot, continuing to laugh with a big goofy grin.
“Tell me how you feel about me,” asked Addison.
Joe was again, silent.
“Go.”
Joe pretended to fall asleep, faking a catnap, his jet black hair planted firmly on the head rest on the old yellow couch, yawning. He began to ooze on the virgin couch. Joe’s apartment was like a time warp. One foot inside his place, and you think it was 1987 all over again, minus the TV/DVD/VHS combo that sat in the corner of his living room. A fully furnished two bed, two bath with screened in porch on it’s exterior. Joe had never been in a relationship before he had met Addison. But Addison, having killed himself was now completely female in the afterlife, and wanted to touch base with Joe on a variety of topics on earthly terms. Addison became intoxicated with Qorltainisrep, an afterlife beverage having similar effects of alcohol on the human body. She whooshed under the crack in the floor and got in a huge fight with Joe’s memory.
“I’m trying to write a fantasy story that involves both of us, but you’re not working with me. I’m putting you to sleep. WAKE UP!! Have I been too rough? AHHH…” Wink.
Joe began to look at his text messages and fumbled for offense. “I’m a boy-witch!” he thought. “I’m a ten year old boy-witch who’s obsessed with a soap opera from the late nineties and dressing up like a witch.” He hummed and went back to his nap.
Scratching his neck, he thought about how to confuse the heck out of Addison, who now a member of the spirit world, would come to make unannounced appearances with a variety of Dream Share Holder Troupe lessons on the side. This time there were Salmon Steaks in the fridge and butter and broccoli. Pretzels ready for baking in the oven avec Grey Poupon. Addison wanted to start eating but wasn’t about to stop the dream sequence.
Then everything became choppy. Misanthropic fear and anxiety permeated the cold apartment.
It was a little warmer today than it was the day before, but there was a dingy must about the place that smelled all to familiar, like Sonic DeJavu or Congressional Freeway Pornographic Plainview Dairy-ish. Then came Azgeir. How does one deal with a name like that sounds like you’re saying ‘Ass Gear’ off the tip of your tongue? Is it even possible to keep a straight face when speaking with a person with a name like that? If you’re a guy…. I don’t think it’s possible. But that’s just me.
As Joe lie fast asleep dreaming in parallax memory and Insignificant Boredom, he began to twitch, his jawbone began to crackle, cause his pecker don’t work as good as it once did. Joe was a twenty-three-year-old-guy who had never experienced an orgasm in his entire life. This kept him away from a lot of girls and women growing up, but yet he felt as though he had a good support system in check. His rent was paid, he enjoyed his work, and was generally a pretty content and happy person. His new job he found exciting. A drugstore cowboy who knew how to play the game. You wanna talk about pill runs? This guy had it down to a science.
The heater in the apartment was extremely loud, and Joe was an efficiency expert. He couldn’t handle wasting energy. A TV or light left on, a door being left open for more than five seconds on a cold day. Mild LD. He felt guilty running up an energy bill on his aunt and caretaker.
“Stop talking about work!”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. It’s all you do — like you’re hiding out in work-life twenty four seven trying to cover up something about yourself you don’t want anyone else to know about.”
“Like what babe? What do I gotta hide? Hmm?”
“This is not easy stuff to talk about.”
“Then drop it.”
“Well you’re unoriginal. You don’t really do anything unique at all. Everything you come up with is a rip off of someone else’s work.”
“It’s all been done and sold. What’s it to you anyway? You wanna take this outside?”
“I’d outwit you any day of the week.”
“It’s cause you’re scared? Ain’t you? Punk ass bitch.”
“Whad you say?”
“Na… you’d run and tell your mommy. I don’t need that you lil skirt chaser.”
“Come here bitch. I ain’t done… don’t you walk away from me when I address you?”
“I’ll put a dress on you moth..”
“…”
Pippa was just as fearless. She’d hop right in your car and tell you to drive to the nearest grocery store no problem; like there was something bigger and better right around the corner. So trashy and insightful. Not afraid to wait and make thoughtful suggestions on where to go and what to do when the gang was bored out of their skulls. She had a real thing for Mexicans and seafood of the frozen variety. She’d stand and stare at you working at your computer still as a mannequin, typing up reports.
“What babe?”
“Nothing. I just love to watch you work.”
But this girl was really making me eat. At least it was a food gut and not a beer one this time, cause we’d be making love constantly, devouring everything in sight in between to keep up with the madness. Chicken and rice, pizza, pork steaks, salmon steaks, steak steaks, boxes of Chips Ahoy and Oreos, hot pretzels with mustard, roasted chicken and potatoes with garlic, ham and cheese sandwiches with gobs of mayo, cases of Sun Drop, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Ballpark franks, shoestring fries, and tons, I mean TONS of mac and cheese… all brands. Didn’t matter. The legs on this babe were ravishing — so long and slender — how the hell she stayed so thin, I’ll never know. She’d rub my back and chest, and I’d cook her dinners, cause she was a real lasagna box freezer babe. She didn’t eat salad which bothered me a little, and she didn’t like hot sauce like I did, but we were a good fit for each other. It just seemed like Taster’s Choice.
“It just feels like you’re making your entire personal life public record. Why are you doing this?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Look, people cling to chaos and unbridled energy, and it’s your brand they’re after. Can’t you see that? And if it seems like they don’t need you, it’s all a ploy cause you got real charisma. Even if you rarely ever make sense. They’re drawn to you like snow to leaves, peanut butter to jelly, flies to poop. You’re way out in la la land coddling clients and telling them they need to brush their teeth and put on an old Barney DVD when what they really should be thinking about is signing on the dotted line. Am I an idiot when it comes to certain things? Absolutely. I figure I got x amount of time and x amount of time to spend it in. You say I live my life like I’m in some sort of perpetual loop, but it’s not the case. I have personality. I ain’t no stick in the mud.”
“How am I supposed to respond to that?”
“You’re not. At the risk of sounding like someone out of a Nicholas Sparks novel. Gimme those lips.”
“Look. I love you, but I don’t do drama, and I don’t do romance. Got it?”
The five day forecast seemed promising, but the chop shop was running out of material pretty quickly. The checks were in the mail, the dogs were fed, and all the chickens came home to roost for another gathering at the sandtrap just off of the Mull Cree Freeway by the construction at the old interloop that was no more. You gotta be kidding with the McDonalds holy shit I need to turn this car right back around and buy that carton of milk I forgot after work, because I am not on a rampage. I’m good for the economy for one, resourceful, trustworthy, beyond reproach, a great listener, aggressive, but not overly so in my own opinion. You don’t ever have a second chance to make a first impression — to get off on the right foot so to speak. You got one crack at it, and that’s it. But buyer beware, the intrepid pursuit of product shifting in a room such as this one isn’t for the faint of heart. Dark, dark, dark jokes that pop up at a workstation with a quiet smile of concern and mystical labarynth give way to the siren of go-get-em-ness. For there in that place, fear is but a strange abstraction integrated into malice and deconstruction of the mental wallpaper that never ever curls or peels, as well as a pasty like substance that has no legs or mouth or eyelashes whatsoever. Capice? I don’t care if this doesn’t register, and quite frankly, all of this is one huge inside joke. It’s probably for the best for you not to be fully aware of the magnitude of what I’m saying, because I don’t do any of this for you, I selfishly do all of this for my own amusement. Again, I’m sorry you don’t like my sense of humor, but this is just the way it goes in this industry. And to the vicar go the spoils of war. Now. Who would like a cardboard treasure chest? One for the road? Pretty please? STOP SAYING PLEASE!! STOP SAYING THANK YOU!!! STOP SAYING YOU’RE SORRY NANCE! Oooh… who made this coffee? Is that tuna casserole? I’m gonna need to run to the Walgreens for a bag of Twizzlers real quick, cause my room mates need them some peace and fuckin’ quiet for just one damn minute please. Thank you. Gotta learn to do sit ups and keep gas in the car. Always keep the gas gague above the freezer marker when you can’t make… hey your odometer is screwed up. You need to get that checked out before my id catches up, and you know when my id and ego get going, well hey, no one’s looking for a free seminar in adoration and snow fort craftmatters cause we just picked up a case of the tastiest soda pop that goes great with the Klondike bars that ooze down your hand unless you keep the wrapper neatly wrapped around each side… snug now, before the avalanche of chocolate and ice cream product start to roll down your fingers onto your brand new work slacks. Just keep the napkin. It will be your souvenir to tell all your friends about the brunch here at the Hop-o-matic Sandwich Shoppe and Dairy Mill. You won the contest. How was your grand prize lunch. No I don’t give autographs. Sorry. Don’t count the pages, count the scroll length. That will be better. Better than Shakespeare’s vocab… cause some say the guy invented new words every one point five seconds on average even though I hear he was a little en you know but that’s what you get with a liberal education mindu, classes on how to be a fag without being called one, unless you want to go in the opposite direction completely and just dominate like a real true blooded right winger. That’s the stuff. That’s the leadership and just the readership we’re looking for at an organization such as this one. Cause if Bull got it right, if anything, it’s more about the numbers than the letters at the end of the day. Don’t tell me my life is manufactured or that I abide by a certain code or any such nonsense, but don’t go calling me an anarchist either. Who do you think you are trying to paint that crap on me? Excuse me? This conversation has ended. I’ll have the last word. Not you. This isn’t a manifesto or credo or something like that because I got all my trig homework completed and I can’t wait to show that prof just how completely wrong he is. Do I have to? That’s a good question. Not a moral or ethical one, but one of principal. I guess you could say I’m a man of principal and honor. How someone gets from A to Z doesn’t really involve me in any way. I’ve just learned to forgive and forget so to speak. Don’t give me this time heals all wounds bull shit either. I ain’t mad, but you need to keep all of these papers organized or there will be a serious commencement upon the hill of Labrador and collie mutt to deal with. And I ain’t cleaning up after that fateful mess. No sir. Harris, having totaled his new Korean crotch rocket, bought an old moped for a buck fifty from Trent. He had to get to work. There were no two ways about it. There were three potential clients on his checklist, and he was almost certain one of those leads had strong potential for a long term partnership. He was new to the game, but fearless and ready to step things up a bit. One chilly afternoon, he met up with Pippa for half price Bahama Mama’s at the Gwaltneneir Piano Grille.
“So I’m moving,” said Harris. “I can’t stick around in this little village any longer. Put your purse down, my treat.”
“Where would you go? Madrid or something? You’d make a great matador.”
“I’ve been thinking somewhere out west. It’s too wet out here — cold winters.”
“You could do a lot worse. You have cold out there too — especially at night. Don’t let them dry tumbleweeds fool ya kid. Wouldn’t you miss us too much?”
“Not really. I mean, you guys are alright, but…”
“Don’t set the bar too high dude. You’re full of expectation, and I’d say that’s a good thing, but the Skirt Chasers just wouldn’t be the same. It would be back to the drawing board.”
“I know. This is why I’ve put together a comprehensive diagram of new checkpoint coordinates and a few suggestions for my replacement.”
“…”
“I’m kidding. You know right?”
“You sound serious as hell.”
“Well, I’m always keeping my eyes open for new opportunities… can you blame me?”
“Sounds like you mean better opportunities.”
“It’s good to know I’m needed around here.”
“OK… enough ego inflation. Anyone have a safety pin and a piece of Scotch tape? This guy might burst at any second and I won’t be held liable.”
“Finish your drink,” said Harris lighting a cigarette. “It’s time to get to work.”
Several hours later Harris and Pippa were stumbling down the sidewalk over to Trent’s place.
