you
are a writer
b/c you sit down
and write –
not b/c you call
yourself a writer.
you
are a writer
b/c surrounding you
on your desk
at 7:34 sunday morning
are 3 books
you have written,
15 raggedy-filled notebooks,
a typewriter, laptop,
countless pens and
empty cups of coffee.
you
are a writer
b/c the sun slits thru the blinds
and highlights the words
in this poem –
you
are a writer.
A pretty blonde girl walks into a comedy club, mid-afternoon…
With a setup like that it’s no wonder the bartender thought she was lost.
“I’m here to see Dickie Crusher,” the girl said.
The bartender pointed to a lonely stool at the corner of the bar, where a man was sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke, huddled over a legal pad. The man with bug eyes, thick glasses, and crazy hair was Dickie Crusher. No doubt about it.
Dickie looked up from his scribbling as the girl approached. The ballpoint pen sticking in his hand made him look like an ape gripping a crayon. “What do you want?”
“My name is Sally Amis. I’m a comedian. Trying to make it in the biz. I was wondering if I could talk to you, privately.”
“Trying to make it in the biz, huh? You want to watch me jerk off?” Dickie laughed maniacally. His dingy, tobacco-stained teeth were as comical as his routine.
Sally smirked and crossed her arms. “Thanks for the offer. Not interested.”
“I’ve seen you around. Hitting the circuit. Sucking up those AM slots. Tough crowds. Drunk. Are you funny?”
“Yes, I’m funny.”
“OK. Make me laugh.”
“I haven’t got a mirror handy.”
Dickie snubbed out his cigarette, murmured positive-sounding grunts. “OK. You got a wit. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re funny. At the same time, I never said unfunny people can’t have a career in this biz. Please, come into my office, young lady. I promise I won’t try anything.”
Dickie’s “office” was a shabby dressing room in the back.
“You might say I have a ‘residency’ here. This is my desk.” He threw the legal pad down atop the rickety vanity in front of the mirror with the burned-out bulbs. He pointed to the cracked leather sofa at the other end of the room. “That’s my wink wink casting couch. Tee hee. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
Sally didn’t sit. Shoulders tensed, she kept the conversation focused and professional. “I wanted to talk about your jokes. I’ve studied your bits quite closely. For example, that joke you did about the shooting at the doughnut shop on La Brea?”
“Oh, yeah. Gangland style drive-by. Talk about getting glazed up, am I right? Those doughnuts weren’t the only things with holes in ‘em. Hee hee!”
“That’s just it. It seems for every crime committed in the city you have the jokes ready in your back pocket. Why?”
“Bits. I get a bit, and I work it how I work it. And why not? It’s called being a comedian. Any disaster, crime, national tragedy, terrorist attack, you name it. It’s fair game. While the masses are mourning, I’m getting material. It’s how comedians are wired. Most guys are afraid to share those bits, because they want careers, families, and Netflix specials. I tell it like it is, baby. That’s why I’m headlining in this gin joint. No Netflix special for me. But I can make ‘em laugh. Boy do I. Deep down, people need to laugh at what scares them. I’m providing a community service. I’m a hero!”
“Like the one about the pressure cooker explosive that went off at that movie premiere last month?”
“Yup, shame, talk about review bombing. Heh heh!”
“And the woman in Los Feliz, from last week?”
Dickie’s brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t recall.”
“Witnesses say she went home with a weird-looking guy? They found her in a freezer.”
“Oh yeah! Hee hee. Netflix and chilled, am I right? Gnuch! Gnuch! BOINK. Buh-la-la-la! Buh-la-la-la! You’re not laughing.”
Sally didn’t find Dickie’s jokes particularly funny. But she knew the crowds ate it up, because of the way he delivered his bits. The squeaking voice, the googly eyes. The strange noises. It was the blessing and curse of a trickster to be able to squeeze out a smile in spite of the dark nature seething under the surface.
The attractive blonde pulled out a ragged notepad to assist with her interview.
Dickie grabbed a rubber chicken from a large prop chest by the couch, gently squeezed it by the neck. “What do you want to discuss now? My penis size? Nothing to write home about, I assure you.”
“What about the new bit from just a few days ago? An eleven-year-old girl was found raped and murdered just outside of town. Witnesses claim they saw a man carrying a large cardboard box into the woods, in which the remains were discovered.”
“Never heard of it,” Dickie said.
“You did a joke about how kids get so ‘carried away sometimes.’”
“Haha! Damn, I am pretty funny!”
