When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I would eat the occasional moth, grasshopper, ant, etc. to entertain my young children and their neighborhood friends. I also swallowed other things, goldfish and guppies to name a couple, to amuse them (and myself I suppose). This was great fun on camping trips.
Haven ridden motorcycles all my life, I’ve ingested countless flying things I’d rather not think about. During the eighties there was a group of crazies who called themselves the Moon Men. They’d show up unannounced and uninvited at motorcycle rallies and campsites. Their wild antics were high entertainment so, in most cases, they were not chased away. On one such trip, I stopped at a mountain restaurant to eat on a balmy summer weekend in Colorado. Half a dozen loonies, Moon Men extraordinaire, were flitting about the café to the consternation of cooks and waitresses, catching moths, picking up bugs off the floor. Each had a glass jar into which went all the creepy crawlies he captured. Later that evening, around a blazing community campfire, the Moon Men cavorted and entertained me and a host of other midnight riders. The Moon Man with the most critters in his jar was the star of the show. He was acknowledged in low ritual, rewarded as it were, honored by his peers, encouraged and slapped silly (no far reach) while he smacked his lips, yummy-yummy, and ate the day’s catch of the entire group.
Somewhere along life’s path, I decided not to intentionally kill any more bugs. That is, bugs not biting or stinging me and/or my children. Those I promptly stomp, swat, chase, generally swear a sincere vengeance upon. Flies are not a part of my amnesty on critters. I hate the filthy, slimy, sometimes biting little bastards. I collect Rosie the beagle’s doo-doo every morning, drop it in one of those plastic grocery bags and tie it loosely in what I call a half-knot. I hang the bag from a light fixture in the backyard, go my merry way and wait. A couple of times a day I retrieve the bag, hold the top firmly closed at the half-knot, and literally punch the living caca out of the flies that have crawled into the bag. Yesterday, I am glad to report, I took out over a hundred of the little vermin and hardly got any on myself. I am determined and easily amused.
Last week, driving back from our wedding in Colorado, I was chatting with Kathy about what bugs me in life (no pun intended, heh-heh). She was driving (what a good and special girl to give me a break) and I felt it my duty to entertain her. A tiny green bug was crawling around on the windshield on my side of the car. Using my right index finger, I encouraged him over and over to hide himself in the corner between the rubber molding and the glass (I knew he was a he because I saw his little peesqueeter very clearly, thank-you very much). I asked him what he thought about the graveyard just the other side of the windscreen. “What goes through all your little buddies’ bug brains when they smash into that invisible barrier at eighty miles an hour other than their butt-holes?”
Kathy, amused at my discourse (I think), decided the little green bug deserved a name. After some deep consideration, she christened him ‘Nevada Bill’ in honor of the wide and ‘less than scenic’ state we were motoring through. Bill, as if excited to finally have a name, exhibited an amazing ability to hop several times farther than the length of his tiny bug body when I poked his little butt with my finger. He landed on my shirt pocket and perched there looking up at me as if to say, “Now what?” It was either that or Bill needs glasses. I pursed my lips and shot him a little whoosh of breath. Bill didn’t like that. In one little giant hop (I think maybe Bill can fly), he landed on the side window. I tickled the down button on the door panel and out he went into the wind-stream. I kind o’ liked that little guy. Sure hope he doesn’t run across any Moon Men.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series. The entire epic piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~
~daddy called her angel~
~she danced around in circles~
~piggy tails bouncing~
~voice singing with the radio~
~I can’t get no~
~satisfaction~
~tripped into a table~
~broke momma’s favorite lamp~
~so momma administered~
~some corporal punishment~
~bottom lip protruding~
~arms folded in front of her~
~big four-year-old eyes full of tears~~she ran to daddy in the driveway~
~why’s my momma such a bitch~
~he lifted a tear from her cheek~
~hell honey angel~
~I don’t know~
~she hugged his leg~
~can I sit on your harley~
~so she did~
~snuggled into the sissy bar~
~she snuffled a bit~
~favored daddy with a smile~
~thought to herself~
~I ain’t no angel~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~
~she was possessed of~
~XVIII. latent latitudes~
~so mystery is dark~
~yet lies pale upon that face~
~both lively & sorrowful~
~she wears ribbons~
~falling from a nest of hair~
~whose branches display dignity~
~a tin twinkle of passion~
~impossible twists of irony~
~aspire to reach the sky~
~where dreams are torn fresh falling~
~colors laughing~
~some terrible breeze~
~a prayer away from those~
