the penultimate hit, chapter 7: television

by horace p sternwall

editorial consultant and executive producer: dan leo

illustrations by roy dismas, rhoda penmarq and konrad kraus



for complete episode, click here

to follow black sky dot (2)

1 SAILOR

He was older, but he had been modified. His employer had been loving. Formidable, still fast at 260 pounds, he maintained his skills with games and training. His heart was bad. Soon he would die, and many backups had been activated, armoured, suited, trained in etiquette. None would ever match his .127 reflex speed. He favoured white t-shirts, and old-fashioned cigarettes.

2 MAN His employer was twenty something, probably six, at a guess. Many millions, and a tanned Egyptian skin mixed with surgical blue highlights. Yachting, a few years military, and the schemed powers of a banker. Touch loved the man. He would die for him. Soon.

3. THE MOTHER

She was/...

indifferent.

2011 Peter Greene.

Dead Poets Society 2: The Dead Shall Rise

Please be aware that the following blog entry you are about to read could be very damaging to your health. Those of a nervous disposition and anyone currently taking heart medication are advised to stop read right now and leave this page at once.

During my mid teen years, I occasionally knocked out a free flowing and eloquent poem to better verbalise my teenage frustration and curiosity. Long thought lost forever, it was only recently when clearing out a load of old junk that I happened to come across these lost masterpieces.

Reading them now in the cold light of day some 15 years later, it is clear to me that my teenage years were a festering mind funk of putrid wonderments and gibberish. I hereby present you, dear reader with the full, unedited and complete works of one WG Mullins.

I shall attempt to analysis and uncover the truths in each poem as we process. But be warned, the following words are not for the faint of heart. Together we shall delve deep into a troubled psyche and uncover unexplored emotions and anger. Peeling back the veneer of time and aged wisdom, we shall dissect and ingest all the clever word play, verse structure and symbolism entombed within these long lost masterpieces.

Strap on your Beatnik beret and sit back daddy-o. Things are about to get wild.

Poem 1:

The Night of my Life

I’ve started smiling

But for no reward

They look at me with carrots for cats

Common people.

Drink, for my thumb has a beer

Cool man, I mean really cool.

Walking is a trip of life with empty shells

But where are the cracks?

IN THE BIN!

23-24, why are bats bind?

Owhhh, why are bats blind?

Maybe because I have 9 legs.

I AM BLIND!

I have hurt a tea bag.

His brown blood flows forth from his soggy skin

Why do I treat it so bad?
Ah, ah ahhh, yeeeeeeeeees.

Carrot, cat, kick, kite, car, kill.

Kit Kat?

Has it gone bright black?

Ah “The Night of my Life”. An action packed and energy filled far out trip into a universe of infinite possibilities and dangers. Currently negotiations are on-going for a feature film adaptation.

Let us analyse.

The first verse is a clear indication that I had recently had some sort of good news, which was not shared with my nearest and dearest. Carrots for cats would suggest that I was in combat with some strange, as to yet undiscovered vegetable/house pet hybrid. I can only assume that they were attempting to take over the work and replace the “common people” with “Catots” overlords.

In the second verse things start to get a little clearer. “Drink, for my thumb has a beer” is a clear indication that the writer has supplemented the childhood thumb sucking tradition for consumption of alcohol. A damning indictment of modern parenting standards? I think so.

In verse three we find our protagonist continuing his combat with the catots, “walking is a trip of life with empty shells”.  An obvious reference to the now empty “pods” that the evil hybrid creatures and be born in. An excellent verse for story progression and character development. “But where are the cracks?” he asks. Searching, as are we all for answers in these dark times. “IN THE BIN!”. And the first act draws to a close with realisation that answers cannot be found by looking at the cracks, but through the cracks! Through the holes that we all have within us, allowing us to combat evil in new ways.

Verse four is where the action really starts to crank up. “23-24, why are the bats blind?” is a reference to the power of sonar. Hearing the truth if you will, which can be half the battle when battling something evil. Continued questioning prevails throughout this verse. It is not enough to shout out the truth, you must repeat it and repeat it until the message gets through that we are under attack and something needs to be done. “Maybe because I have 9 legs.” SHOCK! The protagonist has been struck down by the mutating alien virus he has been trying to stop. He doesn’t have much time, he is racing against the clock in order to save the world.

I AM BLIND! The protagonist has lost his way, he is now questioning himself and his ability to lead the fight back against the alien hybrids. A classic third act twist.

Now we get to the big finally action verse. Realising that there is nothing to be done, but wipe them all out, our hero attacks, and attacks hard. He scythes through the evil hybrids, knowing that they are just following their primal instincts and know no better, but he cares no. Blood flows and the body count stacks up. This is a dark day indeed.

