Misc CORN GOD

Ah yup, call Sheriff Hulry. Them damn kids are in the cornfield again, drinkin’ beer and worshipping their corn god. I told ‘em last time I’d call the law if they came back and I’m a man of mah word. It’s mah farm, not a damn church. Let ‘em grow their own corn if they’re so all fired up about this corn god. Oh, and make sure to tell the sheriff to tell them kids to take the empty cans with ‘em with time, I’m not their maid.

Misc INTRODUCTION TO A ZOMBIE STORY

I found out I was the luckiest god damned man alive a bit too late. I mean I got my wish. I’m not talking about some stupid everyday wish that might come true, like, I wish I could find a parking space or I wish I get a raise. Those things can happen, they do, everyday to someone. My wish was something else, and I’ll bet it hasn’t happened to any bastard before in all of time.

Maybe I should back up a bit. Thing is, I caught my wife cheating on me. I thought she had been for some time, the no good gold digging bitch. So I bought a gun from some guy I know, untraceable. I caught her and her “friend” doing it my bed. And this is where my wish comes in. Sure as hell they were surprised to see me, even more surprised to see the gun. God I love just thinking about that look on their faces. I think he peed…Fuckin’ comedy gold right there. Anyway, as I leveled the gun at them, him first I said “My only wish is that I fucking kill you and you come back from the dead so I can fucking kill you again.” I mean come on, I was pissed.

I heard a stomach wound was a pretty miserable way to go from this old vet that I used to know. So, that’s where I let the lead go. Shit! Talk about blood! I didn’t actually expect that much. I also didn’t expect that the moaning would bother me as much as it did. I let her look at her boyfriend for a bit before I gave her the same and then finished them both of with one to the heart each.

There I was, standing in my bedroom wondering how I was to clean this shit up, worrying about luminal and crap when those two fuckers started to move. What the hell? I mean this was point blank, aint know way even I’m going to miss any vitals at that range. They were dead, fucking dead. Only now they weren’t…and I remembered my wish. God dammit, if I had known it would have come true I wouldn’t have wasted it on these two losers, I’d have wished myself a billion dollars and a yacht full of hotties. But here I was, my wish came true and I had to kill these worthless fucks one more time. I brought up the gun, aimed at what’s his fucks head and pulled the trigger. Blammo! Fucking brains on the head board. Great, even more mess to clean up.

My wife, that is ex wife, or recently not so departed wife was clawing her way to a sitting postion. Her otherwise blue eyes were a cloudy white and her mouth was open in a kind of hungry slack jawed gape. She was looking around the room. One hand fell on her boy toys broken head and she pulled up a hand full of brains. I was thinking, what the fuck? She must had totally lost it. Then she brought her hand to her mouth, shoved in a handful dipshits grey matter and turned to face me. With a rasping, guttural shriek she lunged at me, but the blood soaked sheets caught her foot and she fell off the end of the bed. I shot her in the back. She looked up at me. I pulled the trigger again. Click. Fuck. Who plans on carrying more than a full gun to take out two naked shits? Not me. I ran for the bedroom door.

Misc INTRODUCTION TO A GHOST STORY

Prologue

Sara awoke with a start, disoriented and still very tired. The wind whipped around the house, moaned down the chimney and howled it’s fury through the trees. It wasn’t those sounds that awoken her, but another almost rhythmic sound heard far away through the cacophony.   Bang, bang, there it was again. The barn door! The barn door was open, she must have failed to latch it correctly and the wind did the rest. Her thoughts went immediately to her horse Blizzard. Jumping out of bed she ran to the window. Through the swirl of leaves and driving rain she could see nothing,  that is until a flash of lightning painted a stark picture. The door was caught in mid swing, she could see her father, holding a lantern approaching the barn, fighting against the terrible wind.

Sara began to sob. The storm had started around noon the day before. Word had reached them that the river had flooded and the bridge out of town had been washed away. If Blizzard was out, he may run towards the river out of fear and be swept away.

Another bright flash of lightning illuminated the scene before her.

