Fucked up stories and poetry from the gutter of the Internet!
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, June 20, 2020
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Post-May Day Massacre Meth w/ Karl Koweski
The Jabba The Hutt To My Bib Fortuna
Months breezed past without a publication. Though the writing continued unabated by the unliterary turn of my private life, I'd lost the drive to submit my work to small press venues. The cheap pop of seeing my name in the internet lights had diminished years ago and like an annoying girlfriend who fucks on demand, it just took a while to sever the relationship.
At the six month mark when I thought for sure I'd never have to read another shitty Facebook poem again, Engel phoned me. He was a smug ex-patriot writer and publisher of Grievous Mental Harm Press. He offered to publish a collection of my poetry a year ago. I accepted and emailed a manuscript. Since then he had emailed seven incarnations of his own manuscript of politically driven poetry asking for my own in depth critique. I tried but each time I dipped into his collection, I stopped at the same place, around the fifth line of the first poem. This didn't stop me from responding “it's good” after every analysis. I sensed my own poetry collection slipping further away from publication with every missive until we quit corresponding all together.
And now he was on the phone saying:
“I'd appreciate if you wouldn't go telling everyone that I only publish women writers who I'm trying to fuck.”
I'd been small press incommunicado for six months...
“You must be referring to Kara Catasrophsky, the woman you published who you were trying to fuck.”
“I wasn't trying to fuck her. I was trying to nurture her inner poetess. Besides it's a well known fact Kara only goes for men of color.”
“It became a well known fact after she met you and saw what you really look like. And how you breathe through your mouth like a retarded child.”
“Whatever the case may be, Hammer, I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around telling this to everybody in the small press.”
“Engel, you know who thinks you published Kara Catasrophsky cause you were trying to fuck her? Everybody who has ever bothered to read any of her poetry. I didn't have to say anything.”
“Well, then, have you read the latest rewrite of my collection: Amerika, Land of the Slave, Home of the Knave?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Sure. Sure.”
Jesus, if only I could quit the small press a second time without having to get involved with it once more.
* * *
On the heels of this call, my cell phone chirped again. This time it was Francis the Sissy demanding to know “why are you trying to sabotage my career?”“Sabotage what career? You're unemployed. You can't hold down a job longer than a week. You beg for money from people on the internet.”
“Sabotage my poetry career!”
“What poetry career?”
“Dude, I've been hearing you been saying shit about me behind my back to artists I respect in the small press. Making me look like a jackass and hurting my book sales.”
Francis the Sissy was a Poet. So much so that he actually took poetry seriously.
“Book sales...?”
Never did I think to hear these words pass from the lips of a Poet.
“I would expect this sort of backward dealings from Jacob Harding with his silly porkpie hat, bad teeth and rampaging ego. He's jealous of me.”
“Don't you wear a funny hat? And listen to Tom Waits?” I asked.
“I know where you're going with this. Enjoying the relaxing tunes of Tom Waits doesn't make me pretensious.”
“I don't know what to tell you.”
“Well, you can stop knocking me down to build yourself up.”
“Where do you even hear this shit, Francis.”
“Someone who doesn't even write in the small press. That's how I know it's true.”
I mulled this over. Someone outside the small press who knew both The Sissy and The Hammer and likely Engel, the ex-patriot...
“Tara Quim.”
“No, that's not who,” he said quickly. “I don't even know who she is.”
“The weird woman with the massive meat beard who's been bombarding your Facebook with asinine comments and retorts.”
“Oh, her...” His voice quavered as it sometimes did when he attempted to beg money from virtual strangers.
“Yeah, her.” Every time his comment section crested thirty entries, he'd burst into a spontaneous round of masturbation. He loved her for her obsessive commenting.
The fact that she poached about two hundred of my closest internet acquaintances from the social network du jour led me to believe that if I chose to give a shit, I'd be spinning damage control well until the Mayans ended the world with one of their annoying self-fulfilling prophecies. She had the ability, and I just happened to give her the motivation about a week ago.
Tara was a train wreck forty freights long. I'd known her the length of two of those freights, though not in conjunction. The first took place seventeen years ago while we dabbled in college, and then, last year when we reconnected online.
