Thanksgiving Poem Collection

Turkey

My apron covered stains

on my dress. "Cut above thigh."

The cheap Marie Calendar

cookbook laid open

at the section for turkeys. I started

to prepare for stuffing. With dead

legs stuck up in delicious protest,

greasy, buttered fingers slipped

into frozen cavity. My husband came

home early. He took over his cooking,

breaking off one of the legs

and sticking it in my oven.

He flipped on the television,

yelled at the game; the kids

kept quiet in their rooms. The turkey

burned in the kitchen. I

threw away the apron,

exposed my stains.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Home Field Advantage

At last, supper

was over. My head

lurched in a somersault

catch of my Nerf football,

a front lawn touchdown.

My mom applauded. No one

dared to breathe

when dad, former QB,

passed the ball to me

with no fictional seconds

left. Over my head, my hands

made contact. Dad called me MVP.

I slammed the pig-

skin in the end zone.

It bounced from the gutter

into the sewer. Dad put me

in time out. The Turkey Bowl

loomed over my head. My dad.

outside on his hands and knees, reached.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Family Portrait

It's Thanksgiving. I'm going to cut myself

a piece of turkey. My cousin leans

on his old station wagon, smoking.

A pack of Kools in his jacket pocket.

Kauri Lipskin licks her gums

and asks for a light, kisses

with ashen tongue. Inside, my dad cusses

at a football game he sees on TV.

All I see is a dark reflection

of a morose ex-coach in a recliner, shouting

at his black and blue uniformed team. I was

never one to remember names. As a kid,

my mom packed leftovers in Ziploc bags

labeled "For the birds." The rest of the family

never understood, but she laughed at herself.

Back in the kitchen, the Ziploc bags are gone

and the leftover fowl is in the garbage.

My mom shouts at me for taking too long

to clean the table, waking my grandad,

who traditionally falls asleep during dinner. I

walk around the table, pick up plates,

counting chairs and dishes.

Eight forks, knives, spoons. Nine chairs. Empty

air becomes crammed with a knock

on the door. My uncle wobbles to the handle.

Little Jimmy Brooks brought cookies. With alcohol

on his breath, Uncle Frank flips him the bird

and pushes Jimmy outside. I hear a flush.

My sister peeks from the bathroom door,

slams it shut and runs the water. In my room,

now drenched in night, I listen to padded footsteps

and a deep cough pacing before

my older brother's door.

An animal's dying screech as the door opens

and footsteps fade into a dusty breath.

My brother's bed and my dad's leg

creak like the rafters did,

supporting unwelcome weight. I sleep.

Through December, my family remains.

It's Christmas. I'm going to hang myself

a family portrait.

Fair

Fair

I visit the L.A. County

Fair with my family.

I get a dollar

for how old I am. "No, Dad,

I can't have fun

with only fifteen dollars." I leave

to go to the bathroom. I close up

the porta potty, notice myself

in a mirror; scratched, vandalized.

I look damn good. I piss

and leave. A lowly game barker

catches my attention. He wants me

to throw some balls

and spill him into water. I

pay the man fifteen

and chuck. The balls

miss. My family laughs

behind me. My father puts

a knife he bought in his back

pocket. He says he got it for my brother,

but I know he wants to give it to me.

He pulls it out, smiles and shows

me. "A piece of shit."

"Metaphor poem"

Rebel Without a Corndog

Outisde of Supercuts,

James Dean walks up

to a wall and pulls out a bag.

It reads: Hot dog on a Stick.

I shift in the plastic chair

and look at my mom inside. Out-

side, sweat on our brows,

sweat on my palms.

Corndog in his hand.

The heat becomes fog. My eyelids

open, shut, open. I can see

my mom inside, her hair

being lopped off. A tap

on my shoulder; blue-eyed brunette

in red leather hands

me a hot dog.

I don't see my mom inside.

Behind me, a slap over

my head, the corndog

out of my hand

into my head.

Forever dipped in my brain

matter: James Dean, a stick

and a hot dog.

"'A Sort of Song' echo poem"

A Song of Sorts

let the song weed under

the notes

and the snake

be of scales. do re mi, f-sharp

interlude, quiet to breath,

breathless

-- through lips to trumpet

the noise and the people

compose (no ideas

what to play) Jazz!

Saxaphone is my bras that spits

the rock.

"I have lost"

Wreck

I have lost my hand on the wheel of my 94' Camry.

I have lost the hallucinated, watery, wavy asphalt laid before my by overweight, lazy construction workers.

I have lost the line line line line pattern in my left periphery.

I have lost the sense in my feet to push down on the brakes and avoid the cactus running towards me, his arms sticking out in preparation for a tackle.

I have lost some of that crimson gold contained in the safes of my veins, oozing from two untrimmed nostrils.

I have lost that feeling in my chest, that beating on my ribcage that lets my brain know I'm still ticking.

I have lost sight of the brown-blue-black colors surrounding me in a haze of foggy gray.

I have lost that clicking in my head that tells my mouth to inhale the dry air pumping from the a/c.

I have lost a few brain cells when the hood of my car greets the cactus in a metal-crunching bear hug.

I have lost several more brain cells when that cactus runs past the hood and through the glass to embrace my awaiting face.

I have lost my tongue when the airbag slaps my chin upward, clamping cracked teeth on that thick pink meat we use for kissing.

I have lost my brain entirely. Fleeing from its imprisonment of my skull and on the lam next to a rock thirty feet from the wreckage.

I have lost consciousness hours ago.

"I remember"

My Mom

I remember my mom before the divorce. I asked my mom if I could see a psychiatrist and she said she wasn't sure how she felt about it. I asked my mom if I could go to an optometrist and she said "We'll see." I asked my mom why silence speaks volumes and she gave me the 's' volume of the encyclopedia. I asked my mom, "Why" and she said, "Equals mx+b." I told my mom that my girlfriend thought androgyny was sexy and she said, "Well then, you're her man...or woman." I asked my mom where I should see myself in ten years and she said, "In a mirror." I told my mom that I was into large girls and she said I should open up an Elephant Bar with only voluptuous waitresses. Like Hooters with tusks. I asked my mom what was for dinner and she screamed, "I've had enough of you! I'm going to go into the kitchen, grab a knife, and cut myself…some ham." I asked my mom why I had no siblings and she said, "Well, I've thought about it, but I've aborted the idea." I asked my mom why dad left and she gave me the 's' volume of the encyclopedia again. I asked my mom if she loved me and she called me a fag. I asked my mom to meet my girlfriend and she said, "She's probably full of bologna." I asked my mom why she never gives me a straight answer and she made another joke about my sexual orientation. I tried to tell my mom a joke: "Mom, when did the Asian go to the dentist?" she said, "When he was scheduled." I remember my mom before last Christmas.

Domestic

Domestic

He use to sleep in

my bed. He made it

so I was restless

without another body,

my personal flesh

pillow. Under sheets

our legs wrestled.

Two bodies as one,

we became a four-legged

monster. In the closet,

our shoes were separated

on the floor. One night

he put his boots on my

white Louis Vuitton's, "Filthy,"

he'd call me. "Slut,"

I'd retort. With fists,

we ended our discussion.

We both wound up

in the same bed.

untitled Anna Karina poem

I suck up my soda

like a six year old. She talks

like a valley girl, looks

like Anna Karina. I want

to talk to her about la poèsie,

about her tiny fate line. I

want her coffee cup to become

a cosmo, her words to have pictures.

I lie carelessly about

her. I know nothing she rambles

about. My bubbles are translucent planets,

I fade into my carbonated Big Bang.

She is lost in the pop.

lye

lye

my family keeps calling me

gay because i write poetry.

my shoulders need massaging

i tell you. your hands lift

off my neck into my hair.

obsessively, i wash

windows and doors. you

fix the bed, the sheets

lie open, used.

my face burns red

with shame. i walk away.

your arms grasp the way

they do on the nights

you call me beautiful.

"found" poem

bun

slurping on synecdoche

munching on metonymy

crunching on cacophony

i have been eating poetry

pour more milk on my alliteration

add sugar to assonance

put paper into waffler

see what line breaks burn

slice crust off consonance

slab on mayonnaise

of enjambment

the chunky white glistening of egg

vinegar imagery

take the first bite of bread, tomato, mayo

spit out soggy fiction

swallow symbolism

BBQ writer's block

feel flames ignite paper

collect the ashes

place soot on taste buds

vomit stomach acid onto page

bon appétit

don't forget the title

Patriarch Tics

This is a response to the poem "Patriotics" by David Baker for my Creative Writing class. It became something completely different than what I planned on writing.

"Our fore fathers for fathers for the 4th of July. No, not for the ones who light fireworks in their hands and blow their fingers off, for the ones that helped found America. The 4th of July that Americans have since bastardized with bright lights and idiotic stares. What a better way to commemorate the founding of “our great nation,” than celebrate with a festival of war. The whistles of a “piccolo pete” firework the sound of a bomb being dropped. Only the dogs fear it. Our neighbors watch and clap and “ooh” and “aww.” Only $59.99 to buy a box of bullets, missiles, shells, bombs. We give the children sticks radiating with fire. Igniting tiny, little arsonist minds, lighting the fuse, watching the flame run across their mind, reaching the base and erupting with “Learn to love it, the smell of detonation.” Their minds wiped clear of all thoughts of danger. Brainwashing like rain washing the rain of fireworks’ brains off the asphalt.

