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Six out of Five: A Box Set
Până la Marc Richard
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Începeți să citițiLungime: 1,509 pagini21 ore
- Editor:
- Marc Richard
- Lansat:
- Mar 29, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781393373599
- Format:
- Carte
Descriere
A Twisted Anthology…
"Reading this made me glad I'm illiterate" -David Duchovny's cat
Horror. Romance. Sci-Fi. Memoir.
All twisted up and shot out like a human cannonball at a Mardi Gras festival.
Six novels you'll feel compelled to read…
And then wonder why you did.
~A horror parody starring a killer with an unmatched sense of humor
~A book about aliens, the apocalypse, and celebrity presidents
~A memoir on the lighter side of mental illness
~A sci-fi action thriller horror comedy short story novel
~And a bathroom reader you'll have to hide when your guests arrive
You'll laugh with every turn of the page, and then....
Shame.
A must-read for the demented.
Go on. Make your friends hate you. Get your copy today.
Informații despre carte
Six out of Five: A Box Set
Până la Marc Richard
Lungime: 1,509 pagini21 ore
Descriere
A Twisted Anthology…
"Reading this made me glad I'm illiterate" -David Duchovny's cat
Horror. Romance. Sci-Fi. Memoir.
All twisted up and shot out like a human cannonball at a Mardi Gras festival.
Six novels you'll feel compelled to read…
And then wonder why you did.
~A horror parody starring a killer with an unmatched sense of humor
~A book about aliens, the apocalypse, and celebrity presidents
~A memoir on the lighter side of mental illness
~A sci-fi action thriller horror comedy short story novel
~And a bathroom reader you'll have to hide when your guests arrive
You'll laugh with every turn of the page, and then....
Shame.
A must-read for the demented.
Go on. Make your friends hate you. Get your copy today.
- Editor:
- Marc Richard
- Lansat:
- Mar 29, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781393373599
- Format:
- Carte
Despre autor
...Somewhere between DARK COMEDY and BIZARRO, between DOUGLAS ADAMS and CARLTON MELLICK III, between CHUCK PALAHNIUK and KEVIN L. DONIHE, between LLOYD KAUFMAN and ANDY KAUFMAN, there's MARC RICHARD, a writer who doesn't mind exploiting his mental illness for fun and profit. He has been accused of being hilarious, and doesn't have the strength to argue.
Marc Richard was born in a picturesque, yet at the same time crappy, town called "Rumford". The name alone says it all, doesn't it? "Rumford." It was a Maine mill town, and there wasn't much to do but drink, get pregnant, and tip over cows.
After graduation he decided that he would go to college and major in medicine. He never got the hang of chemistry and physics, however, and he soon realized that if he were a dying patient, he would not want to be treated by someone with a C average. So he took up writing stories instead.
He is now living in Portland, Maine with his life-partner Jill and his dog Mia. He is not afraid of the oxford comma.
COOL FREE STUFF AND EXCLUSIVE MATERIAL AVAILABLE by signing up to Marc's mailing list at www.marcrichardauthor.com
Legat de Six out of Five
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Six out of Five - Marc Richard
Six out of Five: A Box Set
Marc Richard
Published by Marc Richard, 2020.
Contents
DEGREES OF SEPARATION
Chapter 1 Infidelity
Chapter 2 How she does it
Chapter 3 I understand the plight of the manatee
Chapter 4 Will I ever make it through this clown suit dry cleaner called life without being haunted by a midget named Dave who supposedly grows cigarettes from his lips?
Chapter 5 Acid wash is in again
Chapter 6 I really don’t enjoy having my pulse taken every five minutes
Chapter 7 The early bird special is only worms
Chapter 8 The blood of a ladybug is such a pretty shade of orange
Chapter 9 Correct me if I’m right
Chapter 10 Drown in the blood of the Lord Jesus
Chapter 11 Hubcaps n’ mudflaps
Chapter 12 Love taps n’ muff traps
Chapter 13 Bitch slaps n’ dog craps
Chapter 14 Silencio
Chapter 15 They keep all their money in underground vaults
Chapter 16 I am not a big county music fan. I am, however, a huge fan of the name Boz Scaggs
Chapter 17 A list of things and circumstances
Chapter 18 Nick, Mary, and Drew Part 5 (A.k.a. My Pet Goat)
Chapter 19 Fuck you, Long Island Expressway
Chapter 20 Raiding James Taylor’s medicine cabinet
Chapter 21 I was sucker-punched by MC Hammer
Chapter 22 Islamic vinaigrette
Chapter 23 The adventures of Marty Phartz and his idiot friends
Chapter 24 John’s muffler farm
Chapter 25 You had me at Go fuck yourself
Chapter 26 Who moved my bowels?
Chapter 27 I found God, but he lost me
Chapter 28 Three Poems
Chapter 29 Thomas Jefferson is wearing a very girly ribbon in his hair on the American nickel. But nobody ever says anything about that.
Chapter 30 The immaculate deception
Chapter 31
Chapter 32 I am frightened by Donald Sutherland
Chapter 33 G.G. Allin
Chapter 34 I’m starting a grassroots campaign to repair my lawn
Chapter 35 Bubble and Squeak
Chapter 36 Who do I make your reality check out to?
Chapter 37 A necktie is nothing but an arrow to the penis
Chapter 38 Above and beyond the call of booty
Chapter 39 In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is an asshole
Chapter 40 A virtual tour of North American wildlife, minus pictures
Chapter 41 One nation under a fraud
Chapter 42 Why doesn’t Wendy’s have square buns?Chapter 41 One nation under a fraud-1
Chapter 43 Alexa Garbagemouth
Chapter 44 If wishes were horses, this world would stink
Chapter 45 God is a big fucking lie. Enjoy!
