Psychoneuroses, Part 1

Think of an occasion when you personally had to deal with either a challenging situation or a difficult person. What was the main concern, how did you tackle it and what were the consequences?

“While supervising twin rescue badger cubs playing outside our cosy Vale of Health home, I noticed a silly argument boiling over between nine or ten adolescent lads nearby. Two pretty refugees, Berber boys well known to us, were being bullied. My initial concern was that an unruly brawl might endanger my wards. Shuttling back and forth in cerebration between social totality and the irreducible complexity of individual needs, I prayed for a peaceful resolution, but a sudden escalation in aggression resulted in a nasty free for all. I gamely intervened, in an effort to assist the nicer foreign tykes- shouting aloud that they were our friends, and that acts of violence did no one any credit. At this point a craft blade was produced, and forcefully stabbed into my thyroid; I lost consciousness. It transpired that the big ugly cockney chaps had then carried me shoulder high at a canter, before gleefully throwing me through my own kitchen window. Consequently, I underwent five full emergency blood transfusions in order to live with disabilities, for the next three years in therapy; having suffered traumatic brain injury, I gradually relearned to think, speak, move, toilet unassisted- eventually conquering stressors that darkened my life with mental disorder: causing a deep sense of distress, and an abject deficit in functioning. I’ve since been blessed with a tidy legacy and almighty faith, learned to forgive, and am a happy burgher of Hampstead once more. Peace out.”

Slouched beneath yon immense, lonely Ash tree, grooving to Yiddish related acidic house, he greedily interfered with a lap-dancing Norn. Pungent little sort it was: halitosis, thick Irish accent, decked out in crotch-less knick-knocks, peephole bra, and dishing out plenty of extreme close-up. Bending over backwards it was, chomping his knob raw, yet falling asleep prior to eruption. She couldn’t even be arsed to spit out a prophecy. What a tease. In revenge, wearing a raincoat on his pecker, he shunted her up her dirty fibrous butt like a jackhammer. Oh, it was gripping all right; just a pity an amalgam of dour fate and high anxiety decreed Aleister never would get to blow his Old English. Up jumped a troll from under a humongous fungus, soliloquising ten-to-the-dozen; she clocked Aleister and threw a wobbler. “It’s all over son, you’ve blown it, and now it’s rustication time.” 

Instanter, he realised he was alit, retrograde; having been tossed onto the serrated horns of a dilemma, before plummeting from the upper levels of a multi-storeyed identity crisis. Gasping for air in front of London Underground’s bleak LIFT OUT OF SERVICE sign, Aleister feared losing his will to live within an admonitory pit of despair at Goodge Street tube-station. He was all in a quandary when some stroppy mulatto bitch, wearing a navy-blue TfL staff uniform, exhaling rank foetid breath and reeking of BO, goose-stepped towards him along this stop’s lacklustre southbound platform. “Can I see your ticket?” At this juncture her abrupt question made as much sense as psychedelic yodelling, non-alcoholic whiskey, decaffeinated coffee, woolly Liberals, or Britain’s unelected yet constitutional monarchy; as fathomable as chicks with dicks, love under will, fealty to a tyrannical demesne, Roberto Calvi’s venerdì nero, Molly Sugden’s grotesque shaven pussy- whatever. So Aleister, as fey as you like, answered in colloquial Akkadian, and with a self-measured dignity, produced the necessary if sullied travel credentials. Her hostility flamed undiminished as she callously warned him to ‘mind the gap’. Still, now wasn’t the time to go for the jugular; this piece of washed-out white trash could wait. Flashing harsh promiscuous stares, out of rheumy jaundiced eyes, the misshapen famulua crawled back silently to her dark station master. 

