New Obama-Clinton Scandal Unearthed

By WILLIAM J. HOLT 07/09/2017 16:07 MST

Barnt.com has uncovered reports of an Obama-Clinton scandal that would have ended the socialist regime early and saved America from the systematic deconstruction of base principals.

Image Courtesy of  www.northwesternflipside.com

These reports came out of several real news organizations before they were stamped out by the administration. Obama, Hillary, and their top advisers went to extreme lengths to bury all testimony and evidence of a Washington group which met between February, 2009 and September, 2012. According to sources close to the White House, the cover-up included at least three murders and the shredding of tens of thousands of documents which in-turn included hundreds of thousands of sentences, millions of words, and countless instances of letters (sometimes known as characters) from the English alphabet.

A warning to parents: the details of these reports cannot be described as anything less than horrific. Please, partake in due parental guidance.

The group, known as “Tsoukalos' Footchabones,” has roots that go back to Mayan and Egyptian cultures that are known to have benefited from relationships with extra terrestrials in ancient Central America and The Giza Plateau.

The Footchabones track and capture young male bigfoot. Then, the seclusive primates are taken to a secret government facility in Virginia where members of the group act out terrible sexual abuses and rituals on the innocent beasts. This includes fetish-restraints, hot wax, and detangling conditioner. One source was so disturbed at what they had witnessed, that even after hours of therapy they still experience PTSD in the Health and Beauty section of the grocery store.

Several sources have reported witnessing Obama and Clinton committing abuses including but not limited to: forced sodomy, dry brushing, and squatchicide. These whistle blowers take great personal risk, and Barnt.com thanks them for breaking the silence, but wishes these brave souls had only brought this information forward sooner and saved not only bigfoots, but American ideals.

Making Starships, Part 1

The ore is quarried on a metal moon. The moon is called Blue 23. The 23 is pronounced “two-three,” and comes from the moon’s relative position in the Epsilon Eridani system. It is the third moon of the second planet. The blue color comes from a high concentration of the metal Eridanite, which is the primary material used in Starship construction.

Eridanite ore pours from a pit on miles of belt. The belts emerge from hundreds of shaft entrances that ring the bottom of the pit like the arches of The Colosseum. Deep within each shaft, squatty machines feed the belts. Human miners steer these flat beasts.

These workers wear yellow gloves and matching hard-hats. Oxygen masks hang down from the hats. The masks have large clear lenses, which create an insect appearance. The bug faced miners also wear khaki shorts and heavy work boots but, little else, because the mine is sweltering. It bakes the workers and the dust flours them. The powdered ore billows through the mine’s caverns like gas in the trenches of Owen’s war. This toxic dust and the miners’ own sweat form a stinging blue varnish. The workers call it “Digger’s Burden.”

The dust is made by a hundred thousand hammer-drills. Every drill is dependent on an air hose. The hoses mingle and tangle like snakes, and are designed to never kink. They must feed the drills, the drills must feed the trucks, the trucks must feed the belts, and the belts must not stop.Conveyors dump their pillars of wealth into the Foundry. It is framed with I-beams and clothed in miles of pipe. Beyond the fur-like plumbing, massive doorways show the building’s innards, and let out an intense glow. The orange light shines out on blue mountains. From adjacent peaks, the Foundry is a black jack-o’-lantern with too many eyes and teeth. Inside, godly robotic ladles lift and pour metal that looks like magma.

This melt is poured into either an ingot mold or a bloom extruder. Red-hot ingots and blooms are scanned by photo eye for quality assurance. An extraordinarily high percent of the castings are good, and go on to more processing. The particular process depends on the product, but always includes some type of rolling or drawing. Amazingly, the Foundry only makes ten different castings.

The castings cool as they ride a ski-lift type conveyor from the Foundry to the Moon Factory. This factory machines some castings into structural members, and others become massive rolls of sheet-metal and more. The Moon Factory produces everything needed by the Module Factories which are discussed later.

Like the Foundry, the Moon Factory does not use human labor. In fact, the entire foundry/factory complex is run by five technicians in a remote command center. This booth looks much like a mobile construction office. Inside, the technicians man banks of monitors and controls. Sterile fluorescent bulbs pierce the temperature controlled air and shine in spectacle reflections and silky hair highlights. One monitor shows a steady flow of finished parts riding another ski-lift out of the factory.

