I … am… The Game…You

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I … am… The Game

You can’t help but face the day a little more aggressively when you pump HHHs entrance music from a good set of speakers first thing in the morning. Admittedly, I am a far cry from the chiseled and beaked Hunter Hearst Helmsley even when emerging from the shower, but it’s the wheezing of my underused adrenaline gland that counts.

Savage Journey II

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More of Rizzo’s vicious lies.

This man is going to have a long talk with my lawyer and his magnum when he gets out on bail. The savage little pedophile was fondling a helpless little brown child right in front of my house. He’s done this before, and usually is hoping for a chance to flee the crime while scattering mail he’s stolen from my mailbox, attempting to incriminate me.

Not satisfied with the Gomorrahn debauchery he subjects his illegal manservant Pepe to, his lust for younger and younger wog-flesh drives him to deeper and deeper trenches of depraved behavior. Schoolteachers all over the nieghborhood hurl chairs out the window when they here his insidious whisper from below the window ledge at the kindergarden, calling through dusty glass and crude construction paper renditions of heathen saints and holiday icons from savage and possibly cannabalistic cultures, trying to lure black haired and swarthy boy- children out to the parking lot, with his skin crawling lure;

Peen- ya- ta? Peen- ya- taaa? You liiikeee Peeenyata…?”

Of course, to hear him tell it…

No, no, no! I don’t have a police report, and for the last time, I’m not going to get one. Just pay me, dammit! What do I pay you people for, anyway? What’s the purpose of insurance if I can’t use it? Send an adjuster out here, he can see the damage. Why do I nee--“

For the sixth time, “Judy” launched into her monotone reading of their policy regarding payment of insurance claims for vandalism, over my weakening logic. I dislike insurance companies in general, and I was beginning to genuinely hate Mutual of Des Moines. I’m usually a helpful guy, but I just can’t get the police report Judy so desperately longs for. I’d have to explain to the officer why I was driving without a license – something Judy really doesn’t need to know either – and then they might want to inspect the vehicle. I try my damndest to keep cops out of my car, what with the drugs and guns and all.

I hung up on my baby. This was getting me nowhere. It was sort of my fault anyway. I should have known better. I figured it was safe to drive down 24th Street, since the sun was up. Usually I avoid the block at all costs, in case Flagg just happens to be looking out the window, but if the sun’s up, he’s usually asleep under his rock. It was just my luck that I was taking the 24th Street shortcut to the projects as Flagg awoke from a 48 hour coma with revenge on his mind. That’s not really all that uncommon, but even if I was parked at the curb I could get away before he made it down the sidewalk. He’s not the athletic type. Unfortunately, just as I passed his hovel, a ball bounced out into the street. I slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop. No, that’s not a cliché, it really is the noise tires make when you stand on the brakes. Kind of a screeee-chirp. A small foreign child ran out after the ball, bent over, head down, arms outstretched, eye on the ball like they tell you in gym class, completely unaware that two tons of steel was about to smear him down 24th Street. This is why I stopped: one more ball dent in the grill isn’t going to make me cry, but if I hit a kid, there’s gonna be paperwork. At the moment, I’m allergic to paperwork. The kid momentarily froze at the sound of the tires, an unwise move since he was already in front of the car, and then burst into tears as he looked to the right and saw only gleaming chrome and dirty white paint. The kid’s mother came running out and scooped him up. She began alternately yelling at the kid in what I think was Portuguese and apologizing to me in pretty bad English. I started to wave her off, but then did a double take. She was kinda cute. She’d be cuter if she had all of her teeth, but really not too shabby, especially for the neighborhood. I then made my second mistake of the day: I smiled and began my sweet talk:

“That your kid, baby? I saved his life. You owe me, big time, baby. Why don’t I let you buy me a drink.”
Blank stare. Blink, blink. Blank stare.
“You like wine? How ’bout tequila? Ta-ke-la? Taa-keee-laaa?”

At this point I had a flashback. In my rearview mirror, I saw Flagg, running down his front steps, a brick in each hand, wearing nothing but flip-flops and a purple wife-beater, belly and testicles flopping to and fro. I slapped myself in an attempt to snap out of it. It didn’t work. I slapped myself harder. Still no response from my brain, although my new friend was now backing away from the car. She glanced back over her right shoulder, then turned and ran down the block, yelling in her native tongue. Sigh. She made Portuguese sound so good. I then made my third mistake of the day. Instead of taking off, getting off that accursed block, I slapped the car into “park”, killed the motor and began to get out. I had to explain to my baby that I wasn’t going to hurt her. Zoe must have been telling stories to the neighbors again.

