"Superman in Isaan" by Newamba Flamingo

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Going to Singapore

"Going to Singapore" by Newamba Flamingo

"Singapore... yeah... was there back in 06. Great nightlife."
"Really? Wouldn't have thought that. Says here on the embarkation card something about death for drug traffickers."
"But they don't kill you for drinking."
"I can't drink anymore for a while. I got oral lichen planus."
"Oral what?"
"Don't ask."
"If you can't drink, at least you can go banging hookers. Prostitution is legal there."
"Yeah?"
"Don't litter, or spit on the street, though. They'll cane you for that."
"Cane you?"
"Yeah, it's a common punishment there. They strip you naked, throw you into this thick body suit with a hole in it where your bare ass hangs out, and they string you up and whack your ass with a cane. Whack your ass tomato red, 'til it bleeds..."
"Damn."
"But they don't usually cane you if they sentence you to death."
"I guess that's compassionate."
"But they do do it for stuff like spitting on the street or littering."
"Streets there must be clean."
"Sure are."
"Think they cane you for spitting on a hooker?"
"I don't know."
"They cane you for all sorts of things, even for overstaying your visa..."
"Really?"
"Yup, but only if it's a couple months or more. I mean, if you miss your flight or something, they won't pull you into some room in the airport, and, you know..."
"Sure is an incentive to not miss your flight, however."
"..."
"You know a lot about Singapore."
"I go on Wikipedia sometimes."
"Think they'd cane Westerners? Like, Americans?"
"They would and do. You're probably too young to remember, but they did it to some American kid back in 94 or 95, for throwing eggs at cars, I think. Michael Fay, Ray or Day, the poor bastard's name was. Beat his ass pretty good."
"For real?"
"Sure did, a lot of people in America were up in arms about it too, on CNN and talk shows, crying about it, but I remember my old man was saying how they oughta do that here to these young punks..."
"Think that'd be a deterant? I could see idiots all bragging about it, like they do about going to prison. Like Lil Wayne taking out his naked ass in music videos, pointing at it, showing off his scars, like it's gangsta."
"Who's Little Wayne?"
"You don't know who that is?"
"Nah, I must be getting old. That's a sure sign you're getting old, when you don't know who Little Wayne is."
"Actually it's Lil Wayne."
"Lil?"
"Lil."
"Whatever."

"Just seems sorta demeaning to be known as 'little' something or another."
"Chris Rock calls him a retarded midget."
"I know Chris Rock. I like Chris Rock."
"Is he really retarded, this Little Wayne?"
"I'm not sure. He is quite short."
"Still, if you're a kid and they call you 'little' whatever, I guess it's alright, but if you're fifty, would you still want people calling you that?"
"I wonder that about 'Young Jeezy' too."
"'Young Jeezy?' For Christ's sake..."
"I don't know if Lil Wayne or Young Jeezy will make it to fifty. They'll probably get smoked by some hater. Rappers get shot all the time."
"Smoked by a hater?"
"Never mind."
"..."
"Hey, scope the tail on that flight attendant there, the tallish one, with all the makeup."
"That is a sweet yellow ass right there."
"Asian women are just beautiful."
"You catch that yellow fever if you're out here long enough."
"Oh, I already got it."
"And there's no going back from it either. I can't even get an erection for other ethnicities."
"Walking Viagra, these women."
"Never understood the yellow fever, until I came out here."
"It's something serious. They should pass out pamphlets about it when you apply for visas."
"What I wouldn't give to grab that ass..."
"I hear guys grab flight attendant ass a lot on flights out of Hong Kong."
"But we're in Singaporean airspace now, on a Singaporean airline, so you wouldn't get away with it... I bet they'd cane you."
"An ass like that might be worth it."
"Nah, in all seriousness, I'd never do that, molest a woman against her will. I only molest consensually."
"Can one molest consensually?"
"I can and do. Non-consensual molesters deserve to be caned."
"And getting caned on the ass, for grabbing an ass, talk about the irony."
"Look, that's what being a man is all about, being able to hide and suppress your perversions."
"I guess that's what separates us from the animals on all fours."
"That's right. Much more so than anything else."

