Trinkos and Sabo in the Trailer Park of Doom! ( a part of chapter 6) (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

After they have been roughly searched to the squat little hippy's satisfaction he beckons them further in with a churlish nod towards the back. He is a creature at odds in appearance with long, greasy hair, large lamb chop sideburns, and an even larger and protruding gut. At odds in that his eyes are cold, cruel. Also the large caliber revolver tucked in his frayed and stretched elastic waistband fails rather to generate the serenity and love attitude of the peace sign on his faded and dirty t-shirt. His smile is scary and full of holes.

Inside is rather more spacious than imagined, most of the seats having been removed. The hippy nonchalantly guides them past some broken school desks, a cracked chalk board with multiplication tables on it, some shelving units filled with clothes and tools and bric-a-brac leaning against the sides, Sabo dragging the suitcase in a demonstration of acting skills Stanislavski would have approved. They are led past a kitchen type area with shelves and hotplates, into the back area separated by a curtain of rough cut fabric.

This is jerked aside brusquely by the little lamb-chopped hippy. Trinkos keeps nervously eyeballing the big handgun protruding from that overly stretched waistline. He impatiently holds the curtain open, shakes it, and they are ushered in though an emitted cloud of rolling grey smoke, paling progressively. Two of the bus's original two seater seats remain in place, with two others unfastened and turned around, propped up on crates facing them. A small linoleum covered kitchen table inhabits the space in between. Seated are three, a very bulky and large Native American, a very slim and tall Asian woman, and a very small statured black fellow in cornrows.

They pass around a rather large joint.

'Gentleman. We have been waiting for you. Care for a puff of the peace joint before we begin?'

The little guy offers the joint, which Sabo declines.

'Smoky.'

'Be seated anyways. Please. I am called Manaba Billy and these here are my associates.'

'Associated with getting fucked up, anyways, eh Manaba?'

This sends the little Asian lady into hysterics, which denigrates into a fit of coughing as she has trouble exhaling the potent smoke.

'Shut the fuck up Shorty.'

They slide in, our intrepid heroes do, Trinkos adjusting himself with some embarrassment and discomfort. The leader, Manaba Billy, is displeased. He pulls on the long braids on each side of his head in consternation, crosses them over his chest. Shorty has indeed shut the fuck up. Manaba Billy glares at him anyways, and he straightens up. There is an awkward silence.

'Hey, you like got all the races here. Like that Disney ride in Orlando.'

'Shut up Sabo. Jesus.' ~ Trinkos.

'So, you guys wishing to sample this dope or what? I am a busy man. Don't got all day here.'

The joint is thrust Trinkos's way and he takes a haul. He coughs, passes it to Sabo who declines.

'Potent stuff.'

'You got the money in that bag there?'

'You have the quantity we talked about?'

Manaba Billy nods in the direction of what was once the bus's toilet, now apparently the drug storage locker. A cheap padlock is on the door. The joint is passed back and forth and the smoke wafts and curls, unwilling to leave just yet. Everyone is at least on the way to getting as high as hell, even Sabo.

'Where do you grow then? Seems to me that you can't grow so good, or much in a swamp.'

'It wasn't always so wet.'

'Stupid fucking global warming.'

'Yeah, stupid white people's god!'

Manaba Billy takes another massive inhalation. He silences his cohorts with a raised hand.

'Let's not get into the blame game. We don't grow it here anyways, to answer your question mister curious question man. This is where we live. What if some assholes like you guys came and then sold us out?'

'I guess that would suck.'

'Yeah that would suck. You think we're stupid?'

'We are getting rather ridiculously, insanely, massively high.' Trinkos states languidly, passing the joint off. 'Everyone lay off the aggression.'

'Damn Trinkos man.'

'Would you like a beer? It mellows the buzz.'

Outside in the distance Trinkos sees some of the sketchier park dwellers walking with hubcaps, a familiar bumper. A moment later another two roll along some tires. Familiar tires.

'I wonder if our car is okay.'

