My Dear Lyzako,

We're getting snow today, the second dumping of the white stuff this week; another walk to shovel and another roof to rake. Normally, my friend, winter bothers me not, but for some reason this one has been particularly troublesome. On days like this, though, I thank my lucky stars that the gods have conspired to force me into self-employment. At least I have no more twenty-mile commutes to nowhere to do nothing important while the traffic around me spins into ditches and walls, my world narrowing to a single lane, a single second of heart-thumping, white-knuckled steering.

And, of course...stress, stress, stress and even more stress.

Fortunately, I find myself with just a light day of work and nothing pressing. Having just yesterday deposited a couple of fairly sizable and long-overdue checks, I can afford the luxury of just sitting here today, watching the steam rise from my coffee as this morning's hangover slowly turns from crushing fatigue and addled confusion to a simple and glorious spiderweb of delicate pain.

It's Friday, the 29th of February, a day the calendar allows us only once every four years, and this is how I'm spending it, this gift of an extra Leap Year day: typing out another letter to you, watching that steam rising from the coffee, and wrapping myself in the precious warmth of the indoors as snow continues to steadily fall past noon.

Speaking of the calendar, I have to admit that it is causing me some distress these days. The rush from another unwanted Monday and a flurry of meaningless toil through Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, then a welcome Friday and the ensuing sigh of relief before I can get to the relaxation of Saturday and Sunday, reading aloud to myself, not shaving, barely behaving and forgetting about the world and all its woes... The days and weeks go by in a flash lately, as if I'm riding a bicycle ever faster, each revolution of the pedals pushing away a day as I pick up speed and the wheels spin me headlong towards the abyss.

Probably you've heard the bad news, espoused by all those elder folk we so respect: Time flies, even when we're not having fun, and it ticks by faster with each passing year. When I was a much younger man, I scoffed at their wisdom, but in light of the fact that I'm now approaching the half-century mark myself, I must say that time has proven them right. Somewhat ironic, eh?

I've made a pass at the walk already, just so my friendly neighborhood letter carrier can deliver my bills with ease, but another, more serious shoveling is due later today once the snow has completely subsided. According to the forecast, we're supposed to get as much as five inches.

I think it's time now for some soup, maybe some of that leftover turkey carcass stuff from Thanksgiving. I've had enough coffee and watching the steam rise from hot soup is a simple comfort, too. After that, I think I'll slow the day down a little more with a nice, long shower, maybe watch the steam rise from my skin for forty minutes or so.

And after that, maybe I'll take a little nap... or better yet, maybe I'll just lie there quietly in bed, close my eyes and picture myself riding that infernal Time Bike, daydreaming the afternoon away as I do my best to peddle the goddamn contraption backwards.

Very Truly Yours,
Rip Van Sherman

Marty Sherman:

The photos just show up in my scanner. I go to bed, wake up and they're there. I don't know how he does it, but they look like real Polaroids.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

Apparently they've been able to authenticate the photos because Dirk leaves a thumb print on each exposure. He was arrested several times for DUI so his prints are on record.

Marty Sherman:

There's no doubt that the prints on the Polaroids match Dirk's records. We've had several experts in the paranormal look at my scanner and the prints and they're at a loss to explain it. The most interesting photos actually seem to have multiple exposures and we're not sure how Dirk's pulling that off.

Lisa Dirkson-Dean:

All I know is that Dirk died penniless. I'm betting Sherman will make more on this one book deal than Dirk ever did his entire life, and that lazy ass Sherman's doing nothing but typing!

Zelda Dirkson:

I remember he wrote me a poem for Mother's Day once. I think he was five. I still have it somewhere. He wrote it in orange crayon. It went: 'I love you Mommy... Mommy I do... Angel's in Heaven... I killed him boo hoo'... Sniff. Angel was my little cockatiel.

