Memorial Day came and went as it always does in Muskrat Flats or anywhere else for that matter. It was unusually busy in town as somehow the holiday weekend, which seemed to come a week earlier than usual coincided with the graduation ceremonies from the Muskrat Flats Community College and Samuel Coleman Hawthorne High School. The town was buzzing with activity and decked out with its patriotic colors.
At the Farm Museum, the parade to commemorate the remembrance of our citizens who had fallen both on native soil and abroad was set to begin shortly after the graduation ceremony for the 35 students in Sveltie Smith's vintner program.
The students received their hard earned sheepskins situated at the edge of the neatly cropped and flourishing grape vines they had so faithfully manicured, coaxed and harvested the last four years. The ceremony ended with Sveltie opening a Nebuchadnezzer bottle of sparkling wine, a vintage the class had produced in the classic method champenois. Empty glasses were hoisted in celebration and anticipation as Sveltie sheared the cork off of the 15 liter bottle situated in an ornate cast iron decanter which was produced by Kurt Bartleby in the Farm and Agricultural Museum's Smithy shop. The apparatus hoisted the 38 kilo bottle on a swivel for easy pouring.
Kurt stood by marveling at the ceremony as Sveltie rhythmically rapped the side of the bottle with the knife with which she popped the cork. Kurt watched Sveltie rap the bottle thinking she may shatter the vessel all the while wishing his dearly departed mentor, Benwah were here to witness this ceremony as well as his handiwork. This thought was broken as he watched geyser of wine erupted out of the opening of the bottle to raucous cheers from the students and their families.
The opening of this bottle had a special meaning for the class as they recalled the whole process which began in the first weeks of their program four very short years ago. The recalled day the had to disgorge the Lees or sediment from the bottle. A procedure where in the course of the first fermentation process the bottle has been turned completely upside down in the rack situated in caverns carved out of the limestone below the farm museum. The sediment which settles in the neck of the bottle is then frozen inside the bottle in a chilled brine bath. The bottle is opened and this plug is spit out of the bottle by the compressed carbonation. The volume of the bottle is then replaced with a some sediment free wine a small amount of yeast and sugar are added then bottle is recorked and the three year fermentation process begins. The gyser subsided the champagne was poured and the now filled glasses were once again hoisted.
Memorial day sure did come up quickly for Gomer Eckstein as he stood leaning against a post in front of the former railroad station, watching Sveltie, Kurt and her students celebrate. He watched Sveltie with her arm around her husband Jerry a full glass of the champagne in his free hand. He looked excited, like he had permission to drink.
Gomer remembered how that felt ... having permission to get high. What a glorious feeling that was, no hang ups, no sneaking around, no lying. Those were the aspects of his addiction he despised when he became strung out. All of the manipulation, the deceit, struggling through the emotional upheavals with his then companion Sarah. Then there was the seeking out of other women with whom he could use ... peacefully, but that never really worked out and comes with its own set of emotionally charged negative circumstances.
The last time Gomer stood in Muskrat Flats, snow was in the forecast. He has just finished a cross country tour with his hardcore Klezmer band the Hook Nosed Satans. He left the Flats in late February to attend a meeting with the folks from Showtime regarding a pilot for comedy series he had written about a Rabbi in Las Vegas who ran a Funeral Parlor.
Although there was initially a buzz amongst the network higher ups regarding the concept of "Shiva Las Vegas," Gomer was accurate in his assessment that they had cooled to the idea as the meeting had begun. "The concept sounds to similar to 6 Feet Under," Was the final explanation.
Being the self sufficient bastard that he is, Gomer took matters into his own hands and produced a music video based on the tune Viva Las Vegas with him singing a duet with a Hasidic Elvis impersonator. The video already has over 100,000 hits on You Tube.
The tour was lengthier than usual. He was playing larger venues taking his music mainly to colleges in the Northeast including his Alma Mater, Amherst College. Then the Satans headed south to New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Raleigh, New Orleans, Austin, Santa Fe. From New Mexico they headed north for a string of three shows in Telluride, Colorado and then west to Seattle and Eugene, OR, where he was met by the new love of his life, his girlfriend of eight months, Miranda Klein.
The new lovers spent a few days in the Portland area before they hit northern California, and ended up in the Bay area where the Satans played shows in Berkley, Palo Alto and Mirandas's hometown, San Francisco.
Meeting up with Miranda and spending a couple of weeks with her, when he did, was a Godsend for Gomer. The tour was a little harder than he had anticipated. It seemed that everywhere they went, someone wanted to get him high.
He began to feel as isolated as he had felt when he was strung out. He called folks in his network, he called Miranda, he even called Sveltie, for which he felt somewhat guilty. He could rationalize and tell himself that they NEEDED each other at that moment. when they were reading about the love triangle between the vampires Isabella, Astrid and their very own Sheriff Hawthorne, that their fanning the embers of a relationship which had died years ago was the right thing to do ... at the time. But sometimes, us addicts don't think things through when we are caught up in the moment. It was hard for Gomer to say goodbye to Miranda that night as they walked together hand in hand, as new lovers often do. The walked down South Van Ness Avenue after noshing on some chicken tamales. And he sang to her. He sang a beloved by Jerry Garcia which made her weep as the lovers walked along in the Mission, in the rain.
Everything worked out with Sveltie, after all she and Jerry were still together. As he thought this he watched Jerry hoist his third glass of wine and noted that Sveltie noticed as well. Gomer watched her whisper something to Jerry who walked straight over to the bar and refilled his glass as he left his wife standing there watching him with a look of disappointment.
He could identify with what Jerry is going through as he struggles with his alcoholism. But he also felt empathy for his former girlfriend and recent lover as he watched her let out a little sigh before turning her attention and her beautiful smiling face in the direction of one of her students and her parents as the pain in Sveltie's heart continued to unfold, especially if she was further witness to what was occurring with her husband, unseen, behind her as she spoke.
Gomer's cell phone rang. He looked at the display, the number was blocked. He ignored it. There was no message left. The phone rang a couple more times. He finally picked it up.
"Hello?" He queried.
"Hey, Gomer! Whats going on, baby?" Gomer hesitated and got a knot in his stomach. He was silent.
"Hello? Gomer, it's Allie. I just wanted to see if you had the same number and do some catching up." Gomer sighed again.
"Hi Allie, how have you been?"
"I'm doing pretty good, I've got a job and an apartment. I'm doing good."
"Are you clean?"
"Well sort of ..."
"How are you sort of clean?"
"I've been doing good, I'm on suboxone, I go to meetings three times a week?"
"Really? Do you have a sponsor or a home group?"
"I've got a few people that I call ... It's tough, you know how it is ... a struggle. I have to get a paper signed for my probation officer three times a week."
"I see. Look, Allie ..." She cut him off.
"I can't lie I've been using every now and then ... you know what they say about the only requirement is ..."
"Yeah, I know, the desire to stop using." He looked down at his shiny black fingernails.
"Listen, baby, I ran out of suboxone and don't have any cash to get my prescription filled. I was wondering if you wanted to get together?"
"Allie, I'm clean, in fact the length of time I've been clean has been exactly the same amount of time it has been since we last got together."
"Oh ... comon baby, I wouldn't let you use." She was starting to get an edge to her voice.
"Listen," Gomer said, "I'm sure you have the best intentions, I'm not blaming you for my using. I just don't know how I would handle it if we did get together, even for 15 seconds. I just don't know ..."
"Oh baby please? I need you."
"Comon, Allie, I can't do it."
"I want YOU!" Her voice got sugary as she tried to further manipulate the situation. Gomer sighed again and spoke.
"Listen Allie ..."
"Comon Gomer, let's do a date ...." That was all Gomer needed to hear, because there was nothing more he wanted at this moment. He was swirling in a melancholy sea of emotions as he watched Sveltie occasionally turn a look at Jerry, who looked away every time. He turned his head, pretending he didn't notice that she was looking over to him. He thought of Miranda and how he missed her company. He thought of both women and how warm their bodies felt as they snuggled into his. He thought of Allie and the comfort she could provide.
"Gomer ... Gomer? "
"Yeah I'm here. Allie, I'd love to see you, but I can't. I know you are using, and I feel really vulnerable right now ... I just can't see you." She began to cry.
"Gomer, I need you. I'm sick. Comon ... I've been doing good, I just fucked up a little bit. I really need the money for the script. You're doing good, I've seen you on the computer. You look good. I wouldn't let you fuck up, baby. Please??! I'M SICK!"
"I can't. I'm sorry." He hung up.
He took a deep breath. He looked over at Sveltie once again. She was on her phone this time, staring off into space. Jerry was yukking it up with a couple of the girls who had just graduated, starting to get a little sloppy and flirtatious. Gomer's phone rang again. He reached for it, without looking at the display screen, ready to blast Allie for calling him back.
"Hello?"
"Gomer ..." He looked up at Sveltie. As she spoke she made eye contact with him. "Do you still have Hawthorne's diary?"
"Why...uh. yes, Yes I do. I still need to read the last chapter."
"I still haven't read that one. You want to read it to me?" Gomer looked straight at her and without hesitation answered,
"Yes!"
"I figure he'll be passed out by three or four. I call you later."
"I don't want to fuck anything up with you, Jerry or Miranda."
"I know Gomer, I want to do the right thing, too ... are you going to meet me, or what?"
"Yes. I'm going to go over to the Odd Fellows. I still haven't seen Dad since I got back into town, they probably need some help over there with the picnic."
"Are you playing tonight?"
"Burliegh, from PRY asked if I was available to sit in, I told him yes."
"After the show then?"
"Yes, after the show would be perfect."
"I'll meet you at the hotel, sweetie." She discreetly blew him a kiss and hung up.
Gomer gave her a wink. He put his hand in his shoulder bag and felt the box which contained Hawthorne's diary. Why Jerry asked him to keep it is still a mystery, but an obvious bad decision on his part.
"Hey Gomer!"
"Coley, what's going on, my man?" Gomer reached down and tousled Chubby's bangs as he growled a little bit thinking that Gomer was going to try to take away the plastic banana he had in his mouth.
"I'm heading over to the Odd Fellows for the parade, you wanna walk with me, Coley?"
"Sure." He put his arm around Coley as they headed toward the intersection of Petersen and McKernan Streets. Chubby picked up the paced to follow grunting as he walked.
"So ... I've been away for a while, Coley. Any good gossip going around town?"
The two friends headed away from the Farm Museum. Sveltie looked at Gomer one last time as she felt Jerry's hand on her arm.
"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. I gotta do something about this" His apology didn't prevent him from taking another drink, though.
She looked at him and replied.
"I know Jerry, I really do love you and that is not a lie. I know I'm not perfect ..." He stopped her.
"I'm not feeling too well, can you drive me home?"
"I don't want to go home. I want to be here, I want to see the music. I want you. Don't you understand. All I ever wanted was you, until this became more important." She motioned to his glass. He hung his head and took another sip. Sveltie just stood there silently looking at her tormented husband. She didn't know what to do. But she did think to herself ...
I'll drive you home, but If I can't get what I want, I'm going to at least get what I need.
She repositioned herself as she watched Gomer and Coley disappear around the corner.
"Comon big guy, let's get you home and set up in front of the TV. I think the Sox are playing at 1. I want to be back in time for the parade."
Gomer thought about the last 15 minutes as the Odd Fellows hall came into view. He should have been listening more attentively as Coley gave him a rundown of all of the shit that has happened in Muskrat Flats in the last few months. He thought about Allie and her struggle with heroin and how he wanted to lash out at her for not being clean, making her inaccesible.
He thought of Sveltie and her issues with his good friend Jerry and how he felt powerless to say no to the prospect of meeting her even though he knew it was wrong. He thought about all of the insantity and how vulnerable he truly was at this moment. And thought to himself ... I can't wait to play some music tonight.
As the sun climbed in the sky illuminating a perfect spring day, it is unfortunate that there are two addicts that Gomer knows who will not be there to enjoy it.
Allie is probably in the South End of Dana right now, dope sick and trying to hustle enough money to get off empty after having spent her hard earned paycheck. And Jerry ... He will miss the beautiful day, passed out in front of the flat screen TV as his sexy and lovely wife watches his estranged best friend gyrating on the stage, playing with his favorite band. An unfortunate set of circumstances to precede the final reading of Sheriff Hawthorne's sex charged tale of murder, mayhem and immortality taking place in Historic Muskrat Flats.
Yep, Gomer dodged a bullet that afternoon with the phone call from Allie, one which was destined to shatter his skull, leaving him in a bloodied heap on the pavement.
Now, if he could only dodge the bullet engraved with Sveltie's name, which was soaring in his direction and threatened to pierce his heart.
Just a suggestion, Gomer, now would be a good time to get back on the road and begin ...
Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Our Primary Purpose.
I've been thinking about time lately. I'm pretty sure I've written about time before. Time keeps popping up as a subject these days.
"No time to lose," is what they say.
Others sing about time being "On my side."
Some of the old timers at the Odd Fellows Hall at the corner of Petersen and McKernan Streets, in Muskrat Flats proper, speak of "time being money," especially Sid Bartleby; he is kind of corny like that.
Then there is the big question. Often the question is asked confidently as if the inquisitor knows they are going to draw a favorable response. The tenor of the question can be intuitively modified to be phrased in a sympathetic and encouraging light, based upon the vibe of the situation. In other situations the question can be launched in the muddied quagmire of small talk, only to illicit a strained and sheepish response further sullying an already awkward situation.
This question being ... "How much time do you have?"
Is not such an unusual question. It is uttered in many different situations on a daily basis drawing responses such as:
"I've got five minutes before I have to pick up my kid."
"My schedule is clear. What can I do for you?"
"I'm running late. Perhaps we can do this tomorrow?"
In the "Iron Triangle," (the section of Muskrat Flats where you are perpetually on the other side of the tracks as it is bordered by train tacks on three sides) you may get a different response to this question, especially if you are standing outside of a 12-step meeting clutching a coffee in one hand and a Newport short in the other. Within the bounds of these circumstances, within the triangle, someone may reply:
"The Good Lord willing, I've got twenty years on the 3oth."
or "I've been clean for three days."
or my favorite:
"I was clean for Nine months, but I fucked up last week.
The last one is the response I gave last time someone asked me that question, almost nine months ago. I could have given a new response, one I picked up from on of my sponsee brothers,
"I've got the same amount of time you have, brother, I've got today."
This may sound like a smart ass answer to the outside observer, but when it really comes down to it I really can't ask for much more than that. In my world even one day clean is a freaking miracle and I'm not kidding.
As I watch a friend currently struggling with the disease -- how caught up they are; how the drugs just absolutely warp their sense of reasoning; how the drugs bastardize any semblance of normalcy they may have once experienced -- I remember where I was when I was in the same position.
I remember when I was so strung out that every day was a comedy of errors; a bizarre panorama, a faded and unfocused surrealistic landscape of shame and remorse filled self-loathing. I was a walking zombie on a mission to get high no matter what (If not high, at least to keep from getting sick). It didn't matter to what extent I jeopardized my life, my job, my child and everyone else who loved me and couldn't understand why I would choose to lead such an existence.
The funny part is, in my twisted up self-centered thinking, I couldn't understand why they couldn't understand. I mean, could they not see that I was sick? I had to use! I could not stop, otherwise I would get sicker. I wanted to get clean, but I wasn't about to get sick to do so. I was in the same position my friend is right now: I wanted to get clean, but I didn't want to suffer any consequences to do so.
Time - A dear friend of mine used to say, "You don't want what I got, cause I've got NO TIME."
I've been texting this friend of mine. Right now, my friend, who is struggling, has nothing but time on their hands. And that time is frittering away slowly, day by day. They don't want what I got, cause I've got no time for their shit. There is a simple solution to their problem.
Just Stop Using. That is the one common denominator shared by every recovering addict in the world. Just for one day, they stopped using. And they got up the next day, did it again, and again a third day. It is going to suck. You will feel like you have the worst flu you have ever had, but each subsequent day that you just focus on 24 hours of not using you will feel better. Although stopping is a big part, you also have to do something to to arrest the obsession to want to use and compulsion to go out and do so. That is where 12-step meetings helped me.
I did four medically supervised detoxes. One was an outpatient program prescribed by some quack I found in the yellow pages. I got higher on the shit he prescribed for me than I did with the junk I found on the street.
Since I had no guidance or suggestions from clean addicts as to how I could succeed I damn near killed myself when I did cave in after three days and picked up. A using buddy found me in the kitchen of my apartment, barely conscious, with a spike dangling from my bloodied arm. I am thankful they got me up and walking around instead of stealing my shit and leaving me there.
The next three detoxes I did -- the first shortly after the aforementioned debacle -- were in a locked ward. Sure, I could leave whenever I wanted but I didn't. Each time I got a little further along to discovering a permanent solution to my problem, which was me, not the drugs. I was -- and for the time being remain -- the problem.
In the end, when I finally walked away from the fence bordering that crimson poppy field, I did it cold turkey. I had no intention of stopping. I simply prayed to God and asked for help. Little did I know others were praying for me as well. That morning, instead of going out and copping, I just went back to bed and rode it out. The sweats, chills, the squirts, dry heaves, involuntary muscle spasms ... it sucked, but I did it.