* * *
The first time I only knew her in passing. Our circles of friends intersected here and there. I knew enough about her and her STDs by reputation. And like the herpes virus that kept her at arms length back in the day, she flared back up in my life suddenly, painfully. Messages like sores cropped up all over my Facebook page. She constantly harangued me with instant messages.I still don't know why I showed her my cock on webcam. I do know why I showed it to all her friends. They were clean as far as I could tell and much better looking.
Something about my wanton immorality triggered a synapse in the reptilian recesses of her infected brain and her friendliness shifted into obsession. That was three days after initial Facebook contact. She began emailing pictures of all the places I had referenced in my short stories. I was ecstatic. Here was somebody who had actually taken the time to read what I had written. Perhaps, I reasoned, I could use this influence to get her to help me fuck her friends.
She came off highly resistant when I broached the subject again for the thousandth time on the phone.
“They don't want to fuck you,” she huffed.
“How do you mean? All of them?” I asked. “I'm the Polish Hammer. Of course, they want to fuck me. I'm the first Caucasian ever to master the Screaming Monkey kama sutra technique.”
“I'm available.”
“That's nice, but I've yet to include the Reclining Rhinoceros in my repetoire of sexual tricks.”
“That's not what you claim in your story 'Cellulite Delight'.”
“Fiction, baby! I never seduced an 800 lb Samoan woman. I'm not saying I can't. But it just didn't happen. I made it up.”
“Well, you can fuck me twice and call me Irish. That'd make a good story.”
“No, I can't. Hell no, I can't. I'll only ever be the Bib Fortuna to your Jabba the Hutt.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Star Wars...”
“Yeah, I know Star Wars. You saying I'm Jabba the Hutt? That I'm a fat ass?”
“Not at all. I”m merely saying our relationship is similar in a nonsexual mutually beneficial sort of way.”
“We're not gonna have sex?”
“Bib Fortuna and Jabba the Hutt never had sex.”
“I bet Bib Fortuna never showed Jabba his dick.”
“C'mon, Tara! You know I only go after married women. I've got six girlfriends right now. All married to fools.”
“You call me Jabba the Hutt, try to hook up with my friends none of whom are married, you'll probably write about me in your fan fiction to yourself... Does this sound right to you, Mr. Bib fucking Fortuna?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“I”m going to ruin you, asshole.”
I hadn't heard an asshole addressed in such a fashion since prison. And like that time, I kept quiet and pretended it wasn't happening.
I sat there, brooding over the Jabba the Hutt phone call of a week ago. So this is the game she was playing. Well, I could take it. My ruination in the small press began fifteen years ago the first time I submitted. The only way I could possibly redeem myself was to quit writing all together and take up chess. Yet every time I attempt to master the Sicilian Defense, a story idea falls in my lap.
Completely fictional, of course.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
an excerpt from the prose novella [sic] Lectura
As a young boy, around the age of six, I had a profound curiosity with the infliction of pain onto others. I was quite fond of torturing and killing insects and other small creatures outside my parent's home-at the height of several mundane afternoons.
Nothing was safe if it happened to catch my fancy. Small, gray lizards. Brown-spotted toads. Field mice. Blue-racer snakes. Black ants. One day my father built a slide in the backyard; perhaps to curb this crude fascination.
"Just be careful on it son. Don't hurt yourself" he would often remind me; as I scurried out the back door with my younger brother in tow. He, of course, wanted only to be involved with whatever sense of play I happened to enjoy-and found himself holding the magnifying glass, survival knife or box of matches alongside me when the URGE had struck.
One Summer, there was a fresh batch of kittens belonging to one of the nine stray cats who had settled into their roles of furry vagrants around our six acre lawn. The mother had recently found her way into the busy strip of road in front of the house, and had been flattened by an oncoming car some weeks prior. She was a gray, long-haired, mangy loafer and my contempt for her during her stay knew no bounds. In passing (her long tail hanging from the edge of one of the marble flower pots around the house-swaying back and forth beneath the hot sun) I would hiss wildly as I yanked that antagonizing appendage-only to receive a reciprocal response and multiple, deeply embedded scratches along my hands and arms.
This hatred I felt for Daisy or Leela or whatever her name may have been..did not rot with her maggot-ridden corpse along the waste side. But was merely transferred to the litter of black, orange, gray and white dregs that sprang from her pink and bruised snatch. I recall..feeling utterly sick at the sight of them leaping through the Summer grass..wrestling..chasing large grasshoppers along the way. Whereas other small children (including my own six year old daughter) found merriment in the observance of their feline exploits; I saw only small, hairy targets for a deep-seeded angst that I could not (and for that matter cared not) to understand. But under the watchful eye of my mother, I kept this murderous intent at bay..until the right opportunity would present itself.
