Monthly Archives: April 2013

April 28, 2013 · 19:02

Cop a Feel

It was a cold January night, but all the nights are cold in Howard, Wisconsin.  It was a lonely night too, but all the nights are lonely for me ever since Jenny got sick of my shit. Maybe I wasn’t the best guy. Sure I have my flaws but I tried. Well, that’s not true. I tried to make it seem like I tried. I think that would be more accurate. Some women…they just can’t take “No” for an answer. “No we aren’t going to vacation near the beach.” “No, I I don’t want to meet your friends for dinner.” “No, I didn’t not screw your sister.”

I was working a night shift, and I was the only officer on patrol.  I was hiding in the back of Merkle’s Supermarket and drinking piss warm coffee, trying not to mix it with the juiced up wad of Copenhagen that I had horseshoed around my lower lip.  The coffee was warm enough where I couldn’t feel it as it dribbles down my chin catching in the wiry labyrinth of by beard, leaving that stale coffee smell that was always on my dad’s breath.  I’ll never forget that smell.  Or the look in his eyes as he bled out on the bakery floor.  “Time to make the donuts!”, he’d always say…but it’s hard to make the donuts when a punk comes in at 4:00 am and slashes your father’s guts to ribbons in front of you for seven dollars in the tip jar. But he still said it. Literally as he bled out, he pulled me close and instead of telling me he was proud of me or that he knew I had fingered my sister he just whispered “Time to make the donuts:”

When Sally’s voice crackles over the dispatch and said that there was possible burglary in progress at Merkle’s it snaps me out of my reminiscing. I get the same feeling in the pit of my stomach as that day in the bakery.  I slid the transmission of that hunk of shit Caprice into drive and slowly glide to the front of the building, I didn’t want that v-8 rumbling away and giving anyone the drop on me but I was way too lazy to simply get out and walk around the building. I am a big man. A real big man. I like to think I am the type of man that looks like he can take care of himself. But I can’t. I mean really. After Jenny left it was that much more apparent. I don’t even know how to work the dishwasher. Ok, I do but I just don’t do it. Bending over to unload that fucker is something a guy my size doesn’t do. I can’t even see my own dick.

I cut the engine and let it roll a little in neutral until it can’t go any further saving a few more steps. I got out and quietly pushed the door shut with a slight click, and pulled out my Mag-lite flashlight.  That bastard was a foot long and weighed as much as lead pipe.  It ended fights almost as fast as the six shot Colt revolver on my hip.  Right away I could see a hole in the glass at the front of the building.  Not too big, looked like someone punched it out with a rock or a hammer and slipped in.  My big ass would probably slip and cut my neck trying to get into that hole. That’s what I tell myself so I don’t have to realize how far I am from fitting in it. I checked the glass door and it pulled right open, someone unlocked it after they got in through the window.  I slipped into the building, but it was hard to see.  There’s light coming in through the windows at front of the store, but the rest of store was pitch black.  I heard a muffled voice coming from the back of the store in aisle three.  I popped the snap on my holster and smiled, it reminds me of undoing the clasp on Jenny’s bra. I always took it off one handed, and she always looked at me and I would see her strain slightly as her giant floppy tits plopped out. I was starting to rub where I guessed my dick would be when WHAM! I hit the ground seeing stars.

I try to roll to my feet, but the young tough with a hammer swings again.  His aim is off though and he hits me in the neck.  Hurts like a mother fucker, but I’m still in the fight.  I reach down for the .357 magnum I feel it and I tighten my fist. Too tight. It goes off and the bullet grazes my foot feeling like thousand fire ants. This surprised my assailant and I see I have an opening. It isn’t the first time I have shot myself in the foot so I am not that thrown off. I think about my boot knife. There is a reason I put it in my boot before I put them on, because I am not reaching all the way down there. I catch a glimpse of a Snickers near the checkout aisle and I think about how I want to eat it if I live through this. What the fuck is wrong with me? I carefully grab my gun again and pull it out. The crack head is on me before I can cock the hammer. We fight for the gun. He struggles on top of me. He has trouble as my beard keeps getting in his face. He is forced to keep his head up and out of my beard that smells like God knows what. He tries to use his weight to pull the gun to the side but that gives me the momentum I need to roll over on top of him. Now it’s a waiting game. He’s already dead, but doesn’t know it yet.  I just lay there and after a while he stops struggling. I stay for an extra few minutes to make sure he is out. I holster my gun and it accidently goes off again but luckily doesn’t hit me. I really should be more surprised when that happens. I climb to my feet knocking over 2 displays and a cash register in the 10 minute process. It would have been only 5 but I stayed on the ground to eat a snickers. I very slowly and carefully take my gun out and put a bullet in his chest. Really can’t bring myself to admit to the boys I layed on him to death.

