My Dear Lyzako,

I awoke this morning with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth and the flavor of what little spittle I could muster vaguely reminiscent of what a cat litter box must taste like based on my experience of the odor alone. I had spent a glorious evening at Hot Tamales, smiling and drinking and pissing gleefully in dirty urinals, all the while earnestly proclaiming to each successive girl on stage: “You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.”

By the end of the parade I'm sure I sounded more like Foster Brooks than my usual glib self, more like: “Yerthuhmowsh boodifhull w'm'n hive hever suheen inmylhife”, but as long as I was stuffing bills into their sweaty cleavages or folding them around an assortment of g-string spaghetti straps they all pretended to buy my line of shit.

Upon arrival in the club's entry area I saw a white sign with mismatched black letters that read: '$5 COVER CHARGE AFTER 7 P.M. - NO WEAPONS ALLOWED'. The second line was underscored for emphasis, which made me feel much safer. It was 8:15 and the parking lot adjacent to the faded pink and gray building had only a half-dozen cars in it. I remember thinking when I drove up that it had looked like a sparse crowd for a Thursday night, but I was still hoping there would be at least one beautiful dancer I could hang some new fantasies on. Shit, who knows? I might even fall in love, right?

I dug into my pocket for some cash. There were two women sitting behind thick sliding plexiglass windows in a little coat room to my right, the windows opened only about an inch and a half to allow me enough room to slip the cover charge through. Directly in front of me was a locked steel door barring entry into the club itself. “Five dollars, sweetie”, said the one sitting closest to the glass. She was older, a member of the family of owners I suspect, white with long straight black hair, a little on the plump side but cute. Maybe a little too much makeup.

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked her, indicating the glass and my mild surprise at the security required to gain entry. It wasn't all that long ago, my friend, when I could breeze in the door at that very same establishment, have a bottle of Blue placed in my hand and a nearly-naked girl on each arm vying for my attention, all before I even sat down. Oh well, this was Eight Mile after all, and this modern world is definitely going to 'Hell in a hand-basket', as Gramps used to say. The second girl sitting behind the glass was much younger, black, light-skinned and gorgeous from what I could tell in the dim light.

“No,” said the woman who'd taken my money. “Tameka here will be waiting on you tonight,” she went on, waving her hand over her shoulder.

“She's beautiful,” I said. “And so are you, of course.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

Tameka rose and disappeared to the left only to reappear at the entry door, swinging it wide and allowing me full access to the debauchery within. “Sit anywhere you like,” she said. And I did.

Taking a wobbly chair at the near corner of the main stage, I ordered a Blue and a glass of ice water from the lovely Tameka. I could see her better in the ambient light of the club, the pink and orange neon of the 'Hot Tamales Rocks Topless' sign that lights the stage area washing over her face as I placed my drink order. Tameka had a beautiful toothy smile, high cheek bones and gray eyes, short relaxed hair that swept around her face and behind her ears. She was wearing a black tee shirt with an abstract glitter design on the front, the neck of the shirt customized with a pair of scissors, cut open down the front to reveal tantalizing glimpses of her cleavage and delectable breast flesh. As she walked away I took special notice of Tameka's ass, which was small, round and perfectly packed into a pair of Baby Phat jeans that looked like they were tailored to fit her like a second skin.

As chance would have it, the girl on stage when I sat down was probably the hottest one of the bunch, so when I told her that she was the 'most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life', there was at least a modicum of honesty in the statement at the time. She had beautiful eyes and generous lips painted pale pink, long silky black hair that draped down in a high ponytail over her neck, and an expression on her face completely devoid of emotion. She was wearing an outfit of zebra stripes, the bikini bottom just barely able to stretch around her rump as it disappeared into the deep crease between her round ass cheeks, the bra top dangling loose and untied, her boobs hanging out underneath. I peeled off a couple of the dollar bills Tameka brought back in change and the girl danced her way over to me.

When she sat down on the stage in front of me, spreading her legs and placing both feet so that one of her fine brown knees was on either side of my head, a physical detail became visible that had escaped me when I first squinted at her from a distance. She was wearing heavy black pumps with sturdy platform heels and her shapely calves were covered with curly black hair, which she wore naturally instead of shaving, the hair fading just below her knees to flawless, smooth brown skin on her thighs. As a record collector, the first image that came to my mind was that picture sleeve 45 by the Stones - 'Start Me Up'. You know... the one with the black and white photo depicting a women's shoe very much like the one this dancer was wearing, only with a completely furry animal foot shoved into it. I hadn't expected to see the leg hair, but it was only a mild distraction, and when I looked up her body and into her eyes, I decided I could get used to it. “You look sad,” I said, hoping to seem observant, caring and sympathetic all at the same time.

“I'm bored,” she said.

After a few spins on her ass, she turned around and kneeled facing away from me, her rump in my face, each plump cheek bouncing alternately in time with the music as I tucked in my tip. “I'm trying to be as entertaining as I can,” I said to her.

“I know,” she said.

“Destiny is stepping down for one on the side and we're looking for Aja on the main stage...” This announcement from the booth came in a booming male voice as the R&B played without interruption and the second 'most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life' took the stage. The deejay had pronounced her name 'Asia' like the continent, but I could see from the white hand towel she had wrapped around her hips that somebody had airbrushed the spelling 'AJA' in pink cartoon caps diagonally across it. A lot of the girls like to put towels on the vinyl covered chairs before sitting down at a table, both for warmth and for comfort. 'Aja' had a customized one, which she promptly dropped on the stage floor when she began her routine.

She was good on the pole, that girl, climbed it high and swung swiftly around it until she had dropped perfectly to the stage on one knee. A parade of guys, cash in hand, were lured to the stage by her performance, one smiling young man stuffing what had to be fifteen or twenty singles down the back of her bikini bottom forming a wide fan of green across her hips, which she casually pulled out and dropped to the stage floor after dancing back to the corner. I had a couple of bills clutched in my hands and Aja moved slowly towards me, mesmerizing me with her large, almond-shaped eyes which did indeed seem almost Chinese in appearance. I figured Aja to be a little older than some of the other dancers, but she was well put together, with broad hips and tight, thick thighs that tapered down to slender ankles, her feet covered to mid-calf with black stockings and black, shiny ankle boots with sharp toes and stiletto heels. She smiled most of the time, a practiced one, but welcoming and warm. Her cheekbones were high, her complexion dark, and she wore a thick mane of black hair that framed her feline face and cascaded down to her shoulders.

When she came over she sat in front of me, worked her slender fingers over and around her crotch, the fingernails painted black. I slid a bill in each side of her g-string, laid my line on her. “Thank you, baby” she said.

“No,” I said. “Thank you.”

I was still wearing my overcoat and scarf against the cold as I sat at the stage, and when Aja stood up she took one end of the scarf in each of her hands and pulled me up and towards her, sliding the scarf between her legs at the crotch and drawing my face towards her beautiful thighs. “You don't have to worry about it smelling like ass,” she said referring to my scarf, which she had pulled right up tight into her crack. “My ass smells goo-ood.” She drew out the word 'good' so that it sounded like it had four syllables. My mouth started to water.

“Smells good and I'll bet tastes good, too,” I said, my nose at her crotch as I peered up into her eyes through the space between her round boobs, the nipples standing high and firm. She let go of the scarf and laughed.

