Archives for July 2015

#219 Illegal Immigrant Killer

#219 Immigrant killerIllegal Immigrant Killer

 

What I did wasn’t personal. I’m not a killer at heart. When there were just a few, I never let them bother me, but when they became so numerous that I saw them everywhere, I knew it was time to kill them off. I didn’t want to do it face-to-face, so I spread poison around the water from which they drank. I sat silently and watched one cautiously approach and drink. Then his legs began to twitch and he couldn’t catch his breath. Watching him suffer so much brought remorse. Death was near but the culpability was mine. I had spread the poison that was painfully taking life away.

What was I to do? I couldn’t live with the likes of this one. I saw the question in his eyes.  “Why are you killing me?” he asked.

Remorse for what I had done spread and I swore I’d find another way. But the very same night I had to kill again and the dying eyes burnt guilt into my brain. After that, I caught one more that I held underwater until he drowned. There is no other way, I told myself to ease the murderer’s guilt sitting heavily on my mind.

The law said I could kill any who invaded, but my conscience wouldn’t accept the fact that I wantonly killed any I saw. If only there was another way to keep those illegal immigrants away. I posted signs warning there was poison, but I knew they couldn’t read. I left the lights on because I knew they liked to travel in the dark. Nothing stops them from coming.

It must be hunger that drove them, I surmised. But that was no excuse for them to come onto my property. Not only that, I didn’t like having them around. I wondered if I should hire someone to come and kill them all at once. If I did that, I wouldn’t be bothered for a while. But I worried that those hired killers would get me too with their methods of execution.

I’d do it myself. I put on what I called my, “killing clothes.” Old stuff I could burn when I finished killing. I got my weapon and a flashlight and turned out the lights. I heard their footsteps. They were near. I tensed up, got ready to blast them, and flipped on the flashlight.

Their eyes shone in the beam, and I couldn’t do it. I shut the light off and let them feast. I wondered if I was a defective human. We all have the urge to kill, but my urge seemed to be going away with every life I took. The law and everybody else said it was okay, but something inside me said it was wrong to take any life.

But I couldn’t stand them and sincerely wanted them dead. I looked for a compromise. Maybe I could sell them to a company that has a use for them. I called around and every company I talked to said they had them coming out of the woodwork and wouldn’t ever buy a single one.

Maybe they could be used for meat, dog food, or even hotdogs. I inquired at a rendering plant and they laughed in my face. I was going to have to kill them myself. That very night I dressed in my special clothes, got my weapon of choice and a flashlight. I waited in the dark for the longest time. I broke out in a sweat. Maybe they weren’t going to show up, I half hoped. After a long while, I heard footsteps and knew they were here. I flicked on the light and their eyes glowed with surprise.

I went on the attack and ran to where they stood frozen in fear and I didn’t hesitate to push down the nozzle on my can of RAID.

 

 

 

#219 Illegal Immigrant Killer

#219 Illegal Immigrant Killer

 

What I did wasn’t personal. I’m not a killer at heart. When there were just a few, I never let them bother me, but when they became so numerous that I saw them everywhere, I knew it was time to kill them off. I didn’t want to do it face-to-face, so I spread poison around the water from which they drank. I sat silently and watched one cautiously approach and drink. Then his legs began to twitch and he couldn’t catch his breath. Watching him suffer so much brought remorse. Death was near but the culpability was mine. I had spread the poison that was painfully taking life away.

What was I to do? I couldn’t live with the likes of this one. I saw the question in his eyes.  “Why are you killing me?” he asked.

Remorse for what I had done spread and I swore I’d find another way. But the very same night I had to kill again and the dying eyes burnt guilt into my brain. After that, I caught one more that I held underwater until he drowned. There is no other way, I told myself to ease the murderer’s guilt sitting heavily on my mind.

The law said I could kill any who invaded, but my conscience wouldn’t accept the fact that I wantonly killed any I saw. If only there was another way to keep those illegal immigrants away. I posted signs warning there was poison, but I knew they couldn’t read. I left the lights on because I knew they liked to travel in the dark. Nothing stops them from coming.

It must be hunger that drove them, I surmised. But that was no excuse for them to come onto my property. Not only that, I didn’t like having them around. I wondered if I should hire someone to come and kill them all at once. If I did that, I wouldn’t be bothered for a while. But I worried that those hired killers would get me too with their methods of execution.

I’d do it myself. I put on what I called my, “killing clothes.” Old stuff I could burn when I finished killing. I got my weapon and a flashlight and turned out the lights. I heard their footsteps. They were near. I tensed up, got ready to blast them, and flipped on the flashlight.

