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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

Jingles (Saint Peter) The Guy with All the keys

Saint Peter (Jingles). The guy with all the Keys.

Pete “Jingles” Wicszotcszkivitch had been the janitor at Westchester High School for as long as anyone could remember. He’d been assigned to his job, by God himself, at the current site over 3000 years before the school buildings had been constructed. Between Westchester High School and the Pearly Gates of Heaven, Jingles (a.k.a. Saint Pete) put in over eighty hours of cleanliness, so that he could be next to godliness.

The local Jocks and cheerleaders always teased Pete and they had nick-named him “Jingles” because of the huge key ring that dangled from his grey overalls. You could hear Jingles coming from miles away, unless he didn’t want you to hear him. Then you could only hear him three quarters of a mile away. His constant companions were his Japanese transistor radio and his rolling mop-bucket combo that was always filled with ACME Demon Eliminator.

The kids at the school loved to tease the old janitor. They considered unshaven Jingles a drunk, dirty old man who spent his free time at The Duck n’ Fishes ogling, its owner Cheri Baby. He would fill Biggie’s jukebox with coins requesting “I’m in the Nude for Love.”

He still is (what they said) and he still does.

Jingles always managed to teach the “little punks at school a lesson” especially when he greeted them, years later, after their deaths, at the pearly gates as a result of auto accidents. In his part-time gig as the cruel Saint Peter, he would force the brats to spend a year in “Traffic School for Teenage Sinners” before they could enter Heaven. That way, the punks would invariably miss the sumptuous nightly Oriental Seafood buffets.

Jingles had been watching Rubio since the kid started school in 1964 when the punk began to leave his trail of oily smudges along the newly mopped corridors of what Jingles called “Excreter Central.”

Westchester High was planet Earth’s foremost portal to Hell. It was an obvious fact to anyone who took the time to track the caliber of kids that the school released upon the world. Those “kids” included five Manson family members and the notorious surf band called Ionel GrtwszxtszckKyzt And the Spazmotics.

According to Jingles, his job was “to control the flow of these ‘juvenile delinquent punks’ from Earth to Heaven or Hell, so that they don’t bother the ‘Big Cheese (God) during their journey.

One day, Jingles decided to ring up Mr. Cheese using his Magic Hoppalong Cassidy Walkie-Talkie. Jingles was ready to spill the whole enchilada to the boss—about Hell’s chosen composer, Anthony Rubio.

“Hello?”

Jingles heard ‘El Queso Grande’s’(The Big Cheese’s) phone pick up. “Jingles! Is that you, my old friend?” It sounded like Charleton Heston. “It’s me, Moses, your friendly Prince of Egypt. What the consarned heck is going on down there?”

“Moe! Is the Big Cheese in? This is an emergency. The awful music that ass faced moron plays on his boom box and …”

“Are you talking about that kid, Rubio? Sorry, God took the rest of the week off, Saint Pete. He’s eating ice cream and binge watching some British fantasy nonsense on Netflix. You can talk to me.”

“This is more serious than the atomic ‘trots,’ Moe. It think that this garbage that Rubio is writing might be the type of Drek that Cheri was developing as a weapon for the Department of Offense, or, even worse, it could be the Hippity Hop music that the Old Testicle warned us of.”

“Disco? Hippity Hop? Are you on cough syrup, Pete?”

“Jesus! This is serious, Sir.”

“Sorry Jingles, Jesus F. just left for the day,” explaineth Moses. “If you want to talk to his brother, Jesus H., the kid comes back from lunch at one. Or, acting as Charlton Heston, I could ask some of my NRA friends visit this punk Rubio.”

“I’m thinkin’ that we might need to use the old hellfire and brimstone on this kid,” saidith the janitor.

“Are you sure he’s threatening us with a new enhanced version of Cheri’s Crisco music? Has he killed anyone?”

“It’s Disco music,” corrected Jingles. “No deaths, sir.”

“Then, I’ll let the Cheese, himself, deal with him appropriately,” said Moses, who sounded worried. “Meanwhile, just keep Rubio away from Cheri. She’s a swell kid. All of us up here like her, but we do not care for her Frisco garbage.”

“Not Frisco. Disco, consigliere, and that abomination was also Rubio’s idea. This new variety is much worse. He’s throwing in country lyrics and space sounds. Country Rap, or, as we call it, CRAP music.”

