Twisted Pulp Magazine returns with a new selection of pulp and satire to tickle both your funny bone and tingle your… fear bone? This issue brings you more from Mark Slade, Lothar Tuppan, Chauncey Haworth, and Kara Kittrick, and adds in stories from Kesenia Murry and Rob Lowe (not that Rob Lowe). The issue also features artwork by Thomas Malafarina, Cameron Hampton as well as a special interview with comic artist Steve Englehart.
By Randle Cocksmith-Jones
I was covering a protest in D.C., agreeing with those who voiced their rightful opinions on the many wrongdoings this nation had inflicted upon its people, when the sky grew dark and yellow-orange clouds rolled through. I was in the middle of interviewing seventeen-year-old professional social media canceler Gertrude Horowitz, and just about to wrap up for the night—as well as obtain her cell number and address—when a face appeared in those clouds. My photographer, Tom-Le-Roy Humbug, and I were frightened, paralyzed, and other clichéd terms often used by those who haven’t trekked the highly sophisticated terrains of Ivy League turf.
I gasped. Gertrude grasped my arm, clinging tightly to me. Tom-Le-Roy, well… he soiled his pants.
The face became clearer as the dark skies lightened, the yellow-orange clouds dispersing. Blue sky appeared behind the Capitol Building.
Just as Tom-Le-Roy was about to complain about his soiled cargo shorts, and Gertrude seemed to psychically urge me to squeeze her left breast, a loud thunderous voice cried out:
“Wha’choo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?!”
Then he declared he was the NEW GOD and demanded we all bow to him.
“All hail the new God!” the face bellowed.
Well, I can tell you, dear reader, I was the only one brave enough to speak up. I resisted for a whole two minutes! The nerve of this celestial being!
“What makes you think we should bow down to you?” I said. “Of all the celestial beings that exist, why should we worship you? Why would any human being, regardless of sex, race, or creed, follow you?”
“Because I could kill you, motherfucker!”
Well, that was good enough for me. So I did just as everyone else did. Tom-Le-Roy snapped the photo below and bowed as well.
So, all four hundred of us at that rally in D.C. that day have banded together to worship this “new God.” We call ourselves Arnoldites, and we’d appreciate it very much if you’d respect our right to our kind of faith. By the way, please accept a pamphlet. Have mercy on your soul, and may you be Willis-ized.
Cameron Hampton is a Masters Circle Member of the International Association of Pastel Societies, earning her Gold Medal in the spring of 2007. She is a painter, photographer, sculptor, cinematographer, animator, and illustrator. Hampton attended both the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York, and the Atlanta College of Art (now the Savannah College of Art and Design) in Atlanta, Georgia. She has also studied independently in Austria, Belgium, the Netherlands, Slovakia, England, and Hungary, where she lived. Hampton’s works are held in corporate and private collections worldwide and have been represented by galleries in Amsterdam, the Netherlands; Atlanta, Georgia; and Albuquerque, New Mexico, among others.
She now works and spends time in Georgia, U.S.A.; London, England; and Utrecht, the Netherlands. Her work is currently represented by Carré d’Artistes in Mexico City, Mexico.
Written by Anonymous
Joseph Robinette Biden Jr., former Vice President, Senator, and experimental aircraft pilot, nearly died in the XTC-250 plane. His body was ravaged and torn to pieces, his brain obliterated, his legs completely severed when the XTC hit the side of the Rockies. All but declared dead to the rest of the world, the Democratic Party rejected the idea of making the Presidential contender a martyr. Instead, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi slammed her fists on her desk and stretched back her plastic skin in a grimace:
“We have the technology! We have the taxpayer’s money! We can re-build Joe Biden!”
In a dank, moldy basement of an undisclosed V.A. hospital, a man on a squeaky cot, wrapped in bandages, stares blankly into space. A red dot on his forehead jumps up and down in time with a beeping sound. He is surrounded by two government agents, Steely and Dan, as well as Nancy Pelosi and Dr. Fauci.
“I LIKE ICE CREAM!” Biden shouts. “I LIKE ICE CREAM!”
“It didn’t fucking work, Fauci!” Pelosi says.
“Oh, contraire, Ms. Senator,” Fauci giggles, wringing his hands. “It worked… immaculately…” Fauci takes a small tube, removes the top, taps out a line of powder on his wrist, snorts it, and laughs. He stomps his feet, rears back, and hee-haws like a jackass.
Concerned glances pass between Pelosi and the agents.
“I LIKE ICE CREAM!” Biden screams.
“Bullshit!” Pelosi says. “The man is retarded, Doctor. What the hell is all that hooked up to his back?”
“He’s being charged, Ms. Senator,” Fauci readjusts his glasses, pops two Adderall, shakes his head, and punches the air. “Injuns!”
Pelosi waits to speak until Fauci composes himself. “Being charged, Doctor?!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fauci steps behind the cot and shows Pelosi a tangled mess of wires taped together, connected to a black extension cord plugged into a port on Biden’s back.
“You gotta be shitting me,” Pelosi says. “Where’d you get this equipment, Doctor?”
“Radio Shack,” Fauci replies. “In Hong Kong.”
Pelosi sighs. A beaten expression crosses her face for a fleeting moment, then she stiffens. A scowl replaces the previous countenance, and her hands fall to her hips.
“Bring him to my private resort tomorrow morning to… test… this godforsaken experiment.” Pelosi steps toward the doorway, her heels clicking loudly on the gray concrete floor. “This better work,” she says, pointing a finger at Fauci, “or you’ll be a pharmacist in a ghetto store in Peoria!” Fauci watches Pelosi stomp out, laughing uproariously.
