The door closed slowly with a long metallic creak. Gregg the Grizzly, fresh from the Aleutians, eight feet tall and naked yet sweating due to his thick water-resistant fur walked past the jukebox, taking a second to glance down at the grime-covered playlist. Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” was playing above the smoke -- Gregg always loved that song. It reminded him of upstream salmon. It reminded him of his father.
Gregg saddled up to the bar. His monstrous claws tore large gashes out of the poorly laid varnish. “Oh well…it wasn’t that nice to begin with,” Gregg thought. “And look at these people…what are they doing in a bar? It’s 1 P.M. on a Tuesday!”
“But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them...”
“How goes it, stranger?” said the portly bartender, a gnarled and pockmarked short blonde known to the daily regulars as Janice or Sweet J. Gregg acknowledged her, nodded, and let out a low, groaning growl from deep in his gullet while refraining from tearing her into pieces with one paw swipe. He had come here to drink.
“You can call me Sweet J, sugar. Now what can I get for ya?”
Gregg awkwardly lifted a paw a pushed it in the direction of the smoky bottle of Caol Ila Single Malt 25. The top shelf. The good stuff. That’s the only thing that would do the trick now. Janice passed him the full bottle. Gregg ate it in one bite.
The glass crunched in time with the music.
“If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you”
“Take it slow there, darlin’” said Janice. “It’s gonna be alright. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be alright. I’ve seen your type before, the huge, monstrous brooders, and I know that, no matter how tough you may think you are, guys like you still gotta take the time to hurt – gotta realize that the pain is real and that it’s okay that it’s there.’
Gregg flexed his omnivoric jaw and inhaled deeply. She was right. God dammit, she was right. Tonight he would go back to his cave, scratch his back on a tree, drink until he passed out and begin the process of healing.
Gregg stood up, mauled three people, and left Janice a sizable tip. Wisdom, it seemed, could be found in the most unlikely of places.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
From "Simon Bogdan: The Life and Times of a Poacher "
Ingenuity -- that's what Bogdan brought to the game. Men had mined the earth and slaughtered beasts for eons looking for economic gain, continents and kingdoms shifting and clashing over elephants' ivory or the fashionable pelts of a cheetah which would make a fetching cummerbund. There was never a shortage of individuals willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of exotic goods from the natural world -- women needed their peacock feathers for household chores. Asiatics needed their ground tiger penis for the sex act. These poachers were great men.
But in the personage of Bogdan was a man, an imposing figure, prematurely bald but with strident voice, so dedicated to the art of poaching that it became less an economic undertaking and something instead approaching religious mania. For Simon Bogdan, poaching was an all-encompassing fixation, and like others who devote their entire beings to a pursuit, they cannot help but alter the course of the field which is their passion.
Also, Bogdan hated animals.
He made his mark through the use of new techniques, ones that on first impression appeared pointless and driven by compulsion. After the fact, given more time to consider the techniques, one usually would concluded that yes, the techniques were indeed pointless and driven by compulsion.
But they certainly were creative.
Simon Bogdan was the first poacher to use baby seals as clubs, usually for the purpose of beating dolphins to death. The practice -- "Blopping" as Bogdan christened it -- was the first that drew international attention to Bogdan, anointing him as the leading practitioner of Expressive Poaching, an offshoot of the sweet science many now attribute mainly to Bogdan. When traditional poachers -- "Livingstons" -- failed to see the need for such techniques, finding them both cruel and counterproductive to making an eventual profit, Bogdan would laugh, saying he did such things because he "liked the sound it made."
In the late seventies, Bogdan was contracted by OPEC -- a first for a poacher -- to look for alternative oil sources within the animal kingdom. OPEC felt that should they find sources before the countries that had become dependent on them for fuel, they would have secured yet another section of a rapidly shrinking supply source. It was basic economics.
With OPEC's blessing, Bogdan began an international campaign of animal oil-drilling. He drilled for oil in dolphins off the coast of New Zealand. He drilled for oil in lemurs. He enjoyed drilling in leopards -- Barbary Leopards in Morocco, Snow Leopards in Tibet -- the more endangered the better as OPEC had rationalized that a source that was gone from the world forever was one more that its dependents could not get their hands on.
"I understand some people think I'm a monster," Bogdan famously stated, "and they are more than entitled to their opinions. I see myself as nothing more than an artist working in a medium that might be little more controversial than what most people are used to. For that I will not apologize."
