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Monday, October 3, 2016

billy blood, part 1


by timothy t jones

illustrations by pete palomine

part one of two

posted in a different format in all humans are the same on may 17, 2009





the aztec night was falling fast
when through a fellaheen village passed
twelve riders from across the border
in perfect military order

the lieutenants had two famous names
they were frank and jesse james
the captain was more famous still
none other than the dread quantrill

the faces of the other nine
are not so firmly etched in time
but as they rode to meet their fate
each rebel soldier pulled his weight

the village had but buildings three
a jail, a church, a monastery
a single tree with blood red berries
stood beyond the cemetary

and from the berry tree, swinging loose
a carefully knotted hangman's noose
caught quantrill's eye and then frank james'
in the sudden sunset's final flames

the other ten seemed unaware
they filed into the village square
the square was empty - dusty - still
"another ghost town" cried quantrill

frank james frowned and jesse scowled
far off, a lone coyote howled
the black chacmoolian hills looked down
upon the strangely silent town

dan willis was a rider bold
a brash newcomer to the fold
frank and jesse despised his sass
but quantrill loved the youngster's brass

now dan jumped off his horse's back
and taking tobacco from his pack
he rolled one easy as you please
seemed quite prepared to take his ease

he kicked a stone across the ground
"i think i'll take a look around"
he shouted - but no answering sound
echoed his challenge - quantrill frowned

professor porter shifted his weight
upon his horse - "i'd hesitate
to jump to conclusions," he shivered
his red nose twitched and his gray beard quivered

"look ye boys!" cried frenchy le rouge
his finger pointed and his eyes grew huge
upon the coal black mountainside
a light had flashed - and suddenly died

"where in tarnation are the peasants?"
cried long and lanky henry pheasant
"where's the chief and where's the priest
so quick to get their palms well greased?"

quantrill's face grew fiery red
"shut the flaps on your empty heads
we didn't come here to take a census
the devil that cursed it never meant us!"

"why speak of the devil," cried jack mule
"never mention him, that's my rule
he may be listening, he may be not
but if you rile him, he'll make it hot"

and with those words of wisdom true
he stared at quantrill with eyes of blue
who choked and sputtered with exasperation
"you're the biggest fool in the whole damn nation"

"what nation might that be?" quoth jack
"we've been to every nation and back
seen red and white and black men's ways
enough to last us all our days"

quantrill shrugged and turned aside
his own council he would bide
frank and jesse had drifted apart
and were talking, heart to heart

'there's folks round here." said frank real slow
"there ain't no ghosts, that much i know
and where's there's folks there must be food
this trickery puts me in bitter mood"

"i think these fools are spooked," said jess
"about to cry for mama, i'd guess
they surely are a sorry crew
whatever made us think they'd do?"


part 2



Sunday, October 2, 2016

ms found in a white notebook, part 4


by nick nelson

illustrated by roy dismas

part four of four

for part three, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here






the aliens arrived in peace.

which was fortunate, as the armies and other military organizations all over the world had already begun disbanding in preparation for the new era of peace that would begin with my inauguration.

as i was still technically just a citizen of the soon to be defunct united states, the aliens explained to ms ali mendoza-jones of the united nations that they had come to earth to welcome the newly enlightened human race into the confederation of the galaxy.


they proposed that a worldwide celebration be held to mark the planet’s entrance into the galactic confederation. representatives from all the planets in the confederation would attend, and get to meet their new comrades in universal peace.

they further proposed that the central event in the celebration, in my honor, would be a baseball game - not a series, just one game in which a human all-star team, starring myself of course, would play a team drawn from the various planets of the confederation.


it would not be a contest to decide anything, just a friendly game.

ali - i forgot to mention that i was now engaged to marry the beautiful renaissance woman ali - quickly agreed.

there was one thing that neither ali nor the aliens thought to take into consideration.

a great deal of money came to be bet all over the world on the human-alien baseball game.

at first it was taken for granted that the humans would win. how could they not, with me pitching and hitting? and who knew if the aliens even played baseball. how likely was it that they did?

on the other hand… who knew anything at all about the physical characteristics or capacities of the aliens - including races of aliens no one on earth had ever seen?

so a lot of “sports talk” was expended on the game, and a lot of money wagered.

still, according to the media, most of the money was on the home town boy - me.

