Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

Alien Space Probe 1952, Lubbock Texas

Lubbock, Texas / The 1950s

“Farmer” Joe Caperton

One night, in 1952, Buddy and Ada Brill landed their spacecraft in an open field on the pasture of the Triple XXX farm, near Lubbock, Texas. In the 50s, XXX didn’t signify anything more than a cattle brand or perhaps shorthand for moonshine.

Only a handful of humans had ever witnessed one of Buddy and Ada Brill’s alien invasions. However, only one of them was jackass enough to have opened fire upon their super-cool spacecraft with a Remington shotgun.

Of course, the clown did get his ass drilled in the process, but only because the two reddening, pissed-off space critters needed to cover up the true purpose of their visit to Lubbock, Texas—the propagation of Rock n’ Roll.

Buddy and Ada were normally nonviolent and had previously attacked only one Earthling, a music executive who criticized their music by saying, “What the hell is this jungle crap?”

“Farmer” Joe Caperton, on the other hand, was a simple math teacher at Lubbock High School.

One starlit summer night, after being a husband to a sheep, Joe pulled his Hudson over to the side of the road so that he could get a better view of the “suspicious mechanical thang” that was the size of his barn, sitting in the middle of his family’s forty acres. The “thang” looked, and lit up like a giant rooster-red juke box.

Joe didn’t bother to investigate. He just went with his basic redneck instinct to goddamn shoot something.

Buddy, the lyrical alien, plucked Farmer Joe off the field with his new ACME “alien sized” Auto-Suc vacuum tube, and dropped the old man inside the Brill spacecraft. The normally calm, hard working Buddy cried out, “Look what Colonel Cluck did to my cool Wax job, Ada! I mean… the fuck!”

Buddy left it up to his cranky musical partner, Ada, to administer the standard universal alien anal probe upon Farmer Joe. It was Ada’s idea to use the farmer’s own ACME rototiller (a huge tool on wheels that the two aliens would become very fond of).

She told the bumpkin that in the Universal Intergalactic Guide Book for Idiots the “anal probe” was listed as “A standard mechanism used to help nourish skinny Earthlings, who should eat more.”

“What are you going to do with mah tiller, you crazy Mahjong?”

Ada’s eyes narrowed. “Hey! First of all we are NOT Mahjongs or Martians and Don’t get hacked off at us, plowboy! You started this clambake. We came from two hundred light years away to bring gifts to your big Palookaville-of-a-planet, and what do you clodhoppers do to show your appreciation? I’ll tell you, Manure Breath. You plug our newly painted space ship full of holes! What the— what were you thinking?” Ada just could not help adding while poking, “Nobody fucks with Buddy’s candy-apple-red Earl Scheib paint job! You cow pies cannot mess with our wheels!”

Buddy shoved Farmer Joe against the console. “Bend over, Turkey Neck. Do you hear my lady, Ada, ringing the triangle? No? Well… come and get it. It’s dinner time!” Ada cranked and lowered the ship’s six-foot-long probe and took careful aim at Caperton’s butt with the smoking ACME jalapeño coated device.

The violation of Farmer Joe Caperton was meant to be a serious warning to all the bipedal hump monkeys on Earth.

* * * *

The torture idea fell flat when Joe Caperton refused to suffer. The dumbfounded Ada later reported to the Goddess Cheri. “My Goddess! This idiot, this corn-holed chicken lover was diggin’ it! Instead of screaming for his mother, no! Most humans would be screaming for their great-great grandmother. Instead, this pea-brained hillbilly was movin’ and groovin’ on Cloud Nine.”

* * * *

“Are you two done sticking things in me yet? Well, are ya?”

Ada looked up from the probe’s console. “Are we what?”

“Are you done playin’ with my butt, lady?”

“I thought I’d dropped my keys in there,” said Buddy. “Sorry. Yeah, Mr. Caperton. We’re done. You can go soon.”

“Are you two sure that you’re done? You don’t want to play with it no more?”