Through the trees she could see something white, moving slowly. Blizzard! She opened the window and tried to scream over the sound of the storm. Rain hit her like cold birdshot. Leaves swept into the room and flew in circles all about her. She pointed toward the trees and tried to get her father to hear her. It was useless. In her fear and excitement she didn’t even notice that the rain had soaked through her nightgown and clung to her like white seaweed.

The next burst of lightning revealed her father heading towards the woods. He must have seen her horse there too. She could still see it, sturdy white hind quarters moving through the swaying pine trees. She saw her father one last time as he stepped in after the animal, the after image burned onto her retinas.

She waited for what seemed a very long time. Peering into the darkness she willed herself to see in the dark, but saw only blackness. Thunder boomed in the surrounding hills and lightning struck a tree not far from the house. There was a sudden burst of flame and then it was extinguished by the relentless rain. In that flash she saw her horse Blizzard approaching the house, alone, head hung down. She leaned out of the window and called for him as loudly as she could, then stopped. She wasn’t sure but something seemed to be wrong. It didn’t look exactly like Blizzard. It might have been a trick of the light, or her own anxiety working against her but she could have sworn that this horse was much larger than Blizzard, the size of a draft horse or bigger. Blizzard was a smaller horse, perfect for a sixteen year old to ride and control. There was also something in the way it moved…something not horse-like.

A wave of uncertain fear swept through her. She closed the window and stepped back. The horse would be at the house now, just under her window, but something was keeping her from looking. She thought to herself how foolish this was, what if the horse was hurt or in trouble? She was shivering uncontrollably now, she told herself it was from the cold and moved to open the window.

That’s when it happened.

The white creature below must have stood on its hind legs, pale almost human hands, though much larger clamped down on the windowsill, claws tearing through the wood.

Sara tried to scream but found her voice frozen behind chattering teeth. Slowly, an long white horse-like head rose into view. It’s nostrils flared and hot steam fogged the window for a moment. Pale eyes, like blue sky reflected on ice stared at her. They were not a horses dark kind eyes, but human eyes, cold and full of hate.  It’s muzzle parted in a grin revealing a row of large sharp teeth, stained red with blood and flecked with strands of meat.

“Father…” was all Sara said before fainted.

She didn’t hear the glass break, or see the long arms reaching toward her. She never felt the claws dig into her cold wet skin. She never felt anything again.

Misc MR. MUMPS

“Then there’s the smell.”

Mumps lowered the open book to his lap and peered over his reading glasses. The little bald man sitting in the chair across from him looked startled for a moment. Mumps enjoyed coming to the bookstore to read on Sundays and wasn’t very pleased to find someone addressing him.

“Pardon me?” Asked Mumps.

The little man swallowed and looked nervously from side to side.

“They smell. They smell badly.”  He continued, speaking in a precise but apologetic manner.

Mumps closed his book and considered the man for a moment.

“Who smells badly?” He asked.

The little man waited until a couple walked past them. He looked around to make sure that no one else was within earshot and whispered “Dead people.”

“Yes, so I have heard.” Offered Mumps, reaching for his coffee.

“I mean…It’s not so bad when they’re fresh and the weather is cold.”

“I would imagine so.”

“But on hot days it’s unbearable.”

Mumps took a sip of the coffee and set it back down.

“Excuse me Mr…” Mumps allowed time for the little man to fill in his name.

“Mr. Skitter.”

“Yes, Mr. Skitter. I don’t mean to come across as rude or unfriendly, but why exactly are you telling me this?”

Mr. Skitter swallowed and leaned forward. He once again looked around to make sure no one was nearby. “I know who you are.”

“Have we met?”

“No Mr. Mumps, we have not. But I am familiar with your…work.” He paused before saying the word ‘work’ to add more meaning to it.

“My work?” Asked Mr. Mumps, seemingly confused.

“Your…work.” Stated Mr. Skitter. Again there was the pause before the word.

Misc HERO STORY START

I grew up in the suburbs when that still meant barbeques and neighborhood kick the can games. That was before cul de sacs became literal dead ends. That was before the US government legalized forced poverty in order to make the rich richer. That was when we could still call the police or the fire department or an ambulance and have them actually show up.

