Dive Deep

My husband messaged his girlfriend about me. His careless text said she gave better head than me. I told my therapist I didn’t give a shit. But deep down, I gave a big massive shit. And to be honest, I am slightly less upset about my spouse’s repeatedly cheating on me than I am pissed about his criticism of my fellatio skills. He knew I could work my mouth around his cock like a boss, and so, well, fuck him! “Does this make me sound shallow?” I asked my therapist.

My therapist said my marriage is like an inground swimming pool with a deep and shallow end. And I mostly waded in the shallow end of my marriage, where I kept my head above water, breathing freely. I avoided the deep end whenever possible, refraining from diving down too deep to the bottom of things because I knew if I investigated the bottom closely, I would suffocate and drown. “Am I a coward?” I asked.

  A few weeks after finding my husband’s traitorous text, I told my therapist I got drunk, met a cute musician, and blew his fucking brains out in the parking lot of a local Chinese restaurant. The musician said I had “mad skills” as he pulled up his pants and it made me smile. “It didn’t feel wrong,” I admitted.

My therapist asked why I didn’t leave my marriage, a loveless and unfulfilling union. And I said I thought a therapist is supposed to be like a lifeguard, teaching me how to swim and dive deep, keeping me from drowning. But the therapist said it was his job to ask me the questions so I can figure out for myself where and when I needed to dive. “Fuck that shit!” I exclaimed, “I can barely swim!”

My marriage pool continued to fill with stagnate water and disloyal semen, eventually, jamming its filter. Soon I stopped thinking of my therapist as my lifeguard and considered him nothing more than a pool guy who skims and vacuums the pool, stabilizing it with chemicals until the water becomes crystal clear. But my pool remained cloudy and unswimmable, so I fired the pool guy. And then a year after my husband’s betrayal, I threw myself a life preserver and filed for divorce, draining my own damn pool.

Showtime!

The decor in my psychiatrist’s waiting room isn’t retro. It’s just old. And the green shag carpet always makes me sneeze. The worst part is I can’t see his office door from my seat on the stained floral-print couch. Every couple of minutes I wander over to the hallway to make sure Dr. Kildare isn’t waiting for me. 

I clutch the bright blue pill in my hand, Geodon 40 mg. I used to take the lower dose pill, half blue and half white. I must’ve said something wrong at my last appointment—’cause this was what came out of the new bottle. I usually take it with breakfast, but I don’t like when my meds get changed without anyone telling me. So, here I am walking around with it, like it’s a precious gem or something.

 Dr. Kildare greets me from the hallway, “John, good to see you. Thanks for being patient while I finished my calls. Come on back to one of my rooms and tell me what brings you in early.” 

I follow him back into his office. His shoes are terrible: white, clunky and sticking out below his pleated dockers. The soles are worn out at funny angles and just looking at ‘em makes my knees hurt.

 I like the brown leather couch in his office better than the floral print one in the waiting room. At least someone made a pretense of cleaning this one.

“How have you been?” Dr. Kildare asks.

“Okay. Surviving.”

“What’s in your hand?”

“The blue one.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“Yeah—but can I tell you a story first?”

Dr. Kildare repositions in his chair. He sets his pen down on his yellow notepad, which I’m pretty sure isn’t a compliment. He nods for me to continue. I feel patronized and want to clamp shut, to curl back down inside myself. But I don’t get a lot of chances to talk to other people.

“It starts on Friday, when I went to the movies with my wife. After the show, I was using the urinal when this massive guy stands next to me, which was strange ’cause there were a lot of other options. I was doing my best to keep my eyes forward and ignore that this guy is looking over at me, but then he sneezes. It was loud and wet. The germy droplets tinkled down onto my pecker. Which is a weird sensation, if you’ve never had it happen before.”

I look up at Dr. Kildare. He’s not smiling, but he’s no longer staring at the blue pill hidden in my hand. I knew this was a good story.

“Doc, I know we’ve been working on me standing up for myself more in the moment, but I ain’t ashamed to admit that I didn’t say a thing. The guy was twice my size and I didn’t have any one-liners prepared for that particular situation. I just waited for him to zip up and leave. When I went to wash my hands, I wondered if I should wash off down there too, but there were kids in the bathroom. So, it didn’t seem like a good idea.

“I should’ve done something different though, ’cause by the time I got home, my dick was sick. It kept sneezing and coughing away, which when you’re wearing pants, feels as muffled as it sounds.”

Dr. Kildare looks like he wants to stop me. I know he doesn’t like it when I talk so much about dicks—I mean who does? But I gotta get this story out.

“I had to do something. So, I opened a can of chicken noodle soup and warmed it in the microwave. My wife caught me in the kitchen, which was real awkward. Me with my pants around my ankles, pressed against the counter, standing on my tippy toes with my man-parts dunked in the soup. 

“My wife’s a gem, though. She got over the shock quick, bundled me off to bed, and took care of me. Course that meant she got sick too, which wasn’t pretty. You’d think a vagina sneezing would be cute—but it’s not.”

I look up at Dr. Kildare with hopeful anticipation.

He frowns and adjusts his glasses before answering. “I’ve asked you to limit vulgarity in my office. Don’t make me do it again.” He looks at his watch and then back at me. “I have to see my next patient. Take your medication and I’ll check on you when I’m done.”

Dr. Kildare leaves the room with his notepad. 

I stand up to follow him, but the doorway ain’t there anymore. The walls are gone too. I’m on an empty stage with a single microphone. The amphitheater in front of me is filled with the rustle of people waiting to be entertained. The spotlight’s so bright, I can’t quite make any of them out.

