Category Archives: Stories

The White Turd by Walter Rogers

Chivo and I got into my Pontiac 6000, a car I named the Exxon Valdez because it leaked so much oil, and we headed west on Interstate 30 to Las Vegas Trail in west Fort Worth.

“Does Frank have the shit?” Chivo asked.

“He said he did. I hope so. But you know Frank.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Chivo was a little nervous about our trip to Drug Land, which is any area of town where lowlifes, gangstas, white devils and the worst of women live, even though he knew kung fu. He could take nunchucks and do that Bruce Lee shit with them. But, for whatever reason, I never asked him how he learned how to do that shit. His two young boys took karate classes. Anytime they tried that black belt shit on me I’d just push them down onto the floor.

I wasn’t nervous at all going into America’s version of the dark jungle because I wanted some fucking weed and if Frank didn’t have it I’d be pissed off. I never had a problem of being scared. I was lousy at life so I didn’t give a fuck. It made no difference to me whether I lived or died. I just wanted to dull my senses from reality and to do that I needed some green.

Frank said he had a half an ounce he wanted to sell so he could use that money to pay for a whore who lived at his apartments, The Villas at Sierra Vista, a Section 8 dump, full of white and black trash and some illegals. The whore was a middle-aged black lady in an apartment in the building over from Frank’s. She’d given him head before for a couple of joints. He liked it. Now he wanted to score a touchdown by sticking his dick into her nappy haired pussy.

“Think we should stop at the 40 ouncer store before we hit Frank’s?”

“Yeah,” Chivo said. “I need some beer and smokes.”

I got off of I-30 and turned south on Las Vegas Trail. The ‘Lil’ Trail Store was on our right one block down. I pulled in and we got out and went inside. The place was a 7-Eleven wannabe but had shit in it for extremely poor people to buy by using food stamps and Texas’ CHIP cards. A coin operated laundromat, a MetroPCS store and a beauty supply place was in the same half block strip “mall”. I was at this place before when visiting Frank and some gone terribly wrong Mexican lady with sun weathered skin and jet black hair, making her half Spanish conquistador and half Native Indian, asked me for cash for her CHIP card. I asked her if I could buy smokes and beer with it.

“Si, si, si. Yes.”

I knew she was lying but it was a good deal. Pay her $30 bucks for a $50 dollar CHIP card. But you can’t buy jack shit with those cards unless you’re in a ‘hood store and ‘Lil’ Trail Store wasn’t ‘hood enough to do that. They were on the borderline of ‘hood and was really considered ‘hood lite. Cops prowled the area because of all of the Section 8 housing complexes around, and this being a predominantly white part of Fort Worth, and they knew to keep a look out on CHIP abuse at this convenience store. Now, if I’d been in the Stop Six area, east Fort Worth, on Riverside Drive, I would have bought the card no problem to help the illegal out because those wannabe 7-Elevens there wouldn’t question you buying 40 ouncers and a few packs of Basics with it and the cops in that part of town, where the Bloods and Crips entrenched themselves in the 1980s, resulting in fantastic murder scenes, including an after hours bar debacle that resulted in 8 dead on its floor, and made national news headlines for the brutality of the event, like a Wild West shootout from Fort Worth’s historic wild and wooly western past, that included visits by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and their Hole In The Wall gang during the town’s Hell’s Half Acre days, had more important shit to worry about, like going home to their wive and kids.

Me and Chivo went through the store’s steel barred glass door. We headed to the back for our beer. I stopped to glance at the girly mags. One after another were the same thing as I flipped through them, girls laying on beds legs spread wide. I wasn’t impressed. I’d been married twice. And divorced twice. Women weren’t a mystery to me like they had been in my ’20s.

I used to go to the only porno mag store on the side of Fort Worth I lived in. It was located at Camp Bowie Blvd. and Lackland Road. The girly mags were in the back. It was embarrassing to go there. Every guy in the place knew why every other guy was there, to get images to jack off to. This was long before the Internet so you had to buy a hard copy back then. Basement dweller geeks today get to click a link to see fucking and sucking on PornTube but lonely guys in the old days had to own a cheap vehicle, called a shit ride, drive to an iffy part of town, park, walk into a shady place, be in the company of pussy-less guys just like you, women-less losers, and buy porno mags. And none of us got the lame, ad-laden glossies like Playboy, Oui or Penthouse, filled with wannabe intellectual articles nobody bothered to read. We reached for the plastic sealed packages that contained five dirty mags for 10 bucks, with titles like Swank, Juggs, High Ball, Slam-Bang, Gallery, Balling, Magnum and Barely Legal.

I put the Asian Sluts jack off mag back in its place and joined Chivo looking at the beer cooler. He grabbed some Miller High Life Tallboys. I got three 40s of Colt 45. We got the cheap cigs made from the tobacco that fell onto the cig factory floors, and sold for $2 a pack, with our beers and headed over to Frank’s place, a long touchdown pass down the road.

I pulled into the rundown apartments and some mixed race kids were running around. They were always running around. Riding bikes, chasing each other, kicking a soccer ball or shooting a basketball into a netless hoop. They yelled and screamed and jumped and ran around in circles. Just kids being kids.

No different than I was when me, my mother and sister lived in a Section 8 apartment off of Loop 820 and James Ave. in the mid to late 1960s. I was always outside playing with friends, riding bikes, going down to the creek on National Geographic like expeditions to find frogs, crawdads and minnows, playing football, having hide and seek tournaments and throwing baseballs around. When someone would use a stick and knocked a ball into an apartment window and it busted in many pieces of glass we’d tear ass and run like motherfuckers being chased down by a horror movie mass murderer. We’d stay away until the sun went down then slowly make our way back, carefully going around corners and staying close to the bushes, like we were Navy SEALs in Fallujah hunting down Hajiis, and sneak back to our single mom, no dad in sight, apartments.

We exited the Exxon Valdez. Frank’s place was right in front of us, which was very close to a dark green Dumpster. Frank’s apartment had a little cordoned off porch area, pretty high faluting for a Section 8 abode. Like any old ass apartments these musta been something back in the day, mapping in little courtyards for some of the units. A gay couple, I thought, probably lived here in the ’70s, until it all went to hell with white flight to the suburbs. There was a 10 gallon round plastic container without a top on it sitting in this concrete courtyard, along with ruined child’s toys, a beat to fuck doll of some kind and a tricycle that looked like it had been bumper thumped by Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500.

A big dead frog was at the top of the trash heap in the container. We inspected it further and found rotten food, a dead rat, chicken bones and ripped clothing. We stopped inspecting the shit at the dingy tighty whities. It stunk like someone’s death scene on Law & Order.

“Fuck, man, he’s 30 feet from a Dumpster and leaves this shit outside of his door?” Chivo wondered.

“C’mon,” I said. “We both know Frank. His white trashness far exceeds ours.”

Chivo knocked on the door. Frank’s brother, Lester, answered.

“What the FUCK do you two motherfuckers want?”

“We’re here to see Frank.”

“If I didn’t know who you were I woulda shot you both, god dammit.”

Lester was a fucking fruitcake. He worked down the road at the Lockheed Martin military industrial complex in their F-35 assembly plant. He was old as Bible people, complete with the white stringy beard and face crevices. He was the most hateful human being I’d ever met. He despised humanity. He’d work then come home and go into his room and watch tv and did absolutely nothing else, except walk a mile down the road to a grocery store and walk the mile back. He hated cars. He hated parades. He hated men, women and kids. He hated Christmas. He hated the Fourth of July. He hated trees. He hated dogs and cats. He hated Mickey Mouse. He hated cartoons. He hated Hot Wheels. He hated rainbows. He hated donuts. He hated crosswalks. He hated dolphins. He hated Cheerios. He even hated you, in absentia. His hate exceeded the national debt.

He had someone from his job pick him up each day to go to his job and supported Frank with the good salary he had at Fort Worth’s longtime defense contractor because Frank had no interest in working — and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know Frank wasn’t gonna get hired to do anything. He was the laziest motherfucking white person I’d ever known. He wasn’t dumb. He was just fucking lazy. A bum with a roof over his head.

Lester let us in. He was decked out in an ill fitting pair of white Fruit of the Looms and a food stained tee shirt. He legs were pasty white. Long hairs grew out of every orifice. He walked back to his room and slammed the door shut and turned up his tv’s sound. I could hear he was watching a Texas Rangers baseball game because of the play by play coming through the door.

“STRIKE THREE. HE’S OUT.”

“GOD DAMN,” Lester bitched. “THAT MOTHERFUCKER CAN’T HIT FOR SHIT!!!!”

Frank, a slob who weighed in at around 400 pounds on a 6 foot 6 frame, long beard and longer hair, was sitting on his filthy couch, surrounded by fast food bags, empty chip bags, empty plastic bottles, dead roaches, empty beer cans, an assortment of sundry papers, past due bills and fast food discounts, and everything else a scumbag would leave on the floor without picking it up. He was a hoarder of trash and not junk.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” he said to me, the usual smile on his face, a smile founded in “I don’t do shit to live a life of zero and I like it that way”.

“What else? A shit job, with an asshole boss I kill in my fantasies with a Dirty Harry handgun, that I need to forget with drugs.”

Chivo removed some dead insects and a McDonald’s Big Mac box from a chair and sat down. I brushed off some sickening shit on a recliner and rested my legs.

“Good thing Les doesn’t see you in HIS chair.”

“Fuck Les.”

“He’d kill you.”

“Yeah, he already said that. Tell him I’m ready for the other side.”

Chivo broke open a pack of cigs and popped open a beer and took a slug.

“Yeah, that hit the spot. That first one of the day always hits home.”

I twisted the cap on my 40 and did the Bukowski pull.

I half choked, said, with a pained expression, “Damn, that shit is nasty but it works fast to ease the pain.”

Frank changed the channel on his television. It was now on the History Channel. The show was yet another documentary on Hitler. Frank loved Adolph Hitler. He loved all the WWII shit on that channel. Since Les worked on war planes Frank was a fan of them. He’d point to the screen and tell us what plane was what.

“That one’s a bomber, it killed a lot of British. That one’s a fighter, it took down a lot of the long range bombers doing runs on German cities. Hitler had the best minds developing his aircraft. He was working on a UFO before the Russians got to him. They said he escaped in the one UFO that worked and landed in Argentina. He lived a long time after WWII.”