“Mr. Caperton! We’re done!” said the already irritated Ada.

“You don’t want to play just a little more? You sure? I can tell you guys all kinds a-stuff about the Klan, bull semen, and such.”

The tired Buddy looked at the dumb hick. “That’s it, you old loon! Get out! Somebody call security!”

“Okay! Okay! Damned Mahjongs!”

“Ada and I are not Martians,” said Buddy. “Numbskull! And they are called Martians, not Mahjongs!

“We are Brills,” added Ada. “Martians are into team sports, decorating… and scouting. Not music! You heard what Buddy said! Go on! Split!”

Caperton put on his overalls and boots, and with his head bowed in rejection, walked bowlegged down the stairway of the ship and off into the starlit Texas night.

“Buddy? Do we have any security guards?”

“No, Ada, but I’ve learned that the mention of security guards is enough to scare anyone.”

* * * *

Farmer Joe Caperton never clearly saw the two Brill aliens who had questioned him. To him, the aliens appeared to be a pair of green diaphanous clouds. Caperton would later describe the Brills to the authorities as “small and green with enormous heads,” only because he once saw an artist’s rendering of Martians on the cover of Busty Alien Magazine at the candy store in town.

After one week, the only thing that Farmer Joe could remember about the Buddy and Ada Brill was “the clumsy female bouncing into me like bumper cars at the County Fair.”

He did recall that the two aliens frequently cussed at each other. They’d been sharing small quarters and banging into each other for over 45 years.

Buddy and Ada dismissed Farmer Joe from their spaceship across the field from an all-night diner called The Daisy. As Joe walked bowlegged toward the light of the diner, they saluted him and said, in unison, “A gezunt dir in pupik (ah Geh-zoont dear en pooh-pik)” which means “Best of health to your belly button.”

* * * *

The official police report was taken by Texas Rangers on the morning after Farmer Joe’s abduction. “The folks at The Daisy said you were trailin’ blood, Joe.”

The FBI would later omit the rube’s experience within the craft, as well as how the invisible aliens played this “scary music.” They called their music Rockabilly. “It was terrible, sir. They put a heathen jungle beat to our sacred country music!”

That music played on the octo-phonic speakers inside the spacecraft as the two aliens drilled Joe five ‘new ones.’

Joe Caperton’s tale was ‘too much’ for the Texas Rangers who were sick to their stomachs. He went on and on about the aliens, and how they’d turned his rototiller into a butt probe “that buzzed like a sumbitch, lit up like a burnin’ cross” and loaded his pooper with Naga Jolokia—the hottest pepper in the universe.

The Brills had written “Ring of Fire” with Farmer Joe in mind before they’d blasted off. To make sure that he would hear the song, it was immediately delivered to Joe’s young friend, Johnny Cash, at Joe’s own birthday party. Joe’s friends couldn’t understand why the math teacher broke out in tears upon hearing it.

Life magazine interviewed Farmer Joe in 1953. The interview never made it to print. The magazine’s “Farmer Joe” files were brought immediately to FBI headquarters in Washington DC under direct orders by J. Edgar Hoover, who read portions of it, in the bathroom, for three weeks.

A copy of Farmer Joe’s testimony still exists 350 feet beneath solid granite, at Area #61, in Nevada, where the ‘Mercan gubmint’ stores its best bathroom related humor.

Seidon (Poseidon)

Seidon (Poseidon)


(Art by Anita Benson Bradley)

The Gulch School, stood alone on Far Rockaway Beach in the 1950s. I didn’t eat lunch on my first day of school because mom had to come back to fetch me.

Mrs. Gulch towered behind me by the school’s entrance as my mom, approached anxiously, framed by the grey Atlantic behind her. Gulch tightened the grip of her ironwood claws upon my own tiny shoulders.

“I’m Almira, Almira Gulch,” said the old buzzard.

My mom had questions: “You called me at home and told me to come get my son. Is everything okay? And where’s the young teacher, Nancy, that I talked to yesterday?”