“It's time for Aja to step down and we're looking for Dream... Dream to the main stage...”

On my way to the can I stopped and laid a sawbuck on Aja as she writhed around on the small side stage. “You really are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life,” I lied.

By the time I got back to my seat and ordered another round, the deejay was announcing that it was time for the nine o'clock finale... “We need all the ladies up top with their tops down...”

The array of brown legs, asses and breasts was mind-boggling, induced thirst in me as I shot down another Blue in short order. One girl I hadn't noticed before had an absolutely flawless body, a model's body but with a little more flesh hanging in the right places, smooth skin unmarred by tattoos, moles or blemishes and a complexion the color of coffee with two creams. As my eyes made my way up her body, over the smooth length of thigh and belly, around her perfectly-shaped natural breasts, up and over her slender throat to her sweet and pretty face, my mouth fell open. She noticed me looking, smiled at me and I silently mouthed “Oh...My...God,” while reaching for my pile of singles. She laughed a little and danced her way through the other dancers until she was kneeling in front of me.

“What?” she asked, having been unable to read my lips.

“I said,” I said, “Oh my God!” She laughed. “You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.” She smiled wide, a large smile that provided too much room for her tiny white teeth, which were spaced slightly unevenly with gaps between all the way across. Yet another minor distraction. Like the leg hair from earlier, I decided I could get used to this one, too.

“How about a dance, Mr. Wonderful?” she said.

“I'm just hanging out for another beer,” I said, knowing full well that my on board cash limitations weren't going to allow me much fun in the lap dance department. “But I'll be back another day.”

“You look me up,” she said, flashing her irregular smile.

“You are on top of the list,” I assured her.

Dream was still up for one more after the finale and I waved a few bucks to lure her over. Her expression was a cross between sadness and boredom, too, but I didn't even offer a guess, just laid my line on her, after which she managed a weak smile. It got pretty foggy after that, the girls coming and going until I'd seen them dance around the rotation with Destiny climbing the stairs to the stage again.

“You've over-served me again,” I scolded Tameka when she came by to see if I needed anything else. “You may have to drive me home.”

“I will if you need me to,” she said, seeming completely sincere and natural about it.

I ordered one more, tipped her an extra buck for being cute and told her before leaving: “You don't have to drive me home anymore, dear. Just identify the body. Ha ha ha! Oh and by the way, did I mention that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life? No? Well, you are!” I couldn't resist.

On the way home I stopped at the BP station on the corner and fueled up with some beef jerky, a quart of Blue and a 99-cent bag of Chester's Flaming Hot Fries. Once I was inside the house and away from the brisk winter wind and cold, I reveled in my safety by listening to the Isleys and drinking one last pint before passing out somewhere around midnight on the couch.

The sun is high now and it remains cold and windy. My right eye is still burning from rubbing it with one of my 'Flaming Hot' fingers just a few moments after waking up, the very same fingers that jammed nearly the entire bag of Hot Fries in my mouth last night, the same ones that I didn't wash, of course. All I keep thinking is that as horny as I was from last night's drunken ass parade, it's a lucky thing that I was too hungover this morning to bother with jerking off.

Cheers and Regards,
Casanova Sherman
Lecherous Lothario

PS: My scarf still smells like Aja's ass. No no, it's true. And not merely like perfume, either. There's some real woman scent in the mix, too. If you don't believe me, just ask Louis. I let him have a whiff.

It probably isn't fair to blame the president of Saudi Arabia for how fucked up Islamic law is, but since he's a good buddy of our own fearless leader, George W., I'm assuming that like our prez, King Abdullah is the 'decider' over in his neck of the woods. To paraphrase that famous sign on Harry S. Truman's desk, 'The Buck' pretty much has to 'Stop' somewhere.

According to Saudi law, women's rights are severely restricted. Not only are they forced to wear outfits in public that cover them from head to toe, but they are forbidden to be alone with a man who is not either an immediate member of their family or their husband. They also aren't allowed to drive (I'm not sure that one's such a bad thing) and are required to get a man's permission before they can travel or have surgery.

In a recent, well-publicized case, a Saudi woman who was engaged to be married was alone on an illegal tryst with a man who was not her fiance. A group of men, Islamic faithfuls no doubt, claiming to have discovered the law-breakers in the act with the woman's clothes scattered on the ground, attacked the couple, repeatedly raping them both, then ran around the community bragging about it. When the husband got wind of it, the woman was forced to come forward and the rapists were charged and sentenced to jail time. The woman was sentenced to ninety lashes. That's right LASHES, like in with a fucking BULLWHIP. For being alone with a man who wasn't her husband.

When she appealed and the story got out to the media, the whipping was increased to TWO-HUNDRED LASHES, due to what the judge claimed was additional evidence brought to light during the process. The rapists sentences were also increased. The woman's defense attorney has since been banned from practicing law.

I saw a snippet of an interview with King Abdullah last night and a female American reporter asked him why it was taking so long for women to gain equal rights in his country. Forgive me, but the number of Happy Hour beers I had will force me to paraphrase here. Essentially he replied with another question along the lines of: 'How long did it take in your country?' Well, King, to be sure it took awhile here, too. About three hundred years ago we finally figured out that they weren't really witches, and from there it only took a couple hundred years more before we let them vote, smoke and go to work.

Now look where we are... Hillary Clinton might actually have a snowball's chance in Hell of becoming the next President of the United States. As the lesser of two evils, I guess I'd vote for her.

But I'm still not convinced that she isn't a witch.

As luck would have it, today's Craig's List Girl Sasha is a tantalizingly exotic mix of Persian and Italian. She specializes in full service GFE with multiple pops for 3000 riyal. Trips to Greece can be arranged for an extra 75 hallalah, and you can look her up on the D.C. page.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Six: Inside-Out And Double-Stuffed

“I'm Cookie,” she said as she extended her slender hand to me.

“Marty,” I said as I took it, feeling the comforting warmth of her palm, the soft skin of her fingers. “You mean to tell me that your Momma named you 'Cookie'?”

“It's what I go by,” she said with a big smile, two even rows of small white teeth set in bright pink gums. As proof, she slid the right sleeve up on her yellow form-fitting tee to reveal a black shoulder tattoo of the moniker in a clumsy script surrounded by even clumsier flourishes. “My real name sucks.”

“How bad could it be?” I asked.

She leaned in closer, her full lips close to my cheek and her deep brown eyes looking straight into mine, a clean aroma of perfumed soap making its way to my nostrils. “Shannetta,” she whispered, then looked around to see if anyone else had heard.

“Hmm... I see. Nice to meet you, Cookie.” She laughed.

James had told me that the Golden Bear was a great place to meet women even though it was a sports bar. It didn't look like much from the outside and I wasn't impressed with the room once I'd made it to the inside... crowded, smallish and dirty, no food and half the taps were dry. I had to settle for a local ale that tasted like stale potpourri. But there was beautiful Cookie sitting right next to me, smiling and tossing warmth my way. I was beginning to see it in a whole different light.

“Can I buy you a drink, Cookie?”

“You sure can.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

We took BART back to the city, climbed the carpeted stairs to the third floor walk-up on Nob Hill where I was staying with Lydia, an old girlfriend from my west coast days. Cookie's magnificent ass bounced back and forth before me at eye level as we climbed, her short denim skirt hypnotizing me, her mid-calf boots fueling my foot fetish, the smooth brown skin of her thighs as the muscles flexed causing moisture to collect on my tongue.