“Yall can have some squirrel if you want to,” said Trent. “But the rabbit is mine. Either of you have any salt or pepper on ya? Pippa, why don’t you run out the store and grab us some merlot and bacon? I hope yall brought your appetite.”
“That’s all you do now man. You living in this shack? You need to get your shit together quick man. I’m giving you two days to get this mess cleaned up. Nic is going to be your replacement.”
“He don’t know how to grill anything. You need me here. I keep food costs down, and provide an experience for the new recruits.”
“When we started, yes, but things have changed and we’re doing business with much higher profile clients. These ballers don’t eat mountain man grub.”
“Sounds to me you’re losing faith. Like you forgot all about where the Skirt Chasers came from. Roots man.”
“It’s not that, but you can agree with me that it’s getting harder every week to deal with the doo doo gooders and their presence in town. They’ve really gone into one heck of an expansion phase to take us out if we don’t start wising up to their revamped business model. They’re really onto something, and I’m going to figure out their little magic tricks. I feel as though yeti are involved.”
“Oh?” asked Pippa. How so?”
“I’m not getting into details on that just yet. We might need to relocate this checkpoint.”
“Give me your phone,” said Trent. “I need to call Melody.”
“No,” said Harris. “I don’t want you talking to her. She’s turning your brain into banana nut muffins and hazelnut lattes.”
“No she ain’t… give me the phone.”
“You’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands. I’ll summon Addison if I have to beotch.”
Addison knew he was running his mental rpms pretty hot and was pretty much banking on the Chemical Force Integration Myriads to get on track with the day’s events. The sequencers were programmed and tech-ed out full throttle. There was much to be done. Learning business like this would not be an easy task for anyone.
“Dude, you are piping mad… RED HOT!”
“Chill.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Joe continued to deal with his solitude on his own terms. He wanted to move to Georgia, because he thought people would be friendlier there, and that’s just what he needed due to his litany of phobias. Bugs and arachnids, infants to children under eleven, germs, untidiness, homophobia, body hair, food poisoning, any forest or wooded area, skiing, inbred town and country folk, or trying to explain himself to others. He was NOT afraid of stingrays, nap time, petroleum jelly, even though not a huge fan, nor was he fearful of chalk or taking three or more showers in a twenty-four hour time period, story time, or being read to. The tanks and whales — all of em waiting, rubbing their hands, tapping their feet, realizing what the Skirt Chasers were really up to. They had the whole thing mapped out once again. It wasn’t really back to the drawing board from scratch, but a cohesive cycle of un-plagiarism, riffing and parody. Jackets and even more thrusts of galviston on their beautiful cleanly order of this surrogate poindexter named SkyBerPunk. There’s always something to pick up. Something to fix. Something misplaced. Something just slightly out of order. The Nitpicker Brigade came out full force the following winter with their hybrid of sword and clemency. Don’t ask how they did it, cause it’s something I’m still trying to figure out… even as I write this. Even at the Subaru dealership, the multitude poured out the cold blood blooded heat wave that seemed to be permeating all of Sage Mountain. The Maverick, as they called him went to meet up at Troy’s Aquarium with all the fake fish and bumped and picked and washed away putrid toes and calli, with no balm of rectitude or bung of bratwurst and sloppy port wine spread with burnt pumpernickel toast to dip it in, but never with the chintzy plastic sticks ever; never forgetting to run up the energy bill and sing in the shower while snacking away on Hot Pockets and energy drinks. The product placement was getting out of hand. A state of mind. A fallacy that couldn’t be ignored and snot experience that spews unto the nose hair plucker that was left at Colette’s house, Harris’ half sister.
“Were you crying last week?”
“Who me? Nah. I haven’t shed a tear in years.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yep.”
“I could have sworn that was you crying. Stress related?”
“I have high hopes and exptations. Yes. I made a pact with myself. Alright? An ultimatum? Don’t you misconstrue stress with zeal. I become over-zealous from time to time. I’ll tell you the story at a later time, but for now let’s just see if we can’t get these graham crackers eaten. NAPK-”
“Enough.”
“Yeah. Overboard?”
“A bit.”
“Wanna play some chess?”
“Sure.”
The boundaries on every coordinate shifted sixty degrees. The oscillators, radars, sonars, subteranical uractionaries, and all fire arms were at the grand expo, full of reactor switches, and the Montpelier Kontomanos Press Kits were put on display at the vendor showcase. A trash heap of artistry and business. Tables of salami and cheese, hot coffee, and a panini grilling station were catered in at two thirty five as Pippa and Melody stormed the place like a couple of feral kids. Pamphlets, fliers, business cards, brochures, calendars, water bottles, usb chargers, promotional pens and key chains. One of them gitchu-a-baggie-and-grab you-some-free-junk — that kind of thing. Troy thought he saw the ghost of Tony Randall at one point. It was there that Melody informed Trent and Harris about the wiles of the witch who seemed more like a spider than anything else. The witch thing seemed like a diversion, a masquerade, away from that alternate fractal. The still head and fast acting appendages, quick as whips on granite, the scurry and crackle, the fear and granny lotion that seemed to be secreting from the freshly painted walls. Ordinary time was pulling out forensic conjunction and free will to accomplish the intestinal splattering with ball-peen delivery. Out at the Grande Mausoleum, the spelling bee was underway with the Picnic Princess Jamboree with the all the melted doll heads that had irreplaceable sockets.
“I don’t mess with tarot cards. Sorry.”
“Sure.”
“And I don’t fuck around with Ouija boards either — or any Parker Brothers game for that matter.”
“Sure.”
“…”
“…”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Sure you do.”
“You like that? You think it would fit?”
“I… ughhh…”
“You need to brush your teeth. You have stinky breath. Like garlic, which is funny cause I know you don’t like garlic.”
“I’ve been taking the supplements.”
“How bout this banana. Hmm? No?”
“Stop.”
“You like the way that feels?”
“Yeah. No cucumbers. No. Ow! Later. Not right now. Let’s watch a movie.”
“You need more training. You’re not ready for this yet. I know. Put on a Scooby Doo DVD.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I want to watch this documentary on Ellis Island.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
The stretching exercise went on for a few days before the demolition and Platypus Wreckers put on the corny music from the pumpkin festival they had cut live on an old reel to reel recorder from the 70’s. No one appreciated their sound or song structure, still, the snapping turtles and fireflies made their way four by four to the Ornery Deli with all their funny questions toting confused interpreters with bluish hair. Their corn beef and pastrami was fair to midland, but they did have the best sauerkraut around. The pickle jars were a little dirty, but that seemed just fine for such an establishment. The Platypus Wreckers kicked, whined, and fussed all over the linoleum about the soda fountain being out of order — and who could hardly blame em cause who wants to pay two seventy five for a tiny bottle of Cola & Berry New York Seltzer?
“Why don’t you have any deals percolating?”
“All the ISO’s in the lead pool have been used and abused way too much. I keep hearing stuff like, ‘Oh, you guys call us ten times a day and I’m sick of it.’ I have a feeling a lot of these conversations have ended confrontation-ally, and my opinion, that’s just no way to do business. People want to build collective trust as a unit… their goals and purposes. That’s what I’m driving at. Up at 5? Try 333. This day… eesh… people they like, even though I’m not going to tell a prospective client what they want to hear, because ultimately, that’s an exercise in futility. I’m not a pitch artist, but a consultant.”
“Well who’s money are we talking about? Hey… who’s ready for lunch?”
“You kidding me? Do you know how many golden nuggets I have in my pipeline? I’m not going to lunch. A working lunch maybe, but I’m not leaving this desk if that’s what you’re asking. You don’t get up and go for gas station sushi when these prospects are giving us the time of day. Can’t you feel the energy in the room? Why the hell is everyone leaving? Didn’t you feel how fast the day went? Remember the old adage: Time flies when you’re having fun? Well baby, it’s fun time. Who wants a cot? A coffee pot and radio for entertainment? Why the hell everyone isn’t sleeping here is unbeknownst to me. Can’t you see the money that’s lying on the table? You’re going to throw the middle finger to an opportunity like this? Do you know who you’re talking to? Me. Listen to the pitches in the here. The echo test. The way the mics work. The Background Noise. Again.. HEY.. This isn’t a coded message. What blows my mind right now is that some government official hasn’t meandered in here under false pretense bragging about coffee rights when he should just be birdwatching from this tower. This here tower. The one in my hands. Geesh… I’m running out of things to say here. Where is the symbiosis in this sales force? That’s my ultimate question for all of you new guys. That’s directed to you new guys. You’re new at this.”
“Well I’m here to make money. Whatever that means.”
“I’d like to introduce you to someone Harris.”
“OK sure…”
“Oh.”
“What is this ballet? Have you seen this thing before?”
“Yeah. I seen that one. Matter of fact, I saw that live on Broadway in ’97”
“OK… I see what you’re talking about here.”
“Firm?”
“Naw. Soft and moist. Like an episode of M*A*S*H.”
The intelligence in the room began to skyrocket, and Harris wondered why he felt like the top dawg, but seemed to be deconstructing like Harry and Tatiana. They seemed rigid and fast in their marketing techniques, and some of these fundings went on for trips to the caverns in Ohio to the Frostbitten nights in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Harris was out to lunch. Out for crabs and future crush. Unbelievable how some of these ideas came about, but that was how the party continued. Energy. Unbridled focus and energy of book written about sales coaches and technical cassette tapes that talked about ‘laser’ focus and attitude, and farts and whack a mole. You had to be there. The abominable talk, the ravenous verbiage, the pop and whiz of old old Indians games and favoritism. For I: Might have the answer and the best rebuttals… who knows… who’s listening and Following the Leader in Rosedale? We should have cut this deal yesterday, this sales process is like an act of God. Amazing. The cool thing about reading and writing is how it helps one hone their communication skills; how to cut records from reel to reel tape and how to take out punching bags of write and wrong. Communicator skills for the last time because I have been craving a good sack of Tacos from the Beller and really am taking notes on all of this. Work is play at MY house? MY House? This house? Wall with four corners of fun and logic and well we gave it our all. There is always tomorrow, because who knows… maybe we sealed the deal months ago and didn’t even realize it because someone was balling their eyes out last night about how they loved coming to work with you and putting up big Digits for Broom Hockey and Red Face of obligatory energy.”
“Like I said though. Your beats. You need to watch out for that. Holy shit.”
“What?”
“Is Tony in?”
“Fuck that guy.”
“Who? Tony? Nah.”
“What brings you back?”
“Hmm?”
“Oh yeah. The interview… yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah….”
“This is a suicide mission,” said Pippa.
“Well the tire is completely flat, the battery is shot, and we’re stuck on the cold highway with no phone service and half-a-bag of moldy bread for dinner? Didn’t think so. What are we going to do? You got AAA?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“My life is pure unadulterated torture. What’s with the scare tactics?”
“I don’t know; you tell me… Lemme ask you then… you got a funny feeling in your stomach? Hard to put your finger on?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I’ve been there before. How are you going to make ends meet?”
“Look… I’m too drunk to kill myself. This is way too much fun to do that. I think the only reason I keep myself alive at this point is to see how this story ends. I’m dying to find out. If they toss me in the clink, it’s back to the drawing board again. I can’t believe these ISOS. This is funny? You guys think this is a funny name? You keep popping names like this in the dialer and I’ll draw up the paperwork for everyone and bring in a box of donuts in the morning so we can laugh about the whole ordeal over the water cooler. I thought the way to actually go through with it was to get all liquored up, take a ton of sleeping pills, and fill the bath up with ice water. Right?”
