I DREAM OF BEES (PT. II)

     When I was five, I was stung by a bee. It was a really scary time for me because it then that I realized I was allergic to them. Mom rushed me to the emergency room, but not before I’d gone into a seizure. I was fully aware of all that was going on as this happened. Nurses held my little body down as a resident, whose name if I recall was Veronica, gave me a shot. She was my first crush. Veronica was the first "woman" I noticed in that way.

     I’ve dreamed of bees ever since. They never swarm me in the dreams, they’re just always around. Lately, I’ve been dreaming of Veronica as well. This cute, tiny Asian woman who succumbs to my every whim. I’m the age I am now in the dreams and she’s the age she was then. I’d say, mid-20’s or so. It’s paradise. Most of the Veronica dreams involve us back in that same emergency room, usually after hours when nobody’s there. We make out and fool around at first. Her circa 1975 nurse outfit is skin tight and leaves nothing to the imagination, even though it’s clearly that unflattering polyester that they wore back then. Now, I’m fully aware that she was a doctor in residence in real life, not a nurse, but neither one of us really make mention of this in the dream. I’ve never gotten to have sex with her yet. By the time I rip off her white stocking with my teeth, the E.R. is already flooded with bees. She always urges me to keep going, to unzip her dress, to pull off her little white cap, to ignore all the bees.

     "You’re so close," she whispers.

     And as much as I concentrate, I never get beyond the stockings before I wake up panting, panicking, in a cold sweat.

     Veronica saved my life once and I can’t even repay the debt by making love to her.

     Even in my dreams, I am not a man.




-SLL

ETUX, ETVIR

The last of the B-Rad Boyz died today.

Most of the world will remember Cris Puffs as the fervent crusader for battered celebrity children, but half a century ago he was "the snarky one, C.P., in the worldwide phenomenon known as the B-Rad Boyz.

Originally conceived as the first noise rock, boy band by Queazy Yakuza fontman Nowon, the B-Rads came together after months of auditions that included not only singing, dancing and musical instrument knowledge, but also standardized tests in quantum physics and philosophy.

Puffs got the highest scores of the four B-Rads and got the biggest audience response on the QTV show, "This Is Pop." Along with Vance Besser, Oliver Grecko and Darren Furley, Puffs became a multi-millionaire almost overnight. As opposed to most musical fads, the B-Rads had a long-lived and vaired career. Nowon worked tirelessly as both manager and producer, insuring that the B-Rad Boyz albums evolved as their audiences grew older and, in turn, guaranteed future record sales. Over their 28 year career, the B-Rads jumped from white-styled R&B to rap to nu-metal to folk to Broadway showtunes, every album bigger than the previous one. The "shifting sound," as Nowon once put it, was paying off big.

The solo albums were hit or miss, however. Feeling pressure from Nowon to put his two cents in, the Boyz strayed from him and felt the economic crunch. While Besser, Grecko and Furley’s albums faired well, Puffs struggled as his Plutonian religion phase kicked in. The recent contact with life on Pluto had inspired many to jump onto its strange theology and Puffs was at the forefront. Anti-Plutonian feelings across the globe affected his sales retroactively from his debut, "The Return of Schlomo" to his Plutonian language concept album, "Etux, Etvir." By the time his final solo album, "So Sorry," came out on his public rejection of all things Plutonian, audiences had already had enough. Though he continued to tour and put out albums with the B-Rads over the years, his ego never got over his failed solo efforts.

The B-Rad Boyz final album, "This Ain’t the Last," an album of Queazy Yakuza covers, was their least commercial to date. The Boyz wallowed in money, yet by the time of its release, most of their audiences had died of old age. It had been a good run, all told.

After the final B-Rad tour, Puffs lived in seclusion for more than a decade. While the other B-Rads enjoyed celebrity golf tournaments, tell-all book sales and foot cream endorsement deals, Puffs rarely left his palatial Utah mansion. To this day, the rumors of those lost years fill the bookshelves and litter the impulse-buying sections of supermarkets from coast to coast.

In his final years, Puffs felt the need to give something back and put $7 million into starting the Etvir House, his renowned halfway house for boy band members facing abuse. Boy bands like the Poppies, Under7 and the Mathletes came out of retirement to help the cause, many of them victims of abuse themselves during their heyday.

Puffs received the Nobel Peace Prize last year, one of two B-Rads to have such an honor bestowed upon them.

But today, one week after his autobiography "My Name Is Really Schlomo" came out, Puffs was found dead in his Malibu beachhouse, surrounded by hand-written, deleted excerpts from "My Name."

Although there is no official cause of death released as of this writing, an inordinate amount of sleeping pills were found on his nightstand. No suicide note found, just a slip of paper crumpled in his hand, torn from the Plutonian bible that read "Etux, Etvir." It means, "Everywhere, Truth."




-SLL

CATTY KATHY

Stuck-up, skinny bitches. Look at them, laughing and making sure everybody hears their conversation. This isn’t a fucking bar, you skanks. It’s a public place. You know, a restaurant? Ever heard of it?

Jesus Christ, what is that floozy wearing? Update for you, hon. It’s after Labor Day. Lose the shoes. And I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you only need one set of highlights in your hair. Yeah, your roots are showing, darling. Oh! Maybe you meant to look like that. Sorry. There’s something about buying a vintage dress for $150, which doesn’t even fit your porky ass, that must make your parents proud. It is their money you’re spending, I take it. Must be rough.

Oh, somebody needs to tell your friend that she’s not buying the right size bra, too. If you have D’s you shouldn’t wear a B-cup. Just a suggestion. Nobody wants to see your giant gazzonga tits spilling over onto your fat gut though, so at least wear one. Just a tip for next time, sweetie.

Nice overpriced, oversized shades, by the way. They make you look a praying mantis who’s trying to hide the fact that your Diesel jean-wearing, jock boyfriend punched you in the eyes while continually date raping you.

