L. Paul Fobert Jr.
12/19/11
A Close Relation
Her hair shiny, black as soot, cascading like a waterfall,
against pale alabaster skin, tinged red in cold winter dew.
Fur warmed her body as she shivered underneath the streetlight.
Her doppelganger, most commonly called twin, I shall be known.
I entreat you now, please, hear my tale of how I am to be.
Life to be gone, evermore.
Knife in hand, silently waiting, for a moment, all too near.
The matter at hand, perfection timed, nearby shoppers will doubt
horrors they may witness when I take my sister’s precious life.
As doppelgangers’ go, I am one in a sea of evil,
and no hesitation comes when I take her life, just relief.
To now be gone, evermore.
Body disposal. Harder than it seems. Especially now.
Her alabaster skin sleek with blood now. Life can be so cruel,
but it's not. She got off easy. Dragging along the body,
a dumpster comes into view. What to do? No more to think on.
Myrtle, my twin, my doppelganger, is gone. Dead. At my hands.
Her life, taken, evermore.
San Francisco’s still streets motivated an easy retreat.
Blending in shadows had become a dominating nature.
Getting back through town across high, hilly roads with no body.
Problematical at best, but worth it, if I pulled it off.
Somehow I did. In my room, sigh, relief. In plain sight, relief.
First time, just one, evermore.
Police come soon afterwards. The acting classes paid off well.
I tell them my name. Myrtle. And my sister is now missing.
The two blues don’t doubt. Much too busy they are at leering.
At my cleavage. Flattering? Yes. And no. I have work to do.
I offer to help, they accept. Smiling, I receive power.
Perfectly placed, evermore.
Not all the officers are receptive to my involvement.
I don’t care. Neither do the leering blues. Disgraced uniforms,
yet helpful to a twin killing murderer. Leering Blue One,
Leering Blue Two and I canvas all night. I steer them away
from the bins where Myrtle’s dumped. Relief. Relief stating all.
Not over yet, evermore.
Questions, questions, and questions. What was I to do? The truth? Lie?
Lie. The best truthful way I could. I saw myrtle yesterday.
No, I don't know who had her. Police activity flourished.
The station stank. Doughnuts. Coffee. Nasty, smelly, tastelessness.
Missing sister wasn't missing. Murdered. Police didn't know.
I grinned in spite, evermore.
How they came to know, based off my answers, I never discerned.
What we both now know and in truth I have always known. Always.
This case easy as it may seem could have me in hot water.
Dressing as Myrtle, hard as it may be, I now need to do.
If I do not, jail is my calling, for the rest of my days.
Depression sets, evermore.
Officers, giving me looks. Not leering like Blues One and Two.
I’m holding out. They’re catching on. Worrisome. What do I do?
Lie yet again? No. Run. Away. Fast. Far. It seems most likely
the easiest thing to do. Under lazy yet watchful eyes
I bolt. Run hard and Run fast. Car theft. This is my crime today.
Lone criminal, evermore.
How did the Cops figure it out? Did they figure it all out?
Does it matter? The chase is on now. Leering Blues One and Two
hide in the rear, leering. How long has it been; my priceless crime?
Week? Month? Year? Sleeping, writing, running. Anything else to do?
Turn myself in? Defeats initial plans. This is what I need.
Hard, hard working, evermore.
I loved my parents. Did they? Loved Myrtle more, so, so much more.
Their will left her everything. From records and player to house.
Sinful sweet revenge, parents and Myrtle gracefully suffered
when ending innocent Myrtle life. Doppelganger no more.
I now hold the cards. Everything is mine. But I’m cop-running.
Bittersweetness, evermore.
Three days. Long and gloriously painful. Tingles. Feet asleep.
Wailing sirens pierce the night. Cold winter dew a reminder.
That night. Worth it? No. Lost everything. Possessions and family.
Waiting for the inevitable. Brutal. Worth it? Agreed.
The leering duo cuff me. Reading my rights without a leer.
Caught! A relief. Evermore.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monday, December 19, 2011
Pencil, Fly and Worm Poems
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11
Story of a Pencil
In the beginning the giants said,
“They will do many things
in the hands of others.”
What this meant, Number Two knew not.
It only knew they would be great.
Handled delicately and
placed with care
next to numerous others,
Two welcomed the new beginning
life was bringing forth.
The wait was long.
Too long.
Sealed in with replicas, Two waited.
Waited for a new day.
For a new tomorrow.
Fresh air washed over them.
Freedom from the bonds of
surrounding brethren was short lived.
Another giant encased Two in darkness
before a painful earthquake shook it’s very core.
Feeling less substantial than before
and held upside down, this new giant
moved Two back and forth
before speaking out loud,
“‘Whistling Bells Toll Insanity.’ A poem.”
Preserved next to duplicates
felt nothing to the annoyance of
flipping back and forth
from gray precedence to pink bottom.
What great work was Two doing?
The giant, at length, read Two’s great achievement.
“A bell and a whistle going off,
marking the starting point. Of what?
In lieu of everything
in the beginning and the end.”
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11
Diary of a Fly
Feces, sputum, open sores.
Moist decaying organic matter.
Food.
Summertime is here again.
My time for play.
Fun.
Behind me are the larval and pupa days.
Warm places mean room to breed.
Freedom.
Fluttering wings buzzing through the air.
A lively and energetic sound.
Bzzzz.
A colorful blur swifting through my breeze.
What is it I wonder?
Splat!!!
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11
Diary of a Worm
Anal, tubular, slimy and gross.
The earthworm.
Me.
I fertilize biologically, chemically, and physically.
My home is an area as moist as my flesh.
Dirt.
Functioning while dry.
That’s for my enemies.
Birds.
Humans, kids in general, pull at me, cut me in half.
Creating a doppelganger. Myth or not it still hurts.
Ouch.
All five hearts beat fast.
The little monsters come to play.
Soccer.
3/13/11
Story of a Pencil
In the beginning the giants said,
“They will do many things
in the hands of others.”
What this meant, Number Two knew not.
It only knew they would be great.
Handled delicately and
placed with care
next to numerous others,
Two welcomed the new beginning
life was bringing forth.
The wait was long.