“You’re kidding… right?”
“Not really. Why you ask?”
“IDK…”
“Alright… so here’s another way of looking at it: Let’s say I wake up tomorrow morning and money is no object whatsoever. In theory, I would continue to buy, sell, trade, eat, screw, travel, write; business as usual///11.35 and any other concoction my fantastical brain could come up with. I really don’t think my life would be a whole lot different. My desires and impulses would be the same. I’d still want to live in God’s Country and dream of NYC. The best of weather and the best of shows. You got a problem with that? Because if NYC is the financial hub of the Universe… well hey… we all have to retire at some time. Not that I’m going to ever retire. Everyone knows that a rolling stone gath… well hey… alright… hmm? YESSSS!!!! The best of weather and the best of shows. You got a problem with that? Look… here’s what you’re failing to realize about human nature: God is pissed. Make no mistake. Well? Wouldn’t you be? I would. HEY… lets think about this for just one femtosecond… ALRIGHT? The second you were conceived, you were brought into a selfish and corrupt world that is all about free will or free choice… am I right? Sure… you’re with me… good… Alright…The garden… the tree and the ‘blame-game’ and as of someone who created a species of humanoid who can do whatever they want whenever they want… I see HIS dilemma putting myself in HIS shoes… the empathy…the ball being in HIS court. Know what I mean? Can you relate? It’s like Montel Williams opening up a can of worms to some pimp, asking him, ‘what if you DON’T die tomorrow? Then what?’ Meaning: Who cares if you’ve already ‘Had-It-All’… and so forth… I hope so… cause I straight up Love the Lord. Always have… Always will… cradle to grave… LISTEN… (shh) People take care of themselves and each other, and that’s the beauty of His idea… his original Heaven that we messed up. True and Pure Love is next to impossible to find in my own humble opinion, and all the steak eaters still talk and chime in w/ hyperbole like they’re dreaming Billy-Sunday-Skateboard-Antics at one in the morning. Who approved this SBA? Huh? This long term deal? Hmm? Who left this light on? Look… I’m not going to take the time to author an e-mail to you when all you’re doing is talking gibberish. Let’s talk marketing. If you’re looking to grow… that’s where you need to invest your capital…marketing… I’m going to need all your docs ASAP… ahight? Mk… ha ha ha … How are you going to grow the biz?”
“Outside your professional life, you have a personal one as well. Some folks are really talented at separating the two, and many intertwine them seamlessly.”
“Good point.”
“Success is a mindset. You should be prepared to receive bad karma if you dish out insulting rebuttals that work. When you question their intelligence. This isn’t like selling guitars at a pawn shop, or even hammers at a hardware store. It’s all about managing working relationships. Building trust and fidelity… or getting to know the family if you will. It’s selling your relationship to the client, and feeling comfortable moving forward. I’m a business analyst — an investigative reporter, collector of data with those who will share their goals on how to move forward with business as usual on their end yet allow me to do my job as well. Is this someone I would want to do business with? That’s a question I have in the back of my head from the moment we start speaking. I don’t know. Maybe a few things were said that gave me second thoughts about fifteen minutes into the conversation that made me feel uneasy. Like too much whiteout or one missing piece of info that made me pound my fist to the table because it was right then and there I knew the deal was dead. This is a 24 hour job, and I think you’re starting to realize that.”
“I’m an industry man, but also a real vigilante of emotion. People buy based on emotion? Sure… but I think it’s more of a case of that the client doesn’t have to like you… but they sure do have to trust you.”
“Absolutely. Giving guidance… and it cuts both ways.”
“Listen, I gotta meeting with my shrink in twenty minutes.”
“OK.”
“Remember… you don’t have to be rich and confident, you just have to sound rich and confident. Go get em tiger.”
“Oi.” Slap.
Trent was horrible at solving math problems, even with a calculator. He was the kind of guy who was easy to rub the wrong way and/or get into a fight with. Addison was in over his head. Even though his place in the story was completely out of context with what Pippa had planned about the Demo-Rally-Pozer-Infestation months ago. No one really cared about making any sense. Because people are easily influenced and easily persuaded to do or talk about anything, even the most elite in the business world. There are a variety of factors involved. How they look, their family life, their relationships over the years, their eating habits and sexual track records. But they were pretty good at problem solving. Fenton couldn’t stay sober. He looked and acted like he knew what he was talking about, but the shotgun fire and answer committee really had his mind in a tizzy. He didn’t like the trajectory his life was headed. Fenton also didn’t understand the concept of ownership. How people bought and sold commercial businesses or real-estate. He just figured he had to sound intelligent and trustworthy enough for people.
“Well don’t flip out just yet,” said Pippa pointing to a billboard on the interstate.
“I ain’t,” said Harris, bouncing a tennis ball as they walked toward the exit.
“I hope this snow doesn’t get any worse. And I hope they have some coffee here. I really need some.”
“Let’s move quicker,” said Harris picking up the pace. “Better chance of us getting back to the car before it…”
“The car?” said Trent. “You can just forget that thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Any of you have valid ID’s?”
“Nope.”
“Nope.”
“I do,” said Pippa. “Just kidding. We are, however, a bunch of felons and bandits. Yall having fun? Hang on… that’s Melody calling … HEY BABY GIRL? HOW ARE YOU?”
“Dude, this girl is nuts.”
“I know right?”
“I’m beginning to feel deathly ill.”
“I can tell.”
“You’re not the leader,” said Harris, sifting through a pile of junk mail from the Sunday paper.
“Aren’t you symbolic,” said Pippa. “We’ll see about that. Do you want seconds? Stew’s almost gone.”
“That stuff is so nasty. Salmon and walnuts? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Do you know how many Omega-3’s there are in there?”
“What’s up with these arts and crafts?”
“You’re so ADD. Stay on point with our conversation. Look into my eyes,” she said.
“You’re insidious.”
“Thank you. Listen… I’m doing some surveys online right now. I have to figure out a way to make us all some money.”
“Why?” said Harris, “so you can take us all to Disney Land after we puke up this God awful concoction you call dinner?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re completely delusional.”
“Thank you. Get in a good workout and take a shower. You smell gross.”
“I’m gonna hitchhike to the library this afternoon. I’m not going to sit around wasting time playing games online either. I’m going to put my resume out there online and find a real job. I’m sick of babysitting you toddlers anyway.”
“That hurts.” Slap.
“Why are you so depressed anyway?”
“I’m broke…on the verge of homelessness. Dead in the water? I’m just waiting for the grim reaper to do me a huge favor. I can’t even afford to buy a pack of ramen noodles. I’m playing Simon Says and ‘remember when’ with my family for chicken feed… a roof over my head. Throw me a bone here. Come on.”
“Let’s brainstorm. You need to be a little more pro-active,” said Melody. “What do you want to do for work?”
“Uh… play jazz guitar in a Pentecostal church for five hundred dollars a week. That’s my dream job.”
“Come on. Dis donc Trent. Let’s say money were no object for you. Like you won the Power Ball. How would you spend your time?”
“OK…. The guidance counselor approach… I’m listening.”
“What would you do tomorrow?”
“Uh… get my license out of hock, buy a one way ticket to the Philippines, open a hamburger stand, marry a local girl that doesn’t speak a lick of English, and whip around dollar bills on fishing line all day to get hungry customers to buy my food and sundries.”
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“Well you asked. I’m the French Tickler… remember? That’s my dream job. Even millionaires can’t sit around the house all day long drinking beer, doing blow, hooking up, and surfing the web. Just ask Charlie Sheen or Brian Wilson. It’s ALL work… friend or foe… movie star or bum… know what I mean? Lots of money gets you into a ton of trouble, and affords you to get out of a ton of trouble, if you have the gumption and vitality. I’ve been around the block long enough to recognize that. Sex, drugs, rock and roll… you feel me? Produce! Repent!”
“Now YOU’RE depressing ME!”
“Yeah…I’d be a burger-toting missionary. Thanks for helping me brainstorm. I feel a whole lot better. That would be a nice life I think. I’m sick of America. It’s all a bunch of dumb rules and laws anyway. Freedom? Yeah… ok… sure. It’s all a mirage. I’ll bet if Lady Liberty could open her mouth, she’d tell you her arms are killing her, standing there, holding up that torch all day long, carrying her tablet to the class to nowhere.”
“You’re such a patriot. How about stand up comedy? Your jokes are awfully morbid though.”
“I can’t get health insurance in that line of work.”
“Man you’re full of excuses.”
“I deserve it. I’ve provided this sad world with solutions for free for waaaay too long.”
“So why aren’t you getting paid?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I may one day, but I highly doubt it. Life is completely abstract. It’s good to set goals in a world that continually interrupts your every move. I’ve developed a strange way of interpreting productivity and satisfaction. For instance: Both the warden and the inmate spend most of the waking day in prison. The only difference is that the warden gets to go home at night for steak dinner and out to the movies with his family, whereas the inmate doesn’t. If you’ve been homeless for a long period of time, someone might call a life in prison a permanent vacation. If one has been accustomed to a life of privilege and one day ends up behind bars, they might look for a way to commit suicide.”
“I’m tired of sex.”
“Me too.”
“It’s over-rated. There is such a wide spectrum of human sexuality. People accuse me of being an isolationist, but with the internet and my right hand, getting off is virtually free; pardon the pun. Dating and marriage seem like a trap. Having kids is being productive I guess, but only if they’re compliant. I was a pretty compliant boy growing up. I pretty much did what I was told.”
“Tell me more about that.”
“Is this some kind of therapy session?”
“Yes,” said Pippa, typing some notes. “Continue.”
“Well everything was pre-determined what I was going to do. It’s funny. I can remember one day waking up one Saturday morning, walking into the kitchen and asking my mom why I didn’t have to go to school. You know what she said?”
“What?”
“Free Day.”
“Time off.”
“A break. Sure.”
“There are no breaks in life.”
“Tell me about it. Give ME a break.”
“Stop it. Well, I think you live in the past. It seems like you have a lot of dusty memories that you want to share with me.”
“I don’t believe in the concept of time anymore.”
“How so?”
“What is it time for us to do?”
“For you and I to try and sift through some of your personal struggles. Let’s talk about your alcoholism. Why do you drink?”
“Boy that’s a million dollar question isn’t it? The best answer for that is that I have a tendency to over analyze most everything, and alcohol simplifies my mind.”
“It dumbs you down?”
“Exactly.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Why do you sound so clinical? Like I just got pulled over by the county sheriff?”
“Let me re-phrase that… how many beers have you had in the last 12 hours?”
“Two. In three 6 ounce paper cups.”
“Step out of the car.”
“Aren’t you cute.”
Wink Wink
“No, I take that back, it was wine. Yeah. Cabernet Sovignon. Can’t remember the year though. Vintage though… I’m sure about that… an definitely European. I can’t stand Napa Valley…”
“Three bottles of wine?”
“Sure. Hey… you mind if I grab a couple pieces of chocolate? I normally don’t eat sweets but..”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve read some of your work. Although I find it quite boring actually. It’s technically perfect, but it puts me right to sleep.”
“That’s the whole point. Reading is technically boring. It requires a lot of focus and a lot of work. You’re supposed to find my prose boring and engaging. Hey… you like music?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“How ‘bout John Updike? I watched this three and half hour interview online today that I found more engaging than…”
“Roger’s Version?”
“You’ve read him. Yeah. That guy is good. Although, he smiles all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that guy not smile at all. Can’t trust a guy who smiles all the time like that.”

