Friday, 27 November 2009

Malbec and the Boy Racer Over Drinks Talk Toronto Tales (rated R)

Tequila. We revel. What we do is revel as the sun sets over the desert scene. Time moves on and the moon visits and the bottles drain away. Someone comes and collects the drunk on the sand pile, takes him home, bloodied but singing some Spanish song and all is right with the world.

'The pursuit of pointless pride, that is what this year is about.' ~ Whisky downed.

'The pursuit of… Yes sir, Bob, yes, sir.' ~ slurred.

'And we're back and we’re gonna fuck like the proverbial phoenix' ~ Tequila shot, salt, lemon wedge. 'Me an' the Boy Racer, yar.'

'Like a fuck phoenix?' ~ Wine and beer and drag of Lucky.

'Yes Bob, like a fucking fucked up fuck phoenix. Don't you no listen?' ~Whisky sipped, tequila shot, salt, lemon wedge.

Glasses chink, Felix coughs dryly, and examines his fingernails.

'If my friend, no one wanted to sleep with you last year, what makes you think you can sleep with anyone this year?'

'It's not that no one wanted to sleep with me last year Felix, you pretty, vexatious man, it's that no one did sleep with me. There's a difference. There is a total difference in logic, see?'

'Yeah Felix. He logiced you good, the Racer hath wit.'

They slap hands together Malbec and the Boy. I wink and Felix rolls his eyes. Much cheers, laughter, salutation and someone almost falls over, only to correct himself and pop a pill down his throat.

'C'est bien. Encore un fois!' ~ Malbec grinning, raises his glass and another toast and another one of us all but falls over, saved in the end by the outstretched and large hand of the Boy Racer.

'…And where the fuck did you learn French. I didn't know you knew French.'

'I know all things... my friends, all!'

'Felix, he's fucking French! Jesus, what do you think his accent is? What you think Malbec is? It's a fucking French name.'

'Alright Bob, calm down. I thought it was Russian or Canadian or something, you smiley faced, evil bastard fuck.'

'You know it. I am so yes, and undisputed.'



Moving off for a slash and a pick me up bump. Looking into the mirror see I look sunburned and tired, so, so tired. Our smile is mean looking. No matter how hard we try our smile comes out evil, unpleasant. There is no helping it, but to do another bump and back enter the fray.

In mid story, as told by Malbec with notes from the Boy Racer, as I stumble, as I attempt to be seated and then as finally I am so.

'Baobab in Toronto. You remember Baobab, Felix? Tall fucker, stringy hair, played guitar real good?'

'Bob's back. Hey, Bob, you remember Bao yes? Hey, careful there Bob. Okay, Bob. Okay, get your white ass in there.'

'He says it is fucking cold there and he's never going back.'

'Where?'

'Toronto.'

'Who the fuck cares about Toronto?'

'No, listen, there's a story?'

'About Baobab? That guy owes me money.'

'Would ya shut up Bob, and let them tell the story.'

'Fine Felix, fine. Wine. I want some fucking wine.'

'There was an incident.'

'In Toronto, Canada, where it's fucking freezing cold and ice all over and fucking snow piled over your heads, yeah, we get it, get to the bleeding point please and thank you, and' ~ leaning back, shouting ~ 'Another Caesar, Marianna please!'

'He had this hot piece of Canadian real estate to visit.'

'Who?'

'Shut up Bob. Here drink this.' ~ pouring some wine into a tumbler with ice.

'Ice? Okay, okie, tell the tale. I am … all fucking ears boys.'

'Bob. Fuck, someone prop Bob up. Jesus.'



'So, Baobab, who is always a ladies man, and he has this hot number up north, I mean, to die for hot, and so goes for a visit. She meets him at the airport. There's a limo, her tongue in his ear the whole way, everything is frigging awesome.'

'So?'

'Well, he is back at her condo, they are engaged, err, in coitus, in errr, mid thrust, when her husband comes barging in, who is this fucking massive Russian gangster type, scarier than the devil himself.'

'Scarier than God on motherfucking judgment day.'

'Would you quit interrupting? Anyways, Bao, terrified for his life, and it's the dead of winter by the way, like with snow and ice all over the place.'

'So, naked, he hoists himself out a window and falls like ten feet. He lands onto the ground, which is ice…'

'…And he's all slick and wet down there with her, uhhhm…'

'…Her vaginal juices Malbec. Don't be crude…'

'But I didn't… Anyways, her vaginal juices. So, when he falls onto the ice his cock spot welds, spot freezes, himself to the ground.'