That lift takes the parts to a very tall red and white painted metal structure called the Launch Tower.  Technicians at the base of the tower (The Breach) use huge robotic arms to remove parts from the ski-lift and pack them into special containers called Bullets. The Bullets are loaded into The Breach one at a time. The Launch Tower employs thousands of hyper-electro-magnets in sequence, which accelerates the containers up the super-structure (The Barrel), through the moon’s thin atmosphere, and into space.

Dark Silverstein

Oh, I’m being eaten

By a boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor,

And I don’t like it one bit.

Awe shucks,

It’s wrecked my truck.

Oh, no,

It’s swallowed my home.

Oh, dread,

I can’t get out of bed.

Fuck it,

BOOM.

The Wrong Man

1

Bosnia and Herzegovina, 1994

The squad weaved through the hulking shells of war burned buildings, and the ruble strewn streets of Sarajevo. That area of the city had been reported as deserted, and as far as they could see, it was. The only sign of any living people were far off gunshots, and pillars of black smoke against the nearly black sky. But, they were not alone.

Hard edges were made harder in the moonlight. Upturned concrete slabs and countless bricks filled the city like mountains of popcorn. A footpath was beaten into the rubble, and it was their course.  It meandered through tangles of re-bar and wreckage like a slender stream.

Jeff Chambers was team leader. He watched as his squad mate, Billy, approached a large billboard that had been toppled into the alley. It leaned against the right-side wall, forming an ‘A’ shaped underpass. The billboard featured a pretty woman holding some soft drink. The Americans could not read the foreign lettering. Billy Drayton bent slightly, and stepped under the sign and into the shadows.

Two Serbian militants hid in a building high above Jeff’s squad. Goran sat on the floor with his back against the wall. The windows were long gone, and the weather had crept under the wallpaper, leaving it loose and tattered. Goran’s sun-bleached oakleaf camo fatigues blended nicely with the wall’s faded floral, especially in the cold hues of scant moonlight. He held an old style, ‘T’ plunger, blasting detonator. Srecko knelt next to him and peered through a crack in the crumbling wall. When the second American passed under the sign, Srecko motioned.

The explosion shattered the old billboard and sent concrete, steel, and brick shrapnel in every direction. The shockwave hit Jeff hard and knocked him down. He sat up and tried to shake the blast off. Dust rose and ruble rained. He got a knee under himself and brought his weapon up. As he swept the ally Jeff realized some of the debris coming down was organic, it was pieces of Jack and Billy. His head tried to spin, so he shook it. He did not hear Chapman moving up from the rear. Chapman was yelling, but Jeff did not respond. He was still looking for some target, something to shoot. Chapman grabbed Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff spun and fired. Chapman grabbed at his chest and took a step back. His knees buckled, and he sat down. He looked at his hand and saw blood; then looked up at Jeff with huge white eyes and said:

“Armor plate’s a novelty.” Then he laid back and died with a funny look on his face. Jeff never forgot that face.

2

Cannaston High School, 1999

            Early fall was upon the small town of Cannaston Colorado. Hundreds of mature maple, poplar, and ash were beginning to turn, and the days were shrinking from both ends. The old High School reigned majestically over its campus.

It was Friday. Laramie was in his seventh, and final, period Algebra class.  He was a tall, pretty, kid, right out of a clothing catalog. His long brown mane hung in curtains above the worksheet Mr. Brown had passed out. The students hurried to finish it in-class with hopes of no homework. Next to him sat his friend Derek. Laramie peeked across the aisle, to check on his progress. He noticed a small clear sticker with a black ‘M’, stuck to the elbow of Derek’s brand new shirt. Laramie enjoyed the discovery. They were close, but everything was a competition. This slight fashion faux pa was a victory. He turned back to his worksheet.

Derek was a few questions ahead. A couple of students had already finished and left for the weekend. Soon, he finished and added his to the stack. Then he went back to his seat and waited for the beautiful one. A few minutes passed and Laramie was done. They were in the parking lot in no time, where they joined a group of boys loitering around a red and tan nineteen-eighty-something Ford Bronco.