“I should have guessed. I’d like to stomp him into clay for Ramses’ pyramids, but I don’t want to have to scrape that punk off of the bottoms of my boogedie boogedie shoes.”

Jingles needed to get down to the Duck n’ Fishes to get hisself drunk and meditate to the hypnotic motion of Cheri’s electric boogaloo.

Transformations in the Bacchus Bar (Shark Fin Soup)

Cast:

Bernie Benedict: Interpol agent. He became famous for spotting and talking to apparitions and now he talks to most gods. Known as “The God Whisperer,” Bernie himself, is being transformed, slowly into a god.

Artemis: The stunning virgin goddess of the Moon and Hunt. She has fallen for mortal Bernie.

Jesus: The Messiah, who just fell in love. He needs to tell someone all about it.

The scent of gardenias filled the Bacchus Bar as all six-foot-six of the alabaster skinned Artemis danced, swirled and spun her skirt off into the dark corners. Doves flew toward the goddess, each holding a linen napkin to protect what little modesty that she had left. Bernie Benedict, well on his way to becoming the spitting image of Cary Grant, was barely sober enough to snatch a napkin from the beak of one of Artie’s “modesty” doves. The cloth intended for her left breast.

The face of Bernie’s ‘new best bud,’ Jesus, appeared on the small square of linen.

The wobbly Artemis exclaimed, “Σκατά! (Poopy!)”

As if someone hit the phonograph needle, the theme from Zorba came to a ripping halt. Bernie cried out. “Who invited you?”

The goddess quickly wrapped herself within the linen tablecloth. “Who invited him?”

“Wait! Don’t get mad,” said the Messiah. “I had to tell someone. I wanted you two to be the first to know. Bernie I found someone! A goddess — of —my — own!”

“Not now, Junior,” said Bernie.

The normally morose Messiah was jumping up and down. “Everyone calls her The Goddess Candy.”

Bernie asked, “Goddess Candy? Does she wear black leather and run a restaurant called Dominance Pizza?”

Jesus, surprised, stared at Bernie. “Yeah. Hey! You know her?”

“Sure we know her,” said Artemis. “I hate to tell you, J.C., but she’s not a real goddess. That’s her ‘stage name.’ She’s a dominatrix. You poor schmo.”

“A what? לַעֲזָאזֵל! Dad dammit! I feel like such a douche bagel.”

“Did she ask you to lick her boots?”

“Uhhhh… Please don’t mention this to my mom. Okay?”

“Sure. Hey, since you’re here, let me ask your opinion on something. If I, Bernie Benedict, a mortal, succumb to a goddess who is outside of my own religion, which is…”

“Ass worship?” said Artemis, slapping away Bernie’s naughty tentacles.

J.C. was staring at the soaked, disheveled Artemis. “You’ll be damned if you do, Bernie.”

Bernie, downcast, looked upset.

Jesus elbowed Bernie in the ribs like a bro. “But damned if you don’t,” he laughed.

Little Shredded Wheat Puss sure is in a good mood, thought Artemis.

Bernie, relieved, bowed in gratitude, hitting his drunken head on the table. “Ow! Bloody ‘ell!”

“I’ll leave you two sinners alone,” said Jesus. “I just thought I’d tell you the good news…(mumble)…ah לַעֲזָאזֵל!”

Fading while blushing, the Messiah went away in a little ‘poof.’

Artemis’ eyes smoldered at Bernie, “Definitely damned if you don’t.” The tablecloth she’d been wearing as it dropped to the floor. Guilt had left the building. Below the hat on her head, Artie was naked and glowing pink from within. “Hey. Lookie here, sinner,” she invited. “I’m PETA approved.”

“What?”

“No pelt.”

“Oh, Jesu…,” said Bernie. “Blast it all. Me and my big drunken yap.”

“Tah dahhhhhhh!” Jesus instantly reappeared on the tablecloth. “You rang, good buddy?”

“No! It was a mistake.” yelled Bernie.

“Sorry. Did I leave my halo here?”

“It’s on your head. Now, go away,” said the pair, who were an explosive combination of pent-up bodily fluids, combustible alcohol and frenzied jutting protuberances.

“Did I already mention to you, Bernie,” asked Jesus, “that …”

“Scram!”

The savior faded away.

“He really is in love,” said Artemis, wrapped in a fresh tablecloth.

“Now, where were we darling?”

