Sorry for the lack of postings… I’ve been ill the last couple of weeks and will be having some (minor!) surgery next week. There will be intermittent stories, particularly more of the Snake and Freaky John novel, but no dailies for a while. Thanks for understanding, and be assured that I’ll be fine.
xo, Amy
“Course, fuckin’ spinach didn’t exist before Popeye came along,” Snake declared, pausing to fire up a bud. “After the cartoons came out, kids all over are clamoring for spinach, but it’s just a joke they made up, like Soylent Green, so they fuckin’ genetically engineered it.”
Freaky John took a toke himself and swallowed the smoke. “No fucking way.”
“Way, dude. Why do you think it tastes so bad?”
Freak acknowledged that this was true. “But dude, lots of shit tastes like shit. Fuckin’ liver, for instance.”
Snake sat up, offended. “Motherfuck! You don’t like liver?”
“Fuck, no!”
“How the fuck can you not like liver? It’s like, fuck, it’s like—nature’s perfect food!”
“It tastes like shit,” Freak enunciated.
“Dude, you’re just gonna sit there telling me you don’t fuckin’ like liver and onions?”
Freak blew a smoke ring. “Shit and onions.”
“But…” Words failed. “You’d like it if I made it.”
“No fuckin’way.”
“Way!”
“No,” Freak repeated, slowly. “I. Do not. Like liver.”
Suddenly Snake was on his feet. “Up! Get up, fuckface.”
Freak looked suspicious. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you why, moron. We’re gonna go out, we’re gonna pick up some fuckin’ liver and onions, I’m gonna fuckin’ cook it for you, and you’re gonna sit there and eat every bite and you’re gonna fucking love it, that’s why! Now get off your ass, we’re going to Food Town!”
Freaky John crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going to fuckin’ Food Town.”
“You’re going to fuckin’ Food Town.”
Freak glared. “You got any money to pay for the liver?”
“Need I remind you, asshole, I am the wheels of this fuckin’ operation. I pay for the gas, car insurance, license, registration, fuckin’ inspections, windshield wiper fluid—”
“I’m not going to Food Town!”
“—oil changes, hubcap fees, parking tickets, speeding tickets—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Are you listening to me?”
Freak cupped a hand to his ear. “What?”
“Fuckin’ retard.” Snake took a deep hit to calm himself down.
“Hey, man, pass the bud,” Freak protested.
“Fuck you,” Snake replied, charitably. He went over to the window and looked out at the street. It rained earlier that night. Now the streetlights made funny-colored reflections on the wet pavement. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and finished the joint. “There’s liver in White Castle burgers, y’know.”
“Is not.” The Freakster stretched out a toe to hit the button on the remote control. The TV glowed to life. “News is on.”
Snake was back on the couch. “That anchor lady’s hot. I tell you about that dream I had?”
“The one where she’s a nun?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Only every night this week, man,” Freak giggled.
“Dude, nuns are hot.”
“Fuck!” Freak sat up and looked at the television. “Is that Margaret?”
Snake leaned forward and squinted. “Yeah, it is. See, the thing about nuns is—”
“Dude, what the fuck is Margaret doing on the ten o’clock news?”
“Freak, we’re talking about nuns here, okay? Don’t change the subject, it’s rude.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to hear.”
“Why? She’s right next door. You can listen to Margaret anytime.”
“Aw, fuck, it’s over now. You can’t shut the fuck up for three fucking seconds? Three fucking seconds? Cause that’s all I asked, was three fucking seconds.”
Snake opened his mouth to reply, closed it, looked down at his watch, counted to three, and looked up again. “Obviously.”
Freak pushed himself up from the couch and reached around in his shorts for his keys. “I’m going next door, see what’s up with Margaret.”
Snake bounced up and straightened his biker vest. “She’s fine. Unless she’s, like, dead or something.”
“That’s why we gotta find out. Although it’s a win-win situation either way.”
Snake lifted an eyebrow. “Because…?”
“If she’s alive, we can still get in through her kitchen window if we run out of food, and if she’s dead, then she can’t complain about the stereo.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Snake pulled the door open. “After you, sir.”
Freak slipped into his sandals, went out into the hall and banged on Margaret’s door. “Yo! Margaret! Open up!”
No answer.