That was when we actually had schools to go to that weren’t named after a corporation. That was when we were still that land of the free and the home of the brave.

I was too young to know why the neighbor houses went empty, why my friends had to move away. I was too young to know why I felt suddenly so alone. We lived in the only house that still had it's lights on at night. We might as well have lived in another country.

All of this was before the CIA or the “Corporate Insurance Act”, what we called the “Corporate Indulgence Act” whereby corporations could pay a simple fee based on the laws they had broken. The money went to the government. My family never saw a cent when our water went bad. All we received when my sister died was a letter that let us know the company responsible had paid their fine.

This is why I am who I am. This is why I am a criminal. This is why I became a "murderer". This is why I am wanted.

I think the day my name was mentioned along with Thomas Jefferson as a terrorist against the state was the proudest of my life, the second proudest…Well, that’s my story.

It started when a corporation was declared an actual entity, the same as a person, but unlike a person a corporation could not be thrown in prison, did not have to answer for it’s crimes. Those who actually committed the crimes never paid the price. To be sure, certain sacrificial lambs were offered up in the old days, but soon even that farce stopped.

Soon after, the companies were allowed to invest their money in political campaigns…as if they were individual citizens. Most of these companies weren’t even based in the USA.  

Misc THE ODIOUS MAN

And so you can well understand , when I learned that in order to continue our journey we must spend several days aboard a steamer bound for Rangoon with that Odious man, well, I was bit upset to say the least. Not as upset as Miss Hoblin, however, who the Odious man had, on a previous leg of the journey had named “The Jacobean Spinster.” Why he should have chosen this name is a mystery. I will admit that being an unmarried woman in her late fifties perhaps does make her a spinster, but to call attention to this with such a name is cruel and uncalled for. And as for being a Jacobean, there has been no evidence to that effect.

Also on that previous part of our travels I had intercepted young Miss Bingham, in tears, heading toward her cabin. When I had asked what the matter was, she had told me that the odious man had approached her on the starboard deck in order to discuss the weather. But Young Miss Bingham had been so distracted by the size of the man’s nose that she doesn’t remember the conversation at all, only that she feared the odious man would ask for her hand in marriage and should she accept (an occurrence we both agreed was unlikely to the point of being an impossibility) , their offspring would be born with enormous noses of their own and remain social outcasts for the entirety of their lives, perhaps being forced to turn to crime. With this in mind young Miss Bingham was on the way to her cabin to cry for her large nosed, unborn, criminal children.

Have I mentioned that the odious man also has a habit of luring the gulls which follow our ship to him with bits of bread, and then spitting on the gulls when they come within range? He finds this a great game and even keeps a score card of sorts. He has attempted to entice almost everyone on the ship to join him in this “sport”, even the ladies. But he has of yet to find any takers.

I should also say, though to do so would be breaking a confidence, that Professor  Ponte believes that the odious man is following us with the intention to steal the clockwork weasel.

Misc ON TONY from shut up little man

Tony has transcended mere humanity and now strides the world as a white trash god. Traveling the highways and by ways, distributing the miracle of television to drunken, fighting alcoholics everywhere. A Night Train Santa of the alleys. A T...hunderbird bodisatva, who's wise discourse on matters mechanical, may only be shared with true seekers and true believers. He is the slightly sour smell of compost on the wind, the whiff of Camel smoke by a gas station john, the waterlogged pages of an old porn mag left in the rain outside a hobo jungle. Tony is everywhere.

Cold tile, warm piss, body and mouth screaming for a fix. The flashing red and blue urban church bell sirens call the way to the recent converts. 5.55mm lightning in a foreign jungle. Through all of this...Tony is t...rying to sleep.

What have you seen in those things?
What have you done in them?
Do you know where the missing are?
Do you have answers that could end a families questions,
...ease their pain?
Have you sat numb as red turns to rust and mixes with
the water and leaves that run down the gutter in the rain?
Did you keep a memento? A trophy? A reminder?
Tony doesn't want your pants. No one wants your pants.
Tony has his own.