“The weird thing is, you seemed to have the bit before the story broke. Even before next of kin had been alerted.”
“What are you saying, kiddo? That I what? You want I should help the police, like a sniff dog? If I do a bit and it hits too close for comfort then that’s the breaks. Like I told you, these bits are in the air. I just grab a hold of one and tell it like I see it. What’s it to ya, anyway? What kind of comedian are you?”
A grave look crossed Sally’s face, distorting her otherwise symmetrical features. “I’m not a comedian. I’m a detective. I’ve been studying you closely for months. Everyone else in the LAPD thinks I’m out of my league, that I’m chasing a shadow. They laugh at me as they pass.”
“They must be the only ones who find you funny.”
“I know there’s something off about you. And I’m willing to put it all on the line to get you. Because I think you’re sick. You and your whole shtick.”
Richard “Dickie” Crusher took a long drag off his cigarette. “Now that’s funny. You should run with that. And I mean run.”
“I’ve been working undercover. Been pulling those late-night spots. Trying to get my face out there. All so I could get close enough in your orbit to be sure. But as soon as I saw you, I knew I had my guy. Your jokes are too specific. Too many details. Like you were actually present at the scene of the crimes. You’ve slipped up now, joking about a story before the public was even aware of it. But the joke’s up, Dickie. Because even though I don’t have the evidence to take you in right this minute, I know you’ll keep slipping, and soon, because you can’t help yourself, and you won’t stop. You better look out, Dickie, because you know I will.”
Sally pivoted for the door.
“I told you you should run,” Dickie said.
Why she did it she couldn’t have said, but Sally turned to get one last look at her favorite subject, the maniac she’d lost sleep—and part of her life—obsessing over.
She looked up just as Dickie brought the lead-filled rubber chicken down on her head, crushing the skull instantly. And he continued to hammer blows down until he was quite certain she wouldn’t be telling her friends at the LAPD anymore crazy stories.
That night, Dickie’s act was better than he had ever played before. The audience cracked and spilled onto the floor. It was as if Dickie was delivering his magnum opus, his final shtick. For that’s exactly what it was. Sally Amis was keen enough to tell her colleagues at the station where she’d be that afternoon. And when they didn’t hear back from her, they went to investigate, and they found her stashed in the prop chest from which Dickie had pulled his rubber chicken.
If you asked any of the audience members who attended that evening, they’ll tell you what an unforgettable show it was, and how you may never see its equal. If you ask the comedians who hover around the clubs in the wee hours of the morning, they’ll tell it to you in industry terms: Dickie really killed.
There’s a persistent knocking at my door. Actually I would characterize it as more of a pounding than a knocking. It’s 2:19 a.m. and I don’t have to guess who would be so rude, so impatient as to disrupt and disturb me at this hour. I’m sure of the identity of the intruder AND of the fact that he must be off his meds. I open the door without even asking the person outside to identify himself.
“Oh good Bigotes, you are awake,” says Johnny Rico as he pushes his way into my apartment. “I hope I am not interrupting anything. Listen, I need your help to get revenge on the Jamaicans who ripped me off last month. I know where they are staying.”
I stand there dumbfounded as he makes his way past me and to the refrigerator.
“Ya got any beer?”
“Are you for real, fuckstick?” I ask. “It’s almost 2:30 in the goddamn morning and you want me to head out on some revenge-capade to get back at some Jamaicans for a couple hundred dollars? Are you fucking insane? Of course you are, what a ludicrous question.”
“So what do you say, Bigotes?”
I keep asking myself over and over whatever possessed me to become an active participant in his deranged and demented acts of psychosis, time and time again. To this day, I’ve still never been able to find a good answer.
“Hold on,” I say, my initial reluctance giving way. “Just let me get some clothes on and do a quick bump before we head out.”
“Hey carnal,” he calls after me as I head into my bedroom. “Grab your Glock as well, just in case things get out of control. Ya know, some insurance.”
“Hey JR, I’m really starting not to love this whole scenario,” I call back to him as I step into my pants. “Guns? What exactly are you hoping to accomplish? And I want a rational answer. Not your usual off-the-wall psychobabble bullshit.”
I can see by the look in his eyes that he’s currently riding The Bipolar Express.
“I just want those Caribbean chulos to know who they’re dealing with!” Johnny screams in response. “They can’t come to Colombia, my country and disrespect me. These Rastamen need to be taught a lesson!”