Snake took his turn. “Yo, Superstar! We saw you on TV! You looked hot!”
The apartment was silent.
Freak tried again. “Margaret! The building’s on fire! We gotta get out!”
The door across the hall opened and elderly Mr. Hersch peered out. “The building’s on fire, you say?”
“Not really,” Freak answered. “We’re just saying that to get Margaret to come out.”
“Certainly she should come out if the building is on fire,” Mr. Hersch replied sensibly. “You’re good boys.”
Snake shook his head. “The building’s not on fire, idiot, we’re just trying to get Margaret to come out.”
Mr. Hersch blinked. “If the building’s not on fire, then what is on fire?”
“I dunno, your pants?”
The old man gasped. “My pants are on fire? Jonathan, is this true?”
Freaky John patted Mr. Hersch on the arm. “No, it’s all a joke. There’s no fire, and the aliens haven’t landed, either.”
“Aliens?!”
Snake pointed over Mr. Hersch’s shoulder. “Yeah, aliens! Look, there’s one down the hall! I think he’s the one that set the fire!”
Mr. Hersch blanched. “Really?”
Freak rolled his head back and belched. “No.”
The old man set his jaw. “Make a run for it, boys! I’ll stand guard! No alien bastard is going to set fire to this building on my watch!”
“You do that, Mr. Hersch.” Freak looked at Snake. “You hungry?”
“Yeah.” Snake patted his stomach. “I got a craving for liver and onions.”
Freak was already heading down the stairwell. “Dude, I’m not eating liver and onions.”
“Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Fag.”
Snake flicked his tongue out and made devil horns, which settled the argument.
Outside, the night was warm and sticky. Freak and Snake stood around for a minute, looking around the street.
Freak was the first to speak. “Dude, where we going?”
Snake tossed back his hair nonchalantly. “Food Town.”
“I told you, no fuckin’ liver and onions.”
“You think that’s all they sell, turd-brain? A whole motherfucking supermarket and they don’t sell anything but liver and onions?”
Freak nodded toward a black 1986 Monte Carlo with a three-foot cobra decal on the hood. “Walking or driving?”
Snake hesitated, stroking his goatee. “Snakemobile’s low on gas.”
“Dude, it’s two blocks.”
“Snakemobile is fuckin’ low on gas.”
“Unbelievable.” They turned and started walking. Freak pulled a joint from the pocket of his shorts and fired it up. After a nice deep hit, he passed the bud and shrugged. “How low is low?”
“Fumes.”
Freak nodded sagely. “What about kiwis?”
Snake took another hit and coughed. “What about ‘em?”
“They taste like fucking shit, man. Were those genetically engineered too?”
“I don’t see why not. Fuck, man, that makes sense. Kiwi probably stands for something, like a homonym or shit.”
“Homma…Homma-nimim?”
“Homonym. It’s where you got the first letters of a name and it makes a word. Like ‘Kleenex.’”
“Fuck, really? What does Kleenex stand for?”
“Shit, I think it’s the Klu Kux Klan or some shit.”
Freak stared. “The KKK invented Kleenex?”
“Sure. You see, back in the day, on off days when they weren’t wearing those white hoods and the hoods were just sitting in a fuckin’ closet or something, when one of the KKK guys had a cold, what do you think they blew their nose on?”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“No joke.”
“Unbelievable.”
“See, that’s why a true American always picks his nose.”
Freak was skeptical. “Why not just use toilet paper?”
Snake shrugged. “Sure, you can do that. That’s what the French do.”
“The French are cool. They make the best fuckin’ toast I ever ate.” Freaky John grabbed Snake’s arm. “Dude! Let’s get toast!”
“They sell toast at Food Town? You don’t have to make it anymore?”
“Fuck, they genetically engineer the fuckin’ vegetables, they can probably manage toast.”
Snake looked admiringly at his friend. “Now, that’s fuckin’ logic. You learn that in law school, too?”
The electric door of the supermarket opened before them. Inside, Food Town was awash with bright fluorescents and air conditioning. An older woman wearing a green Food Town tunic was stocking a pyramid of cans of tomato sauce on a table. Snake thumped her shoulder. “Dude, where’s the toast?”
She glared. “I’m not a dude.”
Snake scoffed. “I can see that, but that’s not what I asked.”