NATIONAL PAST TIME

PART ONE: TEAM ROSTER

1st Miguel Rodriguez
2nd Skeet McCoy
3rd Kevin Boyle
shortstop Jiro Watanabe
right field Raoul Herrera
center field George Kowalski
left field Jason Sugarman
catcher Gilberto Aragon
pitcher Elroy Lincoln
pitcher Michael Timmons
pitcher Jennings Masters
team manager Pappy Hargrove
bat boy Travis Fleming



PART TWO: NECESSARY RITUALS

Second Baseman Skeet McCoy carries in his left
front pocket a rabbit’s foot dyed electric blue.

Center Fielder George Kowalski never goes
out onto the field without making certain
that he steps on the foul line with his left foot.

Left Fielder Jason Sugarman avoids the foul line
altogether, avoids the chalk as if it were death.

Closing Pitcher Jenning Masters eats a huge platter
of fried chicken the night before a home game but
on road trips he consumes two McDonalds Double
Quarter Pounders. No cheese. A chocolate shake.

First Baseman Miguel Rodriguez makes the sign
of the cross each time the pitcher winds up.

Starting Pitcher Elroy Lincoln shaves his eyebrows
the night before his turn in the rotation to start.

Team Manager Pappy Hargrove wears mismatched socks,
counsels his players to abstain from drink and sex.

Relief Pitcher Roland Hemms carries on a chain
around his neck a tiny vial of weaponized anthrax,
hermetically sealed and concealed beneath his shirt.

Right Fielder Raoul Herrera, masturbates into his
glove before the game while holding in his mind
a mental image of his teammate, Skeet McCoy.

George Kowalski votes Republican. Elroy Lincoln
votes Democrat. Miguel Rodriguez practices a form
of Santeria entailing the ritual sacrifice of cats
which are easily procured from his neighborhood.

Pitcher Michael Timmons keeps his own spittoon
in the clubhouse, toting it to dugout or bullpen,
even on the road. A monagram etched in brass.

Shortstop Jiro Watanabe has also acquired
a brass spitoon, though he has yet to acquire
a taste for chewing tobacco. Only Chiclets.

Raoul Herrera sleeps with his favorite
Louisville Slugger, limbs twined round it.

Third baseman Kevin Boyle drills holes in his favorite
Louisville Slugger into which he pours a small quantity
of molten lead. It adds heft to his swing and connect.

Catcher Gilberto Aragon chews Bazooka
Bubble Gum. He consults the tiny comic
strip wrapped around the gum, believing
Bazooka Joe is a modern day oracle.

George Kowalski seeks relief in primal
scream therapy. Sometimes appropriately.

During lulls in play Kevin Boyle scans the female
fans in the nearby stands hoping to catch a peek
up a skirt, needing only a camera to snap a shot.

Pappy Hargrove walks the bases clockwise during
pre-game warm-ups striving to undo The Curse of
The Pig. Piggy, please come back, he chants.

Jason Sugarman taps his bat on home plate three
times upon entering the batter’s box and only once
between pitches, drawing strength from the earth.

Bat Boy Travis Fleming stations himself at the dugout
entrance, always at the ready to hand each player the
appropriate bat and each player in turn will rub the
close-shaven head of the bat boy before going on deck.
On the back of his neck he sports a tattoo of a pink pig.

Raoul Herrera taps the plate five times butt end down
to discharge the negative energies and then twirls the
wood back to business position. A smile and a wink.

Michael Timmons practices in his back yard,
pitching against a scarecrow, aiming for the
stuffed head, drawing a bead to throw a beaner.

Sixty-six years ago an inebriated bricklayer named
Walter Kakatonis was refused entry to the ballpark,
not because he was drunk, but because he was toting
a toddler pig under his arm. Claimed he never went
anywhere without his piggy and if he and piggy were
barred from watching the game then, by God, there
would never be a World Series played in this ballpark.

Travis Fleming dreams of pigs. Miguel Rodriguez
dreams of cats. Kevin Boyle dreams of snatch.

Skeet McCoy refuses to bathe while mired in
a hitting slump. He must sleep on the couch.

Jiro Watanabe keeps taped on the rear wall of his
locker an 8x10 glossy of actress Gillian Anderson
portraying Agent Scully. He has never seen The
X-Files. He keeps in his wallet a photograph of
actress Katee Sackoff. He loves Gillian, but thinks
Katee is lucky. Some things are difficult to explain.

