There was I, that is Thom (Tom) Hatt again, returned from beyond the living world, and I stood there in the trashed-out parking lot of some cheap, old road motel in Taos, New Mexico looking around like in a dream and smoking an Injun J with a guy named Tecumah.
The traffic roared by lonely, an ache that only the sound of engines running away can awaken and bolster that feeling of isolation in a man’s southwestern guts.
Tecumah was tall and wide, like an ungodly border wall, and he had fireflies for buttons on his long, worn leather coat and they began to flicker and flash as the sun was dropping and the stars were beginning to roar.
He looked one way, to where there was traffic and strips of tawdry shops, and he spat that way. His eyes were cursing. His long hair went wild in the wind.
“Bullshit, man. Bullshit,” he said, and he turned away to where the muscular mountains were now fading into far away bluish darkness like a melting bruise.
“That’s what it was all like here once, a long time ago — the darkness, the pinion, the rocks, the quiet — and then all these assholes show up and turn it all into a postcard and something to sell. That’s just bullshit, man. Bullshit.”
I nodded in agreement as Tecumah handed me the J. “Capitalism is a heartless grind,” I said. “I’m sorry we raped your culture. People can be horrible.”
Tecumah sucked on a big bottle of tequila I had bought him earlier because he had helped me out when my red Ford Probe broke down right outside of town.
“White man come and plow it all down with the head of their god… If they want another war, then they can have it, and I’ll be right there with wicked knuckle knocks on their whitey heads.”
“Good for you!” I exclaimed, and he handed me the bottle. “Let’s go gambling chief.”
“All right,” Tecumah said, wobbly in words and walk, “But you’re in no condition to drive, we’ll take my horse… Besides, that car you have is a piece of shit.”
“Yes, I know,” I said as I hopped up onto the back of Tecumah’s horse. “But it’s all I could afford because I’m merely a slave to the system. They pay me just enough to keep me in need. I’d really like to drive the damn thing off a cliff.”
Tecumah playfully laughed. “We can do that tomorrow if you want. I know a good place to send that piece of shit over the edge. You’ll never see it again.”
As we trotted through town, I told Tecumah that I had written a poem about the car. He just laughed at me again.
“Why do you write a poem about a piece of shit car? You should write a poem about a beautiful woman.”
“I have… A hundred thousand times. It never did anyone any good.” And then I laughed. It really was ridiculous. A hundred thousand love poems written and here I was on the back of a horse headed to a casino with a drunken Native American named Tecumah.
“It’s that damn car you have, man,” he said. “You need to drive something that will turn you into a chick magnet, like me.” And Tecumah laughed about that, too.
“But you ride a horse,” I said.
“You’d be surprised how many chicks I pick up with this horse.”
“What’s the horse’s name?”
“His name is Jim.”
“Jim the horse?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get some Mexican food,” I suggested. “I’m hungry all of a sudden.”
Tecumah stopped Jim the horse. He looked around a bit, thinking.
“All right, I know of a place we can go.”
And then we were off again, down the main drag, and drivers of autos were honking at us, and ignorant idiots were making Indian noises out the windows.
“Woo, woo, woo, woo …” they went, tapping their hands against their mouth holes.
“And I’ll kick you straight in the ass, you fuckers!” Tecumah yelled at them, shaking his big, hunk of meat fist at them. They ducked their heads in like frightened turtles and drove away fast.
###
Tecumah tied Jim the horse to a fence rail, and we went into the Mexican place. We were abruptly and rudely greeted.
“Hey Tonto, this ain’t Halloween, you can’t come in here dressed like that,” some jack-off host guy said to Tecumah.
“Dressed like what?”
“Like an Indian, that’s what.”
“I am an Indian you twat. Now, we’d like to have a table for two or would you prefer I knock your teeth down your throat you anti-Injun bastard.”
The host scoffed. “Always resorting to violence, damn savage. Why don’t you go back to you where you came from. Lousy immigrant.”