Yeah, I don’t know if the pedal pushers are tight enough, but I can tell you that they definitely don’t hide your tramp stamp. Is that the Japanese symbol for "slut?" "Fashion victim?" "Fuck buddy?" Yeah, my Japanese is a little rusty. Oh, I almost forgot about the prostitue thong. It does wonders for you, believe me. And the fact that all these kids can see it? ‘A’ plus!

And here’s a tip. Next time you get an $80 pedicure, make sure they saw off those creepy, werewoman toenails of yours. Oh, wait! That’s a French pedicure? Tre’ chic!

God. I am ugly and fat and I want to fucking die.




-SLL

ROGER'S CASUAL FRIDAY

It’s Casual Friday and Roger isn’t wearing any pants. He isn’t even wearing underwear. He showed up two hours early just so he could spring it on his co-workers as they meet him in the break room. He sits in his cubical and waits.
     
"They want casual, then by God, I’ll give ‘em casual," he keeps repeating to himself.
     
By nine AM, Barry, the stooge in the cube across from his, pokes his head up and over Roger’s cube.

"Whoa! What’s with that?" the stooge asks.

"Casual Friday, Barry," Roger replies while non-chalantly typing.

There is an uncomfortable silence between them that is only broken by the occasional click-clack of computer keyboards throughout the office. The silence lasts for 45 seconds. Roger counts it under his breath. Barry keeps staring back and forth between Roger’s naked crotch and his stapler.

"What?" Roger eventually asks.

"Nothing!"

Roger counts ten more seconds.

"It’s just," Barry continues, "you’re not wearing any pants."

"And?"

"Well, why are you still wearing a button-down and a tie?"

"Why are you?" Roger shoots back.

"I don’t like Casual Fridays. I don’t believe in them," replies the stooge.

"Well, I do! Wit every fiber of my being, I do!" zings Roger, continuing to type.

The stooge ducks back down behind his cube after another ten seconds of Roger counting, this time aloud. The stooge immediately runs down to the secretary’s desk, tells her about Roger’s crotch and then busts ass back to his cube. His head pops up again.

"I think you’d better find some pants, Rog! Soon!"

"Oh, I get it," Roger yells, "This fucking corporation thinks it’s being all cool and ‘with it’ when it declares Fridays casual, but when somebody steps up and actually does it for real, it’s ‘Call Security!’"

"I’m not calling security, Rog. Settle down. This is your Casual Friday, man. You celebrate it however you want."

"Fine! I am and will from now on!"

Roger gets to the count of 27 by the time he hears the all-too-familiar swish. His boss, Clem (yes, his name is actually Clem). The guy wears the same gray, 80’s, double-breasted every single day and the swish is one of those signals every person in the office hears and knows when it’s time to click off the porn on their computers.

Clem walks at a brisk pace, straight into Roger’s cube. He stops dead as he enters, eyes straight to Roger’s free-hanging balls and then to his stapler.

"Whoa," Clem exclaims. "Okay, they warned me, but I honestly didn’t think I’d be looking at it. Roger."

"Clem," Roger answers.

"Nice stapler. Look, Barry, do you think you can give us a minute?"

"Sure thing," the stooge replies as he pops back into his cube.

"So," Clem says, trying to keep his cool, "what’s going on here, Roger?"

"It’s Casual Friday."

"I see." All the while Clem cannot take his eyes off Roger’s stapler. "Listen, Roger, I appreciate your comfortability with us, but I don’t know if this is the proper way to show it."

"No! You listen, Clem! I’ve been here nearly seven years. Seven fucking years and not once have I ever, ever participated in this Casual Friday fiasco. The office mixers, the Christmas parties, Secret Santas, weekend bar-b-ques, Halloween costume parties, I’ve done none of that shit for the entire seven years I’ve worked for you. I’m not invited to these things and I don’t even have inner-office email. So, now I’m finally participating and I get the high hard one? Well, you know what? I think I’m due. So, pardon me, but fuck off, Clem! This is my time to shine and if you think I’m going to let you or any of these weasly bastards keep me from doing so, you are sorely fucking mistaken. Now, do you mind? I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on."

Clem is stumped. This is the last thing he expected to hear from a man whose junk is staring him in the face. Five seconds pass after Roger turns back to his computer. He counts every single one as his heart pounds a jackrabbit-pace in his chest.

"Well," Clem begins, "I have to say this. I did not expect this from you. You’ve never been much of a team player around here, Rog, but you do good work and you’re consistent as Hell, I’ll give you that. I’ve never seen anything less than 100% from you, Rog. And maybe I’ve been taking you for granted until now, I don’t know. Maybe this little slice of Roger-style anarchy was my wake-up call. Now, this may seem a little out of character, but I’m just going to throw this out there. How would you like a promotion?"

Roger’s mouth is immediately agape. He swivels to face Clem, who doesn’t wait for a response.

"I mean, I’d have to clear it with Stan, but I really want to make you an offer right here and now. I want you in Dave’s old office, next to me. You’re moving up, Roger, whether you like it or not. I can’t remember when I’ve seen this much youthful energy, this much pizzazz in this office. And it all came from you, Roger. You’re going to show everybody here what is missing in this company. Tell me, Roger. Will you be our newest head of marketing?

Roger is floored and barely gets out, "Are you serious?"

Clem’s broad smile turns downwards. "What are you, some kind of retard? You are so Goddamn fired! Barry, give this asshole your pants!" 




-SLL

FIRST CHAIR

First chair never appealed to me. I was a band fuck for seven years and not once did the idea strike me that being first chair was the shit to end all shit.

For those who were never in band, allow me to explain this retarded concept.

