“Are you a white man?”
“No, I’m Jewish.”
“Good answer.”
“I’m not to savvy having a white man moving into the neighborhood but a Jew is something else.”
“We are something else.”
“I was raised with the sequel to the Bible, but when I’m down, I pray to God, not the son of God. I like Jesus with his drinking and whoring. He is alright, but I don’t want to have to play a game of “Telephone” between Jesus and God. I want to go to the source…Jesus, could have been drinking and getting his dick sucked when I prayed to him, and then he gives God the wrong message…”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Jesus don’t hear to well or he is like that Jeanie in a bottle who gives you three wishes, and grants them but they always fuck you up more.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, when I used to pray and ask things to Jesus, I would say something like,Oh Jesus, Lord don’t let my woman smell the pussy on my dick when I get home… And don’t you know it, I’d get home and my woman insisted on sucking my dick. Now, that was not ordinary for her. So, I got caught with my pussy dick. Now, I’m assuming Jesus heard me say,”Oh Jesus, let my woman suck my dick when I get home… Everytime, I prayed to Jesus, he would fuck me up, but when I just prayed to the Old Testament God, he brought righteous pain upon my enemies. He is a super tough motherfucker. He is like a Marine, and Jesus is more like a Merchant Marine or a do-gooder like the Salvation Army or Peace Corp guy… I like him, he’s a good guy, but he always fucks up what I’m looking for. When I pray to the Old Timer God, he is like a Lawyer and evaluates what I want, and will either give it to me or not. Jesus just gets me in trouble. Are you a religious man?”
“I like the stories, I eat pork and follow none of the dietary rules.”
“Well, I understand. Pork sure is a tasty meat. God didn’t have ovens to cook the shit out of pork when he wrote that Pork Law. Must have been like Charlotte’s Web for the Wilbur’s of the world when that dietary law was written about not eating pigs. Damn, sure lucky Governor’s Pardon for the damn pigs in the Middle East when that Law got voted on and written down.Damn lucky for them tasty oinkers. Me, I still eat Pork.”
“Do you consider yourself Jewish?”
“Uh-uh, I am most definately a black man who just happens to believe in the old man over the kid. I got my reasons. Even the way I am only sort of blind is Jesus’s fault.”
Go on Orville Nettles, tell me how Jesus sort of blinded you.
“I will in good time.”
Doctor Freud’s Burlesque Show -#3 Black Ice
Johnny Aces was making us all nuts. He was going off on weird theories and presenting them as true axioms,”As men we have to teach women how to become dirty. It is our responsibility to open them up to every degenerate idea of how to become dirty. They should be there to help us get laid with other women. They should lure home other women for us. In fact, our responsibility to the community of men, is to make them all scumbags.”
“I think we all are scumbags, anyway,”I said.
“We could do more, much more.”
Schlomo said,”Why don’t we give a tour on how to become a bigger better scumbag in New York City.”
Johnny and I looked at each other,”That would be a great money maker,” I said.
“We could tour men around and Johnny can introduce men how to pick up ladies, in bars, on the street, in the Pharmacy, by the fruit stand. Everywhere.”
“I could do that. We need a buffer.”
“A buffer?”
“Yeah, not everybody is as big a scumbag as me. It takes alot of work to be able to pick up women the way I do. It takes effort, and time. We need to hire prostitutes to be where the tour is and make sure that the lame ass men who do this tour will feel like they actually picked up the women. “
“Wait, so now the Tour is going to involve Prostitutes?” Schlomo asked.
“No, Escorts.”
“How do the Escorts get paid?”
“It’s built into the price of the tour.”
Schlomo and I looked at each other.
“It could work,” I said.
“It would be a mitzvah that we would be doing for the schlubs of America. In fact, I would want to be on that tour.
“I come before this assembly to bring you my truth. There are many people here and my truth may offend some. So, I have brought my personal Bartender here today, and for one day only, he has agreed to mix drinks for the general public.”
Sam waved to the people from the side of the auditorium. He wore his apron. His walrus moustache bristled with anticipation. He looked like a man getting ready for a Hurricane. In fact, he planned on mixing Hurricanes for this event. He hardly ever mixed sweet drinks,”Sweet drinks of alcohol are for children,” he would say.
