“Slick” part 8

Facing Gorman’s market – to the left of the store the penned up dogs stood guard.  On this side – the right, overridden with tall grass and weeds, a narrow walkway behind a gate presented itself.  It was no wonder why I had never taken notice.  Thanks to the pissing drunk and his $20 bill I found a way around those dogs.

 There was no use in trying the gate; there was a padlock.  A high fence ran down the length of the market’s property separating it from the abandoned bakery building just next door.  There was barely enough room between that fence and the old bakery, but there was enough to make my way down the length of the fence until I got to an access ladder. 

 Word had it the bakery’s hippie owner went out of business and to this day is doing a kabillion years for smuggling marijuana in loaves of bread.  I’m sure the guy felt he was doing a good business practice by catering to the market of the stoned demographic – something to smoke, something to munch, but the law didn’t see it that way. 

 Regardless of whatever shit went down on what was locally dubbed as the, “Hashbrownie Bust,” all I cared about was getting to the roof from the ladder.  After climbing up I beheld the Shangri La.                  

 In many areas of Peoria, houses and buildings were crammed together.  Only about a four foot walkway of red brick was all the space between homes.  And in this case, between the old bakery and Gorman’s there was a space not so wide that a well motivated kid of twelve couldn’t jump across.  Both buildings were the same height.  It would be easy. 

 But I wasn’t stupid.  Why take a chance jumping across to the next roof when there was a perfectly good plank of wood on top of the bakery building – long enough to reach across to Gorman’s.  Luck was on my side this night.  I picked the plank up and dropped it to connect the two roofs together.

  There were a few groans, creaks, and even the sound of wood splintering the first time I went across.  There was no telling just how long that plank of wood had been up there getting decayed by the elements.  But I made it across without any issue.  The wood proved to be strong enough for what I needed. 

  Once on top of Gorman’s it was like I could see for miles.  The building was only a single story, but to kid it was like the Eiffel Tower.  Warped perspective or not it gave me an advantage.  It was a lookout tower so I could avoid any incident of someone catching me in the act.  At that moment the coast was clear.

  I made my way to the back of the market – to the loading dock; a fenced in platform on all sides but from the top.  A safe zone away from the dogs and the threat of being chewed into ground round.  As I peered over the ledge there were the bottles stacked up in crates.  It was a Saturday; not the mother lode I’d hoped for, but enough for my efforts.

  Jumping to the dock would be easy.  It wasn’t that far down.  I’d fallen out of trees higher than this and walked away.  The problem was getting back up on the roof.  Luck was still with me, and I swung my legs over the ledge, hung by my hands for a moment, then dropped down.

  It was perfect.  The market was closed.  Not even the dogs heard me drop in, or at least didn’t pay any attention.  There was probably enough commotion across the street at Joe’s Bar that made the dogs preoccupied; a bonus I’d not considered in my planning from two years before.

 It took a sec to really comprehend where I was at and what I was doing.  I had traveled a long road to get to this point.  And now that the solution around those dogs was as simple as climbing from one roof to another made me feel as if a short cut was always there as was stupidity for not seeing it sooner.

 But what the hell?  It was my first experience in committing a crime.  With that stated I want to make clear that I have a conscience, because it brought up the all possible ramifications of getting busted.  It entered my mind if the guitar was worth it. 

  Was it worth going to juvenile prison?  I had heard of those places.  A slam for the delinquent; taken away in a zebra suit with a cannonball chained to my leg.  Forced with hard labor pounding rocks with a sledge hammer, and nothing to eat but bread and water.  Probably no Saturday morning cartoons either.  A real hell.

 I have to admit there was concern being taken away from my parents.  Maybe Pop wasn’t such a bad guy.  Maybe Mom just had nerve tonic in her nippy bottle.  I realized I didn’t make things easy.  I pondered thoughts after picking up an Orange Crush soda bottle out of a crate from the loading dock floor.  The odor of the soda still lingered. 

 Paula came to my mind.  Yeah, we just had a fight and this time she got the better of me.  But we always fought and more often than not I won.  I would have never admitted it but I actually….loved….Paula the way a brother might love a sister.  Like I’ve said she was always there for me through thick and thin.

 I put the bottle back in the crate and I asked myself once again, “Is the guitar worth it?”  Being a rock star was now only 1,000 bottles away.  I had a $20 head start thanks to Mr. X and his drunken two-step.  That equaled 400 bottles. 

 What did I tell ya’?  When there’s a practical application a kid will embrace mathematics.

 All these thoughts ran through my brain in a flash.  The answer to my own question came to me with the same speed.  Was that guitar worth it all?  You bet your ass.  Fuck the dumb shit and get some bottles!

 There were only a dozen 8-pack cartons; 96 bottles – damn near five bucks.  There were also plenty of empty wooden crates and thanks to having Lincoln Logs and Legos I possessed the knowledge of building a set of stairs high enough to get back onto the market’s roof.

 One pack at a time I moved the bottles from the loading dock, to Gorman’s roof, to the bakery’s roof, and then down the ladder where all this started from.  Since the grass was so overgrown it made for perfect concealment.  The only thing left to do was to transport my spoils. 

 But first I had to cover my tracks.  When I was growing up there was a TV show about Daniel Boone, and it was called interestingly enough, “Daniel Boone.”  Keep in mind I think all of TV is bad for kids whether it’s Disney or porn.  Kids figure shit out, remember?  For good or bad intentions suggestion is all that’s needed.    

 At any rate I had watched enough Daniel Boone to know I should always ‘cover my tracks.’  I had to make sure nobody would know how I went about stealing bottles.  I didn’t want to get caught, nor have some other punk work my side of the street.

 It was simple; all I had to do was tear down my makeshift stairs and put the crates back where I found them.  To get back onto the roof was just a matter of climbing the fence where it enclosed the loading dock.  It was almost as tall as the roof. 

 Once at the top of the fence all that was needed was to stand on top of it, reach up to the edge of the roof, and then climb on.  Most any yard ape can do that with no problem.  After climbing trees, flagpoles, and monkey bars this was a piece of cake.

