chester and marlene

by fan taser

illustrated by eddie el greco

when chester married marlene he did not realize how many friends she had. marlene insisted on inviting her many friends to dinner and to "evenings" and chester found the friends and their conversation confusing and incomprehensible. he was particularly disenchanted with walter, an old friend of marlene's who appeared with excruciating regularity. one evening, after having a drink too many, chester informed walter that nothing he, walter, said made any sense. chester followed this up with a choice of words that were quite outside the boundaries of polite and rational discourse. this incident occasioned the sudden end of chester and marlene's marriage. both obtained the services of competent lawyers. it was all very civilized. money was not an issue. marlene had large amounts of it and chester not so much, and neither was inclined to seek any from the other. the townhouse which had been marlene's remained in her possession. after this, their paths diverged sharply. chester took up with gina, a two-bit floozy who wasted no time dragging him to his doom. gina had a "former" boy friend named jerry whom she saw regularly and the pair conspired to murder chester. he did not have nearly the money or valuables they had thought, but as they were never caught, they felt they had not done too badly. chester had had few friends and no standing in the community and after a desultory investigation by the local authorities assisted by the state police, the case was forgotten. marlene married bradley, a wealthy man twenty-five years her senior. they had what all their friends considered a wonderful marriage. after his death, she continued to give her parties and "evenings". as her old friends died off, she contrived to find new ones to take their place. an evening at marlene's was always satisfying without being spectacular.

I

l'amour, part 36

by gabrielle-jeanette perfidy

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

part thirty-six of seventy-eight

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part 37

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 92: "blue moon"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas , danny delacroix and eddie el greco

*Associate Professor of Sumerian Literature, Assistant Water Polo Coach, Olney Community College; editor of How’s Tricks on the Outside? The Prison Poems of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 1; Olney Community College Press; underwritten in part by a generous grant from The Pep Boys: “Hey, you know you can’t afford a new car! Let Manny, Moe & Jack help keep that old jalopy of yours running just a little bit longer!”

I say again, Mr. Sternhagen," bellowed Lord Wolverington, "don't you agree that youth is wasted on the young? Haw haw haw!" Harold P. Sternhagen returned from the story (or was it a first chapter?) that had just passed through his brain, to the here and now, to this table in the Prince Hal Room of the Hotel St Crispian, and to the sight of the horrible gaping rictus of that old pansy Lord Wolverington across the table, to the leering wizened painted mask of his companion Miss Charlton, to the terrified pale face of that Michael fellow (or was it (100) Henry?) squeezed in between those two ancient wrecks. “Farmer” Brown clapped Harold on the shoulder, bringing him ever more fully into this world, the one people called reality.  "Oh, I completely agree!" said the Farmer. "My own youth was entirely wasted on me!" "As is your middle age," muttered Fred Flynn, sitting to Harold's left. "What's that, Mr. Flynn?" said the Farmer. "I said as is your middle age being wasted, and as will your old age and senescence, should you live so long." "Ha ha!" said the imperturbable Farmer, leaning across Harold, so that Harold could smell the man’s Old (200) Spice aftershave and the Brylcreem in his harshly dyed bright-brown hair. "So right you are, Mr. Flynn! But I shouldn't have it any other way! Ha ha! No other way indeed! Ha ha!" "Haw haw!" bellowed Lord Wolverington. Miss Charlton made a cackling sound, like the sound an old hen makes as she's being throttled for the stew pot.  Michael or Henry continued to look terrified. And Shirley, Shirley De La Salle, continued to sing, over there across the smoky room.  “Blue moon,” she sang, “You saw me standing alone…”