Michael Timmons keeps in his wallet
the loyalty cards for the local strip joint.
Buy five lap dances and get one free.

Gilberto Aragon is diddling the wife of Skeet
Mccoy, who also used to be the wife of George
Kowalski and before that was the on the road
mistress of Elroy Lincoln. The Game is her life.

The skipper is porking the bat boy, mentoring
the lad in order to instill a strong Spartan ethic.

Gilberto Aragon affects silk boxers worn over his
protective cup. Chili peppers, dollar signs, red hearts.

Roland Hemms eats only Mexican food before a game.
The hotter the better. When he throws heat, he farts.

Around the horn as horsehide slaps leather,
a brown jet splats brass. Cleats truffle up
the turf. A harrowing gut-scream, the tap of
a bat. A wrinkle of wrapper, the rattle of
Chiclets. A whiff of burrito, the swish of silk.

Around the horn. Come back, Piggy. Piggy, come back.

At attention to salute Old Glory the players all stand
to mumble the half-remembered anthem, hat in their hand
over their heart and commence play at the umpire’s command.
The ball seems be flecked with genetic material and
Kevin Boyle has garnered the attention of a husband.



Sigerson pitches from a left-handed stance and it's always a knuckleball fucker. He writes poems and prose. Go here. Or we'll find you with baseball bats and lubricant. Don't fuck with Sigerson, hombre!

Room #3 is Infested and Necra-Mantic

Keith Donnors is one of the maintenance guys at the Hot Camel Inn...located somewhere between the border of Vegas and California. He is a burly man.. Buddy Holly- Framed glasses..full "jeb" beard..short crew cut..obese, and twangs subtlety when he tawks..

It is now his 3rd year on the job and he has well adjusted to the position of Head Maintenance Technician at the hotel. The pay is lousy. The hours are long..but Keith has found that there are many perks to the job as well..The residents of the Inn sometimes leave their stash, or rubber sex toys lying about..in which case he quaintly slips them beneath his blue dingy coveralls..

Once a woman from El Paso left a small red suitcase in the corner of the walking closet in Room #12. When Keith opened it, he found 3 8-Balls of Cocaine and a series of obscure German pornography (depicting beastiality scenes with German Shepherds and young impressionable teenage girls, bound..gagged..bitten. One in particular caught his attention for its depiction of a fallen Persephone, portrayed by a young anonymous hazel haired starlet. In the scene, she is raped by a brooding Hades, leather bound..and a masculine shouldered Dog with spike collar who is aroused only at the sound of a bell hanging from the tower of Hades throne room..just before dawn. Cleverly enough, Keith observed..was the director's choice to name the masked actor playing Hades as Pavlov Dong.)
******************************
K E I T H

BIG LETTERS...big position..big stories about the short-term residents at the Hot Camel Inn..Why, just 4 years ago he was just another misfit redneck from Murfreesboro TN...run wild, on Benzo dreams across the High Plains...smoked Meth from a light bulb and had the bright idea to take off West..to live near the Hollywood sign and live one of those Bob Seger Nights.."with the diamonds and thrills..and those big city lights..and those HIGH rolling hills.."

"Yeah those High Rollers come in, fresh from Vegas with their willy nilly ways and them HIGH skirt, quarter-chasing bitches from the bus stops..from the HIGHways..from the desert towns. Yea, here they come fresh from Doomed cities and states of being. Every last God-forsaken one of ye'!"..
************************************

Tonight, Keith has stayed late again.. He opens the door for Room #3...A/C is full blast.and there on the bed, decomposing..is Lyla..24, blond, blood hair..clumped..knotted, a twisted scene for sure..with those big dead eyes..those faded pupils..that gnarled mouth, gray skin..crumpled hand, smeared lipstick, bruised cheeks, battered Rouge..like a rescued corpse from the swamps of Moulin..from the great great jowls of the night and the 'gatar..her dress tit high..her tits exposed, bluish cold...still, and the A/C running smooth as silk..smooth as her bloody hair..smooth as her thighs..smooth as her lips against his fingertips..and when he bends to kiss her cheeks, the swelling seems to heal..He's a savior, Resurectus Phelia..a vessel of living breath for the damned who trodded the desert..