I greatly appreciate everybody showing up for the first Murder Tour Incorporated meeting of potential killers.”
That got a laugh from the audience.
I am not here to distract you from your lives. I am here to tell you why people kill and why you are fascinated with them… The first thing I would like to do is irritate you… Serial Murderers are dopes. You are interested in them because they distract you from the misery of your own life.”
Groans from the crowd.
Schlomo ran to Sam who fixed him a Hurricane.
I knew he was thinking that there might be a riot. I knew that he was thinking that I was going to ruin our growing thriving business.
I was flushing out a Serial Killer or something.
I use you all. I make money off of dumb fuckers who think they are movie stars because the murders they commit end up on the front page of newspapers…
I saw a bunch of my staff at Murder Tours Incorporated. Donna the Secretary, Ken the Sales pusher, and Johnny Aces were all having cocktails.
And I am here to tell you something else. Serial Killers are dumb. There has never been an intelligent one.
The line for the Hurricane beverage was growing. Sam was holding down the fort till I lashed out,”Silence Of The Lambs is the dumbest fucking movie ever.”
People were making their way to the exits, or clamoring Sam to make his drinks faster. Schlomo ran up to the stage and grabbed the microphone away from me,”My partner is trying to make a point. He is under a great deal of stress having been himself been trapped and released by “The Tattoo Ripper.”
People oowed and awwed and returned to his seat.
“He is also in the middle of a strange relationship with his wife and girlfriend. They have fallen in love with each other.”
A young geeky voice from the crowd,” Are you jealous about your wife and girlfriend spending so much time together.”
I grabbed the microphone back from Schlomo,”Nah, I’m not jealous, I just prefer it if someone were sucking my cock.”
Laughs from the audience. I had them sitting back down with their cocktails. I had French people nodding and the Germans shaking their heads. They looked like a bunch of knick knack nodders on top of a refridgerator door
The great thing about writing, is that I feel I can improve upon any story, everyday…The horrible thing about writing is that I can improve upon a story everyday.
I have a lazy man’s plan of attack for this book. Not surprising that it is a lazy man’s plan. What is surprising is that I have a plan of attack. Here it is.
I will write forwards and backwards without reading anything I’ve written so far. This will be interesting since I have Writer’s Alzheimers. I can’t remember my characters names or what they have done or what they have said in previous chapters. People actually talk to me about characters by name and are telling me a story about them, and I say,”Did I write that, that’s horrible!” or “That’s fucking funny. I’m fucking funny”
I surprise myself.
Here’s why I want to start the book over: I realize that my main character (whatever his name is) needs a kind of assistant. His name will be Sam and he will be the protagonists personal
Bartender. I realize the importance of this character because I recently hired a personal bartender to come to my aid. He is someone who will come to wherever I am located and with his makeshift bar, mix me a cocktail. Not just any cocktail, a strong Gibson or an Old Fashioned.
I recommend to everybody out there to hire a Bartender who can come to your location, where ever that may be and mix you cocktails.
In the book, I may have my bartender come to a bar to mix me a proper drink.
My main character is not a drunk, but if he is going to drink, it best be made proper. Sam the Bartender will also have advice, not unlike Jeeves in the Wodehouse books.
Well, it is time to get Sadie to school. Maybe I will read my book and eliminate my withered soul of the struggle to seperate the characters who exist in my world and my fictional world.
The next chapter will start like this:
“I don’t mind that my wife and girlfriend spend all their time together. I don’t think that I am jealous of them. I would just prefer it, if someone were sucking my cock”
My Murder Tours Incorporated was growing huge. My name got in the paper involoved with the Serial Ripper and the Office phone was ringing off the hook.
City Officials from other cities were calling and asking us to branch out.
For example, someone from the Detroit, claiming to be part of the Mayor’s Office called,”Detroit has a wealth of great murder stories. There’s the riots, there’s the great mansions. We have a great murder look in parts of the city. We are in ruins. Mansions in ruins. Houses stripped of all metal going to China to build houses there.We have a great city for your Murder Tour company. We would like to take a meeting and show you around.
“Um, Sounds good. I will run it by my partners.”
I didn’t want to tell him that two of my partners were missing. I didn’t want to mention that I was still being stalked by a serial killer, I didn’t want to mention that I was a piece of rotting meat between my wife and my girlfriend.
