SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Three: A Kitty In Every City

“So what do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked her, sipping at my beer.

“What makes you think I want to be something other than this?” said the bartender as she placed my Patron in front of me. She was cute, slightly flabby, and in her late twenties. Big brown eyes. Big brown hair... a shoulder length cut with bangs. Big ass. My kind of ass, tucked tight into denim and begging to be slapped. She looked me in my eye, leaned forward on the bar, her bare arm flesh causing saliva to flow freely in my mouth. I felt the shot in my hand, held it up for a moment before firing it down and lightly placing the glass back on the bar.

“Well, because if you didn't have something else going on,” I said, “I'd suspect that you were a fool. And I'd hate to think that a foolish girl, no matter how cute she is, would turn me on so much.” I took another sip of beer, paused to see if she was going to say something, but she didn't. “And getting aroused by a fool makes me look bad,” I said, “even if I am an old man.”

She turned away from me, moved down the bar to the only other person in the place besides me who was drinking at three in the afternoon, asked him if he was okay, then started cleaning glasses in the sink. As she washed the glasses she pushed up and down in rhythm on the motorized brushes that twirled below the water in the basin, her ass bobbing up and down at the same time, her small-but-perfect boobs dancing for me as she rotated dirty to clean from left to right, then placed the washed glasses face down to drain on the rubber mat at the end of the basin.

In the middle of the chore she tossed me a sidelong glance, unsmiling. After knocking her hair back from her face and over her shoulders a couple of times, she stood up and pulled it back in a pony tail, tied it with a braided band that had been on her wrist, then finished washing the remaining glasses.

I couldn't tell if she had bought my bullshit or not, so I started watching the television above the bar. Women were playing pool on ESPN 5 and that Black Widow chick - Jeanette Lee, was beating somebody at Nine Ball. I love her... all dressed in black leather pants and black lace top, a matching black glove on her shooting hand. I figured she had a big black dildo in her nightstand, too.

The bartender walked back towards me drying her hands on a stained white towel. “Veterinarian,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to be a Vet,” she said again, glowing proudly, her white teeth shining.

I downed the last of the beer, turned towards her and away from the TV. “See... I knew it. Cats or dogs?”

“Three cats, two dogs.”

“I have allergies,” I said.

“They have shots for that now,” she replied with a grin.

“I'm Marty.”

“Amy.” She held out her hand and I took it. It was soft and warm and made me want to lie down.

“This calls for another round, Amy,” I said. “Care to join me?”

Fifteen minutes after Amy's shift ended at nine, we were fucking like animals in the back of her minivan. When I'd showed her the fresh wound on my chest it had sealed the deal, made her putty in my stubby-fingered-but-able hands. It wasn't long before I had her knees over my shoulders and a breast in each palm, squeezing as I pumped away, my pants around my ankles - just like Popeye used to do to Olive Oyl in those dirty little Tijuana Bibles.

The night was warm and the cricket choir was chirruping a gentle love song as we steadily banged away. Amy's eyes were closed, her lips plump and moist as I slapped in and out, licked her throat, kissed her hard on the mouth and nibbled at her ears, which seemed very sensitive and sported multiple silver piercings. After a while I relaxed, slowed my pace, thought about Oprah to keep me from going over the top. I backed up off Amy, crouched on my knees and held a delicate ankle in each of my hands as I pumped more slowly, kissed and licked her feet, calves and toes. Amy had three fingers in her mouth and was humming with pleasure as I stroked, the soft flesh of her belly rolling in waves, her navel ring surfing to and fro in rhythm to our movements.

When Amy's orgasm started she clamped down on me tight, quivered and shook, ground her hips back into me and I suddenly forgot where my flesh ended and where Amy's began. I stopped thinking about Oprah, opened my eyes and pressed myself into her, melted my flesh to hers as she locked her legs over mine, pulled me in and rode hard until I was swept up right along with her, grunting and bucking and losing all track of time...

* * * * * * * * * * *

At seven o'clock the next morning I was in the middle of a sneezing fit in the tiny bathroom of Amy's two-bedroom flat in Monroeville, the animal dander wreaking havoc on my sinuses. Her calico cat was crouched on the toilet, dropping a load and staring at me. Between sneezes, I heard my cell phone ringing. I went back into her bedroom and pulled the infernal thing from my pants pocket as Amy snored right through. Another sneeze and she groaned, rolled over, then pulled a pillow over her head.

I recognized the number. It was the boss. When I answered, he seemed surprised to hear my voice.