Orchestras are not set up hilly-nilly. There is not only an anal-retentive order to the arrangement of the orchestra, there’s a fucked-up pecking order to each section. No matter what orchestra you see (professional, college, high school, whatever), the trumpets are always over there, the flutes over there, the timpani way back there, and never the twain shall meet. But in those individual sections, there is hierarchy to where they sit. Let’s take the trumpets, for example. First off, they’re always going to be to your far right. From Milwaukee to Moscow, they’re doomed to be on the right from the audience’s vantage point. The trumpet player you see at the edge of the stage, closest to you? He’s first chair. What does this mean, you might ask? One of three things:

1. He’s the best trumpet player in the orchestra and challenged the second chair (previous first chair) to get where he is.
2. The real first chair is out sick.
3. He blew the conductor.

These are the only ways to be first chair anything.

From Freshman to Senior year, I was always last chair. Who cares, right? I mean, what advantages are there to 
being first chair anyway? Prestige? No. You’re looked at as the biggest tool of them all. Better grades? Better college? First of all, who gets anything less than an ‘A’ in fucking band? Secondly, if the only good thing on my transcript is ‘first chair,’ I deserve to go to community college. What about the knee-deep poon you’re in when you’re first chair, you may very well ask? Weekly blowjobs from the clarinet section maybe? No way Scott Cohen (my first chair) was getting that much ass. In a perfect world, maybe.

Being first chair was way too much work for no pay, from my perspective. During marching season, you were responsible for making sure your section’s white shoes, dickies, cumberbunds and fluffy, cotton ball hats were military clean. You also kept up with demerits that were given out in violation of someone not keeping their shit military clean. During concert season, you were bastard supreme. Since you didn’t have cotton ball hats to be responsible for, you quizzed every fucker in your section on scales and harmonies. You reported to the band director constantly and you were a pillar of the band community.

No, thanks.

The only disadvantage of being last chair in my section was being after Sean, a completely abrasive nice-guy who was constantly pulling rank even though he was two years younger than me. But it wasn’t his personality, it was his "blatt." "Blatting" was a term coined by our band director. It meant, "to make a blaring, offensive noise with your instrument." This usually only applied to the brass section (I have no idea what it was called when one of the woodwinds did it. "Squawking" would be my guess).

Now, if I haven’t said this already, I played French Horn. The bell of the French Horn always points right, exactly where the chair "below" you is sitting. Sick torture? You fucking bet. And maybe that’s why French Horns constantly jockied for the chair above them. But not me.

Sean blatted like it was his job. The kid reveled in it. And was consistent to the point of blatting at exactly the same section in the music from rehearsal to the eventual performance. No matter what song it was, Sean found a way to blatt the living shit out of it. And whenever a blatt came from our section, the band director would toss his little baton, wave his arms to signal us to stop and call out the French Horns. He had quite the ear for this shit. This was always an embarrassment. I eventually got to the point where if I knew Sean was going to blatt, I’d pull my mouthpiece away and pretend like I was inspecting a sharp or flat in my music.

No one ever told on Sean, not even the chairs higher than him. Not even Scott. Sean was clean as a cat’s ass.

Regardless of the blatting, I still never thought of challenging him. I always thought challenging someone out of their chair was a dick move anyway.

The process of challenging someone for their chair more or less meant both of you meeting with the band director, playing a set of scales (complete with appropriate flats and sharps) and sight-reading a piece of music that the director had picked out last minute. Ultimately, it was the band director’s call and I could neither face sitting ahead of a guy I’d just challenged if I’d won nor face the rest of the section as a complete failure if I’d lost. Plus, although I’d been playing French Horn since 7^th grade, I never really knew the difference between an ‘F’ and a ‘G.’

So, last chair it was. And it hasn’t necessarily scarred me or made me give up on life. Whereas Sean dropped out of college, got hooked on Meth and died in his 20’s.

Okay, I doubt any of that is true. In fact, I’m sure he’s very much alive. But if you gave him a French Horn tomorrow, I’ll bet you anything he’d blatt the fucking ass out of it.




-SLL

 

LANGEWEILE

Subdued blue lights come up on a gun-gray stage. House lights on a depressed audience go out.

A low, crackling, buzzing tone from an old Moog keyboard backstage floods the speakers. If is followed by a high, piercing tone an octave up. Another note half a step down comes in, causing the audience to wince.

Our host appears onstage via a hydraulic tarp door that raises him up from below stage. He wears a dark gray, military-style suit that contrasts with the already dank set. He holds a tall, slim microphone in his hand, speaking as he gets to stage level. He speaks in a gravelly German accent.

"How is everyone tonight?"

There is no response from the audience.

"Welcome to Langeweile! The show where we pit family against family for fun and fabulous prizes. As you know, our previous champions, the Kirkagaards, won a trip to the spacious Guftalands to live out the rest of their days. Tonight, however, we have the returning champions, the Holtzchks . . ."

The left, back wall of the set opens, revealing the Holtzchks, a man, a woman and a child dressed in bland, earth-tone clothing. Mrs. Holtzchk stands at the sink, motionlessly staring out a window. Mr. Holtzchk sits motionlessly on the couch while the child sits on the floor in front of black building blocks.

"And our newest challengers, the Dauschenreigs!"

The right, back wall opens, revealing the Dauschenreigs, a less depressive family. All four – mom, dad and two boys – sit on their couch, smiling and looking out at the audience for approval.

"We’ll be back in three years to see how they do. Until then, I’m Rip Helden saying, 'Auf Wiedersehen!'"

The blue stage lights fade and Rip’s hydraulic door takes him below again. House lights go up. The audience stares blankly at both families, whose lights stay up in their prospective rooms. The Holtzchks do not move. The Dauschenreigs begin to get up and go on with their lives with the cramped space they are given.

Three years pass.

Blue lights up. Rip Helden is raised onto the stage floor. The back wall has been closed for some time.

"Well, let’s see how they’ve done."

Both back walls open. The Dauschenreigs appear docile and tired. Mrs. Holtzchk sits on her couch with her child. The legs of Mr. Holtzchk can be seen behind the left side of the couch. A long trail of dried blood stretches out of the right side.

