The dramatic arts extend beyond the player and his stage. More than a performer, I pen entertainment onto the page as well. Having studied theatre at Marquette University, playwriting was a crucial element of my course study. Beyond playwriting, even, I have become adept comedy by studying at iO Chicago and The Second City Conservatory. As a student at the Second City Conservatory, I’ve honed my skill at comedy and sketch writing. Henceforth, my writing portfolio has grown and varied through: stand-up comedy; a series of middle grade comic-books, ‘Riled Up!’; a comedic novella, ‘#LifeInTheSuburbs’; a full-length, whimsical-fantasy novel, ‘Zak & the Godkin’; and a full-length play, ‘Gruff: An Origin Story.’
Here, in these pages, I will lay out samples and experiments in writing. I hope you’ll enjoy reading my work. Perhaps you’ll find entertainment value or inspiration in these pages. That is what I hope to get out of it.
Long have I been a fan of other authors. Fantasy novels are, by far, what I read the most. I have spent countless hours reading Robert Jordan’s ‘Wheel of Time’ and George Martin’s ‘Song of Ice and Fire.’ I can’t count how many times I’ve read ‘The Hobbit.’ Brandon Sanderson has plundered irreplaceable hours of sleep by keeping me riveted to ‘Mistborn,’ ‘Steelheart,’ or ‘The Way of Kings,’ well past bedtime. Robert Heinlein, Orson Scott Card, Isaac Asimov, Terry Goodkind, Patrick Rothfuss, Jim Butcher, JK Rowling, etcetera have drowned me in fantastic tales and wondrous enchantment. They have filled me to bursting with their exalting imagination.
Now, I pay it forward, and I add to the ocean of written word the drops of ink that represent the stories untold of my creation.
Welcome.
Zak: the Hew-Man
A preview, Chapter One
“Have you been practicing blood magic?”
Lightning flashed, distant. The storm had moved off into the mountains. Zak shivered in the damp night. Thunder answered before Zak did, both with indignation.
“Yes, Dad!” Zak shouted back.
“Then stop standing there like a frightened imp and focus.” Strenk’s voice was as deep as the thunder. His green skin looked as black as the clouds overhead in the darkness. “I need your help catching the wyrms.”
“I’m trying to focus!” Zak shouted, insolent. Anger is a fickle emotion. It rarely gets directed appropriately. It’s a very useful emotion for blood magic, of course. Strong emotions like anger and fear were great at fueling spells, but lousy for conversation. Zak wasn’t mad at his father. He was mad at himself.
The wyrms had escaped in the storm. The hood of the wyrmpit had blown over from the wind and the stupid wyrms trampled out chasing each other. Zak clutched his wolfhide cape close to ward of the wind. A sudden blast of fire erupted next to Zak’s head. Zak dove to the ground out of mortal instinct, but, as he did, his nose caught the odor of rancid sulfur and half-digested gruel. Realizing it was just a belch of fire from one of his clumsy wyrms, he felt a pang of irritation at the overreaction.
“Steady, Zak. They think this is a game.”
“Blast it!” Zak yelled without heeding the warning. “I got it!” The flash ruined his vision for the moment, but Zak got his feet under him and dove toward where the flame had been. A wing flapped under his arm but he caught nothing. The beast’s tail swatted him on his way forward and assisted his trajectory toward the ground. Zak was rewarded with a mouthful of mud for his efforts and a fresh helping of rage.
“We don’t have time to play in the mud, son,” Strenk said, calmly.
The mud squelched as Zak freed his face from it. “I’m not playing!” Zak shouted back. Normally, Zak could coo the wyrms and calm them, somewhat. Others would always make the mistake of trying to chase the wyrms. Giving them chase only led to tripping, falling, cursing, and riling them up. Wyrms love being chased. Wyrms could be tricky, slithery, scaly, and, well, wyrmy.