Instead I said,”Um, sounds good. I will take a meeting with my partners who are on vacation and my wife and my… loved ones.”
“The Mayor himself would like to meet with you.”
“Isn’t he in jail?”
“Not currently. He loves what you are doing in New York and wants you to bring that energy to to Motor City, or should we call it Murder City… Our murders are becoming more ingenious. For example, we just had a madman who incorporated body parts into the engine of his Vintage Caddy.
“Wow.”
“Yes, wow! In no time, we can become murder capital, and you can be there to view it all.”
“I turned to Schlomo, they want us to branch out to Detroit.”
“No brainer,” he said.
I got off the phone with Detroit and turned to Schlomo,”You know if Steve and Johnny aren’t dead, we could become really big tour guides of murder around the country… Imagine, if we could really feel good about ourselves. Imagine us as happy and successful.”
Schlomo said,”Don’t be ridiculous. Now, let’s go find our missing tour guides corpses. It will make a spectacular tour!”
Don’t ever want to get blah-ged in life. I like writing fiction in order to find out what is really going on in my life that I am unaware of.
Still, I realized that in order to put on a quality show for you folks, and by show, I mean fiction that you will want to continue reading, I’m periodically going to have to know what I’m writing about…
I have a kind of Alzheimer’s when I write, and I force the issue on myself as well. Let me explain:I will write without wanting to read what I have written. Fucked up right?
In fact, who knows when I will write what I’ve just written?
“Why?” you ask.
Most of you know I have limited time in a day to write. Surviving in New York with two little kids… sucks.My business sucks, my kids are demanding and the dishes are piling up.
I’m just grateful, I can ignore all my problems and remain happy. Thank God, I am no genius. I can plow ahead, and all kinds of bad things can happen, and I can whistle a little song.
Interestingly enough, nothing irritates me more than someone else whistling in public.
I must explore whistling more in the novel. A whistle will give the killer away, or maybe it will give him a way to get away.
I am optimistic about “Doctor Freud’s Burlesque Show.” I feel if on occasion I can just write without trying to figure out the plot or remember characters names, I will be able to strip some of the fat of the book.
It does look like I might be forced to read what I’ve written in “Menage A Trois A La Mode”. It gives me a headache even thinking about my ambitious book about having a wife, a girlfriend, a family… oh and of course a corpse living in my backyard.
I still love the image of my protagonist feeling most comfortable laying in his backyard, talking to the corpse which lays there next to him, who nobody wants to acknowledge. The Police don’t give a shit, the landlord doesn’t want to know about it, the neighbors just say,”Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” will make a good title for a chapter. Sounds like it was a book already. Sounds like a Patterson book or somebody like that.
Well, it is time to get ready for work. I have dishes to do, food to prepare and a family to kiss and kid around with. Then I’ll have a full day of loading and unloading trucks at work, as I plan a new scene for Menage A Trois A La Mode and figure out how the hell to get anyone to pay attention to the corpse that is lying in my backyard.
Schlomo, Johnny Ace, and I, hopped into my Dodge Ram 1990. The fellas and I knew it as The Zen-Mobile, my wife referred to it as “That piece of shit.
We drove from Steve’s empty apartment in Bed-Stuy to the Hipster section of Williamsburg. Along the way, the pedestrians in every neighborhood refused to pay attention to traffic. In Bed Stuy, we had to wait till the teenagers whose pants were falling down, could hobble across the street, In the Hasidic Community we had to put on the breaks as a woman with four kids used her stroller as a way to stop traffic.”
Johnny Aces honked the horn,”How can you push children right into traffic.
Schlomo said”God will protect her.”
I laughed.
“I wasn’t kidding,” Schlomo said. I could smell the pork from the dumplings on his breath.
“Schlomo, before you go to your Rabbinical group, you may want to gargle.”
“Whenever I eat pork, I want to fuck the Rabbi’s wife. I want to leave my pork breath on her titties and her cunt. I want my pork cum to..”
I covered my ears,”That’s enough. I can’t handle what the msg in Chinese food does to you. No more eggrolls for you.”
Schlomo looked like he was going to cry.
Finally, we were in the horrible landscape of Hipster
Williamsburg…
Johnny had to put on the breaks, almost tapping the tall skinny girl who didn’t even flinch. She wore Cowboy boots and a mini skirt.