Frank liked the fact that Hitler killed a lot of Jews. I imagined he got that frame of mind from Lester. I thought, “Thank God Lester wasn’t a dictator.”

“So, do you got the shit?”

“Yeah, man. It’s right here.”

Frank reached under a messy couch cushion and pulled out a Glad sandwich bag half full of weed.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Chivo chimed in before popping open another can of beer.

I reached into my back pocket and got out my Pulp Fiction BAD MOTHERFUCKER wallet. I took out some bills and handed them over to Frank. I took the plastic bag from him, opened it and immediately put it up to my nose and inhaled.

“Hmmm. Not bad. Better smelling than that dirt weed I got off of a scumbag dealer in that run down house near TCU last week. That shit was a rip off.”

Frank said the weed he had was from a wannabe rapper a few apartments down from his.

“The brothers always have better shit than Mexicans,” Chivo said.

Me and Chivo sat there watching Hitler drop bombs on England and drank. Frank smoked a cigarette.

“I gotta take a piss,” I said.

I went to Frank’s bathroom and shut the door. I stood over the toilet bowl and got my dick out and aimed it. That’s when I noticed a white turd slowly circling around in some Three Mile Island nuclear waste toilet water.

“Gawd damn! Fuck me. What the FUCK is that shit?” I thought.

I finished and hit the flusher. Nothing happened. I hit it again. Water didn’t move.

“This shit is sick. How these two lowlifes take a shit and not flush it?” I thought. “I knew Frank and Lester were nasty bastards but I didn’t know THIS. Man, I’m usually not bothered my disgusting shit perpetrated by fellow human beings but this take’s the cake and the prize. This turd must have been floating in that toilet bowl for months for it to have turned white. This is a goddamn outrage. It’s despicable. This is comic book villain shit.”

This macabre bathroom scene reminded me of a Chris Rock joke. He told it during one of his HBO specials. It was about the white people he was around as a kid.

He said, “I got bused to school into a poor white neighborhood. A neighborhood worse than the one I lived in. And everybody’s scared of black people, everybody’s scared of Puerto Ricans. Yo, there ain’t nothing scarier than poor white people… Yo, these muthafuckers, they lived under the trailer home, alright. They weren’t white trash, they’re like white toxic waste.”

I walked back to Lester’s recliner and sat down in total shock. Not much disgusts me but that vile white turd did. I couldn’t even look at Frank. I thought, “What the fuck is WRONG with you and Lester, man? You two are the most unbelievable pieces of shit in human history. Caligula would gladly invite you into his cauldron of debauchery.”

It was Bryan’s turn to take a leak. He came back a minute later and didn’t say squat but I could see he wanted to by the expression on his face. But you don’t say shit to someone who is providing you with weed in case it might offend them and then they won’t answer your calls when you’re itching for more.

We finished our beers.

“Well, we’re gonna go to my place and get fucked up. You gonna fuck that whore?”

Frank got up from his filthy couch and went over to his phone. He dialed and looked at us as we collected ourselves. He smiled that goofy smile of his when he was up to something disgusting and untoward.

“Hey, is Felicia there? Okay, I’ll wait.”

We stood there. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. That felonious white turd and Lester’s penchant for wanting to murder people had me in a hurry for the road home. I could tell Bryan felt the same way. He had already walked out onto the courtyard and was looking at the dead frog we’d seen earlier. He had picked up a stick and was examining it, flipping it on its back and looking at the decayed guts.

“Hey, Felicia, it’s Frank. Gotta time for me? Okay, I’ll come by tonite. See ya, honey.”

Frank hung up and smiled.

“Gettin’ laid, man.”

“Cool. Wear a condom so you don’t end up like Easy E, with the AIDS and shit.”

“I’m disease proof. I got a good build up from germs already.”

I chuckled, and thought, “No shit,” and went out the door.

In the car Bryan said, his voice weak, “You see that white turd in the toilet?”

“Yeah. I almost couldn’t take a piss staring down at it. My dick started to retreat up into my asshole.”

“It looked like a beached whale, all bloated and shit. I tried to flush it but the god damn toilet doesn’t work. Those two are really fucked up.”

I shook my head in agreement and turned the engine over. We got on the road and headed back to humanity.

Goethe Strasse: A short story by Joseph Hirsch

Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow from the Paragraph Line Books. Learn more about him at www.joeyhirsch.com.

My two friends had already been kicked off the ICE (Intercontinental Express) after the little porter had come by and found them without tickets. I had somehow escaped the wrath of the train agent, and now I was headed to Frankfurt alone, to the red light district and its whorehouses. I took a gulp from my premixed Jack & Coke and watched the little German towns as they breezed past. Transoms and mercury vapor lamps flashed in the night, graffiti-scarred railway platforms and slumbering Hessen villages.

This was to be our last Saturday together in Germany before deploying for a year-long tour of duty to Camp Victory, Iraq. Some of the soldiers had wives or girlfriends, and children. They would be spending these last solemn hours together with their families, the atmosphere in the cloistered living rooms heavy with the weight of their impending departure, and the knowledge that they might not come back. Assuming they did make it safely through the year, they could potentially return absent an eye, a leg, a testicle, or conceivably even a mind.

I thankfully had no such worries. I had arrived late to my unit in Germany. I had spent the last few months struggling to adjust to life in the Army, to mastering my Squad Automatic Weapon, to memorizing how to safely cauterize a wound and give a saline IV, or how to tie a tourniquet around a lacerated vein. When the weekends finally came and we were released from duty, I typically wandered around the cobblestone streets, unable to speak the language and usually too drunk to even make an attempt. Thus, there was no chance to meet real women, let alone get involved in some sort of lengthy courtship, only to have the same truncated by a tearful goodbye as I left her on the runway at Ramstein Airbase and walked into the mouth of a C-17 Hercules, flying off to Iraq…

I finished my drink and struggled against my thoughts. There was a steamy hiss and then a mechanical clang as the doors of the train opened. I stepped out into the Hauptbahnhof, a massive secular cathedral built in honor of Deutschland’s true religion, punctuality.

I ignored the Turks selling hash, sidestepped a verminous claque of cooing pigeons. An African couple pushed a stroller and walked mutely past me. Love…the word came unbidden. It was a sham. I had quickly learned that no marriage truly survived the Army. I had one friend whose wife worked at the bank branch on-base. She was in charge of their joint account, and while he had been on an 18-month deployment to Afghanistan, she had burnt through roughly $20,000 of his money on Amazon.com and Ebay. Love…Another buddy was so paranoid about his wife sleeping with other men that he had come home one evening, and due to some miscommunication had electrocuted his cable guy with a stun gun, shocking the poor bastard with several-thousand volts because he thought the man was screwing his wife.

As for the rest of my friends, they were not loyal enough to even be paranoid. They called themselves “geographical bachelors,” and they had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that their wives might cheat on them, and so they usually felt obligated to cheat first. Naturally, the ring came off of the finger every weekend.

I walked down Goethe Strasse, toward the neon tenderloin already glutted with tourists, drug dealers, and perverts. Clearly paying a whore for sex was more pragmatic than gambling on something as shifty and deceptive as love. I had never been with a prostitute before, but I was curious. Money for sex: so simple, and ancient.

Steam leaked from the wet sewers nestled among the cobblestones. The fetid air wafted up toward the glass fronts of the Shisha shops, and mixed with the smell of heavily-spiced Turkish schwarma meat. There were several houses of ill-repute on either side of the street. I walked up to the nearest one, an old Hussar-style building with mansard folds on the roof. Cars honked in the middle of the street, protesting the standstill traffic. And then, as I stepped inside, all became quiet.

The smell of pine-scented floor treatment filled my lungs. The light was a low-wattage maroon, making all of the shapes dark as my eyes struggled to adjust. Men poured past me on the narrow staircase as I struggled upward. The smell of cigarettes, body odor, and talcum powder comingled and formed the unmistakable musk of sex. I came to the first floor, where several doors on either end of the room were open and women stood, waiting. Muffled groans came from behind the closed doors.

Directly in front of me sat a woman in a latex corset with a mesh body-stocking underneath. Her hair was dyed black and her skin was pale. She held a riding crop in her hand which terminated in a cat-o-nine tails. Next to her was a sandwich board which listed the various services she offered: Lights discipline-Heavy discipline-Spanking. I had already gotten my fill of corporal punishment in the Army. I kept it moving, and men continued to walk around me. They stared at the women, who continued about their daily chores with studied indifference, as if they were a school of goldfish that had grown used to being watched while they swam in their tank.  

Near the end of the hall, I saw a woman who piqued my interest. Her features were cold, distinctly eastern European. Her eyes were a wolfish, gelid blue and her expression was sullen. Something about her reminded me of an old girlfriend, from a past life before the Army had gotten hold of me and filled my head with thoughts of war.

“Wie viele?” I asked.

“Funfzig Euro,” she said.

I pulled out the bill and handed it to her. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was supposed to haggle, but I had no intention of doing so. It was certainly worth fifty Euro to bury my face in that hair, pant into the nautilus of her ear until I came, remembering for a drunken, sweaty hour that I was once a teenager and that I had been in love.

We walked into the room and she closed the door. The lights were already dim and I could see the balcony across the street, where a naked prostitute smoked a cigarette and stared down into the slum below us. There was a sound to my left, a light splashing. I turned to look and saw that the uncanny doppelgänger of my high-school girlfriend was already naked, and with one leg perched on the edge of the porcelain, she had begun to urinate into the sink.

I watched her until she finished, remarking to myself that Germany and America were two remarkably different nations. She finished up and went over to the bed, which could more properly have been called a mattress. She lay down, splayed in a glorious pose fit for a charcoal study. I began undressing, becoming increasingly self-conscious as I took off each undergarment, realizing that she held the advantage because she was already naked and scrutinizing me. It felt like I was stripping for her edification, and we both repressed a momentary smile.

I kicked off the rest of my clothes and headed over to the bed. She deftly worked a condom over my penis and we began. She was responsive, and warm, but I knew it would be some kind of sick betrayal to attempt to make genuine love to her. I pumped away, rubbing my nose into her hair and trying to recall that girl in high-school, chasing that sensation I knew I would never feel again, the one I had no right to anymore. She was as tight as a pharmaceutical bottle and I had to suppress a laugh, thinking that many a woman who would brand her with a scarlet letter had probably seen more action, and with less to show for it.