I was halfway out of the car when the first brick crashed through the rear window at an angle, broke out the rear passenger door window and dented the well-used Subaru parked across the street With a cracked growl, Flagg hurled the second, only to have it bounce off the trunk.

“This one’s for Pepe, you bastard!”

Fresh out of bricks, he then hurled one of his flip-flops. His aim was better than with the bricks; it sailed by my ear, almost close enough to infect me. I hopped back in the car and turned the screwdriver in the ignition. It turned over, but wouldn’t fire. Flagg uncharacteristically displayed some good sense, picking up a nearby garbage can to continue his assault.

“Whirr, whirrr.”
Crash! There went the decklid
Whirr, whirrrrrr”
Crash! Tinkle. That would be a taillight.
“Whirrrrrr, whhirrrrrrrrrr, click.”
Damn. Left fender.
“Click. Clickclick. Click.”

Oh, shit.

I slid across the passenger seat and out the door as Flagg’s garbage can sailed past the driver’s door, sending more broken glass flying as it ripped off the rearview mirror. I crossed the street at a dead run, still pursued by Flagg and his amphetamines. I was paying too much attention to the mostly-naked madman chasing me, if there is such a thing, and ran into a very, very large Portuguese man with an aluminum baseball bat. Since bad things come in twos, I assumed he would be killing me for hitting on his wife. From my new position, sitting on the sidewalk, I could see my baby watching from their porch, eyes wide with fear – or some really good shit. The very, very, very large man stepped over me and deliberately walked into the path of the charging Flagg. As I sat there on the sidewalk, trying to remember if he owed me money, the very large man cracked Flagg in the head with the bat. He went down like a girl from Ohio on her fourth Long Island Ice Tea. The large man stood over the bulk – boy is he unattractive from this angle! – and waited for an excuse. Flagg managed to pick his head up.

“Wha? Wha? Pepe? Ish tha you?”

Before the exceedingly large man could swing the bat that far down, Flagg’s neck went limp again and his head hit the sidewalk with an all-too-familiar “thudump.” Zoe came running out with a bathrobe to cover him up. This was not the first time he’s left the apartment without his pants. She began yelling at the Portuguese man:

“Whh? Whhum? Dbddbunn! Llmnp smbvwfrumn nbnubm!”.

When I returned to my car it started on the first revolution. I could almost hear the snicker.

Olympic Fever III – The Judging

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The winners of the Ah Pook Olympic Medal of Excellence are:

:::this cherished subbie leaves couch:::
and pickles her gift


Nails pound down lid tight
Barrel-roasted for freshness
Goes great with Merlot


And the Gold medal winner is:
Barrel whisper dreams
Mommy are we there yet..No.
Tongues through glory holes


Congratulations to ALL our competitors….
And thank you to Cailin and the Dominion mailing list, for sanctioning the horror.

Olympic fever II

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The twenty-odd finalists, in no particular order:
Remember, all the competitors gain extra points from the judges for the use of the words “love“, “gift” and “cherish“.
As always, many of the more traditional judges will also give the nod to even more tired BDSM cliches.

The finalists:

Oaken barrel love
Cherishment of subbies gift
Closed lid with a sigh


Shadow of myself.
Thee I loathe to a barrel
Still love you mother


Dark and stormy night
barrels rocking in the rain
I have to go pee


Sir my love wanes, Sir.
Red Sir, red sir, Sir! Sir? Prick.
Cherish canned worms.


Cherish *My* gift, slave.
Edge play to beat all edge play
Death: Free. Barrel: extra.

aura lee

Cherished gift wont fit
the fifty five gallon wrapper
In the lake she goes


No longer hollow,
my heart in this dark barrel.
Cherish this life’s gift!


:::this cherished subbie leaves couch:::
and pickles her gift


Alone in the dark
My gift no longer cherished
Longing for whispers

Derik’s bree

Barrel whisper dreams
Mommy are we there yet..No.
Tongues through glory holes


I need to stop this
Another body to hide
I need more barrels.


Slut I’ve had your gift
Your love cries hurt my head bitch
Cherish your sealed home


Ummm…send in the clowns?
there were supposed to be clowns…
searching the barrel


Put one in barrel
I gift her with my urine
cherish it all, sub


This is all i get?
And i thought it was a gift.
Boring, dumb barrel.


Nails pound down lid tight
Barrel-roasted for freshness
Goes great with Merlot


barrel built for two
two subs to cherish my gift
of giving the dark


Cherish my gift, love
He said ever so sweetly
Death in a barrel


Panic chokes her
Dying now..please please say it
He does..cum now bitch


Special mention to the criminal and morally dubious work of Ah Pook, the Steely Dan of Barrel Murder Haiku, the elder statesman of this underappreciated art form… And now, a few words from our Olympic Hero:

“You syphilitic thug! You plan a haiku contest and do everything in your
power to keep me out, don’t you, you son of a gypsy. Your international
tribunal of so-called judges may dirty your towels and impregnate your cats,
but they do not stand in judgement of my self-proclaimed haiku-dexterosity!