 As for the plank of wood – that took a little effort.

******Next post–next Monday******Thanks for stopping by!

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 7

Down the street I went to the end of the block; weaved through a small hoard of eager drinkers shit shooting on the corner outside Joe’s Bar, and then across the street to a closed Gorman’s Market.  From there I figured I’d hang out in front of the store and watch drunks stumble out of Joe’s.  There wasn’t much else to do, nor anybody to do it with had there been. 

I had friends growing up, but no one you would call, “best.”  Outside the occasional group activities like a dirt clod fight, seeing who could survive the most garbage cans jumped with a bicycle, or shooting off fireworks, I was pretty much a loner.

 Never could get into “Cops and Robbers” or “Cowboys and Indians.”  It was the same for sleepovers.  Staying over at the neighbor kid’s house meant playing with G.I. Joe dolls, dumb-ass board games, farts, burps, and making hand shadows on the wall.  Aside from the occasional “MILF” (the letter “F” meaning “fantasize” at that point simply because I didn’t know how to do the other) sleepovers were a drag. 

 Had there been a common thread maybe things would have been different.  But not too many boys my age wanted to play “Rock Star.”  When it came down to it I didn’t want to play that either.  I wanted to live it because I was sick of playing it.  It’s a bitch to have a mid-life crisis at 12. 

 There was nobody around to tell me not to wish my life away and enjoy the simple times of youth – if such a thing ever truly existed. 

 Pop was absent right in front of my face every day.  There was no father-son bonding; no fishing trips, no ball games, no common threads of interest.  If he wasn’t working, he was holding down a couch snoring away until it was time to go to bed, back to work, or attend whatever weekly facade with Mom.

 And as for my mother, I recall her even less.  She was a closet alcoholic coming out every so often for transparent show-ups to PTA meetings, Tupperware parties, and the Avon lady.  At home she was a zombie ‘Suzy Homemaker’ on auto-pilot.  Mom was on a permanent numb to everything around her made possible by a home bar cart, and a hanky camouflaged nippy bottle hidden in her purse.    

 There are rare moments when I can vaguely recall house and hearth and a sense of belonging.  It hits my core from time to time in distorted images of holidays, isolated times of family unity, and wishes to live in that unreachable world.  Just when I think I can grab hold and feel it, the sensation dissolves like acid burning my soul.  It fucking pisses me off every time.

 I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to get out of Peoria and put as much distance between myself and everything I knew.  The whole world was a lie.  Father didn’t know best, and Mom was not Carol Brady.  I had a need to escape.  For now, down the street was as far as I could go.

I sat on the stoop of Gorman’s Market frustrated from losing a fight with Paula, and by the prospects of losing a fight to get that goddamned Sears Silvertone guitar.  I pulled a yo-yo from my front pocket and coiled the string around the spindle over and over waiting for the first drunk to emerge from Joe’s Bar. 

It didn’t take long.  A much needed distraction wobbled his ass out and headed my way.  Whatever slow burn I was fanning quickly went out as all my attention now fixed on this stumbling bastard.  The guy was talented.  He didn’t have the normal back and forth bob I’d witnessed so many times in other drunks. 

No, this guy walked in X’s.  The right foot went northwest as the left planted; his legs formed an X.  Now for the tricky part: the left foot had to swing out and around the right on its way northeast, and then the opposite side had a turn.  The process repeated and I’ll be damned if he didn’t do it well.

Part of his success in actually ambling down the sidewalk was due to his arms pumping like a steam locomotive, albeit a struggling one, but it must have balanced him.  There was a few times he teetered to a momentary stop, but the train kept a’ rollin.’  The man passed by me as I damn near choked laughing my ass off. 

The guy got to the end of the building and stopped.  After turning toward the wall he unzipped his pants, whipped it out, and took a healthy piss.  His hands were occupied; normally it only takes one so the other can hold up a wall, ya’ know?  The side of his face was the alternative to support the cinder block building.

I swore the guy took a siesta as he took a leak.  He must have been well rested following because it took forever and a day for his bladder to empty.  There were a couple of times the stream staggered and dwindled to dribble.  But just when you thought the show was over – full stream ahead. 

But he finally finished, shook it off, and then steadied himself after pushing away from the wall to zip his fly.  I guess he figured it was cigarette time and found a pack of smokes and a box of matches after a patting down search of every pocket he had.   In doing so, miscellaneous contents spilled to the sidewalk from his pants after pulling out what he was looking for.    

Proving his level of fucked-up, he struck the cigarette and smoked the match, and then X’d on down the sidewalk as before ignoring all about what had fallen.  Once he was a few steps away I ran up to the site of the urine running in the cracks of the sidewalk before it soaked the $20 bill the dumb-ass dropped.

 $20 might as well been Ft. Knox back then….especially to a kid.  That evening started out like shit but it shaped up pretty nice.  I was witness to a couple of miracles.  The first – that someone walked out of a bar with money, and second – the money came my way.  A third miracle presented itself as I stuffed the bill into my pants.

Part 8 will be posted Monday, August 31, 2009 

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 6

 

     After months of casing Gorman’s Market, after the planning and figuring shit out, after returning my prized bicycle to stock – I had cracked the problem of getting around those friggin’ guard dogs.  The solution presented itself when I least expected it.

     It was a Saturday evening and Paula was sitting me as usual. 

    She had changed over the past couple of years by filling out her bra size a couple of letters.  It seemed like it happened right out of nowhere.  I remember pissing her off one time when I warned one of her boyfriends about her having a bad cold, and to watch out for all the used tissue she stuffed in her shirt.  That one was worth the scar I now wear on my forehead.

     Time passes and ka-bam!  Casaba melons; no more need for Kleenex or Charmin.  Now, I would have salivated over this had it been any other girl.  But this was Paula; my surrogate bitch of a sister.  Those pair of boobs made me sick, and on this particular night – ran me out of the house. 