One such afternoon,
my brother Stewart and I had spent several hours running back and forth from the house to the gargantuan, yellow slide; kicking dust and laughing as young boys do on occasion. My mother had just began hanging clothes on the wire a few feet from it and all the while keeping us, her own litter, in constant peripheral view. When she had strung up the last pair of my father's coveralls, she turned to find the kittens licking at her varicose ankles.
"Ohhh. They're so sweet. Look at 'em boys. Aren't they just adorable?"
The sight of her interest infuriated my little heart.
"Yes momma."
"Poor little things. They're so dirty. Their momma isn't around to clean 'em off the little angels. It's a shame."
She reached down and rustled the spine of one of the runts with stripes on his belly. This distracted me to such a degree that I unwittingly, tripped over a large tobacco stick lying at the foot of the slide while Stewart chased me in a game of tag. I rolled to the ground-scraping my knee in the process..and seemingly my patience along with it, as it careened against a brick that had found its way into the lawn.
"OWWW." I moaned, as I stood with a fresh hole in my Levis-small trickles of blood staining the white frays of the rip.
"Are you okay son?"
"Yes momma. When can we eat lunch? I'm hungry."
"Well, I got some white beans and cornbread in the house I can make. Is that alright with you boys?"
"YES" we said in unison. But my particular taste exceeded the hunger for slow Southern cooking. Deep inside that 3"6 frail piece of matter and bone, blood and muscle..I wanted vengeance; for what deed I still cannot say or really fathom. But the world owed me something wet and pure. It owed me many small lives..all at once, and I was to be satisfied. No quarter given. No mercy shown.
"Well, lemme go put the rest of the clothes in the washer and I'll start the beans. I still got half a plate of that cornbread yawl didn't finish from the other day. So it shouldn't take too long to fix everything. You boys stay out here and play; and stay away from that road where I can see ya' back here. You don't wanna end up like that old momma cat do ya'?"
"No momma. We don't."
The screen shut and I could hear momma starting the dryer..hear the pots and pans banging in the bottom-right cupboard of a four burner stove.
"Hey Stewart. You wanna play a new game?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Let's call it Conan or He-Man or Hercules. I'll go first and show ya' how to play."
I picked the tobacco stick up from the ground and handed it to him, his smaller shaky hands unsteady as ever could be.
"Hold this and don't move. You stand right there."
I sauntered over to the litter, who were still in an innocently-blind stage of development; letting any old/young pair of mits (tiny, callused, soft, evil) hold them for a few precious seconds..preoccupied only with the high grass that year and the ritualistic nibble on a stale slice of bread crust left for the cardinals and blue-jays that frequented the bathes. The silver bowl of community water was more or less a well where they would gather and lift their tiny tails to the sun and speak amongst one another, oblivious to the dangerous and approaching world around them.
"Here kitty kitty kitty. Dtttkk. Dtttkkk. Dtttkk. Here kitty kitty."
I squeezed their little backs as they wiggled to and fro in my palms; softly at first..and then a spontaneous, momentary iron grip-just to feel their insides roll around behind fur in my hands. I managed to round up five within the confines of my puny arms, while Stewart stood in position with a blank look and chubby splintered fingers. You could see the blood rise to the top of his Casper-white knuckles-both hands clutched around the end of the stick..as if he knew what I was going to do before I had any clue.
"What are you doing?" I said as I lay the kittens at his feet. "Give me that. Now take them" one tries to slip away, but the escape is thwarted by the inside of my foot "Gotcha! Now take them to the top of the slide and hold them there for a second. I'll tell you when to go."
"Go? What's this have to do with He-Man?"
"Just do it!"
Stewart reluctantly walked to the seven-step, iron ladder and began climbing to the top as I took my stance below. My brother and I were baseball fanatics. My father had instilled that much in our upbringing. Stewart and he liked the Atlanta Braves, Texas Rangers..and men like Nolan Ryan and Greg Maddox. I was a Mariners, Reds, and Oakland Athletics fan; idolizing the greats like Ken Griffey Jr. and Jose Canseco. Home-run hitters all the way; knocking that bandaged, 'white piece of shit outta the park..outta the sky, speed and trajectory aligned..outta sight, outta mind..gone..into infinity..blackness..space..never-was.