I am praying that my friend makes it, because they know there is a better way to live.
I am praying for them; That is all I can do. No money, no rides, no hand holding. I have a hard enough time working my own program of recovery than to watch a loved one go through the hell of detox, putting myself at risk by being in the company of a sick, suffering, conniving manipulative, self centered addict who will do or say anything to get a fix. That would just be stupid on my part. I am not being judgmental when I say this; it is just the way it is. That is how we are when we are active.
I don't want to sound unsympathetic, but there are professionals out there who can do this ... because I KNOW that I can't. In my fellowship, our primary purpose is to carry the message to the addict who still suffers -- that message being that recovery is possible. However, this doesn't mean that I should put myself in harm's way.
My friend is not responsible for their disease, but they are responsible for their recovery, not me. I am praying for you, my friend. Consequences be damned, because right now they are not that bad. But I assure you, if you keep running, they will get worse. Can't you see that they already are?
The time to get clean is now, because Time is running out.
Yep, the time is running out about as quickly as I am ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
"No time to lose," is what they say.
Others sing about time being "On my side."
Some of the old timers at the Odd Fellows Hall at the corner of Petersen and McKernan Streets, in Muskrat Flats proper, speak of "time being money," especially Sid Bartleby; he is kind of corny like that.
Then there is the big question. Often the question is asked confidently as if the inquisitor knows they are going to draw a favorable response. The tenor of the question can be intuitively modified to be phrased in a sympathetic and encouraging light, based upon the vibe of the situation. In other situations the question can be launched in the muddied quagmire of small talk, only to illicit a strained and sheepish response further sullying an already awkward situation.
This question being ... "How much time do you have?"
Is not such an unusual question. It is uttered in many different situations on a daily basis drawing responses such as:
"I've got five minutes before I have to pick up my kid."
"My schedule is clear. What can I do for you?"
"I'm running late. Perhaps we can do this tomorrow?"
In the "Iron Triangle," (the section of Muskrat Flats where you are perpetually on the other side of the tracks as it is bordered by train tacks on three sides) you may get a different response to this question, especially if you are standing outside of a 12-step meeting clutching a coffee in one hand and a Newport short in the other. Within the bounds of these circumstances, within the triangle, someone may reply:
"The Good Lord willing, I've got twenty years on the 3oth."
or "I've been clean for three days."
or my favorite:
"I was clean for Nine months, but I fucked up last week.
The last one is the response I gave last time someone asked me that question, almost nine months ago. I could have given a new response, one I picked up from on of my sponsee brothers,
"I've got the same amount of time you have, brother, I've got today."
This may sound like a smart ass answer to the outside observer, but when it really comes down to it I really can't ask for much more than that. In my world even one day clean is a freaking miracle and I'm not kidding.
As I watch a friend currently struggling with the disease -- how caught up they are; how the drugs just absolutely warp their sense of reasoning; how the drugs bastardize any semblance of normalcy they may have once experienced -- I remember where I was when I was in the same position.
I remember when I was so strung out that every day was a comedy of errors; a bizarre panorama, a faded and unfocused surrealistic landscape of shame and remorse filled self-loathing. I was a walking zombie on a mission to get high no matter what (If not high, at least to keep from getting sick). It didn't matter to what extent I jeopardized my life, my job, my child and everyone else who loved me and couldn't understand why I would choose to lead such an existence.
The funny part is, in my twisted up self-centered thinking, I couldn't understand why they couldn't understand. I mean, could they not see that I was sick? I had to use! I could not stop, otherwise I would get sicker. I wanted to get clean, but I wasn't about to get sick to do so. I was in the same position my friend is right now: I wanted to get clean, but I didn't want to suffer any consequences to do so.
Time - A dear friend of mine used to say, "You don't want what I got, cause I've got NO TIME."
I've been texting this friend of mine. Right now, my friend, who is struggling, has nothing but time on their hands. And that time is frittering away slowly, day by day. They don't want what I got, cause I've got no time for their shit. There is a simple solution to their problem.
Just Stop Using. That is the one common denominator shared by every recovering addict in the world. Just for one day, they stopped using. And they got up the next day, did it again, and again a third day. It is going to suck. You will feel like you have the worst flu you have ever had, but each subsequent day that you just focus on 24 hours of not using you will feel better. Although stopping is a big part, you also have to do something to to arrest the obsession to want to use and compulsion to go out and do so. That is where 12-step meetings helped me.
I did four medically supervised detoxes. One was an outpatient program prescribed by some quack I found in the yellow pages. I got higher on the shit he prescribed for me than I did with the junk I found on the street.
Since I had no guidance or suggestions from clean addicts as to how I could succeed I damn near killed myself when I did cave in after three days and picked up. A using buddy found me in the kitchen of my apartment, barely conscious, with a spike dangling from my bloodied arm. I am thankful they got me up and walking around instead of stealing my shit and leaving me there.
The next three detoxes I did -- the first shortly after the aforementioned debacle -- were in a locked ward. Sure, I could leave whenever I wanted but I didn't. Each time I got a little further along to discovering a permanent solution to my problem, which was me, not the drugs. I was -- and for the time being remain -- the problem.
In the end, when I finally walked away from the fence bordering that crimson poppy field, I did it cold turkey. I had no intention of stopping. I simply prayed to God and asked for help. Little did I know others were praying for me as well. That morning, instead of going out and copping, I just went back to bed and rode it out. The sweats, chills, the squirts, dry heaves, involuntary muscle spasms ... it sucked, but I did it.
I am praying that my friend makes it, because they know there is a better way to live.
I am praying for them; That is all I can do. No money, no rides, no hand holding. I have a hard enough time working my own program of recovery than to watch a loved one go through the hell of detox, putting myself at risk by being in the company of a sick, suffering, conniving manipulative, self centered addict who will do or say anything to get a fix. That would just be stupid on my part. I am not being judgmental when I say this; it is just the way it is. That is how we are when we are active.
I don't want to sound unsympathetic, but there are professionals out there who can do this ... because I KNOW that I can't. In my fellowship, our primary purpose is to carry the message to the addict who still suffers -- that message being that recovery is possible. However, this doesn't mean that I should put myself in harm's way.
My friend is not responsible for their disease, but they are responsible for their recovery, not me. I am praying for you, my friend. Consequences be damned, because right now they are not that bad. But I assure you, if you keep running, they will get worse. Can't you see that they already are?
The time to get clean is now, because Time is running out.
Yep, the time is running out about as quickly as I am ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
"Cause I'm not feeling too good, I've lost a lot of blood ..."
Once again the folks in Muskrat Flats are waiting for snow. It has been a tired and turbulent winter for our friends. Not so much from the climate or foul weather, there is only so much you can do about that. Sometimes foul weather can be a savior. Where would Coley Blackstone be had his house been left intact following the micro burst which ripped apart his living room and dining area last August?
His bedroom, with his large comfortable king sized bed, was untouched. The cardboard refrigerator box, in which he slept in his dining room, that is still caught up in a tree about 100 yards into the woods behind his house.
If that foul weather had not come, perhaps Coley, Muskrat Flats' richest resident, would still be walking up and down Petersen St., with his dog Chubby, fishing in the trash for bits of interesting paper. He might still be hanging out on a park bench across the street from the Odd Fellows Hall, smelling the aroma of Iva's blueberry muffins, some of which are grilled delicately in whole butter. How many days he would sit on that bench wishing he had the nerve to cross the street and ask for one of those golden brown nuggets. Instead he sat on the bench lost in the whirlwind of his insanity, scratching away at his black composition notebook, figuring out the interest his fortune was amassing on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. His obsession, driven by a chemical imbalance left him feeling alone and detached, so he figured might as well live like he felt ... homeless.
He was walking through the woods the on his way downtown and saw his box, wedged in the branches at the top of a black birch tree. He stopped and looked up at the box which was glistening in the sun as patches of ice melted away after the previous night's coating of freezing rain. He pulled an ice slicked sapling from one of the lower branches of the birch and stripped the black bark away with his fingernail. Chubby was nosing around in the snow and ice. Corey peeled back the tender membrane underneath the bark and put the wood in his mouth, tasting the bubble gum sweetness of the tender shoot. He rolled the stick around in his mouth, as he gazed up at the box.
"What the fuck was I thinking, living like that?"
As the sweetness of the branch dissipated, he spit it out, thinking that the sap from the maples would be running soon. Iva's muffins must be wondrous with some melted butter and some fresh maple syrup.
Coley was thankful for the weather. Even though it was cold and wet, and he occasionally had to pry balls of ice, wedged uncomfortably between the pads of Chubby's paws, it was severe weather which had exposed his charade.
Now, he felt joy. It wasn't such a terrible thing to let people into his life. His neighbors were making a difference. Perhaps if he walked across the street and asked for one those blueberry muffins, long ago, the good neighbors in Muskrat Flats would have come to his aid. Perhaps they would have found out that he was the mysterious resident who everyone had been talking about. But now he thought that probably wouldn't have made a difference in how they treated him. Yes he was the anonymous donor who kept charities functioning, scholarship funds solvent, social service programs rolling along with full budget. Not bad for a homeless guy. Can anyone doubt that he is the bastard Great Grandson of Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III? But, they would have seen that he needed help and would have assisted him in getting it, of that he was sure.
He gave the cardboard box one last glance, took a deep inhale of the crisp morning air and headed to the center of town.
At the Farm Museum, things were pretty normal. It was quiet with the exception of school groups who would come around for a tour of the blacksmith shop, to see how the animals are cared for in the winter and of course to enjoy the sleigh ride past rows and rows of Sveltie's barren and dormant grapevines.
Sveltie and Jerry were hashing out their problems. They loved each other but each were beginning to look outside of their relationship for the comfort and excitement they should have been providing for each other. Sveltie was beginning to worry about Jerry's drinking. When they were together his consumption seemed to be in check. The last time Jerry "let slip" that he was with another woman alcohol was a factor. She was wondering if it was not so much that he was looking for sex as he was looking for someone who drank like he did. This, of course, made her feel guilty being a vintner, his wife and, undoubtedly, his biggest enabler.
She was in the Blacksmith shop with a group of the school children as Kurt Bartleby was pounding away at his glowing rod ... of metal. Sparks were flying through the air. Behind the spray of sparks stood her assistant, Gina. What a beautiful girl she is Sveltie thought.
Gina was standing there smiling seductively at Kurt, who looked up and winked at her. The group of first and second graders were holding their ears as Kurt pounded away at the metal. He stopped and addressed his young crowd.
"Now, I'm gonna cool this off a bit ..." He plunged the metal into a wooden bucket of water. The metal screamed and hissed like a muskrat being suffocated by a large snake, as it hit the cold liquid, much to the delight of his young audience.
"Now, I'm going to put my rod in the glory hole and its going to get real hot when Gina pumps the bellows for me" He said with a grin
"Oh Jesus Christ!" Sveltie thought to herself. "You two seriously need to get a room." She looked at the Teachers and the group chaperones. Thankfully they didn't seem to catch the double entendre.
As he started pounding away and shaping the metal, the sparks started to fly again. Gina was framed by the the glowing shower of metal and the reflections flashed in her eyes and illuminated her lovely chocolate skin. Under her winter gear she was wearing a dress which exposed enough of her cleavage to make Sveltie want to do a double take.
Sveltie marveled at the sparks and the look in Gina's eyes as she watched Kurt. She thought of the rainbow points of light described by Sheriff Hawthorne in his diary.
Kurt was great with the children. He listened attentively and answered their questions as they fired away.
Sveltie's phone chimed. It was Jerry.
"I'm caught up with the story. Meet me at the hotel after work? Show me the secret room?"
"Of course my love. I've got a surprise for you."
***************************************
Sveltie and her husband walked into the Sheriff's most recent dirty little secret, outside of room number 10 at old Muskrat Flats Hotel. Jerry began to look around.
This is amazing he thought. He looked at the bottle of absinthe and uncorked it, taking a sniff. The anise infused herbal aroma tickled his olfactory receptors. He looked at the paintings.
"These paintings are probably worth a fortune. They need to be displayed where the public can see them."
He pulled two bottles of Muskrat Flats Vineyard's Reisling, some cheese and crackers. Sveltie should have felt disappointment at seeing the bottles of wine after the conversation they had last night, but she let it slide. She took her winter coat off revealing the costume she had worn at the Fall Festival. Jerry's eyes widened as he saw his wife dressed as Celeste, Sheriff Hawthorne's favorite girl.
Sveltie lit the oil lamp as Jerry peered through the grating into room number 10.
They sat down. He poured the wine and he began to read aloud, one again, the century old words of Sheriff Hawthorne.
"Isabella caused me to feel like I had never felt. There was the danger of the the situation which caused the most excitement for me. Knowing that as delicate and sensual her mouth felt upon my flesh, that mouth also contained those fangs which were capable of draining me of every drop of blood I possessed. As I sat in my office, feeling her mouth on me, feeling those talons raking against my flesh, feeling those mysterious rain drops of burning color soak into my body, I could se my tombstone coming in and out of view as her head slid up and down.
"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh." I read.
"They won't be laughing when they read this, What will they say if they find out about this?" I thought as I experienced a sensation the Padre down the road would prefer I feel for procreation purposes only. An intense wave of pleasure it was.
I was shocked out of my next thought as Isabella penetrated my mind once again to receive the thought.
"I would give anything to feel like this every day."
"Would you, now?" I heard her ask.
I countered this by thinking,
"Why ME, are you ever going to tell me. The carnival leaves in to days."
I composed myself, pulling up my trousers as Isabella lit a cigar. She walked over to the painting
I had behind my desk. She looked at it for a very long time, making sure to blow her smoke away from the art. How courteous, I thought.
"Jean Luc Lemay, a very talented artist. where did he paint this in Paris?"
"No, in this office actually ... you know of Jean Luc?"
"He speaks very highly of you. You made quite an impression on him, Sheriff. A man who would fake his own death to save a town. You seem a little more self-centered than that, but apparently I could be wrong. You did the right thing ... yes, you made quite an impression on Jean Luc, indeed."
I was growing impatient, wanting the answers to question I felt I deserved.
"We spent much time together in Paris. and he accompanied me back to Muskrat Flats. We still correspond by mail."
"He told me I would find an ally in you, that you were different."
I beagn to think about Jean Luc and his habits, he is ...
"One of us, Sheriff. He is a vampire. He should be an example to you that we're are not all heartless killers. Predators we are, but we can always find undesirables who deserve what we are more than willing to give them. "
"Like Caesar? He was an undesirable?" She kept pacing around my office touching my possessions as she spoke before finally settling to the chair. As she sat and took a puff of her cigar, some droplets of light jumped out of her and disappeared.
"Occasionally we find someone we desire, one who we would like to be one of us."
I got a chill as she said this, and saw more sparks leave her body. She shuddered as if she were being pleasured as we spoke.
"Your girl Celeste is enjoying Astrid's company right now. I can feel it."
"Those drops of light, how does that work?" I queried trying to change the subject. She ignored my question as she began to tell me her confession.
"Astrid joined our carnival about a year ago. I was immediately drawn to her, as were you."
"She has that affect on people." I noted.
"Before, she came to the carnival, I felt a presence which I could not quite identify. The Mexicans would always come to me and ask for help to keep away the nightmares. They would describe them to me, but I couldn't read their thoughts regarding the nightmares. It was odd. I tried to help them, but they are so superstitious they didn't fully trust me, either."
She uncrossed and crossed her legs, as my eyes wandered up her thigh. Isabella continued.
As Astrid and I became closer, she told me of a situation which had occurred with Caesar. He kept trying to get in her good graces, About two weeks ago, He tried to force himself on her one night, after they had been drinking. He ended up beating her. I was livid. I wanted to kill him, but Astrid asked me not to, fearing that I would expose myself. I have deep feelings for her she is special to me."
"You are in Love?"
"I don't know if love is what it can be called when you are immortal, Coleman."
"So, you confronted him, anyway?"
"Yes, again, I had that nagging feeling I just described. I tried to read his thoughts and he just laughed.
"You can't get in my mind, little girl." He said. "You saw what can happen when I don't get my way. You don't want to see what I can really do. The deserts we cross are very wide and vast ... a good place to hide the body of an annoying little girl who does parlor tricks with people's minds, a good place for someone - to disappear."
I took a pull of my cigar. She continued.
"The next morning Astrid was feeling exhausted. As if she had no sleep. She described a nightmare she had. She said she was awakened by a sound. Then she felt like someone or something was holding her down on her cot. She saw a purple and green mist which enveloped her and she felt like she was being raped, even though nobody was there. In her mind, she saw horrifying images of snakes."
That evening I went to see Caesar's show. He looked at me leering in a menacing way. I watched him wrestle the snake. During his act, something odd happened. As he rolled around on the stage with the snake wrapped around him, I saw wisps of green and purple. I knew right there what I was dealing with."
"What was that?" I had to ask.
"Caesar was a vampire who is a non-blood drinker, but drains people life force, their energy, their soul."
"He visits people in the night and penetrates their dreams, and rapes them? Like an Incubus?" I asked.