     She was cooking herself under one of those old-fashioned heat lamps that was supposed to tan skin.  Being my usual little shitty-brat self I did everything possible to get her out the living room since she was wearing nothing but a hip hugging bikini. 

     It all sounds good I know.  But guys, think of your sister (if you don’t have one think of your mother) near in the buff and tell me if you can choke back projectile vomiting.  If you still could get a boner under the circumstances then you’re a sick bastard.

    With a squirt gun in hand I started the water torture.  Paula was in the perfect position; face down with the bra strap unfastened.  And my pistol was loaded with ice water I might add.  Does it get any better than this?

     I gave myself the command to fire at will. 

     Ahhh!” Paula screamed out in wind sucking gasp.

     I responded with a makeshift megaphone of a rolled up newspaper, “Put some clothes on ya’ bimbo!”  I followed this with another volley from my watergun.

     Paula raised her head up as high as she could while keeping her chest planted in the floor.  She was now in a rage.  “Goddamn it you little shit STOP IT!”  Her voice went beyond scream and sounded like a quarterback yelling out plays in a crowded stadium.

     I rallied in protest, “Clothes on!  Clothes on! Clothes on!” giving a squeeze of the trigger with each syllable. 

     We each did our best to out-shout the other; each of us hollering in opposition.  At last she reached her boiling point.  She dropped her head and then laid flat against the floor. After putting her arms behind her back she fastened her bra in a fumbling.  I continued my attack taking advantage of the vulnerable position she was in.

     Paula got to her feet and I ceased fire.  “I’m going to kick your little ass!” she yelled.  I responded with another few squirts to her gut taking sadistic pleasure in watching her trying to block the cold water.  But she finally damned the torpedoes and went full pissed off ahead.  The chase began.

     It was one of the few times I didn’t get away so easily.  I tripped over my own feet, and before I could recover to take another step Paula caught me by the head of hair.  She jerked me into a headlock while she repeatedly slapped my head.

     Although the slapping hurt it was being smothered by one of her boobs that bothered me most.  To mothers and sisters around the world – from me to you – keep this shit in mind during your next assaultive headlock or hug on your sons and brothers. 

     Asphyxia is the least of concerns though it is worth mentioning.  More important is the mind scramble and physical nausea a little boy gets by experiencing contact with your tits – intentional or otherwise that should be noted. 

    I screamed out the best I could in a muffled, “Stop it!”

     “Didn’t I tell you to stop it?” Paula lashed back in a grunt while putting the pressure on.

     I took to squirming any way I could to get loose.  She had a grip on me that couldn’t be broken.  This was a wrestling match of no pleasure for me.  Gagging reached my throat after being pressed harder into her breast.  I was sure I would throw my guts up.

     Some progress was made by my flailing about – enough to turn my head away and yell out in disgust, “Stop it Paula! Your boobies are in my face!”

     It was a mistake to say that.  The bitch capitalized.  She stopped slapping my head, grabbed two handfuls of hair, and then forced my face into her chest like rubbing a dog’s nose in a pile of shit.  All I could do was hang on to her wrists in an attempt to lessen the amount of hair pulled out.   

     “You’re going to let me the hell alone aren’t you?” she asked mockingly through clenched teeth.

     I conceded defeat in a whimper of, “Huh-huh.”

      That wasn’t good enough.  Paula had to be sure.  “And you’re going to go outside until it’s time to come in, huh?”

      I agreed as before.  I would have agreed to anything at that point.

     “And you’re never going to do squirt me again, right?”

     “Huh-huh!”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Huh-huh!”

     “Do you promise?”

     “HUH-HUH!” 

     The hold was released and I fell away from Paula in a dive.  Sweat poured from my skin.  I felt dizzy.  My scalp burned in every root.  The dry heaves hit me from the pit of my stomach; the lurching made my chest feel it would crack open.

     My last meal rose travel north.  I swallowed hard to keep down a chunky backwash.  Spit poured from my mouth like syrup from a bottle.  A minute of heaving guts up is an eternity to endure, but it did subside leaving the feeling I’d swallowed a hockey stick.  After regaining some composure I scowled in Paula’s direction.

     Pride wouldn’t let me let the situation rest.  I’d lost the fight because the bitch fought unfairly with some sick shit.  I was pissed off at her, the situation, and myself for losing to a girl.  To gain some self respect back I lashed out, “I hate your guts!”

     Paula never said a word.  Her face did the talking and she warned I’d better not start any more shit.  She shook her shoulders making her boobs jiggle as a reminder there was more of what I just got.  I damned near ralphed at the sight and quickly turned away, headed for the front door, then left the house with a slam.

     The fresh air helped me recover as a consuming anger hit.  It was clear I just got punked.  To make things worse, there was no red flashing doomsday button to press.  No ICBM to launch; had there been a sitter formerly known as Paula would have been made extinct.  There was little to work with for a counter attack, so I did the next best thing.

     Facing the front door as if facing Paula I yelled, “Hot butt stink! 

     It was a pathetic way to get the last word, but what else can you do when you’re twelve?  The possibility of a rematch entered my mind with the sound of stomps across the living room floor.      

     I bolted in the direction of Gorman’s without actually meaning to.  I suppose it was a natural inclination, or maybe it was just a get the hell outta Dodge and worry where you end up later vibe.  Now, I can’t help but wonder if it was something else that reeled me in that way.

 

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 5

     Its one thing to see a crime carried out in your mind, but it’s something entirely different to physically carry it out – especially for a ten year old.  The days passed as I scoped out Gorman’s daily looking for a way to get passed those dogs.  It was starting to look impossible. 

     To make matters worse, any theft would have to take place after hours.  Gorman’s closed at 8pm Monday through Friday.  Bedtime for me was at 8:30.  I never really went to bed, but it was a time I had to at least be in the house.  The timeframe was a near impossible window of opportunity.

     There was some leeway on the weekends.  I was allowed to bend the 8:30 in-bed rule some by about an hour on Friday and Saturdays.  But the final nail in the coffin of really cashing in on my Gorman’s Market heist was a delivery truck picking up a week’s worth of redeemed soda bottles every Friday evening.

