Do you hope to make her see you fool?

"If you shoot at a king you must kill him." Emerson

Hey

Before we get to the mail bag, regarding last issue, even though no one called me on it, I know there are two "h's" in Wehrmacht (I also know murder isn't spelled "mudrer"), everyone knows how much Bill hates bad grammer and mispellings, I also was a day off on the Tang Spoons/Roxy anniversary, so I apologize, must be cos I wrote the damn thing sober. That won't be a problem this issue . . .

So, jumping right in with the old mail bag, in response to my comments about her last issue some genius sent me a link to this site that's nothing but all these lovelorn redneck yahoos going on about how hot Tiffany Lakosky is, "See, you're not alone" he says, oh yeah, THAT makes me feel a lot better, to be lumped in with all these idiot farmboys. Thanks.

Got a letter from some guy commenting on how neat it is that my teenage daughter wants to spend time with me just the two of us, he can't get his kids to do it, wants to know what's my secret. No secret I know of, I've always enjoyed my girls company and they mine (cos I'm just so damn personable, I guess). I did spend tons of time with them when they were young, read to both of them for hours at a time, already talked about all the nights while Loretta was out of town, the three of us back in my room listening to The Who and The Doors and The Beatles, etc. (I'm sure why they both have good taste in music to this day) while I drank beer and read magazines and Sarah wrote her crazy ass little kid fan letters to Roky Erikson and Rachel sat on my lap and painted my face up like Captain Flag or Red King Zombie (her own creations). I even used to get down on the floor and play dolls with them- well, not dolls exactly, Barbie was living in sin with Magneto and their love child was the Wolfman, and they frequently tipped the house over fighting Godzilla, but the point is I played with them. No chore, I enjoyed it. And I guess all that time spent together just carried over to now when they're adults (and fine young women they are, I'm proud to say).

Also got a very surprising letter from someone I didn't think even read this any more regarding a throwaway line at the end of last issue, exhorting me not to go back on the drugs, "Remember what happened last time?" Yes, indeed, I remember very well, heart stoppage is something that gets even a freak of fucking nature's attention. Well, you know, there's pain relief and then there's pain relief, and if you'd like to come back around and make me feel better than drugs ever could, I'm all for it.

Although truth be told, I don't use drugs for pain relief, that's what sex and alcohol are for, I use drugs for energy. I may be going at it backward, I do admit, and boy wouldn't that be something new for Bill, instead of using speed for energy cos I can't sleep, maybe I should take something to help me sleep instead. Problem is I've never found a drug that will do that, so . . .

Anyway, as I said, it was just a throwaway, I'm not going back on drugs. But if you'd still like to come around . . .

Ronnie continues to fry my nerves at the scrapyard. I try to be as nice to Ronnie as I can, other than you know, pranking his ass any chance I get, cos I'm pretty sure he's a legit retard. I'm just getting so sick of the sound of his voice. He speaks in fluent hillbilly mushmouth, drops the first syllable off of most words as in "Scott got 'rested for 'mestic violence 'stidy night", Jesus, WHAT?, he'll occasionally add one where it's not needed, "What's the ordeal here?', you are, Ron, he calls prepared "repaired" and I can't break him of it, at least once a week he'll tell somebody "If you repair this stuff you get more money for it," "How the fuck can I repair it?" being the normal response, "He means cut it down into lengths of four feet or less," I'll tell the guy, "You mean prepare it," he'll say, "Exactly," I'll say, and then Ronnie will add, "That's what I said."

Normally I let it go but one day week before last I was hungover to beat hell and I snapped and went, "No you didn't, you said 'repaired' like you always do, you dumb fuck." Well, that pissed him off big time, understandably I guess- and before you ask, no, I haven't got my job back at the bar yet, I guess I'm still suspended or whatever, Bill has definitely got to work on his interpersonal skills in the work place- or not, fuck 'em. Ronnie went crying to Nancy about how I cussed him in front of a customer, she asked me about it and I admitted it, "I called him a dumb fuck because he is, and I'm not sorry, I can only take his stupid shit for so long, but he's right, I shouldn't have done it in front of a customer and I won't do it again." She asked me to apologize to Ronnie so I told him I was sorry I called him a dumb fuck in front of a customer, which was true.

He stayed mad at me for a couple days, which was great cos he didn't talk to me, but then on Friday he comes up to me and sticks his hand out for me to shake and says, "I'm not mad at you anymore, buddy," well glory be and halleluiah, I been so worried.