"Incubus? Very good sheriff, I'm impressed. But an Incubus is a demon. Caesar's type have trained their minds to prey on those of others."
I sat there stroking my mustache. She took another pull from the cigar and I said,
"Well, continue, how did he die?"
"Astrid was visited by him once more in the night. The next day I made her one of us. You saw the ritual. That gave her the ultimate protection and the strength for the ultimate revenge.
Astrid told Caesar that she had a change of heart and lured him into his tent, where I was waiting in the corner. She got on his bed and I saw the wisps of green and purple coming out of his body once more. He must have sensed my presence, because he turned to me. The clouds of energy drew closer to me.
"I told you not to fuck with me little girl. You don't know what I am capable of." He advanced toward me as did the clouds of energy.
I just stood there and released my own energy. The droplets of light you see began to pierce into Caesar. He was caught totally unaware. He had no idea what HE was dealing with. He screamed.
"Arggh! What are you doing to me?" He tried to turn up his own energy level but it was too late. I got inside his head and screamed as loud as I could.
Astrid jumped on him and sank her fangs into his neck and began feasting on his blood. I bore my fangs and advanced at him. He was shaking in fear trying to fight off Astrid. I swiped at his abdomen with my hand slicing his flesh. I licked the blood from my fingers. Looked him straight in the eye and said,
"Goodbye, Asshole!" As I cradled his head in my hands and snapped his neck. Then Astrid and I drank."
"Wow, why did you leave him out in the open to be found like that?"
"Astrid had spread the word that he was responsible for the night time attacks. All of the Mexicans described seeing snakes. She said the nightmares would never happen again and she is right."
"What about the energy, the purple and green cloud? Gone?" I asked.
"It is disembodied and we have protection against it. So you have heard my confession. What are you going to do?"
"What can I do, I guess it will have to be the chupabora who did this."
"Chupacabra, Sheriff. With me sitting in front of you, you can't acknowledge the existence of another supernatural being?"
"No, not right now."
"What are you going to do about the other thing, Coleman?" Isabella asked as she sashayed over to me. She smiled and bared her fangs. She sat in my lap, my hand ran against her smooth side cupping her breast.
"What other thing?" I asked coyly, trying to ignore the direction the conversation was headed.
I looked at the painting done by Jean Luc and thought of the portrait he had done of me which now is hanging in the Odd Fellows Hall. How could I have spent so much time with him and not even have the slightest suspicion that he was a vampire?
"I want you Coleman, do you want us? You faked your own death once before, you could just leave when we leave." She was kissing my neck, her breath in my ear, whispering how she desired me.
"I have to think about it." I thought. She continued kissing my neck grazing my skin with those fangs. I began to get aroused.
"Can I at least have a little taste, Coleman?"
I didn't answer. I simply put my head back as I allowed her to sink her fangs into my neck. I was once again bathed in a brilliant malestrom of light as I melted in her arms."
Sveltie opened her eyes to look at her husband Jerry. She was horny as hell and wanted him right then and there.
Sveltie saw the love in his eyes. She hoped that she could return the love he had for her. For she still had some unresolved thoughts on the matter as well as a wandering eye. She wondered why she couldn't just love him like she used to.
As odd a story as it is, rife with sexuality and fantastic forays into the supernatural, the constant in this plane of reality, this miniscule slice of time in the history of Muskrat Flats seems to be that Sheriff Hawthorne is still shaping the lives of Muskrat Flats' residents, descendants of neighbors he loved and cherished in his lifetime.
Perhaps it is time that the folks in the Flats, start to really take a look at the life of Sheriff Hawthorne and put an end to his posthumous meddling. We hear stories of the lives of legends from the American frontier people, like John Henry or Pecos Bill, even outlaws like Frank and Jesse James. They all seem so much larger than life and unreal. But in the case of Sheriff Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq., and his larger than life legend enmeshed in the history Muskrat Flats, the ante has been upped with a sordid story, in an old leather bound tablet, written by his own hand, in blood.
I say they get rid of Sheriff Hawthorne's diary first, before they start ...
Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats.
For information on Vampires written from an academic point of view please check out
http://www.konstantinos.com/
His bedroom, with his large comfortable king sized bed, was untouched. The cardboard refrigerator box, in which he slept in his dining room, that is still caught up in a tree about 100 yards into the woods behind his house.
If that foul weather had not come, perhaps Coley, Muskrat Flats' richest resident, would still be walking up and down Petersen St., with his dog Chubby, fishing in the trash for bits of interesting paper. He might still be hanging out on a park bench across the street from the Odd Fellows Hall, smelling the aroma of Iva's blueberry muffins, some of which are grilled delicately in whole butter. How many days he would sit on that bench wishing he had the nerve to cross the street and ask for one of those golden brown nuggets. Instead he sat on the bench lost in the whirlwind of his insanity, scratching away at his black composition notebook, figuring out the interest his fortune was amassing on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. His obsession, driven by a chemical imbalance left him feeling alone and detached, so he figured might as well live like he felt ... homeless.
He was walking through the woods the on his way downtown and saw his box, wedged in the branches at the top of a black birch tree. He stopped and looked up at the box which was glistening in the sun as patches of ice melted away after the previous night's coating of freezing rain. He pulled an ice slicked sapling from one of the lower branches of the birch and stripped the black bark away with his fingernail. Chubby was nosing around in the snow and ice. Corey peeled back the tender membrane underneath the bark and put the wood in his mouth, tasting the bubble gum sweetness of the tender shoot. He rolled the stick around in his mouth, as he gazed up at the box.
"What the fuck was I thinking, living like that?"
As the sweetness of the branch dissipated, he spit it out, thinking that the sap from the maples would be running soon. Iva's muffins must be wondrous with some melted butter and some fresh maple syrup.
Coley was thankful for the weather. Even though it was cold and wet, and he occasionally had to pry balls of ice, wedged uncomfortably between the pads of Chubby's paws, it was severe weather which had exposed his charade.
Now, he felt joy. It wasn't such a terrible thing to let people into his life. His neighbors were making a difference. Perhaps if he walked across the street and asked for one those blueberry muffins, long ago, the good neighbors in Muskrat Flats would have come to his aid. Perhaps they would have found out that he was the mysterious resident who everyone had been talking about. But now he thought that probably wouldn't have made a difference in how they treated him. Yes he was the anonymous donor who kept charities functioning, scholarship funds solvent, social service programs rolling along with full budget. Not bad for a homeless guy. Can anyone doubt that he is the bastard Great Grandson of Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III? But, they would have seen that he needed help and would have assisted him in getting it, of that he was sure.
He gave the cardboard box one last glance, took a deep inhale of the crisp morning air and headed to the center of town.
At the Farm Museum, things were pretty normal. It was quiet with the exception of school groups who would come around for a tour of the blacksmith shop, to see how the animals are cared for in the winter and of course to enjoy the sleigh ride past rows and rows of Sveltie's barren and dormant grapevines.
Sveltie and Jerry were hashing out their problems. They loved each other but each were beginning to look outside of their relationship for the comfort and excitement they should have been providing for each other. Sveltie was beginning to worry about Jerry's drinking. When they were together his consumption seemed to be in check. The last time Jerry "let slip" that he was with another woman alcohol was a factor. She was wondering if it was not so much that he was looking for sex as he was looking for someone who drank like he did. This, of course, made her feel guilty being a vintner, his wife and, undoubtedly, his biggest enabler.
She was in the Blacksmith shop with a group of the school children as Kurt Bartleby was pounding away at his glowing rod ... of metal. Sparks were flying through the air. Behind the spray of sparks stood her assistant, Gina. What a beautiful girl she is Sveltie thought.
Gina was standing there smiling seductively at Kurt, who looked up and winked at her. The group of first and second graders were holding their ears as Kurt pounded away at the metal. He stopped and addressed his young crowd.
"Now, I'm gonna cool this off a bit ..." He plunged the metal into a wooden bucket of water. The metal screamed and hissed like a muskrat being suffocated by a large snake, as it hit the cold liquid, much to the delight of his young audience.
"Now, I'm going to put my rod in the glory hole and its going to get real hot when Gina pumps the bellows for me" He said with a grin
"Oh Jesus Christ!" Sveltie thought to herself. "You two seriously need to get a room." She looked at the Teachers and the group chaperones. Thankfully they didn't seem to catch the double entendre.
As he started pounding away and shaping the metal, the sparks started to fly again. Gina was framed by the the glowing shower of metal and the reflections flashed in her eyes and illuminated her lovely chocolate skin. Under her winter gear she was wearing a dress which exposed enough of her cleavage to make Sveltie want to do a double take.
Sveltie marveled at the sparks and the look in Gina's eyes as she watched Kurt. She thought of the rainbow points of light described by Sheriff Hawthorne in his diary.
Kurt was great with the children. He listened attentively and answered their questions as they fired away.
Sveltie's phone chimed. It was Jerry.
"I'm caught up with the story. Meet me at the hotel after work? Show me the secret room?"
"Of course my love. I've got a surprise for you."
***************************************
Sveltie and her husband walked into the Sheriff's most recent dirty little secret, outside of room number 10 at old Muskrat Flats Hotel. Jerry began to look around.
This is amazing he thought. He looked at the bottle of absinthe and uncorked it, taking a sniff. The anise infused herbal aroma tickled his olfactory receptors. He looked at the paintings.
"These paintings are probably worth a fortune. They need to be displayed where the public can see them."
He pulled two bottles of Muskrat Flats Vineyard's Reisling, some cheese and crackers. Sveltie should have felt disappointment at seeing the bottles of wine after the conversation they had last night, but she let it slide. She took her winter coat off revealing the costume she had worn at the Fall Festival. Jerry's eyes widened as he saw his wife dressed as Celeste, Sheriff Hawthorne's favorite girl.
Sveltie lit the oil lamp as Jerry peered through the grating into room number 10.
They sat down. He poured the wine and he began to read aloud, one again, the century old words of Sheriff Hawthorne.
"Isabella caused me to feel like I had never felt. There was the danger of the the situation which caused the most excitement for me. Knowing that as delicate and sensual her mouth felt upon my flesh, that mouth also contained those fangs which were capable of draining me of every drop of blood I possessed. As I sat in my office, feeling her mouth on me, feeling those talons raking against my flesh, feeling those mysterious rain drops of burning color soak into my body, I could se my tombstone coming in and out of view as her head slid up and down.
"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh." I read.
"They won't be laughing when they read this, What will they say if they find out about this?" I thought as I experienced a sensation the Padre down the road would prefer I feel for procreation purposes only. An intense wave of pleasure it was.
I was shocked out of my next thought as Isabella penetrated my mind once again to receive the thought.
"I would give anything to feel like this every day."
"Would you, now?" I heard her ask.
I countered this by thinking,
"Why ME, are you ever going to tell me. The carnival leaves in to days."
I composed myself, pulling up my trousers as Isabella lit a cigar. She walked over to the painting
I had behind my desk. She looked at it for a very long time, making sure to blow her smoke away from the art. How courteous, I thought.
"Jean Luc Lemay, a very talented artist. where did he paint this in Paris?"
"No, in this office actually ... you know of Jean Luc?"
"He speaks very highly of you. You made quite an impression on him, Sheriff. A man who would fake his own death to save a town. You seem a little more self-centered than that, but apparently I could be wrong. You did the right thing ... yes, you made quite an impression on Jean Luc, indeed."
I was growing impatient, wanting the answers to question I felt I deserved.
"We spent much time together in Paris. and he accompanied me back to Muskrat Flats. We still correspond by mail."
"He told me I would find an ally in you, that you were different."
I beagn to think about Jean Luc and his habits, he is ...
"One of us, Sheriff. He is a vampire. He should be an example to you that we're are not all heartless killers. Predators we are, but we can always find undesirables who deserve what we are more than willing to give them. "
"Like Caesar? He was an undesirable?" She kept pacing around my office touching my possessions as she spoke before finally settling to the chair. As she sat and took a puff of her cigar, some droplets of light jumped out of her and disappeared.
"Occasionally we find someone we desire, one who we would like to be one of us."
I got a chill as she said this, and saw more sparks leave her body. She shuddered as if she were being pleasured as we spoke.
"Your girl Celeste is enjoying Astrid's company right now. I can feel it."
"Those drops of light, how does that work?" I queried trying to change the subject. She ignored my question as she began to tell me her confession.
"Astrid joined our carnival about a year ago. I was immediately drawn to her, as were you."
"She has that affect on people." I noted.
"Before, she came to the carnival, I felt a presence which I could not quite identify. The Mexicans would always come to me and ask for help to keep away the nightmares. They would describe them to me, but I couldn't read their thoughts regarding the nightmares. It was odd. I tried to help them, but they are so superstitious they didn't fully trust me, either."
She uncrossed and crossed her legs, as my eyes wandered up her thigh. Isabella continued.
As Astrid and I became closer, she told me of a situation which had occurred with Caesar. He kept trying to get in her good graces, About two weeks ago, He tried to force himself on her one night, after they had been drinking. He ended up beating her. I was livid. I wanted to kill him, but Astrid asked me not to, fearing that I would expose myself. I have deep feelings for her she is special to me."
"You are in Love?"
"I don't know if love is what it can be called when you are immortal, Coleman."
"So, you confronted him, anyway?"
"Yes, again, I had that nagging feeling I just described. I tried to read his thoughts and he just laughed.
"You can't get in my mind, little girl." He said. "You saw what can happen when I don't get my way. You don't want to see what I can really do. The deserts we cross are very wide and vast ... a good place to hide the body of an annoying little girl who does parlor tricks with people's minds, a good place for someone - to disappear."
I took a pull of my cigar. She continued.
"The next morning Astrid was feeling exhausted. As if she had no sleep. She described a nightmare she had. She said she was awakened by a sound. Then she felt like someone or something was holding her down on her cot. She saw a purple and green mist which enveloped her and she felt like she was being raped, even though nobody was there. In her mind, she saw horrifying images of snakes."
That evening I went to see Caesar's show. He looked at me leering in a menacing way. I watched him wrestle the snake. During his act, something odd happened. As he rolled around on the stage with the snake wrapped around him, I saw wisps of green and purple. I knew right there what I was dealing with."
"What was that?" I had to ask.
"Caesar was a vampire who is a non-blood drinker, but drains people life force, their energy, their soul."
"He visits people in the night and penetrates their dreams, and rapes them? Like an Incubus?" I asked.
"Incubus? Very good sheriff, I'm impressed. But an Incubus is a demon. Caesar's type have trained their minds to prey on those of others."
I sat there stroking my mustache. She took another pull from the cigar and I said,
"Well, continue, how did he die?"
"Astrid was visited by him once more in the night. The next day I made her one of us. You saw the ritual. That gave her the ultimate protection and the strength for the ultimate revenge.
Astrid told Caesar that she had a change of heart and lured him into his tent, where I was waiting in the corner. She got on his bed and I saw the wisps of green and purple coming out of his body once more. He must have sensed my presence, because he turned to me. The clouds of energy drew closer to me.
"I told you not to fuck with me little girl. You don't know what I am capable of." He advanced toward me as did the clouds of energy.
I just stood there and released my own energy. The droplets of light you see began to pierce into Caesar. He was caught totally unaware. He had no idea what HE was dealing with. He screamed.
"Arggh! What are you doing to me?" He tried to turn up his own energy level but it was too late. I got inside his head and screamed as loud as I could.
Astrid jumped on him and sank her fangs into his neck and began feasting on his blood. I bore my fangs and advanced at him. He was shaking in fear trying to fight off Astrid. I swiped at his abdomen with my hand slicing his flesh. I licked the blood from my fingers. Looked him straight in the eye and said,
"Goodbye, Asshole!" As I cradled his head in my hands and snapped his neck. Then Astrid and I drank."
"Wow, why did you leave him out in the open to be found like that?"
"Astrid had spread the word that he was responsible for the night time attacks. All of the Mexicans described seeing snakes. She said the nightmares would never happen again and she is right."
"What about the energy, the purple and green cloud? Gone?" I asked.
"It is disembodied and we have protection against it. So you have heard my confession. What are you going to do?"
"What can I do, I guess it will have to be the chupabora who did this."
"Chupacabra, Sheriff. With me sitting in front of you, you can't acknowledge the existence of another supernatural being?"
"No, not right now."
"What are you going to do about the other thing, Coleman?" Isabella asked as she sashayed over to me. She smiled and bared her fangs. She sat in my lap, my hand ran against her smooth side cupping her breast.
"What other thing?" I asked coyly, trying to ignore the direction the conversation was headed.
I looked at the painting done by Jean Luc and thought of the portrait he had done of me which now is hanging in the Odd Fellows Hall. How could I have spent so much time with him and not even have the slightest suspicion that he was a vampire?
"I want you Coleman, do you want us? You faked your own death once before, you could just leave when we leave." She was kissing my neck, her breath in my ear, whispering how she desired me.
"I have to think about it." I thought. She continued kissing my neck grazing my skin with those fangs. I began to get aroused.
"Can I at least have a little taste, Coleman?"
I didn't answer. I simply put my head back as I allowed her to sink her fangs into my neck. I was once again bathed in a brilliant malestrom of light as I melted in her arms."