Two more previews from the upcoming posthumously-written volume of Prof. Dirk Beat's poetry, 'Poems From The Other Side':

Dance in The Devil's Mud

Heavy of foot, slow motion slog
Crawling, falling
More forward than backward
Slap...slap...slap...SLAP

Sunless, moonless daynight
Crawling, falling
More downward than upward
Slap...slap...slap...SLAP

Footprints vanish slowly
Over time as the path
Becomes long gone
And forgotten

Untitled

I feel the loss within my chest, in the space where losses are felt
That deep space that can fill so quickly with joy or sorrow
That well of blackness where a feeble heart pumps
Its tale of time & trust & love & woe
Wonder & discovery
Dull ache & giddy lightness

The winter wind burns my face
Your name upon my lips I taste
A sweet poison that slowly fills
My heaving chest, my space,
Erases all but for the presence

Of God & You

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Okay, enough with the steroids in baseball stuff, already!

Did Roger Clemens knowingly have himself injected with steroids and/or HGH? Sure, he probably did. How else do you think he managed to throw all those fastballs for twenty-some-odd years? Magic? Did that smarmy Brian McNamee do the injecting? More than likely, yes, although it's amazing to me that he saved all those used syringes in his basement for a decade just in case he would ever need to defend himself as he now has to do in the current investigation taking place on Capitol Hill.

But here's the real question: Does ANYbody besides the parties involved really give a rat's ass anymore?! The answer is a resounding 'NO FUCKING WAY!'

What bugs me even more than Clemens taking something to help his injuries heal, even if it was illegal at the time and he knew that it was, is that we're now spending god-only-knows-how-much time and money on this ridiculous, farcical so-called 'investigation' at a time when our precious energy and resources could be much better spent buying books for inner city schools. How about opening a couple homeless shelters and you folks in Congress moving on to more important issues, like trying to get our people out of fucking Iraq?!

Listen, it seems to me there's no doubt that rules were broken here by more than one party. This isn't the only steroids-in-baseball story in the news these days, you know. Remember that thick-necked bozo who broke Hank Aaron's record last season? There's absolutely no doubt that these drugs can be used to enhance athletic performance, if nothing more than helping injuries heal faster and providing extra stamina. But I could take a bucket full of steroids every day from now until doomsday and I still wouldn't be able to hit the ball out of Comerica Park. And it wouldn't help me pitch a no-hitter, either. At least in Clemens' case, he didn't use so many steroids that his feet grew four shoe sizes once he'd reached adulthood. And as far as I know, your gut doesn't get bigger from using them, so Roger's covered in that department.

No, I'm much more pissed at Roger because last year he worked half a season and STILL made twice as much jack as anybody else!

I watched some YouTube videos of this Henry Waxman asking Clemens questions about some party at Jose Canseco's that took place in the nineties, and whether or not Clemens and his kid's nanny were in attendance at the time. The Rocket actually still had a ten-year-old receipt from a golf pro shop to supposedly 'prove' that he wasn't there, by the way, which is almost as crazy as McNamee still having the syringes that he allegedly used on Roger. Anyway, apparently the nanny has been subpoenaed to give a deposition because she can corroborate the fact that Clemens is lying about something. Sure he's lying! They're all fucking lying! The world is one big lie after another! Accept it! I remember it almost killed me when I found out there was no Santa Claus!

If you don't believe me you can actually go watch the mind-numbing stupidity for yourself. Just don't blame me for telling you about it. You'd be better off spending what few minutes you have left on this earth to take a fucking nap.

Hey, before I introduce the girls, I just want to quickly say for you folks in the Detroit area: WATCH OUT! The cops are busting people who advertise their services on Craig's List. I saw it on the local news. You'd think that in a city with only a 44 % success rate in solving homicides the police would have something better to do, but nope. That means that out of the 394 murders perpetrated in the city last year, the killers are still running loose on 220 of them.

First off, we have India, an exotic mix of Persian and Mexican who works out of San Diego. Hand jobs, foot jobs and massage with release offered, with rates starting at 100 cherries.

Up next is Jaguar, who claims to 'love men and women equal'. You'll find her on the New Orleans page and 300 clams will get you two hours with multiple pops. Sorry, but no BB ANYTHING!

And finally, we have the luscious Bambi, a true blond babe who specializes in fantasy role play. Choices include: naughty cheerleader, naughty nurse, naughty schoolteacher and naughty cowgirl. See Bambi's add on the Ft. Worth page for rates.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Fifteen: Cuatro Down, Uno To Go

“You two look like shit.”