    Still, there would be plenty of bottles moving through the store between then and Saturday.  It wasn’t like I would be able to carry off the entire lot after a week’s worth.  After all, I was a kid on a bicycle that planned to use my mother’s wire shopping cart on wheels as a trunk.  There problem here was that Gorman’s closed early on Saturday at 5pm.

    This might seem a good day to rip-off the market, but think again.  Even though the market closed early and my bed time would not interfere – there was the issue of Joe Mulligan and his bar right across the street from Gorman’s.  Aptly named, “Joe’s Bar” it was a favored watering hole in my neighborhood.

    Joe was quite a character.  He had a duality that wouldn’t fly in today’s world.  He was the fez-wearing Potentate of the local Shriners.  He often did charity work at the children’s wing of St. Francis hospital.  At night he tended to the community another way as a fez-wearing bartender serving mixed drinks, straight shots, and cold drafts.     

    I don’t think there was a lot of DUIs where I grew up.  There was a hell of a lot of drunk walking though.  Reason being is that everyone lived too damned close to Joe’s.  There was no reason to drive.  People would walk to Joe’s, get loaded, and then stagger back home in a shuffle of take-two- steps-forward-one-back.  For some, it took all night to get back home just two blocks away.

    It was a regular Saturday night hang-out for the drinking crowd.  And it was for that reason I wouldn’t be able to pull off my plan on that day.  Whether it was the stumbling drunks, drunks throwing up in the street, or those in the process of getting drunk, there would be too many around to witness my thieving.

   Sunday mornings would be the times to carry out my crime. 

   It made sense too.  Before our 24 hour world most every store was closed on Sundays, and Gorman’s was no exception.  Daytime, oddly enough, would be the time to make my hit.  Night was out of the question due to my bedtime rule.  But the streets of Peoria seemed like a ghost town on Sunday mornings when I was a kid.

    It was not due to a religious belief in one day of rest from the last six, but more a medical emergency day of intensive care from the night before.  The heathen half the town would be laid up.  The God-fearing half would be in church from 9am to noon. 

   Before the drunks were resurrected, and the righteous left various houses of the holy – I would somehow carry out my thieving.  But couple of years went by without me so much as lifting a single bottle from Gorman’s Market.  It was all because of those damned dogs.

   Summer, spring, winter, and fall those mangy mutts were out there on patrol same as always.  Nothing changed.  Things at home didn’t change either.  It seemed so stagnant to me back then.  I kept hoping, wishing to become a rock star; to have that Sears Silvertone.  I started to think it would never happen and I would remain in gridlock with Pop for the rest of my life.

    In 1972 I turned twelve and made it to the eighth grade.  That year would prove to be a pivoting moment in my life. 

    There was no such thing as junior high for me.  In my school K through 8 was housed in one “L” shaped building.  Kindergarten to fourth was along one hall; fifth grade started the next hall with eighth at the end.  It was an assembly line of learning by a progression of moving from one grade to the next in sequential order.    

    From kindergarten through the fourth grade – school was fun.  I looked forward to it.  The next hallway was unimportant.  Then, something happened.  In the course of one summer break school became a prison sentence.  Looking up from the fifth grade classroom to eighth seemed an eternity of school years to endure.

   But like so many I made it to the top of the grammar school food chain.  Looking back down that hallway to fifth grade was easier than the other way around.  I had moved on.  The thought of high school just one year away felt like a pathway to freedom.  I really wouldn’t know since I never attended high school.  Most people I know who did tell me I missed four years of bullshit.   You be the judge.

   But the pivoting moment in my life was not making it to the eighth grade, nor turning 12.  The moment came with a record getting thrown at me by the neighborhood bully, Ricky Finnegan.  ‘Sounds like the name of a little punk, doesn’t it?

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 4

From time to time records would get confiscated, thrown away, or broken altogether.  And I would reacquire them from hiding places, the trash, or try to buy again.  45’s may have been under a buck at the time, but that was pretty steep for a punk kid redeeming soda bottles.

But if I was going to be a rock star I would need something more than records.  They do provide inspiration, but not the tools.  To me I needed the one thing that stood out and announced the presence of a rock star.  I needed to be an icon of destruction; a thermal nuclear weapon. 

I needed a guitar.

Drums would have been cool to have, but drums keep you hid in one place.  I wanted to move around and go nuts.  A bass would have been cool too, but in most bands who actually gets more attention?  The singer likes to think he does, but he’s really a cheerleader for a band; a torch bearer at best – a lit match most of the time. 

It’s a flame throwing guitar player in a rock band that incinerates the world.  If there’s any argument just ask yourself this: Would you pay more attention to the guy who starts a fire, or the guy who pisses radioactive napalm in a fire? 

I arrest my case. 

I needed a guitar.  Not a “box” – a war hammer.  Not goddamned “git-fiddle” – a battle axe.  I had been using an old wooden tennis racket; it wasn’t doing the job.  Pop would have rather cut out his liver than to get me an electric guitar.  I’d have to get one myself.  But how in the hell at ten years old could I possibly buy a guitar?    

Those bottles at Gorman’s Market; I needed to figure shit out and mastermind a plan to swipe every one.  

And what has crossed my mind many times since childhood – How does any typical little boy figure shit out?  Where does a kid learn to make a bomb out of a few fireworks?  How does a kid know how to sabotage a water fountain?  Who showed who how to open a fire hydrant with a stick and a tin can?  I’ve done it all.    

Looking back it all seems like, I hate to say it, child’s play in comparison to today’s time, but I guess it’s all relative.  Today kids have computers to hack shit; I had stone tools and sticks.  And, I would have to figure shit out on how to make a heist from Gorman’s Market.

The motivation for the bottle robbery was fueled by a Sears & Roebuck catalog.  After perusing through the lingerie section I flipped to the pages advertising the Holy Grail: a Sears Silvertone electric guitar.  The goal was to obtain 1,400 bottles. 