“Carrot, cat, kick, kite, care, kill. Kit Kat?” Could there have been a more eloquent and powerful sentence ever written in the English language? If there is then I certainly haven’t read it!

The Catots slowly die, through kicks, kites and kills. All that is left is the metaphorical “Kit Kat”. A symbolic breaking of the two wafers of our different civilisations. Always to be interconnected, but never to be together. Powerful, powerful stuff.

Has it gone bright black? The hero dies I think. Or there’s a power cut or something. Maybe a bulb goes out?

Now onto “We Apologise for the Delay”. A damming and ahead of its time study of the effect of crass consumerism and commercialisation have on a modern society. Read it and weep for the lost generation.

We Apologise for the Delay

Time, it is an eternal struggle.

But for some it is an excuse

The cooperate fat boys

Fat bellies squashing the life from the belly buttons.

(The life of a belly button)

I see it coming towards me

Squashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The lie, they lie, why do they lie to me?

Do they think I am scared of bellies?

Nooooooooooooooo.

I AM ANGRY

(The life of a belly)

Shall we? No

Shall we? No

Shall we? No

Shall we? No

Shall we? No

Shall we? Yeeeeeeee… No

HA HA

They think I am a faceless belly button

But no

My belly will make them pay.

Brum Brum

Now let us analyse.

Verse one sets the stage of an epic battle that shall ring throughout the ages. We are not just fighting cooperate greed and callousness, we are fighting for the very future of our souls. The poem starts with a stunningly clever and heart breaking prologue. “Time, it is an eternal struggle.” No matter where I go or what I do, I feel this will always be the most personal and real sentence I have ever written. It just doesn’t get better than that. But if that wasn’t good enough, I then go on to expand from this original opening salvo and continue to blow the readers mind wide open! “But for some it is an excuse, the cooperate fat boys, fat bellies squashing the life from the belly buttons.” WOW! How I was allowed to get away with writing such incendiary and dangerous prose back then I will never know. Taking aim directly at the highest echelons of government and Royalty, I tear down the very building blocks of dogmatic control that enslave the population of this great planet. Is this first verse responsible for the end of Communism? I don’t know, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t? But it’s just a bit funny that they both seemed to occur at the same time isn’t it?

The second verse continues the great tradition of rebel poetry by taking on the target in the most direct and dangerous way possible. Through the metaphorical symbolism of the belly button. “Squashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” I said! Yes, I said it! And I meant it!!!! Never let it be said that I am afraid to be controversial and daring. I would carve every letter of that sweet, sweet word into the chambers of Government if they would let me. Forever a statement to the power and fighting spirit of the belly button.

Verse three moves into high gear. The scared foolish power centres of the world combine in an attempt to stop this revolution. Offering pennies for souls and promises for placate people. The constant “Shall we? No”, a verse of a child’s tears as the powerful and strong bring down the full force of the corrupt upon an innocent civilisation.

Thinking they have won, verse 4 gives us a complete 180 as the masses fight back against their evil oppressors. “They think I am a faceless belly button, but no, my belly will make them pay!” represents the collective joining together to no longer be a belly button, but to be the BELLY! In a shocking twist that will leave M. Night Shyamalan crapping himself we discover that the belly buttons are now the bellies. Forever doomed to repeat the cycle of button and belly for the rest of time.

“Brum brum”. Yes, brum brum indeed. Brum brum indeed….

Finally we come to “No Title”. The most heart aching and personal of my poems. Even reading it now brings a tear to my eye.

Or at least it would if I could actually remember what it was about? Honestly, I have no friggin idea. I think I was just randomly writing down words with no real sense of what and where they were going. Maybe it was some kind of spontaneous prose that I was working on, but it’s more likely to be a bunch of random song lyrics jumbled together.

No Title

Why is life such a bitch

Giving you crap and feeding you shit

When all day long all……

What is it that makes me queasy?

You want is to wear pyjamas in the day time.

Doctors gives ohhhh-hhhh-afternoon

Coffee spoons and books to beat the bed with

Playback illness?

Ohhhh-ohhhhh-ohhhhhh

Measured with coffee spoons.

I am shrinking!

Tiny –CRASH –BANG

Child has an accident

No illness, blue or white hair is hard

Hmmm, hmmmm, girl doesn’t belong

Marks make her evilllll

Hmmm, hmmmm, hmm

Church on the road

Don’t understand?

