Yokai Monsters: Spook Warfare

Last week, I found a video store in Baltimore. Not a Blockbuster Video: that’s not a video store at all, you know that. No, I found a real video store, just stuffed with the greatest DVDs (the VHS selection was even better. I have to get a player).

Netflix is fantastic, it’s true. I adore it. But I’ve got about six movies sitting in the bottom section, waiting to become available. Three of them are Mexican Wrestling movies and the other ones are even less likely to be on Netflix’s high demand list. When I saw this video store and the people running it, I knew I was going to find what I needed.

The have regular, new releases there but it would be a waste to go in with anything in mind. This is the kind of place you browse until you come across something… special. And special found me over in the Japanese section…

There's crazy sh!t behind that text...

Right off, I’m a bit scared. This is likely to be a little unsettling. The first thing that rears its head is a small, bald, I don’t know, Garbage Pail Kid-looking thing. Then credits over creepy-ass music.

The voice over, which I’m trying to read as I type, tells us the same prologue story as The Exorcist (except this movie’s from 1968) in that people working in the Middle East unearth a demon statue. And it sort of looks the same as the thing they dig up in The Exorcist: sort of eagle-y faced. The eagle-demon appears and starts wrecking havoc on nearby rocks to ironically bury the people who dug him up.

Eagle Demon wants you to look at these low rates.

Cut to a toy boat (toy boat, toy boat) in heavy seas. Our Eagle Demon is menacing it.

Some traditionally-dressed fishers are headed in as the storm (which must mean Eagle Demon) approaches.

Eagle Demon shows up and menaces a Shogun guy. Shogun guy starts swinging his sword all over with no patience or control, which I’d always heard was sort of their specialty. Pretty shitty Shogun. Pointing his flaming Demon Stick at Shitty Shogun, Eagle Demon attacks and bites, apparently now occupying Shitty Shogun’s body. Which is dumb because now he’s got a damaged body with a bite taken out of it.

Now Shitty Shogun Eagle Demon comes home, kills his dog and starts trashing all of his house’s shrines which upsets everyone. When questioned, he flips out. He throws an urn at a guy and it goes in the pond, waking up a turtle duck man. TurDucMan sees that the Shitty Shogun is really Eagle Demon and watches, possibly in horror but you can’t really tell, as he bites and occupies another member of the household.

This is not, by far, the most disturbing creature in this movie...

TurDucMan decides to fight SSED by spitting water at him, then being an idiot. I could already tell that this was not ever a proven tactic. SSED, furthermore known as Demon, uses a wooded beam to noogie him till his head sparks, then throws him out.

TurDucMan goes to get help from Shaky Umbrella with One Leg, Rubber Dick-Shaped Rock, Foxy Goth Worm, Stoned Creature, and the girl from The Ring. Stoned Creature produces some sort of reference guide to Japanese Apparitions and says this Demon isn’t in them, so TurDucMan’s got to be lying.

TurDucMan, flanked by the girl from The Ring and a giant bell-end.

Back at the house, strange shit’s afoot as Eagle Demon kills the maid. I guess she wasn’t good enough to possess. A wise man tells us that Demon drinks blood to extend his life and that he doesn’t take over their bodies as much as he is just disguised as them, using their body to do so.

That’s stupid. It’s the same damn thing. Wise Guy is just being difficult and wants to be right all the time.

Wise Guy gives three candles, a charm, and a bow to someone. He’s got to wear the charm to not be detected as he places the candles around the room Demon is in. Which does something. Wise Guy asks Buddha to kill Demon, which is weird. That’s not usually Buddha’s thing. A candle blows out and Demon rips Wise Guy up. You gotta put candles in a weighted paper bag or a hurricane lamp or something, especially if its going out means you die.

Later, Demon and his crew go on the search for the blood of children and we meet Little Girl and Fat Brother. They run to the area where all the monsters are to ask them for help. There, TurDucMan is still pissed that no one believes him but he sees the kids and flips out.

I can’t take Foxy Goth Worm, man. She’s a fucking nightmare.

Have fun sleeping!

Wow, the Demon’s name is Damion, says the giant rat with the bloated stomach that is also a crystal ball…

So the six-pack of god-damn horror decides they’re going to believe TurDucMan and the kids. As the goons come looking for the kids, Rubber Dick-Shaped Rock swallows one guys leg. The girl from The Ring pops up (she’s got a face on the other side of her head, by the by) and frightens them all into running smack into Shaky Umbrella. Once again, Foxy Goth Worm is the worst. The goons get the hell out.

Later. some guards are hanging out, guarding, when one of them gets slapped by what may be tofu hanging from a string but I’ll tell you for sure in a minute. We’re almost at 45 minutes and I’m not sure about anything, really. Oh, it appears one guard was messing with the other and that really was tofu hanging from a string, but suddenly, like a sickness, Shaky Umbrella with One Leg is there and gone, making me come to terms that I will never be able to explain this movie to anyone outside of this review.

This thing just makes quiet slurping noises which strips you of Sanity Points.

When a guard looks under a table, the girl from The Ring is under there, showing her horrible second face with a skinny arm for a nose.

This thing looks like a mask I saw at the Field Museum of Natural History when I was a kid. Thanks for bringing that back right before bed.

Another guard looks and she’s cute again.

Ha! Now I look like THIS..! No one'll believe you!

This goes back and forth until they possibly die.

Demon has requested some sweet love from a household prisoner not realizing that it’s none other than Foxy Goth Worm.

This is what you see the first time you walk in on your parents...

He ties her into a knot and it’s scary. Stoned Creature tries something and fails. Rubber Dick-Shaped Rock comes in and does nothing. Shaky Umbrella fares no better…

Shake Umbrella with One Leg Fail.

All of our monsters run out and end up back in the woods.

Seems as though someone else has discovered that the demon exists. They have a sword fight and the monsters tune in on the rat’s belly-cam. They head over to assist, despite just having their asses handed to them. They get banished to the inside of a big jar. Good job.

Okay. Now you go ahead and tell me what that is... I thought so.

Suddenly: Holy Sh!t! Demon’s got an arrow in his eye!

There's actually a fair amount of blood in this movie...

Demon leaves Shitty Shogun’s body and his daughter announces that everyone should be able to live in peace.

Later, Demon bites and possesses (sorry: disguises himself as) the new lord of the house. He’s easily identified by a constantly bleeding eye socket.

Shaky Umbrella and the girl from The Ring, who were not stupid enough to try to attack Demon a second time, find the others in the jar but can’t get them out just yet because of a spell.

Shaky Umbrella is looking at you...

They witness the newly bodied Demon and scare the hell out of Shitty Shogun’s daughter but not nearly as much as I would have thought since one’s a floating umbrella who slurps instead of talks and the other one’s got a long, skinny arm instead of a nose on the face on the back of her head.

I would immediately kill myself.

Daughter frees the rest of the monsters who attack. The girl from The Ring is captured but TurDucMan saves her and gets set on fire. He jumps into his pond, which also is now on fire. The monsters get a beating for about five minutes until Demon splits into about 20 Demons.

But that’s okay ‘cause here comes Shaky Umbrella, leading a whole bunch more, hereto unseen,freaky monsters. The Battle of Helm’s Deep breaks out until Demon grows really big. Stoned Creature uses Shaky Umbrella to float up to Demon’s face and shove a stick into Demon’s good eye.

This sh!t's crazy.

Daughter says that she’s almost positive that the monsters got rid of Demon and the guy next to her says it’ll probably never return. That’s looking at the bright side, I guess.

Since I saw this, I wanted to make sure YOU got to see this.

