Wednesday, August 9, 2017


the boy and man are at a crossroads.

there comes a time in every hero journey where a decision must be made. the hero or heroes in this case are in the middle and must decide whether to keep doing things the way they have been or strike out in a new unprecedented never-before-imagined way and forge a new note. slow and steady wins the boring race.

boy: this life thing is extraordinarily dull.

man: i can't help but imagine that it's not the same for others. in different stars perhaps.

boy: we need to speed this along. we must accelerate our journey. things need to ferment. your journal will dry up if not made moist by ink.

man: ink you say? moist is an uncomfortable word in any era.

boy: i am longing for a companion. no offense.

man: none taken. the grey weirdos just don't cut it. i haven't the heart to tell them. my loins tremble beneath my loincloths.

boy: yep, mine are roaring. mind recounting again your dream from last night? it'll help me dream this night. the night is still young. it's always young. there's not really anything else to do. there's nothing on tv.

man: ah yes, but you know i can only remember snippets. it's very frustrating why my heart doesn't work better.

the boy hands the man a fold of manila leaves inscribed in red.

boy: see? this is why you must continue with your writing. document everything, it's vitally important. we're the only ones who care about this sort of stuff. the stars don't care that's for sure. i'll prepare the campfire indoors. should be alright.

the boy with his tail towel sweeps away the moist hide from their shower area, which is just a watering hole, to find a family of slimy unshelled slugs making camp there.

boy: ugh. another rug ruined. there is no justification. the animals were here first. i hate those creepy crawlies, gives me nightmares.

the boy rubs the lunula of his toenails together, howls at the moon, and sparks the fire.

boy: blue flame! that's new.

the man assumes the indian position.

man: ah yes, i remember now. how could i forget? we start off on a moonlit night much like this one is, except it's in the other place. i come across a particularly difficult piece of land to navigate. it's full of thorny bush and prickly personality. a fire set in an ancient stone hearth warms the area and cooks my pizza. that's the best pizza i have ever eaten.

boy: you are slacking, brother. the word is only as good as the word. you are the best storyteller of all time tho. okay, okay, i'll write it for you.

man: i slide between two giant hills, and i'm quite comfortable in that spongey grass. then i woke up.

boy: ha. but what does it mean?

man: anything i want. or you want. it's a snapshot of feeling. a thought divine that is perfectly willing to go on forever but our hearts can't take forever.

boy: i see. but it's more. it's always more.

man: surely. remember what the wind taught us? we must look at things not as the things themselves but as symbolic representations of other things.

boy: hills and hearth.

man: ..................tits and came to me in a dream. or perhaps i came to it.

boy: i see. the same but different.

man: it's telling us something. i posit that there are creatures out there who look like you and me but have slightly different parts.

boy: everyone has long hair tho, right? and a butt?

man: everyone has a but. womyn? we need her to survive.

boy: huh.

man: there is nothing warmer than pussy. a comic shall lead the way.

boy: as long as these creatures aren't like the greynimals.

there's a no-knock at the door. the Lutum are standing guard there but for the other team. they each hold up a rock in their slow hand menacingly.

Lutum: we are sorry. but we held a secret meeting. a conference in collusion. a confab if you will. but it wasn't confabulous. it was serious. i'm afraid we have come to our conclusive decision. unanimously after many votes. the only way this situation can continue is if we stone you. don't worry, it's not to death, we'll only sting you a bit. knock you out. you'll feel like you've had a long sleep.

boy: not gonna lie i could use a dirt-nap right now.

Lutum: this is the best thing for you. and for us. we can't have you relics from a predawn age running around here like chickens in our same space. it would throw everything off, derail our history early though it may be.

man: very paternalistic. but we understand. dems the faulty breaks.

the Lutum wind up like minor-league baseball players.

man: any last words, sonny?

boy: don't worry, the wind will protect us.

man: i'm afraid not. the wind isn't coming.

boy: i see. yes that's right, i forgot, the wind is only a concept. i love you, dad.

man: what does womyn make you feel?

boy: like you.

man: mine is more of an itch.

Lutum: you are outnumbered.

boy: ain't that always the way.