Sveltie opened her eyes to look at her husband Jerry. She was horny as hell and wanted him right then and there.
Sveltie saw the love in his eyes. She hoped that she could return the love he had for her. For she still had some unresolved thoughts on the matter as well as a wandering eye. She wondered why she couldn't just love him like she used to.
As odd a story as it is, rife with sexuality and fantastic forays into the supernatural, the constant in this plane of reality, this miniscule slice of time in the history of Muskrat Flats seems to be that Sheriff Hawthorne is still shaping the lives of Muskrat Flats' residents, descendants of neighbors he loved and cherished in his lifetime.
Perhaps it is time that the folks in the Flats, start to really take a look at the life of Sheriff Hawthorne and put an end to his posthumous meddling. We hear stories of the lives of legends from the American frontier people, like John Henry or Pecos Bill, even outlaws like Frank and Jesse James. They all seem so much larger than life and unreal. But in the case of Sheriff Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq., and his larger than life legend enmeshed in the history Muskrat Flats, the ante has been upped with a sordid story, in an old leather bound tablet, written by his own hand, in blood.
I say they get rid of Sheriff Hawthorne's diary first, before they start ...
Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats.
For information on Vampires written from an academic point of view please check out
http://www.konstantinos.com/
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Thinking back to what I'm drinking. I think I 'll drink myself back home cause what is there is what is hurting."
Cause I'm not feeling too good, I've lost a lot of blood.
and I should hope you that will tell my family -
that I want on my epitaph, "Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh"
and that's the best you could expect - a clown to be.
F. Alex Johnson
It was a cold brisk winter day in Muskrat Flats, about 15 degrees at the Municipal Airport. The sky was as blue as the turquoise ring around the cobalt center of the eye of a peacock's feather. It was a stunning blue, like you normally don't see. The kind of color which makes you check your glasses to make sure they haven't suddenly decided to become some odd shade causing the color spectrum to burst out of the palette.
The clear sky looked so peaceful. It didn't appear that in less than four hours another blanket of snow was destined to cover Muskrat Flats. It was to be a heavy wet snow. The kind Gomer Eckstein did not want his father, Moe, to be shoveling.
Across town, Moe was in the warmth of the Odd Fellows hall, underneath a wooden frieze with an etching depicting three links of a chain, Friendship, Love and Truth, enjoying his morning coffee and a warm, buttery blueberry muffin.
Moe was doing much better physically. The most recent round of chemo had eradicated the tumors and he was feeling virile, healthy and become his old cantankerous self. Fortunately for Gomer's psyche his dad was directing most of his bitching at either Sid or the printed page.
The most recent piece Moe had published, in Mother Jones, was the funniest Gomer had ever read from his father. Gomer appreciated his father's command of the language. Just as long as his pointed and scathing sarcasm wasn't directed at him, Gomer was happy to see or hear anything Dad had to say. It was when Moe started his sentences out with the words,
"Soooo, Sonny Boy ..." That Gomer felt like he needed to run for cover.
Gomer was sitting at his computer. Trying to dissect his thoughts. Sveltie seemed to have no problem with the recent rekindling of their physical relationship. He was fearing that the old emotions, which were brewing away, were the embers of an unquenchable inferno. He was confused.
He wanted to tell Miranda about the encounters, but that might not fall in line with the principles of the 9th Step, which warn of making direct amends to people we may have harmed, if to do so may injure them. What was he going to do?
It is funny how the brain works sometimes. Sveltie was a willing participant and manipulated the situation to her advantage with Gomer, after all she had her needs, too. At the end of the day, she was hurt by her husband Jerry's sexcapades at the Organic Farming Conference. Sveltie spoke slowly and carefully trying not to get mad.
"How ... could you not even know her last name? Don't you guys wear name tags?"
"I was drunk, I'm sorry." He replied. "What did you and Gomer end up doing that night?"
Sveltie was silent. Maybe these rules they had established to define their extramarital cavortings needed to be revisted. As wild a time as she had with Gomer, she felt anger at her husband and guilt regarding her own actions.
She sat silently as her husband clutched a glass of her Pinot Grigio, the fourth he had consumed that night. He sat silently as well, with tears streaming down his face. He contemplated his situation as he looked down at the glass of wine and the half smoked joint in the ashtray. He knew a little bit more of both would take away the pain, at least until he woke up.
He remembered the days when he, Gomer and Sveltie would party, see the Grateful Dead and rave all night long. He missed those times.
He wanted his friend back - not the guy who he found in their bathroom with a needle sticking out of his arm, and certainly not the guy who stands in the corner smiling and laughing with his clean buddies, like he doesn't have a care in the world.
How could Gomer do what he does and not be high? He looks high when he is on stage. He gets that crazed look that he used to get when they would party. That is the guy Jerry wanted to hang out with, but the second he comes off the stage, he is the new guy, they guy who looks familiar, but the guy he doesn't really know. He is like a pod that has had Gomer's soul sucked out, a pod that Jerry was really beginning to resent.
He wanted what Gomer has, especially now that it seemed his estranged best friend may also have his wife.
Gomer sat in his office at the First Step Is A Doozy Jump School, located at the Muskrat Flats Municipal Airport. He looked out the window, the brilliant turquoise he had so admired earlier in the day had devolved into darkness. As far as he could see, the runway was dotted with equally stunning blue lights. On the desk next to him was the tattered diary, written in blood, left by Sheriff Hawthorne.
The bloody cursive reminded Gomer of a story his father had told him of a General Inquisitor for the Spaniards named Tomas de Torquemada, a brutal and hated man, who signed the fate of many unrepentant Spanish Jews and Muslims in their own blood. Gomer thought to himself, as tawdry and fantastic as this artifact - this hostorical document is, it sure is making the rounds.
Gomer peered at his computer and re-read the passage he had been working on for the Shiva Las Vegas script.
"Cut to a parking lot scene at a Phish show. A tour kid name Poppa K is rolling along with his dog "Ground Score" who is tethered with a hemp leash.
Poppa K hears a particularly good guitar lick come through the air and begins to groove wildly to the music. He is roused from his psychedelic bliss as a Hockey referee wearing a black and white striped shirt, with a orange arm band, black pants and a helmet, comes out of nowhere. He blows his whistle, with his opposite hand he chops his hand on his knee and follows through. He shouts at Poppa K,
"Two minutes for Tripping."
The next scene Poppa K is a hockey penalty box enclosed by 6 foot panels of safety glass. He is distraught and freaking out as Ground Score sits outside the box, incessantly barking.
Gomer chuckles to himself and says of himself,
"What a weirdo!"
His phone rang - It was Miranda, they had a date. Gomer had been telling her about the Sheriff's adventures with the vampires Astrid and Countess Isabella. They chatted for a few minutes. Gomer didn't bring up the subject of Sveltie. Miranda finally said,
"So are you going to read to me or what?"
"Okay, hold on." He put down his phone and tapped his blue tooth.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yep, go ahead," She said. Gomer peered down at the rust colored cursive and began.
*****************************
I sat in my office. Looking out the window. The moonlight was shimmering through the trees of the mighty maple I had been swinging from just a few short years ago. Astrid was wearing a long white skirt, a blue silk bandanna strategically placed around her long neck from which hung was the oddly complex glass pendant Isabella had been wearing the night before.
I had tapered my alcohol consumption during the day as I needed to be relatively sober for this meeting. After all, I was the Sheriff. Astrid was peering at me seductively. Celeste was sitting to my left. I was still reeling from the debauchery from the night before. running my hand along Celeste's back and neck. She giggled as my fingers grazed some bite marks on her shoulders.
She was still delirious from the affect of the falling diamonds of light Isabella had conjured up. Celeste was slightly drunk from the having already had a few more than generous "clients" earlier, at the hotel bar.
I have to admit, I have never experienced such an exciting feeling of peace and solace as I did the previous night. I would think that the undead would be void of such feelings, if any feelings at all. But it appears that they feel just the same as their mortal counterparts.
Astrid was looking at Celeste seductively as she removed her vest, revealing that the dress she wore was backless, a daring fashion I had never seen.
We sat there waiting. As Celeste cooed over Astrid's attire, she sounded annoyingly like a school girl as she fawned and fussed, feeling the fabric and running her hands along Astrid's exposed flesh.
My heart leaped with anticipation as the door swung open and Isabella entered the room. I was beginning to wonder where these ladies found their clothes? The were so unlike the fashions to which we were accustomed in Muskrat Flats.
Isabella was wearing skin tight boots which covered much of her calf. Into these were tucked black form fitting pants, made of a material foreign to me, She wore a white silk blouse which was almost transparent. She wore a long black hooded cloak, within which her eyes glowed like those of a cat.
Her tight pants clearly outlined her sexy curves and valleys causing me to lust for a repeat of last night's events. How smooth her leg felt against my face. How excited it was to feel those fingernails, those menacing spikes, dig into my bald head so delicately, beckoning me and easing me closer to the oasis I so desired. Those nails eased me forward as if to indicate that any form of retreat would cause a painful and bloody episode.
I looked up into her eyes. They were made up with dark eyeliner, accenting her already exotic Oriental features..."
"Oriental?" Miranda asked incredulously.
"Hey this was written in the 19th century, don't forget."
"Yeah it just sounds weird."
Gomer got back to the text.
"I kept my eye contact with Isabella. I could hear Astrid and Celeste in the background. Occasionally Celeste would grunt when she was bitten only to sigh shortly afterward."
As I began to taste Isabella's nectar, my hands roamed feeling her flawless flesh. The diamonds began to fly out of hear head like a halo as she experienced the pleasure I was providing. One hand remained on my head as her other hand began to graze my chest. I felt one of her nails tickle around my nipple. I knew what was coming next. I knew the sacrifice I had to make to be so honored to be with this most alluring temptress. I saw white as I experienced the most intense pain I have ever felt including the time I was stabbed in the shoulder by a jealous husband. Isabella beckoned me up so she could taste the blood which was flowing from my chest.
As she suckled, my pain turned to ecstasy as those floating diamonds fell on me like raindrops and penetrated my flesh. I could live forever and not find the appropriate words to describe how I felt.
Before I knew it she was in my head again. Staring right at me smiling silently.
"Thinking about last night, Coleman?"
She shed her cloak and drew the curtains of my office window. Celeste returned to sit next to me as Isabella walked over to Astrid. She placed her hands on Astrid's shoulders and delicately kissed her neck. I marveled at how cruel yet delicate these creatures could be. Again Isabella looked right at me and answered my silent observation.
"Yes, Coleman, we are funny that way. We can be the most gentle and seductive of creatures ..."
As she said this, she began to trace a fingernail along Astrid's back. I noticed her nipples stiffen.
Isabella then increased the pressure carving a deep bloody trail in the white flesh, a trail which would heal as quickly as the flesh had been sliced. She bent down and licked. Celeste poked me to bring my attention to this phenomena, as if I could have missed it. Isabella continued speaking with an almost macho bravado.
"We can also be the most vicious killers. When I feed, unless I want you to know what is happening - to taunt you or to let you squirm before you receive the death you so deserve, it is quick and painless, your soul drifts off and you come around again as someone else."
I looked at Celeste and Astrid. I began to fear for Celeste's life. But then I tried to clear my head of all thoughts since they were being picked out of my skull like ripe apples.
"Do not fear for Celeste, she is with you, I will not harm her."
"Why am I so special?" I asked.
"For starters you are in charge."
"I honestly don't think authority matters to your kind." Isabella answered,
"We have to be careful, we just can't roam the country side killing indiscrimminately."
"Why Do I know about you, you exposed yourself to ME, remember? You seem like you are crafty enough to do what you have to do and make it look like an accident. If you leave a trail of dead bodies around, some one like ME HAS TO DEAL WITH IT!"
"I figured You would understand."
"But I really don't think I do ..."
"Besides, I had to monitor your interest in Astrid, I was very protective of her when she was mortal. That is why Caesar ended up having his "unfortunate" encounter with the Chupacabra.
I began to lose my composure as she walked around my office. She moved over to the Tombstone I had in the corner of my office. She ran her hand against the smooth polished black granite. She glanced over at me and smiled as she recited what she had just read.
"Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq."
"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh" Again I heard her silently.
"Nice tombstone Sherrif, are you going somewhere, again?"
"Jesus Fuck! What the fuck is a chupacabra?"
"It is the mythical creature that attacked and killed Ceasar. They need blood to live just as well as we do. Just ask any of the Mexicans about it, they will tell you."
Hawthorne mimiced them, "Chupacabras eets the chupacabra. Fuck that shit. I want to know why you killed him and left his body to be such a public spectacle. My residents are on the verge of hysteria."
I took a breath and calmed down. I pushed my luck, I knew I was being toyed with.
"I already figured that you killed Caesar. I want to know why. What I really need to know Is what role I play in all of this? Why me?"
Astrid cleared her throat. Isabella looked at her. Then answered.
"Yes you two can go back to the hotel." They left.
Isabella poured me a tall glass of bourbon and handed me one of her cigars. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet on my desk. She sat down and crossed her legs. I noted her dark nipples poking through the gauze seen through material of her blouse. She smiled at me.
"You never stop do you? And you wonder why I exposed myself to you? Do you want to play a little before I tell you my story?" Her sarcasm oozed like honey in November. " I think you deserve a little fun for all of the troubles I have caused you. " She got up and removed her blouse in a storm cloud of shimmering rain drops of light.
"Wow!" Miranda exclaimed.
Gomer stopped reading. He stretched and put the book down.
"So you read this book with Sveltie, huh?" Gomer flushed at the question. He quickly made a decision.
"Yes, yes I did read it with her."
"Hmmm. You will have to tell me the outcome of that story sometime. Uuhhh ... Look hun, it is getting late. I loved your last blog. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
"About, Sveltie ..."
"Gomer, you are a thousand miles away ... right now, I think I understand, look it's complicated."
"I really love you Miranda."
"I know, babe. I love you, too. Look I'm gonna see you in Vegas in five days. I can't wait. Goodnight."
She hung up the phone. Gomer rubbed his eyes. they were tearing up.
"I can't fuck this up." He told himself as he closed Hawthorne's diary.
Across town, Jerry and Sveltie lay in bed. He had stopped at four glasses of wine and began to sober up a little bit. Sveltie lay next to him, snuggling in and deeply inhaling his scent. He kissed her deeply and she reciprocated.
It has been an emotional week in Muskrat Flats as the residents grapple with who they really are, what they need, and what they desire. As was pointed out in the closing of the last installment, many questions have arisen for Gomer, Jerry, Sveltie and now Miranda. Oddly the catalyst for these question comes from a century old book written by the most notorious jokester ever to walk the streets of Muskrat Flats. If Gomer were to tell his father about Hawthorne's diary, Moe might cluck his tongue a few times, exhale dramatically and say,
"Sooo, Sonny Boy ...You what Ken Kesey used to say? "Never Trust a Prankster." That's what he used to say. Remember Sonny, Friendship, Love and Truth, three links in the chain which should never be broken."
Words of wisdom, which will never be heard if the the secret which is wreaking havoc amongst the friends, spouses and lovers caught up in the insanity, is never revealed.
I Can't think of a better time to be ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
Thanks to F. Alex Johnson of the Drunk Stuntmen . I know I took some liberties, buddy. But you write such compelling lyrics. Click down there to read Alex's even more compelling blog -
Fearless By Default
The clear sky looked so peaceful. It didn't appear that in less than four hours another blanket of snow was destined to cover Muskrat Flats. It was to be a heavy wet snow. The kind Gomer Eckstein did not want his father, Moe, to be shoveling.
Across town, Moe was in the warmth of the Odd Fellows hall, underneath a wooden frieze with an etching depicting three links of a chain, Friendship, Love and Truth, enjoying his morning coffee and a warm, buttery blueberry muffin.
Moe was doing much better physically. The most recent round of chemo had eradicated the tumors and he was feeling virile, healthy and become his old cantankerous self. Fortunately for Gomer's psyche his dad was directing most of his bitching at either Sid or the printed page.
The most recent piece Moe had published, in Mother Jones, was the funniest Gomer had ever read from his father. Gomer appreciated his father's command of the language. Just as long as his pointed and scathing sarcasm wasn't directed at him, Gomer was happy to see or hear anything Dad had to say. It was when Moe started his sentences out with the words,
"Soooo, Sonny Boy ..." That Gomer felt like he needed to run for cover.
Gomer was sitting at his computer. Trying to dissect his thoughts. Sveltie seemed to have no problem with the recent rekindling of their physical relationship. He was fearing that the old emotions, which were brewing away, were the embers of an unquenchable inferno. He was confused.
He wanted to tell Miranda about the encounters, but that might not fall in line with the principles of the 9th Step, which warn of making direct amends to people we may have harmed, if to do so may injure them. What was he going to do?
It is funny how the brain works sometimes. Sveltie was a willing participant and manipulated the situation to her advantage with Gomer, after all she had her needs, too. At the end of the day, she was hurt by her husband Jerry's sexcapades at the Organic Farming Conference. Sveltie spoke slowly and carefully trying not to get mad.
"How ... could you not even know her last name? Don't you guys wear name tags?"