Cobra

Welcome back, kids. Being as how my last review block was atrocious movies about the funny and tragic things that happen in relationships, it is kind of a relief to be wearing pants again. So here I go: The year is 1986 and Hollywood really, really wants us to know this. In 1986, we love guns, big blondes, ballad rock, and Sylvester Stallone who, at this time, is surfing on the wave of glory that was Rambo. You already know where we’re going tonight so let’s just head out…

 

 

Cobra 

Cover Features:

 Sylvester Stallone, chewing on a match, wearing huge aviator sunglasses and a tight black henley. He has a gun with a laser target on it.

This says that Cobra looks cool whilst he shoots you.

Tag Line:

Crime is a disease. Meet the cure.

 

One of the reviews says:

“…this film shows such contempt for the most basic American values embodied in the concept of a fair trial that Mr. Stallone no longer, even nominally, represents an ideology that is recognizably American…”

Nina Darnton, N.Y. Times

Wow. Lighten up. With a fabulously 80s name like Nina, I’d think you were the female embodiment of the decade:

But we’re not here to check out Nina, much less talk about her. We’re here to watch Cobra.

Ready, and…

Looks like we’ve got a little artistic intro here. A voice, his voice, tells us how many murders, robberies, and assaults take place within certain specified time periods. Sort of like, “There’s 856 stabbings every day,” and the like. We see he’s got an etching of a cobra on the handle of his .45 and then he shoots us for daring to listen to his crime stats. Then…

Suddenly, he’s on a motorcycle, while crazy guys clang axes together in time with the music. Judging from their tattoos and graffiti, they’re the Skull-With-Axes-Crossed-Behind-It Gang.

Okay. That led nowhere. But it was all through our opening credits.

Birds fly away when Supermarket Crazy rolls in. Even at the strip mall. He’s being a dick to everyone by running into their carts. Then, when Store Manager dares to ask him if he needs help, the guns come out. Supermarket Crazy is, you know, 80s crazy where he shoots everything but the people with a serious look on his face. He’s not 80s crazy where he’s from Eastern Europe and is heartlessly funny, shooting trusted assistants for minor transgressions. No, he’s straight up contorting-face-crazy. Now, no one is dead yet but you should know that Larry (and later Frank) from Hellraiser is our cop in charge of the scene. Which is weird because he was the psycho in Dirty Harry…

And then, because this situation is so terribly out of control, the call goes out…

For Cobra.

Actually, he says, “Call the Cobra,” which sounds sort of like listening to your mom say, “Search the Google.”

Right on schedule he enters our lives and, possibly, our hearts: Aviator glasses and a match in the corner of his mouth. Larry from Hellraiser explicitly states that he did not agree to calling the Cobra…

Cobra goes in and kind of cop-moves through the liquor department. The Supermarket Crazy says he’ll kill everyone because that’s the way of the new world. Then Cobra drinks a Coors. An 80s Coors. That’s fucking great.

You know, some people would say they want to travel back in time to tell off a teacher or to experience a real Christmas again. I would love to go back and eat and drink stuff. Because it’s different. That’s why they have Pepsi Throwback.

“Hey dirtbag, you’re a lousy shot. I don’t like lousy shots,” Cobra says from behind a shelf filled with all kinds of classic food and beverage graphics, “You wasted a kid for nothing. Now I think it’s time to waste you.”  I think so, also.

The Supermarket Crazy says, in a Hispanic accent, that he’s got a bomb but Cobra’s cool with this because he does not shop there. We then are shocked to discover that the Supermarket Crazy has been identified as the Disease but it’s actually okay because, as it turns out, Cobra himself is the Cure.

Cobra does not deal with psychos. He puts them away. Not ‘away’, like prison. Not ‘away’ like ‘in a manger’. ‘Away’ like shooting them 5 times. Next time I’m asked to put the laundry ‘away’, I will adhere to this definition then point to the DVD if any answers are required.

There won’t be.

The Girl Hostage is in shock. Well, she’s supposed to be but the actress looks more like she wants some of Sly’s Cure.

Cobra doesn’t like reporters. You know what? Neither do I. They never understand that that kid who got wasted in there didn’t have ‘rights’ when he was gunned down by some supermarket crazy. Thank God for Cobra.

Later, on the streets, some guys flip off Cobra. We’re two for two on the Hispanic bad guys. They do nothing when Cobra rips their shirts.

There’s a Working a Lot song playing. It’s sort of ‘Estefan’ but a little ‘Hard for Her Money’. Cobra cuts his pizza with scissors, then watches Christmas commercials play ironically as he cleans his guns.

Oh! That’s that Toys R Us one! I remember that!

But Christmas is over now as Cobra watches the news. You know, the news does not look like that anymore, I’m just here to tell you…

Wait, is that Kathy McFarland from WFLD-TV in 80s Chicagoland ? Jesus, I think it is!

Remind me to look that up, later.

Kathy McFarland tells us about the Night Slasher. He comes in the windows and… Wait a minute. Did you see what was on top of Cobra’s TV? There’s a rhinoceros figurine with a key around its horn. What the hell is that? Anyway, Kathy says he kills people with claw hammers. As Cobra hears this, he chambers a round.

Because the Night Slasher might be right there. In his house. Maybe.

A woman who might be Victoria Jackson is attacked and killed by the Axe Gang. No, actually, it’s not her.

Later at the morgue, Cobra suggests there might be more than one killer. I can’t remember how he comes to this conclusion but Larry from Hellraiser says Cobra needs to stay out of this. This is not Cobra’s specialty. As we leave the morgue, another cop mentions that Cobra’s on the ‘Zombie Squad’ and is then cool enough to explain it to a group of people who already know because, I mean, I didn’t know that the Zombie Squad took all the jobs that no one else wanted…

Cobra doesn’t like how cops have to play by bullshit rules and the killer doesn’t. To burn off some steam, he goes to the firing range. While he’s there, the Axe Gang is out hunting. They have a girl member now, a wide-eyed, accented, hissing girl. Hold On (To Your Vision) is probably the name of this song as a girl gets away from the Axes. It may be Hold On (To Your Dreams).

Typically Lesbian-Looking Cop is looking through police records because that’s what female police officers were/did in the 80s.

But she looks …familiar…

Larry from Hellraiser lets his men decide to call the Best.

Cobra’s assistant, who’s kind of like Pauly from Rocky states that he would love to punch a hole in Larry from Hellraiser to which Cobra states Pauly is too violent of a person.

That’s sort of like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it Cobra? I mean, I saw you unload into that Supermarket Crazy and… oh. Yes: I see now.

Cobra and Pauly must comb the city; therefore, it is time for a montage of San Fran homeless, hookers, and some kind of robot thing.

I don’t know yet, but I’m pretty sure they’ll let us onto why we’re seeing shiny metal people amongst the dregs of reality while they’re editing to the phat beats. Suddenly, a 80s photo shoot that’s so very, very perfect reveals all. It’s like a moving Duran-Duran album cover. Cobra’s looking around while the Axes are sharpening implements. The song assures us that the singer will find his Angel (Of the City).

When the song (and the montage) ends, the photographer and the model walk out to her car. He assures her she could do better. He’d be sick to not want to sleep with her, he says. He just wants her to find happiness. What they find is the Axe Gang and that movie elevator never, ever opens when you’re being chased…

Oh! Damn! Rent-a-Cop smashed into a wall by a van!

Axes are hunting her but the police sirens sound from, like, ten miles away and they get out of there because those cops will be right there in at least eight minutes.

Model is in the hospital. Cobra and Pauly want to ask her questions but… they don’t look like cops. She decides to trust them. Cobra is very, very concerned for this hot model with the French accent, which is nice because most guys just want to sleep with her, you know. I mean, she doesn’t say it but… she doesn’t need to.

The Lesbian-Looking Cop from earlier? Yeah, she’s with the Axes. Thought so.