I walk up to the microphone, still clutching my blue pill. When I cough, the hall fills with the amplified echoes of my discomfort. I’m nervous, but I’ve always dreamed of making it big.

“You all get charged a copay to get in tonight too?” I ask the quiet crowd. “If so, I hope your insurance is better than mine. Mine seems to think it stands for con-pay. ’cause I’m the only one getting conned into paying anything around here…”

Nothing. Not even a chuckle. I grab the microphone and pace around the stage, trying to think. I’m not gonna get many more chances.

“Did you hear the local university is offering a course where the students watch the Tour de France backwards…”

I pause and count to three. Giving ‘em time to mull it over.

“…It’s gonna be called Reverse Cycle-ology.”

A single laugh. Short and awkward, but still a laugh. It gives me hope and spurs me on.

“I gotta tell you all that while I’m thrilled to be here, I just can’t wait to get home and rip off my wife’s panties…”

I hook my thumb into the waist of my cotton boxers and pull at ‘em. Grimacing real big, so even the people in the nosebleeds can see.

“…’Cause the elastic in these things is killing me.”

That gets me a scattering of chuckles. 

“You all like the wife jokes and potty humor, huh? Well, who am I to argue?

“So, the other night the old lady and I went out for dinner. It was a real fancy place. Didn’t even have prices on the menu. Now I know what you’re all thinking. That’s not such a great idea for an agoraphobic with schizoaffective disorder. But that’s where you’re wrong. How else are we gonna get all these great stories? Can’t argue with that logic, can you? 

“Besides, I had my wife with me. She was wearing a real pretty blue dress with a low-cut white sweater over the top. She’s a real gem. Did I say that already?”

“John,” a deep voice rumbles, filling the room and interrupting my bit. “It’s time to take your medication.”

The spotlight moves to my hand. I uncurl my sweaty fingers. The blue pill glows in the bright light. 

I sigh.

“It’s been a pleasure entertaining ya’ll tonight…but it seems my time has come.”

I try to swallow the pill dry. It catches, a lump in the back of my throat. I gag and it comes spitting back out. I cough up a storm and before I know what’s happening, there’s a sharp jab in my right shoulder. 

I sink back down into the brown leather couch and sit there for I don’t know how long. The amphitheater walls constrict back into the tan-striped wallpaper of Dr. Kildare’s office. A foggy version of him pockets a syringe and small vial. He picks the blue pill off the rug with a tissue and drops it in the trash. His stern face pops into focus, a little too clear, and he offers me an off-white dixie cup. The water’s lukewarm and waxy.

“Feeling better?” Dr. Kildare asks.

“No.”

“Would you like me to call the hospital? A few days inpatient would allow you to safely stabilize on the new dose.”

“No.” 

I’ve been admitted to the psych unit before. It never helps, and I still haven’t paid off the three grand from last time.

“Will you at least promise to take your medication?”

I want to tell him that he’s the one causing all the problems by messing with my dosage. But I know better than to say that.

“Doc, I may be crazy—but I’m not stupid.” 

“Good. The intramuscular Geodon I gave you works quickly, but won’t last as long. Take a 40 mg pill as soon as you get home and I’ll add you on for a check-in Thursday morning.” 

The bus ride home is rough. The medication makes my blood heavy and my gut sick. There’s a kid with big green eyes standing on the seat in front of me. I ain’t got nothing for him. Not even a silly face to make him smile. 

Back in my studio apartment, I go straight to the bathroom and flush the blue pills down the toilet. Crawling into my single bed, I look up the half-life of Geodon. Then fall back onto my pillow. 

Only twenty-five hours ‘til I get back to Showtime!

The City of Angels (as told by Bukowski at the bar)

She was one of the good ones, but she was a whore. They all were. They all are. 

I was young and at the bar. I had worked a long shift at the factory and would often come in this place to wind down, drink a couple drafts, whatever I could afford after a day’s work. This gal comes in. She has this bright beautiful red hair. She’s in a dress, really showing her legs, you know. She walks in. The bar stops. The few other scumbags who are drinking while the sun is still out stop what they’re doing and look at her. The mugs on these guys, all of them: lonely, worn, some more so than mine, some less.

So she comes in and walks past me, and I smell her perfume, and I look at her. And she looks away, scared. I’m not a looker by any means, so I’m used to that look. There are empty seats all around me, but she takes a stool several spots down, I guess not wanting to be too close to this monster. She orders a drink, something red, something classy, you know those drinks sophisticated broads drink. I had four, maybe five dollars on me, so I offer to buy. 

I tell the barkeep, ‘Hey Jimmy, I got it.’ 

The leggy vixen looks at me, and man, she’s a looker, with that fiery red hair and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen, a total gem. Then she looks away and insists to Jimmy that she can pay her own way. 

I say, “Look. I offered to buy your drink. Let me buy your drink.” 

And she says, “Oh, thank you, but you really don’t have to.” 

And she plays with her hair some and looks off uncomfortably, so I insist. I’ve always been persistent when I want something. Why start if you’re not going to finish? 

She tells me “Thank you” and gives me a shy half-smile. 

I had only had a couple, so I was still pretty good with my words. I said to her, “Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to allow someone to be kind.” 

She takes a drink and looks straight at me with those eyes. I have that sense. I know that I just broke through to her, and now it’s only a matter of time for ugly-old-me to wrap those gorgeous legs around me. I ask her, “Where you from?” 

She asks me, “Why do you ask that? I can’t be from here?” 

