Blog Archives

Thanksgiving: a tradition of sex, booze, and historical inaccuracy

11/27/2013

Black Friday Eve is upon us once again, and not much unlike last year, the battle for the last roll will certainly cause a need for Giftmas bribes of peace. Yet, it wasn't always this way. There used to be another name for the day, and another meaning as well.

Once upon a time Black Friday Eve used to be call Thanksgiving. While it is true, for many, Thanksgiving always meant the starting pistol for Giftmas, there was also another intention behind the holiday.   It marked a time to gather with family for no apparent reason other than to binge into a coma; and Thanksgiving has often been an occasion for shallow intellectuals to bring up Native Americans (congratulations, although you've devoted zero effort or money to Native American causes you've managed to take a few minutes at one point during the year to make others uncomfortable in order to further nothing more than your own pretentions). But at its' heart, the real Thanksgiving is about turkey myths, sex, and booze.

1. I Dunno Wha' 'Appened, Buh Ima Willin' Tuh Bet It Wuz Awesome.

There's nothing like finishing a fine box of wine then climbing behind the wheel for a leisurely drive through the neighbor's front room. Buh-buh-booze is an integral part of any family get together. Nothing brings out the truth like a batch of apple pie (http://allrecipes.com/recipe/apple-pie-mixed-drinks/).  However, there are those who tend to ruin things for the rest of us good hearted alcoholics.

Mainly, I'm talking about the holiday drunks.  Those irresponsible fools who think they can once or twice a year drink like the rest of us. They're not unlike people who decide to run a marathon a week before the race.  With no preparation they find themselves shockingly ill equipped to handle the radical intensity of holiday consumption. And it's these assholes who are responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people every Thanksgiving as well as the incarceration of too many innocent casual drunks, who, though they know how to drive after five pints of apple pie, get caught in the net with the holiday losers.

2. The Pilgrims Seek a Land Less Free.

Every American knows the story of the Pilgrims.  A group of persecuted Christians left the land of their tormentors seeking a place they could practice their religious views in peace. It's a neat little piece of fiction, mostly because it uses just enough truth to seem genuine.

The real story goes more along these lines:

Yes, the Pilgrims fled from persecution in England to the more tolerant land of... Holland. In the city of Leiden, the Pilgrims found themselves free to practice their particular brand of Christianity among other things.  It seems that the Dutch were considered too laid back by Pilgrim standards. So easy going in fact that Pilgrim children were leaving the faith in droves for more libertine pursuits -- have a drink, have a fuck, and have a nice day.

Fearing the extinction of their beliefs, Pilgrim leaders decided to depart for somewhere no one could a provide a better option than Pilgrim beliefs. So it was they came to America.

3.  One Vague Line in a Diary Condemns Millions of Turkeys Across Time.

Around about 1854 an editor for Godey's Lady's Book, a magazine, came across something called Mourt's Relations: A Journal of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. Written by the colonist Edward Winslow, the journal recounts much of the Plymouth colony's early days. More importantly, it contains a firsthand account of the first Thanksgiving.

Based on Winslow's testimony there is no way to know what was eaten at the first Thanksgiving. His account is basically just a vague recollection that there was food, and people ate it. However, in his defense, why would anyone think, "You know what? I feel this meal we slapped together last night will become a tradition so important that a historical record must be made of what upon we did feast this day, so that future generations may sup as we did."  Even if such a notion crossed Winslow's mind, the fact he didn't do as much shows he realized nobody would give a shit... until 1854.

Sarah Josepha Hale, the editor for Godey's Lady Book, was writing a series of articles about Thanksgiving. Focusing on recipes for the occasion, then a regional rather than a national affair, Hale heard about Winslow's book. Perhaps hoping to create some connective tissue between past and present, Hale went through Mourt's Relations in search of traditional Pilgrim cuisine.  When she came across a brief line about hunting for wild turkeys, Hale decided to publish a few articles about roast turkey being served for Thanksgiving.

Thus, a casual sentence about turkey hunting led to an article about roasting turkeys for Thanksgiving giving birth to tradition and myth. Oh, and the exact words that inspired all this, "And besides waterfowl there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc."  Well, more has been made of less.

