There was another reason that Tellesco didn’t want to go
back up to any of the floors above. It
was because of what had happened to him and our missing friend Sean up
there. Of course, the little ghost girl
with the wilted flowers was his primary reason for heading to the basement.
It helped him, and here’s why:
He knew that the pretty girl with the white hair wanted me
to go upstairs instead of him. And that,
right there, that was the first time Tellesco got his heart broke.
He was rejected by a dead girl. Talk about a bad omen for his future with
chicks. How would it go with living
ones?
But, do you see, it helped him because he could save
face.
Dignity.
I couldn’t unwind my arms from around Lorelei, because if I
did, I wouldn’t get another chance to feel her against me. That’s what I believed.
Sad to say, that would end up being true.
I chust didn’t know it yet.
(Link to I chust don’t vant you to be so sad)
+ + +
+ + +
Hirviö
(MONSTER)
Our missing friend Sean was nowhere. His body was inhabited by a Walkin, but his
mind was in limbo. It was like he was in
a cave on the moon or something. That
Walkin called himself “Seen.” He had
been busy with his own agenda all night long.
In each and every cannibal meal, he acquired certain knowledge, specific
to each victim. But because of something
he had done that was wrong for a Walkin to do, he also acquired the sickness
and evil of each of his victims.
That was not his intention, or course. You recall; he ate each body part of his
victims while they were still alive. He
also adorned himself with some of their living skin, such as hand gloves and a
nose and a scrotum bag before he pushed them poor folks off this mortal
plane.
Except for the first one.
His downfall would be due to what he had done to his first
encounter, with a man called Sven. The
Walkin had eaten the flesh of the dead, from Sven. Sven was a serial killer, if you recall.
This Walkin “Seen” began to physically change with each new
acquisition of living flesh. He became
grotesque. And, he began to lose his
focus. He was distracted from his own
agenda.
Never should a Walkin act this way.
Never should a Walkin come what may.
Never should a Walkin lose his way.
This one did.
Now pray.
+ + +
+ + +
“Rurrrgh.” Seen
reached into the pants pocket of the man who lied on the ground before
him. He grabbed keys. His gloves held them keys up tight to his
face in the dark, and he found the right one.
The right key glinted in the blood-red light shining down from the
east. He scowled at the dark red moon
creeping up over the mountains eastward of the city to the north, and he swung
his meaty head back and he roared.
He fucking roared.
The Jeep awoke with a lovely purr. Seen grimaced. He would never get used to driving a wagon
without horses in front of it, tethered to it, pulling it along. Yet he knew how to operate this horseless
carriage from the many kills he had under his belt, all night long. Kills meant skills.
His gloved finger sought a button and pressed it, and then,
foreign sounds thumped out of the speakers.
Something’s Wrong
by Billy D and the Hoodoos
Seen began to nod his head to the beat, and he couldn’t
figure out why. With his new ears,
dripping blood from his head, he was stygg.
He was ugly.
Here is a song for the Bossman. He likes the summah time. He likes the heat. You know this, especially if you have visited our forum.
And, it is the perfect song for a summer with Kaneetha. There is a tale about her that follows.
Got yourself all good and set? Let's go.
Kaneetha was a force of nature. I wonder what she is doing now? Probably still rocking the world, in her own way.
Back then, the summers of Fuckno had the longest days you could imagine. Palm trees lined every street, and every dream. Bouganvillia scented the air with sweetness, and covered up the odor of farmland, here in this irrigated valley that grew one-third of the whole world's fruit produce, the San Joaquin Valley.
But I had my own fruit in mind, and sadly, I would never taste it.
Yet, this is how wonderful and poignant this time was. I will explain, if you read on...
I really enjoy the writing ability of this young woman. You should check into her blog often, you TDC Enjoyer, you.
This is some funny shit! I linked her on this page from the ZID Series, my latest chapter of the continuing saga of a half-Native, half-Irish dude writing about having survived many escapades while in Fuckno, Californication, which is 3,200 miles away from my Rez.
Well hey there, you TDC Enjoyer. You have decided to partake of the Sunday Side Show version of the Mighty TDC.