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toquette - 3. monsieur borin

by jolene de joinville

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

"good morning , jacques." jacques, the proprietor of a tiny cafe in an alley in the heart of the city , looked up from his broom, with which he had been sweeping the sidewalk in front of his establishment. "ah, good morning, m borin, i almost didn't see you there. a bit early this morning, eh? " "indeed, for i was unable to procure a copy of my newspaper this morning, and i usually give it a casual perusal on my peregrination over here, which, as you may readily surmise, causes a corresponding reduction in my rate of ready approach. this morning, thus unburdened, i fairly flew over, and thus you see me." "and i hopeto see you well, monsieiur. the usual. monsieur?" "of course. of course. what else would i have?" m borin settled his bulky carcass into "his" usual sidewalk table (one of three), the one which he always always took when it was available, and the weather suitable. "to be sure, to be sure." jacques turned to the front window of the cafe, and made a signal to his youngest daughter, who had been stationed there, and who turned away in her usual sullen manner, to execute the indicated command. "a lovely day, at any rate, eh, monsieur?" "good enough, i suppose, good enough. a day like any other, let us hope, eh?" "to be sure." "for what could be more desirable than a day like every other, i ask you." "nothing, monsieur, nothing. look here, would you like me to send the girl to find a copy of your newspaper, after she has brought your coffee and croissant?" "why thank you, jacques, that would do very well." jacques nodded. this was a conversation they had had many times before, for m borin's paper - neither the largest or smallest of the city's numerous dailies - was often printed late or not at all on any given day. jacques was a close student of his regular patrons' moods and peculiarities, and he knew that m borin enjoyed having the same conversations over and over - such as the one they had just had about his being "a bit early this morning". "i hope, " m borin went on, "that the paper being late does not signify any more political unrest, of which we have had entirely too much lately." this was another recurring theme, and jacques picked up his cue accordingly. "that would indeed be a pity, monsieur, especially as it is such a fine day."

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tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 91: "again"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas, konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

i was down on my luck - again. i had been played for a chump - again. the wind was whipping down broadway - again. i was headed for maisie's. she might be open. she might not. another bum passed me by. i didn't say nothing to him. he didn't say nothing to me. he disappeared into the night. i guess he disappeared into the night - i didn't turn around to watch him. but i didn't disappear. i was still freezing. maisie's was open. that was something, anyway. i opened the door. it creaked, but maisie didn't look up from the counter where she was reading some big fat book, the way she does. the place was empty. maisie must have a heart of gold. or a heart of something, because she will let a bum come in and sit down even if he don't buy nothing, as long as the place isn't full, and it never is. once i asked her, what's that book you are reading, the bible? she didn't look up, she just said "no" and kept on reading. i went over to the corner and sat down at my favorite table. i wished i had a smoke. i looked around. i did a double take. the place was not as empty as i thought. there was a girl sitting at the next table.

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tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 90. "the man who buys the mona lisa"

by manfred skyline

illustrated by konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

cosima watched from the window as fortescue and carol got into the cab and the cab pulled away from the curb and headed downtown. williams was waiting behind her. she turned to face him. "did you say i had a couple of phone calls tonight?" "indeed i did, miss. i wrote down the names and numbers. i can get them now, if you like." "no rush. anybody you didn't know?" williams hesitated. "one call was from mrs babson - young mrs babson, whom we both know very well." "yes, only too well. and the other?" "the other was from a gentleman who identified himself as mr slomo. he gave the impression of wanting to introduce himself. so i don't know if you are already acquainted with him." "slomo?" cosima seemed momentarily startled. then she laughed. "it was probably a joke. from bucky burnside or one of his pals. or pete palomine." "it didn't sound like mister burnside or mister palomine. of course i could be mistaken." "well, if they were joking they would have been trying to disguise their voices." "of course." cosima stared at williams. "was there something else?" "well, miss. perhaps i am being a bit presumptuous - " "oh, williams, williams, presume away, please." williams laughed politely. "but the name 'slomo' was not entirely unfamiliar to me." "oh?" "if i may continue in my presumptuousness, may i ask if it were familiar to you - apart from your perception of it as a joke?" "yes, it was familiar. anyone in the little world of art has heard of mr slomo - which is not to say they necessarily believe that he exists." williams seemed a little startled by this. "there is some disbelief as to whether mr slomo exists?" he stared at cosima. cosima stared back, amused. "well, do you believe mr slomo exists? have you had some experience of this legendary creature yourself?"

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