The infamous novel of mine...
Now Playing: Lynn Samuels on Sirius
Topic: Work in Progress
Then what advantage has the Jew?,,,To begin with, the Jews are entrusted with the oracles of God.
----Romans 3: 1,2"We're doing all we can, you silly Jew-bitch!!!" the desk sergeant ominously spat at her.
It was as if the bulking Black officer had leapt over his intentionally designed desk of intimidative authority and punched the ethereally beautiful Melinda Cohen in the stomach with all the power and force he could muster from every porkchop he had imbibed since the project daze when his mama whored so that he could have more out of life than her tenth-grade education could provide.
Here was whiteness which neither lilies, ivory, or alabaster could ever match, and for that he hated her.
Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius--flashed into his brain unbidden, a bit of Horace by way of Fielding that he remembered from some immemorial college class his mother had seemingly sacrificed her very soul for, and he mistakenly translated it as "A gloss shining beyond the brightest Parisian marble," which would have made no sense even to him if he had really thought about it.
The sergeant could not truly fathom that the beautiful frame before him was not disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it, nor could he guess that her mind was every way equal to her person, and that the latter borrowed charms from the former. He could not divine that when she smiled, the sweetness of her temper intensified the glory of her countenance--too much deprivations and farrakhanisms in his life had decimated any chance of him ever seeing her as anything more than a filthy jewess--a conduit for all the oppression he had endured in life.
Melinda's eyes watered, uncomprehendingly, as she felt the impact of what he had said, and a little voice not her own mockingly screamed--Dorothy, you ain't in Jew Yawk no more!!!......
t~10-43 secA metalectric bluzeus flash illumined a stormy Monday morning country lane that could have graced a Saturday Evening Post cover, as per Mr Norman Rockwell.
SKKK--REEN KK--REEN K-REN REN RENCHH ENCHH NCHHH CHH CHh Chh chh shesh the braking Red and Tan bus screamed as the fluorescent javelins splunging from the sky revealed a wascally wabbity figure roadrunnering through the splish-splashy lagoonic pools that transfigured man's stoically preternatural asphalt river into a truculently miscreant manifestation of Nature--and Old Tappan Road now looked like a primal version of itself--an auld mellifluous stream meandering through what is now rapaciously called Bergen County, New Jersey.
Please God pleasegod pleasgod peasgod piecegod PU LEAZE the bus driver prayed in unison to the cacophony of the brakes he was trying not to frantically pump, completely unaware that he was doing so sans the benefit of the Nazareth middle-man or the rote recitations of the Hail Marys that he had been indoctrinated with in his youth.
A child, who dashed across the rain-soaked street, was framed between his whiteknuckled fists which now funereally grasped the steering wheel, the chile's mouth in extreme close-up in his mind's eye, shaped in an "O" from that abstract painting, The Scream, or Kevin in the after-shave scene from Home Alone....and the bus driver fervently prayed so unlike the hypocrites for maybe the third time in his life, a life which had been relatively charmed thus far, but now threatened with the ultimate tragedy--the accidental taking of a life.
His silent prayers were answered as the sickening thud of flesh upon steel was averted, and his heartbeat slowed down to a thundering gallop. Still traumatized at the sea of possibilities that had threatened the shores of his hitherto tranquil existence, he shouted above the now quite storm and the pneumatic swoosh of the opening doors--WHAD AR YUH OUTTA YER FUKKIN MIND, KID???--in a newyawkese which you didn't have to be an orthoepist to realize that he was from Brooklyn.
A soggensloshingly soaked figure on the cusp of adolescence who was as unprepared for this sudden late-summer squall as Luke Donner, the bus driver, slipperily slushed up the stairs of the bus, sneakers making the high-pitched squeally watersqueaking sounds that wet sneakers on a dry surface are wont to do.
A child of about ten with a drenched number 5 Giants jersey and cap, and Luke thought this kid was too young to have been showing his fealty to former Hall-of-Fame prospect, Kerry Collins, entered his bus like a dripping wraith.
Luke's heart was still thumping like a juiced up Ginger Baker drum solo, but a neutrino must have triggered a comprehensive region of his brain, because he suddenly knew what had inspired this kid to make a mad dash across Old Tappan Road--To get to the other side--the smart-ass inner voice in his head mockingly said. Obviously, this kid had been waiting for the New York City bound bus on Livingston Street when this unexpected squall came up out of nowhere, and as everyone in Norwood knew, that bus was as dependable as the New York Jets in December!
This Monday monsoon had come out of nowhere, if not the Twilight Zone---hell, until fifteen minutes ago it had promised to be another bitchingly hot dog-days-of-summer August morn. Now, Luke could almost hear Bob Dylan croaking It's a hard...it's a hard...it's a hard...well, it's a hard...it's a hard rain, that's gonna fall in some recess of his mind, as his heartbeat had now slowed down enough to finally feel some compassion for the little hobbit before him.
"Yo kid...sorry `bout that, man," Luke sputtered in apologia as he tried to negate his uncharacteristic behaviour, "but you really shouldn't be running `cross the street like that, especially in this kind of weather."
The last part of Luke's abridged oratory trailed off weakly as he looked into the soulful portals of the boy's eyes.
The once upon a time and Frodoistic sojourns to Mordor look in the boy's eyes confronted him, and in an attempt to attenuate the chimerical and seize the possibilities, Luke tried to avert the obvious by lamely asking--So where are you heading, kid?--in a bad imitation of George Churchill imitating Bogart.
"Har--Har--Harlem," the boy stammered through chattering teeth induced by the Novemberesque rain.
As Luke unconsciously maxed up the heat, knowing he'd hear about it from the bitching Yuppies in Fort Lee, hearing the word Harlem coming out of the mouth of this shrubarian chile was akin to hearing Louis Farrakhan cantoring in a synagogue in Jerusalem.
Luke knew New York, unlike all the other drivers for the Rockland Bus Company, better known as the Red & Tan line.
To those drivers, New York City began and ended on the other side of the George Washington Bridge, and what they saw on the nightly news was the extent of their knowledge of the city. Sure, they had shed a tear or two for their passengers who had perished in 9/11, but their Paulist Catholicism could not help them from feeling such is the fate of sodomists who daily trekked to Gomorrah.
Unlike his fellow drivers, however, Luke still lived in the diabolical land of horror stories.
Whilst many of his more caring passengers had tried to persuade him to move to the Goyim State before he became just another NYC slaytistic, none of them could understand that in his neighbourhood Bernstein's Bagels was next-door to Abdul's Stop One Grocery which was next to Colin's Ital Patties, who got his curry from Singh's Herbal Paradise who also supplied curry to Mr Lee's Szechuan take-out whilst they all got stuff from Kim's green grocery and Mundakka's 99-cents store, and all of this was on one side of one block in the `hood and THIS WAS AMERICA, or at least the america Washington, Jefferson, Hancock, & co. had envisioned...or at least this was what he had gleaned from going to public schools in East Flatbush, tempered by Beach Channel High School in Rockaway Park, and reinforced by having taken a few classes with Rhonda Sobel at Brooklyn College...Ms Sobel, a couple years his senior, a mystical being who would become the alpha and omega when it came to defining what a good woman was in his mind.
Luke had grown up on the melting pot idealism that schools had once tried to instill in their students, but that was from time before teachers had to add Kelvar vests to their wardrobes as they coweringly hoped that some kid didn't sneak a piece by the metal detector. Going to school wasn't like trying to fight your way down the Ho Chi Minh trail, then, but the times they were a changing, and certainly not for the better.
"So what are you planning on doing in Harlem at this ungodly hour?" Luke tried to flippantly ask, but failing to mask the genuine concern in his voice.
"I--I--I've g--g--got to meet someone who c--c--can help my m--m--mother," the kid replied, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.
Having forgotten about the article in Newsweek from two years ago, Luke remembered it now.
