There is this song. And every time I hear it I see her stripping in my dank unfinished basement, trying to be sultry with bits of concrete and spider webs wafting down onto her. Her bare feet making little trails in the dust that stayed for days afterwards; I wanted to lift her into my arms but the protruding nails from the beams above us forbid it. She slipped out of her clothes, singing softly along with the song; I pulled her close to keep her from brushing against the crumbling plaster wall.

I think we just fooled around but I can’t remember what happened after that song, my memory is  rooted in that sad slow indictment. I recall she found the squalor charming; that it made me seem less slick and calculating. It was not the sort of room one seduced in. The music helped, I suspect: lent romance to the disrepair. There was a certain conjugal dungeon vibe you could spin from the surroundings.

I moved upstairs soon after. I understood that once was fantasy, twice was horror. There have been other songs and other women since, but that one always chases me back to those same seven minutes.

Danny stood in front of the bathroom mirror poking at the bleeding hole his ear used to cover. It had been his least favorite ear, but nostalgia had him remembering otherwise. He opened his first aid kit: it contained one band aid, three Flintstone vitamins, and a drawing of him falling the down the stairs surrounded by the prohibitive circle with a diagonal line. He retrieved a cotton ball from the bottom of the drawer, soaked it in cool-mint Listerine, and applied it to the side of his head. The pain was intense, if refreshing. Danny’s severed ear lay on kitchen counter, packed, by the Hedgehog, into a ziplock bag full of ice. The Panda had donned a stewpot helmet and was keeping watch over the backdoor.

“I think I need to go to the hospital” said Danny, directing the complaint to the Hedgehog sitting on the toilet across from him.

“Yeah, sure thing, Kid; but first lets all sit down and get our stories straight. You walk into that emergency room talking nonsense and you’ll spend the next month playing Thorazine bingo on a locked ward” said the Hedgehog.

The Hedgehog hopped to the ground and led Danny into the living room. Danny grabbed his ear bag and moved towards his favorite arm chair; the Hedgehog nodded at the Panda who raced across the room to dive into the seat just before Danny got there.

“What the hell, Panda? You took my chair” said Danny.

“Whoa, settle down Rosa Parks…there’s plenty more furniture. Eustace needs to decompress and collect his thoughts. It’s been a rough day and he comes from a very gentle people” said the Hedgehog.

The Panda nodded sadly in agreeance, stoking his eye spots sadly before falling abruptly into an exaggerated and patently false  slumber. Danny was too sore and tired to press the issue further. Careful to keep his wound clear of the ratty fabric Danny lay back on the couch, trying to fathom the surreal disintegration of his life. The Hedgehog climbed up onto the arm behind Danny, strips of clean T-shirt in hand, to better examine the wound.

“Close your eyes, Kid. I need to throw a bandage over that so it doesn’t rot through to the other side”.

Danny closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw against the expected pain. The Hedgehog looped the ends of the bandage around each hand, braced himself against the couch edge, and pulled the makeshift garrote tightly around Danny’s neck.

“Now Eustace” screamed the Hedgehog.

The Panda surged up from the armchair, took one great bounding step, then belly flopped hard onto Danny chest, driving the breath from his body and trapping his limbs beneath the Panda’s girth. Danny levered a knee into Eustace’s gut; the Panda retaliated with the sort of clinging blustery fart only lifelong vegetarians can produce. The Hedgehog gagged and released the bandage from Danny’s neck.

“Jesus Eustace…I said hold him, not execute the lot of us.”

The Panda shamefully, and perhaps strategically, buried his face between the couch cushions; Danny attempted to maneuver his head close enough to bite the traitorous hedgehog.

“Easy Chopper, this is necessary shit and will hurt a lot less if you quit fucking squirming”.

The Hedgehog pulled out one of his sharper quills, secured a length of thread to it, then opened the ziplock bag to retrieve Danny’s ear. As Danny watched the Hedgehogs preparations a deep disquiet grew within him.

“What the hell are you doing” said Danny.

“You can’t go to the hospital: there will be too many questions; and I already told you we got company on the way. It’s not the sort appointment you can blow off” said the Hedgehog.

“I’m not going to let some talking rat sew my fucking ear on! You don’t know what you’re doing” said Danny.

“I fixed your shirts, didn’t I…this is basically the same thing” said the Hedgehog, laughing halfway through his own comparison.

Danny struggled hard against the Panda’s weight: the Hedgehog was right, the squirming did make it hurt a lot more.

Continued in Chapter 3: Part 2

***

(See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and PART 2 and PART 3 and PART  4 and PART  5 and PART 6 for the chapter before this one)

***

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

Thirty Three years ago I was born and almost died. I was two months and some weeks premature. I was a twin for three hours, and then I was not. At some point, when I was very young, someone showed me his tombstone: I’d not yet learned to read and remember thinking if I could just understand what was written on it I would know some part of him. But I could not, and it seemed too much to ask the grieving adults around me, so I never found out. At the time I assumed it was an explanation for why he had died, and I had not.

I learned to read soon after.

If you haven’t been reading about France this week, you’re probably not alone.  Given the political uproar in Iran, and the pending strike by employees of the LCBO (that, for our non-Ontarian readers, is the Liquor Control Board of Ontario – who are the sole legal purveyors of hard alcohols in Ontario), it would be pretty easy to miss the news pieces on French President Nicholas Sarkozy’s exciting foray into feminism this week.

At a state dinner on Monday, President Sarkozy – whose feminist credentials up to this point are pretty much limited to having sex with wife Carla Bruni – declared that the fully body coverings favoured by some conservative branches of Islam (the niqab and burka) had no place in french society, or France.  Specifically Sarkozy said:

“The burqa is not a religious sign, it’s a sign of subservience, a sign of debasement — I want to say it solemnly… …It will not be welcome on the territory of the French Republic.” (source)

The statement by President Sarkozy comes along with the commitment to have the French government consider legislation that would outlaw, ban, or otherwise render illegal the wearing of niqab or burkas.

Leaving aside the basic civil liberties argument that no government should be able to mandate something as simultaneously mundane and personal as one’s clothing, and the clearly prejudiced orientation of a decree that takes aim at Islamic attire over other potentially problematic practices, there is something even more unsettling about the French President’s comments.

Now I will be the first to admit, there is also a dangerously seductive quality to President Sarkozy’s statements.   From my own personal perspective, I am uncomfortable with the branches of Islam which necessitate the wearing of niqab or burkas.  That said, I am also uncomfortable with the branches of Judaism which condemn the touching of women (even one’s wife) during their menstrual cycle, and the branches of Christianity wherein ultra conservative nuns are forbidden to be alone with men – including their own fathers and brothers.  In short I am uncomfortable with a great deal of religious practice, and I find myself always wondering if those who grow up under such regimes really have a choice in accepting them or not – can someone brought up in such an environment choose not to believe what their entire community has taught them to believe?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

However, and this is very important, as arrogant as I am, I am not willing to suggest that I am certain that anyone who believes differently than I believe (with regards to religion or more broadly) somehow is lying to themselves, or has been brainwashed, or has internalized regimes of domination, or what have you.  This is one of the most dangerous slopes in modern thinking: an argument that comes down to the notion of false consciousness.

The argument, at least in its contemporary form, comes from Karl Marx, who (while probably one of the most interesting and factually accurate critics of modern capitalism ever) might well have invented the most terrifying idea in the modern world when he came up with the concept of false consciousness.  The argument is simple.  Some people, by virtue of their position in a group or in society at large, are unable to grasp their ‘true’ interests.  Conditioned by a ruling ideology (series of ideas presented by a dominant group meant to reinforce an existing order) the group is unable to see what is ‘really’ happening around them – and therefore may not  appear to want what is ‘actually’ in their best interest.   For Marx, this was a simple way of explaining why some of the proletariat (Marx’s name for the working class) might not grasp their situation as exploited workers they way he foretold they would.

Again part of the idea makes sense – groups can be lied to systemically and therefore not understand what is really going on.  However it is also a very dangerous idea, because it means anytime you disagree with someone, you can simply claim not that they are wrong, but their own ideas of what they like, need, or want are simply the product of a false consciousness.  They can not be trusted to know what they want or need.

Famous political theorist Isaiah Berlin also touched on this concept in some of his early writings.   He noted that some understandings of freedom and liberty were not oriented not towards conditions enabling opportunity, but instead towards more abstracted notions of ‘fulfilling potential’ or reaching ‘true’ personhood.   Those visions of freedom he warned were potentially dangerous, as they offer an opportunity to make choices for others for ‘their own good.’  As Berlin famously says:

“Once I take this view, I am in a position to ignore the actual wishes of men or societies, to bully, to oppress, torture them in the name, and on behalf of their ‘real’ selves, in the secure knowledge that whatever is the true goal of man (happiness, performance of duty, wisdom, a just society, self-fulfillment) must be identical with this freedom – the free choice of his ‘true,’ albeit often submerged and inarticulate, self. ” (Isaiah Berlin, Two Concepts of Freedom)

The point here is not whether one likes the practice of wearing niqab or burkas.  The point is not even whether one thinks that such practices are denigrating to women. The real issue here is whether one is willing to argue that women who choose to wear niqab and burkas are all suffering from some kind of delusional self-identity, that they are unable to understand what’s ‘best’ for them, and therefore one should disregard their ability to consent – effectively removing their voice from any debate or discussion.

As I said, I am a strong opinion person who is confident to the point of arrogance, but to be perfectly frank, I find the articulation of a ‘false consciousness’ argument to be nothing shy of fucking terrifying.

Because, and this is the really scary part, the only one who can ever really know if one is suffering under false consciousness or not, is the very ‘enlightened’ or otherwise ’self-aware’ person acting to take away one’s right to make choices by virtue of that very claim.

I slept a stink so bad last night I had to take refuge on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. A stink so bad I must have died, rotted, and then been forced back to life to answer for the olfactory crimes of my passing. There is no natural explanation for the persistence and pungency of the odor: I checked the sheet  for shit stains three times, to no avail. Whatever substance I’m emitting is as colorless as it odorous: some invisible taint to my sweat or dreams.

Oddly, I smell of fresh meadows and whimsy in my daily life; or at most speed stick and quiet determination. Even my former sleep sweat has been of the regular musky gent variety. And yet, I don’t know if I’m pregnant, or host to a less native parasite, but there is something seriously off in my body chemistry. My cat Felicia, whose purest joy in life to sleep pressed against human folk, now spends her nights alternately rubbing fresh cloves into my skin and trying to find a belt strong enough to hang her self.

I am hoping this is just a response to the sudden rise in temperature, and a couple incidents of celebratory binge drinking. Should it persist I may need to start sleeping in a bathtub full of baking soda just to preserve the few sources of human contact I have left. I ask not for your pity, but your prayers.

The Mangement.

