I think Al Gore and his new fangled religion -yes, I said Global Warming is a religion, based on faith like any and all religions, and like any good religion it’s main purpose is to relieve you of your money. Why do I think way? Why do I think that’s the truth? Simple. Because as a species we’re pretty fucking stupid. Not just stupid, but arrogantly so. Yes we split the atom; conquered flight (sometimes); hell, we even put a man on the moon. But does that mean that we are smarter than we really are? That good-ol’-Al Gore knows all when it comes to our planet’s plight (he did invent the internet you know)? I’ll tell you one thing: Al Gore’s got nothing on George A. Romero.
Romero, you ask? The zombie guy? What can George Romero have that Al Gore doesn’t?
For one thing Romero was a prophet when came to the zombie apocalypse. And to prove that fact, there happens to be a number of them right outside the door I barricaded. Unfortunately not a very strong door to boot. And me with only a twelve gauge and a whopping six shells.
It all started as situations like this often do. With someone trying to play in God’s playground. And with any good mad scientist/Dr. Frankenstein wanna-be they let their little creation escape the confines of their lab; let loose upon the world to create all sorts of havoc, be damned us all. It didn’t take long for the world to descend into chaos; for us as a species to turn on ourselves when confronted with things that they couldn’t control. The world as we knew it came to a grinding halt three weeks ago. The first cases showing up in Los Angeles then spreading quickly up and down the West Coast. In just under a week the entire western half of the United States was under a military quarantine with new cases appearing in Canada and Mexico. It seemed that once the cat was out of the bag so to say, The Event -as termed by the Government- spread like a wild fire on a windy day. By the end of it’s second week it had stretched all the way to the Mississippi River. The major cities turned into blood baths and the suburbs didn’t fair much better. The stories that came out of the infected areas -no matter how hard the military tried to sequester any and all information -were almost unbelievable. How the dead walked, feeding upon human flesh. And those that were bit turned into…well, with a lack of a better word: a zombie. And if we thought we had it bad, the infection or event or whatever you wanted to call it tore through the third world. Unstoppable. Not long after that it started to appear in Europe. The world now truly condemned by it’s own stupidity. No more twelve dollars lattés, no more law suits and Prozac pushing doctors, no more gun-toting Hip gangster douche-bag wannabes, and sure as fuck no more of L. Ron Hubbard’s Hollywood clones. All flushed away; down the drain to gag and choke on life’s own shit.
Yesterday all communications, from TV, radio, internet, went off line. The phone systems went days ago like a whisper in the night; one moment you had them, then nothing. Nothing more to say. Nothing more to hear except gunfire and hungry growls from once loved ones. But if you’re reading this you know that already. But is there anyone left to read? Hell, does it even matter?
They’re getting closer now. The wooden door frame starting to crack and splinter; being pushed in by the hungry. Time to make a choice: take out five and use the last for me? or, just say fuck it and end it now? Either way it looks like I’m on today’s menu.
Fuck! Her they come.
BANG…
BANG…
BANG…
Paul Dabrowski 11/2009
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
From “ROCK OF AGES” to “ROCK-N-ROLL FANTASY CAMP”. WTF? Why Don’t You Call Yourself Homer and Grab a Doughnut Already.
I was in a half of a Sunday morning coma, trolling through the Sunday Chicago’s Tribune, and I was like: “What the fuck?”. Wrapped around said paper was a full page ad for something that was supposed to be: “A Heck Of A Good Time!”, stated by the Trib’s own Jimmy Olsen for good times, a one Chris Jones (who ever that is).
“ROCK OF AGES”. A tour of 30 classic hair banging hits from that grand decade of decadence the 1980s -Or should I say late 80s, early 90s- brought to you by ‘Broadway in Chicago’. Note to them: Stop bringing me things. What happened to when the term ‘BROADWAY’ meant real plays and shit.
Now what really me going was not (not quite anyway) the fact that Dean Richards of WGN TV/Radio said that “It’s fun to see a theater filled with graying, balding middle-aged people singing along, transported back to their stoned washed, wine cooler sipping days of big hair and bigger shoulder pads.”
Close, but no. It was the fact that the headliner of this piece of shit was “American Idol” loser, Constantine Maroulis. Who’s that you ask? It doen’t matter. Just know that he’s now probably kicking himself that Aerosmith front man, Steven Tyler, is now on the show.
Okay, to address that ridiculous statement by the Deaner: A) As of writing this, I’m 39 years old -lived through that whole scene- and I’m nowhere fucking near middle-age, thank you. B) I’m not grey, nor balding (At least not much anyway). C) I didn’t wear stone washed anything -now or then. D) And I sure as fuck didn’t have big hair, or sip wine coolers. I don’t know what Bitchfest you attended back then, Dearner, but that wasn’t my scene. Mine was: Jeans, leather, and real booze.
Now to address this moron, Constantine. How the hell is that a selling point? I mean really. About the only thing that attracts are the Cougars that need to re-live some bullshit…okay, I’m a fucking idiot and answered my own question. But from a guys point of view, they could care less. Really. Have you seen most of the 80s cover bands? Looking a little rough. And dudes show up. Mostly I think to hit on the chicks that go to shit like that. I’m still trying to figure out why younger people go to 80s cover bands, because most of that music, well, let’s just say it sucked.
Not only that, but this stupid ass thing is coming right on the heals of some other stupid ass thing, what Chicago DJ for the radio station, the LOOP, called: “The greatest time and thing you’ll ever do.” I mean, really. Fucking “ROCK-N-ROLL FANTASY CAMP” will be the greatest thing I’ll ever do. Wow. Just fucking kill me now. When I think ’Rock-n-Roll camp‘, I not only think has-been losers, but Homer Simpson as well. Remember that episode? And not just that,. No. I hear it’s going to be a new VH1 show. Yeah, really. That term just conjures up visions of hell on earth; assholes standing around trying to reclaim whatever. But I bet dumb asses will watch it. Oh, look. There’s Bret Michaels- with his fake hair- doing yet another stupid reality show.
Please, just get on with your life. All because you topped 40 doesn’t mean old and decrypted. Not in the least.
I miss the days when a so called mid-life crisis meant you went out bought either a sports car, or motorcycle; got divorced to date younger people, only to realize you made a huge mistake because you can’t keep up with them. Ah, yeah. The days.
Now stupid horse shit like this. Family friendly stuff. Just remember though. They tried to make Las Vegas Family friendly once. That worked out well. Didn’t it. Now it’s: “What happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas“. Unless its: Marriage to someone you just met, pregnancy, or some sort of VD. That tends to follow you around.
“ROCK OF AGES”. A tour of 30 classic hair banging hits from that grand decade of decadence the 1980s -Or should I say late 80s, early 90s- brought to you by ‘Broadway in Chicago’. Note to them: Stop bringing me things. What happened to when the term ‘BROADWAY’ meant real plays and shit.
Now what really me going was not (not quite anyway) the fact that Dean Richards of WGN TV/Radio said that “It’s fun to see a theater filled with graying, balding middle-aged people singing along, transported back to their stoned washed, wine cooler sipping days of big hair and bigger shoulder pads.”
Close, but no. It was the fact that the headliner of this piece of shit was “American Idol” loser, Constantine Maroulis. Who’s that you ask? It doen’t matter. Just know that he’s now probably kicking himself that Aerosmith front man, Steven Tyler, is now on the show.
Okay, to address that ridiculous statement by the Deaner: A) As of writing this, I’m 39 years old -lived through that whole scene- and I’m nowhere fucking near middle-age, thank you. B) I’m not grey, nor balding (At least not much anyway). C) I didn’t wear stone washed anything -now or then. D) And I sure as fuck didn’t have big hair, or sip wine coolers. I don’t know what Bitchfest you attended back then, Dearner, but that wasn’t my scene. Mine was: Jeans, leather, and real booze.
Now to address this moron, Constantine. How the hell is that a selling point? I mean really. About the only thing that attracts are the Cougars that need to re-live some bullshit…okay, I’m a fucking idiot and answered my own question. But from a guys point of view, they could care less. Really. Have you seen most of the 80s cover bands? Looking a little rough. And dudes show up. Mostly I think to hit on the chicks that go to shit like that. I’m still trying to figure out why younger people go to 80s cover bands, because most of that music, well, let’s just say it sucked.
Not only that, but this stupid ass thing is coming right on the heals of some other stupid ass thing, what Chicago DJ for the radio station, the LOOP, called: “The greatest time and thing you’ll ever do.” I mean, really. Fucking “ROCK-N-ROLL FANTASY CAMP” will be the greatest thing I’ll ever do. Wow. Just fucking kill me now. When I think ’Rock-n-Roll camp‘, I not only think has-been losers, but Homer Simpson as well. Remember that episode? And not just that,. No. I hear it’s going to be a new VH1 show. Yeah, really. That term just conjures up visions of hell on earth; assholes standing around trying to reclaim whatever. But I bet dumb asses will watch it. Oh, look. There’s Bret Michaels- with his fake hair- doing yet another stupid reality show.
Please, just get on with your life. All because you topped 40 doesn’t mean old and decrypted. Not in the least.
I miss the days when a so called mid-life crisis meant you went out bought either a sports car, or motorcycle; got divorced to date younger people, only to realize you made a huge mistake because you can’t keep up with them. Ah, yeah. The days.
Now stupid horse shit like this. Family friendly stuff. Just remember though. They tried to make Las Vegas Family friendly once. That worked out well. Didn’t it. Now it’s: “What happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas“. Unless its: Marriage to someone you just met, pregnancy, or some sort of VD. That tends to follow you around.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Ol’ Celebrity IN & OUT
Ah, yes. Don’t you love it? What is “it’ you ask? Well, the “IT” being how celebs seem to time and time again skirt the law (mostly. Not every time) when it comes to getting into trouble and serving jail time.
Take the two recent celebrity news hounds (or should I say whores. But hey, whores need love too) that have seemed to fill the bill and find themselves yet again on the wrong side of the iron bars: Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.
I mean what the fuck. Paris gets a slap on the wrist for a felony drug charge -a year suspended sentence and no jail time if she stays out of trouble for that year. And Lindsay, who out and out disobeyed the court during her trail (servers what? A little over a week), and now fails yet again another court order to stay clean, goes to jail and is out a day later. Oh, yeah. She might be facing a whooping 30 days. Big Fucking deal.
Now if it was someone like you or me -normal folk- who pulled shit like this, you think we’d get the same treatment? Hardly. Money and fame walk all the time, and not only in this country.
That isn’t to say that I don’t love to watch these over glamorous morons get into trouble. I hate to admit it but I do. Following the Train Wreck that is Lindsay is most enjoyable. Not that I don’t like her. It could be anybody, not just her. And there will always someone to take her place when that train ride finally comes to end either way. Redemption or the grave.
But the tears I shed won’t be because one of these fools we put on a pedestal end in tragedy; the train coming to a fiery end like most ‘Train Wrecks’ of life do. It’ll be because I’ll have to find a new source of entertainment. And sometimes getting good entertainment is hard to find even when there’s an abundance of shit to stroll for.
Can anyone say: “The Cast Of The Jersey Shore”? Or how about one the other endless reality clap traps that are out there. But with that said, reality stars don’t have the same mojo as so called real stars do, and it’ll be interesting in the least to see how many of them walk out of trouble as easily as the others.
Take the two recent celebrity news hounds (or should I say whores. But hey, whores need love too) that have seemed to fill the bill and find themselves yet again on the wrong side of the iron bars: Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.
I mean what the fuck. Paris gets a slap on the wrist for a felony drug charge -a year suspended sentence and no jail time if she stays out of trouble for that year. And Lindsay, who out and out disobeyed the court during her trail (servers what? A little over a week), and now fails yet again another court order to stay clean, goes to jail and is out a day later. Oh, yeah. She might be facing a whooping 30 days. Big Fucking deal.
Now if it was someone like you or me -normal folk- who pulled shit like this, you think we’d get the same treatment? Hardly. Money and fame walk all the time, and not only in this country.
That isn’t to say that I don’t love to watch these over glamorous morons get into trouble. I hate to admit it but I do. Following the Train Wreck that is Lindsay is most enjoyable. Not that I don’t like her. It could be anybody, not just her. And there will always someone to take her place when that train ride finally comes to end either way. Redemption or the grave.
But the tears I shed won’t be because one of these fools we put on a pedestal end in tragedy; the train coming to a fiery end like most ‘Train Wrecks’ of life do. It’ll be because I’ll have to find a new source of entertainment. And sometimes getting good entertainment is hard to find even when there’s an abundance of shit to stroll for.
