The Great Writer

“So I hear you split with your chick. You guys were together for awhile, right?”

“Yeah. Shits been weird around here. I can’t keep up with the great writer. He goes hard. Last night he came home from god knows where, wearing just his underwear, drunk as fuck, bleeding from his nose. He had four stray dogs with him.”

“Damn dude.”

“Last week at like 3:00am, he barges in my room, I’m boning my chick, and all of a sudden he’s right there next to my face, yelling at me, ‘You fuck like a bitch! Let me show you how a MAN fucks!  Get off!  My turn!’…”

“What the fuck? Who is this guy?”

“John LaFrank.  He’s a genius. I told you that already. Get this, he rigged up a sparring dummy with some old clothes and ziplock baggies full of ketchup, taped ‘em underneath the clothes where all the major arteries are. He’s been teaching my kids how to stab people. My youngest pulled a knife on me last week because I ‘disrespected’ him.”

“So what about your chick?”

“She’s living in the garage with the great writer. The kids started sleeping in there too. Like I said, everything is weird around here lately.”

“Alright man, well take it easy.”

“You too.”


Mongolia’s Violence Guy

“Gantulga has killed another motorcycle rider this week. I was there! The man was trying to sell us electronics, when I hear Gantulga yell ‘etsegtei shaalga’, so I look over to where the motorcycle man had been, and there he was, on the dirt, bleeding a river. Gantulga was dancing over him, swinging that wooden stick, and smiling like a devil.”

Oyuunchimeg silently listened to the young boy’s story. He didn’t mind the occasional murder, he was the oldest man on the steppe, and liked how Gantulga held on to the old ways, riding horses, shooting his bow, even drinking airag still. In the year 2147 most men preferred the clear alcohol sold by Turks.
The number of dead city people was getting to be a problem though, as Gantulga had lately refused to bury them. ‘Let the birds feast on these useless city rats!’ he’d say.

Gantulga seemed very much different since the first time his horse kicked his head, 2 months ago on the first day of the year. Since then, he had been head kicked 17 times. It was obvious early on, after the third or fourth time that he was intentionally getting the horse to kick him.

Gantulga had also been drunk every night since the new year, always trying to show the younger men how to hit each other with fists, never sleeping, and spending many hours in his ger doing mysterious things. As Oyuunchimeg sat on the ground quietly thinking of all these things, Gantulga drunkenly emerged from his ger and proclaimed “I have just written 4 books on how to properly kill motorcycle men and city sissies.” In his hand were 4 leather bound, hand written books. Oyuunchimeg took one from him and tried to decipher it, but the writing was strange to him. Gantulga had never been to the city, and thus had never learned to read, much less write. This was troubling. Oyuunchimeg became worried Gantulga was indeed insane.

The Pool

Me and the younger kid were trying our hand at finishing drywall, when he asked “Can we go to the pool?”   He’s been a good helper, so there’s no way I could say no.  “Tell your brother to put on some trunks and let’s go.”

Fast forward to the pool.  My 2 sons, 8 and 9 years old were playing water basketball, peacefully enough before a group of 3 black kids between about 12 and 14 started in.  I was sitting off to the edge in my street clothes, glancing at a book and periodically glancing at the pool.  I see a little scuffle and walk over.  I told my 8 year old “come out and talk to me over here.  What’s going on?”  He tells me “That black kid keeps splashing me, he spit in my face and called me a bitch.”  I tell him “if he calls you a bitch or spits on you again, punch him in the nose.”

“let’s go talk to your brother now.”  I tell his 9 year old brother “stay with your little brother.  If anything happens, don’t let him get hurt, you hear me?  Stay next to him.”

So, they go back to play water basketball, and the kid spits on my 8 year old son, and calls him a bitch.  Before the 8 year old has a chance to act, his 9 year old brother steps in and smashes the black teen twice, two hits to the nose.  After that, it kinda  turned into an all around scuffle.

The life guards immediately blame my two younger smaller white boys, so I motion from across the pool for my boys to come over to me.  No sooner do they come, now here’s three men of color walking aggressively towards me.  I stand to greet them and the leader of the pack tells me “Yo kid hit my kid.  Whatchoo gonna do about that?”    I lie and say “I didn’t see my kid hit anyone.”  And then, “my kid tells me your kid spit on him and called him a bitch.”   The man with his 2 friends beside him informs me in a menacing tone “you need to talk to yo kid!”  Sorry folks, but if there’s one thing I won’t stand for it’s a stranger showing any sign of aggression anywhere near my children.  Every instinct in me wants to drop this clown, slap the doo-rag off his nappy head (the three guys were also wearing street clothes, not swimming), and stomp his brains out until one side of the pool is pink

As he took another step closer to me, I looked deeply into his chocolate eyes and pointed my finger to the south.  “Walk the fuck away right now.”  The three wannabe gangsters walked away, not before calling me a bitch over their shoulder.  All this is going on at the edge of the pool.  I turned to the military age male lifeguard and said “you’re a coward.  You saw exactly what was going on the whole time, and just looked the other way.  Easier to blame my kids isn’t it?”

