The Marionette Mauler

My workshop smelled of cedar and epoxy resin. I considered inhaling deeper until I was windmilling across the clouds, but my self-medicating attempt was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was my good friend Miller. I tossed him a beer and led him inside. He stared at the legal summons on my workbench.

“What’s with the legal paperwork?” he asked.

“Puppet trauma,” I muttered.

Miller laughed. “What, do you have to ‘point where the man touched you’ on the doll?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “The guy who bought my last piece—a professional puppeteer—is suing me. He says the puppet is ‘acting out.’ He’s claiming I traumatized the thing while I was building it.”

Miller grew quiet, searching my eyes for stolen goods. “Well, did you?” he whispered.

“Did I what!?” I didn’t like his accusatory tone.

“Did you touch him without his permission?”

I spoke slowly through gritted teeth. “He’s made of wood! I carved every part of him. He’s an inanimate object! Of course I didn’t ask for consent because he isn’t human. He can’t talk.”

Miller reeled backward like he’d been smashed in the gut with a cinderblock. When he caught his breath, he shook his head in disgust. “Wow. He couldn’t talk, so you never asked for consent. You are a monster! A monster! Keep the beer—God only knows where those lips of yours have been.”

It wasn’t even two days later when a rent-a-mob showed up outside my shop with placards and slogans. They were mostly LARPers and cosplay kids spruced up like life-sized puppets: heavily drawn nasolabial folds, pasty white makeup, red circles of rouge, and valentine lips. They swung latex axes and magical swords, shrieking that puppets had feelings, too. A cloaked wizard led the rhythmic chant: “Hey Bob, what do you say? How many puppets did you hurt today?”

I lifted a tiny corner of my curtain and peered at them. They were pureed into a frenzy, a crazed darkness ripping their souls right out of their eyeballs. I clutched my cedar-shaving chisel like a weapon in case the demonstration grew violent and they wanted their pound of puppet-flesh. My heart sank. Miller, my best friend since grade school, was out there, too, holding a placard that simply said: “I Knew His Lips Were Dirty.”

For the next twelve hours, I didn’t move from my perch by the window, nor did the protesters vacate my property. They multiplied. I coughed repeatedly, an attempt to rid myself of the jagged wood splinters clawing at my throat. I was just a regular Joe earning an honest living, and now I was being accused of being some kind of puppet-trafficking pervert. Believe me, if I were a pervert, my victim of choice would never be a marionette.

Weeks later, I was hauled before a district court judge and realized I was toast. The Honorable Kevin Brooks looked suspiciously like a grown version of Disney’s Pinocchio. And the guy who was my public defender, Tyler, kept popping cannabis gummies into his mouth like they were Werther’s Originals. He wore a white, pit-stained shirt, unpressed khakis, and white Vans. That first-year public defender smelled like stale B.O. and Takis Zombie Nitro chips.

The Judge peeked over his spectacles. His nose was a long, sharp elephant’s trunk that twitched every time the prosecution spoke.

“Mr. Arthur,” the Judge barked, “we are here to address the grievous emotional and structural damage inflicted upon the plaintiff, Cletus, and his guardian, Mr. Gary Simpson.”

I wanted to hurl looking at Cletus. His shoulders shuddered and he wailed like a toddler whose binky got stolen. “I feel so dirty!”

Several jurors sneered and shot daggers at me. One elderly woman dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and wept softly. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “Gary has his hand up Cletus’s butt! He’s the one making him speak! And can’t you brain-dead people see his lips vibrating whenever Cletus talks?” I felt like I was in the middle of an alternate universe. Cletus, a hand-carved wooden puppet, was actually sworn in, his teeny hand trembling on a black Bible, vowing with his screechy little voice to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The Judge’s nose lengthened a few inches as he leaned toward the witness stand. “Proceed, Cletus,” Judge Brooks whispered, his voice full of a creepy, paternal warmth. “This is a safe space. The monster can’t touch you here.”