Can anyone say: “The Cast Of The Jersey Shore”? Or how about one the other endless reality clap traps that are out there. But with that said, reality stars don’t have the same mojo as so called real stars do, and it’ll be interesting in the least to see how many of them walk out of trouble as easily as the others.
Thump! Goes The Party Upstairs
THUMP!
Pam’s fork stopped just short of her mouth as she gazed up at the ceiling for the ump-teenth time. A sour look glazed across her face as her food finally found it’s way home.
Another loud thump followed by raucous laughter.
“I guess we have new neighbors,” said Bob, trying to make light of the situation. He twirled his own fork through his pasta before placing it in his mouth, smiling at his wife as he chewed.
The condo above Bob and Pam Forsythe had been empty since they moved in two months before, much to Pam’s delight. They had lived in any number of apartments and they only seemed to have had problems with upstairs neighbors. And when they decided to finally buy something she wasn’t at all thrilled with the prospect of a condo, no matter how nice the neighborhood and building were. But with the shitty state of the housing and banking markets Pam finally broke down and told Bob to go for it. Besides, the market had to rebound sometime, right? And Bob kept telling her to just think of it as a starter home.
“Well, is it so hard to be a little courteous to the people that live around and below you?” Her statement was followed by screeching of a chair be pulled across the floor. Pam threw her fork down on her plate. “Oh for Pete’s sake! I think I’m gonna…” Pam started to rise from her chair, but Bob place a restraining hand on her arm. “What!” she said angrily.
“Wait--” Bob began.
“Wait for what? I think we’ve waited long enough.”
“Well if you’d have let me finish, I was going to say why don’t you let me go up there and say something. I don’t think that you’re in the right mood for it.”
“You’re damn right I’m not in the right mood for it.”
“That’s why I’ll go. Remember we have to live with these people, at least for a little while.”
“Make sure that you remind them of that when you’re up there.” Pam said as she sat back down and tried to resume eating. “No backing down like you always seem to do in confrontations.”
Bob shot her a pained look as he headed for the door. He hated it when she got like this. He loved his wife of more than six years, but at times ( like these ) she had a tendency to become a bitch. Something of which he would never say to her face, or anyone to else’s for that matter in fear that it might get back to her.
Bob stopped for a second as exited his unit, debating if he should use the elevator or not. The quickest way he figured would be the stairs. The door that lead to the stairwell was just to the left of his front door. He could take the stairs two at a time and be back lickity-split. That was probably the best way, get it over and done with so Pam could finally relax.
The door squeaked softly as he pushed through; his footsteps echoed as he went up the first flight, then the next. The strange thing was, as he entered the fifth floor hallway, for as loud as the party was in his unit, it was uneasily quiet here. Maybe he lucked out, Bob thought, and they decided to take their party on the road. He was about to turn back when he just caught the slightest bit of noise come from the other side of door in question. And before he even thought about what he was going to do or say ( that was the problem in not taking the elevator. He got there to quick and wasn’t prepared for what he was going to say. ), Bob raised his hand and knocked.
His first attempt was some what feeble. Trying to chicken out at the last minute, right before his hand meet the door, but he was too late and it made contact. Just then a scary thought entered his mind: if he ever wanted see Pam naked again he’d better man the fuck up. Now he knock with a little to much gusto as he tried to recover from looking weak and indecisive. The sound of his hand falls echoing through out the hall. Sweat began to collect on the back of Bob’s neck as he waited, feeling like an asshole now.
What am I? Bob thought. Knocking challenged?
As Bob waited, he tried to picture the layout with his mind’s eye. It would have to be some what similar if not exact to his own except for the furnishings. As he mused about it the door suddenly flew open, and Bob was taken back, unprepared for the sudden appearance and by the woman’s shear beauty. Blond hair was pulled back, cascading down the sides of her face and down her back. Stopping just above what was suppose to a mini-skirt but would have probably done a better job as a belt. Black garters streaked out from underneath, connecting to the tops of fishnet stockings that disappeared into what Pam would call a pair of black hooker boots. The half shirt she was wearing - if one could call it that - was so short that it barely came past her erect nipples, which poked out mockingly. For some strange reason the image of Winnie the Pooh flashed in his mind, and how the bear wore something similar in those kids cartoons. Bob wasn’t sure if it was the thoughts of an erotic female bear or if was the woman that stood before him or both. Possibly the latter. Either way he was rock hard.
“Hi…ah…” Bob’s voice caught in his throat as the exotic blonde’s eyes bore into him. It almost felt like she could see into his thoughts. And that wicked smile of hers didn’t help.
Bob began again. “Ah…Hi…My wife and I were wondering - we live downstairs, right below you - if everything was alright? We’ve been hearing a lot of commotion coming from up here. So I thought that maybe I should…ah…come up and check. Make sure you were all right.”
That smile again. “Aw. How sweet of you.” Laughter arose from inside, causing her to look back. Then she focused her attention back to Bob. “Would you like to come in? We’re, ah, having a little party here.” The blonde swayed slightly - in rhythm with some on music that she and she alone could only hear - as she hung on to the door.
“Um, no thank you. I was just here to make sure that you were all right.”
“Well then, as you can see, I’m quite alright.” She reached out and touched Bob lightly; her fingers just barley touching his chest but the reaction that it caused with-in him was unbelievable; an electric current seemed to flow from her fingers throughout Bob’s body. Pulsating his head, his groin. “But feel free to come back if you change your mind. We always have room for one more.” And with that, she closed the door.
Bob lingered in the hallway; staring at the closed door before him. Her vanilla scent still permeated the air, stirring up feelings as it did, and Bob felt as if he had been abandoned not just in life but spirit as well.
What had been dinner was now mushy noodles glued to one another with cold marinara as Bob pushed his fork through it. Their conversation had grown silent after Pam played twenty questions on his return. Now as he sat there with the remains of what was always a lackluster meal, his thoughts kept retuning to the girl at the door. On how it felt when she touched him, even if it had only been a second long brush.
“Bob, are you listening too me?” The sound of Pam’s irritated voice brought Bob back to the here and now. “Hmm,” he absently replied. Having just realized that he never got her name. “I said: a lot of good it did you going up there. They’re just as loud as ever.” Her statement was punctuated by another of a series of loud bangs. “Christ, did you say anything to them at all?”
“Ah, yeah. I asked them nicely if they could quiet down a little.”
“Figures. I tell you to go up there and lay down the law and you end up being coy and ask them nicely if they could quiet down. I knew it was a mistake for you to go up there.”
Bob’s fork clicked against his plate as it bounced off as he pushed himself away from the table.
“Where are you going?” Pam asked, surprised.
“Back up there.”
“I didn’t mean for you--”
“Yeah, right.”
“Lets just call the manager. Have him go over there.”
“And what? So I can listen to you bitch about it for the rest of weekend?”
Bob was out the door and rushing up the stairs before Pam had a chance too answer.
As before, when Bob pushed his way onto the next floor, the hallway was quiet. Bob took a deep breath and smoothed down his clothes before he knocked. The anticipation - his body seemed to ache from it - of seeing her once more welled up inside him. He couldn’t understand it; why he felt this way. That touch stirred something in him he hasn’t felt…hasn’t felt ever, now that he thought about it. It didn’t even cross his mind that he was possibly giving up he marriage; his life as he knew it. All he thought about was seeing the girl.
His knocks sounded hollow, like there was nothing on the other side of the door. Last time he stood and did this, Bob could just make out the presence of the party. Now however, there seemed to be nothing. Not the slightest noise. Maybe this time around he truly lucked out and they took their festivities else where. Pam couldn’t be the only one bitching about their unruliness. The thought terrified him.
He was about to turn away, head back down to Pam, when the door opened.
“Well, look who it is. Change your mind? Or are you here again to see if I was alright?”
“A little bit a both, I guess.” Bob felt energized by the sight of her. “I’m Bob Forsythe by the way.”
“I’m Anna. Anna Dupree.” The two shook hands. “Care to come in?”
The energy he felt as their hands meet made the first brush seem like a static shock. Now it coursed through him like twenty thousand volts, pulsating with every heartbeat.
“Um. Yeah, sure.”
Anna pulled Bob by his hand. He was surprised too find the inside, while the layout was exactly the same as his like he thought, was sparsely furnished. Two couches sat up against the walls that flanked the windows (two sets of couples were on the couches in varies sex acts. One had a woman bent over the front, fucking her doggy style while a woman was on top of another man grinding her hips. On the opposite couch two women where engaged in pleasuring each other while a woman was on her knees in front of her man. His engorged cock disappearing and reappearing in her mouth.) that looked down into the same courtyard as his. In the middle of the room a man sat naked on a lone chair as one of the most gorgeous brunettes Bob had ever seen danced around him. Every now and again she’d hop in his lap, sliding his manhood inside her and ride him. Causing his chair too bang a screech along the floor. So this is why the chair kept banging, Bob thought. All the while I was wondering what the fuck was going on.
Bob turned back to Anna. She was leaning against the door with her left hand up her shirt, exposing her breasts; pinching her hard nipples, while with right hand she pulled up what there was of her skirt, then sliding her hand over her hairless sex and began to rub.
“Don’t you find it hot,” she said, breathlessly. “Watching them fuck without a care in the world?” Anna pushed herself away from the door and grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him close, passionately kissing him as she took his other hand and rubbed it between her legs. When she finally pulled her lips from his, Anna said:
“Do you want me? I want you. You taste so good.” Anna licked his lips. “But you have to give yourself to me. Willingly. That’s the only way for me to show you the real me; too show you pleasures like never before. Will you do that for me, Bob? Will you give yourself over to me?”
Without moment hesitation Bob said yes, and that wicked little smile that had plagued Bob since he left returned. “Good.” Anna snapped her fingers. “Stacey. Candy. Bedroom. Now.” The two women that were locked together got up from the couch and walked hand in hand to the bedroom. “Are you ready for what comes next, Bob?”
“Yes. Yes, do unto me what you will.”
Anna pushed Bob away from her, hard. And at first he was confused, but she took hold of his hand and pulled him off towards the bedroom where Stacey and Candy laid in wait upon the bed, who then sat as they entered. The three women immediately began to tear off Bob’s clothes. All thoughts of his wife or how he was going to get home never seemed to cross his mind. He was lost. Lost in a moment that he knew would never come again. Be damned the consequences. He was then thrust onto his back upon the bed. His hardness sticking straight up. Stacey grabbed hold and took into her mouth; Candy straddled his face and moaned loudly as he used his tongue. All the while, Anna watched, slowly removing her own clothes.
“Stacey. Let him fuck you,” Anna said, reaching into the top drawer of a dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Stacey stopped giving him head, got on her back, and eased Bob on top of her, guiding his erection the whole way. Bob slid inside with a deep thrust as Candy, now leaning against the headboard spread eagle latched onto his ears and forcefully pulled his face towards her clit. Stacey positioned her own face beneath the two and added her tongue to the mix. The calamity of moans rose ever higher from the three as Anna finally kneeled down on the bed, clenched Bob’s ass checks and spread them apart and slipped her strap on dildo up into him. Bob cried out in both surprise and pleasure as it slid deep - as deep as he was in Stacey. Candy both laughed and moaned as Stacey’s tongue found the right spot, bring her too climax. She pulled Bob’s face back to help lap up her sweet juices. Anna, Bob, and Stacey fell into a rhythm with one another.
Anna leaned close to Bob’s ear, and whispered: “Now the real fun begins.”
It felt to Bob as if Anna’s hands stabbed into his sides; digging their way in just as Candy’s felt as if they were drilling into his skull. Stacey’s pussy tightened. Like a mouth biting down. Bob’s screams turned from pleasure to terror as he began to thrash around. Trying to free himself. He looked up and found the once beautiful Candy had turned old and rotten; her soft skin became rough as leather. Stacey stared up at Bob with lidless, drawn back eyes. Her mouth peeled back in a grim, sadistic smile of the corpse she was. Bob felt himself start to drain, as if he was being siphoned of life. Screams - not his own - echoed from the other room as the men in there found themselves in a similar situation.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Anna yelled, from behind. Her fossorial hands dug deeper into his sides. “I knew you’d taste elegant. Like a fine aged piece of beef.”
Bob let out one last high pitched scream before darkness descended.
_______________________________________________
The longer Pam sat alone, the more pissed off she became.
Bob had left over an hour ago, heading back up stairs to complain about the noise, but that had only seemed to grow louder since his departure. She knew he must of been suckered into joining them. The man had no backbone. Why she stayed married was anyone’s guess. Five more minutes. Five more minutes, and if he wasn’t back she was going too go up there and give them an earful.
Pam threw down her napkin as the allotted time passed by a full extra ten minutes. Time too the pay the piper.