::Satch-y-Daddy-Cake-Syndrome::

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: I can’t give you anymore money.

JORDY: How long have you been playing basketball sir?

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Forever and a day man. Let’s run some suicide drills guys.

JORDY: I’m gonna sit this one out.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Nope. Let’s go! CLAP CLAP CLAP LETS GO LETS GO LETS GO!!

JORDY: No. I don’t want to. Besides, I’m better at wreslting anyway. I don’t have the eye-hand coordination for this.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: You need to be well rounded. Your shoes are untied by the way.

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Let’s see some hustle guys! Jordy — set a pick. Time. Three second violation.

JORDY: What’s that?

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Don’t you know anything about basketball?

(…Jordy sucks….yeah… he’s only here because his mommy made him come.)

JORDY: I hate this sport.

(you don’t like any sport… he likes balls… just not sports… ha ha ha…)

PEP-TALK PRESIDENT: Guys. Enough. Everyone huddle up. Conner. Brett. Come on. Not too close, I don’t want you guys sweating over my dry-erase. Look — you guys need to focus. Need you guys to be team-players. Does everyone here know what it means to set a screen? Don’t all raise your hands at once.

⃠ Revenge of the All Too Clean Writer’s Toilet

(and the TP to Back It Up With) — Take 1:

We could have baked a birthday cake in porcelain this surgically and steril-ee pure — not so much as a hint of bacteria. Melody got on April for her lackluster performance in her hiring approach. It was time to put that division on freeze. She was just on-boarding anyone and everyone. “Look at you,” she’d say shaking her head in detestation, April sitting Indian style tapping away on her My Little Pony Bluetooth Keyboard — in sporadically sifting through a crinkly plastic Keebler Fudge Striped Shortbread Cookie Tray full of cigarillo butts, trying to find the longest one. Mmmm. Cherry flavored. Very dusty, but so full of existential flavour. “Tays-tee!!” she’d say, the smoke billowing from her lips. Her status was at an all time low. It was amazing she even found the time in her busy smoking schedule to accomplish anything at all. Dinged up just enough, but still somewhat functional. The Tenmauray Stimulation Mech would still turn to titanium microseconds before the orcan fledge and pinion took place. A few more tests would be required per request of three delegates from the Mercenaries of Padelle. A real assembly line. Hard to describe. Because of all of this, Addison started to make a list of the things in life that he needed to stop doing and activities he needed to start taking part in:

BEHAVIORS TO STOP COMPLETELY (AKA — ‘Bad Habits’)

1. Womanizing

2. Spending Money Frivolously
3. Drinking Alcohol/Using Tobacco
4. Eating Unhealthy Food(s)
5. Wasting Time on Social Media
6. Pornography
7. Jerking Off
8. Womanizing
9. Abusing Caffeine
10. Rationalizing Poor Decisions

BEHAVIORS TO START/CONTINUE (AKA — ‘Good Habits’)

1. Maintain Financial Independence
2. Exercise/Workout/Play Sports Consistently
3. Get Married/Have Kids
4. Eat Healthy Food(s)
5. Serve More/Be Served Less
6. Become A Better/Friend/Family Member
7. Set And Achieve Short-Term, Mid-Term, and Long-Term Goals
8. Improve Personal Hygiene
9. Write More Intelligently
10. Prioritize

Sometimes one just needs a good laugh though. Even though it doesn’t solve your problems. I do know this: There are no guarantees in life. It’s good to learn, because if you’re blessed enough, you can use that information later on down the road. I’m also having a difficult time in determining what home is. What is it? Planet earth? A state of mind? Feeling at ease with one’s self? I’m not really sure, but I feel like it has something to do with comforting others in an otherwise cruel and very matter-of-fact existence. What is a job well done? A heist? A moral and ethical heist? It’s very important to have goals — to set and achieve them. Otherwise, the world will just come crashing down on top of you and leave you senseless and without reason or purpose. I rarely turn down a good meal. Hunger is a gift. Just having the desire to eat is a blessing in my opinion. I do enjoy a good story though. Because every story is an extrapolation of the Truth. Everyone has something to say or communicate. I don’t think anyone owns anything… that’s magic… you know? To say.. I own this or that… It’s the power of suggestion wrapped in a pretty little bow sitting under a Christmas tree. I do know this: Life is short, and we have more of an impact on others than we realize. Not just our actions, but our thoughts in actions… is there a purpose? Probably not. Once you hit a certain age and level of fatigue, you stop caring and start reminiscing. Memory and fantasy are tied together — and are truer than reality itself. I’m not trying to be profound either, because I’m a sales machine and not an academic. Even the people who had all the answers for humanity… take Christ for example… had questions and struggles with his own existence on this planet, yet he sold answers to the most profound of human questions… yet when he was dying on the cross… I’ll bet he was begging the Lord for a ride home. No? More than anything else in life, Trent had lost direction. Mostly because nothing brought pleasure anymore. In his last position, he had found himself being admired and ridiculed by his colleagues, and he really didn’t know what to make of it. All this meal buying, tear shedding, accusation throwing, and funny people who show up from seemingly out of no where to ‘keep-him-around’ because his life was running off the railroad tracks. Strangely enough, because his commonly used sales quotes, no one could argue against. Where did all of this come from? This money and hunger? These high-rise conglomerates? Was he really ‘keeping-himself-alive?’ and the latter? One day at a time… it’s just one day at a time. It was mostly a matter of productivity. Dreamscape vs the Hunger Corp. How were these gaskets and pistons not firing on all cylinders, and where were they all headed? Had anyone bothered to ask? Yes sir. Seven peanuts for that sector of commercial real estate thank you very much. Quite a spin on that. Intrepid. So much was at stake at the mental health expo and fundraiser. The sales/action dialogue didn’t really occur to anyone. Some of these bearded hipsters were generating a ton of pay-per-click ad revenue by conducting campy reviews in their parent’s basement with old web-cams and peripherals that were obsolete. Edutainment in antiquity. Boo-ya! April, Harris, and Trent found it funny that some of these video blogs qualified as actual work — a source of income. Addison no longer had any sense of normality or stability — come to think of it… he was depressed and unmotivated — even just his usual mode of survival that entailed being ‘good looking’ and ‘sarcastic’ since day one had given out on him. What he though was bringing him satisfaction all along was nothing more than an exercise in how to end the pain and poverty that now consumed every fiber of his being. Either way, he just kept writing, knowing hell and high water were right around the corner, even there was nothing he could do to bring himself or his family piece of mind. Most of everyone’s friends in that collective circle had forgotten to remember that smiles and laughter rarely had anything to do with what the curious mind might call ‘happiness’ or even being content with the way things were going, but social cues/responses associated with internal fear and/or embarrassment — a smoke screen and fight or flight instinct — all accept of course for those in attendance at the Comedy Club in Greater Fostoria. There was a ten year old kid the other day who went viral online who stole his father’s Chevy Impala, only to drive ten miles to the nearest grocery store because he wanted a bottle of Mountain Dew that his parents wouldn’t buy him. That’s mischievous? Irrational? Nah. That kid will be a winner one day… a multi-millionaire of the one percent. He doesn’t understand rules or laws in society. He understands impulse, and takes what he wants — when he wants. GOP=That’s mine… I’ll take that. DEM=Gimme Gimme!! It’s really that simple. Campy? Are you trying to understand my logic? It’s called taking what you want out of life — as opposed to waiting for someone to give you what you want (or need for that matter)… but we’ll save this political discussion for a later time. For one, this kid will most likely never blame himself or anyone else for his own personal torment when he approaches adult-hood, become dependant on the federal government, or take ‘no’ for an answer. This are the traits of the Republican mindset — and again — it is a mindset — whether you live in a trailer, or in a mansion. Pippa pulled out her notebook and started outlining a new novel; or what she believed to be her masterpiece that encompassed the future of literary fiction. Melody and Joe had prepared a large crock pot of salmon stew with walnuts, kale, and cream of mushroom soup with a ton of turmeric powder. She could tell the doo doo gooders™ were suffering from a bout of collective depression, and decided to throw it together in the kitchen after reading several articles online that talked about foods that were scientifically to combat depression and promote a healthy state of mind. Addison didn’t believe in the concept of ‘celebrity,’ but did believe in the notion of ‘delusions of grandeur.’ (Christ being the only exception) The world, after all, is a planet with a population of an incalculable amount of people who were, are, and are to come. To the individual, opportunity trumped survival. Fun is relative. Chopin is/was to some a real eye opener, inspiring, and to others, a real composer of ‘put-me-to-sleep.’ He also found it funny how the King of Pop became to be known as a child molester, and how the King of Rock ‘N Roll died a fat slob on the toilet from a drug overdose, and how Hemingway ended up taking his own life. There was no right or wrong answer to any of life’s questions; just finding the common thread in human existence was fine by him. Everyone was an artist, musician, collaborator, director, producer, manager, writer, businessman, janitor, politician, athlete, sprinter, model, theologian, salesman, reporter, doctor, comedian, consultant, cartoonist, animal, typist, machinist, inventor, dishwasher, curator, teacher, student, video-gamer, lawn-mower, fitness instructor, motivational speaker, go-getter, strawberry-picking-snow-shoveler, builder, driver, pastor, counselor, shrink, clerk, back-slider, killer, hater, lover, philosopher, caretaker, friend, mogul, renter, owner, pain manager, banker, baker, warden, slob, interior-decorator, painter, MC, DJ, or host, mechanic, pharmacist, fortune-teller, journalist, roller-blader, IT specialist, youth group leader, surfer, skateboarder, debt collector, sleeper, dreamer, accountant, judge, outlaw, roadie, mechanic, server, airline attendant, ticket-taker, thrill-ride-enthusiast, smoker, eater, breather, drinker, critic, public speaker, babysitter, dog-walker, bike-rider, editor, massage therapist, pimp, prostitute, prophet, house-keeper, tutor, human resources associate, attorney, swindler, dietician, secretary, brand ambassador, addiction specialist, travel agent, entrepreneur, historian, bio-chemist, sculptor, barista, house-keeper, chef, and lumber-jack. And now that it was time for breakfast, {DING DING DING!!!} the aroma/odor from the organic sausage that Pippa was frying up only compounded Fenton’s nausea. It was that portion of the cycle in a week long drinking bender where the booze turns its back on you and completely deactivates the appetite. He sure had one hell of a hangover. He kept drinking water, and puking it up in a small plastic trash can; five times over. Then came the dry heaving. He couldn’t understand why his body would be rejecting water, knowing the largest component of a hangover was dehydration, and that the human body was composed of 78.00000126% water. Pure logic. He also noticed that his nasty alcohol related rash was making another unscheduled appearance, so he began to slather LouAna Coconut Oil all over the infected areas. Having an understanding that his unbridled/suicidal alcohol consumption eventually would lead to dermatological madness and itchiness, he applied it liberally for treatment and preventative measures. Fenton could also understand that if his liver could no longer metabolize the ‘socially-acceptable-and-legal-poison,’ the next mode of involuntary action would be to expel the evil stuff through the skin, the largest human organ. This was useful news, however, the side effects were rearing their nasty head again. The voyeuristic nature of social media he also found hypnotic. The groggy mornings, laughing at random photos from middle school classmates. Women hated the term ‘moist,’ probably more than the ‘c’ word or ‘sk’ word. He knew it was important to stay nourished, even though he was tired of eating, but usually only when he was sober. Drunkenness would inevitably lead to verbose eating, so he knew he had to keep the fridge stocked full of chicken, bacon, potatoes, EGGS, filtered water, sausage, VINEGAR!!! and onion, and any other comfort food he could conceive. To him, the only way to maintain any kind of appetite was to consume gas station brew-skies, or attend Church with his brother. He was always hungry after Church, even if he hadn’t had a drop that day. The Definition of Productivity would be to: wake up, loathe his existence, brew coffee, drink said coffee, smoke cheap Cheyenne Cigars — $1.49 (he couldn’t afford cigarettes), take a stab at writing some stuff, sauté freshly mandolin sliced potatoes to be transferred to the refrigerator, head back out to the Shell Station for some more cheap brew-skies, check the oil, and before leaving, peruse around said Shell station only to snag handfuls of Black Pepper, mustard, relish, mayo, and Texas Pete’s Hot Sauce — because they were just giving that stuff away with any purchase over five dollars. What a steal! What a bargain!! Conversely, a strange thing happened when he ducked into the local Walmart for his anti-depressants. He stood in line waiting for his name to be called, and after providing his ID, he realized that he needed some new insoles for his callused feet. He wasn’t about to pay $17.91 (roll-back) for the Premium Dr. Scholls, when the 97cent Equate one’s would do just fine in the interim. He did the math. $17.91x5 mi per walking day vs 97cents of just as good comfort-per day. Fenton was, after all, a true Value-Meister; something he had picked up on from his thrifty grandma on his mother’s side. Who were these idiots paying through the nose on Pepsi and Coke products, when you could just enjoy a very similar product for less than half the price? Yellow sticker meats were the way to go in his mind; forget the expiration date… that’s a ruse considering all of the antibiotics these birds are injected with. Let’s be real… 48 cents per pound?! Can you believe these prices?! I mean really!! You’re going to dole out your hard earned money for Ground Purdue Turkey Rolls at $4.71 per pound!?!?! You must be from Pluto or Venus — so I should smack you across the face for that!! Fenton was about to have a cardiac arrest watching customers put single serving ‘ANYTHING’ into their carts. If one had to drink fizzy, soda/pop/sulfates, why not just purchase a case of sixteen ounce Styrofoam cups and get the knock offs? What would be the difference? Why? The marketing? You bet your sweet ass it’s all about the marketing. So provocative and subliminal. Go to sleep. Shhh… It’s all about marketing. The summer vacation, after all, had ended up being a diabolical nightmare of epic proportions. The Casino, The Canoe Trip of Monumental Discipline and Dissatisfaction, The Chuck-E-Cheese Incident, the Hardwick Pine Nature Preserve Pit Stop, The Lost Ball, Mystery Spot, Indian Village Photo Shoot, Brinkman Photo Shoot, The Beach/Swimming Fiasco, The I’m-Eleven-And-A-Half-Whine-And-You-Should-Let-Me-Drive-For-A-While-Bit-Because-You-Are-Both-Too-Old-To-Be-Driving-Neverending-Backseat-Song-Logic, Graham Cracker Care Package, The Spider and Sand Dune Lodge, and the Picnic at Golden Stone, had proved unworthy and created tension for the entire 12+ hour car-ride. Fenton insisted that his grandparents turn off the radio for the remainder of the trip, that he would instead treat everyone to a reading of “The Mouse and the Motorcycle,” later on vomiting up the roast beef dinner in the backseat as they pulled into the Private Road towards the family cottage. This wasn’t alcohol related, but mostly something to do with the undercooked roast beef they had earlier in Grayling. The backseat should have been covered in plastic, as Crayola Crayons, Markers, and ketchup stains were also apart of this God-awful mess. This place was really out in the middle of nowhere, but full of memories. Fake Black Bears, the Garage with Faded-Polka-Dot-Curtains, and the Sand Pit; ready for marshmallow toasting. Fenton didn’t like pasties initially, but found out they weren’t really all that bad once you squeeze out half a bottle of Heinz Ketchup from IGA Grocer on the side of the paper plate. The eight of us were tightly pressed around that tiny table. Puh. We had to digest that lunch quick, because then it was off to Welstrohms with the Trayers for a round-about of another Roast Beef Buffet where everyone could get whatever they wanted, and then back to the cottage for ice-cream afterwards, because everyone was tired of the buffet at the Garden Room with the All-You-Can-Eat-Herring. The dinner was essentially Heinz Ketchup with a side of ground beef, steamed potatoe, and rutabaga. Grandma would prepare the coffee for the following morning at nine in the evening to where all anyone would have to do would be to turn the switch ‘ON’ in the morning to get it brewing. Tap tap tap. Pour. Tap tap tap. Pour. Puh. Fumbling around with filters and such would be a major inconvenience otherwise. Then there was the Stihl Chainsaw Show at Ken Thompson’s house in the morning for breakfast after coffee, just before digging up earthworms for flyfishing at the Pocotholay River, several hundred meters from the cottage. This guy could shovel down bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes, and coffee like a real American. Everything that emanated from this guy’s mouth was a complete joke. He was a real underground comedian of the Great North. True Grit in every sense of the word. The Forest Ranger Slugger Carnival took place seven months before the Corn Hole Tournament between the Skirt Chasers and the doo doo gooders™. “Mail it in,” said April. “The check is in the mail,” said Harris. “Or checks. Plural, as it were.” No one wanted to watch any movies or listen to music because at this time and place it was media overload.