There's no way this kid could remember that---Luke thought, although he didn't rule it out as a possibility. Some kids remembered things that they weren't even aware that they knew...
The scenario that brought about his fifteen minutes of shame was now replayed in some area of his brain.
It was about fifteen years ago when he had started working for the Rockland Bus Company. Luke had picked up a girl in Closter who was on her way to the city at about the same ungodly hour in the morning, and unbeknownst to him, she was a teenage runaway. It wasn't until a few months later, when him and his droogs had gone to "the Deuce" to see one of the last of the kung fu triple-features that he realized the error he had made.
Having cut school many a time in his youth to go to the city to get on line and try to get good tickets for the Stones, Funkadelic, or Bob Dylan, Luke had figured she was doing the same...although he forgot that girls usually traveled in packs when they went out to buy concert tickets, but maybe she was into something weird like Patti Smith or Melanie, in which case she'd have no friends interested in such stuff. She certainly had looked artsy.
When he next saw her again she was in full hooker regalia: garish come-hither makeup, tank top boasting firm budding breasts advertising the advent of womanhood whilst echoing the end of being a child, and satin shorts so tight that you knew there were no panties beneath because upon close inspection you could count each pubic hair that was now growing upon what should have been her vestal vault.
"Wanna go on a date, mister?" she had asked in an okey-dokey Marsha Brady voice that he could still heartbreakingly hear in his soul.
"Yeah baby, wanna swallow the sword and then do a little Greek?" his friend Vinnie crudely asked as he roughly grabbed her ass and tried to push a finger up her anus.
If the girl had a pimp, and in all likelihood she did, now was the time for her protector to show his face, but Luke had by now known that pimps weren't the tough guys one saw in the movies...instead they were usually a bunch of parasitical pussies who preyed upon women and children, usually in reverse order.
Luke had gone to Beach Channel, but all his homeboys were on the football team at Far Rock, and his crew was not the kind of guys some pansy-assed pimp would want to fuck with. Vinnie was an almost hulking quarterback who had made All-State as an outside linebacker, and although he was a bradpittingly pretty whiteboy, there was no doubt that he could punch in your ribcage and rip out your heart if he so desired.
Luke was physically no slouch either, but since his sports were track and swimming, he didn't have the intimidative presence of Vinnie the Bruiser, who some people called Bruiso for short.
Luke had wanted to deck his friend, but it would not have been an easy battle, so instead he grabbed Vinnie's hand in an attempt to prevent it from completing its rapacious sojourn.
"Hey, no touching unless you're paying!" the girl snapped with a false bravado as she looked beyond them in the futile hope that her love and saviour would emerge from the shadows and protect her virtue, too green to realize that her messiah could probably suck dick better than she could.
"WHY you little bitch!!!" Vinnie said as he malevolently cocked his left arm in preparation to smashing her in the face.
Luke knew that Vinnie could hit devastatingly hard with either fist, and although he hadn't the prescience to have predicted that this little girl from Closter would have become a hooker, he could predict what would happen to her if Vinnie's meaty fist crashed into her delicate cranium, he could see her head propelled into the wall behind her from the impact, splattering like an over-ripe tomato, blood-soaked brain tissue dripping from her smashed head into the gutter...
With a heartbeat accelerated to a rate that would not be surpassed until this morning when that little boy roadrunnered in front of his bus, Luke pivoted in front of Bruiso with a trepidatious expectation that they would have to get into it, but his fear of personal injury was superceded by his concern for this little girl that he could have saved but didn't because of his inherent naivete.
"Cool out, motherfucker," Luke snarled. "You want us to fucking go to jail???!!!!"
The resistive tension in Vinnie's right hand, which Luke now held, deflated.
Vinnie had an extreme fear of incarceration, despite the fact that Bruiso would be nobody's bitch in jail.
"She ain't nothing but a little WHO--ERR," Vinnie said demurely in a voice exponentially smaller than his bulking mass.
Although Luke felt that Eric "Tank" Howell and the Tomlinson brothers would have intervened before he had to come to blows with Vinnie, he was more dismayed than relieved.
Vinnie had been the chosen one in high school.
He wasTHE natural,THE athlete, the ONE who was going to put Rockaway on the map. Never mind that Nancy Lieberman did THAT in '76. Vinnie was the golden boy with the moviestar good looks and the TALENTS to go pro, but, alas, that was all maya as the Krishna freaks were wont to say.
In the schemata of life, Vinnie didn't rightfully get his Warholic fifteen minutes of fame...it seemed more like ninety seconds, since the glory days of high school was but a fleeting.
Yeah, he was THE man at Far Rock in high school, but he couldn't get his game, or was it his grades, up to the next level. The scholarships were there, but nothing became of them, and everyone wondered--WHY?
The fact that the once mighty Seahorse was now floundering like a porgy just pulled up from the bay did not make Luke feel any better about himself, there was no feeling of superiority over someone whom you battled on the basketball courts and softball fields of Rockaway during your wonder years when you wondered--What will become of me?--no feeling of superiority because you now was in a better position in life, you now had it better than someone who you puerilely thought would always be better than you
Perhaps it was more than compassion, more likely it was the There for the grace goes mentality of someone who could've shared the same Fate had he been a better athlete than student.
Learning had come relatively easy for Luke, but athletics was something he had to work on, which was probably why he had admired Vinnie so much.
The X's and O's of sports were more familiar to Vinnie than his native tongue.
Alas, reading a defense, and since Vinnie was one of those now rare athletes who played both sides of the ball--reading an offence, ill prepared you for the adult life where understanding a simple quadratic equation was more likely to lead to the good life that the Madison Avenue procurers pimped you into believing as an inalienable right, especially if you're white--and it was doleful that this otherwise good kid was destined to be a ne'er-do-well for the rest of his adult life because the glory days of high school were now only a memory.
It angered Luke that a society could create such great expectations in its children, feed them with chimerical dreams built upon a house of cards, and then summarily dismiss them when their sandcastle lives inevitably slipped back into the sea. If Coach Havisham had been as meticulous about grades as Luke's track coach, Mr Fawley, then maybe Vinnie would have been more prepared for the rudely obscure existence of life AFTER the susaneedlemandonnalewinterachebethberk cheerleading chants faded into a memory that was a couple of thousand light years ago.
It was too late for Vinnie, unless he should miraculously pass a civil servant test, in which case it would be like Bruiso having hit the lottery, since working for the government meant he'd never have to work again in his life. Luke couldn't help but thinking that maybe it wasn't too late for the girl...
Luke had reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and gave it to the girl, her eyes lighting up in perplexed wonder since she was at best, a $25 whore...and then she trepedatiously wondered if Luke had intended on doing her with his crude friend, a scenario in which even her inexperienced mind knew could lead to nothing but trouble.
"I--I--I don't do no weird-shit mister," she fearfully sputtered.
Luke gave her a quizzical look since her now perverted fears from working a few months on the streets did not enter his almost chaste mind. Without a clue about the fears that were running rampant in her head, he said, "Take it and go get yourself a good meal," and as an afterthought he reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card and wrote his name and phone number on the back. "If you ever get tired of this life and want to go back to Closter, you can call me collect at this number, or you can call the folks listed on this card."
Her eyes saucered at his mention of her hometown, because she did not know him to be a fellow Closterian, and she knew all the coloured folks from Closter, if not personally then by sight, since Closter could still boast of its lilywhite population, if nothing else. She took the card and nervously examined it.
On the card was the logo for Children of the Night and an 800 phone number for their runaway hotline.
A tear welled in her eye, yet she knew she could never go back home.
"Thanks, mister..." she said in a little voice that was almost drowned in the drone of the hustle of the city.
She nervously looked around, before skittering off into the obscure throng of humanity.