"I was drunk, I'm sorry." He replied. "What did you and Gomer end up doing that night?"
Sveltie was silent. Maybe these rules they had established to define their extramarital cavortings needed to be revisted. As wild a time as she had with Gomer, she felt anger at her husband and guilt regarding her own actions.
She sat silently as her husband clutched a glass of her Pinot Grigio, the fourth he had consumed that night. He sat silently as well, with tears streaming down his face. He contemplated his situation as he looked down at the glass of wine and the half smoked joint in the ashtray. He knew a little bit more of both would take away the pain, at least until he woke up.
He remembered the days when he, Gomer and Sveltie would party, see the Grateful Dead and rave all night long. He missed those times.
He wanted his friend back - not the guy who he found in their bathroom with a needle sticking out of his arm, and certainly not the guy who stands in the corner smiling and laughing with his clean buddies, like he doesn't have a care in the world.
How could Gomer do what he does and not be high? He looks high when he is on stage. He gets that crazed look that he used to get when they would party. That is the guy Jerry wanted to hang out with, but the second he comes off the stage, he is the new guy, they guy who looks familiar, but the guy he doesn't really know. He is like a pod that has had Gomer's soul sucked out, a pod that Jerry was really beginning to resent.
He wanted what Gomer has, especially now that it seemed his estranged best friend may also have his wife.
Gomer sat in his office at the First Step Is A Doozy Jump School, located at the Muskrat Flats Municipal Airport. He looked out the window, the brilliant turquoise he had so admired earlier in the day had devolved into darkness. As far as he could see, the runway was dotted with equally stunning blue lights. On the desk next to him was the tattered diary, written in blood, left by Sheriff Hawthorne.
The bloody cursive reminded Gomer of a story his father had told him of a General Inquisitor for the Spaniards named Tomas de Torquemada, a brutal and hated man, who signed the fate of many unrepentant Spanish Jews and Muslims in their own blood. Gomer thought to himself, as tawdry and fantastic as this artifact - this hostorical document is, it sure is making the rounds.
Gomer peered at his computer and re-read the passage he had been working on for the Shiva Las Vegas script.
"Cut to a parking lot scene at a Phish show. A tour kid name Poppa K is rolling along with his dog "Ground Score" who is tethered with a hemp leash.
Poppa K hears a particularly good guitar lick come through the air and begins to groove wildly to the music. He is roused from his psychedelic bliss as a Hockey referee wearing a black and white striped shirt, with a orange arm band, black pants and a helmet, comes out of nowhere. He blows his whistle, with his opposite hand he chops his hand on his knee and follows through. He shouts at Poppa K,
"Two minutes for Tripping."
The next scene Poppa K is a hockey penalty box enclosed by 6 foot panels of safety glass. He is distraught and freaking out as Ground Score sits outside the box, incessantly barking.
Gomer chuckles to himself and says of himself,
"What a weirdo!"
His phone rang - It was Miranda, they had a date. Gomer had been telling her about the Sheriff's adventures with the vampires Astrid and Countess Isabella. They chatted for a few minutes. Gomer didn't bring up the subject of Sveltie. Miranda finally said,
"So are you going to read to me or what?"
"Okay, hold on." He put down his phone and tapped his blue tooth.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yep, go ahead," She said. Gomer peered down at the rust colored cursive and began.
*****************************
I sat in my office. Looking out the window. The moonlight was shimmering through the trees of the mighty maple I had been swinging from just a few short years ago. Astrid was wearing a long white skirt, a blue silk bandanna strategically placed around her long neck from which hung was the oddly complex glass pendant Isabella had been wearing the night before.
I had tapered my alcohol consumption during the day as I needed to be relatively sober for this meeting. After all, I was the Sheriff. Astrid was peering at me seductively. Celeste was sitting to my left. I was still reeling from the debauchery from the night before. running my hand along Celeste's back and neck. She giggled as my fingers grazed some bite marks on her shoulders.
She was still delirious from the affect of the falling diamonds of light Isabella had conjured up. Celeste was slightly drunk from the having already had a few more than generous "clients" earlier, at the hotel bar.
I have to admit, I have never experienced such an exciting feeling of peace and solace as I did the previous night. I would think that the undead would be void of such feelings, if any feelings at all. But it appears that they feel just the same as their mortal counterparts.
Astrid was looking at Celeste seductively as she removed her vest, revealing that the dress she wore was backless, a daring fashion I had never seen.
We sat there waiting. As Celeste cooed over Astrid's attire, she sounded annoyingly like a school girl as she fawned and fussed, feeling the fabric and running her hands along Astrid's exposed flesh.
My heart leaped with anticipation as the door swung open and Isabella entered the room. I was beginning to wonder where these ladies found their clothes? The were so unlike the fashions to which we were accustomed in Muskrat Flats.
Isabella was wearing skin tight boots which covered much of her calf. Into these were tucked black form fitting pants, made of a material foreign to me, She wore a white silk blouse which was almost transparent. She wore a long black hooded cloak, within which her eyes glowed like those of a cat.
Her tight pants clearly outlined her sexy curves and valleys causing me to lust for a repeat of last night's events. How smooth her leg felt against my face. How excited it was to feel those fingernails, those menacing spikes, dig into my bald head so delicately, beckoning me and easing me closer to the oasis I so desired. Those nails eased me forward as if to indicate that any form of retreat would cause a painful and bloody episode.
I looked up into her eyes. They were made up with dark eyeliner, accenting her already exotic Oriental features..."
"Oriental?" Miranda asked incredulously.
"Hey this was written in the 19th century, don't forget."
"Yeah it just sounds weird."
Gomer got back to the text.
"I kept my eye contact with Isabella. I could hear Astrid and Celeste in the background. Occasionally Celeste would grunt when she was bitten only to sigh shortly afterward."
As I began to taste Isabella's nectar, my hands roamed feeling her flawless flesh. The diamonds began to fly out of hear head like a halo as she experienced the pleasure I was providing. One hand remained on my head as her other hand began to graze my chest. I felt one of her nails tickle around my nipple. I knew what was coming next. I knew the sacrifice I had to make to be so honored to be with this most alluring temptress. I saw white as I experienced the most intense pain I have ever felt including the time I was stabbed in the shoulder by a jealous husband. Isabella beckoned me up so she could taste the blood which was flowing from my chest.
As she suckled, my pain turned to ecstasy as those floating diamonds fell on me like raindrops and penetrated my flesh. I could live forever and not find the appropriate words to describe how I felt.
Before I knew it she was in my head again. Staring right at me smiling silently.
"Thinking about last night, Coleman?"
She shed her cloak and drew the curtains of my office window. Celeste returned to sit next to me as Isabella walked over to Astrid. She placed her hands on Astrid's shoulders and delicately kissed her neck. I marveled at how cruel yet delicate these creatures could be. Again Isabella looked right at me and answered my silent observation.
"Yes, Coleman, we are funny that way. We can be the most gentle and seductive of creatures ..."
As she said this, she began to trace a fingernail along Astrid's back. I noticed her nipples stiffen.
Isabella then increased the pressure carving a deep bloody trail in the white flesh, a trail which would heal as quickly as the flesh had been sliced. She bent down and licked. Celeste poked me to bring my attention to this phenomena, as if I could have missed it. Isabella continued speaking with an almost macho bravado.
"We can also be the most vicious killers. When I feed, unless I want you to know what is happening - to taunt you or to let you squirm before you receive the death you so deserve, it is quick and painless, your soul drifts off and you come around again as someone else."
I looked at Celeste and Astrid. I began to fear for Celeste's life. But then I tried to clear my head of all thoughts since they were being picked out of my skull like ripe apples.
"Do not fear for Celeste, she is with you, I will not harm her."
"Why am I so special?" I asked.
"For starters you are in charge."
"I honestly don't think authority matters to your kind." Isabella answered,
"We have to be careful, we just can't roam the country side killing indiscrimminately."
"Why Do I know about you, you exposed yourself to ME, remember? You seem like you are crafty enough to do what you have to do and make it look like an accident. If you leave a trail of dead bodies around, some one like ME HAS TO DEAL WITH IT!"
"I figured You would understand."
"But I really don't think I do ..."
"Besides, I had to monitor your interest in Astrid, I was very protective of her when she was mortal. That is why Caesar ended up having his "unfortunate" encounter with the Chupacabra.
I began to lose my composure as she walked around my office. She moved over to the Tombstone I had in the corner of my office. She ran her hand against the smooth polished black granite. She glanced over at me and smiled as she recited what she had just read.
"Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq."
"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh" Again I heard her silently.
"Nice tombstone Sherrif, are you going somewhere, again?"
"Jesus Fuck! What the fuck is a chupacabra?"
"It is the mythical creature that attacked and killed Ceasar. They need blood to live just as well as we do. Just ask any of the Mexicans about it, they will tell you."
Hawthorne mimiced them, "Chupacabras eets the chupacabra. Fuck that shit. I want to know why you killed him and left his body to be such a public spectacle. My residents are on the verge of hysteria."
I took a breath and calmed down. I pushed my luck, I knew I was being toyed with.
"I already figured that you killed Caesar. I want to know why. What I really need to know Is what role I play in all of this? Why me?"
Astrid cleared her throat. Isabella looked at her. Then answered.
"Yes you two can go back to the hotel." They left.
Isabella poured me a tall glass of bourbon and handed me one of her cigars. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet on my desk. She sat down and crossed her legs. I noted her dark nipples poking through the gauze seen through material of her blouse. She smiled at me.
"You never stop do you? And you wonder why I exposed myself to you? Do you want to play a little before I tell you my story?" Her sarcasm oozed like honey in November. " I think you deserve a little fun for all of the troubles I have caused you. " She got up and removed her blouse in a storm cloud of shimmering rain drops of light.
"Wow!" Miranda exclaimed.
Gomer stopped reading. He stretched and put the book down.
"So you read this book with Sveltie, huh?" Gomer flushed at the question. He quickly made a decision.
"Yes, yes I did read it with her."
"Hmmm. You will have to tell me the outcome of that story sometime. Uuhhh ... Look hun, it is getting late. I loved your last blog. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
"About, Sveltie ..."
"Gomer, you are a thousand miles away ... right now, I think I understand, look it's complicated."
"I really love you Miranda."
"I know, babe. I love you, too. Look I'm gonna see you in Vegas in five days. I can't wait. Goodnight."
She hung up the phone. Gomer rubbed his eyes. they were tearing up.
"I can't fuck this up." He told himself as he closed Hawthorne's diary.
Across town, Jerry and Sveltie lay in bed. He had stopped at four glasses of wine and began to sober up a little bit. Sveltie lay next to him, snuggling in and deeply inhaling his scent. He kissed her deeply and she reciprocated.
It has been an emotional week in Muskrat Flats as the residents grapple with who they really are, what they need, and what they desire. As was pointed out in the closing of the last installment, many questions have arisen for Gomer, Jerry, Sveltie and now Miranda. Oddly the catalyst for these question comes from a century old book written by the most notorious jokester ever to walk the streets of Muskrat Flats. If Gomer were to tell his father about Hawthorne's diary, Moe might cluck his tongue a few times, exhale dramatically and say,
"Sooo, Sonny Boy ...You what Ken Kesey used to say? "Never Trust a Prankster." That's what he used to say. Remember Sonny, Friendship, Love and Truth, three links in the chain which should never be broken."
Words of wisdom, which will never be heard if the the secret which is wreaking havoc amongst the friends, spouses and lovers caught up in the insanity, is never revealed.
I Can't think of a better time to be ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
Thanks to F. Alex Johnson of the Drunk Stuntmen . I know I took some liberties, buddy. But you write such compelling lyrics. Click down there to read Alex's even more compelling blog -
Fearless By Default
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
"Shall we go, you and I while we can? Through a transcending nightfall of diamonds?"
It was a brisk morning in Muskrat Flats. Coley Blackstone was walking his dog Chubby. The wire haired terrier began to get excitable as they traveled closer to the pedestrian crossing near the Odd Fellows Hall. Coley became slightly distracted as he and Chubby crossed the street. He was fiddling with the Stocks application on his iPhone when Chubby broke away and galloped toward the entry door to the basement banquet facility. Sid Bartleby was there holding the door with one arm and a box of condiments he had just purchased at the Costco in Dana in the other.
"Comon, Chubby, comon boy!" Hearing this caused Coley to look up. He smiled and waved at Sid as he headed for the same door himself.
As he entered the hall, his senses were bathed with warm and inviting stimuli. The colors of the wains cotting, the paintings and photographs soothed his eyes.
Across the room he heard laughter as five of the older members were ball busting with Paul and Donnie, who were caught up in some sort of rehashing of one of their youthful exploits. The older members hung on, living vicariously through their hilarious accounting of getting their car caught in a plywood covered ditch.
Coley felt the warmth. He felt the warmth of the room, he felt the warmth of the people as some waved to him and others shouted out his name. He felt. Something he hadn't done for a very long time ... just feel. Something he had not done at all, for a very long time. The only time he felt anything was when he picked up a drink or drug. Even when he stopped drinking and drugging and welcomed Chubby into his life, he still rarely felt anything except for his affection for his black terrier.
Through an unexpected act of God or nature, whichever you choose to call it, his clandestine dysfunctional lifestyle of being a "homeless" millionaire was exposed. He saw this as the opportunity to get the psychiatric help he needed, and it was working.
He looked over at Sid who was standing over Chubby tempting him with a nice ripe banana.
"Who's the good boy?" He cooed. "Who's the good little boy? Is Chubby a good boy?"
Chubby sat at attention looking up at Sid,
"ruff ... mmph, ruff." He grunted, followed by a little wheeze as the terrier inhaled expectantly. Chubby got really excited when Coley came up and said,
"What's Sid got, Chubby?"
Chubby really perked up now that his master had gotten involved in the begging stalemate. Sid dropped the banana and Chubby caught it, in mid air, taking his prize under the table where Moe Eckstein was sitting chatting on a cell phone.
"Those blueberry muffins smell as enticing as ever, Sid."
"Thanks Coley, Iva just took a batch out of the oven a few minutes ago. Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the next meeting of the board of directors for the Blackstone Foundation, it would be great if you ...." Coley listened to Sid intently.
Moe was listening to the cell phone as Chubby slobbered his banana noisily under the table.
"Sonny Boy, what are you telling me?" He lowered the volume of his voice to a hush.
"Ex-girlfriend or not, she's married ... to your best friend, comon Sonny, you know better than that. What about Miranda, did you think about her. Wait ... I don't want to know. You were probably fantasizing about her while it was happening."
"Well, actually I was thinking about trying to get the two of them together ..."
"Sonny!" Moe Shouted. Others in the room looked in his direction.
"Dad, calm down it was a joke."
"Eh, some joke, you are going to get hurt, you are going to hurt someone. That girl, that vision of loveliness, Miranda, she's the best thing that has happened to you. Am I right, or what?"
"Dad, I wasn't thinking with the right head."
"Damn right you weren't." Moe chided.
"You should have seen the texts that Jerry had sent her, they seem to have an open relationship." Gomer tried to reason.
"Why are you arguing with me? You know you are wrong. That is why you called me ... huh? Well, am I right or WHAT?"
"Yeah, you're right. you're RIGHT! Jesus Christ!"
"He was a Jew, you know, before he went all crazy and shit."
What?!! Daaad!"
"Comon Sonny Boy. Jenny is a lovely girl. What she and Jerry have between them as far as rules or whatever, that is their shit. You need to think about your own shit. Think about your recovery. Be faithful to Miranda, she's the one, I can feel it, and you KNOW it. I'm not going to tell you what to do, I know Jerry is out of town for a few more days. Just don't get hurt and don't do anything crazy, like smoke that joint in your ashtray."
"I actually got rid of that, I am beyond that, besides I don't want to get arrested for something really stupid, the stuff I get arrested for now, is stupid enough." Gomer became defensive again when his Father started in with,
"Sooooooooooo ..." Gomer took in a deep breath, preparing for more of the same.
"Speaking of Rabbis, Sonny Boy, "Shiva Las Vegas?" - I mean - really! Oy!"
Across town Jenny Smith sat looking through the Sheriff's leather bound writing tablet. The odd, rust colored cursive was no longer shocking to her. The thought that this was written in blood, whose blood, though? His, the vampire's? She found her hand wandering as she tickled her own sides with her long fingernails. Her flesh responded as goose pimples began to erupt where her nails had lightly teased.
She looked at her phone. It had been about 45 minutes since she texted Jerry. Still no response.
"Prick." She thought.
One hundred miles away, his companion from the night before was quietly getting dressed, hoping to sneak out of the room before yet another uncomfortable "morning after" conversation had to take place. She was slipping on her shoe as his phone chimed again. She stopped. Waiting, hoping he wouldn't wake.
He lay there, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.
"For a guy who didn't smoke, he sure plowed through a good portion of my pack," she thought.
She looked in the mirror, adjusted her hair and the lapels of her business suit, then she looked down at his phone.
"Wake up, Loverboy! Love, Da Wife!" The display read.
"Fucking married, men ... why do I keep doing this?" She asked herself, as she slipped out the door of his room.
Gomer's phone chimed.