I limp outside to use the radio in my car, we didn’t have any of those portable radio’s yet.  I am still breathing hard but partly because I won’t stop eating the chips I grabbed on the way out. I feel sick. Not because of the situation, but because I swallowed that fat horseshoe of Cope.  I looked into the passenger side of my glass and could hardly recognize myself. Then I realize it is because I have to stand so far away from the car because of my gut. God, I really need to do something about myself. I know what will happen. I will be disgusted with myself and use my foot injury as an excuse to put off exercise. I will use Jenny leaving me as an excuse to eat. I don’t know how I do my job. I stumble into success and lie my way out of situations. Can’t believe I was surprised when Jenny said she was leaving. I let a good woman go because I am a lazy fuck. The only woman who loved me. I just killed a man and I am still thinking of my failed relationship. I just killed a man and I am already trying to think of how to get out of doing the paper work so I can grab a pizza on the way home. A long, slow fart escapes and I snap out of it. I still have my gun in my hand and I go to holster it. It goes off and I lose another toe. Fuck me.

Sgt. Frank Molleni
January, 1982

Submitted by J.S

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April 4, 2013 · 15:39

Memories 2

Memories Part I can be found here.

 

Audio link for the blind

I had a dog. He was mean as shit. I snuck him back as a pup from ‘Nam. He was an Akita. I never thought of a name so I just called him Akita. Akita grew fast. He was well over 150lbs when he was grown but I never got a chance to weigh him. He wasn’t much for vets. Akita wasn’t the kind of dog that you took to the vet or did anything he didn’t want to do. He just didn’t take bullshit from anyone or anything, ever. He was a good friend. Well, maybe that is an overstatement. There was a mutual respect at least. We kind of kept each other in line. I might come home a little tired. He would nudge his food bowl. “Hold the fuck on, I’ll get to it in a minute.” I’d say. In a flash I would be pinned to the ground with his teeth in my throat slowly squeezing harder. My thick beard soften the points of his teeth a little but it didn’t really matter. I would reach up and grab his balls in desperation or at least as much of them I could fit in one hand. We would have a moment, testing the pain each other could take and he would finally let go. Then we would just stare at each other. He was right. No need for me to take out my day on him.

I tried to instill some discipline in him when he was younger. One time he took a steak off the counter so I hit him with a rolled up newspaper. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He just looked at me with those cold eyes. The rest of the night that is all he did. Staring at me. Through me. The next morning the paper didn’t come. In fact it never came again. I found a single shoe in the backyard. The paperboys shoe. I didn’t even want to know where the rest of him was. Well played, Akita. Well played.

You don’t “discipline” a dog like that. You don’t expect obedience. You don’t expect submission. You just try your best to get along like civilized people and canines. He had my back. I had his. He just didn’t take any bullshit. I guess he got that from me. One time I was walking him through the park when some tree hugging hippie came up to us with a stupid grin on his face.

“Wow what a big boy! What’s his name?” He said.

“Easy there buddy. Akita doesn’t like strangers and these chains are just for show. He can snap right through them if he wants.” I warned him.

“Oh?” he said still smiling obviously not heading my words. “Not socialized huh? But he really is a sweet boy isn’t he? And I bet he loves giving kisses…”

Akita smacked him across the face with his paw knocking him and some of his teeth out. He was doing a weird twitch thing on the ground so I decided we should get out of there in case his neck was broken and he was dead.

I remember one time I brought home a woman. She was well out of my league. I guess she was just looking for adventure or someone that reminded her of her dad she probably used to bang. She couldn’t have been a day older than 23. We walked in the door and Akita came over to inspect.