Luke looked after her as her hotpants melded into the sea of sluts similarly dressed, and Vinnie started chiding him about his ulterior motives long before her delectable little deriere had disappeared from Luke's field of vision.
Had Vinnie been a thinking man he would have realized that every time the boys started talking about sex Luke had almost always steered the conversation towards politics and sports. Alas, someone with Vinnie's Neanderthal intellect would probably think that maybe Luke was a latent homo, but when Vinnie hung out with this crowd, his intellectual deficiencies couldn't be more obvious. Luke's friends thought him strange because he actually respected women, which was pretty stupid since all women thought that men were dogs so you might as well treat them like the bitches they were, but this subtly was lost on a man whose intellect had not yet evolved to the cavepainting stage.
Luke, Vinnie and the boys then went on with their planned night...buying a couple bottles of chilled Brass Monkey at the overpriced liquor store on Ninth Avenue, and smoking weed while they watched some badly dubbed kung fu flicks with preposterous plots as they enjoyed the waxing days of youth and the waning epoch of irresponsibility, and all the time in the back of his mind Luke had hoped almost to the point of prayer that he would hear from the girl from Closter again.
It would almost be a week to the moment that he had encountered the girl from Closter that he heard about her again, not counting the neverending innuendoes that he had heard from Vinnie that night. When the voice at the other end of the line identified himself as Officer Phil Carey, Luke instinctively knew that what the cop said was inevitable, yet he could never wholly forgive himself for not having done more.
Officer Carey announced that little Miss Closter had become one of the rotten apple's latest statistics--a crack casualty.
Although Luke was more cognizant of the vampirically destructive transformations taking place amongst the youth of the city that his riders fearfully saw on the evening news, not enough was then known about the total annihilative effects of this new drug, and it was then confined to the confines of the ghetto.
Good little whitegirls didn't die from crack overdoses.
All this was only hinted at in the Newsweek article, but the "tragic encounter with a teenage runaway" had definitely inspired him towards a "more aggressive interdiction" in the war on drugs that very few people would see, and fewer still would realize how significant his role would be in the lives of these children of the blight that was slowly spreading outwards from the city that no one loved.
The death of that sweet little girl from Closter taught Luke how to spot a runaway, or if not a runaway, a kid in trouble.
Luke would become an "unpaid informant," for want of a better phrase, to Officer Phil Carey.
What actually happened was that they became friends, united in a single cause--trying to prevent what happened to that sweet little girl from Closter from ever happening again, and Luke could now instinctively spot the potential runaways and troubled kids, while Phil Carey taught him how to spot the aspiring Nicky Barneses who were trying to make a quick buck by polluting the other side of the Hudson with this new poison that his friend Pat said was created by the CIA, which had made perfect sense to Donner at the time.
People had been abusing cocaine for at least a hundred years, and yet "crack" had only now just magically appeared on the scene. When he considered that such great minds like Freud and Doyle had used cocaine and never came up with the idea of cooking out the impurities, it made Luke seriously consider that the nefarious branch of the government might actually be trying to Final Solutionize his people.
Jomo and the Black American were talking about the new mystery plague which was now impacting homosexuals in San Francisco and New York and heterosexuals in Africa, and that information coupled with this new drug fed a racial paranoia that Luke did not know existed within his soul, but having survived the streets of New York as a thus far unincarcerated Black male, he realized that such evil machinations must have existed all along, since Whitey did not like a nigger that wasn't dead or in jail...
As Luke looked at the kid through the corner of his eye, he knew this child was not a runaway--But how the hell does he know someone in Harlem?--he could not help but think.
Except for the sniveling Yuppie powerbrokers and the Mexican maintenance workers, people from Bergen County, New Jersey just did not venture over the George Washington Bridge. Sure there were the Marilyn Mansonites and the Doors freaks who would occasionally play hooky and make a sojourn to the Village, and then there was the annual St. Patrick's Day bacchanalian pilgrimage of a few adventurous Mick-miscreants, but nobody ever went to Harlem, not even the aspiring Nicky Barneses.
No one knew where it started, but there was a shruburban myth that crack-crazed cannibals bungee-jumped off of the tenement roofs and snatched up unsuspecting tourists for their supper!!! Were there any truth to the rumour, then obviously this kid would most definitely be a delectable little hors d'oeuvre.
Luke grinned as this ridiculous thought entered his mind.
The kid was undoubtedly too young to have learned such nonsense, and there was no doubt in Luke's mind that the boy's mother would turn a whiter shade of pale if she had known where her precious little progeny was off to now.
"Looks like you could use a nice cup of hot chocolate now," Luke said with a non sequitur cadence in his voice.
The chatter of the kid's teeth had subsided and the goose bumps had all but disappeared. The bus's heating system had dissipated the preternatural morning chill that the sudden monsoon had seemingly embedded deep into the very marrow of the boy. Naturally, the chile gave him a slightly suspicious glare, but Luke was prepared for this inevitable exhibition of mistrust.
"Hey, I'm not gonna call anyone on you--scout's honour," Luke shot back as he stuck a thumb in his nose whilst his index and middle finger stood up in mock salute and he wiggled the other two as he made a silly face. This puerile gesture had the desired effect, as the boy laughed at Luke's apparent silliness.
Luke had learnt from experience not to be over-gregarious if you wanted to win the trust of those who thought that twenty was old and that their parents were actually antediluvian enough to have played with dinosaurs in their youth, that was always a sure way to raise their hackles and arouse their defenses.
As they drove on down Old Tappan Road in relative silence, the only sound audible being the thrumming of the torrential rain upon the roof and the sloshing of the tires through the pools of water on the road that would become perditionous lakes of contention by rush hour, these ambient noises combined with the hum of the engine created an orchestral sound that gave them a Pink Floydish wish-you-were-here feeling, the thunder and lightning coming in metronomical intervals like a David Gillmore guitar riff.
A couple of minutes after the bus turned onto 9W, the garish sign of the Road Kill Diner cut through this morning's gloom.
Luke gave the kid a sidelong glance as he wondered if the boy knew that the Road Kill was a cop hangout during the vampire hours after the local teens and collegians curfewingly crawled home with the despair that something important was going to happen in their absence. Hopefully, all the kid would know about the Road Kill Diner was that it was a favourite hangout of truck drivers, which it was, and Luke was hoping beyond hope that the boy's eyes would be enamoured by the sights of the big rigs rather than the smattering collection of doughnut-fiending copcars which would invariably be in the parking lot.
"Oy..." wafted into Luke's ear as he turned into the parking lot.
This familiar New York exclamation was once familiar to Luke's ears, yet except for a few adventurous Jews in Fort Lee, Luke was sure he'd never hear that despairing word in what could officially be called the Goyim State in relation to New York. His resolve to Judas the boy right now snapped, and he wondered how Phil Carey would react to the early morning phone call he was now sure to receive...after all, it's been a while.
"Chill...errr, I mean I'll be right back, kid." Luke said with a sincerity in his voice that would enable him to sell Watchtowers to satanists.
He was incognizant that he had altered his speech because the boy was white, and probably subconsciously because he now realized the kid was also Jewish. Luke still thought that Jews were almost hillbillyish in their knowledge of street lingo, unaware of how far rap had penetrated into the psyche of shruburbia. He still thought that they were more interested in Torah study and the talmudic devoution to baseball stats than they were to the gangstaisms of the hip-hoppers, and he had completely forgotten about the homogenizing capabilities of MTV.
"TRAMPS LIKE US...BABY WE WERE BORN FOR FU--UU--UN," a drunken chorus screamed over the sonorous blare of Tammy Wynette's lamentation of how big the tree has grown.
"Yeah, Reenie honey, don't you know that I missed you chile," one of the drunks said as he grabbed the matronly firm Texas-sized derriere of the waitress.
"If you ever fucking touch me again Ryan Goldman, I'm going to be the first person in America to get released for justifiable cop-killing," the big red-head waitress snarled.
