Stuart: The Story of Stu


Once upon a time there was this dude named Stuart. Some folks called him Stu but it wasn’t something that he actively encouraged but he tolerated it because, well, what are you going to do? Yell at folks for abbreviating your name? It’s a blessing to be remembered at all these days what with all the television and junk food and stuff blowing out your head and mucking up your attitude so he let it slide and when someone would say, “Hey Stu!” He would say, “Harya?” And they would say, “I’m doing well. How are you, Stu?” And he would say, “Stuart is A-OK.” To make his point however subtly and subliminally and because Stuart was generally polite and only let his anger simmer beneath the surface where, well, to get ahead of ourselves here it eventually manifests itself in him as a series of brutal cancers of various kinds that, well–damn, that’s a whole different can of tragic beans that we’ll keep closed for the time being. But back to our initial tale here, right, so, Stuart also known as Stu was this dude that was doing alright by most metrics, maybe not the most active sex life, sure, but he had some money in the bank and his debts were minuscule and he had a decent head of hair and not a bad singing voice when it came to karaoke or in the shower or at church which served him well with folks because I don’t know about you but when I hear some toneless citizen sawboning some famous jingle to death, well, what can I tell you that you don’t already know? So let’s all agree that we all agree that it’s agreed that it should be a crime and plug our ears and carry on. Anyways, our man Stuart here would not be found guilty of that crime because he could carry a tune and that is one of the check marks in the pro’s column on the sheet of his life. He has a bunch of check marks in that column actually, like no b.o., an aversion to using curse words, generally polite, pretty fair, large cock, and a few other minor things that still chalk up to a net positive. His con’s column still has check marks, sure, but whose doesn’t? Mine has its share sure, and so does yours so don’t @ me because it wouldn’t do any good anyway. #IToldYouSo. But Stuart’s cons are generally pretty tame like how he drinks diet soda and listens to new country and maybe there’s a check in the addicted to Cobra blood column. I don’t know about you but I did not see that one coming. Where does one score Cobra blood anyway? I mean outside the black market stalls and stands and kiosks of the darkest back alleys in the wildest cities of Southeast Asia. I suppose these days you can order pretty much anything online so perhaps that’s how he gets his Cobra blood but I’m still curious. Because I know he has never been to Saigon. If any of you might know feel free to @ me. So Stuart has a Cobra blood problem. Who really cares? What are you going to do? Sue him? For shooting up with Cobra blood? I don’t think there’s a law against it except in the court of public opinion or in one of those mystical kingdoms ruled by some kind of Snake Queen or Reptilian Council but as far as actual Normaltown legalities go I don’t think so. In fact I know so. And so should you. Unless you’re ignorant. Which you may be. But I don’t judge. So whatever. Think or don’t or kind of or maybe. It does a bit matter because Stuart is going to Stu regardless of what you or I or them think and while we’re all checking those boxes in the columns on our own sheets of life, you know, I don’t think he gives a damn. Well, not so much of a damn. Well, just enough that it will eventually give him cancer. But that’s a story for another day. God bless and sweet dreams.

Beware of half-ass mystical stations of magical desire.

What the hell does that mean? Well, it’s a little complicated but still rather simple. You see, the soul craves what the spirit seeks, am I right? So it just makes sense that there are your usual gainful opportunists out there in the ether with their carts or wagons or whatever ready and willing and irritatingly able to deal you the mystical goods. It’s like when you walk up the path to see The Great Wall and every two feet someone is trying to sell you a poorly made doodad. I think that happens too at The Alamo so you see what I mean. But instead of brick and mortar history I’m talking about essence and aura here. So you’re strutting through your spiritual life looking for one of those big important sources of immaculate supply and you’ve got all these dungaree wearing ding dongs hawking two-bit gewgaws that they assure you are just as good as the real thing. Which they aren’t. You might as well ram a quarter in your ear for all the good these pieces of detritus will do for you. You see it in the tavern too when you have some handsome lady or well swabbed dude sitting at the bar just so ready and willing and annoyingly able to bend your ear and get you to sign on the dotted line for some emotional time share in imaginary magical Cabo. Disclaimer: I dig the beach. And I dig my soulful elegance. And if I could marry the two into some kind of cosmic inside out vacation I would. But some buckaroo with a nice watch and plastic teeth who buys me a Manhattan and lays a brochure or a pamphlet or a whatever down in front of me and says I can get just that for only $999 down, well, what can I tell you? Actually, let me tell you, I get sick up and out the wazoo. Of course you’ll say there should be a law and I’ll say yes there should and various representatives and legislators will pretend to agree and they’ll form a committee and bring in experts and do some polls and draft some pedantically bloated thing and we’ll all get so excited and ready to finally receive our souls most nourishing gifts and graces without any fucking fine print and here we go and now we’re on and okay alright have at it and…

Radio silence.