"I need to see you again, tonight. Don't feel bad about what happened, it was wonderful."
Gomer sat in a Hot air balloon gondola, in the hangar of his business, The First Step is a Doozy Skydiving School. It was a business that was running itself as his music career began to take off. Why bother closing it? The only condition set by his manager was that he do at least 6 jumps a year. A quota he handily met, last season. Gomer sat in the gondola, re-reading the message. He responded.
"I'd love to see you again. What time?"
Gomer sighed as Sveltie hugged him tightly. He kissed her as her tongue poke playfully into his mouth.
They entered Sheriff Hawthorne's secret room. She sat in the leather chair. Gomer sat in one of the wooden chairs. It looked like she had spent some time in Sheriff Hawthorne's unseen lair, that day. The room was meticulously clean. The cobwebs had been removed, the floor dusted and swept. She left the glasses and the bottle of Absinthe untouched. Unbeknownst to Gomer, she even did a thorough check for more hidden compartments which would yield another one of Hawthorne's treasures under loose floorboards, perhaps, or behind a wall panel.
She leaned back in the chair, lifting her skirt, exposing her thighs. Little wisps of white cotton peeked through the shadows underneath the skirt. Gomer focused his attention on the prize he did not get last night when he only enjoyed her hands and mouth. She leaned back seductively running her hands up an down her legs.
"Read to me." She said as he accepted the book from her. He turned up the oil lamp a little to get more light.
"I can't believe he wrote this in blood." Gomer handled the book carefully as he admired Hawthorne's written words. He cleared his throat and began.
"Still uncomfortable from fantastic events I had witnessed the night before between Astrid and Isabella. I was enjoying some much needed bourbon, in the bar, when my Deputy Sheriff, Waldo Robertson came in and whispered in my ear.
"You gotta see this Sheriff. "
My heart began to pump as Waldo, the only guy I ever met who could out drink me, led me in the direction of the carnival worker's camp which was located in the Flats near the Silver mines. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. As I approached, I thought nothing would shock me after what I witnessed last night.
What I encountered defied explanation. A circumstance which was happening with increased frequency, these days.
Behind a road wearied coach, I saw a crowd in a large circle. In the middle of the circle was the corpse of a man sprawled out with a large snake, a brownish and beige reptile with dark brown markings - a constrictor, coiled on top of his body.
In the circle was a dwarf, dangling a live muskrat by his tail trying to entice the snake.
"Come, Salazar, I've got a nice rat for your dinner."
The snake followed the dwarf and the rat with his dark serpentine eyes, seeming to not want to move from his perch on top of the dead man.
I asked on of the carnival folk who the man was?
"That's Caesar. He wrestles the Snake. The snake won't let us near him."
The dwarf continued to circle the snake while another of the freaks, one who had reptilian features himself, slowly approach from the opposite direction.
The muskrat hissed and thrashed as the dwarf continued to dangle him in his gloved hand. I feared that the snake would bypass the muskrat and strike at the dwarf, instead. With one graceful move, as the snake coiled and attacked, the dwarf dropped the terrified muskrat and leaped backward.
Salazar the constrictor wrapped himself around the screaming muskrat, snuffing the life out of him quickly. The reptile man quickly tossed a burlap sack over the snake and scooped him up. The crowd moved in to get a closer look at Caesar.
I announced my self as the sheriff and beckoned everyone back. Caesar had a lean muscular build, many tattoos and was missing his front teeth. I turned him over exposing his front. He had a large gash in his abdomen exposing his bowels. Oddly, for such a grisly crime, there was no blood. It was then that I noticed fang marks in his neck. I pulled my knife out, some of the crowd gasped as I sliced his wrist. His body was bone dry, as dry as the silt on which he lay. There was not a drop of blood in sight.
There was a group of six Mexicans who came in close and the started chattering to each other wildly. Crossing themselves, as if God could help them at this point.
"Eets the chupacabra." When he said this word there was more chattering and nodding of heads and sombreros.
Si, Senor, el chupacabra" Then they all began to repeat this nonsensical word.
The crowd began to creep in closer to assess the situation for themselves.
I lost my patience shouting,
"What the fuck is a kookaburra?"
"No senor, Chupacabra. Eet ees a monster, they leeve in the mountains, y suck up you blood. They get the goats and cow. Eets a chupacabra. The vampire. They suck the blood. " Again the crowd of Mexicans was chattering this maddening word. The dwarf and the reptile man continued to tend to the snake, who actually appeared to be protecting the body of his master.
I leaned down and turned Caesar's head, which turned with alarming ease, as his neck had obviously been snapped. I looked at the bite marks on his neck, once more. I reached into my pocket, checked my watch, and took a pull of the bourbon I had in my metal flask. Caesar's girlfriend showed up and began to wail.
I spoke to the manager of the carnival and told him I would like to talk to anyone who may have seen or heard anything. I would be at the Hotel Saloon.
Just then, under a light silky cloak and umbrella, protecting her from the sun was Isabella. She made piercing eye contact with me. The crowd crept back allowing her to pass as Isabella worked her way toward Caesar's corpse. Astrid was following closely. I couldn't linger too long, looking at her embarrassed as I was, having missed our date, that afternoon. She was so beautiful, as was Isabella.
I couldn't help but notice as Isabella bent down to take a closer look at Caesar's neck, the blue and turquoise pendant she wore around her neck on a long chain was nestled seductively in the valley between her enticing breasts. She must have been penetrating my thoughts as her hand reached for the chain and slid down to the pendant. She lightly grazed the firm flesh of her breast with those razor sharp weapons she called fingernails. leaving a visible scratch which disappeared instantly.
"Even under such disturbing circumstances, you just can't help yourself, can you, Sheriff?" It was the most unsettling feeling. I heard her as clearly as if she were speaking to me, but no words were uttered by her mouth.
"Senorita, Isabella, eet ess el Chupacabra. My brother Juan, fought one in
Guadalupe last year."
"It could be the chupacabra, Jorge. Can you boys, take care of Caesar, clean him up? That is if it is okay with the Sheriff?"
I was dumbstruck. All I could say was, yes, go ahead.
"Si, senorita!"
I began to walk away, as I heard her voice bathing my mind like the most potent aphrodisiac.
"Astrid and I will meet you in our room. Perhaps we can explain what has happened here and how we can make this situation go away. Don't get too drunk, you will miss all of the fun. After all, we have a surprise for you."
Gomer brought his fingers up to his eyes rubbing them. He put his glasses back on. Looking at Sveltie who was looking very aroused and even more comfortable as she had shed her panties and was giving Gomer flashes of what he desired so much.
"Keep reading, your voice is so sexy." He couldn't keep his mind off of her. He had to have her, but continued to read.
"About an hour later, I was about to knock on the door to Room 10 in the Hotel. Astrid answered the door, nude. My heart leaped again as I walked in. On the bed splayed out in the same sheer outfit she had worn the night before, was Isabella. Between her legs was was a familiar blonde head. Circling that familiar head was a multi-colored swarm of light, as bright as the sun, which illuminated the room. One by one the lights began to penetrate the skin of the blonde on the bed.
Celeste, my favorite girl, turned to me and said,
"Coley, you have to try this, I've never felt so good." As she said this, she began to shudder. One by one the galaxy of stars penetrated her soft, white flesh. She was writhing shamelessly as Isabella pierced Celeste's hand which was massaging her golden breast, with a fingernail. I heard Celeste whimper at the She drew Celeste's hand to her mouth running her tongue along the trickle of blood. Isabella continued to stare at me seductively as Astrid began to remove my clothes."
"Man what a Freak!" Gomer said as he got on his own knees, looking up at Sveltie. She ran her fingers through his hair, smiled and asked,
"Are You going to make me see a galaxy of stars?"
Throwing caution to the wind, once again Gomer and Sveltie succumbed to desires which had been building for some time. It was just that each had refused to acknowledge what was happening to them, to each other. Perhaps it was a phase for both of them, perhaps they could just "stop" and resume their lives.
These are questions, the hard questions they have to ask themselves. Where is this going to lead? Is it just fun and games? These questions will just have to remain unanswered until that one clear headed morning arrives. The morning which will probably lead to one or both of them ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
"Comon, Chubby, comon boy!" Hearing this caused Coley to look up. He smiled and waved at Sid as he headed for the same door himself.
As he entered the hall, his senses were bathed with warm and inviting stimuli. The colors of the wains cotting, the paintings and photographs soothed his eyes.
Across the room he heard laughter as five of the older members were ball busting with Paul and Donnie, who were caught up in some sort of rehashing of one of their youthful exploits. The older members hung on, living vicariously through their hilarious accounting of getting their car caught in a plywood covered ditch.
Coley felt the warmth. He felt the warmth of the room, he felt the warmth of the people as some waved to him and others shouted out his name. He felt. Something he hadn't done for a very long time ... just feel. Something he had not done at all, for a very long time. The only time he felt anything was when he picked up a drink or drug. Even when he stopped drinking and drugging and welcomed Chubby into his life, he still rarely felt anything except for his affection for his black terrier.
Through an unexpected act of God or nature, whichever you choose to call it, his clandestine dysfunctional lifestyle of being a "homeless" millionaire was exposed. He saw this as the opportunity to get the psychiatric help he needed, and it was working.
He looked over at Sid who was standing over Chubby tempting him with a nice ripe banana.
"Who's the good boy?" He cooed. "Who's the good little boy? Is Chubby a good boy?"
Chubby sat at attention looking up at Sid,
"ruff ... mmph, ruff." He grunted, followed by a little wheeze as the terrier inhaled expectantly. Chubby got really excited when Coley came up and said,
"What's Sid got, Chubby?"
Chubby really perked up now that his master had gotten involved in the begging stalemate. Sid dropped the banana and Chubby caught it, in mid air, taking his prize under the table where Moe Eckstein was sitting chatting on a cell phone.
"Those blueberry muffins smell as enticing as ever, Sid."
"Thanks Coley, Iva just took a batch out of the oven a few minutes ago. Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the next meeting of the board of directors for the Blackstone Foundation, it would be great if you ...." Coley listened to Sid intently.
Moe was listening to the cell phone as Chubby slobbered his banana noisily under the table.
"Sonny Boy, what are you telling me?" He lowered the volume of his voice to a hush.
"Ex-girlfriend or not, she's married ... to your best friend, comon Sonny, you know better than that. What about Miranda, did you think about her. Wait ... I don't want to know. You were probably fantasizing about her while it was happening."
"Well, actually I was thinking about trying to get the two of them together ..."
"Sonny!" Moe Shouted. Others in the room looked in his direction.
"Dad, calm down it was a joke."
"Eh, some joke, you are going to get hurt, you are going to hurt someone. That girl, that vision of loveliness, Miranda, she's the best thing that has happened to you. Am I right, or what?"
"Dad, I wasn't thinking with the right head."
"Damn right you weren't." Moe chided.
"You should have seen the texts that Jerry had sent her, they seem to have an open relationship." Gomer tried to reason.
"Why are you arguing with me? You know you are wrong. That is why you called me ... huh? Well, am I right or WHAT?"
"Yeah, you're right. you're RIGHT! Jesus Christ!"
"He was a Jew, you know, before he went all crazy and shit."
What?!! Daaad!"
"Comon Sonny Boy. Jenny is a lovely girl. What she and Jerry have between them as far as rules or whatever, that is their shit. You need to think about your own shit. Think about your recovery. Be faithful to Miranda, she's the one, I can feel it, and you KNOW it. I'm not going to tell you what to do, I know Jerry is out of town for a few more days. Just don't get hurt and don't do anything crazy, like smoke that joint in your ashtray."
"I actually got rid of that, I am beyond that, besides I don't want to get arrested for something really stupid, the stuff I get arrested for now, is stupid enough." Gomer became defensive again when his Father started in with,
"Sooooooooooo ..." Gomer took in a deep breath, preparing for more of the same.
"Speaking of Rabbis, Sonny Boy, "Shiva Las Vegas?" - I mean - really! Oy!"
Across town Jenny Smith sat looking through the Sheriff's leather bound writing tablet. The odd, rust colored cursive was no longer shocking to her. The thought that this was written in blood, whose blood, though? His, the vampire's? She found her hand wandering as she tickled her own sides with her long fingernails. Her flesh responded as goose pimples began to erupt where her nails had lightly teased.
She looked at her phone. It had been about 45 minutes since she texted Jerry. Still no response.
"Prick." She thought.
One hundred miles away, his companion from the night before was quietly getting dressed, hoping to sneak out of the room before yet another uncomfortable "morning after" conversation had to take place. She was slipping on her shoe as his phone chimed again. She stopped. Waiting, hoping he wouldn't wake.
He lay there, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.
"For a guy who didn't smoke, he sure plowed through a good portion of my pack," she thought.
She looked in the mirror, adjusted her hair and the lapels of her business suit, then she looked down at his phone.
"Wake up, Loverboy! Love, Da Wife!" The display read.
"Fucking married, men ... why do I keep doing this?" She asked herself, as she slipped out the door of his room.
Gomer's phone chimed.
"I need to see you again, tonight. Don't feel bad about what happened, it was wonderful."
Gomer sat in a Hot air balloon gondola, in the hangar of his business, The First Step is a Doozy Skydiving School. It was a business that was running itself as his music career began to take off. Why bother closing it? The only condition set by his manager was that he do at least 6 jumps a year. A quota he handily met, last season. Gomer sat in the gondola, re-reading the message. He responded.
"I'd love to see you again. What time?"
Gomer sighed as Sveltie hugged him tightly. He kissed her as her tongue poke playfully into his mouth.
They entered Sheriff Hawthorne's secret room. She sat in the leather chair. Gomer sat in one of the wooden chairs. It looked like she had spent some time in Sheriff Hawthorne's unseen lair, that day. The room was meticulously clean. The cobwebs had been removed, the floor dusted and swept. She left the glasses and the bottle of Absinthe untouched. Unbeknownst to Gomer, she even did a thorough check for more hidden compartments which would yield another one of Hawthorne's treasures under loose floorboards, perhaps, or behind a wall panel.
She leaned back in the chair, lifting her skirt, exposing her thighs. Little wisps of white cotton peeked through the shadows underneath the skirt. Gomer focused his attention on the prize he did not get last night when he only enjoyed her hands and mouth. She leaned back seductively running her hands up an down her legs.
"Read to me." She said as he accepted the book from her. He turned up the oil lamp a little to get more light.
"I can't believe he wrote this in blood." Gomer handled the book carefully as he admired Hawthorne's written words. He cleared his throat and began.
"Still uncomfortable from fantastic events I had witnessed the night before between Astrid and Isabella. I was enjoying some much needed bourbon, in the bar, when my Deputy Sheriff, Waldo Robertson came in and whispered in my ear.
"You gotta see this Sheriff. "
My heart began to pump as Waldo, the only guy I ever met who could out drink me, led me in the direction of the carnival worker's camp which was located in the Flats near the Silver mines. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. As I approached, I thought nothing would shock me after what I witnessed last night.
What I encountered defied explanation. A circumstance which was happening with increased frequency, these days.
Behind a road wearied coach, I saw a crowd in a large circle. In the middle of the circle was the corpse of a man sprawled out with a large snake, a brownish and beige reptile with dark brown markings - a constrictor, coiled on top of his body.
In the circle was a dwarf, dangling a live muskrat by his tail trying to entice the snake.
"Come, Salazar, I've got a nice rat for your dinner."
The snake followed the dwarf and the rat with his dark serpentine eyes, seeming to not want to move from his perch on top of the dead man.
I asked on of the carnival folk who the man was?
"That's Caesar. He wrestles the Snake. The snake won't let us near him."
The dwarf continued to circle the snake while another of the freaks, one who had reptilian features himself, slowly approach from the opposite direction.
The muskrat hissed and thrashed as the dwarf continued to dangle him in his gloved hand. I feared that the snake would bypass the muskrat and strike at the dwarf, instead. With one graceful move, as the snake coiled and attacked, the dwarf dropped the terrified muskrat and leaped backward.
Salazar the constrictor wrapped himself around the screaming muskrat, snuffing the life out of him quickly. The reptile man quickly tossed a burlap sack over the snake and scooped him up. The crowd moved in to get a closer look at Caesar.
I announced my self as the sheriff and beckoned everyone back. Caesar had a lean muscular build, many tattoos and was missing his front teeth. I turned him over exposing his front. He had a large gash in his abdomen exposing his bowels. Oddly, for such a grisly crime, there was no blood. It was then that I noticed fang marks in his neck. I pulled my knife out, some of the crowd gasped as I sliced his wrist. His body was bone dry, as dry as the silt on which he lay. There was not a drop of blood in sight.
There was a group of six Mexicans who came in close and the started chattering to each other wildly. Crossing themselves, as if God could help them at this point.
"Eets the chupacabra." When he said this word there was more chattering and nodding of heads and sombreros.
Si, Senor, el chupacabra" Then they all began to repeat this nonsensical word.
The crowd began to creep in closer to assess the situation for themselves.
I lost my patience shouting,
"What the fuck is a kookaburra?"