~a wing~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Maria Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~IX~
~the tiny old woman~
~wraps them in her housecoats~
~bunny slippers~
~dries their shaggy heads with a towel~
~you are old men now~
~in your fifties for god sake~
~you have no business~
~riding those damned machines~
~they sit on her couch shivering~
~smiling at each other~
~her two oldest sons~
~having ridden their Harleys~
~five hundred miles in the rain~
~to celebrate her birthday with her~
~she brings them hot coffee~
~loves them well~
~helps them roll their machines~
~into the dark warmth of her barn~
~the very next year~
~her bunny slippers are gone~
~& so is she~
~the brothers ride~
~their tears hide the rain~
~IX. A Tender Wrapping~
~standing up for pennies~
~all hail at a dollar down~
~these blankets~
~ a hundred pound weight~
~strive to earn alive a shroud~
~a safe place to bury your worried face~
~o children learn to walk away~
~plant your seeds~
~your garden of youth~
~be tall & kind to yourselves~
~those older whom look away~
~may be kind & understanding~
~ever useful in the odd circumstance~
~such as surviving under siege~
~construction of birthing & burial blankets~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~falling down is easy~
~reaching for a helping hand~
~god, oh god~
~where have I landed~
~a man crying out~
~from the bottom of a well~
~it is dark inside my coma dream~
~phantom spirit ghosts I see~
~when I awaken~
~I long for their embrace~
~as those of my own kind~
~they throw me away~
~it is just a~
~bone damned wonder~
~to me~
~the good news is~
~I am able to hobble to the toilet now~
~with the help of my walker thing~
~four times a night~
~twelve steps each way~
~one-two-three-four & rest~
~pain is a bone damned wonder~
~deeper than my need to piss~
~I am possessed of both~
~are possessed of me~
~the bad news is~
~snow, I am cold~
~pain is a bone damned wonder~
~winter in Colorado~
~these hundred & ten pounds of me~
~ache deeper, mark me~
~in waves that didn’t exist~
~seventy-five days ago~
~to the hundred & eighty pounds of me~
~the clinicians sent me a bus pass~
~to this hidey-hole I’m living/dying in~
~the bus stop is four blocks away~
~might as well be in china~
~it’s good solid paper though~
~guess I can use it to start a fire~
~so I won’t freeze to death in this place~
~the so-so news is~
~I am crushed but alive~
~pain is a bone damned wonder~
~that assures me it is so~
~if I ever walk again I swear~
~I will never smash another bug~
~they are my friends here~
~in this warehouse we are kept~
~away from the worst of worst of liars~
~those whom say they are aware~
~& sworn to help the aged, broken & dying~
~the shit-house of my life is on fire~
~those dear ones, emergency services~
~swimming in near & safe waters~
~refuse to splash a bit on these flames~
~they are not ignorant of my plight~
~they are hypocrites, bigots & liars~
~whatever was in me is out~
~that I am alive is a~
~bone damned wonder~
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WordWulf
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& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Christmas in bed~
~smiling in spite of it all~
~Mother Teresa Was An Alien~
~the writing is on the wall~
~brother~
~its message so clear~
~a blind man would know it~
~simply because he is blind~
~helpless in the sense of sight~
~as you are with your body crushed~
~she made a thousand calls~
~because she believed in the system~
~no one called her back until today~
~& that was to tell her to knock it off~
~to cease stirring up trouble~
~assessments take time~
~if you run out of that commodity~
~time~
~the assessors smile smugly~
~confidently~
~after all~
~their job is done~
~on the outside looking in~
~where we’ve always been~
~sheriffs, gruff acting men with guns~
~evicting us when we were children~
~Momma pregnant at work~
~daddy at the bar~
~the empirical collective police state~
~had our number~
~our Cherokee ancestors~
~believed in a heaven on earth~
~where the good people~
~in a life after death~
~would return to live simply~
~the evil ones taken away~
~seems like an attractive dream~
~I doubt that place is here~
~there may be such a place though~
~some folks are so good~
~they must be from somewhere else~
~we must do this thing alone~
~there is no room in our spirits for the assessors~
~they have stolen your hair~
~forced you out into the cold~
~your broken body pressed between wheels~
~they are dismissive & afraid~
~it is a high honor~
~to be unwelcome in their camp~
~it is a high honor~
~to be your brother~
~whatever was in me~
~is out~
~I need someone~
~come talk to me~
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WordWulf
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& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Jack {real time}~
God willing & all things equal, an adage that has very little to do with people like my brother & me. I started to tell our story in my novel, Momma’s Rain. Jack wouldn’t read it. It hurt too much. He continued to live hard & mean. I intend to finish the series, American Camp: Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls, the chronicle of a family, my brother and me in particular.