Stone me, another bloody trou-de-loup! Mortal peril was too close for comfort; somewhere along life’s impermanent way he’d taken a wrong turn. Festooned by beads of oily sweat, Aleister ascended a one hundred and thirty-nine step staircase to egress; stood outside the building’s oxblood red faïence blocks, palpitating, and timorously suffering all manner of oesophageal reflux, he rolled a fat fag -liquorice paper- trying to gauge the extent of this most up-to-the-minute mental lapse. Still tripping, he clocked a CCTV system overhead and so, in a public display of proleptic irony, pretended to be in complete control of internal impulses and external traumas. Meandering awhile, muttering scurrilously, before heading off down Berners Street; targeting those mawkishly bathetic Ancienne Forge tearooms on Berwick Street. Paul Raymond’s mock Vichy venue’s architectural splendour provided a makeshift video recording studio; its art deco interior offered scant pain relief from an excruciatingly naff fare of trademarked light entertainment spotlighting burlesque French missionaries clumsily shriving, whilst pursuing comic strip crusades against adult themed revues that the Grand Order of Water Rats officially pooh-poohed as misogynistic pornography. A clientèle chic of playboy property developers were treated to a caricaturish cast, bursting at their nylon seams with apotropaic mumbo jumbo, as they brokered a mesmerising repertoire of life insurance options (bon marché as far as Aleister could tell), plus slapstick servings of featherweight double entendres across disposable platters. A troupe of superficially wanton, but distinctly naïve mini-skirted waitresses, homogeneously sported black patent stilettos, tantalizing Hi-Vis stocking tops, and squeezed sun-ripened honeydew melons into sheer, plunge-cut white silk blouses; all in their early 20s, these heartbreakers passionately vied for Equity cards by advertising a synthetic, ‘take-me-from-behind’ coquetry. Bien sûr, for the sake of flickering proprieties, they also served luxurious leaf teas in fine bone china mugs. “Un tasse de bohea s’il vous plait Mam’zelle.”

Furtively checking his bins, Aleister felt relieved to grope a plenitude of coins of the realm, a travel-card for zones 1-2, three well-worn gummy ribbed condoms, a small cuneiform clay tablet, plus friable complimentary early-door midweek tickets into Madame JoJo’s; from whence hallucinogenic drugs and maladaptive daydreaming had instigated an impromptu mission to Yggdrasil (a right schlep on the Northern line). Occult Hindi messages garbled from the driver’s cab terminated his zero-hour tube journey in Mornington Crescent; bewitched, he’s popped out for an eyelash, but spent an unheralded Thursday night frottaging with a swarthy trog from County Kilburn. Sweet Jesus! He’d monster snogged mad Paddy’s emphysemic missus, two-bob Aoife, numerous times. Hot ruddied tongues inside rasping mouths, smooching and slavering; culminating in ultra-smelly staccato sex with both their zippers closed. He hadn’t climaxed mind, so he’d probably be okay. Psych! He lit a joint; even as a resting actor he figured it was outrageous, juxtaposing sensuously alluring gusset with Christianity. Bearing his order, a leggy, pussy-pelmetted factotum enquired after the state of his soul: inferno, purgatory, or paradise? You’re having a laugh! Ogling the ample cleavage on display caught his attention; her waitresses’ nametag read Brigitte. Oh là là. Was she a Bertie? Doubt it. Dear Brigitte, give us a wank. He blushed, picked up the linen draper and hid. It was all kicking-off that summer of 1983: in the wake of massive public spending cuts, British Airways helicopters plunged into the Celtic Sea, temperatures’ soared, and the Old Queen’s Guard wilted under bearskins. And still, it wasn’t nearly as perfervid as the previous one when The Battle of Goose Green, and racially aggravated consumer riots, set the scene for a hair-raising intrusion into monarchical mystique. Enter Mickey Fagan, Aleister’s old school mate; since transmogrified, a tad unexpectedly, from sardonic gamin into a star struck palace prowler. Aleister was loath to jump to conclusions, yet recursively suspect to his circumspect reasoning was that, national notoriety notwithstanding, Fagan’s alleged torch crimes and ostensible double trespass carried no legitimate conviction. Despite fractals of quasi-journalistic investigation no one appeared able, or willing, to corroborate any intelligible brass tacks. Each pejorative exposition differed in crucial details from its manufactured predecessor; resulting in fabulation, miscarriage of justice, and a palpable economy with the truth. Natheless, Fagan, the stock-in-trade madman, had exited stage left; to be housed sarcastically at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