(See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and PART 2 and PART 3 and PART  4 and PART  5 for start of  this chapter)

The Hedgehog bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving patterns of distraction along his quills. The Terrier advanced, implacable, his distended jaw pugged out like some horrid cockney boxer. Danny considered helping but he was unsure who he wanted to lose. Steak knives flashed and clattered too fast to track; wads of fur and quill and flesh spun out from the foul mouthed dervish whirling across the bathroom floor.

“I’ll tear you up like crotchless panties at a frat party, you Yorkie piece of shit”

“You’re getting gutter-fucked, Hedgehog….slow and sloppy”

The Terrier parried a low strike and pinned the blade to the floor; lunging forward he sunk his prenaturally large maw into the Hedgehogs chest, ripping out a palm sized chunk of meat. The Hedgehog crashed his shoulder into the Terriers torso, driving him back into the base of the tub, sending a cascade of hair care products down onto them. The terrier whistled a high slash just over Bristles head. The Hedgehog ducked low, then stomped hard on the shampoo bottle at his feet, launching a glob directly into the Terrier’s squinty little eyes.

The Terrier shrieked in pain.

“Ahhh…what is in that, Jojoba?”

“I have scalp dryness” Danny whispered, defensive despite his shock.

The Hedgehog seized the moment, plunging his steak knife hilt deep through the terrier’s heart.

“Danny, I hear voices. What is going on in there?” demanded Beth, who had moved to stand just outside the bathroom door.

“I’m going to need a minute here, Beth” said Danny, who was prying open the dead dogs mouth so he could retrieve his ear from its throat.

“Is Coco o.k.?” asked Beth.

“Uh…he’s been better” said Danny.

The ear was intact, if bloody and distinctly not attached to his head. Danny pressed the ragged edge against the tatters surrounding his bleeding ear hole, praying for some Mr. Potatohead-esque miracle. None was forthcoming. Understandably he failed to hear the butter knife click open the bathroom lock.

“Jesus Christ, Danny!” shrieked Beth.

Danny whirled in panic; his mangled ear wobbling out of his slack grip towards Beth’s horrified face. She slapped it from the air like a particularly loathsome June-bug and staggered backwards out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Beth…things could have gone better” said Danny.

Beth’s eyes froze on the lapdog speared to the ground by dollar-store cutlery. It occurred to Danny they couldn’t have gone much worse. The hedgehog played dead by the vanity.

“Oh my god, Coco.”

Danny stepped forward and closed the bathroom door behind him. He was at a loss for sufficient explanation. Beth stood there for a while, stunned, crying, shaking; then ran from the apartment. Danny punched a hole in bathroom door. The vague promise of breakup sex had been transmuted into impending dread of prison rape, in record time. The law was unkind to dog killers. Danny sat and collected his thoughts.

The wounded Hedgehog dragged the food processor into the bathroom from the kitchen and began feeding pieces of the dismembered dog into it. He flushed each thoroughly pulped load down the toilet.

“Get the mop, kid. We’re going to have company soon and I don’t want this place looking like a Korean BBQ joint”.

Danny got the mop. What else could he do?

End of Chapter 2. Series concluded in Chapter 3.

***

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

So there was this girl; or, rather, there was the idea of one. Everyone saw themselves in her, this feminine echo of their Id. I found little bits of her words first: wry, careful, bits that intrigued but didn’t reveal. I engaged. Charmed and calculated: put forth what she needed to hear, and heard what I needed to fit. In our defense we were younger then and broken enough to give a poor idea space to bleed.

The sex was bad and we were never sober. We had to negate whole levels of function to find a compatible state. Our ideas couldn’t bear close inspection; our egos couldn’t abandon something that had come at such a price. We paid and paid to try and find the worth; erased ourselves in the hope we’d be redrawn whole. It was this joyless broken toy that I couldn’t bear to put down and let another play with. It ended as well as one would expect.

The lessons learned:

1. The more you love an idea the less you will know a person; the less you know a person, the more you will wound each other.

2. A bad situation will never break even: don’t worry about who lost more, just walk away.

Isaac waited in the rushes, the dank smell of bog and rot and summer shortening his breath. He watched for bubbles and golden eyes above the scum. He was patient, attentive and calm; there was nothing of the frantic boy in this staid and quiet hunter.

The soft plip of one breaking the surface froze Isaac. He willed himself part of the reeds, part of the water. More surfaced; he marked each skirt of ripples, figured his reach, then struck smoothly, a series of muted splashes the only disruption.  The first few lacked the fullness Isaac preferred; their slender, crooked bodies squirming out between his fingers. He let them leap free to the water, his quick hands beneficent.  He crouched deeper, toes splayed in the silt bottom; waiting for the pond to forget him. Minutes passed, the boy’s sun heavy back pushed him closer to the surface, near inches from crayfish returning to feed. Minnows darted in the shadows of his feet. He found a guilty peace in this part of hunt, something fraternizing in the communion. Years later he’d mourn these burrs of empathy, and how they’d fueled his cruelty.

Isaac was uncompromising in his predation.  He avoided the bark and mossy cowards: their timidity and disguise marking them ill-suited for his purpose. The few he’d bothered to catch had been martyred in hot ash: the heat and soot arresting them, grey and statuary, in some fantastic torment. The Bulls he left alone. They were regal and resonate, too few, and too sure of their place in the pond, to be taken. But the leopards, fierce and lucid and numberless, were ideal participants for his game. He moved in careful increments away from the bank, seeking out telltale spots in waist deep water.

***

Isaacs’ slow progress trailed no wake; his arms held high above the water. The pond deepened in the middle, precipitously in places, so Isaac sounded the bottom with shuffling feet, avoiding the sucking mud and sink holes. Leeches gathered sporadically about his naked waist: fat black motes hanging in rough constellation along his back and hips. Isaac let them feed until they fell of their own accord; he was greater than their hunger. More connected. The pond bottom pitched downward, the reeds rose up in his periphery, edging out the tree and power lined horizon. His world securely contracted, Isaac shook the weight and distraction from his shoulders, immersed himself in the deeper waters of the hunt.

The high static buzz of crickets built around him, muting the birds and babble of the nearby stream. Isaac admired the defiance of the song, how something so vulnerable would surrender its cover to be known; to announce its place. He considered a roar of his own, but knew the voice in his chest was so much smaller than the one in his head. And besides: there was business at hand. Isaac folded away the little hurt, the angry swallow, and cast his eyes across the pond. He sighted a Leopard. A slow fury percolated up from beneath his hunters mask.

Thick and emerald grey it sat on the tallest branch of a drowned tree. The black spots on its back congealed into a Rorschach crow, or, some oddly winged bison. Isaac considered, wary there might be some message, some meaning, in the shape. He circled right in the chest high water to get a better look: the wings were vestigial, but clear; the rest of shape was illegible; something hunched and ancient; denied flight and crueler for it. The Leopard shifted under his scrutiny, turning its glyph covered back to the northern bank. There was an omen here, but he couldn’t figure it. This was a significant creature.

Isaac pushed away his misgivings: he’d take extra care to honor it once it was caught, but he couldn’t worry about its importance now. His standing in the pond was at stake. The leopard watched him approach intently.

***

Isaac circled west and towards the sunken tree; the Leopard moved higher up the branch, calling a slow “rrrrrrRRRRPpppppp” at his approach. Was there recognition in it? Reproach? The Leopard narrowed its glassy, golden, eyes into unreadable slits. Isaac hung in the water, unable to proceed, this placeless frustration tightening around him, fouling his instincts: Did it know why he was there? Would it run?

The Leopard shifted, bowing in its crooked back so its belly faced the sun. Its eyes closed in bliss and Isaac felt slighted. Diminished. Less careful now, Isaac stepped up from the earthy bottom and onto the slick tangle of the trees submerged roots, turning his body until a heavy shadow covered the basking Leopard. Algae smeared beneath his feet, snails burst in crystalline pops of onomatopoetic horror. The tree shuddered as its base loosed in the muck; the Leopards eyes flashed open. Isaac slipped backwards on the root, a low branch drawing a deep scratch across his chest. He did not cry out. He did not splash or claw for purchase. He slid quietly back into the water and waited for the Leopard to jump, the distil haze of his blood vanishing around him.

The Leopard held its ground. Imperious, it roared again “uuuuUUURRRPppppp”. A dozen lesser calls sounded in return, louder for their chorus. Isaac bobbed in the murky water, trying to mark the hidden singers: he’d have words with them when once the Leopard was caught. The next verse began, the callers arrayed in a rough circle around him. Isaac felt the water cool suddenly; sickly strands of weed coiled and clung to his legs: something had changed and he felt unwelcome. Then the Bulls joined the chorus: regal, and resonant, and terrible. Isaac settled deeper in the water, treading slowly, leaving just his face and hands and crown exposed. He knew now he’d been there too long, but the hunter’s demands were upon him. He struck his hands across the water in a loud slap, stilling the choir, and then lunged forth towards the Leopard.

***

Weeds tore away in brutish separation, Isaac’s lunge ripping them from body and root. The water seemed to recede as much as Isaac rose; the world falling out from under his leap. Alarmed, the Leopard sought the air; Isaac reached and reached, forcing the hollow of his palm into the Leopards path, his long fingers closed shut around it .The world returned with force, sending the tree stump hard into Isaac’s stretched and open ribs.  The branches pulled long strips from his side, the impact splintering his breath painfully throughout his chest. Isaac gasped and clung to the Leopard as both tumbled into the murky water.

The pond’s chorus returned; a spray of birds and grasshoppers taking flight punctuated the rising keen. Isaac was too focused on his prize to note the change in song. The alarm.

Isaac swam to the bank, sore and slowed by his clenched fist paddling. The Leopard made an indistinct gurgle in protest of its capture. Isaac loosed his grip and peered through the gap between finger and thumb; The Leopard “urrrpp’d” a final warning. Immune to appeal or epiphany, Isaac held the leopard tighter: a hunter did not give up his prize. Letting out an exultant whoop Isaac began to scale the bank.

The first rock sent the hunter spinning away. The second dug a deep groove in the side of Isaac’s head. Isaac touched the wound and couldn’t make sense of the blood. A third rock grazed his cheek.

“Fucking freak…the fuck you doing in our yard!”

A pack of older boys burst through the reeds, their long legs churning the shallow water to mud. Isaac tried to explain, to show he belonged, but they were too many and too suddenly upon him. The first punch closed his eyes and spilled the Leopard from his open palm. Nails raked his neck and back, Isaac stumbled and was forced down into the water. The muck of the pond filled his throat; the bottom refused him purchase to rise.

Slow knees thudded into his ribs and pressed him down into the mud. Even crushed into the silt he could hear their raucous laughter, their taunts, deeper for passage through the water. A sick frustration burned in Isaac’s chest. Eventually, the weight of the older boys lifted; Isaac dug his hand into the bank and fought to keep from rising, gasping in stinging lungfuls of water: let them be murderers. Isaacs’s chest burned, black spots filled his vision; panicked hands clawed him from the bottom, pulled him roughly over the bank, through the reeds, to the neatly manicured lawn beyond.