He has been in SICU at Denver Health since November 1st. I have been told he has a crushed ribcage and pelvis, arms and legs broken, a perforated colon, punctured lung, pneumonia, and staff infection, etc. He has received a tracheotomy and is on and off the ventilator. Agitated and angry, heavily medicated and sedated, communication has been difficult at best. I’m not sure he remembers the end-over-end automobile crash that landed him in the hospital. He may not understand where he is. He has been through a number of surgeries to date and has years of convalescence to look forward to.
Friday, November 18, I went to visit him. The lights were off in his cubicle. His body was bouncing up and down, legs kicking wildly. An angry nurse informed me I was not allowed in the room to visit him. Our conversation and details of the incident are explained in the following letter which I have sent to administrators, directors, and board members of the hospital.
Jack’s hair is important to him. More than important, it is as religion, a principle he has fought and suffered to keep throughout his life. Beaten by parents, jail keepers, and guards all his life, it is a statement of what he is about, what the battle for life means to him. Sometime within a couple of days after the 18th someone at Denver Health took that from him. I want to know who, why, and when. When he asks, when he is able to ask, I want to be able to explain these things to him. I cannot give him back what those in authority take away. Guess I’m selfish in this case. I want to know why. I want to know who. I want to know when.
23 November 2011
To whom it may concern,
My name is Tom Sterner. I am elder brother to John Sterner who is currently in your SICU #216. John (we call him Jack) was in a horrific end-over-end car crash Nov. 2nd in Commerce City. He was taken to Denver Health and has been in the care of the hospital since the accident. Our family has been unable to effectively communicate with him because he is heavily sedated, in shock, pelvis encased in a cage, tracheotomy, ventilator, etc.
Visiting him over the past three weeks I have noticed a decided difference between the day and night staff in the SICU. Day persons are generally friendly and helpful. The night crew, to put it mildly, have an attitude. Friday night (11/18) I went to visit at approximately 9:30pm. His door was closed and lights off. His bed was bouncing violently. I proceeded to open the door but was cautioned by a blonde nurse behind the counter across from the room not to do so.
“He is alone in there,” I said to her, “terrified and out of his mind. I’m his brother. Let me touch his face, maybe finally understand what he is so desperate to tell me.”
“Oh, he’s talking all right,” the nurse replied indignantly. “It’s very clear to me what he said before he was medicated just now.”
“Yes!,” I exclaimed, “What did he say?”
“Hmph!” hands on hips, anger evident in her every action. “Fuck you!” she said.
“That’s wonderful,” I replied, “He’s fighting for his life, angry and aware. That’s great news!”
She sneered at me. “We don’t have to take that kind of abuse. He also kicks at us. He needs to learn that’s not acceptable.”
“My point of view is that he is waking into a horrible nightmare, unaware of his feet kicking and, yes, cursing his torturers. Please allow me to console my brother.”
“Go ahead, do whatever you want!” she said offhandedly.
My daughter, Christy, and I went into the room and did what we could to calm him down. His arms are restrained to the side rails of the bed. We have been told that he is bolted to the bed as the cage must be rigid to support his pelvis while it is mending. He was extremely agitated. It was clear he wanted us to release the restraints, heartbreaking to realize we were unable to do so because he is in that crazy place and would probably further injure himself. A few minutes later my brother’s son, Jack, went to see his dad. A male nurse and brunette female were standing over the patient, scolding him, “We don’t kick the bed and nurses in Denver Health SICU!”