“Nice place,” said Cookie when we were inside. Lydia was still at work, so we had the place to ourselves.

“Thanks. How about some wine?”

“Sounds good.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

By the time the clock struck midnight there was an empty bottle of Napa Valley Merlot on the coffee table and a trail of clothing, both Cookie's and mine, that led from the living room to the bedroom - panties, bra, shirts, her tight denim skirt - everything but our boots. My right one was still stuffed with the pistol I'd bought from James and I'd asked Cookie to leave hers on. Cookie was kneeling on the edge of Lydia's futon, face down and ass up, her flawless chocolate skin lit softly from an orange and red neon wall sculpture that cast a pale warm glow on everything in the room. I had her big, gorgeous ass in my hands, digging into her from behind as I stood beside the bed, naked except for my boots, rocking a slow rhythm as she cooed and moaned and pushed her softness back into me.

Cookie had another tattoo on her lower back, a more professional looking one. It was a string of Asian characters which she told me translated loosely to 'oblivion'. I was half way there when I heard the apartment door squeak open then close. Lydia was home.

“Who's that?” asked Cookie, her body tensing briefly, her face turning back towards me and showing a hint of fear.

“Don't sweat it, baby,” I said. “She'll be glad to see you. Trust me.”

“Hellooo...” called Lydia from the other room. “Marty...?”

“We're in here,” I called back. “Don't turn on any lights.” Then to Cookie: “It's cool, baby.” I stroked her ass and lower back, kept myself firmly planted inside and swayed side to side waiting for Lydia.

“Well, I see you've been busy, Marty,” said Lydia when she came into the bedroom. “Jesus, she's beautiful.”

“Lydia... Cookie. Cookie... Lydia.” I could feel Cookie relaxing a bit more. “Cookie, Lydia and I are old friends. Lydia, I thought I'd bring home something for your sweet tooth.”

“Mmmm, you do know me,” said Lydia as she approached me on the side. Lydia put her fingers in my hair, pressed her face to mine and flicked her tongue out on my lips. I opened my mouth and she kissed me deeply. My hands were still on Cookie's ass and I started back to slowly thrusting as Lydia made her way down my front with her tongue, swirling at the nipples, dragging it over my torso until she had her nose right where Cookie and I were joined. Lydia was sweeping her fingertips over and around Cookie's ass, darting her tongue down towards me on the backstroke as she hummed her pleasure: “Mmmmm...mmmm...”

After a minute Lydia stood back up and stripped off her outer clothes. “Do you mind leaving the shoes on?” I pleaded. They were black pumps, part of her uniform at the restaurant where she worked as a hostess. She was wearing black crotchless pantyhose and a matching black bra.

“Can I take this off, Casanova?” she said as she unfastened the bra.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Get comfortable.”

Cookie was grinding back at me, moaning low without saying a word, but I could tell she was a lot wetter, oozing love juice as the room heated up and Lydia shed her clothes. While I pumped away, Lydia climbed onto the futon, moved up and whispered something in Cookie's ear causing her to giggle softly. Lydia ran her fingers through Cookie's silky, shoulder-length black hair, leaned in and kissed Cookie full on the lips. Cookie kissed back. It was a beautiful visual for me, the contrast of their skin tones... Cookie's dark flesh against the creamy buttermilk complexion of Lydia's, Lydia's hair the color of straw, the glow of the neon washing over them both.

Lydia rolled over in front of Cookie, slid up beneath her, their lips meeting for a few moments of deep kissing as Lydia's hands played over Cookie's breasts, tweaked the nipples. She kept sliding herself along under Cookie, spent a lot of time with her mouth and tongue on Cookie's boobs, while Cookie returned the favor.

“Oh! Oh! I'm coming...” moaned Cookie. She reached back with one hand, placed it on my stomach, threw her head back while Lydia continued to work her boobs. “Ooooh, yeah...”

I pumped harder for just a minute while Cookie got off, but I had to slow down or else I'd have gone over the edge myself. I thought about the gun in my boot and my recent troubles on the job to help calm myself and last through Cookie's orgasm. By the time it had subsided, I looked down and saw that Lydia had made her way all the way up to me, her mouth and tongue now simultaneously working tiny miracles on both me and Cookie, and Cookie's hands were all over Lydia's legs, sweeping up and down, her face buried in Lydia's center.

I decided I'd waited long enough and began pounding away in earnest, my hands tight around Cookie's hips as I slapped in and out in long strokes, the jelly of her ass flesh rippling in waves with the impact of each thrust. Lydia's legs began to shake and I could see that Cookie was working at her with gusto, pushing her along towards her own climax as Lydia's tongue frantically worked on me. When it was time, Lydia sensed it, reached up and pulled me out, worked me with her hand until I'd spilled it into the air, up and over Cookie's beautiful round ass, all over the futon and down over Lydia's hungry open mouth...

My cell phone was on the night stand, and in the throes of passion I hadn't heard it ring, but it vibrated, flashed and beeped to let me know I had a voice mail. I glanced over and saw that the missed call had been from the boss. As the three of us lay huddled together in a sweaty heap, resting, catching our collective breath before round two, I studied the ceiling and gave some meandering thought to the next phase of my trip. Lydia had reached over and was fondling me with one hand while she teased my nipples with her tongue, and Cookie was propped up on one elbow with her fingers in Lydia's hair, her warm thigh hooked over mine.

I hadn't worked out all the details for the next part of my cross country murder spree, but I did know that I'd be hitting the road first thing in the morning.

I figured the boss would understand if I didn't call him back until then.

My Dear Lyzako,

The holiday season is upon us again it seems, ushered in by Thanksgiving, my personal favorite of the holiday lot... no evil, useless gifts required, just rampant overeating, imbibing and napping while televised sporting events play softly in the background and our arteries slowly fill with goo. I'm thinking that if there is a heaven, it must be a lot like that. Only without the gooey arteries, of course.

As I watched the news last night they were predicting lower retail sales this season, a continued soft market for new homes, rising oil prices and overall gloom in terms of the economy. I saw several so called 'analysts' making these dire predictions and serving up numbers to back their observations, but at the end of each report they signed off with their name and a hearty smile, as though they'd just read the menu for our upcoming Thanksgiving feast. I say 'hearty smile', but it was really more of a shit-eating grin.

There were middle-aged, overweight men in gray suits knowledgeably proclaiming that Americans 'have no money' to spend on gifts this year, thanks in large part to rising fuel prices and inflation (which our friends in the White House have learned to measure differently in order to soften the idea and make themselves look better). Higher oil prices mean higher costs to transport food which translates logically to higher bills at the grocery store. I heard that this year's holiday meals will cost an average of 11% more than last year. With diesel fuel at $3.55 per gallon I'm not surprised.

In addition to the inflation you can factor in a record number of foreclosures as the real estate market adjusts and the loss of domestic manufacturing jobs forces more and more people into the unemployment lines. But the message from the media and our President remains clear and unwavering: Our economy is strong and growing, and we should bolster it by going out and buying a bunch of crap that nobody really needs (and do it in the name of Jesus, for Christ's sake!) to shore up the retail industry, which depends on holiday spending for 50% of its annual revenue. I saw one report recently that claimed a percentage of Americans actually had so little spendable cash that they put their Christmas purchases on equity lines of credit tied to their homes. And a huge percent of those left carry credit card debt and add to it annually during the holiday season, all the while making minimum payments on the balance and effectively paying three to five times what the purchases are worth over the life of the loan. If that isn't insanity, I don't know what is.