After leaving the house where Hector and Lonnie had taken us, Felina had given me directions to her apartment where we grabbed her clothes and as much of her shit as we could carry. Then we drove to her best friend's place, the only person she said she could trust. That friend turned out to be a six-foot-tall bi-racial transvestite with huge, bony hands, a linebacker's shoulders and a voice deeper than Lou Rawls'. The lipstick, press-on nails and red wig that he wore didn't help all that much in the 'passable' department, either.

Felina had used my cell phone to call Amelie on the way over, and from what I could hear of the conversation, I'd expected to find a woman once we got there. A real one. But somehow seeing a football player in drag made me feel even safer than if her friend had been a dead ringer for Halle Berry. Much safer... and a whole lot less likely to suggest a menage a trois once we'd settled in.

“Amelie, this is my friend Marty,” said Felina by way of introduction.

“Nice to meet you, um...Amelie,” I said. “I need a drink. Better make it a tall one.”

“The first thing both of you need to do,” said Amelie, “is get out of those bloody clothes. I'll get some bandages and draw some hot water in the tub.”

“Thanks,” said Felina.

“Don't forget my drink,” I said. “There's this horrible taste I have to get out of my mouth.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

During that first day of our stay at Amelie's, Felina and I went over what had happened back at the motel, with Felina filling in the blanks, and my own forgotten details of the ordeal slowly coming back to me over the course of our conversation...

Just after I'd discovered that Felina's boyfriend was my next target, but before I'd had a chance to explain to her how I knew about his tattoo, Hector and Lonnie had burst into my motel room, knocking the door off its hinges, Lonnie quickly laying the butt of the sawed-off against my skull and Hector bitch-slapping poor Felina to the floor.

“Hector was raging,” said Felina, “crazy and wild. He wanted to kill us both, but Lonnie stopped him. Lonnie punched you a couple more times to make sure you were out, then went through your briefcase and found all your notes. I saw your photo of Hector in his hand.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“Then Lonnie made a phone call and told Hector that we had to go back alive.”

“It seems like I remember you saying that Hector was in San Antonio.”

“Earl had called him when I left work early. I had no idea Earl even knew Hector, but I guess Hector had paid him to keep an eye on me. Earl saw me swipe the tequila after I told him I wasn't feeling well and wanted to go home, so he knew something wasn't right. He followed me over to the motel and called Hector. Hector came home, picked up Lonnie and drove right over.”

“And I was out cold all day?”

“As far as I know. Hector kept threatening me, slapping me. He called me a whore. I thought he was really going to kill me when Lonnie yelled for him to bring me into that bedroom where you were. I thought you were probably dead already by then.” Felina's lip trembled. “I thought that Lonnie had killed you.”

I took a long pull from my third tumbler of Jim Beam. Although the memory of it was still fresh in my mind, I had finally managed to erase the taste of Lonnie's nose from my mouth. I took a deep breath, finished off the whiskey and looked Felina in the eye.

Then I told her my story. Well, most of it anyway. I left out the part where the snitch that I killed and buried in Pennsylvania was Gonzalez's girlfriend, led her to believe that it had been a man - a bad, bad man in his forties who had deserved every bit of what he got. I played up the crazy, ruthless nature of the Gonzalez gang, painted a vivid picture of the double-cross that put me in Dallas with a chip on my shoulder and another man to kill - her own boyfriend, as coincidence would have it.

I also told her I had one more name to cross off my list before I could go home, that I would never feel right unless I finished the job. It wasn't just for the sake of revenge, you see. It was my goddamn blue collar work ethic kicking in. Felina said she wanted to come with me and I told her to take some time and think about it. “I don't have to,” she said. “No matter where it takes me, I want to be with you.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The murders of Lonnie and Hector made the news. The cops had found a satchel full of cocaine in one of the other bedrooms at the house, along with a grocery bag filled with cash, which made me wish I hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of there. Based on the evidence and prior arrests of the two dead men, they figured it was a drug deal gone bad and admitted to having no suspects. A reporter interviewed one of Lonnie's neighbors on the six o'clock news who casually said he 'wasn't surprised' to hear that the two of them were dead. There was a tip line number at the bottom of the screen to call if anybody had any further information on the crime, but the Dallas P.D. wasn't exactly calling for a statewide manhunt. They probably figured it was no big deal; a couple of bad guys had finally got just what they deserved. And they were right.