“Right about…here,” she said, dancing in Bernie’s direction. “We were getting …elegant and…” (She stopped) “Dammit. Don’t look now.”

“What, dear?” asked Bernie. “For Heaven’s sake, Junior!”

“Candy’s a nice person!” stressed the Messiah, who had reappeared on Artemis’ fresh cover-up. “You’re just jealous, Mr. Berrrrrrnie Benedict. Eat my body!”

Bernie screamed. “That is soooo wrong! Get off of Artemis, Your Holiness!”

Artemis released the tablecloth and, six foot six and gloriously nude, did the Mexican hat dance on top of it. “It’s time that we get in orbit.”

“Nice bouquet, Artie.”

Artie spoke to the covered Messiah,“Get an everlasting life, kid,” while she twirled the gold chain like a lasso. “Grab the reins, Bernie.”

“You’re a funny goddess, I like you.”

“Come on, guyzzzzzzz,” said the Savior from beneath the cloth.

Bernie also stood up to leave. “Don’t follow us or I’ll call my attorney.”

“I don’t follow anyone. Remember? I already have over a billion followers and that’s on Twitter alone!” Jesus had disappeared.

“That kid can be such a … How do the American’s say it? asked Bernie.

“Dweeb.”

The Birth of the British Invasion (the truth)

Wiltshire County, Great Britain-1963

The two alien Brills hovered their ship, The Lollipop, above the farming village of Hangover, near Stonehenge, in the county of Wiltshire, on the Salisbury plane.

The night before they landed, Buddy was busy drawing giant dicks, boobs and the word ‘fuck’ across the English countryside as though the wheat fields below were his personal Etch-A-Sketch.

Some of Buddy’s sketches were more than a quarter mile wide. He designed the patterns on the space ship’s computer and then precision cut the artful images upon the green pastoral landscape below.

At 1:30 a.m., on June 28, 1963, while the residents of Hangover slept, Ada demanded Buddy “go to bed and stop drawing your silly stick-figure porn with humungous butts and boobies.”

* * * *

Jolly Lord Capersmith

At two a.m., a distinguished gap-toothed mustached old duffer, wearing a bowler hat was driving home from the Laughing Gravy Pub. He pulled his Bentley over to the side of the road that faced his family’s Ancestral Castle upon his vast Capersmithshireton Estate.

“Wot?” said Lord Joseph.

Something exciting was afoot in the fields below. His Lordship quickly grabbed his silver-tipped cane along with his fine hand-tooled leather attaché case from motorcar’s passenger seat. Inside the case were his thermos, and a brand new brass fox hunting pistol. He removed his bowler hat and replaced it with a more appropriate deer stalker cap. Lord Joseph furtively tiptoed down the slope to investigate the strange lights illuminating the wheat fields below.

“By Jove! Naughty stick figures. I doooooo say. Delightful!”

In the field, on his property no less, also stood what looked like…

“Pip. Pip,” he said while twirling his handlebar mustache.

“It’s a bloody American Juke box. Rahthah! Jolly good show, old bean.”

Step — step — step.

“It must be the Princess’ idea of making merry,” his Lordship quipped. “A jest, I’m sure!”

“I’ll sit on this jolly old stump, pour myself a hot cup of tea, take aim at the doodad-thingamajig with my pistol, and give myself a bit of a respite! Simply smashing!”

Though the tipsy Lord Joseph fired and missed the juke box shaped space ship, the loud shots woke up the ever-testy alien musician, Ada, who was thoroughly enjoying an erotic dream wherein the radical Inventor, Nikola Tesla, was demonstrating his hot new invention, the Personal Harmonic Resonance Vibration Oscillator upon her person.

Capersmith stopped shooting when an invisible hand pulled back the window shade on the ship. “Something” inside the space ship struggled and cursed while trying to open the window on the front of the giant juke box. Dried paint had glued the window sill shut. Before Lord Joseph could say, with a stiff upper lip, “Oh bugger,” the window shot upward, and….

“Tallyho, Sir Asshole!” said Ada while she implemented the magic of the jolly olde ACME Auto-Suc upon Lord Joseph Capersmith, and thus deposited Lord Joseph’s royal rump within the Good Ship Lollipop.

Repeated screams of “Unhand me, knaves! Do you know who I am? I’m Lord Capersmith, a favorite of and a royal subject of her majesty!” echoed deep into Jolly Olde Sherwood forest.