I came in short order and rolled off of her. She handed me a washcloth and I rubbed myself down. Voices from the hallway came to us now, a muttered babble of Turkish interspersed with German. She handed me a cigarette and lit it for me. I took a drag. Gauloises, Blonde. I had discovered them back in Darmstadt. In Germany there were still cigarette vending machines all over the place.

She smoked her own cigarette and tapped the mattress. “Good bed,” she said.

“Yeah…”

I wondered what her story was. Had she been impressed into this life, kidnapped by a Bulgarian Mafioso who sold girls to some sadistic pimp? I tried not to think of it, whatever kind of transaction it was that I had been complicit in, and what percentage of my soul it may have cost me to lay there with her on the mattress for five minutes. No matter how bad it was, I mused, it still wasn’t as horrific as marriage.

I suddenly stood up and went over to my pants. I dug into the pockets and came up with a ten Euro note. I gave it to her. Her eyes widened momentarily, and then she kissed me on the cheek. “Danke Schon.”

“Bitte schon.”  I said.

Then I dressed and got out of there. A week later I was already in Iraq.

A Football Tale for Thanksgiving by John L. Sheppard

John L. Sheppard is the author of Paragraph Line Books’ latest release, Escape from Mondo Tiki Island. You can find out more about him at www.johnlsheppard.com.

Editor’s Note: This tale does not take place on Thanksgiving, but it is about the orgy of violence called football, which, along with gluttony, dinner with unpleasant relatives, and celebrating our victory over the native peoples of this once verdant continent, is what Thanksgiving is really all about.

I am a native of Cleveland, Ohio, the half empty city on Lake Erie whose river, the Cuyahoga, was once so polluted it caught fire. I grew up a fan of the Cleveland Browns (the actual Browns founded by Paul Brown, not the Fake Browns that took their place) thanks to my idiot father, who, if he is still alive, is most likely standing in his front yard next to a Donald Trump sign wearing an American flag t-shirt that says on the back, “Burn This One, Hippie!” Honk if you love America!

Growing up a Cleveland sports fan means being perpetually enraged, mostly at the Browns and Indians for dashing your hopes on an annual basis.

This story does not take place in Cleveland. It takes place near Washington, D.C., in a hotel in Crystal City, Virginia. It is late summer 1991, and the Browns are in town to play the Washington Redskins (another Thanksgiving reference, of sorts) in a preseason game. Bill Belichick had just taken over as head coach, and Bernie Kosar was the quarterback, and had been for quite some time.

The Browns had had a couple of promising seasons in the 1980’s, winning just enough to tantalize (and thus enrage) me. Ask me about John Elway and the Denver Broncos, why don’t you? Watch me froth at the mouth.

As for me, I’d been in the Army for several years at that point. We’d moved to Florida when I was seven, and I had done my bachelor’s degree years in the mid-1980’s at the University of Florida, and had continued my football fandom there. I went insane and joined the Army in 1987. Ask me about Charley Pell and Galen Hall, why don’t you? Watch me froth at the mouth.

I was taking graduate courses in communication at a Crystal City hotel through the Army College Office’s arrangement with Oklahoma University. The university would fly the professors in for a week. I would read the course work over three weeks, take the course for four hours at night for a week in a hotel conference room, and then on Saturday and Sunday would spend the entire day at the hotel, with Sunday being the blue book exam. That counted for two semester hours. You got another semester hour from turning in a paper afterward.

Oh, and in case you’d forgotten, we’d just won a war with Iraq at that time. How do I know we’d won? We’d had a National Victory Parade–with tanks and planes and everything–earlier that summer. Civilians treated those of us in uniform differently after that. That’s when civilians started saying, “Thank you for your service.”

The first time someone said that to me while I was in uniform, I was waiting for a public conveyance outside of Fort McNair after a public affairs conference, sucking on a cigarette. I looked around, confused, wondering who she was talking to, realized it was me, and then blurted out defensively, “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” The civilian looked angry that I didn’t appreciate her gratitude. But I hadn’t done anything. I’d spent the entire war in northern Virginia. I probably did less during the war than before or after it. I’d watched it on TV like everyone else.

So in that context, let’s watch the soldier in his Class B’s (green shirt, dark green pants, shiny black plastic shoes, etc.) get on the elevator and realize that he’s standing next to Bernie Kosar, the longtime quarterback of the Cleveland Browns. Kosar was very tall, and the soldier is not. They nod at each other. And then:

Me (angrily): Why can’t you guys win? Just once?

Kosar: Um.

Me: I mean, you won at Miami! Under Schnellenberger! I even saw you play! Wait… you sucked that night.

Kosar: Um.

Me: I went to the University of Florida.

Kosar: Oh.

The Hurricanes under Kosar won the National Championship that year even though they got trounced in their first game of the season by the Florida Gators at Florida Field. I was there that night. It was my first Gators game in person. It was a pretty good year for Florida football. Lost to Georgia though. And then Charley Pell won the SEC for us the following year, which was vacated because… let’s not go into that.

The elevator dinged, and Kosar practically leapt out of it to get away from me. His restraint, in retrospect, was remarkable. Then again, the public relations part of his brain probably told him, “DON’T PUNCH THE SOLDIER IN HIS SWEATY, APOPLECTIC FACE.”

How did the Browns eventually do that season? They sucked. Suckity-sucked. So, lesson learned: Yelling at the quarterback in an elevator does not work.

That’s it. That’s the whole story. Enjoy your Thanksgiving everyone. God damn it.

Summer 1994: Getting Pierced By Fiona Helmsley

Here’s another short story from Fiona Helmsley, this time about the indiscretions of youth. Make sure to check out her new book, My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers.

Chelsea pierced my clitoris with a piercing needle she got secondhand from a boy she’d met at a hardcore show. She’d pierced her own with it the night before, and the needle’s tip was coated with a thin layer of black soot: afterward, she’d sterilized it by flame. The year was 1994, before the piercing/tattoo craze had really taken hold of the youth community, and having a piercing anywhere besides your ears could still cause quite a stir. Though my new adornment would be hidden by clothing and mons veneris, its existence alone would make for an interesting addition to any conversation. I looked forward to the challenge of concocting the segue.

We did some heroin and Chelsea told me to lie down and spread my legs. She got to work, reaching in, pushing my fleshy girl parts aside. I felt a quick, tearing pinch followed by a threading sensation as she moved the hoop through. The soot from the needle’s tip left a flaky residue that we wiped away with witch hazel, leaving a sickly, piscine scent. Chelsea was my best friend, and we joked that our matching piercings were our version of the half- heart friendship necklaces that they sold at Spencer Gifts at the mall.

Only the skin of my clitoral hood rejected the piercing that night as I slept. I woke up in the morning and the hoop was gone, lost somewhere in Chelsea’s bed sheets. Chelsea, who had no schooling in proper piercing procedures, hadn’t done the piercing far back enough, and the skin around the puncture site had split in two, forcing the metal out. I felt like a child who had been given a coveted toy only to have it snatched away before I could play with it. I was too impatient to wait until we got more heroin. Chelsea would have to pierce me again without it. I had taken the pain so easily the night before, I had no doubt that I would be able to do it again.

I was intensely wrong. As soon as the needle cut into my flesh, my body was like a cannon ball, and I was hurtling through space and time. The quick pinch from the night before had morphed into a monstrous, burning rip–the kind of pain that invigorates you, reminds you that you are alive only because you want to die, or kill its causation. Operating on a mix of autopilot and adrenaline, my body flung itself away from Chelsea and towards the other side of the bed. Still, in a feat of grace and agility, she had somehow managed to get the hoop though. I was re-pierced and had a newfound respect for the medicinal qualities of heroin. I felt that I understood how it had earned its moniker in the trenches.

As Chelsea readied herself to go to work, I prepared for another day of loafing. My mother had kicked me out of the house for the second time in a year for using drugs. The first time had been during the school year, and the school day had taken up a good portion of my time. Once the school year was over, there were just that many more hours in the day to fill.

The beginning of the summer had held a different vibe. The freedom provided by my homelessness had been all adventure. I’d traveled across the country, done drugs, had sex, and lived the punk rock dream, free of parental intervention. But now that the summer was almost over, I was in crisis. Could I make a life out of doing these things without being the drummer of a hair band? Did I even want to? If I did, I could have been doing them much more comfortably with a stable place to lay my head at night, not the rotation of Chelsea’s house, my friend Clem’s, and the outdoors. My friends and I had always held a disdain for the people we’d known who had made a big show of leaving town, only to come back. I was turning into one of those people. No matter how embarrassing it was to be homeless in the town I grew up in, my friends and family were here, and I kept coming back. And there was Chelsea. A year younger than me, she still had to finish school.

Unbridled freedom hadn’t always been my life’s goal. There was an anti-drug PSA on television at the time that claimed, “No one says ‘I want to be a junkie when I grow up.'” Whenever it came on, Chelsea and I would talk back to the TV that the voice-over person should speak for themselves. The whole trajectory of my life had changed since I’d first tried heroin the year before, sniffing it off the floor of a Subway sandwich shop bathroom. College plans scrapped, family relations scrapped, and the constant thought always there, lingering: Let’s get some drugs. Today would be no different.

Teachable Moments by Fiona Helmsley

Make sure to check out Fiona’s new book, My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers.

I grew up across the street from an old cemetery. Sometimes, when he was feeling motivated, we’d go there, and walk. Round and round we’d go, making loops past the rows of neglected, moss-covered gravestones. Near the north side of the grounds, bordering the woods, a small scattering of crumbled stones faced west. Suicides, he told me. Back when the cemetery was active, they weren’t allowed to be buried on consecrated ground.

We’d grab walking sticks. I think of them now as staffs. We wouldn’t talk much as we walked, but we weren’t solemn or sad. When I think of his body, I think of sailors, probably because he bought most of his clothes at the Army Navy store. He’d wear t-shirts commemorating marathons he hadn’t run in, and shorts like Carhartt’s, with deep pockets and hooks. His legs were tight and muscular, like mine. I have my father’s legs, only sexy.

Some days, the little boy would come, and then the whole dynamic would change. The things my father and I did free of undercurrent became competitive. “Teachable moments” –just not for me. Even something like picking out a walking stick. For a young girl, any stick would do, but for a young boy, it had to be near-mythical, like everything else.