Lead Axe is our Night Stalker guy. He does that stare into nothing and tilt his head thing then cuts his finger to test the sharpness of his knife. God: that guy’s crazy or something… He’s cutting all his hair off with a straight razor. I’d never do that.

Turns out that since Cobra was on the job, he didn’t even notice how attractive the model was. He’s a stand up guy like that. Total dedication.

The Working (Too Hard) song is back. It’s clearly the “Cobra Heading Home for the Day” theme (from Cobra). He looks stuff up on computer that’s not nearly as retro-hilarious as I’d like to see, thank you. But that dot matrix printer sure is. Ha: Cobra’s got a lame printer.

Night Stalker Guy is heading into the hospital in janitor guise to do away with the model. That maid who’s sassing him has no idea how lucky she is that the elevator stopped on that floor.

Cobra has a picture of Reagan in his office. A big one. Axe Gang attacks and Cobra doesn’t really beat them up as much as he sort of gets out of the way while they hit things, to include pipes, walls, and each other. Now that he’s tipped off, he tears off for the hospital.

This is a great little scene here. Dark hospital, expendable nurse looking for an intruder. That’s classic. You don’t get that much anymore. Night Stalker does away with her and continues to hunt the model. Here’s another classic: put your ear to the door to see if he’s gone…

…then, suddenly…

The hospital chase is cut short by Model hitting the fire alarm. Whew. Good thinking.

Now, suddenly, Cobra’s all in trouble for some reason. He didn’t really do anything wrong. I mean, for what he’s capable of. They say he’s got an attitude. He admits to this being true but it’s just a little one.

Later, Cobra and Pauly decide to take Model to The Safe House. Little do they know that Lesbian-Looking Police Officer who has been assigned to this detail is the same Lesbian-Looking Police Officer who is in the Axe gang.

Out on the streets, the Heat is On. The pressure’s high as cars drive down the sidewalk, shotguns blast, and San Francisco’s curvy streets are dangerously hilly. Cobra hits that awesome emergency break that I wish I had that makes him spin around and able to shoot at the cars driving his way as he goes in reverse. They go to a parking garage, tear ass for a bit, and the music kicks up. Gunshots make cars explode but Cobra just drives through. We get a little of that awesome San Fran Leaping Car action that we all love …

…as they head for the Abandoned Industrial District where Cobra totally fucks up his car. He’s a little shaken and has strategicly placed blood by his eye but he pulls Model out of the car and, well, gets out somehow.

Cobra cannot seem to get his superiors to understand what he’s doing. He and Larry from Hellraiser get into a pissing match so Cobra and Model leave. I don’t really know why they let him take her with him after they kept saying how he almost got her killed.

We’re Feeling the Heat as our Good Guys drive ‘upstate’. She asks him why he and the other police fight. She can’t understand why the crazy people don’t get put away and he says you gotta tell that to the judge. They’re on a road trip now and she’s dressed as stereotypically French as she can be.

They all look like fugitives from the 50s. I didn’t make that up. They actually said it and it’s totally true.

Model confronts Cobra with his real name: Marion Cobretti. I suppose his parents could see what he’d grow into and they feared it. So they named him Marion. Or they thought he’d rest on his bad-ass sounding last name so they pulled a Boy Named Sue on him. Either way, I just looked up and Cobra’s walking around a roadside diner with a big plastic hamburger.

Her fries look gross. Ha! She’s eating French Fries! She asks him what he does to relax, if he ever gets involved. He asks, “With a woman?”

Good night, everybody!

Lesbian-Looking Police Officer is suspiciously calling from the diner phone which calls out the Axe Gang who are sort of like ninjas now, apparently.

Model goes to sleep that night in motel by the diner and Lesbian-Looking Police Officer is confronted by Cobra as she makes another call but thinks little enough of it to go on with business as usual. Later, as everyone prepares for sleep by chambering a round, we see the Axe-Cycles a-coming. It’s a quiet montage, really. Cobra is apparently putting together about 70 guns as Model looks at him. He says he can hear that her eyes are open. She asks him to come over to her bed and the music gets sort of duet-y, sort of Billy Ocean-y. Bill Medley-y. They move in for the kiss.

It appears to be dawn in the next jump cut and I don’t think they did anything. Cobra’s ready for all those motorcycles coming down the road, though. Model’s pretty chipper in a way that tells all of us she’s Satisfied. 80s Sexually Satisfied.

But in no time, the cycles are heard from far away as they rip through Small Town America and ride to the motel. Cobra shoots most of them off their motorcycles as Model screams. It’s kind of like an early Nintendo game in that the danger is coming in progressively predictable waves. Soon he’ll have to shoot them as they come through a hole in the… Oh, they’re there already, actually.

Both Model and Cobra are wearing blue jeans and black shirts. You guys going to the After Prom at Six Flags or what?

Fires are raging, Cobra’s yelling, grenades are thrown making motorcycles fly in the air. Model’s driving a truck from which Cobra’s shooting the foolhardy motorcyclists who dare to pursue them. There are a thousand of those guys. Oooo! That guy’s going under the truck. There’s a fiery car roadblock up there that they can bust through, so that’s cool.

Cobra grabs Model and they head for same orange groves that were in Chinatown, so this movie’s got class. Lesbian-Looking Police Officer pursues Model to the Factory With Lots of Dangerous, Moving Heavy Machinery. I predict that because no one likes Lesbian-Looking Police Officer, she will fall into fire somewhere in there. This factory appears to be producing nothing but sparks and lava, for the most part. Cobra makes it there and so does every other main player. One guy gets gasoline dumped on him and Cobra reads him his first Miranda right as he drops a match on him.

Lesbian-Looking Police Officer is shot by Cobra, which is lame. Night Slasher is looking for Model through the sparks and fire and Cobra’s looking for him. There’s a lot of giant hooks floating by and we call that ‘foreshadowing’. You can level-up your 80s Movie Skills by calling this kind of thing ahead of time…

The Night Slasher states that he is the future to which Cobra tells him that he’s actually history. As there’s a lot of gun pointing going on, the Night Slasher challenges Cobra, saying that cops can’t kill people, that he must be brought in. I do not believe that the Night Stalker understands who he is dealing with, here: this is where the law sops… and Cobra starts.

Lesbian-Looking Police Officer! I thought you were dead! She jumps Cobra and now we’ve got an old skool chain-and-knife fight going on. Cobra looks over at the molten lava coming out of a pipe and I’m pretty sure someone’s going in it. Oh, please let it be Lesbian-Looking Police Officer!

Cobra puts Night Stalker Guy on a hook, which is a +30 80s Movie Foreshadowing Level-up for me, and sends him to the fire.

Now we’re at the end, Larry from Hellraiser should now admit that he was wrong. But he’s all smarmy about all the carnage. So Cobra decks him and says no hard feelings. Model then calls Cobra ”Marion” to be funny and he stabs her six times then sets her body ablaze with the stream of fire that shoots from his cock.

By the way, it wasn’t until I was going taking the screenshots that I found this:

I think that’s close enough to be worth at least +50 80s Movie Level-up Points…

End of Reel

What I’ve Learned Here: The San Francisco Police Department has a special unit, called the Zombie Squad, which they call in when things get really rough. They may not be orthodox but they get the job done. I’ve also learned that I should always have a ‘Strike Anywhere’ match in my mouth because wouldn’t I feel like I was wasting an opportunity if my persuer were to be covered in gasoline? Answer: yes.

It feels like my Mind is Wiped Clean about once a year. What was I doing again..?

I was going through some of my notebooks and I found this. It’s clearly from a few years ago and while I remember it, I don’t remember writing it. Very appropriate as the whole thing is about how I don’t have a very good memory so I have to write down what happened over the past year. I like how I sprinkled the Poe throughout…

It feels like my Mind is Wiped Clean about once a year. What was I doing again..?