“Oh my gosh! What a pretty dog! What’s his name?” She asked half drunk and annoying.

“Akita. But don’t address him directly. He hates that shit” I said. Akita started shoving his nose in her crotch taking big whiffs. She tried to push him away discretely but he shoved her against the wall.

“Umm, what’s he doing?” She asked nervously.

“The fuck it looks like he’s doing? He’s smelling your box” I said.

“Oh, um why is he still doing it?” She asked while forcing a smile

“Because that is what he wants to do so he’s doing it.” I said. I was getting sick of this broad and all of her questions. She was getting annoyed.

“Why is it smoky in here?”

“Obviously Akita was smoking a cheap cigar.”

“Why does your dog smoke cheap cigars?” She asked like she was better than me.

“Because he can’t afford the good ones you dumb bitch. He’s a dog.” I replied.

“Don’t call me that!” She screeched. “I’m going to go.”

“Good find your own ride.”

“I will. Your truck smells like wet dog anyway” She said as she stormed out. Akita had never been in the cab of my truck. She was talking about me and didn’t know it. Whatever. We didn’t need that shit. Akita and I had a few beers then went to bed.

Akita saved my ass a few times I have to admit. I was drunk one time and had apparently placed a bet with a local bookie on the super bowl and lost. I didn’t remember doing it and I certainly didn’t have the money to pay. I am not a gambling man so I didn’t want to be involved further. I told him to keep whatever I gave him and call it even. He made some threats or something but I had told him to call it even so I wasn’t listening anymore. About 2 weeks later I was watching some late night movie when out of nowhere my door was kicked in. In storms one of the bookies cronies. A big man with a baseball bat.

“I’m going to put this to you real simple. You made a bet. You owe money. I’m going to collect.” He said as he walked towards the couch. Fucking amateur. I looked back at the TV.

“You made a big mistake my friend. Akita, he just doesn’t like loud noises. And with such smooth skin on that clean shaven face of yours he might not be able to tell if you are a man or woman.” I told him. Not that it mattered. I never looked away from the TV. I heard the breath get knocked out of him as Akita jumped on him. I head the snap of the bat as half of it landed on front of me. Then I heard his struggle, the tearing of fabric, then his screams. His terrible screams. I had seen a lot of shit in my time but there are some things you can’t unsee. I didn’t even want to look at what was happening to that man. Akita had him bent over the other side of the couch so I felt every powerful thrust. His screaming stopped and I looked the other way at the clock. That is when I caught a glimpse in the mirror. Akita had him by the back of the neck. That is why he stopped screaming. His teeth were sunk into his flesh and Akita was holding the man’s head up making him watch what was happing to him in the mirror. They say mounting behavior in dogs isn’t sexual but it was with Akita. He kept at it for a half hour until he was finished with him. At some point in the night I guess the guy crawled out. I never saw him again.

You don’t just barge into a house like that smelling like aftershave and not expect that. What do you think is going to happen? He was asking for it if you want my opinion.

A few days later I saw the bookie with another of his toughs in the bar. I walked over with my beer. “One of your men came to my house to collect but I told you a few days ago we were even. Now you owe me money for my door.” I said. His man stepped in front of him.

“Mr. Bookie doesn’t owe you nothing!” He said as he poked my chest. As he did this it caused a single drop of my beer to splash out of the bottle and into my beard. What the fuck is this world coming to? I looked up at the soft cheeks of the two men in front of me. My leathery hand creaked as I clenched it in to a fist. I guess men need discipline as much as dogs do these days…

Sgt. David Garlson (Ret.)

October 1993

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April 3, 2013 · 23:45

Special Forces

Afghanistan. I don’t even know how long I have been here. You lose track after a while. I was told when I got here that if I let my beard grow I would have better interaction with the locals as they prefer to see leaders as masculine. They were right. I was 5’8 when I got here. I let my beard grow out and now I am 6’2 and now have foreskin for some reason. On my scrotum.