'It's fine. Don't be worried about that. But I do have some other, kind of bad news for you guys.'

'Oh yeah, what's that?'

'Show them Shorty.'

Shorty gets up and opens the 'drug storage closet', which is decidedly empty of drugs. Manaba Billy's laughter is lacking in mirth, tinny, metallic. The little Asian and Shorty don't laugh. They are staring hard to see what these fools gawking in front of them are going to do.

Trinkos smiles inanely and Sabo shifts and looks around and shakes his head.

'What's so funny Bill?'

'Well, the joke is we are still going to keep your money mister curious question.' ~ Deadpan from the Asian. 'How the fuck you like that?'

'For serious?'

'Shit, now everyone calm…'

The little Asian lady is suddenly pointing a sawed off shotgun which has materialized out of nowhere at the two. Lambchops, with some effort, pulls out his hand cannon, Manaba Billy a twenty-two.

'Yes, for serious. Now give us no trouble and you might not die slow.'

Sabo and Trinkos exchange a glance. Things are not good.

'Man, you trailer gypos are cold'

'Yeah man, cold as yesterday's potatoes.'

'No hard feelings. It's the economic downturn. It makes everyone more business motivated. You see? Now hand over the case and don't do anything stupid.'

The fat ass joint continues to burn in an ashtray shaped like Rita Hayworth on the table. The bus is thick with intoxicating, hazy, lazy, smoke.

'We understand that, eh Trinkos. Business is business'

Trinkos nods. 'We can relate.'

'Even so, we are gonna have to kill you now. Sorry, but business has been slow, and well, business is business. On the bright side you don't have to dig your own grave. Swamp takes care of that.'

'So I guess you can thank global warming,' says the Asian, and Shorty grins.

'Now hand over the case'

'Better give them the suitcase Sabo.'

'Catch asshole.'

The suitcase flies through the air and through the smoke, flies open, obscuring, distracting, as Trinkos and Sabo are reaching into their nether regions, pulling out what had been so uncomfortable, namely, socks. Heavy socks, stuffed with rolls of pennies it turns out. Mean weapons in close quarters. Trinkos is a little slower, a little behind the rapid quick Brazilian who slams his fist of cloth covered metal into Lambchop's forehead on a downswing, also clubbing away that gun in the same motion. By the time Trinkos has pulled his sock of nickels out Sabo has crunched another blow into Shorty sending him down hard to the ground, as Manaba Billy bats the suitcase out of the air, fails to grasp it, loses his gun. Trinkos diving now underneath the table as the woman fires the sawed-off, getting thrown back into the wall by the force of the blast, taking out the emergency exit, herself out for the count from the impact.

'Trinkos, come on! Fuck it man. Run now before we die! I am not getting buried into no fucking swamp!'

Sabo scrambling in the haze and smoke, pulling Trinkos up . Trinkos grabbing the suitcase and they are diving out the back, the bus's emergency exit, as the twenty-two pops several times and glass explodes around them.

'Run!'

Running out the door and to the car, only quickly discovering the car has already been half dismantled and keeping on running now and to the left after and down and into the swamp, avoiding pools of water and hiding under logs as men run past, then up and back and into a deepening mist, soaked and scared and half deaf from the proximity to the gunfire. Back in the direction of the trailer park Manaba Billy is screaming and others, and an occasional gun firing can be heard.

to be continued...

By: Daniel Smallegange

The Music of the Night

Listen to the music
Of the night
Slow and sad
Let it rake you
Let it take you
Let it roam with you
And cradle you
Across Elysian fields
Pure and soft
Fragrant and rich
Let your tears go
As the winds go
Along with the music
Of the night
Let your dreams go
As the moon goes
And close your tender, love scarred, pretty eyes
Seek peace for once instead of war
Release and forget about
Tomorrow
Listen to the drumbeat
Of your pulsing heart
Listen to the silence
To the whispering thoughts and voices
Be they gods above, demons and djinns
Or the slippery wet tongue of Mother Earth
Be still and
Listen to the music
Slow and sad
Run naked with the moon
Across Elysian fields
Take your thoughts away
Keep your fears at bay
Listen to the music
Slow and sad
Of the rain
In the night