In no time I write
Twenty-three haiku’s for you
This one’s twenty-four.

Ha – HaaaaaaH!!!

Midwestern “subbies”,
I need some plus-size barrels,
Lane Bryant makes them.

Murderous male dom,
Trailer park induced killings,
Avowed pork-o-phile.

Kansas City kink,
Trailer parks and husky girls,
Double-wide barrels.

“Today on Springer,
‘My Boyfriend’s Buried Corpses
Clutter Up the Yard'”.

Tawdry motel trysts,
Universally reviled?
In Georgia, they’re not.

His pick-up truck shines,
He drives her to the motel,
But he makes her pay.

He seems like a guy
I can trust to be gentle,
Hope he isn’t gay.

Opens doors for her,
Says “please” before he ties her,
Then… it’s “Mr Hyde”.

“Get on your knees, bitch,
I need your Discover card,
and your PIN number”.

What’s happening here??
This man, my precious gift,
like on #Dominion???

This is so sleazy,
am I not to be cherished?
I don’t feel so fresh…

“That’s right bitch, take it,
take it like the whore you are,
where are your car keys?”

“Suck on this butt plug,
suck on this motel room towel,
now… swallow them both!”

urkkk! Ackk bllluggh pffft kkkck,
kakkk oochh oh please oh please nnggghhhhh
uccckkk uckkk uck… uh… nnnnhhhhhhh………..

“Christ, now I’ve done it.
Good thing I have a chainsaw.
Better clean the tub.”

Then it’s lots of noise,
And lots of blood everywhere,

Fine filets of girl,
Just like at a butcher shop,
I prefer the hams.

Barrels of offal,
Like a viscous stew from hell,
The hairy bits float.

“Better find a place
I can stash these things, and soon.
How ’bout in the yard?”

Digging holes at night,
The moon on his sweaty brow,
“Oh christ they’re heavy.”

“Three feet is deep ’nuff,
Long as no one digs right here.
Sure hope the dog don’t.”

“‘Kay, what did I score,
a ring, twenty-two dollars,
six Deal-a-Meal cards?”

April moon over
Kansas prairie, he goes home
And watches Baywatch.

Ah Pook

Please direct all complaints, questions, death threats and dubious packages to the United Nations Re-education and Political Realignment Dormitiory and Therapy Annex, where the judges are recuperating under suspiciously high security.

Olympic Fever!

In Blog by flagg0 Comments

Olympic Fever!

The judges are fighting like drunken chimps, or are passed out in the swill of serious partying. Grapefruit rinds litter my apartment, and the Argentinian fighting cocks are dragging their entrails around my kitchen staining the linoleum, or are still smouldering in the greasefire left on my concrete patio where the French and Romanian judges knocked over the barbecue in some sort of angel dust duel with tongs, skewers and forks. The Japanese judge is locked into some sort of psychotic acid-rage death trip, and is holding the British and Saudi judges hostage in the bathroom, while outside the Greek is passed out in a puddle of his own vomit and the urine of impatient officials unable to piss completely over him into the half open washroom door. He appears to still be breathing, but he sluggishly oozes blood from a head wound of unkown origin. It may have to do with the sinister New Zealand judge, who was seen stalking him with one of the dozens of empty wild turkey bottles left around the apartment…
Twisted, completely round the bend – stark slavering buggo, every last one of them.

The contest is closed, and Zoe is almost finished pummeling the last of these swine into unconciousness- or at least compliance. Sierra is carefully scraping soggy ballots and illegible grading scrawls from the scarred and beer soaked table where the Swede, Russian, and that freakish bastard from Nairobi were playing a drinking game which involved beer, a dollar bill, bodily functions and, after serious drinking, facial laceration of the hapless Mexican official who fell asleep too close to the brutes. Ominous commentary scrawled across the walls in mustard and what may be human feces- no known language, starkly warning me of the horrors to come before this Bataan Death March plays itself out, it’s conclusions unknowable- but equally inevitable.

The results of the Barrel Murder Haiku contest will be posted tomorrow… I’m going to go reload my shotgun and wait on the porch for the Chinese judge who made off with several dozen videotapes and my playstation, hoping to lure the frightened Phillipine entorage of transvesite hookers back for “just one more go round”…

Drunken Nation- the Trail of Beers

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Your Humble Narrator– and impartial observer- spent some time in the outback last night, moving amont the herds of Homo Intoxicus. Although initially suspicious, they soon accepted me into their tribe for the revels. First thinking that it was a matter of a solemn religious or customary rite, I was deeply moved. Shortly therafter, however, I simply understood that they were so drunk they would talk to anyone, and simply could not determine who were and were not tribe members.

