Knuckle Society

Knuckle Society 5

2007-11-26T17:26:00.000-08:00

5. Frankenskank

Frankenskank pressed the bloody washrag against the puncture wounds dimpling Street Pharmacist’s bicep. Street sucked on one of Triple M’s Winstons, blowing the smoke mostly away from her face. He studied her angular good looks. She possessed the rail thin physique of a south side crack whore. Not exactly his favorite body type. However, there was something about her eyes, something dark, mysterious, Mediterranean, even, that made Street want to fuck the hell out of her. Of course, his mind didn’t actually process the information in this way. What he thought was: she’s got a nice eyes and a vagina. He dropped the cigarette to the bathroom’s dirty linoleum floor and ground it out with his shoe.

He smiled often, she noticed, especially considering the amount of wounds he sustained in the barbed wire match. Almost two dozen Band-Aids from the XJW first aid box marred his arms and chest. He’s good-looking, too, even with that Bocephus beard like the ass hairs of a goat hanging off his chin and jaw. She also noticed he allowed her to catch him glancing appreciatively at her body.

The entire time she washed and bandaged Street’s wounds, he never uttered a single complaint. Lemonhead would have been screaming bloody murder. Not that Lemonhead would have volunteered for such a dangerous match. He lacked the testicular fortitude needed to take so much as a garbage can bounced off his oddly shaped head.

He trumped her boyfriend in every way. He possessed muscles where Lemonhead possessed none. He smiled almost constantly whereas Lemonhead usually scowled. Street worked, albeit an illegal profession. Her boyfriend would now be living off the two hundred odd dollars a week unemployment provided. Street Pharmacist would never sexually harass a fifty year-old woman.

Duct Tape Boy’s theme music, The Screaming Shits’ "Bush Beetle Serenade" blared from the boombox outside.

Street Pharmacist said "DTB’s gonna get his jobber ass beat."

"You gonna go check it out?" Frankenskank winced as she spoke the words.

There was a definite chemistry, a spark of electricity, however those bullshit romance movies put it when two people with little better than a nodding acquaintances wanted to fuck. She knew if something was going to happen, this would be their opportunity. She wasn’t a jughole. The thought of fucking any of the other jugheads disgusted her. Not Freeko – the chubby kid always wearing the demonic clown mask. Not Scrub – the bum with five samurai dude hockey jerseys and fifty one tattoos who had to beg for change to buy a chili dog at Arnie’s. Duct Tape Boy might have been all right if he wasn’t so goddam ignorant.

Still, she couldn’t help offer Street an out. She hated herself for handing him the decision.
Street Pharmacist smiled that half ounce a day smile. "I ain’t in no hurry. I’ve seen Duct Tape Boy get his ass beat lots of times."

Here we go, she thought.

Frankenskank led Street into Lemonhead’s bedroom. He glanced at the generic Screaming Shits posters taped haphazardly to the filthy walls. Cobweb spider hammocks hung across the corners. The focal point of the room, the shrine at which Lemonhead worshipped, was the Xbox connected to a 32 inch television. Street saw he had Madden 2008 and Halo 3 and made a mental note to steal the games once he finished snaking Frankenskank’s puss.

She noticed his eyes settle on the video game system and linger. Goddammit, what the fuck is with guys and their video games. Jock or Jughead. Stoner or gangbanger, most would rather smoke a bowl and play the latest incarnation of Grand Theft Auto than knock off a piece of ass. It was fortunate Lemonhead locked up his Rock Star game and guitar controller in the closet to keep Scrub from hocking it. Street would be standing in front of the tv right now trying to distill the chords from Iron Maiden’s "Run To The Hills" to a sequence of red, blue, yellow and green buttons. And how sad was it, kids today, rather than teaching themselves to play instruments and create vital music were contenting themselves with Freebird competitions on a guitar-shaped joystick? No wonder the world was falling apart.