And I say, “No. You can’t.” Again, I had only had a couple, so I was careful and aware and chose every word I said to her with pure precision. 

She tells me, “I’m from Atlanta.” 

“Ol’ Hot-lanta,” I say which makes her laugh a little. “I’ve done my fair share in Hot-lanta.” Really, I had never been to Hot-lanta. 

The conversation seemed to be there, but there was no movement. She was still way out of reach, several seats away. My beer was running low, and I was out of money, so time was ticking. I said, “Why don’t you come down here, and I’ll allow you to kindly buy me a beer like the kind gentleman I am?” That was it, my final attempt to try and close the deal. 

She sits there for a moment before standing up, picking her purse up off the bar, and walking in my direction. Imagine this bright red fireball with gams out of this world walking toward you. She sets her purse right down from me, orders two drafts from Jimmy, and slides onto the stool next to me. Jimmy brings over the drinks, and I cheers to her and we clink our glasses, and now I know she is mine. My face will be knee deep in that fiery crotch before too much longer. 

We carry on and laugh for a while about something, I don’t remember, and then she calls Jimmy to bring over two shots of whiskey. But she calls it bourbon like the lady she is. I can tell she’s buzzed because her cheeks are starting to match her hair. We take the shots. I look down at those fantastic legs, her dress riding higher than before, showing her magnificent thighs. 

We finish our beers, and I ask her, “So Hot-lanta, where you going?” My words are still there but beginning to lose ground. 

“The hotel I guess,” she tells me and then asks, “You want to walk me?” 

And with that, there’s no turning back for her, now. 

I say, “Yeah, I guess I can walk you. Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this City of Angels.”

We get back to the hotel she’s staying in which is three or four blocks up from the bar. It’s one of those really nice hotels, clean, smelling good. I’m dirty from a long day at the factory and half-drunk so I feel a little out of place in such a classy joint, but that’s okay. We get onto the elevator. The button is pressed. The doors slide together. The elevator begins to ascend, dinging with every floor we pass. I look over at her, and she smiles at me and then looks down, and I’m hoping she hasn’t sobered up enough to realize her situation. We don’t say anything, and I can’t wait to see where those racehorse legs lead to.

The elevator dings one last time, and we get off. She walks in front of me down the hall, swaying, her behind a beautiful piece of art. I’m no looker, you know, so I don’t often get a behind like that. So I’m excited, and I’m beginning to bulge, and I can’t wait to fuck her. I follow that behind into her room. The door closes behind us and she immediately attacks, kissing all over my mouth, aggressively. I rip the dress from her, and she unbuttons my belt, and we get at it. I mean, we really get at it. I worked that gal. I was proud of the job I was doing on her. I’ve got her bent over, over the bed, pushing the mattress halfway off the frame and onto the floor, and I’m slamming her as hard as I can, and she’s loving it and moaning. And then she gets quiet, and I say, “What’s the matter?” 

The next thing I know, she tenses up and constricts around my purple monster, and I keep going, and I’m about to blow. Then, she convulses, her insides tightening even more, and she hurls onto the bed, and I lose my load inside of her as I watch this chunky orange liquid spew from her mouth, covering the bed sheets. I’ve always hated the smell of vomit. Still inside of her, I gag and hurl all over her back. And then more comes. My vomit isn’t nearly as chunky as hers as it’s possible I hadn’t eaten in days. I’m just standing there, now, my cowardly cock between my legs, and she throws up again, that poor gal. 

I guess I fall asleep there, because I wake up the next morning with the sun coming beaming through the blinds of this vomit-flooded hotel room that now stinks like absolute death. She’s awake and dressed and looking like she did when I first saw her. 

“I’ve got to go to a meeting,” she says, “and then I have a flight to catch.” 

She’s looking into the mirror putting in one earring at a time behind that hellish red hair of hers. I’ve never been one to overstay my welcome, so I get up and find my pants and slide them on and then look for my shoes only finding one. I put it on. I pick up my shirt from the floor—there’re some orange vomit stains splattered on it—and place it over my head. I think I put it on backwards, I don’t know. Looking at her, I can’t believe such a beautiful creature graced me with her womanhood. I’m thinking as she looks at me that she is probably thinking that she can’t believe she allowed such a repulsive being to enter her, but oh well. People make mistakes. We all make mistakes. 

She walks me to the door, I’m hobbling in one shoe, off-balance. We walk down the hall, her beautiful behind swaying in front of me. We don’t say anything. We get onto the elevator. She presses the button, and the doors close. The elevator dings with every floor we pass, breaking up the silence. Then it dings one last time, symbolizing the finality of our fragile encounter, and the doors open. We step out and walk toward the entrance. The sun is bright and getting brighter as we approach. We walk outside and she hooks a right, but I need to go left, so I do. I turn back to see her beautiful behind swaying and those thoroughbred calves of hers. I want to call out to her, and it’s then I realize I never got the ol’ gal’s name. 

I stand there watching her, the sun really coming down, her swaying behind getting smaller and smaller before finally disappearing, lost forever in this City of Angels. 

***

Originally published in “Notes for a Dirty Old Birthday – Buk100” from Newington Blue Press

The Cry Shot

Forgot your own name some months ago.  Reinvention is the reason you leave when he asks you to go, from college dorm to his condo to be dressed in organza puffy sleeves, oversized JoJo bows in your hair, turned over to a “nanny” when he leaves — though this one’s only credentials are an obscene imitation in porn.  Plays you one where she spanked her employer with a thick bouquet of blooms in her fingers, offering only the thorns.   