The beasts were useful, of course, and valuable. They were dense with muscle. Per pound they were the strongest thing in the village, though they only stood as high as Zak’s knee. They had a lizard-like body, but with hard scales instead of leathery skin. A wyrm’s face was ugly, something between a snake and an alligator with tiny goat horns. The little demons also had wings. That’s what made them so troublesome. They were pathetic, little, leathery wings, but they allowed them to defy gravity and master alike. Not by much. They could run or jump faster and further. Itty, bitty flights and itty, bitty infractions. Of course, even itty, bitty infractions are escalated by something that breathes fire. Well, ‘coughs’ fire. A carelessly swung torch could do more damage. But wyrms made more stench. Hobb liked to say they ‘reek havoc.’
“Do not make the mistake of chasing them,” his father said.
“Obviously!” Zak, flustered, tried to focus on his ability to corral them. He could make them listen to him with his wyrmcall. It wasn’t the baby voice one would use to calm a wolf. This was a guttural growl, like a long belch. The scroll-keeper had once told Zak that he imagined the ancient script of the mountain-cave Godkin must’ve sounded something like Zak’s growling wyrmcalls.
As for the wyrms, the wyrmcall would stop them in their tyrannical play to look at him, curiously. They’d be mesmerized by his call and cock their heads as if they were trying to understand. Of course, it just looked that way. Understanding was not something wyrms could do. They were ridiculously stupid creatures. They could easily escape their cages, but never bothered to go far. The ‘cage’ they lived in was merely symbolic: a trench less than a pace deep that they could effortlessly ‘fly’ out of. The hood that covered the wyrmpit was raised up to cover them, but only superficially. It was more an umbrella than a roof.
Zak drew in a breath for his wyrmcall. Just then another wyrm ran across his back and stomped on his head. Zak’s breath ended in a mouthful of murky rainwater. His arm shot in the wyrm’s direction catching its tail. The creature whipped the tail the other way, lurching Zak toward the animal. Zak couldn’t see it, but he imagined where the beast’s neck was and latched on. He rolled over the muddy animal and it, in turn, fell over and plopped all its weight down on Zak’s stomach. Winded and sputtering, Zak released his grip and wiped his eyes. He coughed up mud while he tried to get his bearings. Eyes cleared, Zak realized that he was pinned under the beast backward. He was looking right at the creature’s backside when it released a cloud of noxious gas in Zak’s face. The noxious gas was not a power unique to wyrms; that was a power shared by all creatures with a digestive track.
“Enough!” Strenk scolded.
The wyrm calmly flopped off of Zak. It was a struggle for Zak to get his lungs up to capacity again, with the muck and odors rolling around in his mouth. He sat up and looked at all the wyrms sitting still, all staring in the same direction, a position and direction that Zak now mimicked. There he saw Strenk, in a stance that exuded power. One hand was outstretched, pushing as if it was holding back all the wyrms, which, magically, it was. His other hand was balled in a fist. On the top of that fist Zak could see the silhouette of some poor rodent’s head. From the bottom of Strenk’s fist and through the cracks in his fingers dripped a dark liquid. Steam curled up from the liquid in the cold air. Blood magic. Perfect, flawless form.
Blood magic came easily to his father. Magic powerful enough to hold these creatures in place took mastery. With that mastery over magic and that powerful form, it was clear to see how Strenk had become the Chief of the Godkin. Zak felt a pang of awe, but shame coated his mind like the mud now covering his weak, pale skin.
“That was good work, son.” Strenk lied as the wyrms stomped back to their pen. The anger in his voice softened to pity. Strenk’s anger didn’t subside because of pity. His father had command over his emotions. Strenk wouldn’t lose focus on a spell because of concern for Zak. He would ease his anger only after he was done with the magic or the rat was out of blood, but certainly not because his pity for Zak was stronger than his control over magic. But pity was there, now. Zak had already known he wasn’t necessary to help with the wyrms. Strenk had never needed the help. He had only offered Zak one more chance to do anything right and Zak had fallen into the same discomposure as the wyrms. Now he felt shame instead of pride over even this small ability.
“Well done,” Strenk repeated. “I couldn’t have handled them all.” Strenk reached out to help Zak to his feet. Strenk didn’t have to reach downward. Zak kneeling on the ground was the same height as his father. Strenk’s gnarled, green fist pulled Zak upright with enormous strength. Though Zak stood chest and shoulders above Strenk, he felt he’d never live up to the incredible figure of strength before him. Strenk was tall for the Godkin, but Zak’s freakish height was an exception. All the other Godkin his age were growing stout and wide, while Zak kept – inexplicably – growing up.