"Looks like the Dauschenreigs already have a strong lead."

Mrs. Holtzchk springs up and begins beating on the glass that separates her from Rip. A stream of German obscenities can be heard coming from her mouth, muffled by the glass, but still audible. Her eyes are red from crying.

Rip turns to her and gives her a "thumbs down" gesture. White, pulsing light hits her in quick bursts. She convulses and then hits the ground like a rock. Her body steams. The child doesn’t get up from the couch. He sits, holding back tears.

Blue stage lights fade, Rip’s hydraulic door takes him below and house lights come up.

The Holtzchk child never cries. He gnashes his teeth inside his mouth to keep the tears in. He will beat this game, he thinks to himself. He will bury the Dauschenreigs.




-SLL

THE EMPRESS TAKES A SMOKE BREAK

Can you take this thing off me, please?

Eat shit, you elephant douche!  It stays on.

No, really.  I’m having trouble breathing.

You should have thought of that before you turned into a shit-licking piece of shit.

I don’t want to do this anymore.  Seriously . . .

Tough shit, you abortion!

Seriously, I have asthma!  I need my inhaler!

Oh!  Baby wants his inhaler.  Poor fucking baby.

Can you at least get off of me?

Oh, this isn’t what you wanted?  I remember you begging me to ride you like a pony 15 minutes ago.

Yes, I rethought that and now I just want you to get off of me.  Now, please!

Alright, you fucking weakling.  I’m off!  Are you happy?

Well, I really could use my . . .

Don’t you dare say "inhaler" again, you shit stain!

Why are you shouting?

Your mask stays on!  You understand me, you puss?

Yes, fine.

"Yes, fine" what?

Yes, fine . . . Empress.

I can’t hear you, you monkey shit!

YES, FINE, EMPRESS!  Am I almost done?

You paid for the whole hour.  I don’t do refunds.  This isn’t Sears, you dumb fuck.

Well, how much time have I got left?

Ummmmm, 20 minutes.

Can I get a voucher and come back later or something?

What did I just say?  What words just came out of my mouth?  This is not Sears!!

Can you at least loosen the, um . . .?

What?  Loosen the what, you cumrag?

This whatever it’s called.

Neckstrap?

No.

Armstrap?

No.

Bellystrap?

No.

Crotchstrap?

Yes, yes!!  Can you loosen . .?

No!! Christ, you are the biggest faggot I’ve ever worked for!  Actually, no!  The fags that come in here are a thousand trillion times tougher than you!  My God, you are worthless!!

Okay, I GET IT!!  I’m lower than a piece of dog shit! I am the diseases that spread on the maggots that roll around on dog shit!  I have a microscopic penis, no brain and no value as a human being!!  I GET IT!  Thank you, oh Grand Empress!!

Now we’re getting somewhere.




-SLL

ACHE SOMETIMES AND SWELL

     I spent the day at work listening to "Grandma’s Hands," crying. My headphones keep the deafening sounds of folding machines and address printers and paper cutters at bay somewhat. I have neither the spending money nor the inclination to purchase an iPod. Fuck that. This circa 2001 Sony CD player is fine. The compilation CD I pop in has a live version of a few Bill Withers songs on it, but none of them has the effect on me that "Grandma’s Hands" does.

     It’s a busy day and whereas normally I pick a CD that I can listen to all the way through to make the day go by faster, I hear "Grandma’s" once and put it on repeat for the next seven hours. Tears build up by the time she "soothes the unwed mother." An uneasiness fills my stomach when he describes how her hands ache and swell. By the time he sings, "but I don’t have Grandma anymore," I’m a fucking puddle on the floor.

     And just when I’ve wiped the tears away and composed myself, it starts all over again.

     Each time my boss comes down to see how it’s going, I hide my face into the computer or the addressing machine, give out a quick "Cool, cool" and try not to let her see me sobbing.

     And no matter how many times it repeats, I can’t keep the tears away.

     In my head, I tell myself I’m making up for not being able to cry at both my grandmothers’ funerals. But I know the truth. As much as this song reminds me of them, it’s not that at all. Bill Withers is just a Goddamned genius.

 

-SLL

THE GRIZZ

          As of today, it’s been exactly one year since the last Grizz killing. Still no leads, little if no true evidence. Microfibers on two of the victims reveal hairs from two different species of bear; polar and grizzly. Other than the Ranger Rick, bear-themed trading cards he leaves behind with the word "Grizz" painted on them, that’s about all we have.
          Twenty-one dead in the span of three years. All killed by hand. A calling card of sorts left on each victim. Three years of this shit, then nothing. Until now.
          A letter arrived this morning, no return address. Just the word "Grizz" on it with a paw print. It came in a turquoise envelope and sealed with one of those old-timey wax seals. One of our guys breaks the seal and pulls out what appears to be homemade recycled paper with writing on it. But not just writing. This guy used an old, old printing press (I’d say 1930’s or so) to print this thing. While the lab boys get possible prints off it and detectives scour the city for every print shop in town, we take a gander.
          It’s the "Grizz’s" personal, how-to guide. Murder for Dummies. I don’t know if the misspellings are intentional or because he couldn’t find enough of that particular block for the old-timey printer, but as we read it, there’s no doubt that every guy in the room has freezing water running through their veins.

Use yr Demons – yr Demons ALL of them r ther to kep you on TasK. Embrasing a sertan Demon now meens it want distroy you latr. BarGod.

Ware yr tru Fas – prform No TasK w/o yr tru Fas on. Fur is lif. Furfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfurfur

Duk tap – nuf sayd

BarHands – god and Muthr gav you hands to punchgrabsquez the nite of wimin.

Always giv um hop – no TasK is worht it w/ screming. Nevr tell um yr TasK til its to layt. Tell um you want Hirt um.

This is thelast youwill herfrom ME.I am DON.Sevn mor will tak my plac.

