Archives for September 2015

#278 Naked City, 1976

 

Naked City, 1976

I worked every weekend I had a chance to during the summer, because work in construction always slowed down in the cold months. I took a day off figuring I’d do something fun for a change. I found myself in the Katzenjammer Kid’s bar on Lincoln Avenue in Chicago’s New Town section. The same place I went to unwind every night after work. Except for Bob, Chuck the bartender and me, it was empty on this beautiful summer day in 1976. I sat there wondering where I could find some excitement when suddenly Bob, a redneck g#278 Naked City, 1976from Kentucky, blurted out, “God almighty, Joe, look at this.”

“What Bob?”

“Nakid women, by god!”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Goddamn. Take a look.”

He shoved a copy of The Reader onto the bar in front of me. I took a swig from my frosty Old Style and glanced at a full page ad for the “Miss Nude America Contest.” The small print read, “Get naked and mingle with contest participants during our celebratory dance. Clothing optional.”

“I don’t know. What kind of girls would enter a nude contest?”

“Good looking ones. Look at the paper. It’s a nudist camp.”

“Nah, I’m not going. Never wanted to go see a bunch of guys walking around with their Trouser Hawgs hanging out,” I said.

Bob looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Who the hell’s going to be looking at Pussy Plungers with naked women running around?”

He had a point there, and I didn’t have any plans for the day, so I said, “Okay Bob, where is this place?”

“In Indiana.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to go to a nudist camp with a horn-dog like Bob. He would screw anything he could get his hands on. I thought of Sally. A nice girl, but a bit retarded. She stopped in the Katzenjammers for a beer now and then. Bob took advantage of her every chance he got. Heck, just last week Bob fought with my friend Jack, because he screwed Jack’s girlfriend.

But what the heck. I didn’t want to sit in a bar on a beautiful summer day, so I figured Bob could do whatever he wanted once we were there and it wouldn’t be any skin off my ass.

“Hey Chuck,” I said, “Give me four cases of cold Old Style beer on my account.”

“Account, what account?”

“Account of I don’t have any money.”

Chuck looked at me like I was an idiot. Bob threw a fifty on the bar.

“Thanks Bob,” I said.

We loaded the beer into my Buick convertible, and I went to the drugstore and grabbed five rolls of film for the camera I always kept in my car. I paid for it. I wasn’t really broke, but if I was going to do the driving, I figured Bob could pay for the beer. We put it in the back seat and dumped two buckets of ice onto it that we got from the ice maker in the Katzerjammer.

I took I-65 to Highway 10 and drove to 3449 East State Rd 10. Near a pale yellow mailbox, I found a sign saying, “Naked City Nudist Camp, next left.”

We drank most of one case of beer along the way to Indiana and had a good buzz going. I almost passed the secluded entrance to the camp set back in the woods. We were already on the alert for naked women, but all we could see was nicely kept round, one-story building with a funny sloped roof. Bob and I paid our admittance fee and carrying three bottles of Old Style each, we entered through a gate in the eight-foot high chain link fence surrounding the camp.

“Is this here fence to keep people out, or is it to keep them in?” I asked.

“Hot damn, who cares? They can keep me here for the rest of my life,” Bob said as his head twisted from side to side, still looking for unclothed females. We paid our admittance to a big bouncer looking guy who allowed us through the gate.

Happy as a clam, I couldn’t believe I was really at a nudist camp. Never even considered going to one, but here I was. Pokey, my small brain, stood up a little, equally charmed.

“Hot dog!” Bob exclaimed, “sure never thought I’d see so much gash at one time in one place.”

It surprised me too, seeing so many shapely women walking around not only topless, but bottomless. I always pictured women at nudist camps being dried out old women who looked like Sunkist prunes.. Maybe it was just because of the contest that so many attractive young women were in the place.

If it was normal for so many lovely women to be prancing around naked, hell, the nudist camps would be overflowing with guys like Bob and me.

“Hot diggity dog! Looky there, Joe.”  Bob pointed to an area where four artists were painting abstract and floral designs on four nude women’s skin, and eight more naked women stood in line waiting to be painted on.

“Let’s go, I always wanted to paint,” Bob said, and headed right for the girls.

“Hey! One more step, and you’re going to be hurting.” A muscular man dressed almost identical to the guy at the entrance blocked our path. Three big guys stood behind him. They wore black T-shirts and jeans that were probably uniforms for security. I grabbed Bob by the arm and pulled him away.

We backed off and continued to walk around ogling the naked women. We came to what looked like a boxing ring. It even had ropes around it They were probably there to keep the girls from falling off, or to keep the drooling men away from them when they strutted around to be judged on this stage set up for the contest. A noisy crowd of men with cameras bags and other photographic equipment hanging from their bodies stood anxiously waiting for the contestants. Many of them paced back and forth and anyone could see how worked up they were.

“What’s going on with these guys?” I asked one guy who appeared to be more calm and relaxed than the herd.
“Normal behavior for those perverts,” he said.

I looked at the camera I carried and wondered if I was perverted for wanting to take pictures. I wanted to ask him, but a roar went up from the crowd. A limo drove slowly towards where we stood.

“That’s the owner,” the relaxed guy said. “He’s a genius. He made a fortune by recruiting shut-ins with nothing to do. He figured a way to have them keep track of radio advertisements in order to assure the companies paying for advertisements received the spots they paid for.”