“Remember, Zak, we must engage a conflict first with our minds,” Strenk lectured. “Strength and magic are tools, like shovels or spoons.”
“I know, dad,” Zak replied, calmed by his own embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have overreacted. I should have stayed calm.”
“You let the wyrms fluster you. You reacted the way they wanted you to. Unfortunately, that is too often the Godkin weakness. We are known for overreacting and lashing out in anger. The Godkin curse is that our magic and our strength are powered by our emotions, and we habitually let them rule us. We are not known for our cunning or our diplomacy. We are known by our rage and brutality. This is why outsiders name us ‘goblins.’”
Zak flinched at the slur. “I’m sorry I lost my composure,” he replied. Zak had never met an outsider, but he knew that they hated the Godkin; and he knew that they called them goblins.
“Are you going to eat that?” Strenk asked, pointing to Zak’s cape. Zak looked down to see he’d spilled his earthworm stew in his haste. A leech was clinging to the mud-crusted wolf fur. Zak tossed the leech in his mouth. He wasn’t hungry, but anything connected to blood might help strengthen his connection to its elusive power. It was probably just a hag’s tale, but best to be safe. “The stew wasn’t very good, anyway,” Strenk added, “maybe some firetoad would spice it up.”
“Dad. I have to tell you something. I don’t know… I’m not sure if I can…” Zak started to say, but hesitated before he said, ‘I’m not sure if I can cast blood magic.’ Courage wasn’t a power Zak possessed, and it would take a lot of courage to admit that he could never live up to his father. Nevertheless, he was interrupted.
Boom, Boom. . . Boom, Boom.
Zak felt the rumbling reverberations in his heart more than his ears. These new boomings weren’t from the passing storm. These were the crashes of the Krowdy-Krawn. The massive hoop-drum in the Square was supposed to strike awe in those it reached. For Zak and the other young Godkinder, the drum had always tolled for gatherings and festivals. It had always been a happy sound. But now the ominous crash brought fear. It was said that the Krowdy-Krawn warned of terror, danger, or war; but Zak had always lived in a time of peace. Only now did he understand the drum’s purpose. It felt like dread. It was a warning. It was time.
“It’s time, Zak,” Strenk put the words in the air. “Time to show off what you’ve learned. Time to reveal your blood magic.”
The tolling of the drum continued with the beat of Zak’s heart. He stared with dismay toward the Square, unable to speak. The looming Krowdy-Krawn seemed to grow larger and larger over the circular arena at the center of Allspire until Zak realized that Strenk had his arm around Zak’s shoulder, guiding him ever closer to the ceremonial circle called ‘the Square.’
Pewter
A preview of a short story
“Take heart, old-timer. A new day dawns.”
The hour was barely past midnight. Pewty was fully aware that dawn would be well off, but she didn’t interject.
The hero’s eyes gave more heed to the stain on his blade than the ‘old-timer’ in front of him. “Warm your weary bones on the radiance of hope. Your farm is safe, aye. But safer still is the valor of the future of this kingdom.” The breeze caught the golden locks trailing behind the hero as his face swiveled toward the distant, burning castle.
“Uh huh,” Pewty exhaled from her place just inside the grayed, wooden door. This hero had arrived much the same as every other. The floral speech varied somewhat, but that arrogance was the same. ‘Old-timer’ was new, though. She reached her hand up to her neck where her thumb could rub along the bits of shrapnel there bent into a necklace. Twisted scrap didn’t make for a comfortable accessory, but neither did her old bones; though both were as much a part of her as her tic-tock heart that metered out without petering out.
“Your peasant ways are safe, farm-wench. I’m sure you don’t see much threat this far out, yet forsooth, you, too, sense a change in the weather.” The hero put his foot up on the barrel that once collected rain. He looked nonchalant in a painfully rehearsed way. “Hark, change is coming, granny. The tyranny of old has exhausted . . .”
