textures

Kingdom Come - The Mae Shi

time consuming.

test

type exercise

these are just some type exercises i did today.
the example restaurant is jose garce's new peruvian/chinese restaurant chifa(which already has a logo).
have to keep sharp during break, you know.

buddies WIP

first attempt at painting in photoshop

and another...

another WIP and it's inspiration

this inspiration for the vector i am doing right now, that picture i drew about 4 years ago, it is done in all ink and marker.
it makes me feel lazy for using a computer to draw now.

Sitting - White Denim

ongoing devices wip

left to her own devices work in progress

email blast for cash

final main character

the last main character of my in the works short story, "Buster Keaton Book Bag".
the time traveler.

gordon

another character from a short story i am putting together about the ghost of buster keaton, time travel, and a meth dealer.
so, you know, the usual.
stay tuned.

trailer park

fuck you, guy.

i heard some wealthy people in the restaurant this past weekend bitching about crossing over thirtieth street, and then bitching some more about the south street bridge closing for reconstruction, and it reminded me of a bumper sticker i saw a while ago.
it said- "University City is a marketing scheme. This is West Philly."
I agree. old city and fishtown and northern liberties can stay on their side of 30th street.
i'll take homeless crazies and bangers and project housing and church's chicken over yuppies and hipsters and ten million coffee bars and over-hyped restaurants any day.

this is so amazing i can't even describe it...

300th post!

imagery for a short story i plan to write on break.

Buster Keaton's Bookbag WIP

scuro

oh art school elective class essays, how i love thee.

“In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways.”
-Thomas Hardy

The Merriam Webster dictionary defines a deviant as one who deviates especially from an accepted norm. The social norm is a hard concept for me to understand. From my experiences growing up in Lancaster City, an expanding small town that is a weird amalgamation of redneck resisitance and new york puerto-rican bravado, to moving to the liberal-pregnant, murder-happy Philadelphia inner city, it has always been my opinion that most people who I have interacted with in our “society” would much rather someone be indentifiable than interesting. In the interest of this self examination, I will list instances of my conformance with as well as my deviance from what can only hope to be perceived as an acceptable social norm.

Conformity has always seemed like a filthy thing to me, to be conformist was to be a part of a herd, opinionless, ever following. I suppose this comes from attending a Roman Catholic grade school and high school, as Catholocism isn't always the most understanding or accepting of religions. Although, my parents were not fervent Catholics and were probably just trying to get me involved in a more focused academic program, perhaps provide structure and balance to a life we as a family were living on the poverty line. The first way in which I suppose I am conformist is that I continued with my Catholic education even after, at age 8, realizing I was quite a staunch atheist. I offered resistance to my parents, but figured I had already made friends in school, many of whom I am still good friends with today, so I simply bit my lip in class and listened as doctrines that I saw as outright misogynostic and homophobic were explained with a progressing set of laughably illustrated religious text books. When bringing these ideas up to my friends, I was seen as pompous, aloof, arrogant, as if the asking of these questions was to show off how clever i was. Which is the second way I conformed to social norm, by genuinely caring about what other people thought of me. I wasn't a zealot, but I became quite aware of my awkward social nature, dark sense of humor, my unfit body, the creepiness I had been sure up until that point was just my “individuality” coming into its own.
Of course, upon leaving high school, my father dying suddenly, and being tossed from my house at the age of seventeen, a skepticism crept its way into my psyche. Which is another way I conformed to acceptable norms-I began to believe I was the smartest person alive and justified my assholeish behavior with unrelenting candor and ability to “tell it like it was.” I went all the way. I read Nietzsche, dabbled in nihilism, flirted with anarchy, laughed when I heard of the Catholic priest molestation scandals, argued with anyone who had brought up religion, politics, or even caring about anything in general. I got into a fistfight with a Jesuit student. I was alone, simply because I was unbearable and unlikable. After some time, I grew tired of arguing. Not that I gave up, I simply just didn't care anymore. Also, it was impossible to get a girlfriend being a fat, drunken, angry asshole, so I backed up a touch.
I began using humor instead of anger, made people feel comfortable talking to me, made new friends, got a girlfriend, a steady job, a nice apartment. Which is yet another way in which I began to conform-I began to believe in the American Dream. I worked three jobs, cut down my drinking to the weekends, read crime novels, chit-chatted with strangers, had a girlfriend who was a special-education teacher. This was my life for some time, until my teacher girlfriend wanted to get married, and I experienced a hiccup on my path to conformity.
I lost my girlfriend because i refused to marry her, bounced around from apartment to apartment, had a string of jobs, ended up driving a hearse, living in my mother's basement, smoking copious amounts of marijuana, sketching and illustrating and writing and painting with every free moment. I had just about given up. I began seeing a woman, moved in with her quickly to escape the gloom of my basement apartment, and within three months, she asked if I wanted to move with her to philadelphia. I agreed and within two months of living in the city, I had signed up to attend the Art Institute of Philadelphia.
Which is the final way I have conformed-I enrolled in and believe a college education will better my life. In this way, conformity isn't this dirty, wretched beast anymore, rather a necessary evil, a step towards a life I would see as fulfilling and fruitful. We'll see how that pans out when I graduate next March. In time conformity has softened in my eyes, and while I still recognize the inate dangerous nature of society conforming to an acceptable social norm, I am more comfortable with it's existence.

While my history with conformity has been a somewhat complex tale, my acquanitance with deviancy started early and strong. My first encounter with deviant behavior came when at age eight I realized that to me, the idea of a God didn't make any logical sense. I saw religion as something that helped people through difficult times in their lives, provided stability and assurance to an existence which even at my tender age seemed unreliable and sketchy at best, gathered like minded individuals in a place where they could judge others secretly, brought communities together. I didn't believe in God, therefore I deviated from a course set upon my by my parents and peers. Which inevitably led to my second deviance-I began to receive thrill from dangerous or criminal behaviors.
I stole anything I believed I could get away stealing, broke into homes just to see if I would get caught, broke car windows and carried knives and smoked and became acquainted with pornography. When I would get caught doing one of these things, I would lie, almost always transparently, and act sincerely hurt if the accuser did not accept my explanation. Which is another way I deviated from an acceptable social norm-I became a raging liar. We all know of political lies and religious lies, but when experienced on a personal level, the act of lying can guise itself simply as an act of self-preservation. Eventually I got my criminal inclinations and liar tendencies under control, made a distinct effort to become a good person. But it seemed that with every compliance I made another deviancy would pop up. I deviated once again by becoming rather involved with narcotics and alcohol. I smoked pot every day, told myself it made me more creative, calmed me down, made me a fun guy. I drank to excess when in social situations to try mask my ever-looming depression.
I continued on this path for some time and after moving from my home town, entering school, and gaining some self-confidence by extracting some negative people from my life, I experienced a new deviant behavior-I deviated from my can own self-imposed social norm. I put my fears and expectations to bed and charged full force into the ideal that by going to school, being proactive and easing up on the cynicism I could break free from an acceptable social norm and just be my own person.

Which brings me to an open-ended conclusion of sorts. I have never really considered my propensity towards being conformist or deviant, but if pressed I would say my outlook and lifestyle would rest somewhere in the middle, with a heavy lean towards deviancy. To pare it down to simple terms, life could be seen as a series of fragile balancing acts, of situations and occurrences where no clear moral passge can be determined, of instances of conformity and moments of deviance. To me, it is better this way. To me, life should be best described as interesting rather than identifiable.

oh geez...

jesus, on december 17th the darren aronofsky film the wrestler comes out and then just 1 week later david fincher's the curious case of benjamin button is to be released.
nerdgasm.

Love

I was sick all fucking weekend, like edge of death sick, and where was my girlfriend?
right beside me, the entire time.
why?
because she is the greatest girlfriend of all time. seriously.
kudos, darling, kudos.

school

trash for cash

busy busy busy

The story thusfar.

Cheerwheeler
Chapter One
Christmas at Auschwitz

The intercom to my immediate right hissed, crackled as her arid, raspy voice was brought to life through intermingled dusty wires.
“Oh fuck...where is he?”
I went about what i was doing, crushing tiny red and green Christmas tree light bulbs in a cereal bowl with my penny loafer's worn heel. The voice amplified itself with disgust.
“Gibby, Gibby goddammit, I am hungry you boiled over pot of zombie shit, where are you?”
My anus seized up. I wondered what caused this physical phenomenon, I would Google that later. But what would i Google? How does one go about googling the exterior triggers of the aforementioned anus clenching? How had Google become a verb in my vernacular?
“where's my cereal, faggot?”
I calmly set my loafer on the cracking counter, placing its tassels towards the east, and pushed the intercom's filthy send button with the sweaty pink heel of my hand.
“Missy, I am slicing the bananas now, it won't be but a moment.”
Silence hung in a gallows of tortuous butthole clenching. The intercom spat her venom.
“maybe if you moved a little faster, you would lose some of that gelatinous mass you call a body.”
I sliced a banana into eighteenths, as per her wishes, and ground it into the smashed light bulbs, coating the mess with cinnamon toast crunch and a half cup of skim milk, and placed it on the tray i carried to her bedroom every morning at 6:30 a. m., sharp. I retrieved my loafer, stepped into it three times, and started off to her room.

