Derek to Dave: "DM me, brougham!"
The bitter irony is that Derek Okra follows David Pike, but David Pike does not, in return follow Derek Okra. I saw this. And Pike is on a book tour. Or a speaking tour. Or something of that nature. People pay money, Dave stands there and talks. It's like singing for your supper. Will there be signed copies available? Or else my name is Sweet Mike Sassy Molassey.
art is good therapy.
Derek offers a Dave apologetic to the masses.
wholesale consequences warehouse: the three loves of Charlie Earl
First: It was a whirlwind. Dance and drinks. Few weeks in the apartment, then its off to a house, co-signed and all. Charlie Earl cuts grass outside with his self-propelled pushmow, meaning he just walks behind it with a hand touching it, like a dum-dum. Laura in upstairs bath, meaning to climb out of the tub, but slips. Her head goes through the window and is severed CLEAN-OFF by the glass. Her head rolls outside across the backyard and stops of front of Charlie Earl's self-propelled pushmow. Charlie is completely confused.
An end to confusion.
Title Card: Given over to waste.
Second love. It goes slower this time. Charlie is gun-shy about co-habitating. They have sleepovers though, and brunches in their underoos. It's good. Charlie leaves one morning in his British Racing Green MGB. She runs alongside the car. Charlie makes a game of it, grabbing hold of her hand, Helen's hand. His grip slips. She grabs hold more firmly. She trips over a root, and falls, before Charlie Earl can let go. Her body is pulled beneath the back wheel of the car.
Charlie stops the car in the next forty feet and looks back incredulously at another ruined love.
Title Card: Succumbed to Ruin.
Third Love: Angela the angelic goth girl. Things are more subdued this time. Charlie Earl just kinds of lets it happen. He's becoming jaded. He leaves her in the truck at the discount superstore while he goes inside for vitamins, underwear and a USB flashdrive. Back in the car, the engine is running and the air-conditioning is blaring, which happens to be filling the car with carbon monoxide. Angela peacefully goes to sleep, like an unwanted kitten.
Title Card: "Blessed Are The Sleepy, For They Soon Drop Off."
World goes to hell in a hand basket. The dead are coming back to life. Kristinna Lokken gets her American flag bikini. She rigid-mounts a high-caliber automatic on the back of a 2-ton flatbed truck. Finally, she puts on her open-toed heels.
Charlie Earl is consulting with his pastor, a Methodist of many years. One of Lokken's stray bullets hits the ESV in the pastor's hand and pages go EVERYWHERE. They scatter, babies. Charlie ducks until the truck is gone and goes in the sanctuary, where Angela's dead body lies in the coffin.
From the coffin.
The coffin falls and Angela crawls out and gets to her feet. From the back, we see that her dress has been cut by the mortician, to aid in dressing an immobile corpse. She has a nice lily white butt. But that's besides the point.
She stands there, pupil-less, and puts her head down, angelic, almost penitent, waiting for Charlie Earl.
He comes to her side and we pull back to see a wedding tableaux, with Charlie and the dead girl centermass and the sanctuary now full of people.
Midnight. Charlie Earl climbs off of Angela and lays down on his back. She nestles up to him and nibbles at his ear. He begins to muse how his life has finally turned around. We hear crunching suddenly.
She's eating into his brains.
-a Fatfish Zombie story.
do you miss Jackson Five on the coin-op?
Keep talking, Jermaine. This is important. We are going to fix you. I'm working 5 to 1 so our time is limited, but I can give you all that time. Until fifteen minutes before 1, where I smoke cigarettes while being on the clock. Love a smoker's policy here, where I can smoke during our sessions. Gotta smoke. Gotta have my nicotine fix.
We were talking about Air Pudding destroying a roller-skating rink in Pasadina. I don't recall seeing anything about that in the papers, save for a post-modern reference in the Messenger-Democrat, which makes me think the whole thing is a legend blown out of proportion by time. Just some old anti-Nixon propaganda, I wot. Sort of like Bush blowing the levees in New Orleans to clear out low-income residents.
Keep talking Jermaine. Talk it out. We're getting down to it, now. To the grice.
working on a new book
writing a new book, and all that jazz, a novella. minimum of 10 thousand words. I could call it "my struggles" but such is life that it would be lost in everyone else's struggles.
my soul is like a song. or something. but it is strong and vibrant these days, productive.
life is good and I want to see other people happy, too. i want to see us all happy.
this is the part where we take our clothes off and inspect each other for ticks. if you find one, just pull yank it.