fenwick - 7. a man not to be trifled with

by minette de montfort

illustrated by danny delacroix and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge -for needless to say it was indeed poor muggleton who burst through the hedge - for who else could it have been? - i put it to you - reader, if perchance you exist, we are not here to play tricks on you but to tell a plain tale as plainly as possible - the good old fashioned way, around the hearth, around the campfire, at the old roadside inn as the landlord prods the embers with his blackened poker - blackened by centuries of low smoke and weary travelers tales - all hastening to the same end - oblivion - but to proceed - we will tell our tale - because every tale must be told - no matter how dreary or boring - yes, every tale must be told - and will be told - every song must be sung - down to the last repeated chorus - every dog will have his day - every cat will have his nip - though at night they all are gray - every nip will have his tuck - every tuck will have his friar - every friar will have his fat jolly nun - every fat jolly nun will have her flask of ale at the bar of the old roadside inn where the travelers tell their timeworn tales - their tales that must be told. yes, tales that must be told. but not by muggleton. no, not by muggleton. muggleton was given his chance, his chance to tell his own tale - and a sad enough tale it was, to be sure - and he made - i will not say a complete hash of it, no, not a complete hash, but by god, we have to get on with it, don't we? so we will nor hear from muggleton again - we will hear of him to be sure, for he is part of this sorry tale - that must be told regardless - as all tales must be told - but not from him. on with it, man, on with it. admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge - beckwith, the butler who ruled castle morwyn with an iron hand - or with a rod of steel, or perhaps with a rod of steel in his iron hand - or in his iron fist, i believe that is the correct term - a tale should be told in correct terms - what, i ask you, is the point of telling it otherwise? - beckwith happened to be looking out the window - i should say, a window, as there was more than one window in castle morwyn - it could hardy be called a castle, could it now, if it only had one window - beckwith happened to be looking out of the window of the red room - called the red room for what the saints only knew what reason, as there was nothing particularly red about it though there may well have been in the mists of time - for complete episode, click here

road poem

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus

spiders weave, and flies escape clowns wear noses and magicians capes everything is what it shall be whales laugh in the deep black sea between the oceans the highways wait for wanderers to take the bait big wheels whispering in the rain yellow moons over the shadowed plain call them alice, samantha or flo dames will come and dames will go but a pal is a brother, you know when the road calls, you got to go down the highway and over the hills we've got our booze, we've got our pills past the factories, past the old mills stoked to the gills, looking for thrills craving adventure, desperate for love laughed at by the gods above angels and devils can play their tricks we're on a one-way quest for kicks down darkened highways smoked with dreams when nothing is really what it seems because every darkened window and door hides more secrets than can ever be explored past silent houses where dogs sleep on chairs as cats watch over them with gracious airs cinderella brings stepmother her evening tea because that is the way it will always be waves of music suddenly blast out of the hidden fellaheen past a shack on the prairie, window alight solid in the windy night bus stop annies in the shadows of the docks clodhopper clems sit beneath the clocks the bus from des moines is an hour late but it will not affect their fate silent pawn shops, all night cafes hotels that have seen better days bums clutching bottles in lionish paws because the night obeys no laws railroad bulls who once had hearts now practice moloch's murderous arts empty boxcars with flown away souls can't get no more jelly roll moctezuma and railroad bill in a souvenir shop outside boot hill wait for john henry's promised return because the world will never learn cabeza de vaca with his thumb stuck out gives a final desperate shout as william mckinley driving a tramways bus leaves him behind in a cloud of dust the final kick just out of reach end up on a deserted beach the ocean is the last motel room its whispering surf the voice of doom

pals, part 7: resolution

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus

click here for previous chapter

click here to begin at the beginning

though they did not exactly fly the days did in fact go by despite some pathetic half hearted resolutions to life i had no solutions and it went on as before with no crescendo or roar and try try as i might against my fate i could not fight every night jane walked through my brain again and again and again not really driving me insane i was too defeated for that so i finally put on my hat and one night made my way back to ray's i still remembered the way nothing seemed to have changed nothing had to be explained bertha was behind the bar as usual as always smiling and schmoozical henry and jane were there at me they did not stare but gave me a cursory nod as if they did not find my presence odd henry continued what he had to say as if never noticing i had been away and jane listened to him intently she had also not noticed i was gone evidently or more likely they just didn't care so i sat down in my chair then decided i really needed a drink so off to the bar i did slink i could hear them chattering away as they probably had every day with complete obliviousness to my disappearance so unmysterious o henry couldn't you see that jane meant everything to me i thought you were my friend but you brought my life to an end i returned with my drink to the table as i was perfectly able and though my brain feebly resisted it was if i had never existed we walk through life in a dream too polite to scream too disciplined and well bred until the waters close over our head the end

clutch

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 137: is life a dream?