“What’s so funny?” Steely asks.
“She pretty much bitched you,” Dan says.
“She has NO IDEA what powers I have,” Fauci says, laughing maniacally and swallowing three Benzedrine capsules. He moves to the door and watches Pelosi climb the spiral staircase. He brings his thumb and forefinger up to his squinting eyes. “I… crush your head…” he says, giggling. “I… crush your head… I… crush your head!”
Steely and Dan exchange glances. No words are spoken. It’s understood that the good Doctor is bat-shit crazy.
“I like Ice Cream!” Biden barks, standing near the bed with the cord from his back plugged into a wall socket.
Dan settles into the tub opposite Steely. Bubbles rise to Steely’s neck, and the water starts to cool. He turns the faucet on, warming it up. Both men still wear their dark glasses, never removing them. Steely often wonders if Dan’s eyes are blue or brown; in his fantasies, sometimes Dan has no eyes at all, just dark holes large enough for…
“I like Ice Cream!” Biden screams.
“Are you sure he’s plugged in right?” Steely asks.
“I like Ice Cream!” Biden shouts again.
“He’s talking, right?” Dan quips.
“Remember what happened in Fauci’s office? He went berserk, smashed up the place while singing Twisted Sister, then just died on the spot.”
“He’s plugged in right, okay?”
“Okay. Just remember to pick up a pair of jogging pants for him. Fauci can’t see the hole in his rear end.”
“Ohhhh… yeah. I’m sorry, Steely. You know how I get when I see full buttocks,” Dan says.
“Oh, yes,” Steely replies, giggling. They both twirl their feet in the bubbles.
“I like Ice Cream!” Biden yells.
At Senator Pelosi’s compound:
“Where are those idiots?” Pelosi says.
Fauci shoots up a concoction of Mountain Dew, cocaine, and foot powder into his right arm. He sighs, feeling a surge in his bugged-out eyes, and does a tap dance for Pelosi.
“I see them right now,” Fauci says, pointing to the sky and hee-hawing.
Pelosi is speechless at first but soon finds her words, adopting an unusually calm demeanor. “Good… God…”
In the distance, Biden is soaring through the clouds, spread-eagle. Steely and Dan sit on his stomach, playing cards. As Biden comes in for a landing on the grass, all can see he is dressed in a maroon tracksuit from the 1970s, with huge lapels and matching bell bottoms. Steely and Dan slide off Biden and stand at attention, expressionless as government agents.
Biden stands and announces, “I like Ice Cream!”
“I am dumbfounded, Doctor,” Pelosi says, circling Biden slowly, looking him up and down. “And, dare I say it… a little… turned on.”
“Yes,” Fauci wrings his hands. “You should be,” he laughs maniacally. “I doused Bidenbot2000 with male tiger piss!”
Pelosi catches her breath, her chest heaving. Steely and Dan both touch a button on each of Biden’s shoulders. He performs a few robotic moves, including the robot, the worm, and the curly shuffle. In the process, Biden exhausts all his battery juice, bows, and shuts down. Pelosi is shocked to see the seat of Biden’s pants ripped open.
“What the hell happened to his pants?!” Pelosi shouts.
Fauci is more curious about something else. “Why is his asshole bleeding?”
Steely’s mouth gapes open. “You did it again after we fixed him?”
Dan gulps, his body twitching slightly. “I’m sorry,” he whines. “I couldn’t help myself!”
When superhero comics began asking uncomfortable questions about power, politics, and identity, Steve Englehart was often leading the charge. His influential 1970s runs on Captain America, The Avengers, and Doctor Strange reshaped the genre’s ambitions and its relationship to the real world. Here, Englehart reflects on the ideas, instincts, and risks behind a body of work that changed what comics could be.
I loved comics since I was a little kid, particularly the art, since the stories were simply serviceable. Maybe that’s why I wanted to do stories I liked better when I got the chance. And stories are all about people, so psychology.
Fun. It really was the Bullpen they said it was, a small group of people all devoted to doing great comics, and I was psyched (so-to-speak) to be involved in it. We had complete creative freedom to make the best comics we could, and that’s not a common thing.
Marvel has become a real corporation, but it’s always had a human vibe because Stan had a human vibe. DC has always been a corporation and they have no human vibe.
Coyote. My first series outside the Comics Code so I got to go in all sorts of new directions.
I think so. I moved to California because I liked California, and so I have had a more complete life than if I were living someplace simply for work. Also, Cali has a certain vibe and that probably comes through in my overall body of work.
Either way, because when I started it was all assignments and we didn’t know anything else—while, as I said, we had complete freedom to create. So I could make any assignment whatever I wanted it to be. (I should add that I’m old-school enough to honor the character I’ve been given, so that is part of what I wanted it to be. I don’t believe in blowing things up to just do it. But building and expanding makes for good stories.)
Comics. I naturally resonate to the rhythms there. I can do others and I like the others, but those are rhythms I have to adapt to.
It’s an annoying answer but I like almost everything I’ve written, because I almost always make it what I consider likable (and hope you think so, too).
Off the top of my head: I was asked to do an English script for a Yu-Gi-Oh! cartoon, where the villains spoke normal language in the original, but were supposed to rhyme in English. The problem was, they would make mouth movements for “Blah blah blah blah blah,” and then “blah.” It was impossible to make any rhymes. But when I showed the producer that he said, “Do it anyway.” Needless to say, I bailed.
A while ago I set myself a huge challenge, writing-wise, because that sort of thing is fun for me. I would write chunks of it, then forget about it for months while I’d travel or whatever. Then when the pandemic hit, I started to work on it daily, and now I’m close to finishing it. It’s a seven issue “mini” where each issue is 60 pages long, and soon we’ll see if anybody wants to draw such a thing. But from a writing standpoint it’s been the usual fun.
