THE WINDSHIELD OF A MOVING CAR IS HARD, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU DROP ON TOP OF IT FROM THIRTY FEET

Okay, so, note: I said I was going to do this thing over a year ago. It was the most outrageously stupid idea for a short story imaginable.......if you knew me back then you'll remember the quote: "I'm going to write a story about a guy who legally changes his name to Howard the Duck. And I'm going to make it good. And I'm going to get it published."

        And I did, too. Here ya go. 

Howard the Duck stumbles through the intersection of North Street and Mission Boulevard. He coughs. The light changes halfway through his crossing, because the light, the confounded crossing sign, is never up long enough for anyone trying to cross the street. He coughs again, almost trips, and cars begin honking. He finally makes it across and the stream of traffic headed up Mission Boulevard continues on its way. A van full of kids in baseball caps is one of the vehicles that rolls past him. As it goes by, the door slides open and one of the kids leans out bodily. The kid yells, “hey, buddy! Fuck you!!!!”

It sounds, probably due to the wind, the general street ambiance and what have you, as though the kid yelled “puck you.” or maybe “buck you,” but Howard the Duck gets the point.

He doubles over and lets loose a loud, hacking cough and then he tries to flip the kid the bird. The door has closed back up and the van is now safely in the distance, well past his revenge.

Most of the suffering in the world is created by kids wearing baseball caps, Howard the Duck thinks. He looks down at the base of his hand and notices a wad of blood. Goddammit, He thinks, and tries to wipe it off on his jacket. He keeps walking.

Howard the Duck has problems. First and foremost, he has Tuberculosis. He is dying. He's also a pedestrian, which only belabors the point.

There are other problems, though, that only create greater impact in his life.

A. Howard the Duck has a price on his head. He is almost sure of it.

B. He is a walking copyright infringement. And he must allow that this is not an accident of birth but a choice he made, a moral stand that has had ramifications in his life.

100. Nobody understands him----not his girlfriend, or the guys at work....not even his best friend.

All of which brings him back to his primary goal. He's walking to McDonald's. He's going to meet his friend Spider-Man, to tell him he disapproves of his lifestyle choices.

Howard the Duck shakes his head. Skippy, he corrects himself, not Spider-Man. I refuse to call

him Spider-Man.

Skippy does not understand the weight and the stress of being a walking copyright infringement. Skippy is young, of course, and only sees the glitz and glamour of naming yourself after your favorite character. Howard the Duck realizes all of this and hopes to make Skippy aware of some of the pitfalls he has to live with.

He hears a shout back toward the intersection. He half-turns. He's always looking over his shoulder these days, because he knows Marvel Comics are following him and he is sure that they mean to kill him.

Nothing. This time.

Besides, he thinks, changing your name legally to “Spider-Man” is stupid. Spider-Man is a popular character consumed by the masses for no good reason and to no good end. There is nothing special, risky or meaningful about such a move.

Changing one's name legally to “Howard the Duck” is a bold and deeply personal move that invites hardship and misunderstanding.

A. Few if any people hear “Howard the Duck” and think of Steve Gerber's brilliant, existential satirical comic. They usually think of the horrid '80s movie if they think of anything.

B. There is nothing fun or glamorous about filling out paperwork and signing it as “Howard the Duck”. Try renting an apartment that way. Buying a car. Shit, try VOTING.

100. And again, the afformentioned understanding that you are a marked man, your days are numbered and Marvel Comics are trying to kill you. And in the case of Howard the Duck, it's just an arrogant grab for intellectual property. There's not even a goddamned profit motive.

He will set Skippy straight on this and more, if it's the last thing he does. And it might be.

His real last given name is “Vlierboom”. He hates it. The guys at the factory simply call him “Boom”, which he's fine with. They can't pronounce “Vlierboom”. Past the bosses who hand him his paycheck and the personnel department who he had to clear the change with he has no desire to share this with his co-workers for all the obvious reasons. He doesn't need any of the wise guys pointing out that he is not actually a duck. He knows that.

It's a point that Jessie, his girlfriend, makes frequently. “I'd be happy to meet you in the middle and call you 'Howard the Man',” she tells him. “I mean, you are a man, you know.”

“That's not the point,” he retorts, “I'm trapped in a world I never made. I literally am that character.”

“You're making a world you never made by calling yourself a duck,” she says. She always falls back on that one and he thinks it's all beside the point but then they smoke up another big fatty, he hacks up a lung and she starts talking to him about how he needs to see a doctor. So nothing is really ever solved in this circular exchange.

It might be a problem of the therapist in question. Jessie says she's a playwrite, although she's never written a play in the whole time he's known her.

Howard the Duck busts his hump for a couple of miles before finally reaching the big intersection and heading to McDonald's on the other side of the street. He winds himself getting across the intersection but makes it in good time. He crumples up by the light post. “Uh-hriiiii-hriiiii-hriiiiii-hriiii,” he coughs.