Thank Heaven! the crisis- The Danger is past.

We were in Savannah.

No, really. I remember it. We were sitting in a pirate’s house and the alcohol was affecting my Better Judgment. We had a fight that resulted in what was probably the worst feeling my mind has dealt with in…

I can’t remember anymore. We let the girl wave to us. Was it goodbye? Hello? I’m here? There was a giant kid who killed a little kid and the town killed him. You lay beneath the tree, looking towards his swinging body. “Skylark” was on the radio.

A young woman waits in a hotel room for a sailor. Or maybe it was in a bar. A bar-bar. I am not that sailor, trust me. We’ll have breakfast at Clary’s and forget about her. You shall press, ah, nevermore!

I remember seeing you in the late 50s. Maybe it was the early 60s but they’re both so interchangeable sometimes. You were on a beach and the sky was dark. You see a ship and wave. The hotels are pastel colored.

We were in Atlanta.

Right? Atlanta?

We were wandering. We were walking through a garden of Venus Fly-Traps. I was visiting an old friend. You were not happy about that. We were in a club full of vampires. They were going to lock the doors, I know it. The Battle of Atlanta had raged around us and we talked about past events that don’t matter anymore. Did I kiss her before we parted ways? My memory deteriorates like nitrate and I could not tell you. Coca-Cola rots the brain and we’ve had so many kinds. I don’t even want to talk about the Italian ones. At the end of our path a liquescent and nebulous lustre was born.

The French Quarter is too full of ghosts for us not to become possessed. A chalice bursts into flaming streams. A woman chops up her servants in an upstairs room and we can’t see a thing. Do we drink absinthe where Faulkner wrote? Yes, I think so but you’ll have to help me with the details. I know it’s raining when the voodoo queen is found and I’m not sure if what she did was a blessing. By God, will somebody shut off that Fucking Music?! And the life of the Ebony Clock went out with that.

A gypsy drive-in can’t get us in tonight so we’ll have to go to a college town, which is a poor substitute. The Lord has forgiven me for that Piggly-Wiggly I knocked over. What kind of abandoned town is this, anyway? They’ll shut the lights off if you pump gas too long, no matter how cheap it is.

How long did you sit by the campfire before you realized you might love me? I don’t want an answer. I just want you to think about it.  How long before the tabloids would pick up on our story?

I think I was in Tombstone. A hearse carries a child’s casket to Boot Hill. Little Egypt is on her way to Chicago. I went downstairs at The Birdcage but didn’t go in the rooms. You weren’t there. Hey, pretty. So much has changed.

Can you remember like I do? Can you erase like I can? I have had to lock in the last year or it would flake away like silver. These memories cannot just walk into the Mississippi anymore, they have to be pushed. And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side but only to look at you, laughing, as a tear falls. It was surely October on this very night of last year that I journeyed…

I journeyed down here.

This’ll go into some story, somewhere…

I’ve got this forty page collection of memories that I sort of cut-up and merged with some story ideas. This is one that I thought came out kind of well; hopefully you’ll see it within some kind of relevant framework within a month but I wanted something to work on and post so have a look…

    Remember I told you about the girl I did that Christmas show with? What? You know: the one we called ‘The Blue Girl’ because her skin was so transparent that the veins colored her face? See, you remember that but not the beautiful holiday moment we shared? Shows me what people really listen to…

Well, anyway, we saw quite a bit of each other over the next year or so. Lots of drama, lots of sex. Neither of it any good. She suddenly left one week with her family and I never saw her again. Maybe I’ll talk more about her later. Right now, I want to tell you my story of Sunny. It starts with me driving out to the spacious farm communities that surrounded, at a safe distance, the Chicagoland metropolis. I know I wasn’t in my twenties yet because I went to Vegas then. We’ll get into that too because, you probably know, that’s really what we’re here to talk about. Anyway, so I drove out to the cornfields…

    I was feeling pretty good that day. It was late October and the world was dying. The skies were overcast and the air smelled of rain, burning leaves, and turkey. I had stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere to get a Coke and some cigarettes. For whatever reason, I had turned right instead of left and ended up out of the city. I went exploring.

    After an hour, I came to Plano. A train went through the middle of town and the fonts on the pharmacies and hardware stores told of booming business in the early sixties. It all seemed familiar and eerie. I liked it.

    I drove down the main street and decided to park. Walking in front of the shops, I saw garden tool displays that might not have been touched since I was born and a corner bar with blacked out windows. I turned that corner and went through the residences a street or two back.

    What was going on in these houses? What did people do in Small Town USA? I daydreamed as I drove about mysteries in the hardware store and romance behind the dark bar windows. About reports on the local radio station and what went on in the VFWs. What secrets were being kept here? The sky was getting darker.

    I saw her. She was out by the curb, shuffling through some recently delivered mail. One letter slipped and fluttered to the ground. When she bent to pick it up, just as I was passing, I saw a hint of cornflower-patterned panties over the limits of her jeans. I stopped. I couldn’t think for a moment. She turned and stared with her doe eyes.

    She was so country and that was exotic to me. Her hair was the color of straw, highlighted by an autumn sunset. Her eyes were the overcast sky. Lips: Ripe Strawberries. And I wanted a taste.

    I asked if she knew how to get back to the highway. I was trying to get back to Chicago, I explained. She smiled and said she could tell I was from the city. Then she said that she had a map inside and wouldn’t I like some lemonade while she looked for it? Her parents, it seemed, were not at home.

    It all happened so fast. Details aren’t complete here. I can’t fill them in and I don’t understand why; it’s so frustrating. I remember walking in the house and it smelling like cedar. I remember a collection of Gone with the Wind plates displayed along the edge of the ceiling and a painting of an abandoned merry-go-round in a field. There was lemonade but it didn’t get finished. Her bedroom was still Little Girl Style: Holly Hobby, Raggety Ann, and flower printed wallpaper. I recall looking out her window down to her backyard where an old swing set gently swayed in the increasing breeze next to the dilapidated garage. The sky told of a pretty severe storm soon.

    The radio clicked on. I turned and saw her sit on the bed. She wanted to… show me some photographs in an album? Right? I can’t remember any of them. I took another glance out the window and saw lightning on the horizon over the recently harvested corn fields.

    Photo after photo and I remember none of them. Light thunder. Here everything slows down suddenly like being underwater for just this moment. I remember everything when she looked out the window towards the sky and a look of concern crossed her face. If a tornado should be sighted, she said, then we would have to go to the cellar. Another flash of lightning. She leaned into me.

    I was wrong about the lips: Cherries, actually…

    What a sweet story, some say. Others think it’s pretty lame. It all goes back to that atmosphere that I said try to capture in my drawings. That’s what I like about it: that I can’t ever quite capture it, in my mind or on paper. You should know that within a few minutes, the radio announcer broke in to say that there was a severe thunderstorm warning and he let the emergency broadcast signal play before and after his message. I kissed her neck and smelled roses and smoke. The storm got pretty violent with lots of near lightning strikes. She unbuttoned her shirt. The tornado siren went off outside. We didn’t go to the cellar but I thought about it. Her breath in my ear sounded like a cool breeze. The lights flickered twice. You should also remember that her name, ironically enough, was Sunny.

    Now stop reading for a second and think about this story. Enjoy it. Really picture it: it’s a good image

    Now that you’ve enjoyed Sunny for that story, you should be aware of something. A year later, after I was already in Las Vegas, I read that her father had come home one evening to find Sunny sitting at the kitchen table, seemingly falling asleep as she wrote in a notebook. When her father went to wake her, he slipped on the bloody linoleum floor.