As we conversed, the Lincoln limousine stopped. My jaw dropped when I saw the blonde with size 38-D breast driving completely nude, and my jaw almost hit the ground when I looked and saw the girl in the passenger seat, a naked brunette who could have been a centerfold model. Pokey went into a spasm when both girls got out.

The loud chatter amongst the leering men stopped suddenly, like someone had turned a volume switch off.

A big security guy opened the rear door of the limo, revealing an interior upholstered with pink fur. A man with leg braces sat there with two additional fine-looking girls dressed in skimpy pink fur outfits matching the car’s interior. For him to have women like these attending to him, I figured his attraction had to be money. What else?

“That’s him.” The calm guy poked me and pointed to the guy as he slid out the door and into a wheel chair. “He not only came up with this idea, he opened a truck stop with nude waitresses.”

The blond and brunette pulled out a ramp, and the fur clad girls rolled the crippled genius in his chair down the ramp onto the grass. He looked like he was the happiest man alive and I couldn’t blame him. It must be heaven to have so many beautiful women toadying over him. I was almost envious, but I knew I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything, no matter how ladies he had fawning over him.

The loud chattering of men rose again as they oohed and ahhed at the combination of the luxurious limo and gorgeous girls. The genius who owned the camp sat smiling in his wheel chair.

Then I noticed some hot babes arriving and going into the circular building near the entrance.

“Come on Bob, let’s go get two cases of beer from the car.” I don’t know where I got this idea; I imagine Pokey gave it to me.

“Why?”

“We’re going to get inside, where all the hot babes are.”

“How?”

“Just follow me,” I put a case of beer on my shoulder. Bob followed my example and we went to the door that I had seen the women go through, marked by a large sign that said Authorized Personnel Only. I knocked with my left hand as I used my right to balance the case of Old Style on my shoulder. A rough-looking man dressed in the black security “uniform” opened the door.

“Yeah?” he demanded.

“Delivery,” I said and pointed to the case of beer on my shoulder. He waved me in, and Bob followed behind with a case on his shoulder. I’d seen stupid stunts like this in the movies, but didn’t expect it to work.

Security wouldn’t let us get into touching distance while we walked around the camp, but here we were, surrounded by nude females. Pokey got excited, and I knew Bob, horndog that he was, must be going crazy too. The contestants busied themselves with make-up and fixing their hair, the only thing they were allowed to wear in the contest.

“C’mon Bob, follow me.” I found an empty room, put the beer in it, and took off my clothes. Bob started to undress too. “Go find your own room,” I said. I didn’t want to be naked that close to Bob.

Bob went down the hall. I made sure he stayed in front of me as we walked back to the large open room where the nude contestants congregated. Naked, we fit right in with the crowd. After drinking a few beers and watching the procedure for a while, I noticed when the new contestants came through the door they didn’t know where to go or what to do. Eventually someone would guide them to a dressing room, or should I say, undressing room.

Inspired by Pokey, my small brain, I greeted the next girl who walked through the door, “Hello, I’m Joe.  I’m one of your contest judges today. Come with me and I’ll show you where to dress, er, I mean, undress.”

Bob listened to my line, and emulated me with the next girl as soon as she appeared at the door. I guided the stunning redhead I’d greeted to the room I stored the beer in. “This is our undressing room,” I said out loud. Under my breath I muttered, “Thank you, thank you, God.”

She let me help her undress, a miracle, to watch a woman who could be the center-fold of the year.

“If I win, I’m using the money to move to Hollywood,” she said.

“Are you an actress?”

“What woman isn’t?” she said.

“Well, you’ll get my vote. You’ll probably do well if you go to Hollywood,” I said, working hard to keep my eyes on her face.

Even though I was pushing the limits now, I was never a grab-ass type. I always felt empathy for women who I saw being poked and prodded. So I simply reveled being in a room with the best looking woman I’ve ever been naked with.

The girls got in line once they were ready, so after the redhead got in line, I went to the entrance and guided another new arrival to the room.

“My name is Jean. Are you going to vote for me?” she asked as she unbuttoned her pink blouse.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. I need the money to pay for my son’s operation.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Lots of stuff.”

I didn’t believe a word she said, not even her name. I escorted her out to the main room and escorted a girl with long black hair back to the undressing room.

“How many girls are competing against me?”

“A lot.”

She took her jeans, panties, and underwear off in swift movements and folded them neatly before placing them on a shelf.

“Why are you entering the contest?”

“To show my husband how lucky he is to have me.”

I couldn’t figure that one out. If my wife entered a nude contest, I wouldn’t consider myself lucky.

“You’re going to vote for me, right?”

“Oh, of course,” I said.

I saw a timid looking brunette standing by the entrance and escorted her to the undressing room, and found her a spot to leave her clothes.

“Why did you enter the contest?” I asked. That became my first question because I was trying to figure out why women entered these kinds of things.

“The winner is bound to be noticed by the major men’s magazines. Heck, I may even make Playboy. Maybe even the centerfold.”

Dream on, I thought. She wasn’t nearly as attractive as many of the other girls I saw walking around.

Once they let all the spectators in and all the women lined up to stroll on the stage, I stood admiring them, pretending to jot notes on a clipboard I found. One yelled out, “Joe, don’t forget, you promised to vote for me.” Another said, “He’s voting for me,” and another said, “He told me the same thing.”

