NEVERMIND: A.G. Devitt's Writing On The Web

http://agdevitt.blogspot.com/2007/11/flight.html

Link posted for your convenience, dear LJ readers.

http://agdevitt.blogspot.com/2007/11/beige.html

Please comment on the new page, if desired.

As always, I thank you for your interest.

This blog is no more.

Not that it ever really was.

I mean, I never actually set out to blog.

It just sort of…happened.

In October of 2004, a student of mine named Katie Sullivan came into my office (she had a habit of throwing odd miscellanea into my doorway: toys, pens, CD’s…). She had just chucked a plastic fish at my head, so my attention was hers.

“Are you on Livejournal?” she said.

“No,” I said, having no idea what that was.

“You should be,” she said. And she gave me her address.

It was the first time I had ever considered blogging.

Now, I am a private individual. I had no intention of sharing my life with the world. I write fiction for a reason. But the kind of writing I do is always autobiographical. My life is the springboard from which myriad fictional adventures begin. So I set out to write a fake blog about a fake life. Along the way, since I was already perpetrating a fraud, I could slip in some real life stories and no one would be the wiser.

The result was a hyperbolic-autobiography. A character that thought like me and talked like me and occasionally did some things I actually did. But more so. I went almost two years without naming him. He was just “I” or “he.” He was me, but not.

I think maybe eight or nine people were reading the thing with any regularity, and that includes myself.

And then, that same student, Miss Sullivan, came into my classroom one day (I can’t remember if she was actually in the class, or if she was just hanging out) and she said, “Are you on Myspace?”

To which I replied, “No.”

“You should be,” she said. And she gave me her address.

When I first began Myspace, as with Livejournal, I used a fictional name, invented a character, and pretty much didn’t use the thing for anything other than distraction during my office hours. But I noticed something. People kept sending me friend requests. Only it wasn’t me they were friending, it was this fake bozo I was pretending to be.

I quickly realized the value social networking sites had for a writer. I ditched my fake profile in favor of a real one, began linking my LJ blogs to it, and my readership swelled.

I now needed to name my literary avatar, lest people confuse his sometimes less than social escapades with my own.

Thus, Spike was born.

Judging from the amount of e-mails and comments I received, people liked him. A lot more people liked him than actually liked me. And for months I mined my own life, my own back-story, and found elements to incorporate into this tapestry I was weaving.

That’s how I write, you see.

I like to write what I know. I don’t need to. I don’t have to. But I like to.

I was posting bits of my soul for all the world to read. And the comments and letters I received were greatly appreciated. But I still wasn’t sure what I was doing. This was no longer a fake blog. It wasn’t quite a serialized story. It was bits and pieces. Scenes and vignettes.

It became exhausting to write Spike. My mine of ideas, which stretches back only 33 years, was depleting. I’d said all I had to say with the character.

It was time for him to die.

Killing Spike--that was tough. It was a literary suicide. But I couldn’t take him any further without him actually becoming me, which is something I refuse to do. Remember, I write fiction.

But the mine…it wasn’t empty.

It was just one vein that was tapping out.

There was another, branching off from Spike’s. Darker even. Deeper. And infinitely more interesting for me as a writer.

There, in the darkness, I cast my halogen beam and his cold, gray eyes stared out at me from the cave he’d been hiding in.

I’d discovered Mr. Blake.

For the past month or two, I have shared some of his stories with you. I have read your letters and your comments and I appreciate them, every one. And after completing “Ars Poetica,” I realized that this was no longer a pseudo-lit blog. It was becoming a serialized novel.

And the vein I’d been mining ran deeper than I initially suspected.

I thank you all for your readership. For your comments and criticisms. For your sometimes spectacular literary insights. Blake, Jessica, and the ghost of Spike are about to get the treatment they deserve. After three years, I am finally going to let them play out in a novel.

I hope that you will stay in contact with me. I don’t plan on being silent. In 2008, my comic book series, Channels, will finally debut. I hope it lives up to the expectations I know some of you have of it. I like it, if that helps. A piece of my flash fiction, “Bad Shave,” will be appearing in the horror antho “The Twisted Twins.” I am also working out a deal with Luchador Enterprises to post my pulp fiction on the net (there will be merchandise which I would be most appreciative if you bought). And I will be hard at work on the novel that I hope all of you will someday be able to read.

This will be my third novel. And hopefully, it will be the first I submit for publication.

I am my own worst critic.

In the meantime, I will continue to skulk around Myspace and Facebook, and have made myself a modest new blog: agdevitt.blogspot.com.

I have no idea what I will make of it.

Like I ever do…

Please stay tuned. A~

Buffalo, NY. 1996.

“This is the place.” Antonio offers me my choice of blades. The Mustang’s engine is idling. I look out the passenger-side window at the small, four unit apartment. The building sits almost flush to the curb with no front lawn to speak of. It is identical to several others that line the road, cheap housing thrown together after World War II to accommodate the returning veterans and their newly started families. Now they are incubators of crime.

”What’s this guy done, again?” I look over the selection and decide to go in bare handed. I’ve been denied my Beretta 9mm. Even with a silencer. This is not supposed to be neat. This one has to be messy.

“It don’t matter, Kimosabe. Orders is orders.” Antonio is cool. I’ve never seen him angry. Never seen him lose control. Never seen him bothered by anything. I don’t know much about him, other than he is older than I am by an indeterminate amount, and he has seemingly been doing this since birth.

Through it all he manages to be Catholic.

“Do you really think Jesus forgives you?” My hand is on the door handle. The low rumble of the engine vibrates through me, adding to the adrenal surge I am fighting to control.

“I confess after every job.”

“But then you just go and do it again. You obviously aren’t sorry.”

“Jesus forgives those who ask for it.”

“But don’t you need to mean it?”

He looks at me and I see metal in his eyes that reminds me he is not my friend. “I mean it every time.”

I take a breath and open the door. I look back into the Mustang and see my Beretta hanging out of Antonio’s coat pocket. He wants me to see it. He wants me to know what happens if I try to turn back.

“Apartment 3,” he says, as if we were delivering a pizza. “Make it hurt.”

I step up to the door, white painted wood. No lock. It swings open like a screen door on a spring. The air is must. The staircase lined with old sneakers and empty twelve packs. I look back at the car. Antonio is looking straight ahead. When I turn back, I hear him pull away.

I’m alone.

I step inside the nest, easing the door closed behind me. Apartment 3 is at the top of the stairs to the left. I don’t know why I’m here.

I wanted blood.

That’s how it all started.

Street fights. Bar fights. Any excuse to break a man. There’s a part of me that likes it. A part of me I need to control.

I don’t want to hurt anyone innocent. Just bad guys. Just men who ask for it.

Antonio’s boss is a bad guy. But anyone connected with him is a bad guy, too.

And the blood. Watching them bleed. Hearing them beg.

I hate that this is me.

The money I get for this job. It’s going to charity. To the battered women’s shelter. I want good to come from this. I want to be good. I do.

But I know I’m not.

I climb the steps, my heels close to the wall. Silent. I press my ear to the door at the top. I hear television sounds. The door is as cheap as the outside one, but with an impressive dead bolt.

I kick the door. The bolt holds. The wall doesn’t.

He’s in a Lazy-boy, Budweiser in hand. Two steps and I’m on him. I push the chair backwards and he spills to the ground. He’s pale white limbs. Grungy jeans. A yellowed wife-beater.

I grab the straps of the tank top and pull him up. The shirt rips but holds long enough for me to smash his nose with my elbow. I loosen a few teeth in the process. He’s drooling blood. He tries to speak but he chokes on the gore.

“I don’t know who you are,” I say, calmly. Though I am anything but calm inside. I can feel the rush. The sight of the blood. My dick is hard, but not from this scumbag. From the adrenaline. From the rush.

“Please,” he says. I hear a voice from the back room. A woman. “Matty,” she says.

“Tell your girl to stay put, Matty. I’m not here for her.” I throw him back down and stomp his brachial plexus. The blow to the nerve center takes his breath away. The sight of him gasping takes away mine.