She was probably right too.
Mavourneen Samalini, who the local linguistically challenged goobers called Mauve since their thick provincial Jersey tongues could not embrace a polysyllabic name of exotic origins, was a statuesque modern woman, i.e., she could only boil water if it came in a package with microwavable instructions. Her flaming red hair made everyone cognizant that she was nee Murphy, and she had a thickness of limb that would make Botticelli drool in inspirational ecstasy, and there is no doubt that she would be Fox Muldaur's number one masturbation fantasy, yet she still entertained a chilehood fantasy of her own--and inexplicably she would leave her GQ Adonis-like husband for Marilyn Manson.
Like all Catholic jerseygirls, she possessed an innocuously sensuous bovine beauty that threatened to explode into heiferdom once she started begetting, and while Mavourneen was a size 16 Thalestris who no man in his right mind would reject, she was more than a little distraught at the prospect that her waistline was now traveling on the same road as her fabled "fat" ass.
She was now pushing 35 with two rats on the rug, and the prospect of approaching schweinhood was reaping zertorung on her hitherto surgically enhanced Barbie-doll personafigure. The breast implants she had gotten as a birthday present for her adorable husband when she was younger and more insecure about her ravishing beauty was now unnecessary after adding breastfeeding to her resume.
Mavourneen adored her children almost as much as she did her husband Drew, and his adulation for the mother of his children could only be illustrated in words of an epic ode written by an immortal like Shelley. Still, as each second ticked away her delusions of immortality, and each unburned calorie tocked away into cellulite, a subterranean voiced screamed--What have you done with your life???
Sure, she was now almost the proprietress of the Road Kill Diner (although most people actually thought she actually was the owner, since the Happy Days d?cor and the computerized eclectic jukebox which was a bit heavy with Marilyn Manson selections, uniquely pointed to her personality). She was also a damned good mother to boot--but whatever became of that teenage ambition to become the next female Jim Morrison, sans the Patti Smith machismo?--she sometimes wondered, as her moulding notebooks of poo-etry now gathered dust in some forgotten alcove of both her soul and her house.
Despite her present mid-thirties angst, Mavourneen was pretty happy with the path her life had taken, usually...
It was moments like these--when Detective Ryan Goldman and the sycophantic bluebies he surrounded himself with--made her wonder if the path she had chosen in life was the right one.
Ryan Goldman probably would have been no different than any other obnoxious putz with a badge, had it not been that Mavourneen once worked with his half-sister, Eileen Kalisz, and this circumstance had led Detective Goldman to feel that he had license to be more obnoxious than is the norm for his breed.
Familiarity had surely bred contempt, especially in his case.
Mavourneen had once had a crush on him, but that was way-back-when-long-ago-and-oh-so-far-away when she had first got a job with his sister at Bethaven Logistics. She had then thought that he looked like a five-foot-eight version of Marilyn Manson, the schlock-rocker who made her heart palpitate like a Tiger Beat teenager. Marilyn was her David Cassidy, Rick Springfield, and Elvis all rolled into one, and Ryan had resented that she projected this zero-worship unto him.
Of course, this was before the boozing and donutry of the force had made him the now corpulent clich?-cop that assaulted him every morning in the mirror, so his resentment of her past adulation for him was now intensified in retrospection.
The inglorious daze of high school had columbined in his mind.
He could never forgive her for being infatuated with him because he once looked like that faggoty little geek.
He could never forget the taunting jocks who grabbed their crotches and derisively yelled--Hey jewboy, wanna blow the chauffer--on the eves of Yom Kippur.
She was the beautiful shiktsa who he cwouldn't dare hope for...even in a wet dream, and when he had the opportunity to defile that precious little Catholic cunt of hers, he balked.
He now hated her so much that he spent more than half of his masturbatory hours teaching that little bitch a lesson, despite the fact that she was a couple of inches taller than him.
For her part, Mavourneen felt dirty every time she saw him.
She could not believe that her adoration for the Antichrist Superstar was so intense at one time that she was willing to possibly sabotage her future with Drew for a romp in the hay with this pathetic facsimile of Marilyn now before her.
Could life have been so fucking shallow?--she aside-ingly mused as she watched the slobbering object of one of her first devout sexual fantasies bacchanaliantly decompose right in front of her eyes.
The scene of a month ago now flashed through her mind.
Ryan had marched into the Road Kill, sober--for a change, and showed her a picture he had downloaded off of the internet with the sole purpose of shocking her.
It was a picture of Marilyn dressed as the Virgin Mary.
Also in that picture was a baby-Jesus, cherubically smiling as a stream of piss spurted from his wiener in a steady stream, and the Virgin Marilyn was bent over the little chile, drinking, as if from a water fountain, the excess urine dribbling down his chin in a lurid phosphorescent yellow.
A nonplussed look registered on her face, and Ryan assumed she was shocked for all the wrong reasons.
"Too bad the faggot's lips didn't touch the kid's cock," he menacingly said with a snarly leer in his voice.
"Whaddya mean?" she asked with a dreamy distraction that Ryan mistook for the revelation of one who sees that their golden idol had clay feet.
"COCKSUCKING is sodomy under the law in this state," he bellicosely explained. "We could've thrown the book at this artsy little fag for child porn if your boy's Marilyn lips had touched the kid's cock...but since you fucking goyim think that making pictures of your Virgin Mary out of cowshit Art, the homo who posted this shit is probably covered under some ACLU amendment."
Oh shit he must have seen this--she immediately thought upon seeing the downloaded picture that Ryan handed her, and her mind flashed back to a Christmas of a few years ago.....
It was another winter of discontent at Bethaven Logistics as the rumours that this year's bonus would be paltry because of the move and the opening of five new offices, and the prospect of a happy holiday season seemed even more remote since the spirit of irreverence had been exorcised, and now a lieftime away in the Port Newark office.
For the 20 months and 19 days he had been at the main office of BL, his unpredictability and absolute disdain for the man whom he called the Hebrew Hitler who had previously lorded over them with the honeyed malice of an Edenous snake, had made her actually look forward to going to work.
Jonah was a lean and scruffy mulatto CBGB expatriate who made Keith Richards look like a steroidal musclehead in juxtaposition, and his Altamont teeth behind his snarly smile probably scared the shit out of her fascist boss and his Gestapo network of vicious cuntlings led by the bitch he dubbed Princess Paskudniak, and when she found out that paskudniak meant shitbag in Yiddish, Mavourneen could help but turn totally red as she tried to suppress her uproarious laughter every time Heather took it as a compliment because Jonah preceded it with "Princess."
Heather Wellington-Smith was too full of herself to think that anyone could not love her, and for those who she knew to passionately hate her, she dismissed them as pathetic scum who were preternaturally too jealous of her divine beauty.
Although all of five-foot two inches, Heather was a bully.
Being a vicious corporate cuntquette who aspired to the sluttish spoils of opportunity, she went out of her way to step on everyone on her way up because she planned to shit on them on her way down, even though she was too full of hubris to think that that day would come. Karma was for losers.
Mavourneen's first impression of Jonah was that he was a complete asshole, which he was, but an asshole with convictions.
She did not remember what it was Heather was saying that first day the snarly punkrockedout mulatto Hamlet of Harlem came to work at Bethaven, but Mavourneen did remember that she and some of the girls were in the slightly-oversized broom closet that had been converted into a lunchroom by putting a small refrigerator, a cut-rate microwave oven, and a few chairs and a table into its coffinous confines--they were shooting the breeze and Okrahously talking about the usual shortcomings of men.
Heather had entered the room, swishing her fat wetback ass in his face as she pontificated on what qualities made a good man, just as if God had given her the words from Mount Sinai on tablets of stone. He looked up from the only home-cooked meal present in the room, and drawled--A good woman knows when to keep her legs open and her mouth shut.