Decisions Decisions

Mornings can be tough
Have to pick a coffee mug
You know, to get my ration of joe
From which to drink my daily dose
Of Go Juice, dig?

Once I've gone through my entire set
Of Dubble Bubble mugs - the ones
Found at Browse & Bargain
Two dollars for six including
The mug rack - good deal!
Then I work my way through
The rest before it's time to
Wash the dishes again

Once every two weeks
Whether they need it or not
Just like clockwork

There's that Marsh Electric mug
With metric conversions on the side
Two Sam's Jams 10th Anniversary cups
Faded red ink so only I know their story
A couple of McDonald's cups, smaller
A Japanese style one, hand-painted glaze

But then I get down to the two that really
Cause the problems, increase my stress
The ones that remind me of her...

The first one has a cartoon skeleton
Lying against a cactus in the desert
With a caption that reads:
'But It's a Dry Heat'
Gaudy reds, oranges & greens
She brought that one back for me
From a business trip to Arizona
She thought it was funny

Bad mug number two came from France
Her Christmas trip to Paris to visit
Her family towards the end of us
The one with the Eiffel Tower on it
Flat handle shaped like the Eiffel Tower
Too much Eiffel Tower for my taste

Both of them stamped 'Made In China'
Both of them make the coffee bitter

I suppose I could toss them
Just put them in the trash or
Sell them at a garage sale
Smashing them against the cement
In the driveway might even be nice

But you see I don't want to
Forget her
I just want to forget all of the
Bad times

So twice a month I rue the day
When I became so lazy, so slothful
That I refuse to do a simple chore
Like washing the dishes
Every night

Twice each month
I remember
Mostly the
Bad times

-Prof. Dirk Beat

20/20 Confusion

Sometimes I can see through
Everything

I just stare off into space
& see right through...

The shiny black & white tiled
wall behind the counter at this diner

The strip malls surrounded by
manicured bushes & tethered saplings,
planted after razing the forest
to make way for more parking lots,
condos & Dollar Store plastic

The traffic: the noisy smear of
orangeblueblackwhiteredblue
speeding carstrucksSUVs

The hideous people with their
dazed expressions stumbling
along the sidewalks

My own ghostly reflection
in the rearview/bathroom mirror

The screaming, spoiled children
who demand to be heard above all

Like a tragic, magical X-Ray
The shit all disappears from view &
The tunnel vision narrows,
Whisks me back to the past
To some horrible memory
Different each time
Sometimes just
A sad feeling

I smell the toast
I hear the honking horns
I wither & die a little more

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Dear Lyzako,

The sun is just now cracking the horizon, burning pink the strips of clouds that angle over the trees, the sky ice blue, the wind calm. A high of sixty is expected, and no rain until tomorrow.

Work has kept me jumping nearly nonstop this past fortnight. Often I don't even know what day of the week it is, and I really cannot account for all the spent time, I've been so caught up in slaving away. You see, I've determined that time flies even when you're NOT having fun. Trust me. I think Einstein made a similar observation while formulating his Theory of Relativity.

My right knee has me feeling crippled, a muscle or ligament strain on the inside of the joint refusing to heal over the past ten days, staying stubbornly sore as I continue to have to rely on it to do physical work. My schedule for the next few days should allow enough slack time for it to get better, but I'm right back to the grind come Monday.

Last night was the first full night of furnace use this year, with temperatures plunging into the forties. We've been lucky so far with the weather, though, the hangover of Summer lasting nearly until Halloween this year, keeping the trees green and fully-leafed, while allowing for comfortable days of toil and easy nights of sleep. And so far, no raking, a chore that pains my injured upper spine and tortures me every time I'm forced to perform the task. Each Autumn I pray to the God of Wind to send the leaves from my towering back yard Maple across the fence and into the neighbor's yard behind me. A selfish prayer, I know. It shames me, but I wish I could make it even more selfish by directing the wind to blow from the south and bury the more troublesome neighbor's evil, yapping dog to the north side of me, smother the life from the ignorant beast, but I'll take what I can get as long as it involves less use of the rake.

I see I've penned several paragraphs now and the words (too many words!) seem to take no direction, just sentences highlighting the disjointed thought processes of my failing mind, while giving off a meandering low-pitched whine about life in general. What can I say? It's like that sometimes. The stress and pressure of day-to-day living can be nearly overwhelming in both its sameness and its ugly variety... the people... the mindless, meaningless exchange of precious life minutes for money...the scant few minutes I'm able to enjoy of total peace and relaxation...