Street laid her down on the nasty sheets. He didn’t seem to mind the filth. For Frankenskank the stained sheets were a bit more difficult to ignore. As long as she’d dated Lemonhead, he’d changed the sheets exactly never. Granted, she’d only been dating him an excruciating two months, but she could see herself two years from now lying on the same unwashed fabric and that vision scared the shit out of her. During the same time interval, he never quite got around to sweeping, dusting, or cleaning the toilet bowl, either, always muttering cryptically about holding out for Scrub to uphold his domestic responsibilities.

She pulled down his boxer shorts and his peter twang half rose to greet her. The words "hockey puck" came directly to mind. Poor bastard. He must’ve been an inch and a half shorter than Lemonhead who’s penis was no kidney tickler, either. Six years worth of disappointing boyfriends, however, taught her the value of a poker face which enabled Street to read slack-jawed amazement into her blank expression.

"That’s right, baby," he said, "take a toke off this pipe."

She stuck his cock in her mouth, momentarily, as a sort of courtesy. XJW matches were generally short and brutal. If she entertained any hope of getting herself off, the introductory blow job would have to wait. All ready she heard the crowd chanting "X-Jay-Dub! X-Jay-Dub!".
Frankenskank stood before he could lock his fingers behind her head. She shrugged her jeans down her narrow hips and kneeled beside him.

"We’re not gonna have much time," she whispered.

Though Street would have contented himself with a blow job, he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to get his weed wet. She bent over the bed, her scrawny ass in the air like a bike rack for tricycles. Her pussy looked like it could have parked an Amtrak train. But it was up to him, maybe not him alone, but at the moment, him to fill that tunnel up.

He positioned himself behind her, lined up the hole with the pole and rammed it home.
Frankenskank knotted the sheets in her firsts and bit her lips to keep from yelping. Did this burnt out motherfucker know anything about sex? That she’d gotten a little moist attending to his wounds might have been the only thing keeping her labes from being torn loose with his first thrust. She wanted to call a time-out or something, anything to step aside a moment, regain her breath and explain to this motherfucker the difference between a vagina and the inside of his fist.

Once the initial pain, surprise, rage subsided, she found there was some enjoyment to be had in the animalistic way he pounded her. About three inches worth of enjoyment. He gripped her hips and pistoned against her, desperate to finish fast. He didn’t want to responsible for XJW losing its current home should Lemonhead run inside to take a piss or have a brief cry. Expulsion was the only form of retaliation available to Lemonhead’s bitch ass.

As his climax neared, Street overestimated his stroke and crammed his cock straight up her asshole. Frankenskank gasped. But he never let up, seemingly unaware to the point where she couldn’t be certain whether the move was calculated or not. As stoned as he was, it was a minor miracle he could even calculate a hard-on.

Fucked up or not, Street knew the difference between fucking a goat and fucking a chicken. And he knew which one he preferred... the one with the friction.

The back door slammed shut. The way Lemonhead always slammed it.

"Omigod!"

Street popped out of her ass, pulling up his boxers in the same deft motion. To Frankenskank, the sensation of him withdrawing from her anus continued even as he gathered his clothes. Not until Street Pharmacist hissed "Jesus Christ" did she turned around and see that she had shit all over the bed.

"Oh my God."

She froze, fascinated by the sheer amount of excrement that had vacated her scrawny body. This is the worse, she thought. Absolute worst. Kill me now before Street begins laughing. Before Lemonhead comes in and starts guffawing, unmindful of the events preceding the evacuation of her bowels. Then the rest of the XJW, a moronic catalog of Screaming Shits shirts crwoding into the bedroom, laughing and talking trash. Freeko would probably suggest they use the sheets in a match.

"Get your pants up, now."

Street grabbed a couple of Xbox games, then caught hold of her arm with his free hand. He wasn’t laughing. "We gotta go."

The sound of Lemonhead’s heavy footsteps stopped the half-dressed couple in their tracks. Street’s eyes, she noticed, now appeared calm and focused. He eased open the closet door in the hallway outside the bedroom and pushed her inside. He followed her into the darkness, gently shutting the door behind them.

Ten seconds later, Lemonhead exploded. "Who the fuck shit in my bed?"

Street prayed he wouldn’t follow the stench into the closet. The jughole hadn’t time to wipe her ass. The smell made his eyes water.

