Red Silhouette

Red Silhouette sways with the gentle breeze of the door like a blood stained reed growing out of the incredible muck. Feet stick to the floor where bottles of wine and booze and beer have been dropped by inebriates trying to hold on the tail of the Goodtimes Dragon, never learning it's impossible to hold on with its smooth scaly flesh.

A mass of newspaper and a trash bag are called, and declared good enough, until men stand frozen in their spots, trying with all their atrophied strength to move from their spots but only pantomime movement, swinging their bottles until exhaustion and inevitably adding to the trap.

She says nothing on her own to the sodden customers, ignores their questioning leers as they search in vain under her woven clothing for a hint of a curve. When directly addressed her answers are short and to the point, offering no curves of insight into how she spends her life outside of the flypaper store.

Some ask and compliment the ornate rings, some ask about her off hours. Still others have offered their theories on freckles and kisses from angels.

No humor, good or bad, is offered by the dark blue eyes. No judgment is passed like the dark hair behind her slender ears.

Outside the men gather and open their purchase, comparing notes and offering advice, none of which they are brave enough to take. One nice night they wait outside until close and confront the manager, but he tells them he knows just as much as them, except for what is on her papers.

An address then, they exclaim, perhaps if we know where she lives we'll know if she thinks she's too good for us!

The manager tries to explain as best he can that he can't do that. He begs them for understanding. He offers to clean the floor, if only they will let the matter drop.

Later that week they form a plan, as best as they can at their various stages.

Behind dumpsters and telephone poles and blades of grass they all hide, admonishing each other to be quiet between belches and vomits and giggles.

Eventually the store lights turn off and Red Silhouette appears, carrying her large bag and seeming not to notice the barely ambulatory ambush awaiting her.

Her tall black boots click against the sidewalk as she disappears around the corner. The mens' shoes squeak with the filth of the store as they make their way after her. After much fumbling and jostling they make it to the corner and after a debate the bravest one peeks his bearded head around and tries to focus.

But Red Silhouette is already gone.

Mother's Day

The young mother performed her job admirably.

She had stayed quiet, and so did he, because he heard nothing.

Slowly waking, he heard only the sounds of rushed footsteps and the door closing behind them.

And while her blood flowed into the floorboards and the apartment below,

his birthday gift bounced in the corner of the ceiling, pushed by the endless draft.   

Just Another Day, Sadly

Just another day, sadly.

Took too many days off by one.

Rain, so can't drive. (I'll get those wipers fixed eventually)

Probably shouldn't spend the money anyway.

Would walk, but so many parks and kids.

A single bearded man wondering alone, they make videos about that.

I could wait until dark, if I want to get stabbed.

Besides, the perpetual fatigue is setting back in.

I'll manage to get that looked at too, once I find a doctor.

And maybe he can find some social scientist,

to explain this utopia we live in.

The Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet

The Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet.

Ninety pounds of hoop earrings and hair.

Has a theory of life involving knowing people and circles.

Twenty-nine years old, feels twenty-one.

Says too old to go on like this, running with strange men.

Broken hearted over someone.

It's all circles. And life. And wanting to be known.

When her friends pick her up she'll get some food.

Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet.

Waiting patiently on the front stairs.

To continue her circles and be known.

The Scarlet Speckled Whale and the Balding Wop

The Scarlet Speckled Whale and the Balding Wop.

Wild sexual deviants of the North Plains. Distributors of personal pestilence.

Wild echoed moans of street pick up threesomes fill the dingy halls. As one drunken sop after another falls into their perverted trap.

Nice enough folks, really, as long as they get their way.

Just a loosely attached sexual Bonnie and Clyde, bidding their time until whatever prevailing authority punishes them for their crimes.

The Pea Coat Phantom

The Pea Coat Phantom

Scent of cigarettes and madness

Merchant of refuse. Opportunist of open restrooms. Boarder of elevator shafts.

Silent shadow stalker. Open air cat walker.