To get to McDonald's from the corner he has to hike up a steep hill and cross a couple of different parking lots. He thinks that motorists don't know the painstaking difficulty required in going everywhere on foot----needing to walk miles for a futile meeting at McDonalds because your best friend has made a stupid life decision. Of course, the whole process only exacerbates the coughing. He

tries to apply some thought to this. Spider-Man. Why Spider-Man? And for the love of God, how the hell did Skippy slip that one past Judge Dunn?

Judge Dunn hates legal name changes. Jessie had actually told him this back when he first decided to change his name to Howard the Duck. She had a friend, she said, named April Morgan, who decided, for religious reasons, that she wanted to change her name to Purple Vanguard Trixie Diatribe 6. Yes, the number six, that was her last name. Judge Dunn grudgingly gave it to her but not before forcing her to give a long, detailed explanation as to why she wanted the name change and what it meant.

“Later on, like a year later,” Jessie told him, “she thought maybe her choice went a little far and she was having trouble getting jobs...she went back and got it shortened to just 'Trixie Diatribe', and the Judge yelled at her about how much of a burden she was putting on taxpayers. She gave her the name change but told her she didn't ever want to see her in her court again.”

Howard the Duck encountered similar wrath. He explained to the judge that he wanted the name change because he was trapped in a world he'd never made. She told him that such frivolous petitions like his were putting state taxpayers into a world they'd never made, but she grudgingly granted him the name change.

He does not know Trixie Diatribe.

After a herculean hike (and another good, hard cough), Howard the Duck finally makes McDonald's. Skippy is sitting in the booth closest to the exit. He's sipping on a shake. “Took ya long enough,” says Skippy.

“You know how far I had to walk,” rasps Howard the Duck, and this causes him to lurch into another coughing fit.

“You oughtta take a Riccola,” Skippy adds. Howard the Duck stops and regards Skippy's hairy moonface, peering at him guilelessly from underneath a mop of greasy, brown hair. He stops short of ripping him a new one.

“You eating, smart guy?”

Skippy looks down at his shake and then looks back up. “Nah, I'm good. Been waiting for you. For a while.” He holds up his wristwatch for emphasis.

“Alright, well, I've had a long walk, so I'm getting something.” Skippy nods agreeably and Howard the Duck gets in line.

His McDonald's order looks like this:

A. Quarter Pounder, no cheese.

B. 10-piece McNuggets.

100. Sweet-and-Sour Sauce.
     D. Hot Mustard Sauce
     E. Large Fries.
     F. Medium Diet Coke.

Howard the Duck does not drink Diet Coke because he believes it will make him thin. He drinks Diet Coke because regular coke drinks are too sugary for him.

Upon receiving his order he sits down with Skippy at the booth by the exit.

“Skippy,” he says, and then, seeing Skippy frown, he corrects himself. “Sorry....'Spider-Man'.” Skippy's face softens slightly---apology expected.

“Been missing you at Munchkin, dude,” Skippy says, glazing over the faux pas. “Where ya been?”

“Sick,” says Howard the Duck, coughing again.

“Yeah, no shit,” remarks Skippy. “You oughtta take something for that.”

“I have TB,” Howard the Duck grunts.

Skippy takes another sip off his shake. “Sucks,” he says.

“Yeah,” Howard the Duck says. He tears into the burger and begins coughing again. This time it seems like the ketchup is setting it off, but everything sets it off. The cold air. The car exhaust. The food. You name it.

“Damn, dude,” Skippy says again.

“I'm dying,” says Howard the Duck.

“I guess,” Skippy muses.

“You're a goddamned idiot,” says Howard the Duck.

“What do you mean?”

“First and foremost, you don't listen to anything anyone tells you. That's just for starters.”

“Huh?! Dude, I have absolutely no idea what you mean!”

“I bet you don't, but that's just for starters!”

“What the hell, pal???? We haven't seen you for weeks at Munchkin.....months, maybe----and then you're all yellin' and attackin' and callin' names?”

Howard the Duck regards Skippy with a hard look and several vignettes go through his head:

A. Impalement

B. Castration

100. Waterboarding, however hot, hip and trendy that may come off.

All of the above scenarios are accompanied by happy whistling music. There are a multitude of grievances at work in his head right now, but he puts them all aside in favor of one, which in his mind represents everything.

“Spider-Man,” he sighs.

Skippy smiles. “That's my name, don't wear it out!”

“Are you on crack, you fuckin' moron?! Seriously, are you sure your parents weren't related? Answer that for me, will ya?”

“Dude!”

“Don't 'Dude' me again, okay, ya mongoloid? Just what the fuck is wrong with you???”

“What do you mean??? Dude, what's up your ass????”

“Okay, so first off, I have to know, how hard did Judge Dunn jump down your throat when you told her you wanted to change your name to Spider-Man?!”

“Not at all! Man, she was a stand-up Judge!”

“Yeah, I'll bet she was.”

