SKUNK TALKIN'

Skunk Mullens was bending my ear.

“The old man was trying to give me knowledge, the gift of time,  yet my head was off on it’s own – a matter of  flesh over substance…drive versus faith…I failed myself and “potential” is a hard word beyond the p-o-t…the nook' and the weed did me…the big fall…before that though, goddamn! I was somethin’!

Hell muthafuker you don’t know what I did  ----1200 women a year...give, or take. Break that down and what? Maybe, 14 women a day?…that’s like every two hours goin’ all night on an average day. That’s about right. Understand,my math don't count. I did the orgy scene so numbers blurr especially in the dark,with the haze, and all, so I gotta average. First apartment I tried to keep score, had the hash marks…no pun…the scorecard – the old fashioned “four lines and a slash = 5” – I filled a wall with them, then put the used up pencil stubs, 20 or so in a cup shaped like a womans crotch. Beer mug…birthday present. Mom."

Skunk on a roll. His mouth gets way ahead of mind and he just runs with it tryin' to keep up.

"...First man in the league to average 200 yds a game, 20 rebounds, thirty points and 22 assists, bat for 389, 42 hr, and 214 rbi – MVP in all three leagues and anchored the 400 and 1600 yard (not meters back in those days) relays on the big Olympiad. I’m not bullshitting you. I surfed some back in the day…Swami’s down La Jolla way. Rode the Big Shore twice…"

Who am I to argue?

"North Carolina…UNC…they been good to me…even paid for my knee surgery. They don’t like me talking about them, but I owe them, you know? Think they’d appreciate a lack of association, but I am obliged. I know that don’t mean much to you but I can now walk straight when I have the energy and I’m due. Some day soon when these pills kick in, I’ll kick your ass and that shit-eatin’ grin. Don’t be laughing at me! I fuckered-up Manny Mancini, I fuck you up. Took out a four hundred pound Somoan dude…hit the floor like a truck. So don’t fuck with me. Dr. there wrote me a letter and I avoided viet nam. 4-fuckin-F, just like that. Nothing I did wrong but I feel guilty not being there when so many of my kind and mind were, yet how could I complain about not being in harm's way?  That Evil war. The ones that died and the ones came back….man that was tragic. Stupid dumb luck. Painful as the knee be, I avoided that tragedy…freaky luck. …and what war isn’t evil? Spiteful.Makes no sense."

Sometimes we do agree.

"Smart girls never did trust me they thought me too pretty to succeed and they maybe got that right. He’s a hot trotter but can he finish? He got the buttocks but does he have the brain? Does he deliver the thrust or the Trust? 
There were four women made my list. Only four. Women far better than I deserve who all gave me something more lasting than ass. Which at the time I never realized, because I was of that singular focus and frame of mind, but do now and wish I could talk to them, but they avoid me or disappear, and I miss ‘em. Different worlds. Maybe it was me that disappeared. I regret I never gave them more. They would have been good for me and me for them I know it. They all saw through me to that desperate child and I saw the disappointment in their eyes. Not your mama, son. But I blubber, middle of the night I huddle in fright and find myself so alone. Nothing to fill the hole. And I am not talking orifices. I’m talkin’…. Private."

At this juncture he abruptly pushes back from the bar and bolts headlong for the john.

...returning refreshed and in mid thought:

"...Flew to Madrid on a private jet with Quni Rey. Lived in a penthouse for eight months. She was shooting “The Spanish Chapter”. Nice time. She’s fuckin’ Mad you know. That tiny little bubble turns into a brutal bitch and she’ll pop you. I took a gun away from her on the third night. I thought I was dead, her anger boiling over she was out of control waving the sonofabitch all over but mainly at me. I went to the front desk, and gave it to their security guy, and asked that he turn it over to the police which he assured me he would while he was smiling and nodding. So Quni then panics because she has no protection, and relied on The Gun to give her that comfort. (I obviously did little to provide those needs or assuage those fears.) She was afraid of the dark without the gun. I was afraid of the dark with the gun. We fought, but that usually meant we were due for each other and the rest was like freight trains fucking. We were bad for each other,but man we were good. I figure I was her last pole dance. Then she went back to New York and Heather, and you know the rest. 
Heather was the right thing. Saw her at a toy store in The Village. Baby stroller, second little girl. She bore it, I guess. Articificial. I obviously was not a consideration. Who can blame them? Knowing that little kid came from my loins…

It’s okay. I could never bear the burden of child bearing…I mean...rearing…raising...Not the birthin’...Be a bad dad…better off alone.

