Hello again, and let me welcome those few that have taken interest in my slightly intelligent, dark subject material, black comedy, and at times bordering copyright infringement experimental literary magazine. With that being said I think that I do need to give credit where credit is do. So, I'll begin with one of my idols, Seth MacFarlane, the man responsible for such fan-fuckin'-dab-dosy-tasic shows like "American Dad", "The Cleveland Show", and the almighty and magnificent "Family Guy". Seth's dark, clever, witty, and yet somehow light hearted humorist perspective on life is a fuckin' refreshing relief. I mean who else can make the prospect of having a psychopath as a child deliciously delectable. Or how about his ability to make the mocking of mental handicapped hilariously political correct and acceptable. The moral lesions that are at the end of every episode(which in many cases is destroyed by Peter), but most of all the fact that he made animation cool, resulting in a man having the ability to indulge in his love of cartoons without being mocked or made to feel like a damn pedophile. I love you soooo much, Seth, that if I ever had the chance to met you I'm not sure what I'd want do more, cover you in chocolate icing, or let you fuck me hard in the ass, but only if you did all of the "Family Guy" character's voices. Just imagine being called a "Filthy Slut" to the tone of Greased Up Deaf Guy. God, just thinking about it almost caused me to nut in my pants? A little crept out? Me too. I never knew that about myself, homosexual tendencies is something new. But seriously, I was just kidding; I'm not gay-I don't think. Well anyway, you enjoy this edition while I go call a really good therapist.

Thank you Seth!








Now that I have given credit to one man whose ideas I do unilize, it is time now for the creative writing part of   and I have once again another short story from my friend, Andrew, who I believe is talented. I hope you enjoy. Afterwards, I will tell you "What Really Chaffs My Nuts".

Stray Dog Strut

BY ANDREW BRUCE

The splashing, the water gentle slapping the rock and silt banks of the waterway that separated the worlds. It's so nice to hear those noises; to see the light mirror shined off the bright sun light with the fluid motions reminding me of a kind caressing pat on the back from a lifelong friend. The comfort and relief that that environment offered with its ability to wipe all worry away. I see this and any concern is diluted by its embrace. No fear, no concern, just contentment as I walk those banks. Its spirit to bring wonderment to even the most closed minded is amazing. What kind of wonderment? Well, how about does what we've done in the past really the reason we are in the circumstances we find ourselves in today?

What do you think?

Does the past define who we are? Does it decide for us? They say it should though these waters say otherwise. It shouldn't because yesterday is gone and tomorrow is undetermined as far as we know. The next woman that walks through those doors could be your wife, excuse me, I mean soon to be. The next face that walks through that threshold could be your maker, the hands that deliver the retribution directly to your door. Payback with a twist. A prophet who's bringing the message of a vengeful god; a psycho with a smile, a smirk or a blank stare-you take your pick. It doesn't really matter, just as long as it comes and the job gets done. That's all that is the objective. In terms of that then maybe the past does determine that, I mean just look at how people hold themselves. Take for example walking.

Humans are interesting creatures; we have a real mind that is capable of thought, and not just instinct. Thought which leads to ideas, dreams, and actions. Those notions and acts lead to secrets, hidden potential disasters and embarrassments that can potentially ruin, redirect or alter the present for anyone of us.

Now like I said just look at the different walking styles we all have; struts, swaggers, and shuffles. It all comes out. It all shows, it all comes out in our gestures, postures in one single step, and as hard as people may try to cover it the truth is that it all shows, all of it. The shyness, the sensitivity, the compassion and the brutality. Yeah, that's what I bet on, the translation given by the steps taken, the meaning of the approach. It's the goal that I'd aimed for in the past and even though it was so long ago I bet on that now.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked in an apprehensive tone.

"Whiskey on the rocks, boss" I answered.

Oh, if only that scumbag prick knew what was actually coming? Well to be fair from his response he probably had an idea, and that was exactly what I wanted. That was how I conveyed it, and that's how it was supposed to be. He needed to know it-had an innate right to a warning of what was to transpire so he could prepare by saying his prayers, prepare his will, or whatever. But he had that privilege to that understanding. He was due that for what I was gonna do. Unclear? Well, let me explain.

