SEPTEMBER 12, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
https://dimenno.wordpress.comWHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SEVEN: THE MAYOR OF HELL
I’m guessing it was the Fat Lady who at least had something
to do with having picked Conklin’s pocket the day he caused a
ruckus at the Red and Black Carnival, because the very
next morning she brings in a pawn ticket for a big old rusty
sword that Smash had brought to the pawnbrokers only that week.
I was present and accounted for just in time to witness the aftermath:
a fierce dust-up between Smash Conklin and the pawnbroker Cool Slopp.
“Where’s my dark sword?” said Smash, jangling into the shop through
the front door, and Slopp answers him. “Calm yourself, ye great big
“Don’t call me that,” says Conklin.
To be sure, Conklin did resemble a gorilla, albeit one dressed in a
green suit and derby which virtually spelt out in letters six feet
high the appellation “Known Bruiser.”
Furthermore, he was drunk as a coot. He was drunk as two men. He was
boozed up; blotto; drunk as a hand cart.
“Then don’t come barging in here like you own the joint, you stupid gorilla.”
Conklin turned his bleary eye to Cool Slopp and said, with slurry
menace, “I told you before don’t never call me that.”
Slopp replied, “Then learn some manners, you big ape. Or I’ll toss you
“You germ! I’ll flatten you!”
“Try it, Yegg, and be damned!”
“I want my sword! Where is it!”
“Quit shouting! I sold the damn thing! A deal is a deal!”
“Where is my sword? Who has it?”
“I’m no stool! I’ll be damned if I snitch!”
“Damn your eyes! Tell me who–or I swear I’ll–“
“You’ll do nothing! Why don’t you learn to keep your damned mouth
shut? I know all the same people you do, and all the others besides!
The coppers don’t know half the dirty stunts you pulled, you
flat-footed rat. Depend on it: I got enough gen on you to put you in a
dungeon 100 feet deep. The screw would grind up the key and swaller
the dust before they ever let you free to wander the streets again.
I’d hate to double-cross even a louse like you, but I’ll do it quicker’n
you can say Jack Robinson. I’ve already given you one chance, and know
ye well I’ll nowt give ye another. So don’t you go mouthing your big
threats at me, you cock-eyed, monkey-faced, ape-brained, half-baked,
flea-bitten, anvil-headed, big, ugly, stupid slobbering rock-throwing
Conklin looked wildly around, to find some loose object on which to
vent his anger. There was none. He knew better than to tangle with
little Eamonn the black Pomeranian, who was lying peacefully on a bed
of sawdust in a corner of the room, secure, perhaps, in the knowledge
that his master would protect him, come what may.
Seeing no loose piece of furniture which he could toss about, he
yanked upon a hall door. Much to his surprise, a slavering black and
tan coonhound, woken from a peaceful doze, leapt up into Conklin’s already
bruised and plastered face and with a yowling roar made to bite off
his right ear. Conklin, sensibly, covered his face with his
hands while the hound made short work of his bottle-green suit and
then proceeded to pounce on his bottle-green derby which had fallen to
the sawdusted floor. In the ensuing melee, the hound also tore
significant shred from his suit jacket and made particularly short
work of the seat of his bottle-green pantaloons.
I was told later that Conklin slunk home, vowing eternal revenge on
any one who had ever done him dirt.
LITTLE BROWN JUG
THE FUTURE OF CEREAL BOX ART
LIFE WITH MR. DANGEROUS. HORNSCHEMEIER. ***
LOBO: HIGHWAY TO HELL. **
THE SKEPTIC’S GUIDE TO AMERICAN HISTORY. STOLAR. ***1/2
SWAMP THING 3: ROTWORLD. **
TURNING POINTS IN AMERICAN HISTORY. O’DONNELL. ****
759. DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES
Am I the only one who giggled hysterically when Jack Lemmon tore apart the greenhouse in DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES? “WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT?!”