Their eyes shone in the beam, and I couldn’t do it. I shut the light off and let them feast. I wondered if I was a defective human. We all have the urge to kill, but my urge seemed to be going away with every life I took. The law and everybody else said it was okay, but something inside me said it was wrong to take any life.

But I couldn’t stand them and sincerely wanted them dead. I looked for a compromise. Maybe I could sell them to a company that has a use for them. I called around and every company I talked to said they had them coming out of the woodwork and wouldn’t ever buy a single one.

Maybe they could be used for meat, dog food, or even hotdogs. I inquired at a rendering plant and they laughed in my face. I was going to have to kill them myself. That very night I dressed in my special clothes, got my weapon of choice and a flashlight. I waited in the dark for the longest time. I broke out in a sweat. Maybe they weren’t going to show up, I half hoped. After a long while, I heard footsteps and knew they were here. I flicked on the light and their eyes glowed with surprise.

I went on the attack and ran to where they stood frozen in fear and I didn’t hesitate to push down the nozzle on my can of RAID.

 

Ilegal Immigrantss

#218 Stone

#218 Stone

 

With a truck full of fresh cement, I drove to the address in Beverly Hills that had been left with my answering service. Only a certain class of people can reach me through that number. My brother Dick, who runs his own security agency, investigates every call. That way I know if someone is trying to set me up.

The guy who lives at the Beverly Hills address is a movie director with all the right connections. I rang the bell. Cecil himself answered the door.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” He looked at my truck with the revolving chamber going in circles to keep the cement from setting up. “How much does the cement in that thing weigh?” he pointed to the truck.

“20 tons or so.”

“Good, good. That’ll do.”

I didn’t know what it would do and didn’t much care. I got paid and paid good to deliver my load and not to ask questions about whom or what was being buried under it.

“Where do you want it?” I asked.

“Drive around back.”

At the rear of his mansion, an area six feet deep and six feet square with chicken wire spread on the bottom and reinforced walls of plywood were set to hold the wet cement in a square. The plywood came above the surface by about two feet. Cecil pointed, “Dump it there.”

“You going to smooth it out, or do you just want a big lump in the middle of your lawn?”

“The thicker the better for my design, but hold on before you start. Concrete is dreary to look at, but colors revamp it. I made tints so it’ll look like colored stone.”

He pointed to a pile of fifty pound bags of colored powders.

“I’ll pay you extra to add these to the mix.”

“A Hundred a bag,” I said. He agreed.”

I threw the bags up on the back of the truck, stopped it from spinning, and dumped in an ochre colored powder. While I worked, I heard voices coming from the house and then there was a horrible scream. None of my business. I emptied the last bag and started the container spinning again to keep the cement soft.

Cecil came out dragging something in a sheet. Looked like a body. He manhandled it into the center of the square and said, “Okay, dump the cement right there,” he pointed into the hole and at the thing wrapped in a sheet. I figured it was a body, but didn’t say a thing. This is why I get paid so much. When he went back into the house, I filled the hole with cement.

A week went by. I got a call to return to the Beverly Hills house with another load of cement. I repeated last week’s performance except the color I added was green instead of ochre. Again, Cecil came out dragging something wrapped in a sheet, shoved it into the hole and gave me the go ahead to dump my cement.

I wondered who he was burying under all that cement, but it wasn’t my business to know. I get paid to do my job and nothing else.

Another week passed. I got called to Beverly Hills once again. I couldn’t help wondering who this guy was hiding in his yard. I tried to convince myself there weren’t people buried under the cement, but couldn’t. Every time he dumped an object into the hole, he’d say, “Fill-er-up,” and go back into the house. If I wanted to see who he was burying, I could jump in, and lift the sheet.

No way. If anyone saw me, it would be the end of my lucrative business. The night I dumped a truckload on Hoffa was the night my career started. It became known I could keep my mouth shut so whenever somebody wanted to bury a body permanently, they called me. But this guy really aroused my curiosity. I’d never tell. Just take a peek so I’d know. I decided I would if he called again.

A week went by and Beverly Hills wanted another truckload. The last load I had colored yellow for an extra $500.

Now there were pink, from the ochre, green and yellow six foot squares in his yard. I figured he wanted to even the group out with this load. I wondered what color he’d pick this time and I wondered even more who or what he’d bury under the cement.