The boys gathered in a cluster around Isaacs twitching body. The oldest fought past Isaacs’s thin, flailing, limbs to pound his back. Isaac clenched his eyes against the hot tears, and his jaw against the rising gorge; another hard blow loosed them both.  Isaac gagged vomit and pond water onto the grass, his traitorous lungs spasming out the last of his surrender. His defiance. Isaac shook and wept, staring furiously at the ground, wishing he was within it.

The ring of boys fell away like like ash; stirred by the backwash of remorse that sudden cruelty brings. Isaac was left alone and defeated, the pond denied him. He lay a while, wondering at his loss, then crawled to his feet and made his way home. The Leopard was forgotten.

(See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and PART 2 and PART 3 and PART  4 for start of  this chapter Continued in Part 6)

Danny reacted to the yelp like a shot from a starter’s pistol: exploding into a full run he stiff-armed Beth into the couch and pulled down a bookcase behind him to ensure he’d reach the kitchen first. He turned the corner in time to see the Hedgehog pulling a bloody lump three times his size into the bathroom. Danny grabbed the roll of paper towels and frantically began mopping the long smear of crimson off the floor. There was a crash from the hallway

“What the fuck, Danny!” yelled Beth, disentangling herself from a newly purchased Ikea book shelf.

Danny threw the sodden towels into the trash, then smashed the kitchen light fixture with a frying pan.

“Sorry Beth…I thought I heard the phone…only it was actually a huge rat…that I just locked in the bathroom”.

Beth moved into the dim kitchen rubbing a raw spot on her elbow.

“Where’s Coco? Is he in here?”

Danny tried to hold the frying pan in a casual fashion. Flecks of glass dusted his hair.

“Not that I can tell. Maybe it chased the huge rat into the bathroom. I’ll go check. Wait here” said Danny.

Concern for her dog and fear of a rat large enough to trash a kitchen warred on Beth’s face; she stepped back into the hallway. Danny opened the bathroom door just wide enough to slip in, his frying pan raised, honestly intending to smash the first rodent he saw. He closed and locked the door behind him. The Hedgehog was standing on the edge of the tub, knife in hand: the tub contained a small brown dog with multiple stab wounds, wrapped in a blood soaked tea towel, a knife lying beside it. The Hedgehog raised its small paws defensively.

“I realize this looks bad”.

The frying pan smashed down with force directly where the nimble Hedgehog had been standing a moment before.

“You Rat motherfucker psycho piece of shit….why are you fucking with me” Danny screamed.

“Get him Danny” Beth shouted encouragingly from the hallway.

The Hedgehog took cover behind the toilet.

“What is your fucking problem? Why are doing this to me?” Danny asked.

“I swear on my quills….this is not what it looks like. The little shit pulled a knife…it was a hit, I had to no choice but to defend myself” said the Hedgehog.

Danny slumped back against the wall. He pitched his voice lower.

“Come on man, I’m not stupid. I’ve known that dog for five years, he’s not the type to pull a…I can’t believe I’m even discussing this.” Dejected, Danny let himself slip to the bathroom floor.

“What am I supposed to do here?”

The Hedgehog crawled tentatively out from behind the toilet, placing his knife on the ground in front of him and kicking it towards Danny.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what happened, and if you don’t believe me…take that knife and stab me right in the ass. I won’t even fight you. Just hear me out”.

Danny bounced his head off the tile wall a couple of times. Gore surrounded him. He dearly wished he was small enough to shimmy out the bathroom window and start a new life across town. The enormity of the situation, and the implausibility of his escape, forced him to confront matters head on. Danny pushed himself to his feet, closed his eyes, felt around the tub, and retrieved the mangled dog by the scruff of its lacerated neck.

“This dog tried to stab you?” said Danny.

He shook the canine lump in the Hedgehogs face, turning up one little paw  to highlight the lack of capable digits.

“Did  kissing that bitches ass again make you go deaf ? He…pulled a knife….on me! That is not a normal dog” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah… now that you stabbed fourteen fucking holes into him he’s not. I’d say he’s pretty fucking exceptional!” .

Danny jabbed a finger into one of the more garish chest wounds to illustrate his point; the dog snarled, turned its head a good half circle, and tore off Danny’s right ear. Danny shrieked like a woman and threw the surprisingly lively dog into the bathtub. The Hedgehog grabbed the knife off the floor and began tossing it from paw to paw.

“Oh you fucked up now, Benji; you  pulled the gloves off a bad motherfucker …and these hand weren’t made for baking bread, baby; they were made for killing” said the Hedgehog, by whose own account was a bad motherfucker that did his baking with a blade.

The multiply punctured Yorkshire Terrier retrieved the other steak knife from the tub, hopped over the edge, and began circling opposite the Hedgehog.

“You ain’t bad, Bristles, you ain’t nothing!” said the Terrier in a low growl.

Danny stood stunned in the corner clutching his bleeding ear-hole.

“Is everything o.k. in there” called Beth, from the kitchen.

***

Chapter Concluded in Part 6

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and PART 2 and PART 3 for start of  this chapter. Continued in Part 5

“How have you been, Daniel?” asked Beth, passing Danny the milk crate so she could remove her heels.

Danny held the box dumbly. He hadn’t thought about Beth in weeks. Her sudden appearance dropped his stomach and sent his mind racing in sad, familiar, obsessive, loops. It was enough to make his forget his situation.

“I…I really, uh…I don’t know” Danny answered.

Beth placed her shoes on the mat, making a little noise of surprise at the neatly organized shoe tree beside it. A rubber boot hopped covertly out from behind the door and made its way to kitchen. The small brown dog followed.

“I heard that you lost your job. I just wanted to see how you were doing”.

Beth stepped past Danny’s halfhearted attempt to corral her in the entry way, placing a warm hand on his arm and brushing through into the living room. Her attention was immediately drawn to a large, suspiciously Panda shaped arm chair that dominated the left corner.

“When did you get that? It’s hideous.”

A tiny dejected moan issued from the chair. Danny began sweating profusely.

“A couple days ago, but I’m thinking of getting rid of it”.

Beth moved up close to inspect it properly: it looked exactly like a slumped Panda holding its arms and legs outright and sucking its gut in.

“It stinks. Did this used to be a real Panda?”

“I don’t even know anymore…I’m just glad you can see it” said Danny, attempting to guide Beth back into the hallway.

Beth slapped away Danny’s hands and gave the Panda’s gut a few test pushes before lowering herself into the chair. Leaning back into the expansive gut she wiggled about to try and get comfortable.

“Is this thing heated? And I think sitting on the remote”.

Beth reached behind her to try and find the device jabbing her, the Panda closed its eyes tightly and let its head slump further back in bliss. Danny pulled her forcibly up from the chair; a thin spider strand of goo connected her to the seat, before pulling taut and breaking away. The Panda shot Danny a sleazy wink, and mimed searching for the remote in his own lap. Danny held Beth tight against his chest so she wouldn’t see the display.

“What the hell are you doing?” Beth demanded.

Danny waited until the Panda resumed his chair act proper before letting her go.

“Sorry…there is a busted spring that I didn’t want jabbing you. You could get tetanus…or rabies…or something.”

Beth brushed clothes back into place.

“God you are weird. Your place looks good though; are you dating someone?”

Danny felt a thrill at how Beth’s voice pitched upwards when she asked the question.

“I’ve got a couple things going…nothing serious.”

“I’m glad. You seem different…have you been working out?” asked Beth.

“Uh…yeah, I’ve been keeping active.”

Danny took a couple deep breaths and tried to bring the conversation back around.

“So, how about you then; you still with the bone collector?”

Beth rolled her eyes and waited for Danny to rephrase the question.

“You still with Pete” Danny corrected.

“Yes” Beth answered, smiling sympathetically.

“Rough deal” said Danny.

Beth began to retort when she noticed an absence.

“Where’s my dog?”

A horrible yelp of pain rang out from the kitchen.

***

Continued in part 5

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

HEY AJ! Sorry to bother you but I need to write two poems for my college compositional class. Proper poets won’t reply to my emails, so I figured I’d ask you. Can you write me a poem about mans alienation from nature and tendency for self destruction?. If you could make it dark and moody, with a complex rhyme scheme, with a deep thematic counterpoint. I know it’s a lot ask…but what else are you doing these days?

TWO SHEET TWO DA WIND

T-Dot

I have to tell you, Sheets, you’re not much of salesmen. Still, I do have some free time on my hands, and my heart does course with molten poetry, so maybe I can help you out.

Chasing the dragon/My father lament

I put the needle in my arm; a pony bites my fathers leg

I sting and beg the needles charm; who set that goddamn pony free?

Push the plunger oh so deep; dear god he’s got a butcher knife!

The junk it tastes forever sweet; now he’s got my hat, great.

I ride the horse to brown silk heaven; the pony steals my pants and jacket too.

In burnt chrome wash my sins unleven; that better not be a long distance call!

***

Why don’t people like Peppermint? I really enjoy it, and cannot see why others would not.

Patricia,

Worster, Mass

Well, Pat, I could feed you a line about subjective experiences and taste bud allocation…but we both know that would be a lie. The truth is flavor appreciation is predicated on psychic worthiness: bad people enjoy awful flavors. Let us break things down etymologically:

Pepper= hot and spicy

Mint= newly created or of finest condition

The obvious connation: a candy that taste like fresh pepper. That is disgusting, and the kind of candy only incompetent barbers or child predators could enjoy. While I don’t have time to produce a comprehensive list, here’s a quick break down of the more notorious associations.

Terrible flavors and the terrible people who enjoy them

Licorice= Pretentious sycophants that are bad in the sack

Cherry Coke: Vapid hipster that correct the pronunciation of strangers

Black Olives: Sodomites and union agitators

Rice Crackers: Sanctimonious lefties who secretly yearn for the days of slavery

Chowder: Dudes that sing under their breath to other people’s music on the bus

***

I need a two word aphorism to put on my business card. Can you help me out?

Kyle Barstaid,

Winebago, Or

A little glib, but what the hell.

How about one of these:

Beauty consumes

Passion enables

Apathy eases

Empathy erodes

Pajamas unfurl

It really depends of the business you are in and the statement you are trying to make. If you have room you might even consider a short fable about the virtues of hard work.

(See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and PART 2 for start of  this chapter, Continued in PART  4 and PART  5 )

Ripples of irritation waved through the Hedgehogs bristles; Danny’s end route with the Panda had put it at disadvantage for the first time in their relationship. He’d also been kicked in the head, repeatedly. The net effect left it off balance (figuratively and literally), watching the Panda investigate the apartment with Danny trailing dutifully behind.

“Uh…Panda, can I get you something to eat, or, something? There’s worms in the fridge” said Danny.

The Panda shot a disgusted look over its shoulder before ambling into the living room.

“He’s vegetarian, dipshit. Maybe if you got some fucking cable in here you’d know these things. And his name is Eustace, not Panda.”

Danny whirled on the mocking Hedgehog.

“You said animals didn’t have names!”