'Baobao is frozen by his fucking cock to the ice and can't get up.'

'He is spread eagled on the ice, naked, and on his toes and bent double with his head down, trying like a bastard to blow warm air down there, to try and thaw his fucking penis free.'

'Then he hears the fucking Russian at the widow, shouting down at him waving a gun, shouting who the fuck knows what in Russian, but he's furious.'

'So he does what he has got to do.'

'He rips himself free leaving a good portion of foreskin froze to the ice.'

We are falling over with the laughter, and ohs and awes.

'No way. You made this up.'

'And he gets up and sees there's been this couple watching him all along, watching this naked guy stuck to the ice.'

'He turns and says to them.'

'No. What does he say?'

'He says, all calm and cool and holding his bleeding dick in his hand: "What you fucking looking at, ain't you ever seen a self circumcision assholes?"

'No way. You lie,'

'Ask him when you see him. God's honest truth. Fuck, he'll even show you. He's half circumcised now, swear it.

'Bullshit.'

'So then what happened?'

'I dunno, he steals the motherfucker laughed at him's clothes and fucking books it.'
..............

This is from chapter 4 of my manuscript 'Lost in the Maelstrom', copyright Daniel Smallegange 2009, all rights reserved.
Next: Mexican Holiday... If anyone is interested in hearing more ,that is.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

With Great Beard Power Comes Great Responsibility



It all began with itches, but then again, what noble deed or heroic adventure doesn't? Itches and the rasping sound of fingernails scratching, endlessly scratching. To be more precise, or even exactly precise, these itches were occurring upon a decidedly itchy face. Thus, and after a week of itches, the bearded warrior was born. This due to a catastrophic failure of routine, mainly a failure actually, to shave. Born he was, of misery, tears, and scratchiness (mostly scratchiness), born into an unforgiving and hostile world, with eyes of steel, ready to use his wits, his fists, and his newfound beard power to crush all defiers, all resistance, all comers. A new bearded secret identity was launched, along with a new bearded struggle for world domination and several plots whose final goal involved the chaffing of the faces of cute girls with elegant necks and cute bums. A new kind of hero was born, but not a goody two-shoes, pansy, moral type, do-gooder, no! More of a hero concerned with general viciness, spiciness and moral decay... A hero with a beard!

And how they all fell like pawns before another pawn coming at them diagonally, fell before the beard of doom. Daniel was also felled, but that was because he slipped. He got back up though and used his beard power combined with his most awesome weapon, the turtleneck sweater, to savagely charm a city into submission. Well, not the entire city, more like a confused little old lady who thought Ghandi was a really awesome race car driver from Detroit. But still! And then there was an intrepid flight from a couple of cougars on a 90s indy dance floor that would instil terror in the most stalwart heart! And also the daringly couth week in the forest bonding with gophers, where lesser people, beardless people, or perhaps more sane people, had to retreat inside and into the cozy warmth, but not Daniel! Such adventures should be recorded in song!

'With great beard power comes great responsibility'. We've all heard this. It is a universal truth. Yet the bearded warrior Daniel Car Crash overcame this irksome responsibility by holding onto the receipt and then returning the responsibility part. It was exchanged for a most excellent canned ham.

Of course with every beard comes trouble... And our hero fell scratching into that, fell beard first. Trouble, as always, in the form of a dame... a bearded lady named Jane.

But that, dear friends, is another story...

Saturday, 14 November 2009

Flushed With Past Fixation

Flushed with past fixation
On the physical
No wonder I don't sleep at night
No wonder my dreams are plagued
With wisps of love and lust
And the retreating body of her perfection
Fears fermenting
Fomenting tears and self anger
Reticence
Languor, loss and
Lack of love
Fixation on more than
The physical
Those things you said meant more
Than all your beauty
The perfection of your touch
Sent ripples all along my frame
Burned my consciousness with flame
Flushed with past fixation
Of your sexual proclivity
Of your keening, purring desire
The gratification you freely spent
Cost more than all the wars of Rome
That smile and wayward glance
Mischief in the twinkling
Worth more than
Water to a dying man
Lying awake
Flushed with past fixation
On the physical
On your kiss
So perfect
No wonder I can't sleep at night
No wonder I lie awake
Toss and turn
And can't sleep at night