"You ready up there?" I asked, as Stewart (loyal and stern) waited with the first runt of the group. Puny. White. Ocean-blue eyes. Ears fuschia pink shade like a pussy should look; staring down the yellow railway at an ugly stick and none the wiser.
"Ready." he murmured.
"1....2....3, push her down!"
It slid at a slower pace than anticipated, its tail skidding along the hot yellow plastic. But still, with enough force that I was able to aptly gauge the distance in correlation with the width of the head and the length of the stick..
It rolled violently through the air..approximately four feet to my right and as its head turned my way, one Pacific-blue eye dangled from its socket while tears of blood gathered in the corner of the other.
"Next!" I screamed. "That was awesome!" Another came. This time a meaty, orange-fast pitch..
'right
down
the
middle.
The lion has escaped the confines of the slaughter below, and lunges for Caligula's testicles!'
The crack of its fragile skull sounded like the smack of a bat against a stone in a carefree game of stick ball..the backyard with the neighbor kids. Even then, there is the temptation to knock it back in the pitcher's face and even at such a young age, I knew this..looking up at my younger brother (adopted) holding another gray victim scratching its way up the slide and away from the pit of brains and tears that awaited at the end of the slope.
to be continued...
Nothing was safe if it happened to catch my fancy. Small, gray lizards. Brown-spotted toads. Field mice. Blue-racer snakes. Black ants. One day my father built a slide in the backyard; perhaps to curb this crude fascination.
"Just be careful on it son. Don't hurt yourself" he would often remind me; as I scurried out the back door with my younger brother in tow. He, of course, wanted only to be involved with whatever sense of play I happened to enjoy-and found himself holding the magnifying glass, survival knife or box of matches alongside me when the URGE had struck.
One Summer, there was a fresh batch of kittens belonging to one of the nine stray cats who had settled into their roles of furry vagrants around our six acre lawn. The mother had recently found her way into the busy strip of road in front of the house, and had been flattened by an oncoming car some weeks prior. She was a gray, long-haired, mangy loafer and my contempt for her during her stay knew no bounds. In passing (her long tail hanging from the edge of one of the marble flower pots around the house-swaying back and forth beneath the hot sun) I would hiss wildly as I yanked that antagonizing appendage-only to receive a reciprocal response and multiple, deeply embedded scratches along my hands and arms.
This hatred I felt for Daisy or Leela or whatever her name may have been..did not rot with her maggot-ridden corpse along the waste side. But was merely transferred to the litter of black, orange, gray and white dregs that sprang from her pink and bruised snatch. I recall..feeling utterly sick at the sight of them leaping through the Summer grass..wrestling..chasing large grasshoppers along the way. Whereas other small children (including my own six year old daughter) found merriment in the observance of their feline exploits; I saw only small, hairy targets for a deep-seeded angst that I could not (and for that matter cared not) to understand. But under the watchful eye of my mother, I kept this murderous intent at bay..until the right opportunity would present itself.
One such afternoon,
my brother Stewart and I had spent several hours running back and forth from the house to the gargantuan, yellow slide; kicking dust and laughing as young boys do on occasion. My mother had just began hanging clothes on the wire a few feet from it and all the while keeping us, her own litter, in constant peripheral view. When she had strung up the last pair of my father's coveralls, she turned to find the kittens licking at her varicose ankles.
"Ohhh. They're so sweet. Look at 'em boys. Aren't they just adorable?"
The sight of her interest infuriated my little heart.
"Yes momma."
"Poor little things. They're so dirty. Their momma isn't around to clean 'em off the little angels. It's a shame."
She reached down and rustled the spine of one of the runts with stripes on his belly. This distracted me to such a degree that I unwittingly, tripped over a large tobacco stick lying at the foot of the slide while Stewart chased me in a game of tag. I rolled to the ground-scraping my knee in the process..and seemingly my patience along with it, as it careened against a brick that had found its way into the lawn.
"OWWW." I moaned, as I stood with a fresh hole in my Levis-small trickles of blood staining the white frays of the rip.
"Are you okay son?"
"Yes momma. When can we eat lunch? I'm hungry."