Aleister himself acquired insights into shenanigans behind the story, months before its cognate scandal belched, having sampled the fellowship of Fagan and a gang of the saga’s key players on a night out celebrating absolving conclusions reached in Lord Cyprian’s report (formulated to close the book on a Security Commission inquiry). It was a jolly on expenses, courtesy of some big knob from Royal Protection codenamed Trestle-table; a group commander who could afford to support sordid and degraded company. Amusingly the copper’s favourite bed-hopper tagged along, a hustler called Roach, who tittered nervously and kept holding hands with his philanthropic squeeze; alluding to the senior officer as ‘my Vicky Order nut gone commando.’ This subversive posse, all lovely boys together, cruised (with some random wandervögel from the Canaries for good measure) from that well-appointed political nexus of Highbury Fields to rip it up, binge drinking around London N1. Aleister’s remembrance was frayed (same world, different planet). What was certain was he’d gotten shickered, and grown inexorably attracted to the witty Spaniard. By the time they alighted at The Famous Cock Tavern, Aleister had lost it completely; quizzing the young caballero in an ill-defined monologue that over-indexed Norwich City Football Club. Amid a dense cloud of King size cigarette smoke and acute embarrassment, with the help of pictures mapped onto scraps of paper, it was comprehensively pointed out that he’d sorely misunderstood the Guanche guy’s allegiances; Pedro wasn’t the least bit interested in association football. Neither was Aleister. He went for a leak, recovering his composure before returning to the fray, which was heady fare by anyone’s standards: commentaries on political stasis, corruption, and dire warnings that Britain’s population would soon be consigned unto a neo-dark age; an upcoming epoch heralded by societal crises (a series of vicious events, which Trestle-table delighted in referring to as Doctor Marten’s apocalypse). By this juncture Aleister had heard enough seditious gossip to develop an unhealthy appetite for complots, chiefly state-endorsed crimes against the proletariat. Despite that, on account of his unrequited love affair with loss and sorrow, he felt vulnerably ineffectual. Daring to fight the powers that be was unimaginable. Even in dreams he couldn’t escape an aching disappointment of coexisting with negative expectations; self-critically, he’d grown aware that he was the sort of frenetic, psychometrically-tested, unfit-for-purpose loser, who’d nause up a civil protest big style. 

By way of contrast, Fagan, throughout his wasted youth (best sympathetically understood in the context of psychological praxis), harboured a passion for zestful revolutionaries come urban guerrilla types; especially those prepared to go the full nine anarchic yards. He was fascinated by social inequity, royal prerogative, and class war, positing (after sedulous consideration): who the flipping hell wouldn’t rebel? Unmistakably, Aleister had experienced little enough welfare from trickle-down economics, his neighbourhood, or his estranged parents; two galling wage slaves, base, little-or-no hopers, scunnered by a lifetime’s penury. During reception year two, on the eve of his primary school sports day, his depraved bearded father (damnatio memoriae) buggered off, and whilst mother dearest kept social workers at bay, there was precious little time left in between her two cleaning jobs and recurrent affaires de coeur, for mother-son levity. Unsurprisingly, he’d never felt loved or wanted; more like some dusty ornament- a token curio from an ephemeral union. Aleister could only aspire to the warm devotion extant between Fagan, and his diminutive twinset mater. Their close-knit, cradle-to-grave relationship wasn’t flagrantly unconventional, yet Aleister sensed an intense, abnormal, selcouth aura: a kind of primitive joy. Aleister and Fagan’s mutual, ginger Piggy O’Brien (panel beater by profession, farceur by vocation), the grinning, stertorous, no-nonsense pragmatist of their thirty-something, Anglo-Hibernian Clan of Three, curtly trashed such unguarded speculation as ‘utter bollox’; counselling Aleister to keep shtum, or face extreme consequences. Quick with his fists, violent and territorial, Fagan smack-battered each of his pink step-dads purple. Eschewing happy family idealism, Piggy viewed Fagan’s domestic straighteners as expressions of a natural will to power. As far as Piggy was concerned, a humble council estate heritage wasn’t wealthy enough for disposable airy-fairy fancies; although O’Brien’s bog-hopper parents did stick with the sanctity of marriage, if only to celebrate a silver jubilee. Theirs was an elegantly understated party, gay beyond belief: Joe Loss and His Orchestra played over the gramophone, with cocktails and vol-au-vents served upon crepuscular rays of midsummer sunlight to underwhelmed public bar acquaintances, and a few pasty faces from their 1930s terrace. Pigsty’s nonchalance was typical of someone whom had always enjoyed the love and commitment of an adhesive family; he simply took it for granted. Aleister cried a river, Fagan danced a well rehearsed tango with his old lady, and gin slings washed the shores of dawn.