Of course, those minutes become hours, which in turn become days, eighteen-thousand and eighty-six of them, in my case to be exact. Of that number, a handful of truly memorable good ones, and several dumpsters filled to overflowing with woeful ones... those days become years... the years become a lifetime and, well, you know the rest... eventually we get to the 'Rest In Peace' part.

I had another Bukowski dream last night. In it, old Buk's hair had gone snow white, and it was growing around his head and face, down his neck, over his throat, beard growing down to meet white hair growing up from his chest, shoulders and back. He'd trimmed it just about collarbone height in a ring all the way around his magnificent head, his eyes glowing like embers within the framework of his mane. Buk was drinking beer and laughing, wearing a stained wife-beater.

“Enjoy it while you can, Marty!” he said to me.

I've opened the blinds to the morning sun, which slants in and fills the room with warmth and light. I'd really much rather be sleeping the day away, but I'll try to take some energy from the sun and heed the words of old Buk. I need one more cup of coffee, though. After that I plan to enjoy as much as I can of Number Eight-Thousand-And-Eighty-Seven.

Regards and Well Wishes,
Marty Sherman

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Two: A Shot, A Beer & A Flesh Wound

I inspected the cut and doused it with alcohol. It wasn't as bad as it looked or even as bad as it felt, but still plenty bad enough. It probably could have used some stitches, but the butterfly bandages I'd bought at Rite Aid would have to do. The wound was about four inches long running horizontally across the left side of my chest, right below the nipple and way too close to my heart for comfort. I peeled the bandages out of their wrappers, held the cut together with my left hand while I stuck four of them across the span with my right, careful to keep pressure to the center and prevent the wound from opening any further. The gash was deep enough to expose a gory bit of fat, but luckily, the knife hadn't sliced into the muscle. I covered the whole thing with a wide strip of gauze and taped it down.

Then I grabbed another Tecate and tried to figure out exactly what had gone wrong...

I had parked my rental car in the gravel lot of the bar where I was supposed to find my first target. It was happy hour and I'd just finished a nap at the Days Inn on Marietta Parkway, just west of I-75. Despite being anxious to get the first one under my belt, I was able to put in a good two hours of sleep and woke up a little after four, refreshed, focused and fearless. With the help of a Yahoo map, I was on site in a matter of minutes.

There were only a handful of vehicles in the lot and I quickly spied the gold Escalade that I was told would be there parked around the side and near a pair of well-traveled choppers. The plate matched the number I'd been provided. A piece of cake, I thought. Casually I walked over to the car, dropped to the ground and slid underneath, careful not to bump into it just in case the alarm had been set. I inched my way back to the right rear wheel and cut the brake line with a pair of side cutters, pinched the severed end that connected to the brake, then wrapped the end that went to the master cylinder with duct tape to delay the loss of brake fluid. Then I cut the cable to the emergency brake. The idea was for the brakes to fail after the vehicle had been driven for a while, the fluid acting as a solvent for the glue on the tape and eventually allowing enough to be pumped out so that at some point, hopefully while the driver was speeding up to a stop sign or coming off a freeway exit ramp, the peddle would go all the way to the floor and the car would crash.

According to the boss, it was okay if the accident didn't kill him, or anybody else for that matter. It was just a warning, “...kinda like that time the Godfather put that horse's head in bed with that guy,” he'd said. “Ha, ha! Remember that?” If somebody did die, so be it. If not, the message would still be sent, loud and clear. I really didn't give two shits either way.

It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was blazing and it felt every bit of the eighty-six degrees they had predicted for the day's high. I was thirsty and figured a cold one was in order, so I dusted myself off and walked inside, proud of my handiwork.

The place was a dump. It was dark as a cave and reeked of cigarettes, bleach and vomit. As I passed the bar I waved to the bartender and ordered. “Tecate and Don Julio, my man. I just have to freshen up.” Half way down the bar sat a group of tattooed Mexicans drinking beer and watching rodeo on a small television suspended from the ceiling in the back corner of the room. A couple more Mexicans were playing pool. According to my stat sheet, the taller one was the target, the owner of the Escalade I'd just rigged. None of them seemed to pay me any attention. “Restroom?” The bartender pointed to the back, just around the pool table. My hands were a little dirty from the brake fluid and my bladder was badly in need of emptying, so I headed straight back.