I am one of the elite. Special ops. Delta force to the civilians. Specifically the             3rd                           out of                            . Most of the job is simple. We interact with the locals and try to facilitate cultural understanding and turn people to our side before the battle happens if it ever does. Also we kill everything. Sometimes though things aren’t so easy.

I remember the first time my unit was in combat. We were heading towards                     our mission being to                            . All of a sudden                           right into                        . I didn’t panic but I was a bit scared. We rolled out into a ditch. Safeties off, ready to go. On the radio we got word that                 was       and                   was                . “No way!” I said looking at                      . There were six of us in the ditch. Me,                  ,                        ,                      ,                      , and Pvt. Tim Jenson of Roswell, GA 426 May Glen Way. I decided to make the first move. Sweat collecting in my beard. I threw a frag then jumped up and                     over the                      .                         was right behind                   and fired an At-4 into           which caused               to                      . We couldn’t believe our luck. But then all hell broke               when               opened its                   and                .          
 
 
                                                                         !                        . “                  ,                             NO                                                            !” Shouted                      

I looked at                . A woman somehow                       and                                                                                                                                                                                                                                . Goats milk.                                        
                        penis                           undulating penis                           3 RPG rounds.                                              n
                                “                     a bottom feeder literally!” Shouted Jensen. We laughed but stopped when                                                            .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              . None of                                   wet and slick                                    . “Farting is frowned upon by Clergymen” whispered                 and thank God he did because                              .                           not going to stop jerking off any time soon.                                                             “Indeed.” Said                     through his tears. “Vulvas for all!”                                                                                                                        .                                                                                                                                .                                                                            .                                                . I tried to tie closed with the left over pubes but that failed with the dog                                                .                                               but not before I saw                        ! “FUCKING CHRIST!!!!” Yelled                       through the trombone mute.                                                                     at least 4 more technical’s with 12 or so                       in each. I unlatched my .45. Fuck that 9mm standard issue bullshit. I brought this from home just for this occasion. “Alright boys. I said looking at the rest of my unit.. “Time to               and if                       up my ass, you know what to do.” I took a deep breath and thought of                  . “Here they come”.

                                                             cunt                                                                                                                                                                                                                              flame thrower                                                Dan Severn!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                “                                                Mr. Severn but I                                                      “.                                                                                                                                                                                                  like a pizza covered in shit.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    hungry enough                         “                   IT HAS SHIT ON IT                                                                                                                                                                                                              rocket to the left butt cheek.                                                                          overhand grip                                                                  as lube.                                    brutally by Dan Severn who still hadn’t explained                                                .                                                      like three of the Golden Girls                                                                                                                                                                                                                “For the last time I’m NOT GOING TO BE BLANCH!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            A crestfallen Severn.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              goat                                                                                    ass                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    into                                                                                                                                                                                                              the goat ass                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          more effective than it should be                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     “NO! Don’t ejaculate yet!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                          .50 cal mounted on it and just cut down the whole column and gave us time to move to the next building.                               “How the fuck did Dan Severn get here first?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 “Not the time for group handjobs Mr. Severn.” Said                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                I couldn’t count how many rounds before the barrel overheated.                                                                                                                    by hand.              Not withstanding                                     “AFFIX BAYONETS!”                                              fuck toysyea                                                            not necessary because                                                                                                  “My God, did you see the size of Severn’s                                                                                                        “. “Confirmed. Whiskey Tango Danger Close!                                                                                     north of Orange Smoke. Repeat NORTH of orange smoke and                                          somehow Dan Severn”. Four A-10’s over the mountains and opened up with those guns like warthogs from hell.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      smoke and rubble.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Land of The Lost reruns mostly                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                “it’s a shame she won’t live.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              “then again who does?” +++++++++++++++

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· 04:11

Truck The Establishment

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If you told me I would be a bearded trucker when I was 17 I would have called you a goddamn fool. If you told me that when I was 17 and a half I would have said “you know your stuff mister.” For most of my life I wanted to drive a rig. For a brief period in my youth I wanted to be a politician and make a difference. By difference I mean legalize weed because smoking grass is all I did. Of course back then we called it reefer. This caused a lot of confusion because one of the fellas I ran with was named Reaf Reeferman. He died in a fire from smoke inhalation so you can imagine the confusion and arguments about “Smoking Reefer” as we thought the other person was disrespecting Reaf. We eventually settled on calling it Mary Jane in honor of our dealer who was a woman named Mary Jane Deeler.