***

Psychoneuroses, Part 2

I, the Hammer

“What kind of sick bastard would run over a retired police dog?” I stared at the trail of blood the golden retriever had left on the pavement as he’d tried to crawl to sidewalk.

“I know you and Duke were close,” Captain Rex Barkless said.

“He saved my life in Nam. Lost his leg jumping out of the Huey I was flying to deflect a surface-to-air missile. I can understand killing a cat because cats suck. But a dog?”

“You know, most cat owners don’t even like guns.” Barkless touched the Glock on his hip.

“Not even, Betsy?” I removed the .45 from my shoulder holster. “I’m going to find who killed Duke and put a few dozen slugs in his testicles.”

“Not if I get him first, Mallet.”

“I don’t have to follow the rules that coppers do. Besides, I’ll save the taxpayer the cost of a jury trial.”

“How much you want to bet I’ll get him first?”

“Steak dinner?”

“You’re on.” Barkless walked to the squad car.

***

“Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Barkless said to Duke’s bereaved dog mom.

“He was a good boy. Would you like a cup of herbal tea?” Hortense Hamentaschen struggled to rise from the floral-upholstered chair with doilies on the arm rests. She was in her late seventies with bones thin as number-two pencils. Hortense limped to the kitchen. After banging pots, she returned with a teapot and cups. “Would you like milk?”

“I take mine straight, just like my women.” I drained the cup of boiling chamomile in one gulp. 

“Did anyone want to hurt Duke?” Barkless tried to hide his frown as he sipped the herbal tea.   

“Oh.” Hortense held in index finger to her chin. “I can’t think of anyone.”

“Cut the crap, granny!” I backhanded her, sending Hortense’s dentures flying into the potted plant. I drew my .45 and held it under her chin. “Duke was a friend of mine. When I find his killer, I’m going to put a half-dozen slugs in his genitals, pour molten lead in his eyeballs, and make him listen to Miss Edna Chilblains, author of the epic poem Robinson Crusoe and that Damn Hangnail. The same goes for anybody who gets in my way. Now, spill it!”

“Sometimes he’d board the number forty-seven bus and ride it down to Hickenlooper’s Tavern on Delirium Street. Everybody loved him and the bus driver let him ride for free.” Without her dentures, Hortense slurred her words. “He also worked as a therapy dog at the pediatric cancer center.”

“Looks like I’m one step closer to that steak dinner.” I holstered my .45 and spoke to Barkless. “I’ll hit the hospital. You check out the bar.”

***

When a police officer makes detective, the taxpayers pick up the tab for his theme song. A private investigator with a movie deal might get the studio to buy him something like Harlem Nocturne. With my budget, I had to raid the public domain. I chose a kazoo playing the 1812 Overture and added a recording of a few rounds from my .45 for the cannon blasts. When driving in Texas, I’d even shoot a few holes through the roof of my rented pickup. Anyway, the theme played in the background as I drove to the hospital. I parked my Camaro in the emergency room zone and walked through the sliding doors. Juvenile malingerers, who’d shaved in a pathetic attempt to avoid working in the coal mines, roamed the pediatric cancer ward on the second floor.

“Names Mike Mallet.” I showed my PI license to the receptionist. “Give me the medical records of every patient you’ve treated in the past decade.”

“Sir, you’re not a policeman and have no authorization of subpoena medical records.”

“This is my authorization!” I drew my .45 and held it to her face.

“Security!”

Two sumo wrestlers wearing traditional mawashi ran up the hall. Even though both outweighed me two-to-one, I didn’t need my .45. I hit the first with a roundhouse punch that spun his head like an ultra-high-capacity, refrigerated centrifuge and dropped the second like a watermelon off a sixty-story building with a punch to the gut. A nurse who was watching fanned her neck with a prescription pad.

