Silent but Violent – cont’d


She flinched like she’d been slapped across the face with an iron glove.
“What was that?” She said, her eyes tearing up like a kid in a cobra cage.
“My neighbour must have opened a can of eggs.”
She nodded, her look boring through my face like some kind of Neptunian Drill Worm, and said, “So?”
“So what?”
“Will you do it?”
“Kill your husband?” I asked, “Last time I checked that was tip of the top of the list of things that are illegal.”
She pulled a cigar from her purse. A Cohiba the size of a donkey’s dink. She fired it up like she was stoking the forge in a steel mill, filling my office with more smoke than a Mississippi picnic.
“I don’t [puff] want [puff] you [puff] to kill him,” she said, “I just want him distracted [puff] [puff] [puff].”
“Lady, I don’t jake your snake here, so if you could just clear the air and stick to the details.”
“My husband is a very rich and powerful man with many enemies. He’s also very dangerous. He’s as ruthless as he is tanned.”
“Just how tanned is he?” I wondered aloud.
“He’s like Texas chaps on a Wyoming queer.”
I nodded. That’s pretty damned tanned. Which meant that this gig was pretty damn dangerous. I guess she could stink my whiff–
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars,” she said, sucking down the last of her Cuban smoke machine.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
That’s a lot of cans of eggs.


Tycoonery pt. 4

“They should write a song about this town,” Wilson said as he wiped and wiped and wiped his shoes on the doormat, “a real heavy tragic number. With a chorus of ululating chicks. And a stupidly epic sorrowful sax solo.”

He walked down the hallway and apparently guiding ME, he stepped into the living room.

“Like the tapis,” he said as he walked by a tie dyed handkerchief my dearly departed sister had tacked up on the wall.

I didn’t want to argue. But I hated it. But also my sister. But also my house. But also family first. But also art sux. But also memories of the beloved dead. But and but and but and but and but. And thus was and is—the universe.

“Buck!” Wilson snapped. I blunk out of my conflubulation.

“Sorry,” I murmured, “something I ate.”

“I told that limo that joint looked like a cheap poisoners supply hut,” he said and shrugged, “I apologize. But cars these days—what’re you gonna do? Anyways no grand tour. I wanna juice my eyegeese on that device of yours.”

I shuddered because I knew there was gonna be a big but at the end of this one.

There always was.

I took him and led him down the stairs to the basement where I maintained my workshop. For a time I had tried to refer to it as a laboratory but I never really felt confident enough to really make it so. Thus, workshop. Did that make me more of a hobbyist than any kind of  true creator or inventor or whatyallcaller? Probably, but I couldn’t let that get–

“These stairs creak more than a rheumatoid arthritic trying to wipe his butt with a sandy towel,” he said.

That lost me so I stayed silent and slipped through the dark feeling up with practiced fingers for the string that hung from the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. I pulled it down and the room was set aglow in clean, white light.

I stood there.

And he gasped.


“Frick friggity frig, get me some ointment, will ya?”She winced as she gingerly probed the boil. It blistered in her neck like a witches cauldron of vicious brew. Hot and threatening violence, I’m dyin’ here.

“No ma’am,” the boy said, backing off a step as he did, “the doc and the padre both made supa damn sure you didn’t apply nothing to the holy cist.”

“Holy cist,” she said, “my royal brown starred one eyed fart full anus. I told you I’m dying.”-

Again she tried to touch the foul growth. Again it recoiled her. 

Was it the pain?

No. Worse. The fact that hid in that burning sting was some kind of too much pleasure. 

She shuddered.

Like bad serious bad drugs. Or worse. Which it was—

“And how is our most miraculous blemish doing today?” Came the eupeptic voice through the curtain.

She sighed. Looked once more at the torturous pustule. Winced. Scowled. Breathed. And enacting a perfect smile turned to face the door.

“The zit beckons,” she said with pomposity.

The curtains parted and a tall, pale, fifty-cent rope of a man entered. His gilded robe did little to suggest anymore to his physique than his Parmesan wedge of a face.

“Ah,” he said gaily, “the lady is in high spirits.”

“She is,” she answered, “and this whitehead is fit to burst.”

“Ha,” his laugh like a someone stepped on a frog’s nut, “seriously Madame Shondar you are too rich.”

“Cut the Madame crap, and don’t say rich again, I ain’t been near enough during this whole charade to be called anything but flimmed and/or flammed—”

She stepped to the buffet table a stuck a piece of Bologna in her mouth. And another. And a third.

“—T’h’say nuthin’ thwof all thwem poor thuckers thout thwere.”