Derek and Laramie ran with the two that owned the Bronco, the brothers Sam and John Bodin. Sam was tall and as solid as a piano mover. His younger brother John was a bigger softer version. The rig was what they called a “wheeler.” Its lifted suspension and 35-inch tires gave it a monster truck look.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed, and soon the core four were piling into the Bronco and tearing out of the lot.

3

Physical Training and FedEx

Jeff Chambers finished his crunches, which brought him to the midpoint of his morning

physical training. He did the crunches on the floor in front of his bed. His dresser stood above him like a spotter. The TV sat upon it and the talking heads were already beginning their daily shouting matches on mute. He stood and turned it off. Jeff had started his PT habit in 1985 when he entered boot camp. He kept it up the four years he was in the Air Force, and the 6 he was in the CIA. His colleagues at FedEx, where he currently managed air freight logistics, looked flabby in comparison. Some of them worked out, but for Jeff it was an obsession. He did his PT and a bike ride everyday, and the PT included a run. He stretched after the run, and then he ate an All-American steak and egg breakfast.

Jeff cleaned his plate, and then peeked in to see if his wife was awake. It was almost 8:00 and she was, so he hopped in the shower. They met through her brother, one of Jeff’s college buddies, shortly after the Sarajevo incident. Ann Perry became Ann Chambers after a lighting hot courtship. They had always had a strong physical relationship, which was the reason he made sure she was up before he got in the shower. She would join him. Their morning quickies were almost as regular as his PT. Unfortunately for Ann, there was not much more to their intimacy. Jeff was distant and she sensed deep pain. She fantasized about him breaking down and opening up, but it would never happen. Their marriage skidded along on sex in the shower. That day was just like the ones before. They had their feral encounter. Then, he got ready for work while she put on a robe. She did not have to leave until 10:00.

Ann spent many mornings wondering about her husband’s past. She never knew Chapman, Billy Drayton, or “Plastic” Jack Hardy. They had died in ’94 and Jeff and Ann were married in 1996. He had never told her anything about his work in the field. She was curious about what her husband had done before she knew him, but she never pressed. She had no idea he had killed anyone, let alone his own buddy. She had no idea that his memories of Sarajevo were pulverizing his sanity like a powerful, but slow, food processor. She wondered about him while he got dressed. She could see him buttoning his FedEx polo in the mirror’s reflection. He came out of the bathroom and kissed her before leaving for work without a word.

Considering what they paid him, Jeff did not do very much. He had meetings and phone calls, but they only soaked up an hour or two combined. He spent the majority of his day alone, dwelling on the killing years. The spacious office added to his isolation. It was large enough to tour on his Schwinn. He would sit and stare out spotless windows, but he would not see the postcard town. He saw a rain of gore and Chapman’s funny dead face. His fellow FedEx’ers coveted the office, but for Jeff it was a dungeon. It was a place with no distractions, no mental sanctuary, none of the physical activities which usually served his escapism. Those activities (sex, exercise, and the shooting range) became his vices. He was caught between torture by memory and compulsive hour keeping. That day was particularly grueling, but the clock did finally grant his release.

Jeff said his good-byes, and headed out to his gray sedan. He was eager take his daily bike ride. The route was down, then back up, an old farm road called Peterson Way. The trees formed tunnels and the fields had the carcasses of tractors and plows. It was roughly 15 miles round trip, and it was always a soothing ride.

4

Bad Ideas

Sam Bodin’s thick digits gripped the steering wheel. His big little brother John took shotgun, leaving the backseat for Laramie and Derek. The Bronco’s hard top was still where it had been all summer: next to the Bodin garage. The crisp Colorado air whipped up a tornado of hair around Laramie’s face. Muddy, rebellious, metal poured from the stereo. It was Friday, and it felt damn good to be out of school. That feeling swelled and surged with every corner the Bronco carved. It grew until it became something else.

“HEY!” Laramie shouted, and tapped Sam on the shoulder.

Sam turned the stereo down. “Yeah?”

“Let’s stop by Crenshaw’s, I need to get some groceries.” Laramie said. Sam grinned and turned the stereo back up. The other two teens were smiling too.