Once inside the men's room, I saw that the urinal was clogged and filled to the point of overflowing with piss, so I stepped around the puddle beneath it to get to the toilet stall. Inside the bowl floated wads of toilet paper and some foul-looking chunks of crap. I made a game of trying to cut the paper in half with my stream, tried to read the graffiti, but gave up because most of it was in Spanish. After adding my bladderful to the mess, I zipped up and noticed a shadow on the side of the stall to my right. Instinct took over and I spun quickly, only to be met by one of the Mexicans I'd passed on the way in. It turned out to be none other than the target himself, and he moved like a cat, slashed at me with a roundhouse right while holding in his fist a six inch blade that had my name written all over it. I jumped back into the corner as the blade swept over my chest, cutting through the bottom of my shirt pocket causing the rental car keys to fall directly into the filthy toilet. The Mexican slashed again and I ducked. He lunged at me blade first and when I moved aside the point penetrated the metal panel of the toilet stall, getting stuck momentarily and giving me time to act as he twisted it around in an attempt to wrench it free.

I threw my right arm over his wrist and kicked up with my left knee against the back of his elbow. The joint gave way with a sickening crack and he groaned, but kept pawing at me. I drove stiff fingers into his throat, two swift jabs and he dropped to his knees, choking. With his good hand he reached for the knife, which was still lodged in the wall, but I got there first, pulling it out and slashing it across his face in a single motion, his cheeks turning instantly to gory flaps of flesh, blood spurting from his face and mouth. He reached up one last time and I plunged the blade into his chest. With his last breath, the Mexican pulled the handle on the toilet and I helplessly watched as the water swirled... the wads of toilet paper, the shit, my keys... all disappeared down the drain with a gurgling belch.

I checked his pockets and found the keys to the Escalade, punched the prick hard in the nuts hoping he could feel one more last bit of pain before he died for flushing away my goddamn car keys, then did a quick rinse in the sink, calmed my breathing and hightailed it towards the exit. The guys at the bar were still intent on the rodeo and the dead Mexican's pool partner was standing behind them leaning on his cue. My shirt was slashed and spattered with blood, but I was banking that nobody would notice in the cave-like darkness if I just stayed cool.

I walked to the front where my beer and shot sat, dropped a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” I said as I dumped the tequila down then chugged the beer. “Gotta run,” I said. “Hot date.” I managed to smile as I walked out the door, but knew I only had seconds to make my getaway before one of the Neanderthals realized what had happened.

Once I was in the parking lot, I tipped over the choppers, then fired up the Cadillac. By the time I roared out onto the street throwing gravel behind me with all four wheels, I could see the Mexicans running at me in the rear-view. One of them was brandishing a pistol. Holding my breath and keeping my fingers crossed that the brakes would last until I was safe, I sped down the road towards my hotel.

The bar was only a mile or so from the Days Inn, but by the time I got to the hotel, the brakes were shot, the pedal squishing all the way to the floor as I rolled down the steep driveway, then squealed around the corner to the back of the building, eventually bumping into a dumpster in order to come to a stop. I turned my head and closed my eyes on impact in case the air bag went off, but got lucky.

After cleaning up and putting on a fresh shirt, I checked out and called a cab. The driver took me to a Rite Aid, a liquor store, then deposited me at the Sundowner Motel, just a stone's throw down Marietta Parkway on the other side of the freeway. I tipped him forty bucks and told him to forget he'd ever seen me. He smiled and nodded, showing off a big gold tooth right up front and assuring me that I could trust him. I really wanted to, but at the moment I was pretty short on that commodity.

Why had that Mexican attacked me at the bar? It didn't make any sense. I drank my fifth can of Tecate and watched the sun go down over the power lines and the billboards outside the window of my new room. It could have been random, I told myself, but it just didn't feel like that. No, somehow he had been expecting me. And if this guy knew I was coming, odds are targets two through five would be ready and waiting for me, too.

There were still a lot of unanswered questions, but one thing was for damn sure: I'd been made. And if I couldn't figure out the how and why, I'd probably never live to sleep in my own bed again.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter One: A Stranger Lends A Manicured Hand

When I came to I was in the cabin of a 737. It was dark, the space being lit by fluorescent bulbs along the tops of the overhead carry-on bins, the night outside the window black as ink at three A.M., and only a handful of reading lamps tossing weak columns of light down on red-eyed insomniacs unable to sleep on the plane. We were cruising somewhere over the Midwest and through the window to my right I could see clusters of tiny lights on the ground below where cities lay, a galaxy of artificial stars in the inverse firmament of our man-made hell.