Parents, evil beard, stopping on floor

Hmmm, hmmm, hmm, hmmm, ahhhhhh

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Ahhhhhhh, ahhhh

Ahhhhhhhhh

Finish, frogs, fighting on my head an in the tent

Nature is evil

Tools are sharp and fingers look like wilder beasts

Shades of my body are laughing

Don’t get it?

Neither did the animals.

DIE!!!!!!!!!!

Let us analyse.

Uhmmm. Ok. This is where things start to get a bit weird. Did I ever mention that I spent a part of my teens locked up in a mental institution for the criminally insane?

I honestly think this poem may have been the one that cost me put there. I don’t even remember writing it, and bizarrely the original looks like it has been written in human blood. Though not mine… For some reason I remember it isn’t mine.

A rambling and incoherent jumble of “ahhhh” and “hmmmm”, I feel confident that this poem was in fact a statement of intent to be posted to the Police before I began my crime spree.

I even remember buying a hammer, shovel and knee pads after writing this poem. What the knee pads were for remains lost in the fog of time, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with poisoning the countries water supply. Is that weird? Maybe.

Thankfully I started taking medication after this incident and have not had a problem since. I’m doing so well that I stopped taking the meds last week and now feel completely fine. In fact, I feel so fine that I think I may write a new poem for the first time in 15 years!

Soon

I’m coming people, coming to get you all

I’ve been asleep for a long while, but now I am awake

Awake like the apple in the orchid that knows no pain

Evil seeping into my eyes like a clown into the night

Honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk

Dinky donk?

I look over the hill and sky, my domain, my prison, my wimberry tart

Custard, cream, single or double? No matter, all cream is the heart of a mother

MOTHER! She makes me listen to the sun. No sun, just rays of hats

Tip topping toeing tying tired teach tell tiddle.

Soon the darkness will come

Soon I will speak with the power of a cat on fire

LIFE/LIVE/little Billy don’t know what a toothbrush is

Weep for Billy

Weep for his jaws of death!

I gotta say, I’ve gotten so much better at this down the years.

a dot...

this is the twelfth

of a series of poems by nooshin azadi

derived from drawings by rhoda penmarq

“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 87: vicarious

Our previous episode found our heroes still being entertained by Frank and the Rat Pack in the Samba Room, inside an enormous flying saucer floating invisibly between the Moon and the Earth, quite a long way from a mysterious tiny town called Disdain...

(Click here to read our previous chapter; go here to return to our pilot episode.)

“Let me give ya a little backstory,” said Frank.

He realized that his cigarette had burnt down almost to his fingertips, and he dropped the butt into an ashtray.

“Back on Swampoodle --”

He paused, looking at Daphne, waiting to see if she would laugh again, but she merely rolled her eyes and turned to look at Johnnie Ray on the stage, who was in the middle of singing “Cry”.

“Back on our home planet we already got pretty much all we could possibly want. I mean nobody’s really gotta work. We got robots do most of the work. Everybody on the planet’s got a beautiful home, plus a lovely vacation home. We all got several cars, Winnebagos, whatever; we got private jets, yachts, speedboats, six-seven TV sets, hi-fi’s in every room, what-the-hell, lots of robot servants to heed our every beck and call. We all got it all and so therefore we got no need to run around killing and looting and raping all the time like you humans do. Plus we have virtually mastered what you earthlings call ‘death’. We have completely obliterated the aging process, and as for our medical skills, you saw what the Sailor was able to do with those nine-mil gunshot wounds which Mr. Ridpath and Harvey shall we say incurred.”

“Yeah,” said Dick. “That was definitely something, but -- I was wondering, why was the Sailor not able to -- to heal his own wounds --”

“Physician heal thyself?” said Frank. “Hey, we’re good, we are very good, and the Sailor was one of the best, but, Mr. Ridpath, we are not that good. We have the power to use our life force to heal nearly any wound short of having your brains blown out, but, unfortunately, this life force can only be directed outward, to another creature but not inward to one’s own self. The Sailor had holes in both his brains and in all three of his hearts. He had cashed his chips.”

“Bit the big one,” said Dean.

“Bought the farm and the mortgage,” said Joey.

“He was one cool cat and I’ll miss him,” said Sammy.

“Sayonara, Sailor,” said Richard Conte, raising his double Gilbey’s on the rocks.

“'He played his string right up to the end,'” said Peter Lawford, raising his quadruple Haig & Haig.

“Salut,” said Frank, raising his Manhattan.

Dick, Daphne and Harvey exchanged glances and then raised their glasses along with everyone else.

Everybody drank.