All of them gave me scathing looks.  Pokey shrank from the humiliation of getting caught lying. My big brain took over at this point, and it didn’t let their comments deter me from enjoying the show.

I grabbed my camera and mixed in with the crowd of fully dressed photographers. Once the contest started and the girls pranced artfully around the stage, occasionally bending over. The crowd of photographers went wild, roaring, pushing and shoving to try to get closer to take pictures. I couldn’t believe the looks on their faces, some hungry, others leering, and every one of them obviously excited beyond belief. I turned my camera away from the women and onto the crowd of men acting as if they’d never seen a naked woman before.

Once the contest was over, Bob and I roamed the camp. I noticed a few other nude men at Naked City. When I saw the sizes of their Towers of Power, I figured they were here mainly to parade their oversized small brains around.

As a man I’ve been trained to never look at another man’s junk, but when it’s waved around in the open air, it’s pretty hard not to notice one that’s three and four times the size of mine. Pokey didn’t measure up to those small brains surrounding me.

Bob and I got to the pool, and by this time we were finishing off the last few beers and drunk as skunks. Otherwise, I never would have had the courage to stand on the diving board and bounce up and down while all the people poolside watched Pokey with derision.

I didn’t let it get to me, because I fantasized about the nude dance starting in an hour or so. Unfortunately, I never got to dance. Horndog Bob lost control and grabbed the wrong ass. Security twisted Bob’s arms behind his back, and escorted us to the gate, throwing us out and our clothes after us.

“If we see either of you in here again, you won’t be walking home!” one beefy guy shouted.

“Gawd, this means we’re going to miss the dance,” Bob said as he pulled his pants on.

For a minute I thought Bob was going to bust out in tears and start bawling. I was disappointed about missing the dance too, but exhilarated from the day’s events. We got to my car just at twilight. I put the key in and cranked it, and cranked it. It wouldn’t start. Forgot to gas her up, but we still had a case of beer. We were out in the country where everything closed when the sun went down. We carried the beer to the side of the road, and drank it while we tried to hitch a ride to Chicago.

After a long wait, a white guy, in his thirties picked us up, Bob jumped in the back seat and I took the shotgun seat. Almost as soon as the door slammed and the car accelerated Bob said, “Holy Shit, you should have seen all the Putang at the nudist camp.”

“Yeah, I never saw so many bare assed women all in one place, I said.

“Please guys, I’m a priest. I don’t want to hear about nudity.”

“Didn’t God create us all naked?” I asked.

We drove the next fifty miles in total silence, and as we were getting out I said, “I don’t want to pollute your thoughts with images of naked women, but I learned something today that you should know.”

“And what’s that?” the priest asked.

“The women entering the contest, they’re all seeking the same thing.”

“What?” Bob asked.

He obviously wanted to know so he could give it to them, but I wasn’t trying to enlighten Bob. This priest that couldn’t even talk about nude women should know.

“A woman’s sense of self-worth is directly tied to her appearance. They’ll do anything to feel better about themselves, and if getting naked does that, I don’t think it’s a sin.”

By the look on his face I could tell he didn’t appreciate that I was trying to tell him, “I thank God I wasn’t born a woman.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

Verde River trip Saturday Sept 5

Verde River trip Saturday Sept 5  

#277 Where Ideas Come From

#223 Chicago

The little old man, wearing a flowing white robe with a matching turban, sold his product on the corner as long as anyone could remember. No one knew what was in those little brown paper bags that he meticulously stacked on his pushcart every morning.

His skin had a yellow translucent appearance, and his language left his lips in unintelligible muttered words.

He displayed three sizes of bags, small, medium, and large. The large ones were few and far between. They were the size of a shopping bag. The small ones were the size of a sandwich bag, and the medium were twice as big. As though by magic, every bag he had stacked in the morning disappeared by sunset. When raining or snowing he’d cover the bags with clear plastic so the bags would remain dry, but still be visible.

Every business day, from sunrise to sunset, he sold his bags, unaware that an evil thinking man now watched his every move.

. ***

Claudius awoke in the alley where he and Curtis had finished off a gallon of wine they bought yesterday with money made spitting on, and then cleaning it off of windshields of motorists stopped at red lights.

They had splurged on a good grade of wine to celebrate Claudius’s twentieth birthday and Curtis’s parole from state prison.

Claudius looked around and didn’t see any sign of Curtis. He stumbled to the nearest dumpster, leaned against it, and pissed like a horse.

Enjoying the relief, he didn’t notice he pissed on his shoes, until he felt the stream of urine soaking his socks.

“Coke sucker,” he said as he pulled his soggy shoe out of the piss stream, and half laughed at himself for saying, “coke” instead of “Cock.” The word reminded him how he’d get beat for saying any vulgar word by his father. The same man who taught him how to shoplift, burglarize, strong arm, and commit other crimes. “These are all manly things to do,” his father would say, but when Claudius let a bad word slip from between his lips, his father would beat him until he bled and say, “Swearing is a sin.”

While reminiscing, he looked up and saw the old man with the paper bags stacked neatly on his pushcart. Curiosity about what was in those little bags ran through Claudius’s head, and he figured he could easily take them from the old man, thanks to the training from his Dad. He stood in the alley watching the old man despite the annoying feeling of wearing piss soaked socks.