“I’ll pay,” he chokes. “Just need--"

“You just need time.” I pick up his hand and bend his fingers back, one at a time, until they crackle pop. He’s in too much agony to scream. His tongue wags all bloody, his face becomes map lines of pain. I work on his wrist, hyper-extending it. Taking him apart joint by joint. Like pulling apart legos.

“Please,” he hisses. And I almost feel pity. I almost feel guilt. Then I think of what he is, and what men like him have done. How much I hate them. And I let the hate take me where I need to go.

I let the tiger out.

I am the conductor in a symphony of screams as I coax out every note.

“Matty!” I hear from the back. I hear footfalls. But I can’t stop. The slip slide. The boulder gaining momentum as it crashes down the mountain of madness inside me. Crackle splatter wet thwack thud.

And then I see her. Blond hair and pigtails, in footed pajamas, clutching My Little Pony to her chest.

She wasn’t saying “Matty.”

“Daddy,” she whispers.

And I die.

I die.

I die.

(Note: To read more from A.G. Devitt, go to www.agdevitt.com or myspace.com/agdevitt)

What follows is the intro to my short story, Assassin's Playground.

The perfect assassination depended on many factors, but exact change was not usually one of them. Standing before the gated entrance of the Highway Playground on the outskirts of Greenswille City, Gaz Lightly dug deep into his belt pouch and came up empty. His partner, Merc Ludo, had a little more luck, producing three silver pieces from the hip pocket of his high-waisted, loose-fitting pants.

“Why can't we just go in?” Ludo said, craning his thick neck to get a glimpse of the realm's “premier adult entertainment emporium.”

“Because we're assassins, not thieves. And admission is twenty-five stecks.” Gaz stepped out of the foyer and into the backwoods twilight. The Highway Playground was way off the highway…so far off that it had taken them over an hour to find the place from the turnoff. Gaz stood on the rickety wooden deck overlooking the barren field, which contained three horses, including their own. Not a lot of business for so lucrative an establishment. The persistent stories of wild animal attacks in the outlands had taken their toll.

“You know, your warrior code is pretty inconvenient,” Ludo said, leaning his bulk against the railing.

Gaz shook his head at the larger man. “How many times have I told you—”

“I know,” Ludo sighed. “The only thing separating an assassin from a murderer…”

“…is that we adhere to a strict moral code,” Gaz finished.

“It was easier being a wrestler.” The big man stared off into the empty lot, arms akimbo. “The fights were fake, but you knew who the good guys were.”

“We're the good guys, Ludo,” Gaz said, as he had told himself repeatedly since going professional.

Ludo jingled the coins in his hand. “One of us can go in, anyway. This comes to thirty stecks.” He turned towards the gate, which was splintered in spots from what looked like a dwarf-axe attack. “No one's here. One of us can handle it.”

Gaz looked up at the signboard overhead, illuminated by torchlight. It advertised “Free Mead” as one of the enticements. “How can they call it free mead when they charge you to get in?”

Ludo shrugged. Gaz felt that shaking sensation in his guts. His adrenaline was up. His body was tightening. He had to stay loose. Focused. Relaxed. Maybe Ludo was right. It was stupid to blow a fifty-thousand platinum deal over twenty-five stecks. Maybe he did need to lighten up.

“Let's do it.” Gaz let out a long, deep breath. “But you give them the thirty stecks, at least.”

“Can I get some mead, too?”

“Don't be funny.”

For the rest of the story, be sure to pick up "Bash Down The Door And Slice Open The Badguy," a comedic fantasy anthology coming in just two short months.



Pre-order it today by clicking here:
BASH

What "they're" saying:

“A real treat for fans of sword & sorcery.”—John DeChancie, author of the Castle Perilous series

“Bash Down the Door and Slice Open the Badguy takes all the old familiar sword & sorcery standards and even a few cliches, turns them on their ear, rips out their funny bones and beats them over the head with it. Lots of fun.”—Patrick Thomas, author of the Murphy’s Lore series and the “Dear Cthulhu” column in Cthulhu Sex Magazine

“It’s refreshing to turn to broadswords for belly-laughs, and sorcery for snickers, both of which this anthology delivers. With work by established authors Lawrence C. Connolly, K. D. Wentworth and Jim C. Hines—along with good entries by soon-to-be-rising stars like A. G. Devitt and Susan Sielinski—this is a solid collection of sly and silly sword-and-sorcery tales.”—Timons Esaias, author of The Influence of Pigeons on Architecture and winner of the Asimov's Readers Award.

Yes, I know this week's blog is basically a commercial. But I wanted to update this week and I am under deadline for a script, so this was the best I could do...

The following excerpt is from Insufferable Bore Magazine's interview with A.G. Devitt.

IB: How are you today, sir?

AGD: Fine, thanks for asking. Not that I for one moment think you care.

IB: Why wouldn’t we care?

AGD: People say “How are you” when they have nothing else to say. Humans are uncomfortable being silent in each other’s company. It’s just a sound you make so everyone’s comfortable. We might as well just say “fuck you” to each other as we pass on the street. It’s all sounds.

IB: All right then. This interview is off to a fine start. Tell us about Channels?

AGD: I don’t really like talking about it yet. It’s not coming out until May at the earliest. I have the script for the first issue half completed. I like what I have so far. Here. Let me read you the official blurb so I don’t have to strain myself:
(reads from a crumpled sheet of notebook paper)
Channels is the story of Fender, a bargain basement magician who, while nursing a hangover in a run down hotel, decides there is nothing left in this world for him, so why not open a dimensional portal?

Tobe, a boy of ten who has practically been raised by television, is innocently sitting in front of the tube in the hotel room beneath Fender as he performs his spell.

The hotel explodes.

Tobe wakes up with a TV for a head.

And that’s just the start of his problems. When Liz, a being who claims to be an angel, informs Fender that he has unleashed 36 demons from Hell, Fender must find the hero within himself and hunt down each demon in a separate channel of reality. And Tobe has the remote.

Thirty-six demons. Thirty-six channels. Each time the channel changes, Fender wakes up in a new television lifetime. From an 80’s action series to a 1950’s sitcom, Fender moves from channel to channel, capturing the demons he freed while at the same time destroying realities he perceives as better than the one he is saving.

Will Fender succeed in his quest? Will Tobe ever get his normal head back? Or will Fender decide to live out his days in an idyllic TV reality?

IB: Wow. That sounds interesting. Where did you get the idea?

AGD: That’s the worst question ever. And the easiest and most truthful answer is, I made it up.

IB: And Brandon Dawley is doing pencils?

AGD: Correct. It’s really a creative partnership. I’m looking forward to seeing his rendition of the script.

IB: Care to tell us about any other projects you are working on?

AGD: Not at this time, no. I’m keeping busy. If something comes along that’s worth mentioning, I’ll be sure to let you know.

IB: Ok. Let’s get personal here.

AGD: Oh boy…

IB: Why are you a pedestrian?

AGD: You mean why do I not drive? Or are you calling me pedestrian?

IB: Why don’t you drive?

AGD: Why don’t you fly helicopters? That’s another hideous question I get asked. I have no cell phone, either. It seems to me that no car and no phone makes me some kind of freak. I guess I am selectively Amish.

IB: Do you enjoy teaching?

AGD: I do. The moment I stop enjoying it, I’ll stop doing it.

IB: How did you get into teaching? Was it something you always wanted to do?

AGD: It was something I never wanted to do. Growing up, both my parents were teachers. I told myself I would never be a teacher. I dropped out of college for five years. I wrote. Dabbled in music. Managed a cool indie music store. Met a lot of strange, colorful characters and got a lot of things out of my system. Then I just got bored of that lifestyle and wanted something that would keep me on my toes, mentally.

IB: What’s your teaching philosophy?

AGD: To get my students to not need me. It’s a strange job where you gradually build a relationship with a new group of people every few months or so, and you work towards making yourself unnecessary to them.

IB: You perform as a writer. Do you perform as a teacher?

AGD: Four shows every M/W/F. One show T/Thurs. I play to an audience of, on average, twenty people for each show. And they are paying big bucks for that seat, so I make sure they get bang for the buck.

IB: We have to ask: What’s with that hair?