The elevator chimed as it reached the next floor. She found it surprisingly quiet up there, for as loud as it was in her place. Better walls. Lucky them, she thought. That’s probably why no one was complaining. But after the what for she was about to give them, the whole building will know about them. Pam walked down to the door and began to pound.
“I know you’re in there you piece of shit.” Pam screamed. To hell with the neighbors, she thought. “I hope she gave you one hell of a blow-job, because it’s the last you’re ever gonna get!”
Oblivious to Pam, doors along the hallway began to open, people stepped out to see what was the commotion. “Can I help you?” A fiftyish man asked.
Pam turned around, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke. “Yeah. These bunch of assholes have been throwing this loud ass party all night long. And now my idiot, good for nothing husband is in there as well!” Pam turned back to the door. “You’d better get out here, you bastard if you know what’s good for ya!”
“Ah, miss--”
“Missus. Mrs. Forsythe.”
“Okay. Mrs. Forsythe. Is there something…the matter?”
Pam tried too remain calm as she talked to the man. But the best she could manage was through clenched teeth. “Yes. I already told you. They’re having a party and my husband is in there.”
The man looked at her bewildered. “In there?” He pointed at the door.
“Yes, in there. Why else would I be standing here?”
The fiftyish man, Carl, pulled Pam a little way from the door, hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her in a fatherly manner and told her that no one lives there. And when she told him that he must be mistaken, He began to tell her the strange sordid tale of what happened to the occupants of unit 5F. The women who lived behind that door, Carl told her, were the worst that human nature could produce. “They were cultist. Cultist of the worst kind,” he said. “They would find and lead unsuspecting men and women back here from the bars or where ever, seduced by their sexuality, and when they were done with whatever depravity they were doing, these women - these sucubi - would then take it one step further.” Carl took a deep breath before he continued, clearly shaken by the events that went on. Pam grew anxious with the pause. Her heart beat faster than she thought possible. “What?! What, tell me!” She pleaded. Carl sighed, and said too her:
“I think that maybe we should get the building manager.”
The buildings manager’s hands shook as he treid to put the key in the lock. “I haven’t been in here since the cops finally released it from their investigation and I had it cleaned. The place was filled with all kinds of where stuff. The police said it was things you would find in…” Pam stood silently behind him and Carl, not really sure what too believe. She knew that somebody had been there, hell, that was the whole reason Bob was missing at the moment. The manager finally got the kiy in the lock and turned the knob. “Finally.” The door swung slowly open reveiling an empty unit. The manager turned back to Pam. “Are you sure that he’s in here? That there were people here?”
“Positve. The party had been going on for sometime before Bob went to ask them to quiet down. Then he went back up when they didn’t and I haven’t seen him since.”
The manager reluctantly lead the way. Their voices echoed off the walls, making it feel even more empty - if that was possible - than it was. “I haven’t been in here in almost a year.”
“How come no one said anything about this when we moved in?”
“It’s not something one talks about. I’m surprised that you hadn’t heard anything while you’ve been here.”
Pam thought about that for a moment. “Probably it’s because we don’t really know anybody that lives here.”
“Man. Can you feel it? Feel the evil that still resides here?” They moved deeper inside, minding each step as if they didn’t want too wake up anyone or that maybe their next one they might fall through the floor. “I never thought I’d ever step in here again. I’m almost glad nobody’s ever moved in.”
“Bob?” Pam called out. Both the manager and Carl looked back at her in shock. “What? How else are we going too find out if he’s here?” They looked away, back into the interior. “Bob? Are you here?” She called out again. The only response was her own voice. “Neither one of you have said what happen too the women that lived here. I assume that they were caught and put in jail?”
“Sadly no,” said Carl.
“I guess the police had them under suspicion for a while. It turned out that they weren’t very good at covering their tracks, and when one the city’s counsel men’s son went missing and was last seen with Anna Dupree - she was the one that actually owned this place - the police wasted no time coming to pay her a visit.” The trio had searched the living/dinning area and kitchen were about too start checking the bedroom and bath. “It was such a bad scene. And it didn’t take long for people to start moving out afterward.” The Manager paused a moment as a chill ran through him. “If there were people in here like you said, I only hope it was just some kids with a sick fascination and not a bunch of old cohorts of Anna’s.”
“Wait. If they weren’t arrested then what the hell happened to Anna?”
The Manager stared at Pam, cold dread in his eyes, then said:
“They were all dead when they got here. Some mass suicide, or so the police said. But it wasn’t like any suicide I’d ever seen.
“The cops showed up at my place just before dawn - the counsel man’s son had been missing for a couple of days - and they were hoping to get in without much fan fare as possible; too catch them in the act, so to say. They wanted me to go up and either try to get them to open the door for some fake emergency and if not I was to use my key to get them in. So I did what they asked.
“I didn’t get an answer when I knocked, and I sort of got swept up in the rush when I unlocked the door and they barged in, guns drawn. There’s never a day I don’t think about what I saw.” He shook his head. “I’ll remember until the day I die I suppose. All those bodies lined up along the wall there.” He pointed to the wall on the other side of the condo. “Right there. Just lined up one by one. But the bodies were…were like they had been dried up. Like everything had been just sucked out. And the smell. I’ll never forget that smell. It reminded me of something burning. Or like…like…“ The Manger searched for the right word. “Like Brimstone.” They opened the bathroom door and found it empty. “It seemed like I could smell that stuff for weeks. It never did come out of my clothes.” The Manager opened the bedroom door. “I had too…Oh dear god no. No. No. No.” Pam’s scream shrilled through the condo as Carl fell backward into the bathroom clutching his chest as he thudded onto the floor.
The bodies were lined up one by one, just underneath the window, like dried fruit left in the sun. The smell of Brimstone floated in the air.
Pam’s fork stopped just short of her mouth as she gazed up at the ceiling for the ump-teenth time. A sour look glazed across her face as her food finally found it’s way home.
Another loud thump followed by raucous laughter.
“I guess we have new neighbors,” said Bob, trying to make light of the situation. He twirled his own fork through his pasta before placing it in his mouth, smiling at his wife as he chewed.
The condo above Bob and Pam Forsythe had been empty since they moved in two months before, much to Pam’s delight. They had lived in any number of apartments and they only seemed to have had problems with upstairs neighbors. And when they decided to finally buy something she wasn’t at all thrilled with the prospect of a condo, no matter how nice the neighborhood and building were. But with the shitty state of the housing and banking markets Pam finally broke down and told Bob to go for it. Besides, the market had to rebound sometime, right? And Bob kept telling her to just think of it as a starter home.
“Well, is it so hard to be a little courteous to the people that live around and below you?” Her statement was followed by screeching of a chair be pulled across the floor. Pam threw her fork down on her plate. “Oh for Pete’s sake! I think I’m gonna…” Pam started to rise from her chair, but Bob place a restraining hand on her arm. “What!” she said angrily.
“Wait--” Bob began.
“Wait for what? I think we’ve waited long enough.”
“Well if you’d have let me finish, I was going to say why don’t you let me go up there and say something. I don’t think that you’re in the right mood for it.”
“You’re damn right I’m not in the right mood for it.”
“That’s why I’ll go. Remember we have to live with these people, at least for a little while.”
“Make sure that you remind them of that when you’re up there.” Pam said as she sat back down and tried to resume eating. “No backing down like you always seem to do in confrontations.”
Bob shot her a pained look as he headed for the door. He hated it when she got like this. He loved his wife of more than six years, but at times ( like these ) she had a tendency to become a bitch. Something of which he would never say to her face, or anyone to else’s for that matter in fear that it might get back to her.
Bob stopped for a second as exited his unit, debating if he should use the elevator or not. The quickest way he figured would be the stairs. The door that lead to the stairwell was just to the left of his front door. He could take the stairs two at a time and be back lickity-split. That was probably the best way, get it over and done with so Pam could finally relax.
The door squeaked softly as he pushed through; his footsteps echoed as he went up the first flight, then the next. The strange thing was, as he entered the fifth floor hallway, for as loud as the party was in his unit, it was uneasily quiet here. Maybe he lucked out, Bob thought, and they decided to take their party on the road. He was about to turn back when he just caught the slightest bit of noise come from the other side of door in question. And before he even thought about what he was going to do or say ( that was the problem in not taking the elevator. He got there to quick and wasn’t prepared for what he was going to say. ), Bob raised his hand and knocked.
His first attempt was some what feeble. Trying to chicken out at the last minute, right before his hand meet the door, but he was too late and it made contact. Just then a scary thought entered his mind: if he ever wanted see Pam naked again he’d better man the fuck up. Now he knock with a little to much gusto as he tried to recover from looking weak and indecisive. The sound of his hand falls echoing through out the hall. Sweat began to collect on the back of Bob’s neck as he waited, feeling like an asshole now.
What am I? Bob thought. Knocking challenged?
As Bob waited, he tried to picture the layout with his mind’s eye. It would have to be some what similar if not exact to his own except for the furnishings. As he mused about it the door suddenly flew open, and Bob was taken back, unprepared for the sudden appearance and by the woman’s shear beauty. Blond hair was pulled back, cascading down the sides of her face and down her back. Stopping just above what was suppose to a mini-skirt but would have probably done a better job as a belt. Black garters streaked out from underneath, connecting to the tops of fishnet stockings that disappeared into what Pam would call a pair of black hooker boots. The half shirt she was wearing - if one could call it that - was so short that it barely came past her erect nipples, which poked out mockingly. For some strange reason the image of Winnie the Pooh flashed in his mind, and how the bear wore something similar in those kids cartoons. Bob wasn’t sure if it was the thoughts of an erotic female bear or if was the woman that stood before him or both. Possibly the latter. Either way he was rock hard.
“Hi…ah…” Bob’s voice caught in his throat as the exotic blonde’s eyes bore into him. It almost felt like she could see into his thoughts. And that wicked smile of hers didn’t help.
Bob began again. “Ah…Hi…My wife and I were wondering - we live downstairs, right below you - if everything was alright? We’ve been hearing a lot of commotion coming from up here. So I thought that maybe I should…ah…come up and check. Make sure you were all right.”
That smile again. “Aw. How sweet of you.” Laughter arose from inside, causing her to look back. Then she focused her attention back to Bob. “Would you like to come in? We’re, ah, having a little party here.” The blonde swayed slightly - in rhythm with some on music that she and she alone could only hear - as she hung on to the door.
“Um, no thank you. I was just here to make sure that you were all right.”
“Well then, as you can see, I’m quite alright.” She reached out and touched Bob lightly; her fingers just barley touching his chest but the reaction that it caused with-in him was unbelievable; an electric current seemed to flow from her fingers throughout Bob’s body. Pulsating his head, his groin. “But feel free to come back if you change your mind. We always have room for one more.” And with that, she closed the door.
Bob lingered in the hallway; staring at the closed door before him. Her vanilla scent still permeated the air, stirring up feelings as it did, and Bob felt as if he had been abandoned not just in life but spirit as well.
What had been dinner was now mushy noodles glued to one another with cold marinara as Bob pushed his fork through it. Their conversation had grown silent after Pam played twenty questions on his return. Now as he sat there with the remains of what was always a lackluster meal, his thoughts kept retuning to the girl at the door. On how it felt when she touched him, even if it had only been a second long brush.
“Bob, are you listening too me?” The sound of Pam’s irritated voice brought Bob back to the here and now. “Hmm,” he absently replied. Having just realized that he never got her name. “I said: a lot of good it did you going up there. They’re just as loud as ever.” Her statement was punctuated by another of a series of loud bangs. “Christ, did you say anything to them at all?”
“Ah, yeah. I asked them nicely if they could quiet down a little.”
“Figures. I tell you to go up there and lay down the law and you end up being coy and ask them nicely if they could quiet down. I knew it was a mistake for you to go up there.”
Bob’s fork clicked against his plate as it bounced off as he pushed himself away from the table.
“Where are you going?” Pam asked, surprised.
“Back up there.”
“I didn’t mean for you--”
“Yeah, right.”
“Lets just call the manager. Have him go over there.”
“And what? So I can listen to you bitch about it for the rest of weekend?”
Bob was out the door and rushing up the stairs before Pam had a chance too answer.
As before, when Bob pushed his way onto the next floor, the hallway was quiet. Bob took a deep breath and smoothed down his clothes before he knocked. The anticipation - his body seemed to ache from it - of seeing her once more welled up inside him. He couldn’t understand it; why he felt this way. That touch stirred something in him he hasn’t felt…hasn’t felt ever, now that he thought about it. It didn’t even cross his mind that he was possibly giving up he marriage; his life as he knew it. All he thought about was seeing the girl.