::All Things Botanical::

[GoldiLocks of the Cirsium Genus]
-T.W.I.L.N.?

The Mull Cree Freeway was completed on time, even though not a solitary soul took even one second of their precious time to thank the hard work of the Mexican Moving Alien Group and Associates℠, still, all the factory members ended up satisfied and at least not at odds with the numbers. If nothing else and at the very, very least — forbearing. While true, it was impossible for any gang to cite resentment toward the doo doo gooders™ or Platypus Wreckers, after April had taken a sledge hammer crew to the now abandoned napalm plant, the zoning board still couldn’t decide unanimously or not on Azz-geir’s (he would later purposely respell/misspell his name from Asgeir, to Azgeir, to the current spelling after the incident at Royherntenbaum) plan. He marched to the beat of his own dumb, making his thoughts widely and unabashedly known regarding the spoiled ribs and burgers at his backyard Eat-N-Sav bbq last July. They didn’t have to eat the stuff, but one of his insidious talents was his dark magic of inducing hunger to anyone he pleased. This was after all in direct violation of ordinance 7b which clearly states:

• no product shall contain nuts of any kind
• only 100% organic foods
• must be pesticide/herbicide free
• free range poultry/eggs only

He felt like rubbing the housing development the wrong way, partially due to a concoction of spite and sadistic pleasure following the backlash. He’d turn his entire front lawn into a garden of weeds. Not marijuana, but a tribute to all of them growing things the people in his neighboorhood would spend their money on to get rid of. A couple leftist high school teachers found it amusing — like trash art or dada, but they were the minority. Azgeir’s plan/prank/joke could by interpreted in certain cul-de-sac circles as horticulture on display, rather, partitioned off groups of Queensland blue couch, Dandelion and Daisies, Comb Finger, Asian, Southern — also including thistles in the Cirsium genus — every weed neatly pruned and labeled. Leading Call Girls To Christ had hit their monthly goals. Deep intellectual and dogmatic decisional rhetoric abounded, and the P.T.P. felt a well deserved celebration was in order. it was time for Halo’s ‘n Hops — or Pilsners, Prayer, and Praise Night (depending what night of the week) at the Rutledge Club just up the way; you know — can’t hardly miss it — up chair — next to the big ‘ol intersection up that way — at the Grande Mausoleum, right across, you know where I’m talking about. Right? The Nitpicker Brigade were now mostly comprised of men-au-pausal type over the age of 60 — suits and neckties to the office and maid’s outfits and panty-hose to bed. The “asexual domination using standard business protocol by day”, then “dominated like lipsticked Tenderloin, CA Tramps by night” type. Imfermiable cheavonism, unfair compartmentalization. It crossed Tatiana’s mind to ‘dyke-it-up’ for a while and just follow the code of business, but didn’t want to cut her hair or start sporting butchy LL Bean windbreakers. Trent and Harris drew some concern from this; cause who wants to deal with that guy having a temper tantrum over a few onion peel flakes on the floor, or several small mustard stains on the oven handle, or the occasional mold in the coffee grounds? “Hey Uber, I can’t afford the two drink minimum for the Full Nude Show right now, but can you drop me off at the nearest Discount Pasties Night sign you see? But it has to be lit and there have to be lights on. There’s one up there… you see it… right? Hep. I’d really appreciate it. I’m on such a tight budget, you wouldn’t believe. Oink Oink. Sorry. You were saying? Red light — watch it. You’re good. You were saying?” April’s parents would carry on about how they only used to have 50 channels on an old Zenith TV that had to be calibrated and fine tuned with hangers from Tokyo. But landfills all over planet earth at this point were filling up quickly with tiny computers with tiny touch screens that could virtually access any content from the beginning of recorded media… all the way back to when Thomas Edison sang Mary Had A Little Lamb on his Phonograph, and demonstrated his invention (although many would say he stole most if not all of his ideas/inventions from Nikola Tesla). Addison thought gathering up as many of these microcomputers at the landfill would be really beneficial to be sent in care packages to underdeveloped countries. “They’re fine just the way they are,” said Joe. “They don’t need American Technology. Can’t you see they’re happy just throwing spears and eating boar and running around in tents with the big plates in their lips and ears? It’s really National Geographic’s fault at the end of the day.” Addison made some sense of his logic, namely, that sending these types of care packages to these parts of the world wouldn’t serve anyone, and that it would be a major disservice, imposing the American way of life on them. Three weeks later, Harris and April would pack up for their big trek to Utah, because April was convinced she wanted to become a Latter Day Saint. Harris was free spirited enough, and up for the downstroke, because he had cut ties with Melody once and for all. He had no interest in monotheism or any other faith-based institutions. They didn’t have any more than fifty dollars in cash when they hit the road, but April was a whiz at hacking bank accounts in just about any establishment that had internet access. A goddess of fraud, deception, and virtual theft. “It’s not my fault no one carries cash anymore. If people did that, I’d be out of a job,” she’d laugh. “Look at these want ads. Eh… they drug test and background check. I can fix that real quick.” Harris wouldn’t stop asking her to get him a fake ID. He wanted to change his ways and become a productive member of society. He wanted to stop smoking and become a driving instructor when they stopped for a bag of burgers one day at a Carl’s Jr. near Branson. They would have to steal a car, because the old Saturn they were driving was falling apart. They had planned to steal the sedan from the Kia dealership during a chaperoned test drive. “Get out,” said April pointing a Smith & Wesson at the poor salesman when they pulled up to a stop sign. “Here,” said the guy, “take my wallet too. Just don’t kill me.” They made their way down the freeway and took a random exit, locating an abandoned barn. After replacing the tags and repainting the car, they felt like their options were starting to open up. Harris was convinced at this point that everyone on the planet was a felonious criminal and that laws and regulations were nothing more than a list of jokes. Telemarketers came to mind.
“Why aren’t pencils and hairspray illegal?”
“Because they’re boring.”
“Exactly.”
“Why are street drugs illegal, and why are such high taxes and regulations placed on alcohol, tobacco, and firearms?”
“Because public demand is placed so highly on them. If people didn’t want or need them, the government wouldn’t classify them as contraband.”
“Now you’re catching on. Couches? Antique lamps? Brita Water Filters?”
“Worthless.”
“How bout apples and Crystal Light water enhancers?”
“Those are both considered food products and thereby subsidized by the government as food product that can be obtained for free if one has a Government Food Card.”
“You understand why they lock up baby formula and high dollar razor blades at Wallgreens?”
“Because the demand is so high.”
“Try again. Ooh… look Harris — there’s a Planet Fitness and a Hallmark store. Let’s stop. I need to send my aunt a gift card and some Precious Moments Ceramic Dolls. Her birthday is in a couple of weeks and I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten about her.”
“Great,” said Harris. “While you’re doing that, I’m going to head over to that Ace Hardware store and stock up on bug spray and bungee chords. You never know.”
“Smart thinking,” said April, pulling into the parking lot, parking the car. “You think twenty will be enough?” she said handing him a Dead President.
“Yeah. More than enough. Thanks.”
“Bring me the change and we’ll stop at the Baskin Robbins afterwards. I want a frozen birthday cake for the trip.”
“Now we’re all stocked up and ready to roll,” said Harris. “But what about the cake? It’s going to melt.”
“You know you’re right. I didn’t even think about that,” said April lighting a cigarillo. “We’re gonna have to stop at that gas station up there and get a cooler of ice.”
It was the Week of Impulse at the Rec Center. The doo doo gooders were donned in checkered shirts and had their blue jeans pegged. They all lined up in a row, waiting for their names to be called. Fenton won the Most Savage award and held it high so even the nosebleed section could take notice. Paula took home the award for Most Improved Garden, awarded by Chris Trellot, HOA President.

