…They pass through him.

Held against the light, the light doesn’t seem to take any notice of him. The light takes no notice, and neither does he. Passing through this life like question after question after empty, unheard question…

A parade, and the parade’s a suicide.

…

She holds his head in her lap. His arms wrap around her waist. He breathes:

In…

Out:

He hears her cry, he cries.

In:

He doesn’t know why he’s crying. She cries, he cries. Nothing passes without his immediate, parody response. Nothing that she does goes without his immediate, emotional rip-off reply.

A mimic.

Out…

Her body shifts, her tears stop. Her fingers slowly trace his spine, etching an outline of each vertebra with her long, unpainted nails.

He moves. His eyes clear up. He stares sideways, out towards the wall. A blank and empty expression canopies his façade. His direction hides his vapid gaze from her, obscures his total lack of being anything real or honest.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Starring at the wall, face filled with nothing:

“Ditto,” he says.

She laughs.

And,

She shouldn’t.

…

It all passes through him, unhindered, unchecked. Concepts are like particles, traveling through, available to see, but his eyes were closed.

His eyes are closed.

And even though her emotion, her want is so plain, so obvious, it slips past him and into oblivion.

Her voice is a falling tree in a forgotten forest that nobody ever visits, nobody ever hears…

…

She gently twists out from under him. Pulls him toward her pillow, to lie evenly and to gaze into his eyes…

“I’ll miss you,” her voice calm, but still choked, sadness still apparent.

“She’ll miss me?” he thinks to himself. Is he going somewhere? He looks past her, at a calendar and realizes that he is due back in school the next day. That he had to leave today. That he did not live here, but four hundred miles south. That today was Sunday, and that class started on Monday. That he needed to travel south in order to get home and sleep and wake and attend class.

It’s already late in the afternoon, and he won’t be home till early morning.

His blank, idiot’s expression melts into an anxious worry. Paradoxically, this empty movement makes her smile, makes her think that he feels it too. Confirms her love, while memories of him begin sinking deep inside of her, deep into the recesses of her sentiment…

He faintly wished she would let go of him, as he still needed to pack.

She held him tighter. Held him close to her. He held her back. He matched his breathing with hers,

In.

Numb.

Out.

Numb.

Gently, eyes filled with tears, heart and mind racing forward towards this voice, this conscious mind, this man with whom she would gladly melt and share and empty herself into…

In one breath, her eyes closed, she confesses:

“I love you.”

In one breath, his eyes closed, he echoes:

“I love you.”

…

She has a long night ahead of her. A long night for someone who paints herself inside someone else, looses that someone else, and can only dream and hope to see them, to see herself again…

Whereas,

He has a long drive ahead of him. A long drive for someone with nothing to think about…

1ST PLACE: 'WotA Fighters 2600' by WastedPotential2ND PLACE: 'Colon Society' by Dog Breath3RD PLACE: 'a Bob and his rat' by melon

New target has been posted and voting is open on last weeks Bill and Jesse submissions.

Graffiti

Some background for you first. At the end of 1996, I had just ended a relationship with a girl from West London. It had turned out that she was a paranoid schizophrenic that had been committed twice before (I expect she has been committed again no doubt). The relationship ended rather nastily, with her getting her other psychotic friends to threaten my life. Now I am, would you believe, a very passive creature. I would rather run from a fight than fight. This all happened at a time in my life when my head was, shall we say, not screwed on tightly. I had been subjecting my body and mind to countless chemicals and was, to say the least, a bit of a speed demon. As Christmas of that year approached, I received telephone calls at work threatening my life, and messages on my answerphone. Eventually they found out my address, and let me know this in a message. I am not afraid to say that I was terrified, although admittedly I was usually running on 5 hours sleep in 48 hours.

One of the other reasons for my excess fear stemmed from the fact that I was alone in the house. My flatmates had returned home for the Christmas Break and I had stayed because of employment commitments. But, I hear you say, you must have had neighbours. And the answer was yes. They were both in their 80's. A lot of use they would be if it all kicked off. On top of this, our house was what can only be described as a cottage. The only cottage in the middle of a 300-yard alleyway with no lights, set behind the shops on the main street of town called Eltham in SouthEast London. It shared the alleyway with my place of work J.Sainsbury (the supermarket), which was only 40 yards from the front door (handy for when you have overslept). As you can imagine, it was not the safest place in the world to live at this point in my life. To add to my fear, my neighbour informed me on Christmas Eve that he had seen two guys eyeing up the house while I had been away for a few days. The fear was definitely starting to get to me.