What else do the patriots spill blood, both their own and their enemies, for? The rights that the Constitution writers write, right? For freedom, for the freed…um, us? Us a USA in the twentieth century whose minds don’t mind the warning labels. Whose thoughts thought to light five firecracker bags at once in their neighbor’s mailbox. Whose parents in this “great nation” grate; nay, shun their kids who steal the box of matches and sip from the half empty beer cans scattered on mown lawns. Whose heads mourn celebrities but the discovered bruised body of a beaten babe is forgotten once the 5 o’clock news ends. The fore fathers fought for the fathers who kill their daughters and for the fathers who point their daughters’ eyes to the sky and talk about “patriotism.”

Everyone stands quiet as the “big finale” explodes the sky. Mouths hang open at bright lights and loud noises. Their “oohs” ooze drool and their drools rules this “great nation.” Intelligence lowers with each burst, crack, whistle. The work of fire where only fire works. Hypnotized by flames, maybe this country really has gone to Hell. Have an extra serving of canned baked beans with your processed lips and assholes. The BBQ of hellfire.

A fourth of July anecdote: A five year old boy joins in a pie-eating contest. His father pounds a brewskie and laughs while his obese mother cheers on. On the way home the kid complains about a stomach ache. The 400 pound smoking mother scolds her son for eating too much. A critical hippo and her alcoholic husband raise an American.

Our poor, preachy papers praise phony intellect. The extent of my political knowledge doesn’t go beyond a few famous quotes of dead presidents. Simply say something controversial and people credit you as intelligent if you make it abstract enough to be open for discussion. Make the paper sound smart and the message won't come off as pretentious. But the wit of words goes both ways. The fine line between obnoxious and noxious is crossed when not considering the definition of words. Our fore fathers of this great nation cheered the finishing of a document while we cheer face-stuffing and colorful gunpowder. They cheered words and we cheer smoke and mirrors. A diminishing attention span runs rampant ‘round America. The amazement at a quick flash and some sparkle a direct result. As well as a response paper as loose fitting as a triple XL hat on a tiny headed baby. As well structured as the previous metaphor. David Baker would be proud.

And somewhere, a girl is being beaten to death in this great nation."

Dominion

I was five years old the last time I was sick. I have no recollection of the illness except for one fleeting memory of flies hovering around my window as my mom spoon fed me medicine. Twenty years later and my body’s fighting off another virus. My auburn pillowcase is stained a grayish white from snot and reeks of vomit. I’m drenched as if laying on a broken waterbed, my sweat creating a crime scene chalk line around my body. There’s a ringing and I can’t tell if it’s in my head or if it’s the white noise of the air conditioning. The window next to me is open to let the winter air fight off the heat of the infection.

A fly lands on my forehead but my hands refuse to swat it away. The ringing stops and all I can hear is a slow buzzing build. The sound of one fly flapping its wings and rubbing its hands together, preparing to dine on the feast of grime running from my matted hair. That buzzing gets louder when I see another fly land on my windowsill. I can’t tell if it’s outside or inside. The weight of the fly on my scalp burns a hole in my skull, my head starts to throb with the buzzing. A constant hum of filth and trash. Three more flies linger around the ceiling my eyes are fixated on. The throbbing moves from my temple to the back of my head when I realize that I don’t bother to question where the flies come from, like accepting surreal realities in dreams. A biting sting above my right collarbone makes my mind lucid. A dead bee rests in the valley between my neck and shoulder, a stinger protruding the skin next to it. I look at the three flies on the ceiling and see their black, scaly skin fall away, a point extend from their backside, their wings flutter once and fall away. Like high hit badminton birdies, these once-flies plunge toward me. One lands above my upper lip and two land on either side of my neck. The pain is instant and doesn’t fade. I sense the sting on my shoulder bubbling, the pressure of the swelling intensifying. Like a pimple being squeezed by an uncaring mother, puss erupts from the red sore. The puss is a milky white, but milky like expired whole milk. The white turns a trash bag black and starts floating away from my body. It disperses across the room into hundreds of pellet sized black pearls. The black beads sprout hundreds of wings and shit-loving legs. The throbbing, buzzing, humming in my head is replaced by an awareness of the blisters on my lip and neck. The puss-born flies cover my popcorn ceiling. Black skin and papery wings descend like confetti followed by a hundred bullets piercing every pore of my body. My brain shuts off when the bubbling, boiling, ballooning starts. A voice in my head tells me the pain will stop if I let him in. My skin bursts, releasing white, red, black cream and exposing muscle, nerve, bone. I open up.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

In makeup on a mask he carves bodies and bones. Makes dinner. A wig over his head and an apron over his chest. A generator hums in the distance. A knock on the door and a voice. He places his hammer down next to the slaughtered chicken. The door opens in a creak. The hammer is picked back up. Back up, back up, back up. Metal clangs sharply as the hallways opens into a trophy room of small mammals' skulls. A slam to the trophy and the visitor convulses, kicks, seizures. Another slam with a scream and it stops. Dragged onto a table in the kitchen. Grab the chainsaw. Another voice, another creak. No time wasted as he grabs for the girl. Out into the daylight, his rubber-gloved arms around her, he drags. Lifts. Hooks. Through her spine, up her neck. Feet don't reach the ground, arms lose feeling as her neck stiffens. The chainsaw. The body on the table. Feathers on the floor. Skulls posed with femurs and spines and ribs of animals unrecognizable. A chicken clucks. A generator hums in the distance. A chainsaw sounds the same. Cut, slice, saw. The head dislodged from the body. The hook digs up. He lifts her. Slam once, twice. Convulse, kick, seizure, stop. Lifts again. Into a freeze, a lover and a body and a head. Another creak. Three's company.

Two Micheal Keaton Syllabics

One. Big. Dark. Room.

Beetle

juice. Beetlejuice.

Beetlejuice. Said three times

and he'll show. Havoc and mayhem,

strippers and flies. A dusty VHS,

black and white snow when Micheal Keaton talks. Rewind.

Watch. Rewind again. "Come on down and I'll...choke on a dog!"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Mulitplicity

Batman

Gotham City

Jack Nicholson's clown charm.

Michael Keaton's loveable face.

He talks to a mirror like it's female,

laughter ensues. Bruce Wayne. Mr. Mom. The Ken Doll.

Where is he now? Night shift. A forgotten 80s icon.

Going Green

In the labyrinth of the woods, a girl got separated from her parents when she decided to run up ahead. She waited twenty minutes before she started back for them. Bushes became brushes and the ferns grew into a fen. Her Sesame Street fanny-pack containing a box of raisins and a half-empty water bottle got caught in the vines growing around her. She was able to save the half-full water bottle before the vines engulfed her pack and suffocated Elmo's smile. The day sunk into night and the girl saw a pale light in front of her. As she headed toward the illumination, the mush floor suckled at her left shoe. Next to go was her right shoe. The swamp rose to her knees as the light grew closer and a faded into a darker shade of blue. The trees around her loomed ominously as her feet bumped into roots growing in the undergrowth she waded through. And still the light grew larger. Something skimmed past her right leg and she shot her hand down to brush it away. It had no blood coursing through it's veins, but it was alive, a branch or a root. She continued to wade further, the muck up to her belly button. The light was almost within reach when something hit her left leg. Again, she shoved her leg into the brown mud below her only to feel another lifeless root. When she tried to bring her hand back up to bat the flies around her face, the root became a tentacle and pulled her further into the earth. Seeking nutrients it made its way between her fingers and up her wrist. The terror rendered too much and she was left voiceless. He eyes did the shouting for her. As the root embedded it's way further into her arm, her right ear was submerged. Roots began swarming around her legs, sliding under her toenails and up her dainty legs, piercing her hips, crawling into her belly button and entering through her ear. Her hair turned into vines and attached themselves to the branches above them, entangled. Mosquitoes birthed from her nostrils like a running faucet. Lily pads expelled from her mouth and the light rose. From her black pupils a stem drew closer, finally giving birth to flowers. Her skin became wet, brown, disintegrating into mud. Then she noticed the warmth coming from the light, it guided her limbs.

Sacrament of Penance

I have come from church. That squared-in religious cubicle they call a confession. Through those gothic, wooden-stuttered windows I sighted a gray bearded chin. Above that was a crooked nose and, above that, wire-framed glasses. I did no talking. I had nothing to say to that man. My sins were between me and God. Started three months ago, my sins did. I was to be a husband. Wedding was three months away. Over the next few weeks I heard that sick coming from him through the bathroom door. That kind of sick that sounds like a soul expelling evil to make room for more sins. His eyes sucked into his face and the valleys between his ribs grew deeper. He tells me he met someone else months ago. That time he said he was visiting his sister in Iowa, he was in Key West, Florida sucking his own death from an eighteen year old Puerto Rican. You know how brides-to-be are suppose to have that glow? Brides and mothers, they're suppose to have it. That glow left his body when his soul did too. He got rid of it. Took my glow with him.

Today would have been my wedding day. That voice inside my head telling me to commit those sins, I've pushed it out. Every now and again, on those nights I can't find my way, I hear that voice in the alleys next to me, behind that door. Begging for me to let in in. Up in that church, I had no strength left to say no. That beard in the boarded-up window turned black and fell away. The glasses shattered and pierced the man's eyes. Blood dripped upward from those empty sockets, a puddle grew on the ceiling. The man in the space next to me was no longer a priest. That man smiled at me. His teeth turned yellow and his tongue black. His nose retreated into his face, all that was left was two empty ovals in the center of his head. That musty, wooden divider between us broke apart, evaporated. That voice in my head was no longer in my head. I've come from church.