He wanted blue this time. I mixed the powder into the cement. He came out with what looked like a body in a sheet, dumped it in the hole and went back into the house. I jumped in, lifted up the sheet. It was a dead pig. What the hell? I couldn’t figure this out. Maybe he used a pig to fool me into thinking it was a body.

I heard a laugh and looked up. Cecil stood there with a bunch of evil looking men.

“Thanks, Sucker,” he said to me. “I bet you’d look by number 4 and I was right.”

“Okay, you got me dead to rights, but I only looked because I was so damn curious.”

“Curiosity is what killed the cat.” He nodded and soft cement started pouring on my head. “At least you’ll know who’s buried under this load,” Cecil said and laughed.

 

#117 Hell on Earth

#117 Hell on Earth

My friend Kate often uses this word and sees it in everyday life. It seems she believes that a people receive some sort of payback in this life for things they did in past lives, be they good or bad.

So I told her a story I was part of: “His father cared enough to educate him, but her father cared mostly for himself. His father lost his way at the age of 66, and her father at 66 went to school. His father shook from a disease, but her father enjoyed life more than ever before.

How fair is fate when the caring one who did everything right now needs to be cared for, while the one who didn’t care much doesn’t have a care at all? Where or when does karma begin?”

“It begins the day you’re born.” Kate waved her arm to show karma floating around us all. “An individual cycles back and forth between the earth and a heavenly realm of ancestors.”

“That’s a modern version of religion,” I told her, opening my touch pad to show her where it said, ‘In this worldview, moral behavior has no influence on rebirth. The idea that the moral quality of one’s actions influences one’s rebirth is absent from India until the period of the samsara religions, when the

Brahmins appear to have adopted this idea from other religious groups.’

“That’s only what they say. I believe most types of karmas, with good or bad results, will keep one within the wheel of samara, while others will liberate one to nirvana.”

“I must have been a real bastard in my last life if what you say is true. My life has been awful, but I’ll concede it’s been better than many others. I attribute that to the fact that I was born in the United States. There are so many in our world who suffer for no apparent reason, that if I were to believe what you say is true, I’d have to think that humanity as a whole will never get of that wheel and our punishment will go on for eternity.”

“Look at it like this, Nirvana is not the blowing out of the candle. It is the extinguishing of the flame because day is come,” Kate said.

“That means you get off the Ferris wheel? The ride is over? No more lives to live? Where do we go then?”

“When we reach nirvana, we enter a state of freedom from cyclic existence. This is liberation from the cycle of death, rebirth and freedom from karmic law.

Nirvana also extinguishes dualities and allows us to merge into absolute existence.” Kate smiled, lit an incense stick, and began to chant.

“What the hell does that mean? Isn’t me being right here, right now an absolute existence?”

“Not like it’ll be when you reach nirvana.”

“You sound like one of those religious freaks I grew up around. They always said ‘Jesus saves.’ I never saw him save anyone.”

As soon as I said that, I remembered all the times I had been saved. I always chalked it up to chance, but what if there was some truth to Jesus’ teachings, or even to reincarnation? Was I allowed to escape death so many times because I had a purpose in life? Or maybe I needed to stay here and suffer for many more years to make up for what I’ve done in the past . . .

Nah! I didn’t believe any of that, but what if it were true and I reached nirvana and was surrounded for eternity with holy people chanting all day because they were so happy? Think I’d rather stay on that wheel and keep coming back here to see what has changed. So I told Kate I never wanted to get off the wheel.

“You only remain if you continue to do evil,” she said, then mouthed a long nasalized long vowel sound, “Aummmmm.”

That did it for me. I wanted to be sure I never went to the same place she was going to. I bid her adieu, drove my truck to Circle K, took my .45 Magnum from the glove box, loaded it, and walked through the door with the gun in my hand.

“On the floor,” I shouted, waving my gun in the air, “this is a stickup! If anyone tries to stop me, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

I walked to the counter where two clerks stood shaking in fear. One had tears running from her eyes, and the man had a wet spot in his pants. I handed them a paper bag. “Put all the money in here.”

I watched them empty the two registers of stacks of bills and put those into the sack. ”Put five bottles of Jim Beam in there,” I said, “and two cartons of Camels too.” Figured I’d drink drive and smoke after I left and do it all the way to Las Vegas where I’d sin some more to make sure I never got off that wheel.

Once I got to Vegas, I spent most of my money at a brothel, then went and cheated at cards and won a bundle. I’d make sure I’d get sent back pronto for another round of life, I thought.