Gary Simpson, the “guardian,” sniffled loudly. His lips weren’t just moving; he was practically over-enunciating, yet the jury watched Cletus’s painted mouth like it was the Oracle of Delphi.

“He… he used coarse-grit sandpaper on my inner thighs,” Cletus wailed. The puppet’s head did a 360-degree, mournful Linda Blair swivel toward the jury box. “He said I was ‘too rough around the edges.’ He wanted me smooth for his own sicko satisfaction!”

The elderly woman in the front row let out a strangled cry and nearly fainted. The other jurors resembled a row of heavily used thrift store toys—smudged, cracked, and leaking the scent of mothballs and cedar-chest rot.  I nudged Tyler; we were losing this case fast. But he was useless, trying to peel the wrapper off a CBD gummy with his teeth, his eyes glazing over like yellow, crusty road-rash wounds.

I looked back at the stand. Cletus was pointing a shaky wooden finger at me.

“And then,” the puppet shrieked, “he tried to force me into those satin britches! I told him they were too tight, that I couldn’t breathe, but he just kept pulling! Pulling! Pulling!” Cletus tugged at his teeny weighted anxiety vest and melted into a pile of screams.

A teary-eyed Judge Brooks ordered the bailiff to take Cletus out of the room. The puppet raised a minuscule middle wooden finger in my direction as he was carried out on a white, doll-sized cot.

The trial transformed my life into a dumpster fire of wood chips and bad press. I was no longer a craftsman; I was “The Marionette Mauler.” Every morning, I had to push through a throng of protesters screaming for my head, while the 24-hour news cycle analyzed my history of using 80-grit sandpaper on defenseless pine.

But then Tyler, my gummy-chomping public defender, actually found the evidence we needed to prove my innocence.

The courtroom went dead silent while the “Pandamonium” video played on the 70-inch monitors. The camera zoomed in on his bare, shiny pine bottom, his satin britches drooping around his ankles, gyrating against a plush purple panda while screeching in that high-pitched voice, “It’s pandemonium time, bitches.” I had forgotten to carve a dick for the little guy, so the panda’s dull black eyes just stared straight ahead, likely composing a shopping list in her mind. Then came the photos—Cletus sprawled nude in a porcelain bathtub, squeezed thigh to thigh with a bevy of barely clad Barbies and a very confused G.I. Joe doll.

“Look at the defendant!” Gary Simpson shrieked, pointing at me while Cletus “sobbed” into a doll-sized tissue. “He drove Cletus to this! The puppet was self-medicating his trauma with plushies and plastic! He was trying to fill the hole Robert Arthur carved in his heart!”

The jury foreman, a rotund man with a Care Bear tattoo emblazoned across his bicep, stood up before the Judge could even call for the verdict.

“We have reached a decision,” the foreman announced.

Judge Brooks—whose nose was now so long it was resting on the court reporter’s shoulder—nodded gravely. “And?”

“We find the defendant, Robert ‘The Marionette Mauler’ Arthur, not guilty of the trafficking charges.”

The courtroom gasped. Miller, sitting in the front row, dropped his “I Believe the Wood” sign in shock.

“However,” the foreman continued, “we find him guilty of ‘Negligent Creation.’ For bringing a being into this world with such clear, vile tendencies and then failing to provide him with a mandatory 12-step program for wood-based deviancy.”

Judge Brooks banged his gavel. “Robert Arthur, you are free to go. But Cletus is to be remanded to a state-run rehabilitation center. And you,” he pointed his long, wooden nose at me, “are banned from ever touching a piece of cedar again.”

Tyler leaned over, his breath smelling like Doritos and a million bong hits. “See, man? The panda video totally shifted the vibe. You’re a free man. Well, a free man who can’t ever buy a 2×4 at Home Depot again. Want a gummy?”

I looked at Gary Simpson. He was packing Cletus into a velvet-lined crate. The puppet caught my eye one last time. He didn’t flip me the bird. He just stared with those hand-blown glass eyes—the eyes I had given him—and for a second, I realized that humanity’s shared brokenness wasn’t just our greatest strength. It was the only thing keeping the puppets from winning.