After a week at Amelie's place the swelling had gone down on my cheek and Felina's lip was looking a lot better, too. She still had cuts, bruises and a black eye, but Amelie's expertise with makeup and a big pair of sunglasses did wonders to make her look normal. It turned out that Amelie was also quite a chef. We ate home-cooked meals, drank Tecates and watched cable television while Amelie, whose real name was Lee, went off to the office each day wearing an expensive Italian suit, minus the lipstick, nails and wig. Some sort of real estate job.

But even with the grub, the beer and sweet Felina's company, I was getting pretty antsy by the time the weekend rolled around.

“It's time to hit the road,” I told Felina finally. “You sure you want to come?”

“I'm sure.”

I wrote a note of thanks to Lee, left an envelope with some cash in it on the table, then checked my face in the bathroom mirror one last time.

“Hmm... not too bad, considering,” I said to Felina. “If anybody asks, we'll tell them we were in a car accident.”

She put on her sunglasses. “And you were driving,” she said with a split-lipped grin.


Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five
Read Chapter Six
Read Chapter Seven
Read Chapter Eight
Read Chapter Nine
Read Chapter Ten
Read Chapter Eleven
Read Chapter Twelve
Read Chapter Thirteen
Read Chapter Fourteen

Hey, is it any wonder I fall back to watching porn on television? We all know that even with cable, the programming choices suck: you have a half-dozen so called 'news programs' going at any given time (Who wants to be reminded of how fucked up the world is during prime time? Not me!), three or four sports channels (a lot of women's basketball this time of year, folks), a movie channel or two (When I had cable I saw 'Bullitt' eight times in six months!) and a lot of reality television on top of that, with what used to be music video channels like MTV, BET and VH1 ramming even more stupid people doing stupid things down our throats.

Reality? I'll show you reality! Reality is watching analogue, over-the-air broadcasts with rabbit ears in my basement! Either that, or shoving in a tape. Now I could always watch an actual movie. I certainly understand that. But movies run on average nearly two hours long and sometimes my ass just won't take that much sitting still. That's where porn comes in. No matter how good it is, you can only get through about twenty to thirty minutes before busting a nut. Then it's off to something else.

The choices I was offered by the major networks at nine o'clock last night? The horrible machinations of 'Dance War: Bruno vs Carrie Ann' (ABC), an embarrassingly ridiculous new show called 'My Dad's Better Than Your Dad' (NBC), 'The Sarah Connors Chronicles' (FOX) and a rerun of 'Two And A Half Men' (CBS). The CW was showing 'Pussycat Dolls Presents: Girlicious' (which scares me a little because those goddamn Pussycat Dolls might just decide to 'present' something else after that) and 'Paradise Hotel 2' was on MyTV (I didn't even know there was a 'Paradise Hotel 1'!).

I have to admit that Carrie Ann and the Pussycat Dolls were watchable for brief moments, but since the shows both revolve around marginally talented, self-centered adolescents, it's difficult for me to relate to if I don't use the mute button. I'm sure that 'Terminator' thing on FOX is probably better than average fare, but I just wasn't into sitting there for a whole hour, knowing that if I hadn't seen the previous episode it would take forty minutes to figure out what was going on. And as far as 'My Dad...' goes... well, let's just say that if you've seen one safety-helmeted six-year-old hanging from a rope while being slammed into a giant Velcro target by his overzealous father, you've seen them all.

Since I'd already seen the episode of 'Two And A Half Men', I popped in a recently purchased used tape of 'Island Girls' and settled back with a fresh can of Blue and a full box of Kleenex.

'Island Girls' dates from the early nineties and features one of my favorite adult stars, the one and only Nina DePonca (uncredited and not shown on the box). Even though the exotic and beautiful Kascha is doing the selling here (that's her photo on the front), Nina actually gets more screen time, turning in a torrid girl-on-girl performance early on, then getting completely reamed on the beach, sand up her ass and all. The story revolves around a group of community college students on spring break in Hawaii, the girls all scheming to win a wet tee-shirt contest, which of course involves screwing a contest judge or two. The whole thing ends with a wild dance on the beach to live music being performed by some old pony-tailed guy playing a weirdly wonderful electric bass and his partner bashing on a drum kit. The girls grind around, some wearing grass skirts and Kascha ends up being named the winner of the contest, even though none of them are wearing tee shirts and there is absolutely no water involved!