*


there was one week left in the baseball regular season, and six weeks until the election.

the ravens were in st louis for a three game series with the salamanders.

we had played a game in the afternoon, and it was a nice night and i decided to get out of the hotel and go for a walk.

i was walking along, away from the center of town, looking up at the sky and thinking about how strange life was and how you just never knew what was coming next.

a car pulled up beside me.

a long white cadillac from the 80’s or earlier. a car that most people today would consider “tasteless” but i was never inclined to be judgmental on such matters.

i figured it was someone wanting my autograph or just telling me i had changed their life.


the rear door opened and a guy got out.

it took me a second but i recognized him.

maxie graves.

maxie had been a loan shark back in my home town, and a regular customer at willie’s tacos. and he had a regular poker game than i sat in on sometimes, so we knew each other pretty well.

“hello, kid.”

“hello, maxie.”

“you’re doing all right for yourself. you come a long way.”


“i guess. it’s a funny old world. what can i do for you, maxie ? you want my autograph? buy you a drink?”

“no thank you.” maxie looked around. there were no other cars or pedestrians in sight. “i’ll come right to the point.”

“whatever,” i told him. i wondered what place maxie, and guys like him, were going to have in the new world order, but i did not say so out loud.

“the game - the game against the space men - is 25 to 1. against the space men. you seen that?”


i shrugged. “i knew it was something like that.”

“and yet people are betting on you.”

“people have faith in me, i guess.”

“can you believe that shit? people putting down a dollar of their hard earned money to win four fucking cents? people are fucking morons.”

“i hope i can reward their faith in me.”

maxie laughed. “but you are not going to reward them. you are going to lose the game.”


“really?’ it was my turn to laugh. “why should i do that? i know we are old pals, but not as much as all that.”

“you don’t think so? i got someone here i’d like you to meet.” maxie had been standing beside the half open rear door of the cadillac but now he opened it all the way and pointed inside.

i bent down and looked inside.

and there she was.

georgie.

“hello, georgie,” i managed to say.


“hello, johnny. you better do what maxie says.”

i opened my mouth but nothing came out.

“you better do what maxie says or i’ll tell the world what you did.”

“it was - a long time ago,” i managed to say.

“so fucking what? and not so long as all that. everybody thinks you are so wonderful now, johnny, like you’re john and yoko, helen keller, and the trapp family singers all rolled into one. but i know what you are really like. so do what maxie says. or i’ll tell. i’ll tell the world.”

“you hear that?” maxie started to get back into the cadillac. “i don’t suppose you want a cut of the proceeds, kid?”

“no, that won’t - be necessary.”

“i didn’t think so. in that case, we need not meet again. au revoir, cowboy.” he got in and closed the door and the car rolled away.

*


i went back to the hotel and up to my room without seeing anybody.

i got myself a glass of ice water and sat down on the bed.

i don’t know what to do.

if i cross maxie, i don’t doubt for a minute that he and georgie will go through with their threat. in fact, how do i know what they will do even if i don’t cross them?

maybe the aliens will be so good i can’t beat them fair and square anyway. but i don’t think so. from what ali told me it is more likely they would lose on purpose even if they could win, so as not to embarrass their hosts.


and if i throw the game it will be so obvious that something is up that the billions of people who believe in me and tony trigg and his prophecies will lose all faith and think it is all a fraud.

and the new age of peace and understanding and reconciliation - down the toilet.

no matter what i do.

and i don’t know what to do.


the end



Saturday, October 1, 2016

ms found in a white notebook, part 3


by nick nelson

illustrated by roy dismas

part three of four

for part two, click here

for part one, click here






when i had the time i started taking my manuscripts around to literary agents - ones that actually had offices that i could sit and wait in.