When Curtis returned with two bottles of wine he had heisted, Claudius told him they were going to rob the old man. They watched what he did all day for a week trying to figure when he’d have the most cash for them to take.

Some of his customers were suits, some were down and out winos, housewives, old women, and even kids. Claudius  never saw any money changing hands. Curtis shuffled out of the alley and crossed over to the old man still wearing his prison suit, and had worn it every day since his release.

“How much for a small bag?” He asked,

When Curtis’s aroma washed over him, the old man wrinkled his nose, but managed to smile, but made an unintelligible reply.

“Just give me a mother-f-ing bag,” Curtis demanded.

The old man replied with a smile.

Pissed off Curtis said, “I’m just taking a freaking bag and grabbed the biggest one he saw.

The old man smiled and mumbled in the same manner as before.

Curtis ran across to his alley holding the bag tightly, Claudius grabbed at it and said, “let’s see what the heck he’s selling” The bag tore in half as they both pulled on it, wanting to be the one to open it.

Once it ripped in half they saw, it was empty. Curtis said, “That Mother f—ing old bastard ripped us off with an empty bag.

Claudius said, “I told you to watch your language around me.”

Curtis didn’t respond.

Claudius laughed. “You were dumb enough to steal an empty bag.”

Neither one had any idea they had just let a million dollar idea float out of the bag. They threw the empty bag on the ground and watched in amazement as all the rats, roaches, and other vermin made a detour around it.

Unseen, the freed idea floated upward and breeze blew it into a third floor window where Marie sat at her computer, surrounded by so many different crawling and flying  insects she couldn’t identify half of them. The idea floated above the insects, but their mental prowess was on the level of Claudius and Curtis’s.

“Goddamn bugs,” Marie, said as she smashed the biggest roach again and again with her shoe. The bugs weren’t there because of her housekeeping. She cleaned daily and removed all garbage and trash. New York bugs are tough and when the conditions are unsanitary, bugs tell all their kin and the buildings get overrun.

The smashed roach dragged itself across the floor on its remaining legs. She stomped it hard three times. It refused to die and continued to crawl.

“I’m going to kill you bug no matter what it takes.” She grabbed a can of Raid, pushed the plunger, and held the spray on the roach for a full minute. The spray revived the roach and it vigorously ran across the floor on two legs, and hid in a baseboard crack.

“If only I had an idea how to make money, I could move to California and get away from all these filthily bugs,” Marie said to herself. As soon as she said the word, “idea” the one floating through the room entered her head and planted an eureka thought. Suddenly she knew exactly what to do.

***

A few days after they stole the empty bag, Claudius woke up in the alley with a rat gnawing on his shoe and roaches feasting on puke covering his shirt. He kicked the rat, jumped up and roughly brushed roaches off his chest.

He smashed half of them. Cockroach guts soaked through his shirt. “Damn roaches!” he swore. Then he spied the old man across the street. Remembering the empty bag he had stolen, he got pissed off thinking about it. He went over there to get something worthwhile and told the old man, “Give me a bag.” The old man smiled and mumbled something he couldn’t understand.

Claudius tried slapping the old man upside his head to let him know that Claudius didn’t play that game. Where the old man had been a second ago, Claudius’s hand hit empty air. “Now I’m really pissed,” he told the old man and waded forward with his fist spinning like a windmill.

Suddenly the old man appeared behind him mumbling something he couldn’t understand. Claudius kicked backwards hoping to kick the old man in the balls. When he looked up the old man now stood in front of him with a smile on his face.

Claudius looked up and down the street to see if any one observed him making a fool of himself. He saw the street empty, so he grabbed a handful of bags and carried them back to the alley.

The bags weren’t heavy and felt empty. Can’t be he thought. Why would he come here every day with a bunch of empty bags. Sitting beside a dumpster, he ripped the bags open one by one and found each one to be empty. The idea in each bag floated right through his empty head.

All he wanted was money to buy some wine. The newly freed ideas floated until the wind blowing south picked them up and eventually dropped them on Washington D.C.

This is where all those wrong idea’s come from because they don’t belong in Washington; they’re supposed to be in N.Y.

Artists know that the best ideas have come out of N.Y. for years and that’s why there are so many writers, painters, poets, and other creative types settled there. The financial houses are always coming up with new ideas on how to make more money.

Anyone in the loop knows if you need a new idea, just find the old man on 8th Avenue, and buy one of his bags. They also know the price to pay for these ideas. And it’s not cash, it’s a piece of them to be collected at a later date. However, when you’re desperate and can’t write another line or can’t meet this month’s sales quota, price doesn’t matter any longer.

Some of the best ideas ever came off that little pushcart and no one had a problem as long as the ideas price got paid for.

With Claudius and Curtis stealing and unknowingly releasing ideas absorbed by just anyone looking for an idea upset the equilibrium. Ideas were popping up all over and the old man had to tighten security.

The next day, Claudius and Curtis decided to take the entire pushcart, tear it apart and find the old man’s money wherever he had it hidden. They went to where the old man stood. Claudius grabbed the handles of his cart, and Curtis took hold of the front to carry off the cart. Once they both had hold a buzzing electrical sound came from the cart and both men lit up like incandescent light bulbs. Unable to let go they yelled at the old man to shut off the juice, he smiled and said something they couldn’t understand.