I asked my kids if they were scared during the ruckus at the pool.  The 9 year told me “I wasn’t scared and I don’t feel bad about punching that kid.  He never should have bullied my little brother.”  Sometimes walking away is best, and the idea of me hospitalizing 3 people of color in the parking lot, fun as it may be, wasn’t really a very good option if it could be avoided. We left the pool, and got some ice cream on the way home.

Today they learned something.

I don’t know what, but something.

The Last Temptation of Spunky

The voice on the phone was frantic and sobbing, rhythmic, like a song.  Each word was a chord, rooted in notes of desperation   The name of the song is ‘person on the edge’.  We’ve all heard it, we’ve all sung it, maybe you can’t play it on your ukelele, but you recognize it when you hear it

“Spunky’s dead.  Bwa-ha-harm-um-ung-aahhhh…”.  He could barely hear her, which was a blessing.

“I’m sorry, I know you loved that dog.”  The dog was 20 years old, not exactly a full scale tragedy.

“Can you bury him for me?  He-he’s starting to stiiiink-uh-huh-ung-huh-un-hng…”. His mind wandered, and he pondered, how she would react during an actual tragedy.  Are women really this fragile?   He didn’t even cry when his old man died.  He was 14…..

“Yeah, ok. I’ll come over and bring my shovel, be there around one o’clock. Make sure you don’t pass out drunk and leave your door locked again. I got a million things to do today and don’t wanna fuck around with this deal.  Where’s the dog at now?”

“He’s in my bed, I’ve been sleeping with him and cuddling him, I don’t want to let him go….”

He began to laugh, but stopped himself.  “Look, you can’t keep a dead dog in your bed…..”

”I got a towel under him….”

”You can’t keep dead things in the house.  You can’t cuddle with dead dogs.  Put him in a garbage bag and leave it outside.”

”I’m NOT going to put SPUNKY in a GARBAGE BAG!  He’s NOT GARBAGE!”

His mind went back to all the times she complained that his pillows smelled funny, how she was forever irritated in his bed, because he ‘fucked that WHORE on the sheets I BOUGHT YOU’…..

”You gotta get Spunky out of the house.  Your other dogs are gonna start eating him, and then you’re really gonna lose your shit…..”

”They’re not gonna eat him!  God, why did I even call you?  You’re so insensitive!  Every time I call you with some—-“

As he hung up, he casually wondered to himself how many plagues have arisen through the ages due to some goofy woman cuddling a dead thing.  He decided to let her dig that grave herself.

The test

“Hey thanks for the reference.
I got that job, it’s 40 hours a week.”
“Yeah, no problem. Not the first time I lied for you.”
“Uh, could you hook me up with some of yer piss too?”
“Just like old times, right baby?”
“Ugh. I’m never gonna live that down, am I? Anyway, I found this perfect sized plastic container, it’s like a cylinder, it’ll fit right in my vadge. I thought it might be too big, but my mom looked at it and laughed, she said ‘if you can’t fit THAT in your pussy, you’ll never survive prison’,
I’m like ‘I have a shallow cervix, you don’t understand!’,
She don’t get it. But, I think it’ll work.”
“Tell yer ma I said hi.”
“She’s still mad you called her a junkie whore.”
“Oh yeah. Huh-huh-huh.”
“Remember Valentine’s Day?”
“The day we broke up? You raped me, called my mom a junkie whore, stole $20 from my purse, and then kicked me out of your car?”
“I hate holidays.”
“You hate yourself.”
“Stop by later if you want my liquid gold.”
“Ok. Bye.”


The tall yankee was listening to the Texan, calmly digesting his words, and keeping the poker face he learned from his father.
“Now, I know you weren’t raised on a farm, uh-huh-huh, but lemme tell ya, when me and Jeb were kids we fucked everything on that farm but the tractor, and goddamn if we didn’t at least jack-off on it.” The tall yankee had disliked the Texan since the first time they met, almost 40 years before. Now here they were, in this strange room, dimly lit by a few candles and surrounded by men with names like Austan and Winston.
“Hell, my daddy and granddaddy both did it, I did it, you don’t have to like it, but you gotta do it.”, the Texan now suddenly taking on an air of arrogance, the bully inside him coming out.
“I can assure you that my performance won’t be a problem. I was the top gunslinger at Fordham. They didn’t call me the rifleman for nothing.” The tall yankee could still perform at the drop of a skirt, that much was true.
His audience would be the most powerful men in the nation, dressed in robes, chanting gibberish, all very faggy in the tall yankee’s estimation. Secret meanings in numbers? These guys reminded the him of the old Jewish women he used to collect rent from as a kid. Every question answered with another question, nothing but a bunch of rich kids acting silly. They even had a secret knock. Goddamn queers….

The chants grew louder, and the tall yankee was instructed to kneel before the alter. The smell of incense hung in the air.