“Your boy is fine,” Gulch said releasing me.

“Thank god,” my mom said.

“But there is a problem,” said Gulch. He bores easily.”


To prove Mrs. Gulch‘s point, I jumped forward toward the sandy path, “What’s that, mommy?” I asked, pointing to a stone statue with a beard and crown, that stood, knee high, next to my mom. Gulch pointed with a long talon. ”Lousy Pagans dumped that thing in my yard.” she hissed. “That blasphemy is going into the trash, tonight.”

“Ooooh, I like him,” my mom said. “This looks very very old. Freddy, this is a statue of the Greek god of the sea. His name is Poseidon.”

“Is Seidon friendly?” I asked.

“Po-seidon. You want to be his friend,” my mom said. “He can be very mean — to very mean people.” She waved her hands dramatically above her head. “He kills his enemies with great storms.”

“He’s ugly,” said Almira Gulch sniffing the metallic air with her raven’s beak nose.

The sound of a large wave, pounding the shore, caught everyone’s attention. A strong breeze buffeted us with sand, but Miss Gulch‘s tight hair bun remained steadfast. It began to drizzle. Grasping her cane, Gulch said, “Come inside. There is going to be rain. What a world.”

As we entered the old school, Mrs. Gulch pointed to a painting on the wall. “That’s my husband, Dorian. The picture makes him look so old. Painting. Yes, Mrs. Barnett, the reason I asked you to come back this morning was, I let little Freddy use my arts and crafts room to see if he had a creative streak.”

Actually, Gulch had locked me in the spare classroom because I kicked her in the shins — I was certain that she was Dorothy’s Wicked Witch.

Gulch walked ahead. “Freddy destroyed my art room with three gallons of red paint meant for the outside of the school. Come here, dearies.” Gulch opened the door to the windowless room.

My mom’s eyes widened and took in the panorama. “My god! It looks like someone was murdered!” she said — while I was thinking, It needs more blood.

“We’ll never get this cleaned up! Your son may end up a housepainter like…Ahem, that German feller with the little mustache. Look at this …” said Gulch while scratching the hairy mole on her chin, “Mrs. Barnett, you’ll have to find Freddy another school. He may be dangerous to the other children.”

“What children? Where are the children that were here earlier?” My mom asked while staring at an old straw broom leaning against a stack of red splattered boxes, labeled ‘Gingerbread Cookies.’ Mom shivered.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gulch.” Mom nervously turned to me. “Freddy, tell Mrs. Gulch that you’re sorry so we can go home. Do it. Now.”

“Mommy! She hit me!” I lied, complete with make-believe tears.

“What! Is that true, Freddy?” My mom stared at the harridan.

Before I could lie to my own mother, again, Almira Gulch pointed her long crooked finger at me.

“Your little gentleman is a teller of tall tales, madam,” she said with an evil eye.

“Are you calling my boy a liar? Just a few moments ago you called him a little Hitler!”

I kept my own lip zipped as I was already in enough trouble.

“Let’s go.” Suddenly, my mother grabbed my hand and marched me away from the school, no doubt saving me from becoming one of Mrs. Gulch‘s gingerbread cookies.

We were about to pass Poseidon when an idea struck me. I turned back to Mrs. Gulch and said, “My mom says that you should be nice to the little Seidon statue!”

“If you sinners like Seiiiiiiiidon so much,” she cackled, “take him home with you!”

My mom picked up the statue and sheltered the heavy thing in her arms like a newborn. “C’mon, Freddy.” Mom propelled us home, away from the Beach. She looked worried.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

The wind and rain had been building since we’d started walking. By the time we reached the tall brick stairway that led up to our house the rain began to sweep horizontally. The tall pine tree in front was rocking wildly. Mom rushed me up the stairs and into the hallway as the sky began to turn black. She turned to secure the potted plants, slipped on the top step, cutting open her ankle.

The wicked witch did this! I thought., angrily shaking my stuffed dog at the lightning.