The white noise hum was just about to carry me back to sleep when I picked up movement out of the corner of my eye. A woman sat to my left - an attractive one with brown hair and smooth skin the color of buttermilk, full lips and high cheekbones. She looked to be in her thirties. Like me, she was covered to her knees by a flimsy red airline blanket, her eyes closed and her head propped against a flat airline pillow. At first glance I thought she was sleeping, but the movement I had detected was at the center of her blanket, a gentle, rhythmic stirring as if a tiny dog were jumping quietly in her lap. I looked further down and noticed that her bare knees were parted and quivering, tensing and relaxing in waves timed with the movement of the blanket.

She was masturbating, surreptitiously frigging herself while the rest of the passengers snored. I immediately got stiff, closed my eyes and absently started rubbing myself through my jeans, imagining her sitting astride me later at the hotel or bent over before me in the tiny airplane john. With my eyes shut, sleep began to return. Just as I was dropping off, I felt another hand on my bulge massaging rhythmically. I glanced over and caught a quick knowing look from the woman, a light lick of her upper lip as her tongue darted out, a furtive smile. Without saying a word, she slid the armrest between us up and out of the way with her right elbow, moved her right ankle so that it crossed over my left, parting her knees even further. Before I knew it she had guided my left hand to the hot, naked flesh of her thigh, drawn it up to her center, which was completely unfettered by panties and slick with her moisture.

With my eyes still closed I felt the soft touch of her finger on my lips, picked up the scent of her from her still-damp fingertips. I opened my mouth slightly and she slid two fingers in, swirled them on the tip of my tongue for just a second to allow me a taste before pulling them out, then slipping her hand back beneath my blanket. By this time she was breathing heavily and my fingers were working fast at her now-sloppy slit, encouraging quicker motions of her hand on me. With my right hand I unzipped my fly and in seconds she had pulled me free, was squeezing and stroking me furiously beneath the blanket.

Suddenly her legs turned to jelly and her knees shook with force. I heard a low gurgling moan from deep in her throat. When her orgasm had subsided, she put her head on my shoulder and set in to finishing me. She had clamped her thighs together, holding my left hand in place, soaking wet and three knuckles deep inside her flower, while she stroked a perfect, practiced rhythm on my shaft. I was getting close. Real close. She pulled her left hand from beneath her blanket, cupped it under her pretty lips and let a sweet mouthful of saliva slide out into her palm, then quickly transferred it to my shaft, all the while pumping vigorously with her right hand, now a perfectly tight fist working me high and hard. In just seconds she had me going, my hips making small, circular involuntary thrusts as she squeezed out every last drop.

A double ping issued from the airplane's speakers, then a crackle and a low hiss before the pilot came on... “Folks, we're beginning our initial descent into the Atlanta area and should be at the gate in approximately twenty-five minutes. Hope you enjoyed your flight. We sure enjoyed having you. Weather conditions in Atlanta are nice... breezy and sixty-two degrees. They're expecting sunny skies today and highs in the low eighties.” I swallowed hard and my ears popped.

A flight attendant was making her way towards us down the aisle. I glanced over to my left and the woman was again feigning sleep, only now with a satisfied smile, her face turned towards me, her throat and cheeks flushed and pink. She opened one eye briefly, pulled her hand back under her own blanket and relaxed her thighs, releasing my hand. I wiped myself off on the airline blanket, tucked Marty Junior back into my jeans and zipped up.

Once we had landed and were lining up to deplane, my new friend pulled a business card from her purse and slipped it into my shirt pocket. “I'm based out of Detroit,” she said. “I travel a lot, though. For work.”

“Me too,” I said. “Quelle coincidence.”

“Parlez-vous Francais?” she asked.

“Speak it? Not really,” I said with a smile. She smiled back, displaying dimples and white teeth, a tiny, sexy gap-toothed overbite, her perfect imperfection.

Just twelve hours earlier I had been sleeping on the futon in the basement of my brick bungalow in suburban Detroit, drenched in sweat and having nightmares about this job. In the span of twelve hours more, the first target would go down in the bathroom of a dive bar in Marietta, Georgia.

But not without a struggle.

Don't get me started on Halloween.

Since when did it become a holiday? And since when did we celebrate it for a full two months prior to the 31st of October, decorating the front yard with cheap, plastic Chinese junk - from giant inflatable jack-o'-lanterns to strings of orange and green lights that run up the light bill and rival the most intense outdoor Christmas display?