Bro, do you even know what happens if you stand in front of a mirror and say “Blockbuster Video” exactly one million times?

No, bro?

Well, don’t feel bad, because neither did newly rich Tim Carmichael-Wellingtonshire, a man obsessed with becoming the inbred banjo boy from the movie Deliverance. That is, he didn’t know until he moved into the original “Dueling Banjoes” house in the blue hills of northern Georgia, a place indeed haunted by the ghost of Blockbuster Video, as murderous as he is obnoxious.

But with the support of his brand-new kidney butler—obviously, a kidney butler is a butler made from one’s own surgically removed kidney (bro, did you even know that?)—Tim can deal with the ghost and focus on learning how to play the goddang banjo.

Or can he?

Because Tim’s about to discover that money can’t buy everything—like, for example, the ability to pluck the ’jo like it’s nobody’s MOTHAFLIPPIN’ business.

PRAISE FOR YOU ONLY NEED ONE KIDNEY, SO I REMOVED ONE OF MINE AND MADE IT INTO MY BUTLER; ALSO, MY HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE GHOST OF BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO:

“I don’t always read books about kidney butlers, banjo boys, and ghosts of long-dead video rental franchises, but when I do, I read Douglas Hackle, if for no other reason than because no one, and I mean NO ONE else writes books like this, books so batshit insane there’s no way they could possibly work, and yet they do.” — Arthur Graham

“This book is absurd horror comedy satire on steroids. It’s wildly creative and fresh. It’s clever as hell. I very rarely laugh while reading, and I think I laughed out loud a few times each chapter. For a story this shamelessly bizarre and over-the-top, the writing has no business being as good as it is, and despite the insane cast of characters, they all felt real and lived in.” — Tyler Downs

“Douglas Hackle has knocked it out of the park with this one. […] Not many people would be able to take a human kidney and the ghost of Blockbuster Video and turn them into believable, fleshed out characters. I laughed out loud several times while reading this, and that very rarely happens! Highly recommend this one.” — Matthew A. Clarke

“It’s been too long since my last Hackle-Cackle, the strange noise that involuntarily erupts from me when I read anything by Douglas Hackle.” — Trish Wilson

“This novel was my first glimpse into Hackle’s wild, wobbly, and completely unhinged world, and it’s blown the lid clean off a can of live, screaming bloodworms I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.” — Bray Mattheson

“This book was hilarious. […] I kept thinking the story couldn’t get more outlandish but I was wrong each time I had the thought.” — TreeFlower

“I always have so much fun with Douglas Hackle books!! How did I find myself caring so much for a butler made out of a kidney? Why do I wish MY house was haunted by the ghost of Blockbuster Video? Am I more or less afraid of menopause now? FIND OUT BY READING THIS GEM, MY TINY LITTLE SONS!!!” — Renee Blair

“Sublimely ridiculous.” — Kim Ray

“This book is pure chaos, but like, comfort chaos. The main character is unhinged, the ghost is ridiculous, and the whole story feels like a fever dream. But underneath it all, there’s this weirdly wholesome vibe about chasing something you care about…” — dadofthedamned

BUY A COPY HERE

Tradition and Values

“I can’t understand the kids today. They have no respect for good old-fashioned perversion.”

Engelbert grunted towards his friend, Gerald. Engelbert was busy fucking a pig. It would be a while before he regained enough air to properly engage in conversation.

Mortimer’s was the men’s favorite hangout. It was an exclusive club that catered to the special needs of the well heeled. Gerald and Engelbert had been members ever since their wealth first topped fifty million. That had been many years ago, soon after they had graduated from college and gained access to their trust funds.