“We don’t sell toast, dude. You have to buy the bread and make it yourself.”
The weed was really starting to hit. Freak shook his head and tried to remember something important and logical about genetic engineering. He’d just had a thought about that a minute ago… “What about kiwis?” he asked importantly.
“Produce aisle. And stop coming in here smelling like marijuana. You guys should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Snake swept his mane back magnificently. “Bet your liver tastes terrible.”
She ignored this. “Liver is in Meats, next to the tripe.”
Freakster remembered something. “Fuck, I left the TV on!”
“Do you have to curse?”
“What about ice cream? Dude, you got ice cream?”
The woman scowled at Snake. “I told you, I’m not a dude.”
“Not you, him! Freak, you got any ice cream?”
“Aisle fifteen, dairy.”
“Don’t interrupt, it’s rude,” Snake chided.
“No, I don’t have ice cream…what?”
Snake had Freaky John by the arm, propelling him toward the left side of the store. “Cherry Garcia time, baby.”
“I’m sure I left the TV on.”
“That’s not what’s important right now.”
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What are we talking about again?”
Snake squeezed Freak’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re freaking out, man. Let’s get some ice cream and cool you down. Look, there’s Margaret.”
Freak’s eyes vaguely focused on an attractive woman about his own age, with dark-rimmed glasses and straight brown hair, selecting a tub of Haagen Dazs from the cooler. “Yo, Margaret. We just saw you on TV.”
His next-door neighbor burst into tears. “It’s on the news?”
Freak patted her arm awkwardly. “Don’t cry, Margaret. I mean, I’m sad I left the TV on, too, but it’s no reason to cry.”
“It’s not bad enough I lose my job, but do they have to put it on the news, too? What did they say? Do they think I did it?”
Snake laughed. “You had a job? Fuck, man, jobs are for losers. You’re better off without one, you ask me.”
Margaret’s shoulders sagged. “Shockingly, this doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Freak struggled to clear his head. “Why were you on the news?”
“I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s go home, and I can tell you about it in private.”
“Fuck, being unemployed is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Snake added encouragingly. “Sleep in, go where I want, get paid for doing frigging nothing. Shit, everybody should do it.”
Margaret blinked. “Why do I even talk to you people?”
Freaky John grabbed a random tub of ice cream and headed toward the checkout. “I got what I want. Let’s get out of here.”
Snake excavated something from his nose. “So why’d you get fired, anyway?”
She sighed and followed Freak toward the cashier. “I told you, we can talk about it when we get back to the building.”
Snake was walking with her. “Did you sit on the copier? Cause I’d want copies of that.”
“No.”
“Did you get caught fucking in the break room?”
“No.”
“No? Well, fuck, you didn’t steal anything, did you?”
Margaret stopped in her tracks, tears shining on her cheeks. “Shut up, okay? I’ve had a bad enough day as it is. Now that I’ve lost my job, I shouldn’t even be spending money on this.” She looked down at the carton of ice cream in her hands.
Snake took the ice cream and plunked it on the counter next to Freak’s. “We’ve got it. Don’t sweat it, hot stuff.”
Freak patted his pockets. “Fuck. Snake, you got any money?”
“Oh, now I have to pay for everything?”
“Dude, I forgot my wallet! I’ll pay you when we get back.”
“Did you check your boxers?”
Freak unzipped the fly of his shorts and reached around inside. His face brightened as he pulled out a crumpled twenty. “Hey! Good call!”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “You guys keep your money in your underwear?”
“Hell, no.” Snake adjusted the leather belt over his jeans. “I go commando.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Outside, Margaret shivered. “Funny how getting back into the heat makes you realize how cold it was in there.”
Freak stared. “That makes no fuckin’ sense whatsoever.”
Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “When you look at it logistically, it makes total fuckin’ sense. It’s all about the differential of the square root of the thermometer and shit.”
“I have no fuckin’ idea what you just said.”
“Me either,” said Margaret. “Let’s just enjoy the silence till we get back, okay?”
Freak nodded. “Okay.”
“Silence is golden,” Snake declared. “Silent night, right? Right?”
They reached the building door. Margaret took care of the lock while Freak held the grocery bag. Snake stood around for moral support.
Freak stepped aside to let Margaret up the stairwell first. “After you.”
