Mark T. Conard's Blog, page 6

The King of South Philly Part III

Sister Rachel Armageddon

I.

Late on a Saturday afternoon, Ralphie and Quentin sat in a back booth at Johnny’s Place in South Philly, drinking whiskey out of straight glasses. They’d had to move to the back, since more and more the boozehounds who always hung around the bar had started to bug Ralphie and ask him for favors.
For a few minutes, Quentin had been trying to convince Ralphie of the superiority of the Beatles over the Rolling Stones.
“I really don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie.
“Both Lennon and McCartney were great songwriters,” said Quentin. “Either one of them could write a great tune, a great lyric, and it would be a hit song.”
“So the fuck what?”
“So what? So, I’ll tell you so what—the Stones are a one note band. All their songs sound the same—it’s fucking Mick Jagger prancing around, pretending like he’s some nigger, pouting his huge ugly lips, and whining.”
Ralphie sighed and took another drink of straight whiskey.
“I keep telling you,” he said, “I don’t give a fuck. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the fucking Beach Boys, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass for any of them. They all mean shit to me.”
Quentin winced like he’d tasted something terrible. “The Beach Boys? Are you kidding me? We’re talking about the Beatles versus the Rolling Stones. The Beach Boys don’t even enter the picture.”
“Let me make it plain,” said Ralphie. “I don’t give a shit.”
Quentin frowned and took a drink of whiskey. “You’re funny, Ralphie, you know it? You don’t like any of the things everybody else likes. You know what I was thinking? That you’re sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, only without the Dr. Jekyll part.”
“You say some stupid shit sometimes,” said Ralphie. “We’ve been friends a long time, but once in a while I just want to beat your fucking head in with a baseball bat.”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I was talking about just now.”
Ralphie looked over to see a blond girl with whorish make up staring at him from across the room. She wore a jean skirt and a black tube top. Ralphie frowned.
“Who’s that?” he said to Quentin.
Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Why’s she staring at me?”
“I don’t know that either,” said Quentin.
Ralphie waved to her to come over to the table. The girl looked around, then pointed to herself. Ralphie nodded, and the girl started across the room.
“What’s your name?” said Ralphie, as she stepped up to them.
“Sheri-Lynn,” she said, and she had a cute Southern accent.
“Where you from?” said Quentin. “Delaware?”
She shook her head. “I was born and raised in North Carolina,” she said. “I been here a few years now.”
“What do you want?” said Ralphie.
“Well,” she said. “I heard you’re the guy to come to around here, you know, when you can’t go to the cops.”
Ralphie grinned and nodded and leaned back in the seat. “What if I am?” he said.
“I was kind of wondering,” she said, looking at the floor.
“Wondering what?” said Ralphie. “Spit it out.”
“I was wondering if you wanted to be my manager.”
“Manager?”
“You know, my pimp,” she said, glancing around.
“Shit,” said Ralphie, grinning wider. He looked at Quentin. “You imagine that? Me, a pimp?”
Quentin laughed. “Hell, yeah, you’d make a great pimp! Why don’t you do it, Ralphie?”
Ralphie looked back at the girl. “I don’t know anything about pimping.”
“There really ain’t nothing to it,” said the girl. “You just got to look out for me and make sure nobody takes advantage of me or hurts me, that kind of thing, and I give you a cut of my earnings.”
“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “How much?”
“That’d be up to you, but it’s usually about half.”
“Hey, that ain’t bad,” said Quentin.
“Plus, you get to fuck me whenever you want,” said the girl.
Ralphie looked her up and down. “Yeah, I don’t know.”
“And you can beat me if I get out of line,” she said.
“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “That’s part of the arrangement?”
She nodded. “Sure is. It’s part of the pimp/whore relationship. Has been for ages.”
“That sounds pretty good,” said Quentin.
“It’s tempting,” said Ralphie. “But I don’t think so. I got too much other shit to do right now.”
“Okay,” said the girl, hanging her head.
Ralphie let out a sigh, looking at her. “Tell you what.”
“Yeah?” she said, looking up at him.
“If anybody bothers you, just let me know. Maybe I’ll run them off for you.”
“Oh, thanks, Ralphie. Thanks.”
She hurried back to the front bar.
“I really think you ought to go into pimping,” said Quentin. “I’d give you a hand with it. I know Pete would love to help out, too.”
“Nah,” said Ralphie, waving his hand. “Too much trouble.”
“Uh-oh,” said Quentin, looking across the room. “Look who’s here.”
Ralphie glanced over to see a guy they grew up with, Sam, standing in the same spot the prostitute had been standing in, scanning the room. As soon as he spotted Ralphie, he came hurrying over.
In high school, Sam had been in the marching band and played chess, and the rumor had always been that the gym teacher sodomized him. Ralphie hated his guts.
“Hey Ralphie!” said Sam, walking up to the table.
Quentin jumped out of his seat and blocked Sam from getting any closer.
“Just hold up there, Sam,” he said.
“I want to talk to Ralphie,” said Sam.
“Well, maybe Ralphie don’t want to talk to you.”
“It’s important,” said Sam.
Ralphie drank down the whiskey in his glass.
“If you waste my time, Sam,” he said. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”
“I swear, it’s not a waste of your time,” said Sam.
“Okay,” said Ralphie with a wave of his hand. “Let him by.”
Quentin stepped aside, and Sam approached the table.
“It’s about a job,” said Sam. “You know my Uncle Ulysses, the pharmacist?”
“What about him?” said Ralphie.
“He’s got this extra large shipment of pain medication in his store right now. I forget what they’re called, but they’re popular on the street. He lives overtop the store, but he went to the Poconos this weekend, so I thought we could break in there and steal them, you and me. They’d be worth a lot of money!”
“I told you not to waste my time,” said Ralphie, sliding out of the booth.
He punched Sam in the face, sending him to his knees. Ralphie bashed him on the side of the head, and kicked him in the guts as he lay on the floor. Sam curled up in a fetal position, whimpering. Ralphie stomped on his hand, breaking several fingers.
Ralphie sat back down in the booth, breathing hard.
“Get him out of here,” he said to Quentin.
Quentin waved to Al, one of the boozehounds, to help him, and the two of them lugged Sam out of the bar.
Ralphie signaled to Charlie the bartender, and Charlie brought a bottle of whiskey to the table and refilled their glasses.
Quentin came back inside, rubbing his hands together, and sat back down at the table.
“Give Pete a call,” said Ralphie. “Tell him to get over here.”
“He’s supposed to be taking his mother to her doctor’s appointment,” said Quentin, taking out his phone.
“That’s okay,” said Ralphie. “He can do that later.”
“Why you want to get him over here?”
“We’re going to rob that pharmacy,” said Ralphie. “It’s a good idea, and I know a guy we can sell that stuff to and make a nice profit.”
“Great,” said Quentin.
“We’ll need Pete to drive us,” said Ralphie.
As Quentin phoned Pete, someone approached the table. Ralphie looked up to see Rachel Almaghetti, the nun. Everyone around the neighborhood called her Sister Rachel Armageddon.
The nun wore ordinary street clothes, a sweater and a pair of jeans, like she always did. No one had ever seen her in her nun’s habit outside of church. Thin and petite, she had chestnut hair that came down to her shoulders.
“I saw what you just did to poor Sam,” said Sister Rachel Armageddon.
“Fuck off,” said Ralphie.
“You boys are really cruel,” she said. “Sam’s had a hard life, the way he was molested in high school and everything.”
Ralphie hated the way she’d called them ‘boys’, since the nun was their age. She might even have been younger, still in her twenties. It was like she thought she was better than they were, like she had a calling in life, from God or the Pope, or one of those jerk offs, and she could lord it over you and tell you what to do.
“Fuck him,” said Ralphie. “If he comes around, bothering me, I’ll kick his ass.”
“Well,” said the nun, putting her hands on her hips. “You boys are unrepentant sinners, full of vice—that’s what you are, vicious characters, proud, slothful, angry…”
“Don’t forget lustful, covetous, envious, and gluttonous,” said Ralphie. He’d been to mass enough times as a boy to know the deadly sins.
“That’s right!” said the nun.
“Pete’s on his way,” said Quentin, turning off his phone. “You want another drink?”
Ralphie nodded, and Quentin got up and walked over to the bar.
“So you really think you know what vice is, huh?” Ralphie said to Sister Rachel.
“Of course I do,” said the nun. “As every good Christian should.”
“Bullshit,” said Ralphie. “I don’t think you have a fucking clue. I bet you’ve never really sinned in your life.”
“Maybe so,” said the nun, shaking her head. “But everyone knows what vice is.”
“Yeah?” said Ralphie, taking a drink of whiskey. “If you’re so sure you know what it is, then tell me.”
“I’d be happy to,” said the nun, and she grabbed a chair from another table and sat down next to the booth. “Vice is just what we said a minute ago—lustfulness, pride, sloth, and so on.”
Ralphie sneered. “I wanted to know what vice is,” he said, “and all you did was give me a list of vices. So, it’s like if you wanted to know what a pistol was, and I said, there are Smith and Wesson’s, and Brownings, and Colts, and there are revolvers and automatics, and shit like that. I wouldn’t have told you what you wanted to know.”
“I don’t think that’s the same thing,” said the nun.
“Sure, it’s the same fucking thing,” said Ralphie. “There are other vices besides the seven deadly sins, right?”
“Yes,” said Sister Rachel, nodding her head.
“So you got to know what vice itself is, so that if you run into some other kind, you can still know that it’s a vice. How the hell are you suppose to avoid wickedness, if you don’t even know what the hell it is?”
Quentin came back to the table and sat another glass of whiskey in front of Ralphie. Ralphie grabbed the glass, nodded at Quentin, and took a drink.
“So tell me what it is,” said Ralphie. “Prove to me you know what the fuck you’re talking about, or get the hell out of my face.”
“Okay,” said the nun. “You got it—it’s a kind of habit, or characteristic, part of your character, you know, to act in a certain way.”
She sat back in the chair, satisfied with her answer.
“It’s a habit of acting how?”
“You know,” she said, “to act lustfully, or proudly, or angrily…”
Ralphie laughed, shaking his head. “You dimwit,” he said. “You just said lust, pride, and anger are vices.”
“Yes, so?” she said, her cheeks reddening.
Ralphie looked at Quentin, and then back at the nun. “So your definition of vice is a tendency to act viciously?”
“Yeah? So what?” she said.
“You’re running in a circle and not telling me shit,” said Ralphie.
“I think you’re pulling my leg, Ralphie McNear!”
Quentin laughed out loud, spit flying from his mouth.
“No, I ain’t,” said Ralphie. “I wanted to know what vice is, and you haven’t told me dick.”
“Well, then, smart guy, you tell me what a pistol is,” said the nun, her cheeks burning.
Ralphie shrugged and he reached under his jacket and pulled out a blue-steel automatic pistol and laid it on the table in front of him.
“A pistol is a small firearm that was made to be held and discharged with one hand.”
He turned the automatic on the table until the barrel was pointed at Sister Rachel.
The nun swallowed hard, looking at the gun.
“I think you know exactly what vice is,” she said. “I think you know better than I do.”
“Of course I know,” said Ralphie. “I only said you got no clue about it.”
Sister Rachel Armageddon got up from the table, and backed away, without saying anything else.
“You know,” said Quentin, watching her. “I’d sure like to fuck her.”
Ralphie frowned at him, and put the pistol back in its holster under his jacket. “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s a goddamned nun.”
“I know,” said Quentin. “But, shit, she’s got a pussy, don’t she?”
Ralphie nodded, thinking about it. “You’re right. She’s got a pussy, same as any other woman.”
Quentin grinned. “Sure—it’s all pink on the inside!”
Ralphie laughed. “Yep—all pink on the inside!”
They clinked their glasses together and drank and laughed even harder, thinking about the nun and her pussy.
 