"Well, I got some white beans and cornbread in the house I can make. Is that alright with you boys?"
"YES" we said in unison. But my particular taste exceeded the hunger for slow Southern cooking. Deep inside that 3"6 frail piece of matter and bone, blood and muscle..I wanted vengeance; for what deed I still cannot say or really fathom. But the world owed me something wet and pure. It owed me many small lives..all at once, and I was to be satisfied. No quarter given. No mercy shown.
"Well, lemme go put the rest of the clothes in the washer and I'll start the beans. I still got half a plate of that cornbread yawl didn't finish from the other day. So it shouldn't take too long to fix everything. You boys stay out here and play; and stay away from that road where I can see ya' back here. You don't wanna end up like that old momma cat do ya'?"
"No momma. We don't."
The screen shut and I could hear momma starting the dryer..hear the pots and pans banging in the bottom-right cupboard of a four burner stove.
"Hey Stewart. You wanna play a new game?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Let's call it Conan or He-Man or Hercules. I'll go first and show ya' how to play."
I picked the tobacco stick up from the ground and handed it to him, his smaller shaky hands unsteady as ever could be.
"Hold this and don't move. You stand right there."
I sauntered over to the litter, who were still in an innocently-blind stage of development; letting any old/young pair of mits (tiny, callused, soft, evil) hold them for a few precious seconds..preoccupied only with the high grass that year and the ritualistic nibble on a stale slice of bread crust left for the cardinals and blue-jays that frequented the bathes. The silver bowl of community water was more or less a well where they would gather and lift their tiny tails to the sun and speak amongst one another, oblivious to the dangerous and approaching world around them.
"Here kitty kitty kitty. Dtttkk. Dtttkkk. Dtttkk. Here kitty kitty."
I squeezed their little backs as they wiggled to and fro in my palms; softly at first..and then a spontaneous, momentary iron grip-just to feel their insides roll around behind fur in my hands. I managed to round up five within the confines of my puny arms, while Stewart stood in position with a blank look and chubby splintered fingers. You could see the blood rise to the top of his Casper-white knuckles-both hands clutched around the end of the stick..as if he knew what I was going to do before I had any clue.
"What are you doing?" I said as I lay the kittens at his feet. "Give me that. Now take them" one tries to slip away, but the escape is thwarted by the inside of my foot "Gotcha! Now take them to the top of the slide and hold them there for a second. I'll tell you when to go."
"Go? What's this have to do with He-Man?"
"Just do it!"
Stewart reluctantly walked to the seven-step, iron ladder and began climbing to the top as I took my stance below. My brother and I were baseball fanatics. My father had instilled that much in our upbringing. Stewart and he liked the Atlanta Braves, Texas Rangers..and men like Nolan Ryan and Greg Maddox. I was a Mariners, Reds, and Oakland Athletics fan; idolizing the greats like Ken Griffey Jr. and Jose Canseco. Home-run hitters all the way; knocking that bandaged, 'white piece of shit outta the park..outta the sky, speed and trajectory aligned..outta sight, outta mind..gone..into infinity..blackness..space..never-was.
"You ready up there?" I asked, as Stewart (loyal and stern) waited with the first runt of the group. Puny. White. Ocean-blue eyes. Ears fuschia pink shade like a pussy should look; staring down the yellow railway at an ugly stick and none the wiser.
"Ready." he murmured.
"1....2....3, push her down!"
It slid at a slower pace than anticipated, its tail skidding along the hot yellow plastic. But still, with enough force that I was able to aptly gauge the distance in correlation with the width of the head and the length of the stick..
It rolled violently through the air..approximately four feet to my right and as its head turned my way, one Pacific-blue eye dangled from its socket while tears of blood gathered in the corner of the other.
"Next!" I screamed. "That was awesome!" Another came. This time a meaty, orange-fast pitch..
'right
down
the
middle.
The lion has escaped the confines of the slaughter below, and lunges for Caligula's testicles!'
The crack of its fragile skull sounded like the smack of a bat against a stone in a carefree game of stick ball..the backyard with the neighbor kids. Even then, there is the temptation to knock it back in the pitcher's face and even at such a young age, I knew this..looking up at my younger brother (adopted) holding another gray victim scratching its way up the slide and away from the pit of brains and tears that awaited at the end of the slope.
to be continued...
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