4.  Blame It on the Bird.

Food coma. The itis.  I'm-Not-Drunk-I-Just-Had-a-Lotta-Turkey.

Many people post Thanks-gorging will endeavor to stay awake. In an effort to seem clever, a few will reference the specific cause of their lethargy:  tryptophan. Those who do so are only revealing their ignorance.

Sure, there's tryptophan in turkey, and said chemical is such an effective sedative you can buy it as a sleep aid in pill form.  The only problem is the actual amount present in turkey meat is not nearly high enough to knock a person out.  The actual cause for the after feast coma is a rush of blood to the abdomen and an increase in metabolic rate for digestion.  In other words, any large solid-food meal will have the same effect regardless of the absence of tryptophan.  Additionally, other foods not commonly associated with food coma contain more tryptophan than turkey: milk, cheese, and pork.

To avoid the itis this season just don't stuff your fatass to bursting. Or include more protein rich foods as protein limits the absorption of tryptophan into the body. Though, all that aside, I know many treat the holidays like an excuse to eat like the awful pig you deny yourself being year round. So if you are compelled to go big keep in mind the turducken is for pussies.

5.  I Was Watching Porn the Other Day, and Started Wondering How Much Meat Can I Get in One Bird.

Meet Anne Petch. She runs the Heal Farm shop near Kings Nympton. She has created a multi-bird roast of biblical proportions. She calls her creation the True Love Roast.  Clocking in at 56 pounds and an estimated 50,000 calories, her epic creation contains no less than 12 various birds and stuffings:  turkey, goose, chicken, pheasant, partridge, pigeon squab, Aylesbury duck, Barbary duck, poussin, guinea fowl, mallard-and quail with herb and fruit stuffings. Capable of feeding 125 people, this behemoth easily makes the turducken seem like a lazy man's attempt at being clever.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-502605/It-serves-125-takes-hours-cook-stuffed-12-different-birds---really-IS-Christmas-dinner.html

6. Pumpkin Pie Gets Your Dick Wet

The realities of aphrodisiacs are often disappointing. Spanish Fly is more likely to kill than arouse. At best it severely poisons. Yohimbe as well as sparrow brains also have disappointing results. However, there is some hope left, and it arrives every Thanksgiving.

The aroma of pumpkin pie has been scientifically proven to increase blood flow to the penis by as much as 40% -- just the scent of pumpkin pie can get ya dick going. Tack on some lavender, and you might end up banging your lover on top of the True Love Roast in front of god and all family present. Keep that in mind when the dessert comes out, and your Dad seems too excited by pie.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

SOURCE MATERIAL:

http://www.nsc.org/Pages/2011ThanksgivingHolidayTrafficFatalityEstimate.aspx

http://voxxi.com/2012/11/19/thanksgiving-day-alcohol-consumption/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pilgrim_Fathers

http://historyofmassachusetts.org/the-first-thanksgiving/

http://www.11points.com/Misc/11_Interesting_Facts_About_Popular_Thanksgiving_Traditions

http://www.snopes.com/food/ingredient/turkey.asp

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-502605/It-serves-125-takes-hours-cook-stuffed-12-different-birds---really-IS-Christmas-dinner.html

http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/pumpkin-pie-smell-stimulates-arousal-men-scent-sexy-aphrodisiac-study-article-1.451682

http://science.discovery.com/life-earth-science/10-aphrodisiacs.htm

0 Comments

Yet to Learn

11/22/2013

0 Comments

Fill the pot
with blood cracked eyes.
Another dawn
pulling out of mud
no surprise.
Tongue tacky,
pillow drenched in drool.
Wake up
just about
To drown in the pool.
Remember
the clatter-clack of balls,
and the racket of sticks
poking up cash.
Win all,
but before the benefit
have to dash.
Amber waves
born of rye.
The last bells
only a suggestion.
No need to question
for why.
Time dripping out
a slack jaw.
Dive down the maw.
Get chewed,
and when the beast is through,
stitch words
to have a sentence seem
coherent enough
to drive a mile.
All the while
shots to the mouth
burn -- ajumao.
Wake up glad.
Things aren't all bad.
The flag made it up the hill,
and I waved it...
shit.
I'm sure
for some reason
I've yet to learn.