I didn’t start trucking in my youth but it was always there. I joined the army after high school. I worked in the motor pool of course. I loved driving those deuce and a halves. Just an engine with a big metal box strapped to it. I guess that kind of prepared me for the driving life style. I got out of the Army in ’74. I hooked up with a buddy of mine Hank Henson, who I knew from Ft. Campbell who had gotten out and started a beer delivery service in San Antonio. All I did was inventory. I didn’t drive the truck for over a year. One day Hank comes in laughing saying that some rich Texan was in Georgia and wanted some Coors beer which wasn’t sold there and he wanted it in 24 hours. He said no one could make that drive in 24 hours. I sat silently for a minute.

 

“I can do it” I said “I can make the drive”.

 

“Are you crazy?” Asked Hank. “You would have to drive like a bandit with Smokey on your tail that whole time. You know they don’t like bootleggers.”

 

I stood up “Fuck you Hank! You have been keeping me doing inventory for a year and you know all I want to do is drive a big rig.” I yelled. Hank got right in my face.

 

” I never liked you . I only gave you this job because you helped me find the asshole who got my sister pregnant” Said Hank between clenched teeth. I was taken aback.

 

” Wait. What? That wasn’t me. I didn’t even know you had a sister. “I said. Hank smiled.

 

“Now you are ready.” He said handing me the keys to the truck. I never understood him. But then he handed me some Peyote and everything started making more sense. Needless to say I made the drive and never went back because Hank was an asshole. I started with small jobs to make some money. Eventually my beard came in nice and full and by ’79 I was turning down work.

One of the first things I learned when driving is to respect the road and the other drivers. A big Peterbilt like what I drive now can be intimidating and you need to keep in mind the size of your rig. But fuck that. I own the road. If you are in my way you picked the wrong day to drive. I get the job done no matter what. Fuck you in your mini van with your family. I’m hauling 4 tons of tampons that need to be in Detroit by Sunday or half the female population is going to bleed out. I stop for no one. I know what you are thinking. What about highway patrol? A joke. Maybe they would pull over the younger drivers. Or some rookie cop who thinks he’s big time might try to make a move. But you want to know what is really going on when you see a cop handing an experienced, bearded trucker a ticket? Exchanging names. A little list week keep on who are the “friends of the road” shall we say. Truck stop hookers. Hell, it’s a hard life out here. The cops get it. They are in the same boat. Sitting around all day doing jack shit waiting for a call on the radio.  We have code we used to talk to each other. I’ll get on my CB and find his frequency.
“Hey pig. You got any good truck stops around here with some road worn whores for a road worn man?” I’ll say. Now that I think about it there isn’t much code. We exchange names of good road friends, have a few laughs, then I head out. I have never got a ticket.  There was one time outside San Diego when I was high as fuck on black beauties and had been driving for 4 days straight at 96 MPH in a residential zone. I pointed to my beard and the punk cop didn’t even respect it. Started writing me a ticket. Only reason he didn’t take me in is I hooked him up with a handful of the pills.  Those things were like candy to me.  Shouldn’t even be a drug in my mind.  It should be a Goddamn work requirement. You can call me an amphetamine addict if you want but I am addicted to amphetamines.  And I also drive tripping balls on shrooms but that is just for entertainment purposes.  People seemed surprised I haven’t gotten more tickets in my time but think about it.  You pull over a big rig and out steps a 52 year old experienced driver with a grey beard, a cowboy hat a pair of overalls, and some of the shit kickingest boots you have ever seen. You know that man knows what the fuck he is doing. That man is a driver. That man is an American trucker. That man, is me.

 

-Buck Crimson

March 2002

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April 2, 2013 · 04:44

Home is where it ain’t

Audio Link for the blind

Being homeless is awesome. You don’t have to worry about paying someone rent. You don’t have to worry about bills. You DO have to worry about stray dogs though. They hunt in packs.