          We’ll be closing the case in a month, I would imagine. Not enough evidence to keep it open.
          I dream of bears for the next few weeks.




-SLL

QUEAZY YAKUZA

Ten years ago you would have never heard Queazy Yakuza on the radio. Hell, you wouldn’t have ever heard them on any of the college stations. They were a program director’s kryptonite. There was nothing remotely commercial or even listenable about their sound. Now, you hear their "music" (if you can call it that) everywhere. Their trademark backwards drum loops, fuzzy basslines and overprocessed, overmodulated feedback sells everything from toothpaste to running shoes. The most moronic use of their music was in a disposable douche ad. First off, I don’t know why douche companies even need to advertise. Secondly, what kind of sick ad-man uses a 14 second snippet from Queazy Yakuza’s 49 minute magnum opus "Cuntsniffer" in said commercial? Are they just being ironic? If so, irony is fucking dead. That just killed it.

Queazy Yakuza, this stupid, little Japanese noise quartet who make the most non-commercial sludge rock in the history of recorded music, is now the biggest-selling act in rock history. And nobody ever really bought any of their music.

You can’t turn your head without seeing some fat slob wearing a QueazyWear hoodie, hat, jersey or shoes. Your average person wears all four as a lazy man’s ensemble. Made from space-age polymers, all QueazyWear somehow gets cleaner as it gets dirtier.

QueazyLofts, the band’s foray into real estate, sell out two years before they’re built. They come with full amenities, are super compact and super expensive. Robotics built into each loft apartment not only cook for you, but tuck you in at night.

QueazyTech oversaw all of the robotic technology. Started when the band members were Grad students in the engineering department of Kyoto University, it was originally the path they chose as a career until they got interested Lou Reed’s album, "Metal Machine Music." That genre of abrasive, ostracizing music took over their lives and engineering took second priority. Now the tables, as they say, have turned. QueazyTech’s robotics were recently bought out by NASA for the purposes of long-range space missions. The band made billions.

QueazyTech’s newest project, the QY7, is a groundbreaking automobile that not only handles well on the road, but  runs on music. Fuck hybrids or solar power. The 30 disc changer in the chassis fuels the engine. As long as there’s music playing, whether it’s downloaded or on disc, your car drives like a dream. No more oil changes, no more gas station stops, no more costly repair bills. But here’s the kicker. It only runs on Queazy Yakuza’s music. Put in your favorite Glenn Frey or Happy Mondays CD and you ain’t getting nowhere fast or slow.

QueazyFinancial predicts the collapse of all the major car companies in three years.

Apart from the endorsements, the real estate and the space-age success, Queazy Yakuza only ever wanted people to buy their music.  And now music, the reason they left Grad school is, in a roundabout way, finally paying off.




-SLL

A BELL RINGS

A bell rings. 

Thin streams of air jut from the tube and these streams rustle the hairs on the back of my neck. I swivel my chair around and watch as the cylindrical container slams to the bottom. I slide the door to the left, pulling the container out. I swivel back to my desk, open the container and find the same thing that’s always in there. A sliver of red paper, latitudes, longitudes, coordinates typed in a formal, bureaucratic computer font. I type in the coordinates, raise the panel on my desk and push the navy blue button.

Somewhere in the early part of the 20^th century, somebody dies for no apparent reason. No traceable cause of death. Doctors at the time call it a mystery or "just one of those things" and that person’s entire lineage in the timeline is erased. Instantly, future generations who were connected to that unfortunate soul are wiped out of existence.

I close the panel, securing the blue button in the process. I swivel to the tube and place the container back into it. I slam the door to the right. With a whoosh, the tube shoots back up to wherever it came from. I swivel back to my desk and almost nod off as I look through the newspaper.

A bell rings.




-SLL

POWDER BLUE

     Mr. Powder Blue walks towards me on the pier, meeting up with me on the iceberg. Of course he’s wearing that same powder blue tux, complete with matching cape and top hat. Shit, those lapels are wide. Where and when did you die? At a Mexican wedding in 1974? Guy has all the power in the universe and he can’t even change his costume. Nice cummerbund, you fag.

     "What do you need?" I ask. "Look, I gotta’ Trig final tomorrow and every time you drag me to this place, I wake up with a huge headache and I’m no good for the rest of the day."

     "Then I shall be brief, little one. The universe is in great peril," he says in that gay, breathy way he says everything.

     "You always say that, man." Jesus, my eyes are really heavy.

     "Heed my words, young warrior. This could be the greatest danger we have ever faced. One that we may not be able to overcome."

     "You know what? Why don’t you just find somebody else to do your bullshit from now on?"

     "But . . ." It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him this close to speechless. "You are the only mortal that I can channel. We are compatible."

     Fuck me. I think I’ve had this conversation with him before. Take it to the hoop, Godammit.

     "Well, guess what, powder blue. Get me a transfer ‘cause I’m out of here, got it?"

     I start walking away from him. As I get to the edge of the pier, I hear him calling my name. I don’t even turn around.

     "I beg of you, child. Please, stop! Without you, everything we know is at risk of vanishing forever!"

     "Well, you should’ve thought of that before you picked a high school kid as your fucking minion. The prom is next week and the universe is gonna’ have to take a backseat to Teffany Stover’s giant tits. I’m bustin’ a nut on that shit like you wouldn’t believe."

     I make myself wake up.

     That’s when the universe collapses in on itself.




-SLL

UNCLE FRANK

     Uncle Frank was a bear of a man. He was always big. As a kid, he lived in a home that believed in "cleaning your plate." To leave even one crumb visible was akin to punching your parents square in their faces. Frank’s dad, my grandfather, would beat his children for the most ridiculous of reasons. My dad used to tell me horror stories about how hard his dad was on Frank. The most severe story involved Frank spilling milk on a second-hand, Oriental rug. I think Frank was seven at the time. My grandfather beat him so badly, Frank developed a limp, which he kept hidden whenever his father came around, thinking that it might anger him. Frank had that limp for the rest of his life.