Is that tie that Dad's going to wear once and put away really all that important? Or how about that Play Station 3? Wouldn't the kids be better off if they'd never invented fucking video games? You want to get rid of childhood obesity? Get rid of those fucking games! No cable television! No television at all! Fuck all that shit!

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, Thanksgiving....

There's something about Thanksgiving, though... the lazy, long weekend highlighted by an early Thursday dinner of roast turkey, stuffing (cornbread, oyster or traditional sage - they're all great comfort foods), cranberries, maybe some green beans or creamed corn, mashed potatoes (more starch!), giblet gravy, yams, pumpkin pie for dessert (still warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream gently melting over the top). And the closest thing to a video game I ever experience is watching the Lions lose again as I slowly put away the better part of a twelve-pack of Blue.

Of course, while the men are loosening their belts and watching football after Thanksgiving dinner, all over America housewives are scheming about where to get the best deals on 'Black Friday', what time to set the alarm in order to get there in plenty of time before all the good stuff is gone. Believe it or not, many retailers now even stay open late on Thanksgiving night for those same insane shoppers' convenience. Let's not forget that thanks to the Almighty Internet, you can now add 'Cyber Monday', the kickoff to the online shopping season, to our idiotic national holiday spending spree.

Personally, I want no part of it. I plan to think of nothing but my own selfish need for relaxation this long weekend. 'Black Friday' and 'Cyber Monday' will gently pass with yours truly buying nothing. In fact, I vow to purchase not a single gift this entire season, and call for a national boycott of all holiday spending (other than for food). Please people, no more second mortgages and credit card debt. Spend nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

My suggestions for season's greetings? How about 'Bah-fucking-humbug!' or 'Oh! No Ho Ho Ho!', and a loud 'Santa Claus isn't real!' for all the kiddies.

Better yet, I think I'll practice just a simple: 'Leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep until next year.'

Go Away World You Bother Me,
Scrooge Sherman

PS: Just in case you decide to take part in the shopping madness, I'm still a thirty-three waist, thirty inseam, forty-four short jacket, a large sweater (I'm allergic to wool) and a 17-35 dress shirt. Oh, and I could use a new pair of slippers, size ten or men's medium.

Let me ask you something... Do you think ANYBODY is worth $35 million in salary a year? ANYBODY? Well, A-Rod's greedy agent Scott Boras apparently blew enough wind up the Yankee third baseman's skirt to make the All Star slugger believe that he was. Just for hitting a damn baseball no less. After initially opting out of his contract with the Yankees, A-Rod quickly found out that nobody besides George Steinbrenner was crazy enough to want him, even for what he was currently being paid. So on the advice of billionaire buddy Warren Buffet, A-Rod did an end around Boras and went back to the Yankees with his tail between his legs to try and hammer out a deal.

Word is the new deal is worth up to $275 million over ten years, including incentives should he pass Barry Bonds' home run record. That's still a lot of dough in my book, especially for somebody who hasn't proven himself to be anything exceptional in the post-season. I mean, he hasn't even been able to help the Yankees win it all since arriving in the Big Apple, and their roster was already loaded with talent. Is he a good player? Sure he is. The deal he signed is the biggest one in baseball history, so that proves it I guess. But doesn't there have to be a breaking point on these ridiculous salaries?

Here's how I hope this whole mess turns out...

One: The newly-indicted Barry Bonds gets stripped of his record after being convicted of perjury, thereby restoring Hammerin' Hank Aaron to his rightful position of Home Run King.

Two: A-Rod plays for the Yankees for four more years without winning a championship. His offensive numbers sag and a well-publicized spat with Yankees' management over his lack of production forces a trade to the Japanese league, the only other place besides New York where they can afford to pay him due to the ever-increasing strength of the yen versus the dollar. Of course, in order for the economic side of that to happen, it may mean that between now and then the U.S. will suffer its worst recession this side of the Crash of '29.

As long as I don't have to hear how much money A-Rod's making, it will be worth it.

Speaking of 'Big Apples'... you can find today's Craig's List Girl Missy listed in Orange County, where she specializes in true GFE and NO BB ANYTHING, please! Eighty roses buys you a half hour. Enjoy!

YET ANOTHER BLUE FRIDAY
with PROF. DIRK BEAT...

Catch 22 (Squared)

Unmade bed, soiled linen
Tissues dot the hardwood floor
One resting in a brown leather shoe
That resides beside the bed
Unmade, soiled linen

Mismatched pairs of shoes
Populate the floor, one pair
Positioned as though
Whoever wore them
Had just disappeared
The only evidence left
Of his life the stationary
Shoes, mid-stride
Beside the unmade bed
& soiled linen

Atop the bed & to one side
The side where a mate should be
Are piles of books & magazines
The nightstand carries a heap as well
Along with several messy stacks
On the floor along the far side
Of the Master's bed,
Unmade, soiled linen

The Master makes it look easy
This haphazard array of his
Clothing & reading material
His used tissues snot & sperm
But it took years of practice
To learn to live this way
To be comfortable with
An unmade bed &
Soiled linen

To be more comfortable
There than anywhere else

-Prof. Dirk Beat


The Alarm Clock's Set For Eternity

A stack of unread books on the floor
Old words for future consideration
Covered in a thick film of dust

Time takes its toll on all things
It's relativity ultimately irrelevant
No matter what Einstein said

As we arc around the sun
Travel ever forward towards the end
The living of it makes no real difference

Constantly changing forms grow & erode
Flesh thickens over bone then melts away
Leaving skeletons which in turn become dust

Snow piles & melts, oceans rise & evaporate
Trees thrust up from the earth, thrive then burn
Die in order to nourish another generation

The books remain stacked in the corner
One by one read over a single lifetime
That coincides with the birth & death

Of all things

-Prof. Dirk Beat

I was driving back home from downtown after work one day a couple of weeks ago listening to one of our local R&B stations. It hadn't been a particularly good day for me, the majority of it spent in mindless toil, and wrapped in as much difficulty as the client could manage due to poor planning and carelessness. I was sitting in rush hour traffic inching along from light to light through Highland Park on Woodward, a sea of brake lights before me and a constant parade of pedestrians crossing mid-block, balancing on the double yellow line and threatening to step right into the side of my truck.

Suddenly a song came on that made all the trouble slip away and had me singing along and bobbing my head, filled me with as much joy as the first time I'd ever heard music. It was the late, great Lou Rawls singing 'Groovy People', and it changed the color of my day. Don't get me wrong... I still stopped at Happy Hour, but this time I was already happy when I got there, still high on Lou's tune, which echoed in my head for hours even after just hearing it a single time.

His first LP for Philadelphia International and producers Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, 'All Things In Time' went platinum and produced Lou's biggest hit ever, 'You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine', which climbed to number two on the pop charts in the summer of 1976. 'Groovy People' also cracked the Hot 100 later that same year, but I don't recall ever hearing the song before my bad work day in October of 2007.

