Tycoonery pt. 3

“Car!” Wilson shouted right smack in the middle of our awkward silence. It startled the fireless inhalable out of my mouth and onto the floor.“Yassir?” The limo said.

“We’re gonna need to jack some gnoshables before we grease this monkey’s abode,” Wilson said.

Was I the monkey? I wondered.

“Y’all want a snack stand, general goods shop, or a regular hot meal?” The car asked.

Wilson thought. For us both apparently. 

“Drive-thru snackatorium or food port will smooth our hugariosity just fine.”

Yuzzah, the car nodded sonically.

Wilson bent over and picked up my electric cigar and handed it to me.

“Hunger,” he said, “is the terror of the negotiating. For both sides.”

I nodded at this, remembering the six nervous hamburgers I’d eaten for lunch. Is it ever appropriate to barf in a business meeting? I thought.

“If the cuisine here is anything like the scenery I hope you have a decent toilet,” he said, his eyes back out the window. 

“Oh sure,” I managed not sure what I had just confirmed. And did this mean that ralphing was acceptable? Loose stooling even? My guts gurgled as if telling me we would know soon enough. I needed to—

“So,” I said, “it’s been reported you’ve been divesting heavily. But here you are and—”

“Ha!” He let out like a soprano saxophone, Hha! Hap! Haaaaaa!” He wolfed a tug on his pipe and swallowed his laughter(?).

“So you jimmy the trades and squirrel the news, do you?” He said back at me with the ocular drill-bit routine.

“Well, a course, ’cause, y’know, I am doing my best to do the business like, and they say about knowledge—”

“That its dumber than a monk’s dink.”

“It wha—”

“Listen. You may not know this. In fact you don’t because only I do, but I’ve known about you for awhile. You been beeping away on ol’ Wilson’s scanner since, well—” The drill bits stopped. Replaced by human eyes. I blinked.

“You’ve known—”

“Yuh. For sure. That’s my jelly, buck, my spread on the bread that makes me the kale.”

“I don’t quite—”

“Car!” He shot.

“Yassir,” the car said.

“Pull over.”

Yuzzah. 

It smoothed to the curb and parked.

Wilson slipped off his seat and across to join me on mine. He sat close. Our thighs touched. My guts gurgled.

Oh god, my fly, my fly, he’s gonna UNDO my fly and then sex—

“Buck, listen to me when I say that I have been living and breathing and pooping and praying for a man like to come a long my whole enchanted life.”

The smile I tried to use to cover my amazement felt dumb and toothy.

“Really?” I said.

“Uh huh,” he said. He flicked a chubby finger into my mouth and scraped a nail across my front tooth, “got some iceberg or greenleaf plastered there.”

He showed me his finger.

A piece of masticated green clumped on the end of it. Then he flicked it away casually.

“Car!” He barked, “let’s proceed.”

He jumped back across to his seat and set his gaze back on out at the world Boise made.

My gurgles shifted seismically. I thought I’d brushed my teeth.

Let me mansplain lasagna to y’all

guido-crew1So dude has broz comin’ over to beer and pasta and Netflix and chill. First off, these dudez are broz, ‘standee? They’ve got manly beards and sweet Chelseas and they’re into rad tribal shit like motorbikes and greasing the iron with their fuckin’ sweat. And these dudez do not get nervous. They get intense. And they also get hungry, real hungry ‘kaysee? ‘Cause broz are totally into being chefz and may actually be chefz who are out there being all up in it (AKA the WORLD) being intense and theyz have a lot on their mindz and soulz and muzclez, so broz need a lot on their platez. These guyz are super real, you can tell by their tatz. They’ve got skulls and snakes and titty piratez on the all over and also some cute shit too. Because of the emotionz. And no fuckin’ lolz. ‘Cause it’s for realz. So when you bake that lasagna it’s not just friggin’ meat and sauce and cheese and pasta. It’s a fuckin’ beast of a slab for a Man Damnimal. First get your ass out of your head and make those pasta sheets fucking fresh. Broz don’t nosh on no dried shit from no box from the nineties. No way, these are dudez whose emotional dial is permanently on bro. And fuck if they don’t nosh their pasta fresh. Stone ground wheat and no shit filler and eggs fresh from no bitch-ass hens but pure coq and roll, ‘standee? Okay, take that can of Ditchwater perineum flavoured tomato sauce and ram it up your icing hole. You see, true hombrez get the fuck off on slowly simmered sauce that gives God hizself the wet tuna, so get a big Calphalon pot and pick some fresh basil and some sweet romas from the fucking farmer’s fucking market and stew that shit up. Stewz! Brewz! Broz! Now that better not be regular ol’ grease-baggin’ ground beef you’re getting ready to slop in there. Dudez be enjoyin share-chuggin’ bro-style their Snakeskin hammerhsmashed triple IPA so don’t think about beefin’ them, ‘standee? No, you take that cow dung and grip it and stick it and lube up and pull that pork and juice it in and smooth it on then layer over some of tasty thrice smoked pork belly and top that off with some venison sausage drip. Ground it and pound it, bitch! Damnz! Okay, throw that no name garbage can low-rent cottage cheese in the river and send that river to fucking hell and get some artisanal curds up in that pASSta. Manz gotz a cheeze fetizh ‘coz he’z horny for cheeze that taztez like the puzzy he eatz nightleez. Do yo understand how super good dude is? Fuck yes you do. Now dole some mac n’ cheese on that slab. Layer that gourmet shit up like it was a kick-ass condo where you live in the fucking penthouse full of bad-ass gourmet furniture and shit that dude and his broz are stone chillin’ on watchin’ a rad Ed Hardy fashion show on an awesome-ass huge-ass flatscreen teevee. Once the slab is ready, bake that shit hardcore in the convection oven until it’s bubblin’ fuckin’ crispy and smellin’ fuckin’ tasty. And yo better get that oil in the fryer heatin’ ’cause this slab is ’bout to get fuckin’ real for real real. Broz don’t fuck around with lasagna, yo. They bake that shit. And then they fry that shit. Deep and steep. Get it out and then drop it in and let that brew battered pASSta turn motherfuckin’ gold! Dudez are tight on that shit between broz when they nosh chow with MMA SPLASHDOWN VII kickin’ ass on the plasma and that lasagna better be fuck as fuck for dude and his broz. ‘Standee? Word.