You're old enough now to be in on the joke.
Are you laughing yet?
You're old enough now to see the big picture.
Are your eyes open yet?
...You're old enough now to know you're not anonymous
Are you famous yet?
Does he care?
Or was he drunk by the time you got home?

Verse EARL

So, I'll admit this is pretty lowbrow, but it still amuses me. Picture a banjo in the background and I think this would make for a pretty funny country style song. It does owe a debt to the songs of C.W. McCall of "Convoy" fame. So with my apologies, here's "Earl."

Me an’ Earl was up at black bear lake

He was takin’ a leak and shakin’ the snake

When a bear come out and bit him on the wang

That bear was better ‘an a black an decker

It bit right through poor Earl’s pecker

And then took off a runnin’ through the woods

I said “Earl we got a problem here

Your willy’s run off with that bear.”

But he was just a cryin’ on the ground

Damn you gotta help me son!

Get my Johnson, grab your gun

And don’t you let that dang bear get away

My daddy didn’t raise little Earl Lee

To be man that had to sit to pee

I can’t go back to town without my thing.

So I took off runnin’ down the trail

Fifteen yards behind it’s tail

But damn that bear was faster than it looked

And in it’s mouth Earl’s manhood hung

Floppin’ ‘round like a mutant tongue

And the bear run off the trail into the woods

Them trees were thicker ‘an grass on a lawn

I was stumblin’ through ‘em like a new born fawn

That bear was getting smaller all the time

It must have been an hour or more

My breathin’ hurt, my legs were sore

But’ round here friends don’t let each other down

I lost my gun while crossin’ a crick

And one of my shoes to get this prick

I was startin to think this bear had maybe won

When all of a sudden, what did I see?

That stupid bear climbed up a tree

I got you know you hairy son of bitch

Well I chased ya over hill and hollow

Now drop that…Wait! No! please don’t swallow!

And I swear that bear just looked me in the eye

I though it was over, but I was wrong

It opened it’s mouth and dropped Earl’s dong

And I was too damn tired to even move

My heart was poundin’ from the chase

As Earl’s weiner just missed my face

And with plop it landed on the ground

It looked like a piece of hamburger beef

I picked it up with a stick and a leaf

Then I turned and looked up in the tree

Well Bear, I guess you met your match

But you didn’t leave much to reattach

I don’t think ol Earl’ll be too pleased

He won’t have kids, can’t please his wife

On second thought, how’s that change his life?

I made it back to camp just after dark

I’m sure that there’s a lesson here

Like don’t get your winky bit off by a bear

But I’m pretty sure that goes without my sayin’

And Earl? I guess he’s doin’ fine

He’s fixin’ trucks on five and vine

I guess the doctors did all they could do

He’s a good mechanic and he ain’t no fool

But his garage is always shy one tool.

Any way I told ya all I know

So if you go up to black bear lake

Then watch for bears for heaven’s sake

And oh yeah, take a leak before you go.

Verse MOUSE

One night I woke up hungry

And as I went to get some food

I saw a mouse run past me

And I though it very rude

He ran across my kitchen

And through a tiny door

It was way too small for me to use

So I lay down on the floor

What I saw when I looked in

You won’t believe at all

There was a whole mouse city

There behind my kitchen wall

The mice were dressed in old time clothes

And wandered down the street

Smiling at their fellow mice

And walking on two feet.

There were streets and sidewalks Shops and homes,

each one lit up bright

And many toys I though I’d though I lost

Were used by them each night.

Several of my wind up cars

were rattling down the road

and a toy truck I was missing

here hauled a cheesy load

When we moved I’d lost a train

A toy one very nice

But here it was inside the wall

And used by little mice

Tomorrow I would come back

And make a little noise

I’d have to ask the mayor mouse

To give back all my toys

But I was getting sleepy

So a grabbed a little snack

And thought of what I’d say when

In the morning I came back

When I woke up to the sunlight

I searched the kitchen wall

But couldn’t find the little door

It wasn’t there at all.