“So now you’re a teacher giving lessons? In what, Johnny’s brand of street justice? Listen, I will accompany you on this mission of restoring your pride, but no killing anyone, or anything twice, do you understand? “
“I don’t want it to come to that either, but if does, I gotta do what I gotta do. Remember those two fucking Dominicanos I took out for you? It’s time for you to pay me back. Now let’s go! They have a house in Barrio Los Lomas.”
Reluctantly, I follow him outside and climb into El Oso Rojo (Red Bear), a truly monstrous automobile. Immediately I am swallowed up by its crimson plush interior.
***
Johnny had bought this 1974 Buick LeSabre from some corrupt Federal Police at an incredibly discounted rate. It’s blood red with a white convertible top. You’d have a difficult time going unnoticed in this oversized pimpmobile.
He’d had a Dodge Duster prior to this impulsive purchase, which wasn’t nearly as high profile and drew very little attention. Unfortunately, however, the Duster became a victim of one of Johnny’s psychotic episodes after a three-day cocaine binge accompanied by a case of scotch and a variety of prescription drugs he’d pilfered from his last stay in the psychiatric hospital.
He’d resided there for only one week. After that, they’d asked him to leave, having finally had enough of “His Riconess.”
He drove the Duster into a concrete retaining wall near the beach. Then, in some bizarre ritual to an ancient God, he set the car on fire.
After that, the Duster was left beyond restoration and never arose from its ashes. There was just no resurrecting it. He simply left it right there in the middle of the highway and never looked back.
***
“So carnal, what’s the plan?” I ask along the way. “You must have some idea how you’re going to address this offensive, don’t you?”
“Not really,” he says, “I thought I’d leave that to you. You are always very at good figuring how to attack a problem.”
We arrive at the house where the suspects reside and surprisingly they’re still awake.
We can see them partying inside through some large sliding glass doors. The music is blaring and you can hear them laughing, talking, and see them dancing around.
“What is that music they’re listening to?” I ask. “That’s not ABBA, is it? Is that fucking ABBA? You said these were Rastamen. Big, bad Rastamen who ‘set me up and ripped me off, Bigotes’. That’s what you told me, JR.”
In a rare moment for him, Johnny Rico has nothing to say.
“That’s how you described what happened, Johnny!” I continue. “Where’s their dreadlocks and Bob Marley reggae music, huh mon? No self-respecting Rastafarian would be caught dead listening to ABBA! Ya know what I think, Johnny Rico? I surmise you met these cabrons at that gay disco club in downtown Cartagena and attempted to rip THEM off. That’s exactly what happened, isn’t it? But they got the drop on you instead.”
“Callate cabron!” Johnny finally shoots back. “That’s not what happened at all. Don’t you think of me being gay. I go to the club for the music. It doesn’t matter how it happened. Those pinches stole my money, my coca and my watch. You’re making me angry, Bigotes. You better stop making the fun of me. I thought you were my friend, carnal?”
He’s irritated and truly upset. For all his goofing around, Johnny isn’t one for being the subject of ridicule himself.
“Well, how are we going to lure them outside?” I begin to laugh. “It’s not like they’re going to invite us in for cocktails.”
“Still think this is funny?” he asks. “Well, I’ve got a way to get inside. Hold on, Bigotes!”
Before I am able to ask him how, Johnny backs up El Oso Rojo, revs the engine and, with all tires squealing, we careen toward the glass patio doors at an accelerated velocity.
“Johnny you motherfucking psychopath!” I scream. “You’re going to get us both killed!”
“Invitation”? Johnny screams maniacally, “we don’t need no stinking invitation!”
Within seconds, El Oso Roja smashes through the glass doors and into the Jamaicans’ living room. I watch them all jump up at once and quickly vacate the room.
“Come on, Bigotes!” Johnny yells.
He immediately pulls out his 38 special and starts firing off rounds after the fleeing Jamaicans. In all the years I’ve known my lunatic sidekick, I’d never once seen him shoot that antique revolver.
“Bigotes, cover me!”
Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you
Mamma mia, does it show again
This bizarre soundtrack accompanies us, still playing on the undemolished stereo, only adding to the already surreal scene.
In the meantime, my own gun has found its way into my hands. I squeeze off a few rounds of suppressing fire as Johnny charges ahead.
Next, I take aim at the stereo and kill the fucker.
“I hate that fucking song!” I scream.
Meanwhile, Johnny is screaming insults in Spanish, demanding the Jamaicans show themselves.
In response, they begin throwing out money and a few gold watches through the door to the other room.
Just to make sure they don’t try anything stupid, I decide to blast the large mirror covering almost the entire back wall. Shards come crashing down on top of Johnny as he’s crawling crablike on the floor, snatching up all the loot.