     What most people considered abuse, my grandfather considered discipline.

     The only job Frank was ever really qualified to do was drive. He was built for truck-driving. And he did that for a number of years before the loneliness got to him. After that stint, he wanted to be surrounded by people, naturally. He was never much of a people-person, per-se, but then, there was something about driving a bus that had always appealed to him. There was the steady paycheck, of course. There was a great deal of that humdrum consistency that also pulled him towards it. At that point in his life it was something he felt he needed to do.

     "That point" ended yesterday.

     Frank started yesterday the same he always had. Fresh, hot shower, bowl of King Vitaman, two cups of coffee, grapefruit. Walk two blocks to work, slide into the flattened seat of bus 442 and start the route. His route had been the same since he started 14 years ago. Other drivers had always called it the "skunk route," as Frank’s predecessor was notorious for hitting an inordinate amount of them during his tenure. No matter how many times it had been washed, bus 442 never really got that smell out of it. Frank’s uniform would always have a hint of that musk.

     The "skunk route" started on Sequoia, made a right on Deerdoorfe, then snaked through Midtown before ending in the Bastinado District. Frank followed this route back and forth six times a day.

     Somewhere around Da Silva Street, at approximately 4:19 yesterday, Frank began quietly unbuttoning his lime green MetroFast shirt. By Lurie Avenue, he’d already removed it completely and none of the 11 passengers even noticed. His final stop in the Bastinado neighborhood was Megson and once all the same faces he’d seen for 14 years at that stop had trudged onboard, he knew it was time for the pants.

     As Frank passed one bus stop, then another, then another without ever stopping, the screams from the passengers got more and more violent. Hands jerked at the above-head wire. The ringing was non-stop. One man was bold enough to try and take the wheel from Frank, but to no avail. Frank brandished a gun and gave the man a slug in the jaw, sending him to the floor, bleeding. One woman used her cell phone to call 9-11. A little girl in red pigtails began to cry.

     It was such an unorthodox hijacking, when you think about it, but it’s really the perfect way to do it. For all the weird stuff I attribute to Uncle Frank, this was certainly his moment of clarity.

     He made it as far as Branca with all those people. Branca, for Christ’s sake. That’s a good 70 miles from his original route. Three squad cars followed him all the way and three more met him at the Renaldo Gardens entrance. After crashing through two roadblocks, bus 442 entered the cemetary.

     In his dirty, blue-striped boxers, Frank limped out of his bus, his gun at his own temple. Once he’d cleared it by about 10 feet, all of the passengers flooded out, screaming and running to nearest squad cars.

     I’m sure Frank heard the shouts from the officers telling him to stop, but he just wouldn’t. He continued to limp away from them, his eyes the huge hillside full of endless graves. He knelt at his father’s headstone up on lot 28 and blew his brains out.




-SLL 

THE RED CHECKERED DRESS

     The red checkered dress was overpriced for most people in 1947. It fit perfectly on the mannequin in the front window of Waterslav’s on 179^th and Broadway. The price tag was $77 and most every female eye that passed couldn’t help but look its way.

     Molly had just been hired at the First National as a teller one month before the dress had made an appearance. A co-worker had told her about it and, after Molly’s first glimpse, she would purposefully walk two blocks out of her way home to have a look at it. Every day she would take a stroll by Waterslav’s to make sure this one-of-a-kind article of clothing hadn’t been snatched up by some wealthy socialite. She found herself bringing her lunch to the bench across the street from the dress and eating there most every day.

     "It wasn’t just the dress," she thought. "That’s not the only reason to eat lunch here. There’s a park and all these people. Good people-watching spot."

     But she was lying to herself, of course. The dress was worth eating lunch with in her mind.

     She had been saving a few dollars every week as an emergency fund on the insistence of her husband, Jack, ever since she’d gotten the First National job. And within three months of working there, she treated herself to that red checkered dress.

     Jack berated her almost immediately for buying it. He used just about every excuse that he’d used before when he was trying to make a point about money. Slow economy, bills, their newest child. But none of these things stuck in here opinion. The dress was worth the sacrifice that they had to make in other areas.

     Whenever there was a formal function, it was on her. Out to dinner with Jack and friends? It was on her. Vacations in Florida? It was on her. Her red checkered second skin was when she felt the most attractive and alive. Even Jack later regretted ever telling her to take it back. She looked so stunning in it.

     The 50s came and went, as did many other dresses. The red checkered was dry cleaned, mothballed and stuck in a closet.

     Jack died suddenly of a heart attack in ’74 and, as Molly went through his things, picking out what to give to the Salvation Army, she came across the red checkered dress hanging in the very back of the closet. She couldn’t believe it had been so long since she’d worn it and was even more taken aback that she used to be able to fit into it.

     She threw it on the pile with all of Jack’s shirts and suits and ties right as her daughter Esther passes the doorway with an armload of Jack’s old Cad magazines. She recognized the dress from numerous photos from the photo album that always sat on her parent’s old driftwood coffee table in the living room. Her mother always looked so gorgeous in those pictures. So young she was back then. So very elegant.

     They argued for a few minutes about what to do with it until Esther convinced Molly that it needed to stay in the family. With that, it became Esther’s.

     She never wore it nearly as much as she had planned. She surely never loved it as much as Molly had. IT still made appearances from time to time. Bar-be-ques, retro costume parties, kitchy get-togethers with her in-laws. For the most part, it stayed in the closet and never truly got as much mileage as it had years before.

     Molly outlived Jack by another 20 years or so, eventually living out her final years in a nursing home. During the last eight months of her life, she succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Esther would show up every Sunday with grandkids, but Molly seemed to recognize them less and less each time. Her mind wandered constantly, every Sunday conversation being a series of "catch-ups." Esther soon stopped bringing her children along.