You have to catch him on camera, yet his presence then is hard to believe.

If you manage to catch him, he'll shoot you with defiance.

What are you doing in his world?

He has no time for reason, lets you know he'll leave on his own terms.

Argument keeps him warm in the snow.

The Pea Coat Phantom, he says he's getting better.

But you wonder how far here is from there.

Mankato Backpage Inspiration

Being a writer, I am used to writer's block. I am also used to finding inspiration in the simplest of things. It could be in a news story, a song, or even in the smile of a child. But never did I think that I would find inspiration when perusing Mankato's Backpage. But I did, when I found this.

 When I read this I got on my knees in both thanks and humility.  Thanks to the muses for showing me such a beautiful piece of art, and humility in the knowledge that never, no matter how far into depravity or brain abuse I ventured, I would never produces a line like the one I just read.

It is, as I had mentioned, simply and act of pure genius.  It starts off slowly, like any beautiful piece of music.  Perhaps I simply have not heard of cloud 9 inches.  Perhaps it is like the regular cloud nine.  Perhaps I am in in the wrong part of Backpage.

Then it teases you with foreshadowing of crazy with the simple "come satisfy your c. raving".  What is c. raving?  Is it a name?  Is my c actually raving?  What is my c?...Ah, my C is raving for some cloud nine 9 inches.  It's all about context, it has layers.  It's starting to come together. This broad may be writing the deepest this may be the deepest escort ad since James Joyce posted in Craigslist.

But then the song must reach its crescendo, and this does not disappoint with

"Hey also sexcychoco her for maximum satisfaction ready to fullfil your every need u want be disappointed her to please you" 

Let that sink in for a little bit.  Can you make heads or tails of that? Are you having the same difficulty maintaining equilibrium I had while reading that?  If you are, it is because, like me, you have never been face to face with such unrelenting and uncompromising insanity and hatred for the English language.

I had tried to diagram that sentence, but soon gave up in face of the enormity of the task.  But from what I can piece together, if you want maximu satisfaction read to fullfil your every need you must, MUST sexcychoco her.  Oh, and sexcychoco I will.  And I must want to be disappointed for her to please me.  Or I must want to disappoint her for her to please me.  I'm sure it's one of the two.  And who the hell is "her" anyway?  Who is writing this?  Maybe her pimp, maybe she's cleverly using the third person to throw the cops off her trail.  The title does make use of the number 2, so maybe it is two girls.  But c'mon, you can't just start into a character like that without introducing her to the reader at all.  Like I said, I am just too simple to under stand this Pollock of a sentence.

Or did I say it was a song?  Hell, this thing has gotten even me confused about what I'm saying now.  I can't even keep it all straight anymore, but I have been inspired.  I'm going to go snort some Drano crystals and see what I can come up with.

ROCK N LEARN RL-929 GRAMMAR VO (Google Affiliate Ad)    

Heil Swimming Mankato!

Sometimes you have to take time from your own stories and let life tell its own. This photo courtesy the Mankato Area Public Schools Community Education & Recreation guide for Summer 2013.


Isn't that just the cutest little swimming Nazi?

Last Laugh

The Joke Man lay in the humming hospital room, dying and alone. 

“Alone and misunderstood,” he cursed to himself. “how quaint.”

Joke man had spent his entire life cursing and debasing the mundane, safe, unoriginal. He had created (sort of) a career for himself doing the completely original and unexpected.

Many (most) didn't appreciate what he did. But those that did, thought he was a genius. (especially himself) 

He tried to think of something completely new to say about the hum of the respiratory machine, the beep of the monitors, the body of his nurse, the quality of the food. 

Nothing came to mind. 

Soon the cliched cold crept through his typical ravaged body and the mundane dark came over his eyes. 

In front of himself he saw a smiling clown. A typical, easy scare, teenager jump scene clown.

Deep down he knew he had to laugh.