“Cabron que haces pendejo?”
Scrambling to his feet, he swipes a brass lamp off a table for good measure as he comes running back to El Oso Rojo.
We hop inside and I fire off a few more rounds at a painting of women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here, Rico!”
“Wait, there’s something I want…”
“Johnny, what’cha doing? Come on, venga!”
Exiting the vehicle, he runs back over to a picture hanging on the far wall. It’s one of those grotesque velvet paintings of some busty woman, Marilyn Monroe or possibly Madonna or someone else. He shoves it in the back seat carelessly, breaking its wooden frame in the process.
“Johnny Rico has left the building!” he screams, grinding the shifter into reverse.
Back out on the street, I observe the neighbors on their porches and watching through their windows. I smile and wave at the gathering of spectators.
“Those are very bad people,” I shout at the assembled crowd. “They molested my cousin when she was only just ten years old!”
At this blatant falsehood, some folks actually start applauding our dirty deed.
“We didn’t see or hear anything!” an old man yells out. “God bless you!”
***
Burning rubber on our way back to my apartment, an idea pops into my head.
“Hey Rico,” I say, “why don’t we grab some beers, put the top down, and watch the sunrise from the beach. Sound like a plan?”
“What did I say earlier?” he replies. “You always know how to make things better, carnal. Always suggesting the perfect solution!”
We reach the beach and sit together in silence, not saying a word.
Johnny lights up and passes me a joint, and I take a giant hit for mankind.
“I love you carnal,” Johnny eventually declares. “You are more than family to me.”
“Ya man, I know, I know.”
“Hey,” he says, suddenly remembering, “I haven’t counted all the plata…”
Plunging his hands into his pockets, he slowly fishes out wad after wad of bills, piling them up on the center console between us.
“Hijo de puta!” he cries. “Look Bigotes, we got a lot back!”
After he finishes counting up the booty, he lets out a hoot that I’m sure could be heard in Bogota.
“There’s over $1,700 here!”
“That’s in Colombian money, Johnny. It converts into what, about $23.68 in gringo plata?”
“No carnal, that is in gringo money after the exchange!” he insists. “Here hermano, take some. You’re always with me when I have no other friend! Here tome, I want you to have this!”
I accept his generous offer, later discovering that he gave me over $750.
“Thanks carnal, much appreciated,” I say, raising my beer to his. “A toast to a friendship to last long after forever.”
We clank our cans to the declaration.
“Hey Bigotes, you can have the lamp too,” Johnny says. “It would look good in your home. I think maybe in your bedroom to replace that ugly lamp with all the flowers. And a watch for you and a watch for me, to remember our aventura en El Oso Rojo.”
“Thanks carnal,” I say. “I’m just relieved we made it out alive, ya lunatic son of a bitch.”
“Son of a bitch? Yeah, I never knew my mother. Mi abuela (grandmother) says she was a bitch though, so maybe you are right.”
“Johnny, I’ve met your mother on several occasions and she’s a very pleasant woman who loves you despite your insanity. So stop with the compulsive lying. This is me, Bigotes, remember?”
I take a closer look at the watch he’s given me, a Louis Moinet, an incredibly expensive timepiece. I strap it on my wrist and stare at its second hand, seconds of my life ticking past.
We stayed until the sun had bled every drop of crimson-colored dawn from the morning. Just two displaced souls in search of a destination that neither knew for certain existed.
Little darling it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling it seems like years since it’s been here
Sun, sun, sun here it comes
A wispy mist still hung in the moonlit night. She painfully fought the overpowering animalistic urge to manifest. Control had been a challenge since moving into the quiet little town of Willow Brook nestled deep within the wooded hills of southern Virginia.
And for many years, she had tried to suppress it to keep it at bay. But she knew that the contorted and hideous transformation would surface at some point. Inviting the ghastly legacy shackled to her at birth.
It did not matter where Mary Sawyer lived or how far she traveled. She could not hide nor run from her true, yet ungodly, destiny.
***
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” Mary distributed a thin pamphlet to each of the librarians around the oval oak table. The white blouse and blue dress pants pulled tight against her stocky sixtyish body. The meeting had ended, and it was time for refreshments.
“Mary…why did we have to meet? This information could have been sent in an email. This… meeting is a waste of time!” exclaimed Hubert Mills. His thin, aging body shook. Crooked fingers scratched his balding head. Round, thick glasses gripped his pointy nose.