“I said Hedgehogs didn’t have names…you racist piece of shit. I didn’t say a goddamn thing about Pandas” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah, you also said didn’t know him…so why should I believe anything that comes out of your ratty little mouth” Danny retorted.

The two held their ground, seething. The Hedgehog scrambled back up onto the counter to be nearer eye level.

“Look, I only lie to you when it’s for your own good; or I’m really tired; or I think it will be funny. But in this case….wait, what we were talking about?”.

Danny was unsure, but shouted for good measure.

“I don’t know! Probably…something about that Panda.”

The Hedgehog slumped a little, the tension having fizzed out of the room. Another player had entered the game, but he could handle this.

“Yeah, just give him some lettuce and apples or whatever. Be quick though, he’s hypoglycemic and we really don’t want his blood sugar to drop.”

Danny removed the vegetable crisper from the fridge, splashed some soysauce on the contents, and brought it into the living room. The Panda was sprawled across the entirety of his couch watching a documentary about WWII era biplanes, on public television. Danny settled into the arm chair beside it and let the surreality of the situation wash over him. The Hedgehog crouched on the arm of the sofa and began an intense whispering exchange with the Panda. Eustace nodded occasionally but never took his eyes from the television. Danny’s couch groaned under the weight.

“Can he talk” asked Danny, tired of being excluded from the conversation.

“Speak. Can he speak; And no, he cannot” said the hedgehog.

“Can he understand me?” asked Danny.

The Hedgehog shrugged.

“As much as anyone can”.

The Panda made a peculiar grunting Shuuusssshh and pointed at the T.V.

“It’s my fucking house” Danny mumbled, quietly, under his breath.

The Hedgehog froze in place, his tiny ears rotating like anti-aircraft radar.

“You expecting company, slick”

Danny sat up.

“No. Why?”

The doorbell rang twice.

“Hide motherfucker!” the Hedgehog shrieked at the alarmed Panda, who’d reared up on his hind legs and begun pawing the air like a punch drunk boxer.

Danny crawled to the door on all fours and peered through the gap at the bottom: a pair of woman’s shoes were visible. The owner of the shoes knocked three times, hard.

“Danny! Danny, it’s Beth…let me in. I can hear the television”.

The Hedgehog scurried across the room and crouched near Danny’s elbow.

“Who the fuck is Beth?” the Hedgehog whispered.

“My ex-girlfriend” Danny whispered back.

“You had a girlfriend? Like…an unpaid one? Man, I need to read your diary more carefully.” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah…I’ve had a few. Don’t act so fucking surprised” said Danny, in a whisper loud enough it defeated the point.

“Who are you talking to” asked the owner of the shoes? “Open the door for Christ’s sakes! I need to talk to you.”

The Hedgehog waved its arms in a frantic negative, silently mouthing “No” as well as a creature without proper lips could. Danny stood up and peered through the peephole.

“Uh, hey Beth; this isn’t really a good time. I’m having some…plumbing problems.”

An exasperated sigh preceded Beth’s response.

“Can you at least open the door so I can give you your stuff? It’s freezing out here and I have plans.”

The Hedgehog planted his shoulder against the corner of door and dug his feet in. Danny shrugged and acquiesced to the owner of the shoes, opening the door halfway. A hopeful, involuntary, grin lit his face. A petite brunette handed him a milk crate full of belt buckles and stepped past him into his apartment, a small brown dog trotting behind her.

***

Continued in Part 4

***

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

I do not like the grocery store. The milling crowds and assorted humanity rile me. Yesterday I waited too long and was forced go during peak hours: a jostling, glaring, patience wearing ordeal. Still, it was largely uneventful until I attempted to pay.

In my initial line there was a 250lb old woman in a tuxedo shirt and pants, sans bra, with no visible feet. What was visible, however, through her sweat soaked formal wear, were her pendulous breasts: cavorting like deflated twin manatees wrestling for food. I tried to ignore her, and them, but they rustled and whispered against the fabric like a double endowed Kuato. I feared their secrets enough I broke my cardinal rule and switched grocery lines midstream. Karma frowned upon me.

At the front of the secondary express line was a forty something woman buying eight huge, custom decorated, cakes. Apparently she had negotiated some side deal with the baker and felt the need to relate the entirely of their conversation verbatim to the cashier…despite the fact the agreed upon price was stamped on the top of each box. I’m not sure if her goal was to impress us with her haggling savvy, or assuage her intense loneliness, but much time was consumed in the process. She then produced a wad of  confederate money, two different kinds of cheques, and an expired credit card before relenting and paying in Canadian currency.

Next in line, directly in front of me, was a palsied old man purchasing six tins of cat food. He placed each one on the conveyor with the deliberation of a chess grandmaster; occasionally stopping entirely to remember where the hell he was. He then attempted to remove the necessary change: the first attempt was so lingering, and involved so much pocket jiggling, I half suspected he was trying to barter public self release for wet cat food. The second and third attempts were even less successful. I considered reaching into his pocket to retrieve the change for him, but feared he may have cut the fabric out entirely in a cagey gambit for illicit human contact.

Eventually he paid and I was able breeze through my turn. Though I lament the trauma of that day I know it was not undeserved: never switch lines. Ever.

See :Chapter 2 PART 1 and for start of  this chapter, Continued in PART 3 and PART  4 and PART  5 )

Aching, Danny could barely bend low enough to remove his mud-caked shoes. Thick ropes of pain bunched his lower back and fixed his hands into useless claws. Thin red welts laced his neck and ears. Danny had lived a life of long nights and this  had been one of the longest. The Hedgehog chattered uselessly beside him.

“Don’t throw the Quill sweater away; we’re going to need it for your burrowing drills tomorrow”.

Danny tossed the sweater into the corner beside his shovel. He debated dumping the bucket full of worms into the garbage disposal, before swallowing his rebellion and placing it on the bottom shelf of the fridge. It wasn’t worth his bathroom being filled with bees again. The Hedgehog scampered up onto the counter and began washing itself in the sink. Danny shot it a long glare. The Hedgehog locked eyes with him.

“This ain’t a peepshow, Creepshow; why don’t you put your heavy breathing to good use and order us some Chinese food. And no Almond cookies, they taste like drywall”.

Danny continued to glare at the Hedgehog. The Hedgehog began exaggeratedly drying his balls with Danny’s favorite tea towel.

“You got something on your mind princess?” asked the Hedgehog.

“You’re just jerking me around; you said you’d help me and all we do is dig holes in the woods and practice crawling and balling and catching worms. This is not what was missing from my life” said Danny, furious.

The Hedgehog flossed his crotch with the tea towel one last time, and then paced about on the counter.

“See, you don’t understand process; representative struggle.”

The Hedgehog noted the rapid glazing of Danny’s eyes.

“Let me put it this way: did you ever see Karate Kid?”

Danny shook his head.

“No”.

The Hedgehog’s quills raised in outrage.

“How have you not seen that movie? It was huge when you were a kid and it’s on cable like nine times a day. There are sickening holes in your popculture awareness”.

Danny slouched defensively.

“I don’t know…I didn’t have a T.V. when I was growing up. How the fuck have you seen it…you’re a goddamn Hedgehog?”

“Yeah, I am…so I have a lot of free time on my hands” said the Hedgehog.

Danny could feel the dodge inherent in the answer; this willful evasion that was worth pursing…or that would have been had a huge Panda not pressed its nose up against his kitchen window.

“What hell is that” asked Danny.

The Hedgehog looked absently about the kitchen.

“What’s what?”

Danny placed his hand on the Hedgehog’s back and turned it towards the window.

“The huge fucking panda staring in my window”.

The Panda closed its right eye and pressed its left one flush against the window. The Hedgehog shrugged.

“Probably some escaped zoo panda. Just ignore it, it’ll go away”.

Danny stuck his head in the freezer and took several long breaths.

“So you don’t know anything about this panda that suddenly showed up at my house” said Danny.

“Nope” said the Hedgehog.

“Even though he’s holding a piece of cardboard with my address on it?”

The Panda was indeed holding a piece of tattered cardboard with Danny’s address and apartment number scrawled upon it awkwardly between his paws.

“What am I, a game warden? I can’t be held responsible for every stray fucking marsupial in the city.”

The Panda flipped over its piece of cardboard. There was a crudely drawn hedgehog on the back of it.

The Hedgehog’s pacing picked up speed, his quills flaring in time to his step.

“That doesn’t mean anything…it barely even looks like a hedgehog. He could be looking for some possum for all we know”.

The Panda’s head dipped below window level. Danny’s phone rang.

“Don’t answer that” screamed the Hedgehog. “I’m expecting a call”

Danny raced the Hedgehog across the room, barking his shins off the coffee table, but reaching the phone first.

“Hello” Danny answered.

Muffled chewing sounds emitted from the receiver. Danny played goalie in front of the phone jack, warding off the Hedgehog with well timed boots to its head, and receiving several toe punctures in return. The chewing sounds took on a more accusatory tone.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying” said Danny.

The Panda’s head reappeared in the window.  It raised one huge paw and tapped the first part of shave and a hair cut against the glass. Danny moved towards the door.

“NO! Don’t let him in…he’s crazy. I heard he killed a man in Beijing with a souvenir umbrella.”

“I thought you didn’t know him” said Danny, unlocking and opening the kitchen door.

The Hedgehog swore in vitriolic rodent; all snarl and gristle.

The Panda nodded politely, wiped each paw carefully against the mat, and then entered Danny’s kitchen and life.

***

Continued in Part 3

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

Did you read this: http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/05/13/genes.patent.myriad/index.html

They are patenting pure human genes, so if anyone develops medical treatments direct at them the corporation has to given their permission first (and wet their beak on any future profits). What the fuck. Where does rank on your outrage scale?

Ethan Morrow,

Former citizen of the Democratic Republic of the United States of America

***

Damn, that is a bigger slap in the face than actually being slapped in the face. The idea that the fundament of our being is property is offensive enough, but that the motivation for making it property is to ensure people can’t treat disease for free: that takes a special kind of shamelessness. It is getting to the point where they will patent the Hard-On and I’ll have to sleep with an elastic band around my junk to keep my morning wood from driving me to financial ruin.

Of course the real crime is not that some scumbag corporation attempted it, but that the government’s response was anything besides immediate trial for crimes against humanity. They have abandoned all of pretense of being an extension of the public will, and become the crooked bagmen of children-stealing ghouls.

As for where it ranks on my outrage scale, take a look-see:

Beats Entropy: Things A.J. is Outraged by Scale

0- Delicious toast being provided in a timely fashion

1- My beloved Sally’s shameful towel hoarding [1]

2- Godzilla being female and taken down with two pitiful sidewinder missiles [2]

3- Couples who hyphenated their last names instead of just picking one

4- Being “Shusssshed”

5- Special Education getting more funding than Enrichment classes

6- Vegans trying to undermine our hard won position on the food chain [3]

7- Twilight having been a best seller

8- Prefacing the explanation of a simple concept with “Basically”, or, a clearly figurative statement with “Literally”.  [4]

9- Patenting things in nature that you did not create

10- Filthy Quebecois traitors whining Bill 101 in existence

***

[1] And now I can’t use a beach towel either! This is a bigger slight than the “don’t drink out of a measuring cup” debacle of 1988.