I shook my head in disbelief while Tecumah curled up his Thor hammer fist and pushed it in the guy’s face; it was nearly as big as his whole asinine head. “You’re the immigrant,” he snarled in a wild, earthy way. “And I’ll gladly knock you back to Europa.”
The curly haired twerp of a host shrunk back. “All right, all right, just settle down. I don’t want any trouble here. This way then.”
“Ah, right by the bathrooms,” Tecumah complained as we were seated. “I love the smell of urinal cakes baking in a piss oven when I’m dining.”
“Sorry sir, it’s all we have available right now.”
I looked around at the nearly empty joint.
“Bullshit,” I said. “What about all those other tables.”
“Those are reserved, sir. I’m sorry, this is the best I can do,” and with that he trotted off like the twit he was.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said to Tecumah. “I bet they’ll spit in our food.”
“Yeah, I have a bad feeling about this place, but let’s just get some beers, and the hell with the food.”
We had nine beers each and then walked out without paying the tab. Some guy, probably the manager, came rushing out after us, but Tecumah slugged him and that was the end of that.
We flew like the wind on Jim the horse and Tecumah almost smashed into a light pole, but we finally arrived at the casino on the dusty and adobe outskirts of town. The place was all a hustle and bustle and packed with noise and smoke and the ringing of bells and the flashing of lights and the cheers and cries of winners and losers.
Tecumah went to play blackjack and I went to the bar and ordered some more beers. I played a poker game built into the bar and then some chick came up to me and she wanted some drinks. I was pretty lit up and asked her straight out if she was a hooker. She took real offense to that and slapped me across the face, but I was numb enough that I didn’t feel much.
“Thank you, mam, may I have another?”
And she slapped me again and that time I felt a pretty good sting and that’s when this big, burly bastard comes over and asks me if there is some kind of problem and why I’m messing with his girl.
I studied the big, ugly dude for a minute or two.
“Ok, ok. So, you’re with this guy?” I said to the chick trying to be a hooker.
“What the hell does that mean?” the big, ugly dude said, moving in closer to me, all pissed off.
“I’m just saying that, well, you just don’t seem like the type of guy who would see much action.”
“Are you calling me a faggot? Faggot.”
“No, not at all. In fact, to be quite frank about the whole thing, I don’t think you could get a dude either.”
The guy grabbed me and pulled me out of my chair.
“I think we need to have a private conversation — outside.”
That’s what he said to me and then I was dragged out into the parking lot, and we had this fight and he beat me up pretty bad and when I walked back into the casino people started screaming because I was all battered and bleeding and that’s when I fell down.
In the whispering aftermath of another dream on far away Pluto, I awoke in the middle of the night to their calling once more. It’s been continuous lately. I sat straight up on the edge of the bed and tried to hold my guts together. I strained to listen once more for the haunting song of the Paper People, but all I heard was the ever-present hybrid electric whir of the station, the echo of it at times immense in the empty vastness. I’ve found that their sound often mingles with the machines and gets lost, but it is always still there, somewhere in the fibers that makes up all of life here.
I suited up and stepped toward the door to my quarters. It slid open in a quick whoosh of automation. I stepped out into the corridor, lightly illuminated with white gold lights as always, the cold and heartless surface of the pathway winding like a never-ending snake of space beneath my boots.
Further down, the illumination of the hall bloomed, and as I got closer, I saw a vision of an orange house and beyond the house was a large sky full of sunset and sadness somehow yet ornate like ancient history dressed in romantic jewels. The walkway changed from metal to stone, it was a driveway meandering and going down toward the garage of the orange house. The driveway was lined with snow, piled high and the color of a baby boy’s first breath. Tall pine trees formed a dark tunnel, their boughs struggling with the weight of snow.
Below the sunset and beyond the house was the sea, calm as a sleeping coin, and on the other side of the sea there were hills, misty gray and green. The sun burst through the copper sky and the snow suddenly retreated and the birds filled the air with their songs. It had turned to summer. I soon realized where I was, but was it a hallucination of my own creation, or theirs. The Paper People. They were showing me the rough edges of my past. But why? And how did they know?