My grandpa has had dementia for longer than I have been alive. He spends his days pacing, talking to himself, and attacking the orderlies who care for him. From what my family members tell me, he used to be an amazing man—a man whose hard work and determination always paid off. A man who would go to the ends of the earth to care for his loved ones, stopping at nothing to make sure they were fed, clothed, and happy.
As it was told to me, one day, that all changed. He was around thirty-five when he was tasked to go on a mission trip to an island where disease was devastating the local people. The trip was only supposed to be a month long, just enough time to find out what disease they had and its possible causes. After kissing my grandmother goodbye and hugging my father, he left for the unknown island.
No one heard from him for the next five years. A search and rescue team went to the island to find his group of twenty coworkers, but they didn’t find anyone. The island was completely empty of all signs of human life. No shelters, no clothing strewn about, or signs of a fire pit. It was as if human life had never touched the island, period. My grandma lost all hope after three years and gave up the search.
Five years later, my grandpa showed up on my grandma’s doorstep, rambling about “Them” and speaking incoherently. My grandma tried for a few years to get her husband back on track and fix his life, but sadly, nothing she did could stop his ramblings.
He was diagnosed with dementia and placed in a care home for the mentally deranged. My family visits him every couple of months. Sometimes he recognizes us; sometimes he doesn’t. Today, however, was completely different from any other visit I’ve had with him.
I showed up at my normal time, seven in the evening, bearing cookies and his favorite pop, ready to spend some time with him. I walked into my grandpa’s room and saw him hunched over in the fetal position at the end of his bed, rocking back and forth. I placed my hand on his shoulder gently, trying to soothe him. He screamed so loudly I thought I must have hurt him. He jumped up, placed his hands on my shoulders, and shook me.
“They’re here, they’re coming. I knew it would happen, I knew they’d get away, they’re here, and they’re coming!” he yelled as bloody tears streamed down his face.
The orderlies rushed in, pulling me out of the room and injecting my grandpa with a calming serum. As I stood out in the hallway, I caught a glimpse of breaking news. The inhabitants of my neighboring town had all come down with dementia.
Hello again, not-so-dear readers! This is Dr. Mary Von Rocksprocket, still trapped in my underground bunker, eating stale oyster crackers, and wondering why in the world the Doobie Brothers ever broke up! I think, despite what a certain planarian huffing ex-president claimed, that the lack of Doobies, as well as the lack of any new Boz Scaggs singles in over 16 years!—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! —is the real reason the apocalypse happened (Rosie O’Donnell? Please!). If we had just taken the Lido Shuffle down to China Grove, everything would still be peaches and cream! Not to be confused with Peaches & Herb—which is a band that Tiffany desperately misses. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Anyway!!! Today, you infidel heretics, I have an exclusive interview with none other than someone I never thought was actually real. Your lord and savior: Jesus H Christ!
Jesus Christ (JC): It’s just “Jesus Christ” doctor. I don’t have, and never had, a middle name.
Dr. Mary Von Rocksprocket (MVR): I was sure it was “Harold.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
JC: Are you laughing at me? No. It was originally either a misunderstanding of the transliteration of the Greek letter eta (it looks like a Roman “H” you see) or, it is an irreverent joke, made by that jackass friend of Mark Twain’s, Wales McCormick. Just to be on the safe side, McCormick is serving at least another 500 years in Purgatory for that.
MVR: Daddy didn’t tell you which is the truth Harold?
JC: No. And don’t. Call. Me. HAROLD! (Dear Father, sometimes crucifixion is easier than dealing with these fucking morons).
[Note from Tiffany: Even that milksop JC understands that Mary is a Moron! Mary is a moron! MARY IS A MORON!]
Moron: You have far more of a potty mouth on you than most people would think Haro… Jesus. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Maybe you want me to call you “Brain” then? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
JC: I loved Escape From New York.
Moron: SO DID I!!!!!
JC: Adrienne Barbeau reminds me of Mary Magdalene.
Moron: Really?! Now that’s a scoop for our readers!!!
JC: Doctor, I’m a bit distressed. Why didn’t you think I was real?
Moron: Well… it’s because… well… you’re nothing but, well, a story. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! No… really. You’re just a story that I’m hallucinating due to too many moldy twinkies.
JC: I… y’know… FUCK YOU BUDDY!
Moron: That’s not very Christian of you. Damn hippies. Always trying to make you think they’re all about LOVE and TOLERANCE but then as soon as you disagree with them they prove themselves to be the biggest hypocrites. GAH! TIFFANY! WHERE IS MY WHISKY AND TOCINO SPAM?!
JC: You! Why in the world did I agree to this?! I’m gonna fire my fatherdamned agent.
Moron: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
JC: This is it! This is the final straw! I’ve been telling dad for centuries that none of you fucking monkeys are—
Moron: Did you just make an EVOLUTION reference? HHHMMMMMMM????? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
JC: THEY AREN’T MUTUALLY EXCLUSI…
JC: (sigh).
JC: You’re in for it now bitch. I’ve telling dad that you all deserve nothing less than the full smiting power of old testament wrath. Time to bring back the fear of YAHWEH to all y’all!
Moron: Question for you Harold: How did your human “dad” take to being a cuck for Yahweh anyway?
JC: That’s it. I’m outta here and you just wait until I tell dad what you just said!
Moron: Y’know, this is a lot less fun than I thought it would be when Tiffany and I were snorting ant poison.
JC: I’m going to find any of your family members that happen to be in Heaven and give them a one way trip to HELL! What do you think about that?