     Only two things were consistent topics of conversation when it came to Molly in the end; Jack and the red checkered dress. Both subject made her beam from cheek to cheek. And whenever she could actually recognize Esther as her daughter, she would ask if she could bring the red checkered dress for next time, just so Molly could look at it one last time. For a reason only known to Esther, she would divert the conversation and try to make her mother forget about it, since it wasn’t very hard to do.

     Two days before she passed away, Molly was shuttled to a hair appointment along with other tenants of the nursing home. This was a way for them to get out into the real world again and make them feel good about themselves at the same time, if only for a short time.

     As Molly began to step back into the shuttle, fresh from Buela’s Beauty Spot, she found herself breathlessly staring across the street at a teenage girl coming out of the Salvation Army Thrift Store. About 19, the girl had a spiky head of hair dyed every color of the rainbow. She wore purple cowboy boots, accented with a red checkered dress.

     Something about it looked familiar, but Molly couldn’t quite place it. Not now. Maybe it would come back to her later.




-SLL

HARD SELL

Okay, you got two minutes. Sell me.

Alright. This baby’s got quad polarizers, 4.72 B-Loss. Goes zero to light in four minutes. Handles less smooth than the JH model, but once you get in, you’re gonna’ think you’re in a JH. Chassis is made of 100% trynzium. First model off the line to skate the Weissman Act. Twin Warsaw impact resistance. Now, this one doesn’t have full capacity, but we can install at no extra charge a Redbeam package that’ll knock you on your ass. Carbine injection with turrets on front and aft. This is non-loading, you understand. You get caught in Midloathian territory or Antimone, you’re as good as covered.

Anything else?

Oh, yeah. Four drink holders.

Awwww. You had me and lost me.




-SLL

BUBBLECAT

     The tiny island of Pingu was roughly the size of Manhattan. Its population was 2.7 million. Main export: neurotransmitters. The country’s flag was a circle of seven 14-point stars in a field of turquoise. Each star represented a god from the earliest tome of their culture, the Kosh-Ne, dating back to 3,000 B.C.

     All that history, all of it, wiped out in less than 10 minutes.

     The Bru-Lun Corporation started back in the 50’s, manufacturing low-grade toys. Its most popular toy, Bubblecat, sold more than 50,000 units in its first year alone. By the 80’s, Bru-Lun had been sold so many times, very few people could remember its humble beginnings. And by the year 2014, the same year as the destruction of Pingu, the corporation was in the business of high-tech weaponry.

     Through a contract with the Pingu government, Bru-Lun had built its first "mecha," a 63 foot tall robot that was comprised of seven separate mechas. Two for the arms, two for the legs, one for its head, one for its torso and one that strapped to its back, providing a jetpack.

     On the morning of Pingu’s demise, some survivors describe a scene straight out of the Kosh-Ne, Book 80, last verse,

"Seven gods from out of the east
Sun splashes on their forms, blinding all who see
Fire rains down on all peoples, rich and poor
Leaving none to tell the tale."

     One old woman swears she had a toy that looked just like these "gods" when she was a child. Most all who hear her story write her off as senile.

     On a drafting table, somewhere in the Bru-Lun design building, sits seven of the original Bubblecats, broken apart and then clicked together to fit like a jigsaw puzzle.




-SLL

ICARUS #14

     "We’re not inviting ‘em to a fucking bakesale! We’re trying to scare the shit out of ‘em!"
     "I don’t know what the point of scaring them is." 
     "What you don’t know about crimefighting could fill a fucking warehouse."

     With that, Daedelus taps the button on his belt and the show begins. Black metal wings spring from his back with a sound I can only describe as a guillotine blade cutting off some poor bastard’s head. That’s my cue. The button on my belt doesn’t work. Fucked up from the last kid who wore it. Daedelus doesn’t wait. He leaps off the rooftop and just expects me to follow, regardless of whether I’m ready or not. I punch my belt hard through my glove and my wings pop out with a less threatening sound than his. He’s already on top of them by the time I get the wings out. Fast, man. In two moves, he’s taken four out of commission. They’re called The Sundowners. Infra-red hoods who only strike at night. This is my training mission and I’ve already fucked it up.

 

     "Icarus! Anytime!!" he shouts, while he kneecaps some jackass with his night stick, the "Bone-Breaker."

     I hear the sick crunch from the rooftop and I nearly throw-up.  "Fuck it," I think as I take the leap down.

     The last thing I remember is watching my metal wings call apart. They hang in the air. Silver splinters that float for what seems a hundred years. What I don’t remember is hitting a fire escape and an awning on the way down. Or the two Sundowners I land on.

     I lay in a coma for 14 years. By the time I wake up, my parents are dead and so is Daedelus.

     I plan on breaking into his underground lair tonight and trying on his costume. What have I got to lose?

     Jesus, I hope the wings still make that cool sound. 




-SLL

USURPER INTERVIEW FOR SPIN

Usurper is a band that I’ve followed for a number of years now. Ever since their debut, "Blood, Guts, Dinnertime" came out in 2001, I’ve been riveted by their odd, dark mixture of Norwegian black metal and NY "no-wave." I found out that they’d broken up recently, so I decided to track down their enigmatic lead singer/songwriter, Viktor Dank, and ask the all-important question; Why?

Rumors had circulated on the internet about how Dank had not only fired the other two band members, but had literally eaten them. I saw this is rumor as just that. A rumor. Probably fueled by Dank’s intensely sick mind, his press agent or his management, DankBlack Enterprises, all three of which circled back to Viktor Dank.

I pulled up to a very non-descript duplex in a part of Vermont that Viktor promised me not to reveal before I started the interview.

"So," I began, "is there any truth to these rumors?"

"No, no, that’s just a lot of hoakum," Dank fired back, sipping on his herbal tea from a mug shaped like a skull. "It was the same reasons why all those bands broke up. You want the music to go one direction, everybody else wants to do something else. I wanted it darker, sicker. Clem and Marv wanted to be more on that NoWave junk. I mean, I appreciate that disjointed shit, sure. But I wanted to keep it hard and dark, you know? We’re not just NoWave, man. We’ve always been a creepy mixture."