“Listen, just because she was a cooze to you doesn't mean she didn't learn something and lighten the hell up, man.....”

“Yeah? Yeah? What, exactly, do you figure she learned, huh?”

Skippy stammers for a few seconds and licks his lips. “Ah, maybe she got more tolerant of other peoples' individuality? And maybe you could re-learn some of that?”

“Oh, really? And whose individuality did she get more tolerant of? Explain that to me, will ya?”

“People like US, dude!!!! People who have their own ideas! People who don't march to everyone else's drummer, you know?”

“People like us,” crabs Howard the Duck, half under his breath. “Explain to me, exactly, how calling yourself 'Spider Man' helps you assert your individuality.”

“Well,” says Spider-Man, look a little nonplussed, “you know!” He gestures frantically to Howard, as if that should speak for itself.

“No,” Howard the Duck smiles. “I don't. How about you explain it to me?”

Spider-Man now has a look of concern and frustration on his moonface. It reads a mix of “you should understand this already, dude,” coupled with a dash of “I thought you were my friend”.

“You know....being the Hero. Being your OWN hero! What you always tried to tell me!”

Howard the Duck is not placated. “I don't remember ever telling you that.”

“Well, not in so many words....”

“It's my moral obligation to call you on your shit, genius,” Howard the Duck sneers. “I'm dying, do you understand that? I'm DYING. And on top of that my life is shit. Marvel Comics are coming to kill me. And if they're coming to kill me, you'd better believe they're coming to kill you! Do you have any clue as to the can of worms you've popped upon yourself?”

Skippy cocks his head, not unlike one of those pug dogs who doesn't understand what it's being told by its owners. “No one's going to kill you, my friend! How could you think something like that?!”

“Fuck you!” Howard the Duck says though gritted teeth. The dumpy employee cleaning tables across the way stares their way and it's over. Howard the Duck knows he's been made. “Calling yourself 'Spider-Man'-----what kinds of sacrifices does that really require you to make? How much harder has it made your life? Do you have any idea of the cliff you're headed for???”

Again, the quizzical expression. “What are you talking about? You're starting to worry me, bro!”

“Why 'Spider-Man'?!” Howard the Duck is trying his damndest not to scream in Skippy's face right there in the restaurant now. “Justify that to me, will you please? Why the hell was it such a big deal for you to call yourself 'Spider-Man'? What made you think that was such a good idea?”

Skippy stammers, “it's just my own personal choice!” He waits expectantly, as if that should be a satisfactory response.

“I get that part. What the hell is so great about Spider-Man to where you're going to change your name to that?”

Skippy looks agog as if to say, how can you even ask that? “Dude! What's so great about Spider-Man? What's so great about Howard the Duck? So, see how easy that is?”

“You're avoiding the question! What the fuck does goddamn Spider-Man say about you?”

Skippy looks contemplative for the first time ever and he chews into his answer with some level of deliberation. “Well,” he says, as if thinking about it for the first time ever, “Spider-Man is cool.”

Howard the Duck fights back a scream. “Please continue.”

Skippy searches for the words. “Spider-Man is a badass. And by taking the name I become a badass!” He smiles hopefully.

“Kill me,” groans Howard the Duck. He lets loose a frail, spluttering cough.

Now Skippy goes on the offensive. “Listen, where do you get off? I made a personal choice that's very important to me. Spider-Man is cool, everyone knows that! What the hell's so great about calling yourself Howard the Duck?! I saw that movie when I was a kid----it sucked ass!”

Howard the Duck affixes a dead stare on Skippy.

“Yeah, you heard me,” Skippy says, more emboldened. “I saw that movie. Howard the Duck sucks ass. So don't go trying to judge me!”

Howard the Duck gets up out of his seat. He suffers an explosive coughing fit.

“That's right, buddy,” grins Skippy. “So how do you like it?” Howard the Duck hobbles out the door, hacking uncontrollably.

With great difficulty, he makes it across the parking lot and into the woods out in back of the shopping plaza. He finds a treestump in a clearing and rolls himself a cigarette. He smokes and coughs and smokes and coughs and then he just sits there for several hours, thinking and yet trying not to think because thinking hurts too much.

It's getting dark. He's wasted his entire day on this worthless errand. He hobbles at least a mile to the Gas Mart. There's at least one good reason to stop there---they've got one of the few still-functioning payphones----hell, maybe the very last----in town.

He sees that it's fifty cents per call and he wistfully remembers back when a dime was required.

He stops for a second and remembers when there were payphones.

Howard the Duck doesn't have a cell phone. He dislikes and distrusts them. He had a little flip phone at one point---he got rid of it because it was problematic and everyone was looking at him as if they thought he was a drug dealer.

He dials up Jessie. “I need to see you,” he wheezes

“That's cool,” she says, her aloof, baked tones coming across the phone line. “Dude, this is amazing---I have to show you!”

“What?” Howard the Duck is irritated. His head's still back in McDonald's with Skippy, who legally changed his name because he thought it would be cool.