Every kid hates math in school.  The reason is there’s no practical application.  If I had five apples and ate four, what was left over of any concern was having the shits.  But a $69.99 guitar was a worth while reason to break out a slide rule.

That guitar in the catalog was gorgeous.  It was red, it was cool, and it looked dangerous.  The picture in the ad proved that with a drawing of a group of people dancing around the guy playing a Sears Silvertone.  I could see myself jamming with that guitar; crowds of people would swarm my way to hear me play. 

I tore the ad from the catalog and carried it everywhere.  Encouragement, hopes, and dreams came from that picture.  I would look at it often.  That guitar would be mine.            

With conspiracy well under way, and now motive established, next to plan was method.  It would be simple in theory: make my way to the market loading dock, avoid the dogs, grab bottles, and then make off with them on my grape colored Schwinn Stingray.

My Pop may have never bought me a rock-n-roll record, but he did get me one of the coolest bikes ever made.  I’m sure it was by accident.  That bike was like any other toy I got from my parents.  It was meant to keep me out from under their feet, out of their hair, and out of their sight. 

But parents never consider the out of their hearing part. 

My bicycle’s decibel level may seem safe in comparison to my record player.  It was already loud on the eyes with a banana seat, monkey hanger handle bars, and a 3ft sissy bar.  I was one of the lucky.  Every kid I knew wanted a Schwinn.  But to have a Stingray meant making one critical modification; make it sound loud.      

Regardless of a brand of bicycle – every kid clothes-pinned playing cards from their bike frames and through the tire rim spokes.  When in motion a faux motorcycle like sound was the result. 

That’s why I was never allowed to ride in my own back yard, and that’s also why I did it anyway.  A battle with Pop would ensue.  Instead of being made to take the cards off I was shooed away to dodge cars on the streets and alleyways of Peoria.  I think Pop was wishing for my demise.  Who could blame him?

Giving Pop a break where my bike was concerned never entered into my head.  Applying stealth to my theft plan filled every thought.  I ripped the cards from my Stingray.

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 3

Mohr-Value was one of the last five and dime variety stores around.  In many ways it was representative of the times.  It struggled with change trying to fit in with the new, but just couldn’t compete, or flat out didn’t want to.  In the end it shut down in the wake of an upstart store called Wal-Mart.

 Nevertheless, in my time Mohr-Value was the place to get pretty much anything including 45rpm records.  I remember on that day I wanted to get something from Jefferson Airplane – not so much because of the music.  Grace Slick on a record sleeve was the reason.  I had a thing for her.

 What guy didn’t have a thing for Grace Slick? 

 Think it’s too early for a 10 year boy to have a thing for a woman?  I hate to break it to mothers around the world, but your sons start looking at women – not little girls – but women early in life.  T&A fills the eyes of a little boy the same way it does a man’s. 

 The only difference is a little boy has no idea what it all means, why he’s getting wood hard enough to hammer railroad spikes, and has no clue what to do about it when it happens (some women charge this never changes). 

 Shit!  At ten years of age I also had a thing for Tina Turner and Raquel Welch.  In fact, I couldn’t even watch Gilligan’s Island without getting an involuntary contortion for Mary Ann.      

 However, on that particular day I was looking for Grace Slick, but Mohr-Value was fresh out Jefferson Airplane.  I settled on a single from Shocking Blue and their tune “Venus,” with a picture of Mariska Veres on the record sleeve.  She was to Grace as store brand “Fruit Rings” are to “Fruit Loops.” Close; not quite the same, but I’d still eat it.   

 Like always I couldn’t wait to get home, go up to my room, and play a record I’d just bought as loud as I could get it.  But at the same time there would be a battle that needed fighting.  The first war cry would come from Mom hollering from downstairs at least a half-dozen times to turn my record player off.

Of course I would ignore Mom and pretend I didn’t hear anything.  The fun was just beginning.  Pop would have to get in on the action.  I know an ass-whippin’ would be coming, but goddamn it if it wasn’t worth it. 

 “You heard your mother!  Turn that shit off!” Pop would yell at me from the living room.  He would be good for at least a few yells.  The last thing he wanted to do was rush his fat ass up the stairs to my room.  Before an attack was eminent there would be a threat. 

 “If you don’t shut that crap off I’m going to come up there and shut YOU off!”  He never could find another threat to use, but nonetheless it was a threat.  That was half of what was needed before the grand prize.  But to really savor it I had to add in a little seasoning.

 After the threat was made I would kill the music, and then go outside my bedroom at the top of the stairs.  From there I could get a clear view of the living room and watch my Pop do a ritualistic series of events:    

 Light a cigarette and angrily snap shut a Zippo lighter; rustle a newspaper to a particular section; plop down on the sofa with wheezed rush of air escaping from vinyl covered cushions; a few under breath consonant heavy swear words; a slurp of always present coffee. 

 Pop had settled in.  As I heard the cup meet the saucer when he set his drink down on the coffee table, so came my cue.  Back to my room, open the lid, place a record on the platter; shut the lid.  The damn thing would automatically play.  “Voodoo Child” would be appropriate.

 Stomps up the stairs shook pictures on the wall.  Pop slammed the door opened.  There, an obese hairy man stood in a straining stained tank top undershirt, and gray service station looking slacks.  His appearance was too comical to be scared. 

 His face contorted in a deranged look; a Lucky Strike dangled from his mouth, and strands of hair floated in the air from a bad Vitalis oiled comb-over.  Smoke from his cigarette wisped up into one squinted eye behind black horn rimmed nerd glasses.  B-O of stale onions and cheese as if was cultured in hot rubber boots permeated the air.  

 “I know you’re not deaf!” Pop would yell out the side of his mouth refusing to release the cigarette that bounced like a needle in meter gauge as he spoke. 

 I would quickly lift the lid of the record player to stop the blaring music.  It was hard to look at my Pop and not laugh.  I was always unsuccessful and could manage only to minimize it to a stuttered ratcheting of suppressed breaths.  Doing my best to look innocent I chattered back, “Huh?”