By: Daniel Smallegange

Vodka Tasting Poshness Followed by Kensington Foosball Death Match

Being the brazen adventurer you all know and love, I embarked on a night out last night with my intrepid friend Greg. The night began on a streetcar named, not 'Desire', but 'Flooded' with icky snow and rivers of water in the aisle as it was snowing like nobody's business out. Heroically we braved the streetcar perils and arrived at the posh 'members only' Spoke Club on King Street with brave hearts, hungry minds and thick with thirst. The place was quite gorgeous really, speaks of being the home of the literary and business elite and is pretty nifty. I found it populated by rich people showing off hot arm candy, nice suits and just how wonderful they were by being members of such a nice swank 'members only' affair. And then there was us classy dudes, shown above, who were specially invited to get some free vodka down our parched hearts and burgeoning souls... Err, yeah. Hehehe, sure.
And so a free martini (Ketle One; shaken not stirred) which was damn good to be honest, followed by the official tasting and some history and learning from the lovely Ketle One lady (see below) who taught me that all vodkas ain't the same, that all vodkas ain't made from pertatoes, and coincidentally that Ketle One vodka is the bestest ever booze onza planet.






Admittedly it was really smooth, and not as harsh as the others. Hey, it is Dutch though. And this Dutch boy was sold at that. So, we tested (Kettle One, Grey Goose, and Absolut) and scented and swished vodkas and got a little buzzed and I wanted to smoke, but didn't smoke as I just bloody well quit smoking. Ahhh, memories!



This was pretty fun, then another martini. Being a wine and pints man, I didn't really know about Martinis. So the second one I tried dirty and it was the last time I do that. It was like drinking pickled pickle brine. UGH. Bammo though. Hit me good. Like a good night out with a dominatrix. Mean and dirty and GREAT. Oh, but I've said too much.
Anyways, having survived and having no offers by the many beautiful women wandering the beautiful Spoke establishment(they have specialized micro implants that sense wealth) we opted for the fine and filthy shores of lovely Kensington and a serious Foosball tournament of death at The Last Temptation, one of the great haunts of Toronto, if the right bartender is in playing the right music.




Epic battles. Monumental goals. Horrible own goals. Dexterity and wisdom and finely honed talent. Drama. War. And victory! Praise and adulation, wreaths and glory for the conquering hero. Carson vanquished and paying for the pitchers as a result.






Sweet night.

The Building

The building's collapse
Was foreseeable
So stop the mourning
The crying and gnashing of teeth
For all you've lost you the forlorn
Show some grit and fight instead
Collapse can in truth
Be for the best
Especially and if and when
Foundations had begun to
Crumble
So finish the job
And do it clean an' quick
Burn and smash
Knock it all down good
So that even the ashes be further reduced
By hammer strokes and howling winds scatter
Survey and see the damage done
Eradication of the old
So you might build anew
Towers of splendor
Structures sound secure
And this time be sure to
Pretty up the cornerstone with etchings
That defy and praise the gods
Pretty up thy banners too
That they be ready to flutter proud
Then drive them posts down an' deep
Hammer hard and cruelly pound
Let them bite bedrock
Let them bind things well
And stone and steel be beckoned
Only then can you rise
Only then can you climb
To heights
Bringing forth a new place
Where you might shine and
Be safe
Somewhere far from harm
And the cold dark nights

By: Daniel Smallegange

Part 4: Malbec and The Boy Racer (intro) (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

Drinks.

The place is rather eccentric, much like us group of four who gather here bi-weekly in weather fair or foul, during time of peace or during war, in times of pestilence even we remain, especially as we come here to be polluted and most certainly toxified. Tiki bar which seen better days we come to on schedule, at least when there is nothing better to do in our eventful, sorrowful, gleeful and most trepidatious lives.