Speaking of girl-on-girl scenes, a couple more of my most recent finds also prominently feature some hot lesbian action, 'Sista 14' showing nothing but chicks digging each other. 'Sista' was made this century (2002) and stars veteran porn actress India along with newcomers Kiwi, Bronze and the lovely and talented Nicole Le. Part of a long and successful series of all-girl features, the story this time is about a lesbian brothel, where the working girls and customers alike get into all sorts of trouble. You won't see much in the way of believable acting, but inventive use of vibrators, strap-ons and lots and lots of tongue make this one a must see, especially if you're into beautiful dark-skinned women.

'Sorority Pink' (1989) is kind of a girl's porno take on 'Animal House' and stars mostly women, from Angel Kelly (another personal fave of mine) to Sharon Kane (who actually sings the theme song!) to the ageless and tight Nina Hartley. Barbara Dare, Megan Leigh, Keisha, Porche Lynn, Bionca, Chrissie Snow and Jeanna Fine round out the top ten, but there are a few more young beauties tossed in for full effect. Surprisingly well acted (Sharon Kane is mostly believable as an English Lit professor who famously flashes her beaver to the class), the story, while predictable, moves along nicely, the horny girls doing each other at the drop of a hat whenever the mood strikes them. As an added bonus, there's a trailer for the next installment 'Sorority Pink 2', which features a twelve-girl lesbian orgy. There are also previews of two more coming attractions, including a documentary behind the scenes look at the making of an adult film, including interviews of stars from the era.

By the time I had 'finished' (watching) 'Island Girls' it was pushing ten, so I pulled up my pants, and headed upstairs for bed. I'd had enough television for one day.

Sweet dreams came late and lucky me!

I dreamed of reaming Carrie Ann on the beach in Hawaii, sand up her ass and all!

Marty Sherman:

We sent the first batch off to the publisher three weeks ago and volume one will be out this spring. Dirk's still writing like a madman, though, and I'm getting very little sleep. I'm exhausted.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

I still miss him. I hear that advance orders on the book are through the roof.

Marty Sherman:

Dirk has expressed to me that he wants to come out with a second volume by Christmas. That one will include the photos. He also told me that unlike here on earth, there's an endless supply of Polaroid film in Heaven.

More previews from the upcoming posthumously-written volume of Prof. Dirk Beat's poetry, 'Poems From The Other Side':

The Noose

Oddly warm around my neck
It soothes my soul with sweet respect
The chair below smiles up at me
Then leaps aside to set me free


Something Else, Man

What's a fire without the burn?
What's a road without a turn?

What's a nude without the pink?
What's a skunk without his stink?

What's a book without the pages?
What's my anger without the rages?

What's a garden without the weeds?
What's that jam without its seeds?

Jelly

-Prof. Dirk Beat

In honor of Valentine's Day, we're going to be featuring a little Mystic Moods Orchestra to get you love birds all warm inside.

More a concept than an actual band (or even an orchestra, for that matter), the Mystic Moods began with founder Brad Miller's passion for recording the sounds of nature. Way back in the fifties, Miller started making meticulous recordings of all sorts of things, from thunderstorms to steam engines, eventually forming a company he called Mobile Fidelity Records so that he could sell the results (mostly stereo recordings of trains in motion) to model railroad enthusiasts.

One night in the early sixties, San Francisco area disc jockey Ernie McDaniel got an inspiration. McDaniel primed a couple of turntables, put Miller's 'Steam Railroading Under Thundering Skies' on one and an album of easy listening music on the other, letting both records play at the same time over the air (probably while he was taking a leisurely restroom break). The stunt produced a flurry of phone calls, most of them wanting to know where they could get the record.

Once Miller found out about it, a light bulb went off over his head. Suddenly, he realized there was a much larger segment of the music buying public besides model train dorks that he could take advantage of. Since he already knew what would work, Miller just put the easy listening music right on the same album as the sound effects he'd already recorded and voila! the Mystic Moods Orchestra was born.

In 1965, Miller hired arranger Don Ralke to write and arrange some appropriate music, booked an orchestra then mixed the results with his own recordings. They took the tapes to Philips records, inked a deal and released 'One Stormy Night' under the Mystic Moods name. Much to everyone's surprise, the LP became Philips' top seller for the year.