See, when I was a kid I grew up with the lost, the destitute and lowest of the low. That was my environment, the guidance of guardians with records and broken lineages. Dudes and gals who were grunts, came in the world with nothing, and worked with nothing. Didn't matter whether you were good-looking, smart, or talented because everything around you was shit. Just a big hole of repugnant fecal matter. That's hard to climb out of, hard when no support, no structure existed and you were going solo. And the typical result of this was the downtrodden dreamer, or the defeatist who's settled for what's in front of them. Well, almost all of them I should say. I thought about that as I sucked a drag off of the cigarette I held in my fingers on that wood stool in that dimly lit dive that like all the rest in that part town were supposed to be a legitimate bar. Just ask the red nosed, pale skinned, sickly looking men in the bathroom what this place was. Soon they'd see what it would turn into. I'd already given them the admonition so they would know.

There was me, when I said that most didn't have hope, well I was an exception. So were Tony and Kathy. I had aspiration, hope, and an idea. Maybe now that I think about it, it was misplaced; regardless it was ambition nevertheless. I was different just like Tony and Kathy. You could see it, could sense it in their walk. That's why I was there? Right? Ralph? Love?

Right? That's what I asked myself as I glanced down the bar. It was that as I grasped the glass that held the liquid, which I hadn't raised to my lips since it had been placed in front of me. I had told that soon to be a corpse that was a bartender to keep them coming, but I hadn't touched it yet.

"God it's been a long time."

What do I mean by all this? The whole soon to be dead bartender and the thing about the walk? It's like this, robbery, stealing, cheatin', scamin'-that's what we did, that's all we had besides each other. That's what happens when you got alcoholic, drug addicted, and mentally ill or traumatized parents. You’re not their child; no you become a child of the street, an inhabitant of the night raised by a system that kept that jungle together. That and survival. In that process of inadequate growth you grip onto whoever or whatever was there. In that process of inadequate growth you grip onto whoever or whatever there is. That's how families are made; families of lost souls who hang on to each other with our claws embedded in each other for one purpose, to survive. We played, laughed, fought, and celebrate with and at each other. Those smiles and fears stayed with me, injected into my heart as I was put in restraints for a bus ride up to state prison. Yeah, you heard-state prison. I had close to 6 years. Tony knows what it's like 'cause he was there too.

See me and Tony had been caught together. It was just that he had a chance. Me, I was a violent offender with no hope. A menace; I'd been given many opportunities, and then I'd run out of road. Tony, my man, well he got state time, but a short stint, He was a short timer which is what that basically good guy who was a burglar deserved; a chance at a life which he took. He turned on his lock pick set and crowbar for books and a degree. That and love, love that was mine. Man, I remember that day in the visiting room. The betrayal which helped to push my resolve, my walk.

The walk we all had, my friend Tony, me, and my love Kathy were haunting. It was a haunting, pity beckoning, tough walk. A walk of what we were, stray dogs; a stray dog strut. It was that kind of stammering you see in that ownerless canine or the coyote coming down your street. That same hike speaks volumes about the whereabouts of that furry nomad. The strut that says that that damn animal has seen some shit has been around the block. The loneliness, wanton love, and hypocritical fear of closeness that surrounds him. The toughness that resonates all the way through, we all acquired that presence through osmosis. It was earned just by our existence, and by our experience in the world that surrounded us. And so like a tiger has strips we developed this omnipresence of a necessary trait that was required for endurance. It was obligatory just like the love we seemed to inherit for each other. Wait a minute, was that why I was here?

If so why was it so valid a reason, or was it because of Ralph?