I'll tell you when... Since retailers decided that it was the second biggest merchandising opportunity this side of Jesus Christ's birthday. That's when. All over America, Spirit Halloween Superstores spring up in late August only to fold up tent in November after moving billions of dollars worth of costumes, candy and crap to consumers, their temporary fluorescent banners being replaced yet again by FOR LEASE signs once the evil holiday has passed.

It's almost as if Wal Mart, K-Mart and Target want to extend the Christmas shopping season all the way back to late Summer. Why, last year I remember seeing a pair of adjacent houses in one of the suburbs here in early November, one decorated for Halloween and the other decked out in Christmas lights with plastic candy canes pushed into the muddy lawn.

Don't get me wrong, though. I love Halloween and used to look forward to it with wild anticipation as a kid. It was all the stuff that I liked rolled up into a single day... horror movies, monsters, scary stories, candy and mischief. Let's not forget the mischief. Back then the celebration lasted just a day or two, but the spirit of Halloween lived year round on local television thanks to the horror movie hosts - grown men dressed up like ghouls and vampires who emceed television broadcasts of monster movies. Giggling their way through lame bits that were sillier than they were scary, these hosts would perform briefly before and after commercial breaks and sometimes during the movie itself.

John Zacherle was one of the first and best of the lot. Originating in his home town of Philadelphia during the late fifties, Zach practically defined the horror host, developing a huge fan base before moving to New York and on to syndication. Known originally as Roland (pronounced Ro-LAND), Zach's character eventually adopted his own last name of Zacherley, the 'y' added to make the pronunciation easier, his costume a surplus grave digger's coat he inherited from the wardrobe of a locally broadcast Western-themed show in which he had appeared as an extra.

Nicknamed the 'Cool Ghoul' by buddy Dick Clark, Zacherley eventually tried his hand at novelty recordings, his first big hit being 'Dinner With Drac'. Rumor has it that Clark wouldn't play the song on his own 'American Bandstand' show because of too raw content, so Zach cut a version more suitable for airplay and the single took off, cracking the top ten. His initial recording success led to a series of LPs, today's featured album 'Monster Mash', from 1962, being the second he recorded for the Cameo Parkway label. It features Zach's version of Bobby 'Boris' Pickett's famous 'Monster Mash' along with a bunch of satirical takes on popular songs of the day ('Let's Twist Again' and 'The Pistol Stomp') plus his own 'Dinner With Drac'.

My copy is a reissue on Wyncote from the mid-sixties and is in excellent condition. Original Parkway discs in similar shape go for fifty to sixty bucks, but I think I only paid three for this one. Of course, the cover is worth as much as the disc is to me, suitable for framing with a slick illustration and some bloody lettering. Speaking of blood... when Zach first started his broadcasts in Philly, the show was seen only in black and white, so all the special effects blood they used to make severed heads and body parts look more real was actually... chocolate sauce!

Naturally, we had our own horror host here in the Detroit area. Sir Graves Ghastly dressed like a vampire and showed all the Universal Studios monster movies over and over again... 'Frankenstein', 'Dracula', 'The Mummy'... as a kid I never grew tired of them. And as a kid I always enjoyed Halloween, right up until the time when that first evil bastard pushed a razor blade into an apple.

It's been all down hill since then.

Dear Lyzako,

It seems only hours since I departed Nob Hill and the comfort of your hospitality. In reality, days have passed, my friend, days that feel like a lifetime of toil and disrespect. My right hand will not clench fully into a fist, the fingers and palms swollen and stiff from constant work, my 'job' involving much more physical strength than I thought I could muster at my advancing age. I have several cuts and contusions, and there is pain in my left knee that causes me to limp. I survive, though. The tale is forthcoming, but in the meantime I wish to send out heartfelt thanks to you for providing respite from my cross-country travail, while at the same time begging forgiveness for what it is I now have to do to earn my daily bread.

As a child molding colored clay into tiny figures and manipulating them through fantastic scenarios involving both passion and madness, I pictured myself a sculptor or film director. But the passing years have put me on quite a different path.

As a child, I had no concept of fate.

Upon my arrival home, Detroit greeted me with skies the color of skim milk, temperatures in the fifties and drizzle. After a week of slaving and not sleeping, I fell out before the 'Simpsons' came on and slept a solid twelve hours. I can't remember the last time I was so long in bed, but I'm sure it involved vomiting and a fever.