Too long.
Sealed in with replicas, Two waited.
Waited for a new day.
For a new tomorrow.
Fresh air washed over them.
Freedom from the bonds of
surrounding brethren was short lived.
Another giant encased Two in darkness
before a painful earthquake shook it’s very core.
Feeling less substantial than before
and held upside down, this new giant
moved Two back and forth
before speaking out loud,
“‘Whistling Bells Toll Insanity.’ A poem.”
Preserved next to duplicates
felt nothing to the annoyance of
flipping back and forth
from gray precedence to pink bottom.
What great work was Two doing?
The giant, at length, read Two’s great achievement.
“A bell and a whistle going off,
marking the starting point. Of what?
In lieu of everything
in the beginning and the end.”
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11
Diary of a Fly
Feces, sputum, open sores.
Moist decaying organic matter.
Food.
Summertime is here again.
My time for play.
Fun.
Behind me are the larval and pupa days.
Warm places mean room to breed.
Freedom.
Fluttering wings buzzing through the air.
A lively and energetic sound.
Bzzzz.
A colorful blur swifting through my breeze.
What is it I wonder?
Splat!!!
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11
Diary of a Worm
Anal, tubular, slimy and gross.
The earthworm.
Me.
I fertilize biologically, chemically, and physically.
My home is an area as moist as my flesh.
Dirt.
Functioning while dry.
That’s for my enemies.
Birds.
Humans, kids in general, pull at me, cut me in half.
Creating a doppelganger. Myth or not it still hurts.
Ouch.
All five hearts beat fast.
The little monsters come to play.
Soccer.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Funnier When Drunk Short Story
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
2/06/11
Funnier When Drunk
It
was time. The pre-planning was over. Mal pulled his cell out of his
pocket. His phone was hard to hold onto, that's how sweaty his hand
was. It said 12:30 while the clock with the beer bottle handles above
the door said 12:27. He would go by his cell, more accuracy that way.
He had come into this rundown bar an hour ago and sat down waiting
for one o’clock. He was recognized instantly by the frequent
customers. He was a frequent customer as well. This was the
beginning.
Mal means bad in Latin. That is why he chose the name. Bad people do bad things. Like studying people before they need to die.
He wasn’t drunk, but he knew how to act like it as he studied the people in the bar. Covertly looking up from his glass as he acted his part, Mal saw two big men wearing cowboy hats and plaid shirts with pearl snaps to his right, both of them trying to hustle one another for five hundred dollars. They would be fighting before the night was over. He made a note to keep a wary eye on them. Behind him, at a table, a slim man in a tee shirt was drowning his sorrows, while behind him two drunken young lovers; a purple haired man and a blonde woman; were playing darts. To his left the plump brunette barmaid, who had a scar running across her left arm, was flirting with an underweight redheaded woman with fake tits. These two whores were why he was here. They were his targets.
He clutched Vera tighter to his chest. She was a .22 caliber pistol he had concealed in his oversized parka as he listened to the two women flirting with distaste. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” the barmaid asked, “I love Sex on the Beach.”
The look on the redhead’s face made it clear exactly what she was imagining. She looked flustered before smiling back. It was disgusting. “I don’t have a problem with that. Although I prefer a Comfortable Screw,” the redhead replied after a moment.
They looked at each other for a few more moments before the barmaid pulled the redhead off the stool and into the backroom. “My name’s-,” the barmaid said.
"I don't care," the redhead interupted with a kiss.
She pecked the barmaid. It only took a few moments for the plump woman to respond in kind. How much had they had to drink already? However many it was, neither one seemed to mind the slobber and drool as the two of them continued towards the back room. If any other patrons noticed this they didn’t take any interest or seem to care either. This was why Mal was going to do what it was he was doing.
They had yet to lean each other's names The clocks read 12:37 and 12:40. Having watched these two whores before Mal knew they would be back out here flirting before it was time. In the meantime, he looked over at the other five occupants in the bar. The other casualties in his cause. They would all die. He clutched Vera, thinking about the euphoria to come. The couple who were playing darts sat themselves down next to him. Mal loved to look at her. She could easily distract him. Tonight she was acting more blonde than usual. After every kiss the tall wire-y, beanpole would give her, she would spout off a random nonsensical question.
“Why is it that if you put two cents in you only get a penny for your thoughts?”
“I don’t know,” her boyfriend said, smiling in amusement. When he leaned in to kiss her again he removed his wire-rimmed glasses. His oddly colored hair didn’t clash as much without them.
“What would happen if you got a paper cut on a get well card?”
“Are you asking me these questions or are you just asking them in general.” As he kissed her again Mal noticed that that he didn’t get any feedback. The blonde seemed to be lost in her own world. The man had not yet noticed this.
Mal glanced towards the back room. He had a perfect view of the two whores. Taking in their state of near undress, he knew he still had a little time before he killed them. The two men playing pool were getting louder. The man wearing the authentic cowboy hat was winning and it was making the man in the black hat a sore loser. By his guess they would be fighting before he put his plan into action. They could cry foul at his actions before anyone else. They would have to die first.
The blonde’s ‘boyfriend’ was getting annoyed with them. The blonde herself seemed lost in her own little world. “Why do people say you can read a picture book? It doesn’t make sense. You view a picture book.”
The men at the pool table had annoyed the blonde’s boyfriend so much he was starting to get frustrated with her. “Where’s the barmaid?” he asked, before muttering, “I need another drink. Now.”
“Why was Winnie the Pooh sophisticated enough to put honey in jars, but not get it out of jars without making such a mess? How did he get it in there in the first place? Didn’t he know what a spoon was?” The blonde’s boyfriend had given up trying to kiss her questions away and was wildly searching for the barmaid, who was currently moaning pleasure in the back.
“When Donald Duck gets out of the shower why does he have a towel wrapped around his waist when he never wears any pants?”
“I don’t know the answer to any of these, Caroline. May I have a drink please?”
The barmaid didn’t hear him. Whether or not it was because she and her lover were in the middle of ecstatic pleasure or because the two men at the pool table were nearing the climax of their fight, Mal did not know. What he found most interesting of all was how easy he knew everyone was going to be killed. Despite everyone's attitudes he knew they were all depressed. There could be no other reason why no one cared about whores having loud sex in the back room. What they were doing was against all natural laws of god and man and he would put a stop to it.
