52 Pickup The Nasty Way



Andy’s beautiful black locks were strewn across Charlotte’s bed, blood dripping from the roots. His left eye was on the pillow. It may not have been the left eye but for the immediate future it was the left eye. The right socket had hardware installed already. As far as magical boyfriends go, Charlotte was realizing that vampire were a whole lot less hassle.

“Honey have you found my right arm yet? If you attach it I can help.”

“Sweety, you must be quiet.”

“Oh it so nice of you, but really nothing hurts me, definitely not talking.”

“Yeah but it freaks me the fuck out, I don’t know where your mouth is.”

“We can start with hot and cold if you like.”

She glared at him as she shoved the eye into his socket haphazardly in order to glare at him more effectively. The gaping space between his nose and his throat was truly distracting, and also the number one reason why she had to buy new linens every month. The damn thing always fell off in the throws of passion, usually mid french. When your having sex with Andy’s kind you have to expect falling parts, it comes with the territory. Doesn’t make the procedure any more fun.

As she grabbed his arm to shove it back in socket, it occurred to her that it was a rather fit arm. Every part of Andy was fit, a little too loosely actually. With a grunt, she shoved the right arm into alignment. She thanked whoever would listen that he was a slight man. She was done, as far as she cared he could stay bald.

He began moving his fingers like he had learned from Mark Hamil years prior. He quickly found his mouth under her bed. The jaws went in perfectly but the flesh drooped. With his left hand he pointed towards the rubber cement, she kept on her dresser for just such an occasion. His right hand was busy keeping his mouth shut. He got to work applying flesh to muscle in the most temporary of ways. After 15 minutes it was set.

“Wow personal best, 18 minutes.” He looked at her radio clock.

“What the hell part of being a mummy makes you fall apart during sex?”

“I don’t know Charlotte, it’s magic. We’ve been over this, I was divined to live again by Osiris himself. He hits the wine pretty hard on weekends. He makes the rules, not me.”

Charlotte started pouting.

“You forgive me yet?”

She looked into the tawny yellow of his eyes.

“Yes.”

She could never say no to those beautiful eyes. If they were to break up, she was taking them with her.

Down By The River of White

“Were you there when the tower fell? I was on the fifth story when I saw someone impossible, then lightning. Haven’t been talking right since.”

Derrick looked down at the dirty man in the three coats propped up on a green utility box. His scraggly furry face, bulbous nose and deep set eyes gave the appearance of being a cartoon character. On a clear day at a downtown intersection, right outside a drugstore, the man sat without a cup, pot or anything. He was actually making conversation.

“I’ve never been to New York.”

“No, not New York, I’ve been there though, nice town, nice town. Where was I? Where the hell was I? North of Jerusalem, west of Persepolis. It’s really famous actually, just can’t frame to say the name.”

“Having a brain fart? That’s okay, everybody does.”

“You sure this doesn’t ring any bells? Jews crying in the river, really well kept beards. eyes for eyes, eyes for gold, none of this rings any bells?”

Derrick didn’t hear bells ringing, he did hear a big clock in his head moving.

“Look I got to go but it’s been nice talking to you.”

“Vincent?”

“No, I’m Derrick.”

“But Vincent’s a good name right?”

“Sure, I got to go now. Vincent.”

“Ananki bless you.”

“You too buddy.”

The Wires Run Deep



Being loved, Daniel felt guilty for the loaded revolver sitting in his lap. He knew it was not enough to stop him, but it was enough to make it all hurt more. There wasn’t really much staying his hand, except a sad and silly type of cowardice. Next to an old smoking chair that was weathered past value, he sat waiting for the the hands of the clock to meet at twelve.

In his closet sized apartment he was inside the shadow of good upstanding citizens with jobs. A hundred applications submitted and he had nothing but the feeling, that more and more he was a waste. Someone else could use his air and eat his food. He fantasized that when he left some poor bastard from the horn of Africa would take his place. Desta would be so happy to have an apartment so close to downtown.

The .38 in Daniel’s lap was filled with the puniest load that could kill him; he wished his neighbors no ill will. When he practiced it was unloaded but he was ready. He had walked past anger and sadness and was now deep in depression. He was calm. He put the pistol to his head and breathed in, surely for the last time,

Then the phone rang and broke his concentration. Not to be rude, he put down the revolver and went to the ringing appliance. To his surprise he recognized the voice, somehow. It was like something French and Arabic but with clicks. After a moment of deliberation the voice came back.

“Don’t die Daniel, don’t die.”

Desta hung up the phone. Some time ago, he had dream where he lived where another man had died. He was happy there and after he awoke nothing scared him more than that hapiness. That call was expensive but letting a man die when he could of done something would have cost Desta more.