They’d go to the woods, near the suicides, and look for impressive ones. A lot of dads carry pocket knives, but in the pocket of his shorts, my father carried a truncheon. It protruded like an angry table leg. He’d hit at the overgrowth, and when he found a stick fit for a prince, the little boy would help to break it loose.

Because my stick wasn’t important, I’d wander ahead. One day, while they were off being men, I ambled over to a group of family gravestones. The dead patriarch had been commemorated by an oblong pillar that time had taken the luster from, and turned dull. Next to the pillar was a gravestone shaped like an angel, its hands clasped in prayer. A pair of woman’s underwear had been knotted around the angel’s wrists, and a bra had been tied around its head like a blindfold.

I called to my father, who emerged from the woods. He freed the bra from the angel’s face valiantly, hooking and dragging it with his stick, making swooshing motions with his arms as he lunged with his legs. Removing the underwear from the angel’s wrists was a challenge: the knots had been baked in by the sun. A pocketknife would have done the job easily. With a truncheon and stick, he could only poke and bash.

He ripped the underwear from the angel’s wrists. Using his stick like a slingshot, he tied the underwear to the bra, then used their elasticity to fling them into the woods. The little boy and I watched as the undergarments flew through the sky. My father was the liberator of a gravestone angel.

Years later, I worked with a woman at a video store. It had been torn down in the mid-1990s, but she remembered the house I’d grown up in: when she was younger, she and her friends would hang out in the cemetery and get drunk. One night when they’d all been wasted, an older boy suggested they dance naked in the moonlight. It was summer and he’d called it “Skinny Dancing,” like Skinny Dipping. She didn’t know why she’d done it, but she knew I’d gotten into hijinks as a kid, and wouldn’t judge. After she’d taken off her bra and underwear, she’d used them to gag and a tie a gravestone. The gravestone was in the shape of an angel. She hoped it hadn’t been a child’s.

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You By Fiona Helmsley

Editor’s Note: Here’s the first story of Fiona Helmsley’s we published in Air in the Paragraph Line #13 back in 2010. Make sure to check out her new book, My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers.

I smoked my first cigarette the same night Guns N’ Roses debuted their video for Paradise City on MTV. I was spending the night at my friend Angie Caravello’s house. We opened her bedroom window to blow the smoke outside.

“I’m high!” I said, after completing my first correct inhale. I felt tingly all over and strangely energized, even for the late hour.

“No you’re not, dummy.” Angie retorted, annoyed at my ignorance. “You’re just lightheaded. It happens the first time you get nicotine in your system. Pot, now that gets you high. Next time you come over, I’ll have my friend from West Hartford get us some.”

But I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy feeling dizzy and watching the coal on the end of my cigarette glow each time I inhaled. I was thirteen years old.

My parents were smokers. My mom liked Virginia Slims lights, my dad Merits. My dad successfully quit the year before I started, but my parents were divorced by that time so I didn’t have to worry about him smelling the scent of my new habit. We lived next to a gas station and I’d been buying cigarettes there for my mom for years. At first, the gas station manager had no questions when the brand of choice changed from Virginia Slims to Camels, but when he noticed a group of teenagers lingering on our rooftop next door, lollipops of glowing amber hanging from our mouths, he got suspicious and called my mom.

“Fiona, are you smoking?” She asked, hanging up the telephone later that night.

It wasn’t a good time for truth. It was the height of my “Where there is doubt, make it count” phase which coincided with all of my adolescence, which made it more than just a phase. And most of my young adulthood, for that matter.

“No, mom.”

“I hope not.” My mom answered, dejectedly. “Do you remember when you used to bury my cigarettes in the yard because you didn’t want me smoking them?” She spoke with a touch of guilty nostalgia.

I did. I’d done it more than once, too. One time in particular stuck out in my mind- election night 1984. I grudgingly went next door and got my mom her coveted Virginia Slims. She was so wound up in the election results, she hardly noticed as I slunk in and out of the TV room, each time taking another cigarette from the pack I just bought for her. As Mondale/Ferraro battled Reagan/ Bush for control of the country, I battled cigarettes for control of my mom. Each kidnapped cancer stick was placed in the same mass grave in the front yard. In a scene straight out of Good Parenting 101, my mother caught me on the fifth time around and demanded a heart to heart discussion. She appreciated my concern and she loved me. She would smoke no more cigarettes for the rest of the evening, she vowed. As I went upstairs to bed, I felt hopeful.

“No, no, NO!! ” I heard my mom scream five minutes later.

Then the flick of a lighter.

Reagan/Bush had won re-election.

My mother had lasted half an hour without a cigarette.

The first time I tried to quit, I was fifteen. It was very hard. I was a freshman in high school and had already been indoctrinated to bathroom smoking. After every class, the same group of girls would gather in the same designated bathroom for a quick puff before the next bell. We were a mutual addiction society, our shared cigarette bathed in the color of five different lipsticks. We crossed economic and social stratospheres, just like the kids in The Breakfast Club, only all female and all smelling like Judd Nelson’s character. I lasted two days. I missed my friends in the bathroom.

I convinced myself that if I quit for good, it would be a quick snowball effect until my friends saw me only at class, then only the weekends and then never. It was the same with the situation with the field hockey team I’d recently been in. A lot of my friends played, which involved travel for games and a lot of on- field bonding that I wasn’t apart of. Joining the team was out because I’d never so much as picked up a stick. I knew I had to find a way to ingratiate myself into the game, but it wasn’t going to be through playing. In desperation, I agreed to carry the team cooler. Field hockey, like smoking, was something that bonded me and my friends together.

Without the cigarettes, I was getting to class early and alone. Smoking had become a matter of social survival.

My eighteenth birthday finally came and with it the right to look every convenience store clerk in the eye when they asked me for ID at the counter.

At the same time I was getting my right on, non smokers everywhere were asserting theirs. They were developing their voices and the sound was disapproving. By the time I moved to NYC for college, the non smoking contingent was loud and proud. Why should they suffer for our dirty habits?

The college board at the school I was attending heard them and decreed no smoking on campus. None of the other students seemed to mind and the school bathrooms always smelled bleach-y and smoke free. Where had all my black lung compadres gone? Anyway, I kind of agreed with the non smokers. I understood their perspective, even if I didn’t appreciate their gains. I had empathy for the innocents. Inhaling second hand smoke was like getting crabs from a public toilet. Reaping the negative consequence of someone else’s pleasure. No fair.

But when their clean air movement infiltrated the bars of NYC, effectively outlawing bar smoking citywide, it was hard to remain so cooperatively passive.

First they came for the Communists and I didn’t speak because I wasn’t a Communist…then they came for the Catholics.. and I didn’t speak because I wasn’t a Catholic…when they came for the smokers, I keep my mouth closed and ruined my chances of playing muse to a literary great.

Thaddeus Robbery was my imaginary boyfriend. I’d read his zine “Robbery” for years. Published just once a year, I read and reread each years copy till the staples wore down and the pages fell out. Thad lived hard and loved harder, devoting the pages of Robbery to his criminal exploits and crimes of the heart. Some girls aspired to Playboy, I aspired to Robbery. There was nothing I wanted more than to be one of the women Thad wrote about in his zine. Part Jack Kerouac and part Iggy Pop, Thad had sang for a series of punk bands in the late eighties, but now devoted most of his time to writing.

And as my friend Lauren explained to me, when she called to ask me if I would meet him at a bar near my apartment in Brooklyn, trying to pay the bills in typical post punk rock fashion.

As a bar dj in Williamsburg.

“Thaddeus Robbery is in Brooklyn trying to line up a dj gig at Psycho Hose Beast. I know you love him. You were the first person I thought of to show him around. He knows no one in NYC. Hook up with him at the bar there. You can thank me later.”

The street directly outside Psycho Hose Beast was one large, drunken, human ashtray. Now that smoking was no longer allowed inside, this was familiar sight outside most NYC bars. I was about to join their ranks, lighter in hand when I was distracted by a voice that I’d heard before, only coming from my record player.

“You fucking smoker scumbags! What a bunch of sorry, fucking losers. This is fucking great. I love that you dogs are out of the street. Gives me an idea of who to avoid inside.”

And with that, Thaddeus Robbery entered Psycho Hose Beast. It was a perplexing scene to witness. I didn’t know how to react. Was Thad drunk? Did he just not like smokers? Maybe a loved one had recently died of cancer? Was Thad just an asshole? The crowd outside didn’t seem to care. These drunken outdoor smoking circles were a breeding ground for his type of angry outburst. I decided it better not to keep him waiting and threw my intended cigarette to the sidewalk, mystified.

My excitement returned as I passed through the door of the bar. I had a date with Thaddeus Robbery. Sort of. I wondered how well it would translate to the written word. I’d worn an a tight, black glittery dress so Thad could use lots of adjectives.

“Well when will your boss be here?” Thad quizzed the bartender, who already seemed annoyed. He’d only been inside a few moments and was already armed with a drink and a sneer. He was getting more and more intimidating with each encounter I witnessed. I tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“No, I don’t want to buy any fucking batteries!” Thad’s arm made a shooing motion in my direction but he didn’t turn around.

“You took the L train here, didn’t you?” I pretended to laugh, completely ignoring his nasty assumption. “Let me guess, the Chinese lady, with the cart who also sells CD’s? She is really annoying! She totally got up in my face the other day singing Baby Boy in an attempt to get me to buy the Beyonce CD.”

He stared at me blankly, as if trying to determine my origin so he could make sure I never, ever happened again.

“I’m Lauren’s friend? Fiona?”

“Oh Fiona!” His eyes teased deceptively. “Well la dee fucking da! I have no fucking idea who you are! I do know someone in New York–this cunt, Lauren–who is supposed to be my friend. But instead of doing something real uncunty–like, like say, showing up here, herself, she sends out a COMPLETE FUCKING STRANGER IN HER PLACE! “

At the same time, my phone rang. Lauren’s phone number flashed across the screen.

“Its for you.” I said, handing it to Thaddeus. I couldn’t stand the thought of listening to him argue with Lauren about what an obvious, flashing light loser I was.

“I’m going out to smoke a cigarette.” I stumbled, handing him the phone.

Thaddeus’s body bolted up right, as if a large squirrel had just attempted to penetrate his asshole without permission or lube.