0 Comments

Why I Quit: Time Police and the Bakery

11/15/2013

0 Comments

I'd love to tell the story of why I quit protecting the Time Line. However, that story is beyond short. Basically, there are only so many times you can save Hitler's life before you start feeling like an accomplice in the whole Holocaust.  So a far more interesting story is why I quit being a baker.

About a year after quitting the Force, my savings growing thin, I saw a sign in a little store front in Evanston.  It looked like the kind of quiet shops young women open in memory of their grannies, using all their old childhood favorites to fill the menu. The woman behind the counter said her name was Veronica. She asked if I had any experience baking. I confessed I didn't, but I could follow a recipe well enough.

After what I thought was a dismissive snort, she said, "Fine. You're the first in three days, so it's yours."

"Thanks."

She snorted again, shook her head, "Don't mention it.  I'll be doing most of the real work. You just do what I tell you when I tell it."

Not feeling a hundred percent in love with the situation I agreed to those terms. I've found it's not always good to complain about your boss before starting a job. It takes a while to find out for certain if the person in charge is really an asshole or simply having a bad day.

Veronica was an asshole, yet her unpleasantness made sense.  Up to her eyeballs in debt, the bakery turned out not to be the cash cow she anticipated. Instead, it sucked up money like a black hole.  The pastries were good, and I'm not just saying that because I turned on a mixer or slid a tray into the oven.  Veronica really knew her way around the baking-verse.  She could tell whether cookies were done by the smell, make frostings that delighted the tongue, and she pioneered (as far as I know) stuffed cupcakes. Her secret to the stuffed cupcake is to fill the cake with a jelly, custard, or cream flavored in opposition to the frosting on top -- chocolate top, vanilla middle, or jalapeno strawberry jam contrasted against marmalade. And from what I could tell customers always received bright sunny smiles; she knew when to perform for the public. However, it all came to nothing.

She invested in commercials, flyers, dazzling neon displays for the window. She tried staying open late at night to catch people as they poured out of the nearby bars.  Veronica even stood out front with a bullhorn trying to carnival bark people into her shop.  Unfortunately, the little business she drummed up rarely repeated.

The only customer we saw on a regular basis: a sweet old lady named Margaret Hendershot, who insisted on being called Maggie. Maggie came in at least once a week. I looked forward to those days because the size of her orders always cooled Veronica off for a few hours. Maggie cleared out whole rows of donuts, bought cakes by the dozen, and always wanted a mountain of creampuffs. That said she never looked thicker than a twig. I suspected it all went to some get together she attended regularly, probably bingo night or cards with friends, and sadly, at her age she might've been taking them to funerals, or distributing them to families with recent losses. Maybe she worked for a center of some kind. We didn't know, and as long as she paid in cash we didn't want to know.  Although I chatted with her regularly, often helping haul her load of baked goods to her car, we never really talked about anything in depth.

Then one day, close to closing, the phone rang.  Veronica let it ring twice while she composed herself.  Grinning as if face to face with a customer, she sang into the phone, "Hello, this is Sweet Treats. How may I help you?"

The smile changed. Where before it seemed like she was trying to smile with weights meat-hooked to the corners of her mouth, Veronica now appeared honestly happy.  As I swept up I assumed that meant someone must've died.  Veronica scribbled an order down as she chatted with whomever on the other end of the line, "Of course we do... ten is no problem.  He'll be there shortly."

Nothing ruins the end of the work day like the unexpected realization the day is not done. Leaning on the broom, I waited for Veronica to hang up.  However, when I heard Veronica say, "Thank you Mrs. Hendershot." I relaxed.  No need to worry about doing Maggie a favor.

We went straight to work boxing ten pies, as many cherry as possible. Veronica told me Maggie told her some friend of hers arrived from out of town unexpectedly, and that he and his wife had a quote powerful lust for cherry pie end quote. Hell of a lust, I thought tying the sixth box with ribbon, an extra special touch for a preferred customer.

Veronica said, "You don't mind running these over.  I've been baking all day.  You've just been hanging around for the most part."