I stayed with my best mate for the next few days over Christmas until the 30th of December. It was that day that will stay in my mind for the rest of my life, and it is that day that I have never written down until now.

I returned from Sye's house (my mate) at 6 a.m. that morning after a night on the Playstation. The walk always scared me anyhow, but it was worse this day. As I approached the top of the High Street, I had a decision to make. Do I take the main road to the cut in to the alley by my house, and safety in the light, or do I take the back route all the way? I chose the road. I was 100 yards from the cut in when I saw him first: Short, stocky, bomber jacket and wooly hat. Shit what do I do now? It could be one of them! Thinking on my feet, I take a side road and head for the alley at an earlier cut in. I walked at a pace, didn't run, I was too scared. No sleep for two days really fucks your head up. As I approached my house and the cut in I was going to originally take, he walked out from it. Shit! 'Eyes to the ground Phil,' I told myself, 'keep fucking walking. Open the gate and get the fuck in the house'. I made it. I took off my beanie. A green Vandals Beanie to be precise with an upside down anarchy symbol on the front, this may not seem important to you now, but I think it may have been to them.

For the next three hours I sat in my room upstairs at the front. Watching him. He didn't move and he would look at the house every so often. Thank God for net curtains. I was now starting to really panic. Everyone I knew said she had been fucking with me, that no one was gonna do anything. As far as I was concerned, they were all wrong. I couldn't even ring Sye, the phone had been cut off. I had to figure out what to do. I knew that there was a good chance it was just paranoia. I kept telling myself, 'its nothing, chill out'. But the fear wouldn't leave me. I knew what I had to do. I had to prove to myself that it was paranoia, or prove to myself it was not. That meant going outside. It was now daylight, and the shops were open. Nobody would do anything in daylight. It was time to put my insane thoughts to the test once and for all. I reasoned that if I walked aimlessly around the town I would soon be able to tell if someone was following me or watching me.

I left the house and walked to the cut in. He was still there. Out onto the High Street and down to McDonald's. It was time for breakfast. On the walk I saw this guy. Skinny looking geezer, carrying a bag. Something was not right about him. I can't recall what. He was walking towards me and up the High Street. I walked past him and headed for McDonald's. After coming out from McDonald's he was there again. This time on the other side of road, my side of the road, and walking towards me. Ok, he's looking at the shops, no big deal. I walk to the top of the High Street. Remember this High Street is about 500 yards long in total. Nearing the top I turn and he's only 10 yards behind me. He stops and looks in the window. Ok, this is freaky. I cross and walk back down. He does the same. I turn and walk towards him and past him, I reasoned that if he was following me I would know now. After about 50 yards I turn and he is there again. Shit!

By this time I in the middle of the High Street, at the cut in I walked out of some 20 minutes before. By this time the other guy had gone. I walk into the cut in and take the back alley up to the top of the high street. Now up this way there is a road that the mini cabs use when picking up the old ladies from Sainsburys. I decided to take the road. I walked past a Peugeot 405 with a guy in it with the door open drinking tea. He has a radio in the car, but it is not a Mini Cab radio, this radio is advanced shit, better than your ordinary CB. To tell you the truth, I didn't really pay attention to him at this point. I was more concerned about the guy on foot. As I get 50 or so yards from him, I hear the engine start and he drives off. 'Probably a rich cabby', I think. I get to the end of the road. I can go right down the hill to the park, or left to the High Street. I choose left to the high street. As I approach the T-junction for the High Street who should pull round the corner? The Peugeot. 'Ok no big problem, he was parked on a one way street he had to turn around.' I walked back down the High Street, crossing the road first. The guy on foot crosses the road about 50 yards down from me. My mind at this point is absolutely fucking racing. 'How many of them are there? What are they going to do to me?'

