βββββββββThree nasty little poems and then you can watch T.V.
MY WORKS
Verminous.
Therefore fair game.
Life unworthy.
Or something like it.
Run it.
Loot the corpse.
Man undone.
Unmade.
No-oneβd.
God abandoned.
Guts slit.
All-gone.
Begotten.
A factory for killing.
A mouth full of cotton.
About face.
Abattoir.
Buche.
Lingus.
Look on.
TOUR DE FRANCE
βThese are my cats Octave & AsmodeΓ© .β
Her voice was confident.
A bangled wrist.
Tiny tiger feet.
Scampering.
A fascination with the dust-filled light.
Curiosity gone mental deep into night.
A SHORT SAD ONE
βHey, do you know what compound interest is?β
βNo.β
βGood.β
βββββββββββββββββββββJ.Q.D.
βββββββββββββββββm.v.d.
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βββprrrreviously on πPACE π½LYING
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WORKING.
I am a monster.
Illusory gimmickry.
If you can stomach me.
Kachina kaiju.
Utterly alien.
Hidden away.
Slits for eyes.
They canβt tell if my hairβs real.
But it is.
It is.
Galilee flow.
Volume up.
So much larger than life.
Big-Time.
The outcome of the match is predetermined.
The fightβs pretty real, though.
The fists are.
And the faces.
We collide.
Try to hug a wildfire.
Circle surround.
Square up.
Triangulate.
Xβit left.
Mash those buttons.
Or get eliminated.
Big dumb distorted guitars fill the arena.
Unbalanced speakers.
Shooters and heat-seekers.
Big dumb drums come next.
And then, Me.
Out I come.
Entranced music.
Born to jeers.
Hicks and rubes and sneering queers.
βBOOOO!β
βBOOOOOOOOO!β
βBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!β
A fat boy throws trash at me.
No arm on him, falls short.
For the best β this ring gear doesnβt come cheap.
And itβs not like the Bosses are paying for it.
Tonightβs Boss is Pat McGillicuddy.
Pat McGβs been in the biz since the β50s.
Fact of the matter.
Fact of the matter is:
You want to run Rhode Island?
Youβre working for Patty.
Weβre in Providence.
How divine.
I do decree.
And declare.
BEFOREHAND:
McGβs filling the room with cheap cigar smoke.
Weβre plotting.
Big Battle Royal tonight.
Twenty men.
Might very well be a Battle Royale.
All depends.
Iβm not winning.
Not all the way.
I do get over a bit, though.
Couple eliminations.
Then Iβm over-the-top.
The hard way.
Five men left, and Iβm to charge Hermann Sturm as heβs resting against the ropes.
Heβll duck and give me a backdrop.
Iβll catch air and somersault violently over the ropes.
IF the junkies Pat scrounged to set up the ring did their job correctly, Iβll land with some padding.
IF I can deliver on the promise of my skills, the crowd will scream.
They love a huge bump.
Gotta build to it, though.
Not a lot of psychology in a Battle Royal.
Slop match, really.
Strange format.
Too many people.
Not a lot of room.
Itβll start out tentative, then everyone goes fists of fury.
Claude β Mr. Entertainment β is in there with me.
He works heel in the Northeast and face out West these days.
Iβm a heel everywhere.
Claude never did quite recover from the botched table spot.
Down in Texas.
Up here in Providence β
Heβs drowsy in a folding chair.
With me and 18 other freaks.
Spandex and glitter and mirrors.
We are some whores.
Pat McgGillicuddyβs telling us what to do.
How itβs gonna go down:
βAlright so Heinrich ββ
βHermann."
βHeimlich, hell, I donβt care β you with the fuckin Natsi gimmick, you ββ
βYeah.β
βLuther Vicious is gonna be workinβ you in the corner.
And you know thatβs gonna stir the audience up.
They all got their rooting interests.
And so heβs gonna be giving you a pounding, then you reverse and heβs face-first into the turnbuckles.
Then youβre gonna kick him hard in the ass.β
βMan I donβt wanna get kicked in my ass.β
βThe fuckinβ crowdβll eat it up.β
βThe fuckinβ crowd can eat my ass.β
βYou want a payday or you donβt Luther?β
βYeah, yeah.β
RESOLVED:
Lutherβll get kicked in the ass by a paunchy Nazi.
Laff-along.
Pat loves a comedy spot.
Canβt help himself.
They say he wrote in Hollywood, in the β40s.
Screwball stuff.
Iβve heard stories about it.