“Hubert, it’s nice to get away from work. If you didn’t want to come, no one forced you. I like getting out and mingling with other librarians,” commented Rachael Sommers. “I look forward to our meetings.” Her smile lit up the room. Bouncy brunette curls lightly touched her shapely shoulders. Being the youngest among the group, everyone took notice of Rachael, especially Hubert.
“I’m not saying I don’t like conversing with all of you at the meetings; I just feel sometimes Mary takes advantage. The use of technology can cut out-of-pocket expenses. That’s all.” He adjusted his glasses.
Sara Waldin rolled her faded green eyes. She was the oldest in the group, and retirement was not an option. She lived and breathed books.
“Give it a rest, Hubert. Next time, don’t come. You ruin it for the rest of us. I rather enjoy talking shop with people who understand me. Heaven knows most of the patrons can’t hold a decent conversation nowadays. They’re too busy scrolling on their phones or texting or instant messaging. How we lived years ago without cell phones…” Sara’s raspy voice trailed away.
Mary stood at the head of the table. Her hands folded in front. She listened to her colleague’s bicker. A tiny smile crept across her wrinkled face. “Hubert, you are correct. The list of upcoming best sellers could have been sent in an email. But it’s quite hard to discuss the various available options about acquiring the books for our collections using email. I know Willow Brook is the main branch, and the other three libraries are considered satellite stations. But each of you is responsible for their collections.”
Sara was already investigating the snack table. A brownie and cupcake sat on her tiny plate. She shuffled over to the coffee urn. With a shaky hand, she tried to steady the Styrofoam cup.
Rachael rushed to the older woman’s side. “Let me help, Sara.” She gently took the half-filled steaming cup. With a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, she placed it back by Sara’s seat.
“Why, thank you, Rachael.” Sara sat down and began to eat.
Hubert looked around the cramped meeting room. He was the only male attending. Not that he minded—especially being around Rachael. Without saying another word, he heaped several pieces of pastry onto the plate. Minutes later, the band of librarians ate in silence.
As they finished eating, goodbyes were exchanged. Rachael lagged. Mary noticed the time. The Willow Brook Public Library had few visiting patrons. It was almost closing time for the sleepy little library snuggled against the hills.
“Is there something else, Rachael?” Mary asked. The older woman clicked the mic, announcing the five-minute warning until closing.
“Actually…if you could spare a few minutes.” Rachael rubbed the back of her neck.
“Of course, of course. Give me a moment.” Mary held the door for the last remaining patron exiting the building, then locked the front door.
“Let’s go back into the meeting room.” The two women’s shoes echoed in the hallway. Once inside, Rachael began to sob.
“Rachael…why are you crying?” asked Mary. She guided her to a chair. Without hesitation, the young woman delved into an explanation.
“It’s my apartment complex. There are six units.” Rachael sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue. She sat down across from Mary.
“There’s a new tenant. His name is…Rodney Wilson. He’s just been released from Petersburg Federal Prison from upper Virginia.” Mary remained silent. She had a hunch she knew where this conversation was going.
“Being a librarian, I did what should have been done and checked public records. He was convicted of assault and battery. A fifteen-year sentence.” Her lips and chin trembled.
“Rachael, did he hurt you?” Immediately, Rachael’s eyes held Mary’s. Her head moved slightly back and forth.
“But he’s going to,” whispered Rachael. Mary drew back.
“Why would you think he wants to cause you harm?” pressed Mary. Rachael stared at her lap.
“He said he is waiting—for the right time,” murmured Rachael.
“How did this man end up in Willow Brook, of all places?” Mary crossed her arms.
“I don’t know. There are dozens of small towns from here to Petersburg. He could have picked any of them. Unfortunately, he picked Willow Brook.” Rachael’s head slumped.
“Rodney has to realize if something happens to you, he will return to prison. I’m sure he knows this. Why would he risk his freedom? It doesn’t add up,” stated Mary. Rachael’s eyes were red.
“Maybe he’s just trying to scare me…all bark, no bite,” replied Rachael.
“Or…maybe not. You must take his threat seriously, Rachael. Did you go to the police and report this?” Mary slid her chair closer to the table.
“Yes. I spoke with Detective Ellie Griffin. She told me he served his time and had the right to live anywhere. And until he tries to harm me physically, there’s not much she can do.” Rachael started to cry again.
“What about family?” asked Mary in a soothing tone.
“I…I don’t have a family. My mother passed away almost two years ago. I was an only child. I have no relatives on my father’s or mother’s side. I may have distant cousins, but I have no clue what their names could be or if they even exist. It’s just…me.” She dabbed at her watery eyes.