He came in one day last week looking pretty bad, I asked him what was wrong (he's on meds for high blood pressure that he only takes sporadically, according to some weird ass schedule he's worked out himself, I keep waiting for his head to literally explode one day, and yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll laugh my ass off when it does, as long as he doesn't splatter all over me, then I'll be pissed), he said he couldn't sleep any the night before because of "brain waves."

Bill: Because of what?
Ronnie: Brain waves. I laid down and tried to go to sleep but them brain waves started to whammy around inside my head and wouldn't stop, scared the bejeebies outta me so I got back up.
B: That would scare you, all right.

I have NO idea what he was talking about. Still, he did use "brain waves", "whammy" and "bejeebies" all in one sentence.

I've been calling Maryland a fascist state in here for years now, as more proof that Bill really does know what he's talking about there was an article in today's paper on that very subject, and Maryland ranked dead last in the country in its citizen's personal freedoms. Don't tell me I don't know fascists when I see 'em.

Ian McKellan is still gay.

So, what's Bill been doing these past two weeks?

The MC went to see Watchmen last Sunday, Bill and Danny loved it, Joe, Laura, Gordon and Rachel liked it, Chris and Ron didn't really care for it, although Chris said he'd like to see it again, and Debbie hated it, to the point she accosted me in the lobby afterward, "It was long. And boring!" Well, I guess to each their own.

It followed the comic very closely, lots of blood and bare asses, Malin Ackerman's got a really nice one, and I tell you right now, if I ever shoot a sex scene like they did in this film (calling Brainwrap!) where the actress and I are both bare ass naked, in position and going through the motions, we're just fucking for real and they can edit it however. In fact, how would/could you get in that position and NOT do it? I mean, where do you put your dick, seriously? And lastly, I still say I could have played The Comedian better. This guy was okay, but he didn't have the menace that TC had in the comic, and that I'm sure I could have brought to the role.

Went over to Joe and Laura's for Harpoons and cigars after, fun as always, but then having to go to "work" on Monday, that sucked royally, how do you people do it? Get well soon, Phil. Seriously.

Went to Martha's Tuesday night and walked her oxen disguised as dogs with her and Jean and Geri, Tad went for a run, show off, God I miss my knees, then we ate some pizza they made and drank some proseca and some white wine I didn't get the name of.

Oh, those inscrutable Chinese. Went to the Chinese buffet up on the hill this afternoon cos I hadn't eaten since Friday afternoon- too busy drinking, which we'll get to later- ate for ninety minutes straight, looked like a python that swallowed a Filipino when I left, but it was the fortune in my cookie that had me rolling on the floor. "Your love life will be happy and harmonious".

(STARTING WHEN?)

Tomorrow, I guess.

(I'D SAY MORE LIKE NEVER)

I'd agree.

(THIS COUNTRY IS ALL RIGHT FOR MEN AND DOGS, BUT IT'S HELL FOR WOMEN AND HORSES)

So true.

What's Bill been reading these past two weeks?

Beneath The Moors, Lovecraftian stuff by Brain Lumley, he's not a good writer by any means but I like Lovecraftian stuff, Noir, by some Frog whose name escapes me at the moment, set in a near future fascist France with supernatural overtones, weird, but surprisingly good, By The Sword, the new Repairman Jack novel, they don't get any better and I keep reading them so I guess that's on me, The Conan Phenomenon, oversize, with some great illustrations, if you don't like Frank Frazetta you're a fairy, The Plumed Serpent, real life adventures of this herpetologist in (mostly) Central America and Australia, good, but it won't hold a candle to Bill Vs. Mother Nature, the Wanted graphic novel, vastly overrated in my book, never saw the movie.

Also a couple big anthologies- I got a lot of time to fill at the old scrapyard- Fast Forward, 400+ pages of mostly shitty new SF, it was boring as hell, too much computer shit and not enough ray guns, and 600 pages of The Year's Best Horror and Fantasy 2007, about half of which was good, but the other half I'm going, "the FUCK, this is the BEST?" Hardly. Again, to each their own, I guess.

Lastly, Death of a Gunfighter, about Jack Slade, who killed somewhere between one and twenty six men- hard to sort out rumor from fact at this late date- in the 1850's, he was apparently one of those people who was a hell of a nice guy when sober and a crazy ass hot tempered motherfucker when drunk, or as it was said of him at the time, "the fiery compounds he poured into his system clouded his mind and dethroned his reason". Yeah, them fiery compounds will do that.