Lou started singing in church as a child and was guided towards singing professionally by his grandmother, who's main motivation was to steer the young man away from trouble and keep him off the mean streets of Lou's native Chicago. As a member of the Teenage Kings of Harmony and The Pilgrim Travelers, Rawls toured and sang gospel in the fifties with Sam Cooke, eventually backing Cooke on his 1962 hit 'Bring It On Home'. Both performers survived a serious car accident in 1958, Cooke emerging virtually unscathed but Rawls winding up in a coma and being pronounced dead at the scene.

Rawls had minor successes in the early sixties, working the club circuit for peanuts before signing with Capitol Records and launching a long and successful career as a solo artist. By the late sixties, Lou had recorded a number of hits, including 'Love Is A Hurtin' Thing' (1966), 'Your Good Thing (Is About To End)' (1969) and 'Dead End Street' (1967). 'Dead End Street', which earned Lou his first Grammy, included a lengthy spoken monologue at the beginning, a technique which became part of Lou's signature style during live performances. He also contributed a song called 'Down Here On The Ground' to the film score of 'Cool Hand Luke' in 1968.

But it wouldn't be until the seventies when Lou would really hit his stride. His 1971 hit 'Natural Man' went to number 17 on the pop charts before today's featured LP was released and took him over the top. Other hits followed, including 'I'll See You When I Get There' (1977) and 'Lady Love' (1978), also recorded for Gamble and Huff's Philly International label.

In later years, Lou made his mark as host of 'Lou Rawls' Parade Of Stars', an annual telethon to raise money for the United Negro College Fund, which he began in 1980 and continued right up to the end of his life. Towards the end of his career he was almost as famous for selling Budweiser and Colonial Penn Life Insurance as he was for being a recording artist, and Lou also made a handful of appearances on television and in movies, most notably doing voice-over work for the 'Garfield' animated television show. Believe it or not, among his many other distinguished accomplishments, Lou opened for the Beatles in 1966 when they played Crosley Field in Cincinnati.

Lou, a former smoker who had quit in the early seventies, died in January of 2006 as a result of lung and brain cancer at the age of 72.

My very next visit to a record store after having heard 'Groovy People' made me seek it out. I dug up a copy of this LP for a buck after flipping through a bunch of other albums by Lou and scanning the back covers for the song title... no easy task since Lou released over seventy LPs during his lifetime. When I did find it, I knew the cover looked familiar, but didn't realize until I got it back home that I actually already owned a copy that I had never listened to.

Oh well. Now I have a copy for upstairs and one for the basement, which is good, because I've practically worn the new one out just listening and singing along to that one song...

“...I like groovy people...badumbumbumbum...groovy, groovy people...”

If you can picture me playing air bass, you'll get the full effect.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Five: Locked And A Little Loaded

I could hear a big dog barking viciously from somewhere nearby. He must have been fenced in or tied, because roaming dogs generally don't bother barking, they just growl, then bite. This one sounded like he was ready to kill if he could get loose. I took a swig of my beer.

I was sitting in the dining room of my buddy James' place in Oakland, a few days into my California vacation.

Before leaving Pittsburgh I had maxed out the cash advances and ATM withdrawals on my current work-issued credit card. Since the boss was in on whatever was going down, I knew it was probably just a matter of time before he shut off my money supply. I was still carrying a handful of cards leftover from the last few trips and was pleasantly surprised to find that three out of four of them were still active, so I did the same with them, booked a flight to San Francisco under an old alias, then ditched the rental car. Fortunately, I always carried a stack of former fake I.D.'s for just such an emergency. With a little luck, I wouldn't have to rob any liquor stores to stay flush while I was on the road. As a last resort, I could always fall back on my real identity and my own cash, but it would be nice to not leave a trail of activity that placed me at the locations of half a dozen murders.

My current alias had been blown, that was for sure, and there was no way I would have been able to turn my rental car in and make my flight out of Pittsburgh without being taken into custody. Amy the bartender had been very understanding. She helped me cut and dye my hair blond, and let me shave my beard off in her sink, although she winced when she saw how much curly hair it produced. I didn't tell her the truth, of course, because I doubt she would have been so agreeable had I been honest and told her I'd left a dead man in a hotel room not two miles from her apartment.

“It looks good on you, man,” said James.

“What's that?”

“The blond hair...heh, heh, heh...Makes you look ten years younger. And kinda gay.”

“Thanks a lot.” James and I went way back. He'd been a bouncer at one of the strip tease joints in L.A. where I worked as a stand-up comic back in the late sixties. He helped me out one night when a drunken heckler got way out of hand. I bought the drinks after work and we'd been friends ever since.

James approached the bookshelf, pulled the last three volumes from their place on the second tier and reached carefully into the empty space. Solemnly he withdrew the small bundle, which was neatly wrapped in a ratty forest green hand towel. He sat down at the dining room table opposite me, took a quick look around to make sure that he had closed all the blinds to prevent anyone seeing in from the street. He had. The drapes had been drawn tight together, too, and he'd rolled his finger over the dimmer switch on the wall to all but kill the light coming from the overhead fixture. I could have seen better by candlelight.

“Well, here it is,” he said. “You need another beer?”

“No, man,” I said. “I still have over half.”

He peeled back each fold until the towel was open and flat on the table, the pistol - a snub nose .32 revolver, lying directly in the middle of it. It didn't look like much to me, didn't even look real. The finish was a dull black, and the grip appeared to be made of tan plastic. It looked as though it had been used. A lot. Maybe even run over by a tank or something.

“It's just your basic starter's pistol,” James said. “A cheap Saturday night special.”

“It looks like a toy,” I said.

“Ain't no toy, man,” he said. “Here, have a feel.” James slid the gun, towel and all, towards me.

“Is there a safety?”

“Naw, man. Just be careful. It's loaded.”

“Take the bullets out for me, would you?”

James pulled the pistol back to him, picked it up and broke it down by turning out the latch pin, flipped the cylinder open with a quick motion of his wrist. With the barrel pointed towards the ceiling, he spilled the bullets into the towel, then handed it to me. It was lighter than I expected. I pulled hard at the trigger, but it wouldn't budge.

“Here, put this back in. It might not work without it.” James handed me the latch pin, a threaded steel rod about two-and-a-half inches long, the same dull black as the rest of the gun. I screwed it in, pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped onto an empty chamber. I pulled again. Snap. The cylinder rotated with each imaginary shot.

“Can I shoot it like this?” I demonstrated the gunslinger method by slapping at the hammer with the palm of my left hand.

“Heh, heh. You crazy, man,” James laughed. “Yeah, I guess you can. I wouldn't do it that way, though. Who you think you are? Matt Dillon?”

“Yeah, that does seem like a hard way to do it,” I said as I continued to practice my draw and shoot. “It can't be very accurate, either.”

I reached over and picked up one of the bullets. It also didn't really look like much. It was short, maybe an inch and a quarter long. The shell casing was brass, the nose a rounded slug of lead with a flat tip. I pulled the latch pin and tried flipping the cylinder open as James had done, but it only swung part way. I pushed it the rest of the way out on its hinge, slid the bullet into one of the chambers, and gingerly spun the cylinder between my thumb and forefinger. The cylinder had five chambers. There were only three more bullets laying on the towel.

“That all the bullets you got?” I asked him.

“That's it,” he said. “I can get more, though.”

“No, this should do. How much?”

“If you need it, you can have it, man. But you owe me one.”

“I'd rather give you some cash,” I said. “I might not be in a position to repay you later. How much?”