Maury Povich comforted an obese woman on screen who had just undergone a fifth paternity test to determine the birth father of her cross-eyed mutant offspring. Missy tilted her head in my direction and sighed.
“Today, fuck.”
Bed sores smell of death. Not the death smell of a battlefield, rather the smell of a dead skunk slathered in hobo diarrhea left to rot in a Tuscon condo's windowless rec room in July, like baby diapers full of rancid, thrown up hamburger cooking in a microwave for weeks and weeks. Hot and all in your face, odors that cling to your nose hair and clothing like a hungry tick on your inner thigh, a constant reminder to you and everyone to come within sniffing distance that you share a general proximity with someone who is about to expire. An olfactory nightmare that cuts down on small talk in public. Missy wore this as a perfume.
I hung my head to avoid any piercing eye contact. Missy was a soul sucking energy vampire, and my feet moved as if i was wading through a primordial swamp in concrete clogs. I reached to brush a blond lock from her eyes and a static shock shot from my finger, the spark visible in the dusty summer sunlight meandering through Missy's nearly shut blinds.
“Fucking hell, retard! I guess you're going to electrocute me now too! Is that Cheeto's dust on my cheek?”
She craned her neck and peered frantically at her chest, eyes rolling to investigate every place on her body she could see, really, everywhere BUT her cheek. Able bodied people can't even see their own cheek. I set down the tray and sat in the wicker rocking chair beside her hospital bed. As I raised the spoon, my father shuffled past the open bedroom door, towel and soap in shaky hands, walking as an inmate would. Missy shuddered, shoulders up, to life. She instantly went doe-eyed.
“Daddy, Daddy, come here, please.”
her voice transformed into a sugary lullaby, i swore i could taste spoiled honey in my mouth. He stopped, only turning his balding head, his hair looked like it had been styled by a blind palsy patient.
“Daddy, tell Gibby to go to his physical today, it's the last day before practice starts.”
My father looked at me the way you look at an old, broken dog, all pity and disgust. He didn't know whether to pet me or put me down.
“Gilbert, get that physical, you know how important it is to your sinister.”
He returned to his daily routine, and after he was out of earshot my sister turned her head to me. There was Cheeto's dust on her cheek, it was all i could do not to laugh.
“Get that physical, you are going to cheer this year, and you are going to wheel me out every home game so everyone can see what you did to me.”
I nodded and lovingly shoveled a heaping spoonful of mush into her open, waiting mouth.

“Step on the scale please, Gibby. Two hundred fifteen pounds, wow, down another thirteen pounds, congratulations.”
I hesitated for a second and climbed down. The machine wobbled violently and Nurse Jenkins adjusted the rusty scales. She had sounded as if we didn't both know how i was losing the weight.
She led me down the hallway to a musty examination room, where i sat dead still as she took my blood pressure and wrote things down. Her pendulous breasts rubbed my sun burnt forearm and i begged my penis to jump to life, fill with blood, embarrass us both. No dice.
“The doctor should be with you directly.” urgent nature
I flipped through an ancient Reader's Digest and urgent nature contemplated rifling the drawers for forgotten morphine samples or tongue depressors. A knock, and Doctor Wade came in. His barrel chest tested the strength of the buttons lining the front of his white smock.
“Stand up and drop those trousers, son.”
I did as i was told, and my tiny too-pink penis hung between us like a veiny, shrimp sized door knocker aching to be touched, held, used. He cupped my left, then right testicle with a warm gloved hand, and i mustered the manliest cough i could, both times. I sounded like a kitten sneezing. My penis sprang to life and i sighed and looked at the ceiling, hoping its turgid, soldier at attention essence wouldn't steam his glasses. Sometimes i wondered if eunuchs had the right idea.
“How are the meds treating you? Any more luck paying attention in school?”
“School doesn't start for two weeks.”
“Ok than, I'll just write you a prescription and you can be on your way.”
He wrote something on a pad, and handed it to me. Above his indecipherable signature was my best friend's name;Adderall, 75 milligram strong. He left and i realized my pants were still down, my pulse noticeable in my quivering dick. I zipped up and pocketed fifteen cotton balls and the reader's digest.

Back to the way Missy smelled. Missy's room, from December to August, smelled like Christmas at Auschwitz. The dusty way plastic Christmas trees smelled when you took them from the boxes they had been trapped in for a year mixed with what i imagined heaps of burning bodies would smell like. No matter how many times i washed my cardigans or the ungodly amount of jovan Musk I would douse myself in, her scent became mine. When i would shuffle into the lunch line at school, people would turn and instantly recognize the shared scent. I guess sometimes you just smell like how you feel inside, and my insides reeked of yuletide greetings from a concentration camp.

I gently closed my bedroom door so as to not wake Princess Paraplegia. I sat on the corner of my sheet less bed and sighed, deep and heavy. My heart was racing from the walk up the stairs. I wouldn't dare use the Gibby-college-fund funded two story elevator. Missy only used this when she knew i was finally sleeping, so the Adderall became my only weapon against her inconsiderate affection towards three o'clock in the morning parch-lipped electronic spins around the Goodworth grounds. All seven rooms. We bought vases and lamps in bulk. I reached below my bed and quickly found my other new friend, Mr. Jack Daniels. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed around the welcoming, waiting spout. Jack was the only man to ever bed me, and i wished i could have met him, he was definitely deserved of a hug, maybe even an uncomfortable, drunken tug job underneath the desk in what i imagined to be a bottle-strewn mahogany scented office. I took a long pull and coughed, twice in my pink hand and once on the filthy carpet, and produced a cigarette from my cardigan's breast pocket. After lighting it i flicked on the window fan and propped up against a blue body pillow. The bottle called me, and i picked up, and this slug lasted until my eyes watered and i threw up a little in my mouth. Undigested Cheeto's and grape Fanta acquainted themselves with jack, and the vomitous brood retreated back down my throat into the chubby confines of my pudge.
“Look at me,” I said aloud,”drinking alone again.
I was no lonely drunken romantic. I was a fat kid with a drinking problem. Two strikes and waiting. Three if you counted my affinity for the fellas. I lit another cigarette and laughed. That night. My God, that fucking night.

I should have known. Everything felt wrong from the jump. My letter sweater was too tight, and it snagged itself on the seat belt cover as i struggled my way out of the back of Missy's hideous Cabriolet.
“Gibby, please hurry. We are sooo late.”
She started towards the stadium gate as i spun, my sweater sleeve birthing an errant strand as it freed itself from the hard plastic seat belt cover. I reached into the back seat for my megaphone, closed the door carefully and did my fat kid skip/run to the gate.
I had just started on the Adderall, and my body was a mess. Homecoming weekend was cold and blustery, yet i was sweating like Michael Jackson at a cub scout pool party as i muscled tiny cathy O'Presko above my head for the opening kickoff of the game. Thank sweet bleeding Christ on cotton candy crutches Cathy was anorexic and a gymnast, she weighed about eighty five pounds yet i often i had dreams of her brains splattered on my worn keds, victim of my sloppy arm bars. Halftime was go time, the pyramid, and i looked over at him. Tim Beck, fallen golden boy, three time all state quarterback, two blown knees at seventeen, four time abortion financier, the boy who made my breath grow weak and my heart flutter. He caught me looking at him and winked, tossing Margie Kubala some seven feet in the air before elegantly placing her feet first on the tattered one hundred meter dash track that separated the field from the bleachers. I ushered Cathy in front of me to hide the tent forming in my white pleated rayon slacks.

Just because you are a big kid does not mean you are strong. Fat may cover muscle, but not in my case. Years of avoiding any type of abusive physical labor or exercise had left my body a heaping pile of useless flab. My forearms were muscular, but you know, after a weekend of televised male beach volleyball i probably could have crushed a walnut in my fist. So when mr. Leek recruited me for the cheer leading squad, he saw me as a suitable building block. A sturdy foundation for what in my mind was a dangerous maneuver to begin with, a fifteen member pyramid of school pride. Sweaty knees digging into my back was not my idea of a good time on a Saturday morning, but i practiced nonetheless, trying to fit in, knowing i was perpetuating my never talked about sexual affliction. I cheered because missy wanted me to, and i felt like i was reaching out to her when i showed up in the gym, too-tight sweater clinging to my corpulent frame, cheers memorized and delivered with the gusto of a crystal-meth fueled street prophesier. Tim was there too, i suppose to bang cheerleaders and be close to the team after his injury prevented him from playing, but i didn't care. He would never love me and i didn't care.