"And what many people do not realize is that I have been a lacto-ovo-vegan for the last ten years."
But in the personage of Bogdan was a man, an imposing figure, prematurely bald but with strident voice, so dedicated to the art of poaching that it became less an economic undertaking and something instead approaching religious mania. For Simon Bogdan, poaching was an all-encompassing fixation, and like others who devote their entire beings to a pursuit, they cannot help but alter the course of the field which is their passion.
Also, Bogdan hated animals.
He made his mark through the use of new techniques, ones that on first impression appeared pointless and driven by compulsion. After the fact, given more time to consider the techniques, one usually would concluded that yes, the techniques were indeed pointless and driven by compulsion.
But they certainly were creative.
Simon Bogdan was the first poacher to use baby seals as clubs, usually for the purpose of beating dolphins to death. The practice -- "Blopping" as Bogdan christened it -- was the first that drew international attention to Bogdan, anointing him as the leading practitioner of Expressive Poaching, an offshoot of the sweet science many now attribute mainly to Bogdan. When traditional poachers -- "Livingstons" -- failed to see the need for such techniques, finding them both cruel and counterproductive to making an eventual profit, Bogdan would laugh, saying he did such things because he "liked the sound it made."
In the late seventies, Bogdan was contracted by OPEC -- a first for a poacher -- to look for alternative oil sources within the animal kingdom. OPEC felt that should they find sources before the countries that had become dependent on them for fuel, they would have secured yet another section of a rapidly shrinking supply source. It was basic economics.
With OPEC's blessing, Bogdan began an international campaign of animal oil-drilling. He drilled for oil in dolphins off the coast of New Zealand. He drilled for oil in lemurs. He enjoyed drilling in leopards -- Barbary Leopards in Morocco, Snow Leopards in Tibet -- the more endangered the better as OPEC had rationalized that a source that was gone from the world forever was one more that its dependents could not get their hands on.
"I understand some people think I'm a monster," Bogdan famously stated, "and they are more than entitled to their opinions. I see myself as nothing more than an artist working in a medium that might be little more controversial than what most people are used to. For that I will not apologize."
"And what many people do not realize is that I have been a lacto-ovo-vegan for the last ten years."
Saturday, May 19, 2007
From "Rock-A-Bye...Dead"
Kevin had never seen a pack of angry babies move so fast. He had assumed the winding staircase with the faulty guard-rail would pose a problem for them, especially with the baby-gate that had recently been installed at the top of the landing, but there they were, a mass of chubby legs and cheeks, climbing over one another as they scaled the stairs, blood on their minds, the sound of 30 diapers busily rustling echoing through the walls of the chamber.
The old crone had been right all along.
It had come down to a case of kill or be killed. By babies. Up until this point, Kevin reckoned the drunk gypsy's maxim had been nothing more than an extraordinarily odd metaphor. Or was it a simile. No...no -- it was indeed a metaphor.
Had he been able to take a figurative step back, a narratorial route of perspective allowing him the time to fully appreciate the details of the situation, chances are Kevin would have found it darkly amusing. Here he was, the leader of a militant wing of the United States Pro-Life Movement, here he was, the man who had fought so tirelessly for the rights of the unborn -- a man who had killed to save the lives of fetuses, here he now stood, this man of conviction and self-described honor, watching death slowly waddle his way on all fours -- methodical, extremely cute.
"My god," he realized in a brief moment of illumination. "Am I about to be murdered by some of the very babies I helped to save?"
The old crone had been right all along.
It had come down to a case of kill or be killed. By babies. Up until this point, Kevin reckoned the drunk gypsy's maxim had been nothing more than an extraordinarily odd metaphor. Or was it a simile. No...no -- it was indeed a metaphor.
Had he been able to take a figurative step back, a narratorial route of perspective allowing him the time to fully appreciate the details of the situation, chances are Kevin would have found it darkly amusing. Here he was, the leader of a militant wing of the United States Pro-Life Movement, here he was, the man who had fought so tirelessly for the rights of the unborn -- a man who had killed to save the lives of fetuses, here he now stood, this man of conviction and self-described honor, watching death slowly waddle his way on all fours -- methodical, extremely cute.
"My god," he realized in a brief moment of illumination. "Am I about to be murdered by some of the very babies I helped to save?"
From "By the Grace of Apocatequil"
The land was barren. The ground was drier than a dried curuba. The Qhapaq Inka was worried.