Moron: Oh, just one word. Disbelieve. Disbelieve. Disbelieve. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
JC: What the? Wait, why am I fading away?
Moron: I told you! You’re. Just. A. Story!
JC: NO!!! Wait… this doesn’t make sense… Twinkies can’t get moldy!!!! Noooooo…..
JC:…….
Moron: HAH! That’s because I was actually high on sour communal wine and moldy Eucharist wafers! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Moron: I apologize not-so-dear readers! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a jerk! A completely fictitious jerk! But he does have good taste in movies. HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Moron: Wait… I just got a message from Tiffany. It seems there is a person we have scheduled for our next interview who says Jesus IS actually real, has proof, as well as a successful lawsuit ruling against him. That’s right readers! Next time we have the one, the only original undead corpse, Lazarus!
Moron: If Harold IS real (which I’m still not sure of) I wonder where he went when I disbelieved him? Hmmm….. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
Recently, I was sent to Anaheim, California, for the Covid-19 Beauty Pageant! Live from the legendary Disneyland Hotel! It was a truly star-studded event! Hundreds of women entered, but sadly only one would be declared Miss Covid-19. There was a panel of four judges, and let me tell you, I was certainly starstruck.
The first judge was legendary adult film star Ron Jeremy. I got a couple of remarks from him regarding his role in the pageant. “These women are hot, Rob. I can just tell from their foreheads. It’s got me all hot!” The next judge was famous actor Terry Crews, who, of course, recently admitted to his controversial addiction to adult content. So he and Ron had quite a bit to talk about. Ron said, “My buddy Terry here told me he’s seen all my movies! Insane, right?” The third judge was former President Bill Clinton. I managed to get a few words from him as well. “Well, Rob, I’ve done my fair share of looking at women. I’m glad that I can finally put my hobby to work here.” The fourth and final judge was a last-minute addition, joining only because she was offended the event was taking place. None other than Tipper Gore. I tried to get a few words from her, but she simply turned away.
The pageant began with a few hundred women, and the judges proceeded by giving a yes or no to each contestant. I found this system a little odd, considering there was an even number of judges. Tipper Gore was often the dissenting vote. Eventually, officials removed the table after Terry Crews couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Once we were down to the final 30, Bill Clinton insisted on a 15-minute saxophone solo, followed by his rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It brought Ron Jeremy to tears. Each contestant showcased unique talents for the judges, such as underwater basket weaving and guitar playing. But one contestant caught everyone’s eye—except, of course, Tipper Gore’s. This contestant had a rather unique skill: she could blow bubbles with, let’s say, certain body parts. She was poised to win, with Terry Crews now sitting in his briefs, Ron Jeremy barking like a dog, and Bill Clinton animatedly cheering. However, Tipper Gore launched into a 20-minute rant on how unacceptable it was, followed by a 30-minute presentation on why heavy metal music should be banned. To appease her, the contestant was removed. She took off her mask, revealing herself to be none other than Rita Wilson. The crowd erupted in a five-minute standing ovation.
Finally, the pageant narrowed down to five women. We had all been there for 16 hours and were exhausted. Terry Crews and Tipper Gore had each chosen their winners, but Bill Clinton and Ron Jeremy just couldn’t decide. Bill asked, “Now, ladies, if you were to win this pageant, what would you do for old Uncle Bill here?” Ron Jeremy echoed, asking the same question. Four of the women had no answer, but one replied, “Well, gentlemen, I would do whatever you guys wanted,” and she winked. This woman happened to be the same one Terry Crews and Tipper Gore had selected. Thus, by unanimous decision, Tonya Lewis was crowned Miss Covid-19.
As the celebration began, Tipper Gore stormed out of the auditorium in disgust. Terry Crews, now naked, dashed off to the bathroom with a bottle of lotion. Meanwhile, Ron Jeremy and Bill Clinton rushed the stage to congratulate their “prize.” They both asked Tonya to remove her mask, and when she did, their jaws dropped. Tonya Lewis was not who they had imagined. Her face was covered in warts below the nose, her two front teeth protruded like SpongeBob SquarePants, and she had a condition that caused her to drool without a mask on.
Ladies and gentlemen, in all my years of journalism, the Covid-19 Beauty Pageant was certainly one of a kind. I am Rob Lowe, signing off.
By Dr. Sause
Silly Seymour is much more than a cat
In a stupid banana hat.
He came from nowhere
And caught Billy and Danny in a dirty stare.
Mrs. Kaye next door,
Forgot to close her blinds
While dressing one morn.
Seymour called out,
“Hey, you silly Tits!”
And caused the boys to fall about.
“Don’t be creepy Gits!
“Find Billy’s Dad’s special books in his special shed,
And discover why he spits and has weird fits!”
Too late!
Mr. Kaye caught the boys
Full of spite and hate,
Beat them with them hella lot of joy.
Silly Seymour taught
The boys about revenge
And that murder is not a sin,
“Sometimes Its okay to come unhinged”
By Rob Lowe (Not that Rob Lowe)
We currently are living in the #speakout movement and many stories have come out about many celebrities. There are some stories unfortunately that will go unnoticed. Some stories that will get pushed aside. I recently talked with someone who has tried to speak out about his story but nobody will listen. His name is Larry Furgenstien. Larry was born with dwarfism and was teased about it his whole life. He ran away at the young age of thirteen where he found other people with dwarfism. They formed a mini colony under an overpass off of I-95 in South Carolina. They were doing well for themselves until one day a limo pulled up. Out of the limo steps a man in plaid colorful pants, a purple jacket, a yellow top hat, and crazy hair. His name. Was Willy Wonka. Yes Willy Wonka—the same man who has graced us with candy for generations. This is part 1 of my interview.