His knocks sounded hollow, like there was nothing on the other side of the door. Last time he stood and did this, Bob could just make out the presence of the party. Now however, there seemed to be nothing. Not the slightest noise. Maybe this time around he truly lucked out and they took their festivities else where. Pam couldn’t be the only one bitching about their unruliness. The thought terrified him.
He was about to turn away, head back down to Pam, when the door opened.
“Well, look who it is. Change your mind? Or are you here again to see if I was alright?”
“A little bit a both, I guess.” Bob felt energized by the sight of her. “I’m Bob Forsythe by the way.”
“I’m Anna. Anna Dupree.” The two shook hands. “Care to come in?”
The energy he felt as their hands meet made the first brush seem like a static shock. Now it coursed through him like twenty thousand volts, pulsating with every heartbeat.
“Um. Yeah, sure.”
Anna pulled Bob by his hand. He was surprised too find the inside, while the layout was exactly the same as his like he thought, was sparsely furnished. Two couches sat up against the walls that flanked the windows (two sets of couples were on the couches in varies sex acts. One had a woman bent over the front, fucking her doggy style while a woman was on top of another man grinding her hips. On the opposite couch two women where engaged in pleasuring each other while a woman was on her knees in front of her man. His engorged cock disappearing and reappearing in her mouth.) that looked down into the same courtyard as his. In the middle of the room a man sat naked on a lone chair as one of the most gorgeous brunettes Bob had ever seen danced around him. Every now and again she’d hop in his lap, sliding his manhood inside her and ride him. Causing his chair too bang a screech along the floor. So this is why the chair kept banging, Bob thought. All the while I was wondering what the fuck was going on.
Bob turned back to Anna. She was leaning against the door with her left hand up her shirt, exposing her breasts; pinching her hard nipples, while with right hand she pulled up what there was of her skirt, then sliding her hand over her hairless sex and began to rub.
“Don’t you find it hot,” she said, breathlessly. “Watching them fuck without a care in the world?” Anna pushed herself away from the door and grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him close, passionately kissing him as she took his other hand and rubbed it between her legs. When she finally pulled her lips from his, Anna said:
“Do you want me? I want you. You taste so good.” Anna licked his lips. “But you have to give yourself to me. Willingly. That’s the only way for me to show you the real me; too show you pleasures like never before. Will you do that for me, Bob? Will you give yourself over to me?”
Without moment hesitation Bob said yes, and that wicked little smile that had plagued Bob since he left returned. “Good.” Anna snapped her fingers. “Stacey. Candy. Bedroom. Now.” The two women that were locked together got up from the couch and walked hand in hand to the bedroom. “Are you ready for what comes next, Bob?”
“Yes. Yes, do unto me what you will.”
Anna pushed Bob away from her, hard. And at first he was confused, but she took hold of his hand and pulled him off towards the bedroom where Stacey and Candy laid in wait upon the bed, who then sat as they entered. The three women immediately began to tear off Bob’s clothes. All thoughts of his wife or how he was going to get home never seemed to cross his mind. He was lost. Lost in a moment that he knew would never come again. Be damned the consequences. He was then thrust onto his back upon the bed. His hardness sticking straight up. Stacey grabbed hold and took into her mouth; Candy straddled his face and moaned loudly as he used his tongue. All the while, Anna watched, slowly removing her own clothes.
“Stacey. Let him fuck you,” Anna said, reaching into the top drawer of a dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Stacey stopped giving him head, got on her back, and eased Bob on top of her, guiding his erection the whole way. Bob slid inside with a deep thrust as Candy, now leaning against the headboard spread eagle latched onto his ears and forcefully pulled his face towards her clit. Stacey positioned her own face beneath the two and added her tongue to the mix. The calamity of moans rose ever higher from the three as Anna finally kneeled down on the bed, clenched Bob’s ass checks and spread them apart and slipped her strap on dildo up into him. Bob cried out in both surprise and pleasure as it slid deep - as deep as he was in Stacey. Candy both laughed and moaned as Stacey’s tongue found the right spot, bring her too climax. She pulled Bob’s face back to help lap up her sweet juices. Anna, Bob, and Stacey fell into a rhythm with one another.
Anna leaned close to Bob’s ear, and whispered: “Now the real fun begins.”
It felt to Bob as if Anna’s hands stabbed into his sides; digging their way in just as Candy’s felt as if they were drilling into his skull. Stacey’s pussy tightened. Like a mouth biting down. Bob’s screams turned from pleasure to terror as he began to thrash around. Trying to free himself. He looked up and found the once beautiful Candy had turned old and rotten; her soft skin became rough as leather. Stacey stared up at Bob with lidless, drawn back eyes. Her mouth peeled back in a grim, sadistic smile of the corpse she was. Bob felt himself start to drain, as if he was being siphoned of life. Screams - not his own - echoed from the other room as the men in there found themselves in a similar situation.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Anna yelled, from behind. Her fossorial hands dug deeper into his sides. “I knew you’d taste elegant. Like a fine aged piece of beef.”
Bob let out one last high pitched scream before darkness descended.
_______________________________________________
The longer Pam sat alone, the more pissed off she became.
Bob had left over an hour ago, heading back up stairs to complain about the noise, but that had only seemed to grow louder since his departure. She knew he must of been suckered into joining them. The man had no backbone. Why she stayed married was anyone’s guess. Five more minutes. Five more minutes, and if he wasn’t back she was going too go up there and give them an earful.
Pam threw down her napkin as the allotted time passed by a full extra ten minutes. Time too the pay the piper.
The elevator chimed as it reached the next floor. She found it surprisingly quiet up there, for as loud as it was in her place. Better walls. Lucky them, she thought. That’s probably why no one was complaining. But after the what for she was about to give them, the whole building will know about them. Pam walked down to the door and began to pound.
“I know you’re in there you piece of shit.” Pam screamed. To hell with the neighbors, she thought. “I hope she gave you one hell of a blow-job, because it’s the last you’re ever gonna get!”
Oblivious to Pam, doors along the hallway began to open, people stepped out to see what was the commotion. “Can I help you?” A fiftyish man asked.
Pam turned around, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke. “Yeah. These bunch of assholes have been throwing this loud ass party all night long. And now my idiot, good for nothing husband is in there as well!” Pam turned back to the door. “You’d better get out here, you bastard if you know what’s good for ya!”
“Ah, miss--”
“Missus. Mrs. Forsythe.”
“Okay. Mrs. Forsythe. Is there something…the matter?”
Pam tried too remain calm as she talked to the man. But the best she could manage was through clenched teeth. “Yes. I already told you. They’re having a party and my husband is in there.”
The man looked at her bewildered. “In there?” He pointed at the door.
“Yes, in there. Why else would I be standing here?”
The fiftyish man, Carl, pulled Pam a little way from the door, hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her in a fatherly manner and told her that no one lives there. And when she told him that he must be mistaken, He began to tell her the strange sordid tale of what happened to the occupants of unit 5F. The women who lived behind that door, Carl told her, were the worst that human nature could produce. “They were cultist. Cultist of the worst kind,” he said. “They would find and lead unsuspecting men and women back here from the bars or where ever, seduced by their sexuality, and when they were done with whatever depravity they were doing, these women - these sucubi - would then take it one step further.” Carl took a deep breath before he continued, clearly shaken by the events that went on. Pam grew anxious with the pause. Her heart beat faster than she thought possible. “What?! What, tell me!” She pleaded. Carl sighed, and said too her:
“I think that maybe we should get the building manager.”
The buildings manager’s hands shook as he treid to put the key in the lock. “I haven’t been in here since the cops finally released it from their investigation and I had it cleaned. The place was filled with all kinds of where stuff. The police said it was things you would find in…” Pam stood silently behind him and Carl, not really sure what too believe. She knew that somebody had been there, hell, that was the whole reason Bob was missing at the moment. The manager finally got the kiy in the lock and turned the knob. “Finally.” The door swung slowly open reveiling an empty unit. The manager turned back to Pam. “Are you sure that he’s in here? That there were people here?”
“Positve. The party had been going on for sometime before Bob went to ask them to quiet down. Then he went back up when they didn’t and I haven’t seen him since.”
The manager reluctantly lead the way. Their voices echoed off the walls, making it feel even more empty - if that was possible - than it was. “I haven’t been in here in almost a year.”
“How come no one said anything about this when we moved in?”
“It’s not something one talks about. I’m surprised that you hadn’t heard anything while you’ve been here.”
Pam thought about that for a moment. “Probably it’s because we don’t really know anybody that lives here.”
“Man. Can you feel it? Feel the evil that still resides here?” They moved deeper inside, minding each step as if they didn’t want too wake up anyone or that maybe their next one they might fall through the floor. “I never thought I’d ever step in here again. I’m almost glad nobody’s ever moved in.”
“Bob?” Pam called out. Both the manager and Carl looked back at her in shock. “What? How else are we going too find out if he’s here?” They looked away, back into the interior. “Bob? Are you here?” She called out again. The only response was her own voice. “Neither one of you have said what happen too the women that lived here. I assume that they were caught and put in jail?”
“Sadly no,” said Carl.
“I guess the police had them under suspicion for a while. It turned out that they weren’t very good at covering their tracks, and when one the city’s counsel men’s son went missing and was last seen with Anna Dupree - she was the one that actually owned this place - the police wasted no time coming to pay her a visit.” The trio had searched the living/dinning area and kitchen were about too start checking the bedroom and bath. “It was such a bad scene. And it didn’t take long for people to start moving out afterward.” The Manager paused a moment as a chill ran through him. “If there were people in here like you said, I only hope it was just some kids with a sick fascination and not a bunch of old cohorts of Anna’s.”
“Wait. If they weren’t arrested then what the hell happened to Anna?”
The Manager stared at Pam, cold dread in his eyes, then said:
“They were all dead when they got here. Some mass suicide, or so the police said. But it wasn’t like any suicide I’d ever seen.
“The cops showed up at my place just before dawn - the counsel man’s son had been missing for a couple of days - and they were hoping to get in without much fan fare as possible; too catch them in the act, so to say. They wanted me to go up and either try to get them to open the door for some fake emergency and if not I was to use my key to get them in. So I did what they asked.
“I didn’t get an answer when I knocked, and I sort of got swept up in the rush when I unlocked the door and they barged in, guns drawn. There’s never a day I don’t think about what I saw.” He shook his head. “I’ll remember until the day I die I suppose. All those bodies lined up along the wall there.” He pointed to the wall on the other side of the condo. “Right there. Just lined up one by one. But the bodies were…were like they had been dried up. Like everything had been just sucked out. And the smell. I’ll never forget that smell. It reminded me of something burning. Or like…like…“ The Manger searched for the right word. “Like Brimstone.” They opened the bathroom door and found it empty. “It seemed like I could smell that stuff for weeks. It never did come out of my clothes.” The Manager opened the bedroom door. “I had too…Oh dear god no. No. No. No.” Pam’s scream shrilled through the condo as Carl fell backward into the bathroom clutching his chest as he thudded onto the floor.
The bodies were lined up one by one, just underneath the window, like dried fruit left in the sun. The smell of Brimstone floated in the air.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Wager
“You realize this is the beginning of a bad joke, don’t you?”
“You see, that’s the problem with your people: Always trying too make fun. Mine on the other hand know better than that.”
“But humor, my dear brother, is good for the soul.”
“BAH! Humor! Devotion is good for the soul! Not some silliness! What did you have to laugh about in your life? Especially at the end? Or do you find being hung from a cross and crucified fun and humoring?”
Jesus could only shake his head as he sipped from his glass.
“How does it make you feel,” Jesus’ guest continued, “that the thing of worship for you is the object of your demise?”
“It doesn’t bother me at all. It is a gift for them too remember me for what and who I was and that I suffered and died for their sins.”
“Some gift. At least I gave my people the Black Rock. It was less painful that way.”
Jesus had too laugh at that. Mohammed had a point.
The two religious icons sat at a table of the Nowhere Café - Jesus drinking wine, Mohammed sipping tea - as they waited for the others who were supposed to be there to show up.
The Nowhere Café was located as the name suggested, in the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere this time being the Arizona desert. A lone dusty two lane black-top ends right out side the café doors.
“Do you find it ironic,” Mohammed said, “that the place we’ve chosen to meet sits upon a route that leads to the Underworld?”
“Not at all. But I do find it humoring.”
“BAH! Once again with the humor. What is it with you?” Mohammed drained his tea as he searched the café for the others. When none presented themselves yet he slammed his cup down in agitation, shattering it. “Where are the others? I can see the Dark One finding it humoring - DAMN IT! NOW YOU HAVE ME DOING IT! - to be late, but where is the fat one? At least I figured he’d on time!”
