The War

They said you can’t make someone pay, not for genocide. They said that, but we proved them wrong. We were dedicated, we had friends, we were exactly the sort that he wasn’t expecting. We found him, in that villa where he thought he’d be safe. He never reckoned his assistant Max would betray him.

The night had been warm, wet and extremely stormy. It was a bad night for him, but a perfect night for us. We came in through every window, down every fireplace and through every door. We chased him out into the fields, hunted him down with his own dogs, killed all his henchmen as we went along. A glorious and terrible night, a night of perfect vengeance.

When we found him, we sliced his legs off, batter dipped them and then deep fried them in oil. I even made him eat part of his own foot, just to prove the point, before I put a hollow point in his head myself. Then we burned the place down, and watched as the flame exploded into the night despite the storm. A night of perfect vengeance, a night my brothers and I, with our brothers in arms would never forget.

We can rest now, no one will ever try to get to the bottom of this killing. While it wasn’t officially sanctioned, the right people knew what we were going to do and let us get away with it. Justice was served in a way that no official channel could ever manage.

So rest in peace Doc Hopper, the frogs have returned the favor, and we’ve taken back our legs.

The Eulogy

I would like to start by thanking so many of you for coming. I know Astoria appreciates you being here as much as I do. I would like to explain something about myself for a moment. All I wanted was to make people laugh. It was, I believed, my raison d'être. I worked hard, honed my jokes on the circuit, and I was rewarded with the laughs I needed.

While trying, I of course met up with the two men who lay dead before you. I understand it’s rare to have a double funeral, but their lives were so deeply intertwined we thought this was appropriate. Sadly, both passed away at the same time, and in the same place. However, maybe it’s for the best that they had near simultaneous heart attacks while sitting in the balcony. While they both had families, I’m not sure one would have enjoyed life much without the other.

Back to me though, if I may indulge myself for a moment with out their interference. I just loved to make people laugh, and I always have. It wasn’t selfish, I didn’t want applause or accolade, I just wanted to know I had made someone else feel good. That was what those two never understood. They thought they were heckling me, but they were just part of my show. So long as they were there, so long as they shouted, people did laugh. Best of all, I was still getting paid and they were paying for the privilege to play along.

Now though, as I am just getting over the shock and find myself having to grasp a world without them, I wonder how much of the show really was them. They made me funny, they made me sympathetic, whatever am I going to do without their twinned laughter? I can hear them now, cracking something at a punch line that I had deliberately bungled, listening to them say something far funnier than I could ever think of, and then those delicious laughs of theirs before the rest of audience would find itself grudgingly guffawing along.

Some thought that they dogged me, bullied me constantly through my career. This, I am afraid I must now point out, couldn’t be further from the truth is the truth were on Mars. They were my dearest and most beloved fans. I wouldn’t tell this story if they were still alive, because I think it would embarrass them, but it was the two of them who talked me down off that roof on that horrible night when I thought of ending it all. When they heard about my… addictions, they spent a lot of money to settle debts and made sure that I got the help I needed. When no one else could help, they proved that the heckler is the greatest fan a comedian could have.

So this is to you, Statler… Waldorf. Without you I… *SOB* I’m sorry. *SOB* I’m sorry, I can’t go on. Kermit, please finish up for me.

Hero's Return

This city has become a cesspit. Without its hero, the city has been lost. Without me, the city has been under his rule, the red haired, babble-mouthed bastard. That filthy son of a bitch who always refers to himself in the third person. He’s destroyed everyone who’s ever dared to stand up to him. Even I was cut low on that memorable day when my strength just couldn’t save us.

It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always the broken creature you see before you. Once, I was a hero. I had a secret identity, with friends and even a girl. A pair of queens who lived in the basement of my building, a crazy hobo who lived in the garbage cans outside our building, even a nut who talked to his invisible elephant friend. Sure, I was just a waiter, serving the biggest burgers in town, but it paid the rent and gave me time for heroics.

And what heroics. I helped them all, with great problems and with small ones. They were always glad to see me coming, with my helmet and my red cape, I could help anyone with any kind of problem you could mention. Nothing was outside of my scope, nothing. That was of course, until he came. After that, nothing went right. After him, nothing would ever go right again. He destroyed my world. Before him though, I was something, you should have seen my strength.

And I was cute too, that’s what Dawn always said. Dawn, with hair like corn silk, eyes as black as pitch and a voice like an angel just descended from heaven. She was the sort of good, clean wholesome girl anybody would fall in love with, so of course he did. The red haired bastard took her away, twisted her soul, and now I barely recognize her. She’s been transformed into another slave, caught up in his vicious thrall.

They’re all gone now, the basement dwellers were shot for being gay, the hobo was thrown out for living in a trashcan, even the crazy one, the over eater with the baked goods obsession, the seven foot tall guy who lived in a nest. Yeah, even his imaginary elephant friend was killed. They managed to bring him to life, just so they could blow his head off in front of the bird-brained lunatic. I tried to stop them, but that was the day when it all went wrong, when my powers failed me. That was when they humiliated me, brought me low and took away everything. They even closed down Charlie’s, to go so far as to even deprive me of my only job. Since then the city has belonged to him, and I’m kept around only because I provide someone for them to laugh at.

That, of course, was his greatest mistake.

He should have killed me when they had the chance. I’ve been working out, learning new secrets, gathering up my strength and discovering new powers. That was what the old man always told us after all, never stop learning, never stop growing, always keep trying. I’ve learned all his secrets, I know all his weaknesses, the dirty filthy red-haired son of a bitch. I’ve got some friends with me now too. I’ve found a nut that loves chickens and will perform any stunt, I’ve got a red haired maniac who insists “Fraggle” is an ethnic group, and the less said about our new dinosaur friends, the better.

I hope he’s listening, I hope he can hear this, because I want him to know. You are about to witness the return of everybody's favorite superhero, the man who is faster than lightning, stronger than steel, smarter than a speeding bullet... it's Super Grover!

Fancy & Deer

Fancy is shy and only let me get a few shots, so I put some shots of deer in here.