“Who is it, gran?” Halk’s voice, shrill and excitable as always, pierced the hero’s harangue.
“Just another hero, boy.” Pewty already had the handle of her rusted tin snips to hand. She slowly revealed them from behind the door.
Now the hero finally looked at Pewty. Confusion crossed his face. She was familiar with the confounded look of a pompous hero seeing the snips for the first time. Not every tinker or tinsmith had a pair as intimidating. They gave an impression of large scissors, in the same way that ‘large gecko’ might be the impression one got from a crocodile. This particular pair had the bolt removed, rendering them – more or less – double short swords rather than one scissor. In the dim moonlight, the maroon rust could be mistaken for bloodstains, and her sweeping reveal could be mistaken for a threat.
“You mistake me, madam!” The hero lost his composure as he realized his welcome was less than he anticipated. He stumbled back as Halk burst out the door with his miniature crossbow in hand. The confounded hero’s retreat from an eight year old boy was almost enough to make Pewty crack a smile.
“Where is he?” shouted Halk. “I’ll take this one!”
“I’m he,” the blond stranger said in an irritated tone that betrayed his self-confidence. “I’m the hero!” The man’s voice pitched into a whine as he tried to grab the lad’s attention. Halk had already passed, though, as if dismissing the hero as nothing worth more than a glance. Pewty’s attention was beyond the newcomer, as well. Otherwise she might’ve alleviated his ignorance. The hero was probably thinking they were being rude. These floral speaking, uppity heroes always assumed folks this far out in the steppes were uncultured simpletons. Well, later on Pewty could summon all the damn fancy vocabulary he’d like as she explained to him that they were about to die.
“Where’s the ghoul?!” Pewty’s chubby grandson shouted as he searched for shadow monsters. Pewty followed, pushing past the shiny hero and pulling up her rusty shears.
“Ha! Behold,” the hero visibly relaxed back into his pomp, “you’ve spotted the beast. Let your fear dissipate, simple folk! The monster is slain by mine own hand. You’re belated in the defense of your homestead, for the beast would’ve surely destroyed you were it not for my gallant intervention. You see it there, under yon. . . plow?” The hero gestured toward the appropriate location, but he was mistaken about the contraption.
It was understandable that the man didn’t recognize the machine; it was one of a kind. It was a wing-sling. This was a rudimentary, trebuchet-style sling specifically designed to throw a glider. At, least, that’s how Pewty understood it; but, as far as she knew it had never actually accomplished more than smashing a dozen gliders, whatever those were supposed to be. The muslin of the wing had long disintegrated whilst the mechanisms rusted and fell apart. To the hero’s credit, it now was no more than an enormous rake with a harness.
Halk ignored the corpse under the wing-sling and instead faced the hero with his crossbow drawn. Alarmed, the hero opened his mouth to protest. A shrill screech pierced the night. Whatever argument the newcomer was about to speak was lost in the vicious noise; though, he looked as if his attention had redirected itself elsewhere. Had Pewty bothered to glance over, she would have suspected it was the scythe ripping through his abdomen as the cause of the distraction. Pewty, rather, was focused on the half-dead ghoul in front of her. This second abomination held back Pewty’s tin-snip thrust with the blade of a garden hoe.
Pewty inhaled sharply as she realized, “Oh! That’s where my hoe went!” Distracted by the discovery, Pewty failed to parry while the creature stabbed a twisted weathervane into her chest.
The weathervane was a curious choice of weapon. Of the various rotting and broken implements that cluttered Pewty’s meager fief, the vane was as modest as they came. It had once been a source of pride for the old woman. Iron from a cage she had once inhabited had been reforged by her own hand into a handsome ornament. It used to gleam like a trophy over her frugal shack until her son decided to ‘improve’ it. Always tinkering beyond his expertise, that ambitious boy decided a perfectly good instrument needed clockwork and gears. He said, “weathervanes should turn, ma.” He wanted it to twist, not just side to side, but up and down and all about, till everytime a wind came along the arrow pecked the roof like a damn chicken. Didn’t take long till it fell off completely. Ekin was gone by then, though. So it laid and rusted. Halk wanted to “fix” his father’s contraption. Replacing the hinges and gears with a crooked stick was his simple solution. He made homage to the twisted metal coyote that used to adorn it by sticking a potato on top of said stick. He put the arrow back round the middle and, behold, it didn’t read the wind. It didn’t peck the roof either.