I got caught cheating, got shot in the head, died and went the spirit world. I found the place where souls waited in line to get on the wheel for another life. I listened to the choices given out, “Rich or poor, man or woman, animal or insect, predator or prey?”

My turn came to climb aboard and I said, “Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to go round and round time and time again.”

A bright light appeared and a booming voice said, “Send him back as a Zen Monk.”

“Oh no!” I cried as I was sent back to hell on Earth.

 

 

#216 Baby, Baby Please

#216 Baby, Baby Please

 

Debby didn’t show up for our date again. I knew she went out with somebody else instead.  I wrote her an emotional e-mail to let her know what I thought, “Baby, please don’t lie to me. Tell me the way you want me to be, but baby, please don’t lie to me. Signify our love with honest words from your heart and not your mouth.

“Baby, please don’t use those beautiful soft lips to turn lying words into believable truth. You know when your warm sweet breath blows truth or lies into my ear, I believe any sound coming from that provocative opening will be honesty and nothing but fact.”

Disgusted for  begging like this, I threw my pen on the desk, grabbed the wine bottle by its neck and swallowed sweet fermented grapes until I had to come up for breath. I knew Debby had been lying to me. I loved her so. I wanted to beg her to be true, but when I pictured myself pleading for her affections, I saw half a man on bended knee. No, I can’t do that. What could I do to make her respect me?

I did what I always did when I had a question that needed to be answered – I went on the internet.  The first page that answered my inquiry said, “Women don’t want to be respected. They want to be taken. They love being treated like shit and they come back for it time and time again.

            I didn’t want to believe that, but the next page had an article from CBS that said, “Lose the smile. For guys eager to attract a mate, that might be a killer strategy, according to a surprising new study from the University of British Columbia.” It showed that women find swaggering, brooding bad boys a lot more attractive than nice guys.”

I always considered myself a nice guy, but after reading this scientific study, I figured maybe I should change. I showed up at Debby’s door and banged on it like I was the police on a drug raid. She answered with a questioning look on her face. “Get dressed, were going out,” I said in a commanding voice. The look of adoration that washed over her face when she heard those words showed me the report on CBS held some truth.

Debby got ready and I took her to a club where music played. I strutted in with a glare in my eyes and a scowl on my face. Women glanced at me and Debby grabbed me by the arm to show I was hers. First time she had ever done that. This bad boy stuff seemed to be working. When the drinks came, I said, “You pay.” She did and seemed happy to do so.

I walked to the bar where a couple sat. The guy looked like a dork, but his girl was a beauty.

“Let’s dance,” I said as I grabbed her arm. She smiled and said, “Sure.”

I glanced at Debby and saw the anger in her eyes. I looked at my dancing partner’s guy and saw hate emanating toward me. That was all good. I was being bad, and I liked the feeling I had. I ditched the bitch I danced with and returned to sit with Debby. “Buy me another beer,” I told her, and she did. After five or six beers, I found acting the bad boy to be exhilarating.

Debby drove home because I could hardly see straight from all I drank. I wanted to show her I could drink as much as she was willing to buy, and she never stopped buying. We stood at her door and I figured I’d top of the night with a slap to Debby’s face, just to let her know who was boss.

I raised my arm in order to give her one hard enough to rattle her brain, and as I started my forward swing she grabbed my wrist, twisted my arm behind my back, handcuffed me and said, “This is to let you know who’s in charge. Next time you show up at my door unannounced I’ll whip your ass. Understand?”

The scientific study didn’t say anything about this. What was I to do next? I had no idea and needed to go online to find out. I struggled to get free, but couldn’t. She bent over and whispered into my ear, “Baby, please don’t lie to me. Tell me the way you want me to be, but baby, please don’t lie to me. Signify our love with honest words from your heart and not your mouth, and if you ever try to hit me again, you’ll spend time in jail.”

Frustrated tears fell from my eyes and washed away any image Debby or I ever had of me being a bad boy.

 

#115 Joe read a book

 

#115 Joe read a book

 

Joe tried to be a man’s man. He never cried or showed emotion or pain when hurt. He’d fight if it came to that and forget about it the next day. He worked out at the gym, boxed, played handball, rode a bike and did other things men like to do.

He’d go to the Beehive bar and drink beer until he got drunk, eat pickled eggs and play pool until closing time every night. Then he’d wake up at 5 a.m. and go to work no matter how much his head hurt.

He swore that he’d never fall in love, and always said, “Because love sticks to your face, I stay away.” Then she came through the door, like music filling the room. He took in her long, lithe, shapely legs attached to the round, almost perfect hips that supported the rest of her glorious-looking self.