----

Who would sell four, 15 and 16-year-old boys, two dozen eggs each? Lydia Black. Her birth name was April Jones. She was 18 years old, and in full “Goth” delirium. She had white skin and black hair. Dark tattoos under black clothes under a cheery blue apron that said Crenshaw’s across the front. When she saw the four high school boys heading her way, she sighed and rolled her eyes, what a shitty day.

She checked them as quickly and as socially-absently as she could. God, they were bugging the shit out of her. Punching each other randomly and touching everything. They were young and immature and far from her type … but one was kind of cute. Then, unaware he was being ogled, Laramie flicked Sam’s ear. The giant kid turned and slugged the other giant, just as Laramie had hoped. Lydia’s eyes took another roll, and then made a smooth transition to the plain round clock above the main vestibule. She was off in 26 minutes. Thank god.

The clerk thought about many things as she checked the boys, but she gave no thought or care to what they were buying.

5

Attack, Part 1

Jeff pulled out of the garage on his shinny blue Schwinn. He wore a blue riding shirt and black biker shorts with yellow stripes down the sides of the legs. He had to ride through several blocks before he would reach Peterson Way. He was on Cannaston Main, two blocks from his house. He had just passed the shopping center that was the home of Crenshaw’s. He heard a car coming up behind him, and looked back to see a red Ford Bronco. His instincts told him that something was wrong, but he ignored them, after all, this was Cannaston Colorado. As the truck approached, he noticed it slowing down. Then, he could no longer ignore the feeling in his gut, something was wrong. He turned just in time to see a longhair, pretty boy, punk kid, with his arm cocked like Nolan Ryan. Jeff twisted to protect his face and ribs, and was pelted with nearly two dozen eggs. He waited for the throwing to stop. The wheels spun and sprayed gravel. Jeff reeled to scan and save as much as he could before a blob of egg white dripped down from his military haircut and into his eye. He clenched his eyes, teeth, and fists. 

Eventually, he pushed through the fit and began to wipe and flick egg. The slime was persistent, and soon he gave up cleanup and dialed information.

“Hi, can I get the number for the Cannaston Police Department?”

“One moment please.” The ultra-professional voice responded.

Next, he called that number.

“Hello, Cannaston Police Department, how may I help you?” A similar female voice greeted him.

“Hi, I’ve just been vandalized.” Jeff told her, barely able to contain his rage. She asked him a few questions, and then told him an officer would be on the way. Jeff waited and thought about how the cop would handle the situation. Without any real injuries, the officer might just blow him off. There was no way in hell that Jeff was going to let that happen.

The side of the road was littered with glass and gravel. He took three leaping steps, and then slid like a runner heading for home plate. He made sure to get his right elbow along with the calf and knee. He stood up and looked at the damage. It was just what he was hoping for, deep bleeding scrapes imbedded with gravel and dirt. Then, he sat down next to his bike and continued the wait.

The squad car pulled up three and a half minutes later. A tall man with a bit of a gut stepped out and said: “You must be the guy that called.”

“Yes, I’m the guy.”

The cop looked like any sheriff from any of a thousand movies. As he got closer, he took off his Aviator sunglasses. He was looking at Jeff’s wounds.

“Hell, that’s assault!”

Jeff was pleased to see that he took this seriously.

“Did you get a look at‘em?” Officer Buck asked.

“Yeah, a short one. It was four male youths.”

The policeman nodded at that and said: “That’s what I figured. Tell me what they were drivin.”

“It’s a late eighties, red, Ford Bronco with the top off. I didn’t catch the license plate, but I’d recognize them if I saw them again.”

“And they went south?” The officer asked, and pointed down the road.

“Yep.”

“All right, we’ll give ya a call when we find em.”

They exchanged contact information and shook hands, and then Buck got in his cruiser, and dove down the road. Jeff thought the cop would look, but he doubted Buck would find the attackers. His teeth and fists clamped down again. His eyes burned and a vein on his forehead bulged.

6

Attack, Part 2

The core four strutted out of Crenshaw’s with their loot: sodas, candy bars, ninety-six eggs, a 4 X 4 Magazine, and some bubble gum. They jumped in the Bronco and hit the road in search of victims. They spotted their first target half a block from the store. He was a well-built, middle-aged cyclist. He wore a tight blue T-shirt and black spandex biker shorts that had a yellow stripe down the outside of each leg.