.

Folly's Class Photos

Three Thngs

1. would love to see anyone get a tattoo like this one.
2. You never hear about anarchists much anymore. There was a time when they were the go to bad guys, but that time has passed.
3. Say itwith me... "Everybody come on Fhqwhgads"

Vienna's Class Photos

Open letter

Dear Microsoft,

Why doesn't Windows recognize Microsoft as a trusted company? Seriously! Why must I endure security warnings to see if my comptuer can handle an upgrade to Windows 7?









Screw it, look at this duck...

BUNNY MOTHERFUCKERS!

To make up for the lack of a "Photo everyday" post, have some photos of a motherfucking bunny.

Lush Stuff

This is a report of me trying things from Lush

So it's a Lush Report: Creme Anglaise and Karma Kream seem to help my psoriasis. Creme Anglaise smoothed out rough patches and shrank them down. But... Syd put some on her foot and it made her eczema break out in a hugely bad way.

Karma Kream has smooth out a patch, too early for anything else. HOWEVER! the reaction was way quick and I really like the way it smells.

Dream Cream does not help. It's nice and all, but left my patches feeling papery and sore. However, psoriasis is a bitch and a half to deal with and the cream shouldn't be blamed. Syd is trying some on her foot, we won't know the result for a coupe of hours.

Syd tried Squeaky Green solid shampoo and gave it a thumbs up. Sadly, the solid conditioner called Jungle got thumbs down. Again, more because of her hair and less because of the product. Those with very long hair will probably not be in love, those with shorter hair may go gaga. She is going to try Veganese now.



These weren't scientific tests. I used a pot of Creme Anglaise and it worked. I tired a pot of Dream Cream and it didn't work to the extent that I had to run out and buy something else. I'm trying a sample of Karma Kream on my forehead and going to see how it effects the area over a week.

Biblical Problems

I’ve got a problem with the bible. God always shows himself to just one dude, walking around in the wilderness. Like… always. Why not show up to a general meeting, let everyone get a look, answer some questions, take some tea. Does God have some social anxiety disorder or something? Because there’s Paxil, you know? Otherwise, it does rather give the atheists a fairly strong argument, since this god person never seems to show up to anything.

And Moses shows up and says “I bring the word of God.”
And if anybody is all “Who the fuck is this God? How come none of us have met him?”
And Moses would be all, “Um… he goes to a different school, you wouldn’t know him.”
And yet no one ever says “Are you telling me that we’re being asked to believe in the girlfriend from Canada.”

There is a parable, Jesus tells it I think. Some rich man dies and goes to hell and implores God, or Abraham, or the desk monkey on duty, or someone to send an angel to his brothers to warn them against sin. And the dude gets the answer of “They’ve got Moses and the prophets to warn them. If they won’t listen to them, why should they listen to an angel?”

And I’m all like… “BECAUSE IT WOULD BE A FUCKING ANGEL! It would a shinning golden celestial motherfucker with like wings and shit growing right out of his fucking back! What are you, fuckin’ retarded? Some tangible proof would be nice, ya shit head! Might shut Richard Dawkins’ fucking mouth, which would be a tangible miracle in and of itself.”

Also, more F bombs in the bible would certainly punch up the dialogue. And I say to you that it is easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle, which isn’t a kind of fucking gate by the way, than it is for a rich motherfucker to get his fat ass into heaven. And the disciples can be all “Tru dat, bro.”

And if instead of dying on the cross, if Jesus went all Jackie Chan on the Romans and got away... that would be awesome. If he could drive off in a pink Cadillac with a smart talking velociraptor sidekick, that would be aces. I’m just trying to help you guys out, point out some of the errors in your story. Maybe we can find some common ground, add a John Woo style gunfight to the Sermon on the Mount or something.

Think of it…
Bible 2: Bible Goes West.

Call me, we’ll do lunch.

Photo Everyday (056)

Photo Everyday (055)

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Five)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

Chapter Five: Learning to Walk

 

            The first step was not the hardest. The second step wasn’t the worst either. The fifty-seventh step was a breeze. The one hundred and eighty-first step though, that one was a bitch. That was the first time I fell down. I banged my jaw on the wooden rail to help support myself, bit my tongue and bashed my knee so hard it was black for a week. However, I didn’t scream or cry or let anyone help me up.

 

            When they came running I told them to back off and let me get myself up. It was hard, because my knee was already swelling and my mouth was filling with blood, but I did manage to get all the way back to my feet and complete the last three feet to get to the other side of the bars. I didn’t walk any more that day, but I’d sort of proved something to myself. I proved that I can get up again on my own and finish the job. That was the important part.

 

            I still couldn’t walk on my own, and I needed the bars and canes to walk, but I could walk a little. I was making progress though, and that was what was important. So long as I could do more today than I could manage yesterday, then I was moving forward. It was frustrating sometimes, because it would seem like I wasn’t getting any forward motion, but I think I was improving every day. It was just very, very hard.

 

            The pain was receding though, and I didn’t have to spend my nights biting down on a pillow. I was having semi-regular visits with Debbie and Karen. Not together, I’d still not seen the two of them together. I knew it wasn’t the same person with a wig and a change of outfit though because Debbie would have to loose nearly half a foot and probably something like forty pounds to be Karen. Debbie isn’t heavy, she has curves and rounds though, while Karen has always been slight and small. Between the two of them you sort of have the perfect woman, they’re tall and short and slim and curvy and blond and brunette, which is just the sort of woman that both Groucho Marx and I crave. Actually, I was thinking that maybe what I crave is... but never mind that for now.

 

            There wasn’t any more hospital room hanky-panky, but there was a more relaxed feeling to our meetings. Karen and I were able to fall into an amicable relationship, which rebuilt a lot that was torn down after... after. I don’t know, Debbie didn’t mention it and I’m not sure I want to go into it, but there is a reason that Karen never came back to me and I never went back to her. I’m not sure Debbie knows about it, but she knows that we were leaving well enough alone. I went to the wedding, but it was too strained and she was too busy to get anything done.