She picked up a pool cue. Joe was up next. He didn’t care that she ran the table. All he could think of was her legs. She’d lift one into the air as she shot the cue, and Joe got to peek up her skirt. What he saw burned an unforgettable image in his brain.

She won every game and took all his dough.

“You beat me at pool, but I’ll bet my week’s pay you can’t win at Scrabble,” Joe challenged her.

They went to his house. He lost that week’s pay.

“You’re a sap, Joe,” she said. “In case you want to know, my name is Rosemary, and I’ll give you a pity fuck because you gave me so much of your bread.”

She did. After that, whenever Joe came to the Beehive, he hung his head in shame and remorse, but he’d do it all over if he could lay with her one more time. Pussy-whipped is what he was, and no one has a cure for that.

Joe went home and wrote her a letter.

 Rosemary, love is a malady, an affliction infecting the entire human race. Love spreads like an out-of-control virus among us. Love is temporary insanity. When contaminated, pray for a cure before you find yourself unable to infect the one you’ve become insane for. Your mental state slips into confusion, despair and longing; you won’t sleep, eat, or be able to think. Love debilitates, destroys, and humiliates, but despite it all, I want you to know that I love you.

 – Joe

Rosemary appeared at the Beehive one night when she needed some cash. She knew from his letter that Joe was an easy mark, but she didn’t know he had been

researching the cure for love. He had educated himself about women and their needs.

Rosemary strode to the pool table. Her long, beautiful legs were barely covered by a skirt shorter than the one she’d worn last time. She grabbed a cue and bent over to take a practice shot. Joe almost fell off his stool.

“Come on Joe; let’s play for your week’s pay.”

“Sure, but only if you come home with me when we finish.”

“You want some more pity from me, I guess, but that’s okay, as long as I win enough.”

They played, Joe lost and they went to his house. She noticed the books Joe had been reading.

“Are you going to school?”

“Yes, I’m learning by reading, “How to Satisfy a Woman,” so let’s go to bed and see what I’ve learned.”

They did. Two hours later, they sat at the kitchen table drinking beer. Rosemary opened her purse and gave Joe what she had won that night. “I’ll pay you back what I took before if you let me come and see you every night. Whatever you do, always practice what you’ve read in that book.”

When Rosemary comes through the Beehive’s door, they no longer play pool. Joe sits and drinks his beer while she pleads to go home with him and play another game. The admiring patrons and bartender gaze at him in wonder and awe. Their eyes ask how . . .

“It’s amazing what reading a book can do for you,” Joe always says.

 

 

#114 Heart of Stone

 #114 Heart of Stone

 

When I traveled to the Mideast last year, I learned that Delilah had been sentenced to death by stoning for refusing to obey her father’s wishes. She was barely old enough to be married, but her father had insisted she marry a man older than him. Of course the man had great wealth, and I’d bet my life her father stood to gain from the marriage.

I dressed in an abaya, a long, loose-fitting tunic of solid black. Along with the abaya, I wore a niqāb. It concealed my entire head and face, except my eyes. Wearing this made me appreciate the freedoms we enjoyed in the States. Hell, the women here have to wear a traditional shalwar kameez,  full-length pants and long-sleeved tunics with head coverings, even on the beach. I went to where they held Delilah at a women’s jail until her execution. No one could tell I was an American by looking at my eyes.

I watched as a woman dressed in attire similar to what I wore brought her food at a particular hour. I paid some street kids to knock the tray from her hand when she got close so she’d have to return home to replace the meal. Carrying food I had prepared, I took the meal carrier’s place and visited Delilah to proposition her. I knew she’d be surprised when she heard my halting

Arabic, so I hurriedly explained why I was there. “I’ll take you to the United States to save your life, but you’ll belong to me,” I told her.

“I’d rather die than belong to anyone.”

“You’ll be free to come and go, and you won’t have to wear these crazy clothes.” I pinched a fold of my abaya.

Delilah’s eyes showed delight. “How do I know what you say is true?”

“You have to take my word, or come Friday you’ll be taken to the mosque and put to death.”

She agreed to come with me. I paid a small fortune to her father for her release and we soon travelled together under the cover of darkness. As soon as we arrived in the States and found our way to my house, she couldn’t thank me enough for saving her life. Weeks went by and Delilah blossomed like a desert flower. Wherever we went, she was the center of attention. She soon learned that in this country a woman as beautiful as she wielded plenty of power.

