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.

Spring Cleaning

Growing up, spring was always welcome, but was a sign of dirty work to come.

Before the drifts could fully melt our father would come to us, tools in hand, and command us children put down our new things and follow him. 

With childlike zeal we would dig into the snow and pull out the naked bodies. In case anyone came by, we would store them under some brush until the ground was soft enough for digging. 

I never figured why father was so paranoid, if we had summer visitors we could just take care of them like the rest.

Free Lunch

Our meals were placed on the homemade wooden table by the wife as our host, right arm under the table and left hand slowly turning a beer bottle, continued to talk about his hogs.

We've learned that if you travel freely and want to eat, you have to listen to stories.

“Yes sir, hogging can be dangerous business. You turn your back once and bam! Everything can turn on you.”

“Have you ever been injured badly?” my partner asked as we unfolded our silverware from our napkins and started to dig in to the slabs of white meat laid before us.

“Oh yeah, had this mean old sow, just meaner than hell. Just up and almost bit my arm off. I mean, she had half my damn arm in her mouth! Teeth got down to the damn bone.”

I bit into a slice of my meal. It was more tender than a pork chop, but wasn't as tender as ham. My mouth was confused at the expectations of my mind. What else would a hog farmer serve wandering guests than a nice piece of their hardship?

Then I laughed inside to myself. If there was anything that my partner and I should have learned by now in our travels, it's to expect anything. Or as was most often the case, nothing.

“Damn,” my partner replied trying to pick up the speech of our host, a useful tactic to put them at ease. “Did it scar very bad?”

“Well, why don't you take a look for yourself?” The farmer replied and held up his mangled right arm. It was a brown mess of blood and clots from his fingertips to halfway to his elbow. Exposed muscle twitched against dried fluids of infection. All the skin had been removed, cleanly, expertly, by someone who had done it for a living their entire life.

Our host seemed to enjoy our disgusted silence.

“Of course we didn't have to take all the skin off, but if you look right there,” he smiled and pointed at my plate “you can see where the teeth went through the flesh.”

I looked down at my meat and saw there, neatly placed in the middle, three clean holes. I glanced at my partners and you could see that his piece had ragged and burnt ends like fingers.

“What?” the farmer asked, putting his arm back under the table and leaning back in his chair, the light from outside enveloping him “you fellers think you can just ravage your way through the countryside and no one will pass on word?”

Shiraz Economy

Early afternoon is an awful time for shiraz, though I'm not sure if it's the time of day or the wine.

Nasty stuff, really. With an aftertaste that only moderately hints of household cleaner. (which I suppose could be blamed on my drinking mug, but I never clean that)

The whole thing tastes of being fermented in some prison. (and seeing as how it was made in Australia, makes sense)

But it gets the job done, I suppose. Makes me forget the light head and numb right fingers with the mystery bump.

So I'll stick with this 16 dollar jug of shiraz until it turns my teeth purple. If I'm going to pay the 75 dollars that my shit insurance won't cover for every teeth cleaning, I'm going to get my money's worth.

You gotta squeeze every penny in this economy.

Lost Moment

Victor had enough. The parties, the loud talking, the trash thrown into his yard.

For 6 months he lay in bed, trying to sleep. Couldn't call the cops, they'd know it was him. Couldn't go himself, who knows what would happen.

Sometimes he'd get brave, and throw the trash back. When they weren't home.

He figured like all smart adults, they'd figure it out.

They didn't.

Enough was enough.

Finally, he worked up the righteousness. He walked up to their door, but saw the pink eviction notice.

Stolen of his brave moment, Victor walked back dejected.

Next time, he swore.

Assault Knives: America's Hidden Scourge

Recently an 18 year old Oklahoma woman made the news for shooting an intruder while on the phone with a police dispatcher.  The woman was home alone with her baby when a 24 year old man armed with a 12 inch knife attempted to break into her home with an accomplice.

            This story has risen a number of questions about American freedoms, the most controversial of which is always: How long will America continue to ignore its problem with assault knives?

            Yes, it is stated in the 2^nd Amendment that the people have a right to “bear arms”, but that was also written in a very different time in history.  In those days, the average American may have needed large knives to protect themselves from bears, Englishmen, and bandits.  But today, the bear has been relegated to the zoo, the most aggressive Englishman plays a doctor on your TV, and the police are there to protect us around the clock.  

            Realistically, for what purpose does the average person need to use a 12 inch knife?  What could possibly be so large that you need an entire foot to cut through it?  The largest head of organically grown lettuce can easily be bisected using two cuts of a 4 inch knife.

            Sure, a large knife may have been needed for hunting, or in colonial kitchens for the purpose of cutting breads, cheeses, and meats.  But again, the times have surpassed the knife with all foods coming in the form of can, slice, box, or shredded. 

            When we look at the facts, there can be only one purpose for such weapons, but the Big Knife lobby continues to keep the American people in danger by pulling the wool over their eyes and lining the pockets of legislators.  Big Knife has been successful in blocking any legislation that would even slow the selling of assault knives.

            Knowing it was futile, I called my local sheriff and asked him the number of knives sold in our county.  He simply nervously laughed and hung up the phone.  It's not that he was hiding anything, he had no need to.  

            The fact is that are no age checks, background checks, or even accounting of knife sales in this country.  Any man or woman of any mental mind frame can simply walk into a local Wal-Mart, pick up a package of assault knives (Ooh! 2 for 1!) and walk to the register.  Oh yeah, while while they are there, why not pick up a couple sharpeners?  Never can tell how dull a knife will get after a full day of stabbin', you know. 

            How many crimes have been perpetrated due to the assailant holding “courage with a handle”?  Would this wayward young man have even attempted this home invasion if he had, say, a perfectly safe and reasonable electric knife?  Sadly, we may never know.  The bloody hands of the Big Knife lobby is covering the ears and eyes of those who swore to protect us.