Chapter 46 Insert chapter title here
Chapter 47 End
HARM'S WAY
1. The Horse
2. The Dark Child
3. The Southern Gentleman
4. The Death Pits of Rath
5. The G
6. The Deuce
7. The Faerie
8. The Football Hero
9. The Mama’s Boy
10. The Van
11. The Old Dirt Road
12. The Visitor
13. The Confession
14. The Rest
15. The Big Let Down
16. The Thing Nobody Needs to See
17. The Grits
18. The Downstairs Bathroom
19. The Hike
20. The Bonfire
21. The Night Talk
22. The Revelation
23. The Two-Holed Privy
24. The Questions
25. The Quiet Night
26. The Burn Victim
27. The Birthday Girl
28. The Dick
29. The Lunch
30. The Freak-Out
31. The Apology
32. The Stew
33. The Art of Welding/ The Epiphany
34. The Escape Artist
35. The Card Game
36. The Guitar
37. The Shadowplay
38. The Burning Bed
39. The Afterthought
40. The Infection
41. The Flashlight
42. The Path
43. The Deal
44. The Burial Site
45. The Chickenshit
46. The Note
47. the final chapter
dear god
THOSE EYES
1. The Truth About God
2. Fritz
3. Coming Attractions
4. The Key to Good Fly Fishing Has Gotta Be the Lures
5. Bombardment
6. Louie’s
7. Meanwhile, In Tucson
8. Back to God
9. Helen
10. Dr. Cooper
11. There Goes My Commercial Appeal
12. This Is Cool
13. The Sly English Professor Was a Cunning Linguist
14. Searching
15. Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Woman?
16. Illumination
17. A Little Mischief
18. The Hunt Part I: The Hunt Begins
19. Helen
20. The Hunt Part II: Marvin
21. Helen
22. The Hunt Part III: Creepy Little Town
23. Helen
24. The Hunt Part IV: A Little Too Convenient to Be Believable
25. The Hunt Part V: Now, That’s More Like It
26. The Hunt Part VI: Holy Hell!
27. What Have I Become, My Swedish Friend?
28. The Hunt Part VII: The Hitchhiker
29. Journey’s End
30. Sorrow
31. The Hospital
32. Totally Inappropriate
33. The Chance Meeting
34. The return of Josh and Steve
35. Nick, Mary, and Drew Pt.4
36. Why Does Every Boy Band Have to Have a Joey?
37. One Year Later...
38. I’d Rather Be a Fig
39. Bruised Egos Abound
40. Hey, baby. What’s your sign?
Do Not Enter.
41. Nickelback
42. The Main Feature
43. The More People I Meet, the More I Like My Fork
44. A Two-Way Mirror Is Inappropriately Named. It Should Be Called a One-Way Mirror
or a One-Way Window
.
45. Suicide Is the Answer
46. Brushfire
47. The Only Thing We Have to Fear Is...
48. When Disaster Strikes
49. This Disease
50. The Untitled Chapter
51. The Letters
52. Nadir
53. Graduation Day
Epilogue
IT'LL END IN TEARS
SORRY.
True Story
THE TROUBLE WITH JOSEPHINE
KING OF THE MOUNTAIN?
TRAVELS WITH BURT
CINDERELLA
DALE
trapped
THIN ICE
it
what the fuck is the point?
THE LIST
tick
THE FINAL SIMILE
a disease
i hsiw
EXCERPT
WOW
bitch you best get me a strawberry milkshake
DRIVER
scream
GOD
THE GUY NEXT DOOR
the rock
god bless america
THE PIT
glory to god in the highest
MOM
my knife
WHAT LIFE IS
the last grain
NICK, MARY AND DREW PT. 1
sentimental mood
ALL THAT WE KNOW IS WRONG
holy crapping poop i'm getting old
water
new
for jill
recipe disaster
THE FOOLISH LOSER
i miss you
the guy with the mustache
peanuts
cantstop
DOWNER
stuff
A WASTE OF YOUR TIME AND MINE... A MYSPACE SURVEY
THE BASEMENT
WOOPS!
SHE
THE TREE CLIMBER
if
void
sometimes
hatred
ANOTHER DEAD BODY
thera pissed
THE OTHER SIDE
TRUE IDENTITY
hey
my view
sleep
hey you
MIDDLE
ABSOLUTELY GEORGE
MAPLE
A LITTLE TOO MUCH WEED
pig
ALEXANDRA LEAVING
THE CONTINUING STORY OF NICK, MARY AND DREW (PT. 2)
THE HUMAN HEART
the manifesto manifesto
living
new customs
no
mother
clouds
you think
ANOTHER NICK, MARY, AND DREW STORY (PT. 3)
what bothers me
how i feel
THE CEMENT TRUCK
THE GAME SHOW AND THE TRUTH ABOUT LIES
truth
ultra thin maxi pad with wings
if (part II)
THE DOOR
solving the oil crisis
done
life’s a bitch
CUT
us and them
help me
what I used to do
shakespeare
STILL TRAVELING WITH BURT
happy birthday u.s.a.
happy halloween
massive bong rips
MARJORAM
eat shit you motherfucking cocksucking scumbags
bling bling bling
the second coming
dumb environmentalists
THE FINAL WAR
two roads
EMPTY
run like hell
DREAMS
those people
PUNCTUATION
step aside
hey (part II)
ramblings
STRANGLEHOLD ALBATROSS
not here
A LITTLE BIT MORE
wish you were here
THE ANIMAL MAN
the bumblebee
A short history on these pieces of junk
DAVE! (A NOVEL FROM THE FUTURE) PART 1: THE INVADERS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
DEGREES OF SEPARATION
Chapter 1: Infidelity
I’m not quite sure how to go about saying this, so let me just tell you a bit about myself. I’m thirty seven years old. I hate dogs. And my name is Travis. I guess that just about sums it up.
Chapter 2: How she does it
I suppose it’s possible to say that she has a flair for anyone attractive, not just Louis. But at the moment Louis is her man, for lack of any better option at the moment. At times she stands on stage, just looking at that poor, miserable sap sitting in the front row with that dumb-ass look on his face, and she thinks to herself, this is not the man I married. And she’s right. This is not, in fact, the man she married. This is, in fact, some other guy entirely. Some guy named Arthur Stanhope, who at the moment is one of the biggest soap opera stars of all time. But she does not care much for soap operas, or Turtle Wax, for that matter, so she has no clue who this man is. All she knows now is that he may or may not be her husband. As she exits the stage, escaping from the painful glare of the floodlights, her eyes slowly adjust, and when she can finally see clearly, she realizes that he is gone. She will never know the truth about him.
But what’s worse is she will never know the truth about herself. Who is she? What does she want from life? What kind of track is her train riding? And who’s in the third car? WHO’S IN THE THIRD CAR???