I stood at the cooler, drinking a bit too much watered down Gatorade. With two minutes left in the second quarter, Catholic was getting fucking slammed twenty eight to nothing. I sighed and peered into the crowd, catching a glimpse of my father whispering into mother's ear, her giggly and bright, him half cocked on Wild Turkey, both having a good time. I felt someone brush by me and pour themselves a drink from the cooler. Tim stood stoically to my right scanning the field.
“Who is that guy, number 23? Fucking hell, we couldn't tackle him if he was covered in gold plated pussies.”
I had no idea what this meant but coughed and muttered, “Yeah.”
He turned to face me. His gleaming gray eyes took me in, head to toe and back again. I grabbed my megaphone and held it waist high, pretending to examine the mouthpiece for blades of grass and manure. A slight thud echoed, my feet the audience the only audience to my excitement. Tim stepped closer.
“Damn, Gibby, you losing weight, bro? Lookin' good.”
He smacked my flabby stomach and ran off to the sideline, where he threw his arm over some petulant freshman. I shuddered and poured myself another drink.

Tim knew he was handsome. I mean, he owned mirrors, how couldn't he? Tim wasn't only knowingly handsome; he could charm a married woman out of her panties at fifty paces. The relative humidity in any room he entered increased tenfold simply from the heat produced from moistened undergarments. He flirted with anyone, female or male, because he liked making people uncomfortable with his beauty. Any time the temperature rose above sixty degress, Tim was shirtless, tight cords of muscle lining every inch of him. He drove an old Chevelle he worked on himself, presumably and hopefully shirtless, in the garage below his apartment on his parent's palatial estate. I hated him, I wanted to scar his face, I wanted to put sugar in his gas tank, I wanted so bad to kiss him, just once. I hated myself for this. Not in that self-loathing, “Oh no, I'm a Catholic faggot” way, more that I just expected more of myself. He banged Missy at a party sophomore year, and i knew he was a seasoned cocksmith based on her reaction. She hated him too.

I ran to the bathroom to relieve the outrageous pressure my fifteen cups of Gatorade was putting on my bladder. The bathroom was thankfully emptied and i moaned as i unzipped. The door opened and Tim walked in.
“You got the right idea, Gibber, gotta get ready for half time. Oh man, i gotta pee.”
He stood at the urinal beside me and my stream became a slight drip. I stared at the wall, barely breathing. Tim sighed and unzipped. When he began pissing, it sounded like a dam had broken, like a fire hose, like a horse had stepped up beside me. I wanted to look so bad, but instead i looked at his face. Tim was looking right at me. He raised his eyebrows, nodded his head down in the direction of what i was sure was some kind of enormous alien cock, and said, “I sure had to go.”
He shook, i swear i heard it make a swooshing noise, patted me on the back and said, “C'mon, buddy, half time. Let's do this.”
I was so sweaty and shaken, I didn't even know whether i had zipped up as i ran from the bathroom onto the field behind tim.

I got on all fours and waited. Suddenly, Tim was beside me.
“Little change, Gibster, I'm next to you tonight. You ready?”
I looked over at him and nodded, sweat falling from my upturned nose. Jane Mauricio mounted my back, and the pyramid slowly came to be. My sister, before climbing to the top, cracked the mound of my ass. The fat tidal wave rolled all the way to my double chin. I knew she was at the top when the crowd erupted. The cheer started, and i was already shaky.
“C A T H O L I C...Crusaders move em out, Crusaders, Let me hear you shout, C A T H O L I C!”
Tim shifted his weight and simultaneously his forearm brushed mine and his rock hard ass pushed itself mine to stabilize. He looked over at me and winked. My prick felt this and blood rushed to my crotch like a levy had broken. I looked between my legs and gasped. My pants were unzipped and the head of my tiny dick was fully noticeable through the white rayon slit. I looked up at the crowd and people in the first row were already pointing and laughing hysterically. I checked my hands, my white knuckles announcing to me a zip up was impossible. I looked up at the crowd once again, and Pat fucking Kennedy, yearbook photographer, had eagle eyed my dick's appearance and was zooming in on my crotch. My left hand fluttered to my zipper and immediately went back to the grass when a slight sway caused a gasp from the third row of the pyramid. Jane spat down at me.
“Steady it up, motherfucker!”
Her knee ground into the small of my back and I winced. I looked at Pat again; i saw the shudder of his camera click and I thought, fuck it. I grabbed my zipper with my left hand and my right arm crumbled. The pyramid swayed, slowly to the left, and then sharply to the right, and a scream rang out, piercing ears and forcing eyes closed. A body, then another fell on me, and he wind was knocked from me. I closed my eyes in pain, and by the time I had opened them, there was missy lying beside me in a heap, neck turned in a weird way, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish out of its bowl. Her eyes found mine, narrowed, and she bared her teeth like a cornered dog and passed out. Maybe now people would have to respect the horrible destructive nature of my wang. I was so fucked.

NOTE- it is pretty scattered from here on out, i am just trying to get all of my ideas down.

Cheerwheeler: Parents Part One: Some Animals Eat Their Young
"Creamy."
"Beg pardon?"
"Everything about this chick is creamy, Bobby. Her hair, her skin, her voice. I want to pour her in a cup of coffee, spread her on a birthday cake, lick her off the whisk."
"You are smoking way too much dope, John; you sound fucking psychotic."
"Her eyes, man, her goddamn eyes. They are this weird creamy blue, like God jizzed in the Caribbean, that color blue."
"You are one romantic son of a bitch; don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."
"When we get back from 'Nam, I'm going to marry her and we're going have a litter of half creamy brats, Bobby."
"If we come back from "nam."
"Did I ever tell you about her pussy? It looks like a pink lily plucked from the Garden of Eden, nestled in a billowing bed of blonde baby angel's hair. I swear it tastes like sugar cookies. Like Christmas morning every time I eat her out, all I need is a glass of milk and a shitty gift from Aunt Evelyn, top it all off." "Give me that fucking joint, you're off it. How old is this cooze?"
"Uhhh, about that…"
"Oh fuck me. How old, Johnny?"
"She's fifteen but I swear she looks twenty if she looks a year."
"John, you are a twenty one year old man about to be shipped off to a jungle war zone. You think banging a minor is the best way to put a possible cap on your life?"
"God, you're depressing. Why do you hate love so much? I didn't say anything when you were porking that sixteen year old slut from Dairy Queen, did I? No, because you are my brother and I respect the decisions you let your dick make for you."
"I was fifteen at the time, you fucking dunce!"
"Either way, no judgment was passed."
"You better hope Uncle Bill doesn't find out, he's bound to stomp your pecker off if it turns up that you are fucking a Brownie Scout."
"I don't care. I love Laura Wertz, and I'm going to marry her, first thing I get off that fucking plane and back onto US soil. Those gooks will have to blow off my arms and legs to keep me from her. And even then, I'll crawl. I'll crawl on my belly like a fucking rattlesnake to her, Bobby, back to my sweet, creamy Laura."