II.
 
On the afternoon of the next day, Ralphie and Quentin sat in the back of the bar, in the same booth, drinking whiskey, when the door to the bar opened and Pete came in. He spotted the two of them and walked over to the table.
“Jesus,” he said. “You won’t fucking believe what I’ve been through.”
“You’re late,” said Ralphie.
“Really late,” said Quentin. “Like a whole day late.”
“I know, I know all that,” said Pete. “You want to hear what happened, or not?”
“Not really,” said Ralphie.
“All we know is, you blew our deal,” said Quentin. “We were going to knock over a pharmacy and sell a bunch of medication, but now the pharmacist is back from the Poconos, and we can’t do it.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” said Pete. “Goddamn it, Charlie!” he said to the bartender. “Bring me a Wild Turkey—make it a double!”
Charlie the bartender nodded to him, and reached for a glass.
“I got fucking pulled over by a cop—for speeding, can you believe it?”
Ralphie and Quentin looked at each other, like they were trying to decide if Pete was telling the truth.
“He what?” said Quentin.
“Yes, no shit,” said Pete. “This cop, and he’s not even a real cop, he’s a traffic cop, if you can believe that. He fucking pulls me over for speeding, finds out with his stupid computer that my license is suspended, and then halls my ass to jail!”
“So what did you do?” asked Quentin.
Charlie walked up and set Pete’s double Wild Turkey on the table.
“Do? Nothing I could do,” said Pete, taking a sip. “I had to spend the fucking night in jail. My mother came and finally bailed me out this morning. She missed her doctor’s appointment.”
“Well, our whole plan was shot to hell,” said Ralphie, and he finished his drink.
“It’s not my goddamned fault!” said Pete.
“He’s right,” said Quentin. “It’s not his fault. It’s that goddamned cop’s fault.”
Ralphie thought about it for a moment.
“Shit, you’re right,” he said. “It is that fucking cop’s fault.”
“So what do we do, Ralphie?” said Pete.
“Yeah, what do we do?” said Quentin.
“We get that cop,” said Ralphie. “That’s what we do.”
“It’s decided then,” said Quentin.
“What’s his name?” asked Ralphie.
“Dickson,” said Pete. “Officer Dickson.”
“Dickinson?” said Quentin.
“No,” said Pete. “Not Dickinson. It’s Dickson.”
“What the fuck kind of a name’s that?” said Quentin. “Dickson?”
“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “I heard of guys called Dickinson before, but never Dickson. Shit, that’s just plain stupid.”
Pete laughed. “Yeah, what a stupid fucking name.”
He drank the rest of the Wild Turkey and let the glass slam against the table, then he belched.
“So what’re we going to do about this cop?” he said.
“First we got to find out where he lives,” said Ralphie.
“We could follow him home from work,” said Pete.
“Yeah, or we could just look in the fucking phonebook.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good…wait a minute, we don’t know his first name.”
“How many people have a stupid name like ‘Dickson’?” said Ralphie.
“Can’t be too many,” said Quentin.
“Hey, Charlie,” Ralphie said. “You got a phonebook?”
Charlie nodded and pulled the phonebook from under the bar. Pete got up from the table and walked over and took the book from Charlie. He set it down then started flipping through the pages.
“Hey guys,” he said. “Get this—there’s a guy named ‘Dick’! Arthur P. Dick—I’m not shitting you!”
Quentin said, “Let me see that.”
He grabbed the phone book.
“Well, I’ll be damned. He’s right—Arthur P. Dick. Art Dick—can you imagine? Look at this Ralphie.”
“I don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie. “Is Dickson listed?”
Quentin scanned further down. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s two of them: M. Dickson and Steve Dickson.”
“Either of those sound familiar, Pete?” said Ralphie.
“Nope, I didn’t hear his first name.”
Quentin said, “Well, we could just call up and ask if this is the Dickson who’s a cop, right?”
“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “Good idea. Don’t use your cell, though. Use the payphone. Who’s got a quarter for the call?”
“I do,” said Pete, digging into his pocket. He pulled out two quarters. “Look, this one’s from Delaware,” he said. “The other is an older one, before they started putting states on them.”
“Go on over to the payphone and call the number for M. Dickson,” said Ralphie. “Ask if he’s a cop.”
Pete stood up, taking the phone book from the table.
“And Pete?” said Ralphie. “For fuck’s sake, make sure you use the old quarter, not the Delaware quarter for the call.”
Pete looked at him, frowning, and looked down at the two quarters. He picked one, and put the other back in his pocket and walked over to the payphone.
“God, he’s dumb,” said Quentin.
“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “He’s really dumb.”
“I wonder sometimes if he didn’t fall on his head when he was a kid or something.”
“Yeah, or maybe his mother smoked a lot of dope when she was pregnant.”
“Not likely,” said Quentin. “She’s so fucking uptight she won’t even let Pete drink beer at home.”
“What the fuck?”
“Tell me about it,” said Quentin. “There’s just something fundamentally wrong with that.”
“Sounds like she’s just plain stupid,” said Ralphie. “So maybe Pete caught it from her.”
“Nah, she’s not dumb like him, at least not in the same way. She’s just uptight.”
Pete walked back over to the table. “There was nobody there except some old lady.”
“Did you ask her if her son or grandson was a cop?” said Quentin.
“I asked her if she knew Officer Dickson.”
“What’d she say?”
“She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Well,” said Ralphie, “I hope you left your name and number, so someone can call us back with that information.”
“Oh, shit,” said Pete. “I didn’t think of that.”
Ralphie and Quentin looked at one another and broke out laughing. Pete started laughing too.
“I was just fucking with you,” said Ralphie, still laughing.
“Shit,” said Quentin. “You really believed that! That’s the funniest fucking thing I ever seen!”
It took almost a minute for the three of them to stop laughing.
“Go on and call the other number,” said Ralphie.
Pete started back towards the phone, but turned around. “Ralphie—I only got that Delaware quarter left.”
“Well, just ask Charlie for some change,” said Ralphie.
“Oh, yeah,” said Pete. “Good idea.”
He walked to the bar, pulling out some bills.
“God, he’s dumb,” said Quentin.
“Yeah,” said Ralphie, nodding. “He’s really dumb.”
Pete called the number for Steve Dickson. No one answered, and he got the machine. In a moment, he hung up the phone and came back to the table.
“Steve Dickson is the guy,” he said.
“You sure?” said Ralphie.
Pete nodded. “I heard his stupid voice on the machine. That’s him all right.”
“Okay,” said Ralphie. “He’s the one we’re going to get.”
 
III.
 
Near closing time at Johnny’s Place, Sister Rachel Armageddon approached Ralphie, who sat alone at his back booth.
“You need to come with me,” said the nun.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Ralphie. “Come with you where?”
“To the back office,” she said, inclining her head towards the rear of the room.
“Why would I do that?”
The nun looked around. “It’s Marcie,” she said. “She needs you.”
Ralphie frowned. “Marcie’s not here. She went home.”
The nun laid her hands flat on the table. “I’m telling you, she’s in the office, and she needs you!”
“All right,” said Ralphie, sliding out of the booth. “But I don’t know why the fuck she didn’t just come out here and see me.”
The nun hurried him along to the office. They entered the room, Ralphie going in first. Sister Rachel followed him, clicking on the light, and closing the door behind her.
The office contained a desk and chair, two filing cabinets, and boxes of liquor stacked in the corner.
“What the fuck?” said Ralphie, turning to face the nun. “Where is she?”
“Marcie isn’t here,” said the nun, her back against the door.
“Yeah, I can see that,” said Ralphie. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“I needed to see you in private,” she said. “I’m worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“About the state of your soul!”
“Get the fuck out of here,” said Ralphie, stepping forward.
“No, don’t leave!” said Sister Rachel. “Just give me a few minutes. You never come to church, and you never let me talk to you about serious things.”
“Yeah, because I don’t want to listen to your bullshit,” said Ralphie.
“There’s still time,” she said. “Still time to save your soul, but you have to repent! You have to give yourself over to Jesus.”
Ralphie grabbed her by the shoulders, and started to push her aside, away from the door. She took hold of his arms and held onto him fast.
“You know what they call me?” said the nun.
“Yeah, Sister Rachel Armageddon.”
“No, no, no, that’s not what I mean,” said the nun. “Wait—who calls me that?”
Ralphie shrugged. “Everybody, as far as I know.”
“Well, that’s a terrible nickname.”
“Seems right to me,” said Ralphie.
“Anyway,” said Sister Rachel. “I meant what they call me in the church, officially? I’m called a Bride of Christ.”
“Yeah, so what?”
The nun still clung to him, her arms around his waist now.
“So I took a vow. I married our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Good for you,” said Ralphie, rolling his eyes.
“You knew me when I was a teenager,” she said. “I was having religious experiences at that time, glorious, ecstatic experiences. I would look at a picture of Jesus, and electric shocks ran through my body.”
“Probably just getting your period,” said Ralphie.
“I was so moved,” said the nun. “So transformed, that I had to give myself to Christ.”
“Look, you’re really starting to bore the hell out of me,” said Ralphie.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt those shocks,” said Sister Rachel.
Ralphie tried to push her aside, but she locked her arms tight around him.
“I’ve been feeling them again!” she said.
She reached up and kissed him with a wet, slobbery kiss, her tongue bouncing against his lips.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he said.
“I can save you,” she said.
She started rubbing her crotch against his leg. She let out a moan.
“Fucking stop that,” said Ralphie.
“You’re so much stronger than me, Ralphie,” she said. “You could overpower me so easily.”
He kept trying to push her away.
“I took a vow of celibacy,” she said. “But I know you want to have your way with me.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” said Ralphie.
“I see the way you look at me. You’re so strong! I can’t stop you!”
Ralphie twisted her arm hard, and she cried out and let go of him. He dropped her onto the floor, but she grabbed him around the legs.
“I’m helpless, Ralphie,” she said, her face pressed against his thighs. “There’s no way I could stop you from taking me!”
Ralphie smacked her hard against the side of the head. She let go of him and fell onto her side. He walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Quentin stood by the back booth. “Where were you?” he said.
“You won’t fucking believe it,” said Ralphie, walking over to him. “But that idiot nun tried to get me to fuck her.”
Quentin raised his eyebrows. “No shit? Did you do it?”
“No, fuck no,” said Ralphie.
“Yeah, but we said it’s all pink on the inside,” said Quentin, scratching his head.
Ralphie shrugged.
“I changed my mind,” he said.
 