“So,” said Frank, putting down his glass, “Shit happens, but, by and large, we hardly ever croak. So -- what do we do with all this free time? Well, in the words of young Harvey’s generation, we ‘groove with the flow’. And we’ve been grooving with the flow for a goddam long time. But there’s just one little problem with, with all this -- this perfection if you will: we get bored. I mean, trust me on this, try grooving with the flow for a coupla thousand years and see if you don’t get a little itchy. And that’s where you earthlings come in.”

“A laugh a minute,” said Dick.

“Exactly, my friend,” said Frank. “An entertainment bonanza. ‘Cause my people -- we just eat up this earthling shit. Eat it up. I mean everything earthling -- we love your shit. Ya see, Dick, this is just one reason our saucers gotta actually visit your planet, you know, they’re scouting for good material, whatever, the very latest of books, of movies, music -- Harvey, you want an advance pressing of the new Beatles album? I can get it for you. No charge --”

“Uh --” said Harvey. He had been spacing out, slightly.

“TV shows,” said Frank, moving right on. “Dean --”

Dean, who had been leaning backward, watching a cigarette girl go by, said: “Yes, O mighty one.”

“What’s your show rated -- back home I mean?”

Dean held up eight fingers.

“Number eight,” said Frank. “Whereas on earth it’s only what? Seventeen?”

Dean shrugged, saying, “Fourteen.”

“Go figure,” said Frank. “Now, would you believe that Hee Haw is currently the seventh top rated TV show in our world?”

“Uh --” said Dick.

“I would,” said Daphne.

“But --” said Frank, “we do not only and merely enjoy these fabulous artistic creations -- what we are really crazy about is the actual, real, like cinéma verité wacky shenanigans of you crazy earthlings. I mean we never know what you birds are gonna come up with next. And so, through this very casino’s control room we monitor your activities, then beam ‘em back to our world for round-the-clock entertainment.”

Arnold Stang and Wally Cox had returned to the table, Arnold carrying two magnums of Dom Perignon champagne and Wally with two handfuls of flute glasses.

“What’s this?” said Frank. “We didn’t order --”

“It’s on Mr. Ray,” said Wally, tossing his head toward the stage, where Johnnie was hanging onto the mike stand, grinning in Frank’s direction, and bowing with a sweep of his arm.

“Fuckin’ Johnnie!” said Frank. “You bum!” he called. “Sing another song. Sing ‘The Little White Cloud That Cried’!”

“Will do, Frank,” said Johnnie, leaning into the microphone. ‘Little Cloud’, boys -- hit it!”

As Arnold and Wally popped the champagne and poured it all around, Frank went on:

“So, with our state-of-the-art hi-fi stereophonic high-definition holographic three-dimensional television cameras and microphones we pick up all the good stuff -- wars, pogroms, riots, you know, the real mass-appeal stuff -- all the way down to the boisterous barroom brawls to those sneaky little back-alley murders -- and, for the intelligentsia, we got the dramatic intense late-night relationship discussions over the kitchen table and a bottle of Four Roses, dig it, ‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I been schtupping your goddam brother --’ whatnot -- and, hey, leave us not forget the hardcore bedroom stuff --”

“The boom boom,” drawled Dean.

“The hiding of the salami,” said Joey.

“The beast with two backs,” said Sammy.

“Slam bam,” said Richard Conte.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Peter Lawford.

“Ya see,” said Frank, “our race -- thank fucking Christ -- evolved past sex three-and-a-half billion years ago, so for us it’s kinda exotic fun watching you humans do the old slap-and-tickle, speaking of which -- Mr. Ridpath, how about that one you slipped the missus this afternoon? I mean, what was that about after four years of marriage?”

Frank made a punching gesture with his right fist.

“And this was not the first one of the day, either!” said Frank, smiling.

“I’ve said it before,” said Sammy. “Mister Ridpath is one lucky gentleman.”

Daphne, who had just emptied her flute glass in one good gulp, rose from her seat and reached down the table to grab one of the big bottles of champagne.

“I cannot wait to see the ratings for today!” said Frank.

Daphne refilled her champagne glass and put the magnum back down with a thump.

“This day had everything,” Frank went on. “Sex -- intrigue -- mystery -- and you wanta talk high adventure? What about that Thorndyke family episode? Up there on the butte or the mesa or whatever you fucking call it. Harvey, you were so fucking cool under fire. You know, you reminded me of nothing so much as my very good friend the very talented Mr. Steve McQueen when I gave him his first big break in Never So Few --”

Daphne, who had been taking a healthy sip or two of champagne through this, clapped her glass back down to the table.

“So in other words,” she said, “what you’re saying is you yourselves have no lives of your own, and so you live vicariously through us.”

(Continued here, and for God only knows for how much longer.)