Dammit, she doesn’t care.
She goes to the bar to grab whatever’s left at 1:30, after all of the patrons have made pigs of themselves. She’s left with a few cold Buffalo wings and a slowly melting ice cube that one asshole had carelessly left on the bar, melting, for all to see. But she’s the only one who notices it.
She thinks that in a way the ice cube represents her life, but she’s not sure why. She was never good at metaphors.
As it melts, it forms a small river, flowing down toward the end of the bar, which makes her realize that either the bar itself is not level, or the bar is completely level and the ice cube is just feisty. Either way, the river makes its way down, down, down, flowing over a credit card receipt for a pretty hefty tab, the name Travis Dunn scrawled haphazardly on the bottom. She takes a look around the bar, searching for this mysterious Travis Dunn character, but he is nowhere to be found. The only man that she can see at the moment is a strange little guy with a peculiar grin and an even more peculiar hat in the corner of the room. She hears his pager go off, and he rises quickly up and shoots out the door, neglecting to pay his bill.
Whatever. It doesn’t really matter to her who pays their tab and who doesn’t. She doesn’t get a percentage of alcohol sales. She doesn’t get much in this fucking place. She really needs to have a talk with Myron about her future here. Sure, she gets paid well by the customers, very well. Well enough to eat, pay her rent, and pay her bills. But it’s not enough to send her through school. She’s falling behind on her tuition payments, and is in grave danger of getting her butt thrown out if she doesn’t make some effort to pay. Not only that, but she needs health insurance. She doesn’t see why she or any of the other dancers here can’t get that. This isn’t some seedy dive. This is the Blue Iguana, the biggest strip club on the entire West Coast. There are enough employees here to start a small colony, and possibly form a swell militia group somewhere in the Midwest, were they so inclined, so there should be enough here to get a good group rate on insurance.
But talking to Myron isn’t easy. Sure, he has a nerdy name. It should be easy to talk to a guy named Myron about ergonomics, stock market trends, email viruses, Will Shatner, Weird Al memorabilia, and pruning shears. But not this Myron. This Myron you can’t talk to about anything. The name does not suit him. He’s the typical strip club owner- too many gold chains, too many v-neck shirts, too much chest hair, too much mousse. Too long of a mullet for it to be acceptable in any modern culture. And a hard-ass attitude. Get out there and take your clothes off, honey,
the look on his face seemed to say. I don’t pay you to stand around here talking to me about salaries and health insurance. I pay you to dance.
And even though his last name is McShea, he looks Italian to her. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but something about him seems to suggest that he has slight ties with the mob. Not that the mob is that tough on the West Coast. They’d just as soon settle for a nice nose tweak or spit on your shoe than gun you down or throw you in a trunk. But they are intimidating, nonetheless.
So she decides to just let it go. Tomorrow she’ll start looking for a second job to supplement her income.
She runs her long pretty fingers under the length of the bar until she finds a discarded wad of chewing gum. She uses her French-manicured fingernails to scrape the gum off. She holds it up to her nose and takes a sniff. Mmm, cherry. She thinks about chewing it; sometimes gum still has its flavor even after it’s been stuck to the underside of the bar for a few weeks. Instead, though, she wanders her sweet little ass into Myron’s office. Even though he doesn’t work on Tuesday nights, he leaves his office unlocked, which is very trusting of him, but also very ignorant. She picks up the receiver of a telephone (Myron’s), moistens her fingers with saliva (her own), wipes them on the earpiece of the receiver, sticks the wad of gum on it, and walks back out of his office. Not a very deadly or even dangerous prank, but to someone in the Mild Mafia, he was sure to take great offense.
But fuck Myron, she thinks. She doesn’t want to offend him. Nope. That would be letting him off the hook way too easy. She has taken enough of his shit in the five months she’s been working there to last a lifetime. Why won’t he ever listen to her? Shouldn’t a boss be open to their employee’s concerns? She shouldn’t have to work two jobs to support herself. That little fuck won’t do anything for anyone but himself. For Christ’s sake, they have to get tested monthly working at that job, the state mandates it. And he doesn’t even foot the bill for that.
No, the chewing gum won’t be enough. No sir. Taking a minute to think, her plan is taking shape.
3 a.m. All the customers have gone home for the evening. The last employee, Sue the manager, has just left and locked the door. She makes her way from her car, carrying the can of gasoline she had gone home to get, to the back of the building, looking around her, making sure no one is watching. Although whoever would be watching her at this time of night, be they vagrant or thief or ghetto thug, wouldn’t be friends with authority anyway, so there is nothing to worry about. No one would run to the cops even if they did see her throw the can of gasoline through the window of Myron’s office with the lit match chasing it.
It didn’t take long for that place to burn right to the ground. It was an accident waiting to happen. That place was all too close to being shut down for fire regulations anyway. Sometimes for being over capacity, but you know Myron. Squeeze anyone you can in here, then squeeze ‘em dry. Quite a few times were for a lack of fire exits. A couple of times were for frayed wiring. And once for having Great White play there.
Chapter 3: I understand the plight of the manatee
Jim Cyr couldn’t believe it as he watched the strip club he’d exited a couple of hours ago go up in flames.
It’s gotta be them, he thought. They knew that I was there. But that was impossible. There was no way they could have known where he was three hours ago when his pager went off. Still, someone may have tipped them. Maybe they thought that he was still in there.
Come on, Jim. You’re thinkin’ too much again. Even if they knew you were in there tonight, they couldn’t have thought you were still in there. There was no one in there. You saw everyone leave. I’m sure they did, too.
But what if? Maybe they’re dumb. Or maybe they’re trying to send me a message because they know where I’m hiding. They can see me watching the burning building. You better run, Jim! They know where you are!
But was running such a good idea at the moment? Maybe he shouldn’t run until he knew for sure where he was. Maybe the best thing to do at that moment was hide.
His thoughts were interrupted by an approaching shadow. It started out small, just a vague human shape, but as whoever was making their way closer to the cluster of trash cans he was hiding behind and further away from the light source, the shadow grew larger and more ominous, until it was right upon him, followed by the shadow maker.
Whew! He did not know this man. But did that mean that he was safe? This man might know the others. Maybe he had a radio. Maybe he could tell them where he was.
Hey buggy!
The man slurred. How’s it?