The evening started out auspiciously… Homo Intoxicus Mathematicus, who I named “Tommy”, was alreqady celebrating when I arrived. His teeth bared in a grimace of greeting, and the dance of welcome he performed signaled “I am SO happy to be SO drunk- and I’m not close to finished…” All through the evening, “Tommy” was a source of joy,- his nimble little monkey body showing his delight at the fermented ritual swill they were dowing mug after mug of.

With “Tommy” Was Homo Intoxiucs Slimus, or as the crew and I came to know him… “Mark” This rambunctious youngster alternated between bouts of joy and suspicion, challenging every available male to tets of manhood and tribal acceprtance. “Smash the car window with this bricK”, he seemed to say, “And you will be part of the Great Drunken Nation.” “Drink this beer… it won’yt make you suick. Diabetes is not THAT big a deal. Be a man.” “Hop on that motorcycle!” “Get a tattoo!” “Let’s start a fight!” “I get many blowjobs from the females of my species, more than anyone…and maybe one or two from the men of the tribe!” Soon I came to realize after meeting the Tribal Elder (Homo Intoxicus Klingonimus Grande Jefe El Queso, or “HNIC“) That these tests were not part of the Tribal Nation tradition, the young “Mark” just liked to see if he could get other tribemates to jump through hoops. Luckily, “Mark” was far too busy hitting on any females within eyeshot, practicing a dubious technique called “The Look” (which involves staring at their breasts and rubbing your chin, apparently) to pursue his manhood rites and terretorial displays any more agressively.

“Mark” was seen lurching out of the “House of Tribal Noise and Beer”into the night, without saying goodbye or acknowledging the tribe in any way… one must assume he was hoping to hunt females in less crowded surroundings. he has not been seen since… we wish him luck on walkabout.

Trouble within the tribe began with the Homo Intoxucus Intoxicus, (Or “Howler Drunkard“) known affectionately to the Wild Drunkard crew as “Drew”. Although initally friendly, if quite loud- his howlings and staking of terretory could be heard for many blocks- “Drew” quickly went spiralling out of control. His care and concern for the other tribemates, most notably “Mark” quickly was left by the wayside at the chance for more and more self indulgent and revolting displays, most notably “shots”. While “Tommy” and “HNIC” moderated their consumption of the ceremonial swill in oredr to remain conversive and able to appreciate the tribal dances and howling which the swill shaman (“Nick”) and his assistants were rendering to mark the occasion (which I learned was called “Friday“) – “Drew” was using both hands and all his available currency- as well as “Tommy’s”- to pick up the slack.

He soon became incoherent, and lurched about- the gods of these noble people of the Drunken Nation soon showed their disaproval of his activity by cursing him with the Heaves, known among the People as “EEeew… whats’s on your shirt?” A vist from a nearby tribe’s ambassador was missed wntirely, so the Ambassador (“Carlos”) wandered off to find a piece of young boy ass… possibly following the drunken spoor of “Mark”… this is unconfirmed. I set about seeking council and wisdom with the “HNIC”, and i will never forget his words. However, I am not telling any of them to the likes of you- go on your own damn safari.

“HNIC” and I set about wrangling the drunken, tottering, hostile and revolting “Drew”, with the aid of “Tommy”, “Woody” and my crew, most notably Lynna. While I have sent Lynna in to wrestle crocadiles and net caribou, I have never seen fear on her face- until now. When faced with “Drew, cursed of the gods”, she paled, and swore to have nothing to do with the Unclean One, invoking the native curse of the People: “Oh, god, can you SMELL him? I think I’m gonna puke!” Lynna has traveled among the People of the Drunken Nation before, but never had we to interact so personally with such a wretched, funsucking and time wasting specimen.

Three hours of ceremonial joy were wasted propping the reeking and soiled “Drew” in a corner… three hours of what could have been a very entertaining evening. One can only hope that the gots have savaged “Drew”, and that his tribe will decend upon him with sticks and rocks, showing their displeasure at his uncontrolled and impious overindulgance in the Sacred Brew of the Drunken Nation. I myself dragged him through the subways to a place of rest…

There may have been some remorse in “Drew” for his sins against the tribe, however- he insisted upon being sacrificed to the Devoring Matriarch Goddess, Lori- a form of suicide I could not let even this pathetic wretch of a primate suffer. So instead, I dropped him off, sodden in his own vomit and reeking of ceremonial swill on the doorstep of a brazilian stripper who puts up with this shit.

