#780 APRIL 18, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL
It was early spring and a man and a boy were seated in a basement dive. “Note the customer over in the corner,” said Doc Ketman to Cadger Tandy, as the two of them sat in the Seven Stars saloon. Ketman crossed himself three times and muttered: “Matrix, patrix, lay thyself right and safe. Seven arts. Jesu bless us. Savers sent. O! Savers nest. Plus! Naves tress. Perge! Naves rest. Aio! Raven Set. Hui! Snare vest. Hem! Save rent. Jesu bless edgy Narc Tad. Jesus bless Cadet Monk. Or thou or I shall on the third day fill the grave.”
“Ye cannae be too careful, using that name. It can come back to bite ye. The Lord of the Flies does not like to be called forth from His domain. It is a place of celestial froth and fallen tomfoolery. Why do I dare call upon Him today? Every April first His portal opens to the earth. So he’s less inclined to snap back at ye. Still–powerful stuff, Yob. Don’t you be fooling with that name. By the power of Malkin Tower, by the power of Manlike wort, by the power of terminal worm, by the power of mark towline. I call forth Kilter Woman, I call forth Wrinkle Tom, I call forth Tinkle worm. O Rim Town Lake! This mantle I work. Ink worm tale. Wake Milton! Wreck Milton! Water on Milk. We trail monk. Air knew molt. Air melt know. Walk rime not. Walk no miter. Mark night owl. Nark low time. Maker wilt on. Maker win lot. Maker nil wot!”
Musky Dan plumped down hard on a sturdy oaken chair, which strained beneath his weight as though it were about to break, but, through some internal strength managed to stay whole.
DRINK SCHLITZ OR I’LL KILL YOU
Burnett Agency’s ill-considered ad campaign enabled, perhaps ensured, Schlitz’s slide to oblivion.
Whole Foods: America’s Temple of Pseudoscience
MILTON BROWN & HIS BROWNIES
LOST CLASSICS NOW AVAILABLE ON YOUTUBE
LUXURY CONDOS COMING TO YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD SOON
Vinyl? Pooh! I still miss Shellac. Christ, that Bojangles could tap-dance! Did you take my drink? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! TWENTY DOLLARS for a HAIRCUT! That used to be half a week’s wages! The old days was the best days. Lemme tell you something–kids today–they don’t know how good they have it. What with their floppy discs and their newfangled cordless phones–they don’t know what it’s like to suffer, and I hope they never will.
The Beatles were Communists, you know. All the hippies were. Hippies, Yippies, Zippies, Bippies, Mippies–who needs em? Give me the good old days when gum-snapping cuties with husky whiskey voices pitched woo at fresh-faced soldier boys who gave you a smart salute and barked “Rajah!”
Me, crazy? I guess I am. It’s a crazy world. Nobody understands me anymore. Listen: Talk about Crazy! Back in the olden days there was Crazy Mitch. Back in Kindergarten he used to do an award winning impression of Frank Fontaine. I later hear that Johnny Carson had some problems with his marriage. Who in the devil is this whippersnapper, this Don Rickles character? Somebody ought to poke that bullet-headed rascal right in the old snoot.
Gol dang it, I remember when Eisenhower was president AND THERE WARN’T NO PUSSYFOOTING IN THE WHITE HOUSE AND THE MARGINAL RATE WAS 90%–me fine bucko! WHAT, AM I SPEAKING CHINESE? You may think I’m a senile codger, but don’t sell me short–I’m human too! Just because my shoes are floppy and I walk with a hitch and a shuffle, don’t mean I’m ready for the boneyard yet!