The energy flowing through them doubled minute by minute. They soon shone as brightly as sunshine. In five minutes, they melted down to the size and shape of a light bulb, “the idea symbol” which the old man then attached one to each end of the cart. Most thought these were decorations, but those who knew, recognized it as a warning not to hijack any ideas.

Marie who had gotten the first free idea moved to Silicon Valley California and she had a cart set up with her very own idea business. Before long, she was doing as much daily business as the N.Y. cart.

Her free idea had given her access to the old man’s boss who decided to make a franchise business so there would be an idea cart in every city.

Now ideas are popping up all in many cities and N.Y. has lost the edge it once had.

 

#276 Shelia

 

100_9925

 

Sheila was late again. The thirty-minute haircut had turned into an hour, and now she was going to be late getting back to the park. She had left her kids there with her mom, so Jack, her ex could pick them up for his monthly visit. She always had him get the kids at the park since the time he tried to rape her. She remembered how bad she’d beat him with Jasper’s baseball bat.

Now she was worried about getting back to the park, she didn’t want to hear the same old lecture her mother gave her every time she was late.

She wasn’t paying attention when backing out of her parking spot, she smashed into the car parked behind her. She wanted to just drive away, but noticed several people looking her way. She knew if she just drove off someone would get her license number. She got out of her car with paper and pen in hand, walked over to the smashed car and started writing. She finished and put the large white page under the wiper blade and drove off. This worked every time; people seeing her writing assumed she was leaving her contact information. She laughed when she thought how pissed the owner was going to be when he read her note that said, “People are watching so I’m writing this note to say sorry I smashed your car.”

Looking at her watch she realized how late it was, and worrying about being reprimanded by her mother, she sped up. Before she knew it she was going at least twenty-five MPH over the speed limit, and that’s when it happened. She didn’t even see the kid on his skateboard until she hit him. She heard the thump, and the rear wheels had already rolled over him before she could stop. God dam she thought, “Stupid little shit, jumping in front of me like that.”  The kid was lying in the middle of the crosswalk, not moving. Shelia felt for a pulse, but there was none. The kid was about nine, the same age as her son Jasper. She knew if she waited around to make out an accident report she’d be so late she’d probably get hell from her mother, and she’d refuse to baby sit the next time.

She looked up and down the street. It was clear; she picked up the small body and placed it in her car trunk. The street where he had been lying was covered with blood, and she had it all over her hands. She almost wiped her runny nose with her bloodstained hand until the smell of the blood made her stop in mid motion. “Dam she thought, I’ve got to be careful.” She grabbed the part of the boy’s shirt that had no blood on it, and used it to wipe her hands clean. She picked up the skateboard he had been riding, and thought her son Jasper would like a new skateboard. She threw it in the trunk.

Sam lived in an old cardboard box that he had set up in a corner of the alley. He knew,” this was only a temporary situation, because opportunity always knocked when things got rough.” Sam has been waiting for opportunity to knock for three years now. He had cut what he called windows by cutting three lines in the cardboard so he could open and close his little windows. He put them on all four side of the box, so he could see around it. He

When he heard the squeal of brakes, and looked out his window facing the street he saw opportunity. Shelia never saw him watching through a peephole in the cardboard box, that to him was home. He saw it all, and saw when she had opened the car door, one of her business cards fell to the ground. Unfortunately for her the business card had her picture on it along with home address and phone number because that was her business address, her business, selling junk on E-Bay.  After she left, Sam walked over to the bloodstained pavement and picked up the card.

She was really late now and picked up speed while driving downtown and decided she better get rid of the body before she got stopped for speeding or some other dumb thing. Turning into the first alley she saw without slowing down, she was unable to stop in time, and hit a dog that was feasting on a pile of garbage in the middle of the alley. She liked dogs and was relieved she hadn’t killed it when she looked in her mirror and saw it crawling to safety.

She pulled up beside a dumpster, grabbed a piece of plastic that was in there, “I don’t want to get blood all over me.”

She  used it to roll his body in before picking him up, and throwing him into the dumpster. Now she stunk like the garbage that was on the plastic. She took out his skateboard, and wiped the blood from it with a tissue. Jasper was going to love his new skateboard.

Finally she got to the park stinking of blood and garbage. She parked and rushed to the area where she knew her mother would be, dreading the lecture she knew she was about to get. It turns out her ex never showed up so her mother had something else to rage about.

That night after dinner she was relaxing, watching television when the call came, “Sheila, I know what you did today.” Sheila remained silent trying to think who could know? Then the voice said, “Give me five-Hundred dollars and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“O.K.” She said. “Be here tonight at ten and I’ll have the money.” She wondered if he knew where she lived and the question was answered when he said, “See you then.”

She knew by asking for a measly Five-Hundred, this guy had to be a low-life, and she knew how to handle that kind. She sent all her kids to spend the night with her sister. She then purchased a large roll of plastic sheeting, and covered floor, walls, and furniture in the area where he would walk when he entered her house. She knew the plastic would collect all the blood and any blown off body parts. She had learned this from watching the Sopranos on TV. That’s where she also learned to use the two liter plastic bottle as a silencer so the neighbors wouldn’t hear the gunshot.