I decided to sit down. I needed to think, and think quick. I sat down on the bench outside the Catholic Church. 'Is there a God?' I thought. Then the worst thing in my life happened. The Peugeot was driving towards me down the High Street. Now let me explain, the road this guy took goes down to the park and then loops back up to some traffic lights further up the High Street. This guy had done a complete fucking circle?!!?! 'OK Phil, look at him' I think. He stared at me straight in the eyes as he drove past. Shit this was getting bad. I still had no proof whatsoever I was being followed, just insane paranoid speculation. It was killing me. The other guy on foot had stopped at this point, casually looking in the window of a Baker's shop, still holding his one little bag after at least an hour now of working round the shops. 'What should I do?'. My only hope, I thought, was the police station, right at the far end of the High Street and round the corner on the road towards Woolwich Town. I got up and walked. It was the longest walk I have ever taken down that street. On the way I passed the bag guy. He seemed to ignore me. Once past him, he was on the move again in my direction. The Peugoet drove past on the other side of the road. 'Fuck he's turned round again??!?!?' Then I saw him. The new one. The scary one. He was at least 6ft 3 in a long green trench coat. Brown hair and a moustache. Now I had lived in this town for two years, and had walked that street everyday. I knew the faces. This was not one of them. I walked past him and made it to the police station.

I don't remember what I said to the officer in the station. I was flustered, paranoid, frightened. She knew it too, and in all honesty if I remember correctly, ignored my pleas for help. I think she told me to go home and stop worrying. 'Until they do something no crime has been committed.' What next? I decided to get a taxi to Woolwich. I would go to the cab office I always used and get one of the lads to take me. That way I could lose the guys on foot. As I walked out of the station, I looked across the road. Another odd looking car. New blue Mercedes. 'Nobody round here can afford one of those!’. The driver looked straight at me. I walked down the hill to the taxi office. He drove off the other way.

Once in the taxi I felt safe. It was comforting knowing I was with a friend. He dropped me off in Woolwich. Now let me explain Woolwich. It is a small town centre, but it’s pedestrianised. Lots of alleys and not many cars in the centre. I reasoned that if I was followed, I could lose someone in here easily. I could even try and go into the Uni buildings. I walked along the main street and everything was fine. I started to relax. I turned to go down to the river. I thought it would be relaxing down there. As I reached the road that passes between the town and river, the blue Merc drives past. I know it was the same one, I had the license plate in my mind. 'Shit!' I turned back to the no car zone. I got into the main street. Trench coat guy is walking, staring right at me. 'Fuck', I think, 'these people are fucking well organized'. That was the clincher for me. I knew I was being followed from that point on. Woolwich is 5 miles from Eltham. This guy is on foot in Eltham, and ten minutes later he is in Woolwich walking towards me again? This is not a coincidence.

Time to get smart. I stopped to look in a window. He stopped too. I walked a little and he crossed to the other side of the no-car street. I stopped again and looked in the electrical shop. I glanced over my shoulder, and he had stopped and was looking at me. I turned and faced him, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He turned around and looked in the jeweler’s shop. This was my chance. I ran to the phone box. Now this was cool. It was one of those phone boxes that once inside you can see out but no one can see in. He turned around and I could tell he was looking puzzled. He stared across the street at where I was, then looked up and down. He then reached into his pocket and took out a mobile phone and began running up the street away from me whilst talking on it.

I rang my dad next. Shit, I was fucked up. I told him everything and cried down the phone. There was nothing he could do for me. He was 150 miles away. I said I would call him when I was safe indoors. I rang Jo, my friend, she lived in Plumstead, about two miles from Woolwich. If I could get there without being followed, I was safe. My letting agent was also there and I could arrange to move house, there and then. Somehow I got to a bus, went on the top deck and hid until I got to Plumstead. I swapped my keys for a flat and then sat at Jo's all day and told them what had happened. I had a joint with them, and they started to get paranoid.

Three days after moving, I had to go back to work. This was hard. The shop was next door to the old house. What if they were there? I got a lift to the store from a friend. I told the manager what had happened, as they knew all about the threats. They all thought that I was a paranoid junkie. Then it happened. There I am, putting out some apples on the display, and who walks through the front door. The guy in the trench coat. Looking straight at me. He walks straight up to the store manager and shakes his hand. They then went off, presumably to the manager's office. An hour later I was called to the manager.