How’s what?
Jim answered as best he could.
The night, man. How’s your night?
Fine, and yours?
The man looked up so the street light hit his face, and Jim finally had the chance to get a really good look at him. He had sheepish blue eyes that were surrounded by branches of red lines. The gin blossom in the middle of his face was overshadowed by the deep-set lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, so deep that Jim could make them out through the years of scruff and grime that had accumulated. His attire was quite unusual for a seemingly homeless man. He wore a pair of Dockers that fit him just right, a pink and blue pinstriped button-down shirt, and a smart tweed sport coat, which actually looked like it was manufactured in this century. His clothes were amazingly spotless. He squatted so that he was staring Jim straight in the eye. He had an eerie sheepish grin to match his eyes, but grin notwithstanding, Jim got a strange sense that this man was completely harmless.
When he spoke, Jim was bombarded by the scent of black cherry wine.
Ducky,
he said, and the smell of alcohol was so strong that Jim forgot what the question was. Therefore, Ducky
made no sense. Was he calling Jim Ducky
? He didn’t know this man long enough to be on a nickname basis.
Listen guy,
the man continued. I don’t mean to bust your chops, but would you mind scootin’ over? This is my bedroom.
Uh, sure thing,
Jim blurted out. I didn’t mean to squeeze in on your territory or anything. It’s just that I’m kind of hiding out right now, and I can’t really leave here at the moment.
He said too much.
Hidin’ out? Sssssssayyyyyyy, are you JJJJimmmmmmmmm?
Why, yyyyyyeessss, I aaammmmmm,
Jim answered back in the same fashion.
Oh man, I just heard some guys talkin’ ‘bout you man. Sounds like youse in trouble.
So it was true. Jim debated whether or not he should tell this stranger the whole story of what was going on, and then thought, fuck it, this guy isn’t gonna remember shit.
Well, you see, I’m not really in trouble. It’s just this high stakes game I’m playing. See, there’s this sort of club I’m in, and every year we get together and have a kind of hunt. Each year one of us gets a turn getting hunted. If the person can stay alive, they get to keep whatever sum of money is in the pot, which depending on the number of people in the club, can be pretty large. And if the person gets rubbed out, whoever snuffed him gets the money. This year, it’s up around two and a half million dollars. The hunt lasts exactly one week, and I’m only on my third day.
Fishsticks, motherfucker!
shouted the drunk man, and Jim realized he was passed out and dreaming. Apparently his tale wasn’t exciting enough to keep a drunk awake.
Well, so what. He was having a good time, and that’s all that mattered. Sure, he was scared shitless, but that feeling was quite overpowered by the promise of a fortune.
The thought was interrupted by the kicking over of one of the garbage cans.
It was Alan, bearing a remorseful look and a shotgun.
Hey, Alan,
Jim said with an air of defeat.
Hey Jim.
So…
So…
Alan said, and then added, Look, I really hate to do this, man.
I know you do, Alan. But that’s the way the game’s played. It’s only fair.
Yeah, I guess so. Who’s your friend?
Just some homeless guy. You meet all kinds when you’re hiding out in the streets.
Yeah,
he said, and pointed the shotgun in Jim’s face.
But there was something wrong. Alan was too hesitant. Could it be that he couldn’t do it? Looking Alan in the eyes, Jim realized he was right. Alan was terrified.
What’s the matter, Alan?
he asked.
I don’t know, man,
said Alan. I don’t think I can do it.
What?
Jim said, thinking maybe he misunderstood something. Did I misunderstand something? You can’t shoot me?
Alan’s eyes welled up. A tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek. Uh. No. I can’t do it. I never had this chance, and now that I do, I can’t go through with it. The money’s just not worth it.
But why?
Jim asked. You could easily put a bullet through my head right now and be done with it. Two and a half million dollars. And you’re telling me you can’t do it?
No man, I can’t.
He sniffed. You’re a great guy and I’ll miss you, but aside from that, I don’t think I could do that to anyone. Money or not.
So… you’re going to let me go?
Jim asked hesitantly.
Yeah. Go on. Somebody else can do it. I’m just not into this. Go ahead. Take off.
Rather than getting up, Jim hesitated.
Seriously, go.
Alan encouraged. I’m not going to shoot you in the back or anything. You can back away if you want. And I’m the only one that knows you’re here, so you’re safe. Just don’t tell anyone about this if you make it through, okay? I don’t want to look like a pussy.
The words that Alan spoke were not enough to get Jim moving. What Alan said made Jim feel safe, but that had nothing to do with it. There was something else that was keeping him rooted to the spot. Jim couldn’t believe his own logic, but it was true. He didn’t want to win. Not like this. It wasn’t fair. Sure, he wanted the money, who wouldn’t want a couple million? But just as the cash wasn’t enough motivation to get Alan to shoot him, it wasn’t enough to get Jim to walk away. The victory wouldn’t be a victory at all if Alan didn’t at least attempt to kill him. He had too many years invested in this game to let it end like this. It would be like winning by disqualification. It would be like playing chess, and just as your opponent is going for checkmate he throws in the towel and says, I can’t do this to you, man,
and walks off. That wouldn’t be a victory at all. What do you win from that? Maybe some cool trophy, sure, but you can’t win your dignity. No sir, you have to earn it.
That settled it. Jim would just have to try and talk Alan into shooting him. He had no confidence that he could achieve this, he had very few people skills, but he had to try. His only chance for a real victory here would be to live through being shot.
Alan, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you have to shoot me.
What?!?
I’m serious, man. Look, if we were playing chess…
he began, and laid out the chess analogy for him.
Alan, however, wasn’t buying it. That was a lame comparison at best. Chess was one thing, but this was life or death, and Alan in no way wanted to be the Grim Reaper.
Sorry chief, no can do. If the thought of all that money won’t get me to pull the trigger, than nothing you can say will get me to do it, either.
Come on, dude. Two point five million dollars doesn’t sound at all sweet to you?
Of course it does.
Well, then?
I’m sorry man,
Alan lamented, but there’s no way in hell.
You know what I think, Al?
Alan.
You know what I think, Alan?
Jim corrected. I think you have sinophobia.
I’m afraid of the Chinese?
No, you’re afraid of success. Sinophobia.