It had been nearly seven months since the last rain had fallen on the plains of the Urubamba Valley, and with the Feast of the Inti Huacas less than two months away, Atahualpa, delirious from his lack of sleep and constant coca chewing, was desperate to appease the gods.
The land needed to be quenched. The maukas and ullucos needed to be harvested.
Ticci Viracocha, the high priest and childhood friend of the Supreme King had come before Atahualpa three days earlier with a proposition, one that had initially struck The Exalted One as implausible and foolhardy -- the ramblings of a confused priest with a face full of tattoos. Since then though, with every passing hour and every discarded coca leaf, Atahualpa had grown desperate, knowing that Feast of the Inti Huacas had take place without incident for the last five-hundred years.
The Supreme King was not prepared to let The Feast fail under his rule, a rule that had seen the kingdom more than double in size through a process of creative agricultural advancements and multiple campaigns of systematic villager slaughter. Nothing made The Inka more proud than to talk about his kingdom's agricultural advancements -- nothing, that is, except for the slaughters. The Qhapaq Inka could talk about the slaughters for an entire moon cycle.
And now Viricocha stood before him with this ridiculous proposal, one that he would normally dismiss without consideration, and yet here The Inka was, slowly nodding his peacock-headressed head! Here The Inka was, dipping a peacock feather in berry ink and affixing his royal seal (a fiery peacock) to the parchment the high priest laid in front of him! He rested a hand on his pet peacock that sat by his side.
The plan would have to work. The empire depended on it.
Groups would be assembled -- dancing groups -- rain dancing groups -- groups that would be dancing to illicit rain -- rain that would fall from the sky.
Civilization's first dance-off was about to begin.
It had been nearly seven months since the last rain had fallen on the plains of the Urubamba Valley, and with the Feast of the Inti Huacas less than two months away, Atahualpa, delirious from his lack of sleep and constant coca chewing, was desperate to appease the gods.
The land needed to be quenched. The maukas and ullucos needed to be harvested.
Ticci Viracocha, the high priest and childhood friend of the Supreme King had come before Atahualpa three days earlier with a proposition, one that had initially struck The Exalted One as implausible and foolhardy -- the ramblings of a confused priest with a face full of tattoos. Since then though, with every passing hour and every discarded coca leaf, Atahualpa had grown desperate, knowing that Feast of the Inti Huacas had take place without incident for the last five-hundred years.
The Supreme King was not prepared to let The Feast fail under his rule, a rule that had seen the kingdom more than double in size through a process of creative agricultural advancements and multiple campaigns of systematic villager slaughter. Nothing made The Inka more proud than to talk about his kingdom's agricultural advancements -- nothing, that is, except for the slaughters. The Qhapaq Inka could talk about the slaughters for an entire moon cycle.
And now Viricocha stood before him with this ridiculous proposal, one that he would normally dismiss without consideration, and yet here The Inka was, slowly nodding his peacock-headressed head! Here The Inka was, dipping a peacock feather in berry ink and affixing his royal seal (a fiery peacock) to the parchment the high priest laid in front of him! He rested a hand on his pet peacock that sat by his side.
The plan would have to work. The empire depended on it.
Groups would be assembled -- dancing groups -- rain dancing groups -- groups that would be dancing to illicit rain -- rain that would fall from the sky.
Civilization's first dance-off was about to begin.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
From "Life at 115th: Straight Trippin"
Shabaz, Dredge, Tre, and Trey looked suspiciously at the tape recorder, obviously unsure as to whether or not they wanted to continue. There was an awkward silence. The burr in my sock dug deeper into my heel. Shabaz finally spoke up. "Listen man, you been good to us so far, know-wah-ahm-sayin, but, truth, we think ya best turn that piece off if ya want some more flap from us, know-wah-ahm-sayin know-wah-ahm-sayin."
The rest of the boys nodded. "True dat, " they all said. A trio of "true dats." The young men each took one step towards me.
I flicked the recorder's power switch to the off position. My tried and true Panasonic RQ-2102, my all-time favorite, the one that had saved my skin and allowed me to be a lazy journalist so many times. "Not this time," I mumbled under my breath. "This time, I'll have to go it alone." Son of a bitch.