Gerald was not as fond of pigs as his friend Engelbert was. Management dressed the pigs up in lingerie and made them wear strings of pearls, but this was not sufficient to stir Gerald to partake. He preferred to take pleasure in watching other men fuck pigs. It satiated him in a way other forms of bestiality did not. It calmed him, this inelegant joining of man and pig. It showed the world in its proper balance, at least to him.

One of the reasons Gerald declined to fuck any of the pigs at Mortimer’s was the tendency of swine to bite. Pigs had to be kept securely muzzled. This eliminated the possibility of deep throating a ham. You could still lick a pig, but it would not have been the same as being able to do both.

After the pig squealed and Engelbert finished, the men hit the showers and steam room. There, they were able to talk freely in between other forms of activity.

“I tried to raise my children right, the old fashioned way, with plenty of beatings and time locked in the closet. I tried to instill in them the same values I was raised with. I failed miserably. Look at them now. My sons cringe if I so much as mention a feather or a vinyl body suit. Where did I go wrong?”

“Hah,” grunted Gerald. “My girls threw out my cat and nine tails when they got into high school. It was a family heirloom!”

“My boys, I hate to say, attend marches for social justice. They go around claiming to love the environment and wanting to save it, too.”

“I have the same problem with my daughters.”

After the steam room they rinsed off and hopped in the pool. Each swam a few laps before double teaming one of the help. The screams were delicious. Only at a place like Mortimer’s, the late lamented Epstein’s island, certain private mansions, and a few palaces could you get away with stuff like that in the present day.

After showering again, they dried off, dressed in suits and ties, and headed to the smoking room. They  found comfortable chairs upholstered in red leather next to each other and sat down. Each fired up a cigar. They relaxed and puffed away.

“I could blame the public schools,” Engelbert said, “But my offspring attended private schools, the same ones that I did.”

“Same here,” said Gerald. “If they had attended public school they’d have turned out much worse.”

The friends put their discussion on hold to watch the evening’s scheduled entertainment. There was a stage in the center of the smoking room. All the wood and red leather chairs faced in that direction. It was not always easy to see the stage through the haze of smoke from cigars, pipes, and hookahs. Exhaust fans went into high gear to improve visibility.

Mortimer’s always had the best and most innovative forms of entertainment. On this night Engelbert and Gerald were to be treated to two shows according to the printed program distributed by the wait staff. The first was the semi-weekly flogging of a random individual. Subjects were said to be lured into a car at a mall or on an out of the way street. The unlucky subject was then transported directly to the club and strapped onto the appropriate equipment before the sedatives wore off. The second item on the program was listed as “Something Special”. 

Engelbert and Gerald watched the flogging with some interest. As floggings went, it was not the best or most entertaining one they had ever seen. Still, it was a lot better than sitting at home watching Netflix.

Gerald found himself missing his cat and nine tails even more.

Gerald sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Asked Engelbert.

“It’s these times we live in. Everything is moving so fast, changing all the time. Too many good things from the past are being lost.”

“Yes,” Engelbert said while flicking an ash from his cigar. “It is getting harder to live the way we used to, the way our ancestors did. It has become so difficult to keep the old traditions alive.”

“Young people, especially young people of our class, don’t know what they are losing. Hell, what we had is almost completely lost for the most part.”

Engelbert reached over from his chair. He patted Gerald on the arm.

“There’s not much we can do about it. We can’t stop things from changing. Besides, not all change is for the worst. For example body modification. My family had a strong tradition of disfigurement, both self inflicted and inflicted on others, servants and employees and the like. We are not really supposed to do it anymore. Too many laws and lawsuits. On the bright side, regular people today pay to have modifications and unnecessary surgery.”

Gerald brushed away Engelbert’s hand which had lingered on his shoulder too long.

“I understand all of what you have said,” Gerald told him. “The old traditions, the old values, are going away in general. The loss of traditions and values held by our class is particular disturbing. I worry about the future of our kind.” He gestured to the room around him. “And the future of a club such as Mortimer’s. Personally, I want someone or something I can blame it all on. I need a scapegoat on which I can take out my anger and frustration. That sort of thing always seems to help. I sleep easier at night knowing I have punished some person, group, or institution for my angst and sense of loss. It does not matter if the chosen scapegoat had nothing to do with it. In some ways if feels better if they had nothing to do with any of the trends that annoy me. Random punishment can instill belief in a higher power. That is a social benefit.”