Spider-Man, he corrects himself.

Jessie disrupts his personal hell. “I'm back! I'm done! I wrote a musical! A whole musical! It's finished!”

Howard the Duck is not in the headspace for this. “What?”

“I wrote a musical-----big, broadway, all the bells and whistles-----I wrote a musical based on WATERSHIP DOWN!”

It's as if someone hit him in the face with a brick. “WATERSHIP DOWN???”

“Omigod, babe, it's so amazing....I feel like it came out of me through some other force----this is going to change everything!”

“Hold on, back it up a sec. WATERSHIP DOWN, that's a book about rabbits, isn't it?”

“No! It's an allegory----it's an epic and an exodus about people who leave their homeland and fight to make a new existence.....”

“Epic and an exodus, Jessie----are the characters in the story or are they not rabbits?”

“I....they are but they're not,” long silence. “Dude, you're really harshing my buzz, okay? Come over----I'll play you the songs. They'll make you believe, just like the world is going to believe!”

A harsh wheeze turns into another coughing jag. He manages to eke out “I'm dying,” into the phone.

“God, there you go being negative again! Come to my place! I'm going to play you my songs and....”

“I saw Skippy. He changed his name to Spider-Man.”

“Wow. That's crazy.”

“He doesn't even know. He doesn't even know.....”

“Howard, you need to stop, okay? It's a little weird, just like changing your name to 'The Duck' is a little weird, but it's fine! That's his choice!”

“No, but his reasoning, Christ, it's so dumb! “

“Boy, there's the pot calling the kettle black! Dude! Drop all your crazy no-hope and come hear all the songs. And quit worrying!”

“ 'Kay,” he grumbles. “I'll be over soon.”

“ 'Bout time! Love you!” She coos.

“Yeah,” he grumps and hangs up the phone. He ambles past the front window of the Gas Mart and sees that there's a comic rack in there.....understocked and lonely, but goddammit, it's an According-to-Hoyle comic book rack. A twentyish, unkempt, long haired kid is loitering by it, thumbing through a dog-eared Archie comic.

The kid looks up and stares through the window at him, as does the fat clerk with the muttonchop sideburns behind the counter.

Payphones. Comic book racks. There's something not right about this place....these people. Time to leave.

He worries that they might all be agents of Marvel Comics, sent to watch him. Or apprehend.

He walks along the dark road and hits the trailer park where Jessie lives by eight thirty in the evening. Several things happen:

A. Jessie plugs in her Casio synth and plays Howard the Duck all the songs from her WATERSHIP DOWN musical, in sequence. She talks about how she wants all the actors to wear hats with bunny ears and she shows him some of her choreography ideas.

B. Howard the Duck goes out to the tiny kitchenette, grabs a steak knife and stabs Jessie forty times.

100. He lights a number of glass-encased Catholic saint candles around the house and places them all around the gas stove.

500. He opens up all the gas valves on the stove and heads out.

E. He begins the arduous hike back to his own place. He never gets there. He's found dead by the side of the road the next morning. The eventual autopsy report mentions exposure and exhaustion. And Tuberculosis.

News of the oddball murder/death makes the rounds on all the local news affiliates, everyone has a good laugh over the whole thing and it is quickly forgotten. He is consistently referred to in the reports as “Howard Vlierboom” instead of his legal name, but everyone takes a moment out to laugh over his given name. No mention is ever made of his obsession with an arcane cult comic book character.

Skippy is overcome with grief because of the death of his friend.

A. He belly flops off the overpass on Exit 76 one Saturday morning.

B. He goes straight through the windshield of a Mini-Cooper, accidentally killing a family of four who were visiting from Oregon.

100. Several state highway workers are wounded in the wreck.

The entire region is shocked and saddened by Skippy's death. Roadside tributes are erected in his honor. His sister tearfully tells the local media that he had been very despondent over the last several weeks. She describes him as “an old soul” and says that he loved comic book heroes like Spider-Man.

Spider-Man ephemera pops up along with the usual bouquets and crosses along the spot where Skippy ended his life. Years go by but sad and haunting stories are handed down and exchanged for decades to follow, regarding the tragic story of The Spider-Man of Exit 76.

Copyright 2018 C.F. Roberts, published in UNLIKELY STORIES MARK V. Copyright 2019 Molotov Editions


THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

ALICE DONUT-Pure Acid Park
WAYNE SHORTER-Juju
SWANS-The Seer
SWANS-To Be Kind
VIC BONDI/ARTICLES OF FAITH-Fortunate Son EP

OLD MAN DELPRETE

Another chunk of the “Brookdale Mythos” or “Brookdale Cycle”, here....this one is more or less a kind of “Prequel” to my novel, HELLO, UGLY, taking place in the '60's. Old Man Delprete is kind of a peripheral “character” in the book in that the teenagers who are the main characters bust into what, according to urban legend, is an old, abandoned “murder house”, wherein they find sheets over a lot of the old furniture and they party, socialize, wear the sheets and run around acting like ghosts....they drink a toast to Old Man Delprete, the historic murderer the urban legends are all based around.

