Saturday, October 22, 2011

Cheapest (in a true sense) Halloween Costume Ever

Jake found himself standing at a corner yet again in the party.

An attractive woman, by media standards, happened to stumble by with a tray of drinks, and went "Ooh!" when she caught sight of Jake's nose, which had been sticking out of the shadow of the corner.

"Oh shit..." said Jake, but it was too late. The drinks crashed to the floor, causing a small mess around his sneakers and the polished tips of her high-heels, but also a larger general discrepancy in terms of the *sound* that was going on in the whole apartment.

People began to look at them, and he pulled her into the corner with him. "It's better this way," he said, "I promise."

The atmosphere began to normalize in the room again. "Idiot!" she said, as quietly and irritatedly as she could. "You've ruined Halloween!"

He hadn't expected that. "What?" he said. "I just accidentally tripped you over, miss, it was just a sort of small joke, shenanigan with my nose. If it's that bad, I can go back there and refill your tray."

She just laughed. "No point now," she said. "See that guy there? That's who I was bringing the tray to. He asked me to bring it, and I went, filled up the drinks, and was going to be perfectly on time. He times us, you know? We call him the 'Time Lord' at the office." She shook her head. "Now I've ruined his Halloween."

"You wot?"

"Guy with a sad life like that, the one thing he enjoys is Halloween," she said. "Christmas party is too sedate for him. Halloween is the only time he gets to enjoy really seeing all the other people be totally crazy and different. And they all put the masks on, and they all have funny interactions with each other, and he watches and participates! And if he wants a bloody tray of drinks for him and his chums, bloody hell, he's going to have it!"

He looked down at the smashed pieces of glass at their feet. "Wow," was all he could say. "That is pretty creepy." He tried to smile.

This was when she noticed him. "Hey!" she said. "Where's your costume?"

"I'm wearing it," he replied.

"You're wearing a t-shirt and khakis." She gazed at him distastefully. "Pockets bulging with...I don't know what. I suppose you could be a mugger at the piers."

"A mugger?" he said.

"Yeah," she said, "Some guy that hangs near the docks, ready to just jump out and mug a dating couple."

"This coming from Chewbacca's poontang," he replied.

She took one step back from him, rubbing faux fur against her left shin. "Whatever. You suck. You come in here, no costume, and you ruin the flow of the music."

This made him a little angry. "What the hell," he said, loudly, "how do I ruin the music?"

She covered his face with her furry palms. "Shuttup, shuttup," she said. Then she pointed out, her arm drawing an arc across the entire living room, "Don't you see?" she said. "Don't you see that everything is going according to a rhythm?

Do you not see the mermaid over there, gently supported by her hubby?"

"Lol, that pregnant woman is supposed to be a mermaid? I thought it was a--"

"Shuttup," she said. "She is carrying the illusion."

"Illoo-oo-shion?" he said.

"And around them, there's the spider?", she pointed, "do you see that. See how that sea-spider guy is protecting the couple from anyone who may want to come in and break the mermaid's bond between her and her Sea God?"

"You see over there," he said, taking her hand and pointing it to the left, "how that Ice-Cream Cone is totally getting roofied by that CEO type fella with, for some reason, sheep pants?"

She let out a sharp laugh. "Oh you fool, that's just Sam and Jason. They're a couple too!"

"Sheesh," he said, slinking even deeper into his corner. "You think they over-did it?"

She looked at him again. His t-shirt and pants. "You really don't get it, do you? You're supposed to come to parties like this wearing a costume. It's part of the fun. You mix with people. You be somebody you would never be in real life."

"But what if what you real life...was spooky enough?" he said.

"Stupid," she gasped. "Ok, look. Wearing a t-shirt and standing in a dark corner like some thug is not exactly a costume, ok?"

"I'm not coming as a thug," he said, slowly stepping out.

"Oh yeah? Then what? Freaking Potsie from Happy Days? What's your costume?"

"I'm coming as Paranormal Activity 5," he said.

She burst out laughing, but just as she did, the music in the apartment stopped. Behind all the confusion and anger of the people, she heard this guy standing next to her sort of laugh, very quietly, and walk closer to her.

Then suddenly all the lights in the apartment went out, and as she turned her head, the last thing she saw was what looked like the chandelier breaking from the ceiling and falling on the mermaid.

(From the people who came dressed as a molotov cocktail in '04)

i hate pajamas

really hate pajamas
and folks who say they wear them
what are they really saying?
that their brains have been conditioned?

who the fuck wears pajamas?
plus drinks hot cinnamon coffee
in those warm cotton

gonna make a videogame
about just shooting pajamas.
you get ten points for a fringe
twenty if you blow that ass off.

so she's lying in the snow,
and her ass is too cold,
this somehow being winter,
she's in her fucking pajamas.

muammar quaddafi
was wearing pajamas
osama oh, osama was
he was wearing pajamas

when I came in, so precise
hoping for a little sugar and spice
she was in the bed and asleep
cosy in her little pajama piece.