[An earlier version of this story appeared on TheRogueReader.com]
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THE KING OF SOUTH PHILLY PART II

RALPHIE KILLS HIS FATHER

I.

On Friday night at Johnny’s Place, the usual drunks stood at the bar, both the after work part-timers, and the career boozehounds—the used up whores begging for somebody to buy them a shot, and the old guys with the yellowed skin and the rotten livers who’d sell their kids’ toys for a pint of whiskey. Sister Rachel Armageddon, a young nun from the local parish, made the rounds and gave them sermons about Jesus and God and why it’s a sin to masturbate and use contraception.
Ralphie and Marcie walked into the bar and looked around, surprised at the crowd. Ralphie spotted Quentin and Pete in a corner booth and nodded to them. He didn’t want to sit with them because he noticed that they acted stupid around Marcie. Pete always acted stupid, that’s the way he was. Ralphie figured his parents must have dropped him on his head when he was a kid, or maybe his mother had smoked a lot of crack when she was pregnant. But for some reason Quentin also acted funny whenever Marcie was around.
Ralphie directed Marcie to the end of the bar, as far away from Sister Rachel as he could manage, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to her Catholic bullshit. He called to Charlie the bartender to bring them some drinks.
Marcie wore a black skirt, black stockings, and a white shirt that was open a few buttons, so that it showed off her tits. She’d just had her hair dyed a deep red color like cooked cherries, and that pissed off Ralphie when he first saw it. She had naturally pretty chestnut brown hair, so he didn’t understand why she’d want to go and ruin it like that.
Charlie the bartender sat the drinks in front of them, and they clinked glasses like they wanted to toast something.
“Why’s she do that?” said Marcie, raising her voice, so she could be heard over the crowd.
“Who?” said Ralphie.
“The nun,” she said, nodding at Sister Rachel.
“Fuck if I know.”
“Doesn’t she know those people? Pat and Al, and Dickie—they’ll never change.”
“Wouldn’t if they could,” Ralphie said.
“That’s what I mean,” she said, almost yelling. “I’m not sure anybody can change what they really are, you know, deep inside. Those three sure can’t, so she’s wasting her time.”
“Just makes the situation worse,” said Ralphie.
“You’re right! If they can’t help being who they are, then she’s just making them feel bad by harping at them.”
Ralphie felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Quentin grinning like an idiot. Ralphie and Quentin had been friends since grade school, when Ralphie beat the hell out of him in a schoolyard fight and knocked out three of his teeth.
“I was hoping you guys would show up,” Quentin said.
Ralphie rolled his eyes. Quentin would never say stupid shit like that when Marcie wasn’t around.
“Hi Quentin,” said Marcie, turning to him.
“Hi Marcie. Where’d you guys eat?”

“We ate at the Oregon Diner. Ralphie got mustard on his shirt.”
She reached over and scratched at the yellow stain.
“Have anything good?” Quentin asked.
“Vichyssoise and pâté,” Ralphie said, feeling himself getting angry. “What the fuck does it matter?”
“Don’t be so grumpy,” said Marcie. “I had chicken pot pie, and it wasn’t bad. Ralphie had the chopped steak.”
Ralphie glanced at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar and straightened his tie. The mirror was cracked and cloudy, and it distorted his reflection. He felt vaguely sick looking at himself.
“You guys want to come over and sit with us?” said Quentin, motioning towards the table.
“Maybe later,” Ralphie said.
Quentin shrugged, and turned like he was going back to the booth, but stopped. “I forgot—your father was in here earlier.”
“What?” said Ralphie.
He hadn’t seen his father in three years. He couldn’t believe that the old man would just show up like that, just appear in the neighborhood, without warning.
“Yeah,” said Quentin. “He was in here with some woman, and he asked about you.”
“What woman?” Marcie said.
“I don’t know. Some broad. She was a lot younger. I mean, older than us, but a lot younger than him. She looked kind of cheap, if you ask me.”
“What the fuck did he want?” said Ralphie.
Quentin shrugged. “Beats me. They had a drink at the bar, and when he saw me and Pete, he came over and asked where you were and if you was going to be in tonight.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said you and Marcie were out somewhere eating, and you’d probably show, like you always do.”
Quentin shrugged again, and headed back to where Pete sat.
“Who the hell do you think that woman was?” said Marcie.
“Fuck if I know.”
“What do you think he wanted?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
Marcie picked her glass up off the bar and looked at it, like she’d forgotten about it. She up-ended it, and drank the booze, then smacked the glass back down against the bar.
“Oohh, that burns,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here, want to?”
Her lips had started to narrow, and her cheeks glowed.
“Let’s have another drink first,” said Ralphie. “You’ll feel better!”
“I wish…” she said.
Ralphie looked at her and nodded.
It took Ralphie a moment, but he got Charlie’s attention and ordered another round. By the time the drinks came, the room had quieted down. Ralphie and Marcie touched their glasses together in another fake toast. Ralphie took a drink.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Marcie. “I’m pregnant again.”
Ralphie nodded. “I’ll put the money on the bookcase in the morning, before I go to work.”
He took another drink, and over the rim of the glass he noticed the nun walking over towards them, and he felt himself tense up.
Her name was Sister Rachel Almaghetti, but everyone called her Sister Rachel Armageddon. She was in her late twenties, the same age as Marcie. She’d been an ugly kid in high school, kind of fat, with a face like a bowl of mashed potatoes. None of the guys would have anything to do with her. Her cousin had to take her to the prom. But after high school, and after she decided to become a nun, she lost all that baby fat, fixed her hair, and got some color in her cheeks. Ralphie thought that she wasn’t half bad looking now, and that she could probably find a man if she wanted to.
“I didn’t see you in church today,” she said, stepping up to them.
She wore street clothes—a pair of jeans and a dark blue sweater. She never wore the habit outside St. Mark’s.
Ralphie laughed. “When was the last time you saw us in church?”
Ralphie was Irish Catholic. At least, he had been raised Catholic, and he had very bad memories of his parochial schooling.
“Well, maybe it’s time you went then,” she said. “Sunday’s Easter. It would be a good opportunity for you to recommit yourself to the faith. It’s a time of rebirth and second chances.”
“Shut up,” said Ralphie. “You sound like an idiot.”
“Ralphie!” said Marcie.
“Well, she does!”
“I know that,” said Marcie, “but you don’t have to say it!”
“Today’s Good Friday,” said the nun, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. “The day on which our Lord and Savior died for our sins. He died, so that we may all have eternal life.”
“Right,” said Ralphie. “He died and three days later was resurrected.”
“That’s right,” said Sister Rachel.
Ralphie noticed that she’d arched her back and pushed out her chest, and he wondered if her thing for Jesus, her whole religious conviction, didn’t have something to do with sex. He thought maybe she became a nun in the first place because she couldn’t get laid.
“Say,” he said, thinking about it. “What was Jesus doing during that time?”
“What?” she said, like she hadn’t heard.
“Yeah, what was Jesus doing during those three days between his death and his resurrection? What was he doing?”
“Doing?”
“Yeah, what was he doing? Where was he? I mean, was he playing pinochle, was he in a whorehouse, getting drunk, what?”
“He was…he was dead,” she said, and she sounded shaken.
“Sure, but he’s Jesus, for fuck’s sake. He’s like Superman, only there’s no kryptonite—know what I mean? Nothing can really stop him. Sure his body died, right, but he couldn’t die die. And he didn’t ascend into heaven until forty days later, right? So that means he wasn’t hanging around with the old man during that time. So where was he during those three days? What was he doing?”
Her face turned a deep shade of red, almost the color of Marcie’s hair.
“I hate you Ralphie McNear!” she said, and turned and walked away.
Ralphie watched her little butt moving in her jeans, and he said, “You know what she needs?”
“I can only imagine,” said Marcie.
“She needs to get fucked. She needs her pussy sucked, she needs to have her clock cleaned.”
“Right,” said Marcie, shaking her head. She took a drink of whiskey. “That’s your answer to everything.”
Ralphie shrugged. “Most things, anyway.”
Across the room, the door opened and Ralphie’s father walked in. He was tall, though he stooped, and he had silvery-gray hair and a moustache. He wore a gray pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie. A woman accompanied him. In her late forties, she had straight pasta-colored hair, and she wore a short, sparkly blue dress. She clung to his arm.
Ralphie felt Marcie go rigid next to him.
“Jesus Christ,” said Marcie. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Why the fuck would he come here like that?” said Ralphie.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” said Marcie.
Ralphie’s father’s name was Howard. He owned a barbershop and worked as a barber. He caught sight of them standing at the bar, and he walked over to them. The blond woman held onto his arm the whole time. Ralphie’s father smiled.
“Ralphie! Marcie!” said Howard the Barber. “I was hoping we’d find you here!”
Ralphie scowled. Marcie turned her head.
“I want to introduce you to…” said Howard, looking at the woman with the yellow hair. He cleared his throat. “I mean, this is Sandy…Mrs. Simes, I mean. She’s a librarian.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Ralphie.
“Mrs. Simes and me—we’re going to be married!”
“I can’t believe you’d come here,” said Ralphie.
His father frowned. “Son, I thought you’d be happy. I wanted to tell you.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Marcie.
“Can I get a drink?” said Mrs. Simes the Librarian, looking around.
“I have to take a shit,” said Ralphie.
He stepped away from the bar and walked through the crowd, towards the men’s room.
The toilet was disgusting, but Ralphie had to go, and the tension from seeing his father only made it worse. He dropped his trousers and sat down on the commode, releasing his bowels at the same time. He sighed.
The door to the stall slammed open. Marcie stood with her feet spread, looking down at him.
“You shouldn’t have left me alone with them,” she said.
“Can’t a man have a little privacy, for God’s sake?” he said.
“I want you to do it,” she said in a thick whisper.
Ralphie raised an eyebrow.
“You heard me—I want you to do it.”
He pointed to the graffiti on the wall. “I was just reading here about this guy named Simon. Seems he likes it up the ass, and he hangs around here on Tuesdays.”
“Stop kidding around,” she said. Her hand was still pressed against door to the stall, where she’d pushed it open. “You know you want it done, as much as I do.”
“Yeah, well it’s going to cost you.”
The idea of making Marcie pay for it excited him.
“I don’t care,” she said.
Ralphie clinched his bowels and let out a loud fart. The whole bathroom stank.
Marcie bent down, grabbed his chin, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Her tongue darted between his lips and caressed his tongue. Ralphie’s dick started to get hard. It pressed against the inside of the toilet bowl.
A shadow fell across them, and Marcie pulled back, her lips moist and swollen, and they both looked up to see his father standing there. Howard the Barber had a disgusted, horrified look on his face.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he said.
Ralphie grinned.
“What do you want?” said Marcie.
“My God, Marcie!” said Howard. “Your own brother!”
“Sorry, Pop,” said Ralphie.
His father ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Marcie leaned in and started kissing Ralphie once more.
Ralphie let out a sigh between the kisses. He was pleased now that he’d made the decision to kill his old man.