“Thanks.” They reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner.
And were met by an icy blast of foam.
“Ha! Think you can just come down in your spaceships and set fire to my hallway? Well, you can take your UFOs and go right back where you came from!”
Margaret screamed and ran back down the stairwell. Freak slipped on the foam and fell on his ass. Snake wrestled the fire extinguisher from Mr. Hersch. “Fuck, who let you have one of these?”
“Oh, Jonathan, Snake, is that you? I beg your pardon, dear boys, I thought you were aliens. Oh, well, honest mistake.” Mr. Hersch smiled pleasantly at Freak, Snake and Margaret, who was peering around the corner. “Would you like to come in for a cookie?”
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
Arlene set the grocery sack down on the hall table and closed the door behind her. The doorknob lock clicked into position automatically. Second was the slider, located high up on the left hand side. A tiny woman, she strained to reach it. Below were two chains. At Arlene’s age, her manual dexterity wasn’t what it used to be, but she managed them, thank you kindly. Even at seventy-eight years, Arlene Dalberg was independent.
She still lived on her own, she reminded herself proudly. Maintained the tidy little apartment she had shared with her husband, Harold, for fifty-two years, the home in which they raised their two boys. For five decades, a deadbolt and a chain were enough, but when Harold died, Arlene invested in some extra security. Her sons lived with their own families now. Better safe than sorry.
Five deadbolts, in a nice straight column. One, two, three, four… When her fingers rested on the fifth, she paused. Harold installed this lock himself, half a century ago. Today, it turned just as smoothly as the day he put it in. “Good job, lovey,” she murmured. “You sure did take care of us.”
Now for the keypad. The code was easy, though pushing the buttons hurt her fingers, a little. Eighteen—that was chai, life—then thirty-six, double-chai—and seven, for luck. She pressed the last digit and heard the satisfying shhkt! that told her three steel bars hit home inside the wall.
Arlene smiled. Only three to go, now.
The first floor lock was the difficult one, a steel rod that slid down vertically into a shaft in the door frame when Arlene released the safety catch on the side and pushed the rod into place with her foot. It took all her weight to do this, and of all the locks she owned, this was the one she regretted. After several tries, the rod was in position and she could release the catch. Arlene paused for a moment to catch her breath.
The second floor lock was another steel rod, attached to the door by a metal plate and spring. Arlene simply pulled the rod down 135º on its spring so it met a plate on the floor.
And now for the final lock, the new one. Her son Joel, the lawyer, visited yesterday and told her to get rid of it. Arlene compromised by promising she wouldn’t install any new locks. After this one, she wouldn’t need any more.
It hardly counted as a lock at all. Just a two-by-six-inch steel bar that fit into brackets mounted on either side of the door. It took all Arlene’s strength to heave the bar up from the floor. As she tried to fit it into the brackets, the bar slipped from her hands, knocking her to the carpet and crushing her hip.
By the time the paramedics cut through the wall, Arlene was right—she wasn’t going to need any locks anymore.
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
MungBeing Magazine #7 (Fanaticism) is out now!
The seventh issue of MungBeing Magazine has hit the InterNetwork! This issue marks ONE YEAR of MungBeing and we couldn’t be proudier!
Fifty-some-odd pages of writing, sound, art, and magazoidnal fun. This bi-month, MungBeing sneaks up on the issue of fanaticism and slaps it in the back of the head.
Tales of fanaticism and obsession include these wonderful titles:
* Ghost Pains by T.L. Bryers
* The United States of Kubla Khan by SJ Chambers
* The Familiar by Ellen Thurmond
* Tiny Book of Smokes by David Greenberger
* A Guy Who… by Ryan Hughes
* Sins by Amy Frushour Kelly
* My Catholic Sunday by Danielle Hagel
Interviews with Jeffrey Scott Holland (our first OuterView) and the incredibly talented filmmaker Caveh Zahedi highlight this issue. A couple of audio selections from Brent Hetherwick (from California Rocket Fuel) and SinDex Industries (artist Ken B. Miller) provide a soundtrack to fanaticism.
Howard Drucker, Andrew Hessel, Euphoria, R.S. Deese, David “Starchy” Grant, Robert Dayton, Heidi Morgan, Kelly Moore, and Buzzsaw grace the pages with some wonderful writing and the fine artwork of peg leg, Robert Zailo, SJ Chambers, Claudio Parentela, and Mark DeLong are sure to make you smile.