Cuz he was not coming in MY house this shitfaced, that’s fer damn sure.

Brought to you by mutual of Omaha- who you can count on when the going’s rough.
By Modena, who sound even better than last time
And by beer, which can do some pretty interesting things to your friends.


Rizzo’s Savage Journey

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Never underestimate the brutish stupidty of an angry foriegner.

Despite my numerous attempts to bring the demented little grease monkey back to his senses, he was too far gone. Years of Methyldexamphetimine abuse had rotted his once sharp mind like a pumpkin in the rain, slowly caving in until it bore only a superficial resemblemnce to it’s previous state- and the cloying stink of rot….

I am a reasonable man, and far too cautious to simply turn up on his doorstep uninvited- scores of Jehova’s witnesses refused to walk the concrete path to his squalid concrete bunker – knowing in their guts that some people are beyond saving. Let God do his own work with this one. I’ve seen better men then those bluesuited bible thumpers lose their faith when confronting the savage little wog. I knew better.

Dozens of phone calls gone unanswered- “Interventions”, the mad, lost and twisted twelve steppers call them while huddling close, lying to each other to keep the darkness away. “Interventions” Only his demented squalling and ramblings on his ancient and decrepit answering machine. No doubt Pepe was shackled to the bed again, unable to reach the phone and perform the one service that could mollify Rizzo, other than satisfying the ruthless sodomite’s morbid perfidities and perversions before the watchful eyes of the collection of stolen religious icons- I cursed and threw the phone at Zoe as she scurried for cover. She knew my temper all too well.

I made some phone calls, and arranged to have a case of wild turkey and two dozen grapefruits delivered to the AA meeting which had fed me that”intervention” crap. Swine. They had no appreciation for my talents. I had volunteered to act as sponsor for two or three of the less beastly wretches in this incestuous collection of desperate women and knock kneed suitssome months ago, but was drummed out like an effeminate marine. I don’t see how they expected me to bed these women without us both being drunk- Good God, have you ever LISTENED to them? Crisis intervention demands ACTION! And action demands HARD LIQUOR!
I was only attempting to be supportive- nurturing in their time of need. But as much as these filthy hippies may whine about “all they need is Love”… they call the cops and screech accusations when you try to get everyone involved socially inebriated enough to give them some of that love. Torches and pitchforks. The mob rules, these brutes did not know genuine compassion… I had to flee.

But once you get involved with these leeches, they sink in and won’t let go. Rizzo had started hitting me up for money as soon as he saw I had all my own teeth, which seems to be a sign of wealth and privelege among his people. He has not stopped since. His drug habits and boy toys ate up whatever money the state paid him. I stopped frequenting the AA meetings his parole forced him to attend, but his endless tales about his “automotive hobbies” consuming his income all inevitably ended with him hoping for spare change. a sound go-round with a tire iron made him flinch, but in his family, that was an intimacy. It only bound the sicilian swine closer to me.

The sound of car alarms woke me from my nap on the hall floor. Scraping dried mustard from the window, I looked out on the street and saw Pepe desperately running from car to car, stuffing ratty xeroxes under winsheild wipers as Rizzo cruised slowly along behind him in the rattletrap rust box he proudly forced the hapless ileegal to wax every sunday. Pepe had suffered endless numbers of rusty metal sctratches and punture wounds while scrubbing this junkyard’s deformed offspring- and the glazed look in his eyes plainly stated that tetanus would be a welcome blessing. Rizzo screamed incomprehensably at Pepe, and laid about him savagely with the whippy car antenna he carried with him everywhere. I had to admire his follow through, but Zoe whimpered and twiched farther into the corner every time she heard it cutting the air, lost in flashbacks and cluching at the pale white scars across her thighs.

Two or three rounds discharged into the side panels of the car got him moving again, speeding away in a cloud of foul smelling ble smoke and the showering soparks of a dragging muffler. Pepe looked at me hopefully, but knew I had no place for another alien parasite. I still was trying to shake Jeff loose. I snapped my fingers and conditioning took over. With the whimper of a whipped cur, Pepe crept forward and extended one of the stained pages toward me, but did not flinch away fast enough to avoid a kick and snarled curse.

The LYING SWINE! He was distributing these documents all over the nieghborhood? Lucky for me that the whole neighborhood was aware of his spartan vices… If such allegations had come from someone with an OUNCE of credibility, the police would be knoking down my door any moment.