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 21: improvisation

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus , roy dismas
and rhoda penmarq



for complete episode, click here

Best of Both

 Zach adapted fast to the best of both words: On Mondays, he taught honors classes in Public Policy at Columbia. Tuesdays he flew to D.C., stayed with Vida in Georgetown through Thursday, but arrived home before Beth served dinner in their dining room, which was identical to thirty other dining rooms in the leafy development overlooking the Hudson River. After Beth’s soothing home-cooking, he checked his email and corrected his students’ projects. He taught three classes on Fridays, worked out at Columbia’s underground gym, and drove home, spending an hour or two preparing for that night’s Boy Scout meeting. If necessary, he attended to more academic pursuits on Saturdays. No one complained.

(Click here for the first episode; here for the previous one.)

At the Younger Institute, he no longer sat on the roster of adjunct scholars. As Vida’s partner, he successfully wooed billionaire hedge funders, buyout moguls, and occasional celebrities eager to show their solidarity with conservative Senators.

Statuesque Vida, with her dimpled smile and long, bright, reddish-blonde hair, elicited moneyed interests by staging award ceremonies in a dignitary’s name and filling the Institute’s auditoriums with a corps of attractive university students.

Afterwards, Zach and Vida treated the awarded personage and his or her friends to a long night on the town. At Washington hot spots, Zach provided insightful comments leavened with his ready wit. His manly good looks and obvious intelligence did not go unnoticed. Receptions—or even two-day “think sessions”—infringed on his family routine yet involved little thinking and a good deal of fine dining, and even finer drinking, before and after operas and symphonies. Vida squeezed his hand and gazed up at him with obvious affection. As a couple, they entertained some of the most powerful individuals in the world.

One night as they undressed in Vida’s bedroom, he confessed his admiration for a particular power-broker. Vida embraced him, smiling, and kissed him with real intent. “That adulation, along with some of the fun, will fade,” she said. “You’ll be surprised how quickly.”

Yet Zach wanted Vida to know how much he enjoyed being her partner, and that he was grateful to her. He didn’t admit that he sometimes felt slightly awed by their guests, for he realized how important it was that he and Vida maintain an equally impressive profile. If he didn’t give off an aura of nearly historical significance, Vida would not risk being seen with him.

“I’ve been rolling with the highest of high rollers for almost fifteen years. And only once did I make a mistake. A man who held a position parallel to mine, and therefore should have known better, leaned in too close and shook a potential Presidential candidate’s hand too zealously.”

“What did you do?”

“I took him aside and told him to call the valet. I was staying; he was leaving. ‘Good-bye and good-luck.’”

After this conversation, Zach and Vida made love and as his hand rested on her waist and he silently marveled at how it dipped as neatly as ever. He had no idea how she kept her voluptuous body so fit. The several-course lunches followed by extravagant dinners, brimming with countless cocktails and an endless supply of vintage wines and champagnes had resulted in Zach gaining so much weight it embarrassed him.

This coincided with the plentiful “comfort food” and irresistible desserts that Beth, who was a wonderful cook, had begun providing in greater abundance—since Zach had apparently quit his previously strict diet. Returning to his family always felt like a huge relief. And Zach realized how much he needed the haven of his wife and two children.

Beth had always catered to him, and always would. No need to don an air-tight, inspiring demeanor with her. He wasn’t on stage. His family was his greatest achievement and the fulcrum for his honor—officially so, according to the Boy Scouts. And in fact, Matt had progressed to within one step from Eagle classification—while Zach’s own DESA (Distinguished Eagle Scout Award) remained on track as well.

In contrast, twelve-year-old Rosalind’s behavior was becoming worrisome. Zach tended to view Beth’s concerns for their daughter as trivial, but even he couldn’t write off the girl’s decisions to drop her friends and the flute at the same time. Rosalind now preferred the girls and boys who lived in a run-down town several train stops north.

Zach had always depended on Beth to know what the kids were doing. He didn’t doubt she could reorient Rosalind onto a more productive path. Much as he loved his high-flying adventures with the luxuriant Vida, she had unexpectedly led him to a greater appreciation of Beth, who kept an attractive but unassuming home, and was well-known, and even sought-after in their storybook New York City suburb. 

One Thursday afternoon in late spring, he had licked a bowl of whipped cream while she fixed ice cream parfaits for dessert. When he maneuvered her into the bedroom before the kids got home, the smell of pork chops and fresh potatoes baking permeated their love-making.

 Zach might love Vida with a passion. But he needed Beth. He loved her more than she could possibly know.  Dressing her as she rose from their bed, he said, “I cannot imagine my life without you.”

(go here for the next episode.)