Misc BONE LONESOME

There are those who say civility is a thin veneer, a glossy pretty coating that hides the true nature of any town. In the case on Bone Lonesome, this veneer was like the veneer of a cheap table left out in the rain for years. It was a grey peeling layer barely clinging to sagging, rotting pressboard beneath. You could see it in the eyes of the people who lived there, you could see that it took extreme effort on their part not to lose it. Not to run screaming down the street cutting the throats of their neighbors and collecting their blood in whiskey bottles for no other reason then just to have it. It was not a friendly town, not on the surface and certainly not in the rotting truth that lay beneath. But Bone Lonesome was were Mr. Peabody was heading, where he had been “relocated” to, and in this economy even living in Bone Lonesome seemed better than no job at all.

Misc PARTIAL DIARY FOUND IN AN OLD HOUSE

Day 6

Ok, it’s dead I get that but Jesus! Why the hell won’t it stop banging on the wall?! Does it think it’s going to knock a hole through or maybe I’ll just open the door and let it in? It reminds me of this old refrigerator I used to have that made the most irritating noise. This morning I actually broke out my guitar and played along with the beat of it’s hammering but that only made it hammer harder and the whole song was ruined. I even find myself tapping my foot in time with the rhythm. I think it’s going to drive me insane.

I suppose I could just go out and kill it, or whatever happens to make them stop moving. But then I will be alone. Truly alone.


Day 7

I found some old boxing gloves in the cellar today while looking for something besides besides peach preserves to eat. I’m going to go out and try and put them on the son of a bitch. Oh yeah, I’m going to tase it first. Wish me luck.


Day 8

Yeah that plan didn’t work out so well. I got bit. But I did get one glove on. So that’s something.I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go back to bed. God I wish it would stop pounding.

Lost Letter Dear Mama

Dear mama,
Trevor went out to the farm today and he was mad. I mean real angry. He cursed the president, the federal government and even God. Can you imagine that? I ain’t never heard nobody curse God before. For a bit I was scared to stand next to him but then I figured God’s probably got a pretty good aim if he wants to.
The barn was gone of course as was the house, well except for the cellar. I told Trevor that at least we still got the cellar, you know, trying to look on the bright side of things. But he said the cellar weren’t nothing but a hole in the ground and a hole is the absence of something, it was worse than nothing. I told him that maybe we could build the new house next to the old one and use the hole as a swimming pool, but he just glared at me and said there wasn’t gonna be a new house.
Most of the corn is gone too, squashed flat. The ground’s been packed tight as cement. It’s gonna take a lot of work to make anything grow here for a while. Out near the end of the step we found his haulin’ truck, where he left it only it was smashed all to bits. Flat as a pancake. I was gonna make a joke about a toe truck, but seein’ how mad he was I just kept quiet.
Anyway it looks like we’re gonna be moving. Donna and Carl said we could stay with them for awhile until we get back on our feet, then we may head up your way. Trevor said he’ll be good God damned if he’s gonna stay in a state with giants, government grants or no government grants.
Anyway take care and write soon.
-Louisa

Lost Letter Dear Dave

I should note that I wrote this 2 years before the current world money situation.



Dave,

It seems like the airconditioning is making more noise than ususal. I guess I could have it fixed but I don't even know who to call. To tell you the truth, it's so old now that I'm not even sure the air coming out of it is any cooler than the outside. Maybe it's just the sound it makes that makes me feel cooler. A memory form a time when it worked, from a time a lot of thing around here worked including myself. I went for a walk today under a sky that felt like being trapped inside a beer bottle. I couldn't help but feel that somewhere up there, just beyond the last gray cloud there was actually a blue sky. Blue, you remember blue? I mean a real pure natural blue. The only blues I see these days are neon and bruises. Do people rust? It looks like everything around here is turning to rust. The cars, the buildings even the homeless guys are getting rusty. I don't think there's enough oil left in the ground to loosen up this town and to stop it from squeaking when the wind blows. You know Gerald's brother has a friend who drives a rig, he say's you gotta go about 400 miles in any direction before it feels like you've gone anywhere. Everything is just brown. He say's there's another hanging highway leading into Atlanta. I guess it's some kind of statement. He showed me a picture he took. These people climb up them really tall light poles they got lining the freeway and hang themselves. This photo just showed miles of bodies hanging in the air, way up there. There's no money to cut them down anymore so they just swing until the rope breaks guess. I heard these people just max out their credit, live like kings for a month or so and then end it as big middle finger to the banks. He had one picture of a guy hangin' in a tee shirt that said "Thanks for the ride." another one said "Coming out ahead, priceless." Seems
like all of them have some witty statement on their shirts. Reminds me of a kind of rotting, hanging Burma shave sign that goes on for miles. Well, you might be to young to remember Burma shave. I gotta go, the cat's at the back door again, I guess he wants me to share dinner again. I could use the company.