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

by the time mortimer had helped miss wilde up to her suite, gone back downstairs to the employee's room to get his coat and cap, and filled jackson and chester the bellhop in on what had happened at the automat, the police cars had all left and everything outside seemed back to normal. he stopped in at the automat. it was now after five o'clock and it was filling up a little. everyone who had been there at the time of the arrests was gone. jake and cosette had gone home. betty, who had been shouting louder than anybody - mostly about the reward money - had gone somewhere. maybe she went with the police, to try to collect. polly, the pretty and polite though not overwhelmingly friendly change girl who worked the graveyard shift was gone too, replaced by louise, the grumpy middle-aged woman who worked the morning shift. mortimer, of course, talked to everybody and knew everybody's name, even the kind of people whom most of their fellow humans would regard as somewhat less than friendly. but louise looked like she was in an especially foul mood so he just nodded to her. besides, it was not likely that she would know anything that he didn't. he would pick up a paper on his way home, at maxie fleischman's newstand on bleecker street, either the gazette or the federal-democrat or both. maybe one of them already had an extra out. you didn't see as many newsboys out on the street shouting "extra! extra! " as you used to, like you did before the war. times were changing. mortimer didn't like it much, but what could you do? he didn't really want a cup of coffee or anything else - his mother would make him a nice cup of chase and sanborn when he got home. but he didn't like to stop in at a place without buying something - it just seemed rude - so he got a cup of coffee and took a seat beside the window. what a night! not that he hadn't seen plenty of even crazier nights in his twenty-six years at the st crispian. especially when the stock market crashed. and during the war. still, it was a pretty wild night. for complete episode, click here

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 136: a new day

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by eddie el greco and danny delacroix

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

dawn was just beginning to break over the saw mill river when michael eased the mud-pattered studebaker into the driveway of his elmsford home. his home. all his. because he knew carol wasn't coming back. he didn't know where she had gone, but he knew she wasn't coming back. he would have to listen to questions from his parents and people in the neighborhood, and maybe put up with some razzing or snide remarks at the firm, but basically he felt relieved. he would never have to listen to carol again. he could be michael again, and never again have to answer to the name of henry. he got out of the car and locked it. he went to the front door and unlocked it. what a bore life was, forever locking and unlocking things. suddenly he wondered if he would ever have another girl friend, or another wife. gee, why think about that now, when he was newly freed? he pushed the thought out of his head. it was replaced by another thought - would he have to go through the rigmarole of actually divorcing carol? she was not coming back. not even for some of his money. somehow he knew this. so why bother? unless he wanted to marry someone else. that was the least of his worries right now. he hung his hat up on the coatrack inside the front door and sat down on the couch in the living room . did he want a drink? not really. not enough to bother making one. strangely, he was not tired. and he didn't have to go to work. he looked up and saw his most precious possession. his television set. he looked at his watch. almost five thirty. the news would come on in another hour. he wondered what had happened to stanley slade. for complete episode, click here

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 135: "all nights are long"

by manfred skyline

illustrated by roy dismas and konrad kraus

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

pete palomine turned the key in the front door of his modest three story walkup (with loft) on spring street. "hey, pete!" came a voice from the shadows. pete was used to being braced at all hours by all sorts of people. for years he had encouraged it, made it his stock in trade. now he was starting to get a little sick of it. he turned. two figures came toward him. "bunchy. how it's going, old timer?" "good, pete, good. hey, you don't seem so excited to see me." "i've had a long night." "all nights are long, pete. you don't mind if we come in, do you?" "no, that's all right, come on in." "this is my friend rooster. i don't know if you two have met." pete took in the skinny red-haired young man with his black turtleneck. " i don't think so. you an artist?" "rooster is a poet." "that's even worse. but come in, come in." he opened the door and started up the dark stairs. bunchy and rooster followed him. "there's not much light here, pete." "you should learn to see in the dark." when they got to the top of the stairs pete pulled the chain on an overhanging bulb. it shone a yellow light on the door of the loft and he opened the door with a large old-fashioned key. inside the loft, there was a standing lamp beside the door and pete turned it on, then flopped down on a big stuffed couch. "you two can make yourselves at home." pete looked up at bunchy. "but i'm not in the mood for much. i'm tired. " he took his jacket off and tossed it on the end of the couch. "were you looking to do some work for me?" rooster looked over at bunchy. "work?" he asked him. "you know," pete went on, "i got nothing against other artists - or even poets. but what i'm really looking for is just ordinary folks, you know? winos, junkies, bums - people who are innocent of artifice. the salt of the earth. maybe even people who work for a living." bunchy laughed. "no, no. pete - you got it all wrong. we're not here about that at all." "then what are you here for?" "well, we thought you might have some dope we could buy." for complete episode, click here