John Peters is So Cute

That Feels doll, full pale head but only partial body. No arms or legs, just a pink torso with four teats and white detachable suckling pigs. 

It was a steal, the associate told me, the last one they had in stock or would likely have. 

I took it and walked to the register, often checking the price on the tag which was constantly rising.

$69.95 did seem a little high. 

I set it aside and checked out the clearance box. I finally settled on the collection of a young girl's notebook diaries, with their neat scribblings and dream like drawings.

Paving Potter

Horace “Paving” Potter was the most feared and respected man in the whole town.

When people spoke to him they spoke respectfully. When they spoke of him they spoke quietly.

Horace wasn't rich, or a criminal, or even a politician. But he did know all of these.

You see, Paving Potter was just that, a paver for the city that had laid nearly all the streets in town.

And once you knew that, you knew where his power resided.

You see, he didn't know just what it took lay every city street. He knew who was buried beneath them.

Glory Hole

The oil dripping robotic arm burst through the wall and wrapped its rough fingers behind my head. He slammed my face into the already broken tile above the urinal until I thought I would finally see my attacker face to face.

But I never did get to see him, and he wouldn't stop until I slipped five dollars through the slit in the wall.

Some times are worse than others, but the first time is usually the worst.

Parade

The Man’s lights tempted epilepsy as they bounced off the buildings and our eyes on the once quietly-profitable night. As Brown Beverly thundered through the burnout street we knew the crackdown had begun.

Treev kept a keen eye on the road as he threw his paper hat out the window and tore the magnetic ice-cream sign off the side of his door.

“I told you it wouldn’t work!” I yelled over the blaring sirens of the cop car and jingling bell music of Brown Beverly’s stereo.

“Of course it worked,” Treev replied, watching the rear-view mirror; “it worked for a good half-hour or so.”
I turned in my seat to scan the back window and was nearly blinded with dazzling lights of whites and blues in every sort of flashing and blinking pattern. “I’m not sure that’s a good measure of success,” I replied.
“Well how was I supposed to know some fatty kid would turn rat on us? What’re they doing out this time of day anyway? Where’re their parents?”

The crackdown by the Prohibition Police had begun in earnest when the mayor’s son bought a nicotine product that was not even of the quality reserved for enemies or informers, and was forced to spend his entire horrible spring break sick and in bed.

Naturally the Pro-Po assumed that Treev had sold him the offending sin stick–an assumption that would have been obvious if it was true.

When we reached Stronghold Bergstrom Way, Treev violently jerked the wheel and with a loud rubber squeal we turned onto the street, which was packed with the usual mob of dead ends and wasted gestations. These were the lost souls that even Pathetic forgot and had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night but aimlessly wander the streets like scattered trash blown about by the breeze of human existence.

“I dunno,” I yelled over to Treev, grabbing my armrest and listening to loud-speakered commands to pull over, “maybe he just wants to buy some ice-cream.”

“Ditch it!” was all Treev replied, motioning first to the back seat and then out the window to the stumbling horde of hopelessness.

I turned again in my seat and grabbed fistfuls of sin stick packs, tossing them out the window onto the street, watching our profits get taken away in the winds of our desperation.

It was then that something began to happen.

I’m not sure if it was the blaring of the bell music or the lights and the sirens or the tossing of tempting treats, but something was knocked loose in the addled cobwebs of the mass’s mind and the people on the sidewalk started to act as if we were the lone members of a parade of some sick holiday long forgotten. Like a seeping sludge wave, closer the people edged towards our car, hands outstretched and clapping. Faces that just minutes before had been caked in despair were now washed clean by grinning and laughing.

There were more than a few thumps on the car as some wandered too close to our impromptu parade. “By Svenpooly, these freaks are worse than the Feral Deer!” Treev exclaimed while trying to keep control of Brown Beverly.

I turned and watched with relief as the distance between us and the police car increased. The crowd had completely surrounded the blaring light show, slapping dirty hands and bearing rotten teeth into the cruiser’s helpless windows. Handicapped by compassion for his fellow man, the poor Pro-Po had to stop his pursuit, left mired in a mass of confused jubilation.