My mom had forgotten about my painting and fibbing. She was in pain when she pushed me into my room. “Play your records. I’ll be right back” She held back tears as she closed my door. At my bedroom window, I saw the churning clouds and, within, the bearded face of … Seidon!

I ran to the front hall and hugged the statue. There and then I promised Seidon my prized Patti Paige record, “How Much is that Doggy in the Window?” if he would help my mommy stop crying. I’d already played the record two-thousand times and had moved on to more hip music, ‘Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.’

Seidon must have been a Patti Paige fan, because ten minutes later the sea god had washed The Gulch School into the Atlantic by wielding a mighty storm that later bore my mother’s name……Hurricane MOMMY — I mean Hurricane Claire!

The next morning, the record, along with my record player, were gone from my room. The floor was wet and sandy.

That night, my dad had returned from his business trip to find that the storm had washed our big pine, westward, into Jamaica Bay. After dinner, mom told dad about my first and last day at The Gulch School and our hurricane adventure. Dad paused, stood up tall, removed the smelly cigar from his mouth and told us both that he was proud of the both of us.

He stared down at me. “So Freddy. You defeated a witch you say? Well, I’m especially proud of you young man. You passed your first school test with flying colors.’”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded good.

“Son. You wanted to help your mother…Being a smart boy, you didn’t employ the services of some hobo on the street. No, you went to your new friend, the nearly forgotten god, Seidon. In other words, you went straight to ‘the top.’” There was a pause and he laughed, and muttered “Patti Paige? Really? Ha! That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” asked my mom.

“Well, Claire, remember when we were Freddy’s age and remember when my own mom got hurt?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “The hurricane of ‘32.”

“Back then, if I recall correctly, Seidon had a thing for Ella Fitzgerald 78s.”

“Your right,” Mom agreed. “He’s changed. But, isn’t it nice to have him back home again?”

Preparing Johnny for His Big Comeback

“A Real Piece of Work”

After more than twenty-five years, Johnny had compiled enough great material for a new album. He’d recorded a few samples in his home studio when he got out of bed each morning. Johnny was surprised by the quality of his voice on the demos. There was something brand new about his sound.

Last night, as Johnny slept, an entire suitcase full of brand new songs, and song seeds, were dropped off by the goddess Cheri’s song writing aliens, Buddy and Ada Brill. A gift from Cheri to her faithful puppy-dog, Johnny.

Johnny’s time was near.

* * * *

Frankie and Nat continued to teach him as he slept. Dino would offer suggestions, hand out the cigarettes, and mix the drinks. All three would often take turns teaching Johnny how to sing the old and new songs properly.

When he had his big comeback, he would be assigned to the legendary William Morris agent named Sid Arthur. Sid had been the best agent in show biz. “Had been,” as in Sid was currently dead. “Dead? I can fix that, kid. You’re listening to a guy who’s had more returns than Costco’s customer service!” he said while Johnny snored in agreement. Sidney, still a germaphobe, insisted that the dead bald singers known as “The Chrome Domes” clean up their booze bottles and filthy cigarette butts! “What do you think this is?” He scolded Frank, Dino and the others, “the goddamned bowery? Okay, now one of you should get on the horn, and call up Cheri!” said Sidney. “Stat! The kid is ready.”

“Stat?” Asked the laid-back Dino. “Oh, so you’re a doctor, now, Sid? Doctor Kildare? Ben Casey? Call Cheri yourself, big shot!”

“Why you punk! Who do think you’re talkin’ to, Junior? Don’t forget that I was the one who booked Jesus’ appearance on the fuckin’ mount! Maybe you don’t remember. It was because of me, Sid Arthur! “Hitler at Nuremberg! Wait…uh no, that wasn’t me. Shea Stadium, The Beatles! I got them here in 1964! Hell, I WAS The Ed Sullivan Show! You ungrateful tadpole. I’ll make sure that you never work in this town again!”

There was a dangerous pause in Johnny’s bedroom. Then they all cracked up, together. Frank nearly fell off his bar stool.