AGD: It’s mine. At my age, I am happy to have it. I have had it long, spikey, shaved, mohawked. Now it’s just kind of messy and uneven. I don’t do anything with it. This is how it is. I don’t know why people are fascinated by it. There’s guys with stranger hair, I’m sure.

IB: Is it true you never wear a tie?

AGD: I feel bad for men in ties. The word itself…tie…they are tied to their jobs. I don’t need to be tied down. Plus, I don’t put my neck in a noose for just anyone.

IB: Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man!

AGD: Shut up.

IB: What author influenced you the most?

AGD: There was no single author. My favorite living writer is Robert B. Parker. The man is a master stylist. But the one book that I can say had the greatest impact on me not as a writer, but as a teenaged boy, was Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. That book changes lives.

IB: You have written two novels now. Any chance of them being published?

AGD: My first novel, Ultraville, technically was published. If you want to be literal about it. It sits, bound in a handsome faux leather cover, in the library of Seton Hill University. Published. I feel the book is unfinished. I hope to finish it before I die.

IB: And the second?

AGD: I ran out of summer. I need to finish the third act and give it a good second draft. Right now Channels is a priority for me. I need to prioritize. I will give more attention to that which will bring in income versus that which “could” bring in income.

IB: Will you be returning to the Pen In Hand conference this March as an author in residence?

AGD: Yes. They are actually having me back. Again. I love doing that conference. It’s usually one of my better weekends.

IB: Will you be reading “Assassin’s Playground” at the conference?

AGD: I’m not sure that would go over too well. A lot of the action takes place in a brothel. It’s a high school audience. And their teachers. I need to keep it respectable.

IB: When will that story be available?

AGD: Your guess is as good as mine…Last I heard they were finding an author to write the intro to the anthology it will be appearing in. It will hopefully be out soon. I’m anxious to read it.

IB: Didn’t you write it?

AGD: Yes, but that was a long time ago. I forgot what happens.

End of excerpt.

This is gonna be tough. I have avoided writing my thoughts on the subject of love since I started this journal. Sure, I have hinted here and there, but never have I done any exploratory surgery on how I feel about it.

If you haven’t yet, please go back and read my previous journal entry. Not so much for the entry itself as for the responses. I was amazed and awed by the honesty and, dare I say, beauty that came out of your willingness to talk to me. The experiment was so successful in my mind that I have taken it a step further in this entry.

I am answering a friend’s questions about that which shoots forth from Cupid’s quiver.

I have many friends at the moment who are going through a crisis of love, so now seems as much of an appropriate time as any for me to chime in. The following is in interview format. Thanks (I think) to the charmingly obscure Laura Jones for providing the questions that follow.

On with the show!


1: Does love exist in abstract alone, or is there a concrete manifestation of it? Meaning, does the sort of love that lives in imagination actually exist?

Answer: I believe love to be an individual, subjective state of being. I believe that love originates in a chemical process designed to propagate the species. Nature, for whatever reason, wants us to exist, and nature’s will is not to be fucked with. Nature wants us to make babies? We’ll make babies. And to insure we don’t screw up the plan, there are these chemicals our bodies produce, drugs that affect our brains and make us go a little bit insane.

That state of insanity is love.

For some people, it never goes beyond “lust.” I will address what turns lust into love in another question, but for now, let’s go with this premise. You asked if the love that exists in imagination actually exists. Well, I say love stems from the mind under the influence of these drugs, so love therefore ONLY exists in our imagination. And my imagination is much different from yours, or his, or hers. So all of our experiences of love are completely and utterly different. Which may explain why some people are more inclined to stay in this state of insanity than others.


2: Whether or not love truly exists, society has attached a very specific meaning to the word. What is that meaning?

Answer: I think that women and men still grow up with gender differentiations built into their play patterns. While I hope this practice eventually goes away, young girls are still encouraged to play with Barbie while boys engage in war games with GI Joe. The fact that if Joe were real he would be much more interested in Barbie than fighting is a source of wry amusement for me. So, I think that little girls grow up with a “fairy tale” dream of romance, where boys grow up feeling the need to keep and protect someone.

Society places an awful lot on the word love, and I think a lot of it is economic. Look at the billion dollar wedding industry. Diamonds, for example. People, diamonds are not rare. Not at all. You are being scammed. Diamonds are formed from carbon, the most common element on this mudball. Through marketing and social manipulation while we grow up, girls are led to expect a diamond for an engagement ring. That little rock on your finger is dripping with blood. Ever read about the conditions the typical diamond worker has to live under in Africa? That rock, with its criminally inflated price, represents a type of slavery that is appalling in any age. And yet many of you ladies would not think of being engaged without one.

And men? You fall for the trap of spending three months salary on these little stones. For what? To conform to society’s ideals of love.

Now here I am speaking only of romantic love. There are other forms of love. I love my cat. Why? Well, I can only assume it is because I have grown attached to her. She is around me every day. My brain has written her pattern in my synapses. If she were to run away or die, I would miss her, because those patterns in my brain would be thrown for a loop.

Believing this about love in no way diminishes how it affects me. I am just looking at the issue of love objectively, and this is how I see it. I would run into a burning building to save my cat. I would not stop and think, “I will only miss her because her absence will throw my routine out of whack.” I wouldn’t care.

Love is an insanity, after all. It defies reason and logic.


3: The following questions pertain to socially accepted 'love'.

a: What makes a person fall in love? Is it possible to cultivate love, or does it simply happen? Do men and women love for different reasons?

Answer: Arthur Schopenhauer believed that people fall in love with individuals who demonstrated strengths that the other does not have. For example, I dislike math, so I would be attracted to a woman who can balance a checkbook. He believed that nature did this to ensure that each successive generation receives stronger traits from the parents, thus ensuring the continued success of the line.

It’s the classic opposites attract. And I do believe it to be partially true. Think about it. How attracted would you be to someone just like yourself? Not very, I should think.

But going back to a previous answer, that love is a chemical “trick” of sorts and that each person imagines it differently, I think that some people’s feelings just click. Those are the couples who stay together once that initial spark, the drive to procreate, wears off. They get used to each other, as I am to my cat, and those familiar brain patterns establish a comfort with each other. They may no longer have the passion of when they first met, but that burning flame has been replaced by a reliable fire to keep them warm and safe. This, too, is biological and evolutionary. Look at how weak a human child is. It needs its parents to stay together to keep it from being eaten. So passionate love grows into a steady, slow burning love in those people who have the compatibility for it to happen. If love can be cultivated, it stems from this pattern forming nature of our personal relationships.

Do men and women fall in love for different reasons? Well, I really cannot say. I think all people fall in love, initially, for the same reason. That chemical explosion. But what happens after that is based on the unique individual. Men, they say, are more visually based. Women prefer emotional intimacy. I have several doubts about this theory based on personal observation, but I’ll let you debate that point. It’s what my comment button is for.

b: What is the most honest expression of love?

Answer: This one is easy for me, because I have given it a lot of thought. Love is doing what you think is best for someone else, even if that action means they will not love you anymore.


c: Is it possible to fall in and out of love, or is there only one True Love out there, thereby fucking you over entirely if you miss it?

Answer: Think about your relationships. The first girl or guy you loved was THE ONE. Not just THE ONE, but the OH MY GOD THE ONE. And then it fell apart, and the next one to come along may have just been a rebound, but eventually OH MY GOD THE ONE comes around again. And you don’t know how you ever lived without them.

You have as many “the ones” as there are people capable of sparking that insanity in you and maintaining it. Remember, nature wants you to breed. It wouldn’t design a system of one man for every woman.

4: Given the possibility that 'love' could be a social construct like class or genre or Santa Claus, are there ethical considerations involved in knowingly directing the phrase "I love you" toward a significant other?

Answer: How do we manipulate people? We manipulate people by lying to them. If you tell someone you love them in order to get them to bed, then I would say there is a huge ethical consideration involved. Words are ideas, and there are some ideas that are more powerful than others. Love can be the most destructive emotion out there. Love leads to hate if unchecked. So yes, before you say those mythic three words, consider carefully their effects. The life you save may be your own.


There you go, Laura. I am interested in what kind of dialogue this will spark. Please feel free to leave your comments on any or all of the answers I wrote. You may be anonymous or leave your name, but I would like to hear from all of you. How would you answer Laura’s questions? As always, all I ask of you is honesty.