 

            If I hadn’t been hurt like this, we’d probably have spent the rest of our lives thinking the one was still so pissed at the other that it defied description using only the English language. Italian or Sicilian might have enough words to cover the imagined level of vitriol, but you might need one of the Slavic dialects to help out.

 

            Face to face though, the anger wasn’t there. She wasn’t mad at me, or planning to do things to my genitals with a pair of pruning sheers, which would have been justified seeing how I treated her. She was the sweet girl that I did wrong, but was willing to forgive me if I would agree that I wasn’t mad at her either. While she may argue the point, my reason for suspecting long burning rage was greater than hers. She might not have been blameless in what happened between us, but it was clearly my fault. Still, it wasn’t anything unforgivable, and it’s not like I hit her or otherwise physically hurt her. We both said nasty things to each other though, we were both cruel, and I suppose if we both accepted culpability, then that was enough.

 

            Still, she came around a lot more than she probably should have. I have no idea what sort of people Angela and Pete are, but I can’t imagine they were that happy to find that she was driving from Ypsi to where ever this hospital I was in was. Gas isn’t cheap after all, at least it wasn’t when I became confined to my own mind. She kept coming to see me though, and we kept talking and it was almost like the old days. Only things were a little different now, because this was the mother of two children and a wife to two people. I sort of felt a little like I should have been waving Brenda and Eddie goodbye as we talked, because I sort of understood that song completely now.

 

            While we were talking, I could tell she was trying to draw me out. She was being clever about it, but not so clever that I couldn’t tell what she was doing, but clever enough that I didn’t mind. We talked about the old days, we talked about what had happened in the years between that day and this, and she got me to talk about a few things I hadn’t even talked to Debbie about.

 

            “Do you remember getting shot?” she asked at one point, not quite a non-sequitur, but it was a bit of a leap. I suspect it was meant to surprise me.

 

            I thought about that little fourteen year old girl, ten days from her fifteenth birthday, with the gun in front of her. I saw her pick up the gun and fire four times before realizing what she’d done and dropping it to clasp her hands over her mouth in order to stifle a scream. I remembered clearly, but I felt a deep and abiding need not to let on that I could remember. So I lied, which is always the best way to start a new relationship. You’ve got to get your lies in early so you can build a proper foundation on the bullshit.

 

            “No,” I shook my head. “That whole day is kind of a blur.”

 

            “What about that day in Stony with the baby oil?”

 

            “Did you think she missed that part in her story too?” I asked.

 

            “She said you missed it,” she smiled. “Said you noticed it right away.”

 

            “It was an interesting day, and one that probably should be recorded for later readings. When I’m old and gray I think I would like to remember that day.”

 

            “You don’t remember it now?”

 

            “I remember everything,” I said, showing my cards. “But it would be nice to have the details written down if my memory ever fails me.”

 

            “Except the day you got shot,” she reminded me. “You don’t remember that.”

 

            “I remember I fucked up,” I said. “I remember that I didn’t do something right.”

 

            “That bothers you?” she asked.

 

            “I left a lot of things unfinished,” I said with a sort of shrugging gesture. “And I left a lot of things done wrong. Like you and me. That was done wrong. Through a combination of stupidity and youthful inexperience I fucked up the first great love I had.”

 

            “I was your first love?” she smiled at that and then frowned. “Wait...”

 

            “You and Debbie,” I said, before she could get muddled. “Together, you two were my first love.”

 

            “We were?” she asked, the smile broadening.

 

            “Yes,” I nodded, “and I fucked it up.”

 

            “Well, not all by yourself,” she assured me.

 

            “Not all of it,” I said. “But I managed a good part of it by myself. Particularly the screw-ups, those are mine. I own them.”

 

            “But what do you intend to do about them?” she asked. “You’ve never asked for forgiveness, or even said you’re sorry.”

 

            “Saying sorry won’t fix it,” I said.

 

            “You want to fix things?” she said, crossing her legs and putting her hands on her knee.

 

            “Not quite,” I said.

 

            “What then?”

 

            “I intend to put things to right.”

 

            “Put to right?” she asked. “That sounds an awful lot like ‘git mah shootin irons’ sort of talk.”

 

            “Not entirely,” I said looking at her. “Part of it is just making sure I don’t hurt you ever again. I’ve got to make up for the harm I caused you, and make sure I don’t do it again. When you and I can be friends again, real friends, then I’ll consider that I’ve put us to right.”

 

            “What about lovers?” she asked.

 

            “You’re with Angela and Pete,” I said.

 

            “Pete and Angela understand that I can be in love with people besides them. Even that I can love people away from them, without them,” she said. “You don’t imagine that Debbie and I go home and us three girls gang bang Pete do you?”

 

            “I hadn’t really thought about it I guess,” I said, and decided on a bit of honesty. “I hadn’t really considered that you might still be... what’s a good word, active with her?”

 

            “That our relationship didn’t end because I started a new one?” she asked, and I sort of knew we’d been knocked back a few steps. “You don’t stop loving someone just because you’ve found someone new to love. That’s how this whole poly thing works, Jack. You can love more than one person at a time.”

 

            “I have been around this particular block before,” I said.

 

            “Fuck,” she whispered and put a hand over her eyes. “I just did it again, didn’t I?”

 

            “A little bit,” I said.

 

            “I get so used to just having to leap to the defense,” she said. “Schools, friends, colleagues who you think would understand. I’m sorry.”

 

            “It’s okay,” I said, smiling a weak and feeble smile at her.

 

            “I shouldn’t be lecturing.”

 

            “You were talking about something important,” I consoled her.

 

            “We’re supposed to be talking about us,” she said.

 

            “Well, it’s all tied together isn’t it?” I asked.

 

            “Yeah, actually it is. Since I never actually stopped loving you,” she said drawing a finger across my cheek. “I was hoping that one day we could pick up and actually restart.”

 

            “We’ll see, maybe,” I said. “I’ll have to figure some things out first.”