Thanks for dropping by. Here's a tune to help you get all "Shitiated." I'm thinking the Beatles, like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, but a bit more modern.
We had lost our heads, you see. And Sean was about to transform the Jeep into an Ark.
Now here we learn how to NOT drive while in the company of ZID.
__________________________
Sean was quite an amazing driver, always had been. I first learned this after I'd rebuilt my little Toyota Celica's engine in my bedroom, using only a Chilton's guide, and had to keep buying tools each step along the way.
He took the little four-banger out, with me in the shotgun seat, and went mudding in the neighbor's corral. He had us spinning around and doing amazing things, all while not even using the clutch. Speed shift. That is where I first learned that such a thing was possible, which came in quite handy in another couple months, when I realized I should have replaced the clutch disc when I had the engine all apart.
I began to have to start it up in first gear after the red light turned to green, and then speed shift to get up to speed.
That was when I first learned that all of the traffic lights in Fuckno were synchronized to let you have a clean ride of green lights at 33 MPH, or 66, or 99, if you needed.
Lucky for me, when I finally had enough money, all I had to do was removed 4 bolts from the drive shaft, drop it, eight or so bolts on the tranny, and take out the pumpkin. Clutch disc replaced, with that plastic guide thing. Also, new Starter, lol.
But I digress.
_________________________________
So, Sean got his courage back. He drove us out of that parking lot with skill.
Apu went back to his newspaper, certain to bring up our visit tonight the next time we went for a Big Gulp and some nachos at his 7-11.
Sean drove at precisely 5 MPH.
But we didn't have a clue about this. Everything was happening too much. "The World Was Too Much With Us," to paraphrase some writer...
Until, that is, the horns started honking and folks flew past us, showing us that they thought we were "Numba One" with their bird.
Sean got a clue. He began to speed shift, and really got into it.
The Jeep had some very nice tires on it, all big and fat and bouncy, and they made the deep, rumbly song one gets from chunky tread on tar. This bitch should have been in a mud pit or fig tree field.
We took a turn. Sean revved her hard, and we headed out to the fig tree orchards of Fuckno.
Except that there was a canal in the way, in the dark, at the end of the side street.
He saw the old wooden cross bar too late to stop, but he stomped on the brakes from instinct. Perhaps if he had gassed it like the General Lee, we might have flown over, above the canal, and into the night sky, into the stars.
Instead, we all awoke in the quiet of the moonlight, facing the sky, Jeep tailpipe gurgling under water, and we were a bit more dazed and confused than we had been before.
Sean had a nasty bumpy on his head from the steering wheel, but he wasn't feeling anything.
Or, he was feeling a whole lot of other things, as were we all.
Everything was strange, and we were quite thirsty.
Tellesco leaned over and took a sip of the cool mountain water running just below the rear bucket of the passenger compartment.
He camly rinsed out the Big Gulp cup that no longer had any Coca Cola in it, and filled it up. He was sitting in a puddle of ice and Coke now, and he was fine with that. Or oblivious.
He handed the cup around, and we were quite thankful.
Sean would have to get us back to the apartment.
It seemed that this ZID stuff was a bit of an ass-kicker.
Indeed it was, and we would continue on with our new enjoyment, and raise the enjoyment of many other folks, all summer long.
We became known for it.
You see, hippies who made this shit did not travel in Punk Circles.
Did you have a good teacher in school? Play an April Fools Prank like Throbbing Hottie did on the ole Bossman Richie last week?
Here's a consideration for you, from last Thursday's news:
When you adopt, isn't it a contract that you've made, a commitment to a child? Perhaps the screening processes for both the prospective parent(s) and the orphan should be more precise in their evaluation. "Take him back, I want a different one. Can I get a do-over?"
Put on your headphones, buckle up, and get your weekend game on for this sick car accident of a true story. There will be a lot broken glass. It gets a bit nasty, bud.
Now remember, I've told you back in the Punk Fight Almost Done chapter that there was a new consideration that night of the Bones Breaking, something I'd come up with after the Aftermath, after I'd done some Triage, and after my buds were chatting about the Punk Fight while they laughed and snorted and chuckled.