Laura stood in front of the dusty mirror hanging crookedly on her bedroom closet's door and pinched at the slight tummy hanging menacingly over her off pink cotton panties. The mourning sickness was getting worse so quickly, she could barely make it to the bathroom in the early am hours, nonetheless vomit quietly so as to not alert her very Christian parents to the presence of her little parasitic visitor. There was blood mixed with the hodgepodge of choked down fried chicken and stolen Budweisers that morning, and she prayed to God that meant the baby was dying. Johnny was off pretending to be a hero in that silly war, so she couldn't very well ask her mother for the money for an abortion during one of her four hour rosary recital marathons. Laura couldn't bring herself to "accidentally" fall down a couple flights of stairs or "unknowingly" drink some Drano; she might hurt herself in the process. That seemed too personal, more like murder if she did it herself. But if some dykey fem doctor in a tiny office plastered with posters of the culprit used a vacuum or heated coat hanger to suck or dig the bastard out, how responsible was she, really? She sighed and puffed her stomach out, she was never thin to begin with, and now she was going to swell up like a dry sponge in hot dishwater, a bloated, rotting possum on the side of the road, ready to burst. Laura had seen her mother naked before, had experienced first hand the havoc nature had wrought by birthing her. The road map stretch marks, jagged, hot pink avenues leading to cul de sac crevices filled with hair too wild to tame. The sagging tits, nipples turned down, dangerously close to dropping off onto the floor. The droopy ass that looked like oatmeal shoved into a water balloon in the black stirrup pants her mother wore as a uniform of hopelessness. The labia flapping like tiny, wrinkled, forgotten hands clapping along to a sad, lonely song as she walked. Laura shuddered. Jesus, her mother had only one child, her, and she looked like some kind of Amish birthing machine biddy nude. Laura had secretly read a book in the musky basement of the town library, a pictorial retelling of the birthing process. She went limp and dropped the book when she came across the montage of photos depicting a perineum rip, a horrible, bloody fissure running from vagina to anus. From what she could tell, birth was neither beautiful nor glorious. Movies and television shows lied, having a baby wasn't all panting and comical dialogue, it was a bloodbath, an agonizing, putrid, unnatural occurrence, a plague set upon women's bodies from the first time sperm met ovum. Laura wished she was one of those animals that ate their young. She exhaled and cupped her breasts, lifted them and let them fall. They were swollen and achy, losing their perk with every passing second. The thought of them filling with milk, of some pink, screaming, squirmy little person gnawing at them made her want to dress in all black and play hopscotch on a busy highway at night. Laura turned to face the mirror. Johnny had said she was the greatest lay this side of the Mississippi, how the fuck would he know? That dopey shitkicker hadn't ever even been over state lines, and now he was probably smoking laced grass out of some slit whore's ass crack in a rice paddy. Fucker. He wasn't even handsome; how the hell had she let this happen? Laura raised her arms and did ten jumping jacks, hoping the baby might be jostled from her womb and fall into the thick plush of her shag carpeting, writhing, waiting to be vacuumed up by her mother. Every time she sat on the toilet, Laura closed her eyes and pushed extra hard, hoping, praying to the Holy Spirit that the force of her contracting, disappearing abdominal muscles would shoot the womb squatter right out. A flush, and no more worries. She always just ended up sweaty, tears pouring down hot cheeks. Laura took her sweat stiffened jumper from the back of her wicker rocking chair and slipped it over her head, cinching the belt super tight in the hopes of crushing a tiny skull or severing a miniscule windpipe. She took one last look in the mirror, sighed, and headed to the diner for her shift.

Parents, Part 2- Parasight Calculus
The plane bucked, turbulence tickling its ass with tailwinds, forcing my plastic cup of watery whiskey to be jostled in my hand, a few drips escaping down onto the creased complexity of my dress pants, and i sighed. I pulled the shade over the window, leaned my head back, tried to sleep. Flashbacks are a peculiar lot, ghostly whispers, fragments, never good, never serene. At least for me. My flashbacks were more like flashmindbombs, tiny cranial explosions of bloody screaming, crying, death and disfigurement. All in a jungle setting, all with me coated in guts. Fun, no. Constant, yes. Unavoidable, unfortunately. I guess it comes with the territory. Flashbacks and drug addiction are to war vets as bed wetting and drug addiction are to the molested. Accepted, inescapable luggage to carry with you, heavy in its meaning, damning in its sincerity, awesomely fucking real. Living your life within the constant company of flashbacks is like solving a rubix cube after dipping your hands in Crisco, reality is in your grasp, but it is slippery, a puzzle you know you could solve if you weren't so fucked up, frustrating and out of reach. I slugged back the rest of the whiskey and read the letter again.
"Dear Johnny, Bobby is a fucking mess. He sleeps in that goddamn chair. He won't go see his daughter. I'm pretty sure he is on the smack, or some other fucked up junk. When you come home, make him right. I know it's a lot to ask, but that poor lass he knocked up is coming undone. She constantly calls the house, looking for him, and i tell her, 'he's right here, darling, feel free to come and gather him up and take him to your house.' I want him out. He is nasty, Johnny, he needs you. I fear the worst. Bill."
The plane skidded onto the tarmac and i folded the letter into fours and tucked it into my dress jacket, adjusted the purple star hanging lonely on my chest, and prepared for the worst. Fuck homecomings, fuck my brother, fuck this town. The plane's door hissed open and the hot, humid northeastern summer wind found its way all over me, buried my lungs, sweat sprouting in every dark crevice of my person. I walked down the stairs, rucksack over my shoulder, expecting no hero's welcome. When you fight in a war without heroes, the ticker tape parades and slaps on the back fall to the wayside, unnecessary, forgotten. Across the tarmac, the automatic doors to the terminal opened, and air conditioning made me realize i was home, really home.
I was back in America, and all i could think of doing was eating a hamburger, fucking some frumpy chick with horrible self esteem, drinking a Budweiser while watching the Phillies, and taking a shit in an enclosed space not surrounded by dense, suffocating jungle and bloodthirsty pseudo-enemy soldiers.
My stomach gurgled, announcing to me and anyone standing in my general vicinity at the luggage carousel that i would need to empty cheap whiskey and rubbery chicken marsala from my bowels immediately. I spun on my heel and spotted a sign for the bathrooms not 100 yards to my left. I took a few quick steps and the crowd in front of me parted, and all i saw was tye dye and sandals. A throbbing throng of hippies blocked my way to the imminent lower intestine evacuation that was reminding me of its arrival with gloomy, wet sounding farts. My anus involuntarily seized shut as i saw that i would have to pass through them to make it to the john. They spotted me.
I didn't necessarily hate hippies, i saw their point, it was a bullshit war, but i was in no condition to chit chat about the finer points of the united state's forceful spreading of democracy or drafting policies or Vietnamese children running around limbless in front of news cameras looking for their dead parents. I was drafted, i went, i killed, i survived, now please, just let me shit. It became clear as they stood in front of me, arms interlocked, that this was not going to happen.
"baby killer!"
"genocidal war pig!"
"sheep of the system! Bah, motherfucker, bah!"
Hippies had a way with words, stoned and euphoric,yet somehow still angry, and i shuffled side to side, trying to find a sliver to escape through, a slow motion game of red rover, my guts bubbling and churning. Then, i spotted an opening and shimmied my way along the patouli scented line towards it. My eyes lit up and i quickened my pace, and just as i began to step through the line the overhead fluorescent lights were blotted out by a shadow that sprung over me, loomed, forced me to look up. A black guy, decked out in your traditional hippy garb, frayed vest, headband, purple oval glasses, fro as big as the sun, a walking mountain of peace and love lovingly put his huge boat oar of a hand in my chest and gave me a push.
"where you goin', solja boy? You like raping kids and burning villages, huh?"
this seemed like a perfectly valid question based on reports coming in from the d'nang province, but the hot lava shit brewing within me made conversation impossible. I tried the reasonable approach.
"listen, man, i just got off a sixteen hour flight, i was drafted, i didn't rape anyone, and i never purposely burned any village down. Just let me by, bro, i just want to go home."
he cocked his head to the side, contemplating my plea, and i saw his throat ripple, accompanied by the conjuring of what i was sure would be a loogey the size and color of a brand new tennis ball. His cheeks puffed, his lips parted, and hell rained down on me. The spit smacked me dead in the forehead, rolled down into my left eye, came to its final resting place on my upper lip. It smelled of tobacco. My instincts took over. I grabbed the lapels of his vest, bringing my knee sharply into his crotch, and as he leaned over in pain, i brought my forehead into his nose, causing his head to snap back. I took a step back and squarely planted my combat boot into his stomach and kicked him backwards. He stumbled, fell straight on his back, and i stepped over him on my way to the shitter. I had no time to look back as his filthy buddies tending to him, the physical exertion had created a turtle head, and if you don't know what that means, pray you never have to find out.
I plowed into the bathroom and frantically shoved open a stall door. It was all i could do to undo my belt and plop myself on the frigid seat before my insides poured from me. Hot, liquid, menacing shit cascaded from my rectum, and the sweat came easy and free. I leaned back on the bowl and exhaled, a free man, and began to look around the stall. Your normal airport stall literature, "i like boys, call me at blah blah blah,", crude, cavemen style drawings you'd expect to find inside some cavern in latreaux of open legged wenches, tits as big as mountains, pussies as wide and inviting as the mouth of a hungry great white. I wiped sweat from my brow and laughed to myself, America, home of the brave. My insides opened once again and cool toilet water splashed up into my ass, great, all i needed now was to contract some Scandinavian butt slug. I would slowly lose weight, refuse to eat, become jaundice and gaunt, die in a pool of blood leaking from my ass on the broken futon in my uncle's dusty, porn filled basement.
I once again leaned back and surveyed the stall. To my right brightly colored marker lines caught my attention. A snake, no, a worm coiled around several precisely written lines.
A poem.
I read it aloud.
When the night seems to linger
its darkness will surely last
my pessimistic disposition
revealed a wordless math
when shadows playfully whisper
and the sun is in soaked with gin
the equation you remember
sums up the presence of the sin
and then you feel a falling
the addition you hold so dear
i'll be wriggling through your guts
calling for things to become oh so clear
Clean, block lettering. At the bottom, the worm was swallowing the title- "parasight calculus."
i thought about this for a second, reached behind me to flush, and a great gurgling froze me. Before i could stand, the toilet water, pregnant with my insides, poured over the lip of the bowl and into my pants, my socks, squishing between my sweaty toes. I gagged and stood, barely wiping, and walked with my pants around my feet to the sinks, nude from the waist down. I tore my pants from around my boots and stuffed them into the sink, running hot water over them. Welcome home, hero. As i turned to fetch a pair of civilian pants from my rucksack, the bathroom door opened. The shadow, the narrowing eyes, the mountain of peace and love and acceptance stepped in and cracked his knuckles.
Mathematics and murder, life and loss.


