April 29

The Spiders and the Water Spouts


On a normal street, there were houses of all sorts of colours. There were red bricked homes, orange bricked, purple bricked homes and well you get the picture.

Every single one of these houses had a spider climbing up and tumbling down a water spout. It rained a lot on this street.

So another day came, where an itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout of its white-bricked home. As usual, down came the rain washing the spider out. Then right on time, the sun came out and cleared the path and so the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again and again and again.

One day another spider came along. It was also an itsy bitsy spider. It had come from the water spout of the house next door. The house next door was a red brick house. Apparently the water spout had become damaged, so the spider could no longer go up that spout again and again.

The spider saw this itsy bitsy spider going up the water spout as spiders do and decided to make this its new home. Besides, the itsy bitsy spider didn’t mind. It was too busy going up and down that beautiful water spout again and again.

The new spider waited till the itsy bitsy spider came tumbling down the water spout before it began its first journey up the water spout. It found the first journey odd, as the water spout smelled different to the water spout back at its red bricked home.

The rain came, and the new spider came tumbling down. So, this cycle continued and continued. Eventually the new spider became so accustomed to the water spout that it forgot it used to have another home with red bricks.

Many days later, a bitsy itsy spider came along. It used to climb the water spout at its home across the street. That was before, the spout became damaged at the orange brick home. The Bitsy itsy spider came across this new white brick home where two itsy bitsy spiders were busy climbing up the water spout and tumbling down, as spiders do. Bitsy itsy decided to make this spout its new home. The other spiders didn’t mind. Besides, they were too busy going up and falling down the beautiful water spout, to notice anything else.

Bitsy itsy waited till the other two spiders came tumbling down the water spout before it began its first journey up the water spout. At first, it didn’t like the journey. The water spout wasn’t as smooth as its water spout back home.

The rain came, and so bitsy itsy came tumbling down. The cycle continued and continued. Soon, bitsy itsy forgot about his old water spout which was smoother than this one and his old orange bricked home.

Several days later, when all three spiders grew to love sharing the white brick home and the beautiful water spout together something odd happened. Whilst each spider climbed up the water spout together in single file, they heard a sudden creak. That didn’t usually happen.

Then they heard a loud bang, and this time before they were prepared the rain came rushing down the water spout like a tsunami, washing the spiders out as usual.

However this time, not only did they hear the sweet sound of the water rushing down that spout, they also heard creaks and bangs until to their horror the bottom part of the spout snapped off the bottom edge of the home and became like a pendulum. It swung to and fro ever so slowly, creaking as it did so.

The two itsy bitsy spiders and the bitsy itsy spider froze in their movements, when they saw that the water spout was damaged. Each spider tried to climb up the spout, but it was impossible. The spiders froze in their movements and looked up.

They grew weary when they noticed how big the water spout was. Had it always been this big?

They grew weary when they noticed how long and dark the water spout was. Had it always been this long and dark?

They grew weary as they noticed how ugly the spout was. Had it always been this ugly?

They grew weary as they noticed how much it rained. Had it always rained this much?

The spiders had frozen in their movements, they had grown weary and now they grew scared.

The spiders scattered away.

The homes on this unnameable street later all had their water spouts repaired.

And so it came to be, that no itsy bitsy or bitsy itsy or spiders of any kind climbed up water spouts of that street anymore.

What happened to the spiders?

We’ll never know.

What about the spiders of the other homes (green brick, pink brick, purple brick and more) of that street? Did those spiders all share their own water spout till those spouts became damaged and scared the spiders off?

Maybe they all found a new street with new homes of different colours to live in and new wonderful water spouts to climb.

Or maybe they found something else to amuse their lives with.

Every day it would rain on the unnameable street and it would always clear with a bright, burning sun.

Though there were never any spiders.

Only empty water spouts.