Iβve heard it didnβt work out.
Anyway β
Pat McGillicuddyβs been back east.
And he runs things up here.
βYou, Black Masque of Death, whatβs your fuckinβ name?β
Patβs on me.
βVacΓo Arpista.β
βYour fuckinβ name is Fozzy Bear or what now? Jesus Christ, anyway I β the kids love some of these looch-a-doreys these days so weβre gonna give you some Showtime.
While Heinrichβs giving the boot to Luther, I want you doinβ one of these new springboard moves.β
βAnything in particular?β
βJust get up there and make them kids scream, buddy, I donβt give a damn how you get it done.β
Pat drums frantic sixty-fourth notes on a matchbook.
Heβs in a coat-and-tie, slacks.
Itβs all βvintage,β because heβs had it.
Itβs all his and has been.
βYou want a missile dropkick, Pat?β
βYou sound like Norman fuckinβ Schvvvvarz-kop, kid.
Fuck. I donβt care β
If it looks good, do it.
Hit Tycoon with it, and Tike β youβre going out over the top on this one.β
The Tycoon sat up in his chair.
βI donβt wanna bump like that!β
Lazy-ass.
Tycoonβs name is Michael Something-or-other, I think.
Iβve worked a couple cards with him before.
Weβve never wrestled.
Heβs a bit of a lump.
Big Guy but canβt work.
Comes out in a green sequined suit and a shiny tophat.
βMoney Talks,β AC/DC.
Big dumb guitars.
Big dumb drums.
Erotik Veronika serves as his valet.
She wears a little dress that matches Tycoonβs suit.
And struts the arch-bitch.
In four-inch heels.
βIn real life,β sheβs his ex-wife.
Alleged reality.
Every time he comes out, he pretends to give some kid money.
Then yanks it back and cackles.
Itβs a good bit.
PAT IS NOT HAVING IT:
βWhen I wanna know what you want Iβll let you know I wanna know.
Right now I donβt wanna know.
Over the top, Tike.
NOW!β
Heβs back to me.
βVaseo the Piston, or whoever-the-hell-hereβs gonna hit you with this missile and youβre going over and out.β
Tycoon sighed a flimsy protest.
βYou know what, Tike β why donβt you have Erotik Veronika toss you a chair before you take the dropkick?
Oh, yeah!
Masked-man kicks it into your face.
BANG!
Yeah!
Yeah, thatβs the ticket.
They love that shit these days.β
Pat moved on.
βMr. Entertainment, after Tycoon goes out itβs your turn. Big clothesline from Burl and your evening is over.β
Burl Mulliganβs a 260 pound orange tabby cat of a man with a thick moustache.
Comes out to βStranglehold,β Ted Nugent.
Used to play nose-tackle in college.
Heβll hit you in the face, and hard.
Nice guy.
Big Olβ Lariat finisher.
No really, itβs called the Big Olβ Lariat.
ββββββββββββββ
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Β½
ββββββββββββββBURL MULLIGAN D. MR. ENTERTAINMENT VIA B.O.L.
The message boards will say.
Gossiping of traded tapes.
Burlβs big in Japan.
Burlβs big everywhere.
Claudeβs lost in a stare.
But heβs not a nuisance in the locker room.
And so he takes his death sentence like a man.
βSure thing, Pat.
And you know . . .
I just realized β I think I left some of my gimmick in the car, Iβll be right back.β
Mr. Entertainmentβs off.
To fetch his own sequins.
I donβt really need to stick around.
Iβve learned my fate, and I know what Iβm to do.
Take out Tycoon with the springboard missile dropkick, take out Angel DΓaz Jr. with a rolling heel-kick, and let the Nazi toss me.
Rest of itβs a brawl-and-scramble.
Call it on the fly.
Improvise.
Big dumb guitars.
Big dumb drums.
Big dumb dreams.
Big dumb guys.
And Iβll come out.
To βRitmos Satanicos.β
By Brujeria.
Lasers sound and sight.
βββIF the teenaged volunteer Pat found to run it gets my music right.
βββββββββββββββITβS:
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βββββVACIO ARPISTA D. THE TYCOON VIA SPRINGBOARD MISSILE DROPKICK
βββββββββββββFor me tonight.
ββββββββAS musical chairs bring my crimes to light.
πππππ πππππππ ππππππ / a / k / a οΌͺοΌ±οΌ€ is a self-taught integrated media company founded and incorporated in π»πΎππ π΄ππΎπ, π²π°.
βThank you . . .
Thank you.β