We are of Cherokee descent. Our hair is a sacred component of our spirituality, what folks think of as religion. A number of times my daughters asked to wash their uncle’s hair so they could comb it and put it into a braid. The nurses’ answer was always no because he is too agitated, can’t sit up right now, etc. Monday morning (11/21) my youngest daughter asked for a cool cloth to wipe the sweat from Jack’s face when he was brought back to his room and could she please brush and braid his hair.
“That was all taken care of last night,” a nurse (Nicole) said tersely.
They took my brother’s hair. They scold him as if he were an impudent child. They act as if he walked in, healthy and hale, strong of voice, flinging epithets into their faces and threatening them physically.
Reading your Patient Rights statement, specifically: B. Receive care and treatment that is respectful, recognizes your dignity, cultural and personal values and religious beliefs, provides for your personal privacy to the extent possible during the course of treatment, and promotes a positive self-image.
And Q: Receive care that is free from neglect, exploitation, verbal, mental, or physical abuse, or conditions that are not safe.
My brother is fighting for his life, being tormented and punished because of his lack of decorum in SICU. It is amazing he is alive, a testament that the doctors attending him know their business and that he is engaged in the battle. Please address the drama and abuse in SICU. His body is torn, dignity has been ripped from his head. I want his hair. We are not trash.
I fear for my brother’s life and have called your Patients Advocate phone number this morning. I listened to a recording, made its only numerical choice other than 911. I left my contact number with the robot and wonder if and when I will hear from someone representing Denver Health, maybe a whisper that my brother’s life is worth saving.
Officer Chris Dickey (#2905 303-289-3755) from Commerce City has also been to visit Jack several times. He is in charge of the investigation of the crash. I realize these “professionals” have a job to do but shouldn’t saving Jack’s life be the number one priority?
My brother’s son, Jack Sterner, is the first contact as far as making decisions regarding his father. His phone number is 720-364-3171.
I am second contact 530-605-1225 (cell phone 720-270-1602).
Neither of us were consulted in the matter of taking, of stealing, my brother’s hair.That, of course, is a matter of record.
Concerned and waiting your reply,
Tom Sterner
http://wordwulf.com
~he is fallen hard~
~my dearest brother~
~tomorrow I follow the trail~
~of our Cherokee blood~
~from this place~
~California~
~to rejoin him~
~lend my spirit to his healing~
~1400 miles~
~to our Colorado~
~speak a word if you will~
~in his favor~
~& mine~
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
Fists was surly that night which was unusual because he didn’t usually wax surly unless you got on the wrong side of him. You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, you didn’t. He’d been out of sorts of late because Tinker, the guy who wrenched for him, had disappeared a few days ago. This, in and of itself, wasn’t all that unusual. Tinker was a drunk and had a liking for meth when in the process of doing what he liked the most, diving to the bottom of a glass. He showed up late for work more often than not, red eyes, puffy cheeks and shaking like a flea-bitten old dog. What was a bit unusual this time is that he hadn’t shown up at all. Oh, and Fists’ crank was gone too, a whole ounce, three thousand dollars worth after the cut.
Willy handed Fists a baggy with white powder in it. “Here’s the half ounce of mannitol, all ready for the cut. I got a commitment for half a ‘Z’, twelve hundred bucks.”
“Later!” Fists said tersely. He tossed the bag on his desk. “We got something to take care of tonight. I need your help.” He handed Willy the keys to his Eldorado. “You drive. Take I-70 east to the Last Chance exit. We’ll get off there.”
Willy took a deep breath, got in the Eldorado and backed it out of the garage. He waited in silence as Fists let the dogs loose and locked up the shop. His mind was loco-looping, wondering what the hell was going on. He didn’t like the feel of it and wasn’t about to ask Fists any questions. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, he didn’t.
The moon was around ninety-nine percent and Willy let the Cadillac have its head. Smooth as a baby’s butt at a hundred miles an hour. “Slow down!” Fists ordered, “You’re behaving like a pig magnet.”
“Nice night for a ride,” Willy said offhandedly, thinking wistfully of His and Fists’ Harleys parked in Fists’ shop.
“Not tonight,” Fist said, “Just drive.”