Larry told me, “He (Wonka) came up to us and smiled and said he wanted to help us. And that if we came with him that he would provide us with shelter and food. So, of course, we went with him! We were tired of living under that damn overpass! We thought this guy might look crazy but hey its a place to live.” Willy Wonka took all thirty of the little people to his factory as they looked out the windows in awe. Larry said, “We couldn’t believe it! On the car ride over he was telling us that he works at his own factory and makes his own candy by hand. We didn’t quite believe him at first until we got to the gates and saw his name on the building.” At that point the limo stopped behind the factory and that is when all hell broke loose.
“The limo just kept driving around to the back of the factory. My buddy Ron at the time piped up and asked, ‘why aren’t we going through the front?’ Wonka just let out a little giggle as we pulled around back where about ten of these guys in suits and sunglasses were standing. At that point I knew we were in trouble.” Larry began to cry as he told this part of the story. He told me that the door opened as Wonka instructed all of them to remain seated. He saw Wonka go up to one of the men who was wearing regular glasses and not sunglasses. He whispered something to him and walked away into the factory. The men then surrounded the car and the man with the glasses ordered them all to get out of the vehicle. Larry went on to say, “Of course, we refused because we knew something was up. Then he reached into the car and grabbed my buddy Ron by the legs and yanked him out. We all started screaming and the car door was slammed shut. The driver locked up the doors and opened the sun roof as a can of sleep gas was tossed in. We all panicked but the roof was shut already. I looked out the window and all ten of those men were beating the shit out of Ron. I haven’t seen him since.”
After that bit Larry needed a small break. He was crying hysterically about losing his friend. He told me that they used to play Care Bears together. Join me next time as we dive deeper into the story that is Larry Furgenstien.
San Sincero is a thriving city on the California coast, somewhere between Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. In San Sincero the boundaries of the real disintegrate as an ancient dissonance redefines the lives of its people.
The following is a early draft of an entry for San Sincero, written by the late travel writer Alan Campbell (born 1960—died 1993). He was preparing it for the newest edition of his excellent Top 10 Cities of California travel guide. Unfortunately, his body was found decapitated in his hotel room. This entry was mailed to
his editor, earlier the same day as his death.
Dear Charles,
This is an extremely rough draft of what will be the finished entry for San Sincero. I can’t believe I’ve never been to this city before! I’ve driven up and down the California coast at least twice now, and I can’t remember ever seeing the city before. And, yes, I do know that those years were filled with more than my share of cocaine. Still sober after 6 months (knock on wood)!
Anyway, I wanted to share with you these first thoughts. I’ll flesh it out, clean it up (it’s more of a journal entry of purple prose now than a public document), remove the scuttlebutt, and add a few actual restaurants and other hot spots later. I can’t remember (from when you told me to make sure to include San Sincero in my new edition) if you mentioned whether you’ve ever visited the city before. If you have been, I have lots of questions that I’d like to ask you. Please call me at my hotel once you’ve had a chance to read the draft. I’ve seen a few very odd things (that won’t be in my entry as I don’t want them to lock me up as a crazy person) that I’d really like to talk with you about. Don’t read this as my editor! Just as my friend! Once we talk, it will be clear why I’m sending this to you.
Best,
Alan
Imagine that you are flying over the waves of the Pacific, approaching San Sincero, California. The first thing you see is a tall, off-white lighthouse in good repair, although it has been years since it’s had a decent paint job. Its light is still strong, cutting through the thick fog that enshrouds the city in an intimate embrace from late fall to early summer. Looking past the lighthouse, you see the beaches and the boardwalk, whose arcades and stores are frequented by locals and tourists alike. There is a pulse of life and magic that hums here—a sense of peace that is unknown elsewhere in San Sincero.
Farther south on the coast are the piers and docks of the Port Weyer district. The water here is dark and murky, and the buildings are run down. Long shadows fill with the secrets of souls too cowardly to strive for anything that would expose their hopes and dreams.
North of the lighthouse and boardwalk is where those dreams have turned into old money. Magnificent gothic mansions and estates curve north and then east. The mansions sit upon Mt. Sincero, delineating the northernmost part of the city. The effect is marvelous on clear nights when the lights make these estates appear as monoliths overlooking the city.
To the southeast lie the suburbs, as does UC San Sincero, which sits on the border of the wealthy district and the suburbs. The middle-class suburbs run on rituals perfected by the champions of the rat race—rituals that the painfully mundane perform to keep their mediocrity at bay. It is here that tract housing is truly appreciated, and where strip malls prove that the American dream is alive and well. The suburb dwellers are the ones who know that cul-de-sacs are not really dead ends.
East of the docks is San Sincero’s downtown, which contains a thriving financial district on the northwest side. To the southeast, the financial district gives way to the condemned buildings and aging skyscrapers of a bygone peak of success and glory. The biggest and grandest buildings in downtown were built from the 1920s to the 1940s, and in 1983, programs for the historic restoration of downtown began. By 1990, the original section of downtown was renovated and gentrified. The San Sincero downtown skyline is one of the most impressive and beautiful sights in this fair city.
North of downtown is uptown. Uptown used to be where the folks who worked downtown would live. It was a thriving community with friendly people who worked hard to make their dreams come true. This energy has attracted students and artists since the 1950s, and uptown is known for its bohemian flavor. This used to be a home of possibilities, but within the last decade, that hope has mixed with a fear of neighborhoods that have ceased to be safe. San Sincero State University is in uptown.
