Cruel Flutters
In most stories, traveling back in time and changing even the slightest thing tends to have catastrophic results. That may be, but I'll tell you this much--if I could go back 24 hours and not kill quite so many hookers last night, at least I'd be able to walk to the store today without being shot at by angry pimps.
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Okay, it's true that you don't have to outrun the grizzly bear, you just have to outrun your friends. But what if the grizzly bear just wants to be pals? Now one of your friends has a grizzly bear for a pal, which is pretty damn awesome, and all you have are blisters. I think a better plan is to cripple your friends and then wait to decide if you're going stay or flee until you're certain of the bear's intentions.
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Falling in love with the birthday girl is a real tough deal because for once she's actually desensitized to guys who buy her things. You'd think that on this day the logical play would be to steal her presents, but that doesn't seem to work either. So what I recommend is sleeping with her sister and pretending it's her. (What, you don't like that plan? Fine, I guess you could try telling her her dress looks very pretty, but you better get in line 'cause everyone else is gonna do that too.)
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I knew that hobo was going to ask me for a dollar. That hobo knew I knew he was going to ask me for a dollar. That hobo knew if I gave him a dollar he was going to buy a beer. I knew that hobo knew if I gave him a dollar he was going to buy a beer. That hobo knew I knew he knew if I gave him a dollar he was going to buy a beer. But neither that hobo nor I knew he was going to bleed quite that much when I stabbed him the face.
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I have always admired quiet people and thought them rather wise. I nod at them knowingly and then we sit together in contemplative silence. But after a while I get to wondering if maybe they're actually deaf mutes so I scream obscenities when they aren't looking. But when they whirl around I feel pretty silly. I try to pretend it was a sneeze but they never buy it--so then I ask them to leave, and they usually do.
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Doing a brave thing is worthless if pretty girls don't find out about it. But you aren't allowed to tell them without being a braggart, and you can be damn sure no one else is going to tell because they're all jealous it wasn't them. I guess you could try faking some sort of elaborate bravery scenario, but lord is it humiliating if something goes wrong and you're exposed as heroism hoaxer. The best plan is probably to die heroically and then haunt them.
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I can stand the smell of burning dust when the heater is lit for the first since May. And I can deal with the rush of spiders from out between ventilation grates. I run madly through the room, desperately trying to squish them all. It reminds me of years gone by, this spider-squishing rite of fall. I remember how she'd scream and cheer from her perch upon a chair. Like a task-bred dog I'd hunt the spiders down or gently brush them from her hair. But we parted ways on a summer day thinking ever the sun would shine. I heard she married nice, which cut me twice, and our follies sear in time. So the pain I know switching the heater on is that like all I ever try--it reminds me of her, the one who is gone, and then I want to die.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 9:06 AM
15 comments
15 Comments:
I've always secretly thought quiet people were autistic. I drop boxes of toothpicks in front of them and wait for them to tell me how many were in the box. But they usually just point and laugh at me. And that's when I get the "stabby" thoughts. Stupid quiet autistic people.
The second last little tale there is like a corollary to the whole Wrath Fiend issue.
Tell me Latigo, have you encountered many grizzly bears that just wanted to be pals?
I'm thinking run faster than your friend is the way to go, if he/she is a fast runner then the cripplin' sounds like a good plan B.
Into the darkness you go, brandishing your space heater of knowledge, lighting the way for the rest of us.
Your last bit here was Dwight-worthy, I think. I bet if I thought long enough, I could put a sad melody to it.
I'm going to disagree with you here. I can think of many brave things I've done that I'd rather pretty girls not know about. The one pretty girl who knows about the time I had to wear a dress in order to infiltrate a Shriner's convention is completely indifferent to the bravery and heroism that took. She just keeps asking why I had to borrow her underwear too.
Latigo Flint: the Jack Handy of Blogland!
I think I'd recommend slipping the blade between his ribs to puncture the lung. It's just as deadly because face it, a hobo doesn't have health insurance so he won't be calling 911; yet not quite as messy as the stabbing in the face.
The key to letting the girl know about your brave deed is not to die and haunt them, but to suffer a mild injury or even a mere trickle of nosebleed. When she sees this, she will feel compelled to tend you and ply you with candy liquor and questions.