Impressed him enough to procure her, like you, a girl he renames Dove to return to a childlike state to — if not undo, erase what she suffered before. Met you in a neurolinguistic programming chat room.  After he heard your sad incestuous childhood story, he swore to replace it.  Give you a childhood again.  Nap when he tells you.  Confess every fantasy, sin. 

Open your legs to strangers because he knows best who and what’s right.  Bathe every wound they inflict in his honor.  Turn you on and your Hello Kitty nightlight for tales of bad girls he hopes you to turn out to be, raised this time without abuse or Christianity, just consensual use, with some bruises, and some iPhone videoed tears.  

Collates digital files of you sobbing into labeled DVD’s reflecting the seasons and years of indignities.  Revisits them while you are sleeping when he is in need 

of release — how many ways will beauty suffer for your insatiable beast who placates his needs with these records to give you some peace?  Bespoke porn he directs and demands to service his own special niche where the most climatic scene is not a cum shot.  It is the closeup of a splotched, wet, weepy face of a womanchild who should run but will not. 

‘Fingers In The Fan’ is another odyssey about Santiago, a recovering addict, ex-con, womanizer, gambler and ill-fated pilgrim, along with his ex cellmate, loose cannon, alcohol and drug fueled, Colombian carnal, Johnny Rico. 

While working as drug smugglers for a Mexican Cartel, the two encounter situations of structured devastation. This collection of short storíes is filled with the same gritty dialogue, dark humor and adventurous mayhem Santiago has popularized in his previous books. ‘Fingers In The Fan’ complements the Bohemian tales of bizarre and twisted states of mind first exposed in  ‘Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild’ and ‘Quicksand Highway’.

Adding to the book’s irresistible appeal is that these cautionary tales are well written. Santiago’s prose is clear and his language concise: spiced with the Spanish of his streetwise bilingualism. The indelible portraits of even minor characters in other stories of life’s disappointments make this collection something to get high on.

Dave Wolff
Editor/Publisher
Asphyxium Magazine
Cerebral Agony Magazine

BUY A BOPY HERE

5 Star Review

A lot of bad happened to Jimmy in a short amount of time that led to his walk on that lonely, dark road.  He didn’t have a destination in mind, other than a fresh start, wherever that may be.  After his wife had a miscarraige, his whole world broke down drastically and turned to absolute shit.  His drinking amplified, which led to physical altercations with his wife, an arrest, and a pink slip from the factory where he worked.  A court ordered stint at a sober living facility was short lived due to his continued drinking.

As Jimmy walked the desolate road, he pondered the decisions and events that led him to where he was at that very moment.  This frustrated and further depressed him.  He wanted nothing more than to jump in front of the next set of headlights that sped by.  However, the lack of cars on this stretch of road made that plan highly unfeasible.  Jimmy knew that he was damaged and would never be a pleasant memory in anyone’s mind.  He just didn’t see the point in going on living.  He thought, maybe there will be a rocky ravine up ahead.  Then I could just disappear, and never be found.  That thought alone was enough for him to take faster and wider strides toward the darkness in front of him.

A car could be heard approaching from behind and the landscape in front of him became illuminated.  The vehicle slowed and pulled next to Jimmy.

“Hey there friend.  Are you alright?”

“Yeah.  I’m good.”

“There’s nothing out here for miles. Get in and I’ll take you closer to where you need to be.”

“Really, I’m fine.  Go on.”

“Nonsense.  Get in. I insist.”

Jimmy reluctantly got in the car with the stranger.  Jimmy thought, what’s the worst that could happen?  Maybe he’ll be a serial killer, and do the hard work for me.

“My name is Carl,” the driver said, with his hand extended.

“Jimmy,” he responded, as he shook Carl’s hand.

“Where are you headed?” Carl asked.

Jimmy remained looking forward, and said, “West.”

“Ok.  West is pretty vague, but I can get you a little closer in that direction.”

They rode in silence for the good part of an hour, when Carl pulled into a gas station.

“Need to fuel up.  You need anything?” Carl asked, as he got out of the car. 

“No, I’m good.” 

Carl went into the store and returned with a six pack of beer and a pint of whiskey.  He opened the passenger door and handed the items to Jimmy.

“Here.  It looks like you need this.”

Carl began fueling the car as Jimmy opened and turned up the pint.  The entire pint and one of the beers were emptied by the time Carl got back in the driver’s seat.

“Wow. You don’t waste any time do you?  I knew you needed a drink.”

“Yeah, thanks. You have no idea.”

As the two were back on the road, the alcohol allowed Jimmy to open up a little about what had recently transpired in his life.  Carl reminded Jimmy that life had a way of being shit sometimes, but it could always be worse, and that there was a good chance that it would get better.  Jimmy wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk.  He just sighed and continued on the beer.  Carl told Jimmy about a young woman in a purple dress that he gave a ride to recently on the same stretch of highway as him.  How she was at the end of her rope as well, running from an abusive husband.  However, by the end of the ride, he had her smiling and confident in her decision to leave and start anew.

“See.  Sometimes you just need someone else to put it all in prospective for you,” Carl said in a comforting tone.

“I guess you’re right,” said Jimmy, as he contemplated what Carl said.

The horizon began to brighten, as Carl slowed and turned right into a closed restaurant.  There were no cars in the parking lot, and most of the lights on the inside were off.  Carl pulled around to the rear of the building near the back door.