Simons Of The Land, Simon In The Stars

Simon worked through the night. In his winded moments, he stopped to look up and scan the sky for Orion. From here, the whole view of space was different and the hunter could not be found. Simon felt as if a prisoner, trapped on a strange world that was far from a home he had never even touched.

In distances measured in light, the original Simon Forrest traveled the stars giving himself to worlds that needed tilling. Yet, Simon Forrest was also down on the ground working a land called Vitae. He named it himself because Simon couldn’t frame to say it’s true name.

The locals were a gray people who walked on two legs and breathed oxygen as a man does. They were a bit on the small side  topping out at 1.75 meters. Their skin seemed sickly and without tone but their sinew was made apparent when they worked. Simon was among them in the fields and a married member of The Fair; an apt but accidental homonym.

Across galaxies, Simon Forrest was tilling lands and teaching peoples everywhere how to grow, how to feed. It was tiring but constantly thanked work and few Simons truly regretted their toil. Still, each held memories of the Simon in the stars and a sort of easily defeated loneliness that went along with the memory. It was the Simon condition, a psychological malady recognized in more than 10.000 cultures.

Simon in the stars could only sigh. Alone in his travels, he went from star to star, seeding the celestial garden with the knowledge to survive and maybe thrive. He knew he was the least alone person in the whole of space, but none of those other Simons were there in his ship. He would sigh and continue on with his work, all the while yearning to touch soil with his own hands.

In The Sixth Millenium, There Is Chocolate

Aidan Smith was cold but get warmer. The woman he was looking at was covered from lips to toes in white sterile cotton. While the garb wasn’t particularly taut, it betrayed a trim body with pleasing proportions. Her blond bangs met her eye brows in an impossibly straight and level line. While he ogled the first women he had scene in four thousand years, she scribbled on a clipboard. Surprisingly, clipboards still exist in the year 6000.

The calendar in the corner of the room put the day to be January 45, 6007; four days from St. Mulligan’s Day. Aidan was slightly suspicious of the fact that they had English anything but it’s not like they didn’t have time to prepare for him. There was a ding and a green light; the door opened. The woman unzipped her neck and revealed a toothy, pleasant but rehearsed smile.

“Thank you sir, for the compliment.” She spoke slowly and choked back disgust with diplomacy.

Aidan looked down and realized that with his new blood he had his first erection, and his first blush.

“Oh, sorry.”

“It’s quite normal but would you mind obscuring your member somehow. It’s distracting.”

He cupped his hands at a slight distance as to not exacerbate things.

“Alright I’m going to describe your person as I see it. This is to find and diagnose any discrepancies between you before and after the process.”

“What would a discrepancy indicate?”

“Depends, we try not to put any possibilities in your head prematurely. You have green hair correct?”

“No, red.” He then remembered alcohol . “Wait, yes I had green hair when I was frozen.”

“Oh, good, we take space hemophilia very seriously here. Blue eyes, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you weigh 190 pounds?”

“Sounds about right.”

“You are 5 and 10?”

He had to decipher the statement first. “Yes.”

“You have a tattoo of a woodpecker(?) on your right butt cheek?”

He remembered alcohol. “Yes.”

“Alright, we’re done for now, in fifteen minutes we’ll begin your ‘debriefing’.” She made air quotes, unsure as an alien might wave a hang ten sign. “There is a robe that should fit you on the other side of the door. Step cautiously, you haven’t walked in sometime. The floor is cushioned for your protection.”

She left promptly for what Aidan assumed to be akin to a smoke break with the rapid departure. As he made his first step in the year 6007, he fell flat on his face. The cushioning was comfortable and he did not seem to have broken anything. He regretted not sleeping before the freeze.

After a slight bit of maneuvering, he began to prop himself on the now sealed glass door’s handle. He was able to grab the robe off the hook before collapsing on the floor again. After a few minutes trying to get the thing around him proper, he gave up. He simply resigned to enjoy the cushioning with his ass in the air and the robe draped around him. An unseen door opened and he heard a muffled giggle.

She promptly brought over a wooden chair with a ladder back which she held steady. He looked up at it annoyed and slightly hungover.

“Don’t you have a special gizmo for this?”

“The chair usually works.”

He couldn’t argue with her. Slowly he climbed the furniture and stood hunched over it. Through many awkward assisted maneuvers, he finally put on the robe and sat down on the chair. Then he tied his belt.

“You have another tattoo that anthropologists say indicates your status as a warrior. Were you frozen as punishment?”

“US Army Infantry, but no I wasn’t, I wasn’t even aware that happened. It was my choice, I was faced with something called stop loss. My superiors wanted me to go back to a war after I had done my tour.”

“So you’re a coward?”

“Not as I would I put it, but you’re pretty and you gave me a bathrobe, so I won’t hold it against you.”