[2] The acceptable methods for dealing with Godzilla

a) Drive him back into the sea.

b) Hope the giant moth/robot/deep sea fangly fish starts running its mouth and aggravates him.

c) Persuade elf looking alien chicks to soothe him with song…that he might return to the sea of his own accord.

[3] You think the Bears aren’t watching for signs of weakness; they are.

[4] No, you did not “literally” jump out of your skin when the dog barked…you lying son of a whore.

(Continued in Chapter 2: PART 2 and PART 3 and PART  4 and PART  5 )

It was ten past midnight and Danny had been digging for hours. His hands were blistered and raw; his worm bucket full and writhing.

“Now, Curl! Now” the Hedgehog screamed.

Danny flung down his shovel and pulled himself into as tight a ball as the small trench would allow. Loam and beetles filled his nostrils. The Hedgehog marched about the edge of the trench, a shadowy mole hill in the darkness, tutting and poking at Danny’s exposed neck and stomach with a stick.

“If I were a fox you’d be dead right now. You call that a ball….it’s barely a crouch! And where are your quills?”

Danny patted at the bare patch on his shirt where the pine needles had fallen out. Not for the first time he questioned the efficacy of the Hedgehogs self improvement regime.

“There was a tick…I’m pretty sure he was burrowing for my heart. I had to scratch it out”.

The Hedgehog scrambled down into the hole and began weaving fresh needles into the fabric of the sweater.

“Your lies are burrowing into my heart! What is the worth of a single quill?”

Danny sighed into the dirt.

“The same as the one next to it” Danny replied.

The Hedgehog inspected his repair before following up.

“And if there is no quill next to it?”

Danny considered not answering, but he knew the Hedgehog would wait all night for the correct reply.

“Then I might as well be a Hamster…fit for pleasure and nothing else. But I really don’t see how that appli…ahhhh!”

The hedgehog had whipped the pliable branch hard against Danny’s exposed ear.

“Hey, Spitvalve, you agreed to do things my way for a month. Don’t question my methods; do you want to turn your life around or not?”

Danny weighed his options. He couldn’t recall exactly why he’d thought a magic hedgehog’s instructions were worth following; but it had paid his back rent. And his life was definitely improvable.

“Yeah…I guess I do”

“Allright. Now get out my flashcards: we’re going over state capitals again” said the Hedgehog.

“It’s pitch black out and I’m Canadi…aaaahhhh, what was that for?”

“Flashcards!” snapped the Hedgehog, his quivering whipping branch raised in warning.

***

Continued in Chapter 2: Part 2

***

See chapter 1 for the beginning of the story:  PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 and PART 5

(See PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4 for the beginning of the story. )

The Hedgehog moved about the kitchenette with a foragers efficiency: grounds and filters were pulled from the backs of cupboards and combined with a dexterity that belied his forest roots; water was added to the reservoir cup by cup. Danny sat numbly in his single chair wondering where the fuck the Hedgehog had learned to make coffee. The Hedgehog pushed two cups across the table towards him.

“You’re going to have to pour, it’s a might heavy. And give me a splash while you’re at it”.

Danny obliged, filling his own and giving the Hedgehog a half cup. They both declined sugar and milk, drinking it black in silence. Danny bounced a question around his head for three cups and a few false starts.

“Do you have a name?” asked Danny.

“No. I’m a hedgehog: we know who each other are”.

“I need to call you something” said Danny.

The Hedgehog squinted suspiciously.

“What…why? Just start talking; there are only two of us here, I’ll figure it out.”

Danny absorbed the reply but it wouldn’t settle.

“I don’t know… it seems weird; I should know who you are.” said Danny.

“What…you worried you’re going to confuse me with all of your other hedgehog friends? Don’t invent problems, chief. We’ve got enough to deal with as it is.”

The Hedgehogs rebuke brought Danny back to the beginning; what was going here?

“I don’t understand any of this.”

The Hedgehog raised a bristly eyebrow.

“How so?”

Danny gathered up all of his questions: concision wasn’t his strong point, but he suspected the hedgehog wasn’t game for a scattershot interrogation.

“What are you…what’s going on here…how, how can this be happening?”

The hedgehog took a long pull from his coffee. For several  minutes he seemed to ignore the question, then, with the magnanimity of the freshly caffeinated, he answered at length.

“Kid, you are trying to fit a round peg into a crossword puzzle: it’s a different sort of thing; the answers you want…you’ve got no place to put them. Still, you obviously need something you can wrap your head around, so I’ll give you the Lego version of the lowdown.

• I am a very special hedgehog. I can do things other hedgehogs cannot, I can’t explain it, so you are just going to have to roll with it.
• Circumstances outside my control necessitate I help you get your shit together. It’s an impulse on my part that I don’t really understand either, so take it or leave it, I don’t give a fuck.
• And this is happening because it’s fucking happening, you want me to explain the order of the universe you are shit out of luck; you want to deny it, that’s your prerogative…but it’s just going to piss me off and make your life that much more miserable.

Beyond that there is nothing more to say on the matter. So don’t ask, or I’ll start chewing bald patches into your hair while you sleep.”

Danny sat long enough the coffee went cold. The Hedgehogs answer had an intuitive rightness to it, but Danny had long lost touch with his intuition. Even still, Danny understood it was the only answer he was going to get, and if he had one talent it was enduring uncomfortable situations until he could not. He decided to roll with it.

End of chapter 1.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

You know the new job I got a while back to replace the old one that I got laid of from: well I got laid off from that one too; Tough economic times and all that. My first proper job lasted eight years, my second 5 months. I don’t want to draw too strong a conclusion from such a limited sample size, but a pattern is emerging. The corporate world and I are no longer compatible. We gave it good try, the kids are grown, and the magic vanished long ago: it’s time to move on.

I should mention this happened a couple months back. I would have said something earlier, but I wanted to set some things into play before I announced my triumphant return to the shiftless underbelly of society. So, shiftless though I be, I have been setting pieces in place: to whit I am now one test away from being a qualified personal trainer. And kind of jacked, as working out is now my sole daily responsibility.

I figure this gives me enough lifestyle flexibility to write and vagabond about, while supplying enough income and social viability to keep from reacquainting my shelter friendships. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Management

A.J. Valliant

(See PART 1 and  PART 2 and PART 3 for the beginning of the story.Continued in PART 5 )

Danny awoke restrained. His arms were tied behind his back, his ankles to separate legs of the coffee table. He was unsure where the hedgehog had gotten the twine. Metaphorical cotton filled his mouth; a numb fog filled his brain, dulling his panic to flat curiosity. The hedgehog was lounging in a hooded sweater Danny was sure he’d lost two years before. He needed answers.

“What are you” Danny asked.

“A concerned denizen” said the hedgehog.

Danny didn’t know what denizen meant.

“Is that some kind of Hedgehog” asked Danny.

The hedgehogs clicked its mouth shut, started to say something, stopped, shook its head, and then started again.

“Look…I’m here to help. I’m a helper. Just go with that”.

Danny considered the creature glaring up from his sweat shirt: while he was strangely unable to raise an acceptable level of alarm, the reality of a talking animal was beginning to wear at his edges. He figured it best to tackle it head on.

“Are you real?” asked Danny.

The hedgehog pressed at the sides of his head hard enough the temples touched.

“I just tied you to a fucking table; what do you think?”

Danny tested his bonds.

“These are pretty loose; I’m pretty sure I could just pull my hands out”

Danny pulled his hands out to prove the point. A score of tiny puncture wounds and abrasions covered both wrists.

The hedgehog bent into a sullen curl.

“Yeah, I don’t have thumbs…it’s hard to tie a good knot. Anyways, I just wanted you in one place until the Xanax kicked in. You were kind of freaking out there for a while”.

Danny noted the pill bottled on the counter with a hole chewed through the top. A large number of tablets were spilled out on the table beside it.

“Jesus, how many did you give me? I still have a ton of booze in my system. Holy shit, I need to go to the hospital!”

Danny clawed at the twine around his ankles. The hedgehog had done a better job on those knots. After a couple failed attempts Danny took the more expedient route of snapping the legs off the coffee table and clattering about the apartment with them trailing like busted snow shoes.

The hedgehog was laughing.

“Shut the fuck up!” Danny shrieked. “You poisoning son of a bitch”.

The hedgehog was now laughing so hard he’d curled involuntarily into a ball.

Danny searched frantically through his newly organized apartment for the phone: it was on the wall by the fridge. The “9” and “1” had been gnawed off, the holes filled with rubber cement. Danny glared at the Hedgehog, and then pressed “0” so he could get the operator to call an ambulance for him. There was no dial tone. Danny noted the cord had also been chewed in half.

“Why would you wreck the numbers if you were going slash the cord anyways?” Danny demanded. Furious.

The hedgehog’s laughter had progressed to inaudibility; Danny considered kicking the silently vibrating ball of quills through his front window.

“How many did you give me?” Danny shrieked.

The hedgehog uncurled enough to get an arm free, and held up two fingers. Danny collapsed into a kitchen chair, weak with relief and spent rage. The hedgehog scrambled up onto the kitchen counter to be roughly face to face with Danny.

“All right, if you’re done playing Heath Ledger sing-along can we get down to business?”

***

CONTINUED IN PART 5

.

There was an albino in my high school: he had two holes in his heart and severe allergies to wheat and cotton. Despite that being (in my inexpert medical opinion) two holes too many, the heart thing was never an issue. The allergies, however, were a deep source of conflict between us. You see what Colin lacked in pigment, he made up for in belligerence. And I (possibly to my discredit) enjoy riling brittle people.

What you need to understand is Colin followed the immerse/then accuse school of allergy prevention: he’d seek out the section of hallway where I was eating my sandwiches, then bitch and glare at the nest of crumbs surrounding me.

“I could have an attack if I inhaled those” he said.

“Maybe you should shut your mouth and keep walking then” I said.

At the time I considered myself the model of temperance for not adding “you filthy Albino” to the end of it. Colin just stood there, bravely risking his glutinous demise, glaring at me with his weird pink eyes.

“I’m allergic to bread; I could have an attack if I breathed those crumbs” he said.

In my defense allergic=gets a little itchy to my 15 year old understanding. Anaphylactic shock was a wholly foreign concept: so my carefully sweeping the breadcrumbs into the palm of my hand, then blowing them into his face, seemed a perfectly reasonable escalation…at the time. Colin felt otherwise and tackled me.

Now I should mention that Colin, at the advice of his doctor, had been working out intensely for several years, as a means of correcting the holes in his heart, and was a couple years older to begin with, so he had a surprisingly solid 30lbs of muscle on me. To which he put into good effect by banging my head repeatedly against the floor. I scrambled out from under him, squared off, and prepared to fight a mutant with a serious medical condition.