That was the thought which circled my brain as I looked down at tall, short haired olive skinned drink master (the soon to be corpse bartender) who’d I'd just remembered was named was Carl. Italian, Rican, Mulatto-couldn't tell, and seriously it didn't matter. When his partner walked in the sweep up, the cleanup of all the mistakes would be made. That's exactly what this was too; a garbage pickup of an overflow of an immoral dumpster which was being done out of love. A love that had been crushed and didn't exist, but through chance had been recrusititated. Loving retribution that in the beginning had been told with the strut. See once that betrayal had taken place it had (the love) vanished quicker than a Jew in Poland during the Nazi occupation. Instead it was replaced by first an undying incinerating rage that would be quenched by a hefty supply of avenging control, and a job to do that feed the cinders of my heart making it glow keeping me warm. It let me know that in that place of fringed souls and icy reason that I was alive. That's where I met the big boys, the real deal, The Brotherhood. That's where I got my first real consistent job. Those motherfuckers who referred to themselves as the "Brotherhood" with their swastikas and lightning bolts tattoos which they paraded around like a slave at a portside auction were these beasts of nobility. Intelligent creatures with hearts of darkness, and they were the ones to really give me my first guided direction. Like the Marine Corp. or any good porn star they were looking for "a few good men"-a white man that is. I was white and they gave me a job. I was a messenger, a fixer, an enforcer, or maybe a cleaner. I learned my job well as a man of the blade. And the tears ran red with blood when the time came. The color stayed with me almost dying my vision as I glanced around the bar. Nothing really unusual was going on; the regulars were drinking as the TV showed a football game. I didn't really follow sports anymore especially after what happened on the inside.

"How did Tony make it?" I asked myself blurting out as little bit more smoke floated out from between my lips.

I mean Tony was smart, and he could fake it as in pullin' off violence and a tough persona, but seriously he just wasn't built like that. And for that matter how the hell did Kathy make it through all those years. It was hard, and she was doing time too even if not behind razor wire and walls. Was that the reason for the betrayal? Just as that question had crossed my mind, another one took it hostage; the spark was going to ignite the powder keg that was the reason for my future actions. It was that I hadn't the fuckin' faintest idea as to how Kathy was living after what had happened; death of the life she had helped create. And it was all because of bad timing. All because of coming home early and surprising the opportunist, running scared Ralph. The loss of that growing, beloved being must have been catastrophic. I wondered if it was anything comparable to the turncoat deed in the visiting room that day. The smudged Plexiglas with the metal table with its chipped and peeling paint. It being accompanied by the scratched steel stools that shown in the florescent light. Yup, that was the conflicting factor as to why I was there. Still I knew why, I understood the motivation behind me being there. I just didn't want to question or focus on its validness right then. Hell no!

There was a pause in my train of thought; a blank spot in the whole requiem of the past. It was filled by another contemplation; one which would have been horrid, but for some reason it just didn't faze my psyche. Not one bit. It was the curious wonderment of how it should go.

There was this task I once had. It was a simple chore of cleaning up a spill that had been made when sloppiness had come into play. A new boot; this sniveling scared nobody who had joined company just for prestige and clout of the organization had fucked up. He had no real talent, wasn't tough, no heart involved in that body. No, just a big fat mouth. He was catered to because he had friends on the outside, friends who were stupidly willing to act on behalf of that dimwit with gangsta lips. You could see it all in his walk. Well, as most involved in this know that low self esteem inferiority complexes are the path to braggarts and braggarts are the number one infections that rot out a basically sound and strong piece of business like gangrene does a limb that's been exposed to its organisms. That sloppiness squirts and spews it's tell all looseness leaving behind evidence of what that thing that once existed healthy was. And in that world even if you don't tell, even if there are just symptoms of that inflection the proper procedure was to remove or cut out that disgrace from the rest of the organism. It was the sacrifice of that flesh for the sake of the rest of the animal, and like any good doctor the treatment was approved. Then it was committed with the utter most care. Maybe that's what I was-a surgeon. Either way it could all be told in the walk.

Yeah, I remember that procedure; an easy amputation so I thought. The struggle, the wrestling, the punch to the face, the elbow to his nose, and the uninhibituted fight for preservation said otherwise. And like a greenhorn intern I struggled to make it successful.

"Motherfucker!" I grunted as I battled to control the squirming victim who already had an incision made on his body. He was a braggart alright; a loud mouth and at no time was that more apparent than his strained cries and uncontrollable haymakers he threw which I dodged before sticking him again. I stuck him like a stock pig going to the slaughter. He squealed like that beast as I beat him on the floor to stop the relentless crawling toward the view of the bulls to save him from a fate he'd chosen. "Bulls" in case you were wondering is slang for the guards.