Wilshire Estates

• THANK YOU FOR NOT SOLICITING UNLESS YOU’RE CUTE, RICH, AND UNDER THE AGE OF 12
• 15 MPH
• WELCOME!

Chris was a very wealthy and powerful family man. A real meat-eating orchid to quote Cobain. As he pulled out of the garage and into the street early Tuesday morning before his commute to the office, he rolled down his window to have a quick word with Brendan, his next door neighbor — Chibi running around the yard. Yap. Yap.
“That little Michigan, and I do mean tiny Michigan flaglett of you all’s has got to go.”
“Not a chance.”
“I see you’ve been giving that ferret of yours bodybuilding arms,” said Chris, chin-pointing to Brendan’s wife’s Pia’s miniature poodle. “Running you up one hell of a steroid’s bill I’m sure,” he laughed.
“She’s worth it. Keeps her tongue nice and strong.”
“TMI Hoss. TMI.”
“Don’t you work too hard today!”
“HA! Lemme get that business card of yours slick!”

Chris and his wife Connie would be having their 23rd wedding anniversary at the most exclusive sushi spot that evening, and his usual morning conversations and business deals would be put on hold for pure silence, musing over the watch or the much simpler bracelet. “Should I open the box before or after dinner, or on the way to the party? Hmm. I really want her to be surprised — like I’m popping the question for the first time,” he thought. Chris and Connie had built a strong and faithful marriage. Their twins would be on their way to Ivy League schools in the fall, and now would be the best time to be thinking of home improvements.

10 Hours Later at Trents:
“I don’t believe your story,” said Trent, passing the ball to Addison.
“I don’t care if you do or not. But it really happened. I’d do just about anything to keep my family together. I’m a local travesty at this point though, I’m just taking up oxygen. You’re not the first person who said they didn’t believe me.”
“Not that it doesn’t sound like it couldn’t have happened, but the way you told it seems like something you wrote in an insane asylum in the back of a paperback King James Bible. You know, those thirty or so blank pages they leave your for prayer requests and note-taking. Let’s go to the office supply station after lunch and get you some heavy bound paper and a new typewriter so you can tell the world what really happened. When you’re done, you should submit it to the New Yorker. It sounds like the kind of stuff those people print.”
“How do you expect me to get any work done around here when we’re eating 5 course steak dinners at 8 pm, and then waking up at 6 in the morning for sausage and crab cakes? I don’t have the energy for a radio interview, much less a full cardio workout in the gym.”
“Let’s see some pushups.”
“Seriously? Why don’t you run out to the Farmers Market and grab us some apricots. They’re in season. In the meantime, I’ll get the place picked up and get started on your taxes. Sound like a deal?”
“OK. I’ll cook — you clean.”
“I’m going to need to see the entire up stairs vacuumed. And I’m going to check your work when I get home. I’d bring home some girls, but your beard is a mess, and so are your teeth. Let’s get you to the dentist and the barber and the psychiatrist and the foot doctor and the study room/office combo you’ve created — all in one day.”
“Sounds like a challenge I’m up for. Why don’t we just throw in the DMV, Pharmacy, Middle School Soccer Field, and Trucking Company in for good measure. Oh, and let’s not forget the courthouse either. That should be first on your list. And we need to get you a girlfriend/wife and your 2.5 kids ASAP. That will really help.”
“Seems probable. I don’t see how we can’t do all that in a 24 hour block of time. I’m very musical too. Why don’t we throw in a Guitar Busking Session at the intersection of Cryon and Made Street too. Those people really need to hear some good Southern Fried Hymns.”
“You got that right… and we can even laugh about some funny YouTube Video’s while we wait in line.”
“Which reminds me… I need to return some cassettes to the library and then head off to the bus depot for a salad at Shiners for a post-workout snack. I’m done with carbs and nicotine. That’s the last straw. I’m carrying anvils of weight that are keeping me from realizing my dreams.”
“That’s the spirit, you lil coffee-drinking-book-club-award-business-center-paper-wasting–underground-media-know-it-all.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Let me see your teeth. Aahh!”
“Good. Great. As for you… you have no faults — so this is why I’m going to be silent as a retarded kid who lives in Santa Barbara. Now that I’m thinking about it… how are we going to even have time to make it to our Eminence Small Group?”
“We’re not.”

[Not Your Average Perfunctory Bible Concordance]
-for demonstration purposes only
-not for resale or distribution

Eminence was a very popular charismatic Church based out of Flint, MI that expanded exponentially in an 11 year period of time. Fenton’s brother, Blake pretty much forced him to go there, for reasons that were inconclusive. They currently had 13 campuses and were continuing to grow. The head pastor, Chad Murdick, was on fire for Jesus week after week. He was a fairly good looking guy in his mid to late thirties, and kept his beard well-groomed. Fenton didn’t particularly care for the music, because he found it bland, over-produced, and soul-less. The melodies and song structures to him seemed generic and contrived. One Sunday morning, he brought along his legal pad, clipboard, and gel-tip pen to take notes, but found it difficult to do so, because Murdick’s messages never seemed to follow any structure and to him seemed all-over-the-stream-of-consciousness-map. In his teenage years, was used to a more cerebral sermon, but that particular morning, Chad seemed to have a few bullet points here and there along with some off the cuff comments that didn’t really resonate with him, much less ignite his passion in his walk with Jesus. “At least I’m plugged into a congregation,” thought Fenton, “so to speak.” There were several or more components about the church that Fenton found sacrilegious. 1.) It wasn’t a ‘worship service,’ but rather a ‘worship experience.’ 2.) Murdick touted his high-dollar microphone, made public record of his charitable contributions, and was simulcast to every branch location in and around the greater Canton area. 3.) There was a TON of merchandise to be bought in every foyer. But who were Fenton or Blake to judge? Was church supposed to be ‘fun?’ Was it a sin to laugh or have a good time in church? Was it wrong to ‘hire’ children under the age of 18 to serve as deacons, greeters, or ushers at the door? Fenton thought so. To him, church was NOT a place for smiling, laughing, womanizing, philandering, conducting business transactions with other members, texting during the homily, eating catered lunches, (although potluck meals being an exception) or having DJ’s that mix fly beats on turntables in the vestibule before-hand. To him, church WAS: a sacred place of worship, edification, and instruction; a place where men and boys had short hair (above the ear only) and wore only business attire, and where women were to have long hair and dresses (no slacks) and never to preach (only special music.) As for the music, there was to be only one piano, one organ, and one pulpit ONLY! (no guitar, drums, or rock and roll music of any kind were to be permitted at any time.) Multimedia presentations (à la Television, Film, or Video) would only be allowed on holidays and rare occasions, and those caught living in sin were to be excommunicated promptly at the discretion of the pastor and Board of Elders. Sins/Infractions include but would not be limited to: Shacking Up, the use if Illegal Drugs, Alcohol, and Tobacco, not tithing, the use of any other interpretation of His Word other than the King James Version, not having faithfully and dutifully memorized scripture verses that were assigned, not evangelizing in the Mission Field in between services, not attending Wednesday Night prayer/devotional meetings and/or Sunday Evening Services, associating with unbelievers, the use of swearing, cussing, or off-color jokes, missing more than one service in a row without an absence slip, not participating in ‘club meetings’ or ‘outreach events,’ and not engaging in Sword Drills. There are two components to life and/or the human mind: An internal and an external expression. Since day ONE, I have been indoctrinated with what you might call a form of Protestant Puritanism. Let’s get started!! Yay!! There will be hell to pay for those who womanize and adhere to their lustful and sinful ways. I am not a Democrat, nor a member of the Ku Klux Klan. I play every sport and every musical instrument. I’m a singer/songwriter/fiction/non-fiction writer — after all. I shower daily and do my exercises, polish my teeth, and give a firm and solid Christian Handshake. I pay my bills on time, my car insurance, registration, and do NOT spend my money frivolously on expensive restaurants and $45 car washes. I do not waste my time playing video games that are of satan and lucifer’s hordes of demons. I play professional sports: Tennis and Frisbee. NOT Kick-the-Can and Stick-Ball… how trashy! Again, TV, Movies, Internet, Fast Food, Sexual Activity Outside of Wedlock, Rock and Roll Music, Hip-Hop Music, and not casting your vote for the Republican Party are of SATAN! And for those of you who claim I am racist… HOW DARE YOU! For I: Teach Professional Kickball, RedRover, and Professional ‘Tag-You’re-It’ Tournaments. I am NOT afraid of Poopy and/or Pee-Pee Diapers, Slobber, or Canines/Felines; a True SERVANT of CHRIST for Him and HIS DISCIPLES!!!! WAKE UP!! For True Christian Men are NOT afraid of such condiments. Furthermore, True followers of Christ part their hair on the side with quality hair care product, do NOT eat ice cream after 7pm. They are dressed for the day before twenty rounds of sit-ups and do NOT sprinkle sugar on their oatmeal, grits, or any other Christian approved breakfast product. The TRUE follower of Christ does NOT drive luxury cars to Easter Service, park them in the parking lot and pray for rain. For the Lord will punish them for their un-Godly ways; ten-thousand-fold! There is a special place in hell for those who take these ‘so-called’ smoke breaks. Sugar or any food product containing fructose or sucrose is ungodly and harmful to the human body. These Children of the Light are to stand at the curb to catch the van at 7am promptly for their ride to the Christian Academy, where only clean and wholesome joking is permitted. The true follower of Christ does not entangle their thoughts in the counsel of the ungodly, worship sports teams, (which includes but is not limited to praying for the outcome of any sporting event; for the Lord does not waste His time calculating why or how teams win or lose) musical acts, or any other Government Official’s best interests’. PENCIL’S DOWN! They complete all their homework on time and do not take part in un-Christ-Like fornication. This includes den meetings in the Pizza Hut, Little Caesar’s, or Marco’s basement or any other such nonsense. Those who draw pictures of anatomically correct men and women in the second grade will be taken to the principal’s office to suffer for their wrongdoing, and are to be suspended from all classwork and Bible Teaching until their pink-slips have been signed by their parent or legal guardian.
“I feel guilty for not praying for the Lord to bless these Twix Bars.”
“Don’t feel guilty. It’s a snack. Not a meal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hey where’s the bread?”
“I don’t do carbs anymore. Remember?”
“Where are you going with this again?”
“With what?”
“THIS!!”
“Oh yeah. Let’s stay on track. Why do you feel you’re so unproductive?”
“Because I lay down the law, and am GREAT with impressions. Have you heard my Kermit impression?”
“The Chinaman?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Here’s a marketing joke for you: Slap a green leaf, cursive writing, and the words ‘organic’ on a product, and they’ll eat it up.”
“I know. It’s all a ruse. And the term ‘diet’ is soooooo 80’s.”
“How are you metabolizing all of this?”
“Very Very Very carefully.” Slap Slap.
“You need to get out more,” said Pippa, eyebrows raised.
“Sure. Out to where?” said Harris, propping his feet up on the armrest of the couch. “To do what?”
“That’s something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.”
“Haven’t we been over this? I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. You know what I think?”
“No. What?”
“I think you’re overly ambitious about life. I like simplicity. Drinking beer. Smoking weed. Eating TV dinners and not really doing much. You want me to get into politics, workout every morning, find a full time job, write a best selling novel and tour the world. I don’t really want to do that. You can’t understand that? I’m fucking tired.”
“You’re right. I AM more ambitious than most. Mostly to support my crack and heroin habit quite honestly.”
“Yeah,” said Harris. “You should try just smoking weed.”
“I don’t like that stuff.”
“I know you don’t. It seems like your whole life is just chasing ‘the buzz.’ You’re a buzz-a-holic.”
“Everyone’s addicted to something.”
“Yeah… I know. Some of the most prolific artists, musicians, and politicians are addicts.”
“There you go making excuses again.”
“Who are you to judge?”
“Life is too short to not have fun. Have you seen how depressed most people are? I have a feeling that 98% of most people are morbidly depressed — myself included. That’s why I’m write so much. It doesn’t matter if it’s a letter, a poem, a story, or a confession. I find writing to be the best form of personal therapy.”
“You have no marketing strategy.”
“Why do I need one? I’m not writing for other people — I do it for myself. You don’t like it, you can kiss my ass.”
“Fine. Whatever,” said Harris.
“I think once you hit a certain age in life, and I could be wrong, life loses its luster. You seem to have this ‘productivity bug’ coursing through your mind and body. Most people don’t want to read. They see it as something they HAVE to do. I also think you have mental health issues. You’re very articulate, and a great conversationalist, but so are a lot of homeless drunks and drug addicts. It’s too bad you weren’t diagnosed before your eighteenth birthday. You could be making two grand a month for doing absolutely nothing.”
“And live in a group home that is worse than living in prison? No way. Hey dude…let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“You got any money?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Pippa, jumping up off of the dirty couch.