II.


Three days after he saw his father at the bar, Ralphie stepped inside the family barbershop on Washington Avenue, and the little bell rang when he opened and closed the door. His father stood behind the barber’s chair, cutting a man’s hair. The man, bald on top of his head, had a shiny crown, and his hair ran around the sides and back in a dark horseshoe. He had a pale green cloth tied around his neck and spread down across his knees, and he read the newspaper. Ralphie’s father wore a white smock that had strands of black hair stuck to it. His father looked up at him with a weary expression when Ralphie came in.
“Hi Pop!” said Ralphie.
His father didn’t say anything, he just went back to cutting the man’s hair. The scissors made a crisp snipping noise in a regular pattern, like he was keeping time to something in his head as he cut hair.
Ralphie sat down in one of the waiting chairs. The man looked up from the newspaper at him, and Ralphie grinned. The man didn’t smile back, he just nodded, and looked down at the newspaper. The front of the newspaper announced in bold letters that a local construction worker had been murdered. His body had been found inside a crushed-up car at an auto wrecking yard.
Ralphie frowned, feeling his pistol digging into his side where he had it tucked into his pants, and he shifted in the seat so it would be more comfortable.
Ralphie’s father put his scissors and comb in the pocket of his smock, and he rubbed some kind of ointment or lotion into the man’s hair, what there was of it. He spun the chair around, so the man faced the mirror, and held a small mirror in back of him so that he could see his ring of dark hair. The man nodded in approval.
“Looks good, Howard,” he said.
Howard set down the mirror, and pulled the pale green cloth off the man and shook the hair out of it. He folded the cloth over his arm and waited, standing by the chair. The man stood up and straightened the crease his trousers, then pulled out his wallet. He handed Howard the Barber a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. Ralphie’s father charged nineteen dollars and fifty cents for haircuts.
“Thanks, Simon,” said Howard.
The man took his jacket from the coat rack, put it on, and said, “See you,” and walked out the door. The little bell rang twice.
Ralphie’s father laid the green cloth over the back of the chair, then took a broom from the corner and started sweeping the little hairs on the floor into a pile.
“So how are you, Pop?” said Ralphie.
“What do you want?” said his father, without looking at him. His eyes focused on the floor and the little hairs he was sweeping up.
“A haircut, of course!” said Ralphie.
He jumped up out of the waiting chair and sat down in the barber chair. His father kept sweeping, so Ralphie reached behind him and grabbed the green cloth and laid it over himself.
“Cut the horseshit,” said his father.
“What horseshit?” said Ralphie. “I need a trim,” and he ran his hand over his head. He kept his red hair cut very close to his skull.
“You haven’t wanted me to cut your hair since you were eight years old,” his father said. He stopped sweeping and set the broom back in the corner.
“Hell, I didn’t want you to cut it then,” said Ralphie, over his shoulder.
“Then what the hell do you want?”
Ralphie put a foot on the floor and turned the chair so that it was facing his father. “I figured you and me ought to have a little chat, that’s all.”
“What about—you and your sister?” his father said in an ugly voice.
“Hmmm…” said Ralphie. “That’s not a bad idea. Why don’t we talk about me and Marcie!”
“So you’re sleeping with her, huh?” his father said.
“Sleeping?” Ralphie laughed. “No, we’re not sleeping together.”
“You’re having sex!”
“And you would know about that, wouldn’t you?” Ralphie said. “You know all about fucking Marcie.”
His father flushed and seemed to lose his balance. He leaned back against the counter behind him.
“All those trips to that motel when we were kids,” said Ralphie. “You had me waiting out in the car, or you locked me in the bathroom. You really think I didn’t know what was going on? You think I didn’t figure it out?”
Ralphie gathered the pale green cloth in his fist and threw it to the floor. He pulled back his jacket to let his father get a look at the pistol sticking in his belt.
“No surprise, Pop, but Marcie hates you. And, frankly, I’m not too fond of you either.”
“What’re you going to do?” his father said, staring at the butt of the pistol.
“Good,” Ralphie said. “Let’s get right to the point. Marcie hates you so much, Pop, she wants me to kill you.”
“You’re…you’re lying. She don’t hate me that much…”
“Oh, on the contrary,” said Ralphie. “She’s going to pay me to do it—pay me in sex. She’s going to blow me, and I’m going to fuck her!”
“That’s disgusting,” said Howard.
“But you know what, Pop? She don’t really even have to pay me. I’d have done this one for free.”
His father shook his head. “If your mother could hear you, she’d be mortified,” he said.
“She’s dead, Pop. So she don’t hear anything.”
Ralphie stood up out of the chair and pulled his jacket back over the pistol.
“Normally,” he said, “I wouldn’t tell a guy I was going to cap him before I did it. Usually it’s a stupid thing to do, for obvious reasons. But in this case, I’m making an exception. You know why?”
“So you’re really going to go through with it? You’re going to kill me?”
“Yeah, of course,” said Ralphie. “But do you know why I’m telling you? That’s what I was asking you.”
His father didn’t say anything, just stared at him.
“I’m telling you ‘cause I wanted you to know it was Marcie’s idea. I mean, I don’t really give a shit what happens to you. Marcie’s the only person I really give a shit about, and I want her to have what she wants. And she wants me to kill your ass, so of course I’m going to do it. Like I said, I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”
Howard picked up the green cloth and folded and refolded it. “You can just go screw yourself,” he said. “You’re a punk, and you always will be one.”
Ralphie laughed with his mouth open. He turned and walked towards the door. Thinking about it, he stopped and said, “Hey, do you still have those suckers you give out? I always loved those root beer suckers.”
He looked around the cash register and saw the jar.
“Yeah, awesome,” he said, and he dug around until he found the right one. He unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. “See you, Pop,” he said, and he walked out the door, and the little bell rang twice.

III.

Mrs. Simes the Librarian fumbled with Howard’s belt and zipper. Already naked, she sat on the side of the bed, one foot on the floor. Her yellow hair hung in her face and her sagging breasts swung with the motions of her arms.
“You took your Viagra, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, trying to help her with his trousers.
The room was dim, lit by a violet-colored lamp that sat tilted on the nightstand, casting deep shadows across the walls.
They got his trousers and undershorts off, and Mrs. Simes climbed up onto the bed and turned around, grabbing the headboard.
Howard the Barber climbed onto the bed behind her. “You sure you want to try this?” he said.
She nodded.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said.
“Well, I have—lots of times.”
He frowned a moment, and then reached down and began to rub his penis along the crack of her ass, overtop her anus.
“Wait!” she said.
“What?”
He leaned to one side to get a look at her face.
She nodded towards the nightstand and the picture of Jesus sitting there. Jesus had his hands folded together and a dull, almost blank, expression on his face, and he looked straight ahead, like he was watching what the two of them were doing.
“Turn that over, will you?”
“Huh?”
“The picture,” she said, nodding. “Goddamn it, turn the picture over!”
“Oh, okay,” he said, and reached over and laid flat the picture of Jesus.
“Okay, good,” she said. “Now do it to me.”
Howard positioned his penis carefully on her anus and began to insert himself, to apply pressure. It was very tight, and he was wondering if he would maintain his erection long enough to complete the act.
Mrs. Simes said nothing, she was motionless and made no noise. He wondered if she liked what he was doing.
With another push, he inserted himself, and it was very tight, and he wondered if he was hurting her, but still she said nothing. He began moving in and out, just a little, and it was exciting—the tightness, and the taboo feeling, that experience of doing something transgressive. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.
A muffled popping noise sounded, and Mrs. Simes splayed out in front of him, and dark streaks ran down the wall in front of the headboard, and Howard felt himself coming, riding the orgasm, thrusting into her, and he looked down, and saw that part of her face was missing, blood filling the pillow.
He yelled and pulled himself out of her, and turned to see his son, Ralphie, with a pistol in his hand. The pistol had a silencer on it.
Ralphie grinned. “You got some shit on your dick there, Pop,” he said.
Howard the Barber looked down at the brown smudges on his penis.
“Oh, that’s gross!” he said, and wiped it off on the white sheets.
Ralphie sat on the wooden chair next to the bed. “Anything you want me to tell Marcie?”
“So this is it, huh?” Howard said, looking up. His voice trembled.
“Yep, this is it.”
Howard sighed. “I don’t know…Tell her…Tell her I’m sorry, I guess.”
Ralphie shook his head and smirked. “Shit, Pop, you’re not sorry at all.”
“I know,” Howard said, nodding. “You’re right…I guess I should be, but I’m really not.”
Ralphie stood up.
“That’s what I’ll tell her, then,” he said.

[An earlier version of this story appeared on PlotsWithGuns.com, #31, Sept./Oct. 2004, and on TheRogueReader.com]


[contact-form]

THE KING OF SOUTH PHILLY PART I

RALPHIE, THE GOODS, AND THE CONSTRUCTION WORKER

I.