"Satisfied?" I asked while lowering the Panny to the sidewalk, caressing it with the back of my fingers and resting it gently on the curb. I straddled it between my legs, doing as much as I could to shield it from harm without making it look like I was the kind of deviant that was sexually attracted to my tape recorder, a condition that, once I began attending the meetings, I learned was far more common than anyone could or would care to imagine. Some secrets must remain as such.
Dredge scanned the rest of the crew, took in their solemn nods, and did a quick handstand. They were ready to open up. He began to speak. His speech was suddenly and remarkably lucid.
"Now, the common mark on the street will look at one of our magic tricks and automatically brand it as nothing more than sleight of hand, some clever trick that we've been able to master through years and years of practice and repetition. These type of guys see four homeless 15 year-olds and assume as much -- 'These kids have nothing better to do,' he'll say. 'It sure was a nifty trick, the way he made the ball disappear, but it's just that, a trick, and nothing more.' And that's when we know we've got the sonuvabitch right where we want him."
Again, the rest of the group nodded in unison. Another trio of synchronized "True dat"s followed. I began to slowly stroke the Panasonic with the inside of my ankle, caught myself, and continued, both aroused by the tape recorder resting a few inches below my crotch and fascinated by the story being told to me.
"I'm confused," I said. "What is the man not understanding about your trick? Why do you have him where you want him? What more is there to a silly ball trick?"
Trey smirked and let out a small chuckle. But Tre was deadly serious. He looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up, reading all that was me from the inside out until I was sure that he knew every instance of every shameful action that had taken place in my past as both a journalist and a man who has sex with recording equipment.
"The trick is," said Tre as Trey continued to laugh. "The trick is that there is no trick, muthafucka. All the brothas you see before you right now be full-blown wizards."
I froze. Of course.
"Know-wah-ahm-sayin, muthafucka? Punk-ass Harry Potter don't hold a candle to the wizardly shit that go down on 115th damn right near every muthafuckin' night. True dat."
The rest of the boys nodded. "True dat, " they all said. A trio of "true dats." The young men each took one step towards me.
I flicked the recorder's power switch to the off position. My tried and true Panasonic RQ-2102, my all-time favorite, the one that had saved my skin and allowed me to be a lazy journalist so many times. "Not this time," I mumbled under my breath. "This time, I'll have to go it alone." Son of a bitch.
"Satisfied?" I asked while lowering the Panny to the sidewalk, caressing it with the back of my fingers and resting it gently on the curb. I straddled it between my legs, doing as much as I could to shield it from harm without making it look like I was the kind of deviant that was sexually attracted to my tape recorder, a condition that, once I began attending the meetings, I learned was far more common than anyone could or would care to imagine. Some secrets must remain as such.
Dredge scanned the rest of the crew, took in their solemn nods, and did a quick handstand. They were ready to open up. He began to speak. His speech was suddenly and remarkably lucid.
"Now, the common mark on the street will look at one of our magic tricks and automatically brand it as nothing more than sleight of hand, some clever trick that we've been able to master through years and years of practice and repetition. These type of guys see four homeless 15 year-olds and assume as much -- 'These kids have nothing better to do,' he'll say. 'It sure was a nifty trick, the way he made the ball disappear, but it's just that, a trick, and nothing more.' And that's when we know we've got the sonuvabitch right where we want him."
Again, the rest of the group nodded in unison. Another trio of synchronized "True dat"s followed. I began to slowly stroke the Panasonic with the inside of my ankle, caught myself, and continued, both aroused by the tape recorder resting a few inches below my crotch and fascinated by the story being told to me.
"I'm confused," I said. "What is the man not understanding about your trick? Why do you have him where you want him? What more is there to a silly ball trick?"
Trey smirked and let out a small chuckle. But Tre was deadly serious. He looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up, reading all that was me from the inside out until I was sure that he knew every instance of every shameful action that had taken place in my past as both a journalist and a man who has sex with recording equipment.
"The trick is," said Tre as Trey continued to laugh. "The trick is that there is no trick, muthafucka. All the brothas you see before you right now be full-blown wizards."
I froze. Of course.
"Know-wah-ahm-sayin, muthafucka? Punk-ass Harry Potter don't hold a candle to the wizardly shit that go down on 115th damn right near every muthafuckin' night. True dat."