I really wanted to argue against her observation, but she was right. She worked harder than I did. For once I could go the extra mile. So I wrote down Maggie's address, loaded the pies into my car, and drove off.

Maggie lived on Thayer Street in a small house tucked back from the road. The drive didn't take long. Just a quick hop from Evanston to Wilmette. The house reminded me of a small cottage situated on the shore of some quiet lake; and it seemed to belong to a different time, when people built their homes with their own two hands.

Carrying as many pies as I could, I went up to the front door, rang the bell with my elbow. I could hear people inside. Music and laughter. It sounded like a fantastic good time. It made me glad to know senior citizens were still kicking at the stars, like old age wasn't something so terrible after all.  People still had fun.

Maggie opened the door, "Oh my!  You certainly came quickly."

"That's what she said," an elderly voice called from inside.

Maggie laughed, "Calm down Harold, or you won't get any creampuffs." She leaned to whisper to me, "The man has two scotches and turns into a little kid."

"I think I have the same problem," I said.  I handed over the four boxes balanced in both hands then took two quick trips for the rest. Maggie stacked the boxes on a credenza near the door, so I didn't really go into the house. However, with the door open I could clearly hear the other partiers, though what they said made no sense.

"She caught it right in her eye, poor thing."

"...not the first or the last time, but it happens..."

"I'm so glad I retired.  Now there's time for all the finger games."

"Back in the day I used to break men like him.  They never expect the ladies to like it rough dontcha know?"

Maggie asked, "How much dear?"

"Uh, well, ten pies at ten bucks a pop that's a hundred dollars."

Maggie smiled, "And worth every penny I'm sure.  Just a moment." She turned her head to call into living room, "Jerry! Come pay for your pies sweetheart."

"Fair enough Mag. Two shakes of a jack rabbit's ass."

Jerry came into the foyer, a barrel-chested man of about sixty wearing nothing but a leather thong.  His body, the color of Peking duck, glistened with baby oil, the silver hairs on his chest matted down. He opened a draw in the credenza to get at his wallet.

"How much you say it was?" he asked, thumbing through bills.

"A hundred bucks," I said, trying to seem like I encountered such sights every day. I noticed for the first time Maggie wore a loose velvet robe.

"Goddamn. This better be the best pie in the world then."  He handed the bills to Maggie who passed them to me, while Jerry opened a box. He stuck a meaty finger into the pie then sucked the red delicious off his finger.  His eyes opened wide in surprised satisfaction.

"Mmm-mmm, damn son. That is fine." He plucked a bit of crust. Tasting it he said, "Oh my god. It tastes like flaky butter. This is amazing. Charlaine, get in here and taste this pie."

A woman came out who looked like she'd taken the hard road to sixty. She wore cowboy boots. And that's it.  She waved to me. I waved back. No sense being rude.

When she got close to Jerry she said, "Hit me," and he promptly thrust the pie in her face. Licking her lips, Charlaine said, "That is good."  Turning around, she headed back towards the living room saying, "Amy, you got to try this. Come lick my face."

"Thanks kid," Jerry said following after Charlaine.

"No problem," I said.

A glint in her eye, Maggie smiled, "Would you like to come in?"

I should've said no, but curiosity will always be my downfall.

Plastic covered every inch of the living room.  Inside a group of people with a collective age of about 690 mingled in various degrees of nudity. At the center of the room a panoply of Sweet Treats' finest pastries awaited the partiers.

A voice I recognized as Harold's said, "We getting started, or should I just jerk off in the corner?"

"Isn't that what you do anyway?" a grey haired black man joked, nudging Harold with an elbow.

Harold shot him a look, "That's it, Louis.  Tonight, I'm fucking your wife."

"You and me both," Louis laughed.

Then it began. Food went... everywhere, and tongues followed the feast.  I don't think anyone noticed when I left.

There was nothing really grotesque about what I saw.  Unusual, perhaps, but it was just a bunch of people having a good time. What are you doing this weekend? Boning at Maggie's house! Good times with good friends. It's not like they dressed in black robes, tied a ten year old kid to a table, and whipped him while world music played in the background.

Still, the next day when Veronica asked me if Maggie liked her pies I said, "I can say with absolute certainty she found them very... satisfying. And I quit."