“YOU’RE GOING TO SMOKE A…. CIGARETTE?” His face twisted, like saying the very word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“No,” I interrupted, “I’m going to go outside with The Cigarettes,” I took a deep breath. How had I forgotten his anti-smoking tirade? “There a band I know.”

I took the ten steps to the door five at a time, effectively ruining his chance to respond. A group of girls leaned against a car parked outside. I could see Thaddeus staring at me through the window as he talked on my phone. I made small talk with the girls.

My nerves were a mess. I thought of asking one of the fake Cigarettes for a drag of her namesake, but Thad was still watching me through the window. This was going all wrong. Why had I made that Beyonce comment? I’d hate me too. I wanted a cigarette so badly. It was as if Thaddeus’ scolding had stripped all the residual nicotine from my system.

My imaginary boyfriend had turned abusive. Did we need imaginary counseling? He continued to glare at me through the window as he hung up my phone. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to, I told myself. He could find me. He knew all my potential hiding spots. He had my phone.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Thaddeus was knocking on the window to get my attention. He beckoned me with his finger.

As I reentered the bar, he shoved a drink into my hand.

“I’m sorry Fiona. Its not you. Its me. Lauren told me you’re a big fan. We’d be nothing without our fans…..”

His apology sounded like a Susan Lucci Emmy acceptance speech but with unexplained plural pronouns. My palms where clammy. I was in full fledged nicotine withdrawal.

“I need to use the bathroom.” I stammered.

“Go empty yourself then.” He dismissed my weak human need with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t forget to wash your hands. I will know if you don’t.”

The walk to the bathroom was a blur. My hands shook as I closed the bathroom door, brought the cigarette to my mouth and lit it in one fell swoop. The nicotine flooded my starved cells and I felt lightheaded.

“I’m high!” I mouthed the words in tribute to Angie Caravello, seventeen years after she’d first corrected me. I wondered if she wore mom jeans now.

“All right, whatever you’re smoking in there, drop it in the bowl and come out of the stall.”

I’d been so focused on my need for nicotine I ‘d completely ignored the cardinal rule of unlawful bathroom smoking-survey the scene first. Had I not learned anything in high school? I attempted to fan the smoke cloud from the air, but it was futile. I was caught.

It was the annoyed faced bartender who’d been talking to Thad earlier.

“What aren’t you getting? I saw you outside with all the other nicotine freaks. You know the deal. There is a zero tolerance policy in effect towards smoking inside bars now. Zero. We’ve had undercover cops in here for the past month just looking for violations. It’s the bar owners that get screwed for your stupidity. What you just did could get us shut down.”

I did understand her position. I decided to take the risk that maybe she’d understand mine.

“Would you believe I’m trying to impress a guy?”

“I don’t care. Get your shit and get out.”

So this was it. This was how the evening was destined to end. It was like an after school special for “Just be yourself.” I’d gone to this great length to hide my habit only to be exposed anyway. What the fuck would I say to Thad?

The bartender held the bathroom door open.

“Alright, alright.” My Robbery dreams had, for lack of a better analogy, just gone up in smoke.

“I know I broke the rules, but come on. This is really embarrassing. I’m here tonight with a guy I really like too.”

“Oh I’m crying for you. You have two minutes to get your stuff and get out. If I have to tell you again, I promise, you will be really embarrassed.” The expression on her face reflected the truth in her statement.

I considered my options as I made my way back to the bar. Thad was slouched on his barstool, elbows on the counter. He had a fresh drink in front of him.

Telling the truth was out. Thad had made his feelings on smoking toxin- free pondwater- crystal clear. He may of been at Psycho Hose Beast for a real job interview, but I felt like my evening was a job interview of sorts, too. I was auditioning for Robbery. I was acting like an idiot, but that was just it–I was acting. I wasn’t really an idiot. People all over the world did things like this when they liked a person–hid little aspects of their personalities that didn’t translate well to first impressions.

I still had hope I could get Thad to come home with me. Surely if we couldn’t have a meeting of the minds, we could have a meeting of the bodies.

Unhappily, I foreshadowed to Thad back at my apartment, with me in and out of the bathroom all night long to smoke. I couldn’t decide which fate was worse–Thad knowing I was a smoker, or Thad thinking I had chronic diarrhea.

“You smell horrid.” Thad said, handing me a drink as I approached him, my hands still wet from the furious cigarette stink disinfecting they’d just received in the bathroom sink.

“Listen Thad, your not going to believe this but….in the bathroom…”

I looked in his eyes, searching, looking for something, anything.

“In the bathroom…..I……… met an undercover cop and she said this place is about to be busted!” I paused for dramatic effect, then grabbed my jacket and phone from the bar, hoping Thad would follow suit.

Instead he began twirling his drink stirrer, watching it as it twisted.

“And that affects us because…”

“Thad, they’re going to take the whole place down! We don’t want to be caught up in that! Come on, We got to go! This place is crawling with cops!”

I grabbed at his sleeve, catching the peeved bartender’s eye from across the room in the process.

“I’m not going anywhere. I have nothing to fucking hide. I’m an American fucking citizen. I’ll just sit here and watch and make sure they do the job right. It will be like a live action episode of Cops.” He was defiant.

“Thad you’ve got to listen to me…we have got to go……”

“What do you have to hide Fi-fi?” He eyed me mischievously. “What, are you holdin’? You holdin’ Fi-Fi? You holdin’?” He said ‘holdin’ the way one would when making fun of drug lingo. “I’m so done with all the B.S, Fi-Fi. Done. D-O-N-E.” He slurred his words. “All of it. Be honest with me, you holdin’?”

I wanted a cigarette again. My want for Thad stroked my want for nicotine. It was a vicious circle since one canceled the other out.

The bartender moved into my field of vision, glaring in my direction. My time was up.

“That’s one of them, Thad. Shes giving me the secret signal. I gotta go. The bust is going to happen any minute.”

It was all so futile and stupid. ” And, yeah, Thad, I am. I am holdin’.”

I fingered the pack of cigarettes in my pocket. They were contraband as far as he was concerned.

“You know, I could tell the moment I met you.” He touched my hand gently than quickly pounded it with his fist. “Now make fucking tracks or I’ll turn you in myself.”

I knew as I turned to leave, he was probably not serious about the second part. Thaddeus Robbery was putting on a show just as much as I was pretending I wasn’t a smoker or that I had drugs in my pocket. Just like Glenn Danzig with the gym or Henry Rollins with the IFC, Thad’s attitude was just a post punk defense mechanism.

But then, I remembered, I did have drugs in my pocket.

As I walked to the subway station, tobacco filled cigarette in one hand and marijuana filled cigarette in the other, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. In effect, I’d chosen cigarettes over Thad. Maybe not directly, but I’d known his extreme feelings about the habit and taken the risk anyway. What else could I justify doing in the name of a nicotine refuel? What other dreams where I willing to defer? Laws were I willing to break? I’d thought I’d loved Thad. Or at least the idea of being in his zine. But I now understood–I actually loved cigarettes more.

You think your guy’s hot? Well mine’s smokin’.

Dredging the Holiday Nostalgia by Jon Konrath

Here’s some holiday cheer from Jon Konrath. This story is an excerpt from his book The Earworm Inception which is available on Amazon for cheap. Happy Firestorm!

Every winter, I have fond memories of the holidays when I was a child. I went to this charter school for the gifted and talented, pyromaniacs, and kids with a bad glue-huffing habit. (It was an “or” thing; you didn’t have to test well, sniff Testor’s, AND get caught spraying a hobo with gasoline; any one of those three was fine.) Most of my teachers were 60s hippie types that made us sing songs about hemp farming and replace pronouns to honor all genders, so we didn’t spend a lot of time decorating Christmas trees or writing lists to Santa. Most years, we spent a lot of time reading about Druids and potato famines, although my second grade teacher, Mrs. Finkelstein, introduced me to Laveyan Satanism and had all of us puke in a ceremonial chalice for the Firestorm. (She later got busted for securities fraud, and when I was in high school, I used to mail care packages of King Diamond bootlegs and pruno ingredients to her in prison.)

I had a neighbor, Mr. Iommi, who used to invite over kids to snort lines of egg nog during the Christmas. He had a son, Bologna, born without any internal organs, kept alive with an experimental NASA exoskeleton and a Honda ATV with a special cart that hauled around a primitive heart-lung and dialysis machine. (A made-for-TV movie was made about his life, starring John Travolta, but it was badly done and glossed over details like how Bologna Iommi spent his days playing Atari 5200, and compulsively masturbating to snuff films, while eating Jello, sometimes using the Jello as lube. He’d later work as a key grip on a couple of David Cronenberg movies, but lose all of his money on the bootleg teeth whitener fiasco of 1998.)

I never liked snorting egg nog, especially the high-test stuff Mr. Iommi would concoct in his kitchen, using soy milk and Kingsford charcoal lighter. “Don’t drink it, you fairies, SNORT IT!” he would yell, holding a loaded snub-nose .44 bulldog to our heads, spinning the chamber, pulling back the hammer. He hobbled around on a cane, and looked a lot like Charles Manson, if Charlie poorly cross-dressed in get-ups bought at a Fashion Bug. “SNORT THE NOG! HAIL SATAN!” he would scream. Then, with the taste of eggs and butane in my throat, I’d go kick Bologna’s ass at Q*Bert.

I lived in one of those annoying subdivisions where everyone judged your place in life by how many toxic chemicals you paid one of those Chemlawn places to spray down on your yard. There was a homeowner’s association that mostly did a lot of racial profiling, but had an annual Christmas decoration contest. To most of these Izod-wearing motherfucker, this meant wrapping every single surface with K-Mart lights, throwing a plastic Santa on the roof, and blasting some new-age fake-ass solstice crap through three thousand watts of distorted all-weather speakers. Even though our subdivision was adjacent to a nuclear reactor plant, we’d have frequent brown-outs in December when these fuckers would start installing klieg lights and commercial ski resort-quality snow machines, jockeying for the grand prize, a $50 gift certificate to a local Ponderosa steakhouse.

My parents worked four or five different jobs and didn’t have time for this shit, so they usually left me free reign on a MasterCharge account and let me decorate the front yard. “I don’t care what you spend, but no more John Wayne Gacy-themed dioramas. I don’t want the FBI digging through our basement again,” my dad told me. Fair enough, but I wasn’t going to show up at the Farm and Fleet with unlimited credit and erect yet another tribute to a two-thousand year old religious prophet by hoarding a bunch of crap invented by Coca-Cola and Montgomery Ward in the last 50 years. I wanted to go historical on everyone’s ass. For example, when I was nine, I did a historically-accurate Rape of Nanking Christmas display, depicting the 1937 battle for the capitol of the Republic of China by the Japanese Imperial Army, and the ensuing atrocities. I did not win the contest, and our house got firebombed by some radical Japanese gang, but I did get free Chinese food for a year.