“This is my buddy’s place. I make runs for him roughly two times a week.  He’s not the most social guy.  As a matter of fact, he doesn’t really talk.  I just have to drop off a few supplies and we’ll be on our way.  Come on in.  I’ll see if he has anything ready yet.”

The two of them got out of the car and Carl knocked on the rear door.  A short, fat man with greasy hair and sauce stains on his apron opened the door.

“Bubba. How’s it going? This is Jimmy. Can you fix him a couple of your famous sandwiches?”

Bubba grunted and gave a slight nod.  Carl showed Jimmy to the counter in the front and pulled out a stool for him.

“Bubba has the best barbeque around. He’s been in the paper and even on the local news.  Look at all these awards,” Carl said, as he pointed at framed pieces of paper above the counter.

Jimmy looked around, nodded, and said, “That is a lot. Smells good. I am pretty hungry.”

“Here it comes now.  You’re going to love it. I have to get some items out of the car so he can open up in a few hours.  Eat up.”

Bubba placed two huge barbecue sandwiches in front of Jimmy and he didn’t waste any time digging in ravenously.  Through the order window, Jimmy watched as Bubba and Carl hauled bags of items into the kitchen and walk-in cooler.  Carl poked his head through the square opening and said,

“Pretty good, heh?”

“You weren’t kidding.  The meat is so tender and the sauce is the best I’ve ever had.  Everything is terrific.  I can see why he has all those awards.”

“I told you.  Hey, when you get done, do you think you could help us move a pig from the cooler to the smoker?”

“Sure thing.  I’m about done.”

Jimmy used his last bite of sandwich to sop up the remaining sauce on his plate and leaned back in his stool, full and content.  He took his plate to the back and Bubba motioned for him to put it in the sink.

“Bubba, if I could give you another award for that meal, I would my man,” Jimmy said, as he patted his stomach.

Bubba let out an appreciative grunt, and shook his head in acknowledgement.  Carl came through the back door with another bag, placed it on the counter and motioned for Jimmy to follow him to the cooler. 

“It’s a big fucker.  Might take all three of us,” Carl said as he opened the cooler door.

Jimmy entered the dark cooler and the door slammed behind him.

“Quit fucking around!  Open the goddamn door!”

Jimmy beat on the door and continued yelling in the pitch-black cooler.  Moments earlier Jimmy thought he wanted to die, but now his instinct of survival took over.  He continued beating on the door to no avail.  He started feeling faint and dizzy and staggered around the refrigerated death trap.  Jimmy was losing consciousness and realized he must have been drugged.  He located a pull string and a light illuminated the cooler.  He couldn’t believe the horrific things he saw.  Bags of body parts and buckets of blood surrounded him.  Jimmy lost his footing and fell to the cold floor.  Just before everything went black, he looked into the lifeless eyes of the girl in the purple dress.  

That day during the lunch rush, a dad and his son, who were traveling through town, sat in a booth next to the door.  They finished their meal, and the dad told the waitress that it was the best barbeque that they had ever eaten.  Before leaving, he left a glowing review online.

Jimmy had made a lasting memory in someone’s mind after all.

Kill Them With Kindness 

“Ah good it’s you. Come on in Carmine. I’m glad you’re here. There’s a situation I need to discuss with you. Sit down.” 

“What’s up Capo?” 

“You know Thomas McKenna, the President of First National Bank?”

“Yes sir, the fellow who was arrested by the FBI last week.” 

“That’s right, he’s out on bail. He might decide to make a deal with the Prosecutor and spill his guts. That could be an unfortunate turn of events for us.”

“I understand. Do you want me to make the problem go away?”

“Yes, he’s become a liability. It’s time we dissolve our business relationship.”

“Okay Boss. Who do you have in mind to do the job? Want me to call the guy from Detroit? He’s a no muss no fuss cleaner. Or maybe that cold-hearted broad from Los Angeles, she’s always stealth.”

“No, it has’ta look natural, like a heart attack or somethin’, so if there’s an autopsy they’ll find it was due to natural causes.”

“I know who can do the job, but he’s expensive. You know who I’m thinking about?”

“You’re thinking Petruchio? Petruchio ‘The Gentleman’?”

“Ya. He’s perfect for this job. no guns, no knives, no staged accident, no Jewish Lightning, no blood and guts bullshit. He ‘kills them with kindness’.”

“Exactly, that way there won’t be any investigation or questions.”

“And no suspects.”

“See if you can get a hold of him. Listen to me, don’t get into a conversation with him. Make it short and unfriendly. No small talk. You got it?”

“Okay got it boss.”

“Just thinking about that guy scares the hell out of me. I’ve never met him in person but I talked to him on the phone once, couple of years ago. You gotta be careful. If he starts making all kinds of compliments, you can’t be sure, there might be a contract out on you. And he could be ‘Killing you with kindness’.”

“I’ve been told his method is surefire and he never raises any suspicions.”

“That’s right. Listen, if he mentions how nice your house is, then starts in on how good you look. Or mentions that you look thinner like you’ve lost weight and asks if you’ve been workin’ out cause you look buff and bullshit like that, you’re a goner. Like I said, he ‘kills you with kindness’.”

“Now that you mention it, you do look good for your age Vicente.”

“Okay, enough. And don’t discuss this with anyone else. We can’t have this getting out. I know I can count on you. It’s the reason why I’ve given you the responsibility to take care of this. You’ve been a loyal and trustworthy member of the family Carmine. I’m very proud of the man you’ve become.”

“Thanks Capo. I’ve never told you this but you’ve been like a father to me. I want you to know there’s no one else in the entire world I respect more than you.”