Lutum: may you forget who you are.

man: that would be a blessing.

the Lutum toss their rocks and the two humans are awkwardly conked on their heads.


it's Kim's special day. he is tidying up and making last-minute orders for the grand opening of his store. it's the only store in North Korea which sells high-end items. obviously only for big-ticket foreign investors and tourists, not the general public.

Kim: hopefully this will entice my Sarah! stupid tourists buy expensive goods they can get in any online bargain bin. buying stuff they don't need. been reading a lot of Freud recently. smuggled Sigmund in with my Superman comics. did you know Superman dies? i don't want to think about it. final touches. we even have those Redbottom heels and shit!

the massive cavernous abandoned mall is eerily quiet. save for the low hum of the escalators.

Kim: you can't appreciate the moldy maudlin melancholy of this place through a youtube vid, you really have to experience the sad scary up close. shoes stocked. perfumes purloined. sale signs displayed just for show. Twilight Zone freaky white foam heads with ears and necks but no eyes modeling the rice hats up. the rest of the world is either really gullible or i'm really bored. and now to call my beloved.


Kim: well that didn't go well. i offered that Palin puss a private tour and everything! i am so mad. i need to get my rocks off. with a white woman. i live on a craggy rock. i don't get it, isn't America just a series of malls? you guys love fucking malls! a mall is the very symbol of capitalism. i will have my revenge. i know what i'm gonna do. i'm gonna take away America's gum! yeah i see everywhere on your tv shows i watch on my private tv all the young people chewing gum and blowing their wads on the street instead of reading sensible communist pamphlets airlifted down into the sky from weird cloud boats instead of food. just you watch, America,


Kim pushes all the red buttons and the tubes come out of hiding from their caves. there is one very special missile Kim holds dearest to his eternal soul. a missile bequeathed to him from his grandfather when he was still in diapers. which wasn't that long ago. the young Kim sucked on this missile like a lollipop trying to teethe. he painted his name in red watercolors. the adults pried the missile from his gummy mouth and filled in the rest of his name. now it was time to bring the sacred gift out. and use it for the most holy of enterprises.

Kim: sex. this is for you, Sarah! i'm coming, baby! this is my own private missile!

Kim sets the coordinates for Alaska, swipes a cowboy hat from off his store shelves, and mounts the missile. he puts his hat on tight cos he really doesn't want to lose it in the flight, he wants Sarah to see him in it. he pushes all the red buttons again.


the missile with Kim on top sails rather gracefully for a while on its trajectory to snowy Alaska.

Kim: i made sure to wear layers. i can see Russia from here! i knew this would work! if i know one thing, it's miniaturization.

the missile crashes into the middle of the ocean.

President Bump is having a midnight nosh of KFC in the Square Office with his Cabinet trying to get some work done. trying. but mostly eating.

there's a ring on the red Batphone. Scaramucci picks up.

Federer: will you?

the Mooch: NO

Bump: did you get the Ovaltine?

Mooch: and the chicken-fried bacon.

Gannon: i'm not falling for that again.

Mooch: yessir, served on a gold platter. French fries, uh freedom fries swamped in sauce Robert and a little shaved flanksteak. always put Swiss cheese on a cheesesteak, my butcher taught me that. topped off with a nice salad to make up for those two oatmeal cookies you always have for breakfast. downed with a glass slipper of Buckfast tonic wine.

Bump: that's a tall drink of water. i need all the tonic i can swallow, i'm very sick. who's the leggy blonde who works at the State Department?!!

Mooch: get off the tv and on to twitter.

Bump: nah, give me the phone, i want to call someone.

Putin: want some fentanyl?

Bump: maybe later, Vlad. hey, Bob. can i do a ridealong with you tonight?

Mueller: i'm mulling it over. no.

Bump: come on, baby. i love you.

and Bump hangs up.

Mooch: was that a crank call in the middle of the night?

Bump: no.

Mooch: prank call?

Bump: no.

the phone rerings.

Mueller: fine. if you promise to cooperate.

Bump: that's my middle name! on my tax returns. that's why i had it be a predawn raid. i was hoping you'd join me for some Denny's afterwards. i'm getting old you know.

the black car doubles back to pick up Bump. it chases a ghost down the alley and crashes into an apartment so quietly none of the neighbors hear. officers in flak jackets and missile-launchers and a huge log swell into the location like a flood after not knocking.