All this passed through Pewty’s mind as she was stabbed in the chest with a rotten potato on a stick.
Shaking Spears
A comedic skit
PALONIUS
What a foul misery is this? Faces appear from the abyss. As in Herodites’ mirror, cupid’s arrow draws nearer. Radiant faces all, alas none of whom would call Like a swashbuckler fight, I swipe right and swipe right Yet curse my fate, none yet reciprocate
TIDUS
Good Morrow…
PALONIUS
Ahh!
TIDUS
… Perchance I could borrow A moment of bliss, a whisper with mister..?
PALONIUS
Palonius
TIDUS
Palonius: a find here, on this, this Grindr Simply enchanting, a cherub galavanting, I saw your visage and stopped at the image A face from museums? I’ll slip into his DMs. If I could I would bellow, Palonius, hello.
PALONIUS
What’s this? A match? Could this key unlatch, my heart’s sorrow? (Types) Hey, no, shit, good morrow! Play it coy, play it cool, else he’ll guess you’re a fool. And guess right, you pansy, pretend that you’re sassy. (Types) I’ll let you deem, where to slip that D, Mmm.
(Pause)
Now play it coy, you naughty boy. And now we simply wait, for him to take the bait Then I reel him in and we’ll commit cardinal sin.
(Pause)
The wait makes me queesy, does he think of me easy? Was this a real interaction? Or a mental distraction? Was he a real sight? Or a foggy gaslight? What the heck here? Was he a spectre? My mind playing host to a skittering ghost. I speak of bait and reeling and weight Look here at this, I find only catfish Out out, damn dot dot dot, I’ll show this queer what I’ve got You want a ghost? I’ll head to the coast. I’ll commit suicide and ruin his yuletide. with my own gaslight, I’ll die come midnight While I ghost myself, thou can go fuck thyself
TIDUS
So, Netflix and chill?
PALONIUS
I’ve got time to kill.
# Grappling Hook
An excerpt from #LifeInTheSuburbs
It was spring when I moved into Dead-Grandpa’s-House. Spring is a time of new beginnings, of rebirth and renewal. This spring was to be the great renewal of my friendship with Pete. We’d been away from each other for far too long and now, suddenly, we are living together. Spring is also happens to be the time of year that Pete’s birthday comes around. Pete and his folks share a grand tradition on the anniversary of his birth. Inspired by the ancient cuisine of the far east, Pete’s folks treat him to dinner at Chicago’s suburb’s finest hibachi-style-Japanese-steak-house-national-chain restaurant.
This year, I get to attend.
The four of us, Bob, Jan, Pete, and I sit around the hibachi table. I hadn’t seen Pete’s folks in a while, so we’re catching up. They’ve always considered me part of the family. Especially Jan, Pete’s mom. Every year she gets me Christmas presents, despite the fact that I don’t visit at Christmas. Overly-excited to ask me questions, Jan delights in my overly-enthusiastic, rambling tales. What she really wants to know is if I’ve found a girl yet. Mothers, right? The conversation is light-hearted and jovial. The Japanese chef performs his samurai style cooking techniques. With cunning agility, he slices and dices vegetables with the precision of a fruit ninja. He deftly flips shrimp tails onto his stove-pipe chef’s hat. He flips a shrimp tail into Pete’s shirt pocket, a flaky souvenir to come out in the next wash. With flourish, he precariously spins eggs on spatulas and makes seemingly innocuous slices of onion into a billowing volcano. All of us have experienced all of this before, but I’m a sucker for the showmanship. I’m clapping and cheering for our talented juggler-chef. Pete joins me with hearty ‘ooh’s and ‘awe’s. Oh, and, of course, I should mention that we’re drinking Saki. Not everyone, not the parents, but Pete and I are definitely drinking Saki. Hot. Lots of Saki. In the commemorative photo they give us at the conclusion of our meal, Pete and I are red in the face. I blame the red paper lantern lighting. Well, I would if those words weren’t so particularly tricky at the moment.