“If her holiness could refrain from talking with the full mouth. It’s—how I say—”

“Dithguthting,” she said, “that’s th’idea.” And belched. She grabbed a 40 oz bottle of malt liquor from the ice filled tub and slammed half of it home. And belched again.

The stick in the robe cringed.

“Please Shondar, if you could at least—”

“What? I ain’t no Dresden cup and this boil ain’t no China tea, so what’re lookin’ for? You pay for miracles, the fester provides. I’m just a irritated vessel is all. So go hang.”

She chugged on the forty and stared at the acolyte around the bottle.

He sighed. And turned t the curtained door. At the threshold he paused, and spoke over his shoulder, “the work it does. That you do. It’s good work, Madame. Whether you realize that or not. Hope. No matter how gross the form it comes, is still hope.”

He straightened his robe and stopped through the curtain.

Shondar polished off the big bottle of brewski and flopped down in a lounger.

The motions pinched her neck and sent a fiery wave from the whelk down her back and up the side of her face.

Faint there, in the tide of pain, something. A word. 

Like a hot lance surfing on the swell of sensation.


Kee-rhist, she thought, not you too. She laid a finger tenderly on the boil.

The massive crowd sat silent in the dark. Waiting. No one stirred. All eyes were glued on the stage lit low by purple lights from in high in the stadium.

Aww for god sakes, Shondar thought, these dweebs are worse than lobotomized sheep. 

She peered out through the curtains and cursed herself for not chugging at least one more bottle of malt liquor before this ornate stupidity.

Then the organ swelled. The crowd began to hum.

“Awfrgawdsakes,” she said.

“Lady Shondar, please,” hushed an acolyte in some kind of gold tracksuit.

She stifled a fart, nodded curtly, and as the organist thundered his way up to a crescendo Vesusius itself would’ve envied, before one of the gilded geeks had a chance to usher her out, she stepped through the curtain and out onto the stage.

A single tight circle of light surrounded her. No one stirred. No applause. All was bated breath.

She had to admit, it always gave her a bit of a thrill, even through the fog of four 40’s.

She loosened her scarf. And let it fall to her feet. The massive crowd took one massive collective breath. Huge screens at all corners of the stadium showed close-up video of the Holy Boil.

“Bring forth the first,” she intoned. Her voice booming through the cavernous structure via a concealed microphone in her cape.

A small, scared and sickly gentleman was led up onto the stage by two gold track suited youths. With much coaxing the awestruck man made his way to Shondar. She beckoned him close, and leaned down her neck to his gaping, bad-breathing mouth.

“Ask the zit,” she said solemnly.

The man whispered to the cist. 

“Are you serious?” She said beneath her breath, “of all the things you could wanna know.”

The man had turned an ear to it. He stood there. Nodding. Listening. His attention so much more than rapt. Like way more. Like too much more. And then a broad smile cracked his poor, downtrodden face.

He stepped back and fell to his knees.

He looked up into Shondar’s face. His eyes wide. A true believer.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he managed.

He kissed her feet.

She smiled down at him.

And then looked up at the throng.

“The boil knows. The boil speaks. The boil saves!” She said, “ALL HAIL THE BOIL!!!”

The crowd went berserk.

Inside, she sighed the sigh of a million sighs. She looked out at the throng. The line of the wanting stretched for what probably was miles. Another peonic seeker was brought up onto the stage. As she bent down to present the blemish she could only think one thing—

Why hadn’t she gone to the bathroom before she came on?

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.”


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.