It wasn't long before Miller realized that his common denominator was people trying to get laid. The combo of storms rolling in and E-Z listening music made more panties wet than John Homes did during the entire decade of the seventies. By the time today's featured LP came out in 1975, Miller was pandering for the sexual market, aiming the music at horny folks, the inner sleeve here depicting a naked young couple just prior to coitus. Another LP from this era included a spare pair of panties as a bonus (presumably because the lady had recently soiled hers).

My copy is a bit worn, but sounds great. Along with the tried and true thunderstorm sounds, they've attempted some blues vocals this time around (not as bad as you might expect), breaking up the instrumentals, with the overall approach borrowing heavily from blaxploitation film music of the same period. The song 'Honey Trippin' even made the charts for six weeks, peaking at #98.

Number Ninety-Effing-Eight... Imagine THAT! Ninety-Eight Degrees... of Goddamn MOTHER-EFFING Mood-Effing-Music...

Hey... Man, am I EVER drunk.... All of a SUDDEN! Just like THAT! I guess that last beer was a BAD IDEA!

What day is this? Thursday? It's effing VALENTINE'S DAY and I have NOwhere to be! I called that girl I just met last week...Whassername? I ferget...But...Yeah, I CALLED her... Well, actually, I attempted a TEXT message and it turned out WRONG because of my CLUMSY MOTHER-EFFING thumbs, but SHE CALLED ME BACK! Yes, she did... Hey, I've been drinking...VOTE FOR BARACK OBAMA!!!!!!

It's not even TEN P.M.! And I'm already WASTED! Whew! Whoo! Whoo hoo!

I gotta go to bed now...HAPPY EFFING VALENTINE'S DAY ALL YOU PATHETIC LOVESICK FOOLS!

Marty Sherman:

It was weird that the first thing he did was change that last poem we found in his apartment. That's the one that appeared on the chalkboard in my kitchen one night two weeks after he died. I guess once he was dead, Dirk had decided to change the rhyme scheme from A-B-C-B to a more formal A-B-A-B. It's better.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

I wish he would have trusted me enough to channel the new work through me. Even though Sherman's a touch typist, I'm actually a poet! I could have helped with structure and editing.

Marty Sherman:

Yeah, I heard Blowharde's a little miffed by Dirk using me to write the new stuff, but believe me it's no picnic staying up all night, swilling gin and typing until the sun comes up. Now that he's dead, Dirk's ten times as prolific as he ever was when he was alive. I don't think he wrote more than a poem a month the past few years. He was too busy drinking and betting the horses.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

I haven't read the book, but I've seen a couple advance poems. He's a much better writer now that he's dead.

Zelda Dirkson (mother):

He was always up to no good.

Lisa Dirkson-Dean (ex-wife):

I wonder how much of an advance that low-life Sherman got from the publisher?

The last poem Prof. Dirk Beat wrote while alive, revised:

The fetal position, huddled in bed
I moan, I cry, I weep
Nightmares dance inside my head
And all I want is sleep

And a preview from his posthumous volume, 'Poems From The Other Side', due out in March:

Am I Ever Forever

I am the Pyramids
Those great piles of stone
And sweat & blood & bone
Are me

I am the Statue of Liberty
That cold bitch rising from the sea
Her arm aloft, her hollow torch
All of it - me

I am every sheet of glass
Every steel I-beam, each rivet & weld
That melts together, stairways to god
All are me

I feel the slow burn of noon heat
Between sunrises & sunsets
Cast long shadows as I turn my back
On the light & seek the darkness
An endless cycle of Man-made folly
I reach impossibly higher until
Like a house of cards

I tumble back to earth

A fragile pile of bleached bones
Baking in lifeless desert sand
Hot winds howling through my skull

Forever

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Dear Lyzako,

That Dirty Show thing opened last weekend. I attended with some friends on Saturday night and was pleasantly surprised that the atmosphere wasn't completely fouled by cigarette smoke this time. Oh there were smokers, to be sure, but the only place it was a real problem was in the back of the room, down the narrow, low-ceilinged passageway that housed several erotic sideshows, the restrooms and an ancillary bar.