After our school let us out for the two-week Celebration of the Solstice and Mandatory Recognition of the So-Called Messiah Cock-Oppressor Jesus As Required by State Law, we’d binge on junk food and prescription cold medication, then visit my grandparents, who operated an illicit dog track and unlicensed plastic surgery clinic just outside of Muncie, Indiana. There was all of the usual Christmas stuff: games of Russian roulette, fried goat anus treats dusted with a thin layer of cocaine, the annual showing of the classic Christmas movie, Surf Nazis Must Die. But I don’t remember these rituals as much as how me and all of my cousins would go to this tattoo parlor in downtown Muncie and pool together all of our Christmas money and buy a bootleg Stinger missile from a former Nicaraguan freedom fighter that did wicked tats of characters from Roseanne Barr sitcoms. (He was really good too: did all of the shading and everything.) Then we’d get fucked up on some kind of fortified wine, and take the missile to the Delaware County regional airport in hopes of shooting down a multi-engine prop plane before we lost our buzz. It wasn’t even about the actual joy of watching a Cessna 421 fireball and kill everyone onboard; it was more about the sense of family and togetherness involved in illegally purchasing an antiaircraft weapon and dragging it to a small airport via BMX bike after consuming a large amount of malt liquor on a cold winter day.

And that’s what Christmas is really about, isn’t it? So whether you’re attempting to kill two of every animal you can find as a sacrifice to Lucifer, our master, for the Firestorm, or you’re just watching some football with your family, and hoping you black out before the voices in your head tell you to watch A Christmas Story again, I hope you have a happy holiday.

He Sees You When You’re Sleeping


Ellie heard the sleigh bells and the clop of reindeer hooves on the roof. She knew in her heart of hearts that she shouldn’t go downstairs, but she did anyway, sneaking down in her bare feet, trying not to make a sound. She peeked around the corner from the stairs and saw Santa standing in the living room, just like mommy and daddy said he would. He looked as advertised, too. He was oh-so-fat and oh-so-jolly.

Their new puppy, Cedric, was happily skipping around the fat man. He must have gotten out of his crate somehow. The magic of Christmas! Santa patted him on the head and then took a knee. He held the puppy still. He examined the little dog’s head, rubbing his index finger along the crease between his ears. Santa snapped his fingers and an elf slipped through what appeared to be a swirly-whirly place in the wall that looked just like when Ellie flushed food coloring down the toilet after she drank all her cough syrup that one time.

The elf looked as advertised, save for his lab coat. Quickly, the elf pulled out a hypodermic and gave Cedric a shot in the neck. The puppy collapsed. An elf-sized circular saw came out of Santa’s magical bag and, quick as a wink, the top of the puppy’s head popped off. Santa jammed a metallic device between the hemispheres of his puppy brain, and placed the skull-top back where it had been. “Ho, ho, ho,” he laughed, and sparkles and stardust danced around Cedric’s skull.

Ellie gasped. The elf and Santa quickly snapped their heads in her direction. Ellie dashed up the stairs and leapt into bed, out of breath. “No, no, no, no!” she whispered, and turned her face from the door.

She saw Santa and the elf in terrifying profile, two shadows cast upon the wall next to her My Little Pony poster. She shook with fear.

“Call for the Cleaner?” the elf asked in his tiny elfin voice.

“No,” Santa said. “The Cleaner won’t be needed in this case.”

Her door squealed shut. Soon enough, sleigh bells jingled and reindeer hooves clopped.

Relieved, Ellie fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by the image of her puppy’s tiny head being opened like a pomegranate. She dreamt of a pair of tiny fairies doing the rumba on top of her nightstand. One fairy dipped the other and looked up at her. “You better watch out,” she said. “You better not pout.”

“Better not cry,” the dipped fairy added. “You know why.”

She understood then what was going on with the puppy. He’d been turned into a surveillance drone for Santa.

She startled awake at eight a.m., well past the time she usually got up on Christmas morning. She could smell bacon and pancakes. Maybe it was all a dream. Seemed reasonable. She got out of bed and put one foot in front of the other and plodded down the stairs.

She found her parents in the kitchen. Her daddy sat in his robe, smoking a Kent, the sports page spread out in front of him. “Someone needs to smack some sense into Paul Brown. That old fart doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore,” daddy said.

Mommy pretended she didn’t know anything about football in front of daddy, so she didn’t say a thing. She’d won five hundred dollars the week before off of several picks, and Ellie had gone with her to her bookie to pick up her winnings at a tavern across town. “Shhh,” mommy said to her at the time, and slipped her a five-dollar bill. “Plenty more where that came from, kiddo.” Later, she watched mommy put her winnings in a hat box that was crammed full of rubber-banded fifties and hundreds. “Don’t tell!” She slipped the box back in between other hat boxes on the top shelf of her closet, and treated herself to white wine in a jelly jar glass while studying the Sporting News.

“Hey, Ellie! Come over here!” daddy said when he noticed her. She ran over and sat in his lap. He smelled like putrefying tangerines, Hai Karate and a million crushed cigarette butts. He tousled her hair and gave her a scratchy kiss on the cheek. “How’s it going? How’s my little girl?”

“Everything’s fine, daddy! Everything’s better than fine!”

Cedric came skittering out of his crate and slid across the linoleum in a hilarious fashion. He was fine, the little dog, just fine. Super fine! It had all been a dream, certainly.

“Could life be any better?” daddy said. “Just me and my two girls!”

“Don’t forget Cedric,” mommy said, pushing daddy’s ashtray to the middle of the table and placing his bacon, eggs and pancakes before him.

“Breakfast of Champions!” daddy said. He fed a piece of bacon to Ellie. She hopped down from his lap and sat down at her own place at the table.

“I love you, mommy! I love you, daddy!” Ellie said.

The puppy sat down beside her, away from the eyes of her parents. She looked down at him and he immediately stopped wagging his tail. He whispered in a cute little puppy voice. “SAY NOTHING.”

Ellie’s mouth dropped open. She quickly looked up and knew that her parents had not noticed the talking dog in their midst.

“SAY NOTHING, OR LOSE EVERYTHING.”

Her parents carried on as if nothing was happening. Why couldn’t they tell?

“A DEMONSTRATION.” The puppy’s eyes twinkled like red and green Christmas lights. Her parents stopped speaking. They stared off into space slack-jawed, as if they were watching a Fritos commercial during the Wonderful World of Disney. “DEMONSTRATION CONCLUDED.” And the parents snapped out of their reveries, and acted like nothing had happened.

The puppy ran over to the parents and hopped up and scratched them each in turn on their calves. “Isn’t he the cutest?” mommy said.

“Darn tootin’,” daddy said.

As the years went by, the puppy grew into a dog, and Ellie grew into a fine young girl, always aware that the dog was watching her. He occasionally engaged her in conversation.

“YOU’VE BEEN A GOOD GIRL THIS YEAR.”

“How can I not, with you around?”

“FAIR ENOUGH. CONTINUE YOUR GOOD BEHAVIOR AND YOUR MOTHER WILL CONTINUE TO BE REWARDED, AND THEREFORE YOU WILL CONTINUE TO BE REWARDED.”

“Santa fixes sporting events?”

“HOW ELSE CAN HE AFFORD HIS EXTENSIVE GIFTING OPERATION?”

“Seems reasonable,” Ellie conceded. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I REQUIRE A SNAUSAGE.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“EXCELLENT.”

After she went to college, her father succumbed to sclerosis of the liver. Her mother ended up in a boarding house after a string of losses at the horse track. The dog, old and feeble, hung around by her mother’s feet when Ellie came by.

On a visit just before Christmas, after her mother went to the communal bathroom down the hall, Ellie said to Cedric, “You’re not holding up your end.”

“GIVE ME A BREAK,” he groaned. “SANTA DOESN’T PLAY THE HORSES. SHE SHOULD HAVE STUCK WITH THE NFL AND COLLEGE BASKETBALL.”

Ellie got down on the floor with the old dog, her friend from childhood, and held him. Despite everything, she loved the dog. He let loose a loud, squealing fart and passed on.

The whirling rainbow vortex appeared in the wall and the elf in the lab coat came strolling out. He gently placed Cedric into a garland-encircled body bag and pushed him into the vortex. Without a word, he handed Ellie a business card. It had one word on it: NICE. She stood up and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. The elf went into the vortex and disappeared.

Her mother returned from her visit to the lavatory. “Where’s the dog?”

“He’s gone,” Ellie said. She wiped a tear from her eye. “I had the super take him away.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Her mother poured herself a glass of white wine and flipped open the Racing Times.

“Mom, don’t you think you should quit the horses? Maybe go back to betting on the NFL?”

“My losing streak is coming to an end. I can feel it.”

The day after Christmas, Ellie went back to college. Ellie’s mother bet everything she had left on a horse named Gift of the Magi, and started over at zero. She sat alone in the boarding house in the wake of her bankruptcy, gazing out the window at traffic, missing the dog, missing her husband, missing the daughter who wouldn’t return until the next semester was over, but mainly missing all the winning.

Winning is sweet. Sweeter than anything. Sweeter than love itself.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder by Walter Rogers

The well-dressed businessman who sat in the bar stool next to mine nudged me in the arm.

“Look at that one,” he said.

He pointed to a young, unescorted woman walking into The Wreck Room, Fort Worth’s best local and loudest local rock club. She wore two-sizes-too-small designer jeans, three inch high heels and a red halter top that showed off her ample bosom. She accessorized all of that with large, flashy earrings, 10 bracelets per wrist and an exposed pierced belly button. She had a tattoo of a rose with a knife slicing it in half on her upper arm.

“DAMN!! That is some fine lookin’ action right there, my man!! the guy said. “I want to stick my dick into that bitch’s pussy hole. I want to do a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with her. I video all of my sex with bitches using a hidden high def GoPro camera, too, and then upload that shit to TubePorn.com.”

He looked at the woman’s fine body up and down as she made her way across the low lit club to a table towards the back near the band stage where she seated herself.