Ada restored the tranquility of the spacecraft when she respectfully presented His Lordship with a formal printed invitation:

No Noose is Good Noose. (A Brutal Tale of Caution)

No Noose is Good Noose

21. RetroKidsInWagon

 

The Everyday Adventures of Ether Gray and his sister, Anesthesia

Two dull grey smudges appeared on the horizon — with a happy dog in tow.

The smudges and their spotted companion approached the blossoming rural town of Cowsill.

When six-year-old Ether Gray and his four-year-old sister, Anesthesia, took their little brown and white dog, Femur (Woof! Woof!), for his morning walks down tree-lined Sunny Lane, the street was normally empty.

The two Grays were not welcome in town.

Innocent seven-year-old, red-haired, Theodore “Squiggy” Martin walked along the flowering gardens, toward Ether and Anesthesia. Involved with performing a “cats cradle” on his new Imperial Duncan Yo-Yo he couldn’t avoid them in time.

Squiggy, though shaking, forced a smile. “Hi, Ether! Hi, Anesthesia! Are you going to the Big Fair tonight? They got bumper cars and a giant slide!” said the good-natured young boy, dressed in blue overalls.

“Yes. That may prove diverting. Don’t you agree, Ether?” said the drab four-year-old Anesthesia, who was looking up at her equally drab older brother.

Ether approached the red-headed young boy. “Pay close attention, Squiggy. Do you know where the bumper car ride came from?”

“N-n-n-no, Ether,” said the apprehensive boy. He felt trapped.

“The bumper car ride was invented in 1917 by Victor Levand, an inventor who was employed by General Electric or, by two siblings, Max and Harold Stoehrer, who called their company ‘Dodgem.’ They started their version of the flat amusement park ride in Massachusetts in the year of 1919. Electrical contacts established on the ….”

Within twenty minutes, Squiggy was falling asleep on the sidewalk. Even with the crows pecking at his eyes, Squiggy knew that he must lie still.

That was okie dokie with “Squiggy” Martin.

He’d heard, many times, (He’d been warned!) that Death was always preferable to one of the Gray children’s droning monologues.

Saying ‘Hi’ to the Gray children was a very serious mistake; a lesson that he should have learned from the “stories.”

“If only … if only…” thought Squiggy.

A great light came on in the boy’s head. Squiggy understood that he’d been too careless to live. So, he surrendered to the black crows.

Esther and Anesthesia’s only joy in life was chocolate. They scattered the crows and searched through Squiggy’s overalls. Sadly, they came up empty.

No chocolate.

Ethan kicked the red haired boy with his new pair of Buster Browns and classified the kid as “a waste of space!” He stopped kicking when saw his sister had shed a tear — out of hunger.

Uh-oh. Big brother Ether needed to look elsewhere to satisfy his little sister’s sweet tooth.

“E-E-E-Ether? Maybe we could trade the Yo-Yo for chocolate later on,” whimpered poor Anesthesia.

“Of course, my darling sister!” Ether wrenched the Yo-Yo out of Squiggy’s cold, dead hand and the two moppets skipped down the street toward Wingnut’s Drugstore and Soda Fountain.

Wise old Alvin Wingnut hid behind the counter when he saw the children approaching his store. The two colorless tykes and their friendly dog, Femur (Woof! Woof!) waited patiently as the Gray children would negotiate a trade with Alvin; a Yo-Yo for some chocolate snacks. They had a very special speech prepared for the cranky old skinflint.

Tap. Tap. Tap. No Alvin.

Ether and Anesthesia began talking about real estate and pop music to each other, instead. Alvin, though suffering severe arthritic pain, crouched quietly until he could no longer hold his bladder nor stand their chatter.

Escape. The old druggist began his painful lurch from behind the counter. He would make a lame dash toward the outhouse, which had never looked so exquisite and inviting. Freedom, relief and a meager, but peaceful future waited beyond the back door. As he moved below the cash register, the druggist discovered that the two boring tykes had put each other and their doggy into a deep sleep on aisle two.

This was no time to take any risks. He had been lucky enough to escape Stalag 13 during the war. Maybe the lord that he’d cursed was still watching over him.

The Gray children awoke to the festive sounds of local kids laughing and stealing all the cookies and candy off of Wingnut’s counter. From across the street, Old Alvin watched — as the well-bred children of Cowsill ransacked his life.

“Fine.”