Manafort: fuck yous guys, i was taking a shit. at least let me finish up wiping my ass. there are poo splatters and shitcrumbs everywhere on the tile.

Bump: can you hurry this up, Bob? the Early Bird specials are starting.

Bump: what are you doing now, Man? what's the hold up?

Manafort: my finger caught a poop smear. i'm rewashing it with hard soap to get it off.

Mueller: smell it, yous.

Manafort smells his finger.

Mueller: if it still sorta smells like poo but more like gunpowder, that's good enough. you'll never get the stench totally out.

Bump: i've been there. come on, i got the Denny's menu on my phone. did you confiscate everything i planted in the apartment, Bob?

Mueller: i'm gonna pretend i didn't hear that. cos i didn't. i'm getting up there in years, too.

Bump: hey Man, i'll trade you your girl for immunity.

Mueller: come on, man, you said that right in my earshot.

Bump: okay, okay, fuggedaboutit. i wash my hands. time for launch. uh, lunch.

Mueller: whatever. i didn't ask for this. wait, i gotta make one more stop. it's on the way. Breakfast Row.

Mueller's car stops at the IHOP. Mueller arrests Tiger Woods, who is chatting up a hot waitress.

Mueller: at least make it look good, kid, you didn't even order any pancakes. staging is an art.

Tiger Woods: i thought this was the diversion program.

Mueller pushes Tiger's head underneath the bottom of the roof and into the back of the police cruiser's beige suede '70s seats ripped open with dried cushioning spilling out.

Mueller: watch your head.

Tiger: that's what she said.

Manafort: it's not worth it, kid. want a drink?

Federer tries to crank-call Mueller's walkie-talkie.

Bump: can i give you a kiss before we eat?

Mueller: what?

Bump: it's not a gay thing, i just want to show you my appreciation for all the hard work you've been doing.


at the monastic cave the Men From the East led by the hooded figure have been hard at work blooding and sweating and tearing their way through legion blueprints and maps and sources of energy in their effort to create the perfect machine to carry a long distance into the fly of space, to the furthest outreaches, to a time where they'll meet their heroes.

the crew are excited on this particular day cos they think they have their rocket secure. all the boosters are affixed and the fuel seems to be limitless and environmentally-friendly. the congregation hold hands in a circle around the launch site. the rocket with the little engine that could shoots straight up in the air with a force of vigor that knocks the stones around. it reaches high into the cosmos cutting all space clouds in its path. before burning up in the atmosphere with a whimpering explosion.

defeated, the hooded figure takes a load off on a nearby rock. the hooded figure lights a cigarette with a match and smokes it from a stem. still able to conceal the hooded figure's identity while puffing on the cig through the black hole which fills the face of the hood.

one of the Men From the East joins and puts his arm around the hooded figure's two shoulders.

Man From the East: never realized how small you were. you're our size! you cut such an impressive figure when you're up on stage for Mass. we're sensitive to our smallness. our little man! our beautiful powerful little man! you're one of us! can i have one? what are those? Virginia Slims?

hooded figure: wacky tobaccy from my pappy.

Man: just kidding, i don't know brands. i just like tennis. never smoked in my life.

hooded figure: did you hear that? i sighed internally just now. the plans are all wrong. the vehicle we need to build is a stagecoach. that seems redactive but it's true. i saw it in a dream. modern technology is a failure. we must never give up, no matter what. perseverance. eternal perseverance is the quotient. it's our special sauce. it's no secret. we must be resolute in the face of our rustiness. use different parts. that is the strength of our little club. it's so easy to throw in the towel. instead of dying, we must sleep.

the two pray on this meditation in silence.

hooded figure: i know you're probably not in the mood for music now but...

Man: i could dance...

the fingers of the hooded figure snap and the cave is filled with


hooded figure: the city is safe. the city is safe tonight. the city of our dreams.


Jules said...

Boy and man are always at crossroads.

Moist ink is worse. That shit smears.

E BA GUM ( a northern British exclamation and also a Despot backwards) Kim needs one.

fuggedaboutit - name of my new band.

Never sigh internally when on whacky Virginia slims. *)

the late phoenix said...

it's in the jeans.

moist anything is worse, except Nirvana songs.

so that's where Mugabe comes from.

all bands start in college dorms.

i used to smoke pink cigarettes...wait that came out wrong.

love ya, mah dahlin *)