I moved closer to the mind mirage. And I had returned to the villa in Italy where things had gone very wrong. I was 22 and backpacking through Europe with a friend. He had gotten an itch for troublemaking and thought it would be great fun to break-in somewhere. We were near the coast and both our money and supplies were running low. The creamsicle villa sat high up and isolated. It was off a less-traveled road. There were no cars parked on the property. We sat back and watched for a long while and there were no signs of life.
We crept forward. My friend worked a glass patio door open. We went inside. I was afraid to move around but he rummaged through the place at will. I was paranoid and kept looking out a window and up across the driveway. He told me to settle down and start going through things. I went through a desk. There were a lot of papers, not much more, except a little wooden box. I opened it and it had a baggie of marijuana inside and a small pipe. I pocketed both.
My friend snagged a couple bottles of wine from the kitchen and stowed them in his backpack, then we went upstairs. I wandered through the bedrooms. I looked in closets and bureau drawers. I didn’t find anything of value. Then a glint of light outside the window caught my eye and I went closer and looked out. A small red sports car was coming down the driveway. My heart crawled up my insides. I called out to my friend, and he came over and looked. “Oh, shit,” is all he said, and we made for the stairs.
Once on the lower level, I heard a car door slam. I peered out another window to get a sense of what was about to come upon us. It was a young woman, nicely dressed and clutching a sack of groceries I guessed. When she got closer to the house, she stopped as if she sensed something wasn’t quite right. It seemed as if she was sniffing the air. She knew we were animals. I lost sight of her as she must have moved to where a door off the kitchen was. I lost track of my friend. Time seemed to stand still. I wanted to run. Then I heard a scream, and something crashed to the floor. When I got to the kitchen, my friend had her in a chokehold. She was struggling, kicking.
“What are you doing!?” I yelled at him.
He had a look on his face that I had never seen. The young woman continued to struggle. He had a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. All I could think was… This isn’t me. This was never supposed to be me. How did I become a part of this? How could I have stumbled upon this fraction of a second so recklessly?
The girl’s eyes were wide and colored green like an emerald. I could taste her shock and fear. It was thick in the air. I noticed a broken a jar of olives on the floor, the juice trickling out and puddling.
“Help me get her upstairs,” my friend barked. “Help me now!”
Her legs kicked at me when I went to grab them, but I held onto her tight once she was in my grasp. My friend had his arms wrapped tightly around her upper body, and now that her mouth was unencumbered, she angrily spewed words at us in a foreign language, but I clearly understood “No! No! No!”
We struggled to get her upstairs, but once there we put her down on one of the beds. My friend got on top of her and held her down. “Find something to tie her down with!” he said. I was in a panic and tore through a nearby closet. I found a brass rack of silky neckties. I grabbed a handful and brought them to where she was on the bed.
My friend continued to hold her down as he instructed me to tie her wrists together above her head and then to a thick spindle in the center of the headboard. The woman was screaming as my friend knelt on her chest. He suddenly slapped her in the face. “Shut up. Stai zitto!”
It was a side of him I never saw or even thought could exist. He had become a complete stranger to me in an instant. My head was swimming in trembling waters as I worked to bind the young woman more and more.
“Give me one of those,” he said to me, and I handed him one of the neckties. He balled it up and stuffed it in her mouth. He motioned with his hand for me to quickly give him another one. He wrapped it around her mouth, knotting it tight behind her head. It suddenly struck me that it seemed he had done this kind of thing before.
Once she was completely secure, we both stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her. “Let’s get out of here before someone else shows up. Right now,” I said to him.
He looked at me and smiled a smile I had never seen before. He was literally transforming into another person right before my eyes. Then he began to undress.
“What are you doing!?”
“When opportunity knocks, one must answer the door,” he said with a sick grin.
“No, no, no!” I protested. “Forget her. Let’s just go!”
He stuck a stern finger in my face. “Calm the fuck down… If you don’t want any, then so be it. Wait out in the hall.”