When it became clear that we would be safe, Treev eased off Brown Beverly’s suicidal speed, and as we watched the lights quietly die in the mirrors we exhaled in our sweat-sodden seats.
Treev dug around between our seats, found a cigarette and lit it before turning off the music. The silence of the road prevailed as we took a right onto the Frey-Weichel Bridge, heading home after another long night of working.

Summer Romance

The train whistles echo through the concrete valley into my open window. I'm trying to air out the place, after winter months of funk building up you can feel it on your skin.

The last time I left the window open while I went to bed I woke up with a toothless, loose skinned girl on my couch.

She was nice for a few days, and knew how to pay her way, until I came home from work with my television missing and a turd floating in my fish tank.

Some say I'm crazy, but I really miss that girl.

Black Out

Two Mankato pizza delivery drivers where arrested at gunpoint near downtown this Saturday night. And while the assailants were eventually apprehended, it raises questions among residents if these crimes would have even been attempted if we still had our favorite local vigilante. 

The pizza driver heists, the summer art walk defacings, these were all crimes where, until recently, a hero would step in at the last second and save the day for the decent people of the city. He was a man the people could count on, even if he couldn't be counted on not soiling himself. He was a man that came to be known as Black Out.

Black Out, the drunken knight whose real identity is unknown to all probably including himself. With raw drunken strength and an inhuman imperviousness to pain he would stumble unto the scene of the crime just as all seemed lost. After overcoming the criminals with a raging berserker attack that no sane man could summon or simply receiving a beating that left attackers thoroughly exhausted, Black Out would reject the thanks of those he had saved and stagger off into the night slowly suckling his bottle.

Witnesses had no clear description of Black Out. All they could agree on was that he was around 6 foot tall, white, with brown hair and the dilated black eyes of the man who had long ago crossed the threshold of consciousness. His costume was never the same twice, with it seeming that he hid his appearance with whatever items he found at hands reach. The only other real clue was that witnesses would report the strong stench of alcohol and pine scent air freshener just before he apeared. 

At first the police and other traditional justice outlets didn't know what to make of Black Out. Sheriff Brad Peterson at first vowed to hunt him down “If I have to chase him down a bottle of whiskey”. They were going going to toss him in the detoxification center in New Ulm until he lost his taste for either the booze or fighting crime. 

But the traditional justice outlets never found him, and with every interrupted misdemeanor they developed a tolerance for him which grew into a grudging respect. It is even reported that on more than one occasion the good deputies of Blue Earth would find him sleeping it off in the bushes near the crime scene, and after giving him some sports drink they would drop him off at any location he desired. 

The streets of Mankato can be a dangerous place at night, and Black Out knew its pulse like the flow of his toilet. But the days of the sotten vigilante are apparently done here. Did he suddenly wake up on his couch one morning battered, bruised, hungover, and finally decide to give up the drink? Did he get a job that keeps him home at night getting a full nights sleep? Does he even know the hero that he was? 

We may never know the answer to these questions. And what is worse, if we knew who to ask, he might not even know.

Mankato Paths and the Identity Bandits

     Strolling the tree lined trails is a peaceful, mind clearing activity during the hours of light, but once the sol sets it's a completely different story.

     Bandits prowl the hedges, eater to pounce any fanny pack or wallet bulge they see.  It's not money they are after, no, a few bills of paper will only get you so far.  What they are after is identity.

     They'll snatch your i.d and after a few quick twists of the thumb on ink will have your social security number and mother's maiden name.  Then before you can stumble to the nearest residence, thumb in hand, they'll have jumped back to the bushes with their G6 internet and have started ten new accounts in your name.

     It is a mixed bag of beauty and danger, walking the paths, but that's why so many thrill seekers are drawn to it like bull fighting and whore mongering.  But if you play the game right you can come out on top safe.