I wasn’t always homeless. There was a time when I lived with a sweet young thing who also happened to be a first class whore. I mean that. A high dollar prostitute who was clearing six figures a year. I was working as a clown for children’s parties. My name was Squeaky Ben because I was always squeaking my horn. While I was doing that, unbeknownst to me my girlfriend of 3 years was squeaking the horns of anyone who had enough cash to buy her mouth for an hour. I should have seen the signs but I was in love. I had bought a ring with my clown money and was going to ask her to marry me while still in my clown costume.

I kicked open the door with my huge shoe and a grin on my face and a grin painted on my face only to find her elbow deep in some executive reading the wall street journal with his ankles by his ears. His pants were off but he still had on his coat and tie. He looked up from the paper and as soon as he saw me he said “Whatever the clown cost I’m in.” I was in shock. I was picturing slipping a ring on my fiancés finger and instead I saw that she had slipped past someone else’s ring.

Seeing that kind of thing burns you quite a bit. I turned around and walked out. Then I just kept on walking. When I snapped out of it I was in Chicago. I wasn’t sure how I got there. I was still in full clown costume and I didn’t know what to do next. I took a day to think now that I had my wits about me. She paid the bills. It was her apartment. I really didn’t have much to my name. I actually felt kind of free. I had taken my shoes off and sat down near a fountain in a park and noticed that I was accumulating quite a bit of money from passers by throwing in change. There must be something about a depressed guy in smiling clown make up that looks extra pathetic. I used the money to buy food and a few essentials. I sold most of my clown gear to other homeless people and I started learning the streets. You learn who to rely on, who to avoid. Stay away from the crackheads unless you want head. Don’t bother even trying to talk to the crazies. Most of all never interact with the Punky Brewsters. There were lots of people to avoid but most were normal chaps like me. Either down on their luck or they just chose the simpler life.

I hadn’t shaved since I left and as my beard grew so did my skills on the street. When I needed money I could find a quick job for the day like sweeping in front of stores or taking revenge shits on ex boyfriend or girlfriends cars. It is a huge business for us. I was never a big fan of panhandling. I earn my money. By four months I had a full beard and a full knowledge of how to survive. Then I discovered alcohol. And everything was perfect.

Well, there was one problem. Chicago is a great town. Fantastic town. People throw out so much good food. But the winters suck. So cold. So windy. There is no real escape for the homeless. I was warming my beard by a barrel fire with a few others. Sour Frank, Famous Ed, and Shitty Pete. Out of nowhere Shitty Pete says. “Damn, I wish I was at the beach right now.” It blew my mind.

“Guys, why aren’t we at the beach? What the fuck are we doing in Chicago in the winter?” I said.

“How would we get to a beach? Are you driving us Daddy Warbucks?” Said Sour Frank. Everyone laughed heartily which descended in to whooping coughs.

“We have so many options. We can jump on a train. Save money for a bus. Hitchhike. Hell, I still have the engagement ring I had for my old lady. I am going to sell it and get the shit out of here. For real. Right now. “. I said and started walking away. They just stared.

“I’m in” Said Famous Ed but he died on the spot of tuberculosis. The other two then got into a brutal fight over who got Ed’s girlfriend now that he was gone. His “girlfriend” was an empty toilet paper roll covered in motor oil. That is how I left them, rolling around in an ally trying to have sex with a toilet paper roll.

Now here I am. Venice California. Living the dream. Warm sun, hot women, and an incredible tolerance for the homeless. It is a different crowd here. More laid back, more drugs. Even the money making opportunities are better. Every other college retard thinks he need to go to the beach and play some crap song on his guitar that he wrote. The second he puts it down and looks away people basically throw money at the homeless to shit in it. Hell, I’d do it for free. So now I just sit back, take a swig of this Mexican made vodka and watch some wannabe Jimmy Buffet dump my hot, not well formed, malnourished, shit all over himself. I reach in my pocket and squeak my horn. The one thing I kept of my former life. Now it’s like my calling card. Next time you dump someone’s shit on you out of you guitar because you think that the world wants to hear your terrible music, if you hear a clown horn, you know whose it is.

What a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun. The sea breeze rustles through my beard. I take another swig. Chicago can suck my dick.

– Squeaky Ben

June 2008

 

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