All of that and a new quiz, some comics, new technical tweaks, and a recipe for COLD cantaloupe pie! Whew! It’s been quite a year.
MungBeing is an online bimonthly magazine published under a Creative Commons license and released by the B.A.T.S.
Thanks for being fanatical readers,
Mark and jody
Editors,
MungBeing Magazine
http://www.mungbeing.com
Of note: Livejournal contributors to this issue include, of course, our stalwart ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
starchy and the return of spasmsproject, the queen of short fiction. zulko, chaoskitty, human_loser, penguinkeggard, cybersuze and ethora all make their debuts on this historic day.
The obstetrician folded her hands on her desk. “You were right. The DNA tests came back identical to your own.”
Celia nodded. “I knew it. I told you, I’m a lesbian. I’ve never had sex with a man.”
Her doctor still looked dazed. “I had to confirm that you were telling the truth, that you hadn’t received in vitro fertilization or—”
“You mean a turkey baster in the bathtub?” Celia scoffed. “No such luck. So how did this happen?” she demanded.
“Well, there’s not really any precedent in medical science. Not in mammals, anyway. Certain insects, bacteria, and other creatures reproduce asexually. It’s called parthenogenesis, and what happens is—well, I can see you’re not interested in that,” she added, seeing Celia’s expression. “The truth is, I don’t know how it happened. I’ll need to run more tests, consult some other obstetricians and geneticists, before I can even begin to figure it out. Now, are you sure you want to carry to term?”
Celia sighed. “Is there any reason not to?”
“No. The fetus looks fine. No abnormalities, perfectly healthy so far.”
“Then we’re keeping it. My girlfriend and I will raise it together.”
“Very good. Incidentally, your next sonogram is coming up. At that time, we can determine the sex of the baby. You’ll have to decide before then whether you’d like to know the gender in advance.”
Celia shook her head. “What’s the point? You said it was genetically identical to me, right? So it’s a girl.”
The obstetrician smiled kindly. “You’re right.”
“So now I have to start thinking of baby names, huh?”
“Might not be a bad idea. I have some baby books in the waiting room, if you’d like to take a look.”
Celia shook her head. “Lisa and I’ll put our heads together. We’ll come up with something.”
Four months, later, Celia gave birth to Jesus Sue.
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
There once was a star named Astrid, who shone brightly in her corner of the night. Astrid was a happy star, glad to be in such a nice part of the sky, and joyous when the moon crossed her path, or a meteorite streaked by. Astrid especially enjoyed the summer. That was when she was at her peak, her most visible, and she shone happily at the upturned faces of earth.
One sultry summer night, a hawk flew higher than usual, and met Astrid. She was glad to meet him.
“Hello, there. My name is Astrid, what’s yours?”
The hawk nodded. “I am Halcyon. Say, I’ve never been up this far. May I perch on you?”
“But of course. Light here on my basket.”
Halcyon did so. “Thank you.” Looking up at Astrid’s body, he said, “I have never met one of your kind before, though I have seen you from a distance many times. What manner of creature are you?”
“I believe I am a star,” Astrid replied. “I shine brightly in the night as I float through the sky.”
“Ah. Then surely you are a star of a new kind. I greatly admire your silver skin.”
“Thank you.” Astrid’s laugh was a tinkly sound. “I must admit, I am a little envious of how you can move through the sky at will.”
Halcyon smiled. “It’s very kind of you to let me rest in your basket like this. Truly, you are as generous as you are beautiful.”
They hung together this way, talking quietly as the sun turned rose and disappeared in the distance. When the sun returned, Astrid and Halcyon were still talking. They spoke of the sky, of the moon above and the earth below. They spoke of winter’s harsh winds and the moist heat of summer. They spoke of love.
When Halcyon flew away, it was only to catch a fish. He returned with twigs and down. Astrid was glad he had made her basket his home. After spending all her years shining perfectly happily alone in the night, Astrid now couldn’t imagine life without a companion.
Years later, a team of scientists retrieved their weather balloon, and were very surprised to find a nest among their equipment, containing highly unusual feathers and the fragmented remains of a silver egg.
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.