A few punches were traded and a crowd immediately formed around us. Calls of

“A.J. is beating up the albino” rang through the school.

To be fair, I was at best holding my own against the albino; this did not stop several girls from shrieking insults and pelting me with garbage for what they perceived as my vicious bullying. The guys were more forgiving, and contented themselves by shouting hate filled encouragement and unsolicited medical diagnosis.

“Smash his face A.J.”

“Fuck the freak up”

“Dude…I think he’s a hemophiliac“

At this point I had secured a front headlock and wrestled Colin to the ground.

“Are you hemophiliac” I asked.

Colin gurgled “fuck ahhhh”.

I half applied a choke and tried to remember if hemophiliacs could die from something like that. All that came to mind were random factoids about the British monarchy. After a couple minutes of holding that position a lunch duty teacher broke things up and sent me on my way with no punishment, save the deep shame I felt for brawling with a wronged albino.

***

[1] A mutual friend of ours, Ron, later explained Colin’s medical history to me in detail. It turns out he was both allergic to wheat and a hostile asshole that picked fights on a regular basis. I felt slightly, partially, vindicated.

(See PART 1 and  PART 2 for the beginning of story. Continued in PART 4 )

Danny knelt, staring at the door, trying to make sense of the psychotic break he had clearly undergone.  He considered the appropriateness of screaming. It seemed a little forced. He was unsettled, certainly, but more deeply uncomfortable than terrified. He let out a short, experimental,

“ahhhhhhhhhhh?”

Too much time had gone by; he felt stupid enough he tried to pass it off as a yawn. His nausea bubbled up again mid way through, splattering puke against his door. The Hedgehog dove behind a ruptured throw pillow to avoid the backsplash.

“Wow…classy. I’d ask you to lock it but I don’t want you shitting your pants in front of me”.

Danny rolled over to his back and willed himself to die. Heartbeat after heartbeat resisted a barrage of discouraging thoughts. It was going poorly. A persistent rustling sound penetrated Danny’s fog of humiliation. The hedgehog was unfolding a week old newspaper and laying the sheets over piles of vomit. He stopped at the half filled cross word section.

“You just filled in cocksucker like 15 times…except for here, where you wrote coxsukr because you didn’t have enough squares. I don’t know if it’s more pathetic that you were vandalizing your own crossword puzzle or that you were too lazy to finish the job? “

In his defense Danny had actually stolen that newspaper from his neighbor, so it wasn’t technically his property. Had he been in better sorts he likely would have offered the rebuttal, as it stood he just moaned and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he could at least pretend there wasn’t a hedgehog tidying his apartment. He could still hear it, though.

“Hey shit stain, you just gonna lay on the carpet all day?”

Danny refused to talk to it. If he didn’t talk to it, it wasn’t really there.

“You got a recyling bin? Or should I just drop  this bloody glass off at the needle exchange box?”

Danny thumped his head against the floor to try and drown out the sounds of rodent industry.

” Hey…can you use toilet cleaner on wall paper? Cause I’m not going near that toilet, and we might as well use this for something”.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Why do you only have one prong on your vacuum cord? I’m going to try it anyways, but that can’t have been an accident”.

Mercifully, Danny’s brain relented and allowed itself to be pounded into unconsciousness.

***

CONTINUED IN PART 4

I was looking at the pictures section and trying to decide just how metro you are. I see a fair amount of shaved chest and pouty face, but you have these terribly bushy eyebrows and reported tufts of shoulder hair. Just how rigorous is your grooming routine?

Sarah H.

Bit of a mixed bag really, Sarah. I’m starting from an odd place esthetically: I’m both uncommonly handsome, and uncommonly hairy. While the two are not entirely at mutual opposition, if left unchecked the hairiness leaves me looking like a down on his luck chimpanzee Hugo Boss model (with oddly small teeth).So I do make an effort to tidy up a little; I’m just not very good at it. Yesterday I pulled a nose hair from so deep there were flecks of brain and bits of childhood memory dangling from the end. I would have kept going but one side of my face went numb and I developed an intense craving for pumpkin bread…seemed a bad sign.

****

What sort of hookup game do you have? Are you a real mack? What is you best pickup move?

Crazy Mitch.

Pomona, California

My best pickup moves in descending order

5. Beat the hell out of the guy she’s with. If she only has female friends I’ll make one of them feel really bad about her shoes.

4. Show her the quilt I made from scraps of former girlfriends clothes and hair.

3. Dress up like her father and then totally ignore her.

2..Dose her with  a love potion I make from cable car oil, gumption, and deadly poisonous nightshade.

1. Pull up my shirt just far enough she sees the hilt of my knife.

****

What’s wronger- Intentionally slamming a midgets head in a car door, or, Destroying a priceless work of art? I realize this is a bit of a false dilemma, but I’d appreciate an answer regardless.

Scott Salvation,

The wilderness of the mind

Tough question, Scott. You’re asking me to weigh the cultural gestalt against the singular moral imperative; the worth of pattern over process; the merit of perfected abstract over deformed concrete: this is no simple matter. I suppose it’s a matter of investment:

Do you know the midget?

Did he pass out right away, or did he wail like a stuck hobbit?

How funny was it when he fell down?

Did the art resonate with you?

Was the artist a douche?

Will you regret not being able to burn it at a later date?

There is no hard answer, but in general it is half as bad to do something to a midget (as compared to a real person), so it’s better to error in that direction. Aside from which, you can’t really replace a work of art, while all but the finest midgets can be replaced by a large headed child with a strong work ethic. I hope I was able to help you.

(See PART 1 for the beginning of story.  Continued in PART 3)

In Danny’s dream he had wrapped his brain in a dry-cleaning bag, and was attempting to drown it in the bathtub. The Shampoo bottle pulled at his hands, pleading with him to show mercy. The Conditioner egged him on in its maniacal silky voice.

“All the way down, Danny. Who’s the liar now?”

His brain clawed defiantly at the plastic, shrieking racial epithets that only vaguely applied. Danny slammed his brain repeatedly off the side of the tub to quiet it.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

His brains hateful snarling grew more coherent.

“I’ll burn your fucking house down, you Hasidic shit farming Wop!”

Danny blinked his eyes hard, trying to bring his furious brain into focus. The pounding grew louder and surrounded him. Danny leveraged a hard blink into opening his eyes;  light slammed his brain back home hard enough he vomited. At length. Another kick rattled his door.

“Hey, Thumbulima! I know you want to look pretty in your promdress…but could you save the morning purge until after you open the fucking door. It’s cold like a bastard out here and I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

Danny froze. The voice had escaped the phone and was pounding on his door. He needed a weapon: by and large a man of peace, there were none at hand. Improvising, Danny filled a pillow case with a half dozen beer bottles and his framed highschool diploma. He gave his impromptu bludgeon sack a smash against the wall, to up the lethality, and then began whirling it menacingly above his head.

“You get out of here. I…I am a trained police officer” said Danny.

It was a weak lie, but the high velocity shards of glass flying from his pillow case made it difficult to concentrate. Before Danny could amend his claim to something more plausible the bottom of the case gave out entirely, sending a barrage of shrapnel into his kitchen nook, and him sprawling into the entryway of his tiny bachelor apartment. Nauseous and bleeding Danny lay where he fell. The door, now only inches from his head, thumped again.

“Hey fuckwit, if you’re done fighting the Faberge army could you open the fucking door. I can hear you crying…I know you’re still alive.”

Exhausted and sick Danny gave into his tormentor; he’d used up the little fight he possessed. Pushing himself up to his knees Danny unlocked and opened the door; a moderate sized hedgehog glared up at him.

“If you were going to take the time to bow, Peaches, you could’ve at least wiped the puke off your face too” said the Hedgehog, closing the door behind him.

***

Continued in PART 3

If you had to hire some sort of animal to run your company (you know, for tax reasons) what sort of animal would you chose? And don’t say Beaver: work ethic aside, we know the kind of havoc those filthy mudpounders bring.

Peobo,

Nowheresville

Surprisingly good question, Peobo: while I don’t currently have a company, I am in the market for a cheap bachelor intern. Someone to scrub my Kraft dinner pots, spot me on the bench, and proof read my angry letters to celebrities. These activities are not solely the province of man, but not all beasts can handle the heat. I could write a masters thesis on the relative merits of each species, but in the interest of brevity, I’ll do a light dusting in chart form.

ANIMAL		PROS			CONS
A COLONY OF ANTS		Industrious creatures used to sacrificing personal ambition for the good of the whole.			Would almost certainly unionize, forcing me to purchase thousands of tiny billy clubs to equip the strikebreaking ladybugs I would hire.
*************************************		**************			**************
GIANT SLOTH		Much bigger than regular sloth. Extreme sedentary approach to life would make me seem dynamic and zesty			- Potential mold hazard from buildup of algae. Skeevy hooked feet remind me of murderous hitchhiker from childhood tales.
***************************************		***************	*	*	****************
OCTOPUS		Great at math Can change color to match décor. Free deep tissues sucker massages.			My constant wearing of it as a novelty hat to amuse friends would poison office dynamic.
****************************************		***************	*	*	****************
A HUGE CROW		1- Would give me air of menace I’ve been lacking since my adult contemporary album came out. 2- Could get into renaissance fairs free by claiming I’m Odin.			1- Eyes as delicious as mine do not go uneaten 2. Should probably avoid additional bad omens until that gypsy in my basement stops weeping blood.

I was in a grocery store yesterday. One of those stunted downtown locations with poor selection and busted prices. I wanted five things and felt put upon by the rival customers impeding me. The meandering of purposeless shoppers grates on my teeth: they were like a flock or retarded seagulls at the dump.

I watched a man pick up three red peppers and then stare for minutes at the clear plastic bag in his left hand, wholly unable to process the relationship between the two…as if someone else had put it there to trick him. Eventually he put the peppers back and grabbed some prepackaged baby carrots, which he then placed into the clear plastic bag. I can’t explain why, but it felt like a deliberate slight against me.

I was going to confront him, when an older women of middle eastern descent gently took my arm and said

“You remind me of spring”.

She had a fairly of a thick accent, but there was no question she’d just compared me to a season without prompting. It was oddly touching. I wanted to say something substantive in reply but all I could think of was

“Thank you, that’s a good thing to be reminded of”.

She laughed a bit, squeezed my arm again, and said

“Yes.Winter is almost beat”. Like she was giving me some small part of the credit.

I told her to have a good day and continued my shopping, much lighter for the interaction. Strange, but pleasant.

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CONTINUED IN PART 2 and PART 3 and PART 4

Danny was tired. This was not a condition of the moment, rather an institutional policy; a prolonged, preemptive, surrender. He began inauspiciously: his mother claiming him an accident; his father, a deliberate act of spite. He was a bruise, a bad riff, an off hand remark that lingered. He had been inflicted more than born, and found the whole thing exhausting. Until today that was the whole of his story.Today he lost his job.