The main room was crowded with the usual assortment of curious onlookers, paid strippers, artistes and an assortment of freaky fetish folk. There was a place near where my painting hung where I could stand and get cool fresh air being blown in from an overhead duct, so I spent much of my time there. The stage was within view, and as an added bonus, there was a young, shapely woman dressed in a skimpy red, white and blue outfit and sunglasses standing atop a short wooden box in six-inch heels. Except for calm breathing, I didn't see her move for at least an hour, her frozen, pale, nearly naked body adorned in the colors of the flag apparently being a performance 'piece'.

There didn't seem to be that one big blockbuster object that attracted a crowd this year, though. There were many, many photographs (far too many in my opinion) of naked tits, cocks, cunts and cocks inside cunts. My painting was actually sandwiched between a large sepia print of a fake-boobed naked blond fingering herself on one side, while just past the exit door on the other side hung a black and white photo of a huge limp dick. Little wonder why I saw so many people pass my image by in favor of the pornographic nature of the photographs that surrounded it. Of course, you know my opinion has always been that if you put the Mona Lisa in a room with a small photo of a couple fucking that the photo would draw far more attention than da Vinci's masterpiece.

A large print of Bettie Page by glamour photographer Bunny Yeager dominated the far side of the room and there were a handsome pair of colorful small gouaches by Chicago illustrator Mitch O'Connell that featured the Hanna-Barbera characters Yogi Bear and Wally Gator, the latter two pieces being my favorites from the entire show.

I drank beer steadily having secured a designated driver, watched the stage shows and roamed the room flirting with any woman that would talk to me. Around 10:45, while on my way to the back bar for a refill (Heineken... they'd run out of Blue by then!), I heard them caution that the next act was not for the 'faint of heart'. I didn't think much of it, hype being two-thirds of the Dirty Show to start with. Upon my return I was a bit shocked to see a young couple suspended high above the stage by a series of meat hooks run through the skin of their backs just above the shoulder blades.

I watched numbly (thanks in part to the beer, of course) as the two of them swung back and forth like pendulums, meeting in the middle for hugs, kisses and caresses, while their back flesh stretched to what looked like the point of tearing completely through. Especially the guy, who's weight seemed to cause him to sag ever further until I half expected him to fall to the stage with a thud. Blood streamed down their sides and backs in thin rivulets as they hung there. Eventually they were joined by a third person - a bald man wearing white makeup that simulated the look of a vampire, who was similarly hooked in several spots on his back. He swung around behind them, arms outstretched like a demonic angel overseeing the lover's movements, all amid the din of metal music.

After the 'act' was over and they were lowered to the stage, one of their assistants disconnected the hooks from the apparatus that had supported them, and they took their bows with the stainless barbs still protruding from their shoulders. Once they'd exited, stage hands began swabbing the area with mops and spraying the blood-soaked floor with disinfectant. I went for another beer. On my way back from the bar I noticed the young couple walking through the crowd and saw as they passed me that they had a couple of large, flesh-colored rectangular bandages over each side of their backs where the hooks had been set. They seemed happy and full of life.

Shortly thereafter, Louis and I decided we'd had enough for one night and left. As I crossed Russell directly in front of Bert's, a large SUV took off from where it was parked and accelerated directly towards me. I was so stunned by the driver's carelessness that I just stood there in the middle of the street lit by the headlights while he approached. Eventually the car veered around me, with me screaming 'Asshole!' as he drove away and swerved around the corner.

“Why didn't you jump out of the way?” Louis asked.

“I couldn't believe it was actually happening,” I said.

I wasn't able to talk Louis into a nightcap at Hot Tamales, where I had hoped to force the bloody image of the people hanging on hooks out of my memory with a warm lap dance or two, so I was home in bed by midnight.

By the way, my painting thus far hasn't sold, but there's still another weekend of attendance planned for the show, the next big bash being on Valentine's Day. I'm not sure if there will be a repeat performance by the people hanging on hooks, but I'd doubt that their flesh would stand up to it twice within a week's time. I know if they'd hung me above the stage on meat hooks, that speeding SUV that nearly ran me down would have been somebody (anybody!) driving my screaming, squeamish ass to the emergency room.