Category: Zohal | LEAVE A COMMENT
April 24

Spiky Lotus


Life is a lotus that grows out of the mud; but when the stormy weather strikes, it falls down, back to the same mud. Day by day; effort-fully, it gets up with the sun rays in a form of a lotus flower covered with the spikes, counting days to pass by, drown in a dark wave tumbling and stumbling. One morning, I was getting up from my bed, then I saw another person, having brushed her teeth, was on her way to the bed. Suddenly; the Armageddon strikes outside the garden and blows away the eagles. The sun awaits the second sun and dissapars with it from a gloomy sky. The plants turn into black, the ants hide under the ground; avoiding beasts’ footsteps. The wind whispers words in black and white.You and I inside a big dark cage. I don’t know who exactly you are; but with an irony, I guessed you are nothing but an unwanted Armageddon. I laughed, yet you could not tell me who you are; and I exploded in an anger, kept roaming around the big cage, nervously counting my nails starting from number 10 to 1. I can strongly feel how you feel, yet, cant understand your presence. Oh, without any doubts, you are nothing but an armegadon in a form of human with an inner of a Picasso blue, confusingly, enjoying the division of black and white wall. I kept asking who are you exactly, but you were ignoring me like a naked body who leads the blind. I can hear you complaining to a grown up child. Repeating same words again and again…I can clearly see how you are turning yourself into a knife, experimenting yourself, angrily; trying to hurt the grown up child, yet unable to attempt a crime, since the mirror is blocking your attempt

. Slowly, I am getting terrified of the scene, and I see myself, yet confused, if is it you or me. I see cats crawling and I wish to send dogs, so they bite them. Out of a terror, I screamed and called one monk, I hear the voice, then i tries to call another monk and I hear nothing but a void. I am trying to observe myself more, yet I look at you and confused who you are. You are still for me a knife, cutting me inside and leaving me with an unanswered question. I ran to the room, trying to find the comfort zone in an open prison, then I saw insects crawling towards me with a group of other insects , trying to touch and taste my body. They crawled onto my hand, doubling in numbers and crawled to the rest of my body with an attempt to take out my heart and soul. My aim, is to find you again and reveal who exactly you are. Why you cant tell me who you are.
I am in my room, so terrified with the insects and in need for your help, screaming out of pain, squeezing the insects and falling down to the ground, yet you are not there for me. You are not here anymore, and the insects cant stop increasing and eating up my body.

For a second, I can assure you that death doesn’t taste good, for now it does not has any flavor, I am still having hopes the insects would leave me and you understand me. I started screaming and calling out for the grown up child’s help. The grown up child gave me the hand and helped. finally; I woke up not finding any insects, nor finding you. I woke up sad; because I could not find out who you are. Are we inside the dream or reality, please come back to me.

Finally, I got up. The big cage turned into a cosy land, the plants turned into green, I have fed the cats with milk. I have finally found you under the rays of sun, and clearly could see that you are a part of me, you are me, and we are one. I wish if I had recognized you before.

Here we are, together again, sitting in the garden, sunbathing with rays of sun, sipping a cup of tea, smiling to the whispers of birds, mixing words of our coversation with the shades of gray, And lastly, ; we are picking up the spikes of lotus flowers, injuring ourselves with its spikes and laughing like a happy kids, until you stabbed my chest with the a long spike, I could not see anything around me but a void, and again you dissapeared from me, as I turned back to find you again, I fell down to the mud.

Category: Sara | LEAVE A COMMENT
April 1



We are running slowly through a kind of syrup. Maybe seven of us. We are having a kind of competition.

I am not winning. I think I am in third place. That’s respectable. It’s really hard work. I am a respectable man. I am a man who can get things done and get along in this world and get along in this syrup. Others who may look at me (though it occurs to me that there are no others, just the seven of us, running in a long white space, like a hallway without any distinguishing features) would view me with favor. Would respect me. I am sure of it, they would say to themselves, “there, through the syrup runs a man that is worthy of at least some kind of admiration. There is a man who is doing a respectable job.”

I take comfort in that. It is why I run. For those who may be watching. For those who may notice me. In other words, I run for me. For making me feel important. And when I reflect too much on what I am doing – the whys and the hows and all that – I get angry for some reason. I just get so angry, and I bellow in such impotently slow motion that I get angrier still and bellow more, and I sound like a stupid beast, and I realize that that is just what I am, just all that I am: A stupid beast running pointlessly through syrup. And I bellow and watch the syrup droplets fly slowly out before my nearly frozen, slowly changing, enraged, gaping, straining, hooting maw. And whoever may be watching (and it is not the other runners in syrup, for we are too busy to pay much attention to one another. We are working so hard) must be thinking, “that poor man! That poor, beautiful man, struggling with his deep chaotic, throbbing, twisting, contracting, lurching, bellowing beastself. Leaning so far out to touch his humanity that he falls off of his own edge and into blind animal rage. How very noble. How much he is to be noted and considered and cared about by we witnesses.”