(I'VE HEARD OF GUYS LIKE HIM)

Me too. He was eventually lynched in 1864 by vigilantes for- get this- disorderly conduct, or again to quote a contemporary account, he "got drunk and cut some capers that did not satisfy the community"- now that's funny. Old Jack got all tore down on fiery compounds and was making a drunken nuisance of himself for about the millionth time and the town folk had just had enough of his capers, so they strung his ass up. Yow.

What were his drunken capers, you ask? Well, he disrupted business at the towns two brothels, wrecking furniture and fixtures, marched up and down the street "slandering in song" the three town fathers "and using the most abusive language to any he might come in contact with", then "drunk and belligerant, he rode his horse, Old Copperbottom"- he named his horse OLD COPPERBOTTOM, holy fuck and they HUNG THIS MAN?!- "into Dorris' store; when asked to leave he drew his gun and threatened to kill the speaker; he then rode his horse into the saloon, snatched a bottle of wine from behind the bar and attempted to force it down his horse's mouth."

Apparently just getting warmed up, he then crashed "a traveling show" at the town theater featuring one Kate Harper who came onstage in a tutu, Slade "ordered her in a loud and vulgar voice to take off the balance of her dress," which "disgusted the audience", they tossed his ass out of the theater so he went back to the saloon in front of which was a milk wagon, he asked the driver for a drink of milk and, no doubt afraid to refuse the guy gave him one, when Slade spilled some milk on his shirt the driver laughed, Slade then "proceeded to dump the rest of the milk can's contents over the milkman's head, then turned over the wagon."

Still not done, Slade entered the saloon "and seemingly from want of anything better to do, picked fights with two of his companions. His confused state of mind is suggested by an observers account of these whippings. After Slade punched Harding in the face the sight of blood gushing from Harding's mouth caused Slade to pull his own handkerchief out and try to repair the damage. Slade then turned abruptly and hit Pickering in the face, knocking him over a chair."

Davis, the town judge, who was actually quite fond of sober Slade, came and tried to persuade him to leave town, as he'd gotten wind that the vigilantes were assembling to put an end to the menace of drunken Jack Slade once and for all. "Sensing that he was in danger but unable to think clearly"- boy, do I know how that goes- "Slade pulled a cocked derringer from his pocket, grabbed Davis by the collar and holding the derringer to his head informed Davis 'You are my prisoner.' Davis, ever the stoic, treated this as a harmless prank". Stoic indeed. All good times must end, however, and while the judge continued to plead with Slade to get the hell out of Dodge (actually Virginia City), the vigilantes swarmed in, took him out into the street, and hung him. Pretty sad state of affairs I'd say when a man can't have a little drunken fun without getting hung for it.

As further proof that Bill was born at the wrong time, early in the book it was stated "Laborers digging the Erie Canal in the 1820s were given a quart of Monongahela whiskey a day, issued in eight four ounce portions starting at 6 am, on the presumption that the practice was healthy." Presumption?

(I'M SURPRISED THAT CANAL EVER GOT DUG)

Yeah, or that it didn't go in circles.

And on that note, what's Bill drinking? Well, it ain't green fucking tea (although that girly man tea I was drinking last issue was actually very soothing on the scorched earth I call my stomach, probably the ginger in it, also it was full of B6 and B12, one can't ever get enough of them). Took my Mom to Lori's Thursday after, ugh, work, not sure when she's coming back, I'd already told Allen I was going to bail on the show in Nellis Saturday (didn't miss much, heard they only drew about 25-30), so I was suddenly confronted by an entire weekend to myself. No Mom, no DFZ-

(HEY!)

- no nothing. So I stopped on the way home Friday and picked up a couple cases of Rolling Rock and been drinking beer and listening to Hawkwind and Thin White Rope CDs and reading magazines (some real- Big Takeover, Filmfax, Mojo-some on-line- Aural Innovations, Rory On) all weekend, haven't answered the fucking door, or the fucking phone, one damn time, in fact after talking to both the girls yesterday I took the phone off the hook, and it's been great. The Rolling Rock is long gone- it is Sunday evening, after all, and there were only 48- I always pick up a couple of the 24 oz. Labatts Blue cans (99 cents!) whenever I take my Mom to Kroger, to keep in reserve, had ten of them stacked in the refrigerator, got three left as of this writing, figure they'll be gone about the time I finish the NL.