And the bullshit keeps raining on down.

Like it was London in the Fall of ‘40.

I don’t have any answers for you here at the end of this grand essay except to say that knowledge is power especially when it comes to you knowing you and believing just what it is you learn about said you and most probably the truth or the serenity or the whatever it is you’re seeking is highly most likely available to you gratis via and according and available inside you somewhere and small wins add up and some of those W’s that get chalked up and posted on the big board are most definitely for absolute real when you don’t do something like give your hard earned spiritual cash to some soul stealing huckster in a stained and wrinkled cheap suit.

Keep your money.

Smile on.


Love on the Highest Sea


They stood on the bow of boat, looking out at the velvet sea coated in a satin sheen of silky mist.
“Ooo, ‘twoos foogy, me sweets, soo foogy,” he said to the woman beside him.
“Ooo, me coop’n, twis’ soo foogy, luke dooo oopon thoo oopen seeeeea,” she said back, looking up at his burlap face. His gaze dropped down into hers like two pieces of sexual guano.
“Ooo, yoor root, thoore, it’s luke goooey doo oopon thoo oopen seeea, oot remoonds me ooof thoo noots we spooont oon the toont ooon tooo booooch oon cooboo sooon looocoooos.”
“Ooo, thoot wooos sooo hooot oond stooomy, I wooos soo swoooned I coood nooot wooock fooor a wooook,” she said and set her eyes back upon the furry ocean. Inside her heart, it skipped a beat and prayed.
“Ooo,” he said, “mooo tooo, me loooins wooos blooostered luke choooorcoool brooooquooots ooon unnn booobeekoooo.”
He fell to one knee, taking her hand and turning her to face him. Their eyes met like baby doves crashing down upon the shoals. He took a breath. She bated hers.
“Ooo, wool yoo mooory mooo?” He said.
“Yooss,” she said.
The end.

Tycoonery pt. 2


Without stopping Wilson stomped across the field, through the terminal, shaking his head in amazement three times as he did so at the flotsam and jetsam of commuters that had been beckoned here 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 the 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 Transmeticulator. The device. That’s what it’s called,” I said waving the next great cloud of cigarette flavoured 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 the urge 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 and librarians 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 just now and 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.

Tycoonery pt. 1

Wilson stepped out of the autogyro and down the steps and onto the landing field. I had never realized just how pear shaped he had sounded over the telephone until his full-on Anjou form bumped itself across the turf towards me. Even though I was one of a crowd of about two dozen people waiting to meet those disembarking he bobbled right on up to me. 

Was I that obvious?

He didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. I, as I had feared, was at a loss.

“Boise,” he declared, gazing around him, “Boise, Idaho. What will they think of next?” He strode on without beckoning and I shuttled quickly to keep up. As I did, I took a quick glance down at my crotch.

No, my fly wasn’t down. 

Wilson continued to look around himself in amazement. His bright, animated eyes cataloging everything around him from the grey sky to the brown grass to the urine soaked bum to the pornographic litter that floated in the blue breeze.

“I could spend a month here just stockpiling the smells,” he said.

“Oh, we’ve got some stinks here, yuh huh,” I said. And checked my fly again.

It was down.

Clancy stopped and spun to face me. His stare was pure. And right into my eyes. Like lasers from the future.

“Your letter,” he said, “was compelling. If a little verbose. But I look forward to jamming the jack with you on this and pumping out out some of that sweet, sweet monetary nectar.” 

“Thank you,” I managed. 

“No worries. Your fly is down.”

Without pausing he reached down and zipped it up. He spun back and strode on.

I stood there. Frozen. My mind agape.

“C’mon, buckarino, those jams ain’t gonna jack themselves.”

I stumbled after him. Perhaps just like the little Chinese woman had said, things were gonna be alright.