Sunday, April 29, 2007
From "The Deskmaker's Nephew"
Garnet 180 grit open-coat -- it was the only sandpaper the old man would allow in the shop after the sun went down and his small supper was finished, and with the daily orders for the standard armoires and credenzas now completed and shipped, the strong, wrinkled hands began to slowly drag the coarse square across the wood. The strokes came in perfect time, a backbeat to the crickets outside the shed, a rhythm that, purposely or not, precisely matched the opening maracas from The Bangles 1985 hit "Walk Like an Egyptian."
Reggie entered carrying two bottles of Powerade Jagged Ice. It was time for the real work to begin.
The 180 grit square continued to push out thin clouds of sawdust that settled on the man's hairy arms in a powdery web. "Bring the medium grommets over here, Reggie, and then see if you can find the drop-front captive-slide hinge I finished last night. It should be somewhere in the back. I want to try something different tonight. Something special." The old man opened the Powerade Jagged Ice and drank deeply.
The drop-front captive-slide hinge was, of course, needed for keyboard extraction for extra accessibility in tight places. Reggie found the drop-front captive-slide hinge and brought it into the main work area, softly laying it on the table, knowing that this eve, for the first time in the many months of sleepless nights in the shed tending to the old man and fetching countless Powerades, he would see something truly special -- an artist at his peak of his prowess working on a perfectly positioned personal project. Reggie thoughts were often heavily alliterated.
The drop-front captive-slide hinge was gorgeous. The well formed steel was powder coated with a rust-free black epoxy and rested on a pair of well lubed Delrin rollers that practically begged to be pushed. Reggie's eyes widened, the soft glare of the hinge resting under the shed's lanterns made him think about his father's fateful flight from France four fecades fago.
"This," said the old man between gulps of Jagged Ice, "this Reggie -- this will be the desk that I am remembered for."
Reggie rolled his shoulders back. "No, sir." he said. "This will be the desk that we are remembered for."
Reggie entered carrying two bottles of Powerade Jagged Ice. It was time for the real work to begin.
The 180 grit square continued to push out thin clouds of sawdust that settled on the man's hairy arms in a powdery web. "Bring the medium grommets over here, Reggie, and then see if you can find the drop-front captive-slide hinge I finished last night. It should be somewhere in the back. I want to try something different tonight. Something special." The old man opened the Powerade Jagged Ice and drank deeply.
The drop-front captive-slide hinge was, of course, needed for keyboard extraction for extra accessibility in tight places. Reggie found the drop-front captive-slide hinge and brought it into the main work area, softly laying it on the table, knowing that this eve, for the first time in the many months of sleepless nights in the shed tending to the old man and fetching countless Powerades, he would see something truly special -- an artist at his peak of his prowess working on a perfectly positioned personal project. Reggie thoughts were often heavily alliterated.
The drop-front captive-slide hinge was gorgeous. The well formed steel was powder coated with a rust-free black epoxy and rested on a pair of well lubed Delrin rollers that practically begged to be pushed. Reggie's eyes widened, the soft glare of the hinge resting under the shed's lanterns made him think about his father's fateful flight from France four fecades fago.
"This," said the old man between gulps of Jagged Ice, "this Reggie -- this will be the desk that I am remembered for."
Reggie rolled his shoulders back. "No, sir." he said. "This will be the desk that we are remembered for."
From "The Peaks of Neacola"
Morris breathed deeply, the hanging mist of the cold Aleutian air stinging his lungs, and gathered himself, weary from the struggle and his daring escape, taking pause but still well aware that the next attack would come soon. He let out a wise chuckle; he rationalized that a younger, less world-weary Morris McKeever would not have survived the onslaught. The youthful, inquisitive Morris would have hesitated, he would have clamped up, concerned less about his own safety than with trying to figure out how the giant squid was able to scale fifteen thousand vertical feet in subzero weather with no climbing gear in sight.
The suction cups had done a number on his arms, and with each rapid heartbeat he felt the bloody red mounds on his biceps pulse in rhythm. Exhausted, he sat and leaned back against the Ice Fortress, clutching the ice harpoon to his sweater which was now caked in frozen blood and ink. His head bobbed as his eyes slowly closed...and then...in a flash of giant eye and beak...the squid was upon him.
The suction cups had done a number on his arms, and with each rapid heartbeat he felt the bloody red mounds on his biceps pulse in rhythm. Exhausted, he sat and leaned back against the Ice Fortress, clutching the ice harpoon to his sweater which was now caked in frozen blood and ink. His head bobbed as his eyes slowly closed...and then...in a flash of giant eye and beak...the squid was upon him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)