Larry shook the glass of ice water. Stirring the drink with his finger, he thought about vodka rocks burning cold, a trace of the good old days. Sighing, he sipped the water.
He thought about Marcy. The devil tattoo winking on her shoulder; buttoned leather vest tight enough to be a corset, and nothing underneath; ripped jeans offering enticing peeks of her legs; ruby lips blessing a glass of tequila with a kiss as she swallowed a double without flinching. Thinking about Marcy, Larry glanced over at his wife, Ann, and shuddered.
Pushing himself off the couch Larry shuffled to the kitchen. Ann muttered something about a television show. Larry grunted, letting Ann assume he’d said something she wanted to hear. In the kitchen he poured out the water, and saved the ice.
Larry said, “I’m going to run to the store. Need anything?”
“No.”
“All right then. Back soon.”
He placed the glass in the freezer. Marcy always kept a set of shot glasses in her freezer. She liked frost, even went so far as to own a set designed to produce images as they froze – deer heads made of thin ice.
In the car Larry turned on the radio. Two weeks ago a frightening incident occurred. Larry found himself willfully turning the volume down; somehow without warning the concept of too loud had crept into his mind. On the road to the grocery store, he tuned in a rock station and did his best to resist that blasphemy.
There used to be a time the parties didn’t stop until the cops came. Once upon a time, in a life that seemed long, long ago, Larry knocked a man out for turning the stereo off. Granted, the stereo belonged to that man, not to mention the fact he and Marcy had broken into that man’s house; however, never interrupt a smile. Marcy used to talk about getting that phrase tattooed, though she never did settle on where.
Pam Dauber waved to Larry in the parking lot. He made a similar gesture without feeling.
“How’s the Mrs.?” Pam shouted for everyone to hear. Larry considered giving her the finger. Instead he hollered back:
“Good.”
Larry walked away which didn’t stop Pam from continuing to yell, “You tell her I said hey gurl.”
Larry nodded then considered shooting himself. It didn’t really seem like it would solve anything, so he set the idea aside. Maybe some other time it would make better sense. Right now he longed for a different shot.
He marched straight to the liquor aisle, found a small bottle of vodka, and went home. Ann still sat on the couch doing her best to bond with it. Larry announced he was going into the basement to work on a few things. Ann acknowledged him without taking her eyes off the television. Collecting his chilly glass from the freezer, Larry headed downstairs.
The first shot almost made him throw up. It’d been a long time since he’d downed three fingers in one gulp. But after a few gags Larry got a hold of himself. Settling into a more sensible pace, he sipped the refilled glass as he searched for a box.
It took a half hour to find the cardboard cube in question. Larry reloaded another shot. This one went down smoother. Kneeling down he opened the box: a tattered pirate flag, skull and crossbones grinning with devilish glee; stacks of photos featuring forgotten friends alongside a kid he barely recognized as himself; a few sheets of paper covered in chicken scratch that still smelled faintly of tequila – Marcy.
The papers might not’ve made much sense to most people. Clipped phrases seemingly strung together at random, some portions underlined, a few doubly marked in yellow highlighter, the general sense of someone emptying their head onto a page. Inky babbling stitched together into something remotely coherent by cherry picking what made sense and redacting what didn’t. But it was the notes in the margins – wicked but won’t fit the riff, save for later, you can do better than this you cunt – that really made Larry smile.
Once upon a time he knew a girl named Marcy V. She played in a band called We Eat Children that later changed their name to The Rapist Therapist before finally settling on LSDelight. Marcy played guitar and sang, while her friend Sophie D. kept her company on bass, Jeanie X. followed on guitar, and George C. hammered the drums. They looked like acid freak hobos led by a gypsy queen. LSDelight played in and around Chicago for five years, mostly blowing out speakers in dive bars, but those were good times.
Larry met Marcy at an LSDelight show in Bridgeport. He’d gone out to meet a friend for drinks, neither one of them aware the band would be playing; neither of them aware of the band.
After the show Marcy came straight over to the two and said, “You didn’t look like you were enjoying yourselves.”
Larry said, “We were trying to talk, and you guys are really loud.”