The buffer zone between the uptown/downtown areas and the projects to the east is what the locals call the Pleasure District. This is a classic “Red Light District” where activities and merchandise that are illegal elsewhere are legal—or at least tolerated to a certain extent—by the police department. It is here that demons are traded and heavens sought after.
Farther east is the projects, where the unskilled, unwanted, and unlucky end up. As in the Pleasure District, different rules apply here. Tenement housing creates the landscape where people of all creeds and colors come to roost when they gain secure positions at the docks or the downtown warehouses. This is where the projects have been built and forgotten. Drive-by shootings and gang violence are increasing.
East of the projects is the Kelley River (formerly Rio de la Soledad), which runs north to south, curving west to empty into the Pacific just south of the docks. This river separates the city proper from the rural areas. Even though the rural parts are officially part of San Sincero, the residents from both sides of the river treat them as two separate worlds.
During the gold rush, people came to the Rio de la Soledad to pan for gold. Too bad there wasn’t any gold in the river. Entrepreneurs soon discovered that the maritime trade opportunities were far more lucrative—and a lot easier—than panning. Some of the country folk refused to leave. They survived by hunting in the woods that surround the city. The city folk are a little bit scared of the rurals, partially due to not understanding them or their lives and partially because of the rich folklore from the turn of the century.
The San Sincero schoolyards buzz with legends of forbidden pacts, haunted woods, and the insane asylum with patients so dangerous the sanitarium was built across the river to protect the citizens of the city. Adults know that the San Sincero General Hospital and Mental Institute was built by John D. Kelley, a medical doctor from Boston, Massachusetts. The only property available that would meet his needs was just across the river from downtown. He figured it would be easy enough to build a new bridge, and he loved the woods. He and his family lived in a modest home on the east side of the river that was later renamed after him.
As middle age set in, Kelley spent a good deal of his money buying the undeveloped land on his side of the river. He wanted to guarantee that no one would ever destroy the woods that he loved so much. Before he died, he forged legal documents that protected the woods and the folk who lived there, no matter what his descendants would do.
He was well-respected and liked, although he was considered by most to be somewhat eccentric (and some legends about the family are, literally, sinister). His family has lived on this modest but beautiful estate for five generations. His great-great-granddaughter, her husband, and their ten-year-old daughter live there now. She has kept the family name out of respect for her lineage, and even her daughter is legally a “Kelley.” Rumors talk of a bitter husband who doesn’t like to be outshone by a long-dead eccentric, but the husband always seems friendly and happy whenever they go to social events, so who knows what really goes on behind closed doors?
Alta California, 1790—Near El Camino Real, just south of La Misión San Carlos Sincero de la Soledad.
An old native woman rocked, back and forth, in front of a small fire within her darkened hut, chanting in a tongue far older than the Hokan dialect her people speak. She threw a handful of aromatic wood and herbs upon the fire hoping desperately that her work was successful.
A younger woman entered the hut, her face filled with sorrow and shock.
“You’re back!” exclaimed the older woman. “What happened, did In’olloku destroy the Spanish filth and their god?” She grew worried as she noticed the young woman’s face. “I lost contact some time ago and have been chanting to regain it.”
The younger woman, unsure how to begin, was quiet for a moment before answering, “It is bad. It is very bad.”
The older woman turned her frustration and anger into resolve, “Tell me what happened.”
“At first, everything went as planned,” the younger woman said. “I was working in the plaza of the Misión. Padre Nivea was preparing his sermon to us, in that horrible Spanish, just as you said he would be.
“The bells rang, signaling that we were to stop working and join him in the church. Suddenly, the sky grew dark as a cloud was forming above the Misión.”
The older woman, triumphant, said, “Excellent! In’olloku did come to my call!”
“Yes, the Star-Walker came,” the younger woman still appeared stricken. “The cloud grew thick until the center burst open with the brightness of a sun. the long twisting tentacles of In’olloku came out. As many arms as there were Spaniards. Each one reaching around a Christian and tearing them apart.”
“This is what we wanted!” exclaimed the elder. “This is what the Spanish deserve for what they have done to us. To all the people of this land!”
“Yes,” the young woman looked, in some ways, older than her companion as she said this.
“The fury of In’olloku—the Star-Walker, the Star-Scatterer—is what the corruptor Padre Juan Araña Nivea deserves!” the old woman spat out. “Why do you stand there in horror at their doom?”
“That isn’t the bad part grandmother.”
“I… the old woman felt her stomach and heart sink as the young woman continued.
“The Spaniards were screaming… and dying. Their blood was everywhere. Nivea came out of the church holding a crucifix toward the Star-Walker. He prayed to Jesus Christ. He called In’olloku ‘Satan’ and demanded he leave in the name of his god.
“Laughter came from the cloud and In’olloku sent his light into the priest. Nivea dropped the cross and collapsed. His body shook. He struggled to raise himself to his knees. Blood poured from his nose. His eyes. His ears. In’olloku laughed. Our people had fled. I was the only one still watching.
“Nivea raised his arms and cried out to someone else. Not to the god of the Spaniards or his son. The name was not in Spanish, nor in our language. It was a horrible sound.”
The old woman prayed to her ancestors as the young woman paused, steeling herself for the rest.
“The blood flowing from his body turned black. He looked at In’olloku and I could see that Nivea’s eyes had turned black too.
“The priest began to laugh but it wasn’t him. Not really. I don’t think he was human at that moment. He got up and grabbed one of In’olloku’s arms and pulled. The arm twisted, like the knotted root of a tree, twisting in pain. I heard the Star-Walker scream as he was pulled from his cloud. Nivea laughed as he dragged In’olloku behind him towards the church.”