Last Chance, Colorado, A blink into Kansas and you missed it. Willy followed Fists’ instructions, took the off-ramp and bump-bumped the Eldorado across the rough dirt road in a farmer’s field. “Stop and open the trunk,” Fists ordered.
Willy breathed a little easier. Now everything was beginning to make sense, hideout guns and cash. That’s what was probably in the trunk. They were out here to do a deal, maybe take someone down. Fists wasn’t usually so closed mouthed about details.
Willy turned the key and the trunk popped open. Fists stepped forward and smashed the trunk light out with the butt of his forty-five. “Should have taken care of that before,” he said.
Willy blinked his eyes. Had he seen what he thought he saw in the instant of bright light before Fists put it out? Tinker, a bandana stuffed in his mouth and bound with cable ties. Fists gave him a nudge from behind and placed a set of wire cutters in his hand. “Here, cut him loose.”
Oh, this wasn’t going well at all. Willy and Fists had talked about him making his bones but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go that far in and he sure as hell didn’t want to earn them by offing Tinker. Tinker was a drunk but Willy had a soft spot in his heart for alcoholics and drug addicts. His father and brothers were of that ilk. They usually hurt themselves more than anyone else.
Willy reached into the dark cavern of the trunk. He had to feel his way to the plastic ties binding Tinker’s ankles and wrists, difficult because they were trussed up and linked together behind his back. “I hog-tied the sumbitch,” Fists offered.
Tinker climbed out of the trunk. “Thanks, Willy,” he said sheepishly.
“Get that pillow case out of the trunk,” Fists said to Willy. He took Tinker by the arm. “You come with me.”
The pillow case had some heft to it, something metal clanking together suspiciously. Willy wasn’t about to risk a peek or put his hand in there. He followed Fists to where he had taken Tinker. They were silhouettes bathed in the moon of the still night, so dark and desolate a mantle of stars was visible. Moon or man could not own their light in the true domain of earth and space. Tinker was on his knees. Fists’ hands held his gun, arms stiff, a shooter’s stance, the barrel of the gun pressed tight against Tinker’s forehead. Fists twisted it a bit and a trickle of blood ran down the man’s face.
“You regret lying to me?” Fists asked.
Tinker groaned, an animal sound deep and lost inside. “Agh, yeah, I am..”
“I got customers,” Fists said softly, tapping the pistol against Tinker’s head. “You lie to me and I lie to them. I don’t like that.”
Tinker pressed his face into the gun. “I didn’t mean to. I’m no good. Just.. just.. you know.”
“You been running your mouth in the bars,” Fists said. “Telling everybody you don’t care if I find you. Well, here I am.”
Fists stood away, tucked his pistol into the back of his jeans. “Stand up and take your clothes off,” he ordered.
Tinker struggled to his feet and began to walk round and round in a tight circle mumbling incoherently. “Undress that sonofabitch,” Fists said to Willy.
Willy took a step forward. He reached out and touched Tinker’s arm. Tinker jerked away. “No, please!” he begged. “I know you’re pissed cause I took your speed but I’ll pay you back, Fists. I promise! I’ll work for nothing, show up on time every day. Please!”
“Did you hear me?” Fists addressed Willy. “Or was that cockroach making too much noise?”
Willy grabbed the front of Tinker’s shirt. Tinker turned to run and the shirt ripped from his body. “Get ‘im,” Fists said softly.
Tinker fell face first into the freshly plowed earth. Willy, a football player in his high-school days, had run him down and shoulder tackled him at the knees. He pulled Tinker up from the ground and marched him back to where Fists waited on the moonlit path. “What are you gonna do?” Tinker whined plaintively.
“You won’t like it,” Fists chuckled. He pulled the forty-five out and pointed it at Tinker’s head. “But it’s better than being shot in the head. Now take your clothes off, all of them.” He leveled the gun, took a step forward, and nestled the end of the barrel into the spot between Tinker’s eyes. “A man should always have a choice. I respect that. You didn’t. This is your choice.” The distinct noise of the metallic mechanism of the pistol owned the moment as Fists pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “Last time. Take your clothes off.”
Tinker pulled down his trousers. He had begun to choke and sob. His hands were shaking terribly and sharing some inconsolable rhythm with the gurgling sounds coming from his throat. “Pull down your boxers,” Fists said.