“Loud and no good, or just loud?” Marcy asked. Something about the way she held her beer bottle made Larry nervous.
Larry said, “Just loud. If it was no good we’d’ve left.”
“Cool.”
He offered to buy her a drink.
She looked him over and said, “You’ll do.”
The next morning he woke up in her apartment not sure if he’d been smooth, lucky, or some combination of the two. However, he decided not to question good fortune and simply rode the wave. Four years passed in an alcohol fueled cacophony, probably the best four of his life. She opened him up to chaos.
At the bottom of the box he found a CD with a kiss in purple lipstick on it. Beneath that he unearthed a cocktail napkin covered in writing more akin to cuneiform than modern English. Still, Larry knew well enough to discern the poem.
He reloaded his glass. After digging out a pair of headphones, the kind large enough to entirely cover his ears, he put the CD in the stereo. Headphones in place Larry took a seat, sipped his drink, and pressed play.
Marcy never got around to recording a vocal track, but she’d sent him the instruments to see what he thought. She died before it arrived, partying in Milwaukee after a performance. As such he’d never listened to the song. Instead he packed her away in a box that went from closet to closet to basement for six years until a stray thought accompanied a sudden desperate lust for vodka at eleven in the afternoon. Larry turned his back on chaos when it swallowed his love. He settled for the quiet life with a woman who would never die having too much fun – mescal, pills, and hill billy highrises.
Larry let the song play until the bottle was empty. He passed out, and woke up ten years earlier in bed with Marcy V.
Fire and Ice
by LSDelight
Guitars: Jeanie X.
Bass: Sophie D.
Drums: George C.
Lyrics and Guitars: Marcy V.
You can be the king
wear the crown
Or be the jester,
Prancing clown
But at the end of the day
You’re going down
On me… on me
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
I’ll be your
3 penny whore,
But I can be
So much more,
Just be you sure
You can endure
Me… endure me.
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
Maker of the wreck
Where angels fear to tread
Best with a stacked deck
Burying poles
To drain souls
Taunt with what you want
Me… want me.
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
COMING SOON!
PLAY IT AGAIN part. 2: Reunion Pub Crawl
He thought about Marcy. The devil tattoo winking on her shoulder; buttoned leather vest tight enough to be a corset, and nothing underneath; ripped jeans offering enticing peeks of her legs; ruby lips blessing a glass of tequila with a kiss as she swallowed a double without flinching. Thinking about Marcy, Larry glanced over at his wife, Ann, and shuddered.
Pushing himself off the couch Larry shuffled to the kitchen. Ann muttered something about a television show. Larry grunted, letting Ann assume he’d said something she wanted to hear. In the kitchen he poured out the water, and saved the ice.
Larry said, “I’m going to run to the store. Need anything?”
“No.”
“All right then. Back soon.”
He placed the glass in the freezer. Marcy always kept a set of shot glasses in her freezer. She liked frost, even went so far as to own a set designed to produce images as they froze – deer heads made of thin ice.
In the car Larry turned on the radio. Two weeks ago a frightening incident occurred. Larry found himself willfully turning the volume down; somehow without warning the concept of too loud had crept into his mind. On the road to the grocery store, he tuned in a rock station and did his best to resist that blasphemy.
There used to be a time the parties didn’t stop until the cops came. Once upon a time, in a life that seemed long, long ago, Larry knocked a man out for turning the stereo off. Granted, the stereo belonged to that man, not to mention the fact he and Marcy had broken into that man’s house; however, never interrupt a smile. Marcy used to talk about getting that phrase tattooed, though she never did settle on where.
Pam Dauber waved to Larry in the parking lot. He made a similar gesture without feeling.
“How’s the Mrs.?” Pam shouted for everyone to hear. Larry considered giving her the finger. Instead he hollered back:
“Good.”
Larry walked away which didn’t stop Pam from continuing to yell, “You tell her I said hey gurl.”
Larry nodded then considered shooting himself. It didn’t really seem like it would solve anything, so he set the idea aside. Maybe some other time it would make better sense. Right now he longed for a different shot.