"Looking for more sin..and so it shall come to pass. Behold, the light of the day fades fast..fades fast! Across these hills are a lost man's dreams...and the nightmare's just begun..So sit and I'll tell you a story! about the Devil and his son..."

*singing
*****************************

Every once in a while, he comes to check for "pest infestations".. without management or the residents being the wiser..He slips inside quietly while they sleep.."just to check on the shape of the room"..while the HIGH rollers sleep heavy..while the Desert Tramps, the Lot Lizards..The Dolls lay in waiting..still breathing..Two weeks ago, he found Lyla and a resident under the name Barry Hanowitz asleep..with the A/C full blast..He could see his breath..Barry’s breath.. faint..but Lyla was a steady force of mist..as if some collection of dead souls rest in that place deep at the back of her pretty little throat..
**************************

Room #3 is so much more than pre-paid, compact living quarters..Tonight, Room #3 is the louse, the white breathless insect that occupies Keith's thoughts..lying atop the covers..lying above the spilled babies of yesterday..weeks before..small infested still births..The louse and the semen fuse, turn to flaky chips of crustacean..infantile husks glisten against Lyla's skin in the moonlight..the black light..making her appear to have been sprinkled with the sand from the beaches of Nod..These specks are scattered across her half-naked body..in the cold folds of her arms..the beads of her eyelashes..crushed ever softly against the press of her lips and he tastes mass genocide deep in her mouth..while his tongue searches for the cove of the fallen souls inside her..
********************************

He pulls a pair of clamps..roach-clips..from his big red tool-box..full of hammers, screw-drivers, wrenches, Vaseline, 'rub that snatch down..greased and tight!' .before the real work begins..Her eyes stare only at the stained white drapes..Hole-ridden..barely hanging on to the pane..of the glass that keeps the outside air from whisking a last whisper to the clouds..Keith applies the clamps to her blue nipples..There is a lack of tension in the pull..as he tugs futility at the sagging remains of a two-week corpse..She is a rough terrain now..a rotten pear, riddled with decay..The A/C is running full blast to keep the smell bearable..He pulls at the clips..and the dead never moan loud enough..
***********************************

He pulls at her hair, while he slips the black and banana yellow panties from her sleek thighs..Barry watches on in the corner with that fixed 2 week stare..his mouth is open..his eyes are closed.."Even now, you can't watch? Fucking pussy!" Keith snickers..and removes the panties from Lyla's ankles. She looks to the curtains..Barry is dead..Barry is watching..Barry sees Keith from behind the glassy stare..from the outside looking in..from the inside looking out..

"K E i T H"

whispers in the room of necra-night..secrets in the Inn..and the door to Room # 3 is closed on Barry..is closing-in on Keith..and Lyla..looks to the curtains..

Keith snarls and throws a Bible at Barry.."Suck an egg you dead fucker! I'm trying to get my fuck on here! Shut the hell up!"
Barry's head slumps over upon impact of the Lord's word..Revelations upside the head. And so it was that the words rung out from Barry's dead lips, quotes from the End Book itself:

"and the Living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades"

to which Keith replied in quick fashion:

"Fear not the things which thou art about to suffer: behold, the devil is about to cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days. Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life."

And while the Outside Lord watched from Barry's fixed eyes..Keith buries his face in Lyla's dead womb and wrought the seeds of death..searches for those who are being tried beyond the decaying 'uteran world..only to find louse flakes and the stench of dried semen in abundance..Lyla's head slumps from her gaze..curtains, whispers to the window have fallen to the floor..and neither her vapid eyes nor Keith's writhing neck wrapped in dead woman thighs make notice of a strange visitor to Room #3..
**********************************

He crawls from a 1.6 mm space behind the nightstand..which has been jostled from position by the incessant knocking around of the bed during the lover's fray. The silent invader has six legs, antennae, prodders..feelers..hairs..has crawled through fecal matter and urine, fed from scraps in the corners lived in many televisions with thousands of brothers and sisters..Now, he has strayed from his crowded home beneath refrigerators and within bathroom sinks..He has found his way from the bungalows of Haiti to Hollywood..made his way within the folds of crates holding imported fish..Now he has found his way into Room #3..and Lyla's eyes cannot move away from him as he scurries around the edge of the nightstand.
********************************

The cockroach has stopped to observe the events of the 2nd week..within Room #3, Lyla's blank facade almost looks to smile at the creature..as Keith reaches at the other side of the bed for the Vaseline jar. "Gonna grease 'er good to-night. That pussy's 'bout dried up."