Annie walked into the saloon called Johnny’s Place, where everybody in South Philly hung out. Coming out of the bright afternoon sun, she had to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She hated the sunlight. It hurt her eyes, gave her a headache, and made her freckle, and she fucking hated freckles. She wore her good denim skirt, a tank top, and a pair of sandals. She thought now maybe she should’ve dressed up a little more, but her black skirt, the one she wore to her mother’s funeral, was the only dressier thing she had, and that wouldn’t have looked right, not in the middle of the afternoon.

When her eyes adjusted she looked around and spotted Ralphie sitting with his friends at a table. She walked over to them, trying not to hurry, trying not to look like she was in a hurry. They laughed and joked, and she knew they’d been drinking. They didn’t even seem to notice her standing there.

Ralphie’s friend Quentin told a story about his little brother. His little brother was a retard, and Quentin told a funny story about how the kid stuck a knife in a light socket, how he shocked himself and yelled out in this funny retard way.

“You should’ve heard him!” said Quentin, and he imitated his brother yelling.

Everyone laughed hard.

“When he stuck the knife in the socket,” said Pete, “did he have smoke coming out of his hair, the way they do in cartoons?”

Quentin stared at him a moment. “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

Annie spoke up, saying, “Ralphie? Ralphie, can I talk to you?” and her voice sounded too eager. She fucking hated her voice when it sounded like that.

The guys went on drinking and joking, and Ralphie seemed to ignore her. She walked over to his side of the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “Ralphie? Can I talk to you a minute?”

Ralphie drank the whiskey in his glass and belched.

Pete nodded at her and said, “Ralphie, Annie wants to talk to you.”

Ralphie looked over at him like he’d said something stupid.

“No kidding?” he said. “How’d you fucking figure that one out?”

Quentin laughed out loud, and spit flew from his mouth.

Annie bent down close to his ear. “Ralphie, can I talk to you?” she said, this time in a warm voice, making sure he could feel her breath on his ear and neck. She fucking loved her voice when it sounded like that.

He looked up at her. “What about?”

She looked at Quentin and Pete. “It’s kind of private,” she said, using that same voice again.

He kept looking up at her, and their eyes met, and she felt his hand touch her leg. His hand slid up the inside of her leg, under the denim skirt, and she didn’t move and didn’t let her eyes move away from his. When his hand slid all the way up between her legs, he realized she wasn’t wearing any underpants and he grinned.

“Okay,” he said, taking back his hand, and he scooted away from the table.

They walked together across the room, to a table away from the others. He held onto her arm, leading her as they walked. They sat down across from each other. Annie looked over at Ralphie. He was thirty or so, with red hair, redder than hers, buzzed short, and he had pale blue eyes and a full mouth. She found him very handsome. The only thing that detracted from his looks was a thick scar over his left eye, and that made him look rugged more than ugly.

“Carol beat up Cathy again,” she said, referring to her husband and her oldest daughter. “He beats me up all the time, and I don’t really give a shit anymore, but I just can’t stand it when he hits the kids.”

“Does he hit Linda too?”

Linda was her other daughter, the younger one.

“Yeah, he beats them both.”

Carol hardly ever hit Linda, but she wanted Ralphie to think he did.

“Why don’t you stop him?” he said.

“I try, but he’s so much bigger than me, Ralphie.”

She felt herself starting to cry, and she was glad that she was. She hadn’t even tried, it just sort of happened.

“Why don’t you leave him?” Ralphie said to her.

“I would,” she said, sniffling. “Only he said he’d kill me, he’d kill all three of us, if I did.”

Ralphie sat back in the chair with his hands behind his neck. “You think he’s serious?”

She nodded and wiped away a tear. “I know he is. He told me he knows a guy, and this guy drives a tow truck. What he does is, he follows you around, and when he gets you some place kind of isolated, he shoots you in your car, then takes your car to the pound and they crush it all up, and you’re never found.”

“I never heard of that,” said Ralphie, sounding impressed. “I wonder who it is.”

“I don’t know, but I know he’s serious—Carol, I mean.”

Ralphie nodded, still with his hands behind his neck. “So, what do you want me to do?”

Annie looked around, and in a low voice said, “I want you to kill him for me.”

Ralphie stared at her and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“Oh, Ralphie, everybody knows about you,” she said. “I mean, you got a reputation. People in South Philly know how bad you are.”

Ralphie nodded. He seemed pleased with what she’d said. “All right. I’ll kill him, but I’m doing it for the girls.”

She smiled at him. “Thanks, Ralphie. Thanks a bunch.”

“It’s going to cost you, though.”

She nodded. “I figured that.”

“Can you get out tonight?”

She frowned, thinking about it. “I don’t know. Maybe. I might be able to use my neighbor as an excuse.”

“Well, see if you can. Get out tonight and come over to my place, and we’ll start working on that payment.”

She smiled and felt herself getting moist and warm. She would’ve fucked Ralphie for fun or for no reason at all. Making like it was a payment for services made it seem dirty, and that excited her even more.

“If you can’t get a sitter, bring the girls,” Ralphie said. “We can find something for them to do.”

Annie nodded. She liked the fact that Ralphie liked her kids. She didn’t care anything about his reputation. So long as he liked her kids, he was all right with her.

She pushed away from the table, stood up, and walked across the floor. She hoped he was watching her, but when she reached the door she turned back to look at him, and he was already sitting at the other table with his friends again and wasn’t paying any attention to her.

Quentin and Pete had ordered more whiskey and had drunk theirs but left Ralphie’s sitting by his empty chair. Ralphie sat down at the table and took a drink.

“What’d she want?” said Quentin.

“She wants me to kill Carol,” said Ralphie.

Pete whistled.

Quentin said, “Yeah? You going to do it?”

Ralphie sighed. “I don’t know. I told her I would. He’s a real asshole, so why not?”

Pete whistled again, then said, “How you going to do it?”

Ralphie frowned at him. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Pete,” he said, and Pete shrugged.

Quentin said, “Hey, while you were over there, look what walked in,” and he nudged Ralphie and pointed over to a man a few tables away.

The man was small, in his fifties, and he had small features. He was balding on top, and he had a little moustache, glasses, and he had little girly hands with several rings on his fingers. He wore a denim jacket over a faded red t-shirt. He sat at the table by himself, sipping a drink and reading a book.

“Yeah, so?” said Ralphie.

“He’s funny looking, ain’t he?” said Quentin.

Ralphie nodded. “Hey, you’re right, he is.” Ralphie called over to the bartender. “Hey Charlie, come here a minute, will you?”

Charlie the bartender came around the bar. He wiped his hands with a dishtowel as he approached the table. Ralphie nodded to the funny-looking man. “Who’s that?”

Charlie glanced over at him, then looked back at Ralphie. “Never seen him before.”

Ralphie frowned. “Stranger, huh? What’s he drinking?”

“Coke with a lime in it,” Charlie said.

“Coke with a lime!” said Pete.

Both Quentin and Ralphie looked at him.

“You’re really stupid sometimes, Pete,” said Ralphie.

“Yeah, but Coke with lime in it?” said Pete in a hushed voice. “There’s something wrong with that.”

Ralphie nodded, like he agreed with Pete now.

“Let’s just go have a talk with this guy,” he said, and he stood up.

Pete and Quentin stood up with him, and Charlie went back to work behind the bar.

The three of them walked over to the other table and examined the little man. For a moment they stood there, and he kept looking at his book. Ralphie looked down at his glass to see that, sure enough, he really was drinking Coke with a lime in it. Finally, the man looked up at them and closed his book, marking his place with his finger.

“Yes?” he said, and he had a squeaky voice.

“What you drinking there, stranger?” said Ralphie.

The little man looked down at his glass, then back at Ralphie. “Coke,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s got a lime in it!” said Pete.

The man looked over at Pete. “That’s right, it’s got a lime in it,” and his voice was squeaky and high-pitched, making him sound like the cartoon mouse on TV.

Pete laughed. “Why the hell do you drink it like that?”

The man shrugged. “That’s the way I like it.”

Pete laughed again, louder this time.

Ralphie tugged on Quentin’s arm. The two of them turned aside and took a step away from the table.

“I tell you what,” said Ralphie. “That ain’t no man.”

Quentin frowned and glanced back at the little man. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, that’s a woman.”

Quentin frowned harder. “You’re joking?”

“No,” said Ralphie, “I ain’t. That’s a woman.”

“He’s bald and has a moustache,” said Quentin.

“She’s one of those transsexuals,” said Ralphie.

“Get out!” said Quentin.

Pete joined their huddle. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Ralphie says this guy’s a transsexual,” said Quentin, hooking his thumb back over his shoulder.

“You mean he likes to wear women’s clothes?” said Pete.

“No,” said Ralphie. “I mean this is a woman who had a sex change operation to become a man.”

Pete laughed. “You’re crazy,” he said. “She’s bald and has a moustache.”

“They take hormones,” said Ralphie. “The women take male hormones and that way they can grow moustaches.”

Quentin said, “Hey, that’s right, they do.”

Pete whistled. “No kidding?”

“Yeah,” said Ralphie, “and you know what else? If you’re a man, they cut off your dick, but if you’re a woman they make a dick for you and sew it on.”

“No shit!” said Pete.

“What do they make it out of?” said Quentin.

“Hell if I know,” said Ralphie. “Rubber maybe.”

“Why don’t they take the dicks from the guys and sew them onto the girls?” said Pete.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ralphie, but then he thought maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Why don’t we check it out and see?” said Quentin.

Pete nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to see what her dick looks like, if they made it look real, or what.”

Ralphie said, “Then it’s agreed—we need to get a look at her dick.”

The three of them turned back to the little “man” sitting there. He’d gone back to reading his book, but he had a nervous look about him, like maybe he knew what they were going to do, or had even overheard what they’d been saying.

Ralphie said, “Excuse me, sir—” and all three of them chuckled, “but we’d like to have a look at your goods.”

The little man frowned, and his mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Yeah,” said Pete, “We’d like to get a look at that homemade dick of yours!”

The man dropped his book and made a scared move like he might try to run, and the three of them caught him and dragged him out from behind the table, upsetting the Coke with lime in it. He yelled to the bartender in his high-pitched voice, and the three of them laughed the whole time. They started dragging him kicking across the bar, and finally they lifted him off the floor and carried him towards the men’s room. His glasses fell of his face and broke against the floor, and he kept crying out in his cartoon voice for the bartender to do something.

When they got to the men’s room, Pete said in a loud voice, “Hey, maybe she ain’t allowed in here!” and they laughed harder.