“Just you wait, Dino,” laughed Sid, pointing a warning finger. “I can make your afterlife a haunted Hell. Remember, your old partner, Jerry Lewis is coming soon. Jerry is coming. So, if I were you, I’d watch it.”

“Thanks for the happy reminder, Sid,” said Dino. “Fucking Jerry. Now, I need another drink. So much for the idea of a peaceful afterlife, you putz.”

The Love Muscle – Rubio invents Crap Music

Rubio’s Plan “E” – CRAP MUSIC

Sappy themes + Country lyrics + Loud thumping + Repetitive bass + Shallow disco string arrangements + Droning “New World” music + Excessive blues riff melodies passing for pop + Excessive production. Rubio would introduce “Crap Music” to the world at Johnny Passion’s comeback concert in Vegas.

Note: Crap (Country-Rap) Music: (Wikipediatrics) Crap music (Country-Rap) was first introduced by an obscure Hollywood duo known as “Short and Curly (later The Pubes)” in the 1980s.

* * * *

Rubio had spent the last ten days breaking into homes and cars, while replacing random victim’s music collections with his own cassettes and leisure wear.

Today, he was behind the wheel of his stolen car-of-the-day. The pounding bass blasting from his car windows had made the synapses in his brain misfired in perfect arrhythmia. Just snapping away like electrical Rice Krispies, whenever he commandeered worn out, stolen cars around the worst sections of LA.

The twitches, flashes, and random sparks bouncing about in Rubio’s fried brain had always been his most deadly adversaries. If only he could piece his thoughts together. Just another hit on the pipe possibly, might help him to accomplish his mission. “Woo Hoo!” Rubio blasted from his big ugly ass face.

* * * *

Later, in a run-down motel in south Los Angeles…

The God of Sleaze, was preparing to go to Johnny’s big opening in Vegas.

“It’s my turn to reject you, Cheri!” he screamed into the smoggy air that he loved. “I’m taking my new girl to Vegas to show you a real woman! Felayshia! She’s makin’ a baby Rubio right now! Felayshia will give me an army of Rubios! It’s about time that you got a fucking education, you Ho!”

He loaded and locked the CD full of “ammo,” the same music mix that he had employed during his “Dance Mucus Show” and then carefully picked up his new CD loaded with his newest Crap Music and tossed it into his new black duffle bag. The bag was already stuffed with loaded pistols and drug paraphernalia. Anthony Rubio, the “new-man-in-town” could lift the bag with ease. The pistols in the bag came in all shapes and sizes. No pain [inflicted on others], he thought, no gain.

Yes, he wanted to inflict a whole shit-load of pain, so he added a couple of his favorite road-rage weapons the Stanley “Fu Bar” and The Tool-man “Equalizer.” Both were nasty medieval looking crowbars.

Rubio’s day of reckoning was upon us all. (Shiver, shiver.)

“C’mon everybody put on your dancin‘ shoes!” Rubio yelled to the low riding cruisers slinking along Whittier Boulevard, as he departed his swingin’ apartment for the last time.

* * * *

The Goddess was unaware of Rubio’s new Crap until it was too late.

* * * *

Don’t Forget Your Momma

The “God of Sleaze,” Rubio, was making great progress on his drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. He’d only been on the road for six hours, traveling at an average speed of twelve-miles-per-hour, then eighty-five-miles-per-hour, then fifteen-miles-per-hour, then napping, then seventy-miles-per-hour.

He had just pulled over on the side of the road off of I-15 next to a town called Roach to refuel. As he loaded up his crack pipe, a Nevada State Highway Patrol car pulled up behind him, with a very cool light show.

Rubio, who was coughing, dropped his pipe as smoke barreled out of his driver side window.

The trooper walked toward the stolen car’s driver-side door, and asked the ugliest man (Is he mooning me,?) he’d ever seen for his license and registration.