12:42. 12:45.
“Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?”
“I don’t know,” her boyfriend replied.
"Is it bad luck if you find a four-leaf clover under a ladder and what if a black cat walks under a ladder and breaks a mirror?”
Mal nearly snorted into his drink. They were the most ridiculous questions he had ever heard and yet they were oddly intriguing. He liked the way her mind worked.
The odd-looking boyfriend didn’t think so. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “What does a guy have to do to get drunk in this fuckin’ bar.”
The two women in the back yelped and sat up off the shelf of kegs they were sitting on. Only half dressed, they seemed embarassed enough to look around to make sure no no was watching. Mal bent his head down into his drink.
“Coming!” The barmaid shouted.
Her brunette lover giggled.
The redhead slapped the chunky lover's butt playfully before they started fixing their clothes.
“You dirty cheater. I want my money,” the man with the black cowboy hat yelled.
“What’s going on out there?” the barmaid called out, not yet finished with her clothes.
Mal cursed himself. He had waited too long to take care of them. He needed to act fast. He looked at the clock above the door. 12:47. That meant it was 12:50.
“I’ll take care of the problem,” Mal muttered.
He didn’t want to do it this way, but the plan could still work if he got them outside. They were drunk enough.
He casually walked over to the pool table and heard Caroline ask, as if the men weren’t causing any trouble, “When atheists go to court do they have to swear on a bible?” Mal hoped he was never in a position to swear on any bible. He was definitely an atheist.
Picking up their remaining betting money, Mal walked out into the cold, winter, Illinois night. The two men followed shortly after, once they had realized what had happened. As the door opened he heard, “What’s a Hot Pocket called when it’s cold?”
“That’s ours,” the man in the authentic hat yelled.
“Give it back,” the man in the black hat yelled.
“From what I understood of your argument it belongs to only one of you. I’ll make you a deal. Hand to hand combat, a fight to the death to see who should have the money or…” he pulled Vera out of his parka. Always be prepared. He learned that last time. Mal was the only member of his former gang to serve jail time (He considered himself lucky, the others died in that hostage standoff). That was the way it had to be. That was why he couldn’t leave evidence. Why he couldn’t get caught.
Without warning he shot both of the gambling cowboys perfectly between the eyes. There were no cameras out here. But getting everyone out would be too difficult and take too long. The original plan was still the best option. He put the gun back into the parka and left the bodies where they were, knowing that even out in the open, no one would be coming to the bar until morning. All the late night regulars were already here.
Entering the bar again the only change he saw was the whores sitting where they were before their unnaturalnness.
“How old do you have to be before they say you died of old age?” After being out in the dark, Caroline’s bright pink, tightly-hugging tee-shirt and crème colored leather pants seemed to blind Mal even more than the neon signs decorating the walls. He looked at the clock once more and gave a sigh at how slowly time moved when people paid attention to it.
12:48. 12:51.
“Here’s your Screaming Orgasm sir,” the barmaid said.
“Where’s my Screaming Orgasm?” her lover whispered.
“Didn’t you get yours?” the barmaid asked, whispering back in mock outrage.
Leaning in her lover responded: “No. We were interrupted. But later on tonight, you're mine.”
Mal smiled as he sat down. In nine minutes they would be dead.
“Why did Sally sell seashells on the seashore? It is more profitable to pick them up off the beach for free.”
“Baby,” Caroline's date tried redirecting her attention, “do you know what’s in a Screaming Orgasm?”
Mal snorted once more into his drink.
“Do you want me to help you make one?” The underweight redhead said, overhearing the question.
The barmaid scowled at Caroline then at her redheaded lover.
“If you pamper a cow do you get spoiled milk?” Caroline continued, ignoring the jealousy around her.
“Um, kahlua, Irish cream, amaretto and vodka,” The purple haired boy answered his own question.
“How did the Wicked Witch of the West bathe?”
Mal glanced around to check on the depressed drunk. He had moved only enough to lift his beer to his mouth. The whores had moved down to the end of the bar and had linked hands. They were gazing intently into each other’s eyes. It would not be hard not to pull Vera out and fire her at them right now.
“Why is the alphabet in that order?”
Caroline's date lost all reason on his temper and roared, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
Mal nearly pulled his gun as quick as he did the night he was arrested. The beer bottles said it was only 12:50; seven minutes to go. The whores looked up in shock, unlinkinking their hands. The depressed man, for the first time, showed signs of life, as a look of warning crossed his face.
In a whisper Caroline begged, “Why do people refer to being happy or in love as ‘head over heels?’ Isn’t that how we are already?” She emphasized the word ‘we.’
Her date calmed in less than a second and said, “Yeah baby, we are.”
She smiled and continued her questions, “Why isn’t ‘palindrome’ spelled the same way backwards? Why isn’t ‘phonetic’ spelled the way it sounds? And why is ‘abbreviate’ such a long word?”
Her date groaned. The depressed man went back to drowning his sorrows. The whores went back to gazing into each other’s eyes and Mal considered three more of the blondes odd, yet compelling questions.
A police officer with shoulder length red hair and a cold, hard stare of blue eyes, narrowed at the room in question, walked through the door which got caught on a rock that the cop had kicked into place.
Mal means bad in Latin. That is why he chose the name. Bad people do bad things. Like studying people before they need to die.
He wasn’t drunk, but he knew how to act like it as he studied the people in the bar. Covertly looking up from his glass as he acted his part, Mal saw two big men wearing cowboy hats and plaid shirts with pearl snaps to his right, both of them trying to hustle one another for five hundred dollars. They would be fighting before the night was over. He made a note to keep a wary eye on them. Behind him, at a table, a slim man in a tee shirt was drowning his sorrows, while behind him two drunken young lovers; a purple haired man and a blonde woman; were playing darts. To his left the plump brunette barmaid, who had a scar running across her left arm, was flirting with an underweight redheaded woman with fake tits. These two whores were why he was here. They were his targets.