Lemonhead’s voice trailed down the hall and onto the back porch. "Which one of you sorry motherfuckers took a shit on my bed?"

The moment the back screen door slammed, Street rushed Frankenskank out the front door.

"He’s gonna know I left with you," she said, folding the plain blue t-shirt she grabbed from the closet.

"We can go back in there and you can tell Lemonhead why you shit on his bed."

"My car’s just down the street."

Knuckle Society 4

2007-11-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

4. Duct Tape Boy

Duct Tape Boy kicked together the mattresses, trying to cut down the risk of turning an ankle or blowing out a knee. As far as his chances of losing an eye or severing an artery – he could only hope for the best.

The mattresses had been procured from the alleyways of the seedier sections of town. They were all invariably piss-stained, mottled browns like Jughead Rorschachs. The mattress on the far left was saturated with Street Pharmacist’s blood. The barbed wire proved to be a bit more merciless than anticipated. The mattress resembled a prop from the movie Hellraiser 2.

Duct Tape Boy spat, disgusted, not so much with the bodily fluids, but with XJW commentator and occasional battle royale participant, Marvelous Mark Mukowski’s failure once again to announce Duct Tape Boy by his rightful name "Crackersack Jack". Come to think of it, since he switched names two months ago, he’d yet to hear his new moniker from any lips but his own. It was time he confronted Freeko and Da Jew about this shit. The Terrorist aka the Serbian Svenghouli aka Gucci Gucci Goober got to change his fucking name once a week.

DTB stalked across the mattresses giving his approximation of a menacing stare. The assembled neighborhood kids still buzzed with the excitement of bloodshed. Chants of "X-Jay_Dub" occasionally broke out in the crowd, usually led by Da Jew who would point at the quiet kids in the rabble and yell things like "hey you fuckin punks, you better get to chanting or I’ll send you home to your unwed mothers with an ass-beating".

"Hey, Duct Tape Boy," Marvelous Mark Mukowski called from the threadbare couch he shared with guest commentator, Freeko. Coal Train, still swearing the fellas named him after the legendary jazz musician, focused the camera on him. "You got anything to say to the camera about All American Scrub before we begin the Battle of the Jobbers?"

"Who you calling a jobber? At least I ain’t afraid to get out here and wrassle. And as far as All American Scrub goes, I’m gonna kick his fuckin ass. Also, my name’s Crackersack Jack, now. You know this."

Freeko reached over and cued Scrub’s music. The Screaming Shit’s "High School Gun Club". All American Scrub raced out from behind the house, through the gauntlet of kids, giving Scrub high-fives because they didn’t know any better. Scrub slipped off his SS shirt, revealing his tattoos. He was especially proud of the JUGHEAD inked in fancy letters across his bony upper back.

Scrub flexed his eight inch biceps, bugged out his eyes and shook his head as though he were experiencing a massive surge of adrenaline or an epileptic seizure or a Hulk Hogan Saturday Night Main Event flashback.

Duct Tape Boy tried to remember the loose confederation of moves they’d worked out while smoking a bowl before the match. First the clothesline. Scrub would ten deliver a body slam, a standing drop kick and a abbreviated frog splash before DTB would retaliate with a fireman’s carry, dumping Scrub onto the sheet of plywood propped against the chainlink fence.
Scrub picked up a garbage can and caved it in over Duct Tape Boy’s head.

"Fuck!" Duct Tape Boy found himself horizontal, blinking back tears.

He was vaguely aware of the other Jugheads and the rest of the audience chanting "X-Jay-Dub! X-Jay-Dub!"

"Are you okay?" Lemonhead, the acting referee, asked. His sole function consisted of making sure the wrestler hadn’t suffered any spinal injuries following every high risk move.

Duct Tape Boy answered Lemonhead’s question by regaining his feet and catching a clothesline across his throat.

Scrub aped Hogan again, cupping his hand to his ear. Rather than cheers and adoration, he heard Freeko holler at DTB to get up and stop being a pussy.