DeadSet In His Ways
— {.00//}

Addison couldn’t tell if the Zoloft was starting to work or not. He could feel the side effects, mostly excess gas, but also found himself more constipated than usual. He didn’t stop drinking, but had cut down considerably for concerns of drug interactions. He was supposed to hang out with Trent and Harris the day before, but called it off, mostly from a headache. He spent a good portion of the morning drinking coffee and organizing the paperwork he would need for his new door-to-door gig. At this stage of the game, it was a matter of energy and motivation. The Department of Social Services were full of the Sparkly Customers and Recipients with their Wampum Warriors in tow. The Food Stamp Line was longer than a mile, but move rather quickly, considering there were only two to four Government Associates conducting business at any given time. Melody, however, found herself waiting for over three hours in the waiting room that was approximately 1/67th full. The rows of dark green pleather chairs appeared as though they had been donated from a defunct-1976-airport-gate, although in very good condition. She tapped around on her phone for a few restless minutes between moments of crouching over in despair with her face in her hands, crying out to her Higher Power for any kind of relief or solace they may offer. The only people in the facility carrying non-business or non-government related conversation were the five to eight or so of the Mercenaries of Padelle and the Wampum Warriors, studying a tablet with educational programming. They were being watched by the burly Latino security guard who appeared to be somewhere in his mid to late sixties. His English was very good. The rest of the clients and Government Associates were standing or sitting with blank and smile-less stares of personal torment, embarrassment, and defeat as the elevator muzak played rather loudly over the speakers — a modern rendition of “Norwegian Wood.” All of a sudden, one of the handicapped wheel-chair bound recipients made a conscious decision to have a party by herself, not being able to handle the collective defeat and desolation. She put on a live version of a Destiny’s Child song, and began to sing and bob her head. No one joined in. No one was happy — especially Fenton. He was always proud of the fact that he had good eye sight, but not he had a difficult time determining if it was the booze that was making his eyesight fuzzy, or the fact that he, along with most others spent the waking day staring into illuminated monitors. This was also compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had a solid eight hours of sleep for as long as he could remember. He had been sleeping or passing out in two and three hour increments since his last trip to rehab, and was now to the point where he derived little to no pleasure from media. There weren’t any movies or TV shows out that he wanted to see, sports teams he wanted to follow, or video games he wanted to play. His major obsession as a kid was playing video games. This was during the height of the arcade revolution. When Mortal Kombat hit the scene in the early nineties, he was fascinated with the fatalities, and when it hit the home console market, he would make friends at school who had the game for that reason only. It’s controversial blood and gore intrigued him to no end, and made him want to jam quarters into every cabinet he could find. His video game addiction went away when he reached his late twenties, and his logic was that he had over-done it, and because of that, it wasn’t as fun as it once was. But now it was a different generation, and like Blockbuster Video, the consoles had caught up with the arcade. You could literally now fit a free movie theater or video game console with every title imaginable in the palm of your hand. What’s more, is The Pep-Talk President was a giant in his own right. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd — easy to spot anywhere. This was especially true during his business trip to Cambodia. His verbiage was chock full of popular and not-so-popular sales limericks. To him, it wasn’t the bum cornfield, but the bum IN the cornfield. He wasn’t in the best shape of his life, but liked to project the smaller portion size [GNC-gym-bag-protien-pellet/powder-no-carb-carnivore] 100% organic/natural diet, and his timbre was extremely loud. His loft was high above the city — a maze like an all inclusive resort. He wasn’t paying for the room, so much as the amenities which included a sauna, steamer, outdoor pool, yoga room, massage parlor, gas grills, All You Can Drink Free Starbucks, and business center. It also included a ‘wash-your-doggy’ spa. To describe him as an eccentric would be a major understatement. He led a Bible Study in his loft called ‘Leading Call Girls To Christ,’ to where he would preach while penetrating. He wasn’t the most articulate guy by any means, but difficult to say ‘no’ to because of his height and charisma. He held a PHD in ‘bull-shittery’ and was a mixologist of business and pleasure. He could sign anyone up for anything. After basketball practice, the Pep-Talk President took the boys out for wings at Taco Mac, high-fiving them individually as they walked outside to be picked up by their parents. He felt a real sense of accomplishment that day — that he had given back to society out of the goodness of his bleeding heart. The Deli Convention proved to be a real eye opener to Fenton as he made his way to the basement of the Imperial Palace and Lounge. He knew he was a sharp salesman, but wasn’t satisfied with the compensation plan that was put in front of him. He didn’t want accolades from his peers, he didn’t consider himself to even be all that good looking to begin with, but Cathy and Art stood out in the back of his mind during the sampling on the 12th floor of beach-front Holiday Inn in Virginia Beach. He couldn’t understand how all of his expenses were being comped, and that he was virtually doing absolutely nothing for five hundred dollars a week. Several weeks later, the Nitpicker Brigade stormed the finishing school, the one over on Kensley Circle, Exit 3A. Trent knew there really was no such thing as ‘writer’s block,’ — but did wholeheartedly believe in the concept of “writer’s toilet,” — aka staring at a blank page or monitor with fingers ready, like a constipated state of “I-must-do-this-ness.” Embarrassing at times, yet proud from the onset to talk about, for Trent anyway, believing it to be a major infraction of the soul; pissing off the reader to no end, as anticlimactic and annoying as those online ads that tell you how easy it is to make an extra fifty bucks a month by just installing their app, or writing reviews on pizza delivery services, or entering short fiction and top ten contests for a chance to win a three dollar Amazon Gift Card. The Skirt Chasers were superior in utilizing their intelligence directive and savvy management skills, not mere brawn. This really got under the skin of the Wampum Warriors. There would be free classes and seminars in higher learning at either side — etiquette, form, and the like. Jules and Melody — they could go anywhere with the story — there weren’t any rules. These were just some of the sharpest brains on the planet. Time being the hottest; ultimate commodity, the insufferable price tag, the horrid and plotless character study — the chocolate books, candy cane dollar bills, and spicy cheddar sunflower seed wrappers filled to the brim with priceless jewelry and a thank you card from the Pope. It was all the same, and they may as well have all been riding vintage unicycles, dipping and slurping Cheese Whiz with five hundred dollar bills down Stupor Alley, covered with broken whisky bottles on the way to a very wealthy senator’s mansion, and then puking it all back up half a mile later on his buddy congressman’s best Persian rug. For outside the Platypus Wrecker’s compound, only ten miles from the sand pit were the boxes of cue tips that Harris had e-mailed Tatiana about in November. They were right on time. Always punctual, even though the gang stopped setting alarm clocks to wake up from a busy work day. Deciphering between inspiration and that crisis organization seemed to be the hardest part. Five hundred dollars a week to stand in grocery stores with plates of meat and cheese. Jim had told him to just let their taste buds do the talking. During his trip to Carlsbad, it was drunken first class flight to the German Portal of Au-Gratin; the best buffet money would allow. Then off to listen to French Restaurant just on the outskirts of Denver where he met up with his old buddy Bobby from Cleveland that he hadn’t seen in ten or so years. Crazy Carolyn’s rant’s seemed like she was knitting and rolling together the slices of meat and cheese to the customer. There were also bottles and canisters of dipping sauces and mustard variants in cars of nepotism, staring at Sales Managers and Entrepreneurs and Life Insurance Agents. Was this financial independence? How could it be humanly possible to live a life of shoveling down all these Shop-Rite Knock-Off Hams and cheap vodka? The Mince Meat Buffets and Hibachi Specialists made their appearance as Thom the Dom picked up a microphone at the Newark Hospitality Suite of Gossip and Intrigue. The Holiday Party Platters and Buffalo Chicken Dip Recipes were fair game in Boston, along with the sub program. As long as everyone had valid ID’s, they could make the trip to the plant in Philly. To see how all the best were manufactured. Seven months later, Fenton couldn’t believe his eyes when he bumped into Doug at the Uptown BJ’s Wholesaler. He still had his job, even though his alcoholism had gotten the better of him. After this, he passed out in the parking lot in Jersey City with the rest of the Taste-Testers. He could remember his early years when it was nothing but kicking ass and taking names. Trent was his own editor. He had to work on the cheap, and money being a strange concept, so was his skin. All his friends and enemies spoke, acted, and appeared like millionaires, but in actuality had very few financial assets. He found it easy to get ‘pumped-up’ over nothing, and he had now hit the age where life at times becomes a death wish, because everything that dealt him during the course of the living day was for the most part pure torture. Physically, mentally, and spiritually. His only goal in life at this point was to be hungry enough to chow down on some cheap TV dinners and call it a night. The thrill was gone. Caput. His ‘outlaw’ ass should have been dead eons ago, along with any sense of accomplishment or advocacy he might have procured along the road, ready to just curl up in a ball and die. Harris was ready to just write and write till Kingdom Come and Post on social media until infinity. Pippa was wowed. She couldn’t ignore these things. And yet another strange foggy afternoon at the Grumble Neck County Public Pool was upon the Skirt Chasers, for another heist at the Gwaltneneir Piano Grille. Harris sat quietly, reading one of his friend’s blogs about Kawasaki ATV’s, sipping a St. Pauly Girl, his bluish eyes looming around the very vacant establishment every five seconds or so. The barkeep asked him if he was going to order anything to eat, but he declined. Harris grabbed his beer and walked out onto the patio, sitting at one of the three tables, pushing aside some dirty plates and glassware. He wanted to get started on filing his taxes, but being Sunday, the office was closed, and he wouldn’t be able to get his W-2’s sent over until the following morning. April, Melody, and Fenton pulled into the parking lot in her 1992 Chevy Caprice, the muffler scraping on the pavement. Trent told her he could band-aid it with a few clothes hangers until she could get it to a garage. She had only paid two hundred for it, and he said he could tell. April had been on her usual Homewrecking Missions for the past three days, always taking the time to have all of her clients fill out surveys before she was off to the next one. Down deep, she felt like sludge though; bottom of the barrel, yet content with her optical resonance, keeping it hush hush at the right time before walking up to anyone’s door. Not always, but most of the time. The piano player took his seat and started to play slowly, depressingly. The tones were dissonant as they were minor, evoking notions of inexperience and rigidity at times, but to the trained ear, intentional. That musty upright was horribly out of tune with only seventy two working keys; a handful of the sharps and flats broken off from years of abuse. Several nearby college students started to shuffle in, setting up and plugging in their laptops, joking about finals week. An 8-year-old autistic boy started to jump up and down on an antique horse-hair couch in the corner, drooling, as his father pulled him away with one of those kid-leashes. April shook her head in disgust that any child — handicapped or otherwise — should have to be lead around on a leash anywhere by anyone. She wanted to speak up, but refrained. Trent was already four beers deep and decided to order a large coffee with four shots of espresso to wake back up. April told him that it would only make him more irritable. She handed him her vaporizer with some killer wax from Cali to which he gladly accepted. He took a few long drags, holding the third puff in for several seconds before exhaling. There it was. In the corner. Harris’ eyes zoomed in on the Rand McNally map that was right where it was supposed to be. He got up quietly and slowly made his way over, placing it firmly under his arm, sliding out to the patio. Addison pulled up several seconds later, flagging him down. After a quick conversation, he peeled off, cranking up the heater full blast. Trent laughed under his breath, a quick salute, twisting his foot into a dandelion in between the sidewalk crack. Trent started talking to April about how psychiatrist loved to ask the same question: Have you been hearing any voices? Then she wondered how else anyone could write dialogue on paper before responding. This was all of course paired with Vexroad’s Cortex, everything getting boring all of a sudden. Then April started to criticize Harris’ story. He didn’t care that she said she didn’t like any of it. He though it was funny, and that’s all that really mattered. She told him that what he was doing wasn’t really writing, but just typing — that a baboon could have done it. Again, he didn’t really care what she thought. Harris knew no one was going to spend money on it, that it was all way to avante garde. Melody chimed in saying what Harris was doing wasn’t a book, but a game. One big psychological game, and that Harris was better at interpreting how anyone could pick out certain scenes or characters to bring up into the discussion, that it kind of told him what was going on in the reader’s head, to the idea of, ‘well hmmm… that person or paragraph or word choice stuck out. Trent interjected saying that it didn’t matter if the content was deplorable or heavenly or euphoric or whatever, the main point was that it evoked some kind of response or lack of, and even lack of response were to tell him a few things about it as such. Harris could tell that everyone at the table seemed to think he was a rip-off artist, nothing but a two bit plagiarist, even though, deep down, he knew he was doing no such thing. Everyone had an opinion that night. Harris thought of his own work as rebellious, maybe infamous in many ways, with content that most people didn’t feel comfortable discussing, but that was the risk he was willing to take. Pippa kept right on point in her critical analysis, defending Harris, saying there was probably a little bit of himself in every character, and that was breaking it all down as simply as possible. April seemed to think his narrators seemed to lose their mind, but to Harris, that was half the fun. If they didn’t want to take the time to read and study it, and really do their homework, they were missing out on the ‘live’ book club so to speak. Fenton didn’t like any of it saying he’d be ashamed if it were him attaching his name to ribald content such as his, that it was downright perverted in certain areas. It wasn’t a Bible lesson for little kids — that was for dang sure. Then Harris, self-deprecatingly admitted he got a little lazy at times, covering the same themes and topics, namely addiction, insanity, spirituality, sales and marketing, telling the same story over and over again like an AC/DC song, saying his junk looked like something that should be written on a dirty bathroom stall, or on a piece of cardboard from a homeless Veteran that is completely deranged from years and years of combat. Ultimately, Harris knew that virtually anyone could buy physical books at a bookstore or go to the library and steal the damn things if they were so inclined, and that his plan was a good one: generating his work for free. Anyone could share a link with anyone at any given time. He couldn’t make his fans read, but he sure like to try. Pippa seemed to think he was selling himself short, saying what he was doing seemed like a diabolical marketing ploy, trying to insult him, saying he wasn’t a real writer, that real writers sold books and went on tour and did interviews with real bona fide journalists, had bank accounts with more than at least twenty grand, and that his method of cutting and pasting his story all over the place was a direct rip off of the beat-writer motif, going as far to calling his stuff a wasteland or landfill of prose.
“Ahh,” said Harris, “now you’re catching on. Continue.”
“I’m hip to your game.”
“What game is that?”
“I’ve got an ad campaign going whether you like it or not. Walt Disney saw pictures of Spaceship Earth before anyone else did anyway. What’s it to you? You gonna steal it or something? Ha ha ha!!! It’s funny how you use terms like ‘it’ or ‘this’ when you talk about my stuff. You’re trying to define it, and I commend you for it. It means you really care. I’m flattered. Really. Hey don’t roll that stop sign. Careful.”
“Nah. We’re good.”