He marched straight to the liquor aisle, found a small bottle of vodka, and went home. Ann still sat on the couch doing her best to bond with it. Larry announced he was going into the basement to work on a few things. Ann acknowledged him without taking her eyes off the television. Collecting his chilly glass from the freezer, Larry headed downstairs.
The first shot almost made him throw up. It’d been a long time since he’d downed three fingers in one gulp. But after a few gags Larry got a hold of himself. Settling into a more sensible pace, he sipped the refilled glass as he searched for a box.
It took a half hour to find the cardboard cube in question. Larry reloaded another shot. This one went down smoother. Kneeling down he opened the box: a tattered pirate flag, skull and crossbones grinning with devilish glee; stacks of photos featuring forgotten friends alongside a kid he barely recognized as himself; a few sheets of paper covered in chicken scratch that still smelled faintly of tequila – Marcy.
The papers might not’ve made much sense to most people. Clipped phrases seemingly strung together at random, some portions underlined, a few doubly marked in yellow highlighter, the general sense of someone emptying their head onto a page. Inky babbling stitched together into something remotely coherent by cherry picking what made sense and redacting what didn’t. But it was the notes in the margins – wicked but won’t fit the riff, save for later, you can do better than this you cunt – that really made Larry smile.
Once upon a time he knew a girl named Marcy V. She played in a band called We Eat Children that later changed their name to The Rapist Therapist before finally settling on LSDelight. Marcy played guitar and sang, while her friend Sophie D. kept her company on bass, Jeanie X. followed on guitar, and George C. hammered the drums. They looked like acid freak hobos led by a gypsy queen. LSDelight played in and around Chicago for five years, mostly blowing out speakers in dive bars, but those were good times.
Larry met Marcy at an LSDelight show in Bridgeport. He’d gone out to meet a friend for drinks, neither one of them aware the band would be playing; neither of them aware of the band.
After the show Marcy came straight over to the two and said, “You didn’t look like you were enjoying yourselves.”
Larry said, “We were trying to talk, and you guys are really loud.”
“Loud and no good, or just loud?” Marcy asked. Something about the way she held her beer bottle made Larry nervous.
Larry said, “Just loud. If it was no good we’d’ve left.”
“Cool.”
He offered to buy her a drink.
She looked him over and said, “You’ll do.”
The next morning he woke up in her apartment not sure if he’d been smooth, lucky, or some combination of the two. However, he decided not to question good fortune and simply rode the wave. Four years passed in an alcohol fueled cacophony, probably the best four of his life. She opened him up to chaos.
At the bottom of the box he found a CD with a kiss in purple lipstick on it. Beneath that he unearthed a cocktail napkin covered in writing more akin to cuneiform than modern English. Still, Larry knew well enough to discern the poem.
He reloaded his glass. After digging out a pair of headphones, the kind large enough to entirely cover his ears, he put the CD in the stereo. Headphones in place Larry took a seat, sipped his drink, and pressed play.
Marcy never got around to recording a vocal track, but she’d sent him the instruments to see what he thought. She died before it arrived, partying in Milwaukee after a performance. As such he’d never listened to the song. Instead he packed her away in a box that went from closet to closet to basement for six years until a stray thought accompanied a sudden desperate lust for vodka at eleven in the afternoon. Larry turned his back on chaos when it swallowed his love. He settled for the quiet life with a woman who would never die having too much fun – mescal, pills, and hill billy highrises.
Larry let the song play until the bottle was empty. He passed out, and woke up ten years earlier in bed with Marcy V.
Fire and Ice
by LSDelight
Guitars: Jeanie X.
Bass: Sophie D.
Drums: George C.
Lyrics and Guitars: Marcy V.
You can be the king
wear the crown
Or be the jester,
Prancing clown
But at the end of the day
You’re going down
On me… on me
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
I’ll be your
3 penny whore,
But I can be
So much more,
Just be you sure
You can endure
Me… endure me.
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
Maker of the wreck
Where angels fear to tread
Best with a stacked deck
Burying poles
To drain souls
Taunt with what you want
Me… want me.
Men or mice,
I never play nice.
Queen of fire and ice.
COMING SOON!
PLAY IT AGAIN part. 2: Reunion Pub Crawl
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