Many dead relatives appeared in my dreams last night, including Grandma, Uncle Dub and Aunt Joy, all sitting around a large table smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, listening to Elvis on the stereo and laughing at each other's jokes. I didn't quite know what to make of it, but was grateful for seeing their smiling faces again, just as I remembered them, even if it was only in a dream. I must say it seemed very real, almost as though they were welcoming me to the party. I wonder if, in my exhausted state, I was so close to death that my spirit flirted with joining theirs in the hereafter.

I hope so.

Warm Regards As I Stumble Forward,
Marty Sherman

My Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here in seventy degree heat at 6:45 in the morning waiting for the sun to rise and thrust a dagger in my soul, I must tell you that your first Autumn on the West Coast has probably been much more Autumn-like in terms of temperatures than we've experienced here in Motown. The forecasters are predicting highs near ninety today and a record could fall as we await the rush of cool air behind the coming cold front, which isn't scheduled to arrive until tomorrow night. By the end of the week we're supposed to see highs only in the fifties. I can't wait.

And speaking of not being able to wait... I'm anxious to get my next bloody work trip underway because I know that if I survive that first leg in Pittsburgh, the next stop will be San Francisco, where I hope to quickly wrap up my business there in a tidy bundle without too much fuss, after which I will be able to spare some down time to visit and celebrate with you and yours. I know that it's only been a few short months you've been absent, but it seems much longer to me. More like five months, or five months and two weeks. Five months and two weeks of Hellish heat and a Summer that stubbornly refuses to end.

After finishing my work day this past Friday, one that involved toiling away in that same Hellish heat, along with several trips to the hardware store for 'supplies' and being chased by angry wasps after accidentally disturbing a nest of them (which should have been dormant by now, by the way), I stopped off at John King's Used Books here in Ferndalia to kill an hour or so in the air conditioning while I waited for Happy Hour to arrive. On the way in I checked out the cart of new stuff to be shelved, passed on a Kerouac collection of journal entries (twelve bucks seemed pricey to me), then moved on to the Art section, the Humor section and the Poetry section before making a quick stop at the shelf containing comic artwork, graphic novels and the like.

Atop the narrow six-and-a-half-foot tall wooden shelf I spied a thick paperback volume, the 'Standard Catalogue of American Comics'. It was leaning against one of those cheap, flat, steel book ends, the kind that has a tab that slides under the books and stays in place with just the weight of the books sitting on it. This one, however, was being used all by itself to prop up the Comic Book Book for display by some clever clerk looking to liven up the area. I pulled the book down, thumbed through it quickly and replaced it carefully, using both hands to prop it back up against the book end just as I'd found it. Seconds later, as I leaned down to get a closer look at the titles printed along the spines of several colorful square-bound volumes of Japanese Manga comics, I was suddenly struck a blow to the forehead that sent me reeling and caused a momentary cluster of blue stars to delicately float in my now blurry vision. I blinked my eyes a few times, stood up and felt the area with my hand. It was damp with more than perspiration. When I pulled my hand away, there was a shiny spot of blood on my palm. I looked down and saw the Comic Book Book laughing up at me from the floor.

When I told the clerk at the counter of my mishap and asked for a tissue to stem the bleeding, he issued me the tissue along with the standard 'Sorry about that, dude', then went back to reading his book. I returned to the shelf, tissue against my brow, and actually found a couple of things that I decided to purchase: 'Cartoon America - Comic Art in the Library of Congress' and 'Are You Under Sexty?'. Both are hardcovers, the former filled with beautiful illustrations of original comic artwork from the last 100 years, and the latter one of those risque tomes of humor and sexy cartoons from the late fifties, a first edition complete with the original dust jacket. Total purchase: $14. I put it on my card.

By the time I got to Happy Hour the bleeding had stopped and I went to the Men's room to check out the damage in the mirror. There was slight swelling and an inch-long rip in the flesh from where the falling book had made impact just above my left eyebrow, more of a tear than a split, located similarly to the scar sported by Karloff's famous Frankenstein's monster.

As I sat at the bar, nobody said anything to me about the cut, but I got the distinct impression from the women I saw who seemed to notice it that I was suddenly commanding more respect than normal. Even brief conversations left me feeling as though I were somehow seen as being more 'manly' because of the wound, which was beginning to throb slightly even after two tall Blues. I took advantage, smiled a devilish smile and stared whenever I felt like staring, sporting my best 'don't fuck with me' look. Many of the women smiled back, and the men seemed to give me a wider berth on trips to and from the head.