Chum

Chum

Eddie - April 13th. Midnight.
There’s muddy footprints behind me. Forgot to take my boots off. Shelly ain’t gonna be happy. Layin’ on the bed in these clothes ain’t gonna put a smile on her face neither. It’s still raining. That pumping wad of flesh and blood in my ribcage is killin’ me. Talk abouts a broken heart. I feel my temples ease up as I crack a smile. I can't helps but laugh.

I just needs a rest. Shelly’ll be home before I wake up.

Just needs a rest.

* * *

Eddie - April 9th. 11:00 p.m.
I’m at Frigo’s again. A fella can’t complain though. Not with that sweet tune “I Don’t Want To Set the World on Fire” comin’ from the juke. Guy needs a bar like this for a night like tonight. Especially tonight. I work my way through another shot. “C’mon Frigo, ain’t you got anything that’s bigger than your piece?”

“Hey, Eddie, why ain’t ya dancin’ with that dame you always got with ya?” Scotty. Seems the new guy talks as dumb as he looks. I’m about to cut the schmuck some slack when Frigo jumps in.

“Eddie’s got enough on his mind without havin’ some snot nosed punk like you pokin’ in his business. Go back to whatever two penny whore you’re with tonight and leave Eddie to his drinks before I shove this bottle so far up your ass it ferments into whiskey. Kapeesh?” Only once in a life does a guy get a friend like Frigo. Man has a way with words like no other. I can't helps but laugh.

“Eddie, you got the note on ya? Of course you got the note on ya.” I hands Frigo the folded up paper I’m palming. Seeing as every word is burned in my memory, I gots no use for it.

I’ve been doing some thinking those long nights you’re not home. You don’t take nothing seriously. Surely thou wilt slay the wicked, O God: depart from me therefore, ye bloody man. You had a wife but couldn’t keep her. I’m leaving. - Shelly

I says to Frigo, I says, “Something sure ain’t sitting right with me about this. That thing about God. Shelly ain’t in the habit of wanting to put on nun’s habit. No. Something ain’t right at all. I gotta find her.”

“It’s just dames. This here note tells ya she was nuts, see. Some people just don’t wanna be found out. If you wants my advice, wipe your nose clean of this one.” Frigo tosses me a nickel.

“Listen, go hit up the box. Just got a new Roy Brown record. That “Butcher Pete” song really gets a guy goin’.” Frigo. Only once in a life does a guy gets a friend like him.

* * *

Eddie - April 10th. 9:26 p.m.
I pedal my Schwinn up to the rod gates. The concrete cross looms over me like my mother use to when I did a bad thing. The doors creak as I open ‘em. The stained glass portraits of bearded men I ain’t seen before and the porcelain dead guy on the cross makes my blood ice up. Talk about sanctuary. I sees a priest sweating in front of some candles.

“Hey, uh, father? Need some help here.” This fella here looks flustered. Like he was the one just rode his cycle over here. The glasses he’s got on are darker than his clerical collar.

“What is it, brother?” I ain’t heard a voice as high as his in my life.

“Ain’t a father suppose to call a guy his son? Don’t matter, ain’t no difference to a fella like me. Say, can you takes a look at this here note? There’s a verse on it that I ain’t able to figure out.” This priest keeps lookin’ over his shoulder at the door behind him. Must be waiting for some choir boys.

“Maybe you can just read it to me? I ain’t wearin’ these specs for show.” I can’t even open my gob when I hear a squeak comin’ from the back door. “Listen, right now ain’t the best time. Choir practice.” Knew it. “Just swing by on a Sunday, will ya?” His pencil thin fingers point to where they thinks the door is. I can't helps but laugh. No wonder I ain’t a religious man.

The doors creak. Two more priests pass me wearing the same glasses as the fella inside. These two both got canes and they’re talking about gooses. Their voices are just as squeaky. I can't helps but laugh.

· · ·

Priest - April 10th 9:25 p.m.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Drool mixes with blood and seeps through the tape covering my mouth. It itches as it makes its way across my cheek. I will fear no evil for thou art with me. Through the crack at the bottom of the door I see two sets of feet. My salvation is on the other side of this door, I just have to get his attention. A muffled cry and the drop joins the growing puddle of spit, blood and urine we’re laying in. Three of my brothers and I, hogtied, naked. The wrong pair of shoes walk towards me. The blind man who knocked me and stole my clothes starts poking Daniel with his cane. Thy rod and thy staff.

“Where’s the boss? Almost had to kill that lout came in here just now. Coulda walked in on us. Thank God for the screeching doors givin’ me a heads up.” Two voices reply in unison, “Amen.” I hear the rusty hinges on the door scrape open. I can’t turn my neck to see what has walked in. Then I hear the voice. Lucifer himself wouldn’t open the gates of Hell to let the man standing over me in. The voice is melodic.

“Nathaniel Goose rode into town, a-slicing all these lugs.” Matthew kicks his feet into my stomach as I hear what sounds like a zipper being opened. The kicking stops. Matthew’s life pulses from him as gush after gush of red pumps from his open neck. That voice again, “Stuck a gun right down their throats.” A cold, sandpapery hand grabs my neck and rolls me onto my back. My tongue is burnt by the searing, metal, straw-like object that’s been shoved in my mouth. Deliver us from evil. A bang. The fire on my tongue explodes to the back of my throat, down my spine and into my head. “And now he’s outta slugs.”

Amen.

* * *

Eddie - April 12th. 2:44 a.m.
Maybe I had one drinks too many. Problem with havin’ your best friend be the owner of a bar, you never gets cut off. Frigo kept tellin’ me to stop nosin’ around on this Shelly business and drink. But I ain’t never listened to Frigo before, why start now? Streets are emptier than usual for this time. It’s chilly. At least my building’s only a block away. I gets this gut feelin’ like I ain’t alone on this block. I sees a figure stagger around the corner. The fella gets closer and I sees it’s Scotty. If I’m a little buzzed then Scotty’s completely shaven. I can't helps but laugh.

“If it isn’t Eddie. But I just saw your car drive by five minutes ago.” He calls me by name, but Scotty knows less about me than he does dames.

“I don’t own no car. Everyone knows that. Shelly’s the one with the car.”

“Yeah, the Crown Imperial with the dent in the side. Real beauty that one. Just saw it parked over by Marcus’ Corner. I was just passin’ by though. I wasn’t foolin’ with any gal over there or anythin’. I gots me a lady. Don’t say anything about this to he–” Marcus’ Corner. Louses lookin’ for company always wash up at Marcus’ Corner. Ain’t sure how it got that name, but I ain’t lookin’ forward to droppin’ by.

“Can it, Scotty. When was this?”

“Hey you got dough on you? I needs a drink and Frigo’s is righ–”

“Damn it, Scotty! When?” And likes that, I’m sober. Troublesome dames are better than coffee.

“Alls I need is a quarter or tw–” Scotty deserves the slappin’ I give him.

“I ain’t got time for this. Go home, Scotty, you gots someone waiting for ya.”

· · ·

Scotty - April 12th 2:47 a.m.
I ain’t even got a dime on me. No good Eddie. No good overpriced hussy. No generosity in this city, I tell ya.

What’s that noise? Sounds like construction. At this hour?

Who’s there? A priest’s walking towards me. Now what would a guy like that be doing around parts like these? Maybe he’ll toss a poor sap some change. Even if it’s chump change.

“Hey mister, spare some change for a lost soul?” Why’s he got his hand behind his back? That noise is getting louder. Like metal on concrete. Why’s there sparks coming from behind this guy?

“Hickory dickory dock.” Is he talkin’ to me? What’s he smiling about? What’s he got behind his back? Somethin’ ain’t sitting right in my stomach, and it ain’t the liquor. Maybe I should take Eddie’s advice. Time to head home.

Is he following me? My feet aren’t listenin’ to my brain. Move faster. Faster. That noise is getting sharper. Footsteps behind me are getting heavier. “Hickory dickory dock.” What is he talking about? Faster. Run. No good legs, run!

“Hickory dickory dock, the lout ran up the block.” I ain’t got a good feeling ‘bout this at all. He’s right behind me now. “The axe came down, off came his crown.” Why can’t I feel my legs? Why do I feel so light? What’s this metal taste in my mouth? Everything’s spinning. Dark.

“Hickory dickory dock.”

* * *

Eddie - April 12th. 3:25 a.m.
My nose is runny. Bitter wind’s beating my face, but my thighs are on fire. Each pedal’s like a smoldering cattle brand on my legs. Maybe I oughtta get a car. On Marcus’ Corner, big lug like me sweatin’ on a Schwinn ain’t what people are lookin’ at. Chumps are too busy drooling over the cheap broads I’m flyin’ by. Still no sign of her car. The neon signs blinking “XXX” do more than light my way. They shows me all the business on the street. I hates this part of town. Hates the men who come here and the dames they come here for. And I hates what they do to them. I hear a scream comin’ from some grimy back alley. All these gals look the same to me, dirty. Then I spots a girl who sticks out like a C-section on a stripper. I turn my head because I recognize this gal. Shelly’s friend. Usually’s protected by that older guy at Frigo’s, Uncle Frank. I think her name is Audrey. What’s a gal like her doin’ on Marcus’ Corner? Looks like she’s waiting for someone. Uncle Frank ain’t the type of guy to let her be alone in a place like this. Means Uncle Frank don’t know she’s here. Something here’s up and I plans to see what.

“Hey, doll. Audrey. What’re you doin’ down here? Where’s Uncle Frank?” The bombshell brunette takes a second to recognize me. We only knows each other thanks to Shelly.