-Clemen

Lost Letter DEAR LILY

Dear Lily

It rained again last night as it has for the past twelve nights. Even though the mud it leaves in its wake is of a particularly sole devouring nature (I lost my left shoe to it last Tuesday, if you’ll pardon my little joke.) I think that I shall miss it when and if it stops. It is a constant companion in a time of few friends and drums me gently to sleep with liquid fingers on the roof of this old house. I tell you Lily and I know you will understand, that it’s very strange being back here after all these years. Comforting, yes, but also sad and painfully lonesome. With all the past ghosts living here I’m surprised there’s room enough for me to walk down the hallway. Do you remember that chair railing in the parlor? I was dusting it when I found that spot where you lost your front tooth. Remember? We were playing and I pushed you? Mama got so mad us that day. But seeing that little indentation made me smile.

I saw that Istvan boy the other day. He was running, naked and a jay bird, down that little alley between the old revival church and the rust garden. He didn’t see me though. I must confess that I know I should have felt some shock at seeing this half grown boy out in the streets in nothing but his birthday suit, and I might have been if it weren’t for that…I don’t know what to call it…clacker he was using. He was running back and forth looking in every fence hole and drain pipe shouting some name or other and clacking this wooden clacker. It was an odd sight. But then I suppose it’s to be expected from the child of foreigners. I swear Lily it’s like they don’t even want to learn the rules of this country that took them in and offered them freedom and comfort. Why they just don’t go back to whatever “istan” they came from is beyond me.

Oh but that reminds me. I had the oddest visit the other day. Do you remember Dr. Winslow? Well he’s retired now, but his son Bo took up the calling and is now the town doctor, I suppose this town will always have its Dr. Winslow. It just seems fitting, change is such trying thing. Anyway, as I was saying, Dr. Winslow, the new Dr. Winslow that is stopped by the house just after lunch last Thursday. I thought it was maybe a package I had to sign for or maybe a flower delivery from some secret admirer (As if). But there was the new Dr. Winslow standing under an absolutely monstrous umbrella. He said he was just out for a walk and thought he would check in with some people and see how the rain was treating them. I told him the rain was treating me just fine. I invited him in and we had tea and passed the time in pleasant enough conversation. Then he starts asking me the strangest questions. Like had I seen anything odd at night, outside? Only the rain I said, and that isn’t all that odd, especially at this time of year. He asked if I had seen any lights out there or heard anything unusual. Then he asked if I was sleeping alright. I told him I was. All this time he’s looking at my eyes. Not into my eyes, but at them, although he’s doing it in such a manner that I’m guessing I wasn’t supposed to notice. All those times I thought about how nice it would be to have a handsome young doctor look into my eyes were erased by this rather forward and disturbing behavior. The questions he asked! I shall see if I can remember some of them…Have any strangers come to the door recently? Has anyone tried to enter the house? (I tell you Lily it will be a wonder if I sleep again after that one.) Have I heard any strange sounds like loud sniffing noises outside my door or windows? Have I noticed any strange symbols drawn on any of the doors or windows? Have I heard anyone call my name after midnight? Well I was getting a powerful case of the fright chills and called attention to the late hour and how I had several more chores to do before supper. Oh I know that was a lie, and I do feel badly about saying it, but I was getting scared. The old Dr. Winslow would never arrive at a body’s home uninvited and start asking such questions. Just thinking about them put the devil to work on my poor imagination. You know I have an overactive imagination to begin with, I have since we were children. Remember those stories I used to tell you hangman ghosts and hobo walking shoes? Oh but those were just stories and we would get so scared that we just had to sleep with mama and papa in that big old bed of theirs. But these questions the young Dr. Winslow was asking…they didn’t feel like stories. Anyway, Dr. Winslow apologized for the visit and said that if it was alright with me he would check on me in a few days. Well I have to tell you that it wasn’t alright with me, not at all. But what could I say? It would be rude to say no, so I smiled and nodded my head ever so slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But he did. Doctors are very observant people you know. Almost like detectives.