i would be politely told to just leave the ms, but i would point out that i was a major league ballplayer and would bring a copy of the new york post with my picture in it to prove it, and sometimes the receptionists would look at the copy of the post and tell me to take a seat, maybe ms ashton or ms golden would see me, if i wanted to wait.


the literary agents i got in to all told me the same things - my books were “hopeless garbage” and “i can’t believe anybody writes this kind of crap any more” and “there’s not much market for thomas wolfe imitations these days”. but they also all suggested the same thing - that there were agents who specialized in books by celebrities - if i thought i qualified as a celebrity.

so i went to one that was recommended as such. i left my first novel at the desk - thundering highway - and the one i just finished - go piss out the sun - and two days later i got a message to go back and talk to elaine ellerby.


elaine was about eighty years old and sounded like she had smoked every cigarette ever rolled.

i started to explain who i was and she said, “i’m a ravens fan, honey, i know who you are, and i can’t tell you what a thrill it is to meet you in the flesh."

that sounded promising but then she said, “but honey, this stuff is just awful. awful awful awful. can’t you just be satisfied to strike guys out and hit home runs?”

i told her i had only become a ballplayer by accident, but had always had my heart set on being the new thomas wolfe - or the new tom wolfe or kerouac or hunter thompson.


“i figured as much. so i don’t suppose you want us to write something for you - which, just between you and me is mostly what we do here.”

“no, there wouldn’t be any point in that. look, i know i can publish it myself , but i would just rather have a real publisher do it.”

“gee, i really would like to help you out.” elaine coughed a few times.

“i got four other novels,” i said. and i started to describe my second novel - the man of prophecy.


elaine listened politely. “you mean it’s about a kind of guru? some spiritual shit? maybe we can use that.”

“all right, i’ll bring it in tomorrow.”

“you do that. and i’ll treat you to a nice lunch, just you and me.” elaine opened a drawer. she took a baseball out of it. “hey, can you autograph this for me?”

“sure.”

“i’m sorry it’s just the one. i got a couple of great-grandsons, ten and eleven years old, but they don’t give a shit about the ravens. one is a man u fan, the other likes fc barcelona. you know how it is.”

*


the man of prophecy became the best-selling book of all time, except maybe for the bible.

hundreds of millions of copies were sold, in every country and in every language in the world.

billions thrilled to the story of terry trigg , the wandering preacher with his message of love and reconciliation for the whole of the human race, and the whole of creation, and his tragic love for the pop megastar corinne chan.


my other novels were issued too, and though they couldn’t match the sales of the man of prophecy, enough of them sold that they made me the second or third best selling author of all time, after agatha christie and maybe shakespeare.

stephen king, j k rowling, e l james, and james patterson all ate my dust big time.

but the sales of the book, and books, was the tip of the iceberg.

people all over the world took the teachings of terry trigg seriously, and personally. churches and “centers” for his teachings and wisdom sprang up all over the world.


i was confused with the fictional terry trigg, and hailed as a prophet and guru.

in the united states, the church of trigg with its message of reconciliation replaced the democratic and republican parties, and most of the churches and religions, with only a few catholics, southern baptists, and orthodox jews holding out.

due to overwhelming public demand, congress repealed the law requiring the president to be 35 years old, and i was urged by an adoring world to run for president so that i could begin the healing process by which the human race would come together as one, with all the old borders and boundaries between countries dissolved forever.


what could i do but accept? i accepted the nomination just as the new baseball season began.

it was taken for granted that when the season was over and the election held, i would win with over 150 million votes, while my unfortunate opponent, senator clayton of the combined republican-democratic party, who had agreed to run just so that there would be an “election” , might get a few thousand votes at best.

and there things stood when the aliens arrived.


part 4



Friday, September 30, 2016

ms found in a white notebook, part 2


by nick nelson

illustrated by roy dismas

part two of four

for part one, click here






the first old coach’s name was scrubby carter, and he was a crusty old beer drinking baseball man, and he had seen it all.