Teeth gritted I ordered in anxiety and rage, "Stay still!" as the edge of the tool used in the sort of operation slide, no dug into the meat of his neck. Steaming hot life leaked out from under hm. The job of cleaning up had been done; at least on my part, and either way it wouldn't have mattered whether he had gotten to the open field of vision. The guards weren't there because they'd been paid off. Moneys what makes the world go round, and isn't that what this was about too? A dollar to be made for the sake of the vein. That was Ralph's part anyway. 

"Correct?" I asked myself again.

I mean love was involved, but that dude Ralph didn't cause the harm he inflicted for love. That lollypop sucking bastard hadn’t started that feud for affection. That was my end. God, why was I doing this? Kathy with her beautiful bright red hair and hazel eyes had left for him.

How was I gonna do this?

Was I going to have to bob and weave through those other pricks down at the other end of the bar? Those possible casualties that would be rooted out for guilt by association? Was the possibility of gettin' the blood of that man on my hands true, or should I just use the pistol I had in my waistband? Let the blood become a distant memory as it became part of the blowback and then part of the bar itself? I had a .45 locked and loaded just waitin'. The question of which way to do it somehow just couldn't be decided. God damn it, why was I having such a tough time? I'd been doing it for seven years, and all I had to do was go with it. What the fuck. But let me be clear in case you haven't made sense of it yet. Carl was not the target, no he was just an obstacle that I'd have to get through because similar to me he had loyalty as well as a business prospect to protect; that was Ralph. I understood that despite his parasitic nature basically he'd protect that needle jockey, lolly-pop sucking Ralph. The one who'd hurt Kathy. He'd done that transgression, and we knew. We all knew because he'd left his calling card. Ralph left one of his candy wrappers.

"Damn it!" I signed.

I knew the answer to that indecisiveness of my conclusion on the method, and it was not a perplexing conundrum. I had escaped this; escape all the violence and malefactor dissidence and was back on track. A rusty run down track, but a track leading somewhere nevertheless. It was fine. So what if I struggled through, no big deal at the time that is until I ran into the two of them.

"What the hell did I get myself into god damn it?!"

Trying to find the resolve once again, the resolve I had so many years ago, I was rudely interrupted my entrance of Tony who would turn out to be one third of my problem. Tony with circles under his eyes, and dark brown hair a mess, he made his way into the bar.

"Shit!"

I watched him with that all revealing entrance that gave everything away. He had it down pat.

"Don't walk in here-leave!" a little voice in my brain pleaded. "Shit!"

I glanced down the bar at Carl who was talking to two other guys who looked equally as slimy as he. They hadn't taken notice yet, but they would. Still sitting I reached for my piece. Goddamn it, that sugar/needle freak wasn't even here yet, and that would have been fine expect that the husband of the woman Ralph had hurt had just made a cameo appearance. Yeah, that's right I did say the husband(Tony) of the woman(Kathy)whom he'd killed the new life inside of her had just paced his way into a den of lions. What made it worse was that being from the neighborhood Tony knew those fucks and they knew him. Not like me who had been gone eight years, giving time for my recognition to be swept under the rug.

I snarled "Get the fuck outta here!"

Glancing down again, at any moment they were gonna take notice. They would see the obvious problem for business that had just walked in, and not unlike me they were going to erase to sense it. Sloppily of course.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked. Standing up, the jig was about to be up so exposure wasn't an issue.

"Drew don't-"

This shove that was accompanied by a roar sliced through the scene. It ripped my eardrum apart along with pushing me, not far but just enough to be knocked off balance. Another and another came ripping through as some of the other patrons screamed and ducked for cover. Twisting around I grasped for the gun at my waste, but it wasn't there. Glancing up ahead the two friends of Carl were coming, guns in hand. A foot away was my piece

"Back off" someone announced.

"What?!"

Tony ordered in determination. "Step the fuck off!"

Turning my head there was Tony with a gun in his hand. Pointing it at the common thugs, it gyrated a little with what I guessed was discomfort.

"It's two against one" Carl. He sucked at math.

One of the other aggressors interrupted "Fuck you!" 