Phil (that's the manager's name) sits me down in the office. 'It seems that you led Special Branch a very merry dance the other day Phil' he says. 'Special Branch!' I say. 'What were Special Branch doing in Eltham, and why were they following me?' It turned out that they had received information that the 'Mardi Gras Bomber' was planning on making Eltham store the next target of his campaign. They had started their operation at 5 a.m. the morning my day of hell started. I was a prime suspect! (remember the anarchy symbol on my beanie). They had seen me come into the store that morning, and wanted to confirm my identity and my validity as a member of the staff. The manager also told me how Special Branch had been amazed I gave them the slip, particularly given that they specialize in undercover observation in terrorist cases. After being told this I went back to work on the shop floor. The guy in the trench coat was at the front door of the shop when I got down there. He looked right at me, smiled and then nodded.

Two weeks later a pipe bomb exploded outside the store. I was inside at the time. No one was injured by it. It was this operation that led Special Branch to capture one of Britain most wanted criminals, and I had been part of it.

And that people, is my story.

There is nobody around for miles. Nobody that can help.

Holy shit. HOLY SHIT!!!! There is no way I can get out of this one. I’m stuck; I’m fucked. That fucking deer. I should have just hit that fucking deer, plowed right through the sonofabitch. Now look at me. I don’t believe this. This can’t be happening. I hope that deer fucking got hit by a truck. A different one, I mean.

Is there anything I can do? There has to be some way of saving myself. There is always a way, right? Just got to find the RIGHT way and do it in time. Or is it too late for that? Is the window of opportunity already closed for me?

What is the right way?

FUUUUUUCK!!!!!

I hope the car is okay.

I wonder what happened to the deer?

Escape. Is there any? There HAS to be!

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

If I would have left five minutes sooner or later, maybe all of this would never have happened. The fucking deer would have moved on or not been there yet, I would have driven right past the spot in the road. Or if I hadn’t gone to hang with the guys at all. I’d be peacefully asleep in my bed at home, lying next to my wife.

My wife. What will she think? What will they tell her? How will she take it?

Smile. Man she has a wonderful smile. It shines like a spotlight.

Why is she with me? She could have anybody she wanted. But she stays with me. Even through all the bad times, she stays with me.

That black hair. It’s like an organism unto itself. It moves, it flows, as if with a purpose all unto itself. Beautiful. Stunning.

Her taste.

I don’t want to be nothing. I don’t want to be infinite.

That night in Vegas. God was that something.

The bad times.

I still don’t understand why I did what I did. I don’t regret it exactly. But I regret how it hurt Cassandra. I won’t say I should never have had the affair, but I will say how sorry I am for it.

That hair. That smile. That taste. God. I miss her already. That laugh. That commitment. I miss her already.

The boys. Absent a father. What fine young men they will become. Without me. I am sorry not so much that they will lose me, but that I will lose them. Not be able to see the progress, the growth, the fine young men. Still playing with Legos. Captains of industry one day. I miss them already. Will they understand?

They hug me and the world stops.

Family. I have fucked up. I know that. So many “could have’s”, no more time.

But I did what I knew how to do, how I knew to do it.

I don’t really mind my job all that much. The guys are great, the work keeps me in good shape. The routine is….comfortable. It is….life. It is what I know. It is my day. My day. My day.

What time is it? Is it 3 AM yet?

Jill. Boy was she beautiful. More beautiful then Cassandra, in her own way. I had forgotten passion. I had forgotten pure animal lust. I had forgotten “dirty” sex.

Indulgence can be a sin.

I’m so sorry Cassandra.

I’m so sorry.

I have my faults. I have my problems. I have my history.

But I think I am a good man. I was given the tools and I did with them what I could.

They hug me and the world stops.

The world stops.

Is it the tools or what you do with them that make the measure of a man?

I am not a captain of industry. I am a soldier, a soldier of humanity. I do whatever is in my place to do. I do my place. I do what I can. I am just a man. I am a man.

People care about me. I know they do. Friends, neighbors….family. Will they care if I die? Some will. I will be missed by some. Many, even. That’s something. Not that I will be missed, but that some care about me enough to miss me. I am connected. I have effect.

Love and loved.

I’m just a man. That’s it. But on the other hand, I’m a man. That’s something, isn’t it?