Thanks for stopping by. I need to get back to work now.

Love, A~

The fifth promised installment in our Amish Pulp series is my favorite: a cold war spy thriller. As a lifelong fan of Ian Fleming, I am grateful for the opportunity to present this literary impersonation. For those of you familiar with Fleming's prose, please let me know how I did. And to everyone else, enjoy the masquerade.

To view the cover image, go here:

http://bldawley.blogspot.com/2006/04/spy-who-shunned-me.html

And now...The Spy Who Shunned Me.

Chapter Fifteen: Armchair Diplomacy

Ron Bonz sat at the small paned window and sipped his third cup of coffee from a brown earthenware mug. The beans were of an indiscernible origin, but the slightly burned flavor indicated they were freshly ground. Breakfast had always been Bonz’s favorite meal, and this one was no exception. In fact, the thing he was enjoying most about his stay in Amish country, besides the sexually repressed women, was the food.

Bonz insisted that Ingrid, who at 24 was the youngest of the Duetchendorf girls, boil his egg for exactly three and three quarter minutes. The egg was fresh from Chickie Karl’s prized hen. With it he had a thick slice of bacon, sweet onion, and small curd cottage cheese. He also ordered a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice, shaken to perfection.

“Anything else, Mr. Bonz?” Ingrid stood at attention. Her powder blue eyes, set just slightly too far apart, conveyed a desire to please. Hair of a glossy chestnut fell rakishly from her bonnet. And the proud breasts beneath the plain white shirt indicated that she, at one time or another, had tasted sin. This was a girl who was fully aware what her body was capable of.

“More coffee, my dear.” Bonz held out his mug and watched her retrieve the pot from the woodstove. The long wool skirt she wore somehow failed to hide the petulant slope of her bottom, which Bonz imagined could use a good spank for the lusty thoughts her body betrayed. Though her legs were largely hidden, Bonz caught a glimpse of toned calves and finely shaped ankles.

“Ahh, Mr. Bonz! I see you are enjoying Amish hospitality.” Crusher Dan was a mountain of a man. A stone mason by trade, Crusher was the reason for Her Majesty’s Secret Service inserting Bonz in Amish country under the cover of a photojournalist. Bonz was convinced the large Amish was the lynchpin in a prostitution ring which blackmailed high powered government officials after obtaining “evidence” of their extra-marital affairs. What better cover for such an operation than an Amish dairy farm?

“Pardon my brazenness, Crusher, but I was admiring more than that.” Bonz arched an eyebrow and motioned towards Ingrid, who was busying herself with clearing Bonz’s breakfast dishes.

“My sources on you were correct, Mr. Bonz. You do have excellent taste. Unfortunately, you ally yourself with less than exceptional people.” With a clap of his hand, the doors to the small kitchen flung open. Two Amish henchmen held the limp body of Cherrie Webber, Bonz’s courier. “Mr. Webber sang a most interesting tune with his private parts in the butter churn, Mr. Bonz. That would be Ron Bonz, of the British Secret Service. License to kill.”

“Damn you, Crusher. Damn you to hell.” Bonz grabbed his fork and lunged at the larger man, but was immediately struck down by powerful, ham sized fists. Ingrid shrieked.

“Tie him to the chair, quickly,” Crusher barked. “Then carry him to the barn.” Then, as an afterthought, “And bring the girl.”

#

Bonz awoke to cold water splashing his face. Immediately his senses kicked in, playing back the moments that led up to his losing consciousness…of the powerful fists which hit him like sledgehammers.

“Good morning, Mr. Bonz. It’s time to churn the butter.” Crusher’s hulking form loomed over him. Bonz quickly assessed that his legs and wrists were bound securely to the kitchen chair. He strained against the hemp, but it was in vain.

“Chickie ties excellent knots, Mr. Bonz, but I will permit you to have one hand free. Which will it be, right or left?”

“I could choke the life out of you with either.” What was this madman’s game? And how long could he, Bonz, stall him before an opportunity for escape presented itself?

“Lovely Ingrid will be assisting us with the churning today.” Crusher flung the girl at Bonz. She stumbled and landed in his lap, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

“Oh, Ron…Ron I am so sorry…” Tears streamed down her delicate face. “I am not really an Amish, Ron. I am from Prague. A prostitute, in fact. But not by choice.”

“I know, dear. A chest like that can’t lie. You are no Amish. But don’t worry. We’ll get out of this.”

“How, Ron? How?”

“Simple. I’m going to break free and kill Crusher Dan.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Crusher clapped. “Delightful. You truly are entertaining, Mr. Bonz. It’s a shame we can’t keep you around. Unfortunately, we will have to grind you up and feed you to the cows, but not before you tell us all your government knows of our operation.”

“Never,” snapped Bonz.

“I’m so glad you said that. Chickie!” Crusher snapped his fingers and Chickie Karl wheeled over a large butter churn. This one, however, appeared to be modified. There was a hole, eight inches wide, cut into the lower side of the device, large enough to insert a hand. Or something even more unpleasant.

“Free Mr. Bonz’s left hand, Chickie.”

Bonz struggled helplessly as the Amish thug slit the ropes that bound his left wrist and thrust his hand into the churn. Bonz felt the screw pressing down on his hand with just enough pressure to trap it in place.

“Ingenious modification, no?” Crusher grabbed Ingrid roughly by the hair and tossed her at the machine. “Turn the screw, my lovely. And put all your strength into it, or I will insert more than Mr. Bonz’s hand.”

The girl’s eyes moistened and pleaded with Bonz. He only stared back, coolly. “It’s all right, dear. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Ingrid gripped the handle with both hands and pressed down, turning the screw, grinding Bonz’s hand into the rough wood.

“Arrgh,” Bonz clenched his teeth. The turning wooden blades were shredding the skin from his hand, sending splinters into the torn flesh, and mashing his bones into powder. Sweat poured down his face. His heart felt ready to explode. A tunnel opened beneath him, welcoming him. It offered him solace, a place of mercy…all he need do was black out.

No! You mustn’t! You have to keep your wits about you. Fight, damnit! Crusher cannot win. The girl. She is counting on you. You must succeed. You must!

Within every man is a locked compartment where he holds a reserve of strength. This compartment is only accessible in times of extreme distress. Now was such a time, and Bonz used up every last ounce as he pulled himself violently into the butter churn, sending both him and the device toppling to the ground. At the same time he flexed his legs as hard as he could, smashing the wooden chair against the ground.

Ron Bonz stood, the broken stick of the chair arm still bound to his wrist. He raised it like a buckler and braced himself for attack. This time he was ready. This time he would win.

“Prepare yourself, Crusher. You’re about to be shunned.”

(Author's Request: Won't you be so kind as to hit the comment button below? Even if you have nothing to say? Think of it as a cheap way of paying me for this five minute diversion. You will be rewarded somehow. I'm sure it will involve karma.)

Okay, folks. Here is the fourth entry in the Amish Pulp Fiction experiment. This week's genre: Romance. I have done my best to keep it PG-13, but if there are any impressionable children out there (and why they would be reading my blog I don't know) you may want to cover your eyes. It's time to delve into my sensitive side...and eff all of you who thought I didn't have one!!!

First, to see the sensational soul-searing cover, go here:

http://bldawley.blogspot.com/2006/04/my-many-nights-with-mennonite.html

And now...

My Many Nights With a Mennonite

Zoe sat on the bedspread in her room at the Motel 6. The spartan décor made it easy for her mind to focus on Jacob. He would be there any moment. This was her sixth and last night in Mennonite country. Her fifth spent in the arms of a man forbidden to her by a cultural barrier she hardly understood.

She thought of Jacob, of his powerful arms…the way the veins bulged and the way his hands were both rough and soft at the same time. His chest, strong and proud and forged by real honest work, not some pseudo-scientific workout regime. And his abs…his hips…it was perhaps his hips she found most intoxicating. The way they looked in his trousers when the suspenders came off….

The knock at the door quickened her pulse. She gave herself one last look in the mirror, tossed her blond hair and checked the fit of her sweater, the shape of her lips in the thin layer of gloss, before unlatching the chain and opening the beige metal door.