Sheila sat waiting for the would be blackmailer, a Colt 45 with a plastic bottle covering the muzzle in one hand, and a drink in the other. You gotta be tough to be a single mom, and this justified everything to her.

(End)

 

 

#275 Dinner

#275 Dinner

 

“You lazy son-of a-bitch, get those tomatoes planted today, or else!”

That’s how Mildred my wife talked to me when she wanted something done. “Okay, okay,” I’d say. I always agreed with her to shut off her shrill nagging voice. I got off the couch slowly; as if I was the “couch potato” she accused me of being. The couch is a warm soft spot. I loved to lie on it to watch TV, but I’m no potato. I’d exercise occasionally, like when Mildred wasn’t home and I had to get up and walk to the fridge for a cold beer every half hour. The “or else” got my attention, so I went to the tool shed, got a shovel to begin digging holes for tomato seeds. Wouldn’t you know it, my first attempt to make a hole and the shovel hit a solid rock. I dug around it so I could get a grip to pull it from the ground.

I attempted to lift the dirty gray rock that blocked my progress, but found it to be very heavy. I’d have gone around it, but Mildred insisted the rows had to be straight as an arrow. She saw me struggling and came to show me her strength exceeded mine. She grabbed the rock with one hand and attempted to lift it.

“Damn! That’s heavy,” she said. “Don’t stand there like an idiot, help me.”

Together we were able to lift it and place it in a nearby wheelbarrow.

I said, “For something that size to be so heavy it must be a chunk of lead.”

“Whatever it is, go dump it into the river so we don’t have to move it again.”

So she’d shut her trap I wheeled it past Carolyn’s house on the way to the river bank. Carolyn was sun-bathing in the back yard. I stopped to admire her as I always did. She rolled over giving me a view of her bare breasts before covering them with her halter top.

“Where’re you going?” she asked.

“Mildred told me to dump this in the river.” I nodded toward the rock in the wheelbarrow.

“Oh, can I see?”

She trotted over on her long legs with her breasts juggling and I stood at attention waiting for her to get close enough to inhale her sweet scent. She bent over to examine the rock while I examined her.

“A beautiful specimen,” She said.

I agreed, but thought she was the beautiful specimen. If only the rock was a diamond. I’d give it to her and ask her to marry me. Of course I was already married to Mildred, but a diamond that big would impress any woman.

“You can have it if you think it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, grabbed the handles and pushed toward the rear of her house while I watched her rear moving as she pushed.

“Where’s the wheelbarrow?” Mildred screamed when I returned.

“Carolyn borrowed it to wheel the rock we found home.”

“You idiot! She’s a rock hound. She wouldn’t want it unless it was valuable. Go get it back,” Mildred said.

“You told me to dump it in the river. Now you want it back just because Carolyn wants it?”

“I told you it must be valuable or she wouldn’t want it.”

“Why would it be valuable?”

“Maybe it’s a meteorite. Those things are worth money, or maybe it’s a giant gold nugget. Just you go and get it back right now,” Mildred demanded.

I obeyed Mildred as always and went back to Carolyn’s house. I knocked on her door. No answer. I went to the workshop in back and as I approached I saw her placing the rock I gave her into a smoking vat.

She jumped when I asked what she was doing.

“I’m using acid to clean off the accumulated crud,” she said. “This is my ticket home.”

Isn’t this your home?”

“No, it’s up there.”

She pointed toward the sun. I thought maybe she had been in the sun too long but turning to see what made a screeching sound I saw the hunk of rock was some sort of engine and sucked the liquid in and spat it out at an accelerating rate making the screeching noise.

“You can come with me if you’d like,” she smiled and my heart sank.

Then I heard Mildred yelling for me to hurry up so I could plant her tomatoes.

Looking at Carolyn’s fabulous body I blurted out, “Yes, yes, take me with you.”

Carolyn, bare handed, lifted the pulsating rock and carried it to a work area in the rear of her workshop where a saucer shaped craft rested on the ground. She placed the rock, or engine as she called it in the center and the craft lit up. Before long the light was so bright I could hardly see. Trepidations about going with her crossed my mind. Did I want to go to an alien planet? Then I heard Mildred’s shrill voice calling me. That convinced me and if the women on her home planet looked like Carolyn, I sure wanted to be there. I followed her into the craft and instantly we flew to the sky.

“Thanks for taking me with you. I can hardly wait to see your home world.”

“Sorry, you’re not going to see it.”

“Why did you invite me then?”

I noticed the acid had burned the skin off Carolyn’s hands and exposed her true snakelike skin and long sharp nails.

“I needed something to eat on the long flight home.”

 

 

Cryonic Man accepted by library

Dear Joe,
Your ebook, Cryonic Man, has been accepted for the Indie CALIFORNIA module! We look forward to sharing your book on BiblioBoard Library with readers across your state.

 

Though your book will be available to readers throughout your own state, unfortunatelyLibrary Journal did not select your book for inclusion in Library Journal‘s SELF-e curated collections.

 

The Indie CALIFORNIA module will launch when we have enough accepted books from CALIFORNIA. Consult the “Where” page on the SELF-e website for more information about upcoming module releases.

 

Thank you for participating with LJ‘s SELF-e service and best of luck in your writing endeavors.