Yes. It is.

I remember the beach. How good it feels to be playing with the kids, the sun warming my naked back almost to the point of intolerance. They should do that again.

Experiences.

I have had as many as anybody else, even if mine were more mundane. They were what they were. They were experiences. Mundane or not, they WERE.

That waterfall…

I am connected.

How good that feels.

As a boy. Catching crayfish. Getting bit by that dog. Ha! That was pain then.

The birth of Tom. God we were scared. So many variables. Such perfection resulted. The scrubs, the smell of sterility, the screams of the pain of creation. The creation.

My workbench. The aches in my joints. The creation.

My mother.

The creation.

I’ve done it.

I have experienced.

How good that feels.

No time to be selfish.

I’m ready now.

I’m ready.

Ready.

Henry Josephson, 46, died on impact. The accident was approximately 6 seconds in duration.

True, I'm sure the boomin' in my head wasn't helped none too much by the fumes comin' through the floorboard o' my semi-trusty, but always cantankerous, Chevy Apache pickup. Damn, it was especially hot this mornin', too, and I'm sure the heat just compounded the effect o' the gassin' I was gettin'. On top o' that, I had Fred's stanky ass parked in the seat right next to me, pantin' away with his rotten dog-breath drool a-drippin' and a-slobberin' all over creation.

Oh, and a-ridin' shotgun right next to ol' Fred was that little turd, Paint CHiPs. Yeah, this was several years back, in fact, he was six years old at the time. His momma liked to send him down once in a while to stay a week or so with the jackass. As to why she did that, I have no clue. She just did. Hell, I didn't even know if that boy had a real name. Everyone just called him Paint CHiPs, I think 'cause the little shit was known to eat paint off o' walls, or sumpin' crazy like that. Kids. Go figure.

I couldn't rightly say little Paint was a bad lad, but he was different, that was fer sure. That morning, since Wonderaz was nowhere to be found, I got him up and told him to get dressed. Well, he did . . . in a fashion. I'll put it like this: If gettin' "dressed" means wearin' little cowboy boots, with yore dinky drawers pulled up the crack o' yore scrawny li'l ass, and a Batman's cape tied around yore neck then, yep, he was "dressed". I just hoped nobody'd see us while I went into town that mornin' to tend to a little business.

We were rollin' down Hiway 90, a-goin' west. I slowed 'er down as we passed the city limits sign goin' into Marfa, Texas. If you ain't been there, Hiway 90's the Main Street, too. By this time, my eyes were waterin' so bad from the exhaust fumes and Fred's stench, I couldn't see none too well.

"Wook! Wook! A few-nuh-woe! Wooook!!!", squealed Paint, as he pointed with his little toe-headed self stickin' out the window. My eyes finally cleared and just in the nick o' time. Just ahead, a-comin' our way, was a funeral procession with the big, shiny, black "Eternal Rest Funeral Home" hearse in the lead. Musta been a big'n, too, since I could see a string o' headlights trailin' off fer quite a ways behind it.

Naturally, bein' a conscientious citizen an' all that shit, I respectfully wheeled Ol' Blue (my Chevy Apache pickup) over to the curb, popped the gear-shift into neutral, and held my foot on the brake. I glanced in the rearview mirror and could see thick, black smoke a-bellowin' up from behind the tailgate. Oh well. I had a few quarts o' recycled oil in the bed o' the truck. Those ol' worn-out rings an' burnt valves'd just have to tough it out a while longer.

As I waited, my thoughts drifted back to the events o' the precedin' night. The jackass had talked me into takin' him out to The Yellow Rose, a little honky-tonk situated on the other side o' Marfa. We rolled into the parkin' lot and, as always, walked inside like we owned the joint. It generally takes a few seconds for the ol' eyes to adjust to the darkness in these dives and they always smell the same--stale cigarette smoke 'n' sour beer, i.e. our kinda place.

Well, Wonderaz sauntered over to the bar. Before he could get a word outta his mouth, Ol' Booger Red, the barkeep, grumbles, "No tab tonight, jackass!"

"Yeah, right, Booger-daddy!", snapped Wonder in reply. "Ol' JEB's buyin' a round fer the house! JEB! JEB? Hey!! JEB . . . ."