Sinophobia isn’t fear of success, Jim. Sinophobia is fear of Chinese people.
Are you sure?
Yes. Positive.
Then what’s fear of success called?
Actually, there is no term for fear of success. The closest word would probably be ‘prosophobia’, the fear of progress.
Well, that’s not what I meant to say. And aren’t you just Mr. Psychology. Are there any other phobias you know?
Yes, as a matter of fact, I know them all. I memorized them for a psych final when I was in college. For instance,
Alan began, clearly about to show off, medorthophobia is the fear of an erect penis. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliaphobia is the fear of long words, which I can say, because I do not have that phobia. And I do not have fear of success. I have fear of pulling the trigger on a friend. That’s what my fear is. And no, there is no word for that.
Obviously appealing to Alan’s better nature was having the opposite effect. Time for some heavier tactics.
Look, you gotta shoot me, Alan.
No.
Shoot me, Alan.
No.
Shoot me, Alan.
No.
Shoot me, Alan.
No.
Shoot me, Alan.
I said ‘no’.
Shoot me, you motherfucker.
Sorry.
What the fuck is your problem, man? Just fucking do it already or I’ll do it my damn self, and then nobody wins.
I don’t care who wins. Obviously you do. And I’m not giving you my gun, so you can suck it.
Just then, all of Jim’s fear and rage had reached the boiling point, and he hit him. He hit Alan so hard his knuckles swelled up immediately, and Alan’s eyes rolled back in his head for a second.
When they finally rolled back, his face stretched into a look of utter shock. He couldn’t believe what Jim just did. But he said, You can beat me up all you want, man, but I’m not going to shoot you. In fact, why am I sticking around? I’m out of here. Get somebody else to kill you if you’re that crazy.
But as Alan turned to leave, Jim grabbed onto his arm and pulled him down on top of him. And with all of this commotion, you would have thought the drunk guy would have woken up, but he remained fast asleep, snoring away. When Alan fell on top of Jim, Jim grabbed his gun hand, and forced it to point toward himself.
You motherfucker!
Jim screamed. Kill me now.
I’m sorry. I can’t do that!
Alan yelled with short gasping breaths as he struggled to force the gun away from Jim’s face.
SHOOT ME! SHOOT ME FUCKER! DO IT!
And he grabbed Alan’s hand even tighter, giving him a painfully firm grip around the gun.
Stop it! Let me go!
KILL ME! YOU FUCKING PUSSY! KILL ME! SHOOT ME IN THE FACE! KILL ME YOU FUCKING WIMPY FUCK!
And Jim spit in Alan’s face. A nice, gooey phlegm filled spit wad hung from Alan’s cheek.
I can’t believe you just did that!
Alan screamed. You’re insane!
And as Alan was paying attention to his wet face, Jim forced Alan’s finger tighter, ever so tighter on the trigger.
KILL ME!!!!
Chapter 4: Will I ever make it through this clown suit dry-cleaner called life without being haunted by a midget named Dave who supposedly grows cigarettes from his lips?
He called himself Rusty.
The other houseless ones also called him Rusty.
This was, of course, due to the thinning red hair on his head and face, and the freckles perched high upon his cheeks. His real name was Harmon Darwinkle, but he didn’t know this presently. Once upon a time he knew his real name, but he had since forgotten it, like many other things, including his age, height, social security number, medical history, favorite color, Burl Ives tunes, where he left his dentures, where on earth that odd smell was coming from, how much a bottle of black cherry wine was (though he bought two or three a day), what his third grade math teacher’s name was, what his ex wife’s name was, and other miscellaneous details about his personal history.
He was a miserable old bastard, a word that can be broken down into the word miser
, which he never could be, and able
, of which he was becoming less and less as time wore on. So maybe he wasn’t miserable after all. Maybe he was just an asshole. Either way, he was friendly enough when he had to be, when there was something in it for him, like when he panhandled, which could be anywhere between three and ten hours a day, depending on how drunk he was.
Harmon had a normal childhood. His father was a drunken fuck who left him and his mother when he was three, and his mother turned into an abusive psychotic witch about three months later. He was beaten very severely every day from the time he was three till the time he was forty three, when the bitch finally died. He couldn’t be too hard on his mother, though. She did give him food, clothing, and shelter for forty years, and never asked for a dime in return. She just asked that he let her beat on him with bats and things. He thought it was a pretty fair trade. Well, when his mother died, he was shocked to find out that she didn’t leave him squat. All she left was a note: I’m so sorry, Harmon. You need to get a job.
right next to her rotting, stinking body that she had blown to bits four days previous. Leaving home was the only option after his weird Aunt Sally who didn’t like him one bit, and whom his mother left all of her possessions to, moved in. She was exactly like Harmon’s mother, except she didn’t take pleasure in beating on people. She much preferred the solitary activity of listening to the radio loudly while mutilating herself with power tools.
Well, Harmon never did get a job or a new home, and the hereditary psychosis that his mother had finally began to manifest in him. He wasn’t going to let that get him down, however. He just killed it with drink. This almost counterbalanced his mind, and the only traces of the mental disease were his severe loss of memory, and a faint itching sensation in his frontal lobe.
He didn’t like himself much, and he loathed other people, especially the jerk and the jackass who tried sneaking into his bedroom to fire guns and things. It was enough to wake him out of a sound slumber. All he wanted to do was get some rest. It was late. Or early, depending on what side of the moon you were on.
He wasn’t fazed at all by the shooting; things like this happened daily, almost hourly in this stinking city. He was amazed, however, that the man who apparently shot the other one didn’t shoot him too. Maybe the guy didn’t consider him a threat. Rusty was offended by that thought. He could be a threat if he had to be. Dammit!
It didn’t matter, anyway. He supposed it was time to prowl the streets and hit some unsuspecting people up for loose change. The Wendy’s drive through was open all night, and though Rusty didn’t have a car, he thought he could walk up, and they would serve him, anyway. Money is money, after all. He could have gone dumpster diving, but tonight he wanted a real, fresh meal. One that was cooked to order, or at least one that had been sitting under a heat lamp for an hour or two. The wee hours of the morning were a good time to beg, believe it or not. The reason being that the only people out this late were drunks wandering home from the bars that were nice enough to allow them to stay past closing, or people who shouldn’t be out this late and knew it.