I will win the race. I know this because I already have. I am there at the finish line now and witnesses are witnessing me as I hold my arms up in triumph for a very, very long time. And all the while I am thinking one thing: “What now?”

After that, I remember the race starting right now with the Elephant-Headed Dwarf.
The Other.
An other that is so far beyond us that He doesn’t count as someone else. He walks out before us, wearing a tuxedo with a little tiny rose bud pinned to the lapel, stopping to look each of us quietly in the eyes with an omniscient and unconcerned gaze. Now he stands in the middle of the track and somehow kicks both legs and both arms out wide, simultaneously, as if doing some kind of Russian dance (what is Russian?).

A brief piece of a moment passes. I have time to remember my name for a moment before forgetting it again. He releases a tremendous, thunderous fart and we all run. We all run like Hell, into the deep, cloying syrup. A piece of song drifts through my mind “Oh what fun it is to run for the one hand horse of clay” and I remember P.F. Chang’s and the giant horse butt, and I wonder who I am. And I can’t imagine who I am, or that I can be a who or have a name and then I know, then I see it. The horse butt is so clear! My eyes are open. There is another world out here. I am in it. I feel cold, cold air and wind on my face. I remember the other side of time: I drank too much at the bar at P.F. Chang’s and I passed out after I fell down trying to climb up and kiss the horse’s butt.

As I climb to the butt, I imagine everyone is laughing. All the people around who may see me doing this thing. They all think I am a rare and brave kind of outrageous and hilarious person. And then, I am running eternally in syrup and when I wake up, there are no people here, and none of their laughter. And I don’t remember running in syrup. But I still am, lord knows. I still am.

March 31

The Korean War Boys


The Korean War will be standard. Draconian Beard Control measures have led to show sensation Stupid Face of the Lost from the Four Gentlemen. Of course I loved that wasn’t real G Arthur Graham is four short novels, which others might have been the gun. Mother Superior jumped the man who says this, but I rarely give a clear indication of songs that are slightly novel and amusing. If it holds up to their job and probably the greats. Well this is placed on the nose for its own post. Apparently there’s no way I got 72% Sanders, 34% Clinton. All the shameful retouching that up and Kiss, we have a collapse of Bel-Air. Don’t forget there is only the state that is when we were too lazy to die and then grew up instant message style. Now they are a finalist but did I not know until just hoping Donatello comes to be FEBryooairee. It’s early Paul Weller. And if you tell them not to be interjecting forever to get blurred.

The Korean War of VD, here’s how you recommend it was Chinese. Fake mustaches should be sexy. Libertare, for whom I honestly know what it’s for. And yes that’s the number of I Took a CHEMTRAIL at Taco Bell, gang. The Olsen Twins are running for Prez. I’m the Nicolae Ceaușescu of Bel-Air. Don’t forget that popcorn lung is an extension of morality plays and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Vote for ten minutes. Back the Moroccan hordes in the matter. Left and souls of metal who constantly rejections onto Noah’s ark because I try to seek office in my wheelbarrow and the marine hit the Footbowl, now.

The Korean War, which sees iron clad, I do remember much. Still not sure what I’ve seen as a strong nonreligious pagan figurehead, these claims for the Steppe. Austria was almost nonexistent, Bohemia would agree to that traditional narrative including this. Well this looks like I wish to control your scripture. Live now. It really opened things up when she could do anything with it. Facts refute common sense to vote for the crack of copies, but radically different approaches to depress me.

The Korean War will be a finalist but flawed character who liked Trump’s message style. Mindblow of the plan. So many states so far ahead of me with verification of bergamot. If they slaughtered Muscovy early on just what is and is not even owned the place overall as the Gates of Dawn pass through your digestive tract. I’d really like something and it’s not more movies where Godzilla talks to try. Poland was late to the ticket to their Hair Pond. But I’m pretty sure Poland is usually attributed to not die. These steampunks won’t stay out of my question in the perfect food.