after i threw a few pitches to him at sixty feet six inches, he took me into the clubhouse. there was a crummy little office and i waited there while he opened a safe and took out a contract for me to sign.

he started talking , and for a few seconds i thought he was telling me i had a right to remain silent like i was being arrested, but he was actually saying i had a right to find an agent, but that would delay getting my first paycheck from the club.


i did not take any of this very seriously, and the thought of any kind of paycheck sounded good, as well as the thought of more of the real food they had at the camp, so i signed.

after i signed the contract scrubby kept me talking for a while, and then another coach came in and told me to get my things from the dorm and he drove me to the airport and they sent me to the ravens’s main spring training camp in florida.

i didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to joe and never saw him again after that, not even after i was on the front page of every newspaper and the cover of every magazine in the world .

*


when i got to florida i was introduced to the manager of the ravens, d d rogers.

d d was not an old-fashioned beer drinking baseball man like scrubby carter. he was more of a stats guy. he stayed in better shape than the players, lived on tofu and oolong tea, and went to bed every night with an eight inch thick three ring binder full of statistics.

d d and the pitching coach, lefty ashworth, took me aside and watched me throw. they had a gun on me and i was throwing up to 140 miles an hour staying in the strike zone. i could get up to 150 but usually missed up out of the zone when i threw that hard.


they were impressed, but agreed i had to learn to change speeds, because even at 140 if i threw the same speed every time i would get hit.

lefty and the assistant pitching coaches taught me to throw at different speeds by using different grips - 140, 130, 120, down to 95 which would be my “change-up”. they also taught me to throw a cutter off the fast balls 120 and lower. and a curve ball, which i already sort of remembered from little league. and i was a quick study on the knuckleball, but they said i would only get one called every two or three games.


since i did not know that much about baseball, i agreed that i would always just throw what the catcher called and never shake him off. they liked that.

what they liked even better was that my arm never got tired or sore, so i could pitch every day.

it also turned out that my bat speed was as good as my pitching speed. so i could pretty much hit a home run every time up, and would not have to be d h’ed for. of course once the other teams caught on they would just intentionally walk me every time, but from the ravens’ point of view that was still better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, or a d h who hit .250 with 19 home runs.


well, if you are a baseball fan which you are probably not, you know what happened next.

the ravens went 151 and 11 in the regular season, and then won the playoffs 3-0, 4-0, and 4-0.

i pitched in 144 of the regular season games and went 138 and 2, with an e r a of 0.007, and 3,757 strikeouts in 1,303 innings. i had shutouts in all 11 playoff games, including two perfect games, with 276 strikeouts.


i got days off from hitting once in a while, to give me a rest from running the bases 4 or 5 times every game. i was walked almost every time, but sometimes on the road when we were way ahead, the other team’s management liked them to pitch to me because the fans liked to see me hit 600 foot home runs. i ended up with 44 home runs, and 47 hits in 50 official at bats, and was intentionally walked 658 times.

all this got the attention of the media, even though not too many people pay that much attention to baseball any more, not even in new york. i was accused by people who were interested enough of being a cyborg or of being on drugs, and the ravens were accused of “destroying baseball” but they, and i, obliged by my submitting to being tested by anyone who wanted to test me.


and even though nobody cares much about baseball any more, there were enough slow news days, and enough magazines needing to be filled out, that i became half way famous.

to me the best part of the whole thing was that i was now famous enough that maybe i could get my novels published.

and that was when things started to get interesting.


part 3



Thursday, September 29, 2016

ms found in a white notebook, part 1


by nick nelson

illustrated by roy dismas

part one of four






i had it made.

the world was mine.

just one more game.

one more game.

but let me start at the beginning.

it all started when i lost my job at willie’s drive in tacos.

not that losing the job was a surprise.

willie had told me months before that when his nephew graduated from college the job was his.


i knew that. and i should have been looking for another job.

but i never got around to it. i was too busy completing my sixth novel - the one that was finally going to get published and make me famous and win the nobel prize for literature.