The drunks you had to be careful of. It was risky, but there were times when Rusty scored big when he gathered up the sack to go to them. The risk being that drunks were unpredictable. Being a drunk himself, he knew that much. There were your violent drunks, and sometimes you could pick them out, but sometimes a pleasant looking fellow would surprise you. There were your incoherent drunks, and there was no point in even trying to ask them. Then there were your friendly drunks. The ones who understood what you were going through, that knew you needed a drink or two and were more than willing to share their wealth. So those were the drunks.
The others, though, they were where the money was really at. Like I say, the others knew that they shouldn’t be out at this hour, and they were oddly suspicious of anyone who approached them. When you asked these people, they would either keep walking and avoid eye contact with you at all possible costs, or they would be so petrified of you that they would offer up their first born to you, if they allowed their first born to be out this late with them. Rusty was not a violent person, despite his upbringing, and he would never hurt a flea or a tick, but no one could tell that by looking at him. Most of the homeless that were wandering the streets were mentally ill, including himself, and there was no telling what any of the others would do. So he got lumped into the psycho who’s going to kill me
category, and that was fine with him. It made for a way easier score.
Normally when he begged people for money to get a bite to eat, he was looking for booze money, which most of the American Public Who Has Any Sort of Clue were aware of. This time, however, he was very well plastered, and he didn’t need any more alcohol. Besides, he thought that maybe tonight was a night to celebrate with a decent meal, since he just avoided the Grim Reaper. Man, what a trip that was!
This wasn’t the first time he’d cheated death, however. Once he took a nap on the subway tracks and almost rolled over onto the third rail, but in mid-roll, his body decided to shift the other way. He didn’t wake up until some caring citizen saw him lying there, and pulled him out of his sleep and up not thirty seconds before the next train went by.
Once, when the carnival came to town, he almost stumbled into the path of a llama.
There was a time when a couple of city sanitation workers thought it would be fun to let him ride with them, then toss him in the back of the truck and turn the compactor on. He wasn’t crushed, but he almost suffocated to death before the truck finally stopped and dumped its load at the landfill, spilling him out like yesterday’s newspaper.
When he was kidnapped by aliens, they had wanted to kill him at first to study the death process in humans, but decided that it would be more educational to give him a written survey about Dom Delouise.
This was not even the first time he’d escaped death from a gun. Once he was stupid enough or drunk enough to think that he could break up a gang fight. He was shot at, but was somehow able to outrun the bullet. Call him Superman. Or call the gangbanger a lousy shot.
Enough about that, though. He was getting hungrier by the minute, and here was a likely candidate to make a donation to his hunger fund.
The man was about five foot nine, fairly thin, and looked a little too aware of his surroundings. This did not seem to be the kind of awareness they teach you in Martial Arts classes. This was the overawareness of someone who was very scared, and was out doing god-knows-what this early in the morning, and just wanted to get back home. He had no mustache that Rusty could see, but he supposed that didn’t make a difference. The mustache would just be a hindrance. The man was dressed nice, so he must’ve been getting off of work. This was the type of guy who didn’t like working this late, but he probably had no choice. He was probably trying to support a family of four on just one income, while his wife stayed home and took care of the babies. What a nice guy to allow his wife to stay home while he worked himself to death. This nice guy was just the type of man who would be happy to make a contribution to Rusty. It was this combination of kindness and fear that would cause this guy to give Rusty everything in his wallet.
He was almost at his car, so Rusty needed to move quickly if he wanted to stop him before he got there.
Say there, sir!
he shouted. Rusty was surprised at himself that he could speak so well without slurring. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as he thought. Do ya miind if I haff a wort wiss you?
Or maybe he was.
The man was thirty feet from his car, keys in hand. Twenty five, arm outstretched as though he could reach the keyhole from there. He shuffled quickly, but his short little legs didn’t carry him quite quickly enough, as Rusty got in between the man and his car.
The look on his face told Rusty all he needed to know. He had no defenses: no karate, no pepper spray, no handgun, and he was willing to give this bum all he had just to make it safely to his car. The look on his face also said that the man had never been in this situation before, but was waiting for it ever since he took this night job and started parking his car in what might as well be called an alley.
Listen, man,
Rusty started, trying his best to give a look that was polite and menacing at the same time, the same look that a mob boss might give his best friend who double-crossed him right before he gave him the Sicilian Necktie. I don’t want to bug ya, but I’m really hungry, and,
Rusty didn’t even need to finish his sentence before the man had his wallet out, but he did anyway, I would really like to go to Wendy’s for a warm burger. So could you lend me a couple-a bucks?
The man had taken all of his cash out of his wallet, and held it out to Rusty with a shaky hand. Here. It’s all I got. Take it, take it!
And Rusty did, and thanked the man, and got half a block down the road before he started counting his booty. Twenty, forty, sixty, oh my god. There was in excess of three hundred dollars here. Now, Rusty was a greedy bastard, and at times he was an asshole, but he was not completely heartless. There was no way in hell he was going to keep three hundred and sixteen dollars when it could be going toward feeding this man’s family of four. He should keep the sixteen and give the man the rest back. But when he turned around to head back to where the man was parked, he already had his car started, and was peeling out of his parking space.
Hey, wait up!
Rusty shouted to the speeding car, waving his arms frantically in the air, but it was no use. He thought he saw the man glance back in his rear-view mirror at him, but it was hard to tell in the halogen glow of the street lamps.
Shit. Now he felt really bad for putting on such a menacing look. Perhaps if he had been friendlier about it, the guy wouldn’t have been so scared of him. Maybe he’d have told Rusty to bug off and kept his money. That would have been better that scaring him out of all that he had. That was wrong.
Well, that settled it. Rusty was going to put this money to good use. He would buy a Wendy’s burger and some fries, sure, and maybe even a Frosty, but tomorrow, after he bought his black cherry wine, he was going to go buy himself some nice clothes and go out looking for a job. This was going to be a turning point in his life. No more living in the streets. Hooray for Rusty!