I screamed out the window,”I’m driving here! You are not in the woods here.”
“Stop yelling at her,” Johnny said.
“What is the matter with you. That piece of shit almost damaged the Zen-Mobile… What, what is it, you wanna fuck her. You wanna fuck every piece of shit that walks on the street Johnny.”
“Easy,” Schlomo. Didn’t you recognize that girl?”
“No, who is that?”
“That is Steve’s wanna be girlfriend. That’s that chick Wilma, he wants to fuck really bad. Maybe she knows what happened to Steve.”
We hopped out of The Zen-Mobile and tried to get Wilma to take her I-Pod off her head. She refused. Johnny kissed her some deep disturbing kiss.
Schlomo said,”Clearly, he knows her.”
They went off together.
Schlomo and I waited on the curb as Johnny Aces and Wilma went who knows where to do who knows what.
“You think Johnny will get any information about Steve out of her?” I asked.
Schlomo said,”I don’t know if he’ll remember or care… This might take awhile. Maybe we should map out the holiday schedule for Murder Tours Incorporated.”
“Yeah, we might be here two minutes.”
Schlomo said,”Has anyone looked under the hood of the Zen-Mobile? Do we need fluids? When was the last time anyone put gas in this piece of shit?”
“Don’t call the Zen-Mobile a piece of shit. It hurts my feelings… I’m assuming that Johnny takes care of the car. Isn’t that his responsibility as driver of our tour company?”
“Who knows?”
“Now, I’m more nervous about the Van then I am about Steve.”
What could have happened to Steve? He’s fine,”Schlomo said assuringly as he lifted his hand to the air in a sign of strength.
“Steve is not fine,” Johnny said zipping up his pants. The kid was stripped of his tattoos. They peeled his tattoos and sewed it onto some Preacher in Staten Island.”
We hopped into the Zen-Mobile and I said,”Where are we going.”
“We are going to the hospital and then to Staten Island.”
“We might need to stop to get gas,” Schlomo said.
“And maybe to check to see if there is an engine under the hood,”I added
We went looking for our annoying friend Steve…
“Why do we care where Steve is?” I asked.
“What are we going to do with our lives, without Steve,” Johnny said.
Schlomo said,”He is an important distraction from my own life. Steve’s fucked up behavior, makes me think my life is good.”
“I sure hope he’s not dead in there,” I said.
Schlomo said,”I am not allowed to see a corpse. I am a Cohen which is the high Rabbi’s. We are not allowed to view the dead.”
“Is that why you didn’t go to your father’s funeral.”
“I couldn’t face that man dead or alive.”
We got to Steve’s apartment and banged on the door enough to get the other tenants to peek out the door.
Johnny screamed,”Anyone know where this knucklehead is?”
No response. He screamed again,”If I don’t get answers, I’ll huff and I’ll puff.”
A little Puerto Rican kid opened the door and said,”He ain’t dere.”
Johhny walked over to the kid,”Where he be?”
“He real gone,” the kid slammed the door shut.
Johnny looked around at the floor and picked up a menu from a Chinese takeout.”
“Good idea, I’m starving,” Schlomo said, picking up a menu from the ground and taking out his phone to begin ordering.”
“Since when are you eating non-kosher food.”
“I cheat all the time,”Schlomo said in a matter of fact tone. “This place has great dumplings. You in?”
Johnny slid the menu he had between the lock and the door,”Watch this?”
Schlomo said,”You can’t break in. I am not going to jail.”
Johnny said,”The only problem with breaking in with this Chinese menu is that in an hour we’ll have to break in again.”
In thirty seconds we were in. Johnny and I stood in the apartment with our jaws dropped.
Schlomo stood with his hand over his eyes in order to make sure that Steve wasn’t lying dead as he placed his order over his cell phone,”Listen, listen, steamed dumplings, Chinese broccoli with chicken,and lots and lots of soy sauce… Guys, can I look, is Steve dead? Can I have the food delivered here or no.”
Schlomo looked around for the first time into the apartment. For the first time since I knew him, he was speechless. Finally, words came to him,”Steve really cleaned up.”
The apartment was broom swept clean. It was totally empty. This was not the dump which we knew.
Schlomo said,”We must have broken into the wrong apartment