He clutched Vera tighter to his chest. She was a .22 caliber pistol he had concealed in his oversized parka as he listened to the two women flirting with distaste. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” the barmaid asked, “I love Sex on the Beach.”
The look on the redhead’s face made it clear exactly what she was imagining. She looked flustered before smiling back. It was disgusting. “I don’t have a problem with that. Although I prefer a Comfortable Screw,” the redhead replied after a moment.
They looked at each other for a few more moments before the barmaid pulled the redhead off the stool and into the backroom. “My name’s-,” the barmaid said.
"I don't care," the redhead interupted with a kiss.
She pecked the barmaid. It only took a few moments for the plump woman to respond in kind. How much had they had to drink already? However many it was, neither one seemed to mind the slobber and drool as the two of them continued towards the back room. If any other patrons noticed this they didn’t take any interest or seem to care either. This was why Mal was going to do what it was he was doing.
They had yet to lean each other's names The clocks read 12:37 and 12:40. Having watched these two whores before Mal knew they would be back out here flirting before it was time. In the meantime, he looked over at the other five occupants in the bar. The other casualties in his cause. They would all die. He clutched Vera, thinking about the euphoria to come. The couple who were playing darts sat themselves down next to him. Mal loved to look at her. She could easily distract him. Tonight she was acting more blonde than usual. After every kiss the tall wire-y, beanpole would give her, she would spout off a random nonsensical question.
“Why is it that if you put two cents in you only get a penny for your thoughts?”
“I don’t know,” her boyfriend said, smiling in amusement. When he leaned in to kiss her again he removed his wire-rimmed glasses. His oddly colored hair didn’t clash as much without them.
“What would happen if you got a paper cut on a get well card?”
“Are you asking me these questions or are you just asking them in general.” As he kissed her again Mal noticed that that he didn’t get any feedback. The blonde seemed to be lost in her own world. The man had not yet noticed this.
Mal glanced towards the back room. He had a perfect view of the two whores. Taking in their state of near undress, he knew he still had a little time before he killed them. The two men playing pool were getting louder. The man wearing the authentic cowboy hat was winning and it was making the man in the black hat a sore loser. By his guess they would be fighting before he put his plan into action. They could cry foul at his actions before anyone else. They would have to die first.
The blonde’s ‘boyfriend’ was getting annoyed with them. The blonde herself seemed lost in her own little world. “Why do people say you can read a picture book? It doesn’t make sense. You view a picture book.”
The men at the pool table had annoyed the blonde’s boyfriend so much he was starting to get frustrated with her. “Where’s the barmaid?” he asked, before muttering, “I need another drink. Now.”
“Why was Winnie the Pooh sophisticated enough to put honey in jars, but not get it out of jars without making such a mess? How did he get it in there in the first place? Didn’t he know what a spoon was?” The blonde’s boyfriend had given up trying to kiss her questions away and was wildly searching for the barmaid, who was currently moaning pleasure in the back.
“When Donald Duck gets out of the shower why does he have a towel wrapped around his waist when he never wears any pants?”
“I don’t know the answer to any of these, Caroline. May I have a drink please?”
The barmaid didn’t hear him. Whether or not it was because she and her lover were in the middle of ecstatic pleasure or because the two men at the pool table were nearing the climax of their fight, Mal did not know. What he found most interesting of all was how easy he knew everyone was going to be killed. Despite everyone's attitudes he knew they were all depressed. There could be no other reason why no one cared about whores having loud sex in the back room. What they were doing was against all natural laws of god and man and he would put a stop to it.
12:42. 12:45.
“Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?”
“I don’t know,” her boyfriend replied.
"Is it bad luck if you find a four-leaf clover under a ladder and what if a black cat walks under a ladder and breaks a mirror?”
Mal nearly snorted into his drink. They were the most ridiculous questions he had ever heard and yet they were oddly intriguing. He liked the way her mind worked.
The odd-looking boyfriend didn’t think so. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “What does a guy have to do to get drunk in this fuckin’ bar.”
The two women in the back yelped and sat up off the shelf of kegs they were sitting on. Only half dressed, they seemed embarassed enough to look around to make sure no no was watching. Mal bent his head down into his drink.
“Coming!” The barmaid shouted.
Her brunette lover giggled.
The redhead slapped the chunky lover's butt playfully before they started fixing their clothes.
“You dirty cheater. I want my money,” the man with the black cowboy hat yelled.
“What’s going on out there?” the barmaid called out, not yet finished with her clothes.
Mal cursed himself. He had waited too long to take care of them. He needed to act fast. He looked at the clock above the door. 12:47. That meant it was 12:50.
“I’ll take care of the problem,” Mal muttered.
He didn’t want to do it this way, but the plan could still work if he got them outside. They were drunk enough.
He casually walked over to the pool table and heard Caroline ask, as if the men weren’t causing any trouble, “When atheists go to court do they have to swear on a bible?” Mal hoped he was never in a position to swear on any bible. He was definitely an atheist.
Picking up their remaining betting money, Mal walked out into the cold, winter, Illinois night. The two men followed shortly after, once they had realized what had happened. As the door opened he heard, “What’s a Hot Pocket called when it’s cold?”
“That’s ours,” the man in the authentic hat yelled.
“Give it back,” the man in the black hat yelled.
“From what I understood of your argument it belongs to only one of you. I’ll make you a deal. Hand to hand combat, a fight to the death to see who should have the money or…” he pulled Vera out of his parka. Always be prepared. He learned that last time. Mal was the only member of his former gang to serve jail time (He considered himself lucky, the others died in that hostage standoff). That was the way it had to be. That was why he couldn’t leave evidence. Why he couldn’t get caught.
Without warning he shot both of the gambling cowboys perfectly between the eyes. There were no cameras out here. But getting everyone out would be too difficult and take too long. The original plan was still the best option. He put the gun back into the parka and left the bodies where they were, knowing that even out in the open, no one would be coming to the bar until morning. All the late night regulars were already here.
Entering the bar again the only change he saw was the whores sitting where they were before their unnaturalnness.
“How old do you have to be before they say you died of old age?” After being out in the dark, Caroline’s bright pink, tightly-hugging tee-shirt and crème colored leather pants seemed to blind Mal even more than the neon signs decorating the walls. He looked at the clock once more and gave a sigh at how slowly time moved when people paid attention to it.