BOOM, BOOM!

The noise had been brought, and now that they'd spat fire at us; it was our turn to return. Dropping the two motherfuckers, I knelt there with the .45 pointed at Carl. My wrist hurt from the recoil; a warm trickling sensation began to drip down my left side.

"Come on!"

I focused on Carl who stood there .38 in hand, frozen in my sights.

Tony grabbed my shoulder, "Let's go!" He squeezed and a wave of stinging pain washed over me.

Bam! Bam!

The rounds wised by our heads, Tony flinched. There was more screams and broken glass. A customer tried to leave, but caught one of the projectiles. Falling immediately the screaming began.

Once again the bottles and the TV at the bar became victims as I wildly unloaded the rest of the clip in Carl's direction. He literally fell on the ground behind the bar for cover. I had an idea of what was next. Fumbling, I jammed in the next; the last clip I had. The next sound we'd hear would be the click of a shell being loaded into the chamber, and then an explosion. I waited for a second; pressure once again was felt on my shoulder.

"Let's go!" insisted my friend. "Come on!"

The flicker of a different color, a white in that dimly lit shadiness of orange, green, and brown caught my eye like the white of a deer tail in the forest. The white shirt Carl was wearing. In a moment we'd see the head, just a second. I pulled back on the lever, the little key that unleashed a small bite of hell on earth. The rounds bombarded the bar again, smashing the liquor bottles causing a rain of glass and intoxicants to fall. But my timing was off, not by much but it was off. The screaming scared reflex of Carl falling down on the sticky hardwood floor indicated that he, along with the floor, was receiving a soaking taste of their counterpart proving(like I said) that my timing was off. It seemed to be that way with most aspects of my life; but that's another story.

Stumbling for the door, Tony helped me as we made our mad rush that was interrupted by the beckoning of lead and gunpowder. The door and glass around us buckled and shattered in response to the call. Outside the door I answered back to that plea not to leave. It was the only polite thing to do. Not as loud, but aggressive all the same.

Damn, my wrist was killing me. Shit, it had been a long time.

"We gotta go! Shit!"

Standing by a car, Tony pulled on the driver side door handle, "Yo asshole let’s go!"

I announced back "Shut the fuck up!"

The conversation had been taken outside; the formalities tossed aside Carl wasn't done talking. The passenger side window burst into pieces.

"Ahhhhh!" Tony cried before dropping to one knee. There was another scream; one not of just surprise but of terror as well, and it resonated with a high pitched tone like that of a jolted yip of an animal's reaction to a thunderclap. A female.

Sinking to one knee I took aim. With an instinctual movement of the finger I returned the favor. The response that was needed just not expected. A warm, hot searing sensation dripped down my body.

"Fuck!"

Just hold on; watch the stutter step, now the collapse as the 12 gauge falls to the pavement. Damn, I'm off. I didn't kill. Carl breathed heavily as he held himself up against the half opened bar door. "That's alright though", I thought. Take care of it all now, and the pace would tell the story. Behind me an engine revived as the walk began.

"Drew let's go, come!"

I paused.

"Come on, Drew!" I woman's voice shouted at me.

Turning I got into the back of a Taurus that had jumped the curb. Carl watched with his hands on his wounds, eyes bugged out.

Tony asked concerned "You alright?"

"Yeah" I answered back touching the warmth on my shoulder. "Shit, what the hell were you doing?!" I fired back placing the barrel to the back of his head.

Flooring it, Tony flinched, "I was tryin' to help you-"

"Help me?! Help me with what?! Getting killed you dumb fuck?!"

"Fuck you!" my friend yelled back.

"Fuck me?!" I bit my lip. "I should fuckin' kill you." My hand steadied even more as I held my finger over the trigger.

"Stop it stop it! Please let’s just go home."

My gaze went from the driver to the woman in the passenger seat, the one with her red hair pulled back in a pony tail. The small well-kept hands gripped the fabric as she turned toward me with those wide green eyes that told so much more.

"Please Drew, honey..."

Dropping my arm I tossed the piece to the floor.

Home? Honey?

"What were you doing?' The green glare turned to fear. "Oh god! What happened?"