“Jacob.” She exhaled his name, put her arms around his neck, and pulled him into the room, never avoiding the look in his steel gray eyes.

“Zoe, my lipschen. Cousin Fossil is suspicious. I believe he followed in his buggy, but I was on foot. I think I eluded him…”

“Kiss me, Jacob. I want you to know me. In the biblical sense….” She ran her fingers through his long, thick sideburns, brushed her glossed lips to his, and felt the electricity of a circuit being completed. His tongue parted her lips, invaded her mouth, and it was all she could do to make it to the bed before her knees buckled.

“This is wrong, Zoe…if Fossil discovers us…”

She hushed him with her mouth, pulling him down on top of her. She felt her breasts crush against his weight, felt the strength of his sex through the rough wool trousers. She felt imprisoned by her clothes.

“Mein Gott!” Jacob’s hand slowly crept beneath her sweater, working its way up to the mound of her breast. Unable to contain herself, she wrapped both legs around him and flipped over, bringing her body down on top of him with one fluid movement.

“This is my last night…with my Mennonite.” Zoe pulled the tight sweater over her head, reached around and unfastened her bra, then ran her fingers down his shirt, popping the buttons and exposing his unshaven chest. Her mouth was on him, tracing patterns on his flesh with her tongue, lower…lower…lower…

Jacob tensed. He put his hands on her head, ran his fingers through the thick mane of blond, then yielded to his temptation, as he had every night of this week. Zoe’s mouth caressed his manhood through the fabric. Her delicate fingers worked the buttons of his fly, freeing him.

“Hmmm…are all Anabaptists like this?” Zoe stroked him gently, flicking her tongue at the tip.

“I…must remain humble…” Jacob’s breath was forced, his blood rushing in one direction.

“You do that.” Again, she silenced him with a kiss, her lips like wet silk on his. Briefly, the thoughts came to her again. Was she leading him into temptation? Was her body a temple to him, or just a tollbooth to Hell? Was she freeing him or imprisoning him? Was she some wanton woman? A cheap harlot? A temptress? A siren?

Then all her doubts were gone, vanished, dissolved in the magnetism of him. She had known no man as attentive, as focused, as descent as Jacob. Secular men were forever ruined for her. She was his woman. A Mennonite woman.

Suddenly, Jacob stopped her. Rolling off of the bed, his naked body glistening sweat in the thirty-watt light, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Jacob, what are you…”

“Hush, my lipschen. I have words I must say.”

“Oh Jacob…”

“I have seen thirty summers, but never have I seen a summer as beautiful as thee. And I wish to never look upon one again without thee…”

Tears welled in Zoe’s eyes. Was he doing what she thought he was doing?

“I have known you…in the biblical sense. Yet something as beautiful as thee should not be a sin. Therefore…”

“No, Jacob. Don’t.” She put a manicured finger to his lips. “I’m not good for you. I feel like Icarus. I’ve flown too close to the sun. But I feel that, in my fall, I am pulling you down with me.”

“No, Zoe. If anything, you have raised me. And I wish us to rise, together.”

“I could never be a Mennonite. I owe too much to Scientology…”

“Then I shall be a Mennonite no more.”

Zoe’s words froze in her throat. She was about to explain to him, about to tell him that she would only be his ruin, when another knock at the door jolted her back into cruel reality.

“Fossil!” Jacob grabbed for his shirt, pulled on his trousers, and frantically fought to straighten himself.

“I know ye be in there, Jacob Highdinger! And I know the English whore be with ye!”

Zoe looked at the door, and then at the man she loved. Yes, loved. She threw back the chain and opened the door…

Come what may, she had had her many nights. Many nights with a Mennonite.

I now present the third installment in the Amish Pulp Fiction series. This time it's a horror piece. As with previous episodes, this was inspired by a fake cover to a fake novel suggested by a fake title. You know the drill by now.

To view the image that goes along with this tale, go here:

http://bldawley.blogspot.com/2006/04/shunning.html

And now...

The Shunning


It was in the grain. It had always been in the grain, ever since Uncle Silas’s meteor fragment crash landed into Pennsylvania Dutch country twenty five years ago. Alicia remembered what had happened to her father’s brother, how his exposure to the black rock had changed him. It was subtle at first. Then his moods became violent. And after weeks of evaluations which yielded no answers, the metamorphosis occurred.

Alicia was just five years old when she saw her Uncle Silas walk into his study. It was the last she ever saw of him, because what emerged was something so alien that, though it wore her uncle’s clothes, there was nothing human beneath.

All of this played through her mind as she took shelter against the great oak. It was dusk. She had been running for so long, she almost wanted them to catch her just so it would end. What really frightened her, more than the thought of her own evisceration, was that she would turn into one of them. Her stomach clenched as she remembered Ezekiel, his skin mottling, the blood oozing from his pores, and the ungodly sound that bubbled up from his throat. And then Ezekiel, the kindest, gentlest soul in all of Amish country, was transfigured into a beast from hell.

It was all because of the grain. All from whatever came to Earth in that awful black chunk. Whatever it was had obviously lain dormant for two decades…what could have awakened it? Why now?

A tear dripped down her face and caught at the tip of her nose. Of all the grad students in her party, she was sole survivor. Kim and Jackson and Longfellow…she had to leave them. There was no way for her to help them, not after their impalement on the scythes. Not after Jackson’s legs were…

She shook with a full body peristalsis. Her guts emptied on the damp grass as her nails dug into the oak as if to anchor her to a world now spinning out of control.

Then she froze.

Alicia tried to will her heart to stop pounding so she could listen for it again, the faint sliding of work boot through grass, the rustling of fabric, the dragging of a scythe.

The quiet sounds announcing her death. Or worse.

She realized her eyes were shut, as if she had reverted to the infant’s notion of “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.” Slowly she raised her lids. The twilight had grown. There were shapes in the spreading darkness. Stumps of trees, a fencepost, a silo in the distance.

Did one of the shapes just move?

Her breath was a hurricane in her lungs, the blood pounding through her veins like rushing water. She tried to focus her senses. Tried to drown out the sounds of her own terror. Her hands were shaking, sweat collecting on the palms. Her legs were cramped from tension. There were no weapons out here, nothing she could use to fend them off.

The oak provided the only cover for yards. She could try to run, but she’d surely be spotted. The van was all the way back at the farmhouse. But Jackson drove. He had the keys. Keys that were now in the pocket of a pair of jeans without legs…

She wanted to vomit again, but dared not. She saw one of them. Its back was to her. If it turned around it would surely spot her, propped up against the tree like a chicken on a chopping block.

Its plain black clothing disguised the hideous shape she knew to be underneath. The wide brim of the hat concealed the glowing red eyes, embers of hellfire that would hone in on her in the darkness. The flattened nose with wide nostrils would surely sniff her out soon.

It was just her and them, now. She was certain. Her and the Shunned Ones. As each Amish farmer became infected, their anti-social behavior led to their shunning. Soon, those who were shunned outnumbered those who weren’t. By the time Alicia’s student group arrived, it was too late. Only kind Ezekiel had been spared. Until…until…

Madness gripped her. She couldn’t take it anymore. She was going to die. Horribly through inhuman devices. It would spread…all of humanity would be transformed into these creatures…these shunned devils. There would be no world left. Nothing but endless horror. She wanted to claw into the earth, to bury herself away. The world was closing in.

She screamed.

The fiery eyes glowed beneath the hat. Slowly it moved towards her, a butcher’s knife in its alien hand. Alicia pressed herself up against the tree, let her mind mercifully snap in sheer terror, and screamed one last scream of defiance for the human race.

Her shunning had come.

This is the second entry in a series of Amish pulp fiction scenarios featuring the provocative illustration talents of Brandon Lee Dawley. For those who came in late, here's how the game is played: I send Brandon a title only. He draws a mock cover for a pulp novel based on that title. I then write a scene from that "novel" based on the illustration.

To view the cover image, go here:

http://bldawley.blogspot.com/2006/04/damn-samuel.html

And now...