"Wait. I meant is it true about this supposed cannibalism? I tried to get in touch with Clem and Marv and I can’t seem to find them amywhere."

"Hey, I’ve been in a lot of bands, man," he replied, "and I can only think of, like, three times where I actually considered the idea of eating them. And that was usually because they missed a gig or showed up too drunk to play or broke a string or something."

"Isn’t that a little harsh," I asked.

"I take this shit seriously and a band is not a democracy. Not one I start, anyway. It’s my band. If I fire you or pick your bones with my teeth, that’s my choice, you know?"

I don’t know what to say to that. Dank has a way of playing everything he says as if it’s part of the Gothy act.

At that point, Viktor started showing me around his place. Lots of what you’d expect. Blood-red velvet drapes, skull imagery, black, black and more black. A prize item of his décor was a decorative, skin-toned lampshade. He went on and on about it to the point of nausea (on my part, at least). Upon closer inspection, I noticed an intricate formal design on it. A snake eating its own tail, forming a perfect circle with the name "Darcy" in the center. I quizzed him on this detail.

"Oh, weird," he replied, "never noticed that before."

As he invited me down to what he called his "musical torture chamber," I told him that I needed to use the restroom.

"Take a right past the sarcophagus," he said. "Hurry up, though. There’s something down here you’ve got to see."

He headed downstairs, I lurch towards the sarcophagus, then zip back towards the lampshade. I inspect it further as the sounds of metal riffs and what sounds like a band saw seeps up through the floorboards.

I spin the lampshade around, making two full revolutions of "Darcy," then notice something on the inside. A dot. A brown dot, to be exact. I take the lampshade off, put the thing around my head and get the dot ½’’ from my nose until I realize what it is. It’s a mole.

"A fucking mole," I said to myself aloud.

"You done up there," I hear from below.

I jump and my heart raced as I replaced the "Darcy" and bust ass out of the place.

When I get home, I dump my copy of "Blood, Guts, Dinnertime" into the trash. The back cover stares up at me. A band photo. The burly drummer, Clem, stares back with a menacing smile. His arms are folded, sticks in hand. On his left arm I can make out a tattoo that says, "Darcy."

I dump coffee grounds on it.




-SLL

I HEART EMMA

The Hop-Headed Charlies took to the streets, all of their eyes wide, hazy and crazy. Their white tuxedoes were wrinkled, worn and dirty in spots.

The Nice Phils were all Filipinos, decked out in matching mustard yellow shirts with the words "I," a red heart and "Emma" embroidered on them. They truly did "heart" Emma, each and every one of them.

Out of an alleyway came the Balthazars, each one of their heads adorned with a red fez except for their leader, Bal-1, who wore blue. Their smoking jackets and ascots were very tidy, clean and pressed. They all smelled of Old Spice.

If you pulled any member from any of these gangs into a room, the first things out of their mouths would most likely be three of the following things:  

1. They have an undying loyalty to their prospective gangs.
2. They do not want this fight to happen.
3. They truly do "heart" Emma. 

 Emma was the only reason this rivalry existed. She was the catalyst. And they would end up killing each other over who her heart truly belonged to.




-SLL

THE BUFFALO GOD

     The Choctaw warrior walked in the clouds. His stride was one of confidence, as if he’d walked this path before. Was this another dream or was he truly in the Big Place his grandmother had always told him about? His robes and feathers dipped down in the cumulous air. He wondered if he would meet up with the Longface again. Would his son be there? The one he had drowned? What of all the whites he had slain? Surely they would not be allowed to walk in this afterplace. By last count, there must have been hundreds, but if he saw them here, what would they do? This was clearly not a place of war. Far from it.

     As these thoughts floated across his mind, he saw a misty form in front of him. The Buffalo God. It stood as high as the Bloodblack Mountains.

     "War has brought you here, my son," it bellowed. "These many days of war were unnecessary in the grand design. You will not win, no matter how hard you fight and no matter how high you soar as a warrior. Your people will fall. Belief in the Buffalo God and an appreciation for the great land will fall. Your future is not in war, my son. Your future and your son’s future and your son’s son’s future is clear. Blackjack. Roulette. Stud Poker. These are not only your future, but these will even replace me as your god as you take back the great land from the whites."

     "What is the meaning of what you speak, oh great grandfather?" asked the Choctaw.

     "Its full meaning cannot be revealed now, my son. It will unfold itself given time. But one last thing before I take my leave of you. One thing you must remember and pass down into the future of our great people."

     "What, grandfather? What?"

     "All-you-can-eat buffet."

     With that, the Buffalo God vanished into the mist. The Choctaw furrowed his brow. The word "buff-fay" spun around like a penny in his head. Beneath him, the clouds began to soften. He sank into the cloud until it no longer held his weight. His body quickly gave way to the sky and he fell at a furious speed. The earth sped towards him. He was not afraid. He did not scream as the ground rushed to meet him. His eyes soon fixed themselves on a spot below. As he got closer and closer, he realized that he was raining down upon a fallen Choctaw warrior on the Bluehills reservation. It was soon now.

     He awoke. His head was heavy and, as he got up, he noticed many whites lying dead, surrounded by charred wigwams and dead, dying friends and kin. Many of his brothers were missing. His home was all but burned away here. He shook many to see if there was life. He gathered the robes and feathers of the ones he recognized and walked away from Bluehills, the thoughts of gambling in his head.

     As he passed the last of the dead whites on the outskirts of the skirmish, he noticed photographs, trinkets and gold coins that had spilled from their pockets. He gathered as many as he could find and separated the wheat and weeds that was so abundant in Bluehills.

     Tomorrow, he would walk to the nearest town, find their casino and put all of the coins on black.



-SLL