“Freddy, right? I’m just…meeting someone. Say, where’s Shelly?” Changing subjects. I’ll fill in Uncle Frank later. Rights now I got my own girl to worry about, and Audrey just brought her up.

“She left me. Been lookin’ for her. Word on the street is her car was seen around here. You know anything’ about that?” My tongue ain’t even done movin’ and she’s already shakin’ her head.

“Not here, no. Wait, I do remember Uncle Frank saying something about Frigo.” Frigo? “And I remember Shelly’s name coming up. That’s all I know.” Sweet girl, thinkin’ this is a shakedown. I can't helps but laugh. She wants me out of here. Can’t help but do what a dame wants sometimes, especially when a guy like Uncle Frank is behind ‘em. Besides, I gots a best friend to talk to. Frigo…

“Whatever business you got yourself into, I’d get out of it. Go home, Audrey. You gots someone waitin’ for ya.”

· · ·

Prostitute - April 12th. 3:30 a.m.
I’ll overcharge the next poor sap that comes along. Night’s almost over. Slow night. Shame. Kids needed that dough. Well whaddya know, here comes the sap now. Driving a Crown Imperial, lucky break. Door’s dented under the window that’s rolling down though. Please not another ugly one. Two guys. Might be too tired for this one tonight. Shame. A priest is driving. A priest? In the passenger seat is a guy with shades on. At this time of night?

“Hey there, fellas. Lookin’ for company?” Two more in the backseat with dark glasses. Definitely too tired for this one. But the kids need that dough. Shame. The scrawny guy in the front squeaks.

“What’s your name, kid?” Nancy. My name is Nancy.

“Call me Sugar, sugar. So, we doing this?”

“Just this guy drivin’, toots, we like to watch. Gal like you don’t mind if he uses handcuffs?”

“Only if you pay for ‘em.” Lucky break.

“Hop on in, toots.” Priest who’s driving pulls into an alley. Not a bad lookin’ fella. Got a baby face. The two guys in back move to the front. The priest moves to the back next to me with the handcuffs. Next thing I know, he’s got me on my back, hands cuffed behind me. This is gonna bruise. Shame. The three in the front aren’t even lookin’.

“Little Miss Hussy sat on a corner looking for someone to pay.” Guy’s got the biggest smile I ever seen. I can feel it, it’s so big. His smile. “Along came an outsider who sat down beside her.” He grabs a roll of duct tape from one of the guys in the front.

“Hey, now I didn’t agree to no ta–” Too late now. His big, rough hands already got a piece wrapped around my mouth. Looks like this one’s gonna pay a lot more than he thinks. There’s a click and a thud. Glove box opening. I hear a metallic clang. I can’t see what the guy in front just passed to this here priest.

“Now I ain’t telling you what to do Father Goose, but you oughtta make it quick. I just saw that girl we’re suppose to be pickin’ up for the boss walk by.”

He’s smiling, but his eyes… I ain’t never seen anything like ‘em. Pitch black. Squirm. Kick. Get outta here. The glint in his eyes match the gleam on the knife he’s got holding above me. “Along came an outsider who sat down beside her. How Miss Hussy’s blood did spray.” Rats. The blade prods my stomach. Deeper and deeper. Scream. His smile is bigger ‘an ever. Can’t even hear my own squealing, just his voice. Slow, sing-songy. Deep.

“Screaming, screaming little tart, you’re the one I’ll rip apart. On the floor you start to cry. Now it’s time for you to die.” The blade tears across my stomach inch by inch. Deeper. Rats. Squirm. I feel something like soggy dough in my hands.

“Screaming, screaming little belle.” The dragging on my stomach stops. Intense, sharp pains all over. His shoulders jerk as he drives the blade down over and over. Deep. His head never moves. His eyes never break contact. My insides are showering over the smile that ain’t leaving this face. His voice never stops singing. “Gonna send you straight to hell.” The blade’s headed for my left eye.

“Alright, Father Goose, we’ll cut her up and get her in the trunk, but we gotta scram. Boss said to hurry up and meet him back at his joint.”

* * *

Eddie - April 12th. 5:15 a.m.
Frigo’s is the kinda place that closes and opens whenever Frigo feels like. An unsigned baseball bat hangs on the wall instead of a classy gun or photos of famous people. The only music that’s playin’ is the music that Frigo wants to hear. Only people that comes in are the ones that Frigo wants to see. Ain’t no one ever crossed Frigo and set his dirty heel in his place again.

The door’s locked, but I sees three guys at the bar. I can’t make out who, only got a view of their backs. Frigo’s inexplicably has a railroad bell hangin’ outside because Frigo likes the way it looks. I give a few rings. None of the three guys budges. Frigo ain’t nowhere to be seen.

A few more rings. The smallest guy of the bunch gets up to open the door. The tinted window makes it hard to recognize the fella. The door swings open and I gotta do a double take when I sees the guys inside are the three blind priests from the other day. “Frigo’s in the back if you’re lookin’ for him.” I go the back door and hear one of the guys behind me mutter. I only catch, “but couldn’t keep her.” Only when I turn around to see which one of ‘em was talkin’ do I sees the dented, black Crown Imperial parked out front. I whip my head back to the open doorway and feels the stiff kiss of wood against my nose. Gunna take more ’an that to take me down. Then I feels the glass bottle break on the back of my head. Cheap shot. Darkness.

* * *

Eddie - April 12th. Time unknown.
“I ain’t sure about this, Father Goose. Remember last time we didn’t listen to the boss?” Before I knows where I am, I can feel the ropes tying me down to this chair. I recognize the squeaky voices of the blind men.

“Yeah, if he catches us this time, he’ll sew our mouths shut instead of our eyes. And I’d as soon shoots myself than see a needle again.” I feel a prod against my ribs.

“He’s awake.” I hear the moans of a girl. My head feels like a sandbag. I rolls it over to the side and sees a girl hogtied, tape covering her mouth. We’re in the back of Frigo’s. “Dame’s awake too.”

A fourth voice. This one I ain’t ever heard before. Gravelly, but tuneful. Must be comin’ from the big lug they’re calling Father Goose. “Three blind men. Three blind men. See how they run. See how they kill.”

“Damn! It’s too late now. Father Goose will do worse than sew our eyes shut if we don’t play along.” These three whiny louts all sound the same. Sounds like one guy talkin’ to himself. “Why you complainin’? We’re gonna finally get some action ‘stead of just watchin’.”

A hand grabs a tuft of my hair and yanks my head up. Grimy fingers shove my head in the direction of the dame crying on the ground. Behind me comes the voice of Father Goose, “See how they run. See how they kill. Right after they raped the drunkard’s wife.” His fingers hold my eyelids open. He forces me to watch. Tears stream from her face. She doesn’t look sad. She doesn’t look scared. Ain’t no soul in her anymore.

“Right after they raped the drunkard’s wife.” The three blind men reach into their pockets and they all pulls out switchblades. “They cut off her tits with their carving knives. Did you ever see such a bloody sight, as three blind men?” I can takes all the pain in the world, but I’m begging for death for me and this gal. I can’t takes no more of this. Feels like years before she lies motionless, in pieces. The blind men are panting on the floor, covered in what’s left of the innocent dame. The hands on my face let my head fall back down. Feet move in front of me and my head is yanked back up. I finally sees the face of Father Goose.

He’s smilin’ at me like a kid on Christmas. His mouth’s pumped full of emotion, but his eyes…emotionless. Pitch black. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. I hear a repetitive screeching and the rolling of wheels. Then I sees the smallest of the blind men roll in a rusty cart next to Father Goose.

I’m becomin’ aware of my body again. My head feels lighter, my hands and fingers less numb. I feels the hard metal of my pocket knife in my sock. Rats didn’t check my shoes, amateurs. Father Goose places items onto the cart. I feels the knot holding my feet together loosen. Give me time, you asshole. Give me time. He even smiles when he’s talkin’.

“Pathetic Eddie, burned on a Monday.” A lighter and a bottle of hard liquor. The knot comes undone. Not yet. Needs to get my hands free if I’m gonna have a chance to take on the lot of ya.

“Beat on a Tuesday.” A baseball bat. Twist your left hand.

“Stabbed on a Wednesday.” A box of nails and a hunting knife. Pull your right wrist back.

“Shot on a Thursday.” A .40 Smith and Wesson. Turn your arm more.

“Drowned on a Friday.” A bucket full of black fluid. Push your wrists together.

“Buried on a Saturday.” Three bags of manure. Wrench your arms.

“Died on a Sunday. This is the end, of pathetic Eddie.” Got it!

I push with my legs and flips the chair back. On the way down, I kicks over the cart and I sees all four men scramble. I pull my leg up to my hands and grab my knife. No chance takin’ all of ‘em on with just this. I chucks my knife at the nearest guy. The deadly point splits the smallest one’s glasses in two. Blood flys as his head springs back. I don’t see Father Goose when I dives behind the flipped over cart and grab the hunting knife. Looking around the cart, I see another blind one on his hands and knees, scrambling for a weapon. I blindly swing my arm out and connect with his neck. The knife sticks as he pulls away. Damn! He grabs frantically at the knife and pulls it out. Wrong move. Blood shoots from his neck He’s garglin’ blood and gaspin’ for air. His hands slip as he tries to put pressure on the wound.

Four gunshots. Like a bullet ripping through my earlobe, a bullet rips through my earlobe. I roll out from behind the overturned cart and trip the last blind man. He puts his hands out to catch his fall but pulls the trigger on the way down. All I sees as I run over his body towards the door is a smoking’ hole in the back of his head.