    No one knows who, no one knows why but someone had come in and taken her feet. Cut them off and took them, hid them, ate them; no one knows. If they ever did find out, I don’t know. I have never read anything other than that one story and there were so few details. But as to what goes on in those houses in Small Town USA that people talk about in their VFWs? That I know.

* * * * * *

 

Cinderella: Part 4

Here’s the next chapter in the Cinderella tale where everything gets all horror and, really, nothing is resolved. Just the way I like it. Here’s the first part and here’s the second; you may want to check those out first. Where were we? Oh yeah: in New Orleans…

Cinderella Part Four…

Just got off the phone. Been looking through the envelope I was given and I had a few questions. Oh, did I mention I’m doing this thing? I am.

I get my groceries for free now.

Some of the stuff in the envelope went into the embalming fluid. A pint of her blood sits over on my counter. My part’s pretty much done as far as all that goes.

I’ve got Cindy on my table. I’m able to see all the artwork she’s got on her body. Lots of winding ivy and some ribbed hearts. She’s marked up everywhere.

I’m sewing her head on. Being so close to her face I catch myself telling her things. I tell her I’m going to try to make sure the vines creeping from her shoulder to her neck matches up. I can see where the jagged flesh had been sawed through. Not a sharp blade. I have to attach a post in her spinal column to hold her head on and I excuse myself when I leave her head on the other table to do this.

The bones in the neck are shattered. Maybe he had to chop through with a blade that dull. Looks like he hacked from the front. Did she see him doing that? I ask her.

I pick up her head to study the damage done to the spine there. Pretty bad. I put another post there to connect and some Sculpty clay to hold it in place. I consider using Sculpty to kind of cement her together because the family might try to move her. Families do that. Best not to have the head tear off when Mom’s giving her daughter a good-bye hug.

While I’m waiting for the post to set in there, I turn Cindy’s head over and look at her. She needs eye caps. I slide them in and get my needle gun ready to sew her mouth. It’s sad but it’s easier to do when the head’s on your lap. Sorry, Cindy. I’m dealing with this best I can. I think you understand.

I know you do.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’ve got a dress with a high neck to cover up that seam. It’s too bad I thought like that because I actually did a wonderful job with those tattoos. I’m looking at her now: Job Well Done. And I even put her magic powder in and saved some blood. I’ve done my part.

I wonder, though, what that’s all going to do. The note she left didn’t say. I just followed the directions. Obviously, it’ll be Bad Ju-Ju Luck for her killer but will it kill him? Maybe it’s working a spell on me and I’ll kill him. Or maybe it’s zombie powder and she’ll rise up and take care of this herself.

I look at her again and the tears start up a bit, “I didn’t even know you. Why am I so upset? Can you tell me, Cindy? What’s wrong with me?” I get up to leave.

Turning out the lights, I tell her good night and she tells me good night and not to worry.

I know she does.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

Cindy comes to me that night and lays down with me. Nothing to be worried about. We’re not like that. She’s just cold. I understand that. I give her some blankets. She hugs me from behind and only succeeds in transferring her coldness to me. I have dreams that I can’t remember and wake up every now and then to tell her about them. She shushes me and says to go back to sleep.

The last time I wake up, she’s not there. Of course she’s not. Cindy’s still laying on my embalming table. I think I might be in need of a vacation after this, though..

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’m driving Cindy to her home where she’ll be laid out for viewing. I’m worried about my dreams because I’ve never dreamt about the dead like that before. I’m not worried that it was sexual and you shouldn’t be either. I do worry that I’m getting paternal about Cindy. Is this where the voodoo takes over? She comes to me like a child in my dreams and I kill her murderer?

Her brothers meet me and we get Cindy into the house, which is newly uncovered and decorated for her welcoming home, as well as her final exit. I wonder where they’ll bury her? Best I don’t know, I’m already involved enough. Still, I wonder if they’ll just bury her in the backyard..

The family invites me to return later that evening. I say I will. I’m made to feel very welcome.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’m drinking in the mortuary. I should go back to my apartment but I have more stuff here to keep me occupied. Should just move in. Here all the time anyway…

There’s all my books and my DVDs. Hell, even my bed’s better here..

My bed. I’m breathing kind of shallow. There’s a smear of make-up on the pillow. I bend down to touch it. Yeah. That’s what it is. I’m breathing faster now. Probably going to pass out. Before I do, I gotta know: Did she come in here on her own or did I drag her in? Fucked up either way but one way involves me being bat-shit crazy and the other involves the living-fucking-dead.

I need to call. I need to call them. And say what? They don’t want to hear either option. I do need to go over there, though. Got another two hours. Tick-tock..

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’ve spent my time pacing, smoking, drinking and shaking. I’m not even getting a buzz because of how hard I’m shaking. It’s like I’m working it off.

I haven’t seen any other signs that she was walking around. God, I must have dragged her in. Or, my new theory, I curled up with her on the embalming table and got make-up on myself and transferred it to my bed. Sheets in the wash as we speak.

What if Claude had come in? He wouldn’t have because he’s a motherfucker but, man, if he had? I would have woken up and freaked out.

At least I don’t feel the need to kill. I don’t think she put the spell on me. Or I might do it tonight. Or she might. I need to just go and get this over with but I still got another hour.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

Getting ready to go. It seems like it’s been a quarter to eight for twenty minutes now. I jog out to the van, then decide on the hearse. That’s sense talking. They might need me to drive her somewhere.

I can’t get there fast enough. Not even buzzed. I could use a buzz.

Pulling up. The house is dark. Did they go somewhere else? There’s no one around. I swear they asked me to come back. Am I late? Time’s right. I get out.

I hate this. I hate this. I’m walking up to a dark house of people I don’t know. Is she in there? Do I have to walk in on some scene like the one when I went on the removal? Candles and alone with Cindy’s severed head? I’m on auto-pilot again, walking to the steps.

Someone’s coming from around back. I hope they’re all back there. I hope it’s well lit because I can’t do this in the dark anymore. I squint into the night.

And of course it’s her. She’s walking towards me, a little slow but there she is. She’s far but I recognize her dress. She’s coming right towards me and I’m not moving.

She’s got a head in her right hand, held by the hair. A little closer and she’s got another one. Is she on a mindless killing spree? Am I next? She smiles but only with her lips. I sewed her mouth shut.

First, the right head falls to the ground, then the left. She’s close enough that I can see she’s pulled her plastic eye caps out. I watch as she points to the hearse. She’s still walking to me.

“What?” I whisper.

She puts a hand to her throat, holding it together. She whispers to me:

“Beignets?”

I’m suddenly relaxed. I smile.

“Of course. Cafe DuMonde?”

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

We stop back at the mortuary to get her a change of clothes and a shower: she’s just covered in blood. She’s trying not to do her creepy whispering thing, so we motion the simple things. She hands me her dress from the bathroom and I stuff it into the hazardous waste bin. I’m looking for clothes and she steps out, wrapped in a towel. She looks pretty bad. I powder her up and do quite the make-up job for her. Totally passable. Hey, the girl wants to go out for beignets. Do I say no, you look too dead? Adapt and overcome. Besides, this is the best I’ve felt all day.

Dressing her in slacks and a button down shirt, she could be anyone in the quarter.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

We’re sitting under the canopy. She’s looking at her plate. I realize she can’t eat with all that wire holding her mouth together. I also realize that she doesn’t look as passable under these lights. Whatever.

“I need to clip out your mouth if you’re gonna eat,” I explain, “Sorry I didn’t think of that before we got here.”

She looks at me, hurt. She does manage to sip some coffee but it threatens to spill. Putting her cup down, she begins to pout.

“Here. Come here,” I say standing up. I’m pulling her to the bathroom and we get a few stares. Yeah, cause I’m gonna nail her in that filthy bathroom you got back there.

I shove her into the bathroom and take out my keys, “Open up,” I say, “Go like this..” I show her my teeth.