“Sorry English isn’t my first language.”

“What is?”

“Esquiva. Don’t worry we have very good teachers.” She looked down at the clipboard. “Do you have any skills?”

“I’m good in close quarters combat, I took two years of dance and I can cook.”

Slowly, she framed to decipher the first clause, failing that she continued on.

“Well, we are short of cooks and dancers. Um, we’re done with this so do you mind if I take down my hair?”

He shrugged, slightly confused. She proceeded to remove her hair and put on a close by table.

“Hygiene regulations don’t allow us hair if we work with sleepers but people tend to be frightened if the first thing they see is a bald head.”

He soaked in the shininess of her head.

“Can we go get a beer?”

“I’m afraid alcohol out of fashion.”

“Just as well, what about Cocoa?”

“Is that the sweet brown bean that you crush in milk?”

“Yeah.” Culinary discussions would come later.

“I love that stuff. It’s called brown moo juice now, but your word is better. Co co right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. You’re uninfected so I’ll just fuck the red tape and get you a wheelchair.”

“You mean fudge right?”

“Sure.” She placated his gibberish and promptly left with an excuse to drink brown moo juice on the job.

There is cocoa and therefore hope.

The Banjo Stole My Soul

There is no magic left in this world, it was taken with his hands and I watched him as he sucked away everything I’d ever cared for. He took my depths and added them to his own. I can neither love nor hate, my capacity has been taken and I know it somehow ended up in those old gray eyes.

When I saw him first, I was eight and he was impossibly old: forty two. I was in the basement of the library alongside eight other children who had absolutely nowhere to be on a summer morning. The other adult seemed more interested than we were, he held a very good poker face.

He sang old folk standards and terrible new children’s songs. Surely, we were not to high brow for this but we were uninterested. As he butchered and censored Greenback Dollar, something went wrong in me. Little by little, I realized I wanted nothing. As I was poor, I thought it a boon. I waved goodbye to my cares as his strangely tedious songs took them from me. Being young and apathetic, I was recognized as cool.

I coasted through elementary and junior high. With good looks and no personality people tended to mold me in their mind into something. My long black product laden locks made me goth. My lanky taut body made me an athlete. My limpid green eyes made me a poet. It was the best I could hope for, because I had little hope.

In high school, the absence of my emotion became more apparent with the teen dramas available on so many networks. As I watched Chloe mourn the death of her sister, I remembered that my father had died a year ago and I never said a word. I realized that this might have been peculiar. It occurred to me that a man with a banjo may have stolen my soul and I was displeased.

I couldn’t muster any more emotion than displeasure about anything. I recognized this as a problem as society frowns on those that can’t really frown. It would be quite hard to live without cares and I knew I wasn’t to be bother with anything so difficult. My plan was to drive until I found him; sadly apathy does not make one rational, only uncaring.

As I entered Boomland in it’s Missouri location (being a Canadian, I am unaware if it is a franchise or not), I was struck by something I hadn’t felt in years. That is to say I was struck by feeling. It was mostly numb but it was enough for me to put down the hamburger which I realized was pretty middling and unappetizing. Right there, I screamed like a baby being slapped it in the ass. I hadn’t felt in so long.

I realized that I had myself my own emotional divining rod. I drove and drove until I started to feel numb and adjusted accordingly towards my feeling. Looking back, I should be thankful that the man never took an airplane. No, I found my soul stealer to be a bus rider as my emotions correlated with a 5:00 am from Kansas City to Denver.

at the Denver bus station, it hit me that my mother was probably worried sick about me. I knew I was getting close to him. Through this new found guilt, I persevered onwards with the bull headed stupidness afforded a teenager. In a stadium, I found that he had switched to interesting and catchy rock n’ roll. He was rocking with my emotions and I was getting none of the credit. The crowd was cheering on his stolen anger.

For the first time, I was outraged, then ecstatic at the fact that I could be outraged. It was like breathing pure oxygen. I was loopy and high off these new emotions. I realized I had to stay with him. I’ve been a roadie ever since.

Anyways, My name is Carl and I’m addicted to a musician.

I’m not quite sure if I belong with NarcAnon honestly.

A Pathetic Cruicible

We two warriors face each other. The dog stares at me pensively, but will I relent? Will I give him the wet food? No one knows these things about themselves until they are tested. He is a Yorkshire Terrier named Billy and I am a man of twenty four named Phil. Our crucible is at hand and no one can know the outcome for there is no fate. There is only what we decide.

Heady stuff, I know but if one is to be decisive individual one must have identity. I stand strong and the bowl fills with autumnal colored victory: dry food. To Billy’s credit he accepts defeat graciously as all should do when confronted with a man so strong as I. Yet, still our eternal struggle continues.

I need to get laid, desperately.

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