Damn Samuel

Would she be too late? Gusta Vandersloot felt the weight of Joseph’s revolver in her hand. In all of her twenty-four years, she had never contemplated taking a human life, let alone doing so to defend an English. But Joseph McCooey was an honorable man in his own right…a policeman for hire who came to them for help.

And besides, he was responsible for ridding their little community of Yonnie Brinkerhoff and his Red Silo Gang.

But it was this very act of righteousness that he was now in peril for. With “Red” Yonnie out of the picture, a new evil had risen to take his place. Formerly Piggy Sam, an ox-like but well-meaning carpenter, the bearded juggernaut’s new name was a bold epithet that struck terror into their god-fearing hearts…

Damn Samuel.

Slowly she approached the steps leading into the plain, two-story house. Cold sweat collected at her brow and she gripped the weapon in a white-knuckled fist. The rumors of Samuel’s den of iniquity had been spreading in the days since the fall of the Red Silo Gang, but nothing could have prepared her for what lay inside.

Sofie Wilbers was sprawled on a black leather couch, clad in less material than in the ribbon of her bonnet. Gusta averted her gaze, but was quickly assaulted by the sight of Sofie’s sister, Lotte, sitting at a loom in the corner, her arms and legs bound to the workstation with leather thongs. Lotte merely looked at Gusta, eyes glazed over as if in a trance. “What have you done, Damn Samuel,” Gusta whispered to no one, for there was no one to hear her. The women were lost in the fog of English narcotics.

It was then that she heard the hammering.

Removing her shoes, Gusta slowly crept up the stairs to the second floor of the house, her path illuminated by forbidden battery powered torches. “These same torches will light your path to Hell, Damn Samuel, for certainly they come from the Morning Star himself.”

Allowing Joseph’s weapon to lead her, she advanced towards what sounded like a dog whimpering. And then she heard Damn Samuel’s voice.

“Ye may have slain Red Yonnie, Joseph McCooey, he who made my leg the lame thing that it is. But ye shall pay for defiling one of our women. One of MY women.” Another sickening thwack. Another moan of agony.

Her hands shaking, her legs unsteady, Gusta pulled herself up the last step and peered into the narrow bedroom at the top. Damn Samuel was crouched over the policeman, a schoolhouse paddle in his hand.

“Sam? Piggy Sam?” Gusta froze as she heard the cry from downstairs. It was Sofie Wilbers.

She had no time to conceal herself before Samuel’s gaze shifted from McCooey to the hall. And when his eyes met hers they blazed with a hatred so intense that if her blood were lamp oil it would surely combust.

“Gusta,” Damn Samuel said, the sound of her name on his lips causing her pain. “Come to join my little house, have ye?”

“You are an evil man, Damn Samuel.” Gusta raised the weapon and pointed it at his heart. “An evil, horrible man who hath no business amongst us.”

“Lies,” whispered Samuel. “Foul, wretched lies. Tis the English who hath tainted us. The English who must be scapegoated. For it is their ways which tempt me. Their moving pictures that seduced me.”

“Joseph is a good and noble man. He came here to find a lost child, and saved us from a beast in button-down trousers. And you helped him, Damn Samuel. Or rather, Piggy Sam did.”

“Aye. I helped the English. But only so I could revenge upon Red Yonnie. Only so I could have the narcotics he possessed, that I may cast the spell on the womenfolk. The spell ye shall soon succumb to as I strap thee to the loom.”

“Gusta…shoot…” Blood bubbled from Joseph’s lips as he fought to stand.

“She will not, English. She will not break a commandment. She is a good little Amish girl. Conformed not to your world.”

The well-oiled machine in her hand coughed once. The .38 caliber slug tore into Samuel’s chest, bored its way through his heart, and freed the life from his mangled body through a narrow opening of the flesh.

“The commandments say thou shall not commit murder, Damn Samuel.” Gusta let the weapon fall to her side. She could not lift it again if she wanted to. “I have committed no such act this day. For how can one murder what is already dead?”

…continued on page 153...(of a novel that doesn't exist...)

Click on the comment button below to read a two-part author commentary for this series.

What follows is the first in a series of pieces done in collaboration with artist Brandon Dawley. Here's how it works: I give Brandon a title for a pulp fiction story (this time around we have gone with an Amish theme...). He then draws the cover image, sends it to me, and I write a story depicting the image. It's an artistic experiment. Let us know if you'd like to see more...

First, go here to view the cover image:

http://bldawley.blogspot.com/2006/03/amish-heat.html

Amish Heat


Red Yonnie lifted the brand from the fire and walked towards Gretchen Rumphausen. The hot iron glowed red, matching the color of his beard. He smiled to himself, but it was not a smile of joy.

It was a smile of righteousness.

“What do your scriptures say, Gretchen Rumphausen? ‘Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind that ye may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.’”

“I know my scripture, Red Yonnie.” Gretchen clutched a hand at her breast, trying to slow the staccato beating of her heart. “I dare say I know it better than thee! For my scripture says ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’”

“The taint of the English has warped thee in ways that only cleansing fire shall purge.” Red Yonnie gritted his teeth and set about his grim work, beads of sweat dripping down his blotchy face and catching in his crimson beard.

“Yes, Red Yonnie. I have been tainted. Tainted by an English no less! But he is closer to God than thee, for thou art about to commit an act fitting of Satan himself!” She wanted to beg. To plead. But Joseph had given her a strength she might never have known otherwise. No one in the small Pennsylvania Dutch community had ever stood up to Red Yonnie. Not even Piggy Sam, arguably the strongest of their number.

Or at least he was. Before Red Yonnie caught him viewing pornography…a magazine called “Cosmopolitan” which he had purchased, in secret, at the Wal-mart super center in town.

“I am not afraid of you, Red Yonnie!”

“You will be, girl. Now remove thy clothing. Expose that sinful flesh, that I may extinguish your sinful heat with the fire of righteousness!” Red Yonnie’s eyes were filled with lust as he tore away Gretchen’s garments, illuminating her exposed skin with the glowing iron.

She braced herself and thought of the English, Joseph McCooey. He was a policeman of sorts, he explained. A person who solved crimes for money. He had been hired by a family whose daughter had run away to join the Amish community. How many times had Gretchen had similar thoughts of running away? How badly did she wish she had yielded to them now….

“Before I scar those heavenly mounds, Gretchen Rumphausen, it would be a sin if I did not partake of their bounty.” Red Yonnie’s rough hands were upon her. She felt his sandpaper fingers chafing her delicate areas. But she did not scream. She would not break.

“There, English! There!” It was Sam! Piggy Sam had come, hobbling on his crutches. And behind him…by the grace of God…

“Damn, Samuel.” Joe McCooey fired two shots from his Smith & Wesson. Red Yonnie spun around, crimson flowers blooming on his white shirt, the fiery brand dropping to the compacted earth.

“You got him, Joseph McCooey!” Piggy Sam dropped his crutches and hobbled over to the now lifeless body of Red Yonnie. Gretchen covered herself and ran to McCooey, pressing her lips to his.

“It’s over, baby.” McCooey removed her bonnet and tossed it over Red Yonnie’s face. “Let’s go home.”

“Home, Joseph? I am home.” Gretchen’s eyes met his and held them.

“Not anymore, babe. This place is tainted. It’s in the ground. In the soil. You don’t want to reap this harvest.”

They turned and left the barn. The corpse of Red Yonnie, beard protruding from Gretchen’s bonnet, lay bleeding into the soil, no longer conformed to this world. Or any.

This past weekend, in addition to giving a reading at the local arts center, I met and worked with some of the most talented people the area has to offer. This was my fourth year as Writer in Residence for the Central New York Pen In Hand Conference for high school students, and I was locked in a hotel for twenty-four hours with many of them. I know this sounds like the plot for the next American Pie film, but rest assured there was enough learning going on to make even the most Snape-like of English instructors content in their tweeds.

The learning occurred on both ends. I tried to talk to each of the students as much as time allowed. Each continued to astound me with their levels of intelligence and artistry, and with their startling capacity for “your mom” and Chuck Norris jokes.

The future is in good hands.

Which is all the more reason for me to get pissed off when I hear “adults” say that this generation has nothing to say, that they are functionally illiterate, and that most of them are uneducable.