"No senor, Chupacabra. Eet ees a monster, they leeve in the mountains, y suck up you blood. They get the goats and cow. Eets a chupacabra. The vampire. They suck the blood. " Again the crowd of Mexicans was chattering this maddening word. The dwarf and the reptile man continued to tend to the snake, who actually appeared to be protecting the body of his master.
I leaned down and turned Caesar's head, which turned with alarming ease, as his neck had obviously been snapped. I looked at the bite marks on his neck, once more. I reached into my pocket, checked my watch, and took a pull of the bourbon I had in my metal flask. Caesar's girlfriend showed up and began to wail.
I spoke to the manager of the carnival and told him I would like to talk to anyone who may have seen or heard anything. I would be at the Hotel Saloon.
Just then, under a light silky cloak and umbrella, protecting her from the sun was Isabella. She made piercing eye contact with me. The crowd crept back allowing her to pass as Isabella worked her way toward Caesar's corpse. Astrid was following closely. I couldn't linger too long, looking at her embarrassed as I was, having missed our date, that afternoon. She was so beautiful, as was Isabella.
I couldn't help but notice as Isabella bent down to take a closer look at Caesar's neck, the blue and turquoise pendant she wore around her neck on a long chain was nestled seductively in the valley between her enticing breasts. She must have been penetrating my thoughts as her hand reached for the chain and slid down to the pendant. She lightly grazed the firm flesh of her breast with those razor sharp weapons she called fingernails. leaving a visible scratch which disappeared instantly.
"Even under such disturbing circumstances, you just can't help yourself, can you, Sheriff?" It was the most unsettling feeling. I heard her as clearly as if she were speaking to me, but no words were uttered by her mouth.
"Senorita, Isabella, eet ess el Chupacabra. My brother Juan, fought one in
Guadalupe last year."
"It could be the chupacabra, Jorge. Can you boys, take care of Caesar, clean him up? That is if it is okay with the Sheriff?"
I was dumbstruck. All I could say was, yes, go ahead.
"Si, senorita!"
I began to walk away, as I heard her voice bathing my mind like the most potent aphrodisiac.
"Astrid and I will meet you in our room. Perhaps we can explain what has happened here and how we can make this situation go away. Don't get too drunk, you will miss all of the fun. After all, we have a surprise for you."
Gomer brought his fingers up to his eyes rubbing them. He put his glasses back on. Looking at Sveltie who was looking very aroused and even more comfortable as she had shed her panties and was giving Gomer flashes of what he desired so much.
"Keep reading, your voice is so sexy." He couldn't keep his mind off of her. He had to have her, but continued to read.
"About an hour later, I was about to knock on the door to Room 10 in the Hotel. Astrid answered the door, nude. My heart leaped again as I walked in. On the bed splayed out in the same sheer outfit she had worn the night before, was Isabella. Between her legs was was a familiar blonde head. Circling that familiar head was a multi-colored swarm of light, as bright as the sun, which illuminated the room. One by one the lights began to penetrate the skin of the blonde on the bed.
Celeste, my favorite girl, turned to me and said,
"Coley, you have to try this, I've never felt so good." As she said this, she began to shudder. One by one the galaxy of stars penetrated her soft, white flesh. She was writhing shamelessly as Isabella pierced Celeste's hand which was massaging her golden breast, with a fingernail. I heard Celeste whimper at the She drew Celeste's hand to her mouth running her tongue along the trickle of blood. Isabella continued to stare at me seductively as Astrid began to remove my clothes."
"Man what a Freak!" Gomer said as he got on his own knees, looking up at Sveltie. She ran her fingers through his hair, smiled and asked,
"Are You going to make me see a galaxy of stars?"
Throwing caution to the wind, once again Gomer and Sveltie succumbed to desires which had been building for some time. It was just that each had refused to acknowledge what was happening to them, to each other. Perhaps it was a phase for both of them, perhaps they could just "stop" and resume their lives.
These are questions, the hard questions they have to ask themselves. Where is this going to lead? Is it just fun and games? These questions will just have to remain unanswered until that one clear headed morning arrives. The morning which will probably lead to one or both of them ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Hey, did you hear the one about the guy who got picked up by a Playboy model and woke up missing a kidney, in a bathtub full of ice?
It was a lovely holiday season in Muskrat Flats, with business as usual at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets. Inside the old wood framed structure of the Odd Fellows Hall there was a lull in the action between Christmas and New Years.
Jeff Nelson had his work cut out for him on Christmas Eve as the Odd Fellows, once again, gave back to the community by hosting their annual Toy Give away. He and his lovely daughter were dressed as elves while Santa Claus occupied his opulent and gilded throne. Sitting on a little ottoman next to Santa was his special little helper, Chubby, the little black terrier. Chubby had his well chewed plastic banana nestled in his paws as he sat there … just sitting there in his little red veloure coat lined with white trim and a little matching hat which jingled every time he looked up at his master.
A blond boy about 10 years old sat on Santa’s lap, his mother and father looking on. His mom was smiling. His father had a forced smile trying to mask his somber mood. After all, he lost a good job two weeks ago when the Dana Textile Mill, where he was a foreman, suspiciously burned to the ground. The company was flourishing and would rebuild. But, for now, he was taking home about 60% of his salary. In the interim, that left him to make decisions we all make when our bills exceed what we earn, such as buying Christmas gifts for your children or buying food.
He broke into a broad smile as Santa asked his little boy if he would do him a favor.Santa reached into his bag and pulled up a yellowish brown speckled banana and handed it to the child.
Go, ahead, give it to him. He doesn’t bite.”
The boy looked at his beaming father, who nodded his approval. Chubby smelled the treat and perked up. He was excitedly running in little circles on the ottoman with his closely cropped tail cutting through the air at supersonic speed. He even barked a few times. The child handed the banana to Chubby.
Jeff Nelson had his work cut out for him on Christmas Eve as the Odd Fellows, once again, gave back to the community by hosting their annual Toy Give away. He and his lovely daughter were dressed as elves while Santa Claus occupied his opulent and gilded throne. Sitting on a little ottoman next to Santa was his special little helper, Chubby, the little black terrier. Chubby had his well chewed plastic banana nestled in his paws as he sat there … just sitting there in his little red veloure coat lined with white trim and a little matching hat which jingled every time he looked up at his master.
A blond boy about 10 years old sat on Santa’s lap, his mother and father looking on. His mom was smiling. His father had a forced smile trying to mask his somber mood. After all, he lost a good job two weeks ago when the Dana Textile Mill, where he was a foreman, suspiciously burned to the ground. The company was flourishing and would rebuild. But, for now, he was taking home about 60% of his salary. In the interim, that left him to make decisions we all make when our bills exceed what we earn, such as buying Christmas gifts for your children or buying food.
He broke into a broad smile as Santa asked his little boy if he would do him a favor.Santa reached into his bag and pulled up a yellowish brown speckled banana and handed it to the child.
Go, ahead, give it to him. He doesn’t bite.”
The boy looked at his beaming father, who nodded his approval. Chubby smelled the treat and perked up. He was excitedly running in little circles on the ottoman with his closely cropped tail cutting through the air at supersonic speed. He even barked a few times. The child handed the banana to Chubby.
Coley Blackstone, in a remarkable Santa Claus voice, let out a hearty “HO, HO, HO!”
The little boy giggled as Chubby began to peel the banana and feast on the perfectly ripened fruit.
There are such idyllic and romantic times to be had at the Odd Fellows Hall in Muskrat Flats proper during the winter Holiday season. The Farm Museum is aglow for its nightly sleigh rides with white lights, lit torches, luminaria and of course the bon fire. Kurt Bartleby adds to the warmth as glowing orange sparks can be seen flying as he hammers away at the forge.
Downtown, as the afternoon sun disappears behind the trees along Petersen Street, all of the little shops are lit up. There is Sid and Iva’s Mercantile. Muskrat Flats Glassworks, where the flame workers can be seen through a large plate glass window spinning their glowing glass orbs on thin rods putting their hands dangerously close to the flame as they concentrate on keeping the centrifugal force and the rotation going - keeping their molten globs of super cooled liquid on axis.
Next door is Cassidy’s Art Supplies, and Mother Maybell’s Acoustic Instrument Emporium. The Artists’ at Link’s Tattoo shop are lounging and looking at flash, some are sketching as customers are mainly coming in to get gift certificates or to talk to Link, who always seemed to be missing. It is like a Norman Rockwell painting, of course if Rockwell did happen to use a tattoo studio as his subject for a Saturday Evening Post cover.
Perhaps it is this way in your hometown?
This holiday season, Muskrat Flats looks a little more like the fairy tale in which we would all like to live at least it does on the surface. Behind the scenes, for the few people in the know, there is a new chapter to be written in the history of Muskrat Flats. And once again, the person behind this most likely charade is the notorious founder of Muskrat Flats, the prankster, the Oddest of Fellows - Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne the III.
Jenny Smith was leaving her office, in the Railroad Station, at the Farm museum and heading out across the snow covered green toward the old Hotel. The hotel now functioned as a educational center where visiting schools groups would meet before exploring the museum. Tucked inside her bag was Sheriff Hawthorne’s leather bound writing tablet. She heard a chime from her bag. She reached in a looked at her phone. There was a message from her husband Jerry, who was attending an Organic Farming conference about 100 miles away in Chesterfield. The message read …
“What do you think of her?”
Jenny rolled her eyes, a bit, and opened the file.
She gazed down at a picture of a smiling brunette, smartly dressed in business attire, with short hair, and small breasts holding up a Cosmopolitan in an oversized Martini glass.
“Cute … are they using organic grapefruit juice in those Cosmos?” She responded.
She kept walking. Her phone chimed again.
“LOL … I think her name is Isabella”
Sveltie chuckled. And replied,
“I thought we had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it came to situations like these?”
As she approached the hotel she made out the form of a shadowy figure lurking on the porch.
Her phone chimed once more.
“Sorry, I’m drunk 8-)” She stopped walking and replied.
While she was typing he chimed in again.
“She seems like your type. 8-)”
“No kidding, watch those cosmos, and b careful. I don’t need u waking up in a bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney, or ravaged by a vampire. She’s cute, just be careful. I’m going to meet Gomer ttyl.”
He replied immediately.
“Gomer, huh?”
“Jealous?”
“Well, not really.”
“Enjoy your company … Bye love, call me in the morning. And don’t forget to tell her you’re married”
Sveltie began walking again. Someone is going to have some fun tonight, she thought, maybe Jerry will, too…
Gomer was standing on the porch of the Hotel. He was dressed in all black, His pony tail was braided and his facial hair had changed. His goatee was longer and thinner than Sveltie had remembered it. His hazel colored eyes were peering at her over his half moon readers. She said hi and hugged him closely. He felt her warmth momentarily chase away the nippy winter’s evening breeze. She unlocked the door to the hotel and they escaped the cold.
Gomer watched as Sveltie took off her coat. Even bundled up it was obvious her body was probably just as he had remembered it, when they used to play, so many years ago.
There was no real reason why they broke up, they just began to drift apart. They both left Muskrat Flats to attend college. She, in California at UC Davis, And him, in Massachusetts at Amherst College where he gained instant notoriety from both his musicianship, with his band Summa Cum Loudly. It didn’t hurt Gomer’s reputation as news quickly spread throughout the campus that he was Moe Eckstein’s son.
Sveltie turned on the lights. In her hand, she held a key.
“This is interesting, a secret room you say?” Gomer asked.
I figure it has to be either behind room number 8 or 10. It sounded like they had no windows in their room. Gomer shook off his cloak. Sveltie eyeballed him, she never realized that whole Goth look Gomer had kind of gave him Vampire-like characteristics, this caused a little excitement for her.
They went upstairs, it was dimly lit. Gomer and Sveltie strolled down the hall to where rooms 8 and 10 were located. Sveltie opened the rooms and they began to poke around. She began to make small talk.
“How are things going with you, the band?”
“The band has a break for about a month. Morbid Morty suggested we not take any gigs while the case with the Rabbi is still pending. Speaking of Rabbis, I’m going to Vegas next week, I wrote a pilot they are considering shooting for Showtime.”
“Are you Serious? That’s Great!” Sveltie said. Gomer smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, I’m pretty psyched. I mean it’s just a pilot, I hope it gets the nod to go ahead. I’m being considered for the lead character as well.” Sveltie was beaming.
“You’re serious aren’t you? I thought this was one of your jokes.” Gomer looked at her over his glasses and said,
“When you hear the premise you will think it’s one of my jokes but this is for real. … It’s about a Las Vegas Rabbi who is a funeral director. The show is going to be called … “Shiva Las Vegas.” Sveltie’s smiling face dissolved into one that displayed utmost skepticism.
“Gomer …..” she admonished.
“For real, no joke.” Realizing that he was telling the truth She finally allowed herself to laugh even though Sheriff Hawthorne’s Diary was burning a hole in her sack and she was consumed with the desire to continue reading it.
Ok, over here, the grate above the mantel piece … that must mean …” Gomer rushed out into the hall way. He went to the end of where the room would be. Running his hand along the wood behind a large oak trimmed full length mirror attached to the wall. He pulled and it swung outward revealing a door. Sveltie gasped and smiled. She placed the key in the lock and turned.
The door swung inward. Sveltie looked into the darkness with trepidation. Gomer decided it would be a good time to poke her in the ribs. She screamed and pulled away, then socked him in the arm as hard as she could.
“Ow! I guess I deserved that.”
Gomer produced a mini mag light and illuminated the room. It was dusty, and cobwebbed. Looking around he noted it was built for comfort. Along one wall was a painting of a Paris street scene, Montmatre with the unmistakable outline of the Basilica of the Sacre Couer. Next to the painting was a coat rack on which hung a holstered, loaded, six-shooter. Across from this was a small banquette table with two wooden chairs and a high backed leather upholstered easy chair.
On the table was a brass oil lamp, a couple of dusty tumblers on which sat a flat, ornately decorated perforated spoon, and a bottle which contained a greenish liquid. The label on the bottle depicted a leering Red Devil, pouring greenish liquid into a glass which he was stirring with his sharply pointed tail. Next to these items was a wooden box, which Sveltie opened. It looked like it contained crudely made lumps of brownish sugar. It was odd that all of these items had survived so many years. They were very obviously exactly where Sheriff Hawthorne has left them.
Gomer picked up the bottle. There was no writing, just the picture.
“If I had to guess, I would say this is Absinthe.” Sveltie looked around the room.
“How is it that we have never found this room before? The Sheriff was good at keeping his secrets when he was alive, wasn’t he.”
Gomer looked around the room, again. It was so eerie. He felt vibes in the room he could not explain. Sveltie felt the wick of the oil lamp and decided to light it. A warm glow permeated the room casting odd shadows into the corners. The flame leapt as the wick resumed the task it had not performed in decades causing more shadows to dance along the ceiling.
“I feel like he is here, Sveltie. I can’t really describe how I feel right now.” His heart was pumping. He looked at Jenny who had removed another layer of her clothing. She was dressed in a fuzzy purple wool sweater, probably made from alapaca. She had on a long black cotton skirt with black boots which cover her calves just below the knee. She pulled the diary out of her bag and handed it to Gomer.
“If he is here I want him to see what happens.” She said with a look in her eye that Gomer had not seen in years.
“Read.” She simply said. She dusted off a space on his chair and she dusted off the leather chair. She sat there watching him as he read for about 10 minutes, occasionally looking up at her. As she sat there eyeballing him she was rhythmically swaying her leg to and fro, watching Gomer squirm as his erection began to shift uncomfortably in his trousers as he read about Hawthorne spying on the two Vampires as they engaged in their erotic, blood soaked ritual. He was trying to discreetly reposition himself with no luck as Sveltie dropped to her knees and moved forward. Gomer watched her intently as a rush hit him. He began to shiver with anticipation. He managed to ask,
“What about Jerry?” Sveltie handed him her phone which was already cued up to her message inbox. He read through the messages as he felt his belt and pants being undone. He felt the warmth of her breath as she inhaled his aroma and flicked at him with her tongue.
Gomer chuckled, not only at his good fortune, but at what he just read on her phone.
“Missing a kidney in a bathtub full of ice, huh?”
“One of his kidneys is probably already on a plane to Hong Kong,” She said, as she slowly lowered her head causing Gomer to let out a sigh of ecstasy … sure that somewhere in that room, the eager eyes of Sheriff Hawthorne were riveted on the actions of his current guests.
As Idyllic a place as it is often purported to be, sometimes things get a little freaky down on the Farm. At least they do if you happen to be playing on the tracks in Sheriff Hawthorne’s private viewing room outside of room number 10 at the old Muskrat Flats Hotel. A trip to Las Vegas might be just what the doctor ordered for Gomer. It might be the very reason he needs to be …
Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats.
To be continued.
Monday, January 12, 2009
"If I needed someone to love, your'e the one I'd be thinking of ... If I needed someone."
There have been weird times in Muskrat Flats for the last couple of weeks. . Some times are too weird to document, others were just weird enough that you can't look nor can they be ignored. Regardless, I will try to document the ones which are too weird.