“And I would think moving would be out of the question. You shouldn’t have to lose your home because of Rodney’s intrusive behavior.” Mary waited a moment. “Why don’t you spend a few days with me? I have a wonderful cottage with a spare bedroom. It’s not much…” She waited for a response.
Rachael forced a smile. “You’re so kind, Mary. But I like my apartment. I should feel safe in my own home.” Mary gave a slight nod.
“Rachael, please be aware of your surroundings at all times. Lock your doors and windows. And if you hear anything, day or night, call the police.” Rachael stood up to leave.
“I appreciate your help, Mary. Thanks for a shoulder to lean on. I’ll be fine.” The two women faced one another. Suddenly, Rachael wrapped her arms around the older woman. Mary briefly held the upset woman. Rachael eased away.
“It will be alright, Rachael.” And without saying another, Rachael left the library to hurry home.
***
The urge to shapeshift had become overwhelming as she thought of Rachael’s safety. She had inherited her unique power from her mother’s long bloodline of shapeshifters spanning over a century. This rare ability was a type of metamorphosis—to change into something else.
The last time Mary allowed herself to shift was at her mother’s funeral. Many had blamed Mary for her mother’s death. But Mary was the only one who knew the truth. And from that day forward, she vowed never to shift again—until now.
Mary realized Rodney Wilson would not stop. His evil intentions toward Rachael were clear. It didn’t matter to him if he returned to prison. He would eventually have his way with Rachael and destroy her life.
***
Mary stood silently in the shadows outside Rachael’s apartment building. Rodney Wilson lived in the bottom unit on the far side. His light was still on at one o’clock in the morning. The rest of the apartments were dark. Dampness hung in the night air. Mary moved along the brick exterior. She bent down and peered through the open blinds.
Rodney sat alone on the tattered couch. His one hand held a beer while the other rubbed his crotch. The flat screen filled with images of pornography.
Mary moved to the back entrance. Using her picks, she entered in under a minute. The dimly lit hallway enveloped the change. Her aged body shuddered as the transformation began. She forgot the extent of unbearable pain as her form twisted and contoured to alien skin. It felt like hours, but she knew it was mere seconds. The black leather material adhered to every curve. Mary licked her voluptuous lips. She had to hurry. She did not know how long she could hold the course.
Rodney’s breathing became labored. His hand moved faster and faster. A slight moan emanated from his drooling mouth. And then, before he could release, a knock on the door.
“What the…” His manhood deflated instantly. The marijuana he smoked a short time ago still hung heavy in the air. He slurped the remaining beer—another knock.
“Coming,” he shouted as he tried to get up. The wooziness almost made him puke. As he staggered to the door, a heavier knock came again.
Mary glanced about the empty area outside Apartment 1. Hopefully, all her pounding didn’t wake the neighbors, especially Rachael.
The knob turned several times. Finally, after a few more seconds, Rodney pulled it open. His eyes grew wide.
“Well…isn’t it the sexy woman from upstairs.” Mary slid her hands slowly down her snug leather outfit. Her tongue licked her lips. “Have you finally come to your senses, sweet thing?” His words slurred.
“I’ve been watching you,” she whispered. Rodney belched.
“Me? Well…let me tell you…something…I’ve been watching you!” he stuttered. He stepped back and opened the door even wider. “Let’s…get this party started, sweetheart!”
Mary slinked inside the smelly apartment—a mixture of sweat, weed, and beer. The pornographic images on the television were frozen in place.
Rodney tried desperately to focus. His manhood was coming to attention by the thought of taking this woman right here, right now, in his private domain.
“I knew,” he stifled another belch, “you wanted it the first time I saw your sexy ass. Want to smoke some weed or….do you want a beer?” He swayed slightly.
Mary glanced at the pathetic loser of a man. She struggled to keep her image in place. Her bones ached. And since it had been so long since her last shapeshift the pain intensified with each moment she sustained Rachael’s mirror image.
“No. I came here for one reason and one reason only.” Suddenly, Mary felt she was losing control. Her body shook and shimmied.
Rodney rubbed his grainy eyes. “What the…is going on? I must be wasted. You…you look like you’re changing.” Drool leaked from the corner of his sagging mouth.
Mary knew she had to act fast. Her shape was beginning to shift. “I want you to leave me alone, Rodney. And if you don’t, I might have to do something you will regret.” And with that said, Mary struck with full force. The knuckles of her fingers rammed into his Adam’s apple with just enough pressure. His spine crumpled.