I brought a gift! I haven’t gotten Pete a gift in years. I wanted to make it something memorable and outrageous. The suburbs are littered with all the same mega-chain-stores that sell all the same, tired gifts; so that was out of the question. Earlier, I had stopped in the city at a small shop I had never gone into before. It’s a shop that was decorated overly conspicuously to look inconspicuous. It was called ‘The Boring Store,’ and had signs all over the windows that said, ‘Nothing to see here,’ and, ‘Go away.’ I went right past the sandwich board that said, ‘Authorized Personnel Only,’ and opened the door that was labeled, ‘Definitely Closed!’ I’d bicycled past this store countless times, but never had the courage to go in. For Pete, the risk was worth it. I mustered my courage and opened the door immediately behind the first door that was labeled, ‘Alarm Will Sound.’ No alarm sounded. I had assumed this would be the case, but damn had those sighns broken my will before. Inside I found a wonderland of espionage equipment and James Bond gadgets! Mini Walkie-Talkies, bow-tie cameras, night-vision goggles, invisible ink – the proprietor told me it was an empty jar, but I know invisible ink when I don’t see it. Finally, with inflamed excitement, found what I was looking for. As soon as I saw it, I knew what it was: Pete’s gift. It came in the shape of a big, heavy, solid, honest-to-goodness grappling-hook. A Grappling-Hook! With a rope and everything!
So, now that you know the back story, it’s not so weird that Pete is standing in a Japanese steak house, drunk on Sake, holding a ceramic novelty samurai glass, and brazenly swinging a shiny grappling-hook. Oh, and yelling. He was yelling, “I’m the birthday ninja!” But explain that to the manager.
We are escorted home. Not by the manager, don’t be ridiculous, he only kicked us out. The ride home was provided by Pete’s parents. Conveniently for them, we both belong in the same place, now. They dispose of us at Dead-Grandpa’s House.
The night still having some youth to it, I grab some beers from the fridge. Pete does not acknowledge the beer. He stares expectantly at me with an animated grin on his face. With a twinkle in his eye and a grappling-hook clutched in his fists, he suggests we go outside and play. Who am I to argue with that logic? Sure it’s after dark, but there’s no point ending a birthday night early. Somewhere in our Sake clouded minds we suddenly revert to our childhood selves at a sleepover and realize there are no rules to stop us anymore. We charge outside with beers and laughter. Pete chases me while swinging the grappling hook, both of us oblivious to the obvious medical catastrophe looming over the recklessness of the situation. Giggling and sprinting, I hear the whirring of the swinging iron spiked hook behind me – so close I could almost get a static electric shock from it, or a concusion. Nevertheless, Pete spies a nearby tree and his attention deficits itself on the true purpose of the device: climbing. The grappling-hook glistens in the light of a street lamp as it arcs through the air. A falling star glimmer of shiny black iron is the last we see of our ninja claw.
The grappling-hook is genuine. It grapples. . . too well. The rope, on the other hand, is not genuine. Rather, it’s not a true rope. What we discover only now is that the ‘rope’ a slick nylon sort, like plastic. We hadn’t taken any precautions. Tying knots, for instance, at regular intervals in this excuse for a rope might have made it climbable. But we have the Sake blind will of steadfast lemmings. We grapple with the rope. Grasping and clutching, we are rewarded with no friction, no purchase, no chance of ascension. We burn our hands on the rope, jumping as high as we can to grab the rope only to slide back down, over and over again. We lift each other up to grab the rope ever higher only to crash back down like the puck on a carnival strongman game, never ringing the elusive bell. I tie the rope around my waist because, well, that’s something.