“You mean a belief in a higher power such as us,” Engelbert smirked.

He grabbed a glass of expensive liquor from a tray born by a servant. Gerald took a glass as well.

“Vengeance is good for the soul,” Engelbert said. “I like the idea of a scapegoat. Especially if the target is selected with some degree of random.”

Gerald prodded, “Who or what should we blame for the decline of our civilization? What or who would be interesting to attack?”

“We discussed public education earlier. What else should be added to the list?”

“There are plenty of candidates in addition to public education to choose from,” said Gerald. “Shall we make a list? We could take turns offering suggestions.” 

“That will be fine,” Engelbert told his friend. “I will let you go first. “

“Drugs,” Gerald announced.

“I would only agree in part,” Engelbert told him. “I use quite a few myself. I wouldn’t want it to become more troublesome to obtain any of the products I have come to enjoy. I would offer up the music today as an alternative scapegoat.”

“Yes, definitely contemporary music,” Gerald agreed.. “Although it does make me sound like my parents and grandparents riling against the music I liked as teenager. I don’t think everything is bad about popular music nowadays. I do like some of the dancing that goes with it. Quite entertaining. I would put forth socialism instead.”

“Definitely,” Engelbert agreed. “Socialism has to be on the list. I would add to that taxes, especially taxes on inheritances and capital gains.”

“No argument there,” said Gerald. “I’ll add Democrats to the list.”

“And Rhinos. To hell with so called moderate Republicans.”

Gerald nodded in agreement. “Let’s put aging hippies on there.”

“Environmental laws.”

“Vegans.”

“Broccoli.”

Gerald sought clarification from his friend, “Why broccoli specifically? Why not all vegetables?”

“I would not go so far,” said Engelbert. “I particularly dislike broccoli, but I do have a fondness for carrots and cucumbers. They have multiple uses besides nibbling on.”

“Fair enough,” said Gerald. “Let’s continue this discussion later. The second show is about to start.”

“Fine by me.”

They sat in silence, puffing their cigars and downing drinks, as they watched the stage being set up for the second performance.

“Oh, look!” said Engelbert, pointing at the stage. “I think it is going to be a ritual killing!”

“Fabulous!” said Gerald. “It has been at least a year since I have seen one of those.”

Engelbert laughed and raised his glass. “To tradition!”

Gerald raised his own glass. He repeated the phrase, “To tradition.”

They clinked their glasses before draining them. Each signaled to the staff to bring another round.

Then both men leaned forward in their chairs to get a better view of the stage.

Murder at the Bakery

Maya trekked the city sidewalk at one o’clock in the morning, glancing at a bakery as she passed it by. Much to her surprise, the lights were on. Maya lived around the corner and visited Flour Power on a regular basis. Like many bakeries, it closed early, so the illuminated interior made her pause.  

Maybe Brian, the owner, was getting an early start to the day. Flour Power opened at six a.m., so it wasn’t out of the question. 

Sure enough, Maya spotted Brian walking to the front door. The sixty-something man pushed through the door with haste, his gray hair disheveled and his brown eyes going wide at the sight of Maya. 

“Maya,” he said. 

“Hey, Brian. Long night? Or just getting an early start?”   

“Uh,” he stuttered. 

“Help me,” a muffled voice cried out. 

Maya glimpsed the bakery, a soft thud against the storefront window causing her to flinch. Her eyes bulged. A cinnamon roll was stuck to the interior of the glass, leaving a trail of icing as it slid down the window. That’s when Maya noticed tiny arms and legs sprouting from the pastry. 

Perhaps a long night of drinking was causing her to hallucinate. Regardless, Maya couldn’t hold her tongue.   