The only sound audible was jaws hitting the floor as Heather angrily and derisively snorted before she stormed out of the room.
"YOU PIG!!! How could you say something like that?" Darla Imperato screamed after a seemingly lapse of almost eternal funereal silence, which was only broken by Jonah's fork rattling on his microwave dish.
"At least I got rid of the little bitch," he replied, nonchalantly. "Little Toto-ass motherfucker."
Although Darla and Heather were now the best of enemies, he had uttered that one word which Darla found the most offensive word in existence--motherfucker.
At that moment, everyone in the room thought he was the most hateful being on the planet, even Eileen thought him repulsive, and she was virtually a saint.
Every woman in the room was sure that he was a women-should-come-in-with-the-first-dish-and-leave-with-the-first-glass chauvinist, unlike the metrosexual wimps Frank Lieb was wont to hire.
"You're unbelievable!!!" said the only other `male' in the room, but his chivalry had gone totally unnoticed as enraged estrogen filled the air with the scent of a siege mentality.
Under the auspices of Frank Lieb's benign fascism they had been sheltered from contact with real men, and they had Pavlovianaly accepted that only the pseubermensch could survive the catty jungles of corporate Amerikkka, and having laid the foundation for his own ruin, they were covenly plotting to build upon it.
That Mavourneen remembered his first day on the job, simultaneously with the Christmas that almost wasn't, was no accident.
His acerbic wit was overshadowed by his vicious loyalty, his saber-like facility with words could never be dulled by his sheep in wolves' clothing persona. Although he exuded the gangstaism of the ghetto, the little house on the prairie aspirations were never far from the surface, which is why she shouldn't have freaked out when he had sent those odious Christmas cards, but she was.
The cards were the standard X-mas fare you got by the box, not quite Hallmark, but definitely not the 99 cents store variety. They were the kind of cards you brought and mailed out to people not really in your phone book, cards you gave to the garbagemen, the clerks of the convenience store that you frequented, the gas station attendant, the mailman.
For each of the women at Bethaven, the card received had an original flippant remark for which he was famous, but somehow looked skeezy when committed to paper.
She had forgotten the day after he had seen his first Marilyn Manson video how excited he was about the event, she had forgotten how neophyte Mansonites tried to be more outrageous than the antichrist superstar upon conversion, but most of all, she had forgotten that although he lived in Harlem, in reality he lived in the Village.
Her card was inscribed with a description of the scene that Ryan had showed her, with people that he usually goofed on when he was working there were inserted as parody, and it wasn't until Ryan showed her the downloaded picture that she realized he must have seen the original, if he hadn't made it. (There was no question in her mind that he was an artist.)
Unwittingly, she had played into the hand of Heather Wellington-Smith, and had contributed to the end of his career at Bethaven. But more importantly, she had taken away the love that made Eileen Kalisz's now unbearable life a bit more torturous, and Mavourneen would have felt a lot more guilty about this if she still worked at Bethaven and had to see Eileen's gallant but futile fight against cancer day in and day out.....
Kreehk khhrrr--ehk kreehk khrr--ehk the rocking chair softly moaned against the Monday morning maelstrom.....
Lynn Kearney didn't know exactly what propelled her to get up so early this morning--the library didn't open until ten and here she was sitting on the enclosed porch of her house with her trademark thermos of tea by her side--the rain thrumming like a herd of wildhorses upon the roof of her enclave.
Thunder rumbled like a bowling ball rolling down an aisle above the belligerent bower of clouds, and she could not help but think that the sound produced was not a hundred-letter word that inspired fear in the non serviam soul of James Joyce.
The pleasures of love
last but a fleeting
But the pledges of life
outlusts a lifetime
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot
now shot into her memory banks.
Lynn had seen this epitaph on the tombstone in a rundown cemetery outside of Dublin when she had gone to Ireland for the Bloomsday centennial, where she had half-expected to see one of her former students doing his Robert Johnson crossroads impression. Upon reading the inscription, however, she was finally able to lay his soul to rest in her mind. Knowing that her former prized student had never met a drug that he didn't like, and having lived through the Crack Wars, there was no doubt in her mind that he had perished ignobly in the rude obscurity of some dilapidated ghetto crackhouse, just another brick in the wall of shame that decimated a couple generations of wasted minds never given the chance to walk the halls of Christminster.
Ironically, while she realized the first two couplets as belonging to Joyce, she couldn't place the third, even though she had introduced the lysergic Icarus to the man who would for the rest of his life get him through the travails of his blighted star existence. She could not have seen that his flippant fa?ade was what the kids now called "a front" whose sole purpose was to hide the fact that there was no love and light in his life--just death and destruction.
Thirty years in the trenches of the New York City school system had not completely extinguished the mid-western idealism she had brought with her from what as a youth she considered the hinterlands of civilization. In her lifetime, God had died, and the prospect of His resurrection was as implausible to her as the possibility that her first star student would ever be anything more than he was now--an entity in her memory banks whose name was now unknown to her.
Although her small-town soul had accepted the deicide of the Nazarene as a natural component of Microsoft and an Ashcroft-nation, her innate mid-western optimism now had her gleaming in what should be the futile gloaming of her life as she now ponderingly rocked on her porch--she had a NEW LOVE!!!
It would be obscene to suggest that Lynn Kearney had now developed a taste for hot young cocks at her age, especially since the object of her love was a twelve-year-old boy who could have been one of her youngest grandchildren had she followed the flock and used college to become nothing more than a quilting mommy who hausfrauingly bit the pillow whilst her story-book husband proctologically seeded her colon with doubts about her own self-worth.
Lynn was, after all, a teacher.
Of all the professions that exist, teaching was the one that could honestly declare that--Many are called, but few are chosen.
The love of a teacher for their student has a sacred history that pre-dates Jesus and his disciples, Plato and Aristotle, Krishna and Arujna.
TRUE teachers touch lives in a way that is incomprehensible to mere mortals, and once in a while, true students are so inspired that their teachers achieve immortality.
Lynn's whole life was one of being a Jimi Hendrix opening up for the Monkees ad infinitum.
The IQ-potential of students seemed to have gotten exponentially smaller as her teaching prowess increased, and that combined with the increasingly almost litigious paperwork involved with practicing her craft had finally pushed her over the edge, had finally inspired her to do what a couple generations ago of students would have accused her of--SELL OUT. She had decided to throw in the towel and go corporate.
Lynn had put her resume on the Internet with the hapless hopes of getting a teaching job in the suburbs where good teachers were appreciated, but resigned to take any corporate offers that might have come her way. Since she had not entered the profession because it was a pit stop in the race for matrimony, security, and the bourgeoisie purgatory of middle-class complacency--she had felt guilty when she made the decision to stop teaching in what had now become her city, but the metal detectors and farcical compensation for her craft had made her trepidantly view the approaching Golden Years turn to pyrite.
The state of New York did not deem it necessary to give students the books needed for the students of New York City, so like any conscientious teacher, she had to reach into her own pocketbook to supplement the budgetary shortfalls that the Lotto scam and video casinos were supposed to alleviate. What she had seen enacted by Albany she had witnessed being carried out by street hustlers on unsuspecting tourists on the sidewalks of Manhattan, a game called three-card monty in which only the dealers' cohorts "won," and the ever declining test scores were proof of that.
Although she had spent her career as a high school English teacher and never even had taken Economics 101 when she attended Northwestern, she didn't have to be a pedestrian Alan Greenspan to figure out that when you slash federal income taxes the states and municipalities would be subsequently plunged into the pool of laissez-faire sink-or-swim corrupolitricks.
Ideals are often crucified to the inalienable pursuit of one's daily bread when the prospect of a roof over your head and a used car in every other garage becomes a luxury instead of a manifest destiny, and the chimera of trying to buy Alpo with food stamps was becoming all too real to Ms Kearney.