Scrub kicked Duct Tape Boy three times in the head, mostly to hold his attention as Lemonhead squeezed lighter fluid across the plywood adorned with the blessed marijuana leaf.

DTB thought the second boot to his head might have jarred something loose. He shook his head expecting to hear gears rattle. When Scrub grabbed his chin, lifting DTB to his knees, Duct Tape Boy punched Scrub’s ball sack. Scrub’s eyes bugged out for real and he doubled over, gripping his jewels.

Chants of "Holy Shit!" and "X-Jay-Dub!" rose from the rabble. Nut shots were held in high regard by XJW members provided they were not on the receiving end.

Duct Tape Boy set up the ladder next to the mattresses and ascended to the top. He stood at the apex, arms spread out as though to orchestrate the cheers. He executed his finishing move, the swantan bomb, flawlessly, flying through the air, somersaulting across Scrub’s chest just before the moment of impact.

"Holy Shit! Holy Shit!" Went the crowd.

DTB felt like what he imagined God must feel sitting up in St. Casimir’s steeple, listening to all the old Polish ladies begging and praying for one more year of perogi-eating. Then Scrub smacked him across the face with a folding chair.

Scrub scooped him up on his shoulders. Scrub nodded at Lemonhead. Lemonhead struck a match and flame immediately roiled off the sign. DTB had once singed the eyebrows right off his fucking face igniting a charcoal grill. The plywood inferno looked ten times worse.
"Wait a second, guys, there’s too much –."

Scrub dumped him like 150 lb. sack of shit.

There was the pain of DTB’s spine breaking the plywood, his left hand and forearm raking the garage. Heat encompassed his torso. The flames licking off his Screaming Shits shirt was especially alarming. The shirt set him back twenty bucks! He considered rolling, but where? Tacks and slivers of broken glass littered the yard. He’d have to hop the fence and roll around the neighbor’s patch of grass.

"You’re on fire," Lemonhead said.

Lemonhead stepped back, not wanting to take the chance of catching fire, himself.
Scrub landed on top of Duct Tape Boy with a bone-jarring thud. Jack Doobie, Terrorist, The Bean and Da Jew joined the monkey pile.

"Oh shit, you guys are crushing my liver."

"The fire out?"

"You guys are fucking killing me..."

"Fire’s out."

The Jugheads removed themselves from DTB’s battered, though extinguished body. Duct Tape Boy laid there, watching the tendrils of smokes curling away from his chest. He thought about his couch at home and how nice it would be to sprawl across it, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching Scooby-Doo. There’s no shame in early retirement. The XJW could limp along without the dynamism he brought to the occasional event.

All American Scrub leapt in the air and dropped his leg across Duct Tape Boy’s clavicle, then covered him for a quick three count.

Lemonhead raised Scrub’s hand and pronounced him the winner. Scrub posed down, flexing his bones and skin and tattoos to a smattering of applause.

Lemonhead’s excitement eclipsed Scrub’s joy in actually winning a match. His match for the Guadalajara belt was next. He glanced at the faces of the XJW fans surrounding him. His smile faded.

"Where’s my girlfriend?" Lemonhead asked no one in particular.

Knuckle Society 3

2007-11-21T20:42:00.000-08:00

3. Street Pharmacist

Street Pharmacist studied the coiled length of barbed wire next to Da Jew’s foot. "Fuck that," Street said. "That’s not what I’m about. "I’m all about bong hits and powerbombs. I don’t even climb a fence if it’s got barbed wire on top."

Da Jew rubbed a hand across his bald pate Morse-coded with paper thin dashes and scab dots from last week’s hardcore match. Hell, all the matches were hardcore. He wore a butterfly bandage on the gash above his left eye where a shard of fluorescent bulb embedded itself.

"You’re almost as bad as Lemonhead, you know that? You won’t let me break bulbs over your melon head. Least you can do is let Terrorist wrap you up in barbed wire before he does his 9-11 finishing move on you."

"I don’t want to hear that shit. I tole you the shit inside those bulbs are cancerous."