But damn it gets fucking lonely sometime."

Which brings us here.

Brother Issac

Issac Fissing spent the day in his chair staring down the avenue from the window of his living room up in his third floor study. It was too gray and messy to meander out but glare as he might into that dark and blustery storm he could not make it leave. Like some stoic and unwelcome guest, it was spending the night, invited or not. He watched it wriggle the street lights, and shred the awnings. It’s wind rattled windows and it’s thunder declared its presence, pounding loudly on the roof overhead and all Issac could do was wait it out. Flash. When he was young he would quiver at a storm like this, but by now he’d seen too many and knew that this too would pass. Boom. When he was young his brother Roger would crawl into his bed under the “big goose quilt” and they’d talk for hours. Roger would chatter him through the storm make him laugh and finally sleep. Eventually, as they grew older, they both grew ill from the accumulation of the many long cold damp winters in that drafty house. It was the mold. In the end, Issac refused to leave until Roger succumbed to pneumonia in the fiftieth winter of his life. He was a bright man, was Roger, and he was proud to be called his brother. Of course Issac was no dim bulb either, but possessed none of the social skills and graces of dear Roger.  Roger would light up a conference like Fred Astaire would a  ballroom, smiling so effortlessly, here, there, and trailing a wake of smiling faces and cascading laughter. You always knew where Roger was in a crowd – you could hear it all about him - in the center of the mass like a queen bee in their hive. Poor Rog’.

Issac on the other hand was no lady-killer…more the party-killer. It was a reputation well deserved, too. Oh the party’s he palled. Always someone just leaving as he arrived…always, Solo. But no matter, because Isaac was a loner and company is not something he cherished which may be the root of the problem and not the outcome. He had never married because he found no one, whilst Roger never married because he found too many. So too, you always knew where Issac was. The Lab Rat. That’s what they called him, because he lived there more than any other place, but his Mind wandered far from the tidy little lab and it’s brilliance contributes in a very big way to the way we think of science today. Issac would work a party like a void. The lonely corner a black hole. The yawning place. The jumping off point for many to say their, “Gotta-go’s.”

Issac’s contributions were far and well documented in scholarly circles - dusty little gatherings of intellectual respect. Meanwhile Roger’s face was on the Institute’s Annual Report, his portrait in the Hall Of Honor and he was even interviewed on the evening news on several occasions.  He was a handsome man, never needing make up. He got Mum’s looks. Issac got Dad’s ears. And as much a reputation Roger earned as a cocksman, vicious rumor cast Issac as “queer but celebate”.  Like some frustrated friar. It simply was not fair but Issac did not care. They were brothers and that’s all that mattered to him.

Meatnik

“Neatnik. That’s what Momma liked to call me. Not Beatnik, but Neatnik. She was the beatnik, and I was the neatnik. Of course living with a first rate slob can lead to over-compensation, but my God, cigarettes, half empty beer cans, chicken bones, food wrappers, not to mention your more-personal sexual artifacts like used tissues and condoms from any number of sources…well, I guess you can tell where I got it. I wouldn’t leave a trace…sometimes scrubbing walls or pulling pubic hairs and marijuana seeds from the carpet with tweezers until late into the night or into the next day. Only to have her drag another unsuspecting pecker…some unseemly weenie… home to muss up the place and spread disease. Sometimes they’d even comment on how tidy the place was…thanks a lot, muthafuckers!