When the powers-that-be behind Contra Terrenes Village had contacted her with a job as a librarian in their gated community, she felt like a Tess D'Urberville transported into a Dickens' novel.
And now she had something she never dreamed of ever having again--a star pupil--even though she was not his teacher.
On a clear day, Lynn could look across the Durov Circle from her porch at the Winston Smith Academy, which above its entrance had the Latin phrase--Quod vitae sectabor iter.....Cogita tute--boldly inscribed in what she mistook for gold-plated lettering instead of the name of the school.
As she looked across the center of "town" through the falling sheets of rain at the Winston Smith Academy, a pang of regret grasped her as she realized for the umpteenth time that she was not a part of this new experiment in education that was almost as auld as the country itself.
The Winston Smith Academy was a school that went from pre-kindergarten to the twelfth grade, but what made it unique was that each class consisted of the same students in the same class with the same teacher throughout the course of their academic career.
Ingenious in its simplicity, it was a concept that had been a part of most of America a hundred years ago, something she forgot she had revived when she was the same homeroom teacher for the same set of kids when she had been a novice at the inception of Beach Channel High School a lieiftime ago in the faraway province of Rockaway Park, New York.
It was beyond Lynn's wildest phantasmagorical dreams that at the dawn of her teaching career when she had kept the same homeroom class together until they graduated that she could somehow inspire even one student to attempt such a phaetonic revolution in education--had she thought about it she would have thought herself a "Little House on the Prairie" plagiarist--a Laura Ingalls wannabe.
Despite the belief that that homeroom class was filled with students she had thought capable of changing the world, including her prized pupil whose name and face had become unrecognizable in the gloaming years of her life, Lynn could not fathom that she might have even been remotely responsible for this revolution in education--whilst most of that homeroom class went on to achieve solid middle-class credentials, none of them ever amounted to the great expectations she had believed them capable of--especially Susie Cohen and her prize pupil whose name and face she could not remember because he had opted out of taking yearbook photos, which tend to jar your memory when the ravages of time have dulled your mind.
Anyway, even though Lynn could no longer count herself amongst the chosen few--teachers--she did find some solace that she was still involved in the sacred profession of "teaching," even though her role was now in a diminished capacity since one of her duties were to supplement the students of the Winston Smith Academy with "research instruction and library usage"--whatever the hell that meant--but it was part of her contract with Contra Terrenes Village that now had her sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of her house, which she would fully own once she had fulfilled her contract obligations.
And now she had a new rising star on the horizon--Reuven Kalisz--and Lynn B. Kearney felt like a cocky novice once more.
When she had first come to Contra Terrenes Village as the head librarian, Lynn Kearney had felt that perhaps life had passed her by when she heard of the experimental nature of the Winston Smith Academy.
At this time in her life she had felt herself to be equal parts Melanie and Jewel--my greatest oeuvre is behind me but maybe there's another Peace Will Come or Candles in the Rain left in me--or my greatest oeuvre is yet to be as You Belong To Me and Hands are just a mere indication of my dylancy.....
As she thought these thoughts Lynn Kearney was only mildly introspecting, because if had she really embarked upon a heshbon hanefesh, she would have wryly appreciated the fact that she was now a Thomas Hardy somnambulistic hallucination in a Holofernestic lethe of Fate.
The underlying raison d'etre of her chosen profession was not because "those who can't--teach," but an innate and hapless hope that she might be one of those stokers of the inspirational sefirot of a prospective Melanie, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, or even a Marshall Mathers, but these thoughts were not in her mind as she now placidly rocked on her porch as the rain deluged down in a sea of improbabilities.
Had she been introspecting, Lynn might have realized that "Contra Terrenes" reeked of Pythagoreanism, and "Winston Smith" was oh so 1984, and the fact that she worked in the "C.G. Jung Library" was never lost upon her, but what added irony to injury was that she had completely forgotten the name of her first prized student who would have noticed the synchronicity of this intentional artifice immediately, but he was of no consequence now.
She found the idea that her newly prized "pupil" residing at 707 Eccles Street a happy coincidence.
Her latest neo-stephendedalusic project overshadowed the now forgotten Promethean pupil that had brought the fire to her passion to be a teacher, was now so antient in her memories that she could not even artificially act like she cared any longer--she had buried him in her soul in Dublin--and yet she could not feel that he was somehow tied to her new star, and his blighted influence might not have been buried in some little neglected cemetery outside of the town that James Joyce made immortal...she could not help but feel that there was something seriously amiss in the universe!!!
"Michael, you and Reuven are going to have to fend for yourselves for breakfast," Eileen Kalisz blurted as she bustled into her sons' room.
"I told you mum, it's Mick," her eldest son indignantly replied in his best shruburban imitation of a cockney accent.
Eileen rolled her eyes in mock exasperation--her teenage son was now in a Bob Marley/Rolling Stones phase that was often more a source of amusement than consternation, and she usually had to struggle not to laugh as her son's speech seamlessly shifted from bad cockney to even more dreadful Jamaican patois.
"Come on here and zip me up," she said as she turned her back to him.
He grudgingly crossed the room to zip up his mother's dress.
She was an old broad--at least FORTY, for chrissakes--and Mick couldn't for the life of him fathom why his friends considered her a MILF, although deep in his heart he knew he'd never meet a woman as beautiful as his mother in his lifetime, or any other.
Eileen, for her part, had not felt the hands of a man zipping up her dress for so long that she could not remember the sensation, and for her it was as if her sons were the only ones who ever performed this task in her all too brief life, and all too brief it was too.
She had slept all through the night sans the reminding pains of her doleful mortality, and this would have been a glorious day were it not for that little bitch, Heather Wellington-Smith...and a rueful smile graced her face as she remembered that he had called her "Toto."
Eileen had not thought of him for months, and while she knew that he loved her dearly, she had two boys of her own, and with her life rampantly slipping away, she had no need for a third.
Sure, Heather had mellowed quite a bit since the birth of her child, but there was still a vicious streak in Ms Wellington-Smith, as she now liked to be cuntingly called now that she was a VP at Bethaven Logistics, and she was still the same backstabbing corporate quean that she had shown herself to be when she fucked Darla Imperato over oh so many years ago. Heather was still that same wholesome whore who aspired for the sluttish spoils of opportunity.
After a good night, Eileen had so desperately wanted to take the day off and spend it with her two beautiful sons, and a tear of desperation welled in her eyes and threatened to open up the floodgates of despair that she had so far heroically managed to subdue. An understanding God would have looked down upon her plight and intervened, but in all this universe it seemed that neither god nor man could understand the tribulations of a mother who in all probability would not see her youngest son be bar mitzvahed, and no reasonable deity would be offended if she cursed him and died, which was now inevitable.
Three strikes and you're out.
She hadn't even a despairing hope that she'd win this bout with cancer, her third.
"Where's Ruve?" she almost squealed.
"Him pob'ly in de bathroom chokin' de chickun, mon." Mick replied, totally incognizant that he had now shifted from cockney to "ital"-mode.
Eileen gave her son a mock slap upside his head, half-grateful that she had lived long enough to see her youngest son reach the age of masturbation.
"RUVE!!!" she bellowed at the closed bathroom door.
"Yeah...Mom," came a reply.
"You know I gotta leave early today, hon."
"Oh, Ma, do you hafta?"
"Yeah, hon...remember I told you guys Heather's got some important clients coming in today?"
There was a fatal tinge of regret in her voice, and as she regretted that after a rare painless night she would not be able to have breakfast with her sons because that little bitch, Toto, would now rob her of another priceless moment with her kids. It was because of this moment of self-pity that she did not notice that her favourite son did not reply to her inquiry.
Mick, however, watched the whole proceeding in wide-eyed fascination, as he eyed the LEDs on the MIDI-interface of their computer dance in response to his mother's queries.