Chapter 5: Acid wash is in again
Speeding out of there like the world was on fire behind him, glancing in the mirror to make sure the crazy psycho wasn’t pulling out a gun to shoot out his rear window, blast him in the head, and steal his car, Stephen gasped a sigh of semi-relief. This was the third time in the nine months that he’d taken the job at the Blue Monkey that he’d been mugged. He was just glad that the freak that mugged him didn’t pull out a gun like the other two. He’d just used some excuse that he needed a bite to eat. Sure, and when Stephen pulled his wallet out, the guy probably would have killed him for it, which is why he offered up the cash so quickly. He knew that there was a much better chance of him escaping with his life if he had a large amount of cash to offer than just a couple of bucks, so that’s why he always carried a few hundred dollars extra in his wallet. He learned his lesson after he got mugged for the second time. The thief wasn’t impressed with the twenty-three dollars he offered him, so he took out his gun and threatened to blow his brains out if he didn’t have more to offer. When begging for his life didn’t work, and offering up his Corvette didn’t work, Stephen offered something else. His services, you could say. Well, although the man was totally unsanitary, and it smelled like he hadn’t had a shower in a few weeks, and he tasted like a fish farm strained through a sock, he got away with his life. It was after that that Stephen’s partner, Lance, gave him three hundred dollars to carry around. Here,
he said, through a breath full of shaky tears. Maybe next time you should have more money on hand, just in case. Until you find a day job.
Well, Stephen never did find a day job, much to Lance’s dismay. Not one that offered even half of what he was being paid at the Blue Monkey. He didn’t really like being an exotic dancer, but he was good at it, and on a good week he could take home two grand. That’s take home, folks. Who would get a job selling used furniture in some cutesy little antique store, which was what he really wanted to do, for close to minimum wage when they could make that much money for a few hours’ worth of work? Not him. And from what he heard from the girls at the place next door, this place paid a hell of a lot more than Myron did, and they gave full benefits.
Though he was a dancer and he was gay, he was not a gay dancer. The club was frequented by mainly females, intent on seeing some cock. Sure, a few males came in to view, too, but Stephen tried to ignore them. He had a man at home.
Though he was only a dancer, he was closer to management material, and the owner let him know that. He only danced a couple nights a week, and the other nights he ran the place. Tonight was one of those nights, and he stayed late to lock up and do the books while the manager Charlie was on vacation. He wondered if Charlie ever ran into muggers and thugs on the street. Charlie was six foot four, 250 pounds, and looked as mean as a starving Rottweiler. He probably never ran into anyone like that; if he did, he never talked about it. And Stephen, who was five foot nine, and weighed one fifty on a heavy pasta day, and was physically fit enough to strip naked in front of thousands of women, but not enough to take care of himself, ran into this three times already in nine months. The world had a cruel way of kicking the weak in the ass while the strong survived.
But was this third time enough to push Stephen into finding a new job? No, probably not. The money was just too damned good. Maybe instead of finding a new job, he should be more prepared. Tomorrow he would go down to the Army/ Navy store and spend six dollars on a can of pepper spray. Why he’d never done that before he didn’t know. Sometimes he didn’t really think logically. It would have saved him three hundred sixteen bucks tonight, and a whole lot of aggravation. Poor Lance, bless his heart. He could have spent six dollars to keep Stephen safe rather than three hundred. Sometimes Lance had the strangest ideas.
He looked in the rearview mirror again, and the mugger was out of sight. He let out a bigger sigh of relief. This one looked even more menacing than the others he’d encountered. And he was a bad combination of drunk and psychotic. Stephen could tell the former easily enough. The latter was given away by the faraway look in his eyes. Like nobody was home. In a way, though, he was glad it happened. The three hundred sixteen bucks was a small price to pay for the change that was going to happen in his life. Maybe he would take some karate classes or something.
And maybe he would hit the open car door he was heading straight for.
He swerved just in time to avoid the door of another night worker getting into their Mercedes. The look of utter panic in the unsuspecting person’s eyes gave way to a look of anger, and the guy shot Stephen the finger as he swerved around him. Watch where you’re going, asshoooole!
God, he needed to pay more attention. That’s all he needed, to get in an accident on the way home. The danger was over, the man was gone, and he needed to calm down and focus on the road. The entrance to the turnpike was coming soon, and he didn’t want to miss it. If he did, he’d have to drive another mile or so down the road before he could turn around, and then another two miles back to turn around again.
Normally he hated the drive home. It was a good thirty-two minute drive, and he didn’t like it at all. He despised driving, period. Especially this late at night. Another period. Being on the road at this hour, everything seemed surreal, and he had a tendency to zone out and scare himself with his shitty driving. The other reason he hated the drive home, was every minute that went by he was more anxious to get back home and into bed with Lance. Sometimes he waited up for him and they had a really good night, or sometimes they just stayed up talking, or sometimes he was asleep, but either way, it was nice being home. They lived in the suburbs, and there really wasn’t much in the way of work. Lance was a writer, so, lucky him! he got to work from home. Unfortunately, Stephen didn’t have much artistic skill, so it wasn’t very likely that he’d find something he could make a decent paycheck from at home.
This time he welcomed the half-hour drive home. He needed it to relax him. If he went home in this state he would probably wake Lance up crying about what had just happened, and make him feel like the situation was worse than it really was. If he was able to relax before he got home, even if Lance was up when he got there, he could hold off until the morning to tell him, when he’d be able to tell it with much less emotion, and not scare the hell out of him.
He turned the radio on, and listened to a raging political debate. Most people believe in the separation of church and state, or say they do. I think it’s good that the two are intertwined. They go well together. Both religion and politics are filled with hypocrisy and lies, both rob people of their freedom, and both are headed by someone who doesn’t exist.
He switched it off. He wasn’t quite sure how to get the radio back onto FM, and although they made a good point just then, he hated listening to NPR.
He veered his car right onto the turnpike entrance road. The road itself was a straight five mile two way road to and from the tollbooth, a way of keeping the turnpike from coming too close to the city. The speed limit was seventy five here, even though it wasn’t technically a highway just yet, which Stephen found just a tad bit dangerous, since it decreased to ten so quickly. It wasn’t like you’d miss the toll or anything, there were so many signs for it that it was ridiculous, and once you approached the booth it was lit up like a football field during a nighttime game. But going from seventy five to ten in a matter of seconds, when you finally got down to ten miles an hour, you felt like you could walk faster, so this encouraged people, including himself, to go faster, perhaps thirty five or so, until you were right on top of the tollbooth.