Waves of paranoia began shuddering up my spine… I ran frantically around the block, plucking the flapping pages from the street, car winsheilds and the hands of horrified passersby. “Lies! All lies!” I muttered by way of explaination. I was slick with sweat, unused to this much exertion and panic. Bad craziness… the paper stuck to my skin as I made mad, heaving dashes for the flying pages, but it was of no use. I could only slink back to my home and hope he got the address and phone number wrong again, the motivating jackhammer of crack in his skull making too much noise for him to think clearly…

Slipping into the house I put an extra layer of mustard on the windows to keep out prying eyes, then began to read…

I arrived home to find 14 messages on my answering machine – again. Sigh.
That asshole. I deleted them without listening to a single one. They’d all
be the same – an incoherent rant about hookers, Mexicans and pineal glands.
Just like yesterday, and the day before. I’m going to have to change my
number if he keeps this crap up.

That dumb bastard Flagg still hasn’t come down from last weekend’s orgy of
booze and drugs. It was funny when it started, not as funny as the guy who
does obscene phone calls in the Kermit the Frog voice, but funny in a
desperate, lonely, pathetic sort of way. If only he had the originality to
subconsciously rip off genuinely good authors…… But four days of it is a
little much.

The phone rang – is he having me watched?!?! – but it wasn’t his cracked
whine on the speaker. It was my lawyer, mumbling something about marrying
Brazilian strippers and bail money. Another dumb bastard I don’t want to
talk to. I’ll call him back tomorrow.

This is really all Zoe’s fault. She’s the one who mixes up his daily
apéritif of peyote, heroin and crystal meth. Having a woman around to keep
house, provide you with alibis and mix your drugs is a good thing, but not if
she can’t keep the proportions straight. If she were better at it, he
wouldn’t need an alibi so often. Of course, he could move farther away from
the playground, too. She may be doing it on purpose. If she is, I can’t
really fault he for keeping him sauced. When he’s on that stuff he’s a
crude, nasty, vengeful asshole, seeing slights and insults in the most
innocent of comments and responding with immediate violence.

It’s a vast improvement over his lucid personality. At least the drugs give
him a touch of creativity.

The phone rang again. This time it was Flagg, cracked out as expected. “Send
Pepe over, you selfish savage! My toenails need pruning! You owe me, Rizzo!
You OWE me!” His voice trailed off. “You goddamn wop. Can’t trust the lot
o’ ya. Zoe. Zoe. Where are you, bitch?” It picked up an octave or 2,
and gained volume again. “Tha’ reminds me! Make me some spaghetti!” Across
the room a bottle broke. I couldn’t tell if he had pitched a 40oz at her, or
if she had hurled one at him. I had once postulated that this was the reason
why the apartment was always littered with them – so ammo was always within
arm’s reach. That comment had earned me a sucker punch while I was taking a
leak. Don’t insult the cleanliness of Zoe’s house.

Flagg wasn’t done. He babbled on about Pepe, Veronica and “Squeezums” as if I
knew, or cared, what he was talking about. I was about to hang up on him
when the line went dead after a brief “snortle-ulmph-pblehhhh“. Good. I
headed for the kitchen to cook up some crack of my own.

I decided to fortify myself with candy apples first and had just begun to
boil the sugar when he called back. The machine was in the other room and he
was mumbling, so all I heard was “Pepe” and “tea bag” and “Crayons! Crayons!”

I snapped. I just couldn’t take it any more. I could see him, slouched down
in the ripped and torn chair, staring at the blue screen, head glistening,
rubbing his distended belly like a moldy Buddha, phone cupped in the flab of
his left tit. I stormed into the bedroom, almost slipping on my new copy of
“BigUns: The Holiday Midget Special” and snatched up the phone. “Shut up!
Shut up!” I spat at the phone. “Shut up! Stop calling. Lose my number. I
never want to hear from you again, you drug-addled sicko!

“Whaaa? Surrender to the bats? What are you thinking, Man?”

“AAAAGUUUGGGHHH! I hate you!” I slammed the phone down onto it’s cradle so
hard I cracked the football. I turned and strode from the room, turned, and
snatched up the phone again. Conveniently, I have the asshole on speed dial.
“And next time you call me, put on some damn pants, you pervert!”

Over on 31st Street, the cashier at Mike’s Diner wondered who the idiot was
who would call her weekly and tell her to wear pants, and went back to
answering take-out orders.

The phone rang again. “Pineal glands! Pineal glands!”

I ignored it for a while and then ripped the cord from the wall. I’d have to
talk to him face-to-face. On the short walk over to his hovel I mentally
rehearsed how I’d explain it to him. It was simple, really: Leave me alone.

