Geek Weekly #8

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36

A Valuable Lesson

A little ways north of the refinery, on the other side of the Canadian river, there's an old ghost town. It died when they built the new highway from Borger to the county seat and bypassed it. But the local legend is that the place dried up when most of the kids died in the "Spanish Lady" flu epide mic in 1918 and then blew away after a fire in the school killed the rest. Imagine that, if you can, living in a town where the kids are all in the graveyard. Shite, I wouldn't hang around either. When I was a teen age punk, I used to go out there with my friends Jerry and Time and get drunk off Crown Royal that Tim stole from his dad. We'd sit out there in the burned-out rubble of the school house, under the brick arch of the doorway which was all that survived the fire, besides the concrete foundation, and we would get drunker than fuck. We usually did it on Sunday afternoons; Jerry and me 'cause it was the only time we could get away with it, and Tim 'cause, being a strict Baptist, he liked to get drunk on Sunday. When we were so drunk that we couldn't see straight, we'd get out our .22's and just blaze away --shooting at a wide variety of junked cars, abandoned refrigerators, rotten furniture, and anything that was stupid enough to move. It was funner than hell, although I eended up puking most times. Jerry shot himself when we were 16. It fucked everything up. Tim and I never saw much of each other after that; I knocked a girl up and had to get married. Then after high school, Tim joined the navy and I never heard anymore about him, except for the rumor going around that he got send to Leavenworth for cocain possession and going AWOL. I got a job at the refinery and pretty much forgot all about it. Except once in a while, like when I would have to go out to the bugponds-which're these pits they dump PCB's, dioxins and all kinds of industrial poison in. Supposedly they're trying to breed som kind of bactera that'll eat that shit. It's horrible, you're always seein' deer carcasses out there, rotting on the ground. It would all come back especially clear when I had to go out there at night. The lights of the refinery shine and twist in the greasy water at the bottom of the pits, and when the flares go off everything gets at the bottom of the pits, and when the flares go off everything gets lit up with this weird orange glow. And when I'd stand up at the edge of those fucking poison holes in that glow, looking down into the pits I'd almost always think of Jerry and Tim and all those dad kids. And If I stared down at the lights on the pond for a long time, I'd see faces. And one time I thought I saw a little old crippled man at the bottom. He was grey and he kept asking me to reach down and give him a hand. Man, after that I really hated going out there.

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Last edit over 4 years ago by alixjohnson7
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After Melissa took off with the kid on my twentieth birthday--the bitch--I drank a lot and got fired. So I had to move back in with my dad. I laid around all day and watched TV. When Dad got home, I'd make some Hamburger Helper or we'd order pizza and we'd drink beer and play cards, usually gin. If I won, Dad'd say "Well son, guess I'll have to keep that for the rent." If he won, which, like the cheating old fuck he is, he usually did, he'd write down how much I owed him on the little pad he kept in his pocket. Then he'd go to bed and I'd stay up, smoke pot and watch movies, usually prono tapes, and fall asleep on the couch.

Dad'd make me get up when he got up, around 5:15am and I'd have to get all dressed and eat breakfast with him. He thought I was going out every morning and looking for work, but I was just going back to bed as soon as he left. I figured I'd get a job when he kicked me out and I had to.

One night around that time, after me and Dad split a case of Pearl and he beat my ass at cards and tottered off to bed, I smoked some skunk-weed, got outrageously stoned, watched an all-girl porno tape called "eager Beavers," jerked off and passed out with a silver pool of jizz on my belly.

I woke up in the middle of th night feeling someone watching me. I couldn't hear anything but the crackle and roar of static from the TV. I cracky my eyelids and saw in the nuclear glow of the tube a little red devil sitting on my arm of the couch. He looked just like a cartoon devil-red skin, pointy tail, a little pitchfork, even a little black derby hat, the whole bit, except he had a horny-toad head. He was moving his mouth and his big, pink, antcatching tongue was wrigglin' around, but I couldn't hear what he was saying 'cause the TV was up so damn loud.