 

Best,

The SELF-e Team

Forward this email

This email was sent to starstonelit@gmail.com by support@mediasourceinc.com |

Cryonic Man, A Paranormal Affair

A Paranormal affair

#274 Promises

cropwm

During a visit to the Long Beach Aquarium, I stopped to watch what was billed as a female octopus swimming around and to my utmost amazement, I became sexually aroused picturing the octopus’s tentacles wrapping around my brain. I didn’t believe thoughts like wanting to have sex with a fish was possible! But, there they were, irrational thoughts filled my consciousness.

Eyeballing attractive girls visiting the aquarium didn’t diminish my desire for fish. Every girl I fantasized about sprouted eight appendages. I needed help. Help to stop fantasizing. I spoke to Siri, “Find a good psychiatrist,” She answered with a list of names and phone numbers of psychiatrists. Scrolling down the list I saw Dr. Octopoda. The name grabbed me. I called and got a receptionist. “I need to see the doctor right away.”

“There’s an opening in two months.”

“This is an emergency. I may do something I’ll regret.”

“Have you called the suicide hotline?”

“Listen lady! This isn’t about suicide. It’s worse. Much worse.” What would she think if I told her I had an urge to rape a fish?

She set an appointment for the next day.

***

Arriving a half hour early I had plenty of time to browse the office walls which were covered with giant fish tanks that had many species of tropical fish swimming in them. When I saw how gracefully the fish moved their tails as they swam, sexual urges flooded my mind. I quickly turned away from the tanks, but the thoughts remained.

I noticed the office had a fishy aroma just before a rotund woman wearing a white coat called my name. I turned toward the door in an attempt to leave. The woman blocked my way.

“I know what your problem is,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“OCD” is written all over you face,” Dr. Octopoda said.

“What’s that?”

“Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, approximately 90% of humans have thoughts like yours.”

“Do they think of fucking fish like I do?”

“You have to recognize that though you think your thoughts are irrational, they’re perfectly normal.”

“No way. I never had these thoughts before, and I don’t know anybody else who has had the desire to have sex with any kind of fish.”

“You’re forgetting your origins,” she said.

“I never lived in the sea. That’s scientific bull-shit.”

She took her coat off and exposed her tendrils. Instead of fear, I became aroused and wanted her tendrils wrapped around me. I grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her. The fishy smell only excited me more as her eight appendages coiled around my body and began to squeeze and suck. Instead of fear, I experienced ecstasy. The harder she sucked the better it felt. I went limp and felt as though I floated through space.

I rolled across a hard steel floor when all the arms holding me straightened out and the suction turned off. There were dozens of other men flopping around in the zero oxygen atmosphere. The ones who already died were being fileted by creatures wearing aprons and using eight fileting knives at the same time. Hundreds and hundreds of floating creatures surrounding the area waiting for dinner it seemed.

Dr. Octopoda addressed the crowd of fisher creatures. “I told you humans would take the bait. Sex is their strongest urge. Promise them that, and they’ll follow you anywhere.”

 

Crime A Day – A Memoir

My Memoir

a memoir by Joe DiBuduo


A gritty, candid, and compelling story of poverty and street life.


Joe DiBuduo grew up in “Hano,” an infamous, impoverished Boston neighborhood known for its tough, hard-drinking residents. He embraced a criminal code of conduct and thought dying in the electric chair would be an honorable achievement. After many run-ins with the law, Joe fled to Chicago where he finally did hard time in the notorious Cook County Jail. Crime a Day sheds a harsh and unwavering light on how youth are drawn to and into crime, and just how hard it is to get out. An important historical and cultural document.

Read an Excerpt:

If you’ve never experienced stomach-wrenching hunger with no sign of rescue, or an excruciating toothache or earache with no access to medical intervention, then you may never understand what I’m about to tell you. You might think that my choices in life were caused by laziness, impulsivity or my inability to “pull myself up by my own bootstraps.” But, you’d be wrong. In order to accomplish that feat I would have needed to know which way was up. In Hano, there was no up; there was just Hano. No one I knew dreamed of a better world, a better place. Everyone’s solution to every problem was to get drunk and forget about it, or get drunk and fight about it. My beliefs took hold inside the hopelessness of Hano, and I was captivated by the dramas unfolding around me.

JOE-DIBUDUO-PHOTO-trimmed1Joe DiBuduo grew up poor in Boston. He led a troubled childhood and spent time in reform and training schools. As an adult, the house of corrections beckoned him, and he spent time there too. A quick turn of fate led him to California and then Chicago, where he married and had children. He spent the next thirty years working as a construction painter in many states, heading wherever the jobs could be found. DiBuduo is now retired and lives in Prescott, Arizona, where he studied Creative Writing at Yavapai College. Anger used to be a daily part of his life until he began to write. Now if something upsets him, he writes about it. DiBuduo is the author of A Penis Manologue: One Man’s Response to The Vagina Monologues; a children’s book; and collections of flash fiction and lyrical flash fiction. He’s also the author of poetry, short fiction, and children’s stories published in online journals and in print anthologies.

Crime A Day

My Memoir

a memoir by Joe DiBuduo


A gritty, candid, and compelling story of poverty and street life.


Joe DiBuduo grew up in “Hano,” an infamous, impoverished Boston neighborhood known for its tough, hard-drinking residents. He embraced a criminal code of conduct and thought dying in the electric chair would be an honorable achievement. After many run-ins with the law, Joe fled to Chicago where he finally did hard time in the notorious Cook County Jail. Crime a Day sheds a harsh and unwavering light on how youth are drawn to and into crime, and just how hard it is to get out. An important historical and cultural document.