Even a pauper’s death was preferable to listening to those two lifeless whippersnappers who were still inside his store.

The Gray’s classmates had run out of the store with their booty in a hurry, making believe that they didn’t hear Ether and Anesthesia calling their names.

It was dark when Ether and his little sister had left Wingnut’s. Bags full of “free” chocolaty snacks were stacked up in the little red wagon that the two tykes had borrowed.

22. HappyPuppy

The Gray kids and their trusty pooch (Woof! Arf!) headed off for the Fair.

“Observe, Anesthesia! It’s Goofy Moofy!”

Moofy whined to himself as he lay in the gutter.

“I’ve got ‘man tits.’ My suckling babies are coughing up hairballs! Whaaaaa!” cried Goofy. Moofy was Cowsill’s official town drunk.

Anesthesia was puzzled. She looked up to Ether and asked, “What are ‘man tits,’ big brother?”

Ether began to roll on the subject. “Well, my little sister … Wait! … Sit, Femur! Sit!” ‘Woof! Woof!’ Good boy! … Okay, Anesthesia. Man tits. What Goofy Moofy means is … that he is in possession of rather capacious breasts for a male of the human species.”

“Oh! You mean hooters!”

“Uh — that’s what our father used to call them until mom castrated him with the Hamilton Beach juicer, Anesthesia. A sophisticated person would refer to the mammary glands, respectfully, as breasts. Breastfeeding provides nutrition for baby mammals….”

“What are you kids yapping on about? Please! Stop!” said Goofy Moofy.

“Listen, Mr. Moofy, and you will learn! A mammal is a warm-blooded animal, associated with the class Mammalia. Mammals possess a vertebrate, hair, or fur, and bear live young who are nourished by the secretion of milk by the females of the species by way of special glands, or as my Yale Medical professor called them … ‘a nice rack.'”

(Luckily for Goofy Moofy, he was piss-drunk and had already passed out.

Another lucky soul saved from tedium by alcohol.)

Femur, after licking up the booze in the puddle next to Moofy, was trying to bark “Woofth! Woofth!” (which means: “Hey, I love you, Dog.”).

The little terrier could not walk any farther. Femur needed to be put into the wagon with the bags of Wingnut’s candy.

The trio soon entered the Fairgrounds.

* * * *

Marcus, the 16-year-old carny, had never met Ether and Anesthesia. However, he knew that they were too young to ride the Ferris wheel without an adult present. Then, there was the drunk dog (‘Woofth, man!’) in the wagon.

“Sorry, kids. You’re too young,” said the bloated teen (whose greasy long hair and face might have been a promising new site for Shell Oil exploration).

Anesthesia’s turn this time. “Age is relative, Your Unctuousness,” she said. “My brother and I are quite mature for our age. We have both been favored with IQs well beyond the genius range.”

Marcus looked perplexed. “Smart asses” he thought. Impatience lit up the bloodshot eyes beneath his filthy baseball cap: “Screw I.Q. I prefer D.Q.!”

“D.Q.?” said the two Browns, who themselves, were perplexed.

“D.Q. — you know — Dairy Queen! ARE YOU KIDS MORONS?!” barked the carny, hard enough to release a pint of crude oil from his fat neck.

“I beg to differ!” said Ether. “My sister and I will soon be entering Harvard Medical School, following our graduation from Yale Law School, next year. My sister Anesthesia already merits a top ten nonfiction book on the New York Times bestseller list. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Mr. Trailer Trash? The book is titled ‘Gray’s Quantum Barbie.’ It is based on the theories set forth by Einstein’s granddaughter, in which she states, ‘If there were a universe completely devoid of genitalia …’ Sir? Hello-o?”

The young carny had fallen asleep and tumbled into the motor assembly of the Ferris wheel. It spat him out — as a green and red paste.

* * * *

pagebreak

The fair closed at 10 p.m. Ether, Anesthesia and the hungover Femur (Woof! Woof!-which meant “Ow! My fuckin’ head!”) were walking along the country road on their way home.

Out of the darkness, a big black sedan pulled in front of them and blocked their path.

A sweaty Frenchman with a pencil moustache, wearing a beret, an earring and a black overcoat hopped out of the car and said, “Bonjour shildren! Do you know where zee Old Mill Road is?”

The coat was buttoned. The Frenchman’s legs were bare except for zee black shoes, Argyle socks, and zee garters.