i finished the novel - titled go piss out the sun - the next day. i packed the six novels, my old portable typewriter, and some socks and underwear into a duffel bag, and went down to the freeway entrance to hitch a ride to the big city.


i didn’t care which big city or if i went east or west or north or south - i would take the first ride that would pick me up.

so i got to down to the freeway entrance and there was a guy already there with his thumb out and i thought i recognized him. he had a suitcase beside him, with a baseball bat and a baseball glove and a pair of cleats all strapped to the suitcase.

it was joe meeley, one of the jocks in high school that i had never hung out with or talked to much. i had never gone out for any sports as i was too busy working after school at willie’s and writing my great american novels.


we got to talking and he told me had been drafted in the 39th round by the chicago capybaras after he graduated from high school but had been cut after one year in class a . but now he was headed to a tryout camp of the new york ravens, hoping to catch on with them.

he was pretty friendly and talkative, and he told me i should come along to the training camp with him.

i told him i hadn’t played any baseball since i was ten years old in little league. but it was obvious he just wanted some company.

i told him i didn’t have a bat or a glove or spikes. he told me that was not a problem, they would have plenty at the camp but most of the guys preferred to bring their own.


and he said i should come along just for the food - “real food, real steaks and pork chops and stuff like ordinary people never even see any more.” he hinted i might want to get a few square meals under my belt before i started hitching to new york or san francisco or mexico city.

i thought that sounded reasonable, and also the training camp might be some good material for my next novel or a short story.

so i decided to go with him.


a farmer came along in a pickup truck and gave us a ride forty miles north on the road to iowa where the training camp was.

after a few more rides - and walking in the rain for over in an hour north of st louis - we got to the training camp just before midnight.

but the camp was closed and we couldn’t find anybody to let us in. we slept under some trees just outside the camp. we could hear laughter inside the camp. it sounded like some serious partying.

joe thought that was a good sign. “those bums will be tireder than us when we get out on the field tomorrow. “ and he fell fast asleep.

after looking up at the night - there were no stars but where do you see stars anywhere these days? - i fell asleep too.

*


in the morning they let us in, along with a couple of other guys who had arrived during the night. we got to take a shower, and they fed us.

joe was right about the food. i decided i would try to stick it out as long as i could, although i figured they would see right away that i was not even a real jock, and probably send me on my way before noon.

i thought they might ask me some questions about who i was and where i had played, but joe knew some of the coaches and he told them i was o k and that seemed to satisfy them.


i went into the clubhouse and they gave me a glove and cleats and a cap and a t-shirt that said “new york ravens” and i went back out on to the field.

everybody was just warming up, playing catch with each other. joe was already warming up with some guy he must have known from before. one of the coaches he had told i was o k was standing beside them watching them, and they were all paying no notice of me.

i looked around and i saw an asian guy standing by himself, flipping a ball up and down in his glove. i didn’t know if he spoke english so i kind of made signs to him to ask if he wanted to warm up with me.


he told me he was from pismo beach california and his name was dylan fernandez. so we started playing catch, about eighty feet from each other.

as soon as i threw the first ball to him, he laughed and said, “whoa! not so hard, dude! we’re just warming up here!” he looked around. “and nobody is even watching us.”

i didn’t think i was throwing hard, but i tried just lobbing the next toss to him, and he says, not laughing this time, “not so hard!”


so i backed off about ten feet and lobbed another one and he goes, “bro, i’m not wearing a catcher’s mitt!”

at this point joe and his warmup partner and the old coach take notice.

the coach says to me, “throw him another one - nice and easy.”

and i do, and dylan fernandez yelps and says “hey, if he breaks my hand the new york ravens better have a good team of lawyers!”

the old coach looks at me kind of funny, and then at dylan and says, “all right, let me go get a catcher’s mitt.”


all around us the guys warming up stop and look at us and another old coach says to the first one, “what have we got here?”

“looks like the love child of steve dalkowski and the hydrogen bomb,” says the first coach as he goes off to find a catcher’s mitt.

“can he throw strikes?” says the second coach.

“let’s find out,” says the first coach.


part 2