"You and Micha--er, I mean Mick," she sweetly yelled over the sound of the shower as she turned towards her eldest and lovingly grinned, "are gonna have to make your own breakfast today, okay hon?"
"Okay, Ma," came Reuven's reply.
Smiling once more at her eldest, she spun around so that he could not see the crestfallen look of forlornness on her face as she exited the room.
"Holyfuckin' son-of-a-bitch," Mitch whispered in admiringly disbelief as his mother left the room.
It had taken Mick months to create his voice-activated "bathroom"-programme which he used to fool his mother whenever he snuck out at nights to hang out with his friends. The little pisher had come up with a far more believable programme in the couple hours after dinner when his mom had announced her having to go to work early after that stanking bitch, Heather, called while they were eating.
Mick would not realize how calmly Reuven had taken that announcement until years later, he would not realize that Ruve did not throw his trademark whiney pissy-fit until then.
He would not realize how troubled his mother's heart was until he was much older either, even though at the time he was fully cognizant that in all likelihood, his mother would not survive her present bout with cancer.
Mick instinctively knew his mother loved Reuven a lot more than she did him, but it didn't matter.
His brother was a combination of Holden Caulfield's little sister AND little brother, even though Reuven didn't have red hair or write poetry on his baseball mitt...and he loved that little bastid.
Yeah, sure it was homo, but Michael Kalisz loved his mother and his baby brother.
As he heard his mother bustling through the house, and then heard her car start, his admiration for his brother's computer savvy morphed into genuine concern, and the temptation to run out to the garage and cryingly say--Mommy, Mommy...Reuven's not here--almost overwhelmed him.
It was raining like a sunnuvabitch outside, and he could not fathom where in the hell Reuven could have got up and gone to so motherfuckingly early in the morning, especially on a day like this.
Mick was 99% sure that Ruve could take care of himself, Reuven was a Kalisz, after all--and should be able to take care of himself, but it was that nagging 1% that had him worried as he found himself in the garage, watching his mom pull out of the driveway as she almost frantically waved through the deluge, desperately wanting to cry--Mommy, Mommy...Reuven is missing!!!
S/he smiled at him, her gookish eyes beatifically rounding as his throbbing thrusts slaked the sluttish lusts of her soul.
oooohHHHHHH-----s/he moaned, then wailed in crescendoing orgasm, as Bruiso's eyes tightened while he pawed her delicate little oriental breasts and he gruntingly tried to delay the inevitable as his penis pumped her verboten vagina, as he put the vinegar strokes into her mangina. Alas, the musk emanating from her porcelain perfection was too much for him, and he growled through gritted teeth as he grabbed the tissue next to the mouse and Onanistically spurted his desire into it.
S/he smiled clearer than a Trinitron as Bruiso quickly wiped his cock off and stuffed the used Kleenex into the back pocket of his jeans.
Almost as quickly as he ejaculated, he closed the window to GeishaLadyboys and guiltily typed in nfl.com into the search bar.
Might as well get the latest on the jets--he rationalized, since the pre-season was now over.
There wasn't a fucking queer bone in his body!!!?!!!!, but somehow he couldn't overcome his new-found desire to view those legendary chicks-with-dicks, especially those sweet little gook girls with a bit more clitorisage than their cunting sisters.
Make no mistake--Bruiso wasn't no fucking faggot.
He didn't like those studly shemales packing more meat than he could possibly eat, not that he was a cocksucker.
Bruiso's taste in these women were almost priestly, his palette was that of a pederast.
There wasn't a fucking queer bone in his body, but there was something overwhelmingly sensual about those sweet little gook "girls" with budding teenager's breasts and their boyish little cocks that made Bruiso salivate.
Yes indeedy...there wasn't a fucking queer bone in his body, and Bruiso could kick a faggot's face in with the best of them.....
He strongly suspected that one of the guitarists for Streitpunkd was a fucking queer, though.
Streitpunkd was the band he worked for, and he was euphemistically called a tour manager, although in reality, he was just the chief thug in the security detail and primary bodyguard for Johnny Nasos, the founder of the band.
While Bruiso was not as intimidatively big as your average bodyguard tended to be. He looked like an aging Aryan Stallone and talked in that punchdrunk way that wops from Bensonhurst used to talk before the Guineas all started becoming hoodrat wiggers. His ferocious devotion and pit bull tenacity more than overcompensated for his perceived shortcomings as a bodyguard, but only Johnny Nasos could fathom the depths of the soul of this ne'er-do-well.
The rest of the band figured Bruiso was a charity case like Axis Rhodes, the brain-dead "third" guitarist who was the only original member of Streitpunkd besides Johnny. Experience should have taught them that Johnny Nasos didn't have a charitable bone in his body--he was cruel and calculating enough to be a bigger Republiscum shill than Rush Limbaugh--and he probably could have went into talk radio if he hadn't been aware that he had some real talent.
Despite the popular consensus, Bruiso wasn't as dumb as he looked. His pitbull devotion to Johnny Nasos wasn't based solely on a bestially primitive instinct--the primal obedience of dog to master--he was, after all, once a quarterback.
There was some intellectual depth to the man.
Bruiso knew that Johnny Nasos was the sole reason for his employment with Streitpunkd, and he felt that Johnny had the same kind of genius that the coach of his Seahorses possessed, the winning mentality, but that didn't totally explain his rabid devoution.
Johnny brought back the applause and the adulation.
Sure, almost every groupie had to suck him off before getting a backstage pass to see the band, but that would have been like getting sloppy seconds even though he knew he was first at bat. Vinnie did not feel like a hired hand, however, because even from the beginning, Johnny had mentioned Bruiso in his between-song soliloquies from the stage, and from that repartee Vinnie had attained a celebrity status much like that of Steve on the Jerry Springer Show.
Streitpunkd were not arena-rockers, yet, but they had gotten a taste of the bigtimes when they had joined the rock n' roll circus of one of the many imitation Ozz-fests that had now become fashionable. They could now pack the bigger clubs and college campuses with their tongue-in-chic campy Nazism.
Mike Portlund, an unknown freelancer had called the band the twenty-first century "Marilyn Mansonification of Hogan's Heroes," and that proclamation had launched the band into borderline A-list ranking amongst the slew of alt-rockers on the scene. It was as if he had said--I have seen the future of rock n' roll, and it is Streitpunkd--although no one but Johnny and Bruiso seriously thought that the band would become bigger than the B-52s.
Had Johnny Nasos or Mike Portlund known that Streitpunkd's Frank Sinatra parody, "Jew York, Jew York" would have been as big a hit on the NRAryan hate sites as it was on the more progressively "liberal" campuses where college kids thought it was a cool parody of the disenfranchised, barely literate white trash who only future would be servicing and gassing the SUVs they would purchase upon graduation, the song might never had been so prominently displayed in the repertoire, it would have remained the goof on the playlist that it was originally intended to be.
When the band shifted from the Funkadeliclashramonesy high-octane showmanship into the schmaltzy lounge-lizard smooth jazz chords of yesteryear and Johnny Nasos starts to croon like the Chairman of the Board:
Start killing some Jews
And all the porch monkeys too.....
Bruiso gets the fucking joke, although he was sure all those stupid Outter Whitelandians didn't REALLY get the joke because they were too fucking smugly politically correct to UNDERSTAND the fucking joke.
This cuntry was built on the fact that God created the WHITE MAN to have dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves. It was THEIR divine right to fill the earth and subdue it.
Yeah, Bruiso got the fucking joke, only the joke was that Johnny Nasos was the prophet who would wake up the white people from their apathy as he duped the inanely au courant press into believing that Johnny stood for the inalienable rights of anyone who was not fortunate enough to have been born White. It was US verses THEM, plain and simple, and them Jews and fags in Hollywood had made it legitimate for an AMERICAN to feel ashamed just because he was born both White AND male.....Johnny was on the verge of changing all that.