It was this, my patient TDC friend: I thought that we should leave the paper folds, the straws, and Peru, alone for a while. Instead, there was something else we might check out; which was known as Zid.
Now before we revisit Flora Du Mal and her rise and scariness, here is a new short series about how we began to immerse ourselves into altered states of reality. It won't be pretty, and there are many stories about this new course of action, but I will not let you wait for each one to unfold each week.
Instead, I'll tell you about them in a much shorter space of time. It is a series, you realize.
Now for another chapter about cars, and not dying in them.
Here's a song for ya.
CARS 5:
The next car crash involved me in an ’84 Ford Escort wagon, T-boned by a ’69 Ford Mustang. One was made with cast iron stove-metal, the other, with tin foil.
I’d gotten out of work at the absolute worst job I have ever held, which I will tell you about in a minute.
First, this: never go back to a police officer after you have given your statement, and a couple beers, and try to change your story. This does not look good. Especially if you are underage for drinking.
You see, the light was stale amber, do I decided to turn left, into the oncoming lanes, which SHOULD have been stopping. But not this older lady. She was driving to beat the light, and she crashed into the passenger side of my fragile Ford Escort wagon, with her Mustang. This course of action caused the rear seats to crumple up like an accordion, and the whole back part became thin as a park bench.
Good thing that no one had been in the back. As far as her car, she was able to back out of this mess with only a wrinkled front right panel, just behind the headlamp, and a few scrapes that could be buffed out of the baked-on enamel paint/ cook-ware coat. For chrissakes, she didn’t even break the damned headlamp!
After I inadvertently scared her back into her car, as well as others who were simply trying to see if I was OK, Johnny Law came by for a smoke.
Actually, I found out that if I had waited until the light was RED, then it would have been her fault. But since it was only stale amber, I was at fault.
I was only three blocks from my girlfiend’s house, so I walked there and had a couple beers to steady my nerves. Well, OK, some more beers, after those I’d had at the shop just before the accident.
My insurance company settled it as “no fault” instead of going to court with the speedy lady in the Mustang’s insurance company, since my car was demolished, and hers only had a wrinkle.
You see, judges will always opt in favor of the weakling with the broken legs in a fight, not the big bully who only has a scratch under the eye.
My car was totaled out, and I got a decent enough settlement check to put down money on a better car.
The job from which I had just been leaving? Why thank you for asking, and drudging up those memories.
I used to crawl under houses in the hot California afternoon and pull wood and debris out, to stave off termites. These crawl spaces were more often than not infested with cockroaches, in addition to the termites. The sprayed poison would take care of them all.
Except, they were alive when I went in there with my drag tray for the debris, my trusty flashlight, and a dust mask.
Well, I soon learned the benefits of duct tape around the wrists and the ankles, and, of course, the neck.
Cockroaches will scramble, you see. When you lift something up, there is a perfect outline of it in black, which then scatters apart at frightening speed, many of these big bugs slipping towards you, looking for a safe place to hide.
Like, up your shirt sleeves. Up your pant legs.
I found out that cotton balls in the ears would be helpful as well.
Well, this one time, I got trapped in the crawl space between a hump in the dirt and the floor joists, and dropped my flashlight.
I scrambled to get extricated, breathing hoarsely, and couldn’t see the opening of the exit. I’d kicked up so much dust that my sweaty dust mask clogged up, so I tore it off, and dug my way around to find the dim hole out of this hell, bleakly shining in the cloud of dust I’d kicked up.
In full-on panic mode, I clawed my way towards it with my fingernails and kicked and shoved off with my sneakers, until I was free. I pulled myself out of that hole, covered in muddy sweat, spitting out half-chewed bugs and grit, and rolled around to kill the ones scrambling around inside my shirt and underwear.
It was like a birth from a Hell hole.
I grabbed the foreman’s cover-all by the lapel and shrieked, “Fuck This Fucking Shit Hole Job! I Quit!”
But that was three months after the car accident.
Next week, the next car accident I survived without a scratch.