This is Old Man Delprete's story.

In the act of compiling short stories for two collections I've decided to drop this one from the list (so I'm putting it here). Reason one is that whenever I revise HELLO I'm probably dropping the section in the Delprete House...it's excessive and heavy-handed and I don't think it adds anything of substance to the story. So “OMD” ends up with less of a context. I also have my doubts as to how well the story, as a whole, “works”...kind of overwritten, and I'm not too sure the multipart, multivoice structure functions well, particularly the kind of dark folk ballad sections---you could tell I was listening to a lot of Nick Cave at the time. Does it work? You tell me....

Nothing earth-shattering went into the guts of this---a little Faulkner here, a little Bloch there, some Selby frosted over the top----the “cake” of it all is my interest in the case of John List, and if you don't know who he is, you should look him up. It's an interesting case and I'm not gonna say anything else.

Oh---yeah---because you can't take such things for granted these days, the “N” word gets used in this story. Sorry, I'm not taking it out. This character's entire motivation is his fear of all the change and social upheaval around him....that's the way he thinks and that's the word he uses. I'm not in the habit of self-censoring for the Politically Dainty, so rather than engage in mealy-mouthed apologetics

I'm doubling down. The word stays. I don't think I should have to lecture you lot like a goddamned grade school teacher but evidently these days you need to preface everything because everyone's like a goddamn child.

And get offa my lawn.

Anyway, enough ranting. Here's “Old Man Delprete”.

OLD MAN DELPRETE

I

Old Man Delprete sits with his wife and two sons in the basement sitting room he has constructed for them. He leans forward in his easy chair and scowls at the television set. His boy Liston once again failed to beat that uppity, loudmouthed commie nigger who'd claimed he was a Muslim rather than fight for his country. Disgrace, yes, a disgrace. And funny business, as far as he could see. That wasn't any kind of a punch. Dirty Italian Mafia Fixers, no doubt---anyone could see the Mafia were in cahoots with the Commies. They ran everything now----ran the U.S. Mail, ran all the shows in Atlantic City, for sure. Just as well, he figures. If this were the old days he'd have most likely gone down to Sully's and shot his mouth off. Old Man Delprete isn't much for going out these days---more content to stay home with the family and watch it all go to hell from the basement.

Still, it's a disgrace about Clay, or whatever it is he's going to call himself now, and he tells his wife so. No reply. No reply needed. She's smiling and she understands. He loves her so much. And the boys. Perfect young men.

Old Man Delprete sits back and reflects upon the ominous state of the world. Portent, he believes the word is. It's different from the old days. Can't tell who your neighbors are. Crime. Immorality. Widespread acceptance of Communism.

Where are our values going? Old Man Delprete asks himself this a lot.

But a man shouldn't dwell on the negatives, he supposes, but instead look on his fortune and thank the Lord for simple things. Home. Family. The things that have real meaning.

Old Man Delprete thinks this and smiles at his wife. He looks at her, closely. Something's wrong.

II

The obsidian cloud settle over the small town of Brookdale. Visitation of the evil and the madness O woe O day O woe to little Brookdale. The shadows clutch n drown poor little Brookdale.

The grass grow long an a monster keeps his little hell in Brookdale. The secret cloaked in a decayin paint on a quiet little street in Brookdale.

III

Old Man Delprete takes a walk over to his workbench and looks for the needed instruments---oh, he must heal his wife---the larger ones----no, he needs the finer ones.

A few minutes later he returns to the sitting room and heals his wife. Magic. The magic of love. He touches up her face, the perfect shade of red, replenishes her winning smile...

Much better.

IV

Mabel Watson put down her teacup. She thought about the friends she'd known all her life, those she'd grown up and gone to school with, how it seemed that all moved away a long time ago. No jobs in Brookdale. No life in Brookdale. Honey, thjis town just isn't going anywhere. It'll die where it is right now.

Even young Agnes had stopped coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.

Mabel's son and daughter said they wanted to move her into a rest home. They said they'd been worried about her.

Terrible. Locking her in a rest home.

She thought about looking for Irv out in the back yard and calling him in for lunch. Then she remembered that, of course, there was no point to that. Irv had been dead for at least five years.

Maybe ten.

Could you blame a girl for getting lonely? And now all this business with the rest home. Just look at the way all her old friends had moved away, as had her children---so long ago.

Even young Agnes had stopped coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.

V

Enter the Electric Man.

Christ, thinks the Electric Man stalking through tall grass headed round back the house to read the meter, don't these people ever mow the lawn?

Finally he finds the meter next to the window and takes the reading

Job done the Electric Man turns to go one stray bored eye peering casually in the basement window

Storefront display

What the----?

VI

Horror, freezing cold, digs deep into Old Man Delprete. It was there. He's sure, this time. Again. The phantom. The pervert. Peeping.

The face. The face in the window.

God almighty, a man and his family aren't safe in their own home anymore.

Old Man Delprete frowns, grimaces with iron resolve.

--I will not, he screams, will not lie down to the decay the immorality swallowing America---they can't do this to me!

Gun

VII

The Electric Man doubles over and weeps.

VIII

The children in the schoolyard loiter and talk.

--Yeah we went downa the cranberry bog yesterday tryin to catch some frogs. Didn't find any.

--Aw, man, the cranberry bog? Down by Delpretes?

--Yeah, An' what about it? Ain't nobody lives down there.

--I hear Old Man Delprete still lives down there.

--Oh he died years ago.

--You mean 'e's a ghost?

--Naw, I don't mean 'e's a ghost. Grow up, will ya? All I'm sayin' is there ain't no Old Man Delprete an' he's just dead, he ain't no boogeyman in his cave, stewin' kids, is all.

---That house is empty an' has been for years. Ain't no Old Man Delprete, he was just this old fart moved away a long time ago.

---Scary house, though.

--Pshaw!

IX

Old Man Delprete finds the pervert cowering by the side of the house. Grovelling. Drooling.

Aims, fires. Justice is dispensed.

X

The boys gather 'round Sully's after work for a few rounds of beer.

--Well, sighs Levesque, godda go back to the missus before she starts suspectin' . Round of laughter from the boys.

--Ah, Levesque, chuckles Thibodeau, ya Missus is in good hands. Another round of laughter. I gotcher Missus right here.

---Seeya. Hi to the wife. Etc.

More drinking. Talking. Reminiscing. The boys grow a little older and smile. They are the old boys of Brookdale. Pushin' for that pension. Every night work. Every day Sully's. They are comfortable. Waiting to die.

--Ah, says LaPierre, ain't the same. Alla good people, the ole folks, movin' outta town...

--Ain't what it used to be.

--Nope.

--Know what we could use around here? Asks Old Jean.

--Some life, cracks Thibodeau.

--We could use ole Delprete.

--Ah, go on.

--No, no! Hear me out!

--Get outta here. Delprete was a crazy old cuss.

--He was one of the boys! An' lemme tell you he had some life in him...

--All Delprete ever did was go on an' on about this'n'that'n'the world goin' to hell an' such.

--Here, here.

--Delprete was a bore. An' he only got worse after his taxidermy business went under. Went buggy. Good riddance.

--No, no! Says Old Jean. Ain't nobody could replace Delprete...ya may have disagreed with his grumpy ass on the time of day, but you remember every conversation you ever had with him, yeah?

--Can ya believe this?!

--Ain't nobody could replace Delprete, nobody. Look at alla you, ya deadasses, you go from here to there an' back again. Whaddya do, huh? Whaddya do? Delprete, he was a character....

---Ah, go on....

XI

Old Man Delprete manages to weigh down the Electric Man using cinderblocks from the cellar. The cranberry bog sucks him down.

XII

A hole opened up where a life once was, and a name, a tiny world, is blotted out in Brookdale.

Ravens in heir solemn ritual pace dropping roses down 'round Brookdale's shame....

XIII

Legend.

The children for generations will ring their laughing, dancing plague circles round, chant the grisly legend of Old Man Delprete.

The stories vary. The number of victims shift. The misdeeds grow and distort and intensify in Legend.

XIV

Old Man Delprete sits and beams at his fine family. Agnes smiling, starry-eyed. The boys now perfect young men. Steadfast. Tall.

When things get too much, one must fight. There are very few things in this world that are of lasting importance. A man must defend and protect those that matter. Nothing must come between a man and his home, his family.

Sometimes, one has to make the hard decisions. One must sacrifice. Sometimes harsh measures must be followed in order to teach those who might make wrong turns, so that they might eventually pursue the right course. He has no doubt about that now.

Old Man Delprete frowns thoughtfully. He figures he ought to tend to the lawn.

Maybe later. It seems to be one of those things he always puts off. Maybe later.

Thooming raps on the front door upstairs. Damned IRS. Best to just ignore it.

XV

cranes in the cranberry bog. The yellow line. Brookdale opens its eyes and screams at its face takes up the mask nails it to its face in terror, never to remove it again.

Smash the mirror, little Brookdale.

XVI

In the tiny room Old Man Delprete sits frail in the wooden chair and he smiles a nervous smile. A parade of men walk in and out.

It all frightens him a little bit.

He asks when he might be allowed to go back to his family.