Danny had been drinking since noon. He had his pride. It was the sort of uneven binge seasoned drunks avoided: all thunder out the gates, then long maudlin stumble. By the second hour he was pinned to the floor beneath his whirling ceiling, mouthing sad vowels at a radio he could no longer reach.

His phone rang.

Danny glared at the radio.

The phone rang again, clearing the radio’s name.

Danny backstroked his way towards it, careful to keep his shoulders flush against the carpet. The phone rang again. Danny kicked it off the end table and rolled his face onto the receiver.

“Ya” said Danny.

“You live at 115 Bay, right?” said the receiver.

“What?” said Danny.

“Your house asshole…where you live. What’s the number?”

“What?” said Danny.

“Go outside…look at the door…then come back and tell me the fucking number. If you can’t count that high just try and describe the shapes. Idiot”

Danny scrubbed his numb face and tried to sort through the receiver’s abuse. As a rule he did not confront. He barely engaged. Still, he was drunk enough, and had been subjected to enough open contempt he felt compelled to defend his position.

“What?“

The receiver exploded with scorn.

“Are you fucking with me? Did I just call a school for the deaf, or are you just on the first day of your remedial English calendar.”

Danny took several heavy breaths. Despite the callers bewildering anger he felt an alarming need to connect. He pressed his eyes shut with his thumbs and tried to replay the conversation in his head.

“You want to know where I live?” Danny said.

The receiver spluttered furiously.

“Fuck you, tough guy! You want to make me pound on every door on the block? Ok. See what happens. Maybe I teach you the true meaning of Fistmas… huh, I’m talking massacre on 34^th street!”

Danny absorbed a very small part of part of the tirade.

“Are you threatening me?”

The receiver’s screaming was on pitch with a deranged and boiling teapot.

“TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE!”

The question finally took root in Danny’s booze addled brain.

“85 Bay. Across from the big church.”

The receiver disconnected. Danny wondered for a bit at the oddly high pitched voice that had been speaking to him…and then passed out entirely.

*****

CONTINUED IN PART 2

She only read books with bent spines; broken at the best pages.

She bought them used, borrowed, second hand victims.

She carefully cleaned the margins : this tireless disannotation.

She read alone and aloud in her room; each word an island.

She began in the middle and worked back, omitting as necessary.

She rarely finished.

She forgot.

I’ve historically relied more on providence than protection to safeguard my computer; trusting in the innate goodwill of Latvian movie pirates and Russian pornographers …such was the bounty they brought. There was no legitimate reason that I didn’t use some free anti-virus software, save the thrill of raw information pulsing through my computer, the filthy heat of foreign code. Also: someone likely once advised me it was foolish to do otherwise, forcing me to embrace the contrary position as a point of pride.

It is thus unsurprising that my PC is now more smallpox than blanket; a swaddling so virulent my cat has taken to donning a SARS mask before entering my office. It doesn’t just break things: there is a tangible malicious presence that divines my intent, and then thwarts it. Random program features disappear when called upon, documents writhe and shimmy when used. It creates pretend websites that it funnels me into with false Google links, when it deigns to allow internet use at all. Last night it decided that I no longer deserve sound, and deleted all of my drivers. I fear the next step is blinding me in my sleep.

My attempts to battle it have proved fruitless. System restores were brushed aside. Anti Viruses beaten and emasculated before me. My friend Jay tried to help and it slashed the tires on his car. Though I fear reprisal, tonight I try and format my harddrive. Should this fail I may need to abandon my house entirely. Think well of me.

(Continued from Part 1 PART 2 and PART 3 )

Weeds tore away in brutish separation, Isaac’s lunge ripping them from body and root. The water seemed to recede as much as Isaac rose; the world falling out from under his leap. Alarmed, the Leopard sought the air; Isaac reached and reached, forcing the meat of palm into the Leopards path, his long fingers closed shut around it .The world returned with force, sending the tree stump hard into Isaac’s stretched and open ribs.  The branches pulled long strips from his side, the impact splintering his breath painfully throughout his chest. Isaac gasped and clung to the Leopard as both tumbled into the murky water.

The pond’s chorus returned; a spray of birds and grasshoppers taking flight punctuated the rising keen. Isaac was too focused on his prize to note the change in song. The alarm.

Isaac swam to the bank, sore and slowed by his clenched fist paddling. The Leopard made an indistinct gurgle in protest of its capture. Isaac loosed his grip and peered through the gap between finger and thumb; The Leopard “urrrpp’d” a final warning. Immune to appeal or epiphany, Isaac held the leopard tighter: a hunter did not give up his prize. Letting out an exultant whoop Isaac began to scale the bank.

The first rock sent the hunter spinning away. The second dug a deep groove in the side of Isaac’s head. Isaac touched the wound and couldn’t make sense of the blood. A third rock grazed his cheek.

“Fucking freak…the fuck you doing in our yard!”

A pack of older boys burst through the reeds, their long legs churning the shallow water to mud. Isaac tried to explain, to show he belonged, but they were too many and too suddenly upon him. The first punch closed his eyes and spilled the Leopard from his open palm. Nails raked his neck and back, Isaac stumbled and was forced down into the water. The muck of the pond filled his throat; the bottom refused him purchase to rise.

Slow knees thudded into his ribs and pressed him down into the mud. Even crushed into the silt he could hear their raucous laughter, their taunts, deeper for passage through the water. A sick frustration burned in Isaac’s chest. Eventually, the weight of the older boys lifted; Isaac dug his hand into the bank and fought to keep from rising, gasping in stinging lungfuls of water: let them be murderers. Isaacs’s chest burned, black spots filled his vision; panicked hands clawed him from the bottom, pulled him roughly over the bank, through the reeds, to the neatly manicured lawn beyond.

The boys gathered in a cluster around Isaacs twitching body. The oldest fought past Isaacs’s thin, flailing, limbs to pound his back. Isaac clenched his eyes against the hot tears, and his jaw against the rising gorge; another hard blow loosed them both.  Isaac gagged vomit and pond water onto the grass, his traitorous lungs spasming out the last of his surrender. His deifance. Isaac shook and wept, staring furiously at the ground, wishing he was within it.

The ring of boys fell away like leaves, like ash; stirred by the backwash of remorse that sudden cruelty brings. Isaac was left alone and defeated, the pond denied him. He lay a while, wondering at his loss, then crawled to his feet and made his way home. The Leopard was forgotten.

****

(Continued from Part 1 PART 2 and PART 3 )

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1. I learned three things from the death of Ichabod Crane

-          Headless Revenants will not cross running water

-          It is unkind to throw pumpkins at people

-          An awesome name does not ensure a perfect life

I’ve only ever had opportunity to apply two of those lessons.

2. My chest hair has thickened enough it looks like I am smuggling Burmese Mountain dogs about town. When I sweat excessively the patterns it makes can be read like tea leaves.

3. I hate running gags in jokes, catch phrases, and regurgitated humor used as means of social affirmation. If you can’t be witty, at least don’t be repetitive. The irony of stating this in a facebook meme does not escape me.

4. This kid deliberately spilled my marbles when I was eight. A swarm of thieving recess goers surrounded me, and when the ravenous horde dispersed there were no marbles to be seen. Were I to run across the adult version of the marble spiller, I would throw his baby in a well. This is my oldest and deepest grudge.

5. Word to the wise: The handstand armistice I attempted to negotiate between my Morning Wood and Dawn Bladder proved ill advised, and more physically challenging than anticipated.

6. I had a twin brother when I was born. He died a couple hours after our birth. His name was Jason, hence the “J” in A.J. . I suppose I carry a little survivor guilt around that I rarely acknowledge. I’ve not made the most of my life, and I wonder if he could have made better given the opportunity.

7. My teeth are abnormally small; my arms are abnormally long.

8. I am a borderline obsessive Raptors fan. I have different positions I sit in depending on whether they need my assistance on offense, or defense.  Should they lose (which they often do) I take it  as a personal indictment of my viewership methods, and am depressed for hours afterwards.

9. I am historically a poor boyfriend, and great friend. This often led to my side being taken despite some fairly suspect behavior on my part. Sorry ladies.

10. I have two Sarah McLaughlin songs on my workout playlist. Aida and Hold on. For some reason they pump me up. I regularly think, while squatting heavy weight: “Aida, I do not believe I will fail you this rep”. Sometimes I start laughing and almost get crushed beneath the weight.

11. I used to have Paint it Black on that same play list…but it made me feel like I getting ready for a serial killer rampage.

12. Obvious rhymes make angry.

13. A.J. has been my name for my entire life and I’m still not sure how many periods are necessary if I use it at the end of a sentence. Is it A.J.. Or, A.J.  If it is only one period, I feel I’m being denied my due punctuation. The periods are part of my name, they shouldn’t count as grammar.

14. My paternal grandfather had the bearing of a weathered Optimus Prime: rugged, fundamentally decent, and borne by the moral authority of a kind man in hard times. His name was George, as is my middle one.

15. My cat Felicia has gradually acquired a fame and mythology wholly out of proportion with her 10$ purchase price [Ed: Said fame and mythology are, however, fully in proportion with her physical dimensions]. I have awoken to find pilgrims stuffing notes into her fat rolls. Most were quite touching: the notes, not the pilgrims.

16. I have a medically poor sense of direction. When I tell people this they assume I am overstating things, then mock me the first time my cartoonish disability comes into play.

17. I once dressed a spider up in a tiny suit and told all my friends he’d been bitten by a radioactive man. Two years later he bought the company I worked for and put me out on the street. I learned no lesson from this.

18. I probably have too many chromosomes. I’ve been trying to get a straight answer for years, but I keep forgetting to send the University of Alberta some blood. This troubles me far less than it should.

19. My friend Sulya teaches children to dance. Though that should seem like teaching the wind to blow, I suspect she accounts herself well.

20. I tend to date lively women prone to depression. I’m not sure if this speaks more to my taste, or my company.

21. I believe that events have a certain momentum, so even if you traveled back in time and laid pipe into a few key variables, things would still reach the same general outcome. This realization forced me to abandon a very promising time-displacement device I’d been developing out of a old commodore 64, cast iron bathtub, and about two quarts of mescaline.

22. When I was five I told my classmates that I had found a box full of kittens in a barn. This was a lie. The kids asked that I take them to said barn; I agreed. The closer we got to the theoretical barn the more I tried to downplay the charms of the kittens within “Most of them are pretty ugly. One has an infected eye. There was an owl in there that could have eaten a couple”. Eventually I saw a large wooden shed that could pass for a barn, claimed the kittens were in there, and then ran away when the other children entered the shed.  We moved three days later, so I will never know if there were indeed kitten in that shed.

23. In my real life I rarely mention Beatsentropy. I avoid this as I hate shilling, and have this warped belief that art will disseminate into the world of its own accord.

24. I really like this song: http://radio3.cbc.ca/play/band/King-Cobb-Steelie/Rational/

25. I don’t trust men with weak chins or overly round heads. It is a sign of low character. I feel wholly justified in this.