12:48. 12:51.
“Here’s your Screaming Orgasm sir,” the barmaid said.
“Where’s my Screaming Orgasm?” her lover whispered.
“Didn’t you get yours?” the barmaid asked, whispering back in mock outrage.
Leaning in her lover responded: “No. We were interrupted. But later on tonight, you're mine.”
Mal smiled as he sat down. In nine minutes they would be dead.
“Why did Sally sell seashells on the seashore? It is more profitable to pick them up off the beach for free.”
“Baby,” Caroline's date tried redirecting her attention, “do you know what’s in a Screaming Orgasm?”
Mal snorted once more into his drink.
“Do you want me to help you make one?” The underweight redhead said, overhearing the question.
The barmaid scowled at Caroline then at her redheaded lover.
“If you pamper a cow do you get spoiled milk?” Caroline continued, ignoring the jealousy around her.
“Um, kahlua, Irish cream, amaretto and vodka,” The purple haired boy answered his own question.
“How did the Wicked Witch of the West bathe?”
Mal glanced around to check on the depressed drunk. He had moved only enough to lift his beer to his mouth. The whores had moved down to the end of the bar and had linked hands. They were gazing intently into each other’s eyes. It would not be hard not to pull Vera out and fire her at them right now.
“Why is the alphabet in that order?”
Caroline's date lost all reason on his temper and roared, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
Mal nearly pulled his gun as quick as he did the night he was arrested. The beer bottles said it was only 12:50; seven minutes to go. The whores looked up in shock, unlinkinking their hands. The depressed man, for the first time, showed signs of life, as a look of warning crossed his face.
In a whisper Caroline begged, “Why do people refer to being happy or in love as ‘head over heels?’ Isn’t that how we are already?” She emphasized the word ‘we.’
Her date calmed in less than a second and said, “Yeah baby, we are.”
She smiled and continued her questions, “Why isn’t ‘palindrome’ spelled the same way backwards? Why isn’t ‘phonetic’ spelled the way it sounds? And why is ‘abbreviate’ such a long word?”
Her date groaned. The depressed man went back to drowning his sorrows. The whores went back to gazing into each other’s eyes and Mal considered three more of the blondes odd, yet compelling questions.
A police officer with shoulder length red hair and a cold, hard stare of blue eyes, narrowed at the room in question, walked through the door which got caught on a rock that the cop had kicked into place.
“Why’s
a partially open door ajar, but a partially open jar adoor?”
The lady cop seemed to take Caroline’s hint and turned to remove the rock and let the door close all the way. Outwardly Mal showed no signs of panic. Inside his body was screaming in alarm. She wasn’t one of the regulars. There was absolutely no way she hadn’t seen those bodies displayed out there for all the world to see. Would she know who had done it? He had to hope the answer was no.
“What’ll it be?” The barmaid asked.
“Bourbon,” the cop said, arriving at the bar.
The depressed man looked up again with a little bit of shock before deciding he didn’t care and dropped his head onto the table again.
Mal didn’t blame him. They weren’t the only ones staring. Caroline and the barmaid were also having trouble concealing the fact that an on duty cop would bend the rulebook in front of a bar full of people. But maybe this would work in his favor. Maybe she was already drunk and didn’t see the bodies? That theory didn’t fly considering the glare she was producing to the room. Maybe she would get so drunk she would forget about them?
“Why do flammable and inflammable mean the same thing?” Caroline asked. She was the only one to not notice the cop’s entrance.
“They don't. I don't think. I can't remember. Ask me again when I'm sober,” her date said answering a question for the first time.
“Can I have a beer?” Caroline asked. “I haven’t had anything to drink yet.”
Mal was the only one who didn’t look shocked at this. He was looking at the clock again.
12:52. 12:55. From here on he would go only by his cell phone.
“Why do people say their alarm clocks are going off when they’re actually coming on?” she asked the empty chair that was currently getting her a drink as well as one for himself.
The barmaid was giving the cop her drink when she pulled another one from behind the counter, handed it to the purple-haired boy and said, “Are you sure?”
“No,” he replied, and then added as an afterthought, “Can I get a double Absinthe?”
The whores giggled.
“Unfortunately we don’t sell that here. Considering your problem,” she said, gesturing at Caroline, “Whiskey should do the trick. I might need one too if she keeps it up.”
“No you don’t,” her lover said said, “we’ll just continue what was interrupted a few minutes ago in the back."
The boy's eyes unfocused as he got a faraway, dreamy look on his face. Mal tightened his grip on his gun. The slender lesbian brought the boy back to earth by waving her hand in front of his face. He turned around and squinted towards Caroline not noticing the whore’s hasty retreat, once again, to the back room.
“Why do people squint when they’re trying to see something better?” Caroline asked the reoccupied chair, “Doesn’t that make a person’s vision less visible?” Her boyfriend set the drinks down on the table Caroline didn’t seem to notice, but he took a large gulp of his Whiskey. Watching so many people drink was getting to Mal. He wanted a drink so bad, but he couldn’t until after the job was over.
“Here’s something to ponder lady,” the depressed man said, once again lifting his head from the table, “Why is there a toll on freeways and Why is ‘Joey’ short for ‘Joe?’”
A loud, pleasurable moan sailed from the back room. Mal's cell was even harder to touch than before. He put on his gloves again. His cell read 12:56. They were louder this time than they were fifteen minutes ago. The entire bar heard them. The distraction caused him to pull out Vera without anyone noticing. Still had more than enough bullets for everyone in the bar. Purple Hair, Depressed Man, and Female Cop hit the ground, dead.
The sound of the gun was not only muted by the silencer, but also by sounds from the back room.
He turned his back on the three victims to face Caroline who was looking at him with a frown on her face. “I had four more questions I wanted to ask.”
Smiling Mal said, “Yeah. And what were they baby.”
“What’s a hacky and why is it in a sack? What would a fly without wings be called? And if a singer sings an original song, is it still karaoke?”
Before he could ask what the other question was, a groan interrupted him. One of these days he was going to have to find a way to keep focused on work around her. There were still people they needed to kill. Caroline pulled her own unnamed .22 that did not have a silencer on it out of her pocket and fired it at the rising depressed man’s head, killing him.