A waitress appeared, cleaned up the broken cup and gave Mohammed a fresh one. If she found it odd that Jesus and Mohammed were not only there but sitting at a table together, she gave no indication.
“You have to have some patience, my brother. They will be here in good time.”
As if waiting for his cue to enter the scene of some play, the large rotund form of Buddha made his way too their table.
“About time,” Mohammed said, testily.
“I beg forgiveness for my tardiness, my friends, but I was delayed by unforeseen events.”
“If you were a true prophet of God then the events would have been foreseen.”
“Mohammed!” Jesus cried out in shock. “Show some manners.”
“You should know by now that Mohammed’s flying camel has more manners, Christ.”
“Ah, Lucifer,” Mohammed said to the newest arrival, “should of known by the smell that you were here, nice of you however too pull your horns from your ass and join us.”
“What? Jealous that it wasn’t your ass I pulled my horn from?” Mohammed glared at Satan who smiled back. Then turned to Jesus, “So Christ, how are the hands and feet?”
“There just fine, thank you,” Jesus replied, failing too rise to the goading by Lucifer.
Their waitress reappeared pad in hand and asked if they were ready for her to take their order.
“I will have the honey glazed lamb chops and a side of dates.”
“Excellent choice, Mohammed. Very tempting. Bu-”
“What do you know about tempting, Christ?”
Jesus continued as if he hadn’t heard Lucifer. “- t I think I’ll go with the hot dog special.”
“UGH!” Mohammed exclaimed. “How can you put that trash in your body? You know what they are made of, don’t you?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, my brother. The all beef ones are actually quit good.”
“And for you?” the waitress asked Buddha.
“I’ll have the vegetarian platter.”
“And too drink?”
“Water is fine, thank you.”
“And for you, sir?” the waitress turned to Lucifer.
“Steak.” He smirked at the look Buddha gave him. “Bloody. With a bottle of whisky. So,” Lucifer said once the waitress departed, leaving the strange foursome to themselves, “what brings us too this quaint little shit hole?”
“We’re here too discuss the continued growing strife amongst the Populace, most of which, unfortunately, done in our name.”
“I fail too see how that concerns us, Christ. Is it any of our fault the Populace is filled with nothing but stupidity. I mean Jesus - oh, sorry - how dumb can they get? Those idiots fail too see that all of our fathers are one in the same.”
“They aren’t as stupid as you make out to be, Lucifer,” Buddha said.
“They‘re not?”
“No, they’re not. They have made some great achievements. They‘re just slightly misinformed on some things.”
“Slightly misinformed! For Christ sakes, Buddha - oh, sorry again there, Christ. Don’t mean too keep throwing your name around. It’s just a habit I picked walking around the world.”
“No offense taken.”
“Now, Buddha. How can you sit there and say that the Populace are slightly misinformed? Take the Jews for Chri-…Lets take the Jews. They don’t even believe in him,” Satan points across the table to Jesus, “and he’s suppose to be the king of them all. Or how about Mohammed’s happy-go-lucky followers who strap bombs to themselves and go out and blow up the so called nonbelievers even though suicide’s supposed too be a sin. And all in the hopes for what? The promise of forty fucking virgins? What idiot wants that? Theirs a reason their still virgins. And that’s because they don’t put out!” Lucifer pauses too take a swig from his whisky. “Now that’s a torment that’s even worthy of me.”
“I’d watch your tongue blasphemer!” Mohammed shouts.
“Or what?”
“Now, now,” Jesus said, trying to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. The last major strife Lucifer had ended up causing started a world war amongst the Populace and the near extinction of the Jews. “We are not here too argue, but too find away to work things out with what has been going on in the World.”
“You mean his doing.”
“My doing?” Lucifer laughed as he pointed to himself. “I hate to bust your bubble about things when it comes too me but I haven’t been doing anything out of the ordinary. Maybe you should try looking in the mirror and ask yourself about how things are going with the game that you all are playing.”
“GAME!” All three - Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha - cried in unison.
“I have played no game -” Buddha.
“-The only games are from you, Dark One - ” Mohammed.
“-I surely don’t know what you mean by playing games?” Jesus.
“You don’t?” Lucifer said around a mouth full of steak . “And here I thought I was the speaker of all lies.” Lucifer washed down his meat with whisky. Then continued:
“The three of you disgust me!”
Jesus answered before Mohammed could blow up at him. “Us? Disgust you? Your very pompous for someone that has been cast out of the Heavens by no less than Father himself. So tell me, how are we too disgust you?”
“Because all of you are full of shit! That’s why! You sit there and expect me to believe that you’re not playing games with Populace. Please. You guys have been going at each other for followers for forever and blaming me for when things turn out ugly.”
“That’s some statement, Dark One,” Buddha said. “I hope you have something to back it up.”
“Back it up? Why, Fatty, haven’t you looked at the state of affairs on the world? How Mohammed’s group is trying to destroy Jesus’ group - hell, any group that doesn’t see it their way - calling them the Great Satan.”
“It is no different than the Middle Ages,” Buddha replied.
“A lot of what went on during that time, Buddha, was his doing,” Jesus said.
Lucifer smiled as he thought about that time. “True. True. I’ll give you that. But I was still slightly pissed off about things.”
“And whose too say that your not still pissed,” Mohammed chimed in.
“Because I don’t have to be. Your followers are doing a bang up - no pun intended, Mohammed - job all by themselves.”
“I’m warning you, Dark One, you are starting to get on my last nerve. My people are only trying too show the world the that the true path is that of the Quran.”
“Now my brother, shouldn’t that be left up to the Populace?” Jesus asked Lucifer could hear a growing agitation in his voice.
An uncomfortable silence grew around the table as Jesus and Mohammed stared at one another. Then Mohammed said:
“It was once. Or don’t you recall the Garden?”
“The Garden’s undoing was strictly his.” Jesus pointed at Lucifer who feigned hurt.
“Now lets get the story straight. I did what I did out of love. Nothing more.”
“Love,” Mohammed exclaimed. “What do you know about love?”
“Quit a lot really. But as I said: of all that I did I did for love.”
“Lilith,” Jesus said under his breath.
“Precisely. So angry was she about being cast from the Garden over that scrawny Adam, she made me promise that I’d help her get revenge, and when Father made dearest Eve…well, how could I resist?
“What is that old saying about a woman scorned? My fairest Lil just so happened too be the first.”
“You did all that…causing chaos for eternity for some woman?” Mohammed was amazed at what he was hearing for the first time. “You are truly evil.”
Lucifer’s baritone laugh filled the empty café. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you have something like thirteen wives?”
A sad look quickly passed over Mohammed’s face. “That was…that was after my beloved Khadijah was called home. But my followers deemed it necessary that I have heirs.”
“But thirteen?”
“Enough!” Mohammed was getting perturbed at being scrutinized the Dark Lord. “My couplings were done in the interest of mankind and for Father after what you did in the Garden. Yours was done out of malice and short comings of manhood!”
“Touché.” Satan cut off another large chunk from his steak, savoring it’s flavor as he chewed before continuing.
“Here’s the thing: You did what you did to show Father that you are the rightful heir to his kingdom when he finally grows tired of what he’s created. Nothing more. Nothing less. The same as the rest of us.”
The others at the table look away to hide the guilt they share. All that is except for Satan. He knew no guilt.
By the way, Mo,” Satan continued, “what did your dearest Khadijah think of your thirteen little flings. I can’t say she too pleased with you when you finally returned home to Heaven.”
“Your one too talk, defiled one!“ Satan barely escapes the cup Mohammed throws at him, but not the steaming tea as it slashed across his face and chest. The Dark Lord wipes his face then licks his fingers clean.
“Mmm, Jasmine.”
Both Buddha and Jesus restrain Mohammed as he tries to leap across the table and pull Satan’s head off his shoulders by his horns. Satan laughs as the three struggle with one another.
“Tell you what,” Satan tells them. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and get too the reason to why we’re here
“Yes why don’t we,” a muffled Mohammed replied. Jesus and Buddha get up off of him and return to their seats. “What did you have in mind. And it better be good, or I swear in Father’s name that they’ll be finding pieces of you for the next thousand years.”
Satan laughed. He loved to laugh at their expense. “What I want to purpose won’t take quit that long.”
“Well get on with it then. I grow tired of the sight of you.”
A worried look passes quickly over Jesus’ face.
“What I want to purpose is a little wager.” The other three stare back, waiting for the Dark One to continue. “Something to finally clear the air between us and Father.”
“Get. On With. It. Already,” Mohammed said. Growing more irritated with Satan by the second.
Satan smiled. “Alright then. I purpose this: In a hundred years - if the Populace doesn’t kill themselves by then - whomever has the most followers will be the rightful heir to the world and everything in it.” Satan stares at the others across the table as he raises his glass high. “Do we have a deal?”
“You see, that’s the problem with your people: Always trying too make fun. Mine on the other hand know better than that.”
“But humor, my dear brother, is good for the soul.”
“BAH! Humor! Devotion is good for the soul! Not some silliness! What did you have to laugh about in your life? Especially at the end? Or do you find being hung from a cross and crucified fun and humoring?”
Jesus could only shake his head as he sipped from his glass.
“How does it make you feel,” Jesus’ guest continued, “that the thing of worship for you is the object of your demise?”
“It doesn’t bother me at all. It is a gift for them too remember me for what and who I was and that I suffered and died for their sins.”
“Some gift. At least I gave my people the Black Rock. It was less painful that way.”
Jesus had too laugh at that. Mohammed had a point.
The two religious icons sat at a table of the Nowhere Café - Jesus drinking wine, Mohammed sipping tea - as they waited for the others who were supposed to be there to show up.
The Nowhere Café was located as the name suggested, in the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere this time being the Arizona desert. A lone dusty two lane black-top ends right out side the café doors.
“Do you find it ironic,” Mohammed said, “that the place we’ve chosen to meet sits upon a route that leads to the Underworld?”
“Not at all. But I do find it humoring.”
“BAH! Once again with the humor. What is it with you?” Mohammed drained his tea as he searched the café for the others. When none presented themselves yet he slammed his cup down in agitation, shattering it. “Where are the others? I can see the Dark One finding it humoring - DAMN IT! NOW YOU HAVE ME DOING IT! - to be late, but where is the fat one? At least I figured he’d on time!”
A waitress appeared, cleaned up the broken cup and gave Mohammed a fresh one. If she found it odd that Jesus and Mohammed were not only there but sitting at a table together, she gave no indication.
“You have to have some patience, my brother. They will be here in good time.”
As if waiting for his cue to enter the scene of some play, the large rotund form of Buddha made his way too their table.
“About time,” Mohammed said, testily.
“I beg forgiveness for my tardiness, my friends, but I was delayed by unforeseen events.”
“If you were a true prophet of God then the events would have been foreseen.”
“Mohammed!” Jesus cried out in shock. “Show some manners.”
“You should know by now that Mohammed’s flying camel has more manners, Christ.”
“Ah, Lucifer,” Mohammed said to the newest arrival, “should of known by the smell that you were here, nice of you however too pull your horns from your ass and join us.”
“What? Jealous that it wasn’t your ass I pulled my horn from?” Mohammed glared at Satan who smiled back. Then turned to Jesus, “So Christ, how are the hands and feet?”
“There just fine, thank you,” Jesus replied, failing too rise to the goading by Lucifer.
Their waitress reappeared pad in hand and asked if they were ready for her to take their order.
“I will have the honey glazed lamb chops and a side of dates.”
“Excellent choice, Mohammed. Very tempting. Bu-”
“What do you know about tempting, Christ?”
Jesus continued as if he hadn’t heard Lucifer. “- t I think I’ll go with the hot dog special.”
“UGH!” Mohammed exclaimed. “How can you put that trash in your body? You know what they are made of, don’t you?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, my brother. The all beef ones are actually quit good.”
“And for you?” the waitress asked Buddha.
“I’ll have the vegetarian platter.”
“And too drink?”
“Water is fine, thank you.”
“And for you, sir?” the waitress turned to Lucifer.
“Steak.” He smirked at the look Buddha gave him. “Bloody. With a bottle of whisky. So,” Lucifer said once the waitress departed, leaving the strange foursome to themselves, “what brings us too this quaint little shit hole?”
“We’re here too discuss the continued growing strife amongst the Populace, most of which, unfortunately, done in our name.”
“I fail too see how that concerns us, Christ. Is it any of our fault the Populace is filled with nothing but stupidity. I mean Jesus - oh, sorry - how dumb can they get? Those idiots fail too see that all of our fathers are one in the same.”
“They aren’t as stupid as you make out to be, Lucifer,” Buddha said.
“They‘re not?”
“No, they’re not. They have made some great achievements. They‘re just slightly misinformed on some things.”