“Ooh, it’s getting moist down there.” She rolled her panties over her ankles and handed them to me. “Hold on to these until I finish my shift. The name’s Buttercup, Honey Buttercup.”

“Mike Mallet.” 

She was blonde as a bottle of Riesling, the dry kind because I don’t like mine too sweet, and her breasts were buoyant enough to keep a shipwrecked sailor afloat. 

“See you at eight, Mike Mallet.” Honey wrote her address on back of a Viagra prescription as if unaware that I never needed it.

Even though I missed out on bracing the kids, I judged my one-on-one with Honey would be more productive. When I left, I found a meter maid was placing a ticket under my Camaro’s wipers. I slugged her in the chin and left her unconscious body in a wheelchair by the emergency room’s entrance.

***

 “Do you know what a nymphomaniac is, Mike?” Honey let her nightgown slip off her shoulders.

“Yeah, a woman who can almost keep up with me.” I tossed my fedora on the bedside table.

“Oh Mike, I’ve made love to astronauts, Navy SEALs, Olympic athletes, and the entire Dallas Cowboys football team but I’ve never had a real man.”

“Then get ready, baby.” I slipped out of my shoulder holster and pleasured her thirty-seven times until she begged for more. I did her nineteen more times. Then I rocked her world with three hundred eight orgasms until she begged me to stop. I gave her a few dozen more for good measure.  

“Oh Mike, I brought you those medical records.” Honey got out of bed and returned with a pile of folders tall as Godzilla.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” I slapped her on the ass. “Now how about getting me a snack?”

***

Aside from sick kids using a lot of painkillers, the medical records were a bust. Sure, the pastor’s wife had chlamydia and the pictures of the DA’s genital warts might come in handy but there was no way to move my investigation forward so I took a drive to Delirium Street. 

“My name’s Mike Mallet.” I flashed my PI license at the bartender. “Show me your business records for the past twelve years.”

Hickenlooper’s Tavern seemed like a wholesome place with drunks passed out in their vomit and two bikers going after each other with pool cues. 

“Sir, you’re not a policeman,” the bartender said. “You have no authorization to subpoena financial records.”

“This is my authorization!” I drew my .45 and held it to his face.

I heard growling from a back room and kicked open the door to encounter the seedy underbelly of canine corruption. I’d always thought that painting of dogs playing poker was the artist’s fantasy but here I encountered it in real life.

“Show me your dog licenses and rabies certificates.” I fired my .45 into the ceiling to get their attention. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Mikey, Mikey! You wouldn’t want to begrudge a few hardworking canines the chance to blow off a little steam.”

It was George Kolaczki, a retired English teacher who supplemented his pension from the Penobscot School District by loan sharking.

“You know this dog?” I showed Kolaczki Duke’s picture.

“Yeah, he played Texas Hold’em sometimes.”

“Was he into you for any money?”

“Hey, the game’s for entertainment. We only play for dog biscuits here.”

“Let me tell you something.” I shoved my pistol in Kolaczki’s nose. “Duke was a friend of mine. When I find out who killed him, I’m going to give him a sulfuric-acid enema, fit him into a poison ivy jockstrap, and make him listen to Edna Chilblains.”

“I taught Great Expectations in high school for twenty-seven years. You don’t scare me.” Kolaczki yelled, “Luka!”

A snarling Doberman in a luchador mask burst into the room. I kicked him in the nuts and he collapsed into a whimpering pile of emasculation.

“See you around, Kolaczki.” I adjusted my fedora to a proper thirty-degree angle and left.

***

  Honey took me to a strip club called the Habanero Narwhal. The name was slang for a kink that anyone with a capsaicin sensitivity shouldn’t attempt. I sat at a booth with my date and placed my fedora in my lap. A barmaid with breasts shaped like killer whales approached.

“Care for a drink?” 

“Vodka and baby seal blood, garnished with a Carolina Reaper. I want that baby seal clubbed fresh. None of that bottled stuff.” 

“Irish Cream.” Honey fingered my hatband.