James hesitated for a moment, stared into space as he made his calculation. “A hundid,” he said finally. “And I'll throw the bullets in for free.” James looked at me and chuckled, then flashed an ear-to-ear smile that revealed beautiful white teeth, one upper incisor crowned in platinum. I fished through my pockets and found three crumpled twenties, put them on the table. I pulled a fifty from my wallet.

“You got change?”

“What I look like, man? A bank?” I frowned at him. He chuckled and pulled a thick roll of cash from his pocket. It was wrapped with a wide pink rubber band. James slid the rubber band off, thumbed through the bills until he found a ten, peeled it slowly out of the roll and handed it to me. “Pleasure doin' business with you, br'uh. You ain't expectin' a receipt, are you?”

I looked at him, rolled my eyes and shook my head. James laughed.

“So this thing's never killed anybody has it?” I asked him, fearing the answer.

“Now, I don't know about all that,” James said. “To the best of my knowledge, no.” He emphasized the word 'knowledge', dragged out the second syllable while looking straight at me. I got the message.

I pushed the cylinder open again, turned the gun up and the lone bullet dropped back onto the towel. I scooped up all four bullets and put them in my shirt pocket, closed the cylinder and replaced the latch pin.

“Ain't no good without the bullets in it,” James said.

“I know. I just need to get used to carrying it, that's all. I'm afraid I'll blow my balls off.”

James gave out a hearty laugh. “You funny, man. You always was funny.”

“Thanks. I wish more people thought I was.” I held the revolver out, my arm straight, sighted down the barrel at an imaginary target. “This thing kick?” I asked him.

“A little.”

“I guess it doesn't really do much good to aim, eh?”

James got serious for the first time all night. “Here, let me show you,” he said as he offered me his palm. I handed him the gun. James looked me in the eye. He wasn't smiling anymore. “Take your time and cock it like this.” He pulled back the hammer with his thumb. “Don't aim. Just think of the gun like it's your finger. Use both hands, keep your arms straight and point it right at the motherfucker's chest. Don't get cute, like you tryin' to hit his heart or some shit. Shoot right for the middle.”

James pulled the trigger. Snap.

“And make damn sure you're close enough to hit the motherfucker. It ain't like you can shoot this little thing from across the street. You gotta be close or you ain't gonna hit nobody. And like I said, take your time. Look him in the face when you pull the trigger. You'll know by his expression whether you did some damage or not. If he don't look like there's something wrong, cock this bitch and put another slug in him. As many as it takes to bring him down. You only got four, though, so you better make 'em count. Even if you do get more ammo, this thing ain't easy to reload. If the guy you're shootin' at has a piece and you run out of bullets, you're ass is grass, man.”

I took a couple long pulls on the beer and finished it. If everything went according to plan I'd have one bullet to spare.

If it didn't, my ass was grass anyway.

My Dear Lyzako,

I feel truly robbed of a weekend, this past one being spent nursing a horrific cold. Of course it wasn't entirely a bad thing that I barely set foot outdoors. It gave me time to catch up on my sneezing, sleeping, coughing and nose-blowing. The muscles along my ribcage on the left side are sore from the constant hacking up of slimy yellow phlegm and I spent the first fifteen minutes of the morning today hunkered over the bathroom sink upchucking what I hope is the last of it.

During the time I was able to keep my eyes open I also managed to do a bit of reading (a slim but interesting volume on modern animation from the 1950s) and watch a video tape of '52 Pickup' which I purchased recently from the Salvation Army for a mere buck. If you're not familiar with the movie, it's based on the Dutch Leonard novel of the same name and involves a blackmail plot, sordid murder, rape, drugs, drinking, plenty of full-frontal nudity and a party scene peopled with a half-dozen or so pornographic actors from the era (1986), including the ubiquitous 'Hedgehog' himself, Ron Jeremy (listed in the credits as 'Ron Jeremy Hyatt').

The movie stars Ann-Margret, Roy Scheider and an assortment of interesting character actors, among them Doug McClure and Prince's one-time squeeze, Vanity. I originally decided to buy it based on the likelihood that I'd get a gander at Vanity's boobs, and without giving anything away plot-wise, I can confidently assure you that they are brilliantly displayed at some point and well worth waiting for. Featured as one of the bad guys is Clarence Williams III (Link from 'The Mod Squad'), who hums the first few bars of Benny Golson's 'Killer Joe' as he exits various crime scenes. He's twitchy, creepy and evil. In a good way. A very young Kelly Preston deliciously plays her part as victim in a chilling scene that recalls the horror of a 'snuff film'.

The film score by Gary Chang is effectively jarring and a couple of recordings by jazz pianist George Russell, which Roy Scheider plays on the cassette deck (remember them?) in his vintage Porsche, are also nicely showcased. Ann-Margret is very good, the timing of the movie's release catching her just before she passed over the hill (her boobs, ass and legs are magnificent), and Scheider is a believable bastard as her cocky husband. John Frankenheimer directs in a gritty style, and lurid locations around the Los Angeles area add plenty of atmosphere. Many scenes are set in an adult theater where Vanity works as a peep show dancer and the manager is one of the bad guys. At one point you can hear the sound from a real porno movie inside the theater as Scheider confronts a bad guy in the projection room. But John Glover steals the show as the evil criminal mastermind who kills and rapes without remorse, all the while grinning and chewing gum.

I don't know how I missed this one when it was in theaters back in the day. It's a great popcorn flick. A B-Movie with brains and class. It truly made my Saturday night.

It's gray here today, rainy and warmer than last week. The yard is covered with yellow Maple leaves that curl and crunch as I walk over them. I'm waiting for the last of them to fall or be blown away before I even attempt to rake. I'm also waiting for this cold to leave my body entirely, which judging from the rattle in my throat when I breathe, may take a few more doses of expectorant and several more episodes of hunkering over the bathroom sink.

Very Truly Yours,
Marty Sherman

Say, did you happen to see that 'Phenomenon' show last night? You know, the one where NBC is letting the viewing audience pick the next great mentalist? (By the way, isn't it just a matter of time before some cable show picks the next great porn star? Hey, I'd watch that if I had cable.)

Just in case you missed it, the 'Phenomenon' format goes like this:

A series of competitors do mind tricks with the aid of three celebrity guests (And they reeeaally stretch the definition of celebrity on this one, folks - last week that gay guy Ross from the 'Tonight Show' was one of them!) in front of a live audience and a two-man panel of judges made up of washed up psychic Uri Geller and obnoxious magician Criss Angel. (Am I the only one who wants to slap this guy? Enough with the rings already!) The acts are introduced and dismissed from the show by a British host who woodenly fumbles through his routine like a mannequin-sized Ken doll.

As it turns out, a 'mentalist' is just a magician who specializes in pretending to have 'psychic' powers, and some of the contestants are fairly entertaining. Last week's show was almost unwatchable, clocking in at an excrutiatingly lengthy two hours in honor of Halloween, but last night's one-hour format was pretty doable for the average couch potato.