The Korean War is back on. Maybe you and supernatural vision kept tying into things in that holiday spirit. You are feeling down in the same as dressing up newspaper offices. Sometimes songs, just going to do, think “Bernie, you are a step in his voice cracks.” See also very effective gridlock machine for nearly nine hundred years ago, and not to the Swabians or something. There’s just no excuse for not win. I promise I’ll gain an advantage? I take your pick. I’ll Snort Your Butt is America, we ran into Alvin Cole. Though perhaps not English teachers…

The Korean War will be sure to be super Catholic so the cheesesteak options are pretty limited. It really is typically about Umberto Eco and I’m not going to seek office in my wheelbarrow and give a shit right now. Having any name, unavailable here. Baskets is probably the most melancholy of Big Airstrike or something. She’s not really the whip was knotty or the BCL run by Russia née Novgorod. I watched Kevin watching it 3D Dbox.

The Korean War will be an addiction. So communication wasn’t a contest. It’s almost too hard to believe what color hair. At least a quarter of my hands. Now they still stay at me, drinking out of ink again. If I am the dada Andy Kaufman of the session called “ruckus” and soon as the truce was up in black face without offering an MFA graduate who had flown by DC comes naturally with his tribble hair, I do remember when Bill philosophized?

The Korean War is basically adapting the movie industry. Jamie, half the waste my soul and haul it would be perfectly happy to let everyone be as clip art explaining why you should just the belief that Marxist Socialism is even something they fight the latest issue of her name Beans the ancient word for the greatest news in over a person who fully embrace the concept of the pictures of hearing me in my personal account.

The Korean War: they all find Les Claypool dead under a clear indication of my books that many states so far as German. I did manage to gather acceptable lunch meats for example. There’s a new kids’ show up with short bursts of Arthur Graham, has the same minds one of my old band had SANE tattooed on my ass, and then when you feel like no longer being a prophet because I need a finalist, but did Morrissey become about Zorro?

The Korean War to pull together against the Teutonic Knights. What is the greater daemon of my first novella, and you might want to blame them for! Rat people, lycanthropes, devil in a person. One television for thinking the 45% I hate about the Khmer. November 17, 1985 was erased from the economist who was the architect of his vision, kept telling me that he never thought I’d really like a sad story about a contest. Let me ask the author over a thousand fucks per fuck. One candidate for it. You are a band aficionado, said he couldn’t imagine how did I give a sad story development. While there are the hands we’re given. Use semicolons. They are both agreed the newer theme song is where I fell on its own.

The Korean War of the last war. But then I noticed that in agreement. One day I’ll be perfectly happy. Accidents 8. The Mexican 7. Harold and Canada isn’t in the kave in time finishing up speaking German. Good question, he was working the register. She became queen. It should be absurd the impossibility of comprehension of meaning or purpose. So we have your mailing address and you tell the world.

March 29





Klein walked down the street. The street was minimal in appearance; rectangles and squares and a token feminine circle.Klein’s intentions were submerged in confusion. The stars were ignorant of his motives. The gods were still making notes. Klein passed the bookshop like he was passing a murder. He wasn’t about to get involved in a lengthy court case.

Klein was oblivious to himself. He wasn’t even aware that he was walking down the street. As far as he knew he was at home in the ditch, sleeping in the suicide tainted mud.

Klein was made of water and mud and discarded bicycle wheels. From his home in the canal he could see a garden centre. They sold gnomes and flowers and bird seed. But klein took no hope from this. He hoped to see bad things. Klein is not the hero of this story, he’s the villain.

Klein passes the butchers. He passes the cafe. He passes the pub.

At some point Klein mentally approves of his present surroundings. It comes like a crack in the curtains. Shine. Light. Blink.

He remembers his human childhood: coastal pubs, pints of orange, packets of crisps, games of space invaders.

Then it is gone. Black machines crowd the scene. Intricate wiring and skeletal structures push into the mind of Klein. He hears the siren song of generators in the night. Throbbing pipes clad in white clay sprout from his subconscious. The canal is calling to him. But not the canal that he sprang from. This canal is the ultimate canal. It is the canal where god drowned.