The naked girls chewing mukluks backed by a chorus of howling malamutes wasn’t my thing so we left to ransack bodegas in a search for million-Scoville hot sauce. As we stepped out the front door, I heard squealing tires and turned to see a Lincoln Town Car speeding toward us.

“Get down!” 

I shielded Honey with my body as a man in the passenger seat leaned out the window and tossed a thesaurus at us. His throw went wide and the heavy volume embedded into the strip club’s brick facade. I drew my .45 and fired six rounds at the receding taillights. 

“Are you okay?” Honey asked.

“Yeah.” I holstered my pistol. “A certain loan shark with a name like a pastry is going to get it.”

***

“Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m Mike Mallet here to fix your rodent problem and that rat’s name is George Kolaczki.”

I muscled my way through the crowd and found Kolaszki at a table by a window with a view of Jupiter City’s skyline. A cornucopia of mayhem lay on the tablecloth. A Japanese hotpot simmered atop a blue flame, cheese fondue bubbled like the La Brea Tar Pits, Korean barbecue sizzled atop a portable grill, and a waiter ignited brandy atop a serving of Steak Diane. The cowboy, ninja, Viking, and pirate who served as Kolaczki’s bodyguards sat at a separate table, eating shish kebab on foot-long, metal skewers.

“I came to return this.” I dropped the thesaurus in the hotpot and splashed hot dashi on Kolaczki’s lap.

The loan shark recoiled from the table as the cowboy stood and reached for his six-gun. I threw a fondue fork overhand and it sunk three-inches deep into his eye socket. Before the Viking could draw his longsword, I flung the burning brandy into his eyes, used the pan to block three throwing stars, and brained the ninja into dreamland. Using one of the skewers as an epee, I scored first blood against the pirate before knocking him out with an uppercut.

“This is for Duke.” I held Kolaczki’s face in the boiling fondue until he drowned.

“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter approached with a lighter and chafing dish. “Does Mr. Kolaczki still want the Cherries Jubilee?”

***

 “What kind of sick bastard would run over a grieving dog mom?” I stared at the trail of blood Hortense had left on the pavement as she’d tried to crawl to sidewalk and began to wonder if I’d been wrong about Kolaczki.

“Two killings in one week.” Barkless fanned sweat off his face with his fedora. “You think they’re connected?”

“All I know is that when I find the killer, I’m going to use his intestines as dental floss.”

“Detective, you might want to see this.” A uniformed officer pointed to some broken glass.

I touched my finger to the liquid and gave it a sniff. 

“Rectum Rooter Hot Sauce. I’ve got to go.”

***

 “Mike, I wasn’t expecting you so early.” Honey peeled off her halter.

“It was you all along. Wasn’t it?” I stepped toward her. “I didn’t put it together until just now. You skimmed painkillers from all those kids. Duke was a drug-sniffing dog and he found you out so you killed him.”

“Mike, you’re scaring me.” Honey took off her bra and stepped backward.

“You paid the dog mom to keep quiet but she got greedy so you bumped her off, too.”

“I had to, Mike. I needed that money to pay for male escorts but I don’t need them anymore now that I have you. We can move away together to someplace in the country with a hot tub and waterbed.”

She stepped backward but I was relentless as a steamroller chasing Gumby and Pokey.

She reached behind her for a dildo on the coffee table and swung it so hot sauce from our last fetish flew into my eyes. I bent over in agony as she battered me about the head with the heavy latex but she couldn’t resist my manliness and our struggle turned into a BDSM session.

“Give it to me, Mike. Give it to me.”

I gave it to her all right, a .45 slug right in the guts.

“How could you do this to me, Mike?”

“Killings too good for you.” I strapped her to the easy chair with duct tape, put a tape of Edna Chilblains’s epic poem on repeat, and turned up the volume to cover Honey’s screams.

Fly the Friendly Skies 

I was heading back to Tucson after I had made a drug run of eighty kilos of cocaine to Sacramento. It was originally meant to be delivered to San Francisco but an earthquake of devastating proportion caused the destination to be changed. 

I finally boarded my flight to Phoenix after my stopover in Los Angeles.