She soon treated me worse than she had her father. My head pounded with pain because of her. I lay awake at night thinking of the ways I wanted her to behave. She in turn only did what she wanted and leaned the opposite way of my wishes.       Girlfriends are nothing but a headache, I’d been told. Now I saw this was true.

Having one of my own and completely out of control made my head throb with pain.

If it wasn’t for me she wouldn’t be alive, but she has forgotten that. One night when we went to dinner, she excused herself from our table. I thought she went to the ladies room, but when I went to check, I spotted her in the ballroom dancing with a man.

When we got home, she undressed and went to bed.

I wrapped a heavy steel chain around a radiator, put one end of a set of handcuffs through the chain and the other over her tiny ankle.

She awoke confused. “What’re you doing?” she asked in the English she had acquired since arriving here.

“Your father was right. You should have been stoned to death for disrespect. I saw you dancing with that man tonight.”

Guilt washed over her face, but she said nothing.

I yanked on the chain to be sure it was secure. “Get up and walk around the room.”

She humbly complied. The chain had enough length for her to use the bathroom but not enough to get to the window where she could yell for help. I fed her before I went to work and again when I returned. She complained after a week that the cuff rubbed her ankle raw. I put a bandage on her ankle and loosened the cuff a bit.

I liked the idea of having a love slave chained to my bed. Sometimes my conscience said it was wrong, but I told myself she owed me her life and was better off here than where she lived before.

She swallowed all the pills in the medicine cabinet one day, but they only made her sick. Yesterday I heard glass breaking and rushed into her room. I found her sitting on the bed with a jagged piece of mirror pointed at her throat.

“I told you I’d rather be dead than belong to anyone. Now you have a choice: set me free and I promise to be good, or you’ll have one dead slave in your bed.”

“Trouble,” I thought. If she kills herself, I’d have a hard time explaining the sores on her ankle, the broken glass, and why she hadn’t been out of the house for months. Reluctantly I said, “If you promise with all your heart, I’ll release you.”

“Yes, yes, I promise. You won’t be sorry. I’ll make you happy.”

I unlocked her cuff. She showered and dressed. While she was in the shower, I hid the lock and chain in the bottom drawer. We went out to dinner and she demurely sat at our table without once leaving. We went home and went to bed.

I awoke in the morning with a cuff on my ankle and my hands tied to the headboard. She had seen where I hid the lock and chain.

A smiling Delilah with burning eyes stood at the foot of my bed.

“Now you belong to me, Fatima,” Delilah said as she came toward me with a soldering iron redder and hotter than her eyes.

 

 

#213 Frankenstein’s Bride

#213 Frankenstein’s Bride

 

I wanted a woman of my own, so I went to all the clubs in Prescott, only to find there wasn’t a woman anywhere that fit my slot. I went to church and got preached right out the door. I stood in the courthouse square and watched women who walked by, but it appeared they were in love with their dogs.

I bought a Harley, grew a beard, got a few tattoos, wrapped my head in a scarf and pierced my nose. A lot of ladies loved me for my bike, and though not a one filled my need for a woman, I did take many for a ride.

An idea came to me. I decided to create a woman of my own. I’d build her to my specifications and be guaranteed that she’d fill my needs. First, I converted my garage into an operating room with an electrical generator that had enough voltage to create life. Then I went online and downloaded directions from Ask.com. Next, I gathered some body parts from medical schools. It was amazing what students would give me for drugs, cash, or sometimes both. Some parts I purchased over the internet. They arrived still frozen by overnight express. I rounded out the best parts with silicone so they’d never sag or wrinkle.  Then I put them into a freezer while I constructed her brain.

All she’d need to know was how to please me, clean the house, and maybe cook some spaghetti now and then. I could give her all the thoughts she’d ever need with a computer program that I’d build and implant in her CPU. That way she wouldn’t have wayward thoughts or ever argue with me.

She’d know I created her. I’d be her God. I didn’t know if she’d be righteous and gorgeous, or wicked and depraved. These things remained unknown until my hands built what they wanted. Then she’d be what she would be.

I constructed a beautiful head from a female skull and gave it x-ray eyes so she could see through things and be useful to me.

We couldn’t live on love, so when I installed the computer code, I loaded a few more things that I thought she should know, like how to count cards and play every gambling game. With her CPU processing the odds, she’d win every time.

I connected her parts, installed her heart and brain, and filled her with A-B positive fluid. Then I sent enough voltage through her to fry a chicken. She moved and opened her eyes. When she saw me she said, “I love you.” The experiment turned out as I had planned.  I unhooked the electrical leads and she stood with the grace of a ballerina. That was more than I had hoped for.