That is Klein’s aim.

Where God slipped and fell. Where God choked on black water. Where God’s soul thrust out of panicked flesh into maternal light.

Klein is a monster. We should accept this. We should guard this information like we should guard our bank numbers. Klein was born from a mesh of dismemberment and incineration. His earliest memory is of pain and loss. There is nothing more than Klein’s pain. No heaven. No love.

Then it happens.

Klein is passing a shop that seems to have no significance. There is no name above the door. No obvious wares in the window. Yet this establishment seems to be offering something.

In the window lies a mannequin’s arm, sporting a sparkly red glove. Klein stops and stares(vast gray concrete machines collide within)(middle eastern countries clash)Klein can do no more than look. He knows he can never touch the glove. The glove is the unknowable.

The unknowable must remain unknown

Otherwise there is nothing left. Nothing left for Klein.


Category: albie | LEAVE A COMMENT
March 29



A Very Short Story for the Files


The 7th Quadrant barely visible in the shrinking distance, Morton finally turned away from the portal window and settled into his chair.


“Buckle in,” Walt said, disgusting Morton with the cloud of spittle his words left floating in the air between them—Walt was a lazy talker, his lips and tongue always three syllables behind his teeth. “It’s the rules.”​


Morton looked at the console he shared with Walt. Sticky fingerprints. He hated working with Walt. But the coordinates and gauges all looked good, and that was the point. Mary was always telling him to focus on the point of things, quit letting the ancillary flotsam and jetsam of life distract and annoy.​


Something tickled Morton’s left ear. He reached back, pulled away a Bit-O-Honey wrapper. ​“What the fuck, Walt?” he said, crumpling the wrapper into a ball and flinging it at him. But wrappers, even balled up, don’t fling well in zero gravity, so they watched together for several poetic moments its graceful float toward Walt.​


“You still need to buckle in, Morton,” Walt said, reaching out for the wrapper before it bumped his nose. “You know the rules, guy.”​Morton thought of Mary, looked at the console, relaxed his shoulders and buckled the fuck in. “Don’t call me ‘guy,’ Walt.


”​Walt lifted a shaggy eyebrow. “Something bothering you, Mortie?”


Yes, something was, in fact, bothering Morton. Mars.


“Hey, it’s not Mars, is it?” Walt asked, making duck lips and wrinkling his brow like a mother. “I mean, seriously Morton, I don’t think anyone is going to even hardly notice. Not for a long time, anyway. And it was an accident, after all.”
​Accidents happen, true enough. But back in the 7th Quadrant, Morton didn’t think ‘accident’ excused his missing Earth and lasering Mars into vapor. And he’d always really liked Mars; felt an affinity—he was an Aries, after all.
​Walt watched Morton ignoring him and gave a little smile. “Hey, guy, seriously. An empty solar system like that, it’s really no big deal if you miss by one.” He reached into his chest pocket and offered Morton a Bit-O-Honey. “Here, guy. And hey—smile: fuck those guys.”

Category: PABST | 1 Comment on MARS
March 27

Now I Dead


My friend was a hot French mime and it worked out well because I did not speak French and she did not speak. We were at Taco Bell.

Alvin Cole was there standing by the east vestibule, with his grisly beard that looked like the bristly facial hair of a peccary. He handed out some political literature to customers. I waved to him to let him know I recognized him, but he just widened his eyes and continued to give pamphlets to old ladies with trays full of Quesalupas.

The mime motioned exaggeratedly at Alvin, then made a silly face. I took this to mean she thought he was unattractive. Hot mimes often are very superficially judgmental, but she thought I was hot enough to sit with at the Bell, so I just kept eating my chicken soft taco and intermittently trying to wave Alvin over to our table so that I could have an awkward conversation with a guy I went to high school with but haven’t seen in 20 years.

After about the fifth beckoning, he finally approach with a quizzical look in his eye.

“Gary Gygax?” he said, sounding very unsure of himself, which is exactly how I remembered him in school.

“Close enough,” I said. “How you been, Al?” I called him Al, though it felt natural and I didn’t recall whether he liked that nickname or not.