My cunning plan was shattered as I turned onto his block. A patrolling
police cruiser forced me to abandon my most pursuasive argument on a nearby
front porch. Unencumbered by the aluminum baseball bat, I skipped up his
front steps and smiled as Zoe opened the door. “Good afternoon, baby.”
She nodded hello. “When do they unwire it, next week?” She shook her head
and held up 3 fingers. “Oh. Well, look on the bright side; that’s three
more weeks he won’t be pimping you out for blowjobs in the park.” She slowly
shook her head and tuned around, bending over slightly. Her white panties
displayed scarlet skid marks. Heh. So that’s how he’s been able to maintain
his standard of living these last couple of months.

I stepped over the cat and into the filth. It looked like an east side
tenement’s garbage chute, but it didn’t smell that good. He had crawled down
to the couch. Lubed by sweat, he was slowly sliding off, and I suspected he
was too far gone to notice. I waded around the table and through the kitchen
to the back door. I was almost finished relieving myself when I heard the
crash from the next room. I slogged back to the living room. He didn’t
appear to notice he was now sitting in a pile of McDonalds wrappers and
licorice sticks. “Rizzo. Good of you to drop in. You were expected, of

“Shut up, Flagg. Pay attention, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once. Stop
calling me. Do you hear me? Stop calling me.”

He slowly raised an eyebrow. “Calling you what?”

This was like dealing with a child, only there’s no way I could fit him in a
duffel bag. I grabbed a chair to make my point, but Zoe arrived with two
steaming plates of spaghetti. “Dmmhmn a sudud!”

I had eaten half the plate when I recognized the mushrooms from last weekend.
I looked up at Flagg, but he was still out of it, duckwalking across the
living room, arms akimbo, twirling his hands at the wrists, fingers spread
like he was palming a fourteen-year-old’s ass. The room began to spin. Why
was I reaching for that bottle? Mescal doesn’t go with spaghetti.

Lynna popped a tape in the VCR. Great. First, my legs don’t work, now the
“Fantasy Island 3rd Season Marathon.” From across the room Flagg started
yelling “Pepe! Pepe!”

Four phone calls, maybe more.

In Blog by flagg0 Comments

It’s the first day and Soulhuntre is already beginning to crack.
Blog” he breathes into my phone.. “Blog. Blog.” I knew this tone all too well- and my repulsion at his obscene vices was only overshadowed by my fear and revulsion at his vengeful flailing if he was interrupted in his abominable practices. His time among the Tcho-Tchos and the swarthy inbred jungle guides he hired to translate had given him a taste for certain… activities that no sane man could condone. I had seen Kimiko’s eyes… I knew the horrors this twisted brute was capable of, and wanted no part of them.

I can only post Rizzo’s report of last night’s “activities”- and why I had no time to satisfy Soulhuntre’s perverse cravings for “Blog” and opium.

This festered in my mailbox this morning:

I awoke with a start, unsure of where I was, what that goddamn taste in my
mouth was, or why I had a dead hooker in the bed with me. As I sat up the
disjointed memories came flooding back with the head rush: The night had
started over at Flagg’s, having many mudslides with Nick, as well as the odd
Singapore Sling, – Good God, did I let him TOUCH me??? – and then a quick
descent into hell, which must have started with the odd-shaped mushrooms in
Lynna’s spaghetti sauce. How did I let them talk to me about the style of
Hunter S. Thompson? It always starts with the literary criticism.

She was beginning to reek. I stumbled into my workshop. Normally surgically
clean, it was now a jungle of used rubber gloves, beer bottles, ticker tape
and half-eaten beanie babies. I retched, and it was unnoticeable among the
detritus. From the other room I heard a brief tink-jingle-tink and a
surreptitious scuttle, which turned into a full-tilt sprint as a disheveled
hooker made a run for the door, my car keys clenched firmly in her left hand.
I turned to berate Pepe – it was HIS turn to watch that one! – but the
bastard was nowhere to be found. I tracked him to the living room by his
trail of goulash and we began to argue vociferously over whose turn it was to
watch the hookers, and whether we had one, two or three of them. I chased
the bastard into the bedroom. The dead hooker was gone. Ha! For the first
time since I awoke, fortune had smiled upon me. Not only did we not have to
throw her out, but this proves my argument with Pepe – we obviously had 3
hookers. The other one must have been dragging the dead one out while Pepe’s
bitch stole my car keys. Goddamn Pepe. This never would have happened if he
had stayed away from my crayon box.

He refused to concede my point or even agree that the last Crayon Debacle was
remotely his fault. What a swine! I show him the hospitality of my home and
this is how he repays me?!?! I began to chase him around the apartment with
an X-acto knife and a bottle of vodka. It’s thirsty work, that chasing.

I awoke again, lying sideways across my bed with small triangle-shaped cuts
on my shins and forearms and the sun in my eyes. That goddamn Pepe must have
left the shade up. The only thing driving me is the few hours of sleep I
managed to convince my body to accept before the relentless July sunshine
ripped me from sweet slumber. Worst of all, my recollection of the past 2 days
was arriving rapidly.