“Lance Armstrong is going down!” Laramie announced, now riding in the passenger seat.

The others snickered and readied themselves for the kill. Lance Armstrong was on the right side of the road, so Laramie, who was in the backseat, on the driver’s side, sat up with his right knee on the seat and his left foot on the floor. He held a rack of two dozen eggs in his left hand like a server getting ready to put food on a table. His long brown hair flipped and flurried in the wind. Next to him, Derek assumed a similar position, but with his rack on the seat. John had his eggs in his lap, and couldn’t get into position fast enough.

The bombardiers blasted away from the back seat. Then Sam was on the gas. They looked back through tears of laughter. Lance Armstrong appeared to be frying the eggs on his red face.

They didn’t stay on Main long. Big John finally found his mark on Aspen Circle. He peppered a couple of baggy-bottomed wannabe bangers. The next victims were some men moving furniture on Blossom Drive. The movers dropped an antique desk and took cover behind it. The boys howled laughter as they sped away. The younger Bodin, John hollered a sugestion through an “Andre the Giant” grin:

“Hey, let’s go by Richard’s!”

Sam and Derek liked the idea, but Laramie shot it down: “We should hang low for a bit, take another ride later.” Their grins dimmed, but none of them questioned him. He was as sharp witted as he was looking, and that made him their leader.

So, they went back to Derek’s house. It was their usual hangout because his parents never seemed to be home, and their sprawling Tuscan was a teen playground. They had big screen televisions on both floors. The basement had a game room with pool and Ping-Pong tables, three pinball games, and foosball. Laramie had never seen Derek’s dad, and when his mom was home, she stayed upstairs, watching Opra in the day and Fox News at night. Down in the basement, Sam laid on the couch and watched a movie. He looked like a steelworker after a 12 hour shift, right down to the beer belly and thick frame. Derek and John played foosball. Derek’s nimble hands were a blur, and poor John dripped like an ice-tea in Arkansas. Laramie played the pinball game Speed Limit. Night fell as the movie wrapped up. They had spent a couple hours lounging and playing and it was time for Laramie to mobilize the troops. It did not take much.

            Sam and John talked as they walked out to the Bronco. Sam had driven during the initial session and still had two two-dozen egg flats.

            “You drive this time.” Sam told his little brother. “I got a full load and I’m ready to launch.” So, John got in the driver’s side and Sam took shotgun. They blasted the Bronco’s stereo while they waited for Derek and Laramie to finish a Ping-Pong game. Soon, the pongers emerged. They made their way toward the Bronco in tandem, Derek holding a red impact-resistant CD carrier. As they walked down the path a gray Lincoln pulled up behind the Bronco, trapping it in. Sam turned the stereo down. Laramie and Derek stopped half-way down the path, and waited to see who was in the car. A well-built, middle aged man calmly got out. They all recognized him. It was Jeff “Lance Armstrong” Chambers.

7

The Last Straw

Jeff closed the car door and walked around the front. He had changed into some cargo shorts and a white T-shirt. His right-side appendages were salve slathered, raw, and glistening. He took in the landscaping and architecture. The joints in the paving stones seemed to have Egyptian precision. The lawns were Championship fairways, and the house was lit like a monument. The boys looked like they were in the middle of a shoot for one of Ann’s magazines, but they looked nervous.

“Hey guys.” Jeff said with a sly smile. “Surprised to see me?” The other boys looked at Laramie.

“Hey man.” He coolly responded.

Jeff moved down the path toward Derek and Laramie. The brothers in the Bronco got fidgety as Jeff got face to face with Laramie.

“Do you know who I am?” And without letting the boy speak:” Do you know what I do?” Rage barely contained. His eyes bloodshot, irises seemingly black, and breath foul.

“Dude, we didn’t mean any harm. We were…”

“You were just having fun, right?” Jeff snarled cutting Laramie off. “You boys messed with the wrong man!” Derek looked down and fiddled with the clasp on his CD case.

“Take it easy. It was just a few eggs.” Laramie said, not backing down.

“A few eggs? And what about this? Jeff asked, pointing at his freshly ground elbow.

“What’s that from?” Laramie asked sincerely.
            “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK IT’S FROM?” Jeff bellowed and sprayed into Laramie’s face. Then, he slapped the red case out of Derek’s hands and discs splayed and rolled across the path.