Unexpectedly, Scott and Jimmy pull up to the house. These two complete the group. The four of us were inseparable in our younger days. Now we’re more separable, but still close. These guys have wives and kids. Instead of fighting the lifestyle, these guys have embraced suburban life. They came to see Pete for his birthday and find him uselessly yanking on the lowest branch of a tree, ferociously tugging and grunting as if impressing the tree with his strength will influence it to forfeit its treasure. Of course, these gentlemen don’t ask questions, they take to the situation without hesitation. This tree has done something bad and now we’re mad at the tree, this is evidenced enough without words to sully the fight. We are men of action. Next thing I know, Scott is standing on Pete and Jimmy’s interlocked arms. I’m climbing on Scott’s shoulders reaching for a branch with which to gain purchase in the tree. A light shines up in the tree. How very helpful.
“That’s great, I can almost see it!” I shout down to the police officer pointing his car’s spotlight at me.
“Matty, I think that’s the cops,” Scott says nonchalantly up to me. Scott doesn’t take too much seriously, not life, not limb, and definitely not police. One time Scott got pulled over driving 70 in a 35. The cop screamed, “What does it say?” He was pointing at the word, ‘Police’ on his car, but Scott read, aloud, the other words, “To Protect and Serve.” That cop was not happy. This cop doesn’t look happy, either. Scott doesn’t care. Unfortunately, the fools holding us up do care.
The pyramid under me collapses. I fall out of the tree.
“What do you boys think you’re doing?” he asks as he alights his car. Well, ‘alights’ implies a certain gracefulness. This was more of a struggle. With one hand on the frame of the door and one hand on the roof of the car he sort of undulates out; like, he scoots his belly a bit, then gets his legs aimed right, then gets his head out, and then gets his belly more out, etc. It looks as though he’s unpracticed at the rare art of getting out of a car. Suburban cops, it seems, are a different breed, entirely, from city cops.
We approach the cop to explain our situation. He’s hiking his belt up about his belly and squares his shoulders as if to confront some disgruntled drunk teenagers. As we get closer, though, his attitude changes. What starts as an angry skepticism morphs into shocked incredulity. It appears he’s slowing realizing he’s not dealing with hoodlums, but with the village idiots. In disbelief, he watches giggling, thirty-year-old men stumble gaily towards him after having just fallen out of a tree in the middle of the night.
“Whose house is this?” asks our neighborhood defender, suspiciously.
Scott, Jimmy, and I all point towards Pete, or rather, where Pete was just standing. Pete is no longer with us, it seems. We all turn and scan the area. It takes mere seconds to pinpoint his location.
We see Pete just beyond the hedges, moving in a mock-stealth-crouch-run like a cartoon villain, loudly whispering, “Birthday ninja!”
“I think you boys should get some sleep,” our Protector and Server concludes. Then, as if embarrassed for us, leaves us to our folly. In a rehearsed pratfall, he plops down on the seat of his cruiser. The ninja’s cover of darkness returns as the officer cuts off the spotlight.
“We lost our grappling hook,” I finally explain, as if that should clear matters up.
“Uh-huh,” says the officer, clearly not mattered up. “Just get that birthday boy inside, I don’t want to come back out here tonight.”
Scott lights up a cigarette, “Concurred.”
Jimmy grabs my beer and swigs, “Welcome back to the neighborhood, mat.”
Friends*
A monologue in verse
* with an asterisk
Come, my pretties, like pigs to the trough. Gather ‘round and Snort and squeal and Cough Suck at my bandwidth Feed at my hand with… Disregard to the urge to log off.
Grab your phones or sit at your laptop. Don’t go play sports, forget the blacktop. Tweet hashtags galore, And get your pokes, whore Now Farmville to become my cashcrop!
A querie: the past tense of tweet is what? Is it tweeted or twitted or twut? And what about when, You’ve been caught again, Tweet touting your penis or twat?
Now ladies don’t get angry with us, We don’t give a shit ‘bout your muts, I visit your wall to leach, Pics of you at the beach, And to troll your relationship status.
Facebook Friends have posted on your wall. Friends in the past you would meet with or call. But the picture they tag, Is just some douche bag, Perhaps you don’t know them at all.
A hundred-thousands friends to risk Exist solely on your hard disk Without even meeting, Just follow their tweeting Behold, you have Friends, with an ast’risk!
The produce section of the supermarket slowly dwindles as consumers buy more processed, fat-free, gluten-free, artificially-sweetened, instant, consequence free “food.” […]