"Nothing" I sighed rubbing my eyes with my good hand. "Yo, try to keep it at the speed limit or just below."

Dropping my hand, the cool wind from the blasted out window blew in my face, fanning Kathy's hair like a kite tail. I laughed a little.

Tony asked "What's so funny?"

I blew out my breath, "Nothing. Drive."

A place called home? Someone like me "Honey"? Damn it had been a long time, and things had changed. Yeah, the nostalgia was back in a new nefarious form. Did I still matter enough to her to be thought of in that same light as I was back then? I watched her longing, concerned hands almost childlike touch as she grasped for, and to give comfort to my friend (her husband). No, she just knew how to talk to me. You don't live with a stray like me, and not learn a thing or two about loyalty. Not that she needed to be schooled in those two areas. She'd lived with us for almost all our lives; the social structure of the pack was nothing new. Still it was nice that just for a moment it appeared like she still cared; that she still loved me. But, that was a habit for her. A bad habit that I thought she'd broken a while ago.

"Owwwww!" I said thinking about the purpose behind my vengeful aggression, and touching the hole in my body. The bullet had gone all the way through my shoulder, cleanly I hoped. It had all made sense up until about two hours ago, then it was just a clusterfuck of ideas, hesitations, and justifications. A resolve with no concrete purpose.

"Tony, what's on your shirt?" the carrot toped beauty asked as we stopped at a red light.

Tony looked down, "Wha-oh-ummmm  ...."

"It's mine", I announced admitting to the cause of the warm, metallic smelling stain. My honesty came up out of the backseat like a ghost's moan. Kathy gasped at my admission before Tony dove off. Just like old times.

Yeah, I guess the past whether we want to believe it, or not does define us to an extent. It shapes who we are, and therefore makes us the person we are today. I know I'd like not to think that my transgressions, my failures and success have controlled my personality; or the way I think. But like I said in the beginning I guess it does. The waters on the river say so. Not that we don't have the aptitude to Sheppard our fate in any direction. It's just that erstwhile is all that we have to go on; the only substantial solid backing for what we could be in our lives. Hence for me my behavior, and the resulting gunshot wound that I held as we drove off to some place called "home" that a mongrel like me could only dream of.

I lit a cigarette, "What a day."

Yes, the past is our compass to the future, our karmic fortuneteller to the supposed unknown. It's all right there; it all shows right in the walk, the shuffle, and the strut. So until next time take care. See you later.                                                                         

7/13/2009  

Pretty funny joke, huh? Puts a whole new spin on fairy tales doesn't it. That be like finding out that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was really about a girl who has a gangbang with seven elderly little people. Huh? Think out that one, suddenly stories from your childhood, and disney don't seem that innocent. I mean think of this, "Sneezy" sneezes and prematurely ejaculates. Yeah. And for that matter, I get the idea of a gangbang, but seriously what do the other guys do while their waiting their turn? Touch themselves, each other, the dog. I mean what? And another thing how could Poppa Bear go down on Goldie Lox. Wouldn't his teeth get in the way. It'd be like trying to french kiss a bear trap. Anyway, so much for good clear childhood memories.






Now it's time for what you've all been waiting for: "What Really Chaffs My Nuts".
Ya know what really chaffs my nuts? The Renaissance fair performers? I mean I understand that history maybe your lover; your a history buff. All right, that's kool. But you don't have  make your life. We understand that you don't get laid, but just like drug don't take way that pain, dressing up like a court jester and jumping around like an retarded epileptic with turrets syndrome isn't to going to take way the pain. Or how about playing King Author and the Knights of the Round Table, or pretending to be the "Black Knight", pathetic! I don't know about you but winning awards for Jousting doesn't always merit have "game". And niether does being able to speak in Old English. But, believe I right along with you. I'm just as pathetic. Up until now no woman wanted to take about tea (Yes I am a a "tea snob") A bush, a plant whose leaves are picked  so that it can steeped in hot fucking water, and then drunk. That isn't a exactly conversation that leads to romance or fucking. Even my wife now doesn't want to hear that, so take it from me dorks, I'm in the same fuckin' boat.


Until next time,

Lou Ford