“Okay, don’t you start. It ain’t gonna do any good. You know when I retire next month. I’m turning control of the family over to Arturo. My son will be the next Godfather.” 

“Of course Capo, an excellent choice. No one can ever question your decisions. You’re a wise and ingenious man. You’re made in the image of the great King Solomon. A more honorable and fair-minded man than you doesn’t exist.”

“Thanks for your compliments. No need to voice your appreciation.”

“It’s just important for you to know. I am and will forever be indebted to you for your kindness. You took me in when I had no one. I was alone after my parents were murdered. You took me in and gave me a home, welcomed me into your family. You treated me like I was your son. You have a heart of gold. I will never be able to repay you for your benevolence and unselfishly sharing your home.” 

“Carmine, please stop. Enough with the compliments. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were tryin to ‘kill me with kindness’.”

“I’m sorry Capo. I felt it was time to express my gratitude and declare my admiration for someone who exemplifies generosity. A man deserving of respect and to be regarded with esteem. You are a God among men. So much bigger than life size. A living legacy.”

“Carmine, something’s wrong, I’m not feeling so good right now…”

“What’s wrong Capo? Are you okay? It’s nothing you can’t overcome. You’re stronger than anything in the universe. A Superman. There’s nothing that can harm you. Even God is jealous, in awe of your magnificence.”

“I’m having chest pains. I think maybe you should call me an ambulance.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes! I’m not fucking around!”

“Right away il mío Re (My King). There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for such a great man. I am such a better person for having known you.”

“Carmine, what are you doing? I think I might be having a heart attack. With every compliment I feel chest pains. You’re literally ‘killing me with kindness’.”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

 “My heart, please, my heart. Did someone put a contract out on me? You’re Petruchio, aren’t you?”

“Once again you demonstrate your vast knowledge and extreme astute intelligence. Let me introduce myself. I’m Carmine Petruchio Martinelli, son to his father Giorgio Armani Martinelli and his mother Franchesca Rose Pedone Martinelli, brother to Marco and Elena Martinelli. All murdered in their home in their sleep. My uncle Martini told who the killers were before he too was killed. I took care of Tomaso and Riccardo, your accomplices a few years ago. You remember when they died unexpectedly and within a week of one another. Neither of them begged for their lives, they enjoyed the kindness I bestowed upon them right up until their deaths.” 

“I’ll give you anything you want. Please, I can’t take much more.”

“What I want, my dear man of distinction, is for you to bestow upon me your dying wish. You are the man who showed me that patience is a virtue. My teacher who taught me to reciprocate to those that you have wronged. Although you are the supreme master of vendetta è dolce (sweet revenge).” 

“Arturo, Arturo help come quick! Salvatore, someone! Somebody call an ambulance! Arturo!”

“Don’t strain that lovely operatic tenor voice of yours. Arturo has met with an untimely fate. He had a brain aneurysm this morning after being showered with praise and congratulations concerning his fortunate appointment as Godfather of the Cappelli family. Like the others, he fell victim to being ‘killed with kindness’. Everyone is at the hospital right now paying their respects. I was supposed to inform you but it simply slipped my mind. But being the gracious kind-hearted man you are, I’m certain you will exercise your merciful forgiveness for my faux pas.” 

“Why? Why did you kill my son? You two were like brothers. How could you be so heartless? He was my only son. Please, stop. Show me some mercy, you at least owe me that.”

“Ya, brothers like Cain and Abel I think. Owe you? In all these years you’ve never asked for reimbursement for your generosity and unselfish acts of benevolence.”

“After all I’ve done for you. I even made you a Captain in the family.”

“Once again you showed your incredible managerial skills, rewarding those that have shown loyalty.”

“Tell me why?”

“You think I didn’t know who was responsible for killing my parents? Who murdered my brother and sister? If I had been there at the time, I would have been a victim as well.”

“Please reconsider what you’re doing.”

“Reconsider? I don’t think so. I’ve dreamed about this day for years. Since I first came here at six years old I’ve had to live with the man who made me an orphan.”

“Carmine it was business. The order came down from the bosses in Chicago. There was nothing I could do. I’m going to pass out. Call an ambulance for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“It’s too late for an ambulance. I have no doubt you are an emphatic and compassionate man. You’re definitely experiencing an incredible amount of remorse. Being the religious and God fearing man you are, you’ve asked God in prayer for forgiveness, yet still burdened with guilt. I know that you, more than anyone, will understand that those emotions are just not enough.”

“I’m dying, Carmine, you son of a bitch…”

“Just like you, showing such courage until the end. I’ve always admired your strength. You inspired in me the courage to seek my revenge. You encouraged me to be a man of my word. Now, for the final nail in your coffin. Your death will be double edged. Although I’m pleased by avenging my family’s murders, I will miss your presence, your fondness, your sensitivity and your guidance. Even though you are responsible for the death of my family, I am truly saddened by your own death. I am saddened because I love you. Capo? Capo, did you hear me?”

‘Killed with kindness’

Careful What You Wish For

Jeffrey woke to the magnificent sounds of angelic birds.  The sounds of the heavens, and all that hover above, filled his ears.  The ability to open his eyes right away was hindered by the bombardment of brilliant and bright facets of light.  Once able to finally peer at his surroundings, he realized that he had awakened in a beautiful, enchanted forest. What he saw overwhelmed his being.  Colors he never knew existed were visible.  They entered his field of vision and danced around.   Clouds that were usually drab and dreary were bright, fluffy, and almost neon in appearance.  Plants and trees gave off a color that was seemingly off the spectrum of green.  A gleaming, lively green, unimaginable even in the most creative of minds.  Feelings of warmth and contentment overtook him.  Jeffrey felt as if he was getting a warm hug from Mother Earth herself.  He looked around and observed a multitude of flying and crawling creatures he couldn’t quite identify.  Each one seemed to be smiling cheerfully at Jeffrey, as if they were welcoming him to this new land. 