“What was that?” The barmaid called out through her orgasms. Caroline’s .22 couldn’t be muffled by sex.
Mal pointed Vera and waited for the two whores to come back into the room.
Caroline walked over to the dead alcoholic, emptied his pockets and pulled out a Police Department badge. “Figures,” Caroline muttered. As she tossed the badge to Mal. They stood next to each other ready to take out the whores when they walked into the room.
The redheaded whore came into the front room curious and unarmed. Stupid. Before she could react, Caroline shot her in the shoulder. She fell to the floor in pain behind the bar.
“Where’s your whore?” Mal asked.
“I thought your bitch was the one who asked the questions,” the injured girl asked. Her voice broke over her bravery.
Mal fired his gun, shattering glasses sitting on the shelves above, raining glass down on her.
“Where is she?” Mal repeated.
“She in the back, where it’s safe,” The redhead said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Come out Bitch, I've got your whore hostage.” Mal yelled, ignoring the barmaid's injured slut.
“She can hear you and she isn’t that stupid. Why are you doing this?” The redhead repeated.
“Cleansing the earth, two by two,” Caroline replied.
Two shots followed immediately. The injured hostage watched as Mal and Caroline hit the ground.
The lady cop seemed to take Caroline’s hint and turned to remove the rock and let the door close all the way. Outwardly Mal showed no signs of panic. Inside his body was screaming in alarm. She wasn’t one of the regulars. There was absolutely no way she hadn’t seen those bodies displayed out there for all the world to see. Would she know who had done it? He had to hope the answer was no.
“What’ll it be?” The barmaid asked.
“Bourbon,” the cop said, arriving at the bar.
The depressed man looked up again with a little bit of shock before deciding he didn’t care and dropped his head onto the table again.
Mal didn’t blame him. They weren’t the only ones staring. Caroline and the barmaid were also having trouble concealing the fact that an on duty cop would bend the rulebook in front of a bar full of people. But maybe this would work in his favor. Maybe she was already drunk and didn’t see the bodies? That theory didn’t fly considering the glare she was producing to the room. Maybe she would get so drunk she would forget about them?
“Why do flammable and inflammable mean the same thing?” Caroline asked. She was the only one to not notice the cop’s entrance.
“They don't. I don't think. I can't remember. Ask me again when I'm sober,” her date said answering a question for the first time.
“Can I have a beer?” Caroline asked. “I haven’t had anything to drink yet.”
Mal was the only one who didn’t look shocked at this. He was looking at the clock again.
12:52. 12:55. From here on he would go only by his cell phone.
“Why do people say their alarm clocks are going off when they’re actually coming on?” she asked the empty chair that was currently getting her a drink as well as one for himself.
The barmaid was giving the cop her drink when she pulled another one from behind the counter, handed it to the purple-haired boy and said, “Are you sure?”
“No,” he replied, and then added as an afterthought, “Can I get a double Absinthe?”
The whores giggled.
“Unfortunately we don’t sell that here. Considering your problem,” she said, gesturing at Caroline, “Whiskey should do the trick. I might need one too if she keeps it up.”
“No you don’t,” her lover said said, “we’ll just continue what was interrupted a few minutes ago in the back."
The boy's eyes unfocused as he got a faraway, dreamy look on his face. Mal tightened his grip on his gun. The slender lesbian brought the boy back to earth by waving her hand in front of his face. He turned around and squinted towards Caroline not noticing the whore’s hasty retreat, once again, to the back room.
“Why do people squint when they’re trying to see something better?” Caroline asked the reoccupied chair, “Doesn’t that make a person’s vision less visible?” Her boyfriend set the drinks down on the table Caroline didn’t seem to notice, but he took a large gulp of his Whiskey. Watching so many people drink was getting to Mal. He wanted a drink so bad, but he couldn’t until after the job was over.
“Here’s something to ponder lady,” the depressed man said, once again lifting his head from the table, “Why is there a toll on freeways and Why is ‘Joey’ short for ‘Joe?’”
A loud, pleasurable moan sailed from the back room. Mal's cell was even harder to touch than before. He put on his gloves again. His cell read 12:56. They were louder this time than they were fifteen minutes ago. The entire bar heard them. The distraction caused him to pull out Vera without anyone noticing. Still had more than enough bullets for everyone in the bar. Purple Hair, Depressed Man, and Female Cop hit the ground, dead.
The sound of the gun was not only muted by the silencer, but also by sounds from the back room.
He turned his back on the three victims to face Caroline who was looking at him with a frown on her face. “I had four more questions I wanted to ask.”
Smiling Mal said, “Yeah. And what were they baby.”
“What’s a hacky and why is it in a sack? What would a fly without wings be called? And if a singer sings an original song, is it still karaoke?”
Before he could ask what the other question was, a groan interrupted him. One of these days he was going to have to find a way to keep focused on work around her. There were still people they needed to kill. Caroline pulled her own unnamed .22 that did not have a silencer on it out of her pocket and fired it at the rising depressed man’s head, killing him.
“What was that?” The barmaid called out through her orgasms. Caroline’s .22 couldn’t be muffled by sex.
Mal pointed Vera and waited for the two whores to come back into the room.
Caroline walked over to the dead alcoholic, emptied his pockets and pulled out a Police Department badge. “Figures,” Caroline muttered. As she tossed the badge to Mal. They stood next to each other ready to take out the whores when they walked into the room.
The redheaded whore came into the front room curious and unarmed. Stupid. Before she could react, Caroline shot her in the shoulder. She fell to the floor in pain behind the bar.
“Where’s your whore?” Mal asked.
“I thought your bitch was the one who asked the questions,” the injured girl asked. Her voice broke over her bravery.
Mal fired his gun, shattering glasses sitting on the shelves above, raining glass down on her.
“Where is she?” Mal repeated.
“She in the back, where it’s safe,” The redhead said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Come out Bitch, I've got your whore hostage.” Mal yelled, ignoring the barmaid's injured slut.
“She can hear you and she isn’t that stupid. Why are you doing this?” The redhead repeated.