A Brief Interlude, or, Uncle John's Demise

“it's your turn to check in on uncle john, gilbert. You can take my van. Just be back in time for missy's bath, ok? I would do it, but, oh, just be home by eight, ok?”
My father hated to give missy her bath. His face twisted in disgust as he lifted her from her chair into the waiting lukewarm bathwater, his broken angel spitting insults up at him, her clammy naked flesh crumpled and dry like a sheet of looseleaf between his liver spotted fingers. So i had to do it. Every night, 8 o'clock, there i was, the sleeves of my snug, dirty white button-down rolled up to my elbows, lifting that horrible wretch into the bathtub. Of course, she complained the whole time, and the one time i wore plastic gloves, she nearly bit my ear off. It was so difficult to not push her head under the water and walk out, maybe smoke a cigarette, get a bite to eat, drink a warm beer in the garage, and come back to find, oh god no, she had drowned. I practiced my horrified, can't-believe-this happened look in the mirror on my closet door so many times i was starting to convince myself that her death would have been the most crushing occurrence in my young life. But, you know, i had already paralyzed the bitch, if i drowned her now, it just seemed like overkill. Literally.

I walked past missy's room and unfortunately, she saw me.
“get back here, you walking hunk of hobo turd, i need something.”
i stopped for a second, tilted my head to the ceiling, and sighed. If sighing was in any way a cardio workout, i would look like brad pitt in fight club. I sighed like newborns cried, frequently, uncontrollably, toxically. I drug my feet into her room.
“yes, missy, what is it?”
She looked me directly in the eye, i hated when she did that, i felt like my insides were melting, and she said, “my ass itches.”
i stopped in my tracks.
“what?”
she smiled.
“i said my ass itches, fucklord, come scratch it.”
Flabbergasted is not the word for how i felt, but it's close.
“missy, jesus, that is impossible. I don't mean to rub salt in the wound here, but you are a paraplegic, you can't feel your bottom half. It is incomprehensible to me that somehow, you can feel an itch on your dead ass.”
this did not make her happy.
“listen, you cock sucking fuckhead, i said my ass itches, do you think I'd lie about something like that? It may be a phantom itch, like when uncle john says his foot itches, so get your flabby ass in here and scratch it for me.”
My mouth must have dropped open.
“No, i don't have a dick to stuff in your mouth, pussy, so make yourself useful for once and get over here and scratch my, how did you put it' dead ass?' you killed my ass, gibby, the least you can do is scratch it. Move, little lord fuckleroy.”
I, for some reason, decided this is where i would take my stand.
“i'm not scratching your ass, missy. I wash you, i feed you, i do your laundry, i switch the stations on your tv even though you have a remote, i am drawing the line at putting my hand anywhere near your dead ass.”
She smiled again.
“Daddy, daddy gilbert is being so horrible. Tell him to scratch my ass!”
i heard my father rustling around in the bathroom, probably trying to find the right mix of pills to do himself away with.
“gibby, do as missy says, it is the least you can do. If she wants you to scratch her dead ass, then scratch it goddammit. And what are you still doing here? Uncle john has been in a bad way lately, some company might do him some good.”
I glared at missy and crossed the room. As i neared she shifted on her side, revealing her bed sore infested ass to me. I looked at the ceiling, and gave the vile thing a good scratch, i could feel scabs peeling from her, some of which became lodged beneath my perfectly manicured fingernails. She cooed and groaned,
“oh yeah, right there, that's it, a little higher, oh yeah, good job.”
she flopped onto her back and smiled up at me.
“you can go now, uncle john is waiting. Have fun!”
i turned and shook my hand violently.
“yeah, see you at eight, darling.”

My uncle john was fucked up. That is a bit harsh, my uncle john was mentally unstable. Like, severely mentally unstable. When his legs were blown off in Vietnam he spent 3 months in some isolated VA hospital deep in the jungle of the Huang province, and evidently, he developed two quite disturbing habits. Of course, he became monstrously addicted to every type of narcotic known to man, and he began speaking to monkeys. Perhaps i should explain. It seems that every morning, a monkey would hop onto the window sill next to john's hospital bed and beg for food. Well, this went on for about 3 weeks and before you know it, the monkey is sleeping beside john in bed. John wouldn't speak to the nurses. John would only speak to the monkey. Such as,”Sparky, please tell the nurse that 'no, i will not quiet down, and that no, the monkey will not be removed.' You can also tell that ungrateful bitch that i served my time defending this shithole of a country and i will do whatever the fuck i want. If that includes sleeping beside a monkey, well, so be it.”
When he came back to the states, he saw my sister, ditched my mother, and moved into the flooded basement of my grandmother's dilapidated row home. He spent several years roaming the town in his second hand wheelchair, ranting and raving about this and that, you know, the same old shit vets ramble on about, how their country had abandoned them and the injustices perpetuated by our consumerist culture, before, somehow, miraculously even, he met someone as whacked out as he was. Her name was Pho mon si, or something, and she was a former Asian prostitute. Of course. I can only say Asian, because i have no idea what part of the dog eating world she was from, i met her once, when i was very young. They got married and lived together in the moldy basement until my grandmother died while shoveling snow one blustery January morning, at which time they moved upstairs. Things were seemingly going well for some time, john cleaned up and got two rather expensive prosthetic legs, got a job at the liquor store, and seemed to be finally coming out of his ten year prescription drug haze.
Things aren't always as they seem, though. Pho, for reasons still undiscovered, one morning got up, put everything they owned in my grandmother's rusted baby blue Cadillac, including the prosthetic legs, and drove off to parts unknown. John did not take it well.
He grew a wild man beard, stepped up the drug intake, shut himself within the crumbling house, and somehow, he got a monkey. Not just any monkey. A chimpanzee. I have no idea how he managed it, one time my father said john had a contact in some third world zoo and spent three pension checks to have the horrible animal shipped to his doorstep. John, of course, said the monkey was to help him around the house. Like, a helper monkey. I had my doubts, even as a child.
The monkey's name was something ridiculous like Mr. Giggles, and he was not a kind animal. I distinctly remember my father coming home from checking on john covered in feces, swearing he would shoot that fucking beast if he had to throw away one more oxford shirt. After missy had her, ahem, accident, and my mother hung herself, i obviously was the next best candidate for the job of going to john's house and checking up on him. Checking up meant emptying out his bedpan, grocery shopping, and avoiding mr. Giggles. Giggles was a mean, graying, remorseless chimp, and he did not mind pelting you with feces or, if you got close enough, bite the bejesus out of your calf. I wore three layers of clothing every time i went over, and carried a metal softball bat, i was not about to let that fucking monster give me some kind of fucked up monkey pox. Monkeys are dirty, vicious animals, and the way i saw it, beating it's skull apart would probably relieve some of the murderous feelings bubbling just beneath my cracking carapace.

I pulled up to the house and retrieved the softball bat from the back seat, as well as a flashlight. John never paid utilities, so going to his house at night was like stepping off the end of the earth into a putrid corner of space inhabited by bearded drug addicts and elderly, murderous chimpanzees. This corner of space always was dark, cold, and stank of any number of commingling scents, mostly piss and stale cigarette smoke. I walked up the stairs to the front porch, flicked on the flashlight, and stepped into hell.