the Mystery of the Sacred Sauce

10670087_393997820750524_1951562346334323616_n“This where they keep it?” Wakanabe asked, shifting the pouch of Bandit to the other side of his mouth, letting that smooth wintergreen tobacco taste freshen his head.

“This is where they KEPT it,” the raisin of a man said, staring from the safe to Wakanabe to the safe and back again like it was supposed to mean something.

“I understand tenses,” said Wakanabe, “and I understand your concern. What I don’t understand was the what.”

“What what?” Raisin man said.

“What was in the safe? You know, what was capered.”

“Are you for–the sauce! The sacred sauce!” the raisin man took a turn for the worse, went prune.

Wakanabe bent his wide load down and peered into the gun metal maw of the safe, “You keep sauce in here? Don’t it spoil? I mean, it’d be better off in a fridge, I’d reckon.”

“No no no, not the sauce proper, it’s the–it’s the recipe. The sacred recipe for the sacred sauce!”

“And which sacred sauce is that?” Wakanabe coughed his Bandit into his hand, pocketed it in his London Fog, resisted sucking another. It was early yet, not even brunch time.

“The secret sacred sauce! You know, for the Moses Burger.”

“Uh huh. That the one that leads your hunger out of Egypt?”

“Yes, that one. The sauce is very important to the whole creation. Essential. Ten very specific ingredients as handed down to our chef from the hamburger God himself, Crispy Dan Natkins!” The prune went south, looking more like pickled gristle.

“He’s that grill guy that disappeared into the desert, weren’t he?” Wakanabe grunted, starting to notice just how close to brunch time it was.

“His exodus was as mysterious as his knowledge of barbeque, but that’s not important. What’s important is the retrieval of the recipe for the sacred sauce! If it isn’t found we’re done as a burger joint! Do you understand?! DONE!!” The pickled brine flopped down onto the floor like a puddle of gravy that had been left in the sun for forty years too many.

“Don’t fret yourself, buddy, I’ll find your sauce.And the owl that filched it. Or my name isn’t Ding-Dong Wakanabe!” He stared off, feeling his detective spirit soar, seeing his future self in the future time. This would be the case that put him back on the map. And out of his parents basement.

The puddle of gravy gandered up, staring at the fat, gallant form of the gabardined shamus standing there, looking off into the distance. And for a second, nay maybe less than that, he thought he heard a voice. A whisper on the wind like a moustache in the night.

S’okay guy, this guy. This guy’s the guy. A real guy’s guy, guy. 

And inside he knew it would be alright.

Because that voice was Crispy Dan.

Ricky Rick’s Ekphrasis Bar & Grill

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating t Susannah who holds her nose near the wounded baby Tristram Shandy. Coloured etching after H.W. Bunbury after L. Sterne. By: Laurence Sterneafter: Henry William BunburyPublished: – Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

 

The space is long and thin and cramped like the fallopian tube of some giant woman that offers a blue plate special up inside her. The waitress, herself some giant woman, seats you at your table, which is covered in a fungoid mold unknown outside the blast zones of atomic weapon test sites. Her demeanor conveys a mixture of emotions that fit somewhere between blue and brown. Call it bluwn. Her teeth are like used buckshot, round and bloody and reeking of death, and the breath they filter is equally so. It merges with the ordure of the kitchen that floats through the pores in the drywall and slap-swingy doors lazily and lethally like a cloud of summertime Sarin, and hangs there in the air, daring you to breathe. It stirs your hunger like a cannibal chef stirs a massive iron pot of man-stew, strong and proud and utterly terrifying. The menu is a stupefying assortment of Sweet Holy Christ and You Want Me To What? Gravy is everywhere like a sludgy, grey dictator’s secret police. Will it come for me in the night? Tell my wife I love her. You order. The waitress in the sonic equivalent of a rusty rake disagrees with your choice, chooses not to give a shit, and blobs off, hacking a thousand cigarettes worth of phlegm into the fabric of space-time as she does. Rick himself, blurping and cursing around the grill and deep fryer like some kind of hell-pear, dumpy and and ovoid and violent and sweating as if he had been born with malaria and then went on to engage daily with what must be the anti-thesis of exercise. Dying fatly, I’d offer. He trowels out your hash as if it was an ancient plague, splashing the plate down with a vomitous “PICK UP!”. The waitress still phlegming at the mouth and so charitably raining it over your dish like a Rangoon monsoon, drops the plate before you like a dead pigeon and possibly mouths the dirt-bag version of bon appetit. I looked it up, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. You gag it down. And now you know now what trench warfare tastes like. Prepare to sleep the sleep of million rampaging bowels.

Ricky Rick’s Bar & Grill

324 West Ash Rd.

Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.

Reservations recommended.

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