 That straw had broken the camel’s back.  

 In one jerk the leather cracked like a whip out of belt loops, and the mismatch of a full grown fat man vs. a ten year old scrawny boy commenced.  The man never had a chance.  Pop couldn’t swing for long. 

 This was an aerobic exercise he was in no condition for.  He was only worth about a full sentence of staggered words. “How….many…. times….do I….have…to…. tell….you….not to….play….that….shit!”  Each word equaled one swing from the belt.  A low percentage hit their intended mark, but they still hurt.  I may have egged it on, but I wasn’t stupid.

 I would sit-out in order to protect my flank; knees drawn as a barrier to save my ass.  Grasped by the arm, Pop had to support my weight to get a swing in.  Half of his exhaustion came from me doing everything to get away. 

 It was a yo-yo action of jerking me up and down while belt swinging that would take its toll on the man.  His wind was already robbed by a gut spilling out from under his shirt and the cigarette smoke filling his lungs.  My wind was robbed from the stuttered sulfur smelling farts his weak bowels released during exertion.      

 The scene would end with my Pop leaning against my dresser for support while gasping for breath.  Sweat streamed on his skin.  His pants had fallen to his knees.  He looked more comical than before; like a wet, half-plucked fat chicken.    

 Still, I have to give credit where credit is due.  Pop did his best to make it known he was the authority in his house even though he could barely stand.  I always thought it was a plea. 

 “Don’t make me come back up here,” he would pant.  After pulling up his pants and hocking a thick one back he did his best to walk a straight line out of my room. 

 Such were many a time in my house.  But I wasn’t a total hellion.  I had pity.  He was my Pop after all.  At least for the next couple of days I would not make him come back up to my room.  I would find my amusement elsewhere.     

 Over the years I’ve become an expert on how an average of three and a half minutes can be the breaking point for some people if they don’t like something they hear.  Nobody ever loses it with the sound of traffic, or the neighbor’s lawn mower, or construction tools at a job site.

 But put “Rat Salad” on the platter and people resort to inflicting physical harm.

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 2

     My life changed after “The Last Time” and “Satisfaction.”  All the cowboy and astronaut shit could kiss my ass from that point on.  If the universe was going to be in danger it was going to be because of me.  The long hair, the music; captivation over people – I could see the power a rock star could have.

     There was only one problem though.  I looked like an Aliwishus P. Fucaduc. 

     Rock stars are supposed to be good looking.  Every kid at school called me goofy.  My nickname at home was goofy.  I left the TV and scurried to the bathroom for a hand mirror.  I surveyed the landscape.  I looked more like Bozo.      

     I had ears that resembled satellite dishes on a sideways lemon shaped head.  My hair was burnt orange.  I had so many freckles I could have changed the color of my skin by connecting the dots with a magic marker.  I didn’t have a nose; I had a snoz.  The sight was not encouraging.  

     I sulked back to the living room.  I don’t want to say I gave up on the dream right there, but I did feel my chances were slim.  Kids never think about growing out of anything.  But whatever lack of quality I felt about myself quickly disappeared after a few comparisons between the hand mirror and the TV screen. 

     I had nothing to worry about.  Girls were going nuts.  Why wouldn’t girls go nuts for me?  Mick was cut from the bolt of unsightly cloth the same as I was.              

     I set my sights on being a rock star right after that TV show, and after the ass whippin’ my Pop gave me with his belt for breaking that picture frame.  There would be many of those to come in the years ahead, but the reasons changed as to why I would get one.  Five years later some method developed to the madness. 

    Instead of getting an ass-beating for breaking shit out of innocence from a kid’s imagination, I started getting them for adolescent defiance.  Somehow this made sense to me.  At least there was a reason in my way of thinking.  Besides – rock music is supposed to piss off parents, right?  I went ‘round and ‘round with my Pop many times.

    It came to a point where I did shit just to piss the guy off.  I’ll put it to you like this: if I didn’t get an ass-whippin’ then I didn’t piss him off enough.  And it was always over shit having to do with rock music.  Whether is it was a record, or the radio, a TV show, or a combination of it all – I made sure Pop got saturated with it.

     My favorite tool of torture was a portable record player I got for Christmas one year.  It was about the size of a bowling bag and had one integrated speaker.  It was a kid’s toy for the most part and came with Disney cartoon melodies on 45’s I used for Frisbees in the back yard. 

   It was a simple device to use.  Open the lid, put a record on the platter, and shut the lid.  From there the damned thing played automatically.  No tone arm to futz with.  Since it only played 45’s even a kid could get a record over the fat spindle without scratching the vinyl.

      Tuesday nights my folks played bridge at the local VFW.  On Fridays it was league night at the Bowl-O-Rama.  Saturday nights – I really don’t remember what bullshit they did on Saturday, but what I do remember is three nights a week Paula came over to baby-sit me.  What it really meant was getting to listen to her collection of records.

     Paula Stinson lived a couple of doors down and was a high school aged dirty little girl.  I caught her several times playing touchy-feely with a boyfriend of the month (tame in comparison with today I know, but scandalous back then).  We fought each other tooth and nail over bed times, drinks of water, and TV in between causing as much mental anguish on each other as possible.

     But through it all we had an unlikely bond of tough, sometimes impossible love.  I was like the shitty little brother, and she definitely was like a bitch of a big sister.  Shit hit the fan between us a lot, but I was there for her when she bawled her head off during a breakup, and she was there for me during the bumps, bruises, and high fevers. 

     Paula was also there with hat box full of records of the hottest rock bands of the time.  She would play them from the time my parents left the house until they got back. 

     To get me out of her hair I would get handed a bribe of a small stack so I could play them on my record player in my room.  Depending on what dirt I had on her with one of her boyfriends, I would blackmail her for a record or two.  My silence had a price.  For a time it was the only way to get my own records.