Whenever traveling alone it seems I always get seated next to someone with some kind of  annoying trait or disgusting habit. The incessant talkers that go on even after you express  disinterest. There’s the drunks with unpleasant attitudes. Or those with body odor or with an excessive amount of cologne or perfume which is  just as displeasing. Close talkers with  bad breath. Others who pick their nose or clean out ear wax. Then they offer to shake hands with you after. You get the idea. I do wonder if the people that get seated next to me may find me annoying.  I’m occasionally drunk, seldom stinky, borderline attractive, depending on the border and my demeanor couldn’t be classified  as unpleasant. I am an absolute  pleasure, how could anyone not enjoy an encounter with me?

This time fate does me a solid and my traveling companion in seat 12B, the window seat on this flight to Phoenix, is not a beautiful woman but instead a scholarly looking fellow. His face is wrinkled, weathered and pocked, a testament to his many bouts with the challenges that life has thrown at him. As I sit down he uncaringly stuffs his jacket under the seat. He strokes his scraggly beard then pushes the call assistance button to summon the flight attendant. Then stares at me with a blank expression not showing any emotion. It seems as though he’s sizing me up.

I notice the flight attendant coming toward us. She’s  working her way up the aisle through the passengers still boarding, stashing their items in the overhead storage and searching for their seats.

“Good morning sir. How can I be of assistance?” she greets us in a melodic voice while reaching to turn off the call light.

“Well let me tell you that as soon as possible, I need three of those baby bottle sized whiskeys you sell. No need for a glass, water or ice. Just the whiskey and I don’t care what brand. And how about you there Pancho you want something? I’m buying.” The scholarly fellow asks.

“Sure , thanks. I’ll have a whiskey as well in the baby bottle. It doesn’t matter which brand.”

“I’m unable to serve you gentlemen before we depart but I will get your order as soon as we reach our cruising altitude and the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign.”

“You need to know I am an alcoholic and must have my medication otherwise I can’t be held responsible for my actions. And Pancho here appears as though he may possibly suffer from the same affliction. How is it that I noticed when I first entered there were people enjoying cocktails up front there. What gives?” The self proclaimed  dipsomaniac asks.

“Sir, that’s the First Class you’re in Coach. Those passengers pay extra for that privilege and service.” The waitress in the sky explained.

“So let me understand. I’m just second class and it all comes down to money?  Another example of the inequality of Capitalism and it smells of bullshit!  Do I appeal to the head of the airline to protest this bourgeoisie oppression or would this be something you could possibly remedy?”

I am unable to hide my reaction to the humorous exchange and I begin to laugh. The attendant leaves hastily shaking her head in disgust although still with her smile. She  returns moments later with six baby bottles of scotch. 

“A gift from the airline. My pleasure. And I know who you are, mister. So mind your manners.”

“Thank you ever so much. You shall be generously rewarded by the Gods my dear. Ya see Pancho  sometimes ya just have to kick the rules in the balls.”

I wasn’t offended or insulted by what some might consider a racist comment with the Pancho reference. There was no malicious intent in his expression describing my heritage. Although I’ve always been under the impression that my appearance was more Italian than Mexican.

The ball-kicker hands me two bottles of scotch and keeps four for himself. One extra for him as commission for his effort he explains.

“So what’s your story Pancho? Everybody’s got a story, some just not as interesting as others. So what do you do? You a drug dealer or a crop picker on vacation? Are you in this country legally or are you one of those border jumpers?” he inquires.

“I don’t want to disappoint you but I am a priest from Nogales ,Arizona. I just delivered donations of food and clothing to the earthquake victims in San Francisco. I’m headed back now, gotta work Bingo at the church tonight,” I told him.

“Son of a bitch! Are you fucking feeding me a line of bullshit? I would have never guessed that even if I was clairvoyant. You should be wearing your collar so you don’t catch people off guard. It’s not fair going undercover. So how’s that God fellow doin? Ya think he ever feels guilty about destroying people’s lives by his ruthless ungodly actions? I think of his assholiness as quite a prick. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t exist anyway. Don’t want to offend you or your beliefs so I won’t give you my take on him or religion. Gonna have to wait until I’m drunk. Then ya can give me a peso for my thoughts. Here’s to your Jesus and the rest of the fictitious characters in that Bible. And to all the religious fanatics as well. What a fairytale, a book of fables written by religious fanatics, numerous authors, interpreted by an unknown number of editors. Written hundreds of years ago without any factual data. And with events stolen directly from other religions. I’d rather worship the spirit in these tiny bottles. At least I know it exists and it tells the truth.”