It was, ironically enough, Friday morning, when I was in the mailroom at the local college where I hang my shingle, that I lamented the poor attendance that day in my 8 am class. Another teacher of 30 years told me that I should be glad, that in fact it was better to have as many of them drop out as possible.

For once in my life, I was at a loss for words.

I’m no bleeding heart, but I do what I do because I love it. Teaching is not something one goes into for the money. I can make much more money in the private sector. Hell, writing alone is a full time gig. I teach for many reasons, and take my paycheck gladly, but the money isn’t what inspires me.

I get to wake up each morning and spend my day talking to some of the most interesting people you’ll ever meet. And true, some are more interesting than others, but each is a human being, a unique universe, with ideas and passions that I can only hope I somehow help guide or develop. So when someone is AWOL or a large group doesn’t show, for me it is no cause to celebrate. And while I don’t want anyone to be there who doesn’t wish to be, I can’t help but want them to want to be there.

I wanted to say this to the elder professor, but I was tired, I had a long day ahead of me, and I wasn’t looking for a battle. I respect this professor. He has a lot of knowledge that would benefit his students. But I wish he actually liked his students. I think it would help.

Sadly, this is no isolated incident. There are a lot of non-teachers out there who go through the paces, meet with their classes, cross absent names off their roster with more enthusiasm than they have for the ones who show up, and collect their check and dash off for summer break. And when I accidentally let slip my enthusiasm, blurt out that I actually like my students as people, I get the old “wait’ll you’ve been doing this as long as I have.”

I pray that if I ever get that jaded I will have the good sense to quit.

On the bright side, these types of characters are a minority, at least at my school. The students can sense if you don’t like them, and they will not respect you if you don’t respect them. Nor should they. Respect is never given, it has to be earned. My students continue to earn my respect each semester, and I can only hope I earn theirs. And as for the people I met this weekend, I can say only this: Life is the one journey where you don’t want to arrive at the destination. It’s often a lonely and confusing path we walk down. Every new soul you encounter, every life that intersects with yours, is one more light to keep you on the path.

I want to say thank you to the following points of light: Koh, Alek, Barbara, Samantha, Zane, Anna (short vowel), Henry, Kristin (H and M), Jessica, Jacqueline, Cory, Alyson (and her mom), Ed (not Edward), Jeff, Thomas, Emily, Nikki, Amanda, Mattheau, Jade, Maia, Rocky (whose t-shirt reminded me I am going to hell), Julie, Amanda, Joanne, Justin, Devin, and anyone else whose name, forgive me, eludes me at present. And a big “I missed you” to Tab, who if all was right with the world, would have been there as well.

Write your hearts out. Raise your fists like antennas to the sky. Let ‘em know you are coming. And that checking your name in an attendance book is not enough.

I’m going to bed now. Good night.

I hung myself by the chimney with care.
Ignoring the ashes and soot in my hair.
Santa ain’t coming, this night is so long.
My last gift to you is this holiday song.

I gave you a present I thought you would like.
Turns out that you wanted my best friend Mike.
There are no returns, I bought it with cash.
Take my love and your like, put ‘em out with the trash.

Santa and Satan, they are much the same.
Black, red, and immortal, this rhyme is so lame.
I can’t hold my pen, it’s so late in the night.
Happy Christmas, so long, I know you’ll sleep tight.

I hung myself by the chimney with care.
Ignoring the ashes and soot in my hair.
Santa ain’t coming, this night is so long.
My last gift to you is this holiday song.

I drank all my whiskey, I’m working on beer.
I’m pouring myself some holiday cheer.
I think I’d be better off if I were queer.
Merry Christmas, dear lover, and Happy New Year.

My tree is pathetic, just like Charlie Brown’s.
Getting sea-sick from these ups and these downs.
Would you toss me a cookie if I start to drown?
Santa won’t eat them, he prefers Royal Crown.

I hung myself by the chimney with care.
Ignoring the ashes and soot in my hair.
Santa ain’t coming, this night is so long.
My last gift to you is this holiday song.

I hear his balls are jingling, and that just makes me think.
December’s overrated, so I pour another drink.
You’re kissing more than Santa, it’s playing in my head.
My only happy thought is you’ll be sorry when I’m dead.

So Merry Fucking Christmas, my angel’s heard on high.
He’s opening my present, and I’m the reason why.
I gave you all I had, oh why’d I even try?
Like Frosty fucking Snowman, it’s time to say goodbye.

I hung myself by the chimney with care.
Ignoring the ashes and soot in my hair.
Santa ain’t coming, this night is so long.
My last gift to you is this holiday song.

A.G. Devitt. December, 2005. Fa Fa Fa

Denizen85: It’s a full moon tomorrow.
Ninjaboy0202: Yeah? We gonna howl?
Denizen85: Weren’t you like a werewolf once?
Ninjaboy0202: I’m not sure how to take that…
Denizen85: ha ha no remember you did that Indian ritual?
Ninjaboy0202: Native American. Yeah.
Denizen85: They made you a werewolf, right?
Ninjaboy0202: Uhm…no. I’m not a werewolf.
Denizen85: Shelly said you were.
Ninjaboy0202: Wait…so you actually believe I transform into a wolf during a full moon? Is this what you are telling me?
Denizen85: just what shelly said that’s all.
Ninjaboy0202: There is no such thing as werewolves, Denise. But if there were, you would know.
Denizen85: lol why?
Ninjaboy0202: Did you just “lol” me?
Denizen85: lol yes.
Ninjaboy0202: Are you actually “laughing out loud?” I mean really?
Denizen85: well, no. but you know what I mean.
Ninjaboy0202: Don’t lol me again. It’s beneath you.
Denizen85: what does this have to do with werewolves?
Ninjaboy0202: nothing.
Denizen85: are you ok? You’ve been acting weird.
Ninjaboy0202: like a werewolf?
Denizen85: lol no, silly.
Ninjaboy0202: For the love of god stop it!!!!!!
Denizen85: someone’s in a bad mood.
Ninjaboy0202: What do you expect? It’s a full moon…

Shetalksdrty21: hi
Ninjaboy0202: Greetings and salutations.
Shetalksdrty21: wut r u doing?
Ninjaboy0202: Keeping my nails short. Y tu?
Shetalksdrty21: huh?
Ninjaboy0202: I'm clipping my nails. I hate long nails.
Shetalksdrty21: oh. whats y tu?
Ninjaboy0202: apparently she doesn't talk spanish.
Shetalksdrty21: ha ha no. even on girls?
Ninjaboy0202: even on girls what?
Shetalksdrty21: you don't like long nails on anyone?
Ninjaboy0202: no. I hate them.
Shetalksdrty21: i just had mine done.
Ninjaboy0202: a wise use of your time and money.
Shetalksdrty21: why don't u like them?
Ninjaboy0202: what is there to like?
Shetalksdrty21: you've seen my nails. don't you know who this is?
Ninjaboy0202: you're the guy who's been reading my mail.
Shetalksdrty21: i'm not a guy.
Ninjaboy0202: quit lying. The jig is up, Carlisle. I'm going to call the police.
Shetalksdrty21: who the fuck is carlisle? I'm not a guy!
Ninjaboy0202: quit stealing my lands end catalogs. I haven't gotten one in months.
Shetalksdrty21: dude you like need to relax. This is *****
Ninjaboy0202: Nice try, Hemingway. Now move along.
Shetalksdrty21: dude you know me. Whats hemingway?
Ninjaboy0202: Argyle is dead! Argyle is dead!
Shetalksdrty21: you obviously need some time alone...
Ninjaboy0202: my god it's full of stars!
Shetalksdrty21: ok then. I got 2 go.
Ninjaboy0202: y tu, drty? y tu!!!

DENNY'S
I slide into the booth
and think of trash feeding me trash.
How much is a tube of toothpaste?
Nicotine stained skin like cracked leather.
The stench of bowling in the air.
Polyester.
They're all as miserable as I am.


PEZ (PART ONE)
The bathroom tile shatters
as I pound his head into the urinal.
His lip splits open and a crimson stream
runs down the yellowed porcelain.
I notice that my shoes need polishing
and kick the bastard neatly in the head
before enjoying a tasty confection
from Spider-Man's head.


