anyway...

[delieterkop]

“No, its supposed to go buddu-bu-buddu-bu-buddu-bu on the tom-tom's, then the snare,” Lary dares command me.
“That's conventional. Besides you don't tell me the way to play it. You're the rookie. Listen...” I start an improvised drum fill, “hear that? When you hear the meter jump start your harmonic progression. Again, from the top,” I say, rolling my sticks off the drums, turning into a spider spinning a web. My arms strike nimbly, calculatedly, the drums. Dave grins plucking the double bass behind amaranthine shades, dressed in a Canadian suit; however, it doesn't compare to my hip striped turtleneck and leather vest.
“Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha—”
Dave scolds Lary before I can “what the hell is that? That's not how it goes,” he says, “tread lightly ye who stepeth on these nerves.” We ebb into the zone, spinning my web, spinning my web.
“Duuuh, duuuh, dun-dunnu-dun-dun, dun-dunnu-dun-dun-duuuh,” for ****'s sake, I think, smashing my custom power ride cymbal. George, our manager, leaning on the marble top, close to the mike in the glass pane, asks “what's this **** you're trying out?” he drones on as I leave to the vending area. Dave follows me, “what's up?” He asks.
“This dude's got no sensibility I can't deal with it. He's just doing whatever he wants.”
“Yeah. He so lied about playing with Watch for Flying Jazz and North East Space Invasion at that bar on Western.”
“This guy is full of horse manure, there's no way he can play the material we need him to.”
“What's up?” Lary asks popping out of nowhere. Dave looks at me looking at the tiled floor waiting to speak.
“Get out, man. You suck.” Dave puts it to him lightly, “take your ****. Go.”
“I'll try harder,” Lary's constipated with insecurity, “just gimme a chance.”
“Wrong.” Dave says. Lary leaves.

“Tell me where. I'll give it to the other nipple by God.” I clutch the clippers tighter.
“Wait, no, oh god,” he croons, spurting blood on the floor by the other nipple already there. “I didn't do anything with your family, man, by God,” he gently commences sobbing.
A flashback. Now, when you spot an Iraqi with his family it is a game. I repeat, it is a game. He is playing a hunting game, you are the turkey. Don't gobble. Do not gobble. The sumbitch will I repeat will gobble you, smother you, cover you head to toe in bullets. Always, always, always, shoot to kill,” the Southern drawl drowns from my consciousness.
“Goddamn it tell me where!” My fingers curl, a fresh nipple pops, a fleshy fountain pen spurts my Denim jacket. Bloodcurdling tremors tear the air as a can opener.
That was useless, I think, leaving the house and the man and his constricted agony. I walk down the street, the sun under my feet, carrying me on. Always a good time for a drink. One lager please I tell my good man in the bar. “Always a good time for a drink,” I say to the fellow sitting beside me. Waaah-ha-ha-ha-haaaa, he cries. “Why are you crying fellow?”
“My wife is go-o-one. Waaah-haa, she's ****ing some... some... God damn it I'm so sick!” He echoes into the beer, face turned down.
“Look, forget about it! Why are we all here? Live a little,” I give him a pat, carrying the momentum of a brickbat as he slumps further into the beer, a great weight over his head.
“How can you say that? What if I said I killed and raped your family, man? Huh?”
The family man carries grenades. He will use any inconspicuous location to place them. Watch this slide. This lady is wearing this green straw hat as a sun shield. Perfectly ordinary. Correct? Incorrect! There are grenades here! In this cross section you can see the grenade there, resting atop the skull, balanced as an egg, straw hat resting atop. The grenade is as a bull in a stadium, waiting for you to say toro, toro, toro...”
“D'you hear me family man?”
“Hm, yes, party, you have a point, but you're missing mine.”
“Up yours, space case.”
“Want some peanuts?”
“No! You probably laced them!”
“They're right there in front of you, simply reach out, and enjoy them, I bet they've never tasted that good.”
“****ing get lost.”
“What do you tell the devil in hell?”
“Kill who took my wife! Please, make it all go away.”
“Request granted, drink, thy will be done.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” My party chugs.
“Ah. By the way what's your name? I'm—”
“Care to attend a party?”
“Too drunk, unsociable.” My party finishes the beer, “another!”
“Tonight, you and me dine. In a party, in hell.”
“No, I'm watching a black and white on my projector. If that bastard is dead tomorrow, it'll be you,” he slurs drunkenly and swings his arm in a buddy-buddy way.
I empty my bladder in the urinal, but my party's over, the devilish dog. Another day he'll have to live without his heart's desire.

[delieterkop]

:Enter Abel an absurd character fearing stepping on brooms each and every step:
Gosh darn things are gonna jump up and whack me in the face. It was that darn Cane that sun bitch is tryinna kill me. He's got evil spirits in his eyes. I can see the brooms through the blades of grass, I wish shoes were around. It feels like walking on magma. A helmet would be quite practical the iron kind the armor's use then I'd foil that sun bitch. I oughta slaughter a knight and take his blade and kill that sun bitch tryinna kill me. No that's not necessary, I'd sneak in a tavern at night and steal the blade. That sun bitch. He has a slave army of Filipinos crafting brooms I wonder who placed them?
:Abel has not moved a step. A frog hops on his bare foot:
Jesus!
:Abel falls backwards:
No my back! The brooms! The metal jaws! They're lashing me! I can't place my hand anywhere I'll cut 'em open.
:Abel flails on the grass:
Actually no so bad the Filipinos couldn't have reached here.
:Abel stands up and adjusts his overcoat:
Where to go? I will need water food can wait. I see the ocean over there past the palm trees and I could get back on my canoe at least there it was safe. I will still need water.
:Abel sits down on the ground:
This god awful grass and this god awful wind I can't see any brooms in sight. Too much rustling. What if I did spot them? Would I be able to dodge them from whacking my face? Could I make it a game of sidestepping them? Would it bring me any closer to killing Cane? The awful Filipinos have sneaked into taverns already. The brooms!
:He stands and shakes an angry fist at the sky:
I'm not afraid of the brooms anymore! They'll pock my face 'till but at least I'll kill that sun bitch.
:He walks to a very small stage model of palm trees that appear far away; he takes very slow steps so that it appears he has walked a great distance:
Gotta reach those coco nuts. I'll scale the tree.
:He picks up the stage model of palm trees:
What the hell? Another of Cane's foils. These are no palm trees, they're a mirage! In fact I'm hallucinating. I'm drugged.
:He throws the stage model into the audience:
So thirsty need water. I think I see a well in the distance.
:He walks into the audience and grabs an unsuspecting audience member by the shirt with both hands and shakes him shouting loudly:
Gosh darn have you seen a well? I've got no bucket but I'll cup my hands. You can lower me down with a rope.
:Before the member can reply he slaps himself in the face and falls to the floor:
Jeebers the brooms! I must go back!
:He runs back on stage:
They've disappeared again into the rustling. It's getting dark. Maybe one of those brave people out there will bring some water. I certainly rang emergency in at least one face. Boy I don't know I'll just take a nap here under the stars. It'll be alright. It'll be alright. It'll be... alright.
:Collapses on stage: