“Tell ya what, ameego, we’re gonna stop off and see Wayne quick-like ‘fore lunch.”

“Okay.” In for a dime, in for a dollar.

With that, the bug man pulls the steering wheel right and bumps the truck up on to the sidewalk full speed then jerk stops, half in traffic, half out, in front of a run down gas station. He hops down out of the truck as a car races by, horn blaring.

“Oh,” Travis says without surprise, “We’re here.”

Travis gets out of the truck and follows the bug man stepping carefully, looking out for broken glass.

“Now Wayne here—he jes’ might be the best karyoke round these parts… cain’t sing worth a darn though.”

“Well, naturally.”

Read the whole story so far: Showdown at the DQ Corral

Characters and Places: The Bug Man, Travis Fleeting

Walking around the front and hopping in the other side, Travis turns to the bug man, “So, you got a name?”

“Yep, yep,” the bug says. Leaning over, the little man turns the radio nob, and the sounds of the mariachi band trickle through the speakers. “Now you don’t know nothin’ bout Hemi’s ’til you seen one in action.” With that, the bug man stomps on the accelerator and peels out like a Montego Hera. Travis watches ahead as the truck swerves through the parking lot, the accelerator and brakes being applied frequently and randomly, jolting him back and forth, back and forth, like a punching bag before a kangaroo.

Read the whole story so far: Showdown at the DQ Corral

Characters and Places: M, The Bug Man, Travis Fleeting

Travis stares, concerned.

“Let’s go to lunch!” the bug man announces, loudly disturbing the quiet and dusty reverie of the room.

Standing, Travis stretches hard, reaching out, elbows cracking and ending in a “nnngMwaah.” He scratches his stomach beneath his t-shirt which says: In Case of Emergency: Panic! “Okay.”

Read the whole story so far: Showdown at the DQ Corral

Characters and Places: Athens, The Bug Man, Travis Fleeting

Hefting his lavender, polyester pants one side at a time, the bug man then lifts his spray canister with his right hand, and pulls his purple baseball cap, with smashed bug logo, down tight to his brow with his left. “I do love a good Spanish melody,” the bug man says, crossing into the other room.

“Mm-hmm,” says Travis, still rubbing his eyes. He sits on the old couch and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the bug man’s voice destroying the melody, the warmth of the thin sunbeams caressing him, and the hypnotic movements of the small dust particles in the light making him drift off again.

“Puede salir cuando quiere, Pero nunca yo partir!” the bug man sings.

Read the whole story so far: Showdown at the DQ Corral

Characters and Places: The Bug Man, Travis Fleeting

Ray reaches down to the floor and comes back up with a rubber mallet. “Now what the hell is this for?”

Vic doesn’t say anything.

“Ain’t gonna’ fix much in the engine with this kind of hammer, you know.”

“Uh. Yep. It’s for security.”

“You gonna’ clobber somebody with this thing?”

“If necessary.”

“You ain’t gonna’ hurt anybody hittin’ ’em with this.”

“You could kill somebody with that.”

“You could knock ’em out.”

“And then you keep hittin’ ’em a few times.”

“A few times, huh?”

“Trust me, I’m a professional.”

“Yeah, you’re a professional, all right.”

Read the whole story so far: Thinstyle

An hour later, of course, somewhere in the midst of Alabama, Ray could do nothing but complain about his knee. In no time at all, the pair had pulled off a veritable miraclous escape from out of the boundaries of Columbus, Georgia. (Miraculous only because no twinge of responsibility or sanity had affected them as they went through the motions of packing.) They had gone to Vic’s house and gotten some things; clothes, toiletries, and a box of cigars that Vic had saved for no particular occasion. He stared at the top drawer of the dresser, empty except for the cardboard box of cigars, and let his imagination play out a scene of him on white sand, smoking a big stogie as the sun came up from behind them and the water turned an unusual shade of blue. It isn’t enough of a vision to make him smile, but it made him feel that some things were still worth daydreaming about. At some point somewhere, he had smacked that last pitch out of the park.

Read the whole story so far: Thinstyle, Unthreaded

“There isn’t any marijuana, officer,” Vic pleads politely.

“Well, none your gonna’ find,” Ray adds.

The officer steps up to Ray, who is several inches taller, even hunched over, and stares at him as menacingly as he can from beneath the brim of his hat. “Do you think this is funny?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do think it’s funny,” Ray says casually.

“Lying to a police officer is a crime.”

“I’m not lying. There’s marijuana in that car, and you are never going to find it.”

The police officer steps up closer to Ray. “How ’bout I put you away for the night while I search the car. Is that going to be funny?”

Ray gets serious suddenly, and leans in to the police officer. “How ’bout you take off that badge, and I teach you some respect for your elders, you little punk.”

Read the whole story so far: Thinstyle, Unthreaded

The car had just nicked the house, really. Some of the siding would have to be replaced. Vic makes a mental note that thirty-three years ago he should have made the investment to go with the brick. Then the sonuvabitch’d be sorry. Insurance would cover it though. Now it is eerily quiet in the front yard, even with all the neighbors looking on and the strobes from the two patrol cars lighting everything up.

The deputy asks, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Victor. Hauser. H-A-U-S-E-R.”

“Okay. Thank you, sir.”

Vic waits for the moment of recognition, but it does not arrive.

Just then Sheriff McKale strolls over. “Sorry, Vic. They keep givin’ ’em to me younger and younge—don’t know their history.” The Sheriff winks at the deputy who is perplexed. “This young turk here—all he knows about is computers. Not baseball.”

Vic just says huh.

“You’re lucky Mr. Hauser, sir, he didn’t drive right on inta your livin’ room.”

Vic nods; like he needs some pup to tell him that. He looks out to the yard where a muddy, shirtless, exhausted man in handcuffs is being picked up off the ground.

Read the whole story so far: Thinstyle, Unthreaded

“It’s a God damned good thing they wasn’t nobody in it.”

“God damned? It’s a God blessed thing, ya’ ijut.” Ray pauses to chew on some whiskers in his mustache. “And God wouldna’ had to be involved with it had they had a damn building permit like they shoulda’!”

That catches Vic’s attention, who has just sat down to the bar and hasn’t ordered yet. “They didn’t have a building permit for that church?”

Ray just says, “Where you been?”

And the Idiot just replies, “That’s sep-ration of church ‘n’ state, Ray. Gov’ment’s got no business inspectin’ a church.”

“G. Zus Christ, Jimmy. You ain’t got the good sense God gave a ferret.”

“What? Is that like a rat?”

Read the whole story so far: Thinstyle, Unthreaded

New York nightlife like the coolest ex-girlfriend: hip, sexy, and even a little crazy. You think about her from time to time and a sense of nostalgia comes over you until you explore the memories thoroughly enough to remember the parts you’d been trying to forget, and realize that she was a total psycho. A really, really cool, sexy psycho that nostalgia has a tendency to cruelly return you to now and again.

Read the whole story so far: Incunabula