& I wish there was no such thing
& I wish there was no such thing as
& I wish no such pajamas existed in the pink.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Premise for Murder Mystery

When they picked Little Jo up at the Sears department store, in the home appliances department, the main thing sergeant Vega wanted to establish was whether or not Little Jo was connected somehow to the crime scene at the ice-cream factory.

Back in the office, Little Jo had woken up a little, now showing signs that he was cognizant of his surroundings in fairly precise detail, i.e. he knew whose body it was that his consciousness was now inhabiting.

Sgt. Vega reviewed her (long) list of questions she had to ask Little Jo. "Hey there Little Jo. My name is Sergeant Vega, and I'm with the NYPD, ok? I'm gonna have to ask you a loada questions. Do you understand that?"

Little Jo nodded. "Yes," he mumbled, "yes I got it."

Ok. First question was "Do you have any ID?"

There was a pause, and then Little Jo shook his head. "No," he said, "I don't have any."

"Do you know why is that?" said Sgt. Vega.

This is what always happens. For some reason, the suspects never have any ID. This one, Little Jo, acted all confused, like he had no idea why he didn't have any ID. He just shrugged. "I--uh--I honestly don't know."

Sgt. Vega moved expertly onto the next question. "So you have no idea why a store clerk finds your ID just lying around in the home appliances section of a nearby Sears, the morning *after* an as yet unidentified corpse is found frozen in a shell of chocolate dip, an internal layer of vanilla ice-cream surrounding it, within an industrial freezing appliance at an ice-cream factory?"

It was too much exposition for Little Joe, and he just shook his head once, then stared blankly at the sergeant.

"And after finding your ID, police soon also find you sitting inside a display fridge unit nearby."

No response.

"You're shiverin', except it's just a display unit. The electricity was not even turned on, it was probably hotter in there rather than cold." She put her notebook on the table, now in stride, and said "What we want to know is why in the world you were shivering, Little Jo?"

A look of realization slid onto Little Jo's face. The identification, the refrigerator, the body in the freezer; all of this had to have something to do with a small taste he'd taken a few weeks ago from a strip of paper that had been left fluttering in wind near a local Taco Bell.

"Magic paper," said Little Jo, suddenly.

Sgt. Vega took her notebook back, and pulled a pen from her breast pocket. This was going to be good.

"I was strolling," began Little Jo.

"Strolling? You're just strolling? Just randomly like that?"

"Yes," continued Little Jo, "just very randomly strolling. Looking for avenues, and streets--traffic signals, that kinda thang. And I was on my cellphone."

Sgt. Vega prepared her pen. "Who were you on the cellphone with, Little Jo? Who were you talking to?"


"But wait," said the sergeant, expertly, "before you answer that, can you tell me if you remember if there was a name on your cellphone. Cos a lot of people put their names into the phone--that way they can remember their name, in case they forgot or something."

"Yeah," said Little Jo. It was all clearing up now, and he was getting more interested in the conversation. "I remember the name now. It was Sagat, Bison."

Vega dropped her notepad and looked at the criminal. "Oh. Sagat Bison," she said. "Kind of an unusual name, don't you think? Weird arrangement. Sagat is not a very good first name."

Little Jo smiled a fresh smile back at her. "It's actually Bison Sagat. I just like to put the last name first, with a comma--it makes it sound more official."

At least, she really, really wanted this guy to be the criminal. "Ha. Now you're name-calling a homicide detective. You don't think I've heard that before? Little kids who think they're gods at Street Fighter making fun of my last name?"

"Okay, it was just a joke," said Bison Sagat, "Don't take it that seriously."

"So who were you talking on the cellphone with, Bison?" asked Sgt. Vega.

"Two people," said Sagat. "My momz, and my ex-girlfriend. Both at the same time."

This was getting really weird. "Oh, so you're on the phone at the same time with your mom and gf. Was it a conference call, Bison?"

"No," said Sagat. "I was using the 'hold call' trick that they have, speaking to my mother in one moment, and then speaking to my ex-girlfriend the other. They both called me up out of the blue, trying to find out what I was up to at that particular moment."

"Where are your mother and ex-girlfriend right now, Roger?" asked Sgt. Vega, then. "Can we give them a call, maybe? See how they're doing? Maybe they're feeling a little...left out in the cold, you know?"

Bison looked up. "Who's Roger?" he asked.

"You're Roger," said Sgt. Vega. "Remember, we found your ID just a few feet away from the display refrigerator you were sitting inside."

"Oh. But--"


"How would you know that that is my real ID?"

Sometimes it pays to try the longshot. "Well," said Sgt. Vega, "we know it's yours because the barcode imprinted in it corresponds to the chip that was embedded in your neck when you were born."