“Slightly misinformed! For Christ sakes, Buddha - oh, sorry again there, Christ. Don’t mean too keep throwing your name around. It’s just a habit I picked walking around the world.”
“No offense taken.”
“Now, Buddha. How can you sit there and say that the Populace are slightly misinformed? Take the Jews for Chri-…Lets take the Jews. They don’t even believe in him,” Satan points across the table to Jesus, “and he’s suppose to be the king of them all. Or how about Mohammed’s happy-go-lucky followers who strap bombs to themselves and go out and blow up the so called nonbelievers even though suicide’s supposed too be a sin. And all in the hopes for what? The promise of forty fucking virgins? What idiot wants that? Theirs a reason their still virgins. And that’s because they don’t put out!” Lucifer pauses too take a swig from his whisky. “Now that’s a torment that’s even worthy of me.”
“I’d watch your tongue blasphemer!” Mohammed shouts.
“Or what?”
“Now, now,” Jesus said, trying to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. The last major strife Lucifer had ended up causing started a world war amongst the Populace and the near extinction of the Jews. “We are not here too argue, but too find away to work things out with what has been going on in the World.”
“You mean his doing.”
“My doing?” Lucifer laughed as he pointed to himself. “I hate to bust your bubble about things when it comes too me but I haven’t been doing anything out of the ordinary. Maybe you should try looking in the mirror and ask yourself about how things are going with the game that you all are playing.”
“GAME!” All three - Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha - cried in unison.
“I have played no game -” Buddha.
“-The only games are from you, Dark One - ” Mohammed.
“-I surely don’t know what you mean by playing games?” Jesus.
“You don’t?” Lucifer said around a mouth full of steak . “And here I thought I was the speaker of all lies.” Lucifer washed down his meat with whisky. Then continued:
“The three of you disgust me!”
Jesus answered before Mohammed could blow up at him. “Us? Disgust you? Your very pompous for someone that has been cast out of the Heavens by no less than Father himself. So tell me, how are we too disgust you?”
“Because all of you are full of shit! That’s why! You sit there and expect me to believe that you’re not playing games with Populace. Please. You guys have been going at each other for followers for forever and blaming me for when things turn out ugly.”
“That’s some statement, Dark One,” Buddha said. “I hope you have something to back it up.”
“Back it up? Why, Fatty, haven’t you looked at the state of affairs on the world? How Mohammed’s group is trying to destroy Jesus’ group - hell, any group that doesn’t see it their way - calling them the Great Satan.”
“It is no different than the Middle Ages,” Buddha replied.
“A lot of what went on during that time, Buddha, was his doing,” Jesus said.
Lucifer smiled as he thought about that time. “True. True. I’ll give you that. But I was still slightly pissed off about things.”
“And whose too say that your not still pissed,” Mohammed chimed in.
“Because I don’t have to be. Your followers are doing a bang up - no pun intended, Mohammed - job all by themselves.”
“I’m warning you, Dark One, you are starting to get on my last nerve. My people are only trying too show the world the that the true path is that of the Quran.”
“Now my brother, shouldn’t that be left up to the Populace?” Jesus asked Lucifer could hear a growing agitation in his voice.
An uncomfortable silence grew around the table as Jesus and Mohammed stared at one another. Then Mohammed said:
“It was once. Or don’t you recall the Garden?”
“The Garden’s undoing was strictly his.” Jesus pointed at Lucifer who feigned hurt.
“Now lets get the story straight. I did what I did out of love. Nothing more.”
“Love,” Mohammed exclaimed. “What do you know about love?”
“Quit a lot really. But as I said: of all that I did I did for love.”
“Lilith,” Jesus said under his breath.
“Precisely. So angry was she about being cast from the Garden over that scrawny Adam, she made me promise that I’d help her get revenge, and when Father made dearest Eve…well, how could I resist?
“What is that old saying about a woman scorned? My fairest Lil just so happened too be the first.”
“You did all that…causing chaos for eternity for some woman?” Mohammed was amazed at what he was hearing for the first time. “You are truly evil.”
Lucifer’s baritone laugh filled the empty café. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you have something like thirteen wives?”
A sad look quickly passed over Mohammed’s face. “That was…that was after my beloved Khadijah was called home. But my followers deemed it necessary that I have heirs.”
“But thirteen?”
“Enough!” Mohammed was getting perturbed at being scrutinized the Dark Lord. “My couplings were done in the interest of mankind and for Father after what you did in the Garden. Yours was done out of malice and short comings of manhood!”
“Touché.” Satan cut off another large chunk from his steak, savoring it’s flavor as he chewed before continuing.
“Here’s the thing: You did what you did to show Father that you are the rightful heir to his kingdom when he finally grows tired of what he’s created. Nothing more. Nothing less. The same as the rest of us.”
The others at the table look away to hide the guilt they share. All that is except for Satan. He knew no guilt.
By the way, Mo,” Satan continued, “what did your dearest Khadijah think of your thirteen little flings. I can’t say she too pleased with you when you finally returned home to Heaven.”
“Your one too talk, defiled one!“ Satan barely escapes the cup Mohammed throws at him, but not the steaming tea as it slashed across his face and chest. The Dark Lord wipes his face then licks his fingers clean.
“Mmm, Jasmine.”
Both Buddha and Jesus restrain Mohammed as he tries to leap across the table and pull Satan’s head off his shoulders by his horns. Satan laughs as the three struggle with one another.
“Tell you what,” Satan tells them. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and get too the reason to why we’re here
“Yes why don’t we,” a muffled Mohammed replied. Jesus and Buddha get up off of him and return to their seats. “What did you have in mind. And it better be good, or I swear in Father’s name that they’ll be finding pieces of you for the next thousand years.”
Satan laughed. He loved to laugh at their expense. “What I want to purpose won’t take quit that long.”
“Well get on with it then. I grow tired of the sight of you.”
A worried look passes quickly over Jesus’ face.
“What I want to purpose is a little wager.” The other three stare back, waiting for the Dark One to continue. “Something to finally clear the air between us and Father.”
“Get. On With. It. Already,” Mohammed said. Growing more irritated with Satan by the second.
Satan smiled. “Alright then. I purpose this: In a hundred years - if the Populace doesn’t kill themselves by then - whomever has the most followers will be the rightful heir to the world and everything in it.” Satan stares at the others across the table as he raises his glass high. “Do we have a deal?”
The Last Night Stand
Blood encased his body like a suit of armor, empowering him; emboldening him, making him almost giddy with it’s texture upon his skin. That copper smell that inflicted his senses; he could feel his own blood rise with it, wanting to mingle with that of his latest conquest in an otherwise lack luster world, engorging his manhood.
He twisted his body around, taking in the view of his handy work. He could still feel the sensations of slashing in his arms; could still hear those feeble screams for mercy ringing in his ears. It brought a smile to his face. The carnage he had wrought.
He met her in some out of the way roadside bar -the Route 12 Pub to be precise- that happened to be a spur of the moment decision. Some of his best ones came about this way. Unfortunately she would only be sub-par.
The pub was dimly lit; the jukebox squawked out some seventies garbage at a obscene decibel making this decision seem like a bad one at first, then he saw her: the barfly sitting alone at the end of the bar nursing -or so he thought at the time- some fruity concoction that just didn’t fit the shot and a beer motif of the place. Other than that the place was pretty dead. He didn’t know what it was about her, she was nothing special, just another woman ten years past her prime that hung out in places like this trying to hook up with whoever, like that would somehow fill their empty lonely feeling -at least for a little while. The world was full people like this, male and female. But there was something about her that struck him, making her just a tad bit different. A little more…He couldn’t put his finger on it. At least not yet. Maybe it was the desperation he saw in her eyes when she looked at him as he entered the bar. Maybe.
He took a seat about half down the bar; half way to her. She watched him the whole way. Not even glancing away like most people do when they made eye contact. That look of desperation still there but starting give way to what could only be called hope.
He gave a sly smile as the bartender gave him his beer. That was all the opening she needed. She slammed the rest of her drink down her throat, picked up her cigarettes and made her way over.
“Hi,” she said as she took the seat next to him. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
Her husky voice was thick, slightly slurred which made her all the more appealing.
“That’s probably because I’ve never been here before. I figured I stop for a drink or two and wait out the storm.” It had been raining hard ever since he got onto route 12 thirty minutes earlier. He held out his hand. “Bob.” a lie. “Bob Smith.” another lie.
Bob and Smith had to be the two most generic and widely used names in the country, if not the world. The only two other names that could even be considered to be even close in the running were Jesus and Mohammed, two of which he figured he couldn’t pull off very well.
“Deborah Manning. But my friends just call me Debbi.”
“Well, Debbi, nice to meet ya.”
“Nice to meet you. So if you’re waiting out the storm does that mean you’re just passing through or-”
“I’m afraid so, Debbi.” Her smile wavered a little. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink or two and get to know one another.”
Before he entered the bar -got out of the car even- he opened his cooler that he used for occasions like this and ate a cube of butter. He found out early on that butter, like bread and ice-cream, coated one’s stomach not allowing the absorption of alcohol, or at least cutting it down drastically, so he could drink a lot and not worry about it’s effect on him or to be drank under the table himself. This technique went over well at college parties he used to attend, but after a while he found no real reason to keep using it ( college girls seemed to like to drink themselves into unconsciousness without any real prodding already ) until he left school.
Deborah -Debbi to her friends- giggled like a school girl at all of his bad jokes and innuendos he feed her, touching his arm or shoulder, sometimes even his leg as she did so. They were on their sixth shot of tequila -she drank them down like a practiced veteran like there was no tomorrow. And little did she no that for her there wasn’t.
“You’re so funny, Bob.” She said, almost falling from the stool. Catching herself at the last second with a well placed hand on his inner thigh. “Too bad that you’re just passing through.”
“Well, I don’t have to pass that fast through. I’m only on my way home from my sisters.”
A mischievous smile spread across her lips. “But I’m sure Mrs. Smith might worry- “
“There isn’t one.”
She leaned in close to his ear: “It wouldn’t matter if there was.” She ended with a seductive giggle. Happy with herself that she wasn’t that wasted not to be able to make her attentions clear. This wouldn’t have the first married man she took home and doubted it would be her last.
“So, would like to stay awhile since you don’t have to pass through fast and maybe take a lady out to breakfast?”
“But it’s only midnight,” he said, mimicking her move of leaning in close; making sure he slurred his words just enough. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for breakfast?”
Debbi giggled again as she grabbed his hand, pulling him from his stool.
“I’m sure we could find something too do until then.” She started to lead him towards the door. “Maybe work up a little appetite in the process.”
The rain had settle into a steady mist, seeming to glow like fog around the lights. The effect of the wetness on their faces seemed too sober them up a little.
Debbi leaned against the door of a red Jeep Cherokee, pulling him close too kiss him forcefully, her tongue rapping and dancing around his; their breathing grew more excited as they clawed at each other’s clothes. She moaned as he grabbed a handful of her breast, she reciprocated by grabbing him between the legs, feeling his hardness beneath his jeans.
“I want you,” she said breathlessly. “I want too feel your cock inside me.”
He kissed her hard again. She would get that and more.
“Where should we go?” he asked just as out of breath. “Is there a motel near here.“
Of course there was. He passed it on the way there. It was one of reasons he stopped. But Debbi surprised him when she said:
“I don’t live that far away.” She turned away and opened the door of the Cherokee. “Follow me to my place.”
True to her word she didn’t.
He followed Debbi along rain soaked streets he wouldn’t of guess where there if he would have drove through for not even five minutes. He pulled in behind her car into a driveway of run down ranch style house. She was out of the car and into the house by the time he got out of his. Light spilled from the door she left open.
The inside didn’t far much better than the out; the living room had a rustic country look, the carpet’s padding well worn down from years of foot traffic. He wondered how many men before had trodden along this path to Debbi’s room, or did they even bother to get that far. Just stopping at the couch or falling onto the carpet to fornicate like two animals in heat.
He shut the door behind him, strangely enough Debbi was nowhere to be found.
“Hello? Debbi?”
“I’ll be right there,” her voice called out from somewhere inside. She appeared a few moments later pantsless, her hanging shirt -now partially unbuttoned- barely covering her red bikini underwear. “Sorry, I really had to go pee.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It happens to everyone.”
She bit her lower lip like a child who got caught doing something they weren’t suppose too. “So?”
“So.”
The moment turned slightly awkward. Neither one willing to make the first move for some reason.
“So,” he said again, “what did you have in mind until breakfast?”
Debbi smiled, turned and stepped through another door. “Why don’t you come here and find out.”
