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.

Something To Do

Bored, Trevor started to focus on the problems with pressure in his head. It wasn't so much like a vice, but a metal band slowly squeezing inside his skill. 

The doctor couldn't find anything, gave him a placebo, and sent him home. The pills didn't help with the pressure, or the visions. But at least it got him out of the house, and gave him something to tell people in the forum.

Eventually, he learned to live with it, just like the ringing ears, aching jaw, and vertigo. 

It was something he could deal with until the last day when he was on a rare trip outside, and right there on the sidewalk his head imploded.

Those nearby only heard the sound of grinding bone and splatting blood.

A crowd slowly formed around the sprawled body of Trevor, his headless neck spurting brown blood onto the dirty sidewalk.

Life As I Know It

Future me

Hates present me

No matter how much I apologize beforehand

(he'll understand)

Every goddamn time.

Summer Cruise

The pool room on the Titanic was a din of excitement as I walked in. Keith Richards, dressed in swim trunks and leather vest, did his best to adhere to the sensibilities of the time.

He smiled as he handed me a rounded crystal bottle of wine. He then playfully slapped me on the back and did a poor cannonball into the full pool.

Knowing Keith's history, I kept the lip of the bottle far away from my lips as I poured directly into my mouth. I missed badly, with most of the wine splashing wildly on my shirt.

“Not bad.” I thought to myself as a rash developed on my chest.

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.

On Auto Care, Poverty, and Priorities

The car is leaking oil. Not really leaking but more dripping. Slobbering. Drooling. But the good news is that it's only when it runs. I think. It's hard to diagnose these things on your own.

I just can't bring myself to tell anyone. For a guy, a car problem you have no idea how to fix can be as bad as a medical one.

My big leaking anus, sitting in the driveway, dribbling that black fluid down my leg.

I keep giving it vitamins (a quart a week) and finally got some cheap stop leak for gaskets in there. So that should work (if that's what the problem is) in 200 miles or 3 days.

(200 miles? Do they have any idea how long it takes me to put 200 miles on that thing? I pray for 3 days)

You can tell my path to and from work by the black dot trail.

The pile of oil soaked lawn clippings where I park is approaching an environmental disaster. (The rains do nothing to kill it. Its rainbow blood flows down the driveway, yet the body remains)

My hope is to have it fix itself before my landlord notices (or gets fed up).

I should just take the car in, and pray for the cheap miracle fix (something that only happens in movies). But forget it, I've got trips (family trips, friend trips) planned for next month.

And I know the mechanic doesn't make payment plans.

So I'll go in when I get back and really am broke. So I can legitimately claim poverty when the diagnosis comes.

And then?

I might end up still buying toilet paper for my leaking anus.

But at least I'll know what the problem is.