I knew his signal all too well and also knew there wasn't any sense in tryin' to duck outta this'n 'cause my ol' "pal" knew when I got my check and, hence, always got real philanthropic on my behalf come check-time. So, I pulled out a twenty and nonchalantly tossed it on the bar, tryin' my best to look like the high roller I wasn't. Booger grunted as he snatched my dough, wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve, and commenced to pourin' draws fer everybody in the house. Speakin' o' the house, hell, I looked around and saw there weren't too many people there . . . maybe a dozen, not countin' the old man either passed out or dead in the corner (he never moved the whole night).

Booger handed me my change and a draw with about a 2-inch head o' foam on top, the cheatin' bastard. But, I didn't say a thing. As I was stuffin' the money back in my pocket, I noticed ol' Wonder'd parked his sorry ass at a table over by the jukebox with a coupla gals. Naturally, I had to go over and sat down in order to investigate.

Truby and Jolene were their names. Not too bad, but definitely not too good. Just your basic over-the-hill barflies out fer a good time. Well, at least the smell o' their hairspray 'n' cheap perfume overwhelmed that damn persistent sour beer odor (just to be sure, I smelled my glass, but it wasn't coming from it).

Truby did all the talkin' for her an' Jolene. Lord, she talked enough fer all four of us, as it was. Anyway, Truby let on that she was a "professional" cosmetologist; that Jolene was her recently divorced cousin, visiting her from Peach Orchard, Arkansas. Truby went on to say Jolene was probably gonna go to school an' become a "professional" beautician and maybe start up her own business right there in Marfa.

I looked at Jolene and she just nodded her head and smiled. In fact, she did that the entire evenin', just nodded her head and smiled. I truly believe if I'd told her to suck a fart outta Fred's ass, she woulda just nodded her head and smiled.

Anyway, as the night wore on, we danced and we drank. Then we danced and drank some more. Over and over. Every time I asked Jolene to dance, she'd nod her head, smile and get up an' dance. Speakin' of "over and over", Truby and Wonderaz were really gettin' "hodgy" with each other, if you know what I mean. I lost count of the number of times that jukebox played, "Together Again", by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos. It was a sight, I tellya, watchin' those two wrapped up in each others arms, a-rubbin' bellies and staggerin' around the dancefloor. About the middle of the song, they'd start cryin' and through the sobbin', they'd sing along (three different keys all at once, mind you), really bearin' down on the part, " . . . and nothin' else maaa-derz . . . 'cuz we're to-ge-ther, a-gayun . . . ." (I really liked that song, until I heard them two sing it. Jeebus.)

Eventually, Booger Red turned the lights on. "Last call fer al-key-hall!" We all got some in a road cup, then Wonderaz slurs, "JEB! Trubeesh gon' show me where she workshhh! She shaysh take *buuuurrrp!* goo' care o' Zho-lene! Mmmm-kay? *Truby giggles, then farts*

Wonder just hee-haws and says, "Got-dayum, wo-man!!! You done shit yore pants? Ha-ha-ha!!!" *Truby just keeps gigglin' and farts, again.*

Last I saw of 'em that night was in the rearview mirror as I peeled out to take Jolene to Truby's house. Fortunately, Truby'd told me where she lived earlier that night—Lot #6 at Trail's End Trailer Park. By the time I got there, Jolene was out cold and snorin' like an ol' Duroc sow, to-boot.

Yeah, y'all are wonderin' by now whether I took indecent liberties with Jolene. Yes, you are. Admit it.

Well, I'm here to tell you, ol' JEB wouldn't do sumpin' like that. Besides, try as I might, I couldn't get the picture and sound outta my head o' that damn Truby just a-gigglin' an' fartin' like it was her second nature. So, I just gather up Jolene, took her inside and flopped her on the sofa. She came to long enough to nod her head and smile, then commenced to snorin', again. Jeebus.

A VAAAAARRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM!!!, followed by a loud *BOOM-BOOM-CRASH!!!* brought me back from my recollections. As I blinked my eyes, I saw that the hearse had apparently gunned it, ran up over a parked car, then plowed into a fire hydrant. What's worse, the casket had shot out the back, hit the pavement, and spun to a stop in the middle of the street. In seconds, it sounded like raindrops pounding the top of my cab as the water from the busted hydrant started spraying up in a huge, fan-tail arc.