I don’t know what hit me harder, the realization that I can’t write worth a
damn, no matter how little sleep I get, or the fact that I don’t know anyone
named Pepe.

Good christ! The swarthy little brute was trying to crucify me! I was not at fault for his filthy habits, his cruel temper or his overwhelming need for strong drink. I knew the stories- the twisted little bastard would swill turpentine in the back of the auto shop where he and his “engineer” associates would build hidey- holes in the bodies of the sports cars of swarthy colombian “businessmen” – no questions asked, cash on the barrelhead. No names, no names…. My neighbors already peeked fearfully at me through the curtains, and having some perverse soiree’ where no one but myself in attendance was over 5’4″ would already suggest some unhealthy lusts – but I had kept my hands off the midgets since my circus incident in ’89… I could not afford to buy another judge…

I was rudely awakened by the sound of a cursing mexican dumping dead hookers
over my back fence. Alerted by the racheting of the pump action, he dropped
behind the black steel door in time to avoud the worst of the spread of

“Kill!” I screamed, but the hounds were too busy worrying the corpses to
spring the gate and run the filthy foriegn brute down. I knew where he was
heading- I’d seen the high cut short-shorts that the dirty little wetback
was forced to wear… how many times had I seen Riso hurl curses at him for
imaginary offenses, cuffing the cringing illegal into a sniveling, pathetic
cur, his little brown legs bruised from kicks and unidentifiable engine
parts. I’ve seen what a camshaft will do to a man’s shins… I knew I had to
tread carefully.

I waited a few minutes, then grabbed the telephone. The ringing of
the phone would drill through Rizzo’s throbbing skull like a bit through a
cheap men’s room stall… a glory hole of hangover misery- better than the
swarthy brute deserved.

“Hola?” sniveled Rizzo’s “manservent” Pepe — out of breath from his sprint
from my back gate. I knew he would answer- he knew that if the savage wop he
was indentured to had to answer his own telephone, it would be the bleach
for him again. “Hola? Allo?”

“INS, you quivering lettuce picker. You put Rizzo on the telephone or you are
going right back across the border.”

Home?” he said, faint hope creeping into his voice, his broken spirit
twitching like a bird in the grill of a speeding pickup. “Ju sand me home?
No senor Rizzo?… No… toucheeng?”

I slammed the phone down, cursing. It was the wrong tactic to take, and I
new it- I had underestimated the brutish sicilains degenerate crulety; the
filthy yoke he had saddled Pepe with. Kicking mudslide bottles out of
the way, I looked out the back window as the dogs fought over the aged and pickled whore-meat Pepe had dropped into my
yard. One bottle was encrusted half way down it’s length with a substance I
could not- would not identify. My mind was taken back to the capering and
gleeful Trombino and his “bottle trick”. The living room would have to be

“Fuck Pepe. It’s the american dream he wanted… let him enjoy it.”

The dogs were fed for a few days, and it was not worth crossing Rizzo or his
giggling, twisted gimp Trombino… that savage, toothy thug would end up
slithering out from under my bed like the feral weasel he was, knife in his
teeth and baby oil gleaming along his wiry little frame.

It makes me sleeepery…” he once leered at me in a drunken frenzy, vomit curling along
his chin as he rubbed the bulk of his convulsive expectorations into his
chest “So I can sliiiiide…”

No. I’d clean up the garbage and hose down the smouldering embers of my
couch, putting salve on the lighter burns Trombino had left on Zoe while
Rizzo and I gambled for Andrew’s “salad tossing” services. It was not worth the
endless supply of twisted rage that the undersized italian duo had saved,
cursing a world far too tall… I want back to my room to avail myself again
of the services I had won from Rizzo at dice– when he saw me come in, still
unshowered, Andrew struggled against the duct tape and began to whine like
the whipped cur he was….

Words have power.

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Phrases get caught in my skull and bounce around until they turn into stories, or find a context to attach themselves to to unlock their significance.
A good friend of mine summed up my life as a “quest to put the right word in the right ear at the right time.” This will never be the right ear, or the right time.
I may never find the right word. But I’ll put words up here, because they have to go somewhere. Snippets of writing, links, quotes, rants- or just phrases, sentances of significance.

Cyphers to be unlocked.

Thanks to Soulhuntre for hooking up my Blog. he’ll doubtless regret it- because he will COMPULSIVELY check my blog, compelled to come sniffing after these truffles growing up from my subconcious… and will doubtless be endlessly, frustratingly, consistently dissapointed.

This makes me smile.