Keith dips three fingers into the jar and pulls out a glob of the sex paste..and holds the jelly to his nose for a quick check. " I can't remember if this stuff ever goes bad." Keith looks at Lyla.." Do you? Ha ha ha."

Keith applies the Vaseline to his member, and rubs the con[cock]tion slowly around the base.....applies adamant pressure to the tip as he strokes and leers at Lyla. "You like that don't you bitch?"

The cockroach has moved to the edge of the overlapping quilt on the bed as Keith searches for the insertion point..Lyla doesn't wince as he slides in..her head bounces up and down and almost clean from her shoulders as Keith's pace quickens and slows..his thrusts expand and disperse..the children the louse..the cockroach..They all watch on.

"And now for the goldmine!" Keith says, as he flips Lyla to her side and positions himself behind her. He sticks his greasy 3 fingers back into the jar resting on her pillow, and swipes them along her anal cavity.."Better safe than sorry."

He licks her ear as he inserts the same 3 fingers deeper, removing them to find no remains of a meal or soul inside. "I know there's something in there you quiet bitch!" he screams, and punches her in the back of the head before ramming his member inside her dead orifice. The children of the mattress have finally wept..The louse has leapt for the last time tonight..but the cockroach, watches from the foot of the bed now..The cockroach stares into Lyla's void mouth.
************************************

Keith has seen the doctors about problems with his urinary tract in the past. He attributes an acidic feeling in his urethra to the inhalation of boric acid while laying traps around the office and rooms of the hotel. The doctors have suggested that the prolonged exposure to boron may have caused adverse effects to his kidneys and possibly his reproductive organs including, but not limited to the urethra and sperm count..
**********************************

Keith has fallen asleep inside Lyla's rectal wall. The cockroach is at the entrance of the dead girl's mouth. He pauses while Keith breathes heavy into the night air..each rise and fall of his chest reverberates along Lyla's hips to the mattress..from the bed to nightstand..from the inside to the outside..past the glass..into the land of Nod and never again.
**********************************

The cockroach scurries into Lyla's open mouth. Upon entering, the prodders begin searching the decayed tissue at the roof and scuttles quietly down the top of her throat and into the alimentary tract. It cuts through the esophagi, with a rapid pace..and goes mad at the sudden visions induced by the floating blood at the bottom of the appendix. Blood pool images of screams and Barry lying motionless on the floor.

For a series of moments, the six-legged intruder is stricken with a human's view of bludgeoning fists, tight grips, hard smacks..a great white grin..the letters: K E I T H, on a woven patch.. All at once, there it is..how brutal men can be..seen through the eyes of an insect..seen from the blood and bruises of a quiet woman..seen from the inside looking out..
**********************************

It fights its way through the gambit of 2 week dead memories and finds the exit from the last still sphincter inside the small intestine. It stops and doesn't dare to look back.. Keith lies asleep..Lyla lies dead..The cockroach stands inside..It springs with a vengeful speed from the exit..and runs into the rectum where Keith's urethra lies limp and sated.

The cockroach almost grins at the sleeping worm with his one closed eye..before charging forward and into Keith's urethra.

Keith leaps up and out from Lyla..HIGH-pitched screams resound through the walls as he scratches furiously at his "pee-hole"

"What the fuck?! What the fuck?!"

The cockroach burrows deeper inside the 26mm space..an in to his means..and the blood begins to seep from Keith's urethra..as he screams..SCREAMS!..SCreams..Screams..screams..moan
s..scratches..kicks..goes slowly quiet..while the roach tears and travels deeper into man..
******************************
2 weeks later..Keith, Lyla, Barry..have not left the room. The A/C is on full blast. The smell is down..

The cockroach has finally died..from prolonged exposure to boric acid..inside Keith's urethra..




Frankie Metro claims to have never had a cockroach climb up into his penis.