MENTAL HEALTH ASSESSMENT AT CORRIDOR GARAGE
[Motivation and/vs Personal Responsibility]

“You need to figure out what motivates you Harris,” said Pippa.

“I know what motivates me, but I feel as though I mismanage time.”
“Well we’re all guilty of that, but can you give me an example?”
“I wake up whenever I want and live a life of impulse, instant gratification, and I don’t count the cost like I should.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Impulse and discipline are mortal enemies. I could just as easily spend fifty dollars on cases of steak and beer as much as I could on a gym membership if you’re looking for some sort of analogy.”
“We all wish we could fire on all cylinders all the time, but those aren’t realistic expectations for anyone.”

she continued…
“I know life isn’t all about ‘one thing.’”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Life is about people. Not stuff.”
“The stuff helps.”
“Sometimes it does. You can be broke and miserable and rich and miserable. Hey, I got some Applebee’s coupons. Wanna go?”
“Ehhh…”
“My treat.”
“Sure.”
“I think I look young for my age,” said Fenton.
“So do I,” said April.
“You do look young for your age. Yeah.”
“No. I mean YOU look young for your age.”
“Oh. I misunderstood what you were saying. Thanks.”
“Sure. Hey, you want to go to the Rec Center?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m exhausted. Coffee doesn’t do it for me anymore.”
“I’ve noticed that. Want a bump?”
“Sure. You know… I’m not a religious guy, but I think I sort of understand ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Genesis 2:7. But a lot of other faith based systems adhere to this theory. If you open your eyes and grasp the food chain theory, it makes sense — to me anyway. Every human is comprised of flesh and a soul. I’m not boring you, am I?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but it just seems like the entire planet is a huge recycling bin. With that in mind, life is beautiful as it is disgusting; a kind of paradise and cesspool.”
“You ever think about getting married and having children of your own?”
“It would kind of be a selfish move in my opinion.”
“Why do you say that? Enlighten me.”
“Why are you putting me on the spot like this?”
“Well you brought all of this up. I’m intrigued I suppose.”
“People think they have control over their own lives, and to a degree, maybe they’re right. But I think God did all of this out of boredom — creating sentient beings that have free-will — to pick and choose their destiny. I’m not saying I hold myself to a higher standard, but I do feel as though I am an anomaly.”
“I think you’re a brilliant philosopher.”
“Thanks.”
“No… I really mean that.”
“Here’s what I think… when you’re a talented, good-looking kid, it’s easy to believe that the world actually does revolve around you. But as you get older, you find out that it isn’t the case at all, and even winning the lottery wouldn’t solve your problems. Is that a fair assessment?”
“I’d say so.”
“So what do you want out of life? Can you answer that?”
“If I’m brutally honest with you and myself — that’s kind of what sickens me.”
“I know. What was school life like for you growing up?”
“Uhhh… wake up, breakfast, van ride, car-port drop off, classes, Little Debbie, singing, recess, paper-mache… same as anyone else. I did pretty well… all things considered.”
“No, I know,” said April, “you’re very talented, but I think you confuse moral ethics with financial, and maybe even physical health?”
“That’s my dilemma. I won’t disagree with you. I know… right and wrong vs healthy and wealthy. Like someone who is really good at robbing banks, proud of his evil or wrong-doing, lives in the Bahamas under a phoney name, will never get caught, and is physically healthy as well. Or a corrupt politician… or to reduce the whole issue down to something as simple as Nice-Guys-Finish-Last… you’re great at your job. I’m not trying to wear a halo of innocence or goody-two-shoeness when I say I’m not comfortable cheating through life. Are you insinuating you want to go rob a bank with me or something?”
“Aren’t you funny.”
“Hey,” said Fenton. “I feel like I’m paying you $85/hr to do stand-up comedy for YOU!?”
“You’re really something else,” said April, still laughing. “Look, if you don’t want to continue our sessions, we don’t have to.”
“No. You’re worth it. It’s worth it. What’s a person really good for anyway? The exchange of goods and services — love and friendship included. Love and friendship are commodities.”
“I think you’re looking at all of this too cut and dry Fenton. Life isn’t so cut and dry. You need to get out more. Life isn’t about following some sort of rule book.”
“You’re a bad influence on me,” laughed Fenton. “You’re corrupting me. Nah I’m good. Just kidding.”
“Let’s continue our session this time next week?”
“Sure.”