Probably feel like shit tomorrow at the scrapyard, but you know what? I feel like shit there most days anyway. Have I already said get well soon, Phil?

Finished the Bill Vs. Ted and Tiffany story, working on one now set in the Atom War '50 world, it's got a crew cut hardass hero (I think his name starts with "B"), a hot and lusty heroine, sharks, zombies, Cthulhu, mad scientists, Me-262s, Commies AND Nazis, tommy guns- exactly, its a period romance.

Joe did a great cover for M Is For Monster- why don't you put it in the on line NL?- in the process of getting an ISBN # and then it goes to the printer. I'm stoked.

As for DFZ, more mayhem in Parkersburg, had just a killer match with the MCD last weekend, over 200 paid at WVU-P, I love that venue, and it is so nice to be able to take a hot shower after the match, even if there was no one to scrub my back this time (S II is in Alabama last I heard). Jock was telling me again the match was all over the indy Internet boards he frequents- I caution him about reading too much of that stuff, cos it's too easy to turn into a mark for yourself, but he's young- and it was a damn good match, although the finish, where we dropped Cross with the double heart punch, to quote one Internet scribe, left the crowd "distrot".

(ALWAYS LEAVE 'EM DISTROT WHEN YOU CAN)

Absolutely. And I've already gone back on what I said last issue, taking on a new Fed, gonna start working in Erie, PA- and yes, I do know how far away that is, been there before- but the pay is supposed to be big, get a free motel room and food, so we'll see. Mike is setting it up, first show is April 11, but I've already informed him, I need to have my money for the show in hand before I ever leave my driveway. I'm not trying to be a dick, but Erie is WAY to damn far to drive on a fucking handshake. So now after the first weekend in April, I don't have another DFZ free weekend till sometime in June. And everyone local needs to remember to come to the XMCW 8th Anniversary show at Ayash on Friday, 4/24, which is either going to be great, or the cluster fuck from hell, or maybe both.

All right, I promised last issue that this one we'd get into the Bill and his Dad john boat story, and since I still have all of this beery energy, we shall. This will be the first new B & D story since his passing two and a half years ago, by the way.

So . . . as a kid I was crazy about fishing. Not sure why, but I was. And so my Dad, being the genuinely good Dad that he was, would take me. Sometimes we caught fish, sometimes we didn't depending on how many suicidal fish were in the body of water we were fishing, but we had fun, or at least I did, and if my Dad didn't, he faked it pretty well. Most times we came back in worse shape than when we left- I hooked my Dad in the hand three times and twice in the scalp, all by accident, and once he stepped on the front of a big stick and the back end of it came up and cracked me in the nuts, again I think by accident, he worried all the rest of that day that he'd "ruptured" me- I kept acting like it hurt even after it quit, cos that's the way I am- we both got spined by every damn fish that has spines, and some that don't, and if I had a nickle for every time one of us inadvertantly fell into whatever creek, lake, river, bay, pond or ocean we were angling in that day I'd be rich in money as well as experience.

And no, we didn't get along any better fishing than we did anywhere else. I only remember once deliberately trying to hook my Dad, we were on the banks of the Shenandoah River during a spring visit to my grandparents, I forget what he said or did to piss me off, but he did, royally, so when he wasn't looking I winged a cast at him. I didn't hit him but I came close, and after that sinker and hook went whizzing past his head-

Dad: Jesus Christ! Be careful where you cast that thing.
Billy: I was being careful.

He sees the sullen expression on my face.

D: Were you TRYING to hit me with that damn hook?
B: Well, you're standing there, and the water's way over there, you figure it out.
D: By God, you little-

What little thing I am, or was, I'll never know cos I'd already thrown down my rod and started running for my life, up the bank and down the dirt road (which is now a paved road with big ass houses all along it and the places we used to fish are now someone's back yard- fucking "progress" can kiss my ass).

D: Just stay gone!

I stayed gone about an hour, not forever like he probably meant, and when I slunk back my Dad smacked me in the back of the head not very gently and told me if I ever tried to hit him with a fish hook again the rods were going in the water and our fishing days together were done, which seemed fair enough to me, so I never cast at him on purpose again. That he knew of.

I remember this eel I caught out of the Potomac one Saturday afternoon when we'd run down there just to dick around for a couple hours, not really expecting to catch much and I latch into a cylindrical Moby Dick- damn thing was huge, measured 40 inches, legit- if you've ever caught an eel you know those fuckers can pull. I had to bring it back to show everyone in the neighborhood, so we filled this big plastic bucket we brought along to sit on with river water, and put the eel in it, and brought him back to Acorn Court.