I reach for the remote and hit the mute button.

"...hey shithead, " his voice hissed, "ah, finally noticed me. I've been here chattering away for ever so long while you've been asleep," then he turned one glazed lizard eye at me and said, "how can you sleep, anyway, with the TV blaring all night?"

"Well, um I'm usually drunk."

"Yes, of course I like to savor the occasional spirit myself," then he leaned forward a little and I could smell his breath. It smelled just like Off.

"Naturally, we differ as to preference, that is, you slurp the fermented rot of barley and hops right out of the can and I savor the sour taste of rotten souls right out of the body. You know what we say in Hell-'the last breath is always the freshest death.' And, I'm sure you'd be proud to know that your grandfather was one of the tastiest rotten, twisted souls I've ever caught, he was so good I turned into a worm so I could relish his putrescence in a physical sense as well."

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Last edit over 4 years ago by alixjohnson7
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I didn't want to hear that about my Pop; I mean, I knew he was a dirty old man, all my girl cousins used to hate him, 'cause he was always playin' grab-ass. My cousin Tricia claimed that when she was about fourteen he used to creep into her bedroom and put his hand in her panties.

I loved him though, he taught me how to drive, told me about pussy - the best thing about Pop was that he'd talk to me like I was a person, not just a kid. But anyway, when he died, I was the only one there with him. My dad and aunts were all out in the hall, they were afraid he was gonna take all night dyin', and they were all out there arguing over what kind of pizza to have delivered. I was sittin' right next to the bed and he leaned over and said something about "sweet split-tailed little beavers," gurgled and died. When I realized he was dead, I reached over and tried to shut his eyes, but I was too afraid to push hard enough and every time I shut 'em, they'd pop right back open again.

The devil hopped onto me and started scrabbling up my chest toward my face. I seized up; I couldn't move at all, and if I'd tried I probably would've crapped my drawers anyway. He smelled horrible, like a giant dead diamondback rattler rotting in a tub of formaldehyde, its guts and scales floating around loose. I was also weirded out 'cause he was startin' to look kinda like old Pop and I was kinda worried he was gonna stick his hand down my pants or something.

As he got clsoer, his head- man the fuckin' thing was swelling up like a balloon hooked to a helium tank. It just kept growing until, when he sat himself on my chest, right in my face, it was so fuckin' huge that he coulda popped my whole head in his gigantic mouth like a goddam breath mint. And his tongue, Jesus Christ, he had this big frog-tongue. He wasn't talkin' no more, he just opened up that mouth and let his tongue fall down --"splap" -- on my face. I was drowning under that nasty pink thing. The tongue wormed its way into my mouth and down my throat; I couldn't breathe. Then it swallowed my head.

When my dad woke me up he said my face was a dead bluegreen. "Shit boy, I thought you was dead." He had to roll me over and open my mouth to get the puke out of my windpipe, then he gave me mouth-to-mouth." It's bad enough eating my own vomit and it's usually still hot and fresh when I do, but it was pure "D" hell eating your cold puke especially with all that snot mixed in it." He told me all that later and he announced, "Boy, you ain't drinkin' no more. From now on, you've quit, ok?"

I just shrugged my shoulders. I'd had enough to drink anyway. When I got out of the hospital I started lookin' for work right away- I wasn't about to spend all day and night on that damn couch. Hell, I even started sleeping on the floor. -Nat Wilson Turner 36

Last edit over 4 years ago by alixjohnson7
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Little Timmy Inklebarger, our talented and charming cover artist

thanks, Tim!

Last edit over 4 years ago by alixjohnson7
GW Mailer Return Address
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GW Mailer Return Address

Geek Weekly Fanzine PMB #292 2002-A Guadalupe Austin, TX 78705

lasuprema@hotmail.com colettecall@earthlink.net

http://home.earthlink.net/~colettecall/geekweeklyfanzine.html

Last edit over 5 years ago by terriertle17
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