He raises his bottle in a toast that excludes me. So that was an example of him sparing my feelings by not expressing his opinion? I found it curious that he was concerned with possibly insulting my religious ideals but had no problem referring to me as Pancho. I truly liked this character. There was realism in his demeanor and a fire of wisdom burning in his eyes. His views no matter how socially  or politically incorrect were sung and voiced without derogatory intent.

“So what do you have to say for yourself Mr. Dipsomaniac? You do anything else other than drink and give people a hard time? Are you a mean drunk? And what experience was so traumatic in your life that it resulted in you becoming an alcoholic as you refer to yourself?  Another question, the flight attendant said she knew who you were. What did she mean? And…”

“Hold on there Padre! I’m not one of your misguided flock that you can flog with your rosary and threaten omnipotent retribution for indiscretions. Just thought we would share philosophies on the complexity of women or maybe discuss a favorite or worst book you’ve read.  I’m not much for sports or political issues. But you want to pick at my psyche, get personal, have me bare my naked soul and we haven’t even gotten off the ground. Not gonna happen Padre.”

The airplane begins to make its way down the runway. We are thrusted into the cloudless sky as the ground below shrinks into minute images.

“It’s only the take offs and landings that rattle my nerves,” he says.

The fourth miniature bottle of Scotch meets with his lips and is emptied in one loud gulp. The aircraft levels off at the pilot’s designated altitude and the ding sounds indicating the fasten seat belt light has been turned off. Immediately after, he reaches once again for the assistance button and pushes at it with force.

“Gotta find our Angel of Mercy to stoke the fire. Ya ready for another there Padre?” my new best friend asks.

“No, I am just fine at the moment. I’ll wait it out till Phoenix, have a connecting flight to Tucson. They say if ya die in Tucson your soul will have to catch a connecting flight to heaven.”

“Cute, not funny, just cute. And you can spare me your Reader’s Digest witticisms. Save them for the Bingo crowd. Have you always been a servant to your imaginary deity or was there a time when you cut loose? Understand what I’m getting at?”

“Yes I understand and absolutely, I had an abundant supply of paint when I was younger with which I generously painted many a town red. However the time came around when I wrestled with the ‘better to serve in Hell than reign in Heaven’ quote. I concluded that I could become more useful as a priest than as a party animal.”

“Familiar with Milton I see.”

“Yes and with Voltaire, Candide, Moliere, Rousseau, and the entire pack of howling philosophers.”

“Quite impressed there Padre Pancho. But I am starting to develop a severe case of doubt concerning you being a man of the cloth. In fact I don’t believe you are a priest at all or for that matter a Catholic or even Christian. Where the hell is the attendant? I am drying out,” he says while looking down the aisle front and back. 

“Would you like me to fetch her for you?” I offer.

“I see her in back there readying the drink wagon now. Guess I’ll have to ride out the drought.”

“Here take my other bottle, you need it more than I do.”

He accepts my gift with a huge grin.

“I don’t care who the hell you are Padre, you’re okay in my book.”

I’m trying to figure out who this guy could be. He didn’t seem familiar to me at all. I was sure he wasn’t an actor or a famous musician. He couldn’t be a politician like a Senator or Representative. I was leaning toward the arts, maybe a famous painter or film director. Then it all became obvious to me who this character was and what he did. He was a writer, a famous author. I was an avid reader of his work since being a fan of transgressive fiction. This guy had written a great number of books and was an acclaimed poet as well. 

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Father Santiago. I’m enjoying our time together on this flight. You’re quite the character.”

“Still going with the Father act huh? Well I’m not buying what you’re selling. So is it alright if I just call you Santiago?”

“Sure, Santiago will be just fine.”

As we shook hands he introduced himself. 

“Pleased Santiago. Henry, Henry Chinaski.”