Enfants! I cannot find zee road on zee map. Do you like chocolat? How about some of zee best chocolat ever?”

Outside of the accent, this fellow had a curious way of speaking. Muffled. Slurred.

“Woof! Woof!” Femur knew the word “chocolate”!

“I have some here in zee back seat of my seenister black seeeedan! Ju me-pelle, uh, my name eez Chester (he pronounced it “Chesthair”) I’m a very nize guy. You can trust me. Hop in! S’il vous plaît!”

The obedient trio climbed into the back of the Cadillac.

As Anesthesia spoke about economics, the sweaty trench-coated Frenchman began to appear tired: though not out of boredom. Chesthair had been driving the country roads in search of chocolate-loving children since last night’s opening of the Fair.

For the second time that day, the two children were perplexed. Zee Frenchman should have fallen asleep by now. They should have already been on their way home with Chesthair’s chocolate.

The man was still awake and driving deeper into his favorite secluded spot, the dark rock quarry. The perv had not fallen asleep like everyone else to whom Ether and Anesthesia talked.

Chesthair was more than determined.

“Sir! Can we go home?” Anesthesia was beginning to get frightened.

“Sir? Can you hear me?! Chesthair! I cannot speak French! Monsieur! Do you understand English?” screamed Ether into the man’s right ear, which sparkled with a gold loop earring.

(No reaction from zee Frenchman.)

“Oh — my — God, Anesthesia!” said Ether. “I think that monsieur is deaf!”

Deaf. DEAF!

* * * * *

Sensing the concern of his human friends, Femur began to bark loudly at the unresponsive and dangerous man behind the wheel.

Ether had to think fast. He reached into his pocket and felt for poor dead Squiggy’s Imperial Duncan Yo-Yo equipped with special high-tensile, polyester Slick String. According to the advertisement, the new Duncan Yo-Yo string was “strong enough to use as a garrote.”

Young Ether tied one end of the slick nylon string to the back door handle on his sister’s side of the car. As the road was too narrow for the trench-coated Frenchman to exit the car safely, he would need to back the car up away from the edge of the 100-foot drop off. Then, he might be able exit the shotgun seat and begin his fun.

As the car backed up, Femur “took his cue” and leaped into the front seat, ripping off the man’s right earlobe along with his earring.

Ether kicked one back door open, looped the string around Chesthair’s neck, and, like lightning, wrapped the other end around the opposing door handle. The open door snapped on to a tree as the car jerked back in reverse. The choking Frenchman was losing his control of the pedals. The door, grabbed by the pine tree, pulled the nylon line tight enough to slice the perv’s head off completely.

A guillotine may not have been faster or cleaner.

The jubilant Ether produced a triumphant, “Vive la France!”

Femur followed with a proud, “Woof! Woof! Woof!” (which means, “I deserve to sniff some ‘fine’ French poodle butt!”)

The terrified Anesthesia finally caught her voice and spoke to the man’s head lying by the gas pedal, “Monsieur! The garrote has been a method of silent assassination for centuries since the Spanish Inquisition. It may have originated in Spain, but gained renewed popularity in the 1970s movie classics, Godfather’s One and Two….”

The children rolled Chesthair’s headless carcass down into the fathomless quarry and spent the night sleeping in the car — fat on the day’s bounty of chocolate. Femur rolled the head like a ball until it too tumbled down into the darkness.

Police rescued the trio the next morning after a quarry truck driver spotted the sleeping children and their dog.

Chesthair was found at the bottom of the hundred-foot drop-off.

Femur barked happily inside the police cruiser. Next to him, the monotonous Gray children were driven home with gags tied through their lethal mouths.

All three were later hailed as heroes on the evening news.

Chesthair had been unsuccessfully hunted by police detectives, in five states, for over three years.

Coming soon: The further adventures of Ether and Anesthesia Gray

Their own horrible mother bores them to death, by cooking them tofu in: “A Tisket, a Tasket; a Green and Yellow Casket.”

Legs 3-29-19

Legs (acrylic)

Gators

Gators

(My) Cat in an Aquarium 8X11 acrylic

Fred Barnett / Cat in Aquarium / 3-2-2019

Centurian #2 (Only available in 8X10 prints)

Centurian 2, acrylic 2-21-19 Fred Barnett 8X10 prints

Record Riot 16X20 Acrylic $200

unnamed-2

Record Riot 2-21-19 acrylic Fred Barnett

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