Drool running from his mouth, Tinker was barely coherent, literally shocked out of his mind at the mere prospect of what might be about to happen. Fists nodded at Willy and he pulled down the man’s boxer shorts. Fists stepped forward and slapped him on his bare ass. “Ya know, Tinker, I could have had you the first day you screwed me around.” He waved his gun toward the moon. “I waited for that because I wanted you to see the full light of your mistake.” He chuckled. “And I need light to do what Willy and I are about to do about you.”
Willy was almost as apprehensive as Tinker. He had no idea what Fists’ plans might be but hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking. He couldn’t do that, no way he could do that. He glanced at Tinker just as Fists slapped him hard in the chest. Tinker fell flat on his ass, a loud oomph of air rushing from him, forced out in a surprised gush. “Take his shoes off!” Fists ordered. “I want him butt-assed naked and we’re running out of time. We got things to do.”
Tinker stood on his tiptoes, arms reaching for the sky. “Turn around,” Fists whispered. “Now bend over and grab your ankles.”
“Oh, God, God…” Tinker moaned.
“Now for your part.” Fists grinned at Willy. “Go clean him up. He done shit and pissed all over himself, then fell in the dirt, poor l’il guy.”
Willy used the rag of Tinker’s shirt to wipe him off. “Make sure he’s dry everywhere,” Fists advised. “We gotta have ‘im tight ‘n dry.”
Good God, Willy thought. This is some crazy shit. Any sympathy he had for Tinker was quickly dissipating as he began to wonder how he was going to handle the next few minutes of his life. “Hand me that bag,” Fists said. “Then go over and reach into the hidey-hole of my ride. We gotta get ready for the next part.”
Willy returned with a can of WD-40. Fists smiled at him, dark and evil. He took the can of lubricant from Willy’s hand. “Good stuff.” He unscrewed a false bottom from the can, palmed a vial, winked and tossed it to Willy. “Have yourself a blast o’ that. Tell me what you think.”
Willy held the vial up to the moonlight, squinted his eyes to better see its yellow/white powder contents. “Hurry up!” Fists said impatiently. “We don’t have all night.”
The cap of the vial had a tiny plastic flip-out spoon which Willy used to scoop out some of its contents. He placed a finger on his left nostril, applying pressure to hold it closed, while he inhaled the powder up the other side of his nose. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, extending his arm, offering the vial back to Fists.
Fists waved him off. “Do the other side. I can’t have you runnin’ around in circles on me.”
Willy laughed and loaded up the other side of his nose. Fists took the vial and quickly had a couple of blasts for himself. He stashed the vial back in the base of the WD-40 can and handed it to Willy. “Well, what do you think?”
“Holy shit!” he repeated. “It’s great! I feel like someone’s taking the back of my head off.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He held it up for Fists to see. “Bleeding like a stuck pig. That stuff’s a little raw.”
“Yeah,” Fists agreed. “A brother of mine cooked it up to help cover up shithead here rippin’ me off. Made me a good deal and did it quick. Too quick maybe, he didn’t cure it right.” He glanced thoughtfully at Willy. “Hey, while we’re dealing with Tinker here, you be thinking about something to name this shit. It’ll smooth out some with that mannitol but it won’t take the yellow out. Shooters won’t like it one bit.”
“Sure,” willy said, casting a worried sidelong glance in Tinker’s direction.
“Go spread his butt cheeks,” Fists ordered, all friendliness gone from his voice. He was definitely in back to business mode.
Here we go, Willy thought. Tinker jerked violently when Willy touched him. “Knock it off!” Willy hissed. “This will be over before you know it. You’re just making it worse with your bullshit.”
Fists, in his directorial voice, intoned, “Turn his asshole toward the light.”
Tinker shuddered as Willy arced his body around. “He has dirt on his ass,” Fists advised, “Wipe ‘im off again.”
Willy picked the rag up from the ground and pushed it up and down Tinker’s butt crack. He heard Fists pick up the pillow case behind him, whatever was in it clinking and clanking in the still darkness. “Hold ‘im just like that,” Fists crooned. “We gotta start in the tight spots.”