Tycoonery pt. 2


Without stopping Wilson stomped across the field, through the terminal, shaking his his head amazement three times as he did so at the flotsam and jetsam of commuters that had been beckoned here u to the anti-vastness of the Boise airfield. He stepped out through the large glass exit doors to the auto-moblo stands. A tall woman known in most parts of the Solar System as a filthy drink of water stepped in front of him.
“Got your fuck ride, right here shorty”, she burped, an authentic hand rolled combustible smoking between her lips. Behind her was parked a gold van with the side passenger door open revealing what looked like wall to wall to wall to ceiling bearskin rug.
He stared at her. Up. And down. Twice.
“Sweet marmalade,” he said, “Where am I? I mean, ga-loom lady, my what ride?” She
“You heard me. What’re you some kinda necrophiliac creeptomaniac? Get in the van, Stan, I’ll ride you into town all the way raw.”
Wilson looked at me. Looked at the woman. Looked at the sky.
“FIRE!!!” He screamed, “Fire! Fire. Help! Help! The travelport’s on fire!” Everyone around us froze. The woman jumped back. The few security personnel lounging nearby leapt to alert attention. Before the woman could say a word, Wilson grabbed my hand and pulled me off.
He ushered me into a waiting stretch limoblo. And jumped in after me.
He sighed and smiled and relaxed himself back into he neo-leatherette seat. I looked at him.
“I brought my own car,” I said.
“This’ll do,” he said.
“I have it in short term parking. I don’t think they have a daily max so—”
He made a fart sound and pulled out an electric pipe from his coat. He switched it on and took a violent draught from it and then spoke through the massive cloud of nicotine, “I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a concussed Drill Sargent blush! That said I’m a gams man through and through and with stilts like hers I can find myself foregoing much and forgetting even more. Call me shallow and cast the first stone while you’re at it. Now about this transwhatchulator—“
“What?” He let out another cumulonimbus of nicotine.
“The Tranmeticulator. The device. That’s what it’s called,” I said waving the next great cloud of candy scented vapour out of my orbit.
“Uh huh. Fine. And it’s function, what you said on the communicator, that’s accurate?” He looked at me with what can only be described as diamond-bitted deep drilling intensity. I felt desperately urged to check my fly again.
But instead I answered, “Entirely. And more so. You’ll see the full capabilities of the device at the demonstration but the basic facts are absolutely true—”
I took a deep breath. Both for dramatic effect and to shade my nervous excitement, “It orders things.”
“Orders?” The drill bits didn’t cease. They bored on.
“Yes. But not as in requests like at a luncheonette or what have you but as in organizes.”
“Spreadsheets and butlers have been doing that for generations,” he said.
“Yes, but—well, not like this, I mean, to put it bluntly, it will do so—I mean does so, on a universal level.”
“Listen, I’m just a guy. With metric tonnes of money and all the related la-la-la-la-la’s, sure, but still just a guy who puts his pants on every morning one leg at a time so—”
“The transmeticulator is a device that takes any and all chaotic systems and orders them. Into manageable entities.”
“Uh huh. At what scale?” He asked.
“As I said before and over the communicator—universal.”
“As in—” he arched his eyebrows.
I nodded. And stared back into those eyes that had bored so deep inside me. What I spoke was true, it wasn’t malarkey or hogwash or snake oil or all-weather undercoat. It was true. And the truth was all I had.
And the device.
Wilson looked away, out the window as the  ramshackle metropolis of Boise gurgled on by like some kind of polluted creek.
“Chaos,” he whispered, “chaos—” he looked at me, “chaos controlled is power infinitudinal.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out an electric cigar. He offered it to me.
“If your dingus really works,” he said. And stared back out the window. He didn’t have to complete his thought.
Because I knew what I was.
I thought the same thing everyday since turning on the device.
I put the cigar in mouth and turned it on.

From the Office of the Demiurge

gorgar-pinball-machine-1979-williamsHello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.

Bluestocking millennial soft sensual and brutal confusion. By Sally.

cocaineads_18Sally really was a ruined poet, a symbolizing idealizing soul who inherited too many problems. And did she ever make a point of laying it on thick to the rest of us. But don’t take my word for it, see for yourself. I’ll let her work speak for itself. So to begin, check this out:

“Soul of slabidinous jelly
Odious as the rankest crud nugget
Mother, oh Mother of mine.

Are you kidding me? That’d give Joyce himself a bad case of the Double Dublin Gastric Spastics.
And take this prime example right here:

“Bowdlerize my cunt
You thief you thief you thief
Of (brown) bagged lunches.
Take my crackers and cheese
And P and B and J
And off with you
To suffer my doctrinaire piss curtains.“

Jeepers, what’s with the brackets? More pointedly, what’s with all that malarkey outside them?
Another example:

“Fly! Skyflyer! Fly!
Fly high in the sky!
Set cruise control to maximum zest
And shatter the impossible truth.
Pull up! Skyflyer! Pull up!
Take it to the limit
And push! Beyond!
Because there is no fucking envelope.“

Fun fact, Skyflyer was Sally’s nickname in high-school. Self decreed.
Fun fact #2, that poem stinks.
Here’s another choice cut:


Seriously though, it’s like mental stool softener. Mixed with actual stool softener. And curare.
Just to be fair, and to give a sufficient representation of Sally’s oeuvre, I’ll leave you with one final piece of bardic wisdom:

“Our Heavenly Father Sol hung limp like a flaccid cock as the ring that had held it so engorged for so long that was the orbiting molten planet called Mercury having slipped off to travel on in adfinitum ad infinitum in a serious kiss off to gravity and meanwhile as a veiny dawn dragged itself over the horizon here on earth drops of moist sun like stale semen made life and death and whatever it is in between sticky and hot and there were no cold showers that day I tell you.”

Yup, that girl Sally sure is a maroon. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure her out. But you know how it is with all those mysterious ways your wonders to perform be. Am I right? Me neither.