Thankfully, nobody inquired as to the specifics of my bleeding brow, for the real story would have surely detracted from my newly acquired swagger. No, if they had asked me what happened to my head, I'd already made up my mind to lie...

“Well, you see I was at this other bar just before I came here and this guy started giving me a hard time...”

See You Soon!
Marty Sherman

THE GIRLS OF CRAIG'S LIST
HOTTEST BUBBLE BUTT
FINAL ROUND
WE HAVE A WINNER!The votes are in! Congratulations to Contestant A!
When we tried to contact our winner to relay the Good News,
we discovered that her ad had been removed due to
what they call 'Objectionable Content'!
Good Luck 'A' wherever you are! That's one GREAT ASS!

POETRY SLAM CORNER
With One of the Prof's Star Pupils
Sitting in for Our Olde Buddy Blowharde
Let's give a warm Almost Okay welcome to tony stanza!

The Unhappy Traveler, Pt. I

What day is this? Yesterday?
Isn’t that tomorrow?
Hmm... & what city did you say it was?
Atlanta? Are you sure?
Thought I was in K.C.
No shit.

-Prof. Dirk Beat

The Unhappy Traveler, Pt. II

No matter how many
Beautiful women parade by
Showing bare legs & pretty toes
Bouncing fat asses bundled
In tight designer jeans...

This airport experience still
Dulls the senses while at the same time
Twisting EVERY last goddamn nerve
Every last bundle of them inflamed
ALL synapses firing and backfiring

Worse...
No matter where in the world
This evil silver bird touches down...
Tulsa...Tangier...Tel Aviv...Tokyo...
No matter how exotic the locale
Hideous Humanity will be there on display

Waiting

Dragging their bags behind them
Shouldering their screaming babies
Talking LOUDLY on cell phones
Typing meaningless wordshit
Into flat electronic boxes
Balanced on their boney knees or
Draped over thick, fleshy thighs

GOD GIVE ME BACK...
Steam engines
Horses
Pencil & paper
& PLEASE, OH GOD
If you don’t mind
Shove this 21st Century
Right up your HOLY ASS!

-Prof. Dirk Beat

uNhAPPY trAVEler, Pt. III

GATE B-25
FLIGHT 2376
DESTINATION: KANSAS CITY
VIA CHARLOTTE, N.C.
10-D AISLE
Beverage Service In Flight...

Whenever I see a jet
Speeding through the air
Trailing feathers of exhaust
Across the sky or
Striking a dirty line through
A beautiful sunset
Whether I’m sitting in my own back yard
Walking down the fractured sidewalk
Or caroming down the freeway...

I concentrate, think HARD
Try to bring the beast down
In a spectacular ball of flame
With just the power of my mind

Sadly, it never works

As I sit here in 10-D
On FLIGHT 2376
Sipping my Beverage
Nature’s quilt of brown & green
Slipping by below
I pray SOMEBODY on the ground
Sees us, has that same destructive impulse
To BRING US DOWN & I PRAY that
His mind is more powerful than mine
Ever was

-Prof. Dirk Beat

IT’S ALL ABOUT THE LIFE
STRIVING TO LIVE, BE ALIVE
WITHOUT THE KNIFE
OF DOOM IN THIS ROOM OF GLOOM

QUICK LIKE A GUNSHOT, HOT LIKE A FIRE
LIKE A LIFE WITH NO DESIRE
TO LIVE, TO STRIVE TO BE ALIVE
ON THIS PLANET, THIS BALL OF JUNK
PUNK

HOW MANY TIMES MUST I REMIND YOU
OF THE CRIMES YOU MUST DENY?
THE RHYMES YOU MUST OBEY IN YOUR MIND
OR WITHOUT FAIL DO YOUR TIME IN JAIL?
NO BAIL

NO HOPE, SON
NONE

-tony stanza


the SMOG the SKY like MUD the DIN
the GRIME of the STREETS the EMPTY SIN
it sticks to my SOUL it does me in

this CITY of dirty air and cracked concrete
honking horns STABBINGS pigeon meat
(cuz food’s too high for poor folks to eat)

even so LIFE goes on, bro’...it flows
rolls on FASTER and FASTER...NEVER slow
you hang on even tho’ you have NO CONTROL
cuz there’s nowhere else TO go
ain’t NOWHERE else to go, ya know?

KNOW WHERE ELSE TO GO

-tony stanza