 

            “I understand,” she said, and I sort of thought I was going to make her cry again.

 

            “I do love you though,” I said kissing her fingers as they came close enough to my mouth for me to get them.

 

            “Oh yeah?” she asked.

 

            “Yes,” I tried to think of how I could convince her. “I never wanted to leave, but I was stupid and I thought I needed to.”

 

            “Okay,” she said and then the conversation shifted away from that topic.

 

            I was thinking a lot about all the walking away I’d done in my life. A situation is done, I get paid, and I walk away. The situation becomes a total clusterfuck, I manage to jump clear before the whole thing explodes, and I walk away. Some of the most beautiful women in the world fall for me, and because I’m an idiot, I walk away. I’d decided that maybe for a change I would walk towards things, and see if maybe I couldn’t put them right instead of just getting clear. There is a lot to be said about getting oneself clear, but there is even more to be said about not having to. There could be something to be said for getting in there and working out the issue.

 

            Then there was Jill, poor little Jill that I had promised to get away from all that. I’d promised I would take her anywhere she wanted to go. It wasn’t exactly my fault, but I hadn’t taken her anywhere, I’d left her there. I raised my hand and rubbed my forehead, which was a trick I’d learned recently. If you gather up enough strength, you can actually touch your head. I thought about her and I thought about the world outside and I sort of thought I’d like to see it.

 

            I could get discharged if I could walk, or when they were sure that there wasn’t anymore physical therapy that would help me. I sort of wondered if maybe I couldn’t get myself home and finish the process on my own. I thought about that for a couple of days, while my legs built up strength and the world flashed by like a strobe.

 

            One night I was sitting in my room, with the strong but silent cabinet as my only companion. I’d gotten used to the fact that cabinet wasn’t going to say anything, and that if things got to being very hard for me the AC unit would start to leak over my eyes, but it hadn’t been leaking much lately. Strange that they would have an air conditioner on in winter anyway. I looked at a chair, about ten feet from my bed, that had my pants folded over it.

 

            I wondered if I could get up, and if so could I get there. It would be hard, and I might fall down if I tried it. I had no cane or walker, but I had a pair of pins that were supposed to work. I didn’t know if they’d take me across that great expanse though, maybe it would be too far.

 

            So okay, Jack. You’re a tough guy. You’ve been shot by a confused little girl, fallen into a coma after Michigan threw a rock at you, thought you were a cowboy and then a futuristic detective before waking up to find yourself in a hospital and weak as a kitten. What does all that amount to? Routine. All part of the service ma’am. Four hours a day with the orchids, three years in a coma. No talking business at meals, and no falling down on the job. You’ve got friends, and they’re depending on you coming back and giving them an answer to a few things.

 

            The girls are depending on you getting back to what you used to be, to being the A1 tough guy, the toughest sumbitch in the whole Metro Detroit Area if not the baddest mofo on two legs. If Jack the cat comes looking for the crown, you’ve got to be able to take him. So it’s time to prove to your friends that you’re worth a damn. Sometimes that means dying, sometimes that means killing a whole lot of people, and sometimes it means doing something really tough, like putting on your pants.

 

Photo Everyday (054)

Photo Everyday (053)

Photo Everyday (052)

Photo Everyday (051)

I has a quest

Irish restaurants need to have Irish dishes. Am I crazy for thinking this? We’ve been to three places this month, and out of them the only thing Irish about them has been the name. Oh sure, you can get shepherd’s pie and corned beef sandwiches at each one*, but that’s the only thing like it. At one, calamari and risotto were far more featured, and at the others, it was pizza and burgers.

Now, I may not be an expert on the smelly, drunken, cheap Irish laborers who make up that part of my family tree. I do know that strangely, those funny talking louts are the more reputable members of my lineage. See, my French ancestors had a habit of leaving town one night with the silver and the landlord’s youngest daughter. Charming, roguish, criminal fucks. The Welsh/Irish side didn’t get into crime until they came to America, and then got out pretty quick because they were dumb and we hang horse thieves here. Yeah, our strain of the Colliers almost went extinct because they weren’t smart enough to blame someone else for their horse thievery. They never made it up to family silver and young virgins I’m afraid.

THE POINT IS(!), while I may not be an expert, I’m pretty sure my Irish ancestors were too busy trying to figure out if potatoes were categorized as an offensive weapon or livestock to bother with poncey things like risotto. Not really an Irish tradition. Also, not a hell of a lot of squid eaten that far north as I remember. Maybe I’m wrong, it could be deep fried squid is as Irish as drinking your way out of poverty** and being beaten up by the English***. I’m fairly certain though, that someone would have mentioned it by now. Pretty much the only thing I really remember about Irish cooking is that potatoes are used in the way other nations use meat… and salt… and flour… and vegetables… bricks… cars… shoes… second wives... those fucking people have a REALLY unhealthy relationship with the potato.

Obviously pizza and hamburgers aren’t traditional Irish fare, we couldn’t afford that much meat in one place. Pizza has an Italian name, like risotto, which leads me to think that these are probably Italian dishes and not Irish. I don’t wish to make a big deal out of this, but it would be like going to a Mexican restaurant and finding sushi on the menu. Any connoisseur of Mexican food would stand up and say “Excuse me, I don’t wish to be rude, but what the seven day, six night, you and friend package fuck is going on here?” Besides, pepperoni is something only French thieves that come down from Canada can get their greasy, smell, French hands on. In other words, the more charming, roguish, daughter stealing, criminal bastard side of my family.

So now we’re going to go on a quest. Syd and I are going to find a decent fucking Irish restaurant. I’ve been to one, The Asgard. However, that's in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Bit of a long haul for some stew and potatoes. The problem is, the longer I look, the more it becomes clear that the Olive Garden is more traditionally Italian than these places are Irish. I know being loud, drunk and obnoxious is traditional Irish behavior, so most of them being at least partially bars is going to be par for the course. However, finding most of the menu to be pasta and or pizza? No, not going there. Also not going to bother if the only way I can view your menu is to download a PDF. It’s 2008 guys! I’ve got better things to do than watch Adobe update again because I started the PDF reader****.