How he ended up in this mystical, magical environment was unknown to him, but he wasn’t questioning that at this moment.  Jeffrey was intrigued and in awe of what surrounded him.  The tree stump that he was leaning against felt as if it was a pillow filled with the softest of down, as did the forest floor where he sat.

As Jeffrey continued surveying the landscape around him, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.  He quickly turned to see a small man darting quickly from tree to tree.  Jeffrey thought that he was fast, in fact, too fast to be a normal person.  As the little man reached the closest tree to Jeffrey, he emerged with an abrupt hop, and startled him.

“Ayy!  I am Lornforth,” he shouted at Jeffrey.  “I am ruler of this forest.  Don’t let my small stature fool you big one, for I am mighty as they come.  All of the creatures you see do my bidding, and they will do as I say.  How have you arrived in my forest?”

Jeffrey was taken back by the size and confident nature of the little man, and also didn’t exactly know how to answer the question that was posed to him.

“I don’t really know.  I just woke up here.”

The little man shook his head in acknowledgment, as if he knew exactly what had happened.

“Yes. It’s the elders of Wrathmoth.  They send big normals to my forest to test me.  They’ve indeed done this before.  I always prove myself, but they still insist on trying my magic every step of the way.  See, I am going for lead elf in the committee of the Golderson Faction, and the elders don’t think that I have what it takes.  So they send you dumb, no offense, big normals here to evaluate my abilities.”

Jeffrey didn’t know how to respond.  He just stared at the little man, still in a tremendous state of confusion.

“So you are a magic elf?”

The little man, now seemingly frustrated, as his body language showed, spoke in an aggressive tone.

“Yes!  Did you not hear anything that I just said.  I don’t have time for this.  Just tell me your three wishes and be on your way.”

Jeffrey was as dumbfounded as ever.

“Three wishes?  I thought that was just storybook shit.”

The little man was now getting extremely agitated. 

“No.  It’s real.  I’m real.  You are here, and I will grant you three wishes of your choosing.”

The little man rolled his eyes condescendingly and continued under his breath with disdain.

“If it pleases the cock sucking elders.”

Jeffrey was befuddled at the little man and the claims that he made, but also knew that the land that he awakened in was far from normal.  The little man glared at him with impatience.  Jeffrey thought, what’s the worst that could happen, as he closed his eyes and spoke his first wish.

“I wish I could have sex with a beautiful woman.”

The little man shook his head in disgust, as if he expected Jeffrey to say that.

“Soooooo original.  Your wish be granted.”

Jeffrey opened his eyes to find a naked woman in front of him.  She embodied everything that he considered sexy.  She knelt in front of Jeffrey and gave him amazing oral pleasure, before turning around and accepting all of him.  It seemed as if she knew exactly what turned him on with every sensual, fluid movement.  Jeffrey couldn’t hold back any longer.  He exploded with all of his being into the fairy of seduction.  Before he could collect himself fully, the little man appeared again, as anxious as ever.

“Okay, you’ve got your rocks off big one.  Now, what’s your next wish?  Let me guess, money?”

Jeffrey looked at the little man with wide-eyed disbelief.

“I do wish for a bag full of money.  How did you know?”

“Oh, just a hunch with your kind.  Your wish be granted.”

Jeffrey closed his eyes and awaited the bag full of money.  At the same time, he was pondering his third wish.  Jeffrey realized that he may be thinking way too small.  For his third, he thought, he’ll wish to be an executive at a huge corporation.  He figured that if he was the big boss, he could have all the sex and money that he could ever want.  Jeffrey knew that his third wish could be the one that would truly change his whole future.  He had the rest of his life planned out in his head at that very moment.  He was ready to make his final, life changing wish.

When Jeffrey opened his eyes, he wasn’t holding a bag full of money.  He was clutching a cum-filled condom, with a little person in front of him pulling up his pants.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jeffrey angrily asked.

“Ayy!  You back with us?” said the little man, as he finished buttoning his pants.

“Back with us?  And who the fuck are you,” Jeffrey questioned, pissed, oblivious, and stupefied. 

“They call me midget Tony.  A bunch of us were partying at Phillip’s, and I overheard you say that you wished that you could try the new research chemical T3O-CME.  So we did, and ended up out here behind Phillip’s shed.  Good stuff heh?  Some say it’s magical.”

Holy Shit

Welp, you just gave a whole new meaning to christening the toilet. You shat out a gargantuan turd that may or may not have, ever-so-slightly, resembled the big man upstairs—the Lord and Savior, the Good Sheppard, the Jesus Christ—and now you have people flocking over to your place like cardinals in masses to come and check out your shit. Your local church community, the town over’s local church community, God-fearers from all parts of the country, overseas—altar boys, priests, clergymen from the Vatican—the goddamn Pope himself—coming to inspect your shit and bless it.

The problem is: it’s shit. Looks like shit. Smells like shit. And you are forbidden to flush it. Adam and his apple, forever lodged in the throats of mankind. You and your shit, forever lodged in your own personal shitter.