The last thing I saw right before I walked out was my friend climbing on top of her. I quickly went downstairs and out of the house. I lit up a cigarette. My fingers were trembling. I walked up the driveway and away from the house. I turned to look up at one of the windows to the room where the Italian girl was being raped. I should have gone back to stop it, but I didn’t. I just kept walking and walking and walking until I reached a small nearby village just as the sun was beginning to close its hot eye.
That haunting event in my life happened years ago and 3 billion miles away, yet here it was staring me in the face again. The vision dissipated and in its vaporous wake the young Italian woman was standing there, and she looked right at me with accusatory emerald eyes. When she turned and started walking in the opposite direction, I realized she was completely naked. It must have been how he left her there.
Later, my friend, who I no longer considered a friend, had found me at a bar in the village and he came in and acted like nothing had happened. He tried to tell me about it, but I didn’t want to listen. I told him I would be going my own way the rest of the trip. I didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. He got angry and threatened to pull me in on the whole sordid scheme if I went to the police. I agreed I wouldn’t. I paid my tab and then walked out of the bar. I never saw or heard from my friend ever again, but I’ve lived with the consequences of that day ever since. I’ve lived with the knowing that I allowed the suffering of another human being. It’s a part of my great eternal ache. And now she has found me on Pluto, the Paper People have let her in, and I do not know the depth or design of her revenge on me.
Author’s note: This is the third piece of this play-around project. Visit cerealaftersex.com to read the previous chapters. I hope to craft more of this story over time as an experiment in writing some science fiction, or something like that. Thanks for reading and supporting independent content creators who just want to do what they love to do.
Maggie Barrymore stood in the center of the main room of Truman Humboldt’s modest home in Neptune, Nebraska. Her head slowly moved as she looked around at the odd curiosity that was his life. It was one of the strangest places she had ever seen, she thought to herself. In essence, it was more of a lobster museum than a home. She sniffed the air, and the smell wasn’t unpleasant, just different. It smelled like the cold, hard sea, and she could almost taste the salt on her tongue. How was that possible?
“You sure do have a lot of lobster stuff,” she said. “You really love lobsters.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do,” Truman answered as he worked his way around the room clicking on lobster lamps and trying to tidy up without her noticing too much. He hadn’t been expecting such beautiful company and he didn’t want her to get grossed out. He kicked a pair of lobster underwear under a sitting chair.
Truman paused for a moment and looked at Maggie as she stood inside his home. She had a glow about her that resembled magical gold inside a pirate’s sea chest. He had a woman inside his home, Truman thought, and he could barely believe it. The only way it could get any better, he imagined, is if she turned into a mermaid. He envisioned her poised on a jagged rock being whipped by the sea. She had clam shells covering her intelligent breasts and her yellow hair flowed behind her like a war banner.
Truman shook himself out of the daydream and went to clear some things off the couch. “Sorry about the mess. Go ahead, have a seat,” he said to her, and he gestured with an arm.
She smiled at him and went to sit down. She nervously moved some of that golden hair behind an ear.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Truman asked her.
“I’ll take a Mr. Pibb if you have it.”
“You like Mr. Pibb? I like Mr. Pibb. I mean, I tried to find lobster soda of course, but nobody sells lobster soda.”
“Hmm. I wonder why,” Maggie smirked.
“Right. Do you like ice? Because I like ice in mine.”
“Sure.”
Truman skipped off to the kitchen and Maggie heard him rummaging through cabinets, fumbling with glasses, and then filling them with ice. As he popped open one of the cans and began pouring the brown, bubbly liquid, the lobster ghost’s voice returned to Truman’s head in the most haunting way, like he was tapping on his mind with a little wooden hammer and repeating the words he had spoken in the car after their luncheon at Red Lobster — “Are you seriously going to just let her stomp on your heart such as she did without the slightest retaliation? Where’s your sense of personal pride and self-esteem? Where’s your sense of revenge?”
“Leave me alone!” Truman blurted out.
Maggie stiffened in the other room. “Everything okay in there?”
“Everything’s fine, Miss Maggie. Fine as Georgia peach pie.”