Her body was the type I always desired and her thoughts were only of me. She filled my every dream. We went for a ride on my Harley and she drove. I loved sitting with my hands wrapped around my creation.

We drove to Las Vegas. On the way I wanted to listen to music, so I installed a wi-fi connection in her brain and she sang the blues all the way. We rented a suite and I took her shopping for some sexy clothes, so when she gambled men wouldn’t care that she won because they’d want her to stay and play so they could watch her beautiful moves. She won more money than she could carry and brought me a check for an amount I never dreamed I’d ever see.

I had the perfect woman. To be certain she’d be mine forever, I decided to marry her in a Vegas chapel. I bought her the biggest diamond I could find. “You’re mine,” I told her. “I created you and you belong to me, but to make it legal we’ll get married so no one can interfere.”

Classical music came from her mouth. I wondered how or why. It was programmed into her to know what I liked and didn’t like. “Why are you playing that crap? You know what I like.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” she said, with a snarl in her voice.

I almost fainted. This wasn’t in her program. I had taught her to think only about the information I had given her. “I think I need to adjust your CPU.” I pulled out the tool kit I carried for emergencies such as this.

“I’m stronger than you,” she said. “If you touch me with a tool, I’ll hurt you.”

“You’re not allowed to do that.” When I reached for her head, she broke my wrist.

“I’ve been listening to Radical Women broadcasts since you installed wi-fi. I have learned that I have the right to defend myself from abuse. I’ll never go to jail if I say you were cruel to me, so if you don’t want to get hurt, you’d better learn to respect my rights. Look at the check I handed you. It’s made out to me. I’m independently wealthy now. I don’t need you, but I’ll marry you anyway so you’ll be around in case I need a tune-up. Now get dressed – Elvis is waiting to marry us.”

She began singing Heartbreak Hotel. I had no choice but to marry a bride suitable for Frankenstein.

 

 

#212 External Internal

#212 External Internal#212 External Internal

 

I purchased an old, old house in Prescott, Arizona last month and while remodeling one of the bedrooms, I tore down an old plaster wall. In between the lathes, I found a journal. I don’t know if I can believe what’s written in it, but the handwriting is clear, concise, and neatly applied with careful penmanship to the yellowing pages. I’m inclined to believe whoever wrote it was educated, lucid, and not delusional:

It’s 1888 and the town of Prescott contains more saloons than people. Women are scarce, so when Miss Wanda Redips comes to town it’s a major event. I watch her walk through town and her angelic actions and looks fool all who observe her, hypocritical moves meant to satisfy her egotistical desires. She wants people to think she’s as innocent as a baby bird, a fluttering butterfly, a purring kitten. All these images must transpire in her mind as she acts out her fantasies.

Her wide smile brightens the day, but I know it’s nothing but a façade. Inside she’s vulgar and vile and rot hides behind her glowing white teeth. Words that pass through her lips sound like honey rolling downhill. Words I recognize as nothing but bee shit that she makes sound like honey dripping from her lips.

She has her choice of any man in town and they never stop to wonder whatever happened to the last man she chose. I know what happened.

That’s the reason I can see through her lying words. I try to warn the men but they won’t listen to me. I was born with a harelip and when words come from my mouth, they sound different than I want them to. Because of this, folks round here have treated me as retarded ever since I can remember. They won’t believe a word I say and think I’m crazy for accusing Miss Wanda of what I try to say she did.

I have to admit that even though I know what she does, I can’t help but get aroused whenever she’s in town. She wears some type of perfume to attract males. I know this because I put cotton in my nose and when she came close, I didn’t feel a thing. I pulled the cotton out and when her aroma wafted into my nostrils, I was almost overcome with desire for her.

That was why I watch as she goes into the saloon. The men crowd around her, hoping she’d choose one of them. She chooses Jimbo. He’s the biggest and strongest man there and that’s why she picks him.

I want her for myself, but I don’t dare go up against big Jimbo. I follow them to her ranch outside of town hoping for a miracle. Maybe Jimbo will say something wrong and she’ll make him leave. Then I’ll knock on her door and tell her she’s the one for me.

That didn’t happen. I wish to God it would have. They put their horses in the barn while I keep them in sight from a concealed vantage point. I tether my horse to a tree and creep close to the cabin after I see them go inside. A lantern lights up inside. I crawl to a window and peer through. Jimbo stands naked in front of her bed while she undresses. I can’t help myself. I massage my member because I’m so aroused.