The house was dark, pitch black, and as i swept the flashlight across the living room, vomit bubbled up into my throat. I thought,”fuck it”, and threw up all over the torn up green shag carpeting. I stood there for a moment, the silence surrounding me scared me more than the thought of a bloodthirsty chimpanzee that was most likely hanging on a chandelier somewhere waiting to cover me in his stink. I neared the stairs, and a wild crashing noise stopped me in my tracks.
“Uncle John? It's Gibby, Uncle John, my dad sent me over to see if you need anything. Hey, is Giggles in his pen? Seriously, Uncle John, he is so mean, where is he?”
Silence. I took a step up the stairs and listened. Nothing. I walked up three more stairs and the crashing came again, closer. I gripped up on the softball bat and whispered,”Giggles?”
My heart was beating tremendously fast, i was regretting snorting three lines of adderall before coming over, i was sweaty and on the verge, i was sure, of cardiac arrest. I walked up to the top of the stairs and looked down the hall towards the open door of john's bedroom.
The moonlight leapt through the broken venetian blinds covering the open window in john's bedroom, casting an ethereal glow onto the bed, where john lay on his side.
“Uncle john, it's gibby, buddy, how are you?”
Silence. I took two steps down the hallway and a swooshing noise coming from the guest bedroom forced me to stop. I leaned and closed the guest bedroom door, hoping giggles was now trapped within. I started down the hallway, slow, meticulous baby steps guiding me. The overwhelming stench of piss and open, forgotten beers invaded my nasal cavity and i dry heaved. I spat violently on the floor and took one step into the bedroom. John did not move.
“Hey, uncle john, didn't you hear me calling you? How ya doin' buddy, how about them fightin phils, huh? 2 games back.”
I neared the bed and dread filled my every particle. I slowly leaned down and took john's shoulder, turning him on his back. His eyes were wide open, the skin of his face gnawed at and blue, something had chewed his lips off. I surveyed the rest of him. The bath robe he always wore had fallen open, and the carnage around his groin nearly made me pass out. Something had eaten his dick. Rather, chewed it off. I stood, mouth agape, and a crashing from the hallway forced me to spin, dropping the flashlight. There, in the dust freckled moonlight, stood giggles, in a party dress, blood covering his gray muzzle. Giggles got low, and a growl, low at first, then erupting into a cacophonous battle cry, shook me to my horrified core. Giggles beat his chest and charged, i stood frozen. As he broke the threshold of the bedroom i remembered the bat, and as he jumped to rip open my throat, i swung. I swung wildly, a fierce, life preserving swing, and bat met monkey with a horrible, bloody thud. Giggles fell to the floor and began screaming, a blood curdling, gruesome sound that shocked me into inaction, if only for a second. I stood over giggles and swung the bat down on him, again and again, blood and monkey hair covering my brand new dockers, until the screaming stopped. I stood panting for what seemed like an eternity before i took my cell phone from my pocket, wiped monkey guts from my sweaty visage, and called 911.

I stood outside with the uniform cop, who could have only been 3 years my senior. He took off his octagonal hat and scratched at his thick head of auburn hair. My god, he was dashing.
“ok, gibby, is it? ok, i have to wait for the detectives here, but i took a look around inside and i think i have pieced together what happened. You okay, by the way?”
I stood at attention and puffed at the cigarette he had kindly offered me. “yeah, i mean, as well as i can be, i guess.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. Blood rushed to my face.
“it's ok, son, it's all over. If i can be frank, that is some fucked up shit, do you want me to continue?”
I flicked the cigarette, trying to look cool, and took a step back. “no, go ahead, i need to know. For the family, ya know.”
He took out his pad and went on.
“as best as i can tell, your uncle was quite a sick individual. Upon further inspection of both of the corpses, this seems to be a case of bestiality at it's most perverse. When i turned the ape's..”
“chimpanzees aren't apes, chad, is it? Chimpanzees aren't apes.”
The cop looked up at me, then his eyes returned to his pad.
“well, as best as i can tell, your uncle was engaging in sexual congress with that monkey. When i turned over, giggles, did you say? When i turned giggles over i saw something protruding from his anus. It seems your uncle had been involved in coitus with the simian? Simian, i guess, when he had a heart attack. The monkey became frightened, causing his anus to close tighter than a time locked vault door, and he became trapped on your uncle's member. Trying to free himself, somehow he positioned his body in such a way to remove your uncle's member from his anus, which meant chewing himself free. My guess is he has been in there, your uncle's member in his rectum, for about two days now, and he must have gotten hungry, your uncle has had pieces of him bitten off. Most likely the monkey needed sustenance and your uncle was his only food source.”
He flipped his pad closed and looked me in the eye.
“Do you mind if i say something?”
I kicked at the grass of the dying front yard.
“I guess not.”
“That is some fucked up shit, Gibby. I mean, this is my second month on the job, and I've seen crack heads do some pretty wild stuff, but that” he hooked his thumb and pointed over his shoulder at the house,”that is some weird, voodoo, going straight to hell shit. You need a ride home?”
I jangled my keys in front of him.
“No, no thanks. I have to get home anyway, i need to give my sister a bath. I gave you my number, you may call and speak to my father about the details. Thanks again, chad.”
Chad stood there dumbfounded as three more cop cars sped down the street towards the house.

It was 8:15, i was so late.

Parents Part 3-
Nonconcentual Nocturnal Spectral Coitus, or, Why Smiling Made Mommy Hang Herself

Smiling killed me. Or, rather, not being able to smile ultimately made me wrap that string of tangled christmas tree lights around my neck and decorate the garage with my bloated, miserable hanging self. Even as i lay here, the cheap clapboard walls of my poorly constructed casket crumbling in upon me, ushering in the moist, nutrient rich soil and a barrage of hungry earthworms, who i am sure will chew the taut, gray flesh from my unsmiling corpse face, i ponder on how not being able to smile brought my life to an end. I hear the worms inching up over the ugly, unflattering dress they buried me in, can feel their slimy epidermises wriggling closer and closer to my nostril, i wonder if it is true. Will they eat my brain? Hopefully that will put an end to all of these thoughts. I should be dead, should be laying here rotting, but still i am speaking to myself. To be honest, i am happy to have the company. My cracked, parched lips spread out over my nicotine stained teeth, finally, a smile, and i welcome them in.

When i became pregnant at the age of fifteen with the baby of Johnny, that silly, simple boy from down the block, i smiled. When Johnny came back from fighting it that useless war with no legs and a horrendous drug addiction, i smiled. When he abandoned me and went to live in his mother's basement with that Asian whore, i smiled, a relieved, wholesome smile. When his brother bobby came to my door and asked me on a date, i smiled politely and accepted. When i walked down the aisle to marry Bobby, i faked a smile that would have fooled the most hardened detective. When gilbert was born, i smiled and pretended to be the happiest woman alive. When it became obvious that Gilbert was, in fact, a homosexual, i smiled and offered silent support. When the rumors of my daughter's promiscuity were spiraling through our town, i smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Kids, you know. When Melissa had her accident and became a venomous, spiteful harpy spewing hate upon anyone in her path, i smiled and made dinner every night at six o'clock. When Johnny died screwing the chimpanzee he was living with, i smiled, for real, i may have even laughed to myself about it during a moment stealing nips of brandy in the early morning hours before my family was awake. When i realized my husband was a sniveling, ambition less coward, i smiled and patted his back. But, but when i finally had a night to myself and was attacked by an invisible invader, no smile came. I had had enough. My bell was tolled, my ticket punched, and i calmly went to the garage, dug the string of christmas tree lights from the moldy box they inhabited in the dark corner of the claustrophobic, memory strewn garage, and carefully, lovingly hung myself. As my bowels released onto the oil stained concrete floor, and the light tunneled into an unrecognizable speck, i smiled and with my last gasping breath, i giggled.

I was happy that night, as i can remember. Bobby had taken Melissa and gilbert to a movie and out for ice cream, i was left alone in the house to read a Mary Higgins Clark novel i had been dying to crack the spine of. I poured myself an over sized glass of white wine, took the afghan from the back of the couch, lit three lilac scented aromatherapy candles, and snuggled onto the couch. After three glasses or so of wine i put the book down and put on my favorite van Morrison record, astral weeks, lit a cigarette, and stretched out on the couch. Van's crooning always took me back to a time when life was so much more simple, i was thirteen, spending my summer days laying in my room listening to records, smoking stolen cigarettes, dreaming of becoming a nurse or the first woman president. Imprudent ramblings of a teenage girl carelessly scribbled in my pink paged journal, about the boys i liked, the girls i hated, the rumors of infidelity that plague every small town filling every entry.
The candles were burning down, my eyelids grew heavy, and i dozed off. I dreamed of harry Hamlin, his rugged good looks, the clenched ropes of muscle lining his arms in that movie, what was it? Clash of the titans. Yes. Harry and i were riding that winged horse over gorgeous fields of pink daisies, my arms wrapped around his tight stomach, him whispering sweet nothings back to me. In my sleep, my hand drifted down beneath my robe, and i rubbed myself. First i ran my hand over the sinking pods of overcooked oatmeal i called my breasts, then to the wild, untamed region of my lady parts. My hips writhed in beat with the pegasus' flapping wings, i was so close, i couldn't remember my last orgasm, and a hand gripped my wrist. My eyes shot open, but no one was there. A weight was holding me down, and as i craned my neck to call out, an invisible hand covered my mouth. This made no sense. I buckled my back but the weight was so heavy. My robe was torn from my body, and the imperceptible force holding me down ripped my size fourteen fruit of the loom panties from my lower half in one fell swoop. Hot tears cascaded down my cheeks, and i felt something enter me. Hard, fast pumps. A groaning, like that of a far off locomotive, penetrated my ears and i bit at the hand holding my mouth. A second later something slammed into my nose, blood pouring down the back of my throat. As soon as it had begun, it was over. An open window behind me shook as a mighty wind escaped through it. As i lay there, cowering, balling my eyes out, i swore i heard a phantom cackling in the wind. I laid back and passed out.