“This is impossible!” yelled the frustrated old woman. “No one can hurt one of the first gods. Especially not In’olloku.”
The young woman quietly continued, “Nivea turned to me. His eyes were still black. He said to find the others who had run off. He said to come back quickly as his sermon would start in an hour.”
Her body now started to shake as she finished her story, “He turned away from me, laughing, and pulled In’olloku—who was now small, so very small—into the church and closed the door behind them. I came straight here.”
“This… this could not be worse,” said the old woman.
“I am going to the ocean grandmother,” said the young woman. “I will drown myself. We have nowhere to go and I will not let him and his evil spirits get me.”
“We have lost,” said the old woman. “The gods of our people have lost. The first gods from before us have lost. The spirits of this land run and hide.”
She looked at the young woman with tears on her lined cheeks. “Everything is over daughter. Everything has been lost.”
San Sincero, California, 1985.
Elliot hates winter. He hates the gray—the gray of the buildings, the sidewalk, the sky. The world should have color; bright reds and greens, and electric blues and golds like a clown’s clothes. Elliot smiles as he thinks of colors. His dark hand moves lightly over the red and white striped sweater he wears underneath the old and faded coat that protects the sweater from unsympathetic eyes. His sweater reminds him of candy canes and barber poles while his coat keeps his heart and dreams safe behind a dull brown. He pulls his coat tight and walks out of the shelter of the doorway onto the sidewalk. The cold wind cuts through him causing him to wince and pull his blue knitted cap down tighter over his ears as his dun-colored loafers shuffle his stooped form down the sidewalk. He wishes that he would allow himself to grow a beard for warmth but vanity demands that he stay clean-shaven.
Every morning between 6 and 6:30am Elliot shaves his face with an electric razor. Gary, the general manager of a Denny’s in downtown San Sincero likes Elliot and when he works mornings he lets Elliot come in, order a cup of coffee, and use the outlet in the bathroom to shave (the razor was a gift from a friend and Elliot will continue to use it until it finally breaks to honor and remember that friendship, despite the inconvenience of needing an electrical outlet). Once, Gary gave Elliot a hard time when he came in after 8am. Customers complained about the derelict in the bathroom and Gary told Elliot that if the district manager found out he wouldn’t be able to let Elliot shave there anymore. Elliot hasn’t ever come in past 6:30am since then. He doesn’t want to get Gary into trouble and he doesn’t want to miss a shave. Elliot is almost fanatical about keeping his face clean and his salt-and-pepper afro short and proper. He’ll miss a meal before being unkempt—especially a special day like today.
As Elliot enters the Denny’s he hears, “Morning Elliot.”
“Morning Gary. Seems busy for this time of morning.”
“Yeah,” Gary laughs as he says this. “And I’m down a busboy. Should I have Nancy set up a coffee for you at the counter?”
“Thank you kindly, but I can’t today. I’m meeting someone in a bit.”
Elliot looks around the restaurant, “It is busy though. Is it still alright if I use the bathroom to shave?”
“Of course, just be quick. But, thanks for asking man.”
“How did Denny’s warrant getting a saint like you Gary?”
Elliot’s smile makes Gary feel like more than just a guy who is slowly letting his dreams die under the reality of a soul-crushing job, “They pay their managers better than McDonald’s does.”
The smile fades, just a bit, as Elliot says, “Seriously though, Very few people would let a bum use—”
“Stop it,” Gary says, cutting him off. “And you’re not a bum. Although I do wish you’d take the dishwasher job I keep offering.”
“Not my style,” the smile returns.
“Sleeping on the streets is?” Gary says as gently as he can.
“We’ve been through this before. But don’t worry, I’ll be out of here toot sweet!”
“Alright, alright,” says Gary, raising his arms in surrender. “See you tomorrow Elliot.”
“Lord willing and the creek don’t rise!” Elliot jokes as he heads to the bathroom.
As Gary turns to seat a new customer he says, “The way the weather looks today, it just might.”
Under the stones of the Camino Real, in a time beyond time.
Roads lead to where you need to go to where you already are to where you will never reach and pistons pump out disappointments as gears laugh and both the rich and poor demonize each other while hiding their fear behind the sounds of angry justIFIcatIoNs and vIctIMIzeD tones that harmonize the rage you’ve felt for centuries and with the anger of HeaDLiNes wRitteN wiTH a suRetY BorN of noIsE.
NoIse… Sure… hAR..LiN…TTerW…PMenTPoisaDS…
YOu taVern SucKer dAn, goRE LaIDeN MaiD!
San Sincero, California, 1985.
Reaching the bus stop Elliot sits on the bench and smiles, savoring the pleasure of rest after a cold walk. He wishes his body was as willing to move as his spirit. He would dance every day, if his body would let him, and show the kids how it was really done.
Elliot bends down and picks up a section of crumpled newspaper carried by the wind. He hates seeing the printed news littering up the streets. He starts smoothing out the newsprint, speaking lovingly to it, “You’re not a bad paper. Your owner should have taken you with him. Or put you out of your misery. Don’t you worry none. You can keep me company until the bus comes by.”
Elliot turns to the weather section, “Darn it. It says here it is supposed to rain. That’s not right. Karen deserves a sunny day. A warm day!”
Elliot hums under his breath, his gaze unfocused on the headlines he stares at.
A mouth that tastes hot and a skin that feels sad and hunger that food never sates all do their best to distract you as foundations swirl into syncopating giBBerIsH. “Heavy storms to last through the week. Potential flood warning for communities east of the Kelley river” and swirling and twisting spirits of the desert of the chaparral become your loving fist where your multiples of bRIBe siGH and tHoM THoU remake hoTTesT MoSSy laRVa kEG WHethER thOU aLLowING AffrOntEd PorTIon moUNt fAe semIotiCs kiLL eVerY thREE until you and everyone sees the truth which is a joy fought for and stolen from cold black iron.