They pushed open the door to the men’s room and carried him inside. Pete kicked the door closed, and they laid him down on the dirty urine-stained floor. He yelled and kicked the whole time, and he got his arm loose and punched Quentin in the side of the face. Quentin stopped laughing and drew back and smashed the little man in the mouth, and his head snapped back and hit the tiled floor hard, and he went limp. He looked dazed and didn’t fight any more.

Pete and Quentin unzipped his fly and pulled down his pants. He wore white jockey shorts, and they were little like a boy’s, like they were boy’s sized.

“Okay,” Ralphie said, standing over them. “Pull his shorts down and let’s get a look.”

Pete giggled and grabbed the elastic and pulled down his shorts, and they all three got a look at the goods. He had a little scrotum and a perfectly formed little penis that was circumcised, both nearly hairless.

“Wow,” said Pete, “that looks real!”

Ralphie straightened up. “You dimwit,” he said. “It is real.”

“What? So they did like I said and cut this off some guy and sewed it on her?”

“No, stupid,” said Quentin. “This ain’t no transsexual.”

“Huh?” said Pete, standing up too. “I don’t get it. How’d she get this dick to look so real?”

Ralphie smacked him playfully on the head. “It is a real dick—don’t you get it? It’s a man!”

“Oh, shit!” said Pete, laughing. “I guess he’s allowed in here after all!”

Quentin and Ralphie started laughing with him, and then Ralphie said, “Okay, pull up his pants and get him up off the floor.”

Quentin and Pete did what Ralphie said. They pulled up the little man’s pants and picked him up off the floor.

“He okay?” said Ralphie.

Quentin tapped him on the cheek. “Hey, you okay?”

“He’s okay,” said Pete.

They walked out of the bathroom, Quentin and Pete carrying the little man. Ralphie picked up his broken glasses, and they took the little man back to the table where he’d been sitting. When the little man started to come out of his stupor, he began to cry.

“Charlie, get the guy another Coke with a lime in it, will you?” said Ralphie. And then he added, “You know what, I’ll try one of those myself.”

And Pete said, “Oh, man, that’s fucking gross!” and the three of them laughed even harder.

 

II.

Annie was preparing the kids’ supper, when she heard a knock at the door. She warned them to eat their weenies and baked beans, and walked out of the kitchen, across the living room and opened the front door. Ralphie stood on the porch. He grinned at her through the screen door, standing there in the yellow porch light.

“Ralphie, Jesus, I didn’t expect to see you!”

“Well,” Ralphie said, “you going to invite me in, or what?”

Annie turned her head, like there might’ve been someone behind her listening. She lowered her voice. “Carol’s going to be home pretty soon.”

Ralphie shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Well, okay,” she said. “Just for a few minutes, I guess.”

She pushed at the screen door. He opened it the rest of the way and walked in. He’d been to their house a few times before, but always in the afternoon when Carol was working. He looked around at the mismatched furniture, at the sofa with the holes in it, and at Carol’s stupid picture of John Wayne hanging on the wall.

Annie wore a faded pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt that had a picture of a teddy bear on it. She had a fresh bruise around her eye that she was glad Ralphie got to see, but she wished she looked better for him. She wanted him to want her.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she said.

He shrugged again. “What’re the girls doing?”

“They’re eating, having their dinner.” She paused, then said, “You want to say hi to them?”

“Sure,” Ralphie said. He’d always liked Annie’s girls. They were cute, and both of them were smart.

The two of them walked into the kitchen. The kids were fighting over a spoon. Annie said, “Hey, girls, look who’s here!”

They both looked up and grinned at Ralphie standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hi Ralphie!” they said together.

Ralphie walked over to the table. “How are you girls?” He put a hand on each of their shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

“Fine,” said Cathy, the older girl. She had shoulder-length straight blond hair that was almost white and bright blue eyes. She was eight now, and very smart. She said things you wouldn’t expect an eight year old to say. “How are you, Ralphie?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said to her. “What you having for dinner?”

“We’re having beans and weenies,” said Linda. She was six, and just as cute as a little girl could be, with dirty blond hair that was naturally curly.

“Sounds good,” said Ralphie. “Say, me and your mom want to have a little talk.”

“Okay,” said Cathy, going back to her supper.

“So you’ll be all right in here by yourselves for a few minutes?” Ralphie said to her.

“Of course we will,” said Cathy. “We’re not babies!”

“No, you sure aren’t,” said Ralphie, and he tousled her hair.

Ralphie looked at Annie, and she gave him an uncertain, worried glance. He nodded to her, and they walked out of the kitchen. Out in the living room, he grabbed her by the arm and directed her to the master bedroom. He closed the door behind them.

“Ralphie!” said Annie. “I’m telling you—Carol’s going to be home any minute!”

Ralphie pushed her up against the door and grabbed the front of her shirt. “Do I look like I’m worried?” he said, and he tore at her shirt until it ripped in half, right through the teddy bear. He pulled it the rest of the way off and tossed it to the floor, exposing her chest and the black brassiere she was wearing.

“Oh, fuck,” she said, getting very excited. “Oh, fuck.”

Ralphie grabbed her by the waistline of her jeans and pulled her into him. Their bodies met, and he stuck his tongue in her mouth. Annie shot her hands down his hips, then across his groin, feeling his cock, his very large cock through his trousers. Ralphie pulled away from her and pushed her over to the bed, face down. He reached around and unzipped her jeans, and pulled them down around her ankles. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. Annie arched her hips, and Ralphie unzipped his fly and took out his cock and mounted her from behind. He began to pump her very hard, and she moaned. She was very wet, very excited, and Ralphie came quickly, and Annie yelped when she felt him coming.

Ralphie pulled out of her and stood up. He grabbed her t-shirt from the floor and wiped his dick with it, then put his cock away and zipped up. Annie rolled over onto her back on the bed.

“Mmmm…” she said, her eyes closed. She was running her fingers across her breasts. “God, Ralphie, I love the way you fuck me.”

Ralphie pointed to her bruised eye. “Did Carol do that?”

Annie nodded. “Yep. Yesterday. He said he didn’t like the way I was talking to him, like I was giving him lip or something, so he hit me.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” said Ralphie.

Ralphie’s cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and looked at the display. “It’s Marcie,” he said, and answered it. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” said Marcie.

“Nowhere,” said Ralphie. “And I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Are you with someone?” said Marcie. “Are you with another girl?”

“I’ll see you at home later,” said Ralphie, and he clicked off the phone.

“I think she’s jealous,” said Annie.

“I know she is,” said Ralphie.

From the other room they heard the front door open.

“Oh, shit!” Annie said in a whisper. “It’s Carol—he’s home! Shit, what’re we going to do?”

“Relax,” Ralphie said.

“You got to hide!” she said, sitting up on the bed.

“No fucking way,” Ralphie said, smirking.

“Ralphie!”

“Hey—you want me to take care of things, right?”

Annie looked up at him. “Tonight? You’re going to do it tonight? Now? Right here?”

Ralphie shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Ralphie! The kids are here!”

“That’s okay,” Ralphie said. “I brought my silencer.”

He drew his pistol from its holster, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the silencer. He fitted it onto the end of the barrel and screwed it into place.

“The kids won’t hear a thing.”

“Fuck, Ralphie! Fuck,” said Annie, as she went to the dresser and pulled out a new t-shirt, a yellow one that had a picture of a baby duck on it.

The doorknob turned as Annie pulled the t-shirt over her head, and the door swung open. Carol stood in the doorway. Thin and muscular, he had dark brown hair, and he was unshaven. He wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, jeans and work boots. Carol did construction work, and he was strong.

Ralphie stood against the bedroom closet with the pistol behind his back. Annie tried to get herself straightened up, smoothing her hair and zipping her jeans.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Carol said.

“Hey, Carol,” said Ralphie.

“What the fuck’re you doing in my house?” said Carol. “What the fuck’re you doing in my bedroom?”

“Nice to see you, Carol,” said Ralphie. “Me and Annie were just having a little chat.”

“Get the fucking hell out of my house!” Carol said.

“Shhhh,” Ralphie said, putting a finger to his lips, the pistol still behind his back. “You’re going to scare the girls.”

“I don’t give a fuck—!”

“Hey!” Ralphie said, whipping the pistol around and pointing it at Carol now. “I told you not to fucking yell!”

Carol’s eyes bulged at the sight of the gun.

“Now close the fucking door,” Ralphie said.

Carol did, he closed the bedroom door and turned back to face the two of them.

“Good,” said Ralphie, and he aimed and shot Carol through the bridge of the nose. Annie screamed, and Carol tumbled to the floor in a heap.

A smear of blood and maybe brains remained on the white bedroom door about the height where Carol’s head had been.

“Shit,” said Ralphie. “I was aiming for his eye, but I got him right through the nose.”

There was a knock at the door. “Mommy?” said Cathy’s voice. “Mommy, what happened? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Ralphie said through the door. “Nothing at all. Go back to your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Is Mommy okay?”

“I’m fine, honey,” Annie said. “Go on back in the kitchen.”

They heard her little feet padding across the living room floor and into the kitchen. Ralphie unscrewed the silencer from his pistol and put them both away. He walked over and nudged Carol’s body with the toe of his shoe.

“He’s dead,” said Ralphie.

“Oh, Ralphie,” said Annie, stepping up beside him, her hand to her mouth.

“Yeah? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Sure…sure it is. I’m just, you know, a little freaked out now, looking at him laying there like that.”

Ralphie reached over and grabbed her hand then, and placed it on his cock.

“I don’t know why,” he said, “but killing somebody always makes me horny.”

Annie rubbed his swelling cock through his trousers, while she stared at the body on the floor. Ralphie got her attention, and put a hand on her shoulder and eased her down onto the floor, on her knees. She was kneeling now beside Carol’s dead body, and she unzipped Ralphie’s pants and took his penis out. She stroked it with her hand, as she stole another look at the body.

“Oooo… Ralphie, there’s blood on the floor,” she said, pointing with her free hand.

“That’s okay,” he said. “You can clean that up later.”

He grabbed the back of her head with his hand and turned it to face him. She opened her mouth then and took his penis and started sucking it.

Annie knew how to give a good blowjob, and Ralphie got very excited. He didn’t like to come standing up, though, so he pulled his dick out of her mouth and turned her around, and knelt down behind her. She was facing the dead body now, Carol’s dead body, laying inches in front of her on the floor in a pool of blood. Ralphie reached around and unzipped her jeans again and pulled them down around her knees. He climbed down on the floor on top of her, and mounted her once more. Her pussy was even hotter and wetter than it was the first time, like killing her husband had excited her, too. Ralphie started thrusting into her, pounding her, the both of them looking at that dead body, and in a moment they both started to come. Ralphie could feel her coming, feel the contractions, and it made him come, and they both made little noises and came together.

