Story: ONCE ALONG THE CLOCKTOWER...

[[Originally written in 2012]]

Once along the clocktower, Martha Joan Klittell and her boyfriend Deke Portland were making love and figured out a new position that requires one partner, preferably the one with the longest fingers, stretches the fabric of time to allow for said partner to completely control everything in our universe. It’s called the Budgie Over-Crockett.

Grandpa closed the book. He was done reading. The boy looked up at his 400 pound grandpa and sneezed. “Thank you, grandpa,” the boy whispered. “Thank you for teaching me how to make glass beads.”

“No problem, it’s all in the elbows.” Then gramps waddles out of the room. Oh yeah, they are whales. I forgot to mention that, but it’s pretty much the most important fact about them.

Above the water, Michael Cera and Jesse Eisenberg were on the street walking when a director approached both and proposed to them a deal in which they are merged together into one person and billed as a new star. They feel with both talents combined, a super-awkward, mumbling teen charmer would be born. An actor of such caliber that he will continue to play awkward teenagers well into his 30s! The director was Shreven Shrielberg, and his latest film, MEOW MIX THE MOIVE was in need of someone of their nature. He played eeny meeny miney mo and picked Cera and carried him away to the movie building. Jesse Eisenberg said, “Stairs to my awakening, how doth this treaded path quobe the bargough laird,” which is German-French for Hey, can’t a guy get some work around here?

Michael Cera was the next Devito. The next Gina Davis. The next Howard Hughes. Hell, even the next Abraham Lincoln. He was the next everything, and the director was going to make him bigger than Frank “Statue of Liberty” Labbermoke. He had a talk with Jesse Eisenberg and offered him a deal on his next movie, a film adaption of the Dictionary. Jesse Eisenberg agreed. Kermit The Frog peed.

The movie was made, and that was oh...fifty years ago. The green boy reviewed it and said it was the best claymation porno he’d ever tasted. Honkey Dorse, the head writer at the DAILY BUGLE DAILY, interviewed Shreven Shrielberg and asked him what his motives were for killing all those people.

“Well, it was because when I was their age, we didn’t have films like this. This is a new genre altogether,” he said. “My next film will be based on a washing machine tag on a suit I bought.”

“Fascinating stuff,” Honkey said, and then disappeared. Wayne Knight used to be fat but then he got thin.

Rozz Williams was a tiny man with a gorgeous face who sang for my favorite band Christian Death and was also small and gay. He had a really hot goth wife at one point who was also in the band. But the guy was a fucking gothic genius. He invented Tim Burton before that was even cool. Rozz Williams created the look. Brian Hugh Warner, a lonely high school geek who looked like Nicholas Cage but even gawkier, saw Rozz at a show and stoled a piece of Rozz’s hair so he could absorb some of his DNA. It worked, sort of, and we got Marilyn Manson, a rogue warrior for Jesus fucking Satan. He took Rozz’s soul and Rozz ended up killing himself shortly after seeing Manson ripping him off on live TV.

Marilyn would often wander the streets looking for David Letterman so he could rip the guy’s fucking throat out for making fools of not only him, but Courtney Love, Harmony Korine, and Crispin Glover. David Letterman was getting his tooth gap brushed when Marilyn found him.

“Letterman, I may have seemed well back then, but the rage has been growing inside me and now...” as he spoke, he pulled a giant saw out of hammerspace and got into an attack position. “You will die!”

Letterman stood up. “Not so!”

Marilyn Manson sliced and slashed and Letterman dashed and ran out of the room, injured.

I have to go now, so I’ll leave you all with that. Whoever read this, I cherish your friendship and thank you for reading.

Story: "RUN-ON SENTENCE CITY"

[[Written a few years ago...yet another surrealist/absurdist story!]]