Truman held a hand to each side of his head and gritted his teeth as the lobster ghost continued to bully his brain into doing something his heart had no intention of doing. But the threatening voice was playing tricks on Truman and little by little was beginning to make perfect sense to him — “She doesn’t deserve to live. But you, my friend, you deserve a full life, a life unencumbered by the stinging pain of shattered love. You deserve all the success and happiness the world has to offer… But you’ll never have it as long as that stain in your life exists. Snuff it out, Truman. Make things right. Restore the balance. Blot her from this Earth.”
Truman clutched the edge of the kitchen counter with both hands. His heart was racing, his breathing quietly furious. Was he having a panic attack? he wondered.
“Truman?” Maggie called from the other room again. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yes. I’ll be right there,” he answered. Then to the auditory hallucinations from the throat of the lobster ghost he cried, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I will not!”
When Truman returned to the living room, he set the glass of fizzing Mr. Pibb on the coffee table in front of her. “There you go.”
Maggie picked up the glass and looked in it. The ice cubes were shaped like lobsters. “Thanks.” She put the glass to her lips and took a drink. “You know, I’m really surprised you don’t have any live lobsters roaming around this place,” Maggie laughed.
Truman took a big gulp of his Mr. Pibb. He eyed her through the glass as it was tilted up against him. The picture of her was warbled. “Well, Miss Maggie,” he began. “That’s very interesting you should say that. I do happen to have some live lobsters. Would you like to come down to my basement and see them?”
Maggie looked up at him and she caught a sense that he had somehow changed in the past few minutes. There was something different about him, he wasn’t as naïve and wholesome anymore. “Your basement?”
“Well, I don’t let them just run around loose. They’d tear up the furniture. And they need water, and I can’t keep a lobster tank in my living room now can I,” Truman laughed, and then he took another drink of his Mr. Pibb and exaggerated his enjoyment of it. “That would be weird, Maggie, and I’m not that weird… Come on. Let’s go take a look.”
Truman moved toward the kitchen and beyond to where the door to the basement was. Maggie hesitated. “You’re not scared, are you?” Truman said, looking back. “They won’t hurt you. I promise. They’re beautiful and peaceful creatures…” He chuckled oddly like he often does. “And delicious.”
Maggie sat her glass down on the table and got up to follow him. “I’m not scared.”
The tank sat against a far wall in the mostly barren basement that smelled like a basement. The watery cage bubbled beneath a bank of soft lights. “Go ahead,” Truman said to her, placing a gentle hand on her back. “Introduce yourself.”
Maggie crept closer to the tank while Truman stayed behind her. Once more, the words of the lobster ghost invaded his mind of scrambled eggs — “You’ll regret not putting her in her proper place when you had the chance. You’ll be drowning in regret, and regret, my friend, is never a pleasant thing.”
Maggie felt him directly behind her as she bent a bit to look down into the tank where three lobsters sat huddled together in the water. Truman reached his hands up and they trembled as they moved toward the back of her head. And for a moment, Truman thought, that he might even come to enjoy hearing her struggle when he pushed her head down in the water and held it there. Maybe she would thrash about and kick at him, and he’d have to clamp a hand on her firm ass to settle her down. What a wonderful way to send her to the other side.
But right before he was nearly moved to do her in by some unseen, yet not unknown, force, something better came over his heart and he stopped himself. His arms dropped to his sides and then he moved like air and was standing right beside her, looking down at the lobsters with her, their elbows touching. “That’s Larry, Curly, and Moe,” he said softly. “You know, like the Three Stooges. They’re my friends.”
“Oh,” Maggie said, pretending to be interested. “That’s cute.”
“Lobsters aren’t cute, Maggie. They’re crustaceans. They’re ugly, but people still love them. I guess that’s why I love them so much. We’re not much different, the lobsters and I. We understand each other. They make me feel better about myself. They help me accept my place in this world and be okay with that.”
Maggie turned to look at him, the rhythmic reflection of the water in the lobster tank danced on Truman’s innocent but troubled face. She put a hand to his cheek, and he turned to lock eyes with her.
“I want to bathe you,” she said to him. “I want you to feel loved while in the water… Like how you love these lobsters.”