"Dammit, Street, just hold your breath like the rest of us. It’s only cancerous if it gets in your lungs. All right, look, fuck the bulbs. Give the barbed wire a try. No one ever caught cancer from barbed wire. Most of the barbs won’t even break the skin."

"Those barbs are rusty."

"So what? When’s the last time you had your Tetanus shot?"

"Dude, it’s been like ten years ago."

"Perfect. Those things are good for like fifteen years."

Street Pharmacist weighed his options. "I want the belt. The Wicked Voodoo Master belt."

"No fuckin way. Jack Doobie’s got a lock on that belt for the next two months."

"C’mon. I gotta get something out of this. What about the Supreme Ninja belt?"

"Freeko ain’t giving that shit up. Not after getting his head rammed through my garage, getting tacks stomped into his face and his balls set on fire."

"So I’m putting my body on the line for nothing?"

"I told you; once we get the website up and running, and once we make copies of the X-Jay-Dub tapes and once we start selling copies of the events, you’ll practically be famous. Everyone will want to buy their dope from THE Street Pharmacist, purveyor of the power bong. And you know we’ll kick a few X-Jay-Dub dollars your way."

Street continued mulling. Da Jew was as shrewd as his namesake. Street knew he’d rather buy his dope from a famous wrestler before he’d buy a sack off some back alley Mexican like that DeJesus cocksucker Doobie set him up with. Seven pounds of moldy weed not worth selling to fucking high school kids. And no sign of DeJesus once Street cracked open the second pound and found the white spores proliferating throughout the withered bulbs.

He didn’t want to think about it, though, didn’t want to consider the money he owed, the money he lost gambling on a supplier he didn’t even know, didn’t want to imagine what the Romero brothers were up to, right now. Locked away in a hole in the ground, looking at serious fucking time.

Nope, thinking about that would only wreck his high. Thinking about a XJW championship belt on the other hand... Think of all the dimebags he could move with the Ultimate Blunt Killer belt hanging off his shoulder. Hell yeah, that might make up for the seven pounds of worthless unkind bud stacked on his kitchen table.

Street glanced at Jack Doobie, setting along the fence the plywood boards spray painted with such slogans as POLISH MAFIA, FUCK EVERYONE, and the Screaming Shits motto LIGHT THAT SHIT UP. He couldn’t see Doobie purposefully setting him up to get burned. Nobody felt worse about Street taking the five thousand dollar hit than Doobie. He was Polish Mafia. A Jughead. A Friend From Birth. Five thousand dollars couldn’t buy away that kind of friendship. He just didn’t know DeJesus as well as he thought he did. He fucked up. Street fucked up. The Romero brothers getting busted by the Feds had everyone acting dodgy. It wasn’t the end of the world. Not like it was the end of the world for Corey and Gregory Romero.

He glanced at his younger brother, Freeko. Lemonhead had him cornered up, whining and bitching. Frankenskank stood in a neutral corner of the yard, waiting for her jackass boyfriend to finish airing out his pussy.

She glanced up from her shoe tops. Her dark eyes met his bloodshot eyes. She smiled, flirtatiously perhaps. It was difficult to tell. Her chipped front teeth threw him off. Regardless, he tipped his dragon bong in salute.

Feasibly attractive, he thought. Wouldn’t kick her outta bed for spilling bong water on the sheets.

Then he imagined Frankenskank’s reaction to seeing him wrapped in barbed wire, gorilla pressing the Terrorist’s bitch ass. Likely it would involved moisture around her vaginal area, something obviously missing from her relationship with Lemonhead. He glanced back at her in time to see her exchange flirtatious smiles with Coal Train.

"I’ll do it," Street said. "Let’s just get this shit over with. I’m a business man. Time is money."

knuckle society 2

2007-11-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

2. Freeko

Freeko remained constantly in motion, trying to keep Lemonhead from cornering him and bitching about his shitty life. He’d all ready heard Lemonhead ask Blood Clot Boy if he wanted to move in, share the rent. He neglected to mention the room mate he currently shared the house with, the one who refused to pay rent or wash dishes or match dope; who couldn’t even be bothered to throw away his empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the trash or turn off the stove after over-cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese.