After I'd shown it off to every kid in Camp Springs, and then some, there came the thorny problem of what to do with it. "You can't keep it," my Mom said, like I'd want a three and a half foot eel for a pet, "Some people eat eels," my Dad told me, "I ain't one of 'em" I told him back, so-

Dad: Go see if Capelli wants it. I think Italians (pronounced Eye-talians) eat eels.

So I lug the bucket and eel combo sloshingly to the head of the court where the Capelli's live. There were seven Capelli kids- no birth control for those good '60's Catholics- five girls and two boys and they were a good looking crew one and all, Marshall and Gerard included, but my favorite was Jan who was in my class at Camp Springs Elementary and who was already making my eleven year old dick hard. I was hoping she'd answer the door so I could say, "Hey Jan, wanna see my great big eel?", but alas, it was her old man who answered the door.

B: Good afternoon, Mister Capelli.
Mister C: What is it, Billy?
B: You want this eel?

He looks in the bucket.

MC: No.

-he says, and closes the door. Well, hell. I went to all the other houses in the court, to no better response-

Billy: You want this eel?
Random neighbor: Do I want wha- Good God! Get that thing out of here!

I have to admit it was a pretty mean looking eel, and robust as hell to boot, he'd been in that bucket for hours now after having been pulled out of the river by a big hook through his lip, and he was still feisty enough to slosh all around in there and act like he was trying to get out, on short notice. Be glad eels don't grow to be twelve feet long and have legs or you'd never be able to leave the house.

I figure I'm going to have to do for him myself, so I get out all my fishing books and in one of them, eureka, is how to skin and clean an eel, which involves first nailing it to a tree- swear. I don't know about that, but hitting it with a hammer to get rid of it seems like not too bad an idea, maybe someone will take it off my hands once it's dead, so I get a hammer from the basement and dump the eel out onto the back patio. Of course he doesn't just lay there, but flips and writhes just like an eel out of water, and I'm having a little trouble making contact, though not for lack of trying.

My Dad hears the sound of hammer on concrete and comes out back.

Dad: Quit hitting the patio with that hammer.
Billy: It's this damn eel.
D: What?
B: He won't hold still.
D: Yeah, well- STOP HITTING THE PATIO WITH THAT HAMMER!
B: HE WON'T HOLD STILL!
D: If you were trying to hit me in the head with a hammer I wouldn't hold still either. Hold him down.
B: Uh uh.
D: Why not?
B: I'm scared of him. You hold him down.
D: Not my eel. All right then, why don't you- STOP, dammit. Give me that hammer. Jesus Christ, when your mother sees this patio . . .

By this time the eel had squirmed off the patio and into the yard.

B: He's getting away!
D: Why don't you just let him go?
B: What?
D: Take him down to the creek.

Out of the mouths of crazy ass Dads. Why hadn't I thought of that? Down at the end of the street and around the corner was the creek I always got in trouble for playing in, it wasn't a creek as such, it was fed by run off from the storm drains, but it must have had some other source as well cos it never ran dry. It didn't have many fish in it other than assorted minnow types, but it was just chock full of frogs and turtles and snakes which is why I was down there so often trying to catch them. Now it was going to have an eel, and a damn big one at that.

I got a shovel out of the basement- I was NOT touching that monster with my bare hands, especially not after I'd made him mad by trying to brain him with a hammer- and on about the fifteenth try managed to shovel the still squirming eel- I'm not sure exactly how you kill one but depriving it of water is not the way- back into the waterless bucket and then run down to the creek with him banging around to beat hell inside it, where I tossed him in with much relief. I don't know what became of it as I never saw it again, or heard of anyone seeing it, but he was swimming, not floating or sinking when last I saw him, so my conscience is clear. On that account, anyway.

I haven't even gotten to the john boat story, but I think I'll save it for next issue. I've got so much beer in me right now I'm seeing triplicate, and I do have to put on my reading boots in the morning and go read for eight and half hours, except when some pesky son of a bitch wants me to weigh his scrap. Your last words for this issue?

(SURRENDER IS THE KEY THAT UNLOCKS SALVATION)

You ready to give up?

(FUCK NO)

Me either.

The harder they come
The harder they'll fall
One and all

Later

Bill