Let’s just say I got it done. And without popping any teeth off.

We go sit back down. No shit from anyone. Cindy happily eats her donuts. I watch her. Believe it or not, this is a much nicer memory. I lean in.

“Hey,” I say gently, “How long have you got? Do you know?”

She shrugs but she doesn’t seem bothered. Okay. That’s what I need: just be happy for a while. I let her be and just sit quietly. That’s what I do.

Suddenly she stops eating and holds her throat. She’s going to speak and it’s not pretty.

“We got them,” she whispers, “Thank you.”

I want to ask questions but decide against it. I don’t want to ruin the moment.

“You’re welcome, Cindy.”

“Will you just sit here with me until I‘m done?”

“Yeah, of course I will.”

She’s alive and happy as she picks up her second beignet. She’s dead and gone before she finishes it.

Cinderella: Pts. 2 & 3

Let’s return to New Orleans, where the accents are confusingly Brooklyn and the rum goes down a little harsher than we’re used to. If you’re just joining us, you’ll want to check out Part 1. It’s right over here. Now, if you’re all caught up, let’s settle back for some Neurosis and Horror in part two of…

Cinderella

    So now I’m sitting in my little room in the back of the mortuary when Claude comes in. Claude runs the place and, incidentally, is a bastard. He’s a bastard til I start working, that is. I work well for nothing and he doesn’t want to mess that up.

    He comes in and, in what is his typical mean-spirited move, gives me the latest walk in. “Walk In” translates to “Poor” around here. Won’t make a dime on this account. S’okay. Not in it for the money.
 

   “Hey,” he says walking by me to change the channel, “Couple of gypsies out there for you.” He sits down.

    Claude has no idea what this means for me. How much I’ve wracked my system, waiting for this day. Man. I knew it was coming. Everyone who’s come in for the last two weeks has had me bracing myself for Cindy. It’s been a nightmare. One after the other. I stand up…
 

   “Yeah,” I say, “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

    Sounds horrible but I sort of hope this is it. Eating me up, all this waiting. That’s not right.

    I’d wait forever if she’d just be okay.

    I walk out to the front room. There’s two women. Old women. Scary women. They’re clutching lots of charms, crosses, clothing. And an envelope. Fuck, man..

    I introduce myself and, of course, they know who I am. They thrust the envelope at me and I take it. Feels heavy. There’s stuff in there. Hope it’s not bullets.
 

   “Where is she?” I ask. They tell me.

    One of the women tries to give me money: looks like about a hundred bucks. I already thought about how I’d handle this and start to shake my head. The woman grabs my hand and puts the money into it and pushes it back to me. I nod.
 

   “I have to go get Cindy, now.”

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

 

    I’m driving to the address. I’m thinking about how happy Cindy was when I brought her coffee. That’s what’s on my mind the whole time. Her laughing at my stories. The last time I saw her, she was happy. I had made her happy.

    I turn into the lot with the huge, new houses. There are mobile homes, more like camping trailers, parked along the sides. This is the neighborhood? I never would have thought.

    I don’t even have to check the address because I can see one of the houses is covered in cloth. There are drunk people wandering around outside. A lot of them. Maybe a hundred.
 

   I pull over and a wailing cry goes up. They know who I am. They know I’m going to take away their Cinderella. I wonder if they will even let me take her. Even worse, I wonder if they know I’m the guy who’s supposed to be “helping” her. Damn. I wasn’t even thinking of the revenge plot, or whatever. I told myself last week that it was gong to involve making her look so wonderful in her casket that her killer would realize what a beautiful thing he destroyed.
 

   Yeah. Right. I’m going to have to kill someone. I just know it.

    I get out of the hearse, which I’m glad I brought with all these people around. Looks better. I did not, however, bring Claude to help me with the removal. He would fuck this up. I’ll have to ask for help but from who?
 

   A woman comes up and implores that I not take Cindy away. Not away from her home and family. She’s kissing my hands and asking me not to take her. She calls me something I recognize as, like, Mr. Death. Local thing.

    This scruffy, handsome man comes to get her. Tells her to let me go through. I see similarities. Cindy’s brother. He looks at me.
 

   “My brothers will take you to the stairs,” he says.
 

   “Where is she?” I ask.
 

   “She’s in there but you can’t go in yet.” He turns his attention to his mother. His mother? Maybe.
 

   “I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I’m going to help Cindy as best I can.”

    The brother nodded grimly, “She wasn’t sure.”
 

   Oh. Damn. That’s not what I meant. Oh. Fuck. Was that what I meant? Why didn’t I say, ‘I’m going to do what I can for you‘? Or ‘I’m going to help you‘? Because, you know, am I going to do this? I don’t even know what ’this’ is. I took the money and the envelope. Now I think I just promised the family I’d do it.
 

   Suddenly, two wiry men are on either side of me, leading me up to the house. I look back and see two more are getting my gurney out of the hearse and following us. Okay, then.

    We get to the steps and one of the brothers stuffs something into my jacket pocket as the other one, I don’t know, anoints me? He pours something oily and sweet-smelling on my head and rubs it into my hair. Then, they gently push me up the stairs.

 

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

 

    Pushing aside the cloth covering the door, I see that it’s marked with all kinds of little x’s, which, if you’ve been to New Orleans, you’ve seen around. People claim they don’t mean anything. They’re something for the tourists to look at. No tourists up here at the Gypsy Death House, though. I open the door and push my gurney through, letting the door close behind me. And I’m alone.
 

   The noise outside fades to the silence of the house. There’s no one in here. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the draft blow through.

    I don’t know where she is and, worse, I don’t know what’s happened to her. I mean, has a coroner been through? Probably not, as they’d want to take her to the lab. These people don’t call police. Am I going to find her crumpled in a corner where she fell? How bad is this going to be? Is she laid out peacefully? In bloody clothes? I notice that the mirrors are covered too.
 

   Walking into the first room on the right, I can see the flickering of  candles, casting shadows everywhere in the cluttered room. I walk in slowly, floorboards creak a little. My cart squeaks.
 

   The room is not big. Over to the left is a couch, facing the covered window. The candles give my only light. I leave my cart and move to the couch. Slow steps. I peer over.

Cindy’s there.
 

  I’m suddenly very sad. My wonderful little memory of her laughing and eating the beignets I brought her… That’ll never be as strong as seeing her on this couch. It was such a good memory, too..

    I pull my gurney over and realize that if I have to do this alone, I’ll have to get a little closer than usual. No one has come in; I’m sure the house is ‘unclean’ or something.

    I adjust the bed to be even with the couch and kneel down by Cindy. I sigh. I can smell incense on her, just like in the tent. I get my arms under her back and start to pull her over to the cart. Her head shifts. I stop.
 

   God Fucking Dammit.

   They cut her head off.

    Is this another superstition? Some old-country vampire prevention? Even worse, did her killer do this?

    Now I was flooded with imagery.

    Was she alive?
 

   Was she scared?

    Did someone force Cindy to her knees, pop her throat out and saw through her neck as she cried?

    Did he tell her beforehand?

    I keep seeing her head hitting the floor, her lips moving in a silent protest. In this light, this candlelight, it’s really too much.
 

   My body goes into automatic. I lift her over to the cart. I carefully lift her head up and put it where it should go but there’s no way to keep it strapped down. I lift her arms up and over, letting her forearms keep her head from rolling off. Even on auto-pilot, I might fall apart if it hits the floor.

    But her arms are doing a good job of keeping everything in place, so I cover her and hurry out to the hall. Opening the front door, I see everyone is lined up along the sidewalk. The wail goes up when they see me. I pull the gurney, Cindy, through the door and they cry again. The two wiry brothers come to help me get the cart down the stairs and follow me to the hearse to make sure it gets in. Another wail when I slam the door.