Ralphie gave her a few more strokes and pulled out of her. His knees felt weak now, and he laid down on the floor beside her. They both had their heads resting against Carol’s dead body.

“God, Ralphie,” she said. “That was so good. I haven’t been fucked like that in a long time.”

“Carol wasn’t giving it to you, huh?” he said to her.

“No. You know that little slut, Lisa Miller? I think he was fucking her.”

“Lisa Miller?” said Ralphie, like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, you’re way better looking than she is.”

“You’re so sweet, Ralphie. Carol would never say nice things like that to me, at least he hasn’t for a long time.”

“Well, I’m not saying it to be nice,” he said. “I mean it. You’re hands down better looking than she is. I mean, you’ve got a great little body, and she’s fat if you ask me.”

“She’s a goddamned hippo,” said Annie.

Ralphie laughed. “A hippo—that’s a good one. I’ll have to tell Quentin and Pete you said that. A hippo. Shoot.”

Annie reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Anyway,” she said. “I think you’re sweet.”

[An earlier version of this story appeared on PlotsWithGuns.com, #27, Jan./Feb. 2004; and on theroguereader.com]

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A Frank Koenig Story: “The Stolen Car”

Mark T. Conard:

A Frank Koenig short from a few months ago. Hope you enjoy it.

Originally posted on Mark T. Conard:

Frank’s partner, Carl Gibson, had a large waistband and chubby cheeks, with his hair cut into a dirty blond flattop. He wore a cheap Sears and Roebuck suit with a white shirt and a chocolate striped tie. He always smelled of Aqua Velva.

Carl sat behind the wheel of his new De Soto, a pale green De Luxe Business Coupe, and Frank occupied the passenger’s seat, staring out the window.

He and Frank hadn’t been partners long. They worked out of the Major Case Squad and had caught a call that morning.

“Did you check out the name of the lady filing the complaint?” said Carl as he drove.

Frank shook his head.

“Didn’t you wonder why we’re handling a stolen car? Does that sound like a major case to you? Sure doesn’t to me. Should be uniforms handling it, but they’re not. They kicked it up to us.”

Frank…

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A Frank Koenig Story: “The Meridian Lounge”

Mark T. Conard:

Here’s a post from a few months ago. Enjoy!

Originally posted on Mark T. Conard:

The Meridian Lounge

The Meridian Lounge on West 125th Street in Harlem featured local and up-and-coming jazz acts. The venue, smoke-filled and done in brass, contained a dozen tables, and the varnish had worn off the floorboards where the waitresses trekked from the bar to the patrons in the tight space. Alma Boudreau stood on the bandstand behind the microphone, cooing “Love For Sale,” the Cole Porter tune, accompanied by piano, bass, and a drummer using brushes. She wore a tight-fitting white sleeveless dress that plunged at the neckline and hugged her generous hips, and her honeyed voice would make songbirds jealous.

Frank Koenig, NYPD detective, had the only white face in the joint. The manager ran an establishment for coloreds, but made an exception for Frank, since he took a particular interest in black neighborhood crime when other cops wouldn’t. Nobody in the city knew why. It was Frank’s…

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“Bernie the Naughty Duck Steals a Cookie”

Bernie the duck, with his yellow feathers and orange feet and beak, waddled into the living room to find his young friend Leo playing with a set of wooden blocks. They lived in a brownstone in the Brooklyn Heights section of Brooklyn in New York City with Leo’s parents, who were both professors at a prestigious university. Bookcases filled with impressive-looking volumes lined the walls of the living room, and thick oriental carpets covered the hardwood floors.
“I say, Master Leo,” said Bernie in a stiff British accent. “I believe I smell freshly-baked cookies in the kitchen. What do you say we act like a couple of scallywags, rogues, if you will, and pilfer one or two of them?”
Leo had a roundish, ruddy face and sandy-blond hair. He looked over at his aquatic friend and pretended to straighten a stiff collar and tie, even though he wore little boys’ jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a blue dog on it.
“I think that’s a capital idea, old chap,” he said.
He stood up, and followed Bernie into the next room. Bernie pretended to march in a military-style walk, and Leo giggled and imitated him.
As they neared the kitchen, they could hear the nanny, Miss Zelda, busying herself with preparing Leo’s lunch. Bernie leaned over to whisper in Leo’s ear.
“I’ll distract her,” he said. “And you procure two of those delicious biscuits.”
“Biscuits?”
“That’s what the Brits call cookies,” said Bernie with a wink.
Leo nodded and grinned. He hid to the side while Bernie ran into the kitchen flapping his wings and quacking.
Miss Zelda, an angry black woman from Corona, Queens, must have weighed three hundred pounds, but for some reason she feared Bernie.
“Damn you, you crazy duck,” she said, grabbing a broom. “Get away from me!”
“Quack, quack, quack,” said Bernie, still flapping his wings.
Leo turned the corner while Miss Zelda looked the other way. He pushed a stool next to the countertop, scrambled onto it, and reached up to the counter. The plate of cookies lay there, but he grabbed a heavy rolling pin sitting next to it instead.
He hopped down off the stool, and just as Miss Zelda bent down to shoo Bernie away, he bashed her on the back of the head with it, and she fell to the linoleum with a terrific thud.
“What the hell, Leo?” said Bernie, losing his British accent. He originally came from Canarsie. “You might’ve killed her!”
“Ah, fuck her,” said little Leo. “I want to have some fun, and that old bitch never lets me. Now, grab a bottle of vodka and my sippy cup, and meet me in mom and dad’s bedroom.”
“Shit, I got a bad feeling about this,” said Bernie, looking at Miss Zelda stretched out on the kitchen floor.
“Just do it!” said Leo, heading into the next room.
“Quack, quack,” said Bernie.
He went to the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of Stoli. He found Leo’s cup and made his way to the bedroom. There he found Leo up on a chair going through his parents’ dresser drawer.
“What’re you doing?”
Leo turned to him with a grin on his face. He held in his hand a giant bag of pot.
“Pour me a drink, and let’s get baked!” he said.
“Man, you really shouldn’t be doing that.”
Leo jumped down off the chair holding a joint and a lighter.
“When did you become such a downer? You’re the one who’s always going on about being a scamp and a rascal, shit like that.”
“Yeah, but I’m talking about, you know, putting bugs in little girls’ hair or eating too much candy. Innocent kid stuff.”
Leo fired up the jay and took a deep drag.
“Yeah, well, now you’re playing big boy games.”
Bernie watched while Leo Bogarted the joint and took hits of vodka from his sippy cup. Leo started looking under the bed and in the nightstand.
“Oh, man, look at this,” he said, holding up a packaged condom.
“What about it?”
“Dad’s wearing a raincoat, and I want a little brother to pick on.”
He took another hit on the joint and looked further through the drawer. He came out with a small needle.
“This’ll do the trick,” he said, poking a hole in the condom.
“Man, you’re going to get us both in a world of trouble,” said Bernie.
Leo had become glassy-eyed. He looked down at the blue dog on his shirt.
“Woof woof!” he said. “Doggie!”
“What about it?”
“What about it is I’m high as a kite, and I got the munchies,” said Leo. “Bring me that plate of cookies!”
Bernie let out a heavy sigh. He plodded out to the kitchen, then returned with the plate of cookies in his beak.
“Miss Zelda must’ve come to,” he said, setting down the plate. “She ain’t out there. Thank God you didn’t kill her.”
Little Leo fell upon the cookies and devoured them with great relish.
“Oh, shit those are good,” he said between bites. “But, man, am I getting sleepy.”
Miss Zelda came into the room, looking very angry.
“So here you are,” she said. “I don’t know what happened, but I got a big knot on my head, and you better believe the lady of the house going to hear about it.”
“Sleepy, sleepy,” said Leo rubbing his eyes.
“Okay, let’s put you down for your nap,” said Miss Zelda, picking him up. She glowered at Bernie, who tried to hide behind the bed. “I’ll deal with you momentarily,” she said.



Leo woke from his nap three hours later with a fierce hangover. He sat up in his bed, holding his teddy bear. He whimpered until Miss Zelda came to fetch him.
“That was a good nap,” she said, helping him off the bed. “I bet you’re ready for lunch.”
“Hungy,” he said, pointing towards his belly. “Hungy.”
“Right, well, food’s all ready.”
She carried him out to the kitchen and put him in his booster chair at the table.
“Bernie?” he said, looking around.
“Oh, that foolish duck done ran off somewhere,” she said.
She set a tray in front of him. It held a bowl of steaming soup, and a plate with a drumstick on it.
“This ain’t chicken,” she said. “But it’s like chicken. Go on and try it. You’ll love it.”
Leo grabbed the drumstick and bit into it. The skin had roasted crispy brown, and the meat remained moist and succulent. Delicious!
“Yum yum!” said Little Leo. “Yum yum!”
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More and Better Blues

As I wrote a little over a month ago, I play guitar in a blues band. We played a gig at one of our favorite venues in the city the other night, so I thought I’d post more videos. The place is The Shrine, and it’s in Harlem. It’s a great small venue, great sound system, and the people who frequent the place are always enthusiastic and very welcoming.

Enjoy!

THE 30TH STREET BLUES BAND IN HARLEM

Junior Wells

The great Junior Wells

Here’s the band doing a Junior Wells tune, Little By Little. We take the arrangement from Susan Tedeschi.

 

Elmore James

The band plays the classic Dust My Broom. Robert Johnson recorded a version of it; but it’s usually attributed to Elmore James.

 

Debbie Davies

Debbie Davies

Last, the band doing a song by the contemporary cool blues chick, Debbie Davies, 24 Hour Fool.

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Inspirational Quotes and Shit (Part II)

As I said in an earlier post, I went on a mission a while back to try to expose just how banal inspirational quotes are. My most successful effort was to add “and shit” to the end of traditional quotations. E.g., “Religion is the opiate of the masses, and shit.” (Marx)

In no way did this motivate people to stop and think about the banality of what they were doing in posting quotes, but it was a lot of fun.

So I’ve put together a second partial list of the “and shit” quotes that I’ve posted on Twitter. (Click here for the first list.)

I always add a comma before the “and shit” to mark the end of the actual quote, whether that comma is actually needed or not.

As a bonus, at the end of the “And shit” quotes below, I’ve listed some of my other (less successful) anti-inspirational quote efforts: “Booger Poetry” (replacing a key word in a classic line of poetry with “booger”), and “Shakespeare bitches” (adding “bitches” after a line in Shakespeare).