*Seriously, why those two dishes? Were “Trod Bog” and “Peat Moss Sandwich” considered too culturally sensitive?
**One day, that will work!
***Who are all fuckers by the way. Nothing personal to my friends from Albion, but you are.
****Seriously Adobe, every fucking time I open it you want to update nine or ten other things. Just fix your broken ass software and quit bugging me.

Photo Everyday (050)

Photo Everyday (049)

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Four)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

 

Chapter Four: The Last of Three Lovers

 

            I was lying in my bed, playing my new favorite game, which was raising my right hand. I’d managed to raise my hand seven inches high and hold it there. If I could move it ten inches to the left I could have it on my crotch and could just about not masturbate because it would have been more effort than I would have been up for. Getting my hand there would have worn me out, and I don’t think I could have bounced my wrist for the full action. So I was raising my hand and lowering it, before trying to raise my legs, when she walked back into my life.

 

            It doesn’t seem fair that the years should have only added ten pounds to her and then left her otherwise in tact. She still had a small, compact and tight frame, her face showed almost no signs of aging, all that had happened was that in thirteen years she’d gained ten pounds. Less than a pound a year, just doesn’t seem fair when you mount up what had become of me. Of course, if one wanted to argue the point, I was probably lighter now than I was all those years ago.

 

            She was dressed well, if casually. A sweater, some jeans, and unless my eyes deceived me she had on the same leather jack she had worn back in the day. I couldn’t tell just then if she was wearing it because she still always wore it, or if she had worn it specially for me. Seeing how she would later dress, I think she pulled it out as a talisman, or possibly armor. In that respect, she and Debbie were a lot alike.

 

            “Hi Jack,” she said, as the light fell on her nearly white blonde hair and reflected back a pale and cold light.

 

            Her silvery gray eyes sparkled as she looked around the room I was laying in. The light made her look cold and beautiful, but that could also have been the fact that it was the middle of winter and all the light that was shining through the room was filtered through the gray clouds and then reflected off the white snow. If there had been any warmth in the light, it had been sapped away by the cold it had traveled through.

 

            “Hi Karen,” I said, trying to sit up a little.

 

            “Been a long time.” She smiled at me.

 

            “Yeah, it has,” I said, realizing that for some reason I never took Debbie up on the idea of going with her to see Karen. Not once. “What, ten years? Since Angela and Pete got married?”

 

            “Almost twelve,” she said, and I could tell she felt the pang that I’d never come with Debbie as much as I had. “You’ve got to remember how long you were away.”

 

            “Right.” I nodded. “That’s still not sunk in.”

 

            “It will,” she said, “Don’t worry.”

 

            “Okay,” I said, and settled back against the pillows behind me. “So what have you been up to?”

 

            “Over the last decade?”

 

            “Yeah.” I nodded. “You still with Pete and Angela?”

 

            “Yes.” She laughed and looked embarrassed. “And I have a son named Paul and a daughter, Eloise. Nine and six.”

 

            “So what are you doing these days?”

 

            “I’m... is this what you want to talk about?” She was suddenly flustered.

 

            “What should we be talking about?” I asked her, watching carefully for her eyes to do that trick. “Do you want to talk about the past? Should we start at the beginning or the end?”

           

            “I’m supposed to be the psychologist,” she said.

 

            “Is that what you went to school for?” I asked. “Or what you ended up going to school for anyway?”

 

            “I’ve had my own practice for a couple of years now,” she nodded.

 

            “They send you in here to crack me?” I asked, only remembering that such a joke probably would have the wrong effect after it escaped my mouth.

 

            “Jack,” she sighed, “I’m not here to work on you, I’m here to see you, as you. Can’t you trust me? You used to trust me.”

 

            “That would require us to be like we were long ago,” I said, “And then we’d have to discuss long ago.”

 

            “I know that,” she agreed.

 

            “And you said we shouldn’t discuss long ago,” I told her, “Pretend like that summer never happened. That’s what you said.”

 

            A look of confusion crossed her face as she looked at me. I’ve always thought she was a smart cookie, but she couldn’t seem to work out the words I’d thrown back at her. She must have known they were hers, but she seemed mystified as to what she was supposed to do with them.

 

            “You’ve been holding on to that promise for fifteen years?” she asked, “You really just never talked about it?”

 

            “You said, she said,” I told her, “After her birthday we all agreed that we wouldn’t talk about it. I promised.”

 

            “For fifteen years?” she asked.

 

            “I don’t recall promises having a shelf life,” I said, and maybe I sounded a little testy, but it was getting on my nerves. Why does everyone act surprised just because I keep my word?

 

            “That’s why Debbie has...” She stopped and shook her head. “Okay, if I say it’s okay to talk, will you talk to me about it?”

 

            “Yeah,” I nodded.

 

            She then sat and just looked at her shoes for a moment. I watched her, but she didn’t do or say anything for a long time. Then, she sort of laughed and threw her head back, blinking back tears and biting her lower lip. She sucked in a big breath of air and held it for a second before sighing it out in one puff.

 

            “When we broke up, I sort of thought of all the things I would say and all the things I would ask when we finally had this talk,” she started, and then paused for a long time. “But then it all seemed so silly. Sometime, around the fourth or fifth year I started to think that maybe it was pointless to be mad at you or try to get answers from you. I mean I started to think that maybe you didn’t know why you did everything you did either.”

 

            “Maybe I do,” I tried to shrug, but the pain stopped me from doing much more than a weak motion.

 

            “I think the best you could manage is the reason you think you did it, seen through a fifteen year old filter,” she said. “I know a little bit about this sort of thing. You know that, right?”

 

            “Yeah, I guess I do,” I said. “So what do we do then? Do we ignore the old days? Do we try and talk about your kids and your husband and your wife?”

 

            “No,” she said, giving her lovely head a shake. “We have to talk about it, or it’ll hang over us.”

 

            “Do I tell you my reasons for going and then you tell me how I hurt you?”