She pounced on him as soon as he was beyond the door. Kissing him hard once again, turning him as she did so, shoving him upon the bed. The springs squeaked as he bounced. Debbi wasted no time on undoing his pants; her attention solely on removing his manhood from his jeans. She grabbed his cock as it sprang free and instantly brought it to her mouth. He gasped as her tongue ran down the length of his hardness. The little slurping sounds she made drove him crazy, practically making him climax.
He took by her shoulders and flipped Debbi onto the bed, stripped off her panties, then buried his head greedily between her legs. Debbi responded immediately with load moans; digging her fingers into his head, through his hair, as he lapped at her wetness.
“Oh yes. Oh yes,” she screamed, eyes rolling back in her head. “Don’t stop! DON”T STOP! aaAAAHHH! AaaAAAAHHHHHAAAAaaa!”
Debbi pushed his head out from between her thighs, giggling.
He eased her further along the bed, then he took her arms -first the left then the right- and tied them to the headboard with some of discarded clothing that was strewn about.
“MMmm, I like a man who is forceful and knows what he wants.”
He took the scarf he saw lying on the side table and rapped it around her eyes, blindfolding her.
“I’ll be right back,” he told as he got up from the bed, “don’t go anywhere.”
Debbi laughed. “Don’t worry master. Do to me what you will.”
He returned to the room a few seconds after he left, got on the bed and slid himself deep inside her. Debbi let out a deep, sharp breath of pleasure as she felt his presence. He began a slow and steady rhythm at first that turned into a fierce motion, his body pounding into her’s. The headboard began to bang against the wall, the bed springs squeaked and squealed as he rode her, suckling breasts as he squeezed them. Her soft cries at first turned into savage moans:
“OH GOD! YES! OH YES! I LOVE IT LIKE THAT! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I LOVE IT WHEN I’M FUCKED HARD! YES! YES! YES!”
He pulled himself up on his knees, plunging his hard cock deep as he could in Debbi, unleashing a long load moan of ecstasy. That’s when she felt something different, a cold sensation entering her abdomen that became searing and painful. Then Debbi felt it again and again and again. At the same moment that he began the rocking motion between her legs.
“WHAT TH-! HEY OWW! STOP! STOP!” Debbi screamed as he slashed down with the kitchen knife, slicing through her skin; digging deep into her stomach. “WHAT THE HELL…STOP! SOMEBODY HELP! HELP!”
Blood sprayed out with each thurst; he fell on top of her as he continued to fuck a stab Debbi, covering himself in her blood and gore. He felt so alive, so excited, so god like as he took Debbi’s life.
Her cries for help began to subside, too drift away. The knife sounded like he was lashing it against a wet sponge when he finally ended his onslaught. So carried away he became that he failed to even notice how much blood there was, how it covered him, the the wall and headboard, how it soaked into the bed until he got up from her and took everything in.
His breathing began too slow, going back to normal as the adrenaline wore off. It was like coming down from the altulment high. But unlike any drug always left him wanting more.
He strode from the room, gathering his clothes as he did, showered, then returned with a bottle of Vodka he found in the freezer, dosing Debbi and the bed with it. Then tossed the bottle next to her lifeless form; took a cigarette, lit it and took a long pull, trapping the smoke in his lungs for a moment before releasing it, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. Then flick the cigarette on the bed, igniting the alcohol. The bed, Debbi, and the room were fully engulfed when he exited.
He twisted his body around, taking in the view of his handy work. He could still feel the sensations of slashing in his arms; could still hear those feeble screams for mercy ringing in his ears. It brought a smile to his face. The carnage he had wrought.
He met her in some out of the way roadside bar -the Route 12 Pub to be precise- that happened to be a spur of the moment decision. Some of his best ones came about this way. Unfortunately she would only be sub-par.
The pub was dimly lit; the jukebox squawked out some seventies garbage at a obscene decibel making this decision seem like a bad one at first, then he saw her: the barfly sitting alone at the end of the bar nursing -or so he thought at the time- some fruity concoction that just didn’t fit the shot and a beer motif of the place. Other than that the place was pretty dead. He didn’t know what it was about her, she was nothing special, just another woman ten years past her prime that hung out in places like this trying to hook up with whoever, like that would somehow fill their empty lonely feeling -at least for a little while. The world was full people like this, male and female. But there was something about her that struck him, making her just a tad bit different. A little more…He couldn’t put his finger on it. At least not yet. Maybe it was the desperation he saw in her eyes when she looked at him as he entered the bar. Maybe.
He took a seat about half down the bar; half way to her. She watched him the whole way. Not even glancing away like most people do when they made eye contact. That look of desperation still there but starting give way to what could only be called hope.
He gave a sly smile as the bartender gave him his beer. That was all the opening she needed. She slammed the rest of her drink down her throat, picked up her cigarettes and made her way over.
“Hi,” she said as she took the seat next to him. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
Her husky voice was thick, slightly slurred which made her all the more appealing.
“That’s probably because I’ve never been here before. I figured I stop for a drink or two and wait out the storm.” It had been raining hard ever since he got onto route 12 thirty minutes earlier. He held out his hand. “Bob.” a lie. “Bob Smith.” another lie.
Bob and Smith had to be the two most generic and widely used names in the country, if not the world. The only two other names that could even be considered to be even close in the running were Jesus and Mohammed, two of which he figured he couldn’t pull off very well.
“Deborah Manning. But my friends just call me Debbi.”
“Well, Debbi, nice to meet ya.”
“Nice to meet you. So if you’re waiting out the storm does that mean you’re just passing through or-”
“I’m afraid so, Debbi.” Her smile wavered a little. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink or two and get to know one another.”
Before he entered the bar -got out of the car even- he opened his cooler that he used for occasions like this and ate a cube of butter. He found out early on that butter, like bread and ice-cream, coated one’s stomach not allowing the absorption of alcohol, or at least cutting it down drastically, so he could drink a lot and not worry about it’s effect on him or to be drank under the table himself. This technique went over well at college parties he used to attend, but after a while he found no real reason to keep using it ( college girls seemed to like to drink themselves into unconsciousness without any real prodding already ) until he left school.
Deborah -Debbi to her friends- giggled like a school girl at all of his bad jokes and innuendos he feed her, touching his arm or shoulder, sometimes even his leg as she did so. They were on their sixth shot of tequila -she drank them down like a practiced veteran like there was no tomorrow. And little did she no that for her there wasn’t.
“You’re so funny, Bob.” She said, almost falling from the stool. Catching herself at the last second with a well placed hand on his inner thigh. “Too bad that you’re just passing through.”
“Well, I don’t have to pass that fast through. I’m only on my way home from my sisters.”
A mischievous smile spread across her lips. “But I’m sure Mrs. Smith might worry- “
“There isn’t one.”
She leaned in close to his ear: “It wouldn’t matter if there was.” She ended with a seductive giggle. Happy with herself that she wasn’t that wasted not to be able to make her attentions clear. This wouldn’t have the first married man she took home and doubted it would be her last.
“So, would like to stay awhile since you don’t have to pass through fast and maybe take a lady out to breakfast?”
“But it’s only midnight,” he said, mimicking her move of leaning in close; making sure he slurred his words just enough. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for breakfast?”
Debbi giggled again as she grabbed his hand, pulling him from his stool.
“I’m sure we could find something too do until then.” She started to lead him towards the door. “Maybe work up a little appetite in the process.”
The rain had settle into a steady mist, seeming to glow like fog around the lights. The effect of the wetness on their faces seemed too sober them up a little.
Debbi leaned against the door of a red Jeep Cherokee, pulling him close too kiss him forcefully, her tongue rapping and dancing around his; their breathing grew more excited as they clawed at each other’s clothes. She moaned as he grabbed a handful of her breast, she reciprocated by grabbing him between the legs, feeling his hardness beneath his jeans.
“I want you,” she said breathlessly. “I want too feel your cock inside me.”
He kissed her hard again. She would get that and more.
“Where should we go?” he asked just as out of breath. “Is there a motel near here.“
Of course there was. He passed it on the way there. It was one of reasons he stopped. But Debbi surprised him when she said:
“I don’t live that far away.” She turned away and opened the door of the Cherokee. “Follow me to my place.”
True to her word she didn’t.
He followed Debbi along rain soaked streets he wouldn’t of guess where there if he would have drove through for not even five minutes. He pulled in behind her car into a driveway of run down ranch style house. She was out of the car and into the house by the time he got out of his. Light spilled from the door she left open.
The inside didn’t far much better than the out; the living room had a rustic country look, the carpet’s padding well worn down from years of foot traffic. He wondered how many men before had trodden along this path to Debbi’s room, or did they even bother to get that far. Just stopping at the couch or falling onto the carpet to fornicate like two animals in heat.
He shut the door behind him, strangely enough Debbi was nowhere to be found.
“Hello? Debbi?”
“I’ll be right there,” her voice called out from somewhere inside. She appeared a few moments later pantsless, her hanging shirt -now partially unbuttoned- barely covering her red bikini underwear. “Sorry, I really had to go pee.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It happens to everyone.”
She bit her lower lip like a child who got caught doing something they weren’t suppose too. “So?”
“So.”
The moment turned slightly awkward. Neither one willing to make the first move for some reason.
“So,” he said again, “what did you have in mind until breakfast?”
Debbi smiled, turned and stepped through another door. “Why don’t you come here and find out.”
She pounced on him as soon as he was beyond the door. Kissing him hard once again, turning him as she did so, shoving him upon the bed. The springs squeaked as he bounced. Debbi wasted no time on undoing his pants; her attention solely on removing his manhood from his jeans. She grabbed his cock as it sprang free and instantly brought it to her mouth. He gasped as her tongue ran down the length of his hardness. The little slurping sounds she made drove him crazy, practically making him climax.
He took by her shoulders and flipped Debbi onto the bed, stripped off her panties, then buried his head greedily between her legs. Debbi responded immediately with load moans; digging her fingers into his head, through his hair, as he lapped at her wetness.
“Oh yes. Oh yes,” she screamed, eyes rolling back in her head. “Don’t stop! DON”T STOP! aaAAAHHH! AaaAAAAHHHHHAAAAaaa!”
Debbi pushed his head out from between her thighs, giggling.
He eased her further along the bed, then he took her arms -first the left then the right- and tied them to the headboard with some of discarded clothing that was strewn about.
“MMmm, I like a man who is forceful and knows what he wants.”
He took the scarf he saw lying on the side table and rapped it around her eyes, blindfolding her.
“I’ll be right back,” he told as he got up from the bed, “don’t go anywhere.”
Debbi laughed. “Don’t worry master. Do to me what you will.”
He returned to the room a few seconds after he left, got on the bed and slid himself deep inside her. Debbi let out a deep, sharp breath of pleasure as she felt his presence. He began a slow and steady rhythm at first that turned into a fierce motion, his body pounding into her’s. The headboard began to bang against the wall, the bed springs squeaked and squealed as he rode her, suckling breasts as he squeezed them. Her soft cries at first turned into savage moans:
“OH GOD! YES! OH YES! I LOVE IT LIKE THAT! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I LOVE IT WHEN I’M FUCKED HARD! YES! YES! YES!”
He pulled himself up on his knees, plunging his hard cock deep as he could in Debbi, unleashing a long load moan of ecstasy. That’s when she felt something different, a cold sensation entering her abdomen that became searing and painful. Then Debbi felt it again and again and again. At the same moment that he began the rocking motion between her legs.
“WHAT TH-! HEY OWW! STOP! STOP!” Debbi screamed as he slashed down with the kitchen knife, slicing through her skin; digging deep into her stomach. “WHAT THE HELL…STOP! SOMEBODY HELP! HELP!”
Blood sprayed out with each thurst; he fell on top of her as he continued to fuck a stab Debbi, covering himself in her blood and gore. He felt so alive, so excited, so god like as he took Debbi’s life.
Her cries for help began to subside, too drift away. The knife sounded like he was lashing it against a wet sponge when he finally ended his onslaught. So carried away he became that he failed to even notice how much blood there was, how it covered him, the the wall and headboard, how it soaked into the bed until he got up from her and took everything in.
His breathing began too slow, going back to normal as the adrenaline wore off. It was like coming down from the altulment high. But unlike any drug always left him wanting more.
He strode from the room, gathering his clothes as he did, showered, then returned with a bottle of Vodka he found in the freezer, dosing Debbi and the bed with it. Then tossed the bottle next to her lifeless form; took a cigarette, lit it and took a long pull, trapping the smoke in his lungs for a moment before releasing it, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. Then flick the cigarette on the bed, igniting the alcohol. The bed, Debbi, and the room were fully engulfed when he exited.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Plumber's Crack: Today's Breast Implant
Remember the days when the thought of seeing someone with their pants hanging down the crack of their ass was almost enough to send you screaming; trying to gouge your eyes out with a rusty spoon? Or the horror of possibly your own that way? Then again, back in the day the people you saw that wore their pants that way were a horror show of their own. Usually fat, tubby dudes -or Buddha Bellies (guys that were skinny everywhere other than their stomachs who usually had no ass to speak of) in dirty white t-shirts and jeans to match who were there to fix the plumbing. Hence the term: "Plumber’s Crack".