“Oh, Miss Maggie,” Truman said. “That’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.” He looked down into the water of the lobster tank. “Do you hear that, guys? A woman wants to give me a bath.”
Maggie laughed. “You’re crazy.” She leaned in and kissed him. “Now,” she said in a breathy whisper. “Let’s get you clean so that we can get dirty.”
Truman stood while she released him completely from the confines of the tuxedo. She ran her hands all over his naked, pale body. He relished her sensual touch. He trembled.
“Are you nervous, Truman?” Maggie asked.
“A little.” Truman stuttered.
“You don’t have to be,” she breathed, and she proceeded to get down on the floor. She began gently kissing the tops of his feet, up his legs, and to where he was hard and jutting straight out at her face. She kissed him there, too, and he shuddered. Then she moved up across his stomach, his chest. She stood and kissed up and down each arm, his shoulders, and all over his neck, his chin, his face. Truman had never been smothered in kisses and he could barely breathe.
Maggie glanced over at the rumpled bed. “I like your lobster sheets,” she whispered in his ear. “Do you want to roll around in them with me after I bathe you?”
“Yes, Miss Maggie… I want to pound you with my lobster mallet.”
She giggled. “Oh, Truman. You’re being bad.”
Maggie took him by the hand and walked him to the bathroom. She bent over the edge of the tub and reached in to turn on the water. “How hot do you like it?”
“Very hot,” Truman answered. “If you look in the refrigerator, you’ll see a plate with a big hunk of butter, and some sliced up lemon on it. I like to have it in my bath water. It makes me feel like a lobster.”
She shook her head at him. “But you’re not a lobster, Truman. You’re a man. A real man. And you don’t need butter and lemon to prove that to me. Get in the water.”
Truman glanced once at the tub, the water now rising and steaming, and then back to Miss Maggie. He smiled shyly. “Okay.” He got into the water and slowly sank down to a sitting position. “Oh, that feels good, Miss Maggie.”
She glanced at a cake of soap shaped like a lobster that sat in a lobster-shaped soap dish in the corner of the tub. She grabbed it, dunked it in the water, and then lathered it up in her hands. She “accidentally” let it pop out of her grasp and it fell between Truman’s legs. “Oh, no,” she giggled, and she reached down and felt around in the water, making sure to touch his man parts in the process. “My, my, Truman. Your little sailor is standing at attention again.”
Truman leaned his head back and closed his eyes as she gripped him tightly. She retrieved the lobster soap with her free hand and started to rub it all over him, coating Truman in a pinkish, sudsy foam. She washed him everywhere, from his toes to his face.
She released her grip on him and leaned back and laughed. “You look so cute. But now it’s time to rinse. Come on, sink down.”
Truman smiled, held his nose, clamped his eyes tight and went under the water. Maggie looked at the very top of his head just breaking the surface, and that’s when her hands moved quickly, and she forcefully held him down.
Truman started jerking, then slapping at the water. Maggie let him come up for a breath of air for just a moment before holding him back down again. The next time he came up, Truman was spewing and gagging, and he screamed out as best he could, “Miss Maggie! What are you doing!?”
She gripped him tightly by the hair and spoke into his face. “I know you were at my house the other night, you slimy creep. I know you were watching me. Did you like it? Did you get off to it? Huh? You’re a peeping Truman. You’re sick.”
“No, Miss Maggie. No… It’s nothing like that. I… I just wanted to surprise you with a special visit. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”
She forced his head under the water once more and held him there for a few moments in a gesture of torture before pulling him back up. “You were going to tell on me, weren’t you?” she said. “You were going to make me out to be the town tramp. You wanted to ruin my reputation and get me fired, didn’t you?”
“I’m begging you, Miss Maggie. No. That was never my intention. I just wanted to love you. I wanted you to love me. Is that all so horrible!?”
“Love? What do you know about love… You lobster freak.” Once more, she forced him under the water. This time, she raised herself up so that she could put more weight down on him. She pushed and pushed and pushed. Truman’s struggling started to weaken and she released him, and he broke the surface one last time.