Because I realized something watching those aged foodies, covered in pastries, sloppy fuck one another in a great writhing pile:  life is too short to waste on embittered bosses, and low paying menial jobs. I could've wasted a lot of time drifting along in that bakery.  The work wasn't hard, and that was the problem.  Maybe preventing Tyranosaurs from being used to win the Civil War killed my lust for challenges, and this had all been a sort of long vacation. In any event, it was time to get back to reaching for the stars. It felt like time to take a real shot at happiness.

COMING EVENTUALLY! WHY I QUIT:  MY DREAM JOB, OR HOW HAPPINESS ALMOST GOT ME KILLED, SO FUCK IT I'M STICKIN' WITH MISERY.

0 Comments

Beecher's Hollow part 9: In Through the Exit

11/7/2013

0 Comments

Sitting in the tavern basement, waiting to be flayed, certain thoughts popped into my head.

At some point in everyone’s life they choose whether to live or die. Now, this decision is not always melodramatic involving sudden leaps into oncoming trains or putting a pen to the jugular during the third tedious meeting at the office. No, no it’s often something far more sinister.

Two people in a restaurant so lukewarm about one another there’s never been a spark -- which isn’t from electricity, it’s from two magnetic meteorites flying at one another, colliding into a shower of sparks -- there’s a chance to leave, risk the great wide cold loneliness, and perhaps stumble across real attraction not just someone to settle on, except there’s no guarantee of success with the world as large as it is, so just play things safe, share another slice of chocolate peanut butter cheesecake for a semblance of intimacy. This job may be a dead end, but at least there’s no risk of falling from too high up the corporate ladder, shattering myriad bones and nerves on the pavement below; the world might be watching, and all those eyes are bound to find the flaws a well crafted lifetime of lies have made seem less like gaping canyons, and more like subtle cracks one might call character.

The choice between life and death is far too metaphorical for anyone to fear it. And it’s safer being dead. No one expects anything of the dead, other than that they quietly occupy their graves. It‘s the ones that rise up, and go shambling that make people afraid.

I thought about her, the lady with no name.  Vague hints of her like pieces of a shattered stain glass portrait flitted throughout my memories.  But for all the lack of facts I knew one thing, felt it in my bones. Even drenched in blackout ink I knew I loved her. Perhaps the feeling only belonged to back when we were together, and the possibility existed reconnecting with her would in no way mean another chance to ride the lightning. However, some risks are worth the damage they’ll do.

Besides, I’d rather take my chances getting my heart broke than having my skin peeled off.

Y grabbed my arm, “You do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Stop thinking, and start doing something.”

“Right.” I checked the windows. All of the few which seemed wide enough for us to escape through had bars across them. The door at the top of the stairs sounded too solid for us to break down, and there was no way of knowing how many Kelly goons stood guard on the other side. Y found the cellar door, but it was locked from the outside.

While Y looked for a sewer opening, I examined the crates. Booze, booze, and more booze.

“You really want a drink now?” Y asked.

“I’m looking for anything we could use as a weapon.”

"Too bad they took my knives."

"You had more than one?"  She looked at me like I'd asked one the top five dumbest questions of all time. I said, "Regardless, I'm not giving up. Not this time."

“You want to go down fighting.” She sounded pleased by the notion, a guns blazing girl, ready to die in a hail of bullets rather than admit defeat.

I said, “Not exactly,” -- I held a bottle of moonshine -- “But if we put together a few traps maybe we can get out of here.”

Y came to me, “What’s the plan?”

I nodded, “I don’t know.”

#

When the Tanner arrived I’d like to say he lived up to expectations. The idea of a man who skins people for a living conjures up particular images. Specifically, I anticipated a rather large set individual with the warped face of an overgrown, slow witted man-child, yet possessing the sparkling eyes of a devil. In a sweat stained butcher’s outfit, greasy from fats I never wanted to know the origin of, he’d come down the stairs with a deep chuckle, sharpening knives as he advanced.

That all said, an elderly man descended the stairs.  Bill Dekker and a few goons followed at a distance. The old man wore a white barber’s smock, sported a pair of penny loafers rather than the muddy, viscera stained boots I anticipated, and seemed more pleasant than foreboding. I’m willing to say that provided you didn’t know what he did with his free time, you wouldn’t mind having the Tanner live next door.