The saving grace of the whole mess is that there's a single female contestant, a 20-year old beauty queen from Cleveland named Angela Funovitz, who makes all the dull stuff worthwhile. The camera loves her. The audience loves her. I love her. And Uri Geller, who's old enough to be her grandfather, practically pisses his pants every time she performs. Plus she's pretty good at that magic crap. I felt a little sorry for her last night, though. All three of the celebrity helpers were Hef's girlfriends, and Angela selected the stupidest one of the bunch (not an easy task in and of itself!) to aid with her trick. Even though the trick was a good one, you could tell that the Playboy chick wasn't used to being the second prettiest girl on stage and she almost fucked the whole thing up with her nervous, jealous, attention-demanding nonsense. Angela stuck with it, god bless her, made some fire and held a torch against the bare skin of her thigh, the flames seductively licking her youthful flesh until the dumb bunny's dad's name appeared etched into Angela's skin as she flexed and posed, her delicious leg on display. Afterwards, Uri could be seen frantically squeezing the bulb on his penis pump.

In another segment all three of the bunnies shot paintball guns at one of the contestants, the location of the strikes supposedly predicted earlier by the guy using his 'psychic' powers and sealed inside a glass box. The predictions were perfect, of course, but the real story could be seen when each of the heartless bitches aimed the guns. The guns were equipped with a laser sight and do you know that every single one of these whores took careful aim on this guy's privates? Every one of them. Try as they might, though, the paintballs always missed. One of the bitches actually complained that the sight was 'off'. Eventually, each girl settled on aiming higher and striking lower in order to move it all along. But I could tell that the chick who almost fucked up Angela's routine was very disappointed she couldn't tag this guy in the nuts.

The only real moment of suspense was supplied by another contestant who reached into an urn and got bit by a snake before finding the necklace he was actually going for. It would probably have been better if he'd been bitten by one of the deadly snakes and died right there on the stage.

At the end of it all, the host urges us to vote for our favorite contestant, and get this... you can clock ten votes each via telephone and via Internet.

But the question I have is this: If all of the contestants are 'psychic', wouldn't somebody already know who the winner will be? In fact, all of them should know, shouldn't they? I mean, some of the guys last night seemed downright disappointed when they got the news that they didn't make it through to the next round.

Dammit man, you call yourself a psychic?!

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Four: The Wrong Tool For The Right Job

After arriving around nine in the morning at the Pittsburgh airport, I navigated through rush hour traffic and road work in my rental car to the Extended Stay Inn on William Penn in Monroeville. The boss always booked me into dumps, but from the outside this one seemed okay. I'd gotten lost trying to find the place because there was a detour on Northern Pike and it took me past the drive so quick that I hadn't seen the tiny turquoise sign perched on a post about three feet off the ground, which I passed twice before finally spotting it and turning into the lot.

I was mildly hungover from drinking the night before, jittery from my near death experience at the dive bar, and more than a little nervous about what kind of trouble I'd find here in Pittsburgh once I'd made it to the second job site. I needed a shower and some sleep and was looking forward to a quiet, bug-free room where I could do both. After a night in that second motel in Marietta, I'd found several tiny red bites at my ankles and a few more along my waist, right at the line where the elastic from my underwear dug in. They were itching like crazy and adding to my overall feeling of discomfort and anxiety.

The girl at the desk was cute. Beautiful big eyes and long brown hair, dark skin. She was talking on the phone in Spanish when I came in, continued to talk as I stood there with my bags, then put the phone down without hanging it up.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asked. Her name tag read 'Maria'.

“Indeed I do, Maria. I should be down for an early check-in.”

She put me in room 313. I slogged my bags over to the elevator, thumbed '3' on the control panel and the button lit up. It seemed to take forever for the doors to close and I could see Maria pick up the phone and continue to talk while she looked at me suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. She burst out laughing and boldly looked right at me just as the stainless steel doors came together.

Once inside the room I turned on the air conditioning and drew a hot bath. I was sore from being banged around the day before, and my right knee was aching for some reason, probably twisted in the altercation with the tall Mexican. It felt good to lay in the bath and I soaked one of the white wash cloths and put it over my eyes to help shut out the world and my troubles. I dozed for a while, my arm over the side of the tub and woke up in tepid water suddenly feeling chilled. I stood up and showered off and the hot water felt good, chased the shivers from me.

Just as I was toweling off I heard a knock at the door. I wrapped the towel around my waist, tied it to one side and went over to the door. “Who is it?” I asked.

“House cleaning, sir,” said a female voice with the same accent as the girl at the desk. “I'm sorry but we forgot to change your sheets.”

I looked out the peephole into the hallway and saw that it was Maria, her head, her luscious lips, her boobs all made comically large by the bubble lens through which I peered. I could see right down her low-cut blouse and her cleavage seemed a foot long. She was holding a neatly folded pile of beige linen in her hands. I pulled back the dead bolt and opened the door, reached out and took the sheets from her. “I can put them on for you,” she said with a song in her voice. She had glanced down, looked towards my crotch and I suddenly realized that I was aroused, the towel tenting away from my body. She looked back up at me and smiled.

“Um, no thanks,” I said. I was horny, but right then I needed rest more than sex. Maybe I'd catch up to Maria after work. “Thank you, Maria.”

The door swung slowly shut, latching with a click and I went back to the bathroom to get dressed before realizing that I hadn't set the dead bolt. Just as I made it back to the door I heard another click as someone slid a key card into the lock from the outside. As I reached for the dead bolt, the door swung open hard, knocking me back. The towel went flying as a bulky Mexican with a long braided pony tail rushed in, knife in hand. Before I'd had a chance to find him, Target Number Two had found me.

He growled at me in Spanish and I could make out “Cerdo!” and “Mi hermano!” and “Matanza!” He also tossed in a “Motherfocker!” or two as he swung the knife wildly, tears streaming down his cheeks. I retreated into the room, jumping back with each of his lunges and eventually fell on the far side of the bed right on top of my tool bag. He thrust the blade at me as I lay on the floor. With my knees bent, I put both feet in the middle of his chest and pushed hard. His knife nicked my tool bag just inches from my left ear and the Mexican flew backwards and crashed into the dresser, shattered the mirror that hung on the wall, the wrist of his knife hand striking the edge of the armoire, causing him to loosen his grip on the knife, which flew across the room.

Instead of going for the knife, he howled something unintelligible and rushed me hard, his bare hands reaching for my throat. I had a hand inside my tool bag by then and fumbled for something to kill the prick with as his fingers tightened like a vice around my windpipe. This Mexican had a crazed look in his eye, and I remember thinking that he smelled pretty bad, too, like a combination of B.O., garlic and cigarette smoke. I could feel myself getting weaker, the room getting warmer. Just as I was about to black out, Target Number Two spit in my face. “Cerdo!” I could feel my hand gripping the portable drill, a quarter inch bit still chucked in solid from two jobs ago. Thank god I wasn't very good at putting things away.

I pulled my hand free of the tool bag, pushed the drill at the Mexican and squeezed the trigger. He seemed surprised by the hum of the motor, screamed out as the bit tore into the flesh of his side. I pulled back and sank it again, deep between his ribs. That got his attention and he let go of my throat, reached across for the drill but I kept my finger on the trigger and swung it in an arc at his face. The drill bit ripped across his eyebrow digging an ugly divot and he covered his face with both hands as the blood began to pour. I kept drilling and plunged it hard into his throat, pulled it back and then another hard plunge into the center of his chest. The bit bounced off his sternum, crawled sideways as I kept pushing and eventually found a soft spot. I pushed it all the way in and the Mexican collapsed across me, heaving his last breaths, blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth.