“What the hell?” she said. 

A nervous chuckle escaped Brian’s lips. “Uh, yeah. I can explain that.”

Maya gawked at him. “Can you? Because this isn’t normal.”

Brian opened his mouth to reply, but Maya interrupted. 

“Are those two cookies fornicating?” she said, gradually approaching the window. 

“Damn it,” Brian said. “I told them to behave while I was gone.”

Maya shook her head in disbelief, and Brian sidled up to her. 

“You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Brian pleaded. “I’m going to fix it.”

She turned to him. “Fix it?”

“Yeah. I just need some time.”

“What you need is an exorcist.”

“They’re a little rambunctious. Not evil.”

“Are you kidding? Baked goods have risen from the dead.” She eyed the bakery again, this time her mouth ajar. “That chocolate cake just beheaded two scones with a baguette.”

“It’s the flour,” Brian said. 

Maya pivoted and met Brian’s gaze. “What?”

“I used a new brand of flour. I got a good deal at Cost Nothing.” Brian offered a proud smile, but it quickly faded. “Anyway, that’s when all of this started.”

“Well, apparently you got a raw deal.”

“You have to help me.”

“By doing what?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out. I needed some fresh air to clear my head, though.

Maya took a moment to ponder. “Can you show me the bag of flour? Assuming we can make it through the minefield in there.”

“Yeah. It’s behind the counter.”

He walked to the door and pulled it open, Maya following on his heels. As they neared the counter, Maya felt something prick her ankle. 

“Christ,” she shouted, stopping in her tracks. When she looked down, a piece of apple pie had a fork in hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” the pie said. 

“You stabbed my ankle. Put down the damn fork.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll squish you with my size ten shoe, you little—”

“Are you two done?” Brian interrupted. 

Maya raised her foot, briefly massaging her ankle. Then she hobbled toward the counter and stood next to Brian.  

“Here’s the flour,” he said. 

Maya arched an eyebrow as she inspected the bag. “Miracle Flour?”

“That’s the name of it.”

 “And you needed ten pounds of it?”

“I buy in bulk.”

“Have you ever considered going small when trying something new?”

“It’s the smallest size they had.”

Maya huffed and put a hand to the bag, spinning it around so she could read the back of it. “There’s a number you can call if you need assistance.”

Brian pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his pants and punched in the number. 

“Put it on speaker,” Maya said. “I want to hear this.”

Brian tapped the screen, and the phone rang a few times before someone answered. 

“Miracle Flour Hotline,” a woman said. “This is Karen. How can I assist you?”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “I bought some of your flour yesterday, and I have a problem.”

“What kind of problem, sir?”

“A big one.”

“Can you elaborate, sir?”

“Uh.” Brian swallowed. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

“Just spill it, sir.”

“You’re probably not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“All of my baked goods are—” Brian pursed his lips, searching for the right words. 

“Animated?” Karen said. 

Brian’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

“Are they alive, sir?”

“Yeah. How do you—” He paused. “Wait. You know about this?”

“Of course, sir. That’s why we put a warning on the back of the bag.”

“What warning?”

“Did you mix the flour with water?” Karen asked. 

“Of course.”

“There’s your problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You can’t mix it with water. Otherwise, you get some nasty treats.”

“That’s absurd,” Brian barked. “Just about every one of my recipes requires water. It’s a common ingredient in baked goods. What kind of flour doesn’t mix with water?”

“Miracle Flour.”

Brian let out a frustrated breath. 

“Are you still there, sir?” Karen said. 

“Yeah.” He mulled things over. “Will the effects wear off?”

“Yes.”

“How long does it take?”

“Usually the shelf life of the food.”

“You’re talking days. I can’t wait that long. I’ll lose business.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not our problem. We have the warning on there for a reason. If you have any other issues, please think twice before calling again.”

Maya heard a click, and the call went dead. 

“Son of a—” Brian bit his tongue. 

“So, what now?” Maya asked. 