Warm Regards,
Rembrandt van Sherman

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Fourteen: Tijuana Brass Knuckles

When he stood up I held fast to his nose, my teeth clenched hard enough to sink in but not bite it off, his sudden backward motion also rocking me forward and pulling me upright until I was on the balls of my feet, bent at the waist and knees. He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled away hard. That's when I bit down all the way, the gristle giving way between my teeth with a crunch, the flesh of his nose separating from his face, blood spurting as he howled in pain.

I sat back hard against the floor, let my weight come down on the chair and it basically fell apart. By the time I got back to my feet, my hands were still tied, but hanging loose in front of me. There were pieces of the chair back still tied to me with loose coils of rope, and the seat of the chair was hanging at the back of my thighs. The black guy was writhing on the floor, holding the wound where his nose used to be, blood squirting out between his fingers.

I leaped at him, pulled my feet up and landed with the seat of the chair on his head. A jagged piece of broken leg protruding from the bottom of the seat caught him in the cheek and tore through the side of his face, taking off a big chunk of ear.

My sudden attack had caught Hector by surprise and he was just then starting to move. Hector pulled a pistol from the waist of his jeans and I scissored my legs across his ankles, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the floor, firing a shot into the ceiling as he hit the carpet with a thud. I rolled towards the shotgun that was propped against the chest of drawers. With my wrists still bound together, I swung the business end towards Hector, braced the butt into the corner, racked a shell into the chamber and pulled the trigger. Hector had just managed to sit up, barely four feet away from me. The blast tore off the top half of his head.

Meanwhile, the black guy had stopped squirming and had sat up himself, his mutilated face covered in blood. He stared at Felina and me blankly, his mouth hanging open, a steady pulse of blood flowing out from under his ear that slowly ebbed altogether as he bled out right there in front of us, finally falling back to the floor in slow motion. I'd gotten lucky. When I came down on his head, the chair leg must have torn through the carotid.

I was breathing hard, my ears were ringing and I realized just than that I still had that chunk of nose flesh in my mouth. I spit it on the floor.

“Help me with these ropes,” I said to Felina. She got up and walked stiffly over to Hector, reached down and picked up his gun. “Felina...” She aimed the pistol at him and squeezed off a couple rounds, then spit on his corpse. “Baby, we gotta get out of here. Don't shoot any more. He's dead. We might need to shoot somebody else.” She turned slowly towards me, trembling, tears streaming down over her cheeks. I could see the bruises - on her arms, her jaw, her forehead. Her lips were swollen and split. Hector had really roughed her up.

“Help me with these ropes, baby, and let's get the fuck out of here.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Do you know where we are?”

After she had untied me, Felina and I had worked our way through the empty house and out onto the porch. A crescent moon hung low in the clear night sky. I could hear the whoosh of highway traffic and the sound of barking dogs from nearby backyards. It wasn't exactly an upscale neighborhood and I was hoping that the sound of gunshots in the night weren't so uncommon as to call attention to this place.

“I was conscious when they drove us here. The LBJ is over there.” She pointed to the right. “We're about fifteen minutes from the Motel 6 where you were staying.”

I could see my rental parked in front of the house. “They brought my car?”

“Lonnie drove it, with you in the back. Hector and I followed you.”

“My stuff?”

“They brought everything. It must be in the house somewhere.”

“Wait here.”

I tore back through the house, re-entered that ghastly, blood-soaked room where they'd held me, kneeled down and searched Lonnie's pants pockets for the keys to my car. Nothing. I went through Hector's pockets, too, pulled out a thick roll of cash, but still no sign of the keys. I looked around and saw an ash tray filled with change sitting on top of the chest of drawers right next to that feeble shadeless lamp. Bingo. There they were, sprawled atop the pile of coins.

My stuff was still on the sofa - my bags, my laptop... even my cell phone and wallet, with all the money and credit cards still in it. I pulled a pair of jeans and my flip flops out of the tote, then put the shotgun inside leaving the butt end out for easy access. I put on the jeans, shouldered the straps on both the tote and my laptop, grabbed my briefcase and ran for the porch. Felina was still there and the dogs were still barking. I'd expected to hear sirens by then, but except for the dogs and the freeway whine, the night was eerily calm.

“Let's go,” I said as I took her hand. “I found the keys.”