However, recycling hookers does not qualify as a brave act. Unless, of course, the whores unified into a ninja army to track you down and strangle you with runny pantyhose. Then, it's pretty brave. Unless you have a grizzly bear bodyguard, in which case it reverts to not so brave. (but more fun)
I kill hookers to take their money, so I can take my car to the Pay 'N' Spray to get the cops off my back. It's funny when you go back to the scene and there's a chalk outline and a pool of blood left over. Killing pimps is more profitable, but you have to have a weapon. I took a 9mm off a cop I accidentally ran over on the way to the Pay 'N' Spray, and that seemed to do the trick.
...And I can deal with the rush of spiders from out between ventilation grates.
And this is why I have forced hot water heating. Now I just have to worry about the water mocassins swimming throughout the walls of my house, biding their time.
When prose slyly slips into poetry, one wonders if Edgar Allan Poe and Dr. Seuss have been reincarnated and are posting under the alias of Latigo Flint.
Sometimes when she dreams at night
she settles down with gentle sigh and from her lips there comes a quiet name.
And those who see not with her eyes
don't understand the love that lies
fantastical but yet does still remain.
She knows the most secret of secret truths
That unlike other smitten youths
There burns within her dreams of mornings over breakfast
Sleepy disconsolate man of tooth
and claw and ways uncouth
And heart as wayward as it may be reckless
She knows inside her deepest heart
That darkest and most hidden part
That sadness made him beautiful with every deep-etched line
She paints his face with patient art
Meticulous with every part
Determined to understand the depth of whole design.
She sits and wonders where he's been
That has kept her for so long from him
And wonders when he will return from where he went.
And then she waits, and waits again
that waywardness reign itself in
And at last return her love, Latigo Flint
Yeah well.. I was also gonna write some super awesome poetry about the greatness of Mr Flint.
But I thought I might have better luck if I just quietly mentioned my flexible spine and restated my fondness for carving his name into my forearm. And stuff.
I'm digging the mutliple vignettes. Nice divergence.
82, 82, 82! Oh Amandarama, two hundred forty six toothpicks, definitely two hundred forty six. (There are four in the box, you know?)
Corollaries are cool. I've always thought so Westacular.
There are a few Gentle grizzly bears out there Peter. There are. There are.
I don't know about all that Ari. I do drink an awful lot thought, so that probably explains quite a bit.
Dern it Random--now I adore you, and I prefer not to adore people, it's all so much simpler that way. But I've always had a soft spot for cross dressing shriner infiltration.
MJ, my name has more syllables than his, but I'm afraid he beats me in nearly every other category.
I'm going to need a demonstration Cindy-Lou. (Of course.) Aim for my right lung though please--that one's always been the slacker of the pair.
I tried paper cuts a while back Bottle Steve. It didn't go so well--no candy liquor, no questions. Just unease and poorly disguised scorn. (The thought of a ninja army of whores actually really turns me on but please don't tell anyone.)
Violence always does the trick Ghost Dog and only sissies disagree. (That was a lot of turnovers--Godspeed to Ben R.'s thumb.)
Oh Lance, those wretched water moccasins swimming through our walls. Ooooh I hate them. Not as much as spiders, but quite a bit. Our lives are savage and filled with peril, yours and mine. We wear it well though.
Hey Old Hoss, how the hell do you know I'm sexually attracted to my cousin?!!! (Oops, too much info. Fuckin' delete, delete!)
Paula, you have with one comment, eclipsed every poem I've ever ground. This isn't fair. But then neither is my dementia, so I guess it all evens out in the end. I'd tell you warmly that was the nicest thing anyone's ever written for me, but then I'd be out in the open and exposed, and that doesn't sound like something a squinty-eyed gunslinger would ever allow.
And stuff indeed Greta, and stuff indeed. Self-mutilation in my name turns me on--always has. It scuppers my crockery, and what not.
Thanks LBB. But is it a divergence or a return to roots? Some mornings it seems I faintly remember easier days, free from character arcs, nobility and sorrow... but then again, don't we all?
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