XVII

A tiny, hunched and humble man crosses the threshold on a gray horizon and shuffles into myth.

copyright 1992 C.F. Roberts,

2019 Molotov Editions

“Old Man Delprete” was picked up and run by a zine out of Maine called GOTHICA. Don't know what ever became of it----the editor, who's apparently one more person from back then who just dropped off the face of the earth, ran a couple of things of mine---she respected me as a writer although for some bizarre reason we never got along. A lot of it may have been our different approaches to the word “Gothic”, which to her meant Anne Rice----to me it meant The Sisters of Mercy and the Cure, or on a literary angle, Goethe, the Bronte Sisters, et. al. So we didn't necessarily get off on the right foot...she always perceived us, for some inexplicable reason, as being diametrically opposed on some ethical or philosophical level. Even her glowing mention of me in editorials were undercut by bizarre little “digs”. Hey, my ethics and philosophies amounted to this: I'm just some fucking guy who writes stories.

However, the lady was kind enough to publish me in her mag, and she also supported a good many writers I knew who were worthy of the attention. So wherever she may be, hats off to her.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

THE KINKS-Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)

FAITH NO MORE-King for a Day, Fool for a Lifetime

FAITH NO MORE-Angel Dust

ENTRY

The story in this entry was "Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket".

         “Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket” is part of what I call “The Brookdale Cycle” or “The Extended Brookdale Mythos”----which is my fancy-ass way of saying it's a handful of short stories that revolve kinda loosely around my first novel, HELLO, UGLY and its setting, the fictional town of Brookdale, New Hampshire. Most of the stories center around two characters, either Old Man Delprete (who's referenced in the book but who's long-since out of the picture and faded into local legend by the time the action of the book takes place) and this story's subject, Mike Hannibal.

Hannibal is really just a peripheral character in HELLO---in a book whose main characters tend to be marginalized misfit kids, Hannibal is the kind of unpleasant worm burner that even those misfits are wary of. For whatever reason I found Hannibal to be an interesting enough character to where I revisited him in a couple of different stories. The other story, which is one of the single ugliest stories I've ever written, is relatively recent and I'm still shopping it around to potential publishers----hence you're not gonna see it in this blog anytime soon. I briefly brought “Hannibal Shooting Fish” back into circulation recently and what you're reading is a slight rewrite of the story I was peddling around in the early '90s, but hell with it---no avail----stick a fork in it----it's done.

This particular story picks up after the action in HELLO, UGLY where Hannibal is an adult. He's hanging with a gang of friends and acquaintances but as per usual, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

I think what I was getting at with the shooting of fish and then Hannibal getting sick on seafood at the end of the story was your basic stock Christ symbology---I played with a lot of religious ideas and imagery at that time and I think what I was shooting for was a picture of Hannibal's actions as a “rejection of Christ”....although “Christ”, such as it is here, is more a supernatural proxy for general morality, human decency or just good things in general. I'm not particularly religious and this is not a religious story, per se. Pretty much just a character sketch---one unsavory individual doing stupid shit. Theater of the Irrational.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
THE S.E. APOCALYPSE KREW-"RISE" (plug, plug)
STARCRAWLER-S/T
RUSH-"MOVING PICTURES"

BOIL ORDER

ENTRY

This was "Acquaintance"

Originally published in THE MOWER. Copyright 1993 C.F. Roberts, 2016 Molotov Editions

TURDUCKEN

It was getting cold out and Billy thought Duke would never show. Eventually, though, the blue pickup rolled up in front of the complex.

“Come in outta the cold, boy,” bellowed Duke. Billy slipped into the passenger seat. “You in the doghouse again?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Billy, “just drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just drive.”

Duke pulled out. “No particular place to go,” he said in a sing-songy voice—some old tune. Chuck Berry? One of those old rock’n’roll guys, anyway.

“Beers in the back,” Duke offered. Billy reached behind the seat and found the case of cold buds Duke had stashed back there. He didn’t waste any time popping one. He noticed, now, for the first time that Duke was steering with one hand, holding a beer in the other.

“You know, “ Duke drawled after a few minutes, “I don’t give a shit what you and Alice might be going through tonight. Y’all are gonna be alright….I know. I like a girl with spirit.

“Shit, redneck, you like her that much you can have her!”

“Sorry, kid, I’m off the market,” Duke smiled.

Billy took another pull off the beer. “Anymore I just think she’s getting the upper hand in the relationship. I don’t know why it’s always gotta be a goddamn power struggle.”

“Well,” said Duke, “there’s some women’s just bent that way. They think they gotta ‘train’ their men.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gonna learn, I’m not here to be trained,” said Billy.

Duke laughed. “I know you’re deep in it, now—maybe you’ll pull past it tomorrow or maybe next week, but you kids have got a good thing….I know y’all fight now and again…”

“Now and again,” huffed Billy, taking another pull off the beer.

“I know y’all fight every now and again,” Duke repeated the phrase, louder and more firmly, as if he were trying to override Billy, “but that’s a good thing. You wanna stay real and grounded with your woman, and sometimes you just gotta have these knock-down-drag-outs. Me an’ Marlene have been together twenty goddamn years ---she stayed there for me the whole goddamn time I was in the big house.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Billy.