The house itself was a dying brontosaurus bogged down in a land teeming with veloceraptors. Every angle sagged, every stench represented in the house’s filthy innards. The gutters hadn’t been cleaned since the Jurassic period. Funky green mold coated the vinyl siding. Freeko stayed outside as much as possible.

The afternoon’s turn-out pleased him. Most everyone was accounted for. Even Duct Tape Boy straggled in on time. Usually there were a handful of jobbers who couldn’t pry themselves away from the couch and the Scooby Doo cartoons on the tv, yet still wanted to be considered Jugheads, DTB being the most notorious absentee.

A sizeable crowd of the XJW faithful, mostly neighborhood kids, looking for a dose of controlled chaos, had begun filling the yard of the abandoned house next door.

Freeko busied himself supervising pre-event rituals. He helped Jack Doobie situate "the ring" made up of eight salvaged mattresses. Duct Tape Boy, ever cautious, used a whisk broom to sweep away the tacks and fragments of broken glass embedded in the mattresses from last week’s main event.

He discussed camera positioning with Coal Train and wrasslin commentator Marvelous Mark Mukowski. He moved on to the CD player set up next to the commentator’s couch. All the Screaming Shits CDs were accounted for (almost everyone’s entrance music was taken from this seminal band with the exception of the two Mexicans, Mad Man Mondo and The Bean aka The Spaniard aka The Venezuelan Goat Fucker, whose preference for disposable hip hop changed weekly).

From there Freeko inventoried the XJW checklist of pain: several sheets of scrap plywood, two dozen long fluorescent light bulbs. Two boxes of hundred count thumb tacks, one eight foot ladder in acceptable working condition, two slightly dented folding chairs - PROPERTY OF ST CASIMIR CHURCH stenciled on the back, lighter fluid, an ironing board, a baseball bat, a roll of barb wire and three shiny new aluminum trash cans with lids freshly stolen from the alley behind the Modjeski residence.

All the while, Lemonhead stood on the fringes of his own yard waiting for an opportunity to speak privately with the president and co-founder of Xtreme Jughead Wrasslin. He readied his approach, but the sudden appearance of Da Jew at Freeko’s side gave him pause. Da Jew was especially ruthless in his opinions concerning Lemonhead.

"Whatcha figure we start off with?" Da Jew asked.

Freeko shrugged. "We’ll get Street Pharmacist in first before he gets too stoned to wrassle. Last time he almost broke Terrorist’s neck with his fuckin powerbomb."

"Powerbong. He’s calls it the ‘powerbong’."

"Hell, I call my cock ‘Clarence’. Doesn’t mean everyone else gots to."

"So who we gonna get to wrassle him?"

"Get Terrorist again. Come up with something to spice it up."

"I’ll think of something. I was gonna ask you; wanna go halfsies on an ounce while Street’s holding?"

"Just as long as it ain’t that ditch weed he’s been passing off lately. I’d just as soon huff gasoline then try to get off on that shit."

What Freeko wanted even more than a half-stake in a bag of Mexican ball hair was for Da Jew to stick around a bit longer, keep Lemonhead at bay, but he was all ready off, searching for Freeko’s brother.

His disappointment with Da Jew’s departure was alleviated in part by the arrival of Lemonhead’s woman, Frankenskank. She could pat Lemonhead’s hand, tell him everything was going to be sunshine and unicorns. Seeing her cat-walking her scrawny, angular body through the side yard reminded Freeko of the metal compass he had in grade school, the sort you used to draw perfect circles but possessing no educational purpose other than stabbing the kid seated in front of you.

Freeko’s relief was short-lived. With everyone’s attention diverted by Frankenskank’s spindly-legged approach, Lemonhead made his move.

"Hey, Freeko, can I have a word with you?"

"What you want, bitch?"

"Damn, man, no reason to snap off like that," Lemonhead sulked. "I just wanted to ask about some X-Jay-Dub business."