That is how i found her. Laying there, unconscious. Gilbert was still removing Melissa from the van and as i walked into the dark living room, i thought laura had just fallen asleep on the couch. As i moved closer to wake her, i saw she was naked. My face grew hot, and i hurriedly closed her robe so as the children did not have to see her that way. Her nose was caked in dry blood and her right eye had been blackened. Gilbert came through the door with Melissa and i told him to take her upstairs. Melissa, ever the snoop, wanted to know what was going on. I told her her mother had had an accident, that i needed to take her to the hospital, and of course, she wanted to come along. I gathered laura up in my arms, and with significant strain picked her up. Gilbert pushed Melissa along behind me as i walked down the ramp to the van. I gently set laura in the passenger seat and we stood and waited for the electronic lift to come down out of the bed of the van, all the while Melissa asked questions, all of which i ignored. Gibby pushed her onto the lift, fastened her straps, and we were off. Doom permeated every ion of my being. My sweet, silky laura. Broken, yet again.

“i know this is difficult, mrs. Goodworth, but your cooperation will certainly help in the investigation. Could you please tell sergeant boyd what you have told me.”
“will it make a difference? He won't believe me either.”
“Mrs. Goodworth, hello. My name is ron boyd. I think we all just need to understand what happened to you.”
“Ok, like i told this officer, i didn't see who attacked me. I had dozed off, and was awoken by a hand on my wrist. My eyes were wide open, officer, and i saw nothing.”
“ok, ok, we will be in contact, mrs. Goodworth. I think the nurses have some questions for you also. We will catch whoever did this, i assure you. Crimes like these never go unsolved in this town.”
“yeah, ok. Who ya gonna call, right?”

For the next two weeks Bobby waited on me hand and foot. He fluffed pillows, massaged my feet, read to me, made me soup three times a day. Gilbert could barely look at me. Melissa, on the other hand, was full of questions.
“do you think it was a ghost? Like a perverted poltergeist or something? Did it hurt? I mean, the sex, not getting your nose broken. Did the ghost say anything? Did it say it wanted us out of this house? Do you think it will rape me next? Or gibby? That would be hilarious. Everyone knows he is hard up for some dick action. Should we look into getting an exorcist? Or a psychic detective? This family is so fucked up, you know? Who gets raped by a ghost? Besides you, i mean.”
i spent my days sitting on the rocking chair on the front porch, chain smoking, drinking straight scotch. I barely spoke to anyone. News like that spreads fast in a small town, and our house was inundated with casseroles, fruit baskets, and get well cards. I wondered how one would go about shopping for the perfect get well gift for someone who had been ravaged by a ghost. That would be an uncomfortable conversation to have with the clerk at hallmark. “I want something that says'sorry for your pain, but i don't really believe you.' like,'get well, with a passive aggressive disbelief undertone.' what aisle would that be in?”
Neighbors passed my house and waved up at me, a weird smile covering their faces. My nights were spent on that same couch, my insomnia leading to endless hours of scouring the Internet for cases similar to mine. None existed.

My suicide was relatively uneventful. one night i waited until bobby was finished fawning over me, pretended to fall asleep, and after he had ascended the stairs, i calmly tiptoed to the garage. I left no note. I felt no explanation was necessary. I did have a moment of pause as i climbed the step ladder and tied the cord around my neck. That passed quickly and death seemed so obvious. I do remember that smile, though. It was the most honest smile of my life.

Oh, oh, the worms must have bored their way into my skull. Yes, yes, i can hear them slowly digesting my medulla oblongata.
Sleep, sleep, smile as i fall to sleep.

Cheerwheeler-Friends and Onlookers Part 1- The Cock to Asshole Equation
I hated that she picked places like that one to start our night. Especially this place, a place packed to the rafters with people, smells, sounds, and conversations that I hated, made me gag, made being deaf seem like an attractive option, and forced me to lose hope for humanity in general. The pimple ridden hostess gave us a final skeptical eyeballing as she ushered us to our sticky, cheaply padded booth. When our waiter, a thin boy no older than sixteen, sidled up to our table, Chelsea put a ring pregnant hand directly in his face, preventing any humdrum waiter niceties.
“Large pepperoni, no crust, two pitchers of miller lite, a mountain of napkins, a black ballpoint pen, and our check. Thanks.”
The boy stood there, slack jawed, turned his head to the side like a curious puppy, but did not move.
This did not please chelsea.
“is this your first day, sweetheart? Should i write it all down for you? Did i overcomplicate your day by sitting in your section? Has the ridiculous amount of hair gel you spent hours working through your filthy hair finally seeped into and stopped your brain from functioning? I have very important business to conduct with my gorgeous friend here, and by god, we are both tremendously thirsty AND hungry. Why are you still standing here?”
the boy looked to me for support, but i was busy finding my way through the maze on my place mat with a yellow crayon. He sighed and drug his feet towards the kitchen, zigzagging through the nearly ever increasing horde of snot faced tiny monsters running around the dining area making noises i thought only dying squirrels made. I looked up at chelsea.
“i really wish you wouldn't talk to people that way.”
she was fishing in her enormous purse, extracted her ivory cigarette case, and looked at me.
“my presence is precious, darling. I have no time to hear some limp dicked attempt to upsale me garlic breadsticks right now. I have people to do, places to see.”
as far as i could tell, chelsea had nothing BUT time. Her parents were struck and killed by a state senator some years ago, and lucky for her, he had both trans gender underage prostitutes and a sizable amount of black tar heroin in the car that night. Her settlement check was legendary. She invested well, sat on her money, never again had to work a day in her life. Nevertheless, she pinched pennies harder than one of those machines on the boardwalk that punches teddy bear shapes through coins.
I relented.
“so, what's so important?”
she exhaled, and the family in the booth behind ours was abuzz. Her smoking never went over well in places like this.
“oh, nothing really. I was bored, needed some company, thought of you.”
the band started up, a tinny, poorly voiced over version of skynyrd's “sweet home alabama” rattling from the lead singer's shaggy flopping mouth. Chelsea took her phone out and began furiously texting someone. I waited. She threw the tiny instrument back into her gargantuan bag and tilted her head back to the ceiling.
“fucking ronald. If he didn't have that enormous member attached to him, i'm sure someone would have tossed him into a deep ravine by now.”
her head snapped back down, her eyes smoldering. I felt as if my face would melt off and destroy my progress through the maze thus far.
“i almost forgot, i have cracked the cock to asshole equation.”
there was an audible gasp from the table behind us.
I winced.
“jesus, keep your voice down. Now, i wasn't aware that such an equation even existed.”
my sarcasm was lost, or ignored, by chelsea.
“oh it does, sweetheart. After years of bouncing on every size cock this good green earth has to offer, i have come to some rather startling realizations.”
the boy returned with our tray, set everything down, and just stood there. I looked up at him. He seemed relieved to not have to interact with chelsea again.
“is something wrong?”
the boy shifted on his feet.
“um, my manager asked me to ask her,” he crooked his head in chelsea's direction, but didn't dare to look at her, “to please stop smoking. He says there are no smoking signs posted clearly on premises.”
chelsea looked over to where the manager stood, staring, paunchy and red faced. She put her cigarette out on a slice of pizza and smiled at him. The boy spun, nearly falling, and amscrayed.
Chelsea took a drink directly from one of the pitchers, grabbed a steaming slice, and slid the check to my side of the table in one fell swoop.
Mouth still full, she began again.
“You see, penis size, as i have found, is directly related to a man's temperament. Also to the way he interacts with his surroundings.”
she looked at me, i nodded as if i had any fucking idea what she was talking about.
“stated simply, men with small penises and men with large penises are assholes. It's finding that average to above average joe, that's where my fuck money now rests.”
i had to break in here.
“that is an idiotic equation. For generalization purposes alone, it is idiotic. You are grouping all men with baby or dinosaur dicks into one vast lump. Also, you would have to fuck at least half of each category of cock size to make that assumption. I know you like sex, but the logistics of such a sexual endeavor are mind boggling. You would have to have world wide teams of cock hungry sluts with anthropology degrees to pull that off.”
chelsea laughed.
“i'm just making conversation here, stephen hawkings. I'm talking about my personal experience. I wonder how one would go about finding out how big hitler's junk was? Or jesus christ?”
I ate a slice, hoping this conversation would die.
It didn't.
“Like ronald, for example. Not only is he dumber than a dog's left testicle, but he is mean to boot. And sex, forget it. He just lays there, i have to do all the heavy lifting. That motherfucker should have a time clock in his bedroom, all the work i put in. And he refuses to let me use any kind of lubricant, says, 'i want you to really feel it.' so the other night he wanted me to get on top and i told him,'listen, ron, how about i pack my vag with saharan sand and fuck a flag pole instead.' the nerve of that walking cock!”
the family behind us abruptly stood up and drug there children, quickly, through the dining room.
Chelsea took a long pull from the pitcher, finished it, and reached for mine. I smacked at her hand, but she snarled.
She sipped and placed it back in front of me.
“and remember rick? My god, every time i went down on him i got hungry for a gerkin. His penis was so small, we had to fuck with the lights on, i was scared i would lose it in the dark. And guess what, rick with the micro-dick was an asshole as well. I could go on, but i know what a prude you are.”
i drank from the pitcher.
“i'm not a prude, chelsea, i just don't believe nearly anything you say. I happen to like men. Remember cory? He had a rather large penis, was nice to me, was smart, funny, and talented. We didn't work out, but it didn't make me think all guys with big dicks were assholes.”
chelsea mulled this over.
“wasn't cory the painter?”
i nodded.
“didn't he fuck your cousin, who, i believe, was underage at the time, at your family reunion?”
i had hoped she wouldn't remember THAT. I rolled my eyes and nodded hopelessly.
“well then, welcome to the test group. Big or small penised men are assholes. You heard it here first.”
she said this like she had just cured cancer. So self satisfied.
“now, i have quite a night planned for us. We, you and i, are going to go out and have some real fun.”
she lit a cigarette and i knew where this was going.
We sat in silence, passing the pitcher back and forth, and the manager manifested, sweaty and furious, at our table.
“ma'am?”
we ignored him.
“excuse me, ma'am?”
she leaned down and touched chelsea's arm. She looked down at the hand until it was removed.
“what?”
the manager stood as tall as his hunched frame would allow him to.
“i'm going to have to ask you to leave. We have had several complaints not only about the smoking, but your language is not appropriate for our restaurant. We here at showbiz pizza take pride in our family friendly atmosphere. So if you would kindly pay your check and leave, i will not have to call the authorities.”
he stood there, hairless, blotchy arms crossed. Chelsea raised her eyebrows and looked at me.
“well?”
i fished my credit card from my purse, handed it to the manager, who rushed from the table side.
As i watched him go i heard chelsea rummaging in the rucksack she called a handbag. As i turned to her she was slipping on a white surgical glove.
“oh no,” i said, “not here.”