The marquee proudly shone those bright letters, his name in lights, as he flicked the final ash from his cigarette and hailed a cab uptown because he had the money and, of course, he was a star and one of the few around who still had their dignity, and while he had so many things one could wish to have he never let it get to his head because he feared he'd end up like his Uncle Bart who ultimately ended up nowhere, a real rags-to-riches-to-rags story with no signs of a happy ending and no chance of a sequel, like the ones written by countless authors too bone dry of original ideas to meet their quota, they must release in sequence, in a pattern, supply and demand, and it drives them crazy and they have no choice but to churn out book after book based on the same characters, the same events, and the people eat it up, the consumers consume like the fatty fat fats they are, constantly eating paying no mind to their waistlines which continue to grow, until they become an overinflated version of their former selves, which once were beautiful, because you know they cared at one point, or at least you'd assume one would, but who's really paying attention these days with all the other problems going on that are out of our control which we feel the sudden urge to stick our noses in, you know, things like the war always illicit such polarizing reactions from people, and no one more offended by the current state of affairs than Stacy Bourgeois from Lower Manhattan, who in her stilettos can almost stare down any man and seem provocative, but at the same time retain a feminine delicacy that drives all the men crazy at parties, this one being a birthday party for one lucky bastard on Wall Street who's just caught a big break and will probably end up being the richest man in the state, but even though his success radiates through the room and inspires all a quarrel has broken out in one corner as two men of different generations banter incoherently about politics while their mail-order token dates sip down expensive wine and pretend not to notice, staring at the lights outside the window from the hotel across the street in which two young lovers are caught in an embrace after an evening romp through the park scoring crack which they have both indulged in by now, and it's only a matter of time before one of them realizes it's been laced with something horrendous, something out of this world which will most likely end up in the Government's possession but now is being trafficked illegally in parking lots under the guise of simple cocaine, and everyone knows Barnaby carries some with him all the time but won't spill the beans where he obtained it from or if he indeed concocted the substance himself in his apartment with the boarded up windows which is always on the brink of being demolished were it not for him continuing to pay an undisclosed but assumed large sum of rent each month, and god only knows what he does up there or what kinds of things he puts in his drugs which he then sells to poor addicts and the occasional desperate vagrant, who waddle up to him with a sweaty wad of cash and ask for "anything, anything at all", and he's been caught a few times, but the police never ran his shit so for all Chief Strauss knows it's the same old same old, and he won't tell you himself but he's been seen consuming the drugs himself, and this guy's got a wife and kids and he's all about good morals and cleaning up the community, and he lives in the nicest apartment and drives the nicest sports cars, but he's a junkie so the story goes, and his wife's oblivious to it all, as she's the type who seems to have rotted out her brain entirely through various chemical peels and countless hair dying experiments, and I'd be surprised if she even noticed what a tyrant her son is, the ten year old school bully bordering on sociopath, a large boy known to plant a fist in anyone's face who insulted him for having a cop for a father or a ditz for a mother, and he once broke a kid's nose but nothing ever became of that because the kid in question, Artie he was called, had the most passive parents one could ever imagine and they were too afraid to press charges, so instead they stayed inside, read their books, they're lawyers believe it or not, they golf on weekends and eat out every night at moderately expensive restaurants where they name drop with their lawyer friends and they smoke and drink and let their kid handle his own problems even though he can barely carry his own bookbag without falling over face-first, and their friends notice but don't say a thing because they too are too passive and too cowardly to speak their minds and step in to help the poor kid, and as they talk this particular night, Artie wanders away from his parents and their friends and sits outside the restaurant weighing his options before finally running off into the night and sleeping in a jungle gym at some dingy park where a van has just pulled up and vomited out a ragtag team of misfit teenagers who use the jungle gym's canopy as a shelter in which to fuck, and Artie hears it all from where he's lying, until one of the teenagers pokes his head into the tunnel and spots Artie, grabbing him and pulling him screaming to the ground, and now his friends stop fucking and stare at the kid and laugh and talk amongst themselves, the girls of the group remarking how cute he was, when one of the boys decides to pull a knife on Artie and everything swirls and lights flash and Artie frees himself just in time and runs top speed down the street, and the teenagers watch and laugh and decide to follow him but are sidetracked when one of them realizes they've been spotted by a man walking his dog and are now being approached, shouted at, and then chased by this man and his dog, which appears in the dark to be some sort of Pit Bull mix who snaps violently upon the owner's command, and the teenagers pile into the van and peel on down the road as the man and his dog jolt across the wet pavement towards a dilapidated phone booth to report the license number, and he gets through to the cops but has forgotten the plate number so he describes the kids to the best of his ability and then heads home where he has trouble falling asleep, he's just that sickened by the acts he has witnessed in his neighborhood, he actually vomits, it's been so long since there's been any kind of violent crime and he's having flashbacks to when he was younger when things weren't quite as safe as they are now and he remembers in great detail the event which resulted in the large scar across his forehead, and his wife sees him in the bathroom mirror from her spot on the bed and beckons him to come to bed but he's gone now, he's staring at his reflection and the memories are coming back to him, he suddenly feels the need to take a shower to symbolically "wash away" the feelings, and once he's out he shuffled to the foot of the bed and hovers over his wife's sleeping form for a few minutes trying to compose himself before finally getting in next to her and drifting off to sleep, and he can hear sirens outside some blocks away and he wonders if it has anything to do with what he saw...