DNA can be a problem but Neatniks , by nature, tend to leave sparse trace evidence, at least this Neatnik, and as you can tell, cleaning up is just in my blood. Plastic sheeting is a must; simple disposable painters drop cloths draped over an area, be it a bed, a car seat,  a motel room…can be a big help in limiting the spread of evidence, and once the business is complete it’s just ‘wrap-up the whole kit – and – caboodle’ rinse it all off in the shower with bleach and water. If not available, just drench it all with plain old grocery store bleach, then tape it up and dispose. Total investment something under twelve dollars. Not bad. Oh yes, and gloves are a must. Latex surgical gloves for the finer feel of flesh, but thick kitchen gloves will be necessary for your messier work. I have been known to shave my body for special occasions, not just this bald head you see here, but all over. Thankfully the scar tissue is not capable of growing hair, and that’s a help. Shaving one’s body can be very sensual and I have several girlfriends who will attest to the fact. Although most of my regular girlfriends are not especially anything to write home about – if I had a home - but they do provide me a place to rest and recuperate, and try mightily to satisfy my cravings (which is not even possible!) while on my travels.

Come to think of it, the only time I did not clean up my own mess, and this was not easy for me, but it was necessary, was when I had to put Momma down. The reason being Uncle Phil. Uncle Phil is still serving out his days right up the road in prison here at the State Pen. I like to drive by and give him a honk, hoping he’ll know it’s me somehow and admit to how smart I was to set him up. No problemo there, amigo. DNA everywhere – his semen inside my Mom – and his bite marks on her thigh, him passed out on the sofa while smokin’ hash, and her naked in bed, head crushed with my bat, blood everywhere, and this poor baby boy running screaming through the streets at three AM, yellin’ ‘He killed my Momma. He killed my Momma…”  The poor son-bitch wasn’t even sure he didn’t do it and the DA didn’t break a sweat puttin’ him away and neither did the jury, and the whole town felt right sorry for the poor baby boy left behind. Ha! Had me a fun time in high school, learned a lot, lived with a foster family, the Ruhls, then moved out upon graduation, joined the Navy, learned computers and paid them back every cent they ever spent on me, and then some. They both gone now. Had to do it. Mrs. Ruhl was asking questions I didn’t like – I think maybe she suspected from the get-go. Well, in the end you know what they say? The Ruhls were meant to be broken. Ha! As it turns out, I’m still breakin’ em.

private cell

raven loon

Is there a conspiracy about me? I have to know. Are there plotters behind me, whispers in the dark? Do knives get whetted by murky assistants while assassins plot the action and act? Am I imagining this or does a darkness pursue me, stalk me like some game animal ? Indifferent to the life it takes, as long as it is taken and the mission is complete.

I can think of no good reason. I have crossed only a few in my lifetime, and none meriting retribution of this significance. Who are you?... and What do you want from me?

The whisperers hiss between them ...longing, laughing, readying for restitution. While I grow restless, questioning the attribution.

Or does this exist in my own mind. Is this some tangled mass of brain protein, some bruised or battered grey matter, an illness or injury? Is this a paranoia brought on by medication – some psycho-pharm-nightmare? Am I breaking down or cracking up?

tango finito

Ex on Lex

Based upon an incident, true to the re-telling :

I was fucked. By my own partner, I was fucked. Fucking New York City practice, clearin’  TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRAND A YEAR!!! …and look at me now. A fucking pot doctor in this LA shithole. Pathetic. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRAND A YEAR!!! Fucked me over, took my practice, took my office, took everything!

Your blood pressures a little high. You dealing with tension…anxiety? You sure? Maybe White Coat Syndrome? Do I make you nervous.?…you know, being in a Doctor’s office?  Ha! I just called this dump a doctor’s office. I HAD a fucking gorgeous office, over looked Lexington. You know Lex? ….pphhppphhh

….gone, fuckin’ gone. You taking any medications? Other Prescriptions, other than the alprazolam? ….Lansoprazole? What’s going on with the colon and how does pot help you? Does it relax this tension? Fuck…the stomach issues I had when I lost my practice. No, I didn’t lose it it was stolen! Fucking thief! MOTHER FUCKING THIEF BASTARD! Took out a foot and a half of my upper. Sick as a dog for over a year, physical, mental breakdown, still seeing shrinks for fucking depression, and I can’t afford them! TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOU A YEAR!!!  

Sign here. Sign here...bastard...not you...

Take this to the window, get your card... and don't trust them, never ever trust them. And goodluck with that anxiety.