Enjoy!

AND SHIT!

“Love is the absence of judgment, and shit.” (Dalai Lama) #AndShit.

“I dream my painting and I paint my dream, and shit.” (Van Gogh) #AndShit.

“As a writer, you should not judge, you should understand, and shit.” (Hemingway) #AndShit.

“The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn, and shit.” (Emerson) #AndShit.

“Proper words in proper places make the true definition of a style, and shit.” (Swift) #AndShit.

Abraham Lincoln:
“All I have learned, I learned from books, and shit.”

 

“I hate quotations. Tell me what you know, and shit.” (Emerson) #AndShit.

“In its grossest and most servile form quotation is a lazy folly, and shit.” (Sir Walter Raleigh) #AndShit.

“Quotations like this are the warts and excremental parts of language, and shit.” (Sir Walter Raleigh) #AndShit.

“A facility for quotation covers the absence of original thought, and shit.” (Dorothy Sayers) #AndShit.

“Life itself is a quotation, and shit.” (Borges) #AndShit.

“When one begins to live by habit and by quotation, one has begun to stop living, and shit.” (James Baldwin) #AndShit.

“Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture, and shit.” (Poe) #AndShit.

“War is a perversion of sex, and shit.” (Alan Moore) #AndShit.

Oscar Wilde: “Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit, and shit.”

“As long as I have a want, I have a reason for living. Satisfaction is death, and shit.” (George Bernard Shaw) #AndShit.

“An intellectual is a person who’s found one thing that’s more interesting than sex, and shit.” (Aldous Huxley) #AndShit.

“The tragedy is when you’ve got sex in the head instead of down where it belongs, and shit.” (D.H. Lawrence) #AndShit.

“Nothing is harder to learn how to use than freedom, and shit.” (Alexis de Tocqueville) #AndShit.

“Sex pleasure in woman is a kind of magic spell; it demands complete abandon, and shit.” (De Beauvoir) #AndShit.

“If Jack’s in love, he’s no judge of Jill’s beauty, and shit.” (Ben Franklin) #Andshit.

“Rational beings are called persons, inasmuch as their nature already marks them out as ends in themselves, and shit.” (Kant) #AndShit.

“Other peoples have saints; the Greeks have sages, and shit.” (Nietzsche) #AndShit.

Albert Einstein: “All the fine speculations in the realm of science spring from a deep religious feeling, and shit.”

“The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar, and shit.” (Machiavelli) #AndShit.

“Pleasure causes us to do base actions, and pain causes us to abstain from fine ones, and shit.” (Aristotle) #AndShit.

“Manners require time, and nothing is more vulgar than haste, and shit.” (Emerson) #AndShit.

“Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable, and shit.” (George Bernard Shaw) #AndShit.

“Nature knows no indecencies; man invents them, and shit.” (Mark Twain) #AndShit.

 

BOOGER POETRY

 

“I think, that if I touched a booger,

It would crumble;

It is so sad and beautiful,

So tremulously like a dream.”  (Dylan Thomas) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large — I contain boogers.” (Walt Whitman) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“For he would be thinking of love

Till the stars had run away

And the shadows eaten the booger.” (Yeats) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“I desired my boogers to be mingled with yours

Forever and forever and forever.” (Ezra Pound) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“And those whom once my booger had cheered and gladdened,

If still they live, rove through the world now saddened.” (Goethe) #BoogerPoetry.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some boogers must fall” (Longfellow) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“My booger burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!” (Edna St. Vincent Millay) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“For the beginning is assuredly

the end- since we know nothing, pure

and simple, beyond

our own boogers.” (William Carlos Williams) #BoogerPoetry.

 

“Luck is not chance, it’s toil; fortune’s expensive booger is earned.” (Dickinson) #BoogerPoetry.

 

SHAKESPEARE BITCHES

William Shakespeare

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“If music be the food of love, play on, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Brevity is the soul of wit, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“True nobility is exempt from fear, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“To weep is to make less the depth of grief, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Now is the winter of our discontent, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“What’s done cannot be undone, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“This was the noblest Roman of them all, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Tempt not a desperate man, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“True nobility is exempt from fear, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“No legacy is so rich as honesty, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

“Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise, bitches.” #ShakespeareBitches.

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Logic Part III: Answer Key

In my last post, I discussed fallacies, or mistakes in reasoning. At the end of that piece I provided some examples of various fallacies. Below is the answer key for those examples.

Fallacy Examples

Identify the fallacies committed in the following:

1. You may laugh about esp, but you can’t prove it doesn’t work. [Argument from Ignorance]

2. Barney is advocating for stronger gun control laws, but everybody knows he drinks too much. You shouldn’t listen to him. [Ad hominem]

3. Radio announcement: “Creatine is the number one workout supplement on the market. And that’s because of its popularity.” [Begging the Question]

4. Megan didn’t say that she loved the meal that I cooked for her. Therefore, she must have hated it. [False alternative]

5. How can you deny the existence of God?! Almost everybody around you is religious in some way or another. [Appeal to majority]

6. Sarah is against the death penalty because she says it doesn’t deter crime and that it’s unjust. But what does she know? She’s never been the victim of a violent crime. [Ad hominem]

7. Bill Baxter deserves to be promoted to vice president. He has three small children, and just last week his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. [Appeal to emotion]

8.     Interviewer: Congressman, would you please explain why you voted for the bill that increases the taxes on middle- and lower-income citizens?

Congressman: Well, I believe in the truly American values of hard work, family, and children. And the foundation of these values is a sound economy, thriving businesses, national security, and honest leadership. [Diversion]

9. Paper is combustible, because it burns. [Begging the question]

10. You can argue all you want that the two-party system in this country is corrupt, but I don’t buy it. I just think differently, that’s all. [Subjectivism]

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Logic Part III: Informal Fallacies

After a Twitter exchange with someone who was particularly challenged with regard to logic, I promised to post some basic lessons in logic (I’ve been teaching the subject for many years).

I began with a basic discussion of the nature of argumentation, which is one of the primary ways in which reasoning operates: it makes connections between statements. The second post concerned the evaluation of arguments, and how to tell if an argument works. In this piece I discuss fallacies, which are common mistakes in reasoning.

(And apologies for getting into teacher mode here…)

Bertrand Russell, a great logician

COMMON FALLACIES

1) Ad Hominem (Latin for “against the person”).

Attacking the person making an argument, rather than attacking the argument itself.

Example: Congressman Stevens is a godless Marxist, so we can disregard his policy on the minimum wage.

The negative characteristics of the speaker have no bearing on the truth of what he or she is saying.

2) Appeal to Emotion.

Trying to persuade someone, not through arguments and good reasoning, but by trying to sway the person’s emotions.

Example: My client is the sole support of his aged parents. If he is sent to prison it will break their hearts, and they will be left homeless and penniless. You surely cannot find it in your hearts to reach any other verdict than “not guilty.”

The effect of the defendant’s prison sentence on his parents, heartbreaking as it might be, has no bearing on whether or not he actually committed the crime.

3) Appeal to Ignorance.

Claiming something to be true because it hasn’t been proven false.

Example: The 9/11 attacks were part of a CIA conspiracy. I know that because no one’s been able to prove that they weren’t.

It’s a staple of logic that you can’t prove a negative (how could you prove that unicorns or leprechauns don’t exist?); further, and more importantly, you could use this argument to prove absolutely anything: You can’t prove that X didn’t happen, so it must have. Plug in what you want for X. This means it’s vacuous or empty (doesn’t establish anything).

4) Appeal to Majority.

Claiming that something is true because a large number of people believe it to be true.

Example: Everyone I talk to thinks Congressman Smith is a crook, so I guess he must be one.

Just because a lot of people believe something of course has no bearing on whether it’s true.

5) Begging the Question (Circular Reasoning).

In an argument, the premises are supposed to support or establish the conclusion. In begging the question, the premises somehow rely upon the truth of the conclusion, so that the whole thing runs in a circle (premises support the conclusion, conclusion supports the premises).

In some instances of begging the question, the conclusion is just a restatement of one of the premises:

Example: Abortion is murder; therefore it’s wrong.

[Murder is by definition wrong, so this is circular.]

In other cases, one of the premises wouldn’t be true or acceptable unless the conclusion were true:

Example: That new student says that I am her favorite teacher, and she must be telling the truth, because she wouldn’t lie to her favorite teacher.

6) Diversion (Red Herring).

Changing the issue in the middle of an argument.

Example: John: Semiautomatic weapons should be banned because they have no other purpose than to kill civilians.

Jack: We already have laws against murder.

7) False Alternative (False Dilemma).

Eliminating relevant options; this is often in the form of an either/or.

Example: Either we cut social programs or we live with a huge deficit.

8) Non Sequitur.

When the premises don’t support, or are irrelevant to, the conclusion.

Example in Formal Logic: All New Yorkers are friendly people, so all friendly people are New Yorkers.

Example in Informal Logic: Professor Conard is the best teacher because he has brown hair.

Note that the second example could also be called a diversion. Many instances of diversion are non sequiturs, and vice versa.

9) Subjectivism.

Taking something to be true because you want it to be true; or, alternately, rejecting a claim or some evidence because you don’t want it to be true.

Example: You can argue all you want that democracy gives us only the illusion of control over the government, but I don’t buy it. I was brought up to believe in the democratic system.

 

FALLACY EXAMPLES

Identify the fallacies committed in the following:

1. You may laugh about ESP, but you can’t prove it doesn’t work.

2. Barney is advocating for stronger gun control laws, but everybody knows he drinks too much. You shouldn’t listen to him.

3. Radio announcement: “Creatine is the number one workout supplement on the market. And that’s because of its popularity.”

4. Megan didn’t say that she loved the meal that I cooked for her. Therefore, she must have hated it.

5. How can you deny the existence of God?! Almost everybody around you is religious in some way or another.

6. Sarah is against the death penalty because she says it doesn’t deter crime and that it’s unjust. But what does she know? She’s never been the victim of a violent crime.

7. Bill Baxter deserves to be promoted to vice president. He has three small children, and just last week his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer.

8. Interviewer: Congressman, would you please explain why you voted for the bill that increases the taxes on middle- and lower-income citizens?

Congressman: Well, I believe in the truly American values of hard work, family, and children. And the foundation of these values is a sound economy, thriving businesses, national security, and honest leadership.

9. Paper is combustible, because it burns.

10. You can argue all you want that the two-party system in this country is corrupt, but I don’t buy it. I just think differently, that’s all.

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