Freeko exhaled through his crooked nose. Every other XJW member wore Screaming Shits shirts emblazoned with the Samurai Dude insignia. Even the Mexicans. Even All American Scrub who’d yet to experience the joys of chronic employment managed a few Screaming Shits shirts and quite a number of Screaming Shits tattoos. Lemonhead wore purple sweatpants and a plain gray t-shirt. No Samurai Dude silhouette. No pictures of the Screaming Shits vocal duo Marrow Sucker and Toe Cutter. No sign of any other bands from the Shit Storm Gang on the Shitzophrenia record label. Not even a fucking Nike symbol.

"I ain’t snapping off, bitch," Freeko snapped off. "I call all my homey’s ‘bitches’. So what’s up? I heard about you getting shit-canned today."

"Yeah, this dumb cunt at work -."

"I said I heard all ready."

"Oh. Well... ok... uhm... I wanted to ask you when it’s gonna be my turn to get a belt. Everyone except me’s had one at some time it seems like."

Ah, fucking hell, he should’ve known. Ever since Scrub stole his cousin’s credit cards and mail ordered those plastic WWE souvenir belts to the empty house next door, that’s all Freeko’s heard about. When do I get a belt? When do I get a belt?

"Duct Tape Boy’s never won a belt. Neither has Coal Train."

Lemonhead wrinkled his nose real cutesy-like. "Duct Tape Boy misses half the events. And Coal Train’s black. I don’t see why I can’t have one of the belts. I let you guys put on these shows in my yard. You know? Hell, that’s my couch and boombox over there getting ashed on by Triple M’s Winstons. When Da Jew’s mom kicked you guys out for putting a hole in the garage with your skull, who helped you guys out? I did."

What Freeko thought was: Fuck you, Lemonhead. You’ve got no skills. You won’t even let Jack Doobie light you on fire. You bitch almost constantly... almost as much as DTB bitches, but at least he can perform the swantan bomb from the top of the garage. Your entire wrestling persona is based on the shape of your fucking cranium.

What Freeko said was: "Fuck you, Lemonhead. You didn’t even have a girlfriend before XJW came along. You want a shot at the belt? You’re gonna hafta earn the motherfucker. I’ll make tonight’s match for the Guadalajara belt a three way match. You want the belt, you’ll hafta beat Mad Man Mondo and The Bean to get it. Bitch."

Knuckle Society 1

2007-11-21T20:33:00.000-08:00

well, I almost abandoned the blog. For the moment I will put up some chapters of the novel I'm presently working on, Knuckle Society. So....

1. Super Psycho Samurai Circus

1. Lemonhead

Lemonhead parked his piece of shit Buick in the alley behind his rented house. Water spritzed the windshield from the spitting radiator. He cut the engine, not entirely sure he’d be able to start it back up next time he needed to get somewhere.

"Goddammit," he muttered, climbing out of the ‘78 model Electra. What the hell happened to me?

Upon opening, the back gate squealed like a sodomized redneck. Lemonhead walked past an assortment of aluminum garbage cans, saw horses, sheets of plywood, a bent stop sign, an eight foot folding ladder, the dented hood from a 1974 Ford LTD. All of it and more scattered across the packed dirt expanse of his yard.

He stopped at the baby blue plastic kiddie pool, the sort you can buy at Wal-Mart for ten dollars and some change. The All American Scrub lounged in the brackish water. Lemonhead’s mellow yellow plastic bong, the sort you can buy at Bong-mart for twenty dollars and some change, balanced precariously on Scrub’s scrawny, tattooed chest.

"Lost my job today," Lemonhead said. "Now I’m unemployed. Just like you."

Scrub stirred from his reverie. Lemonhead’s dope had done a number on his state of consciousness. He’d been thinking quite a bit about The Screaming Shits’ latest CD "Ineluctable Void". He’d come close to reaching a conclusion of some sort. Now it was gone and his room mate loomed above him, fish-eyeing the bong.

"What?"

"You remember that old bitch, Marilyn? The one who can’t do anything for herself? Always coming around asking me to set up her drill or get her material down cause she’s afraid to use the overhead crane. Finally today I told her maybe this factory shit ain’t right for her, you know. Said maybe she oughta stay home, knit doilies or something."