It’s like the water leak that soiled that house with Our Lady of Guadalupe. Or that burnt piece of toast. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Toast. Except this is the toast after it’s been digested. You wonder what you ate earlier. Definitely not notre pain quotidien. Fast food, probably. Or gas station nachos. No, definitely fast food. Your holy Big Mac with fries and a shake, please. You swallowed up some of America’s finest like it was the Last Supper and you ended up shitting out Jesus. In your one-bed-one-bath’s run-down half-broken toilet. Brown Jesus. Digested Jesus. Prince of Peace. Or rather, prince of feces. The second coming—in a wave of shit.

You called the priest at the church around the corner from you because you thought maybe you could con him out of a few bucks and that’d be that. End of the line. Simple transaction. Cash for brown gold. But what you didn’t expect was for him to bring in the whole cavalry. The Knights Templar at your door—24-hour surveillance to ensure that no one breaks in and fucks with your shit. On the plus side, in a way, it’s kind of nice. You don’t live in the best of neighborhoods. Nobody’s gonna be trying to snatch your VCR to hock it for dope as long as God’s bodyguards are hanging around.

There’s a line out your door—worshippers from all parts of the globe to witness your turd. The pious poo. The poo prophet. It’s a floater—like it’s walking on water. They’ve got some member of the Patriarch orchestrating the whole ordeal (er, ordure?) letting in groups of three at a time like it’s a goddamn theme park ride. The Holy Roller coaster. They come in, kneel down before your biblical bowel, your sacred stool, your godly guano, they say a prayer and then they leave. Art thou hallowed Hankey. And so on to the next three. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. All the way down the line.

While you’re staring at the nativity scene that is your number two, opposite the holy usher—both of you on either side of the toilet like some sacred shit brigade—you can’t help but wonder: did Jesus poop? He must’ve, right? He probably shat out some real moral manure. Crucified crap. Jewish deuce juice. My shit doesn’t have shit on His shit. What’s all the fuss about? It’s no righteous rump release. Divine dump. Sanctimonious steamer. It’s just shit. Good, old-fashioned human shit. Matthew, Mark, Luke and I used the fucking John. You smile and nod at the group of three as they thank you and motion the sign of the cross. “And also with you,” you say like a half-strung marionette because you don’t know what else you’re supposed to say. Our Father who art in thine toilet? Maybe you’ll try that one on the next group.

In they come. Signum crucis. Kneel. Bow. Reconciliation. Or whatever beef (perhaps lamb, anyone?) they may have with the Almighty. Using your turd like a divine switchboard to the heavens. A séance with the Supreme. The Creator. The One and Only. Hello, Mr. Holy Ghost. Are you there? It’s me, by way of Evangelical excrement.

Another herd of three. In and out, in and out. How many hours have passed, you think, standing there in your small bathroom with an un-flushed floater and people flowing in and out like a museum exhibit. You go to check your watch, but then you realize you’re not wearing a watch so you opt for an inconspicuous nose wipe in case anyone is watching you. Never, in all of your existence on God’s good green earth, did you think that you’d ever get a single thank you for dropping a deuce. Yet, here you are, in a matter of mere hours, being thanked by the masses. A swarm of hundreds. Thousands, maybe. That’s got to be a world record. I’ll call the Guinness Book later, you think.

But then something happens. The lights flicker. Of course, you know it’s just the building’s shoddy electrical work and the landlord’s negligence to fix it—but everyone else thinks it’s an act of God. The ethereal lord from up above. A sign! He’s communicating. It’s a fucking miracle.

And what perfect timing—the coincidence, dumb luck—the Pope rolling up in that ridiculous looking bulletproof papal transport car—the white Mercedes with the phone booth sticking up out of the back of it. Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremonial blessing of shit commences.

In he comes—the Pope, that is—to your one-bedroom apartment. You, him, and that other dude in the Men in Black uniform who’s been with you the whole time are crammed into the bathroom together. The Pope does some spiritual ritualistic hand gesturing and pours some holy water onto the floating turd—as if it wasn’t wet enough from floating around in the bowl. He closes his eyes for a moment and stands completely still. Silent. Then, he breathes in heavily (wrong move, holy man) then whirs his head around as if caught by surprise of the horrid stench emanating from the Jesus turd trying not to pass out. I mean, that’s some fast food shit. Probably some beer shits, too. That ain’t no Redeemer steamer. “Whew,” he says. “Forbidden fruit, more like forbidden fudge, eh?” Whoa. Who knew the Pope had jokes?

“My man. Right out from the downtown chocolate factory,” you say, pointing at your ass. The religious regiment (religiment? coining it) man who’s been there the whole time scolds you with dagger eyes. Apparently it’s not kosher to chime in on the fun.

Papa Pope’s holding up the Rosary now in one hand and the Bible in the other, speaking to no one in particular in Latin or Italian or whatever mother-tongue of the houses of the holy. “It is now blessed,” is all he says after his anti-climactic theatrics. And then he leaves! That’s it. From the Vatican to the one-bedroom. Five minutes tops. Peace’d the fuck out.

Everyone is applauding and cheering and hugging. Did I miss something? I don’t get it. All you’re doing is wondering if you can flush it down now. You motion toward the man who’s been there the whole time to ask him what the protocol is, but he brushes you off by shaking his head and bringing his finger to his lips. You’re definitely gonna have to move out now, you think.

So, there it is. The Holy Shit. Blessed by the Pope himself. Now, all because of you, the hive mind of the faithful idolizes, worships, and prays to a single piece of solid, floating, enshrined, steaming shit. A new relic. The symbol of God. Lord, shit almighty. A-fuckin’-men.