Rodney gulped for air as he fell to the dirty carpet. He instantly rolled back and forth, grabbing at his neck.
As he finally was able to breathe, Mary leaned down close. Her face shifted again into a distorted hideous creature with protruding bloodshot eyes and jagged teeth. Saliva dripped from her grotesque mouth onto his heaving chest. She ran a long-rotted fingernail down his white, pallid face.
“Do we understand one another, Rodney?” Mary sneered then sucked in the pain. “Rodney, I asked you a question?” She tilted her oblong head filled with slimy black hair. His entire body trembled.
Mary stood up. “I’ll take that as a yes. And if I see you look in my direction at any time, Rodney, I promise to come back and show you exactly how much I like you.” Mary winked her large, bulging eye, then puckered her ashen lips as if she was blowing him a kiss.
Sweat appeared on Rodney’s forehead. He could not move. His breath in gulps. He watched through bloodshot eyes as the creature turned and left the apartment closing the door behind.
***
The following month, the small group of librarians met once again. Mary was busy setting up the refreshment table. Rachael arrived a bit early and prepped the coffee urn. Sara and Hubert had just sat down and were discussing the latest bestsellers.
“Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention, please? I am grateful for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend this meeting. With the holidays looming ahead, my list contains…” Mary continued, highlighting the handout.
After an hour, the small group gathered at the table of pastries, courtesy of Hubert. Powder sugar stuck to his face as he licked his fingers.
“Well, I must say, Hubert, I was quite shocked by the fact you were the one to bring the snacks. They are quite tasty,” remarked Sara. The old woman shoved another cookie into her mouth. Hubert blushed at the compliment.
“I find it only appropriate to contribute to such…informative meetings. I agree to discuss the promising additions to our collections in person…well, it makes sense.” The three women clapped. Again, Hubert’s face blossomed red.
Within twenty minutes, the meeting area had been cleaned. The chairs were returned, and the table was folded. Hubert took his leave with Sara, leaving Rachael and Mary behind.
“I guess I better get back to the branch,” said Rachael. “Oh, I heard you were feeling under the weather, Mary. Is everything alright?” She wrinkled her brow.
“You could say I just didn’t feel like myself. But it passed. Nothing a little rest couldn’t fix. I’m fine now,” replied Mary, trying to hide her grin.
Rachael turned to leave. “By the way, Rachael, how are things with the new tenant? Is he still bothering you?” Mary crossed her arms.
The young woman hesitated before she spoke. “It’s the strangest thing…I saw Rodney in the stairwell the other day. Usually, he snickers or makes gross sexual remarks, but this time it was different. He barely looked at me. He hurried to get inside his apartment. I felt relieved. Maybe things will be alright after all.” Rachael smiled.
Mary took a deep breath. She wished to tell Rachael her secret but knew it could never happen. That was the mistake Mary’s mother had made and it cost her life. So, Mary would have to settle for keeping her secret and the fact that Rodney Wilson would never bother Rachael again.
Maybe my imagination is out of focus.
By law, I can no longer trust my eyes,
nor can the world at large trust them.
Indeed they’re crimes waiting to happen.
I still believe I innocently perceive
the beautiful when I see it, and daily
feast on its sundry optical banquets.
After all, what the eyes see, the mind believes
and what it believes nourishes the soul.
A beautiful day is thus a beautiful day.
But when the eyes see legs coming
down the street, long legs, lean legs,
tanned legs with golden bristles,
legs like fiery chariots, legs like wings,
legs like verses from God’s epistle,
denial doesn’t amount to disbelief,
nor raising the hands as if to block
the eyes from a radiating sun flare,
or a thermonuclear blast. Avert them
how when the legs are thrust upon you,
striating, striding, flexing—fragrant
as the summer breeze they part and flail?
Maybe go Biblical and pluck them out?
But presuming all this, did God not make
me with these eyes? Did God not also make
these legs I see divine to some degree?
For Nicky Silver
You’ve never met a normal person.
But I have. And I’ve learned my lesson:
people with manners made me who I’m not.
Swallow your gum then
shit in your own mouth
please. Guess what this is:
{(;)}
LOL ROFL IYKYK BTW
do you know how long
I’ve loved you? Never
boils, a watched pot.
Épater la bourgeoisie
or—less like a bundle of sticks—
evil shall with evil be
expropriated. You said once
David Foster Wallace’s footnotes
were like him shitting into his own
{(;)} but do not to mention that to anyone because
it’s too highbrow which is above
where one should actually
shit into. And BTW, do you, yes,
you know how much I love you?