    Then I drive around til I stop crying.

Cinderella, Pt. 1

I’ve been to New Orleans a good couple of times now. Every time I go, I think of something else to add to this story. Grab yourself a Four Roses and Coke for this little Southern Gothic tale I call…

Cinderella

It’s not like I have any reason to go into the Palm/Tarot Reader’s tent: you just do things like that when you’re at the carnival. And I love me some Carnival, or Fair, depending on where you’re from, I guess. Amusements. You know. Corn Dogs. Ferris Wheels…

I’m eating here. I’m eating really bad here. I spend stupid amounts of money for the rides but I rarely play any games. Mostly because I can’t walk around with a giant stuffed Disney knockoff for an hour. Unless I’m with a girl. That doesn’t happen real often, though..

And, you know, like anyone ever wins anything anyway..

That Tarot Card reader, though. That’s the kind of thing the old traveling shows used to do, like Freak and Geek Shows. Not that I ever actually saw them. Not that old. I’ve read things, though…

You gotta realize that New Orleans is chock full o’ Tarot Readers but when you see them every single night coming home from work, well… I don’t hold a lot of stock in either the authenticity or the novelty in such a thing. Not that I really am a huge believer in oracles or magic anyway. Not so much in my line of work. That type of thing might actually scare the hell out of me as a mortician. Or Funeral Director, depending on where you’re from. We don’t mince words down here. You know, in California, they don’t even like ’funeral’ director. They’re calling themselves ‘Grief Counselors’.

Grief Counselors? Just stop all that..

Maybe, I’m thinking, it was the reader herself that got me in there. Young, dark, pretty girl. Tattoos circling around limbs, running in and out of her clothes. You know: Exotic. And I’m not really a sucker for pretty girls. I like them, of course, but that’s not what got me in there. I wasn’t looking for a date or even to flirt a little. No, I’d say she got me in because she was a least attempting to be the Genuine Article.

All those Fat, White Women (and their Bearded Men counterparts) out in back of Jackson Square just don’t click, you know? Might as well advertise on late night TV with a phone number to call.

And yeah, maybe that’s not fair. Okay, I’m biased when it comes to my Fortune Tellers. Who cares? It’s not like I require a stereotype in my doctor or landlord. Just my Carneys, thank you..

She looked like a gypsy, with her tattoos and patched up dress trimmed with tiny gold coins. I could see her through the open flap of her caravan tent. She was sitting there, smoking, actually looking at cards spread out on the table. How cool is that? Actually doing mystical gypsy stuff, not watching TV or flipping through some paperback. Not eating Chinese Take-Out. No, she was at least acting like she was into her work..

I step in and say, “Hi, can I get a reading?’ Just like that.

“Oh, sure,” she says, no trace of a Jamaican accent. She sounded like Brooklyn. Or Hoboken. More accurately, we sound like New Orleans.

“You local?” I ask, sitting down.

“I am,” she says, gathering her cards and starting to shuffle, “A lot of us are. Any festival or carnival that comes to town always drops a notice when they’re in town.”

“Nice. What do you do in between?”

“Work at a grocery store.”

“Never seen you before,” I say staring at her inkwork.

“You, uh, been to all the grocery stores in New Orleans?” She smiles so sweetly. It’s too bad her teeth are not so great. Kinda gray. Adds to it.

“I suppose not,” I say, returning the smile.

She leans into me like a child telling a secret.

“You want the tarot or palm reading?” She looks at my hands when she says ‘palm’.

I shrug, “What’s the difference?”

“What,” she says, “You not from here, or..”

“No, I am but it’s not like I know a lot of gypsies or anything.”

Is ‘gypsy’ a bad word? I can’t remember.

She doesn’t react. I’ll be careful about saying it again, though.

“Tell me,” she says, slowly, “what you do.”

“Mortician.”

Her face goes dark. She takes a breath and now it looks like she’s relived, “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, “I’m going to do the cards. The palm’ll just tell you personality traits you already know anyway.”

“How does that help?”

She shakes her head with a nice smile, “Won’t. It’s cheaper and so people go for it. When I tell them things they already know, they sometimes want to go in on the cards.”

“Gotcha.” This is so cool. Even if it is a trick. Who cares? That’s kind of what I came in for, right? “So why am I the lucky one who doesn’t get the business end of this deal?”

“This is gonna sound all mystic and shit but,” she looked sad for the first time, “I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Okay, now we’re off into the movie fortune tellers’ way of doing the deal. Or she was telling the truth. Either way, Money Well Spent.

“Let’s do the cards, then, since you’ve been waiting here for a handsome mortician and everything.”

“Aren’t we all,” she winked.

Okay.

I give her my name and my birthday. She loves my birthday and gives me all kinds of reasons that I should too. Her name is Cindy.

Cindy?

“That’s the first thing about you that doesn’t, you know, scream ‘fortune teller’,” I say.

Cindy laughs, “Short for ‘Cinderella’. Like that?”

“Yeah, that’s good. That for real?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Nice.”

Cindy-rella has me shuffle for a bit. The cards are regular size so I can do all my one-handed, slight of hand shuffles. She likes that.

“You do magic,” she says.

“Nope. Just the shuffles.”

“Cool,” she says, taking the cards back and beginning to turn them over.

“You use regular playing cards,” I say, watching her.

“Gypsies do. We don’t fuck with the Ryder or Cat People decks. That’s for those people out by Pirate’s Alley.”

“The one’s reading Anne Rice books,” I nod, “I seen ‘em.”

“You’re funny. I’m glad.”

I look up, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t it be?” She pauses to look at the cards, then turns over a few more and says, “Everyone likes a good sense of humor. And just imagine the seriousness that comes in here sometimes,” Cindy rolls her eyes, “And the assholes. Why come in here if you’re just going to nay-say everything I do? I feel like they just pay to abuse me.”

I sit back and light a cigarette, “You know they do,” I say.

“Yeah..”

She finishes the spread and looks at it as she lights a cigarette. Then she starts telling me things.

Things about me, things that lead up to me, things that influence me, especially the things that I don’t know are doing all the influencing. She tells me how all this will come out in the next few weeks and how I can recognize them when they happen. Got it. Cool.

“These cards here,” she says, blowing a steam of smoke upwards, “are important because I already know what these are about. I‘ve seen them in spreads I‘ve done for myself.”

“Oh, right,” I say brightly, “You said you knew I was coming..”

“Yeah,” she starts, “You’re to be part of something kind of frightening…”

She looks up to see how close I’m listening, “It’s a revenge, actually, and it involves this,” she’s pointing at a card she had previously identified as my job.

Now I’m just not dumb. I doesn’t take any kind of genius.

“Are you in trouble?” I ask, just out with it, “Is someone going to kill you?”

“Yeah..”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s kinda my fault. Or will be..”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m just sorry you have to know that. Really.”

She’s quiet. I let her be. I learned that on the job.

See, Funeral Directors hate that silence and they comfort themselves by getting on with the business of selling you souvenirs. Those Grief Counselors probably give a ‘there-there’ and maybe a hug. I’m neither of those things. I’m a Mortician. I sit in silence with them and talk when they’re ready. Oh, it’s definitely bitten me in the ass before: I had this one lady go quiet. I went quiet with her and suddenly she blurts out, “Well, fucking say something! That’s your god-dammed job!”

That’s not my job, though. My job is to let you scream at me if that’s what makes you feel better right then. It’s okay. It’s your dollar, you know?

“Yeah, so,” says Cindy as she’s collecting up her cards, “You’ll be seeing me again.”

Now I’m quiet. Next time I see her, I’ll be embalming her. This is new.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask.

“No,” she sighs, “And I’ve already written my wishes out and sealed them up in an envelope. My family’ll have it. What you do with it is up to you.”