Before I burst through the doorway, I sees a foot jut out from behind it. I barely clear the leg, but before I’m completely on my toes again, there’s a pain in my back, just below my ribs. A nail’s juttin’ out. I grabs a full bottle from the bar and flings it behind me. The smash of glass. Another pain in my back. Another nail. I turn and sees Father Goose comin’ towards me, fist reeled back, ready to explode. I grab behind me and find another bottle. I twist to the left to avoid the wrecking ball coming my way and whack Father Goose’s forehead. Glass cuts him and blood runs into his eyes, blinding him. I sees the box of nails at his feet and dive on ‘em. In a blur, I runs Father Goose back into the wall while placing a nail in my fist, the head tucked between my middle and ring finger. I punch into his palm. The head of the nail shreds into my own palm, but I feels the end of the nail drive through Father Goose’s hand and into the wall behind him. He’s kickin’ with his feet and trying to wipe the blood out of his eye with his free hand. I quick grab another nail and tack his other hand to the wall. I spots a roll of duct tape is on the bar next to him. Before he’s got time to pry his hands free, I gots his neck and arms taped to the wall.

“Where’s Shelly?” He stops squirming and starts smilin’ again.

“It was your old lady I beat with my shoe. So small and defenseless she knew not what to do. Took her to the boss, but before the led, he pounded her both ways and now she is dead.” Blood’s staining his teeth a crimson, matching his eyes. I draw two more nails and puts them on each of his temples. “Last chance! Where’s Shelly?”

“Eddie Eddie nice and steady. Grabbed your wife in her sexy teddy, brought her to who? I’ll never tell. But now your wife is burning in hell.” He starts laughin’. Spraying blood and spit all over me. A deep, smoker laugh. I drive the nails into his head. He keeps laughing. Blood gushes from his mouth and his eyes pour red. His laugh grows high-pitched, louder, louder. Then, silence. All I hears is my own panting and the silent drip of blood.

The silence is torn by the crack of a gunshot. My gut ruptures. Another shot. The back of my ribs crack. I stumbles back and my hip hits the bar. With my hands covering the hole in my stomach I turn to see a man standing at the doorway holding a smokin’ gun.

“Fr-Frigo…?”

He sighs and tucks the gun back into his pants. “You never listen to me, Eddie. Dammit, why’d you gotta go and poke things that don’t want a poking’? I liked ya Eddie, why’d you gotta go and make me do this to ya?” He walks over to his jukebox, toyin’ with his suspenders. “Ya hear the new Sidney Buchet record? Good stuff.” Blood’s pouring through my fingers.

“But why–” Frigo’s face pinches in anger. I ain’t never heard Frigo yell until now.

“Why not! Because I wanted to! Because I could! Don’t you get it? I can do whatever I want and no one will never find out. They blame it on the city. On the thugs, the rats, the vermin, the filthy cops! All the smut in this city. But no one looks twice at Frigo’s. All them gruesome stories ya hears about, they all trace back to me. The dead hookers, the poor sap gunned down walkin’ his kid home from the park. The broad who was raped then cut into pieces. It’s all me! I take the girls from suckers like you because then you guys fall apart. You take revenge on whatever you can find, you create the violence in this city! It all traces back to dead and missing dames. And all those dames trace back to me.”

“You’ll never get away with it. You’ll get cau–” Another gunshot. A hole in my stomach to match my other one erupts. I sinks to the ground.

“Please Eddie, I don’t want to have to do that again, so extend me the common courtesy of letting me finish. ‘Get caught? Never get away with it?’ Can’t you see Eddie, I already have! Think you’re the first mook to put a dent in my fender? C’mon Eddie, town like this, don’t kid yourself. I’ve had guys like Father Goose workin’ for me since before you were born, and I’ll have more after. I create the sinners like the four you just wasted and I use em. You’re all just sheep and I’m the goddamn shepherd!" Frigo kneels down beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulder. I feel light-headed. Getting dizzy.

“Sorry, Eddie. Really, I am. I did like ya, hell, you were one of my favorites. That’s why I had to off Shelly, see. Plannin’ something big, real big. I couldn’t forgive myself to see both of ya go down with it. Listen, Eddie, you want to know the last thing Shelly ever said to me? ‘Oh God, Eddie! Where are you, Eddie?’ Ain’t that a kick in the head? You were the last thought to run through her pretty little head right before I inched a broken bottle into her slender neck. Hey, Eddie, you still with me? Up here buddy, yeah. Listen here, kiddo, I want you to head on home. Look, customers’ll start rollin’ in the place any second, and I gots to clean up this mess. Now don’t go dying thinkin’ of me and this burnt out city. Think of Shelly. Pull yourself together and head on home buddy. Shelly’ll be right behind ya. Goodbye Eddie.” Frigo helps me up and out the door. It’s raining. I’m cold. He gives me his jacket. Lightheaded. “Thanks, Frigo. I think I’ll go home. Shelly should be right behind me.”

The light outside of Frigo’s flickers.

The Tale of the Dreadlocks

Prologue

By: Kyle Harris

Some people say that the first thing someone notices about you is your hair; that your hair is what can define you. Ancient Indian tribes believed that when you got a haircut, you were cutting off part of your soul. Hairstyles are fun, but when you decide to change the hairstyle you've had for most of your life, well, that's when hairstyles can become... scarestyles.
Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story... :

The Tale of the Dreadlocks

By: Derrick Acosta

"Okay, this is a true story. A friend of mine had two people who worked at a hair salon. And one day, a man came in with dreadlocks...This is a true story. This guy came in with dreadlocks that he hadn't cut for years, maybe ten years. And they were the nappiest looking dreadlocks ever. You ever see dreadlocks that just look like one solid clump of hair? This guy just had one, like, turd on his head.
And he said, 'You know what? I just want to cut these off. I don't want them anymore. Shave 'em right off.'
So they started cutting his dreadlocks and then, out of nowhere, the man starts screaming and jumps up out of his chair and runs out of the salon. And they, they never saw him again.
And he died.
And he was, he was referred there, he was referred there by a friend, who was a regular, so the friend came into the salon, right? And they tell him the story:
'H-Hey your friend came in here to get his dreds cut and he ran out.'
'...He died.'
'He died?'
'Apparently there was a nest of black widows in his hair. And wh-And when they started cutting it off, the widows became so angry they started biting his scalp and he started screaming and ran out of the place and died from the poisoning...'

Have a good night!"

Brood

Brood

Drinking alone at Frigo’s again. I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Bottom of my third drink, I start to feel buzzed. Just a buzz won’t get her off my mind. Dame like her ain’t easy to forget. Ain’t no dame out there like her. Audrey. The picture of her in my head reminds me why I care.

A beer is spilled on my lap by some sleazy, low-life drunks at the end of the bar making a pass at the bartender. This city is full of them types. Grabbing at what ain’t theirs. Cindy Cindinski ain’t theirs tonight.

“Whaddya say, toots? I got some singles, see. How about a show for me and my pals here?”

Cindy shoots me a worried look. Damn it if I ain’t a fool for a dame in distress. Time to work. The barstool creaks. I’m making my way over to give the guys a real show when I see Johnny already standing behind them. This ain’t gonna end well. Cindy shoots me another look. She’s read my mind. Johnny’s next to the guy that’s doing all the talking and taps him on the shoulder. The cad’s collarbone looks like an uncooked noodle compared to one of Johnny’s fingers.

“You’re gonna be leaving Cindy alone now.” Johnny’s words don’t phase the male suitor. It just gets my goat when guys like this come around and make a scene.

Johnny never has to speak loudly. “One.”

Everyone in the bar turns. This fella’s friends try to stop him, but he’s four drinks too far from listening.

“Paulie, that’s Johnny Onetwothree. We gotta heel it. Now!”

“What’s that? Johnny Onetwothree? I heard of ya. Tell ya what Johnny, I’m gonna give you ‘till the count of three to get your lousy, four flushing face outta here.” Paulie pulls out a six shooter. Put a gun in a guy’s hand, and he’ll always think he’s made his way up the chain of command. Johnny’s a wall. This ain’t gonna end well.

Johnny’s only counting for Paulie, but every guy and gal in Frigo’s feels threatened. “Two.”
“Hey, bub. I’m the one doing the counting here, see. I’m sick of looking at your ugly mug. One, tw–”

“Three.”

I’ve been wrong before. Paulie got off easy. Three broken fingers, fractured wrist, two cracked ribs, broken nose, and I don’t see Paulie wanting to get lucky with the dames anytime soon. Paulie’s blacked out on the ground. His pals are long gone.

“Sorry for the mess, Cindy. I just can’t watch a broad being treated poorly.”

“Thanks, Johnny. Don’t worry about the mess. God, I’m not even suppose to be here tonight! Uncle Frank, where’s Audrey? She hasn’t shown up in three weeks. Sure, I need the dough, but I can’t stand the vermin anymore. You know where she is?”

Three weeks? That picture of Audrey in my head is starting to get fuzzy. I shake my head, “Don’t worry about it, hun, I’ll raise her.”

Johnny’s sitting at the bar again like nothing’s happened. To a guy like Johnny, nothing has. He talks with a bottle to his lips, “Pulaski’s missing?”

Weeks of stale smoke rushes into my lungs in a sigh. “Seems so…Time to rattle the cages, see what squawks. Both of ya put your specs on. Find me if she shows.”