“We didn’t do that you crazy prick!” Laramie said, raising his voice and still not backing down. Jeff’s wide eyes closed to a glare. They stared at each other like father and defiant son. The stare drew until the last of Jeff Chambers’ sanity slipped away. He shook his head and turned around. Laramie and Derek looked at each other and Laramie smiled and shrugged. Jeff’s reaction was not what they expected. He calmly walked between the Bronco and the Lincoln and got into his car. Laramie helped Derek pick up CDs. They didn’t know it, but Jeff was getting a gun out of the glove box. He leaned over the Lincoln like a cop in a cop movie. The weapon was all black and had a long cylinder attached to the business end. He pointed it at Laramie’s center of mass.

Laramie heard two clicks just before feeling a 16 lb. sledge hammer slam his chest. The .45 caliber rounds passed through him and lodged into earthy toned stucco. Derek screamed as Laramie’s knees gave. The lead boy’s body fell like timber hinged on a stump. Derek turned back toward the shooter just in time to see the gun pointed at him.

Sam and John watched it all through the Bronco’s passenger window. Derek’s head snapped forward then back, and his body fell under him like a rope ladder. Then the killer turned towards them. John shrieked then slammed the Bronco into reverse and pounded on the gas. The SUV’s trailer hitch smashed into the Lincoln’s bumper. The car lurched and the open door sent Jeff sprawling, but he didn’t lose his grip on the .45. His empty hand clamored for a door handle. Sam saw the crazy cyclist standing up and yelled:

“GO!”

John put the Bronco into drive and smashed through the short rock wall that lined the courtyard. He couldn’t avoid running over Derek’s body as he arced across the lawn, through another section of wall, and back onto the driveway behind the Lincoln. The Bronco flew out onto the street. Jeff was already in his seat. He wrenched the transmission lever and stomped the accelerator. The Lincoln burst into the street in reverse. Jeff made a slick transition to drive and roared after the Bodin boys. He caught up easily; the bulky SUV was no match for the sedan on neighborhood streets.

            The Bronco lurched and shook as they raced through tree lined lanes. The gray cruiser shadowed every evasion.

            “We have to get off the street!” Sam yelled from the passenger seat.

            “I know.” John asserted. Then the windshield shattered.

            “Fuck! He’s shooting at us!” Sam cried. They could feel bullet shock-waves.

            “I can’t see a thing!” John screamed, and then let off the accelerator. He leaned toward the webbed windshield looking for a clear patch. Sam hunkered down in the seat. When the whizzing paused, he pulled his legs up and kicked the smashed window out onto the Bronco’s hood. It steadily bounced and scratched its way to and then over the side. Finally able to see, John stomped the gas. A gap appeared between the Bronco and Lincoln, but Jeff easily closed it. The whizzing started again. Sheet metal pinged and the upholstery popped. John swerved trying to avoid the volley, but it was too late. Sam slumped and went silent.

“Sam?” John asked. “SAM!” Tears streamed down the round face, making it hard to see again. “Crazy motherfucker!” the younger Bodin wailed, his voice adding to a distant choir of police sirens. The Bronco zigzagged its way toward the edge of town.

John yearned for the woods and rough ground, and Jeff knew it. There the Bronco would be in its element. So, Jeff kept bullets in the air. They flew all around the boy driver. He could see a T intersection ahead. Trees beckoned on the other side. Then, his massive shoulder was thrown forward as hot lead tore into his right scapula. The Bronco swerved left then rolled right. The passenger side slapped the pavement and sparks bellowed like water behind a speedboat. The killer slammed on his brakes and the Lincoln’s tires screamed. The Bronco barreled over the curb and into a tree. The sedan smashed into its upturned undercarriage. The Bronco closed around the tree like a book. The Lincoln’s nose crumpled and the airbag caught Jeff’s face. Loose parts and pieces flew, and then tumbled into the woods beyond the melded vehicles.