A tiny steel ball ding-ding-dinging against the inside of a tin cup. Willy’s mind jumped back to his poor-boy childhood, aggies and steelies, turf wars in the housing projects. He glanced back at Fists and just didn’t get it. The man was standing there casually shaking a can of spray paint as if he was preparing to prime a gas tank on his Hawg. Hold ‘im tight,” he said. He held the nozzle a couple of inches away from its target and began to paint Tinker’s asshole. His eyes were next and under his arms. Then came the pecker. Willy had to hold Tinker’s balls up because he was shaking and gasping and literally couldn’t get hold of himself.
Fifteen cans of florescent green spray paint, that’s what was in that old pillow case. Fists stood back to admire his work. He had Tinker turn in slow circles, tried to talk him through a pirouette but the man was way past being able to manage such tricks. “Hey, Willy,” he said. How do you like that? Is that better than killing a man or beating him up or what?”
“I don’t know,” Willy replied. “I just don’t know.”
“Must be all right if I put one over on you,” Fists mused. “Did I miss anything?”
“Hell,” Willie said, “That man is green everywhere but the bottoms of his feet.”
“Good man!” Fists exclaimed. He gave Tinker a shove. “Sit down. You ain’t done yet!” He tossed a can of paint to Willy. “You finish ‘im off. Get the bottoms of those feet and in between his little tootsies. I’ll lay us out a proper line on the mirror before we send him on his way.”
Willy was relieved to finish ‘im off as it were, glad it didn’t seem to require a bullet or baseball bat as finish ‘im off usually did. Tinker kept trying to ask him questions but Willy refused to engage. He had a feeling this was going to turn out okay, no dead guys or anything.
“Go get yours!” Willy jumped at the sound of Fists’ voice. He stepped away and Fists ordered Tinker to his feet. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. While he was on the way to the car, sixteen steps, or when he was inside with the hundred dollar bill straw giving himself another nose bleed. It didn’t though. He returned to Fists and Tinker and found Fists in a campfire stories kinda mood. “See,” Fists said to Tinker. He tapped him on the nose with a stiff finger. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
Tinker winced as he forced his eyes wide open, flinched when Fists’ hand moved. “Burns, don’t it?” Fists said. He pulled a tissue from his shirt pocket and dabbed at the corners of Tinker’s eyes. “You’re just skittish as hell, aren’t you?” he chuckled.
“Farmers hereabouts been reporting flying saucer sightings longer ‘n we been alive,” Fists said in a conversational tone. “Most of ‘em pack iron for skunks, eagles, coyotes, any critter posing a threat to their critters. Don’t know how they’d react to a green man come to the door.” He looked off to the west. “Denver’s about forty miles from here,” he said. “That’s where Willy ‘n me are going.” You can too if you care to. Thing is, me being a man of my word, I’ll kill your ass first chance I get.” He pointed to the east with a crooked finger. “Kansas that way, Dorothy, Toto, and all that shit. Scarecrows and tin men, maybe they’ll think you’re just another strange character jumped outa some writer’s brain.”
Fists pulled out his pistol, made a big display of ejecting a shell and jacking a fresh one into the chamber. “One with your name on it,” he said to Tinker. “I’d get packin’, I were you. Make your choice.”
Tinker went to Kansas.
“Clean up this mess and let’s get out o’ here,” Fists said to Willy. “I’ll drive back. You drive too damned slow!”
Interstate 70, speedometer pinned, four o’ clock in the morning, beatin’ the sunrise to Denver. “Well hell,” Fists pulled his fingers through his beard. “What we gonna call it?” He made a cluck-cluck sound with his tongue. “I wanna draw some connection to tonight’s events but not directly and I want something catchy, some snazzy assed thing to draw in the shooters. We gotta move this stuff quick to cover our ass.”
Willy stared through the windshield, mesmerized by the predawn silhouette of the Rocky Mountains against the sky. He glanced across the car at his friend, green fingers tapping out a beat with ZZ Topp, “Easing down the highway in a new Cadillac.”
“How ‘bout ‘Florescent Horizons’ Willy said dreamily.
“Goddam if that ain’t it!” Fists slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He flipped the vial across the seat. “Glad you was with me tonight, Willy. Let’s get to shakin’ and bakin’! We gon’ make some Florescent Horizons.”
So they did, down the road, singin’ with the radio, “I’m bad, I’m nationwide!”
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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