Truman was somewhat delirious, his head wobbled, his speech was soft and slurred. “I… I should have listened to him and done you in when I had the chance. But I just couldn’t Miss Maggie.” His eyes rolled in her direction. “I couldn’t do it… Because I love you. I still love you…”
She shoved him under the water once more and this time Truman did not struggle. He just let it be until he finally let go and returned to the eternal sea.
Once she knew it was done, Maggie jumped back and stood over the tub. She looked down at Truman as he slept dead in the water. She did nothing else except check her face in the mirror, turn off the light and walk out.
The next day, as Truman’s lifeless body soaked in the killing tub on the other side of the house, his telephone rang. It rang once, twice, three times, and each time it rang the sound punctuated the lonely dead air with even greater intensity. The voice on the other end eventually came across as a message on the answering machine following the insidious beep:
Hello, I’m calling for Truman Humboldt. Truman, this is Brian Brando. I’m the general manager at the Red Lobster in Lincoln and I’ve been looking over your job application and would very much like to speak to you about some open positions we have here at our fine establishment. So, if you could, please call me back at your earliest convenience so we can set up an interview. My number here is 402-446-8397. Again, this is Brian Brando, general manager. Thank you very much, Truman, and have a wonderful Red Lobster day. Goodbye.
A claw of the lobster ghost pushed down on a button and listened to the message again. He looked off through the walls and to where Truman was dead. He shook his head in great disappointment, great dismay.
The lobster ghost floated into the bathroom and drained the tub. He was greatly pained as he looked down at Truman the way he was. He pulled him out of the tub and carried him to his bed where he laid him atop the crinkled lobster sheets. He wrapped him up in them as best he could.
The lobster ghost then went out into the living room to think about things. He noticed the open Seinfeld DVD case. He hopped up on the couch and worked the remote controls of Truman’s home entertainment system. He sat back and watched The Hamptons episode, and he laughed out loud. “Ha! That’s great stuff.”
When it was over, he shut everything off and went back to the bedroom where Truman was wrapped up in the lobster sheets. He picked him up and carried him to the front door and out into the ghastly world. The lobster ghost smelled the air and started walking east, still holding Truman, and he did not waver or stop walking until he got all the way to the coast of Maine and the last bed of his friend’s dreams.
END
By
Aaron Echoes August
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My wife and I recently visited Zoolumination at the Nashville Zoo.
Zoolumination is the country’s largest Chinese lantern festival featuring colorful scenes of more than 1,000 custom-made silk lanterns. The three-mile walking tour immerses visitors in a wonderland of dazzling lights and displays. I think my personal favorite was the illuminated bamboo forest. It was cold out, but we bundled up and got some hot chocolate. I thought I would share a few photos from our visit. Enjoy. Happy Holidays!
I felt the breath of God in Santee by the shores of Lake Marion the spiders like aliens weaving webs the size of quilts white and silk tapestries of insect thread jungle creatures with big, black eyes and I looked to the sky overcast and clouds a boiling the wind blew through the treetops knocking the leftover rains from their leaves the brush as thick as terminal cancer in the lungs and the lonely breeze whispered help me please as I walked on down the road
And the green was everywhere the breath of God cooling my veins and I strain to find meaning in every pulse I strain to find meaning in my mind my dreams my sleep my pain my rage love
And the deepest green was still everywhere the chalky tracks of the dirt road looked like baby powder on the tires of my burnt-out ride and I ran I ran up the road into the tunnel of trees the verdant canopy of angels God’s leafy cherubism cradling the path of my life and I ran down the road back into the sun breathing hard And spitting blood and I preached to the stones the sky the trees the weeds the birds love
And it felt fine beneath the cloaked sun the fireball veiled in churning clouds it felt good for a change to be amongst the rural world the rural South the old man rocking on his front porch just breathing in the vapors of heavy vegetation and peace
I rolled with the marbles toward home ice chips in the eyes, the work of romantic elves destiny forever on the dash, beyond the cracked windshield.
CEREAL AFTER SEX 