“Cleansing the earth, two by two,” Caroline replied.
Two shots followed immediately. The injured hostage watched as Mal and Caroline hit the ground.
Mal
was still, eyes wide open, only breathing in quick, shallow
breaths.
Caroline was breathing in big, rasping gasps. The former hostage looked up at the barmaid, who was standing over Caroline with a shotgun aimed at her. They nodded to each other to acknowledge they were okay.
"Honey," Mal slowly carefully and painfully linked his hand with hers. "That fourth question," she said between gasps, “Why is it that when two things almost crash into one another, it’s called a near miss and not a near hit?”
Caroline was breathing in big, rasping gasps. The former hostage looked up at the barmaid, who was standing over Caroline with a shotgun aimed at her. They nodded to each other to acknowledge they were okay.
"Honey," Mal slowly carefully and painfully linked his hand with hers. "That fourth question," she said between gasps, “Why is it that when two things almost crash into one another, it’s called a near miss and not a near hit?”
With
those words the two died holding each others hands.
.
A Mother's Special Day Poem
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
5/03/11
Whether you are friend and companion
or “sugar and spice and everything nice”
a mother is who you are.
“To be or not to be?” There is no question.
Appreciation is an ill-fated rarity.
That’s why there’s Mother’s Day.
This special day falls on a Sunday
which ungodly children make more necessary.
We are right and wrong.
Mother’s Day is of special importance.
It shouldn’t feel that way,
instead should come naturally.
You are wonderful, caring, gentle, and strong,
patient during a loved one’s foolish pride.
The energy required comes from your heart.
How else do you put up with me?
Chauffeur, cook, playmate, friend;
to do it all, I can only wonder.
Today. Mothers Day. A special Sunday
no longer seems enough thanks.
Gratitude for everything.
Anything precious to you,
I hold dear
as long as you want.
Forever will last
not long at all.
The time we are given
will never be wasted.
Mother’s Day is not a day to be forgotten.
It will always be remembered.
My mother, that’s who I need.
You are who I love.
5/03/11
A Mother’s Special Day
Whether you are friend and companion
or “sugar and spice and everything nice”
a mother is who you are.
“To be or not to be?” There is no question.
Appreciation is an ill-fated rarity.
That’s why there’s Mother’s Day.
This special day falls on a Sunday
which ungodly children make more necessary.
We are right and wrong.
Mother’s Day is of special importance.
It shouldn’t feel that way,
instead should come naturally.
You are wonderful, caring, gentle, and strong,
patient during a loved one’s foolish pride.
The energy required comes from your heart.
How else do you put up with me?
Chauffeur, cook, playmate, friend;
to do it all, I can only wonder.
Today. Mothers Day. A special Sunday
no longer seems enough thanks.
Gratitude for everything.
Anything precious to you,
I hold dear
as long as you want.
Forever will last
not long at all.
The time we are given
will never be wasted.
Mother’s Day is not a day to be forgotten.
It will always be remembered.
My mother, that’s who I need.
You are who I love.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Poems - Zombie Series
L. Paul Fobert
January 29, 2011
Apocalypse
It has begun. The apocalypse, walking dead style.
George A. Romero and Thriller. Examples worthwhile
of our gut-wrenching impending doom.
Holding a gun, I stare in the room.
It is oh, so messy
As it feeds on Jessie.
Night of the Living Dead and Michael Jackson
pop culture icons with this kind of action.
The reincarnated corpse looks up from its meal
intent to gouge. I came along, a better deal.
Its not fast.
What a blast.
Pandemic? Epidemic? Who would know?
A solitary man. Guy named Joe Blow.
He’s dead now. The gun in my hand,
fires at the puppet. Stunned, I stand,
horror turns to shock,
My mind is a lock.
Halloween costumes were fun.
This was all said, all but done,
when the problem began
in the town of No Man.
Years ago that was
now the world’s on pause.
There’s another one.
Where is all the fun?
He’s even more dimwitted
than others I outwitted.
A pain in my neck, from behind.
Now all over. Did others find?
Pain. Ache. Hurt. An unbearable feeling.
Why do they eat as I lay here bleeding?
Ghouls of forgotten lore
Voodoo practice done for.
I am becoming one of them. I am finished.
I will soon be dead. I will be…I am famished.
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
February 06, 2011
I Am What I Am
Hungry. To feed.
Need what I need.
Moving slow, but as fast as I must.
Bloody victims leave me in the dust.
Thirsting for humans who are gory.
The tasty ones are over forty.
Searching graveyards,
fruitless. Backyards,
not so much.
To feel, touch,
I don’t relate. I hunger for human flesh and a brain.
Eating’s my pastime. It is fun. It’s what gives humans pain.
Maybe I should join others,
of my kind. Eat some mothers.
My appetite is wet,
expectations are met,
the smell of mouth-watering flesh,
it possesses me. Hunger, fresh.
My victim heads to the street.
Running, yet walking. These feet,
are burdened.
Awakened.
They need to stay
and still the day.
They are brainless,
I am fearless.
On the run.
This is fun.
Around the twist,
I met a fist.
Their numbers were many
And I wasn’t any.
I was the hunter. How could they be hunting me?
Earth. The world. My eating ground. They let me be.
Why? I must be confined.
This is my final bind.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Poems - Ghost Series
L. Paul Fobert Jr.
January 30, 2011
An Ode to the Afterlife
1. Traditional beliefs, neither good nor evil,
yet always deceased. History. Necromancers, séances, hunters,
cartoons, trains, and ships;
individualistic parts of a whole.
Mythology based and feared in more than
nightmarish dreams of reality.
2. An indoor phenomenon, usually.
Poltergeist. Troublesome disorder. People haunting.
Causing havoc is their fun.
Peeves gets us all peeved.
His pranks are more legendary
than any history recorded.
3. Unfinished afterlife business
causes unwarranted trouble for the living.
Haunting. Apparitions haunt specific areas of designation.
Their purpose becomes our worst fears come true.
Objects moving, nothing to guide,
The restless are not appeased.
4. Appeasing fears religiously.
Spiritualism. Exorcisms and ritual magic
brings joy and comfort
to those who seek truth or fear it.