“Praise, Hail Satan!
Glory be to Satan the Father of the Earth
and to Lucifer our guiding light
and to Belial who walks between worlds
and to Lilith the queen of the night
As it was in the void of the beginning
Is now, and ever shall be, Satan’s kingdom without End
so it is done.”

The tall yankee regarded it all with the same reverence one may have for a newspaper horoscope or a fortune cookie.

And now here they came, six men carrying a large female gorilla, shaved,sedated, and tied to a litter. Atop the gorilla’s head was a cheap blond wig, and on her primate body were blue thong panties, a garter belt and blue stockings. A blue lace bra was the finishing touch.

The Texan looked at the tall yankee with a sly grin.

“Hey, we didn’t used to shave ‘em back when I did it. It was my idea. Ya kinda squint your eyes, and you can almost imagine it was some real ghetto-boot-tay!”

The tall yankee regarded him again and asked, “Is that really Geronimo’s skull over there?” This was the signal.

In less than a moment, the shock of flash bang grenades and white smoke filled the ritual chamber, and in rushed men wearing swat gear, the federal agents, who were showing very little concern for civil rights or due process, the trigger happy feds dispensing lead to anything that moved. Within a few brief seconds, all was calm and those still alive were cuffed and led out to god knows where, probably some CIA torture house in Eastern Europe.
“Are you ok sir?” The young marine asked the yankee.
“I’m fabulous, never better. I’d say this swamp has been drained. You know, when they brought the ape out, I thought it was Rosie O’Donnel for just a second. That poor monkey.”
With that, he followed the young marine out to the waiting helicopter.

Apache Princess

It was a strange night.  Bad vibes were in the air, that calm before the storm feeling.   Being a Friday, me and another guy drove into town to get drunk and see what we could get into.  As we were sitting in the small western style saloon, we both commented on the atmosphere, and decided there was something to it.  Out of the blue, the bartender jumped over the bar and began to beat the bejesus out of a large Nordic looking fellow.  The bartender had helped me out one time, making sure the crowd didn’t pummel me while I, (a stranger to all)beat up a guy at his own birthday party (a stranger to me), so I kept my eyes on the action, in case he needed a hand.  It was over quick.   The bartender reprimanded me for not pulling him off his enemy.  I wasn’t quite sure why I would have, but I was still new to small town customs.

My drinking partner and I headed off towards one of the casinos, where I was soon to meet one of the most beautiful, evil and crazy women I’ve ever known.

Her name was Amber Lopez, and she told me she was the great great  grand daughter of Cochise.

We started seeing each other pretty regularly, and man, she was fun to be around.  Total alcoholic, but very sweet, and the more I got to know her, very crazy.

She was staying with a lady in town who picked up strays, stray dogs, stray people, you name it.  This lady already had six kids, and her brother living in that trailer, along with I don’t know how many dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, whatever the kids could catch out in the desert.   The lady also had a badly burned face, as her husband had knocked her out and attempted to burn down her last trailer with her still in it.  He was still in town and showed up at the new trailer periodically to blacken her eyes, or break one of her arms, she was scared of him, really traumatized.  Her brother came up from Georgia to try and protect her, but he seemed pretty meek.  They were poor white hillbilly trash, and really kind hearted people.  After Amber was gone, I’d still stop by there now and then and give the lady rides to the grocery store, do little things here and there to try and help her out.

Amber had a little two year old daughter, and a husband who had left them both and gone back to Mexico.  She told me she had a total of seven kids, but was such a bad alcoholic, the state and her parents had custody of the other six. (You never would have guessed that this soft skinned half breed beauty had birthed 7 kids.)    We were both 27, and I knew I wouldn’t be with her for long.  She was just too much for me.

I started noticing a guy hanging around the trailer when I’d go pick her up.   He was some kind of hood from New Orleans, got arrested on his way to Las Vegas, and was now stuck in this small Nevada town.  I already told Amber she wouldn’t be moving in with me, so when I heard she left town with that guy, I wasn’t surprised.  The last time I saw her, I left her on the side of the road in the middle of the desert, 20 miles from town.  Her car broke down and I had to be to work the next morning.  I hitched a ride with a car full of drunk Mexicans headed east, and left her thumbing for a ride west.

The lady she was staying with told me the circumstances surrounding Amber’s departure.

The guy from New Orleans showed  up at the trailer with a big knot of cash and a new Lincoln Mark IV, and invited the lady to accompany him and Amber to Las Vegas for a night of fun.  Half way there, he announces that the real destination is New Orleans.  They stopped at a rest area and the lady said she would just catch a ride back home from there, she wasn’t going to New Orleans.  Amber for some reason decides that she wants to give her daughter away, and begins trying to pass the kid off to people at the rest area.  The lady who always takes in strays offers to take the kid, take care of her until Amber comes back from New Orleans, but Amber doesn’t want that, she wants to give her to a stranger.  The lady finally catches a ride back home, she’s got her own kids to fret over, and her last glimpse of Amber was of her approaching another stranger at the rest area with her little daughter in tow.  That was August 18, 2005, a week before hurricane Katrina made landfall, which was the second big disaster to hit New Orleans that week.