Over the last week there has been a great deal of discussion over the above editorial cartoon, which depicts two NYC policemen, having  just shot a chimpanzee, concerned over who will write the next economic stymulis bill in the United States.

The cartoon, which was printed in the Tuesday February 17th  edition of the New York Post (certainly not to be confused with the New York Times), apparently was commenting on two recent events: 1) the signing of the economic stymulis bill by U.S. President Barrack Obama, and 2) the shooting of an escaped chimpanzee in Connecticut.

Somewhat predictably, and I would argue likely to the joy of the New York Post, the editorial cartoon has sparked a heated debate across the U.S. and throughout the various tubes and tunnels of the interweb.  Some, like Rev. Al Sharpton, argue that the comparison of President Barrack Obama to a chimpanzee is racist – pure and simple.   Others argue that political satyre has a long history of crude, mean, and downright nasty depictions of various leaders – and that this comic would have been printed, in the same way, regardless of the ethnicity of the leader it referred to.

Now, despite being the token bleeding-heart-liberal here at Beats Entropy, I do not exactly side with Rev. Sharpton.

I am not sure I would argue that the comic is “racist” for a number of reasons.  First, I am a geek, so I want to use my words very carefully.   To say the comic is “racist” implies a particular motive – an ideological stance.  Technically the statement attributes this to the inanimate cartoon (which is nothing in and of itself), but obviously this refers back to its creator: the Post’s Sean Delonas.   It may be that Mr. Delonas is a racist, I have no idea.   But in my opinion, one bad comic does not a racist make. More importantly, it is not the most interesting question one can ask.

What is really at stake here is why and how the comic works.   Why does a comic depicting two police officers in NYC, having just shot a chimpanzee dead, and commenting on the recent stymulis package, function on any level?  How is it this image even makes sense to us, much less strikes many as a clear racist depiction?

Well, there are a number of things to consider.

1)  The NYPD has a rather long and sorted history with the use of deadly force on unarmed and (at least in the depiction of this chimp) relatively innocent people.    There is the Sean Bell shooting incident, the Amadou Diallou incident, the Ousmane Zongo incident, or the ever lovely Abner Louima incident.  This is, of course, not to suggest all NYPD officers are either racist or evil – however, it is fair to say there is a rather lengthy and troubled history of race relations with the NYPD, punctuated with some of the above momentous fuck ups/acts of depravity.   That said, if anything this might be an argument against the cartoon above being explicitly racist, for was the chimpanzee supposed to be a symbolic representation of an African American on the streets of New York, he clearly would have been shot more than twice.

2) The two cops in the comic are white.   This means very little by itself, but interesting to note.  The NYPD is a quite racially diverse organization… 

3) The history of images comparing dark skinned people to monkeys.   Here is the meat of things, the image of a monkey is a loaded one.   Comparative images juxtaposing or flat our representing dark skinned people as less than human ‘apes’ is part of the legacy of a long used colonial imaginary.  

While most depictions as explicit as the one featured just above have found their way out of North American mainstream culuture, the legacy of such depictions continue.  The point isn’t necessarily to point to every image and try to dig out the hidden racism, but rather to realize that hundreds and hundreds of years of certain images and comparisons being made have long lasting effects on culture, and its varied representations.   Subliminally or explicitly, sometimes the spectres of these explicitly racist depictions make their way into our day to day lives.

Are such spectres always examples of explicit racism?  I would argue no.  However, it is very important to remember the history of certain images and ideas.

So, where do I stand on Sean Delonas’ editorial cartoon?  I think there are three possible explanations:

1) Sean Delonas is actually a very crafty racist.  He explicitly resents a black man making it to the Presidency, and figured this was a good cheap shot.   He also knows full well he can plead a combination of freedom of expression and ignorance against any denouncements of his cartoon.

2) Sean Delonas is not a racist,  but did wish to cause some offense (a legitimate goal of any self-respecting political cartoonist)  However, he is completely ignorant of the long racist history of depicting/comparing Africans to various sub-human primates.  He is additionally completely unaware of the last 50 years of history concerning race relations and the NYPD.

3) Sean Delonas is a complete moron, and had no intention of suggesting anything accept that even a monkey could write a better stymulis bill – in which case the real perpetrators are whatever sad series of educational institutions Mr. Delonas attended.

For my money, I would put reality somewhere between 2 and 3.  Of course, that said, the odds of everyone involved in the decision to print the cartoon falling somewhere between 2 and 3 are pretty slim.  Someone, somewhere, probably had what we could call some racist intentions.   This is of course not news worthy in and of itself.   Racism has a long and proud history in the United States, this is nothing new.

What should be done about it?  Well, not ever buying another copy of the New York Post would probably be a solid way to express a dissatisfaction with the cartoon.  In terms of stomping such images out of our creative pallette, I have no idea.  The best we can hope to do is try to remind people that nearly everything, from words to images, from styles of clothing to styles of music, comes to us with a very particular, and often racialized, history.   The more we remain aware of these things, the more we can try and move forward in a way that we each consider viable and ethical.

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One summer I had a job installing pools. For the most part I just dug holes; holes which I would occasionally fill with gravel. The actual pool installation was handled by competent long timers who didn’t ride the wheel barrow down hills. I was about 17 at the time, and had yet to discover the importance of professionalism, or the kind of velocity a wheelbarrow filled with 200lbs of gravel can accrue.  The potential downside of my ignorance was magnified by the darting children who played on a trampoline at the bottom of the hill. I never actually ran one down, but their erratic presence was enough to send several loads of gravel airborne, and launch me trebuchet style across the back lawn.

Predictably I grew to hate those children. I don’t usually begrudge people their privilege…but being the hired help tasked to install a huge pool, for a pack of taunting brats, that already owned a giant trampoline, brought my latent class consciousness to the surface. I began burying any random toys I found: stomping Barbies and Tonka Bulldozers into the soft earth beneath their pool. Then one day I stole the little girl’s bike.

I should mention I had to take a dump. We weren’t allowed into the clients house, and our deadline was such we had to work a 12 hour shift with no off site breaks. The situation became urgent enough I knocked on the elderly neighbors’ door and asked if I could use her facilities: she declined, and dialed at least 9-1. My coworker suggested I go to the nearest restaurant (9 blocks away), but I feared I wouldn’t make it that far without publically soiling myself. And then, I spotted a small red bicycle, silver streamered and pink basketed.

I felt a little bad as I rode it manically down the street (my knees tucked against my chest), but it was that or shit in the basket. I made it to the restaurant without incident, and defiled their restroom immediately. Afterwards I jogged back to the job site lighter of spirit and colon, and dug with renewed enthusiasm.

Two days later it occurred to me I’d left the bike at the restaurant. By that point any serious attempt at retrieval would have incited all kinds of awkward questioning, and possibly an Amber Alert, so I chalked it up as a victory for the proletariat and went about my business.

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Copyright 2007 Kenji Toyooka and Phil Steinersen

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Did you read this shit: http://www.cnn.com/2009/US/02/02/skydiving.death/index.html

How messed up is that kid going to be?

Baffled in Burlington, On

Plenty, BIBO…plenty. How boring is the rest of this kids life going to be in comparison?  How do you match the excitement of plummeting earthward at 200 miles a hours in a malfunctioning parachute, trying to steer the busted tarp one handed, whilst a freshly corpsed colonel whispers  the secrets of the dead into your ear. You’ve essential cheated death and taken a life your first time out of the box: you would need to perform an abortion while jumping coyote gorge on rocket skis to get the same kind of murder sex thrill. You could strangle two orphans, while hanging from a failed coaster safety harness, mid loop de loop, and still not match the intensity of that initial Thanotic rush.

I give that kid six weeks before he’s shooting heroin and throwing tombstones off busy highways overpasses.  It’s what I would do.

*****

I need some titles for children books I plan on writing someday down the road. I find it easier if I start with the title and plot accordingly. Can you help a brotha out? I’ll mention you in two forwards and a endnote.

Judd McKenzie

That is not really my area of expertise, Judd, but I will give it shot.

Try these on for size:

Antoine the bedazzled ocelot: a tale of fashion furpaws and animal cruelty

Lisping ponies get shot

Rimjobs: the specialest kind whistling that only mommies and daddies can do

Ricky NoParents and the picnic of sorrows

Fractions for factions: the Jihadist guide to imperialist mathematics; Death to America edition

Rainbows are great.

*****

You seem pretty dependant on the “Like” “As” and pre-fixless metaphor crutches. Why do you feel the need to compare things so much? Is it so hard to just say what you mean?

Alton Benis

Baltimore Public school system

I don’t know, Alton. I suppose I just love the boozy inclusiveness of a good metaphor; the way it wraps an arm around the big ideas and walks the worst of the heavy off.  Without them, matters of consequence can only be discussed by liars and the immensely patient: and I lack patience.

For instance, saying: “Bad sex is like putting on too small boots, in a burning building, in the dark” covers a lot of ground, and is colorfully ambiguous enough that the listener can fill in the details from personal experience: you are not trying to explain, you are trying to evoke. I’m rarely trying to hammer a point into someone’s head; I just want to layout where I’m at, and let them find their equivalent locality.

(Continued from Part 1 and PART 2 PART 3 and PART 4)

Isaac circled West and towards the sunken tree; the Leopard moved higher up the branch, calling a slow “rrrrrrRRRRPpppppp” at his approach. Was there recognition in it? Reproach? The Leopard narrowed its glassy, golden, eyes into unreadable slits. Isaac hung in the water, unable to proceed, this placeless frustration tightening around him, fouling his instincts: Did it know why he was there? Would it run?

The Leopard shifted, bowing in its crooked back so its belly faced the sun. Its eyes closed in bliss and Isaac felt slighted. Diminished. Less careful now, Isaac stepped up from the earthy bottom and onto the slick tangle of the trees submerged roots, turning his body until a heavy shadow covered the basking Leopard. Algae smeared beneath his feet, snails burst in crystalline pops of onomatopoetic horror. The tree shuddered as its base loosed in the muck; the Leopards eyes flashed open. Isaac slipped backwards on the root, a low branch drawing a deep scratch across his chest. He did not cry out. He did not splash or claw for purchase. He slid quietly back into the water and waited for the Leopard to jump, the distil haze of his blood vanishing around him.

The Leopard held its ground. Imperious, it roared again “uuuuUUURRRPppppp”. A dozen lesser calls sounded in return, louder for their chorus. Isaac bobbed in the murky water, trying to mark the hidden singers: he’d have words with them when once the Leopard was caught. The next verse began, the callers arrayed in a rough circle around him. Isaac felt the water cool suddenly; sickly strands of weed coiled and clung to his legs: something had changed and he felt unwelcome. Then the Bulls joined the chorus: regal, and resonant, and terrible. Isaac settled deeper in the water, treading slowly, leaving just his face and hands and crown exposed. He knew now he’d been there their too long, but the hunters demands were upon him. He struck his hands across the water in a loud slap, stilling the choir, and then lunged forward towards the Leopard.

(to be concluded in part 4)