--we sent a message to them stupid nigroes when we TOOK the WHITE house--imagine that fucking bore and his jewboy a heartbeat away from the throne of god--and them arabs made us fucking pay for THAT mistake--Bruiso smiled as he realized that while Johnny was not the messiah, Johnny was as close as anyone on this planet would ever come to being another JC.
While Bruiso would have taken the proverbial bullet for Johnny, the superannuated cocaine that he had mellilifluously inhaled a few hours ago had not quite worn off, and as he typed in the URL for "jewdicator," a skinhead search-engine, he was marginally aware of his betrayal as he judasically typed REBEKKAH LE WINTER into the search box
Shiveringly she dug her thick shaking hands into her bursting at the seams security guard uniform which accentuated her aunt Jemima porkchop guzzling thighs and fumblingly she grasped the keys as she shoved the key into the lock while the cleansing rivulets of rain seeped down through her scareweave and prickled the actual roots of her hair--and she couldn't wait to get into her room and zap the thermostat up to the max--fuck shampooing my "hair' today, she asidely mused.
Almost frantically, she turned the key and pushed the door--WHUMPF--it replied in defiance.
"Motherfucker!!!" she screamed through teeth clenched to prevent them from chattering as the autumnal rain sloshed down upon her.
Right away she KNEW that Neanderthal whiteboy had put on the top lock on the front door (and of course, Neanderthal was not in her limited vocabulary, but it would have been the word she would have used if she had known of its existence, and since most polysyllabic words were beyond the scope of her room temperature IQ, she simply thought of him as a "cocksucking caveman").
She didn't consider the fact that the reason the top lock was "on" was because the cocksucking whiteboy was just practicing the payback-principle. Cassandra Thorton had conveniently forgotten how she and the Convict would swoop down from their rooms every time he stepped out of the door, just like she had forgotten that she was such a vicious dirty cunt that all of her co-workers had drove by her in this deluging storm without thinking to offer her a ride, even though the boarding house she lived in was on the way home for most of them. Little did she realize that her being an ABSOLUTE bitch, combined with the desires of her co-workers that the rain might wash away some of the stench of her heavily perfumed but seldom washed body, might also have been a contributing factor to her present plight.
Cassandra just figured the whole world was against her, and she viscously turned the key in the top lock and swung the door open. The door thudded against the wall, as she violently stepped into the cubicle at the bottom of the staircase and maliciously slammed the door shut behind her, putting the top lock on with a vengeance.
THUMP THUMP THUMP she suddenly trod up the stairs like a pregnant brontosaurus, the stairs shuddering under her behemoth onslaught.
Her cunt twitched in anticipatory expectation as she remembered she had to take a wicked piss.
Of course she should have peed on herself while she was walking home from work, she wouldn't even have had to wash her pants then since the soaking she had received in her three-mile trek home would have been more than enough to have washed away all traces of her having tinkled in her pants, but it was THAT time of the month, and she was unsure as to whether or not her menstrual juices would have left a stain in her company issued pants, and it was thirty dollars for another pair!
"Goddamn that motherfucker," she hissed as she got to the door of her room.
She could hear the thunderous roar of the whiteboy snoring, and the shower's sibilant sounds coming from the bathroom--the fucking Convict's chile-bride was probably in there washing her uppity cunt, because Cassandra KNEW the Convict was supposed to be working tonight, but he might have taken the night off to fuck that little bitch who wasn't shit compared to her divine-self, and the fact that he stuck with that little yokel instead of partaking of some of her splendid pudenda candy infuriated her even more.
Frantically she opened her door and slammed it shut behind her--racing to her bed and reaching underneath it for her combination chamber pot/washing machine bucket--and fumblingly she unzipped her pants and liberated her two tons of fun that was corseted into a one ton bag, squatted over her bucket, and let the good slimes roll.
It was sheer relief as the uric bile flowed from betwixt her gargantuan thighs, and her ecstasy was overshadowed by the reddish tinge to her uropoetic release--the woemoonly tide was still evident.
Having been deprived of a mother's advice because death had separated them before she started the cycles of womanhood, and having been too mean and nasty to have had any real friends, Cassandra sojourned through womanhood without the slightest clue as to what it entailed--so she was not cognizant that a bitch who pisses in the same bucket that she washed her clothes in would not be cognizant of the excess piss that may sputter on her rug, nor of the womanly protocol of wiping her cunt after taking a piss.
The red taint in her urine registered in Cassandra's mind, however, and she grabbed the used maxi-pad that she had hung out to dry earlier and replaced the pad she had been wearing, which was now carefully nestled on top of a used Chinese-food container.
She would empty her bucket and rinse it out when that bitch came out of the shower, then she'd put today's maxi-pad in the bucket to soak in some liquid detergent until she got up later, at which point she could wash it out in the sink and then put it on her makeshift line to dry.
I'm gonna make that white motherfucker pay for this--she smiled with saccharine malice.
Mike Portlund had now spent another fruitless night listening to Art Bell as he circled Stewart Air Force Base.
Mike had no delusions about seeing any black helicopters or mysterious chem-trails, but if he did.....
He wasn't a UFOzo, but he did find Mr Bell's show to be one of the most stimulating overnight shows on radio, and he still couldn't figure out why that shit--Steve Malzberg--had replaced "Coast to Coast" on New York's premier Nazi-radio station, WABC.
Mike was CONVINCED that it was just a matter of time before a terrorist with a hand-held missile launcher would take down one of those big Air Force cargo planes, and while he hoped he had the internal fortitude to be a hero like the Arizona Cardinals' legend--Pat Tillman--and do something to prevent such an act...he was sure if he saw a terrorist on the side of the road taking aim he would try to ram him with his car...Mike was pretty sure that he would only be able to be the first reporter on the scene if this scenario played out, and he was almost certain that it would.
He had circled the base in the years since the Twin Towers fell, and had yet to see a single vigilant Barney Fife, which he was sure held nightly conventions at the Dunkin' Doughnuts in Newburgh.
Now that putz Malzberg was on the radio, subbing for Curtis and Kuby, who were on vacation, and he could not wait until Stern came on, even though it was now after six, there was still that solid fifteen minutes of commercials before the show kicked in, and Mike was always curious as to what that little sycophantic shithead on ABC would be ranting about.
Mike was tempted, for the umpteenth time, to call up that self-righteous little schmuck and ask him if he didn't think that the manifest destiny of his beloved Republiscum Party wasn't to reintroduce Plessy v. Ferguson to the Supreme Court in an effort to overturn that ruling, but he was sure that Malzberg wouldn't have a clue as to what he was talking about, even AFTER doing a Google-search.
He could not forget when a listener had called Malzberg and asked him if he had read The Killing Fields, to which Mr Putzkowitz replied--I saw the movie--but even more memorable was when that little asshole was reading from HIS OWN NOTES and said, "FOIA, whatever that means."
Mike wrote for the Bergen Record, and there was NO WAY IN HELL he could write a piece using words or acronyms that he neither knew or understood, and the Freedom Of Information Act was something that every politically aware kid in junior high school knew about, so it greatly annoyed Mike that a so-called political pundit could be on talk-radio an NOT know what the FOIA was!!!
Portlund was also surprised that the poli-sci professors at Brooklyn College didn't band together and try to revoke Malzberg's diploma, such an asshole had to be the source of great embarrassment to any true academic?
Mike flicked the radio to satellite and turned the dial to the Stern show, hoping that Howard wouldn't be rambling on about what he did over the weekend with his stupid bitch and his flatulent and lazy dog.....
Posted by eminemsrevenge
at 2:19 PM EST
Updated: Wednesday, 12 January 2005 2:22 PM EST
Watch me now.......
The long awaited Jew Girl should be available at 
torpedoes be damned!!!