EDEN
She peels her shirt off
and lets it fall to the floor.
She moves in for the kill,
pressing her soft flesh against mine.
A thin layer of silk is all that stands
between me and the fifty bucks
Jim will owe me for banging his sister.
Where's the Jack Daniels I left
on the dresser?


JENNIFER CONNELLY
The cigarette burns down to my knuckles
and the whiskey drinks up all my ice.
The bartender looks at me and slides
a highball my way. She smiles
and says it's on the house.
I take the glass and head back up
to my room.


BROTHERHOOD
I punch him in the nose with a hammerfist.
As his head flies back, his stomach thrusts
forward and meets my other fist.
He buckles up, airing out his guts
on the green shag carpet.
I ash my cig on his left ear
and ram my wingtip up his ass.
Someday, when I get enough money,
I'll buy a mint copy of Action Comics #1.
Until then, I deal with these assholes.


JESUS
He wanted a large ginger ale,
even though refills were free on the regular.
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Why don't they make a Jesus Pez dispenser?
Maybe it could dispense little Communion cookies.
I'll write someone a letter.
You never know.


PEZ (PART TWO)
The wooden steps creak
beneath my feet
as I climb up the old spiral staircase.
I get to the top and see his office door.
I knock three times, kick the door in,
and fire six shots into his chest
before he even sees the gun.
He falls into me and I hear something crack.
The bastard broke my Pez dispenser.
I'd kill him again, if I could.


ASSHOLES
Why do so many guys walk around
asking for it?
Co-ed naked, backwards hat
Budweiser zombies
Begging for me to change their blood.
Do you remember "Three's a Crowd?"
It was the ill fated spin-off of
"Three's Company."
John Ritter makes me laugh.
I hate hip-hop.


COOL CEREAL
Once, in high school
I smoked Kaboom.
It was a breakfast cereal
with a psychotic clown on the box.
I haven't seen it in a while.
Do they still make it?
It tasted like shit, anyway.


BASTARD PRICK (WITH EARS)
The noise rapes my ears
from streets far below.
I grab my Glock 9mm
and race down the fire escape.
The bullets rain down from above me.
Just my luck.
All the whores have guns.
I dance this ballet as best I can.
Roll. Fire. Jump. Fire.
All the while, bits of brick
explode around me.
Disney World ain't what it used to be.


GROVER
Once, he was the all american
high school football player.
Experimented in college.
MJ and acid.
Went a little too far.
Now, he's just another dead Muppett.


CHICKS WITH GUNS
Did you know
that the only thing better
than a van full of chicks with guns
is a van full of
chicks with guns and beer?


PEZ (PART THREE)
I hate the coffee bar.
It's full of underage
alcoholic wannabes who aren't
ingenious enough to chalk their I.D.,
but want to experience hanging out
in a poorly lit, smoke filled hole anyway.
I can't go there without wanting
to kill someone.
Plus, it smells bad.
Smells vaguely of chowder.
So unlike Pez.
In fact, Pez is about the furthest thing
from the coffee bar that I can think of.
And a whole pack only has 35 calories.
It's candy and a toy in one.
Try saying that about your crap-a-ccino.

BLAZERS
If you own a tweed blazer
with patches on the elbows,
go out and give it to a
homeless man.
They don't care how they look.


SWISS ARMY MAN
I was sitting across from her
in that trendy micro-brewery.
Downtown Richmond.
She had on a black dress
with a thin silver chain around her neck.
She came over and asked me for a match.
I said, "You want a match?
Your head and my ass!"
And I laughed like a fifth grader
whose math teacher just fell down the stairs.
I never saw her again.

Riotgrrl81: hey
Ninjaboy0202: hey
Riotgrrl81: what r u doin?
Ninjaboy0202: setting up a playmobil diorama
Ninjaboy0202: I just got this sweet dino dig set
Riotgrrl81: what?
Ninjaboy0202: playmobil. you know?
Riotgrrl81: do u know who this is?
Ninjaboy0202: no clue. do you like playmobil?
Riotgrrl81: i don't know what that is.
Ninjaboy0202: www.playmobil.com
Riotgrrl81: u have no idea who i am
Riotgrrl81: aren't u curious?
Ninjaboy0202: no. you could be a creepy old man in his basement trolling for playmobil.
Riotgrrl81: i'm not an old man.
Ninjaboy0202: good. because old people scare me.
Riotgrrl81: u are one weird character
Ninjaboy0202: like manimal?
Riotgrrl81: ?
Ninjaboy0202: manimal. it was a show back in the 80's about a guy that turned into animals by breathing funny.
Riotgrrl81: what are u talking about that?
Ninjaboy0202: he was a weird character.
Riotgrrl81: ok lol
Riotgrrl81: brb
Riotgrrl81: back
Ninjaboy0202: good to know.
Riotgrrl81: this is gwen. alicia's friend.
Ninjaboy0202: I can't remember manimal's name. on the show I mean. He was played by Simon McCorkindale.
Riotgrrl81: do u remember me? I met u three weeks ago or so
Ninjaboy0202: I can't even remember manimal's name! and now my playmobil dinosaur just ate my bike cop.
Riotgrrl81: ok, well i'm gonna go then
Ninjaboy0202: can you turn into any animals?

Wendy: Why don't you ever answer my questions?
Me: I don't like being interviewed.
Wendy: It's not an interview! I just asked if you liked Moby.
Me: Well that's not the type of question I'm prepared to answer.
Wendy: It seems straightforward to me.
Me: No, it's not. See, Moby is not only techno, he's house with a bit of shoehorn pop thrown in. He also put out what technically could be construed as a metal album with Animal Rights. He follows the Cult of the Carpenter, is vegan, and all that other crap. So if I say I do like Moby, I have to qualify that statement by saying that I don't agree with all of his politics. At which point, you will inquire further about said politics, and we'll get into a big longass discourse on how I wish musicians would just shut up and sing and not try to save the world so fucking much. Then, if I say I don't like Moby, you may automatically assume it is because I find him obnoxious philosophically, and you may even jump to the conclusion that I like to eat raw animals or something. I don't. So I really don't want to answer any more of your bloody questions.
Wendy: Well...there was a Moby song on that mix you had.
Me: So just because I like a song or two, does that mean I have to commit to a legitimate "like" for something? I'm so over that shit. I don't want to be about that anymore.
Wendy: You really don't make any sense. Why do you hurt yourself like this?
Me: Hurt myself? What the fuck? You're the only thing hurting me around here. You! With your stupid Moby and your twisted logic.
Wendy: Me? Twisted logic? You're the one unwilling to commit to even so much as a fucking band!
Me: Moby is not a band, jackass!
Wendy: You're fucked up, do you know that? I don't need this shit.
Me: Well go find Perfect Eddie. I hear his muppet dumped him.
Wendy: Go to hell.
Me: I get that alot.

The evening got worse from there.

So I was out with Cubby and Dumpy last night. Cubby wouldn't quit complaining about his Foreman Grill, how it never cooks his chicken right. I told him to stop eating chicken, that it is a foul, filthy animal that rots its way through his guts, but he wouldn't hear of it. He complained of Mr. Foreman's inability to cook it just right...it either comes out underdone or else dry as my eyes at Gretchen's funeral. Don't get me started on the Gretch.
Dumpy kept making eyes at me. She used to sit in bookstores and try to act desperate in the self help section. Likes to sit and have coffee by the pound. Last night she had chocolate covered espresso beans. Maybe that's why I can't sleep anymore. When it gets to the point where you don't even brew the coffee anymore, where you just sit there and grind the beans with your teeth...that's a whole new state of nothing.
I punched Cubby in the solar plexus and his guts emptied out on the puke green rug in Dumpy's basement. He was drunk so it's ok. He will have no memory, if and when he wakes up.
Maybe I should call him.
Then there is the curious harp player...Cupid Coronado. Dumpy says to just ignore him and he'll go away. But he doesn't. He shows up with his harp sack and pulls the wretched thing...he named it Feldman...from the case and plucks away until my soul is gasoline.
I think it's time to dump Dumpy.