      I had a thing for Hendrix, The Dave Clark 5, The Kinks, and the Yardbirds, just to name a few.  The problem was I just didn’t have enough.  But asking Pop for records wasn’t going to fly.  I burnt that bridge myself.  Salvation was just down the street from my house. That’s where Gorman’s Corner Market came in handy. 

      The promise land came by rounding up glass soda bottles from anywhere I could find them – the trash, the neighbor’s back porch, off the side of the road – wherever.  Five cents a bottle was the going rate at Gorman’s.  It wasn’t easy; there was plenty of competition.  Hell, every kid in town was doing it to fund a particular vice.

      One day after bringing in three whole 8 packs of bottles I noticed something at Gorman’s I’d not noticed before.  It was a day of a little excitement.    

      I walked out with my money and started off down the sidewalk running my fingers along a chain linked fence that closed in the market’s lot.  A loud crash from behind the store caught my attention.  Being a nosy little shit I had to see what it was.

      There were two high school aged boys (I used to referred to anyone of that age as “big kids”) working as clerks behind Gorman’s.  They were on a loading dock throwing away garbage into a big metal dumpster. 

      The crash I heard was the dumpster lid falling as one of the boys dropped it after the other had thrown garbage bags in.  After a couple of times more they went back into the market.  My curiosity satisfied I turned to go about my merry way but something caught my eye.  

      Dozens and dozens of soda bottles stacked up in wooden crates.   

      All the redeemed bottles that went through Gorman’s were staged on that loading dock.  It was a fortune in glass for the taking made possible by the good makers of RC Cola, Nehi, and Yoohoo.  Stealing?  Yeah, but at 10 years of age it was an indulging juicy thought that it deserved to be savored just a bit. 

       But the thought quickly vanished with the out of nowhere appearance of two large guard dogs lunging at me.  I reacted and fell backward to avoid contact.  The impact against the ground knocked the breath from me. 

      Thank God for the fence….at least for the part where the dogs weren’t trying to dig under. 

      Through snarls, growls, and barking the dogs seemed to take turns trying to get under a weak spot in the chain links.  One actually got his snout through and I thought I would be swallowed hole.  I kicked my feet trying to push away.  The soles of my Converse sneakers couldn’t seem to grip the ground.

      I quickly turned over and sprinted in a crawl trying to push up with my hands to get vertical.  After a couple of face-plants into the grass border of the sidewalk, I found my feet and off I ran.  My heart pounded.  I felt like I had a hockey stick in my throat.  Adrenaline pumped through me in a sensation of a thousand needle pricks.

      Looking over my shoulder I expected to see the dogs on my ass chomping out what little I had.  The coast was clear.  They were still enclosed at the market jumping against the fence in failed attempts to jump over.  Regardless, I wasn’t stopping even though a split second of relief ceased the rush my body felt. 

      But the rush returned more powerful in a volatile eruption with the sound of a blaring horn from the truck I’d just run out in front of.

      Brakes squealed.  Metal groaned.  The contents of something large and breakable ejected from the truck’s bed to the pavement below.  I didn’t waste time to find out what it was.  I had narrowly made it across the street in one piece. 

      Though my ass nearly became dog food, and a greasy spot on the street, it still was in deep kimchi.  As soon as I made it to the sidewalk I turned and looked back.  The driver of the truck got out.  To call him pissed would have been an understatement. 

      He was a dumpy looking bastard; physical appearance aside it didn’t take being a genius to figure out he was going to beat my ass seven ways to Sunday. 

      Back in those days it was okay to get your ass whipped by someone who wasn’t one of your parents.  And you usually got another ass beating from your parents after the stranger took you home and explained the whole situation.  Fucked up, huh?

      The driver took out the last bit of smoked cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the ground hard enough that I could hear the impact.  “Are you out of your goddamned mind!” he yelled. 

      Looking back I think I stood a good chance at that moment he wasn’t going to beat my ass.  It wasn’t until I pointed to myself with what I’m sure was a look of, “Who me?” that really torched the guy.

      The pursuit commenced.  Generally speaking, it has always tickled me how adults think they can catch a kid at full ass-n-elbows.  Even more so, does any adult really think a kid is going to stop after a, “Don’t you run from me!” command?  I sure as hell wasn’t going to.

      I have to hand it to the guy because he almost had me.  I felt his hand on the back of my neck a couple of times running and darting around that truck.  But it all came to an end as I jumped like a monkey up a banana tree into the open driver’s side door.  I had the idea of running out the other side of the cab, but there was no need to.

       The prick slipped on whatever broken pieces lay on the street from what had been in the bed of that truck.  He went head first into the driver’s side door and knocked himself out cold. 

      I looked down at the ground and there he was – laid out; a stream of blood spilled from a cut on his forehead.  To this day I can’t think of another person I’ve ever been around that resembled a chunky pug dog more than that guy.

      A crowd began to form so I got the hell out of there, but not before I took the Zagnut candy bar I spotted from the floorboard where his lunchbox spilled.       

      After I jumped down from the truck I looked back across the street to where that day’s events started; all those bottles.  The dogs were still in a frenzy and served as a reminder that a theft would not be in my best interests.  The notion stuck in my mind as I walked to Mohr-Value 5 & 10.

Part 3 will be posted on Monday, July 3, 2009

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publication

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

“Slick” part 1

     My name is Aliwishus P. Fucaduc.

      Don’t worry about saying it right; I’ve heard it all before, and chances are you’ll still get it wrong.  At any rate….I’m one of the most famous people you’ve never heard of.

     From an early age I always knew what I was going to be.  I am one of those people that got what he wished for.  And since you probably don’t know who the hell I am, I’ll introduce you to who the hell I was by starting at the beginning.    

      Peoria, Illinois is one of several ass cracks in the Midwest.  I don’t know why I always hated that place, but I did.  In 1960 I was born there.  My Pop was a factory worker at Caterpillar.  Mom did something at St. Francis hospital that to this day I have no idea what.