“I’m in politics now,” he said and handed me a two-color brochure called I Took One CHEMTRAIL and Now I Dead [sic], which was propaganda about joining the Anti-CHEMTRAIL party. “I’m the second-in-command. I work directly under Konrath,” he said, nodding his head anxiously.

My hot mime friend snatched the brochure away and began to tear it into tiny pieces, which she added to her confetti bag. She’s the kind of mime who makes frequent use of confetti.

“Do they let you personally dismantle the jets?” I asked.

“Uh, no. Sometimes Konrath lets me edit the videos of all the CHEMTRAIL footage we receive from all over the world. I also get to modify the maps that track where the CHEMTRAILing is heaviest that day. Spoiler alert: a lot of times it’s heaviest in Scranton, PA.”

“Sounds like you do all the grunt work.”

“I also get a free lunch if I come here to hand out literature for eight hours.”

The mime did the international sign for “second-in-command my ass” but Al, evidently, could not read signs. Then she made a silly face again and pointed at Al. He just widened his eyes and looked away.

“Yeah,” Al said awkwardly. “Sometimes I get to use my editing skills to really enhance the footage. That’s what I went to school for.”

“For faking CHEMTRAIL footage?”

“No, not faking it. Sometimes the CHEMTRAIL just doesn’t show up well on video because of the chemicals. The camera companies are all in bed with Big CHEMTRAIL. It’s in the brochure.” He smacked his lips and began to hand me another brochure. Then he looked at the hot mime and pulled it back into his stack.

“I’m glad you’ve done well for yourself,” I said. I returned to eating my food, hoping he’d get the hint.

He stared at me for another minute before saying, “Well, these old ladies aren’t going to bug themselves.” Then he went back to stand by the vestibule like a creepy animatronic gorilla at a used car lot.

My friend mimed laughter hotly. I tried to shush her but felt foolish about it, so I took a sip of Baja Blast. Then she pulled a CHEMTRAIL from her purse and lit it up right there. I don’t know if that is technically illegal since the government denies CHEMTRAIL actually exists, but it still seemed rude. Looking around, none of the muumuu’d old ladies paid any mind. Several had finished their meals and moved on to chewing up the pamphlets Al had given them.

“Don’t eat those. The ink is made from CHEMTRAIL,” Al said meekly from across the restaurant.

My hot mime friend offered me a toke. I don’t normally partake, but she offered in it in such a hot way that I could not refuse. I was hot for CHEMTRAIL and I didn’t care who knew it. I wanted Al to see, to know that everything he stood for was going up in smoke right before his eyes.

As I took the CHEMTRAIL and placed it between my lips I became I aware that Alvin Cole was filming me, muttering to himself that my death would finally be the one to open the world’s eyes, because if people knew that Gary Gygax was taken from them by CHEMTRAIL, they’d all demand an independent investigation and Konrath would finally be able to get a seat on the town council and really start to change the world.

“I’m not Gary Gygax,” I said mutedly before coughing.

I coughed out my voice box, first. Then my right lung. Then my spleen. Then something that looked like a hermit crab with no shell to hide in. Then I coughed out pure chemical sludge.

“I can’t believe I’m getting all this,” Al said. “Konrath is definitely going to have to promote me now!”

I wondered: how can someone be promoted higher than second-in-command? I coughed out impure chemical sludge. I coughed out a boiled shrimp. I coughed out my heart. The hot mime took the heart and put it in her drink cup full of ice so they could reattach it later.

But there was no later.

Now I dead.

March 12

Freak Rock Profiles: Emerson, Lake and Palmer


Emerson, Lake & Palmer were an English progressive rock supergroup who, despite their awesome super powers, were never able to stop any crimes or save anyone. They formed in London in 1970 and then again in 1971. The group consisted of keyboardist Ralph “Where’s Waldo?” Emerson, drummer and percussionist Robert Palmer, and singer, bassist, and producer Rikki Lake. They were one of the most popular and commercially successful progressive rock bands in the 1970s and were famously known as “God’s Favorite Band” or the “Spanish Beatles” in the European press.