Bill laughed, “What da fuck you been doin‘?”

I said, “Feng shui for survival.”

He surveyed the changes Y and I made in his absence.  We’d moved liquor crates into one corner of the basement constructing a fort. In addition, small pyramids of stacked liquor bottles dotted the basement. Armed with moonshine Molotov’s, wicks made of torn bar towels, Y lay low in the makeshift stronghold.  A flickering candle kept her company while I occupied open ground, hoping to reason with Bill one last time.

“Is this him?” the Tanner asked, his eyes glittering.

“Yeah,” Bill said.

“Can I keep some of him?” the Tanner asked.

“Sure,” Bill said, “I only want his back.”  He winked at me, “I always had it anyway.”

I rolled my eyes, “For fuck’s sake.”

“What?”

“What do you mean what? Come on Bill. You want to kill me why don’t you just fucking shoot me?  A friend of mine wouldn‘t want me to suffer.”

Bill shrugged, “Honestly, I’m kinda hopin’ you’ll change your mind during the skinning.”

The Tanner added, “It’s been known to happen.”

That did not strike me as a surprising fact.

Bill said, “Not to sound like anything, but I still want you to be a part of this.”

“I can’t.”

Sighing, Bill said, “Tell how you feel in a few minutes.” He snapped his fingers.  Two goons advanced on me.  The third handed the Tanner a black doctor’s bag.  The two thugs held me like a living vice.

Bill called out, “Hey girlie, I’d cover my eyes unless you want to know what‘s coming. Because you‘re next.”

“I ain’t covering shit,” Y shouted from the crate fort.

“I knew I liked her,” Bill said. He looked at me like a father regarding a disappointing son, “Maybe I shoulda offered her your spot.”

“She might take it,” I said watching the Tanner lay out his tools on a nearby bench. The old fiend took special care to show off each one. It was all part of the game. He wanted a context for my imagination when I felt the skin being cut away.

The Tanner, a pleasant smile on his face, produced a syringe
from his bag. He filled it with a cobalt liquid, “This is my own special blend. Besides paralysis, this will make you feel everything a second after it happens. That way you never know when I’ve stopped or started.”

Bill said, “Last chance.”

“No thanks,” I replied.

“It’s your ass.”  He nodded at the Tanner.  The old man looked so pleased.  I almost felt guilty about wanting to ruin his good time by not having my skin peeled off.

The Tanner got closer, and closer, a drop of his special blue concoction dripped from the needle tip.

Y shouted from the crate fort, “Now?”

I hollered, “Were you waiting for me?!  Yes, now. NOW! NOW!  NOW!”

She touched one of her moonshine bombs to the candle beside her, and lobbed it at the Tanner. I swear, as the obviousness of what was coming flared in Bill’s head, I saw him smile. Then the bottle shattered next to the Tanner engulfing his feet in flames. Soon enough the fire crept up his pants followed by his hands and arms as he tried to beat the flames out.  The third Kelly goon went to help the Tanner, and Y managed to toss another blazing bottle right at him.  It exploded across his chest coating him in fire.  The thug panicked, and streaked around the basement trying to outrun the flames. The Tanner collapsed into a screaming ball of fire.

By now Y was unleashing a barrage of moonshine Molotov’s. She aimed for the liquor bottle pyramids. Each erupted when struck. Flames everywhere. One of the goons let go of me to help his burning co-thug. The other held me tight, while Bill laughed at the top of his lungs.

Bill said, “Not much of a plan.”

“You’ve only seen half of it,” Y said then spat a fireball at him. While everyone else tried not to get burned, she slipped out a side entrance we built into the crate fort. With a jug of moonshine and the candle Y became the dragon lady.  She blazed at the Kelly thug still holding me.  He let go to protect his face.

The second I felt his grip slack I ran for the top of the stairs. Y smashed the jug at the bottom of the steps then dropped the candle as she followed me up.  Luck may not exist, but that’s never stopped people from relying on it. And I’m no exception. The screaming from people in flames, the smoke, the smell of burning flesh -- all came together to cause a Kelly man to peak into the basement. As Luck would have it, I reached the top of the stairs when the door opened.