I tried to pray yesterday
but couldn’t. Oh
well that ends well.
I’m well; how are you?
Hi well, I’m dad.
Hi dad, fuck you.
Well, this needs to end somehow.
Nohow. Yeshow. Somehow. Hey,
while I got you for a second,
guess how much I love you.
Until then, goodnight sweet
cocksucker*.
*Insert footnote about how cocksucker actually means {(;)}, lol 😉
I was walking with my friend Jesus
On the seashore of San Vicente de la Barquera
In Cantabria, Spain
One afternoon when the beach had a red flag
And there was no lifeguard on duty.
He took out his cock and started peeing, saying:
-Look, Petronilo, look!
Here comes Neptune, king of the seas
Strong, with a black beard and long tunic
Coming to manipulate my penis
6’5″ long
With all the forms of masturbation
Trying to perform divine magic
With gods, deities, and sea monsters
Like tritons or nereids and sirens
Like Amphitrite, Salacia, and Venilia
Who are skewered by the slit on his trident
Like sardines on an inquisitorial skewer.
I answered:
-Jesus, it’s not Neptune or Amphitrite, Salacia, or Venilia
It’s your own imagination
While you were jerking off after urinating.
Afterward, we sat on a stone bench
On the seafront.
Jesus, who feels and remembers everything, said to me:
-Now I remember my maid Constancia
Who my wife Minerva hired
To do Housework.
She was Colombian and a sight to behold.
One day, I promised her extra pay
For performing cunnilingus on her.
At first, she resisted
Because I could be her father
And she my daughter
But then, thinking it over, she said yes.
-Listen, Constancia
Your pussy is very cold.
I’m going to put some Anís del Mono (Monkey Anise) on it
To warm it up.
Constancia moaned at my licks and bites.
We stopped when we felt my wife returning
From her nightly worship before an altar.
The next day
When my wife went shopping
Constancia came to me
With a small plate in her right hand.
She stood before me
And with a deep woman’s voice she said:
“Sir, here’s your denture
That you left stuck in the lips of my vagina.
I answered her saying:
-Constancia, my heart
For you I lost my teeth.
Tomorrow I’ll stick my dick in your pot
That’s what I want most
With another extra paycheck
Being careful not to leave my balls
Inside Indeed.
I am so much
like you
in that I differ
from everyone
or so I think
and thus I feel
somehow anointed
and appointed
the position of
an almost saint
and sometime
sinner on the run
from something
or someone
who might
wound me
after loving
my true self
and like you
no one else
understands this
dichotomy within
my naked anatomy
because I fear
that which I desire
the ice age
after the fire
the morning after
the one night
walk on
passion’s high wire
and thus
we both hide
because we think
we must
like love, cower
under the cover
of lust
and all this is just
another way
of saying
that for both of us
the online dating scene
has been a complete
and total bust
six billion people on the planet
and our karmas intersect in a town so small
it can’t afford a marching band or a patron saint
fifty-eight million square miles of land mass on the planet
and our lives bump into on another
in a two-stall carwash off the old highway
while I’m wearing cut-off blue jeans that expose
my emaciated old man legs and bony knees
she’s about thirty and obviously from out of town
chestnut hair and deep green eyes
sixty-eight hundred languages more or less
spoken on this planet dominated by jabber mouths
and all I can think to say is nice day
oui she replies
a fucking Frenchie what the hell
in this dinky town in this backward state
with nothing for miles around
but cow pastures and wheat fields and stifling heat
a hot fucking frenchie
ten feet away from me
and I dodder like my cousin Howie
who hasn’t been able to eat solid food
since Nixon took his final copter ride
one expert says the average person will speak
over three quarters of a billion words in a lifetime
but the next gems that fall out of my mouth are nice car
can you believe it?
a hot fucking frenchie in a sleek BMW
in a concrete car wash in dead as hell Gutmore, Kansas
and our entire relationship amounts to five words
and that humiliating moment when the soapy mist from my spray gun
drifts into those mesmerizing eyes
It’s a sick thought-
but it’s comforting.
I know she would agree,
if she still had a tongue.
We’ve known each other for weeks,
and we’re made for each other.
Life got too busy for us,
so I brought her home with me.
I’m sure she is glad for all I’m doing,
she doesn’t even have to get out of bed anymore.
If she still had her arms,
she’d hug me-
to comfort my trembling hands.
Those terrified eyes,
will soon be full of love.
I get my thread and needle,
and I begin working
on our attachment.
Horror Sleaze Trash 