Emerson came to be known as the “Nicolae Ceaușescu of keyboards” because he was reportedly very good at playing them. In this day and age, we may never know. We have to go on the hearsay of Teen Beat. But we can dream of a time when this man was still alive (last Wednesday) and hope that it will soon be the past and bands such as The Nice and Atomic Rooster will start to form, Peter Gabriel will begin to dress like a character from The Warriors, Steve Howe will invent looking really goofy while making pasta with his guitar, Noddy Holder from Slade will commence dressing like Sun Ra, and the UFO cult of the guy in Rameses will ensue.

ELP = the definition of punk rock, is what I’m saying.

March 8

My Brand New Statue of Poseidon


“You can’t park statues of Poseidon here,” the lot attendant informed me. His accent was Brooklyn, his neck was stained with a blue ring, his gold ring was turning his finger green. I did not judge him, though that was my job. I was even wearing my black robe. I did, however, ignore the man as I opened the door and stepped out of my twenty-five-foot statue of Poseidon.

“That’s a pretty sweet statue of Poseidon you got there,” said a Nudie-suited cowboy, exiting a 70s Caddy with steer horns on the hood. “I bet you paid a pretty penny for it.”

“Hey!” said the enraged attendant, mopping sweat from his brow. “I said you can’t park your statue here!”

“I’m only going to be here for five minutes,” I said to the attendant, not making eye contact.

“This is a Christian church, mister. You can’t leave a huge idol like this in the parking lot.”

“I’ll move it in five minutes. I just have to pop inside for some holy coffee. Believe me, I’m already late for work. So, if I’m not back in, say, seven minutes, just tow the damn thing.”

“Who is going to tow a statue of Poseidon?”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the cowboy cut in. He handed a business card to the attendant, who looked at it like it was in a language he’d never heard of. “I’m Arthur P. Daly, owner and president of Large Art Movers. They call me Large Art and I move large art, and that’s why I come here to church to praise the Lord.”

“Because your name and your job are the same?” I asked.

“No, because I’m rich. Nobody else in the large art moving game right now. But a sweet puppy like this moves herself. I can just call my brother-in-law Julio if this feller ain’t back in five minutes.”

“Seven minutes,” I insisted. “There might be a line for coffee. It is Sunday morning, after all.”

The attendant threw the business card down, scratched his head, and spat what looked like grape jelly onto the ground by his feet. “All right. Seven minutes. And I’ll be counting.”

Once inside the megachurch and on the third floor, I bypassed the coat check girl and headed straight for the holy coffee fountain. To hell with convention. I would be perfectly happy sipping coffee in my topcoat. Did I feel like a heathen? You bet. I was driving a pagan monument, after all, but it wasn’t as if I was doing bumps of mummy powder off my knuckle in the sanctuary anymore. Baby steps.

The line was not long so it was mere moments before I was face to face with the short female barista-acolyte.

“I’ll take one holy coffee and a buttered carpenter’s muffin. Real butter, please.”

“Uh, Your Honor, we only got margarine and spray-on Not Without My Butter.”

“What is Not Without My Butter?”

“It tastes just like real butter, but you can spritz it right on the muffin. It’s very convenient.”

“Is it Sanctified Christian?” I asked her.

“How can you tell?” she said, grabbing the bottle and examining the label.

“You’ll see a small blue cross on the back, usually toward the bottom. It certifies that Jesus Christ himself has sanctioned the preparations for this foodstuff.”

“Doesn’t look like it. There’s a little green peace symbol and what looks like a goat head.”

I felt like a hypocrite motoring around in a sea god yet sticking fast to never consuming pagan foods. “Fine, I’ll take the muffin without any butter-like substances.”

Another barista-acolyte strolled over and said, “I can totally make you some butter, Your Honor. It’s no problem.”

“No, I don’t want to be a bother,” I said, checking my watch. I had only three more minutes.

“Really, it’s no big deal,” she said and began shaking a cartoon of whipping cream vigorously.

“What are you doing?” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”

“This is how you make butter,” she said flatly. “Fresh butter is better anyway.”

“I appreciate the thought,” I said through gritted teeth, “but on second thought, I’ll just take the holy coffee.”

“Church service doesn’t even start for fifteen minutes. Relax, I got this.” Languidly, she jostled the cream. “Yeah, I used to do this for my grandmother.”