"Oh..." said Roger. "But they could have just transplanted the chip," he said.

"Why would anyone do that?"

Roger looked down at the small desk. He kept looking for a good twenty-thirty seconds. Only when Sgt. Vega shook her head, ready to pursue a new tree of investigation, did he look up again. "Maybe..." he said, and he seemed very uncertain of this. "Well...they always sometimes dim the lights on me."


"Like sometimes, I'm fine as a feather," said Roger, "and all of a sudden it's like someone 'dimmed' the lights in the room for just one second or so."

Sgt. Vega stabbed repeatedly at her notepad with her pen. "They just dim the lights?" she asked. "And what do they do after they dim the lights in the room?"

"I don't...know," said Roger. "It's too fast. It only happens for, like, one second. And then it's over."

"Over? Just like that?"

"Yeah," nodded Roger. "And even more, it happens even regardless of whether there is a room or not. Sometimes it even happens in the streets to me."


"Yeah, I'm just walking around, in the streets, all of a sudden I experience this feeling as though my battery life just dipped for one moment. Except it's not a battery for my phone, or if I'm driving, a battery for my car, but more like...more like my own battery. My own personal human battery."

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

'coconut milk' (stolen)

people sometimes don't realize
how flesh is tasty, and instead
make up crazy religions.

When I was a n00b, I imitated a whole whale.
I thought I had that expanse, but then
it started getting more and more expensive;

They started putting crazy shit in my goggles
like, what if you finally met this girl
you loved when you were both 55?
Which makes no sense, because she was four years younger

than me.

Heh. Fifty-five. Why is that a number?

Monday, October 10, 2011

weak end

so i woke amongst jackals, all brandishing guns,
their faces ill curved, these outlandish gray aliens.
and my heart that once stopped when some harlot absconded
bled a note in petrol blood and tipped stomach's candle.

not a scream of the dawn, no yells of any morn,
simply scrawny, final, burning out of the glum.
at lease one hand of course, coulda been few feet too,
didn't even care if the blue wires didn't go with the glue.

horrible strain of the underused crumble
for pie-type solutions or candy barracudas.
maybe there was a reason in some afterlife,
when the aftershave shoved the cherry ablaze.

but this is now and we gotta check the holodeck wreck
simulate stimulations for stem-cell characters.
why insult them with just half of a brain? stoop a little lower,
boost it down to ten percent, nine, eight, six, three, -2.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Despite man's best endeavor, fiction blog has turned personal, with The Revenge PT 1

Previously on Despite

"During normal writing classes, this would essentially be what we earlier learned is the second stage of any story," said a man wearing a t-shirt, colorful pants, and an enormous beard, "the 'conflict'."

"Beard!" said one of the students, getting up onto the classroom desk and dancing.

Then he realized none of his fellow students had joined in. His moves were ok, looking a little bit like Ricky Gervais (but not *as* bad) in that one scene in the Office, yet he solemnly wished he had never done that.

"You have no conflict!" screamed the wizard, and he smote the child that had jumped onto the classroom desk after whatever influences (parents) forced him to keep watching episode after episode of a British sitcom.

As a burning toffee, a little battered, and dare I say--vinegar--the student revealed that he had done the homework, but was just testing the Master to push the little guy who sits in the corner into the washing machine.

"Beard!" tried the student again.

"F-fuh--err." He checked his book, and then nodded at the whole class. "Ah. Yes, see: Foool me onc--"

The headmistress entered the room and ordered the children to sit still, quiet. Suddenly the room was silent.

Then she looked at him, and then her body actually *shifted* slightly away. "Ridiculous," she said, waving her hand about in the midst of his beard. "Absolute rubbish. Get rid of it!"

He tried to grab her hand, but this gesture was summarily rescinded, and just as she had appeared, she was gone.

He turned his head, all all these babies sitting at their desks were laughing at him.

"Liar, liar," they kept saying, "your beard is fired!"

He reached for the tiniest one of them, in a kind of 'pitcher' or (if you prefer cricket) 'bowling' move, and threw it into the washing machine.
End of Part One of Part Two (Chick Is Living The Good Life, Without You)

Despite man's best endeavor, fiction blog has turned personal.

Sure you start off writing a few stories after this chick leaves you.

You say, "This is all just fiction."

But it isn't, is it?


"Who the fuck are you?"

An annoying [adjective] person, whose one parent had awarded the missing of a fourth toe, was asking this upon fairly a pleasant granite rock, drenched in good waterfall shimmer.

"I'm just here to write," said the Observer.

"Hah," said the little guy, dancing on his dancing rock, "hah!" He then pulled away from said rock, slid behind and then kicked a small piece away with his toe, as though it were a pebble. "You can't write about me, young man!" he said.

The Observer recorded video, audio and speech, and then cataloged the collection as a 'Note'. "I'm not writing about you," he said. "I am writing fiction."


End of Part One (Chick Leaves You)