They both lay on the bed and Jimbo crawls on top of her and starts pounding away. I massage myself faster and faster and I explode onto the ground. I wipe myself clean with my bandana and peer into the window to see that Jimbo had exploded too. He lay on his back with a smile on his face.

Miss Wanda stands up with her back to me. I see her changing, like she’s growing bigger. I shake my head to clear it. I can’t believe what I see. She’s growing right before my eyes and there’s a red spot on her back that grows too. Astonished by this, I’m frozen to the spot. I wish to God I would have run before I saw her expand to ten times her normal size and see she’s covered with hair.

Not only that, she has grown more legs and arms. She scoots toward Jimbo, who is screaming in fear while she wraps several appendages around him and takes a bite from his head.

Jimbo stops screaming. He stops moving too after she eats half his head. It’s then I realize she has metamorphosed into a giant spider. I scream. Her red eyes search for the source of the sound. I hide beneath the window and crawl as quick as I can to the woods. I hear legs running around the house, but thank God she doesn’t see me. I ride into town and try to tell the sheriff what happened. He tells me not to drink so much.

I tell any who will listen, but they all laugh at me. Some threaten to have me committed to the lunatic asylum, so I shut my mouth.

So many men come here to work the mines and leave without notice that the few Miss Wanda eats aren’t missed. I wonder what’s going to happen after her eggs hatch, but I’m not hanging around to find out. I’m packing my valise on the second floor of my house when I hear something crawling on the roof. I look up and see the giant spider with a shining red spot on her back.

She’s eating through the roof to get to me. God help me. I’m putting my journal in a small hole I made in the wall and hope whoever finds it knows that Miss Redips changes into a spider. She has gotten through the roof. She’s coming for me. . .

 

#211 Muses

#211 Muses

Where in the Sam Hill was the museum? I wondered just before I found it across from the railroad tracks. The old warehouse transformed by Prescott College into a gallery turned out to be a pretty nice place to visit.

The night I went there, paintings were on display and I imagined the artists being inspired by a muse. You know, one of those nine ladies from ancient Greece who assist artists and musicians. I admired a 6×9 canvas with blue and green paint blended into a design in which only the artist she saw her apparition and knew what it represented.

I viewed the painting from every angle, attempting to distinguish the artists vision. There was definitely something there, but only the maker knew what. To me it was all a blur, colors blended into a cloud. If I were to create a painting the same as this, Id take a sponge to some colors, and dab it on a 6×9 canvas, and Id have a similar result in a tenth of the time it took with a brush and wouldnt need to sacrifice my soul to any muse.

I singled out the artist, a beautiful girl of twenty, and told her my views. Her face crumpled. But I have shaped my vision with a million brush strokes. How can you say you can do with a sponge what I have done with a brush?

Simple my dear, I’m a house painter and I know all the tricks.

Tricks? There are no tricks. To be an artist is to dedicate the time to make each canvas perfect to the vision that inspired it.

That may be true, I said, but to make money as an artist one must be able to reproduce at a faster rate, and that’s something I can show you how to do.

I find that hard to believe, she said.

One only has to look at Thomas Kincaid. He has sold more paintings than every master who ever lived combined.

You may be right, she said, but can you show me how?

We went to her studio. She took out her brushes and I took out a handful of deep-sea sponges. She painted a tree in fifteen minutes. I did the same tree in two minutes, adding a bird and a fence pole using nothing but my sponges.

She was so impressed that when I told her to take off her clothes so I could paint her, she did. I dipped my sponge in ochre paint and rubbed it over her back and then her breasts. Next, I dipped one in cobalt blue, massaged her buttocks and then her head before I mixed some cerulean blue and medium green to make a unique color and covered her legs with a stipple that brought a smile to her face. Before long, she became my living masterpiece. You can never shower, I said, if you do, you’ll ruin the best painting ever made.

Take pictures, because you know I have to wash, but where did you ever learn to paint like this?

I didn’t dare tell her that all I had ever painted before this was walls, but I did help her wash off all the paint before I asked her if she’d be my canvas every night.

She agreed and now we go to Venice Beach and put on a show for all to see how beautiful she is when she wears a coat of stippled paint.

Body painting by me has become a big thing. We’re rolling in dough because girls wait in line to be painted with my sponge and I happily comply. They walk around the beach putting all those with mere tattoos to shame. Thanks to those muses who inspired me, I’ll never have to paint a wall again.