Read an Excerpt:

If you’ve never experienced stomach-wrenching hunger with no sign of rescue, or an excruciating toothache or earache with no access to medical intervention, then you may never understand what I’m about to tell you. You might think that my choices in life were caused by laziness, impulsivity or my inability to “pull myself up by my own bootstraps.” But, you’d be wrong. In order to accomplish that feat I would have needed to know which way was up. In Hano, there was no up; there was just Hano. No one I knew dreamed of a better world, a better place. Everyone’s solution to every problem was to get drunk and forget about it, or get drunk and fight about it. My beliefs took hold inside the hopelessness of Hano, and I was captivated by the dramas unfolding around me.

JOE-DIBUDUO-PHOTO-trimmed1Joe DiBuduo grew up poor in Boston. He led a troubled childhood and spent time in reform and training schools. As an adult, the house of corrections beckoned him, and he spent time there too. A quick turn of fate led him to California and then Chicago, where he married and had children. He spent the next thirty years working as a construction painter in many states, heading wherever the jobs could be found. DiBuduo is now retired and lives in Prescott, Arizona, where he studied Creative Writing at Yavapai College. Anger used to be a daily part of his life until he began to write. Now if something upsets him, he writes about it. DiBuduo is the author of A Penis Manologue: One Man’s Response to The Vagina Monologues; a children’s book; and collections of flash fiction and lyrical flash fiction. He’s also the author of poetry, short fiction, and children’s stories published in online journals and in print anthologies.

Joe DiBuduo

#273 Aug. 26, 2032, Fire in the Sky

#273 Aug. 26, 2032,   Fire in the Sky

Joe stood in Central Park and watched the fireworks as nations of Earth attempted to nuke an alien spaceship orbiting Earth. After the explosions stopped, ear shattering sound filled the air. Then the spaceship disintegrated, and the sky lit up with meteorites as pieces rained onto the planet.

A foot long piece, shaped like a cylinder landed on the grass an arm’s length from Joe. He watched as the heated surface cooled and turned white. He picked it up as a souvenir of the night’s event. To his surprise, it popped open like a clam and exposed a flashlight inside. He picked it up. Bright light poured through the lens when he pressed the on switch and bathed a park bench in light. He switched it off and there were now two benches side by side.

How’d that happen?  Was he seeing things? Joe aimed the beam onto a French Poodle out for a walk with its master. In an eye-blink there were two dogs. Joe pressed the button and there were four dogs attached to one leash.

“Fluffy, Fluffy,” the owner screamed as she tried to decide which dog was her. All the dogs answered to Fluffy.

“Wow, this is great!” Joe’s mind at once turned to a way to profit from the replicator he had found. He yanked out his wallet and took out the one $20 bill in it, laid it on the sidewalk and turned the light beam on it. Almost as soon as he pressed the button, one bill became two. Joe did a happy dance. He turned the light onto the two, they became four. “Easier than printing my own.” Once more he pressed the button and now had 8 $20 bills.

He stacked the bills one atop the other and counted them. Skipping through the park,

happiness filled him. Joe couldn’t wait to start spending. Heck, he could probably duplicate an ATM and put it in his living room. But why would he need an ATM? All he needed was one bill that he’d reproduce over and over again.

**

!2 hours later Joe had two large suitcases filled with $20 bills. Now he could buy that Corvette he had always dreamed of owning. Walking into the show room with his suitcase full of money, Joe felt on top of the world when he dropped the case on the sales manager’s desk and said, “I want to test drive that baby over there.” Joe looked toward a baby-blue Corvette.

The sales manager eyed Joe’s shabby clothes. “If you like it, how are you going to pay for it?”

“Cash.” Joe opened the case and watched the managers eyes pop when the money was revealed. “I’ll take that baby for a ride while you count out the sale price.”

Joe grabbed the keys from the manager’s hand that held them out while he counted the 20s, and got in the car, peeled rubber out of the driveway and sped down the highway. He got an epiphany while speeding along, so he drove to his apartment building, drove into the garage, parked in his space, ran upstairs to get the flashlight.

When he returned he shone the light on the car and it duplicated. Even the license plate number was the same. He climbed into the old one and drove to the dealership to return it and pickup his suitcase full of money.

He parked, then strolled into the manager’s office.

“How’d you like driving her?” the sales manager asked without any enthusiasm.

“Okay, but I decided not to buy it.”

Joe grabbed his suitcase from the desk. As soon as he did, two men in suits grabbed him by the arms.

“You’re under arrest,” one said. The other read him his rights as they dragged him through the showroom.

“For what?” Joe cried.

“Counterfeiting,” the agent reciting Miranda said.

“Wait a minute,” Joe pled. “Every bill in there is authentic.“ Had to be, they were exactly like the original,” he thought.

“Yeah, the bills are remarkable. You did a great job of reproducing them, but you made one mistake,” the agent stopped, pulled out a handful of $20 bills and held them in front of Joe’s face. “Can you find your mistake?”

Joe stared at the bills. “No, I can’t find anything wrong.”

“Look at the serial numbers, dummy!”

Every bill he had replicated had the same serial number.