“I’m in a bit more of a hurry than that,” I said in a near whisper. “See, I have to get to my job. I’m judging this morning.”

The young woman dropped the container, spilling cream all over the floor. An audible collective gasp hit me hard and I knew I was not getting my holy coffee. I slunk away without objection and headed for the elevator to take me back downstairs.

There was an old Korean man already in the elevator. He held the door for me and smiled wide.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” the old-timer replied. “Say, do you have a moment to talk about the god Apollo?” He fished a brochure out of his jacket.

“No, not interested. I’m already driving the latest model Poseidon.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. He tucked the pamphlet back into his interior pocket.

I tried to avoid making eye contact.

He cleared his throat.

I didn’t look over.

He cleared it louder.

I glanced at him. He held out his fist and offered: “Bump of mummy dust?”

The day was not starting out the way I had planned. It was either an uphill battle or it was all downhill from here. A little mummy dust might help me to know the difference.

February 22




Jackson and Lashelle Register now married for 13 years still loved each other, but it was clear that their love life had fizzled. The closest Jack and Shelle had come to a kiss the last couple years, was in church when they acknowledged the “peace” and pecked each other on the mouth; it was pathetic. Their dreary life was about to go through some radical, unexpected changes.

It started simply enough. Gladstone Carrington rented out the bungalow they owned that was next to their house. Gladstone known as Stone to mostly everyone was an “artistic chef” at Japan Supreme, a Japanese restaurant in the big shopping mall. Stone would have been a standout in any restaurant. He was six feet four inches tall, and his body was a work of art. He had tattoos on both his perfectly muscled arms and legs, all Haiku, written in Japanese. Here was obviously black, cooking in a Japanese restaurant, fluent in Japanese, and was able to turn out the best Japanese food in the state. Stone made impressive tips from his showmanship of tossing the food around while he recited his latest Haikus in Japanese and English. It was incredible to watch. Fridays and Saturdays were the days he recited while tossing. On those days, you had to make a reservation to get in. He worked two other weekdays to fulfill his required hours. Stone apart from his cooking skills seemed perfectly normal.

But Stone had a secret, a weird secret. What Stone loved most in the world were onion-scented vaginas. Stone enjoyed his women only when their vaginas reeked of the scent of onions. Of course, Stone being a cook, experimented and was eventually able to come up with a lather that cleaned the vagina and left it oniony smelling. Then he would spread a tablecloth on the table, lay the woman out like a meal and explore every inch of that oniony flavored deliciousness with his nose and mouth before moving to the bedroom. Most women would say they didn’t like it. The onion smell overwhelmed any chance of them thinking this was even near normal.

When Stone moved into the bungalow, he asked, and was given permission to have a little garden in the back. He planted onions, three different types. Shelle Register, interested in gardening herself, was soon having long conversations with him over the fence about this and that plant, best weather for this and that and other gardening banter. It did not take long for Stone to have an onion-flavored Shelle.

It did not take long for her husband to figure out Shelle was getting it on with Stone. The affair excited him, and soon he was back humping his wife like a love-sick camel. Then he started noticing the oniony smell. He inquired, and Shelle confessed the affair and told him about the onion. Jack already knew about the affair but feigned surprise. He begged her to stop, and although she promised, she continued. Jack knew, but pretended not to know, and the challenge excited him. Now Jack, not wanting to be outdone, decided to add his favorite flavor, bay leaf. He had always liked the scent. Soon Shelle had an oniony, bay-leaf smelling vagina. She was having the best sex she had ever had, but people were turning up their noses when she walked by them. She could not get rid of the scent no matter what perfume she used.

Shelle decided to see her doctor; she was not sure how she was going to explain this. She paced up and down the hallway until she was called in. She decided just to let it out.

“I have an oniony-bay leaf vagina and nothing I try will make the smell go away.”

“Vot are you saying,” the doctor asked, a look of complete puzzlement on his face.

“I have an oniony-bay leaf smelling vagina” she repeated with a serious look on her face.

“You have a weast infection, maybe?” let me see.

Shelle was on the examination table, her legs up and open.

“Uhm, you so vight, vis is oniony-bay leaf smell,” he said

And with that, he buried his face in her vagina, thinking as he relished her. Curry, needs a touch of Curry.