“Let me see your… Holy Lord Jesus!” ‘It’ smelled like ass and pot. “What the cough! cough! … Thank you verrry much.” Highway Patrol Officer Lavelle looked familiar to Rubio, with the aviator glasses and turned up collar.

“What you been smokin’ there, son? Does your momma back home know that you use drugs? I bet the woman who raised you from a little pup is cryin’ right now.” The trooper then closed his eyes behind his gold-framed aviators, and sung softly to himself, “… and his momma cries.” The officer wiped a tear from his cheek and bent down toward Rubio, “Your poor old momma, son. Do you ever call her?”

“Call who? You know that you look like that guy, man. I like your shades, Chief.”

“Thank you verrrry much. I want to know if you call your momma and tell her that you love her, son. Before it’s too late. Before your momma has left the building. Don’t be cruel to your momma boy. She’s the only one you’ve got.”

“I don’t even know who she is, Chief.”

“Well, it looks like you’re in double trouble, son. The names on the license and registration don’t match, and I believe that you’re under the influence, not to mention the pipe on the floor. I believe that you’re goin’ to be a-rockin’ in the jailhouse and a-cryin’ in the chapel before this is over. I sincerely hope that your momma isn’t alive to see this. Step out of the car, son, and put your hands up on the roof. Don’t you realize that drugs are the Devil in disguise? Yes, they are.”

* * * *

Dwayne the Lizard

Twenty minutes later, Rubio was sitting in a Las Vegas jail cell. His new ‘roach coach’ was locked up in police impound with a sleeping, pregnant Felayshia in the backseat.

The impound attendant left the car unlocked. At midnight, Falayshia was dragged out of the impound yard, and into the desert by a giant glowing horned toad.

Falayshia screamed, and startled the ten-foot high toad who then inflated its sedan-sized spiny body and shot blood out of its green eyes.

She was transfixed.

They each took a long deep breath.

Felayshia then leapt on top of Dwayne the Lizard’s back, patted him on the head, and together, they galloped off into the black Nevada night, toward “Happily Ever After.”

It’s nice to see a reptile have fun without having to stomp all over Tokyo.

El Celeste Lindo. “Best Mexican Food in the Universe”

One perfect day, Miriam (Moses’ sister) and the Goddess of Music, Cheri (Terpsichore) were ‘doing lunch’ at El Celeste Lindo, outside the gates of Heaven. Miriam was explaining to her old friend, Cheri, just why the washed up Johnny Passion’s musical revival was very important to “He with No Name.

“Cheri, this is a direct quote from The Big Cheese.”

Miriam opened her purse and removed a piece of rock. She read what was written on the small flat stone. It read, “Miriam, before you leave for your goddamned vacation, please Tell Cheri that the new tunes make me flip my goddamned lid! Tell my dear Goddess to help Johnny with his goddamned pipes so that these goddamned songs get done—right. Sincerely, Your Friend, He with No Goddamned Name

“He with No Goddamned Name? Isn’t that a Clint Eastwood movie?” Cheri asked, looking up at the heavens. “‘The Big Cheese?’ Tell me Miriam, where does he get these names?”

“Last week God was a ‘she’ with the name Betty.”

Cheri knew that God loved collecting names, like her foot fetishist friend Achilles loved to collect toenail clippings in shoe boxes.”Sorry, Miriam. I’ve been busy trying to get Johnny’s comeback ready.”

The real reason that Miriam had joined Cheri at El Celeste Lindo was to persuade the goddess to go out with her brother, Moses, the former Prince of Egypt. Miriam was no better than a pimp with her shameless pandering, trying to force her basically shy brother into Cheri’s busy life. “Cherrrrrri, You should go out with my brothah the loiiiiiiiiii-yah. The last time Miriam lunched with Cheri, at El Celeste Lindo, “Heaven’s BEST Tacos 1992” she wouldn’t let up.

“Prince of Egypt? I have a cat named Joe, Miriam. He must have been an Egyptian god. He leaves me a pyramid every morning to clean up.”

“You shoulda been Joan Rivers.”