The folks at the old wood and brick structure at the corner of McKernan and Petersen Street are entrenched in their daily routine. The meals on wheels are going out like clockwork under the watchful eye of Sid Bartleby and Moe Eckstein. Their right hand men Paul and Donnie have risen from the ranks of dishwashers and have become and integral part of the food production and distribution. Their first task, other than train the new kids Harry and Marley regarding the mechanical ins and outs of running the dishwasher, was to train them in the proper scaling and measuring of the ingredients for the blueberry muffins. Those famous blueberry muffins which Sid Bartleby's Great Grandmother Edna began selling at her Mercantile back in 1879, when Muskrat Flats was still a baby, but had already developed its unique and inviting character.
Thank you for all of the kind comments on the pornography I posted last time around. As one reader pointed out,
"Man, Sheriff Hawthorne was kind of a freak, huh?" He sure was, Corey Check.
As this is being written, more on Sheriff Hawthorne's interaction with the vampires Astrid and Isabella is in the works, and you will read it soon.
And Thank You for not throwing Holy Water on me. That shit burns.
If I needed someone ...
If you have read any of my diatribes in the past there are a few points of interest in my life which you probably already know.
I am a 44 year old divorced Father of an 11 year old girl.
I am an addict recovering from the disease of addiction. My drug of choice was anything you would put in front of me, for more than half of my life.
It was crack cocaine and heroin which brought me to my knees and unceremoniously dumped me out of the back seat of a beat up, rusted Chevy Camaro. The old clunker, which was only running on seven cylinders, didn't even slow down as a size 7 Timberland boot catapulted me out the door. I hit the pavement on the road to recovery, bruised,bleeding, tired, hurt and confused. I brushed off my coat, pulled the pebbles and broken glass out of the skinned flesh on my knees and palms and did the only thing I could do ... began walking.
There have been numerous times where I stumbled and fell back down, but I always was fortunate enough to get back up and continue walking. I am still walking that path today.
Yesterday, marked the 6 month anniversary of my clean date. Half a cake. as some folks call it.
I have a problem with women. It is not so much that they have cooties ...
But seriously, every relationship I have been involved in, since I have been separated and eventually divorced from my wife has been disastrous. In active addiction I had two women popping in and out of my life, both were addicts, both were smart, funny, beautiful and very sexy.
Both were relationships I knew were doomed from the start. I am lucky, as are they, that Death wasn't the ultimate price to be paid for that high. All three of us have experienced two of the three guarantees of living a life of active addiction ... jails and institutions.
Detox is what it is, but jail - I was in a lock up for 8 hours. Trust me, that is enough for this addict, kids. Never again.
I have came to accept that I can never choose to associate with these two ever again. Even if we have years of recovery each, it would be a volatile situation for us to be alone together. Each time I slipped and fell, walking that road to recovery, one of these lovely ladies was involved.
So, when I got serious about wanting to live a life free from active addiction, I made a decision to listen to that little voice in my head, the one that always was the voice of reason, compassion and righteousness. That voice, along with that of a very dear friend, both told me that I'm better off single.
"Just work on yourself, when the time is right you will know it." He said.
In the last four months, I guess I have turned into some kind of super stud, because the ladies have been coming out of the woodwork and pursuing me. WTF? Where did that come from?
I mean, the attention is great! I have never been in a position where I was aware that I was the object of someone's desire. I did the little dance and flirted with a few, but the results left me with the same feeling that I am better off on my own.
One, I really liked, but she is an Alcoholic who by her own admission, has been getting "worse lately."
Another seemed pretty normal, and I may have hurt her. That is what happens when you start out a relationship omitting a key piece of information like the "boyfriend" you are still living with is actually your fiancee that you can't seem to dump until you find someone else. I told her she used people like I used to use drugs.
I know, kind of harsh, but that is a whole heaping bag full of insanity to bring to a new relationship, especially if you seriously think that you want to make it one which is going to last.
Right now, there is another woman I have met who possesses traits which are endearing to me. I am very attracted to her. I think there is a mutual affection. Let's put it this way, she actually gives me the time of day.
She has a real job, with responsibility. She is a writer, she has a child, she is a vegetarian, which means she actually cares what she puts into her body. She is almost as tall as I am. Wow! I asked her if she minded that I call her, and suggested we meet for coffee. She agreed that would be nice. Then she dropped the bomb. She only had a few days clean.
I just realized I am getting a headache.
She told me she was going to a particular meeting that night. I actually considered going to this meeting and told a friend of mine this.
"Dude, maybe you should go to another meeting and think about your recovery other than who is going to be at the meeting." Hmmmm... okay. He's right.
His roommate, a female in recovery as well over heard not only what we were talking about but about whom. She got on the phone and said.
"Listen, she is crazy, She says she wants recovery, will go to a meeting and then go out and cop afterward. You need to not be a predator, and leave her alone. I love you, Paul." Then she got off of the phone.
I was aghast. My friend got on the phone and said,
"Did she say "predator?" Yes she did. Needless to say my feelings were very hurt, and I had a good cry.
Although I don't necessarily agree with the term predator, and she recanted that term and better explained her point of view in a follow up conversation, there was truth to what she said.
"I would tell her the same exact thing." She asserted.
Why would I jeopardize my recovery to get involved with someone who is struggling in her own addiction? I really need to take a look at my own motives and and how my character defects are still affecting my decision making process.
I went to another meeting that night,one of my home groups, where I was asked to be the Chairperson. Then I went out after the meeting, for some food, with three other members of my home group, just me and three ladies. I told them all that had transpired earlier in the evening got some good feedback and advice.
This morning, I found out through the grapevine of thinly veiled anonymity,that my friend went out and used that evening. To think I could have been in her company and what my actions may have been? Perhaps being called a "predator" by someone I love and respect saved my life that night. At the very least she put me in a position where I was doing the right thing for the right reason, keeping me out of harm's way.
I am an addict. I have many different things that I am addicted to, whether it be a bag of dope, a rock of cocaine, a tumbler of Jack Daniels, some heady green nuggets, an icy cold balloon full of nitrous oxide, a cornucopia of pills, or a handful of psychedelic doo dads, food or a warm and willing female. I have to have what I want, when I want it, and when I'm done you bet your ass I'm going to want more.
I actually saw someone during a holiday function have a beer and only drink two sips of it. How do people do that?
Everywhere I look, I am reminded that I am an addict.
I went to have my wonderful 16 year old cat, Harrison, euthanized on Thursday evening. My ex-wife and I went together. We took him into the room. As emaciated and ill as he looked he was nosing around the Vet's office as curious as ever, still full of life and energy.
We held him down on the table cuddling him and bidding him farewell. The vet shaved a portion of his leg and out came the needle.
Man, I was fixated on that thing like it was the only object in the room.
She went in.
The anticipation of waiting to see the blood from Harrison's vein rushing back into the barrel of the syringe was unbearable. She missed and had to stick him two more times. Each time my pain and anguish increased, bringing me back to the darkest times in my active addiction where I was dope sick and struggling with a dull, overused needle, probing around ... waiting ... praying to see that rush of blood go into that barrel so I could finish my dirty business and momentarily get back to my so called "life."
I continued to hold my baby, and stroke his bent limp ears, telling him it would all be okay in a few moments. The vet finally hit a vein, the blood rushed in and she injected him.
He got very calm. I continued to look into his eyes and felt his heart beat slow. He stopped breathing. I felt his energy dissipate, leaving his once powerful and majestic body a limp mass on the examination table.
How good that shot must have felt. I bet it would feel great the last time I used, especially if I accidentally stumbled upon the end result I so mercifully delivered to my feline friend.
My ex-wife and I stood there and stroked his limp form for a few minutes, commiserating. I kissed his head, closed his eyes and said my final goodbye as I silently Thanked my higher power for putting me in a position where I did not have to use that day.
Perhaps it was divine intervention the night that I got really high and didn't die even though across town, the very same evening, a friend named Brian did. That should be enough of a reason to not use ever again, but I went out numerous times after that, even after a few more funerals for fellow addicts I knew.
Perhaps it was the same divine intervention that told Tanya to use a word which would slap me in the side of the head, causing me to wake up and refocus my energy on my recovery.
Whatever the cause or reason, once again, I have woken up alive, with a new fire - a new reason to live my life to the fullest.
George Harrison was right on when he said,
"If I needed someone to love, you're the one I'd be thinking of ... If I needed someone."
Perhaps, someday, but not right now. I need to think about that other half a cake.
I am going to help my daughter with her power point project when she gets out of school today. Because I am alive, because I can, because it is the right thing to do, and I can't think of anything else I would rather be doing at 3:30 this afternoon.
Life is short, enjoy it.
Once again, you will find me on the center line of the road to recovery as I am ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
The folks at the old wood and brick structure at the corner of McKernan and Petersen Street are entrenched in their daily routine. The meals on wheels are going out like clockwork under the watchful eye of Sid Bartleby and Moe Eckstein. Their right hand men Paul and Donnie have risen from the ranks of dishwashers and have become and integral part of the food production and distribution. Their first task, other than train the new kids Harry and Marley regarding the mechanical ins and outs of running the dishwasher, was to train them in the proper scaling and measuring of the ingredients for the blueberry muffins. Those famous blueberry muffins which Sid Bartleby's Great Grandmother Edna began selling at her Mercantile back in 1879, when Muskrat Flats was still a baby, but had already developed its unique and inviting character.
Thank you for all of the kind comments on the pornography I posted last time around. As one reader pointed out,
"Man, Sheriff Hawthorne was kind of a freak, huh?" He sure was, Corey Check.
As this is being written, more on Sheriff Hawthorne's interaction with the vampires Astrid and Isabella is in the works, and you will read it soon.
And Thank You for not throwing Holy Water on me. That shit burns.
If I needed someone ...
If you have read any of my diatribes in the past there are a few points of interest in my life which you probably already know.
I am a 44 year old divorced Father of an 11 year old girl.
I am an addict recovering from the disease of addiction. My drug of choice was anything you would put in front of me, for more than half of my life.
It was crack cocaine and heroin which brought me to my knees and unceremoniously dumped me out of the back seat of a beat up, rusted Chevy Camaro. The old clunker, which was only running on seven cylinders, didn't even slow down as a size 7 Timberland boot catapulted me out the door. I hit the pavement on the road to recovery, bruised,bleeding, tired, hurt and confused. I brushed off my coat, pulled the pebbles and broken glass out of the skinned flesh on my knees and palms and did the only thing I could do ... began walking.
There have been numerous times where I stumbled and fell back down, but I always was fortunate enough to get back up and continue walking. I am still walking that path today.
Yesterday, marked the 6 month anniversary of my clean date. Half a cake. as some folks call it.
I have a problem with women. It is not so much that they have cooties ...
But seriously, every relationship I have been involved in, since I have been separated and eventually divorced from my wife has been disastrous. In active addiction I had two women popping in and out of my life, both were addicts, both were smart, funny, beautiful and very sexy.
Both were relationships I knew were doomed from the start. I am lucky, as are they, that Death wasn't the ultimate price to be paid for that high. All three of us have experienced two of the three guarantees of living a life of active addiction ... jails and institutions.
Detox is what it is, but jail - I was in a lock up for 8 hours. Trust me, that is enough for this addict, kids. Never again.
I have came to accept that I can never choose to associate with these two ever again. Even if we have years of recovery each, it would be a volatile situation for us to be alone together. Each time I slipped and fell, walking that road to recovery, one of these lovely ladies was involved.
So, when I got serious about wanting to live a life free from active addiction, I made a decision to listen to that little voice in my head, the one that always was the voice of reason, compassion and righteousness. That voice, along with that of a very dear friend, both told me that I'm better off single.
"Just work on yourself, when the time is right you will know it." He said.
In the last four months, I guess I have turned into some kind of super stud, because the ladies have been coming out of the woodwork and pursuing me. WTF? Where did that come from?
I mean, the attention is great! I have never been in a position where I was aware that I was the object of someone's desire. I did the little dance and flirted with a few, but the results left me with the same feeling that I am better off on my own.
One, I really liked, but she is an Alcoholic who by her own admission, has been getting "worse lately."
Another seemed pretty normal, and I may have hurt her. That is what happens when you start out a relationship omitting a key piece of information like the "boyfriend" you are still living with is actually your fiancee that you can't seem to dump until you find someone else. I told her she used people like I used to use drugs.
I know, kind of harsh, but that is a whole heaping bag full of insanity to bring to a new relationship, especially if you seriously think that you want to make it one which is going to last.
Right now, there is another woman I have met who possesses traits which are endearing to me. I am very attracted to her. I think there is a mutual affection. Let's put it this way, she actually gives me the time of day.
She has a real job, with responsibility. She is a writer, she has a child, she is a vegetarian, which means she actually cares what she puts into her body. She is almost as tall as I am. Wow! I asked her if she minded that I call her, and suggested we meet for coffee. She agreed that would be nice. Then she dropped the bomb. She only had a few days clean.
I just realized I am getting a headache.
She told me she was going to a particular meeting that night. I actually considered going to this meeting and told a friend of mine this.
"Dude, maybe you should go to another meeting and think about your recovery other than who is going to be at the meeting." Hmmmm... okay. He's right.
His roommate, a female in recovery as well over heard not only what we were talking about but about whom. She got on the phone and said.
"Listen, she is crazy, She says she wants recovery, will go to a meeting and then go out and cop afterward. You need to not be a predator, and leave her alone. I love you, Paul." Then she got off of the phone.
I was aghast. My friend got on the phone and said,
"Did she say "predator?" Yes she did. Needless to say my feelings were very hurt, and I had a good cry.
Although I don't necessarily agree with the term predator, and she recanted that term and better explained her point of view in a follow up conversation, there was truth to what she said.
"I would tell her the same exact thing." She asserted.
Why would I jeopardize my recovery to get involved with someone who is struggling in her own addiction? I really need to take a look at my own motives and and how my character defects are still affecting my decision making process.
I went to another meeting that night,one of my home groups, where I was asked to be the Chairperson. Then I went out after the meeting, for some food, with three other members of my home group, just me and three ladies. I told them all that had transpired earlier in the evening got some good feedback and advice.
This morning, I found out through the grapevine of thinly veiled anonymity,that my friend went out and used that evening. To think I could have been in her company and what my actions may have been? Perhaps being called a "predator" by someone I love and respect saved my life that night. At the very least she put me in a position where I was doing the right thing for the right reason, keeping me out of harm's way.
I am an addict. I have many different things that I am addicted to, whether it be a bag of dope, a rock of cocaine, a tumbler of Jack Daniels, some heady green nuggets, an icy cold balloon full of nitrous oxide, a cornucopia of pills, or a handful of psychedelic doo dads, food or a warm and willing female. I have to have what I want, when I want it, and when I'm done you bet your ass I'm going to want more.
I actually saw someone during a holiday function have a beer and only drink two sips of it. How do people do that?
Everywhere I look, I am reminded that I am an addict.
I went to have my wonderful 16 year old cat, Harrison, euthanized on Thursday evening. My ex-wife and I went together. We took him into the room. As emaciated and ill as he looked he was nosing around the Vet's office as curious as ever, still full of life and energy.
We held him down on the table cuddling him and bidding him farewell. The vet shaved a portion of his leg and out came the needle.
Man, I was fixated on that thing like it was the only object in the room.
She went in.
The anticipation of waiting to see the blood from Harrison's vein rushing back into the barrel of the syringe was unbearable. She missed and had to stick him two more times. Each time my pain and anguish increased, bringing me back to the darkest times in my active addiction where I was dope sick and struggling with a dull, overused needle, probing around ... waiting ... praying to see that rush of blood go into that barrel so I could finish my dirty business and momentarily get back to my so called "life."
I continued to hold my baby, and stroke his bent limp ears, telling him it would all be okay in a few moments. The vet finally hit a vein, the blood rushed in and she injected him.
He got very calm. I continued to look into his eyes and felt his heart beat slow. He stopped breathing. I felt his energy dissipate, leaving his once powerful and majestic body a limp mass on the examination table.
How good that shot must have felt. I bet it would feel great the last time I used, especially if I accidentally stumbled upon the end result I so mercifully delivered to my feline friend.
My ex-wife and I stood there and stroked his limp form for a few minutes, commiserating. I kissed his head, closed his eyes and said my final goodbye as I silently Thanked my higher power for putting me in a position where I did not have to use that day.
Perhaps it was divine intervention the night that I got really high and didn't die even though across town, the very same evening, a friend named Brian did. That should be enough of a reason to not use ever again, but I went out numerous times after that, even after a few more funerals for fellow addicts I knew.
Perhaps it was the same divine intervention that told Tanya to use a word which would slap me in the side of the head, causing me to wake up and refocus my energy on my recovery.
Whatever the cause or reason, once again, I have woken up alive, with a new fire - a new reason to live my life to the fullest.
George Harrison was right on when he said,
"If I needed someone to love, you're the one I'd be thinking of ... If I needed someone."
Perhaps, someday, but not right now. I need to think about that other half a cake.
I am going to help my daughter with her power point project when she gets out of school today. Because I am alive, because I can, because it is the right thing to do, and I can't think of anything else I would rather be doing at 3:30 this afternoon.
Life is short, enjoy it.
Once again, you will find me on the center line of the road to recovery as I am ...
Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.
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