I take Passed-Out Paulie’s wallet and toss Cindy the cash he’s got on him. Five bucks. Cheapskate. I waste no time foolin’ with anymore drinks. Audrey’s never been gone this long. I got that feeling in my bones I get when she’s in trouble. Seems I’m working the night-shift tonight.

Joint like Frigo’s, it’s safer to leave through the back entrance. Less likely to run into a fella whose looking for a fight. It’s raining out; it’s always raining in this city. I don’t own a single jacket neither. The cold clears my head, and I gotta keep my head straight tonight, for Audrey.

If Audrey’s in a spot, I gotta check the hospital. Even if she ain’t there, every two-timing crook and street rat has connections at the hospital. The least I’ll get is information. I walk past
another bar and I gotta double-take when I hear a familiar voice in the dark narrow of an alley. I recognize the scrawny thug in the trilby hat threatening a prostitute.

“Lithten here huthy. I gottha methage for your bosth, courtethy of the Greco brotherth. It’tha two-parter. Firtht, your bosth owth uth thum dough. He thpillth it or we killth it, can ya remember that? The thecond methage ith more of a warning, and I ithn’t worried about you forgetting thith one.”

The louse about to hit this dame is Benny “The Lisp” Greco. One of the three inseparable Greco brothers. They’re not low on the food chain, but they’re not at the top neither. Last I heard they was smuggling weapons and buying hot items. Low level stuff, so I kept my nose outta it. And I heard they was opening some respectable night clubs where the gals are cheap and the beer is cheaper. Real classy joints. Earns them a sliver of favor among the remaining honest men of this city. The youngest Greco, Benny, ain’t dangerous, but his brothers are. Benny’s just a messenger. Lucky break. If anyone can get the word out on Audrey, it’s gonna be the Grecos. Benny’s grabbed the umbrella out of this gal’s hand and is about to beat her with it. And I ain’t about to let a broad be bruised for no reason.

“Raise your hand any higher, Benny, and you’re tellin’ me you gotta hankering for tasting gun metal.” Benny’s used to threats. Might have to use some warranted force on this one.

“Thith ain’t your bithneth, Uncle Frank. I ain’t bothering you, quit bothering me.” He returns to the quivering dame. Benny, you stupid son of a bitch. In a drop of a hat, I got Benny pinned, making him taste all the rain and sewage the alley has to offer.

“Take heed, Benny, never take your eye off a mick with a gun. I got a message of my own needs sending. Put the word out, Uncle Frank’s looking for Audrey Pulaski.” I feel every muscle in Benny’s scrawny body tighten. He squirms like a worm on a hook, but he’s got no muscle behind him. He knows something about Audrey.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to do with no broad named Pulathki.” His eyes go as wide as a working hussy’s mouth when I rip off his middle fingernail like I was opening a beer.

“I thwear I don’t know a thingle thing!” I got Benny right where I want him. I let him go.

“Jethuth Chritht! My hand…My hand! Look what you did to my hand! You’re a goddamn dead man, you pieth of thit! Dead!” Like the dog that he is, Benny runs with his tail between his legs, right back to his master. Benny, you stupid son of a bitch.

I aim to ignore the dame behind me and follow Benny when dainty fingers grab my wrist. “Real intimidating stuff, pal. What are you, some sorta Dick Tracy private eye?”

“Listen up, doll, because I’m only gonna say this once. I ain’t no sleazy private eye. I ain’t no cop, and I sure as hell ain’t no Dick. Name’s Frank. Anyone with half a brain knows to call me Uncle Frank.”

“Hey, wait big guy. I know that gal you’re looking for. Me and Audrey worked the new Greco brothers’ club every other night together. Ya know, The Cobalt Club. Only she hasn’t shown her face in about a month. Last I heard, she was gone to meet the big guy himself.”

Joey Stachino. He’s far from the “big guy” in stature, but he’s got his greasy fingers dipped in every pocket of the city. Cops, judges, you name it. Ain’t no one I heard of bigger than that. No way this goes that high up. Audrey knew better than to poke around with his type. Dames and gossip. I got a rat to follow. I don’t got time to play detective with a mouthy dame. I flip her a coin for her help.

“Gee, thanks…Dick.”

I’m as patient as they come in this city, but a fella can only take so much from a dame. I take the coin back and grab her umbrella that Benny dropped. I break it in half. “Like I said, I ain’t no Dick. The name’s Uncle Frank. You’re gonna remember that now.”

I walk out of the alley just in time to see Benny taking off in a black Continental. I can’t make out the driver. My jalopy is parked less than thirty feet away. Following them ain’t a problem. Together the Greco brothers may be tough, but they ain’t smart. After five minutes of following them through downtown, I musta been had because their Continental takes off in a puff of exhaust fumes. Their tires kick up a rock. It jams my windshield wipers. Damn! My only hope is to run them off the road, level the playing field. My foot hammers down on the accelerator when I hear the crack of lightning. My shoulder explodes in searing hot pain. Gunshot. Only one man makes a shot at that speed in this weather. Tommy “The Gun” Greco.

Oldest of the Greco brothers, Tommy’s a crack shot sniper. The only time he misses is when he’s not wearing his bowler hat. Tommy ain’t ever been without his bowler hat. Says it’s a God given blessing, but there ain’t no God. Not in this city. That’s the devil he’s praising.

My arm involuntarily jerks. I veer off into a ditch. I pull my way out of the wreckage. The wound’s above the collarbone. Bullet passed in and out. I’ve had worse. Tommy couldn’t have known about his brother yet, I was shot for another reason. I stand and that reason becomes all too clear.

The gates to Joey Stachino’s mansion are twenty yards away. On the roof of the mansion, I see Tommy tip his hat. As I run out of range of Tommy’s gun, I see Audrey’s car parked out front. Joey Stachino, the Greco brothers, Audrey… It doesn’t add up. All I know is I’m gonna need backup. It’s stopped raining.

* * *

“Sure thing, boss. Mind if I play the box first?” Back at Frigo’s, the neon juke stains Johnny’s face a dirty yellow. He plays some Benny Goodman song I ain’t heard before. Catchy. Pays to have a friend like Johnny in this city. He’s loyal. Anyone crosses his friends and their crossing their t’s on their death certificate. Johnny’s not much a man of words. Probably why I can still stand the guy. We take Johnny’s Plymouth and park it a few blocks from the back entrance to Joey’s mansion. Back of Johnny’s car is loaded with pistols, tommy guns and enough ammunition for five fully loaded fellas. Two pistols for our holsters, a tommy gun slung around our shoulders and one revolver tucked in our trench coat pocket. The side of the gate ain’t even guarded.

“Johnny, give me ten minutes. See if I can’t grab Audrey without bloodshed.” I ain’t much on stealth, but I got one up on them. They don’t know I’m coming.

“Wait.” Johnny holds his hand up. He points to a wire running up the length of the metal fence I’m about to jump. On top of the gate is a microphone.

“Damn!” No doubt the work of Sonny “The Lobe” Greco. Middle brother, born a mute. With a build like an overripe peach, Sonny’s obsessed with recording everything. Rumor is he hears anything within a hundred yards, says his hearing extends as far as his elongated earlobes. “The Lobe” is never caught by surprise. “Looks like we go in hot. Ready, Johnny?”

In the upper left corner window of the mansion, I spot Benny “The Lisp” with a tommy gun. He’s shouting something from the window I can’t make out. “One.”

Window next to that I sight Sonny “The Lobe,” hands holding his headphones to his ears. Two lugs on each side of him got pistols aimed straight down my throat. “Two.”

Next window, Tommy “The Gun’s” crouched under his rifle. Sights on me.

I’m coming Audrey.

“Three.” Three wise guys.

Johnny’s two pistols pierce the bitter night air as he clears the gate. I make my move over the gate and plug two louts running towards me before my feet hit the ground. I take cover behind a planter when three more of Joey’s boys pour from the back double doors. Shards of pottery rain down on me like hail as I reload. In the roar of gunfire, I can make out Johnny repeating “One, two, three” over the howling of his tommy gun, like a symphony he’s orchestrating on the fly. Shattered glass falls from the windows as three of my rounds find home in their targets. Johnny takes a shot below the elbow. Lug like Johnny, one gunshot ain’t even a flesh wound. Like a broken record, Johnny counts to three and takes out two more with his bare mitts. I ain’t wasting ammunition with the distractions. I see an opening to the door and make my move. Then I’m hit by a sledgehammer as my left thigh erupts. I look up to see Tommy Greco tip his hat and reload. I’ve got no time for pain. Without stopping for a breath, I burst through the bullet-riddled door and into the grand foyer.

Wallpaper is shredded and lights shatter in a rain of glass as I make one more on the staircase to my left. Sonny Greco barges down the stairs in a silent scream. I take aim and put one right through his beloved headphones. His body goes limp and tumbles down the stairs in a jumbled cartwheel. I catch the corpse and use it as a shield as I make my way up the stairs. Round after round pummels into Sonny’s face, softening it into a bloody pulp. His earlobes flop when each bullet connects. I blindly shoot from behind the stiff and take out two guys at the head of the stairs.

I hear the clod of feet behind me followed by a, “One, two, three.” Turning, I see Johnny crack the skulls of two lugs together. At the top of the staircase, I toss Sonny’s body over the railing. Dashing down the hallway, Johnny and I reach the master bedroom. Empty. The gunfire’s stopped. There’s a ringing in my ears. I hear shuffling coming up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a gun barrel push its way out of the wooden shutters of the closet.

“Get down!”