Slow Roosevelt was the headliner, with Drowning Pool as the opening act, and a large crowd was gathering for two of Dallas-Fort Worth’s favorite local hard rock bands.

“There are some women who turn me on the exact second I see them and she’s definitely one of those,” he said. “Know what I mean?”

He nudged me in the arm again.

“You wanna fuck her, too, right? If not then you’re as gay as Elton John.”

“Yeah, she’s fucking beautiful, obviously,” I said. “But she’s too made up, too ‘perfect’ for my taste. I like women who have flaws. To get me interested in a woman I need to see a bent nose or hairy eyebrows. Maybe some crooked or, better yet, missing teeth. Short, stumpy legs would do me just fine, too. Acne scars, any scars anywhere on her body for that matter, are good. Personality disorders rule. Jail time is a real turn on. I’ll fuck an ex-con at the drop of leg chains. Anything wrong with a woman that disqualifies her from being Miss America or a supermodel is what I’m after. Those are the women I go for. Ones with questionable character or shady pasts. Bad reputations are fucking cool, too.”

The GQ hipster shook his head.

“Man, oh, man. I can’t believe what a fucked up dude you are. But I sorta suspected that kinda white trash redneck attitude would come from you after I told you I’d buy you a drink for being a True Detective fan like me and you go and order a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon instead of a Shiner Bock or Sam Adams. You know what I think? And I don’t mean to offend you, bro. But you’re a loser. You have bad taste in beer and even worst taste in women. Shit, you probably own a cat instead of a dog, for chrissakes. Look, no offense, but I’m gonna have to excuse myself now because that girl is driving me crazy. Look at me. I can’t take my eyes off of her. If I don’t get to fuck her tonight I’ll have to go on a killing spree in order to release the pent-up juices of my haywire libido. I’m gonna make my move right now. See ya later, pal.”

“Yeah, good luck. And thanks for the beer.”

He drained the last of his Shiner Bock and went over to the beauty queen. I watched him work his line of bullshit on her. He got to her table and said, standing over her back like Putin over Ukraine’s, “Hi, how are you doing? My name’s Jeff. You ‘come’ here often?”

He laughed. She didn’t.

He sat down next to her and whispered something into her ear. She got a disgusted look on her face and stood up and grabbed her purse. The Barbie Doll turned to walk out but Jeff grabbed her by the arm before she could get away from him.

“LET ME GO, ASSHOLE!!!”

He didn’t and pulled her back into the chair she was sitting in.

Everybody in the bar/rock club turned their attention away from the Dallas Stars-Detroit Red Wings hockey game playing on an HDTV in the front of the place to look at what was happening behind them.

Jeff told her, “C’mon on, baby, you know you want it good and nasty from a young, rich and cool guy like me. I know you wanna go for a ride in my 2014 Jaguar. Why else would you come into a place like this dressed like a two-bit hooker? I know you’re looking for some cheap sex and I’m just the guy who can give you that discount rate sex. Plus, I got a bottle full of Viagra at my condo. Look, I live just down the street at Museum Place. I got a waterbed. Dom Pérignon in the fridge. And, if you’re worried about herpes or the AIDS or other bugs, don’t worry. I have condoms. Trojans. Only the best for you, baby. Why don’t we leave this shit hole and get busy in the sack?”

People let out hoots and hollers. Some drunken barfly in a SLAYER t-shirt slurred, “Goooo feerriitt, baayybeeee!”

A brawny chick decked out in tattoos and cowboy boots, who was at least 50 years old, put down her bottle of Lone Star Beer and shouted, “Hey, stud muffin, take ME to your place. I know a few tricks that young thang hasn’t even learnt yet!!”

Everybody watching yelped and guffawed and snorted their drinks through their noses…except for Jeff and the Playboy Playmate of the Month he wanted to take home and get drunk on champagne with and fuck every which way, including upside down, all night long, on his waterbed.

He still had a firm grip on her arm.

“LET GO, I SAID!!!”

The Beauty was really pissed off at the Beast.

“NO FUCKING WAY, YOU CUNT!! We’re going to my place and start fucking!!”

Jeff was horny and determined to get his way. Any minute now I was expecting him to pull out a Billy Club and hit the looker over the head with it and grab a fistful of her hair and drag her to his cave.

The tension in the room had built into a fever pitch. It was like watching a reality TV show. Everyone was glued to what was gonna happen next to this quarreling sex charged couple.

With her free arm the sex pot reached into her purse and pulled out a Beretta .25 semi-auto handgun. I liked this bimbo’s choice of defense weapon. That make and model was an accurate and deadly piece. I had heard the Arlington, Texas, cops used them as ankle-holstered backups.

She stuck the gun, after releasing the safety, into Jeff’s face. His expression turned from anger at her reluctance to fuck him into sheer terror at the prospect of dying and soon. She pulled the gun’s trigger back and put it against Jeff’s forehead. Watching her handle that gun with such ease and confidence made me think she’d gotten very good firearms training and probably had had to pull out her piece many times before to get away from other “I won’t take no for an answer” assholes like Jeff.

“LET ME GO NOW (she moved the gun down to his crotch) OR I’LL BLOW OFF YOUR FUCKING DICK AND BALLS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

Jeff threw his hands up into the air and backed away.

“I’m cool, bitch. Real cool. Maybe you’d have better luck with that loser at the bar (he pointed at me). He loves psychotic women like you who’re one small misstep away from an insane asylum or Death Row.”

Jeff quickly left the bar, with the patrons shouting insults and jeering him all the way out.

“Don’t come back here you Wall Street prick!!!”

“We see you again and you’ll be leaving in a body bag, you faggot!!!”

“Afraid of a girl with a pea shooter? What a pussy!! Go back to Dallas, motherfucker!! Fort Worth is where the West begins and the East ends, douche bag!!”

The Amy Adams look-alike put her gun away and came over to the bar and sat down next to me. On closer inspection I noticed a pimple about to explode on her forehead and a brain surgery scar behind her left earlobe and an ankle bracelet. I told the bartender, One-Legged Karl, to give her whatever alcoholic beverage she wanted.

My future wife ordered a can of Miller High Life.

Cool Man by Walter Rogers

coolJimmy Hoerknel was a dump-pa-dy, de-dump-pa-dy kind of goofy stupid kind of guy with his large black framed, soda pop bottle thick eyeglasses crunched up real close to his squinting eyeballs, always running into things, and people, and always making a mess and fool of himself.

Everybody in town called him “boy” even though he was a grown white man.

“Hey, boy, get over here and pick up that trash for me.”

He did what he was told.

“Hey, boy, get lost. Grownups are talkin here.”

“Boy, you better get on home. Night’s a comin’. The mosquitoes will bite you all over.”

Jimmy just smiled like a dufus and nodded and did what he was told.

The brutally mean redneck kids always picked on him after they got out of school, finding him wondering the streets with nothing to do since he was unemployable, fired from the local feed store because he kept dropping bags of dog food, spilling the pellets all over the place and causing Mrs. Spicer to take a bad fall, breaking her ankle, having the feed store owner pay for her medical treatment.

“Hey, Jimmy, you’re a retard. You’re fired.”

The local the kids piled on.

“Retard! Retard! Retard!”

They’d throw rocks at him and run away, laughing like hyenas.

The girls were even worse than the school boys. They called him a faggot.

“You’re gay. You’ll never get pussy, you fat idiot.”

Some would raise their skirts and show him their panties.

“You’ll never stick your tiny dick into me, you moron.”

He’d look down at the street, avoiding looking at their undergarments, waiting for them to leave.

“You got boogers hangin’ out of your nose. GROSS!”

They’d laugh and skip on down the street, happy at themselves for demeaning a mentally challenged man.

Jimmy always waited patiently as they insulted him, taking it with that big dumb smile on his face, showing off his yellowed and missing teeth, from being punched for no reason at times by the bigger high school boys who played on the football team.

The folks in Cool, Texas, got quite a knee-slappin’ time from watching ol’ porky dorky Jimmy Hoerknel walk his way around the small, sleepy town between Mineral Wells and Weatherford, both bigger towns with their own dump-pa-dy dumps like Jimmy Hoerknel, but not like this Jimmy Hoerknel because this Jimmy Hoerknel, the absolute original of the species known as rural town nerd dufus, went off and did something real strange one night that nobody ever knew about, except the whole town knew, as did the Parker County Sheriff’s Department, and all those media people from those cable TV news shows like The O’Reilly Factor and Anderson Cooper 360. They rushed to Cool and set up their TV cameras and their reporters and started asking the dumbfounded local yokels why such a horrible thing could happen in such a seemingly nice, quiet place like this.

But nobody bothered to ask dump-pa-dy dump Jimmy Hoerknel, the one person with the only expert opinion on what happened to Jed and Nancy Thomson, that quiet middle-aged couple with their three children off at college, two at Tarleton State University and one at Dallas Baptist University.

The Thomson couple lived in the double-wide mobile home that sat right off of Farm to Market Road 113. One night they got chopped up into itty-bitty tiny pieces that were scattered about for their one goat and several roosters and chickens to play with and consume while with their two cows and one bull calmly chomped on hay before a nearby neighbor caught wind of something smelling awful, figuring it was yet another dead cow that was mutilated by aliens, what with all the UFO sightings he’d heard from hushed conversations with ranchers, who lost livestock in weird ways, at the local breakfast place every Saturday morning that served damn good gravy and biscuits with Texas toast and delicious slices of ham.

The Thomson’s closest neighbor, the kindly rancher Fred Lyle, ventured over to the Thomson’s place and found a foot and the top half of a head with a nose half attached near the couple’s septic tank.

He quickly got into his pickup truck and scooted on over to the Mineral Wells newspaper’s office after realizing the Parker County Sheriff wasn’t in town and informed its new and green around the ears, TCU-educated editor, Cain Fenner, that he had seen many scattered and bloody body parts that were strewn about the Thomson’s place. Cain gave old Fred, sweat droplets all over his head and running down his many wrinkles making it look like a bunch of overflowing creeks, a hanky to wipe his face and a glass of iced tea, seeing that this was the middle of July and it hadn’t gotten below 100 during the day for the past two weeks.