The place is covered in dilapidation and dust and far too much bamboo. Walls are encrusted with fake vines and real vines. You can tell them apart as the ones that are real are all dead. Palms too in various degrees of failure, stuffed parrots and other tropical birds, a fake python and other notable snakes of merit look cheap and plastic. There is even a guerilla suit stuffed and mounted with a cigar sticking out its mouth. We thought the stuffed and fading lioness, which was once a real lioness, was too depressing and so Angie, the place's owner, he took her away. We sometimes still drink to her though, the old girl. Fake stalks of too bright green bamboo live with live ones not looking as hale, also palms and other things tropical cling to life amidst constructed rock ledges and waterfalls and pools.

Walls are built from greyed out and time stained bamboo back here in the patio area. There are groupings of giant goldfish and the like in aquariums filled with dirty water which have seen better days. They blink lazily and forgetfully as they swim on through the dim, eyes rotating on differing axles, mouths endlessly opening and closing. There is even a small shark and a turtle in the bigger aquariums. They do not seem to overly hate their lives here at the Tropical Jungle Tiki Bar and Grille, but seemed resolved to their lot and unafraid.

The turtle, Ricky, stares out sleepily from the murk of his tank, then clambers onto a shelf where he watches us imbibe and blinks slowly those glassy black eyes. He eats some carrot bits methodically and seems wise enough to judge that we are the lesser intelligent species. He winks and cranes a long neck, settles down and in for a snooze.

The place is almost always deserted except for a few locals who are generally of the lowest kind of scum and villainy known to humanity, which suits us to the core. Oh, and us. Eccentric us; four rogues of happenstance friendship and wild element.

Our table is usually made up of four as that is all that tend to fit. There is yours true, of sparkling eye and happy heart, whom you are acquainted with, sitting hunched slightly, sipping from a narrow straw and grinning, bending and unbending long legs under the table and my bad and cranky knees, tossing and flipping back and forth my pack of Luckies. Felix across in shorts and too large flip-flops which keep falling off, ill-shaven and dirty blonde bearded, Hawaiian shirt hung open with a tank top under with a tank on it, with them Egyptian symbol tattoos of his and pirate earrings, whom you've also met at least the peripheral of. His smile you are never sure of what to make as he chews a wedge of lemon and winces good, slams down a shot glass. Malbec and the Boy Racer are alright too. One dances like a gypsy, the other waltzes like a god. They are two-fucking-pees-in-a-pod. The latter one tall, lanky, his hands massive and well manicured, calm as right before the storm which be Malbec, the former, and his mate o' mates, tiny, bunched, hard wired and swift, fiery and short tempered, oh-so quick to flush with love or rage. The Boy Racer is tall and oddly made, somewhat peculiar, saggy skinned and pale, with large square and white front teeth, larger square glasses too so he might see the better. His smile though is generous and kind, mostly less you offend him highly in which case them massive hands would come in to play. Malbec is the shorter and thicker and seedier and greedier, but brainy and bright and full of mirth and glee. He shall abscond with your woman unless you are very careful or politely ask him not to. That is if your woman is into incredibly short swarthy types. He claims to have killed a man in a knife fight, but not a one of us believe him.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Daniel's Cult of Love, Acceptance and Mindless Obedience!! (Humour by Daniel Smallegange)

Daniel's Cult of Love, Acceptance and Mindless Obedience!!
Join Today! Free Muffins.

Daniel's cult, uhhh, we mean not a cult at all, but family fun centre of joy and peace and blissful happiness, is a wonderful, clean and well established brain 'adjustment' program that gently coaxes 'lost peoples' into the correct and Daniel-centric world view with pleasantly numbing shock therapy and wonderfully long and calmly repetitive films produced just for you the new cult member! You will learn through special brain massaging techniques how much fun mindless obedience to the whim of the leader can be. And also, how to avert your eyes, and agree with everything the great leader thinks and/or does. And the proper way of asking the great leader if he's lost weight as he is looking super spiffy these days. Also you can learn about generally being complacent and complicit with all things Daniel! Yay! Let's all bounce to support our leader, who is more a friend anyways than a leader silly, just a friend who you must always, always mindlessly obey. And with the added bonus of free muffins and occasionally a live penguin dipped in chocolate if you are extra shiny and Daniel loving you can't go wrong.