The man on the other side didn’t expect anyone to come bursting through. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards. Tripping over his own feet he crashed to the floor.  Ten more thugs lined the bar no more than six or seven feet away. Fortunately, a night of drinking slowed their reaction time. They were all fumbling for their guns when Y streaked by shouting for me to follow her. Not one to second guess Y, I chased after her flying up a nearby staircase two steps at a time.

Bullets thudded into the doorway behind us.  I felt the spray of splinters, but nothing to worry about. Then I was up on the roof.

I caught up to her at the edge of the roof.  She didn’t look happy.

Y said, “I remember this building being shorter.”

“It’s only three stories.”

“You ever jump from three stories?”

“Not that I know of.”

“It won’t kill us, but if either of us broke a leg…” the implication held too many nightmares.

I said, “We go on three.”

Y took my hand, “ONETWOTHREE!”

The crack of a pistol.  Y spun right out of my hand.  She collapsed along the roof edge, a dark red blossom spreading from her shoulder.

“Fuck,” I heard Bill’s voice. Turning, I saw him standing in the doorway with a gun in hand. He said, “I was aiming for her head.”

Y groaned. I helped her to her feet. She clung to me. It didn’t seem natural for her to be so wounded. Daggers in my eyes, I glared at Bill. Or I should say, The Red Hurricane. The man I knew was gone, if he ever even existed. I couldn’t help thinking I’d misinterpreted all the things that ever passed between us.  What seemed like grim jokes on the darkest side of humor may have been wishful thinking for him; and whenever I laughed I unwittingly told him I agreed with how he wanted the world to be.

“Not much of a plan,” Bill said.

“You mentioned that already,” I reminded him.

“It needed repeating.”  He stepped forward, the gun level.  I felt Y shivering. I didn’t know what that meant. It didn’t seem good.

Bill said, “Basement floor is concrete so nothing really burned, just sorta singed. My boys put the rest out with fire extinguishers.  No big deal. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“But we almost got away.”

Wagging the gun Bill said, “That you did.  Buuuut ya didn’t.”

“You can have this town, Bill. I don’t want it.  Let us go, and you’ll never see me again.”

“And you think I feel good about that?  I’m not enjoying this right now, friend.”

“Yet you keep threatening to kill me.”

He laughed, “I don’t understand. Don’t you get what this place is? This is ultimate freedom here. In this town what’s right, and what’s wrong is what you can live with. Wanna get fucked up first thing in the morning?  Welcome to town. Wanna get stoned at work? Welcome to town. Do you wanna take a pipe to a man for being an asshole?  Welcome to town.”

I replied, “Wanna get ya cock sucked by a ten year old? Welcome to town!  Wanna watch starving people fight over a slice of coffee cake? Welcome to town!  Wanna sell body parts? If you got the stomach to cut ‘em out, welcome to town!”

Bill said in a calm voice, “No one is saying you have to do those things. They’re just options. But if you wan…”

“No! I don’t.”

Off in the distance I heard an oddly familiar sound like a large piece of metal tumbling down the street.  Y stirred. She pressed a limp hand against my chest.

Sighing, Bill said, “I’m really sorry buddy.  I guess some people just don’t want to be free.”

The rumbling got louder.  Bill turned in the direction it came from and squinted, “What the fuck?”

I risked a glance.  A dumpster with half a telephone pole acting as a mast sailed down the street, the old picaroon at the helm.  I suddenly understood Y’s hand on my chest.  She was trying to get my attention, and the more she pushed against me the more I realized she wanted us to jump.

Holding her tight, I dropped backwards.  It didn’t dawn on me till I was over the edge that perhaps I should’ve estimated the distance before taking the plunge. After all, there was a strong possibility of missing the old picaroon’s ship. Even when I felt his crazy quilt sail scoop us out of the air, I didn’t feel safe till we came to a hard stop on the deck of the dumpster.

Gunshots barked from the rooftop of The Side Door.

“ARRR! YA SCURVY DOG!” The old picaroon hollered then fired back with a musket made out of faucet pipes.