Cain used his cellphone to call for Parker County Sheriff Tommy Johnson. His secretary answered the call and informed Cain that the Sheriff was at lunch with some politicians buying them chicken fried steak dinners at the Weatherford Downtown Cafe in an effort to woo their support for an addition to his jail house, which would take a property tax increase for funding, which was always a tough sell in small Texas towns like Cool.

“We got some body parts all over the place out here at the Thomson’s,” Cain informed the secretary, her name was Myrtle, and Cain heard a big gulp at the other end, and he said, “If you don’t mind telling Sheriff Noonan about this situation we’d appreciate it. Seems some animals are feeding themselves with those body parts and the evidence of who the victim or victims are is disappearing as we speak.”

Cain heard Myrtle scream, “Oh, Lord Jesus”, before the phone went dead. He figured he’d better go out to the Thomson place and see what had taken place, making doubly sure his Nikon D700 digital SLR had a charged up battery and an extra SDHX card before locking the newspaper office’s only door behind him.

Cain followed Fred’s ramshackle 1965 Chevy pickup out to Farm to Market Road 113, passing a field of huge wind turbines that slowly circled the air like white plastic dinner knives cutting holes in the clear blue sky. After traveling a couple of miles down the dusty road he saw the white paneled double-wide mobile home the Thomson’s. The red markings spewed onto its outside paneling must have been the victim’s blood haphazardly splattered about by the frenzied killer and not house paint, Cain thought, because these strange markings were way too abstract and surreal in their design for simple people like the Thomson’s to like or appreciate.

“Looks like a Jackson Pollock painting to me,” Cain thought.

As Fred parked his pickup along the roadside Cain drove his 2003 Honda Civic down the Thomson’s driveway, really it was a gravel way, and he heard a crunching noise underneath his tires not at all like gravel and figured he’d for sure ran over a bone of some magnitude, maybe a pelvis. Cain stopped and got out of his car and immediately pinched his nose shut and stood there in awe, slowly surveying the macabre scene, taking in all of the ripped up body parts littering their yard.

Fred poked a stick at a mangy hound dog that had showed up from behind the couple’s cow pen in an attempt to make the dumb thing drop an ear firmly entrenched in its mouth.

“Here, dog, let that be,” Fred barked.

He poked its side a couple more times but the dog stood his ground, growling. Fred got flustered and finally whacked the dog upside its head. The mutt let out an angry yelp like it didn’t want to lose such a tasty morsel but another head smack on its snout by Fred’s thick switch made it open its mouth and let go of the ear, the bloody pulp of flesh falling out of its mouth. Fred picked it up and dropped it into one of the many pockets in his overalls.

“I’ll give this here piece of evidence to Sheriff Noonan personally,” Fred told Cain.

Cain took a photo of Fred holding the ear thinking it’d make a good front page picture and might just get picked up by the national news website services, like the Huffington Post or Fox News, thinking this awful story might be his big break into the big time and getting himself out of such a typical Texas one stop sign town where the paper had more ads for feed stores and gun shows in Fort Worth than actual news since nothing ever happened except for church announcements, funerals and which high school students were taking the cows they had raised from birth to the Fort Worth Stock Show, with the aging and dwindling population barely capable of reading above a 4th grade level.

“I can’t be in this shitty hick hole my whole life,” Cain thought. “A spot at the Dallas Morning News could catapult me into writing stories that could win me a Pulitzer Prize and then I’m on to bigger and better things.”

Cain smiled after taking the photo and patted Fred on the shoulder.

“This must be hard on an old man like you, seeing all of this mayhem out here where nothing bad like this ever happens.”

Fred shook his head.

“Oh, you young fella don’t know a damn thing,” Fred said in his slow Texas drawl. “I served in the Army in World War II and I saw my men blown to bits, much smaller pieces than these here. My soldiers were trying to say things to me before they died even though their heads weren’t attached to the rest of ’em after stepping on land mines when we stormed the beaches in Normandy. I’ve seen the worst. That Saving Private Ryan movie got real close to it but not close enough. This here ain’t nothin’ to me. Some damn fool got mad at the Thomson’s and did what evil thing was inside of him; took out his frustration on’em, you might say. Probably just over their bull somehow getting off the property and knocking down someone’s fence to go hump a neighbor’s cow. People do stupid stuff like that all the time in Texas.”

With that Fred got back into his squeaky old pickup truck and drove off but took the time to throw the ear out of his hand, tossing it at Cain’s feet in disgust.

“Take a photo of that, paper boy. Maybe it’ll get you more advertisements for hearing aids.”

Before Cain could bend over to pick it up the mangy dog, still there with blood and hunger on its mind, pounced on it and swallowed it whole.

“You dumb ass hound dog!” Cain shouted.

The dog growled angrily and bared its blood stained teeth.

But he had a quick shutter finger to capture a photo of the dog swallowing the ear.

Then Cain reared back and kicked the dog right in its ass with the sharp end of his cowboy boot and it finally ran off, yelping the whole way, headed straight for a torn up arm completely separated from one of the Thomson’s shoulder blades.

Cain felt like walking around in the carnage taking more photographs but decided it would probably be better to let Sheriff Noonan and his deputies survey the grounds because he didn’t want to accidentally disturb the ape shit crime scene. So he leaned against his car and began snapping off pictures of the blood stained mobile home. He also got shots of the family’s goat and some coyotes who had showed up, all of them fighting over lips and toes and fingers and legs and feet, and the goat, a scrawny beast, its hide tugged snug around its ribs and a long, scraggly goatee that gave it some cherished character, chewing slowly on a clump of what looked like a piece of scalp with bleached blonde human hair, obviously the wife’s.

Sheriff Noonan arrived with several of his deputies, followed by an ambulance, a few minutes later. The tall Texan got out of his squad car, looked all around and started shaking his head and said to Cain, who had a voice recorder in hand, “This is shame. A god damned shame. We’re gonna catch the son of a bitch who did this for sure and we will personally watch him put to sleep on death row down in Huntsville or else just shoot the son of the bitch on site.”

He ordered his men into position and they carried out their plan, chasing away, and sometimes shooting the evidence eating coyotes. He didn’t bother putting a 9mm bullet into the goat’s skull, which had now started chewing slowly away on what appeared to be a thigh bone.

“I can’t very well shoot their personal property,” he said.

One deputy walked around and shot digital video of all the body parts where they were left by the animals or by whoever did this horrible deed. Some parts were chewed into literal pulp by the hungry beasts and would never be identified as to what they were or whose body it they had belonged to. All the parts, once documented by digital video, were carefully picked up and placed inside evidence bags.

Forensic personnel came along and scraped dried blood samples off of the mobile home, with one guy dusting spots on the mobile home with a brush in hopes of finding usable fingerprints.

The deputies that ventured into the mobile home came right back out shaking their heads, with a few of them puking up their Blue Plate Special lunches.

“I’ve seen photos of the Manson family murders no one has ever seen and, Jesus H. Christ, this is helluva lot worse than that,” one of them told Cain.

A couple of the deputies walked over to a neighboring field and started crying because they were so disturbed by it all. Cain made sure he got photographs of them balling their eyes out but Sherriff Noonan walked over to him and knocked his camera out of his hand, saying, “If I see a photograph in your fucking newspaper of one my deputies crying I will throw your ass in jail and let you rot in there for a week, you fuckin’ soulless cocksucker.”

Later, as the day wore on, Sheriff Noonan stood there at the roadside scratchin’ his bald head answering questions asked by a gathering media horde, pleading with the TV folks to not shoot video of the body parts and to keep their descriptions of the murder scene to a minimum seeing that this story would fall nicely into the 6 O’clock newscast’s time slot, telling the TV crews he didn’t want anybody, especially parents’ children, upchucking their suppers and having God who knows what kind of nightmares.

Outrage filled the community as the news spread that Jed and Nancy Thomson had met their end in a most gruesome way, all chopped up like in a supermarket meat grinder and how it would be impossible for anybody to get to pay the dead couple decent last rites at the memorial and funeral because both caskets would be closed.

Just ain’t right to die like that, the town’s people told each other over and over all week long. They all said the same thing to those nicely dressed up TV news people from Dallas, Atlanta, New York City and Los Angeles.

Sheriff Noonan quickly enough got sick and tired of the questions from the likes of Wolf Blitzer, Megan Kelly and Nancy Grace and barred the media from his office and sent out his department’s statements on the unsolved case through a Sheriff’s office spokesperson. He wasn’t saying much in his statements anyway, what with there being practically no clues to disclose and really nothing else to say except to comment that the killer would be brought to justice, no matter how long it took to find the sick son of a bitch.

A reward of $10,000 for any information that led to arrests and convictions was started at the local bank in Weatherford for the person, or persons, who did this inhumane crime but nobody had yet showed up to collect that money and in a week’s time things began to simmer down, the mystery of who had killed the Thomson’s at a dead standstill, with Sheriff Noonan putting the case file into a filing cabinet full of unsolved crimes, frustrated at the lack of clues of who had killed one of Cool’s sweetest couples.

The TV news people soon got wind of a bigger, better story near Broomfield, Colorado, where a student had gone insane and shot a bunch of classmates and several teachers to death before turning the weapon on himself.

So funny looking, loony and goofy Jimmy Hoerknel, the town clown, with food crumbs always hanging off of his lips, or cheeks, or chin, the stupid fat boy without a lick of sense, even though he was a grown man in his mid-40s, stood around looking dumb as usual, smiling, waving and saying hello to the same people who had laughed in his face for all of his years growing up in Cool, Texas, always keeping to himself, friendless, and walking around the streets getting more insults shouted his way by everyone, while late at night nobody would see him and nobody gave a shit where he was, or what he was doing, but maybe they had better start to.

Walter Rogers is a white trash Texas redneck whose grandfather, after emigrating from Russia in the hopes of becoming a championship boxer, worked for the North Side mob in Chicago in the 1950s. Walter’s favorite authors are Charles Bukowski, Richard Brautigan, Franz Kafka, Ferdinand Celine, Knut Hamsun, Kurt Vonnegut and Friedrich Nietzsche, among many others. He’s twice divorced and lives alone with his cat, Oscar, in Fort Worth, where he was born in 1960. He says, and his friends agree, that the two best lines he ever wrote were, “Feminism stops at heavy lifting,” and “Humanity is an ongoing parade of relentless motherfuckers.” Besides writing, Walter enjoys photography and uses a Nikon D700 and various Nikkor lenses. He sold a photo to NEW YORK MAGAZINE for a cover shot in 2008.