So now I have had to use the tonic to get to sleep. Yes I know, there’s no need to lecture me and I know you won’t mention it in your return letter. This is a medical use. I need it to sleep. It’s not like it was before, I promise you that. And anyway it’s a different tonic, this is professor Goodsir’s nighttime tonic. He’s a real professor, it says so right on the label. And I don’t care to believe that a learned gentleman like a professor, who after all went through years of school and hard work, would sell anything but the highest quality pharmaceuticals. And besides it tastes like rotten fish so it has to be good.

Anyway, I do have to be going dearest Lilly. Write to me soon won’t you?

Hugs.

-Franny



P.S. I found doodlekins, your old stuffed bear. He was behind the preserves. If you wish I can send him to you. I’m sure you miss him.

Misc OLD MAN

The old man believed that his happiness was his own responsibility and to this end he provided himself everyday with opportunities to be happy. The first of these opportunities arrived every morning when the old man awoke. He coughed and sputtered and summoned up all the phlegm that a night of sleeping with the window open could produce and with a thrust of his head spat the yellow gob out the window.
Now this first action was a bit of a gamble. If the old man managed to successfully spit out the window he was well pleased with himself, if he failed it could put a bad spin on the rest of his day. Though as he often told himself, success without risk isn’t worth the effort. Since he never cleaned up after a missed spit there was an area around the window that appeared to have been badly varnished with a mix of shellac and lumpy porridge.
The reason the old man slept with his window open was so that he would awaken when people were walking on the sidewalk below him. He loved sunny days best of all, days when people did not carry umbrellas. Those days when his intended though random targets would have no protection. His second opportunity for happiness came when flying mucus managed to connect with an unsuspecting pedestrian. When this happened he would laugh long and loud making a sound like a frog being dragged across a cheese grater.
The old man had a rubber stamp he taken from a child’s play set. The stamp was of a pig as seen from the side. Each time he heard someone outside cry out in disgust upon having a ball of unctuous slime the side of his face or run down her collar, the old man, when he was done laughing would always say the same thing. “Squeal for Jesus piggy pig.” And he would push the stamp in a pad of red ink and press it to the wall opposite his bed.
He currently had an army of red pigs covering the wall and marching toward his bedroom door, the older ones starting to fade.
The old man stepped back and looked at the wall. He nodded in a self satisfied manner and throwing on a dirty old robe headed to the kitchen for happiness opportunity number three.

He smelled of onions and urine and mentholated rubbing ointment. He stood at his ancient electric stove as a blob of white lard slid along the bottom of a spotted pan, turning to a clear liquid as it went. The old man watched as people made their way up and down the busy street opposite him.
“Nice hair, Gomez.” He snarled under his breath.
The old man took a plate of chopped liver from his humming refrigerator and dumped the purple meat into the pan. A cloud of smoke and a loud sizzle filled the small kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s some eatin’” He chortled.
The he leaned out the window and shouted “You smell that Gomez? That’s some real food! Jealous? I bet!”
Several people turned and looked as they walked, but no one stopped. The man he had dubbed Gomez was long gone.
“Yeah, real food.” He mumbled. “None of your corns and beans and burros here. That stuff gives me gas and tastes like the floor in the free clinic.”
He lifted the pan to the window and blew across it’s surface.
“Real food Gomez! Do you smell it?”
The pan tipped and a piece of liver slipped out and fell to the street below. The old man’s mouth opened in disbelief.
“Goddammit! That’s mine! Shrieked the old man. Don’t you touch it! “