"WOOOOK! WOOOOOOOK! A ZOMBEEEE!!" Paint was jumpin' up and down in the seat. "A WEAL WIVE ZOMBEEEEE!!! WOOOOOOK!! ME GIT DAT ZOMBEEEEE!!!" Before I could say anything, the little turd had jumped outta the truck with Fred right on his heels. Oh, and I forgot to tell you--Paint also had his trusty water pistol that, unlike normal kids, he filled with mysterious and foul liquids. Truth is, I strongly suspicioned that he'd somehow found a way to fill it with Fred's piss and, trust me, that's some damn horrible piss.

Shit, I couldn't see through the windshield, so I got out. I took one step toward the casket and stopped cold. No. It couldn't be . . . . Yes, it was. I swear, my jaw musta dropped clean down to my knees. Before me was that jackass Wonderaz stumblin' outta the coffin, a-wearin' nothin' but his old, beat-up cowboy boots and a bright, red brassiere.

Hell, it became all too clear to me in a right hurry that my jackass buddy was either still drunk, or the blow from the coffin hittin' the pavement had him disoriented. All hell then broke loose when, in short order, dozens of members of the funeral party got outta their cars to investigate. I've never heard such screamin', wailin' and cryin'. Men, woman and children were runnin' in every which direction; several dropped to their knees and started praying out-loud; and yet some others just passed out right on the spot.

Pure-dee pandemonium.

In the middle of it all was that jackass Wonderaz, red brassiere and boots, stumbling around in a wobbly Texas two-step, singin' at the top o' his lungs. "Tooo-ge-thar . . . aaa-gayun! . . . na-na-na-na-naaa-na . . . too-oo-ge-thar aaa-gayun! . . . .“ Damn. That goofy sumbitch couldn't even remember the words.

And then there was our visiting turd, li'l Paint. He'd crouched down behind the lid o' the coffin and was shootin' Fred piss at Wonderaz, while Fred made the rounds, humpin' on the people prayin' as well as those passed out on the pavement.

I didn't have enough of my check left this time, so I had to hock my TV and Wonder's fishin' rod to rake up his bail money. Hell, I've seriously thought at times it'd probably be easier just to have my monthly check put on direct deposit to the Sheriff's Office for that jackass's bail. Oh well.

I later learned that ol' sow Truby was a cosmetologist, alright--fer the goddamn Eternal Rest Funeral Home. After leaving "The Yellow Rose" she and the jackass went there and got kinky (I'll spare you the miserable details, 'cause I think it's kinda sick, if'n you want my opinion) in the caskets. After doin' his manly deed, ol' Wonderaz passed out. Truby got pissed when she couldn't wake him, so she slammed the lid on him and somehow made it back to her trailer to sleep it off.

Trouble was, Truby didn't show up to work the next morning to put what was left of the late Louie Dalrymple in his coffin which, by the way, just so happened to be the same one our man Wonderaz had passed out in. Poor ol' Louie bar-b-qued himself beyond recognition when he fell asleep in his easy chair while smokin' his King Edward cee-gar. Needless to say, Louie's funeral was intended to be a closed casket affair.

By the way, Eternal Rest Funeral Home got two more funerals that week, courtesy o' ol' Wonderaz. Zula Mae Dalrymple, Louie's mom and Rev. L. Rayford Jones, the Pentecostal Holiness preacher both kicked the bucket that morning. Yep, two massive coronaries, right there in the middle of Main Street in Marfa, Texas. Zula Mae was 94 years old, so I'd venture to say she already had one foot on a banana peel an' the other in the grave, anyway. As for the right Reverend Jones, it went all around town that he'd preached real heavy sermons the week before on some stories about a feller named Lazarus and the Resurrection. I don't rightly know what that had to do with the price o' corn, but they all sure cussed an' discussed it in the coffee shop like it was some big damn sign from The Almighty.

Come to think of it, suppose that jackass Wonderaz hadn't woke up and started singin' inside the casket while he was in the back o' that hearse? Well, at least he woulda got himself a free burial. Hell, that's all the moochin' bastard can afford, anyway. Amen.

Looks cold in the mountains.