The world is filled with unanswered questions.
Who’s to say how we find them.
5. To pursue is to fear and we fear what we stalk.
Hunting. Spirits entertained us under our false ideals of study.
We do not study what we fear most of all; death.
If material proof found,
fear would turn to abhorrence
and abhorrence to violence.
6. We need not fear or become violent,
cartoons have proven this.
Casper. He was friendly.
The friendliest one we know.
He had a smile for every soul around.
Alive or dead.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Poems - Witch Series
Burn
Is this what it has come to?
Waiting for death,
my sister next to me.
Eleanor deserved this.
Doesn’t all family?
But what did I do?
The purest of all white magic
was needed to bind her,
black magic and all.
Our future surrounded us.
The newly ordained priest
reluctantly sentenced us the day before.
Was he afraid of us?
Of my sister?
She certainly wanted him dead.
With the town crying at us to burn
I stopped my sister’s attempted murder
And closed my eyes for the last time.
Watching and Waiting
Evil most foul.
Vile and filthy sinners,
all of them.
Sister sinners,
christened dirty
for blood-linking with their ancestors.
All deserve to burn in
fire and brimstone.
The law does not understand what I must do.
Executions were done
one way and one way only.
There are no hangings anymore.
My predecessor was wrong.
I killed him.
No confession to punishing the guilty.
My collar didn’t look as white as usual.
The prisoners were mumbling.
Nothing happened.
Dog Walking
Spike is taking a shit.
He does so on this spot every day.
He’s never been told not to.
New York City is a great place.
Passerby’s don’t notice.
Passerby’s don’t care.
A woman walked by.
She dressed funny.
Was today Halloween?
The dress she wore was in rags,
torn through the middle,
not covering her modesty.
I smiled.
Was she protesting?
Maybe a flower child wannabe?
I smiled again as she turned
and dropped all pretenses.
Her steely glare chilled me.
The Perfect Sacrifice
The twenty-first century.
I was no longer feared.
I am the last of my kind.
My traitorous sister,
long dead and buried
with the rest of the bloodline.
Doesn’t matter now.
I came here for a reason.
The Perfect Sacrifice.
No one will stop me.
The male with the four-legged creature;
both will howl in pain before I finish.
I shed my clothing, beginning the ritual on
a male in uniform, the local executioner,
The Perfect Sacrifice.
“The valley draws me near,
I taketh that which I must,
soul of an unclean warrior.”
Fire
She was talking about me.
The chanting was creepy.
Miranda Rights needed to be read.
Pulling out my handcuffs I said,
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I didn’t get any further.
My eyes exploded in blinding pain.
I dropped to the ground, grabbing my temples.
I reached for my gun.
Iron hot, it burned my hand,
blazing like fire.
How do I put it out?
My heart raced, not from adrenaline.
The pain spread.
My clothes were on fire.
I was on fire.
A young woman rushed to my defense.
I saw no more.
Fireworks
My ancestor.
Eleanor.
Sister of Hannah.
How did I know it was her?
How is she here?
She turns to me expressionless.
The haunted look
in her eyes
frightened me.
“I don’t need you anymore,”
she said to the dead policeman,
“Ancestor’s blood is stronger.”
Absorbing my gasp,
I twisted it into my own device of
horrors to unleash.
I closed my eyes.
Eleanor screamed.
She light up the street like a fireworks display.
Is this what it has come to?
Waiting for death,
my sister next to me.
Eleanor deserved this.
Doesn’t all family?
But what did I do?
The purest of all white magic
was needed to bind her,
black magic and all.
Our future surrounded us.
The newly ordained priest
reluctantly sentenced us the day before.
Was he afraid of us?
Of my sister?
She certainly wanted him dead.
With the town crying at us to burn
I stopped my sister’s attempted murder
And closed my eyes for the last time.
Watching and Waiting
Evil most foul.
Vile and filthy sinners,
all of them.
Sister sinners,
christened dirty
for blood-linking with their ancestors.
All deserve to burn in
fire and brimstone.
The law does not understand what I must do.
Executions were done
one way and one way only.
There are no hangings anymore.
My predecessor was wrong.
I killed him.
No confession to punishing the guilty.
My collar didn’t look as white as usual.
The prisoners were mumbling.
Nothing happened.
Dog Walking
Spike is taking a shit.
He does so on this spot every day.
He’s never been told not to.
New York City is a great place.
Passerby’s don’t notice.
Passerby’s don’t care.
A woman walked by.
She dressed funny.
Was today Halloween?
The dress she wore was in rags,
torn through the middle,
not covering her modesty.
I smiled.
Was she protesting?
Maybe a flower child wannabe?
I smiled again as she turned
and dropped all pretenses.
Her steely glare chilled me.
The Perfect Sacrifice
The twenty-first century.
I was no longer feared.
I am the last of my kind.
My traitorous sister,
long dead and buried
with the rest of the bloodline.
Doesn’t matter now.
I came here for a reason.
The Perfect Sacrifice.
No one will stop me.
The male with the four-legged creature;
both will howl in pain before I finish.
I shed my clothing, beginning the ritual on
a male in uniform, the local executioner,
The Perfect Sacrifice.
“The valley draws me near,
I taketh that which I must,
soul of an unclean warrior.”
Fire
She was talking about me.
The chanting was creepy.
Miranda Rights needed to be read.
Pulling out my handcuffs I said,
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I didn’t get any further.
My eyes exploded in blinding pain.
I dropped to the ground, grabbing my temples.
I reached for my gun.
Iron hot, it burned my hand,
blazing like fire.
How do I put it out?
My heart raced, not from adrenaline.
The pain spread.
My clothes were on fire.
I was on fire.
A young woman rushed to my defense.
I saw no more.
Fireworks
My ancestor.
Eleanor.
Sister of Hannah.
How did I know it was her?
How is she here?
She turns to me expressionless.
The haunted look
in her eyes
frightened me.
“I don’t need you anymore,”
she said to the dead policeman,
“Ancestor’s blood is stronger.”
Absorbing my gasp,
I twisted it into my own device of
horrors to unleash.
I closed my eyes.
Eleanor screamed.
She light up the street like a fireworks display.
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