Elliot thinks today is going to be a great day as he reads the weather section. “Storm front to miss San Sincero. Sunny and warm by early morning.”
“That’s swell,” he thinks. “Just the sort of day Karen deserves!”
Elliot closes his eyes as he folds the section carefully and lays it next to him on the bench and smiles. He resumes his humming as the automobiles continue to pass by and the clouds begin to dissipate.
A soulless voice, almost mechanical, rising from somewhere uNdeR can barely be heard to say, “Ontoloplex breached. Implant Rejected. Initiating protocols.”
A young man walks toward the bus stop. The young man isn’t waiting for Elliot’s bus; he’s going to a different part of town. Sitting a respectful distance from Elliot he takes the newspaper and begins to read as Elliot’s bus approaches.
Confused, and feeling a bit groggy, Elliot says to himself, “The 319 is early today… I… ” he turns to the young man, “Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”
With an exasperated sigh the man says, “7:30.”
“7:30!” says Elliot, more than a little frightened. “I… must have blacked out again.”
“You should lay off the Night Train old man. And get a goddamn job why don’t you?”
The voice from uNdeR states, “Diagnostics initiated.”
Shaken, Elliot rises from the bench and hurriedly climbs the steps onto the bus leaving the young man alone with the newspaper touched by Elliot, the winds, and who knows how many others.
The young man is Joe Davidson Jr., a freshly minted lawyer, following in the footsteps of his district attorney father. He reads the weather report that almost glows it is so distinct, “Sunny and warm by early morning.”
Great news to start the day with, Joe thinks. First day at the firm. Sunny day. Joe Davidson, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life!
The voice from uNdeR states, “Initiating Entry.”
Joe stares at the newspaper, suddenly frozen and trembling as the words shuffle under his gaze, freed from their prison of newsprint. The words of the headline are like thunder. Deafening. District Attorney, Joseph Davidson Sr., Killed in Mugging. His chest clenches and he hears something far off sHaTTeR.
“Dad. Oh God, No,” Joe closes his eyes and wipes a hand over his face before looks again at the article.
Beloved Mother Commits Suicide Because Son Doesn’t Visit Enough.
“What the?”
Fiancée Breaks Off Wedding—Ex-Bride-To-Be Says Joey Jr. Is an Inconsiderate Louse and a Horrible Lay.
“What the fuck is this?”
Joe turns the pages as the words swing a special dance just for him.
Attorney Joseph Davidson Jr. Found Dead at Bus Stop—Police Suspect Suicide.
Joe screams, crumples the newspaper, and slides off the bench, in a heap, onto the sidewalk. A gloom rises from the newspaper smelling of sweet perfume and old sweat.
Oh God, he thinks. My legs don’t work. Get up fucker. Get up! This is sick. Some sick joke… no, I don’t know what the fuck is going on but I can feel it. Something is coming. Something is behind me!
Joe gets up and stumbles down the street while other early morning commuters move to avoid him and the gray words that follow. He hears, faintly, a soulless voice say, Archon deployed.
He starts to run (not really caring where he’s going) into an alleyway and upon reaching a wall that marks a dead end, sits down hard. Staring at the ground until the gloom speaks.
You’re not him. But, you touched his smut. Filth from him that our protocols have… repurposed. Says a voice that is cold and grating, as if the parts of the throat uttering the words don’t quite work the way they should. A voice that belongs to a stranger with ashen skin. Wait. Is he really there? Joe can barely focus on him, and the features keep shifting.
“L-leave me alone,” says Joe.
The stranger squints his eyes and sniffs the air until, finally, he smiles and says, Where is he?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The stranger sighs tiredly and shakes his head. I can see that you are next to useless. But one uses what one has available. What vitality is available. Then, like steel, the voice says, What did you read in the newspaper?
Joe Davidson looks confused. His pain turning to rage as he screams “Leave me the fuck alone asshole!”
The stranger’s face breaks into a small smile as he shrugs and grabs Joe’s face in his hand.
Ah… I see. Your father, your mother, your lover, your life. Hope and delusions give way to strife. You really are just a shit-bag of neuroses aren’t you? Joe starts to convulse as the man peers into his eyes, thrashing like a fish on a line.
“It’s all true you know,” says the stranger in a stronger, deeper, voice. Joe realizes that this is the first time he has actually heard this voice with his ears. “Every word. Why, it was printed in the papers so it must be true.” The stranger squeezes his hand and Joe trembles.
“Your father shot.” Davidson tWitChEs.
“Your mother dead by her own hand and a broken heart.” Davidson jErKS like a puppet on a string.
“Your young fiancée won’t even notice your death. She’s got real men to keep her happy now.” Davidson SpAsmS.
“It’s really too bad you were unable to climb out of your despair. Suicides are so sad.” Davidson sHaTterS.
“Three lives, no wives, how much more can I contrive?” says the stranger mockingly as he turns away from the body lying lifeless at his feet.
“Don’t feel too bad though,” he says looking at the sky. “The rain is going to miss us. Looks like it might be a nice day after all.”
He sniffs the air and if anyone would happen to walk by they would marvel at how much the harsh-looking, but sharp-dressed, man looks remarkably like the corpse of Joe Davidson Jr.
“Now, you spotty saucy, who’s the one who’s being naughty?” His smile fades. He breathes deeply, adjusts his coat, and walks out of the alleyway. “You never should have shown yourself trickster. I’ll find you now.”
(To be Continued)