When Brian didn’t answer, a thought came to mind. 

“Why don’t we just stomp them into pieces?” Maya said. “We can dump them in the trash and be done with it.”

Brian shook his head. “I can’t kill them.”

“They’re going to die anyway.”

“We just want to be eaten and enjoyed,” a blueberry muffin said. It stared at Maya from a nearby display case. “It’s our purpose after all.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Brian said.

Maya circled the counter and walked to the front door. 

“You can join me,” Brian said. 

Maya stopped and looked over her shoulder. “No thanks. As tempting as it is, I don’t need one of these things bursting out of my chest like a damn Alien movie. Enjoy the feast, Brian.”

Possessed by Fake Nostalgia

I pad into the scene like a rumor with claws, tail flicking in the stale neon. Joe Oroborus snaps his fingers in Kandy Fontaine’s face — a cheap gesture, like a magician who’s forgotten the trick. She startles awake, eyes flickering with leftover static from whatever dimension she’d been wrestling.

“I dreamt I was possessed,” she says. “But they cannot possess me, no.”

I stretch, slow, deliberate. Humans always think possession is dramatic. They never consider the quiet ways something can own you.

Joe leans in. “By whom and what?”

Kandy lights a half‑smoked Camel. The flame reflects in her eyes like a memory trying to reboot.

“Time, memory, angst, a certain… sais quoi. I feel the sudden need for fake nostalgia. I wish I could have a sincere emotion, but they’ve all been hijacked and held for ransom by 90s irony.”

I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen everything before. Cats are archivists of the unspoken. Burroughs used to mutter that time was a virus; I used to curl on his lap and purr like a counter‑spell. Didn’t help. Nothing helps. Time always wins.

Joe watches her like he’s trying to decode a glitch in the film.

“Kandy,” he says, “nostalgia is a trapdoor. You fall through it and land in someone else’s memory.”

She exhales smoke that curls into shapes I recognize — half‑formed ghosts of abandoned feelings. I bat at one with my paw. It dissipates like a bad idea.

“I’m tired,” she says. “Not sleep‑tired. Ontologically tired.”

Joe nods. “That’s the only kind that counts.”

The alley shifts. I feel it first — whiskers twitching. The world re‑skins itself in cheap Godard colors: red, blue, white, but all slightly wrong, like a dream of France filmed in a warehouse in Burbank.

Suddenly they’re running. Not from danger — from meaning.

A mime eating a very small salad blocks their path. A woman carrying a typewriter like a wounded pet limps across the frame. A man reading a newspaper upside‑down shouts something about dialectics.

I trot behind them, amused. Humans panic so beautifully.

The city goes Gibsonian — neon that tastes like metal, puddles reflecting futures that haven’t been invented yet. I lick my paw. It tastes like ozone and regret.

Then we see it.

A motorcycle in the alley. Chrome. Mythic. The kind of machine that remembers every hand that ever touched it.

Kandy approaches like she’s greeting a ghost she used to date.

But the motorcycle begins to shift. Not melt. Not dissolve.

Just… change state.

Chrome → amber. Amber → translucence. Translucence → a honey‑colored solidity.

Joe stares. “Is that—”

“Yes,” Kandy whispers. “It’s turning into dab wax.”

I leap onto the warm surface. It yields slightly under my paws, like a dream that hasn’t decided what it wants to be.

Kathy Acker would’ve loved this. She understood metamorphosis. She understood that machines and bodies and texts all want the same thing: to escape their assigned form.

Kandy crouches beside me.

“Joe,” she says, “this is what happens when myth refuses to stay still.”

“And the small salads?” he asks.

She smiles, tired and luminous.

“They were always garnish.”

I curl up on the wax, purring. The alley hums with the soft electricity of a world glitching toward sincerity. Joe and Kandy stand there, silhouettes in a city that’s forgotten its own plot.

And me? I’m just the cat. I’ve seen it all. I’ll see it again.

Time is a loop. Memory is a trick. Angst is a toy.