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 134: "a revolution in human understanding"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

when sniffy returned from the ladies room to her booth in bob's bowery bar her new poet friend was still there. it looked like he hadn't touched his beer. "thanks," she told him, as she slid into her seat. "not a problem," he replied. "i guess the seat must be very important to you, " he added with a straight face. was that some kind of smart crack? but sniffy just said, "i'm waiting for somebody." "of course." he stared at her. "so you're a poet, huh?" she asked him, just to break the silence. "yes, of sorts." "aren't all poets of sorts?" "ha ha. yes, well, i dabble in poetry but it is not my primary avocation." "oh?" "no, my primary avocation is science. i am a scientist." "bully for you." "yes, i am engaged in a groundbreaking study which i believe will cause a revolution in human understanding in our time." "double bully for you." the poet - scientist stared intently at sniffy. "tell me, have you heard of doctor alfred kinsey?" sniffy stared back. "heard of him? yeah, i've heard of him. and talked to him, too. me and my friend rooster were some of the first people he talked to when he started coming around." she laughed. "so, if you're trying to pass yourself off as kinsey, pal - " "oh, no no! ha ha, what a thought! no, my name is morgenthaler - percival morgenthaler, and i assure you i am my own man. very much my own man, ha ha!" "so what's kinsey got to with it?" "i was just going to say that, like kinsey, i aim to explore a vast area of human experience too long neglected by respectable science. something far, far more fundamental than sex." "and what, pray tell, might that be?" for complete episode, click here

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 133: "time to wrap things up"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

shirley was flying. it wasn't the best dope she ever smoked, not by any means, but the price was right. like absolutely free, no questions asked. these two guys from duquesne, iowa - or was it dubuque, iowa? - wherever - were a hoot. they acted liked total squares from squaresville in some ways, but they weren't cheesegrinders, giving their dope away like that, and if you asked them anything they gave you a big smile and an answer. "so what did you guys say your names were again?" "mister burgoyne," mister burgoyne responded with a big smile, "and mister o'toole." "i got that part, i meant what are your first names? besides mister? i mean, now that we're the best friends in the whole wide world, we ought to know each other's first names, right?" mister burgoyne and mister o'toole looked at each other. harold p sternhagen, who had inhaled a little less than the others, felt a little resentful that shirley - the light of his life - was paying so much attention to the two strangers. he knew it was stupid - it was their dope, after all - but he couldn't help it. at first he had been euphoric just to be in the same room with her. now he wished she would look his way just once. "johnny, " said harold. "all burgoynes must be named johnny, right?" "ha, ha," burgoyne laughed happily. "that's me - johnny." "and o'toole - let me think," harold continued. "what's a good name for an o'toole? how about - pete? pete o'toole. no, that's a little too thuggish. how about peter o'toole! that's got a nice ring to it. a nice manly ring." "yes, peter o'toole," mister o'toole agreed, and they all laughed. for complete episode, click here

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 132: "triple play"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

jewel thief, 2 other desperadoes nabbed in "triple play" by rookie detective by florence flanagan, exclusive to the new york federal-democrat escaped international jewel thief stanley slade did not end up breathing the sweet air of liberty for even forty-eight hours as his flight to freedom was abruptly cancelled early this morning by a sharp eyed rookie detective from the downtown 243rd precinct. detective daniel dooley, only five days removed from his promotion to detective, was in the right place at the right time when he dropped off "an unidentified informant" at the all night automat on bedford st near washington square. on entering the automat dooley was alerted to the presence of slade by another customer at the automat, elizabeth bronson. miss bronson , known as "bowery betty", a familiar figure in the neighborhood with her cat , gave her address as the hotel central on chrystie st. miss bronson was quite emphatic in declaring to this reporter that she would aggressively pursue her claims to the various reward moneys offered for slade's capture. "i've been pushed around and stepped on all my life," she asserted. "now my time has come. my light is going to shine or i will know the reason why, as the good lord is my witness." police officials were noncommittal. "her claims will be assessed by those who offered the rewards. we have no other statement at this time," according to a statement released after slade was booked. dooley admitted to this reporter that he might not have spotted slade, who had dyed his blonde hair black and otherwise altered his appearance, without miss bronson's identification. asked whether she should get the reward, he replied, "that is not for me to decide. i just work here." but all this is only the beginning of the story. if dooley had help in spotting slade, he can take full credit for spotting the woman seated with slade in the automat as a fugitive from justice wanted by police "just about everywhere." booked as "angela jones" because that is the name she was wanted on by the new york police for a burglary on park avenue in 1947, miss jones is also wanted under more than two dozen other names, such as "angelique st auberge" and "abby devereaux", on numerous fraud and theft charges. police identified her as a former protege of albert gordon, who is currently serving a forty year sentence in sing sing for the park avenue burglary and other crimes. for complete episode, click here