My advice goes unheard. Johnny is already charging the closet. Tommy doesn’t have a chance to take a shot. In a splintering of wood, Johnny’s got Tommy in his grip. Without his gun, Tommy’s a dead man. Johnny throws the oaf against the opposite wall. Tommy’s body slams to the ground in a sickening crunch. Johnny slides feet first into Tommy’s ribs.

“One, two, three.” Johnny shoves his knee into Tommy’s stomach as he puts his thumbs onto Tommy’s eyes. A high-pitch, primal scream forces its way out of Tommy. My veins freeze. I’ll hear that scream for the rest of my life. Johnny’s thumbs slowly force their way into Tommy’s eye sockets. His thumbs disappear into Tommy’s skull. I hear another scream come from outside the window. This one’s coming from a gal. From the top floor window, I see a Cadillac peel out of the garage below me. Benny’s driving. Two people are in the back. One of them is Audrey. The other is Joey Stachino himself.

The door behind us busts open in a barrage of gunfire. Johnny and I shoot the glass as we leap out the window.

* * *

The bellow of the engine. The squeal of the tires. The shriek of the wind. Johnny’s Plymouth tears through the empty backstreets into the warehouse district, leaving behind the mansion, the bodies, the pain. The Cadillac is in our sights. A hail of bullets discharges from the tommy gun held by Joey. A bullet connects with our front left tire. We skid into a warehouse wall and smash through it. I shake myself off from the crash. Stumbling out of the car, I hear the doors to the warehouse opening. The boxes around me are labeled “XXX.” I can barely make out two, mumbling male voices. I hear the stifled cries of a female. Johnny’s limp in the car. I’ll come back for him. I follow the noises I hear through the labyrinth of containers.

“Lithen here, Uncle Frank, Johnny. You’ve put your fingerth in the wrong bithneth and your fingerth are abo-”

“No! You listen here, you two, lousy, no-good, yellow, dirty, rotten, ugly, two-timing, pushover, street rats. I ain’t leavin’ here without my niece. And I ain’t dying until everyone who’s harmed her is dead at my feet. So the way I sees it, you got two options. Die now or die later.”

Sparks fly when a bullet ricochets off a box near my head. Beer spills out of the fresh bullet wound.

“Sorry, sorry! That was a misfire. We ain’t trying to kill ya.” Joey, always knew a guy like him would have no backbone. “Benny, he aims to kill us, we gotta scram.”

“Thut up, Joey! If we don’t die here, then your bosth ith gonna kill uth both. Our only chanth ith killin’ thith louth and makin’ off with the gal.” The voice is coming from behind a stack of packages in front of me. I got six rounds. That’s three for the both of ‘em.

I feel the hot opening of a gun barrel on the back of my head. Benny’s got the drop on me. “Take heed, you thcumbag, never take your eye off a mick with a gun.”

“That’s good advice. Onetwothree.” I turn in time to see Johnny grab Benny’s tongue and squeeze. The roar of a gunfire goes off. A hole the size of a felt fedora in Benny’s stomach is smoking. Benny’s gurgling what’s left of his tongue as he drops to his knees. Johnny’s standing behind the body with a smoldering shotgun.

Looking into Benny’s dying eyes I tells him, “Name’s Uncle Frank. You’re gonna be remembering that now. Thanks Johnny, I thought I was made for sure.” Benny’s corpse grows cold before it hits the floor.

“Don’t mention it.”

I hear muffled cries. I can’t make out the words, but I know Audrey’s crying out my name. I’m here. It’s all over. I see Audrey dash by an aisle of boxes, followed by Joey. She is headed to a corner. Thatta girl, Audrey. By the time Joey’s grubby fingers clutch Audrey, Johnny and I got him cornered.

Joey knows he’s a dead man. He’s shaking like a leaf. Joey’s got Audrey on her knees, tears streaming down her grimy face. Holding onto her hair with his pistol on her left temple, he tries one more desperate plea. “I’s only following orders. I swear! I’m the fall guy, the scape. You gottsa believe me. Look, look, we can strike up a deal, see.” His hair is matted down as sweat pours from his face. “You let me go and you can have Audrey. I won’t bother you again, hear?” I don’t say a word. Joey’s body starts convulsing and his grip on Audrey’s hair tightens. “I-I’ll give ya money, dames. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I was only following ord-” The gun in Joey’s hand barks. Audrey’s face and brains splatter on the box next to her. Her body drops and Joey is left holding a chunk of her hair connected to a scrap of her scalp. “No, no! I didn’t mean to do that! Have mercy.”

“This is mercy.” I unload three in Joey’s stomach and three in Joey’s mug.

* * *

“It’s over, ain’t it?” Johnny talks through a bottle again. Yeah, it’s over. Audrey was the last family I had. I protected her and, in turn, she loved me. Ain’t no more unconditional love. Not in this city. The picture of Audrey in my mind is gone. Replaced by a never ending loop of exploding flesh. I bottle the night up in a shot glass and guzzle.

“No, Johnny. This ain’t over. I can’t get Audrey back, but I can find every crook in this city that got Audrey killed. Find the bastard that was in charge. I don’t got all the answers, but I aim to find ‘em. All I got left are my mitts. Time to break some deserving teeth.”

Kevin Explains It All (Ferguson Not Allowed)

Kevin Explains It All

“Umm, thanks… Yeah, can I get a number one with a number two. And some onion rings. Yeah, I’m going to eat them too. Eh, and two apple pie slices and a large orange soda.” A dainty, feminine voice was barely audible over the static from the faulty speaker, “Is that all?”

“Eh? Yeah, can I get one of everything from the dollar menu. For my buddy. To-go.”

“You’re in the drive-thru, to-go is the only way we deliver it.”

“You guys deliver now?”

“Eh? No, this is a Burger King. We don’t deliver. I just mea–. Never mind. Your total is $38.79 at the next window there.”

Tentatively pushing down on the accelerator, Kevin’s ‘85 Honda lurched forward, stopped, then sputtered ahead erratically. The only thing as ragged as the “movements” of Kevin’s car was the exterior. Years of beatings, courtesy of the weather and road, turned the originally crimson car a muddy pink. Inheriting a car from one’s grandmother has its perks, however. Well, perk. Kevin didn’t have to pay for the car, but what he saved in finances, he lost in dignity. Anyone who sat in the car walked out with the potent smell of someone dying clutching to their clothes just as the old woman clung to life.

Two heads in the car bounced against their headrests as Kevin turned to his passenger and said, “Doug, this is the cute burger babe I was talking about. She’s always working this late at night.” They pulled up to the window and Doug leaned awkwardly close to Kevin to get a better look at the girl. After Kevin paid for the food, Doug started rapidly slapping him on the shoulder and said, “Holy crap. Buddy, when she leans over you can see her whoppers.”

“… Her Big Macs,” Kevin said.

“Her McShakes.”

“Her Big N’ Tasties.”

“Her double downs.”

“Wicked. Eh, check this out,” said Doug still leaning over Kevin, “Excuse me, you think we can get some more ketchup?” Kevin and Doug shared a fist bump in recognition of how utterly smooth they were.

“You know I can hear everything you guys are saying,” the burger queen said, leaning over and handing them their ketchup. Kevin and Doug’s smiles were verbally slapped from their faces as both of their necks jerked forward to look at the road. “Have a wonderful night,” grinned the harassed worker, knowing she caused the juveniles as much embarrassment as if she had caught them with their hands down their pants. Two hollow voices replied in unison, “Thank you. Have a good night.”

“Well that sucked…We’re coming to see her again tomorrow, right?” said Doug as Kevin pulled out of the Burger King parking lot.

“Please. There’s no way I’d pass up seeing those Burger Kings,” Kevin replied.

“Her nuts ruled,” said Doug, “Oh yeah, nuts is a thing now. Chestnuts. Chest. Nuts. It’s going to catch on.”

“That is the greatest thing I’ve ever hear–” Kevin was cut off by Doug yelping.

“Crap! Is that the right time? I was suppose to be home thirty minutes ago.” yelled Doug throwing his hands up as what little color in his face drained.

Kevin had no qualms laughing in the face of his friend, “You’re twenty and your curfew is eleven, hoser!”

“Buddy, if your parents weren’t out of tow– You sho– Your curfew is eleven-thirty!” Doug sloppily retorted.

“Yeah, but yours is eleven! Ha!”

“Whatever, take me home already, will ya?” Doug said, playfully punching Kevin’s arm.

Single-story, square houses flew by the car’s fogged windows at twenty five miles per hour when Kevin finally pulled up to yet another suburban home. Doug mumbled something resembling a goodbye as he rushed it to his front door to avoid the bitter weather. However, as he reached into his pocket to find his keys, he turned on the balls of his heels and dashed back to the car. “Aww crap, I almost forgot! Chaw! I’ve been saving it for a good time. Big Chief, the best!”

Kevin took a minute to get the reference, “Oh, Okay! …Okay?”

Doug reached into his pocket and threw a small Ziploc bag at Kevin, “Yeah, no, it isn’t chewing tobacco, but you’re home alone so I got you some weed.” Doug was inside his house before Kevin had the time to process what had just happened.