Cheri tried to be respectful, which was never her ‘best suit’. “Your brother? The guy who still wears his baby blankie and talks to bushes?”

“Give Moe a break. You hardly know the guy.”

“I hear that he’s a very headstrong man, Miriam. Forty years of dragging around all of those tired people… I could hear those poor souls now, ‘Are we there yet, Daddy? Please father Moses, lets pull over. I really need to pee!’ I can see him driving his ox cart through the Sinai, swinging his arm behind him, like Rubio’s parents—trying to shut up the whiny children of Israel in the back seat and knocking all of their crayons onto the floor mats.”

Cheri had never really met the guy. She assumed that she knew all about him from what she had read…well, by what she had seen in the Ten Commandments as played by Charlton Heston, which was 98.2% accurate.

While Cheri spoke to Miriam, she was thinking to herself, He has a beard that looks like soggy shredded wheat.

“Miriam read Cheri’s mind. He shaved last week. Well, Cherrrri, they did make it to the Land of Milk and Honey. Finally,” said Miriam, while downing her third margarita.

“Milk shmilk. Honey Shmoney. Miriam, your brother’s so-called ‘promised land’ was the only spot in the freakin’ Middle East without any oil.”

“Yeah. So what, Miss Perfect? Did you give up your bump and grind hootchie-cootchie dancing, yet?”

God, who often followed the exploits his/her favorite goddess Cheri, was listening in on the women’s conversation, while he sizzled in the center of their table. Today, God was an order of Cuervo Flaming Fajitas. God was not merely impersonating the fajitas. God does not act. God became the fajitas, and, wow, they were really fucking good.

God just was feeling spicy that day, and the reaction to the meal was an orgasmic “Oh, God!”

The Cuervo Flaming Fajitas spoke to Cheri, in the voice of James Earl Jones: “Behold! I heard that, Terpsichore, I mean Cheri! If I were you, I’d be careful of what thou sayeth. I shall spare thee fine booty this time. Though, behold! There will be no dessert for you tonight! But you’ve got to try the flan the next time you eat here. Now go and get thy showeth on the roadeth.”

So, Miriam told Cheri, ”Go. Go help Johnny now, or he’ll never be reincarnated from being a musician to the status of a starving feral cat. Do it for the little people.”

“I tested those ‘little people’ and they went for disco like flies on poop! And I’m getting tired of babysitting Johnny? He’s a nice guy and all, but… shit!”

“Your attitude!” said Miriam. “What has happened to you, my friend? Think of Johnny’s talent as God’s way of saying, ‘Thanks kids, in return for all the tawdry entertainment you’ve given me.’”

“That’s exactly what I would have said,” said the Cuervo Flaming Fajitas, who were getting cold. God added, “I really am sorry for that last episode of The Sopranos.

Cheri thought of her friend Johnny and his true love, Rebel. Just maybe, maybe I can finally bring peace to them. She must find Johnny’s love.

Or. She could just fuck him and toss a happy face headstone on top of his grave. Below the headstones dwelled the genuine grateful dead.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Miriam. “Remember, my dear friend, that’s my superpower. I hear everything. I’m Super Yenta!”

“Then, what have you heard about Johnny’s big comeback? How long will this keep going on for, Miriam? I cannot do this much longer. I need a real vacation. When is Johnny Passion’s ‘big moment’ going to happen?”

“Maybe a few months. Sinatra, Nat Cole and Torme are on their way over to his house right now for rehearsal. Schwieghaft’s ghost might even show up!”

“You’re kidding! The Arnold Schweighaft? The singing hemophiliac who choked while eating roaches at day camp?”

“It was spiders, Cheri. Not as gross.”

“Ooh! I gotta run, Miriam! I gotta go see this!”


“What, Miriam?”

“You’re not going to finish eating your plate of God?”

“Eat me, baby,” said the plate, obscenely. “C’mon Cheri. What do I look like, Taco Hell?”

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.


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)


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.”


“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 …”


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.


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.


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.

* * * *


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.”

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