'Bring me your tired, weary, huddled, sad and dirty masses and let them have muffins. Come unto me and I shall lick the world clean with the thrice cleaved tongue of wisdom, love and cunning transforming, mind altering bright shiny light. Come onto me and let there be bubbles added to water heated to a nice cozy temperature whereby three or four at time can have a lovely soak. I shall unburden you of all your worry, cares and material possessions.'
~ From the book of Daniel, the Nifty

Daniel, or OUR GREAT LEADER, has a smashing compound nestled in a beautiful, clean, picturesque and desolate area unburdened by any roads or human settlements for miles around. It is located in a cozy, safe, happy place protected by an exterior happy zone of protection so bad thoughts can't come in. This is comprised of a 'Peace and Joy' no frolicking mine field for member's protection and several 'Smile and Love' barriers made up of flowers and razor wire. Mainly razor wire. The compound itself is as monolithic as Daniel, our great leader, and has indoor plumbing (new) and padded walls (beige), and, yes, ping-pong!

'Let me, Daniel, rinse your brain of unwanted mental lint. Let me coax the dandruff from your soul hair. Let me eat the pain away with bites of delicious cleansing consumptive pain pleasure, which taste better than Havarti even.'
~Daniel, Great Leader, Spiffy Dresser.

Have you been lost, adrift without hope or joy? Fighting with your loved ones? Frustrated at an empty and cold society? Come into the warm, come feel the slow dance of communal love and squishy togetherness. Come and be loved by Daniel and blindly follow his world views and deep empathy for all cheeses. Find your new family which you will become exactly alike to and therefore close to. You will find acceptance and a belief system involving generosity and peace and the great feeling of having no worries or possessions in your name (they will be in Daniel's so you won't have to worry about them anymore) and unquestioning obedience and servitude to the GREAT LEADER, who happens to be on the lookout for a new wife or three if you play your cards right and are big. Note: The great leader likes his women really, really BIG.

Though the Great Leader has never been photographed due to security concerns and the fact that he believes photographs have the ability to steal sexual energy and can cause early onset male pattern baldness, we assure you he has very excellent and shiny white teeth with no chips or missing bits and hair of a flawless and wavy, if you will, bouncy nature.

Daniel, once a small town muffin baker, came to realize his importance one day in 1982 while eating his weight in uncooked muffin batter. Suddenly the mixing machine he was licking the inside of was touched by aliens from the future. It came to life spinning him around painfully for three consecutive hours before knocking him unconscious whereby he dreamed the aliens from the future came on to him, and blessed him and told him his mission which was to start a community of happy people who give him all their possessions and love him, and completely isolate them from the world. Oh, and to bring forth an abundance of muffins.

'I saw the light. I saw how great I was. And the aliens from the future saw how great I was. I thought, I need to spread the word about how great I am to everyone, let's start a cult, I mean family, let's have fun, let's bake muffins everyone!'
Daniel, The Great Humble Leader

Are you looking for guidance? Are you looking for confidence and something to believe in and a family fun filled experience in dogmatism. Lose yourself in us. All you need to do is sign over all your possessions and worldly goods and you can join up too.

There are NO, repeat, NO mind altering brainwashing drugs in the muffins. They are blueberry muffins. They will just make everything just neado an' wonderful dude… bliss, when the blueberries kick in after 5 to 25 minutes. Trust us, they are gooooooooooood muffins.

BLISS!
Glory of muffins to all!

The Cult of Daniel is not in any way endorsed by or affiliated with The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation. However his muffins do kickass.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Daniel Acting!!!

Look what I just dug up
I just dug this up on youtube. My first acting gig, a haggen dazs commercial shot in Spain.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=h724FR3ppOk