Eventually, everything came to rest, and the only sounds were ever closer sirens. Jeff tried to step out of the cruiser, gun still in hand. His ankle gave out and he fell into a patch of tall grass at the edge of the road. He rose more delicately the second time. He limped around the wreckage and peered through the opening that had been the Bronco’s windshield. Both Bodin boys were dead. Jeff stared at their bodies and fell into his familiar trance. The cops would have found him that way, just as though he was sitting at his FedEx desk, but their sirens broke the hypnotism. He unscrewed the silencer and put it and the weapon in his shorts’ oversized pockets. Then, he limped into the woods.

8

Rambo Style

He’d been running too long. The vines and thicket licked his bare arms and face. Whipping and scratching like silent plantae sadists. His searing lungs drowned out the pain in those new sweat-stung wounds, and even that of the shredded ankle. Treacherous root bunches grabbed at the make-shift splint. He had gone down twice, but both times regained his feet and pace. The sirens were becoming distant cries, and the grade steepened as foot-hills became mountains. Jeff looked back, through an opening in the trees, at the town below. It was a tiny web of twinkling lights.

It had been hours since the crash. His instinct had taken the reins from his rage, and got him across the river and up into the mountains, but now he took the time to consider a broader plan. The Lincoln certainly made him the only suspect in the murder of four teen boys. The police would question Ann and his co-workers. He wondered where she was, what they had told her, and what she had told them. He was compelled to mentally comb through possible lines of questioning. She would tell them that Jeff had been in the service. They would try to follow that lead, but they would discover his military record had been completely erased. Jeff decided she could not give them any clues, no one in Cannaston could.

The police would setup roadblocks, checkpoints, and they would be watching hospitals. They would also scour the woods, but their dogs would lose his scent at the river. He could wait it out in the mountains. When things settled down he would hike to a neighboring town and steal a car. From there he would head for the border and on to the small towns of Mexico, but that was getting ahead of himself. He looked at the sky above the tiny rows of street lights. He imagined plumes of smoke. They billowed up like long black dragons. He could see a face through wisps and swirl, a dead man’s face.

The End

Corn Teeth Delight

Pop-culture references have been the bread and butter for comedy outlets like Family Guy for a while now. It can be funny, whether you know the reference or not, because of the randomness. A similar comedic style uses a reference, but instead of randomness, it relies on relevance. You may not know the reference, but you “get it” because the phrase, image, or message makes sense in context. My mom has delivered jokes in that style my whole life. She would say: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” She’d say it in a manly voice. Quoting it now, it doesn’t seem like it would be funny, but the timing/mood was always silly, so we knew it was a joke.

She probably used that phrase 10 or 20 times throughout my childhood. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” I had no idea where she got it, in fact, until tonight I had never consciously understood it was a reference. That phrase is what this whole thing is all about. It is from a movie that was made in 1976, three years before I was born.

The timing is key. The 70’s decade is kind of a black hole as far as my movie trivia knowledge is concerned. I’m old enough to have seen some 80’s movies at the movies in the 80’s; and a whole lot more on video. The 70’s is a whole other bird. Only the biggest movies made it to video tape. Yeah, a lot of 70’s pop-culture has been dredged up the last ten years, but there are thousands of movies that someone my age probably won’t ever see. Except … now we have streaming movies.

I’m watching shit I wouldn’t rent at a video store in a million twinkles of Faye Dunaway’s corn teeth, and I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore! Actually, I’m not mad at all, it was a great show. (It definitely wasn’t shit.) Did that name (Dunaway) jog any movie-trivia-buff tablets? How about Duvall, Holden, and Finch? Probably not if you’re my age, so here’s the answer: “Network”. Check it out; it is definitely writery, which is probably why it made an impression on my mom.

I’m not going to go off on a “the importance of parental influence” tangent, but that one loony phrase had so much power over me. I completed the verse with the actor and I probably haven’t heard it in 20 years. It brought such a flood of reminiscence and discovery.

Sound-bar

I went to walmart today; bought a sound-bar the day before and it zert-zert out after a few hours. I had to return it.

Strolled through the white-trash-vapor-lock and got stopped by a vigilant greeter. He said I needed a sticker. I carried the long black lemon through my old stomping-grounds and to the opening called “Customer Service.” An image crossed my mind: a killer holding a shotgun in a box of roses.

That place is in the center of the “front end.” I came from general merchandise; some scarries came from the grocery side. We met at the end of the “Customer Service” line … at the same time, so naturally I got behind them; not much of a killer.