 

            “If you’re just going to mock me,” she said and started to look angry.

 

            “I’m not mocking you,” I said, “I’m asking how you want to proceed. I can’t help it if I know a little bit about how these things are done too.”

 

            “You did hurt me,” she said. “You hurt us both.”

 

            “I know,” I said, “But I thought that it would be worse if I was around than if I wasn’t. You got hurt and there wasn’t much I could do about it. I couldn’t protect you, and I couldn’t really take care of you. I sort of figured that at any moment you’d decide you didn’t need me and then I’d be abandoned at the side of the road. I was really worried I was preventing you from being what you two wanted to be.”

 

            “You were scared?” she asked, “I don’t believe it. I was scared. You’re not capable of being scared.”

 

            I just looked at her for a while, because how could I tell her everything? Even if I wanted to tell her all that I thought I was feeling at the time, the memory was old. This wasn’t opening old wounds, there were hardly scars to show anymore. There were just a set of faded white lines, ones that had a lot more criss-crossing scars that had been laid over them in the years after those. It would have been fruitless to try and say who was right and who was wrong. We know who was wrong, I was wrong.

 

            “What you did to me, it affects a person,” I told her. “That’s not an excuse, it’s more by way of an explanation.”

 

            “Well, maybe we girls were a little inexperienced at the group thing, but you were a man of the world,” she said. “I mean, you’d been around, you’d done it.”

 

            “No I hadn’t,” I shook my head, “You were my first.”

 

            “What?” she asked and she looked at me as if I had spoken Chinese with a Dutch accent. I could tell that she had completely failed to comprehend my words.

 

            “The last day of school,” I said. “With you. That was my first time.”

 

            “Wait, what?” she stammered. “No. Then Debbie was your first. I blew you, and then you had sex with her and then had sex with me and...”

 

            She trailed off because I was shaking my head at her. She looked at me, with her jaw hanging only slightly open. It was a cute, but flabbergasted look that she had on her face. She was having to process something that she couldn’t quite comprehend. I’ve always said that my myth is more important to people than my facts. I was just banging up against another example of that truism. She put her hand on the bar that kept me from falling out of the bed and shook her head at me.

 

            “My reputation has always had more fun than me,” I told her.

 

            “Are you kidding me?” she asked, “You can’t… No.”

 

            “Debbie was my first all the way organ on organ sexual experience,” I told her and with great effort didn’t show how much pain and concentration it took to place my hand on hers.  “But you my dear, were my first ever anything. You were the first person ever to bring me to climax. Before you, there was nothing but getting to touch Suzy Jenkin’s left breast in a movie theater.”

 

            “I... I never knew that,” she said, “I thought you must have had hundreds of conquests before us. I didn’t even think it was your first three-way.”

 

            “First anything,” I said, “And there I was out to sea without a map, charts, sexton or even a paddle. I had no idea what I was doing or who I was supposed to be doing it with.”

 

            “You never said.” If there had been scales on her eyes, they would have fallen away.

 

            “No,” I agreed. “I never said a lot of things. One of my charms if you ask the right people.”

 

            I don’t know how much I’ve mentioned it, but I’ve noticed that myth is important to people. The myth of Jack Collier for example. Jack Collier is supposed to shrug off pain, laugh at danger, and be an all around stud. Women are supposed to throw themselves at his feet and thugs are supposed to throw up their arms at the very sight of him. If I ever actually meet the Jack Collier that everyone is talking about, I’m going to shoot the bastard for making me look bad.

 

            The myth is important though, and someday I should really address just how many people have put their faith in the Jack Collier Myth. I think the number might just be a lot bigger than I suspect even now. If I really made a list, and if I tried to take some interviews to back up that list, I might find out that everyone has made me into a bigger myth than the one I have worked so hard to make myself. It’s so easy to be a fraud when you have so many willing accomplices to do all the heavy lifting for you.

 

            “Oh,” was all she said after that. “That’s kind of funny really.”

 

            “What is?” I asked.

 

            “That you were the least experience among us, and yet you let us think you were the most experienced.”

 

            “I didn’t let you think or not think anything,” I said.

 

            “You let us trick ourselves then,” she said, “You knew we thought you were more experienced than either of us, and don’t try playing innocent like you didn’t know because you did.”

 

            “You’re sure?” I asked.

 

            “Positive,” she said, “You knew what we thought, you just never corrected us.”

 

            “Maybe,” I said, “That’s hardly important now though, is it? I mean if we go on with this now, we’ve got to talk about how I dumped you and left you scared of the world.”

 

            “I wasn’t scared of the world.” She said. “Not the whole world.”

 

            “And you got over that,” I stated.

 

            “Yeah,” she nodded.

 

            “So where do we go from here?” I asked.

 

            “Did Debbie tell you what we did the day you officially dumped us through her and walked away?”

 

            “You went back to Stony and you thought she was going to dump you,” I said.

 

            “There was more,” she said. “I started to cry, and she told me she loved me. And then we did it for the first time without you.”

 

            “That was the first time?” I asked, “Without me being around?”

 

            “It was sort of beautiful.” She smiled a wry little smile and slid her leather jacket off. “We recaptured the magic, we were able to start again. It saved us, her and I.”

 

            “Is that what you want to do, try and start again?” I asked.

 

            She smiled at me in an impulsive and delightful way. I had no idea what she was going to do, and I sort of thought she only had the vaguest idea. In fact, I could see that the germ of an idea had only just struck her and it was crystallizing in her mind as she toyed with the top button of her blouse.

 

            She pulled a hanger from that damn untalkative cabinet and put the jacket on it, and then proceeded to hang it on the door so that the coat obscured the window in the door. I watched what she did and watched as she trotted back to the bed where I was laying. She had already undone the top three buttons of her blouse and was scoping my hand up to slide it under her bra and press against her breast. She then swooped down and gave me a kiss.

 

            “What are you doing?” I asked as she pulled her bra off and let my hand go free.

 

            “Starting over,” she said, “I’m recapturing some magic.”