Well thanks to the nineties teenage generation -and the fact that it seemed every other asshole (That wasn’t wearing a wife beater, anyway) on 'COPS' that got caught was because their pants were hanging down and falling off- all those preconceived notions are now a thing of the past. Plumber’s Crack Fashion was now the rage of all the cool kids.
Now I know what you’re thinking: ’Dude. You’re about a decade to late for this story.’ And you’d be right. The thing is, it seems now that everyone is into it. Not just the teens. Case in point:
I’m a photographer mostly. So I find myself at many events. Large and small. This particular one I was at recently was rather large. Now I’m just hanging out, minding my own business (for once) when I look over at this huge mural surrounded by class photos of the life of the school that was near me, where this woman was squatting down, ass all hanging out for the world to see. While I’m usually a fan of the old whale tail express the sight caused me to take pause a moment. This here was a woman who was closer to her early fifties than was to thirty-nine, who had to feel the draft coming through the backdoor and didn’t have a care in the world about it. And it wasn’t because she was older that gave me pause (Hell, I can give a shit), it was because I’ve been seeing this more and more. For whatever the reason I had just never really took notice before (maybe because there‘s so much of it). And it seems that Plumber Crack Fashion has become what breast implants where in the 1990s.
Is it because for the last decade or so we’ve become more and more a cougar nation? Where older woman who are still in their sexual peek, bored with the pot belly, beer gut husbands they seem to have to settle with that are more interested in sports than their wives. Or is it because they feel they need the edge over the younger ones that they catch their husbands ogling on the weekly trips to the store?
Whatever the reason it seems that older woman are joining the ranks of their younger peers when it comes to sporting ass cleavage more and more. Much to the determent of daughters everywhere who now not only have to compete with people their own age, but now have to with their undersexed horny mothers. Which could be plus in most men’s book. And who can blame them? Hey I’m all for it. As long as you don’t look like you stuffed a couple of eight year olds or a VW Bug down the back of your pants let those derrières fly free. And for all of you that are about to call me a hypocrite saying that when it comes to man-boobs the same doesn‘t apply, I say if your cup size is bigger than a B cup put a damn shirt on or a sports bra. Nobody wants to see man titties flopping around. That’s just disgusting.
Well thanks to the nineties teenage generation -and the fact that it seemed every other asshole (That wasn’t wearing a wife beater, anyway) on 'COPS' that got caught was because their pants were hanging down and falling off- all those preconceived notions are now a thing of the past. Plumber’s Crack Fashion was now the rage of all the cool kids.
Now I know what you’re thinking: ’Dude. You’re about a decade to late for this story.’ And you’d be right. The thing is, it seems now that everyone is into it. Not just the teens. Case in point:
I’m a photographer mostly. So I find myself at many events. Large and small. This particular one I was at recently was rather large. Now I’m just hanging out, minding my own business (for once) when I look over at this huge mural surrounded by class photos of the life of the school that was near me, where this woman was squatting down, ass all hanging out for the world to see. While I’m usually a fan of the old whale tail express the sight caused me to take pause a moment. This here was a woman who was closer to her early fifties than was to thirty-nine, who had to feel the draft coming through the backdoor and didn’t have a care in the world about it. And it wasn’t because she was older that gave me pause (Hell, I can give a shit), it was because I’ve been seeing this more and more. For whatever the reason I had just never really took notice before (maybe because there‘s so much of it). And it seems that Plumber Crack Fashion has become what breast implants where in the 1990s.
Is it because for the last decade or so we’ve become more and more a cougar nation? Where older woman who are still in their sexual peek, bored with the pot belly, beer gut husbands they seem to have to settle with that are more interested in sports than their wives. Or is it because they feel they need the edge over the younger ones that they catch their husbands ogling on the weekly trips to the store?
Whatever the reason it seems that older woman are joining the ranks of their younger peers when it comes to sporting ass cleavage more and more. Much to the determent of daughters everywhere who now not only have to compete with people their own age, but now have to with their undersexed horny mothers. Which could be plus in most men’s book. And who can blame them? Hey I’m all for it. As long as you don’t look like you stuffed a couple of eight year olds or a VW Bug down the back of your pants let those derrières fly free. And for all of you that are about to call me a hypocrite saying that when it comes to man-boobs the same doesn‘t apply, I say if your cup size is bigger than a B cup put a damn shirt on or a sports bra. Nobody wants to see man titties flopping around. That’s just disgusting.
Adventures In Doughnut Land
Okay. I wrote this piece back on January 10th, 2009. I recently went back to that Dunken Doughnut shop and realized that, unfortunately, this story still applies today as it did then.
Yesterday with the snow flying and my infinite morning laziness I decided to get the kids Dunken Doughnuts for breakfast. So I set out to one of the fifty that seem to surround my house.
Okay, I admit that I was on the phone at the time of placing my order ( rude I know. But it was my dear Mother talking about one of the things she seems to always be talking to me about: The woes of my brother. ).
As I was on said phone, I asked for a dozen long-johns. Easy enough.
Now, I'm quite lazy often on the weekend mornings and have a tendency to going to a Dunken Doughnuts near me ( Thankfully my children are still skinny ), so I know what a dozen long-johns look like in the box. So I said to the teller girl:
"Miss, I asked for a dozen."
"Ye-ah. And that's what I gave you."
"No. You gave me eleven. See" I quickly counted them out too her. 2,4,6,8,10...11."See."
Now up to this point I was nice and courteous. But when she gave me her look of 'And your point is.' Is when I said: "Last time I checked a dozen was twelve."
She stood there for a moment still not convinced that she was in the wrong and it seemed to me that she felt the I was trying to scam an extra doughnut from her. So I then said to her:
"If you don't believe me , why don't you ask somebody what a dozen is." Gesturing to one of her co-workers that were busily filling orders for others.
About this time the guy the came previous too me was still get his life in order started to chuckle at our expanse and I think that by this it actually dawned on her that she was wrong and not I.
So with a sigh of disgust, she turned her rotund body back around and grabbed my last doughnut and placed it with it's others and sisters.
"There. Happy now?"
"Yes. Very. Thank you for finally completing my order."
As I left shaking my head in disbelief, I was left wondering on how many people she screwed by not knowing simple math. Knowing full well that people who usually go to places like this for breakfast are in a hurry and are probably on the phone like I was when ordering.
I'm figuring quite a few. Gotta love that Illinois educational system.
Yesterday with the snow flying and my infinite morning laziness I decided to get the kids Dunken Doughnuts for breakfast. So I set out to one of the fifty that seem to surround my house.
Okay, I admit that I was on the phone at the time of placing my order ( rude I know. But it was my dear Mother talking about one of the things she seems to always be talking to me about: The woes of my brother. ).
As I was on said phone, I asked for a dozen long-johns. Easy enough.
Now, I'm quite lazy often on the weekend mornings and have a tendency to going to a Dunken Doughnuts near me ( Thankfully my children are still skinny ), so I know what a dozen long-johns look like in the box. So I said to the teller girl:
"Miss, I asked for a dozen."
"Ye-ah. And that's what I gave you."
"No. You gave me eleven. See" I quickly counted them out too her. 2,4,6,8,10...11."See."
Now up to this point I was nice and courteous. But when she gave me her look of 'And your point is.' Is when I said: "Last time I checked a dozen was twelve."
She stood there for a moment still not convinced that she was in the wrong and it seemed to me that she felt the I was trying to scam an extra doughnut from her. So I then said to her:
"If you don't believe me , why don't you ask somebody what a dozen is." Gesturing to one of her co-workers that were busily filling orders for others.
About this time the guy the came previous too me was still get his life in order started to chuckle at our expanse and I think that by this it actually dawned on her that she was wrong and not I.
So with a sigh of disgust, she turned her rotund body back around and grabbed my last doughnut and placed it with it's others and sisters.
"There. Happy now?"
"Yes. Very. Thank you for finally completing my order."
As I left shaking my head in disbelief, I was left wondering on how many people she screwed by not knowing simple math. Knowing full well that people who usually go to places like this for breakfast are in a hurry and are probably on the phone like I was when ordering.
I'm figuring quite a few. Gotta love that Illinois educational system.
Friday, September 17, 2010
I Want To Punch Gordon Ramsay
How I would like to punch Gordon Ramsay -and other TV chefs like him- in the face. Why you ask? Is it because that it seems like every other show on FOX is his? Or is it -while on his shows- that at the end he speaks in such an exaggerated Ryan Seacrest game show speak that it makes William Shatner look like a fucking dialogue coach? While some people would think that one or both were good enough reasons, however, they are not mine. Here’s why:
While out trying to enjoy lunch with my wife the other day, two biddies (soccer mom’s from hell) sat behind us. And when they stopped trying to listen in on our conversation they began to -somewhat loudly, well loud enough for us to hear- dissect their meal (which was a salad by the way). They commented on how it was light and refreshing; how the greens and vegetables were fresh (“Almost as if they were picked today.”); how the salad dressing was done to almost perfection: not to strong, and not to light; how the grilled chicken completed the meal.
Okay. So what, you think.
The problem is that we’re in fucking Panera Bread. While I’m sure Panera would love hearing comments like that, but in truth -it’s what?- a step up from Subway and Quiznos. It’s not some gourmet, or Mom and Pop joint, that makes it all fresh and has people out daily looking for ingredients. It’s all prepackaged, and the so called cooks don’t do anything more that put the pre-made dough in the oven and put whatever hot sandwich on the grill. Even the soup comes in a bag and is heated up. No chopping; no rue or broth making; no nothing.
I’m not saying this because I have a problem with Panera Bread. Quite the opposite. I actually enjoy most of their food to other fast food places. My problem is that with shows like Ramsay’s and others that are on the Food Network, we now have a culture of people that think because they watch shows like ’Hell’s Kitchen’ and ’Master Chef’ and think they can cook; that they’re some kind of chef, and or critic (it‘s bad enough that we already have people acting like rejects from Mtv’s ‘The Jersey Shore‘). I’m all for people having an opinion when it comes to food. Hell, eat what you like. Just don’t try to make yourself to be something you’re not.
Next time, try going to a real restaurant, with a real chef -not some kid just out of high school pouring your bagged soup into a pot- and really develop your palette. Same with cook books. All because you can follow a recipe that was put out by some celebrity chef doesn’t mean that you’re a great gourmet cook. Leave that train of thought for sitting around your living room table with friends of the same mind set and dissect the foods that you guys put together.
While out trying to enjoy lunch with my wife the other day, two biddies (soccer mom’s from hell) sat behind us. And when they stopped trying to listen in on our conversation they began to -somewhat loudly, well loud enough for us to hear- dissect their meal (which was a salad by the way). They commented on how it was light and refreshing; how the greens and vegetables were fresh (“Almost as if they were picked today.”); how the salad dressing was done to almost perfection: not to strong, and not to light; how the grilled chicken completed the meal.
Okay. So what, you think.
The problem is that we’re in fucking Panera Bread. While I’m sure Panera would love hearing comments like that, but in truth -it’s what?- a step up from Subway and Quiznos. It’s not some gourmet, or Mom and Pop joint, that makes it all fresh and has people out daily looking for ingredients. It’s all prepackaged, and the so called cooks don’t do anything more that put the pre-made dough in the oven and put whatever hot sandwich on the grill. Even the soup comes in a bag and is heated up. No chopping; no rue or broth making; no nothing.
I’m not saying this because I have a problem with Panera Bread. Quite the opposite. I actually enjoy most of their food to other fast food places. My problem is that with shows like Ramsay’s and others that are on the Food Network, we now have a culture of people that think because they watch shows like ’Hell’s Kitchen’ and ’Master Chef’ and think they can cook; that they’re some kind of chef, and or critic (it‘s bad enough that we already have people acting like rejects from Mtv’s ‘The Jersey Shore‘). I’m all for people having an opinion when it comes to food. Hell, eat what you like. Just don’t try to make yourself to be something you’re not.
Next time, try going to a real restaurant, with a real chef -not some kid just out of high school pouring your bagged soup into a pot- and really develop your palette. Same with cook books. All because you can follow a recipe that was put out by some celebrity chef doesn’t mean that you’re a great gourmet cook. Leave that train of thought for sitting around your living room table with friends of the same mind set and dissect the foods that you guys put together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)