      I guess you can say my early upbringing was a now typical blue collar dysfunction.  Back then this was something fairly new.  It was a decade where innocence was lost.  Everyone tried to keep up appearances by hiding neurosis with Pabst Blue Ribbon, or said “fuck it” with a variety of the hootchie weed. 

     It seems to me there were those clawing to hang on to a lost era of “Leave It to Beaver” land, and those clawing to get out of it; both sides at the throat of the other.  I think England should be credited (some would say blame) for the start of that conflict.       

       But nothing happens overnight and I remember during grammar school a conspiracy to direct the lives of children.  When I was a kid every little boy wanted to be a policeman, or a doctor, or a fireman.  Noble professions all, but I could see through the social programming.

     As far back as I can remember all I ever wanted to be was a rock star.

      While other little boys in kindergarten got brainwashed to become Officer Friendly, Ben Casey, and owning a spotted dog – I wanted sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll.

     Now you might think kindergarten age is way too early to understand a rock star’s life of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, and you would be right.  I didn’t understand the mechanics of sex, nor getting loaded beyond dropping a Flintstone’s chewable. 

      But at that tender age I knew what rock and roll was….or at least what I understood by watching the Rolling Stones.  Up until that time I was an average, every day, snot slinging little boy.

     It all started one day in 1965.  I distinctly remember the Stones from a TV show called, “Shindig.”   Before that show my heroes were astronauts and cowboys.     

      I was minding my own business ridding the house of verminous galactic desperadoes.  The alien bastards were everywhere, but I had my two six-shooter cap gun and holster set around my waist, and my mission control AM radio NASA helmet on top of my head.

     Outnumbered and outgunned I dodged laser lead bullets.  I had put up a good fight and shot down dozens of the bad guys, but they had called in reinforcements.  I tried to send a distress call to Mission Control, but was thwarted by a missile shot to the chest.

      It was the least of my concerns.  I was wearing my invisible force field vest, but the blast had short-circuited my radio helmet.  The nuclear solar-gamma battery pack had been damaged.  Radiation was leaking out and I was in danger of being electrocuted.  Shots whined overhead.  I took cover by leaping behind a couch in the living room.

     I had to work fast.  The charge of electricity coursed through my body making me writhe and twitch.  I had to get my helmet off.  My limbs felt locked.  It was a strain to move my arms, but I somehow managed to get the helmet off in the nick of time before it exploded. 

     With my last bit of strength I tossed the helmet into the gang of bad guys closing in.  They were blown to bits as was a picture frame, but I knew more bad guys would come.  Now, with no radio, I couldn’t contact Mission Control to send in the cavalry.  I was on my own.

     To make things worse the bad guys had sent in their secret weapon: a massive indestructible giant known throughout the galaxy as Poop Odor Poot.  He wielded the infamous ‘saber strap of pain.’ I had been captured before and endured several floggings narrowly escaping with my life. 

     This time I could not be found.  The safety of the universe depended on me.  I remained in my hiding place until the giant passed on by.  I was in a bad way.  Critically wounded and low on ammunition I heard a new group of bad guys moving in. 

     I would have used my miracle canteen to immediately heal myself, but I’d left it back at the Tree Top Fort during the Great Green Martian Train Robbery campaign.  The bad guys were getting closer.  I had to do something.  I feebly felt about myself hoping against hope I would find something of use. 

      I unzipped my invisible force field vest and checked the chest pocket of my NASA issued striped t-shirt.  Nothing.  I thought about using my infrared cowboy boots, but knew they were useless against laser lead.  The bad guys were almost on top of me.  I knew the end was near when I convulsed out an electro-spasm.

      The throes of death found me.  I rolled to one side – sure that I’d reached my last breath, and then felt something in my denim pressure suit trousers.  The white fabric of a front pocket bulged below where I had cut off the pant legs for bandages during the OK Comet Corral Wars.  The contents would save my life.

     I’d forgotten all about the atomic PBJ supplement all astro-rangers carry with them.  I made a last ditch effort to save myself.  I flopped over on my back.  After reaching into my pocket I pulled out the PBJ, and then tore away the brown strip safety casing.

       I stuffed the supplement into my mouth.  A couple of chews and a swallow later a surge of energy coursed through my body with the power of a black nova super hole.  I was instantly cured and not a moment too soon.  I shot a bad guy right in the head just as he peered over my hiding spot.  Gooey green brains splattered everywhere.                   

      The firing started all over, worse than before, and even though I was short on ammunition every shot counted from my six-guns.  And that’s when Mick Jagger and the boys interrupted a perfectly good shootout.   

      I was five years old. 

part 2 will be posted on Monday, July 27, 2009

Copyright © 2009 Horrorible Publications

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.  Submit all questions and requests to Horrorible Publications through the comment section of “Horrorible Blog” at http://horrorible.wordpress.com or at horrorible@gmail.com

Hello! Thanks for looking!

I hope to become a real published author….by make a living at it. 

Through this blog I will post some short stories I’ve written in the hope you will find them entertaining.  And I hope you will do me the favor of giving some constructive criticism through comments.  I’m no Stephen King (my favorite author), so feel free to be brutally honest. 

Here’s a few warnings:

• I write in the horror genre - some stories will be sickening, some will be humorous, and I’ve got a couple that are actually romantic.
• It is not my intention to offend anyone – so if you find something I’ve written offensive-TOUGH.  They’re just stories!
• Having stated the above I don’t expect to please everyone, and there’s a chance I won’t please anyone.  My first rule in writing is to please/scare myself BUT…. I truly hope you’ll like what I’ve got.
• I plan to post weekly, each Monday, a page or two of a story in a series of parts.  Stay tuned!
• Every story I write is a copyrighted work of my own twisted creation, and just like in a movie disclaimer at the end of a film, no depictions are meant to portray any living or dead person(s) - a good thing considering some of the characters I come up with.
• Since everything is copyrighted….if anyone steals my work I will file legal action, and most likely make you my next victim in a story.

I don’t know where any of this will go, but if anything I hope you’ll look foward to my weekly posts, and give me your thoughts through comments.

Cheers!

Zadren