“Well,” shrugged Duke, “yeah, yeah, yeah! I been around the block, I’ve had good times, I’ve had bad times, I’ve done hard time, which is the slowest time, the worst kind of time…I think I know whereof I speak…I ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know a few things!”

“Maybe so,” sighed Billy, deflating. “Just…when I know what earthly good the knock-down-drag-outs produce, maybe….”he trailed off and shook his head.

“I’ll try and bring my tea leaves and help you read ‘em kid,” Duke laughed. “You’ll be alright---ain’t nothing you two are goin’ through that folks ain’t been goin’ through since Biblical Times. Pass me another one of them beers, willya?”

The two men cruised on through the countryside for some time, shooting the shit on any number of subjects---how Meadows, the bullet-headed little sonofabitch, ever could have made assistant foreman; the lottery and whether either one of them would ever win it and what they might do with the money if they did; how the Hogs, as good as the season was going, would probably never have a championship program again; Alice’s obsession with “Dancing with the Stars”. Midway through “Dancing with the Stars”. Duke slammed on the brakes.

“Shit,” yelled Billy.

“Deer,” said Duke. Billy saw the deer wandering back off the road into the trees.

“Christ,” said Billy, “just keep on telling the goddamn Democrats hunting is cruelty and we can’t thin the herds!”

“I’d like to have thinned out the herd right there,” said Duke, taking his foot off the brake, “if it wouldn’t have cost me my truck….know how long it’s been since I had me some venison chili?”

“I never cared a whole lot for deer, personally,” said Billy. Relaxing again. “I like my meat tender.”

“Tender like your women?” Chuckled Duke. Billy shot him a wounded look, which made him laugh even harder. “Oh, now don’t start cryin’ on me---I’m just bustin’ your balls. Venison chili’s real good, Billy, you’d like it---you need to let it simmer and carmelize overnight. Nice’n’tender.”

“Hey,” said Billy, switching gears, “what are the chances of your running by Wally World? I gotta pick us up a turkey for Thanksgiving.”

Duke’s eyes twinkled. “You sure you kids are gonna make it to Thanksgiving?”

“Shit,” said Billy, rolling his eyes.

“I think I can swing that trip for ya,” said Duke. “You know, me and Marlene are doing a Turducken this year!”

“Tur-what?!”

“A Turducken! That’s a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey! It’s a Turducken!”

“Shit,” said Billy, “that’s like a bad wreck---you can’t identify the bodies, because you can’t tell where one bird ends and the other begins!” Duke laughed. “Turducken, huh?”

“Turducken,” laughed Duke.

Billy smiled, then turned halfway and felt around in back. “I think we’re all outta beers, buddy…”

“Uh-oh!”

“Figure maybe we could swing back around to the liquor store?”

“ Doubt it,” said Duke, “it’s after midnight!”

“Well, shit.”

“Oh, it’s alright, I got more back at the house,” Duke said.

“Cool.” A possum waddled out into the road. Duke swerved to avoid it.

“Goddamn, Mister Compassionate, let’s get back to the house in one piece,” yelled Billy.

“Nature’s little speedbumps,” sighed Duke, his heart sinking back down from his throat. It was then that a set of headlights pulled out behind them and caught up with them fast.

“That’s a cop,” said Billy.

“I’ve been drinkin’ off and on all day,” said Duke.

“It’s cool,” said Billy. “Just drive straight, play it cool.”

“I got a quarter in the glove compartment” Billy was now sensing the agitation in Duke’s voice.

“Man, it’s alright,” said Billy. “You think they’re gonna be able to search you if you don’t let ‘em? You think they’re gonna want to do the paperwork? Just play it cool!”

“They’re on us,” rasped Duke. He was looking alarmed, now.

“Dammit, Duke,” cried Billy. “You draw these kinds of things to yourself…Alice told me about that---some shit on Oprah!”

“Oprah?! What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Billy?!”

“If you think you’re gonna get caught, then you’re gonna get caught!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Behind them, the cop turned on the blues.

“Okay,” said Billy, “just pull over. Remember—you don’t have to let them search you!”

“Fuck that shit,” yelled Duke. He floored it, just as they hit the Leatherwood Curves.

“I’m not goin’ back to the joint!”

“No, you’re not,” said Billy. “Duke, Jesus Christ, you’re making this something we can’t get out of!”

  “I’m not going back,” screamed Duke as the cops gave chase. “I have a good life, it’s not ending like this!”

Duke was going so fast at this point that he nearly blew the guard rail. Turducken, Billy thought again. A carload of joyriding high school kids came around the bend and that was the last thing Billy knew.

ENTRY

ENTRY

 

THE SCOWL was published, in 1992 or '93, I think, in a little litmag called ILLITERATI. It was one of a rash of short stories I wrote shortly after I got done with my novel, HELLO, UGLY and that was a time when I was finding my footing as a writer. My prose stylings at that moment make me think of Chaim Potok on Angel Dust----and that's probably an insult to Angel Dust.

copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts/2015Molotov Editions