I can’t go killing people. I can’t even go hurling bricks through people’s windows for this girl. If I even say what do you want me to do, there will be some kind of understanding that I’ll help her.

I look at Cindy and she looks so down. I understand and everything but I just can’t leave like this. What, pay her, say thanks and I’ll be seeing you? That’s fucked up. Okay..

“Hey, Cindy?” I say, getting up, “Can I get you some coffee or a pack of smokes or something?”

Wow. Brightened her right up, “Yeah,” she says, smiling, “I could really use a chicory coffee and a pack of Camels. Straights.” She doesn’t really want me to leave either.

I give her a quick point-and-nod before ducking out of the tent and back into the surreal-ness of the carnival. I feel good about running her errand and, of course, horrible about everything else. I’m really hoping I don’t believe any of this. I bet she’s saying the same thing and that thought makes me feel really depressed. Wouldn’t you be? You fucking should..

I leave the park thinking about the closest place to get coffee. Figure what the hell and catch the street car running down Canal. Coffee should still be hot when I get back but it’s really the thought here. Since I’m going to the French Market anyway, might as well get the beignets.
I think about details all the way down to the river. What a cool girl. All the more depressing. I’m thinking more about her situation than my own. The revenge plot and everything.

The cafe is busy, as usual. The best way to get take out is to get a table because you’ve got all those servers just hanging out by the door, next to the cigarette machine, out of which I get Cindy’s Camels. It’s really just coffee and donuts, so I should be right out of here.

Order taken, I light up.

Nice night for tourists. What I mean is, the tourists are nice tonight. There’s a couple sitting here by me who are so excited about their trip, they’re looking through the Picayune trying to gage rent expenses. They’re talking about what kinds of jobs they could get. It’s cool that they like it so much. Hope they like hot, sticky weather, though.

Some of the locals hate the tourists. I think most are pretty harmless and a some are even interesting. All of them make the Quarter what it is. Them and the street performers. Even the tarot ladies over there. Anyone else wandering the quarter are bigger phonies than the tourists as far as I’m concerned.

Coffee and beignets are brought out and I hurry to the streetcar. Yeah, I don’t actually have a car apart from the company ones: a van and hearse.

I jump off across from the park and weave through to the carnival. A shudder runs through me, I don’t know why. I get to thinking: Is this all part of it? Is she dead already? I’m going to see her and her killer and will be forced to murder him. Fuck. She got me.

But no, I see her, standing out in front of her tent, smoking, looking for me. I’m too close to this thing.

Let me take a second to get something clear, though: I’m not falling in love with this girl. Yeah, she’s cute and interesting and everything but I’m not falling for her. She’s like the cat you see in the alley behind your apartment. You might leave food down there for her but you can’t take her in right now. You want to show you care even if she can’t come to live with you. Kinda like that.

Cindy smiles and hugs herself when she sees me, “Did you go all the way to the water for that? Thank you.”
I hand her coffee, smokes and donuts. She stares at the bag and starts to look serious.

“Don’t…” she starts quietly. There’s an uncomfortable pause, then she shakes her head and clears her throat, “I actually was kind of struggling with the temptation to get funnel cakes.”

Don’t? Don’t what?

Could have been Don’t feel sorry for me. Or Don’t fall for me. Whatever. It’s donuts, you know?

We’re eating and smoking. She’s got a sign up out there that says she’s not in but anyone could look and see we’re right there.

I talk about movies and a book I’m reading. Told her some funny stories. She talks about a trip she took to Savannah. I’m all the while making up my mind that I should leave when we’re done with our coffee. Anything longer makes me look like I’m scared for her, which I am, but she doesn’t need that.

Finally, we part ways with a cheery, but simple, good-bye.

Okay… Let’s hit them bars, alright?

Having a quick drink before I go out. A little pre-game. I always know it’s time to go out when I look up at the TV and see Gossip Girl is has come on. What a horrible show…

But you knew that…

Moving to a new place within the month. Between that, I may be going back home for the first time in over two years, which doesn’t seem all that long when I write it. And the more I write it or say it, the less urgent it becomes and the more I say, “That’s kind of a lot of money…” But, you know, you need to see Grandma. She doesn’t understand why you’re so far away. Then again, she’s old, so two years is nothing to her. A blink of an eye…

But, yeah: moving. Always a bitch. Since I was really little, though, I’ve wanted to live by the sea. And though I’m not technically moving oceanfront or anything, the Chesapeake is close enough. Never thought that’d happen. I’m pretty much moving to Sweethaven Village a-la “Popeye”. A working seaport with a history that goes back to the 18th century.

So still-working, in fact, that the Canadian Navy pulled in this weekend. Those drunken Canucks. So funny. They really wanted us to come on board but the Officer of the Deck denied us and got kinda pissed at the sailor who was trying to be our guide. Didn’t want him to get in trouble, so a retreat was in order…

I’m gonna get a boat. Not this year but some year soon…

My good friend Josh is moving down here from the Hamptons. He’s got to be by the water also and this place passed his muster, apparently. That’s some thrilling stuff there…

This past weekend, I met up with an old friend of mine from high school. Not as stupid as that sounds, that guy and I were way close. Brandy and I rolled into DC and met up with him…

I blacked out in the last hour. Shame on me, same old Grego…

Hoping he moves here as well.

I promise some writing this weekend. I’ve got an older story that I’ve been editing. I’ll put into serial form and you’ll love it…

Storms have been rolling in and rolling out for a month now. Killer. Right now, it’s actually cold. Beat back that heat, you know?

Ah: there’s the rain. Just now…

Soapbox Soliloquist Strikes Us…

European thunderstorms cry for victims of injustice, rumbling in sorrow unlike the hateful cries of a southern lightning bolt.
Tom Sawyer looks at the reflections in the lake of haste and hangs a silk tapestry of cubist primetime daydreams off the dock while red ice cubes melt away in the sweetened tea of bedtime atrocities suffered at the hands of innocent lust…
Mozart’s breath got caught in the canoe, fishing for the meaning of page-a-day calenders who shoot razor blades for the dumbed down masses at the gods of corruption.
Southern Savannah secrets held up for ransom in the cushions of couches illegally dumped into the hearts of bandits and gremlins, New Year’s Eve, not hardly any fanfare for the cut off tie wearing gypsy who stole mother’s bike, not giving a second thought of who would wipe the mascara off the crying and tortured…
Seven Gnomes is all it takes to lose your mind, Seven Gnomes is all it takes to gain your peace, Seven Gnomes in your soul, it all comes down to riding the horse through the stream…
Sawyer knows this; they mean no harm.

Out

Ha! I suckered you in with a new post. I’m really just writing as I think (which is the name of the game: Stream of Consciousness and all…).

Brandy’s getting a shower and is wanting to go out. Let me tell you: I’m really drunk. Don’t know how I’m going to deal…

I was walking around Fells Point earlier and getting a feeling for the neighborhood. The Canadian navy has pulled in for liberty and the guy on fo’c's’le watch waved to me as I walked down the pier. ‘Course, I waved back: welcome to Baltimore and all. Let me get you guys a drink…

Gotta tell you: I’m a little too wasted to go out right now but if Brandy’s game, well…

She got a house, that girl. A nice one too. I’m just renting because, you know, she’s way too independent to trust me but I gotta admit: she picked a sweet pad.

We’re getting tattooed tomorrow, right before I meet up with Mike V.

You gotta realize: Mike V. lived with me for a few months, at my parents house. It was awesome: we ate bagels with cheese and my dad co-signed on a guitar for him. We were, like seventeen…

Okay, that’s it. Suckered you in to read my drunken musings. Now I’m going out into the bar-saturated streets of my neighborhood to hang out. Gotta put pants on: that sucks…