 

            “I can hardly move,” I said.

 

            “That’s okay. I’ll do the moving for you this time,” She smiled at me as she ruffled the blankets. “We’ll start at the beginning, and we’ll see if we can’t find that magic again.”

 

            I’m quite proud of myself, not only did I manage not to pass out but I actually got my hand to raise up high enough to toy with her left ear while she performed. I have no idea why, but that always would drive her on to deeper depths and more forceful action. Someday I might remember to ask her why rubbing her earlobe makes her perform better, but usually I’m too exhausted to bring it up.

 

Photo Everyday (048)

Photo Everyday (047)

Photo Everyday (046)

Sod the Golf, Go For the Sex

Photo Everyday (045)

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Three)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

Chapter Three: The Second Lover

 

            Pain killers are not your friend. You may think they’re your friend, when you need them, but they aren’t. They get inside, they like the look of the place and they decide to stay. Then they make you need them, they suck your soul, they make you depend on them and then they take control. Start down the road of dependence and you may never get off it again. You can’t depend on something that comes from a bottle, because that will kill you.

 

            You have to keep repeating that sort of thing to yourself over and over again when you’re denying yourself any pain medication. The initial pain from the lack of drugs is bad, and you have to scream into your pillow a lot, but then the pain changes. After a while, it becomes the pain you’ve always known. Slow pain, the kind that comes in through the door and smiles at you before attacking. You can see it coming, feel the gradual build-up, only you never can really tell when it’s so bad you should scream. Sure it hurts, but as long as you can bite back the shouts, you feel you should. If I ever did scream, someone would want to know why you waited for the pain to build to this level before asking for help, so you never scream. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was hurting, because I didn’t want them to ask why I didn’t ask for help when it wasn’t so bad only to suddenly make a ruckus when I couldn’t take it anymore.

 

            Days passed, maybe weeks passed. I got stronger, but it seemed like a constant uphill struggle and any slight rest meant I slid back down the hill. There were some interesting things though. I got a nice fruit basket from Church, and there was a rather stilted visit from Liberty and Jen. Someday, we’re going to have to have a talk about her. Someday, we’re going to have to come to some kind of conclusion about that young lady.

 

            I even got a visit and a box of chocolates from Alice, which is another issue I was going to have to resolve soon. I don’t actually remember the visit, but I found the box of chocolates and card and Debbie told me about her coming. When I cracked open the first chocolate and the white cream spilled out, I thought about her. I had to wonder if she sent this particular kind on purpose, or if she was just being unconsciously attractive again.

 

            Debbie came in every day or so. Maybe she came everyday, maybe once a week. It’s hard to judge the time when no one else is around to help you mark it. They might tell you that they were here yesterday, but how can you trust that when everything is a blur? Maybe they were here yesterday and every other day while you were fuzzed out and the last visit you can remember was one from two weeks ago. I probably saw her everyday though, and I probably remember all the visits, my stay in the hospital probably just seems like forever.

 

            Then there was Debbie’s story. The one she wrote, you’ve seen it I presume. She worked her way up to that, hinting that she had something she’d like for me to see, mentioning she had written a story and wanted my opinion. I tried to get her to talk about it a little, but she remained tight-lipped, which is a sure sign of trouble.

 

            The day she brought it in for me to read, I knew it was coming. She’d worn her leather jacket that Karen had bought her all those years ago that day, which is a sign. It’s always a sign that she either needs a boost in her courage, or that she’s going to see Karen later. Since she usually mentions that she’s going to see her a day or so in advance so I can have time to decide not to go with her this time, and she didn’t mention it, I can only think she needed the extra courage.

 

            She would need the courage, since we were going to have to discuss what we’d gone so long not discussing. It was in the story, and she’d done what she did with it, so we couldn’t ignore it anymore. When I finished the pages she’d brought from the office I set them down and look at her. She’d written this one story about a year and a half before, back when I’d only been under for a few months. Now, she wanted approval, even though she was discussing something they’d both asked me not to discuss.

 

            “What do you think?” she asked as I put the last page down.

 

            “You left out the apocalyptic screaming match after your birthday,” I told her, “Some important things happened after that.”

 

            “I didn’t to talk about that,” she said, “It would have seemed like I was giving an end, and it wasn’t the end.”

 

            “I would have told that part.” I said.

 

            “Yes,” she nodded, “You would.”

 

            “What does that mean?”

 

            “That means that you always give your tales some kind of end,” she said. “You always look for the end. Sometimes you make your own ending.”

 

            I didn’t like hearing that, not from her. I didn’t like hearing it because it was the truest thing about me that anyone had ever said, and it hit a little close to home for me. Particularly after reading a story in which I was clearly the chief villain, even if I was painted in glowing golden streaks. She must think the world of me, but you can’t make me not the monster in that tale without flat out lying. I thought maybe she wanted to say that I was the one that broke up the group, but she couldn’t quite manage to say that. Then again, maybe she wanted me to admit that it was outside forces that drove us apart. I could maybe say something about it, but I didn’t want to just then. It was a little more than I had strength for.

 

            So instead, I decided to do what I’ve always done to distract Debbie. I relied on crudeness to get me through. Fortunately, a part of the story she left out was on my mind because she’d worn jeans that rode low enough on her hips that I could see her underwear when she bent over to get something. Seeing the white and gray lace poke just over the edge of her waistband excited the memory in me.

 

            “I notice you also left out that afternoon at Stony in the woods when you two suggested experimenting with baby oil and hand cream,” I said tapping the paper on my lap. “That was an interesting afternoon and one might argue that it should be recorded for posterity.”

 

            “It wasn’t that kind of story.” She blushed to the roots of her luscious hair and looked down at her shoes. “I didn’t want to be too explicit. I was trying to tell a love story.”

 

            “You know why I would have talked about the end?” I asked.

 

            “Why?” she asked meeting my eye again.

 

            “Because I would have wanted to try and explain it a little. How I thought things were going and how they were going to go. How I saw things, and how I think some of the things I saw might have been wrong.”