* * *

Back home, Kevin laid in bed, stared at his yellowed popcorn ceiling and argued with himself. Why shouldn’t I? My parents aren’t home so there’s no worries there. I’ve never heard of a “bad trip” on weed. I was only straight-edge when I was dating Pam, and she left me for that bad-boy American. Don’t they say weed is a gateway drug though…Isn’t there a movie called The Gateway? Or was it The Gate? His thoughts were unable to stray any further as they were interrupted by one of Doug’s signature long texts:

“my curfew is 11 but uve never smoked. whos the loser now? wat else r u goin to do at 3 in the morning? watch paid programs and old reruns of the king of kensin.” Kevin was no stranger to getting run-on texts from Doug. As he awaited the rest of Doug’s text, Kevin pulled out one of the pre-rolled joints and smelled it. Kevin’s Loverboy ring-tone went off again as Doug’s text continued: “…gton. if anythin it will put u 2 sleep.besides i got heavyer stuff just called ‘the henry kushinger.’ stop bein sucha hoser. dont worry i didnt mix bags. actually i just checked again im 99% sure.”

I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t do this, Kevin thought. This is just marijuana, one joint. I’m not going to get addicted or anything. And buddy’s right, I’ll probably just fall asleep. With a surge of adrenaline, Kevin found the nearest lighter, grabbed a joint from the bag, lit it and took a surprisingly big hit for having never smoked. The coughing fit that followed made him regret not opening his straw earlier. Gulping down his soda, Kevin thought, …Now what? Milling around his room waiting for the effects, Kevin fixed some posters on his wall, breathed heavily on his window and drew a maple leaf, checked his phone and noticed that the batteries were dead. As soon as he plugged it in to his charger, the rocking sounds of “Everybody‘s Working for the Weekend” began delightfully hammering Kevin’s ears. Kevin had one new text message from Doug: “…that i gave you the wrong bag. so dont smoke what i gave u. ill come give u ur stuff tom. sorry buddy. enjoy ur reruns.”

“Great.”

Not knowing what to expect from a normal joint, let alone an apparent super joint, Kevin flipped on the television and began eating his Burger King meal. As he unwrapped his first burger he noticed the wrapper shaking in his hands. He was unsure if he was shaking from nerves or if the Kushinger was kicking in. Kevin went to the guide on his TV and found Degrassi. “My bat…it’s wooden,” said a character on the show. Hell yes! Kevin thought, remembering that the episode was the one where the character Spinner gets an erection. Now this is good television, Kevin thought, as the onscreen high jinks continued. Kevin giggled his way through some onion rings and half his burger when he heard, “Hey, umm, excuse me! Stop!”

Confused that the dialogue he heard was not synced with his TV, he pressed mute. “Please, umm can you stop?”

A now terrified Kevin squeaked, “Wh-Who’s there, eh?”

“Please stop eating us. Put me down and, umm, let us go. Please?”

Oh my God…there’s cannibals in my house eating people, Kevin thought. Wait… Even in Kevin’s weed-inebriated state he realized how ridiculous his last thought was. Putting down his food, Kevin slowly tip-toed towards his slightly ajar door.

“Thank you!” cheered the voice.

Realizing the voice was coming from behind him, Kevin shrieked and twirled around. “Down here, yes. Thank you for letting me go. My name is Rocko. And since you will never come to this realization on your own, I’m your burger.” Much to Kevin’s shock, and a little to his disappointment, the burger didn’t grow a mouth and eyes, the buns didn’t flap up and down like a bad commercial, Rocko’s voice simply emanated from his body.

Another voice came out of the greasy bag, “Oh joy, I’m your whopper, Stimpy.”

“Over here, Hey hey. We’re your fries. I’m Mary Kate and this is Ashley.” The dumb look on Kevin’s face bent into a smile as he asked in disbelief, “Mary Kate and Ashley? Take off.”

“Hey sweetie, apple pie’s here. I’m Tia, and this is my sister, Tamera.”

“Okay, now you’re just messing with me. Are all of you named after 90s cartoons and child st–” Kevin was cut off by an obnoxiously loud question coming from his drink.

“Who loves orange soda? I do, I do, I do-ooh.” It was at that moment Kevin realized the night was going to be a fantastic one. Kevin poured all the food out of the bags onto his desk.

With their introductions out of the way, Kevin said, “This is nuts, but I’m Kevin. I’m really sorry for eating half of the onion rings and eating half of you, Rocko. Speaking of which, you didn’t introduce yourself onion rings. Let me guess, Clarissa?”

“Ahem, Kevin, the onion rings aren’t, umm, alive. And no worries about eating me. It’s only painful when you’re actually biting into me. Good thing you stopped when you did because once you finish eating one of us entirely, umm, we die.”

Before Kevin was able to ask any questions, he was interrupted by Tia and Tamera exclaiming in unison, “Now this is good television.”

“Yeah! That’s what I was just thinking!” Kevin said. The new gang of friends watched a few more episodes of Degrassi, laughing at and ridiculing it together.

* * *

After the third episode of the night ended, Kevin unconsciously reached down and grabbed a french fry.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Handsy. Watch what you’re doing up there. I’m not that type of girl!” said Mary Kate.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t even realize what I was doing,” said Kevin, as his stomach yelled at him for having not eaten earlier. Kevin was having such a joy playing with his food that he hadn’t noticed his own hunger growing. “It’s true what they say about munchies then,” Kevin laughed awkwardly.

Jokingly, the apple pies said, “And we look so delicious. Don’t you just want to eat us? Mmmm…”

Only half joking, Kevin responded, “Yeah, you look so delicious. I want to gobble you right up.”

“You got a girlfriend, Kevvy?” asked Ashley, steering the conversation away from food.

“Eh, no, but there’s this girl in my sociology class…”

“Oooh, someone has a childish crush in college!” Tamera said playfully.

“Quit teasing him, Tamera. So, how come you’re not dating her? You’re clearly good looking enough and, from what I can tell, you’re funny,” Tia said.

“Yeah Ken,” said Stimpy, getting Kevin’s name wrong, “You seem really cool. You clearly have good taste in TV, and I see that poster for Strange Brew on your door. Plus, I see you have all of Tegan and Sara’s albums. You’re the perfect Canadian!”

“Perfect or stereotypical? She doesn’t take me seriously. She calls me Gordy, which has always sounded like a fat kid’s name to me. I mean who would name their kid Gordy? So is she being offensive or endearing? It doesn’t matter, she’s outta my league, eh. And she has a boyfriend. Her boyfriend is the Fonz of Canada. Rick has ‘It,’” Kevin said with air quotes, “ I’m too safe. Too boring.”

“Trust me, you got ‘It,’ dude,” said Mary Kate.

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Kevin. What does this, umm, Rick have that you don’t?” Rocko asked.

“Well for one, a life. It’s a Friday night and I’m in here talking to my food, no offense, eh. If you guys weren’t here, I’d be here alone. I heard Michelle got three ear piercings, a nose ring, a lip ring and a tattoo in one night because her friend said she might look good with them. She’s impulsive! My week is planned out two weeks in advance. No, Rick is a bad-ass and I’m just a Canadian,” Kevin said as he looked out the window and noticed it had started to snow.

“Kevvy, none of us are bored! You’re loads of fun. You just gotta woo this girl,” encouraged Ashley.

“Yeah, you need a romantic 80s movie moment. You got a stereo you can hold over your head?” Tia asked.

Kevin’s soda advised Kevin to be a romantic. “Kevin! You gotta be something special, man. Long walks on the beaches with strawberries and peaches, you know?”

“So I should really go for it, eh?” Kevin said with newfound confidence in his voice.

Kevin’s meal shouted, “Yes!”

* * *

An hour later Kevin had finished his joint and their conversation about his girl turned into a “profound” look at love. “It’s like, a flower, you know? It blooms in the morning and bees come and pollinate…and it’s full of col-color… and life. Then at night, it closes up and looks, like, in on itself…ya kn–” Kevin’s inane love metaphor was cut off by an extraordinarily loud grumble from his stomach.

“Whoa there tiger, you okay there,” asked Stimpy nervously.

“Guys, I’m really hungry. It’s been hurting me for the last twenty minutes. Look, I even tightened my belt to fight hunger pains. I need to eat something…I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“…Hello?”

Kevin’s food sat stagnant, not making a noise. “Okay, okay, I can wait longer before I eat something.” Cheers erupted from the meal. “Thatta boy!” exclaimed the soda. Kevin laid down in the fetal position and held his stomach while he continued to talk to his food.

* * *

“Wake up!” Kevin jerked awake and almost rolled off his bed in fright. Doug was sitting on the floor with his back against a wall, laughing at his friend’s reaction. Kevin inaudibly grumbled something, irritated at Doug’s less-than-welcomed wake up call.

In a sleep deprived daze, Kevin looked around and scratched his head. “Why are you here so early, eh?”

“The Kushinger? Remember? I got you your weed, where’s mine?”

“I smoked it,” said Kevin throwing Doug the now empty zip-loc bag. “You need to stop texting such long messages…Where’s my food?”

“Wait, you actually smoked it? All of it? How was it? What happened?” Doug asked standing up, staring at the empty bag.

“Buddy, the food talks. We watched Degrassi, and there… was flowers…Where are they?” Kevin looked around his desk for the Burger King wrappers.

“Eh, that stuff must have been pretty powerful, I think you’re still high…”

“Rocko? Stimpy?…Mary Kate, Ashley? Tam–”

“Why are you naming 90s cartoon characters and child sta–”

“Where is my food?” Kevin asked with a more urgent tone.

“You mean the Burger King food from last night? Yeah, it was just right on the table,” Doug said, walking into Kevin’s bathroom and talking to him through the door, “You were asleep, so I made it my breakfast. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll buy you dinner tonight.” Doug continued talking to himself as he washed his hands and walked back into the room to see Kevin with his head buried in his hands, blubbering.

“When this boy meets world…” Kevin sobbed, rocking back and forth on his bed.