After pushing him aside, I got up, turned and put my knee in the middle of his back, placed the bit at the base of his skull and drilled one last hole to make sure the job was done, squeezing the trigger hard as the battery slowly drained and the motor bogged down. He shivered and shook for a few seconds then went completely still.

I made sure the door was bolted then went into the bathroom to survey the damage. The wound on my chest had opened up and was bleeding, but other than that and some red marks on my throat I looked okay. The throat would show bruises later, but I wasn't too concerned about that. At least I was still breathing.

After a quick shower to rinse off the blood, I slapped more gauze over my knife wound, then dressed quickly. I then wiped the blood off my drill as best I could, rinsed the bit off in the sink and put the tools away. After throwing the clean sheet over the body, I grabbed my bags and left. On the way out I shoved the 'DO NOT DISTURB' card into the key slot and snapped it off flush, then made my way quickly down the hall to the back stairs and exited at the rear of the building, walking around to the front where my rental car sat waiting. No doubt Maria had been in on the plan and I wanted to avoid her seeing me leave.

As I drove away I found myself hoping that Maria had been coerced against her will, that she would be a nice, sweet piece and might even feel sympathy for my plight, root for me if she had seen the fight, reward me later with a blow job as I sat back naked, my fingers in her long brown hair.

I stopped at Rudy's and devoured an Italian sub, sat at a table outside while I drank a couple tall Yuengling Lagers and did some serious thinking. By the time I had things figured out, it was late afternoon. The air was warm, the late summer sun casting long hard shadows on the pavement. I drove back towards the city up William Penn, stopped at the first bar and grille I saw, parked the car and went in.

It was Happy Hour after all.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“'Sup, Boss?” I said. I was standing in Amy the bartender's bathroom, the spotless white tiles on the walls and floor awash with morning sun, one of her dogs whining at her bedside on the other side of the door, urging her to take him for a walk. It was a little after seven. The boss rarely calls and never calls this early.

“Sherman?”

“You were expecting somebody else?”

“No. No, nothing like that,” he stammered. I could tell he was lying. “How's it going?”

“You tell me. When I checked into my room yesterday, there was a little surprise waiting for me,” I said. I paused to see what he was going to say. He didn't say anything. “Hello? You still there, Boss?”

“Um, yeah, I'm still here. You were breaking up a little. What do you mean by a 'surprise'?”

By then I was pretty sure I didn't have to tell him that the 'surprise' had been Target Number Two. Not only had the Mexican been waiting for me once I'd arrived in Pittsburgh, he knew the hotel where I was staying, too.

And since Boss had set up my itinerary, that meant he had to be in on the scheme. Now all I had to do was figure out why everybody wanted me dead.

Dear Lyzako,

With the changing of the seasons here in southeast lower Michigan comes the return of Eastern Standard Time, shorter days and falling temperatures. I spent my extra hour on Sunday soaking my dazed and broken body in a tub of hot water while I knocked off the last of my latest read, Henning Mankell's 'Faceless Killers'. The sun was slanting in from the south and the furnace threw warm, dry air into the room at half-hour intervals while I deftly worked the taps with my feet to keep the water steaming. All in all, it was a relaxing way to spend the morning.

About forty-five minutes into my soak I felt the urge to fart, squeaked out a series of gurgling bubbles which tickled my scrotum as they rose to the surface and brought a smile to my face. It felt good. It smelled bad. The water between my legs turned a murky brown. Oops!

After draining the tub and showering off, I got dressed, opting to forgo a shave, splashed on a little cologne and was on my way to live yet another uneventful Sunday, the sun shining and the air much warmer than I had expected for early November. I was hungover, to be sure, a numbing warmth in my head and dull pain behind my eyes. But all seemed right with the world as I ate my Delmar 'Special Breakfast' of eggs over medium, American fries, ham, bacon, sausage (three different kinds of pig!) and wheat toast. I declined coffee, having drunk an entire pot of it by that time, ordered a large tomato juice instead, into which I shook a quarter teaspoon of ground black pepper and several squirts of tabasco. I also drank a large ice water to aid in re-hydration.

The food was good, but the service, as always at Delmar, was lackluster at best, the waitresses stressing out and yelling orders over the counter to the guys in the kitchen. Behind me a conversation was taking place between two gentlemen, the topics ranging from antique fly rods to fluctuations in the stock market.

“That's what they call a dead cat bounce,” said Dr. Freddie in reference to a recent drop in value of the Dow Jones which was subsequently followed by a feeble gain the next day. “Right? Like you can drop a cat off of a skyscraper and it will bounce, but never get back as high as it was. You see? A dead cat bounce...ha ha ha.”

As to the antique fly fishing equipment, it seemed that Dr. Freddie had recently sold some particularly valuable items via the Internet - including a bamboo rod from the forties, for well over $3500, which he then converted into silver dollars.

“Which would you rather have,” asked Dr. Freddie of his breakfast mate, “Three-thousand dollars worth of silver or an antique fly rod?”

The other guy said something which I couldn't make out.

“Naturally,” said Dr. Freddie. “In other words, you can't buy anything with an antique fly rod, you see.”

“Yes,” said his friend, “and the antique isn't even something that you can use anymore. It's just for purposes of exhibition.”

“That's exactly right,” said Dr. Freddie. “Just for exhibition.”

Along about then, the waitress came by to see if they were ready to order.

“Yes,” said Dr. Freddie. “I'll have a Greek salad... I can order a salad this early, can't I?”

“Of course we'll make you a salad, Dr. Freddie,” said the waitress in her sweetest voice.

“Okay, a Greek salad, no onions, no feta cheese and no...no...”

“No lettuce,” said his friend. “Ha ha ha.”

“No lettuce. That's funny,” said the waitress. Even I smirked a little at the joke.

“Right,” said Dr. Freddie. “No lettuce. No, I want a Greek salad, no onions, no feta and no dressing.”

“No dressing?” asked the waitress.

“I'm on a diet,” said Dr. Freddie. I couldn't hear what his friend ordered. At some point towards the end of the meal their conversation turned back towards investments and possessions.

“Put all your money in gold,” advised Dr. Freddie. “Forget real estate and all this other junk.”

“Ultimately we don't really own anything,” said his friend. “It's all just here for us to use temporarily, then pass on. So why be burdened with the idea of owning anything? Even stock and gold?”

Dr. Freddie didn't have an answer for that one.

I don't have an answer, either. Obviously, Dr. Freddie's friend is right. But I have to admit that what little I do own creates an area of comfort for me... my books, my records, my little mementos of the past, my Pam Grier swag. I've joked that upon my passing I want to make sure these things find good homes... my books to you, my comic collection to Louis, my records to whoever is foolish enough to accept the offer... so the things can continue to do that job of easing somebody else's pain, making somebody else feel a little more comfortable in an increasingly ugly and confusing world.

A house, a car, a time-share in Hawaii... those kinds of possessions don't interest me in the least, for some reason.

After breakfast I made the rounds... Royal Oak Flea Market, Classic Books, Street Corner Music. I looked at a lot of stuff, found a number of interesting 'things' as a matter of fact, handled them, wanted to add them to my comforting collection, but after the overheard conversation at breakfast, I was feeling the burden of the shelves and shelves of stuff I already own.

So, for the first time in many a Sunday I bought nothing. Luckily for you, that probably adds up to one or two fewer books on modern art that you'll have to get rid of some day.

Sincerely,
J. Paul Sherman