 

            “You see things differently now?” she asked, crossing her legs.

 

            I couldn’t see her crossing them, but I could hear the material of her jeans as she moved. I could perfectly picture the legs moving with the sound, and just that was enough. She also leaned forward a little, which wafted a handful of air that contained her perfume to my face. If I hadn’t been so weak, I would have made a lewd comment.

 

            “Are we going to talk about this now?” I asked, “Are we going to really discuss it?”

 

            “I’m not sure. Not yet.” She shook her head. “I think maybe you should talk to Karen first.”

 

            “Why can’t you talk to me now?”

 

            “Not when you’re weak.” She shook her head and I could see emotion trying to leak out. “When we can talk on even terms, then we’ll talk.”

 

            “When I’m weak?”

 

            “I don’t like you lying in that bed,” she said, and her face crumpled suddenly. “I can’t really talk to you like this.”

 

            “You could turn away.”

 

            “I’d know,” she said as the tears started to trickle. “I think when we’re a little more equally matched, we can talk then.”

 

            “But you’re not afraid of me talking to Karen?”

 

            “No,” she smiled weakly. “You and Karen are different than you and I.”

 

            “I suppose that’s a given.” I smiled back at her. “But I think we should talk now Debs.”

 

            “Why?” she tried not to whine or pout, but it didn’t work as well as she’d like.

 

            “I need to at least know where we stand. I mean if nothing else, we’ve spent a very long time pretending and now you’ve brought it out and we can’t go on pretending,” I told her. “So is this a true story or just something you made up in your spare time?”

 

            “It happened,” she said. “I don’t want to act like it never happened anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending like these feelings don’t exist.”

 

            “Did you really tell Christmas to leave me?”

 

            “Yes.” She closed her eyes again, trying to stop the tears which were spilling out. “I couldn’t stand to see what she was doing to you.”

 

            “Why?” I asked, and while she didn’t realize it, I had decided she was either going to say it before she left or admit that she wouldn’t be saying it again.

 

            “I told you,” she said, and her voice cracked a little. “I hated seeing her string you along and tear you up like that.”

 

            “But why did it bother you so much?” I asked, “You haven’t made a single move towards me in all these years, and I’ve not made a move towards you per your post-birthday instructions.”

 

            “I hated seeing her do that.”

 

            “No,” I said, and shook my head, “What was your interest?”

 

            “I’ve got to protect you,” she said, and her shoulders started shuddering a little. “Have to take care of you when you won’t do it yourself.”

 

            “But why?” I asked, and that stupid AC unit dropped some water on my eye, allowing it to trickle down my face.

 

            “Because...” she said and stopped.

 

            “Because why?” I asked again. “C’mon, this is simple. What need did that action satisfy? What was behind that need? What was your main motivating factor, what was the base reason?”

 

            “You know what it is,” she said.

 

            “Do I?” I asked.

 

            “Yes,” she said looking at the pages in my lap. “I will talk to you about it when you and I can talk as equals though. I won’t have this conversation when one of us can put power over the other.”

 

            “Can’t even say it?” I asked, “Not for the poor sicky who could use the encouragement?”

 

            “Not right now.” She shook her head and wiped tears from her face. “I mean it, you know I feel it, but I can’t say it. Not until I can work out the best way to say it, work out exactly how I feel about the whole thing.”

 

            “What about my encouragement?” I asked, trying to look petulant, which wasn’t terribly hard.

 

            “Jack, you don’t need encouragement,” she said.

 

            “I might, you don’t know how bad it can be some days.”

 

            “Maybe I do,” she said. “Maybe I know exactly how bad it can be.”

 

            I’d spent years, too many to count, with her on the other side of that door. I’m going to tell you something, and it’s going to make you scratch your head and look at me funny, but I’ll do it anyway. I’d never stopped loving her, not for one second. I never told her how I felt because we had agreed to be nothing more than friends, but I still loved her. It was torture, but a delightful torture, having her there every day. There was a constant longing to reach out and grab her, to hold her, kiss her, do the sort of things that detectives always do with their secretaries in the books I read as a kid. I couldn’t though, because I promised that we’d act like it never happened and that those feelings didn’t exist. And now, after this event, she more or less tells me that I’m not the only one who was looking longingly at the door. Stupid, but I never claimed to be very smart.

 

            “Debbie,” I said reaching my hand out feebly toward her, “What would you like me to say?”

 

            “Nothing,” she took my hand in hers and gripped it for a moment. Then she looked at my face and either the tears started a new or they continued. “I just want you to know that, sometimes I think that.”

 

            She had to stop and bite her lip for a moment and I noticed that the stupid AC unit was dripping again. More this time, but I know Debbie would know it was the AC unit, and not me crying because she knows me and knows I’m not a little bitch who cries just because the crushing stupidity of the last ten years as come in all at once. She reached over and brushed the water away with her thumb. The scent of her perfume came to me again and it was terribly unfair. If I could have moved my head more than a few inches, I would have leaned forward and kissed her. Maybe that’s what she meant about waiting until we were equal.

 

            “Debs?” I whispered to her.

 

            “Yes Jack?” she asked, taking in a deep breath that almost choked back a sob.

 

            “I need you to do three very important things for me.”

 

            “Okay,” she said, trying to look brave.

 

            “First,” I said, “I need you to call Karen for me and see if she’ll come and see me.”

 

            “Okay,” she nodded.

 

            “Second,” I said, “I need you to put my hand on your chest because I think groping you would give me strength.”

 

            “Oh come on,” she said and let my hand drop on my chest.

 

            “And third…”

 

            “You have more offensive things to say?” she smiled, and she’d stopped crying too.

 

            “Third,” I repeated, “I need you to come down here and kiss me, because at the moment I can’t leap up and kiss you, which is what I really want to do.”

 

            I’m pleased to report that after taking my third request seriously, she actually decided to take my second request seriously as well. It was just a cheap, over the shirt feel that I was allowed to cop, but it was something. One should never look a copped feel in the... well you just shouldn’t.