He was a mile from the booth, and passing his seventh Big Yellow Sign (Autos $2.00), when he reached in his back pocket for his wallet. Every time he did this he reminded himself that it was only fifty dollars for the SpeedyPass, and he would have saved himself a couple grand by now. One day he would sign up.
And when he got his wallet out he realized he should have signed up a long time ago. It was empty.
Shit! Well, he escaped tonight with his life, but now what was he going to do about getting home?
He’d been in this situation before, as most Americans have at one point or another if they do a fair amount of traveling, and he hoped and prayed that it would be all right this time. It was a funny thing. It seemed like the state had no rules on what to do when a car had no money, and if they did, none of the workers seemed to know what those rules were. A different scenario always played out. Sometimes they would refuse you entry and make you turn around. Sometimes they’d let you pass through, shaking their heads like you were a moron. A month later, you may receive a bill in the mail for two dollars, or you may not. Sometimes they’d let you through, but they’d make you do something first. Once, Stephen had to get out of his car and dance the soft-shoe. And one time Stephen had to refuse to give the tollbooth guy a blowjob. There was no way he was doing that for two dollars. He’d take the long way home.
This time, he pulled up to the booth and had a good feeling about it. The light inside the booth was dimmer than usual, and he thought the guy might be sleeping. As he pulled up closer, however, he could see a cloud of smoke coming from the open window. The guy was smoking inside the booth. How classy. That’s a good way to piss the nonsmokers off, fill their cars up with cigarette smoke as they pass you by.
He pulled closer and rolled down his window.
Hey,
said the toll collector guy. He was a young kid, no more than twenty, and he reeked of what he was smoking, which wasn’t tobacco.
Hey,
Stephen said back.
What’s up?
The kid asked. Was he not even going to ask for money?
Not much, man. Just heading home.
It was saying this that triggered the stoner’s memory as to where he was and what he should have been doing. Oh yeah, two dollars.
This was going to be easy. Yeah, about that…
Stephen began. Listen, I got robbed tonight, and I gave the guy all I had.
A look of casual indifference (or was that heavy contemplation?) emerged on the pothead’s face.
So, if you’ll just let me through this once, I’d really appreciate it.
The look of indifference didn’t change. Did this kid smoke himself into a conscious state of unconsciousness? Was he going to say anything? Should Stephen just drive and take the look as a Yeah man, go ahead
?
Then the weed man spoke. Sorry about getting robbed, man. The same thing happened to me two weeks ago right here in this booth. And I was like, ‘Hey man, I don’t want no trouble. Just take all I got’ and I gave him everything in my wallet and everything in the till. Then he made me get out of the booth and dance the soft-shoe. Man, I thought he was going to shoot me. But he didn’t. Wow, that was intense. So from that point on, I’m like, fuck this. I’m getting stoned on the job from now on. You know?
Okay, well I’m sorry about that. Especially the soft-shoe thing. I know how hard that is for some people. Well, you have a nice day, now.
The intense-but-humorous look on his face, which had changed from the indifferent look as he was telling his story, changed yet again to a look of almost-sorrow. Sorry, man. I’m afraid I can’t let you through.
Huh?
Stephen muttered, completely taken aback by this turn of events.
Yeah man. They been checking up on me, and they said that I been letting too many of my friends slip through without paying. They said I need to stop that. The next time they catch me, I’m fired. Sorry man, from now on, everyone’s gotta pay. Even my friends.
Which was only half the truth. They did say he was letting too many people through, but they didn’t threaten to fire him. Also, he still let his friends through. Sometimes they’d go through at eighty miles an hour in their Dodge Stealth, thinking they were cool ‘cause they saved two dollars, not thinking how uncool it was that there was only one car between the four of them, and they each paid one quarter of the monthly car payment.
You mean to tell me that you’re up here smoking pot in your little booth, and you’re not concerned about getting fired over that, but you can’t let the occasional motorist who just gave everything they had to some crazy guy with a gun sneak through so they can get home and have a nervous breakdown?
Woah guy, that’s way too much of a guilt trip to lay on me. You need to mellow out. Here,
the twenty year old said, and handed what looked to be only a roach at this point out the window.
No thanks. I haven’t done that stuff in eleven years. Listen, I just need to get home, okay?
A look of not-quite-compassion almost made its way on the stoner’s face, but then it disappeared before it could ever appear with a shake of his head. No. Sorry man. You gotta turn around.
You’re kidding me?
Quickly, man. There’s a line of people who want to get through.
Stephen looked in his rearview mirror. There was nobody.
All right, fine,
Stephen began. I’ll turn around. Don’t worry about the fact that this was one of the shittiest days in my life. Just make it worse by making me later than I already am in getting home. Make my partner wonder where the hell I am. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be fine. I’ll be in tears on the way home, the long way home, but I’ll be fine.
Good to hear, man. Go ahead and turn around. The way’s clear.
Stephen slammed the car into reverse, his face red with anger, and jerked the wheel to the right, turning his car sideways. He slammed the car in drive and looked out of his driver’s side window just in time to see the Dodge Stealth slam into him at eighty miles an hour, barreling his car into the booth, plowing through his car and through him, pushing him through the passenger side door and crushing his head between the Stealth and the concrete wall, pushing his eyes out of their sockets and sending his brains out through the now pulverized side of his head and splattering against the tollbooth window before the car jumped the foot high side barrier and plowed through the window, pushing Stephen’s body along with it and into the attendant, collapsing the attendant’s rib cage and piercing his heart, leaving a steaming wreckage/bloody mess.
There were no survivors that day.
Chapter 6: I really don’t enjoy having my pulse taken every five minutes
It had been six weeks since the state troopers came knocking on his door to tell him his beloved Stephen was dead. He was flabbergasted when it happened. How could this happen? Stephen was the love of his life, and now gone, just like that. And in a car accident? He never would have expected that. And up until then, he never thought that policemen actually came to your door to tell you a loved one was dead. He thought that only happened on television. Maybe it was different when your lover got killed on a state highway. He didn’t know.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Not that Stephen wasn’t the first thing in his mind in the morning and the last thing he thought about at night, but as for right this moment, now was not a good time. Now was the time to sit and clear his head. For he was with his mentor.
He had never wanted a mentor, nor had he ever thought he’d needed one. He’d had Mentos once, and
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