"You got fired for that?"

"Nah," Lemonhead sighed. "After I said all that the bitch went ballistic. Starts in on how she worked fifteen years as a union pipe fitter working with a bunch of men. I asked where she fit all those pipes, in her mouth? Come to find out, that’s considered sexual harassment. So I got shit-canned."

Scrub’s mind raced. His brain being more of a sprinter than a marathon runner, little time elapsed before he spoke. "So how we gonna make rent, dude?"

What Lemonhead wanted to say was: Get your dead ass up and get a fuckin job. What he said was: "I dunno."

The dope was having a profound effect on the All American Scrub. His thought process kept processing at a near prodigious rate. "Frankenskank called, homey. Said she’s stopping by a little later on. Also Freeko says the X-Jay-Dub boys are coming over for some matches."
"Wonderful. That’s just what I needed today."

"Hells yeah. I’m stompin a mudhole in Duct Tape Boy’s ass, cuz."

The thought of another afternoon of Xtreme Jughead Wrasslin made Lemonhead want to curl up in the backseat of the Buick with all the holes stuffed with newspaper and a steady stream of carbon monoxide pouring in. Maybe if he had the Supreme Ninja belt or the Wicked Voodoo Master title to show for the constant beatings and endless taunting...

All American Scrub stood up, butt-naked, and walked inside, trailing water through the kitchen.

"Goddam," Lemonhead muttered. "Goddam."

pay to play, or the lucid moon rises again

2007-10-27T10:38:00.000-07:00

Michael Grover put up an interesting tidbit on Outsider Writers (www.outsiderwriters.org) about his resentment concerning certain publishers who do not offer contributor copies, comparing them to the snivelling con artists over at Poetry.com. While that may be harsh, I think it's still a valid point.

Nelson Algren once said in an interview that the author assigns the dollar value to his output. If you write a really good story, you may say that you're not going to sell it for anything less than a hundred dollars. And then, either you become a hundred dollars richer, or the story languishes on your hard drive and no one reads it. Some folks can blame the marketability of the story for whether or not it sells, or the quality of the writing.

Now, writing poetry... It's a given no one here will likely ever see much money from penning verse. We try to give our poems away every day to a multitude of websites. It's the value we've assigned to our poetry and it's the value that society has assigned to poetry. We continue to write and submit to share our thoughts and feelings with others, we do it for the cheap pop of seeing our names on a search engine, and I suppose that's good enough.

So, submitting poetry to a print journal, an anthology, what have you. Is it too much to expect a contributor copy? It depends on the value you've assigned to your poem. I've given away hundreds of poems to websites, and I've submitted hundreds of poems to print journals. The websites offer the cheap pop of seeing your name on a search engine. The print journals should give contributor copies. That's the value I assign to my poetry. Some people are satisfied with getting their poetry in print. That's their value. Michael Grover wrote an article about the value he assigned to his poetry and got his ass handed to him by a few defensive people. Of course, there's the flipside of the coin. No one's making money from this (discounting poetry.com). Print journals rely on subscriptions to stay afloat. Thusly, if I enjoy a poetry journal, whether it publishes me or not, it would behoove me to subscribe to the magazine as it would be advantageous for everyone to support those who support us.

murdering misconceptions

2007-10-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

I usually begin blogs with the proper intentions only to lose interest after a handful of entries. What I would ordinarily write in a blog I usually hold back for the columns I write for http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/ or my column for http://www.antimuse.org/ (which is ramping back up in December. During my recent trip to Chicago, I went to karaoke. I dedicated my rendition of Alice Cooper's "I Love The Dead" to the Chicago Cubs (this being the day the Cubs hit into 24 double plays and knocked themselves out of the post season). Two transvestites took offense and it turned into a brawl. See, this would be something nice to blog about, but alas, the reader must wait until it appears in one column or another. Also, I'm extremely lazy, which may be another reason weeks go by between blog posts. Anyway, I'm going to keep this a bit more intimate. Talk about myself, the books I'm reading, the projects I'm working on. And we'll see what happens.