Turned out that the scarries knew another scary who was farther up in line; they leap-frogged a dad with a kid. The kid was way past infant and was sitting up, but had a head the size of a tennis ball. The dad looked around the whole time. He seemed to be searching for a fellow “normal person” to share in the experience: wrongs exerted by the scarries. He did this before anyone had done anything really wrong … and it turned out nobody ever did.

A lone guy was two line-spots ahead of the leap-froggers’ friend. He wore a white shirt. Behind him, and in front of the leap-froggers’ friend, was a twitchy fellow that liked to face backward. Having people behind him seemed to make him nervous. He was scary to me too. The dude in front of him, the one in the white shirt, was trying to cash a check.

The clerk wrote a phone number on the check and told him that they couldn’t cash it, and that he should call the number to find out why. The guy was upset, and he seemed to take the news as an insult. A different clerk offered some advice. The guy said something I couldn’t hear. The advisory clerk told the guy that he didn’t have to be rude. The guy talked more, but I still couldn’t hear. His body language said: “fuck you, I’m outta here,” but the clerk’s assertiveness was enough to keep him at the counter long enough for her to explain that she didn’t need him dropping F-bombs, and that she was just trying to help. She even reiterated and expanded her previously interrupted advice. The dude left.

That clerk, the one who had jumped in with advice for the white-shirt, wasn’t there to help customers. She was using the computers, or the desk, or some unknown system for some unknown task. The customer service line was processed by two clerks to her left. She had only spoken up because she had seen that type of thing before, and she had hoped to educate the white-shirt. When he left, she went back to processing whatever it was that she was processing, and customer service continued via the other two clerks.

I watched the whole thing from the back of the line. The twitchy-backward-facer had been very committed to the outcome of white-shirt’s transaction. But before I could spy his customer service experience, the non-customer taking clerk noticed me and called me before her. I had recognized her from my days as a maintenance associate, but she either didn’t recognize me, or didn’t acknowledge any recognition. She looked at my sound-bar and said I needed to take it back to electronics to have them make sure everything was there. Nobody ever asked me if I was returning it, they just assumed correctly. She also told me to come up to the front of the line when I got back.

I navigated the aisles and racks like only an associate can. The electronics counter was customer-less until I plopped my dead speaker upon it. A man helped me right away. I told him that I was told that they needed to make sure it was all there. He opened the box and touched a few parts like he knew what should be there. He asked me what was wrong; didn’t I like it? I told him it fizzled out. I had it mounted and everything. He said:

“It looks good to return. I’ll call up front and let them know.”

I fast-walked back to customer service; critiquing the wax job all the way. The maintenance lead always insisted on leaving a bare patch between old wax and new. I knew that this chalky, un-waxed tile would take shoe-sole transfers like copy paper, but that is a gripe for another day.

When I got back to the front end, I walked confidently past a line which had nobody I recognized. I was hoping there would be someone waiting who recognized me from ten minutes earlier. That way, they could calm any bellyachers should they see me “cut” and start bellyaching. But, I was not afforded any such comfort. So, I avoided eye-contact, and prepared my retort should I be confronted.

I had stepped back up to the clerk who had pulled me from the line the first time around. She took excruciatingly long to acknowledge me. I stood there with my box, looking at her longingly. Finally, she told me that the clerk to her left would help. She said it loud, so that the clerk would understand that I had been there, and that I was to be helped next. It felt good.

I sensed eyes on my back, daring me to turn so their masters could jab. I refused the challenge, and returned my item unimpeded. There was no such remark, even as I left. I kept to myself all the same, no need to tempt fate.

Now, here there should be some wisdom, some meaning to bestow upon the reader, but I have none. I went back to electronics and got a new sound-bar. I bought a name brand this time; went home and installed it; has worked ever since. So, sorry … the end.

One of My Old Ones - Days by the River - 2001

take my memory back in time
summer days down by the river

light scatters through the canopy
the sun can't get us in the trees

bare feet traverse the rocks and sand
black mud squeezes between my toes

get old wood from devil's drop off
it becomes walls ceilings and floors

friendships and forts come together
some burn like those hot summer days

too soon the sun hides in the west
one last shot at a plywood jump

pockets filled with gum and candy
bathtub full of sand and pebbles