“CAP’N!” I shouted. He looked down at me. Seeing Y, he shoved me aside.

Dropping down to one knee he demanded to know what happened. I pointed back at the roof where Bill was still firing after us.

The Cap’n nodded, “Say no more lad.”  Seizing the wheel he hollered, "Hard uh starboard!" and spun the ship around. He grabbed me by the shoulder, ordering me to take the wheel.  As I steered back to the Kellys’ tavern, a line of mobsters appeared on the roof with guns ready to rain bullets on us. I hoped the old picaroon had a plan.

From under a tarp he produced the ship‘s main gun.  Once upon a time it might have been a cement mixer, however, through sheer mad ingenuity the old picaroon had fashioned a small cannon.  The Cap’n aimed for the roof.  I could see Bill laughing his ass off. I might’ve laughed if I didn’t already know just how serious the Cap’n could be.

“YA BASTARDS SHOT MY LIL GURL!” The old picaroon bellowed.  He whipped out a lighter, “Brace yerself laddie.”

I took a firm grip of the wheel. The lighter’s flame barely touched the wick before the cannon boomed. The shot launched us in the opposite direction, rocketing us down the street. The upper corner of the tavern exploded in a mammoth fireball.

“Arrrr.”

The old picaroon came back to take the wheel.

I said, “I’m so glad you were in the area.”

“Aye boy-yo.  Haven’t stopped since the market, when I seen you last.”

I felt compelled to ask, “Can you stop this ship?”

“We’re goin’ tuh have tuh.” He nodded toward Y, a puddle of blood spread out around her.

#

From tragedy comes salvation. The old picaroon’s cannon didn’t survive its first firing. However, this left it available to serve as an improvised anchor.

First though, the Cap’n steered his vessel closer to The Rabbit Hole. Together, we shoved the anchor out the back of the dumpster, the rear having already been modified by the old picaroon to open.  The cement mixed, lashed to the mast by a chain, smashed against a few cars before slowing to a halt. The noise drew the attention of the man with the clockwork face, who immediately ordered his associates to take care of Y.  I tried to thank the old picaroon, but before I could, his ship was already underway sailing off into the side street sunset.

I told Edward about the evening's events.  He actually breathed a sigh of relief hearing about the death of the Tanner. After a tense hour one of his associates reported Y was going to be okay.

I was ushered into a secret room the back of The Rabbit Hole. She lay on a bed with IVs feeding her blood and painkillers.  Her weak smile made her seem stronger than I could ever be.

“You’re going to be okay,” I told her.

She said, “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, “That would mean I’d have to stick around till you repaid me, and no offense, I want to get the fuck out of here.”

She laughed, her face contorting in pain. Y said, “I can pay you back now.”

“How?”

“Those guys, back when we first met, they weren’t after you. They work for the mayor. They recognized me, and when you ran too I figured…” she trailed off.

I understood.  Hell, even before all we went through I don’t think I could blame her for what she did. She needed help, and there was no one to ask. So I told her, “I’m pretty sure I humiliated them at poker, and they were still pissed. They were after us both.” I said it, though truth be told I couldn’t be certain. But I didn’t see any sense in her feeling shitty with a bullet in her shoulder. I’m not that petty.

I said, “Let's just say we’re even.”

“I’m good with that.”

“Take care of yourself, Yvonne.”

“I’ll see you around.”

I left her to rest.  Outside the room, Edward introduced to me one of his associates, a young man named Ohms.

Edward said, “He’ll take you anywhere you want.  Bus station, train station, even all the way home.  He’s been given explicit instructions to see off safely.”  I thanked him, and the man with the clockwork face asked, “Where would you like to go?”

I thought about it harder than anything I think I’ve ever thought in my life. Then something fired in the back of my mind. For a brief moment I saw the lady with no name. I knew everything I needed to know then like a smoke ghost she vanished leaving me with only her name.  Smiling, I said, “I’m looking for a woman.”

But finding her is a whole other story.

0 Comments

Thanksgiving: a tradition of sex, booze, and historical inaccuracy

Yet to Learn

Why I Quit: Time Police and the Bakery

Beecher's Hollow part 9: In Through the Exit

Author

Archives

Categories