let me tell you a little something about chelsea. Chelsea was a self admitted kleptomaniac. But she specified. She would only steal expensive perfumes, batteries, fake blood, and every type of vibrator or dildo known to man and woman.
Why?
I'll tell you why.
Chelsea, in her purse, had a large ziploc bag filled with fake blood. Chelsea liked pranks, pranks involving bloody dildos. I often went with her as she walked through a mall parking lot, looking for convertibles with their tops down or open sunroofs. Once she found one, a vibrator, or dildo, was dipped in the bag of fake blood, and tossed into the car. We followed a van full of nuns for two hours once before they finally parked. Chelsea carefully placed a dildo adorned with the head of saint francis of assisi, of course smeared in fake blood, into their van through the open sun roof when they all had gone into a christian bookstore. According to chelsea, “blood makes everything funnier.” Hell had a special place waiting for chelsea. Since i had witnessed all of this, and had not intervened, my guess is her invitation was a plus one.

Chelsea looked from left to right, took your normal, vanilla, Midwest American vibrator from her purse, and twisted it into the on position.
As the manager brought me back me credit card, chelsea held the vibrating sex toy below the table, rubbing it on my leg.
“So, you lovely ladies have a wonderful night. Please feel free to never come back.”
chelsea peered up at him.
“your animatronic octopus drummer is broken. And the beer is watered down. Hey, could we have a look at your cock? I'd like to prove a point to my friend here.”
his face turned eight shades of violet.
“leave. Now. You know what, screw it, i'm calling the cops.”
he turned and marched to the hostess' stand.
Chelsea threw her bag on the table and took out the huge ziploc bag containing the fake blood.
“you are going to love this. I was brainstorming the other night, and i thought, 'raw hamburger.' see?”
she held the bag up so i could see that floating around in the fake blood were bits of uncooked beef.
“please not here.”
chelsea opened the bag, took the vibrator from under the table, dipped it into the bag, and stood up.
“shall we?”
i grabbed my purse and started half walking, half running for the door. I turned to see chelsea nonchalantly toss the horrible bloody thing into the ball pit, where about ten giggling children were having the time of their lives. She looked at me looking and winked.

The sound of screaming reverberated against my car windows as i backed out of my spot.

Cheerwheeler-Friends and Onlookers- Sometimes the first staking doresn't take.

“Dude, shut up for a second…you hear that? I fucking heard something.”
“Chris, chill the fuck out. We are in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere, if anyone is out here, they will probably kill us, so no worries.”
A shape crosses swiftly behind the car, escaping into the enveloping darkness provided by overgrown hedges lining the dark country road.
“See, see there it was again.”
A joint is passed from backseat to front.
“Man, Chris, you are wound tighter than a top on speed.”
‘What the fuck does that even mean, Jerry? I know I shouldn’t have let you two talk me into this. And godamnit, roll that fucking window down. If my Dad smells smoke in his car, he will, oh I don’t know, he’ll be pissed for sure.”
“You are such a pussy, dude. Listen, what you need to do is cough real hard, like the hardest cough in your life, like a tuberculosis cough, and maybe, just maybe, your balls will drop and we can all…”
A hissing sound, and the back passenger window is smashed, letting in foggy autumn air. The front seat is coated in something warm.
“Fuck, Jerry, Jerry man what the fuck was that?”
They both turn.
“Is that a fucking arrow? Holy fuck, Chris, please tell me there isn’t a fucking arrow sticking out of Jerry’s neck right now!”
Chris is busy fumbling for his car keys, which have seemed to conveniently work themselves into the crevice between driver’s seat and center console.
“Yes, Brian, there is an arrow protruding from Jerry’s neck, now help me get these fucking keys!”
“How did they get down there? Why aren’t they in the fucking ignition, man? Hey, who is that?”
A figure stands ten yards from the front of the car.
“Turn on the headlights.”
Click.
“Holy shit, wait, yeah, I think that kid is in my math class at school. What is his name? Uhhh, fuck me, Van, his name is Van Sing. ’Van sing, Van Sing, can’t get a date. Van Sing, Van Sing, sits home and masturbates.’ Don’t you have a class with him? What the fuck is he doing here?”
The passenger door opens, and an elderly Vietnamese man drives a wooden stake into Brian’s chest, removes it, and strikes again and again, the blood from each exit wound painting the interior of the car.
“Oh, oh god,” and Chris stumbles from the car. A specter is upon him, throwing him to the ground.
Voices chatter above him in a high, nasally tone, then fall to a whisper. Chris scrambles on his back, but a tiny boot plants itself firmly in his chest. The moon bursts through the clouds and it is Van Sing, it is that weird Vietnamese kid in his World Economics class, standing above him dressed all in black, holding what looks like the sharpened end of a broom stick.
“Hey, Van, uhhh, that test Friday was…”
Van drives the stake into Chris’ chest, and drives it home again, and again, and again until his uncle pats him on the back.
(In Vietnamese)”Good, good. Now, rike I say, don’t berieve the movies when it comes to vampires. One stake through the heart sometimes isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to stake and stake untir you find the heart, so it’s best to just stake the entire chest area. It’s messy and a bit annoying, especiarry when you are short on time, I know. Now, gather the warrets and meet me at the van. And Van, make sure the fire is rit this time before you run away, okay?”
Van does as he is told, and rifles pockets for wallets and loose change, drags Chris’ body back to his father’s car, rips the sleeve of his hoodie off and stuffs it into the LeSabre’s gas intake, and lights a match. When he is a step away, the car goes up, and the heat from the explosion driving Van into the woods, down the path, and into the passenger seat of his uncle’s dry cleaning delivery van. A good night’s work.