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Previous: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 1

You’ve never had a sensei. You seek philosophy and enlightenment.

Having also mastered efficiency, I will ask your stupid questions for you.

You wonder: Where does one start on the road to success? Does a beginning marker appear at the crossroads of conflict? Should I expect proper signage and illuminated cautions, blaring at every turn and twist comprising the challenge I’m seeking to overcome?

The answer is: Success is not a road but a tree, branching through time and space, seeded by the moment you learn your very first death-punch and vow only to unleash it in the interest of justice.

Now, if you fuckers are committed to wasting my time, try to pay attention.

Lesson one: Prepare to be resourceful.

You don’t need to get ready for anything if you stay ready for everything. And everything — every experience, every “thing” — is waiting to be ascribed its purpose. Ambiguity is a weapon. Meditate on duality. Find the frequency that allows you to bring a life old to a close with a life new. Purpose the baby properly and it will do the work of the nunchuk for you.

Excuse me.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

Lesson two: Be aware.

Let me be perfectly clear: As a structured metabolic system capable of molecular reproduction, your very state of being has been simplified and repurposed by versions of existence relative to that which your experience is derived from.

Favorable outcomes aren’t achieved with learned behaviors and lucky guesses. Success happens by eliminating non-value combinations of actions, methods and resource allocations. Recognizing something as “no value” is worth, at minimum, the expenditure of resources used to identify its worthlessness. This comes in handy when you least expect it.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

Lesson three: Be humble.

Casually mentioning that the amount of resource consumption used to characterize a zero value probably exists somewhere as an entropic expansion of negative space is unnecessary. And betting random nerds wedgies that dark energy is consistent with the ones and zeroes being processed when the spatial dimensions we exist in solidify themselves via dynamic forms of measurement and transference doesn’t make any friends. Nobody likes a show off, and it pisses me off having to explain to a bunch of pussies why zero values don’t exist in terms of graphing isomorphism.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

“But, Sifu,” you say, “Isn’t that of great importance? Shouldn’t this wisdom be shared for the benefit of all humankind?”

The answer is: Yes. But like the hipster gentrification of my beloved trailer park, there are forces at work you may never be able to understand.

No more questions.

“Alexa! Call Brenda!”

“Calling Brenda.”

Success.

“What do you want, Glenn? I’m at work.”

“Brenda. Oh, Brenda. Easy now. I need you to make a guess on today’s gas prices.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I’m getting low on foil. Call Bezos and have him do the thing.”

“You’re such a boner, Glenn.”

“Be a dear and schedule me a ride. No small-talk, please.”

“Schedule you with who?”

“Text Snake, ‘Lining up a gig.’ ”

“You are not.”

“Set an alarm an hour from now.”

“Can’t you do this yourself?”

“Well, Jesus and Hell, Brenda. And let the money you spent buying my Alexa go to waste like some kind of an asshole?”

Lesson four: Simplify.

Simple creatures, simple lives.

…

Five. Six. Seven rings.

“Here’s your stupid alarm, dick-turkey.”

“Alexa, notify Brenda I’m taking her up on her offer to give me a ride.”

Twenty minutes pass.

“I need gas, asshole,” says a woman attempting to explain the combustible engine powering her Datsun pickup.

“I know how it works, Brenda! Here’s the deal: you wear the wrap, I’ll handle the petro.”

Monetary systems are bullshit. Cash, credit and taxes all fall under the category “Regime Machinations.” There is no emotional value in a dollar. I prefer making exchanges on a more personal level.

“Arrgh! I hate you. You are such a communist, Glenn. I’m not doing this today.”

“How many times, Brenda? How many times must I tell you: I don’t subscribe to politics. A tribal interchange system is the only way to we’ll get back to our roots.”

I’m forced to listen to her incessant whining while I purpose the foil into a burka.

We achieve forward motion.

My hyper-awareness is triggered during a stoplight as the soccer mom idling behind us begins to slowly creep along our side. Soccer moms will do anything for affirmation. I give her a wink and mouth the words “I would,” saving a call to her therapist.

It feels good, doing my part.

“Oh. My. God. Glenn! Do you think you could have picked a dog with stinkier farts?”

“Oh, hang a prophet on a cross, Brenda! You’ve offended our guest. Must I fill the other half of your glass, too?” she is driving me crazy.

“Please. Please give me the Hightop ish on dog farts.”

“Brenda, Monte’s aroma is that of a fully-matured diet. This magnificent beast has entered adulthood under the love and care of a family willing to do whatever it takes to ensure his experience consists of only the best. Have you ever known a Great Dane who never took a shit that wasn’t personally composed by Rachael Ray? His releasing subsidiary buildups with no trace of fear or reprisal is majestic. He’s been nurtured to a state that allows nature to course through his being with minimal resistance. You don’t just find his breed wandering around indoctrinated by the spirit of Lao Tzu, Brenda!”

Ghost of Mary, Spirit of Jew.

“Huh. And explain why I’m wrapped in foil again?”

“We’re a pack, Brenda. We can’t have Monte flying solo. We move together, as one organism.”

“You could have at least given me eyeholes. And why aren’t you wrapped up, too?”

“Because he needs to be able to identify the alpha. It’s hard to explain to a woman. You just need to trust me on this.”

“And why wouldn’t I offer you my blind trust. After all you’ve done for me…”

“Exactamundo, Brenda. I spent fifteen Ghillie-suited hours of surveillance filling up your gas tank. I’m hurt by your accusations. I would never ask you to participate in any aspect of a mission not conducive to its success.”

“Will you please just make the call? We’re running on fumes.”

“Alexa, have Brenda dial the Roberts.”

“That’s not how it works, Glenn!”

But it does. It works just fine.

The second hand reaches business-casual-thirty, “Mrs. Roberts? Is this Mrs. Roberts? …I’m so sorry, ma’am. Ma’am? …I’m having a hard time understanding you. Perhaps you can put the decision maker on the line. Is Mr. Roberts available? …Oh, this is Mr. Roberts?”

Bingo.

“Yeah, hey there, champ. Now, I can’t be certain, but I believe I’ve found your dog. …Oh, jeez no. He’s okay, thank Jehovah. Just a little lost. …Hmm. You don’t say? Couldn’t get a signal on him, huh? Well, I’ll be… You know, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Boy, when you can’t trust the pet locator service industry… Tell you what: I know a guy — super honest. He doesn’t use the chips or anything. Beyond reliable,” snapping for Brenda to get a card ready.

“…Well, he was quick runner, that’s for sure. Took a while to tire him out. A little too carefree, if you ask me. Weaving through traffic like that, he almost got clipped. …Oh, isn’t that the truth. You don’t know what’ch’ya got until it’s gone. Jinx! Ha! Say, I’d love to bring him to you. Uh, the thing is: I used all my gas running him down and I still gotta get my lady to the hospital. …Explosive diarrhea. Yeah, never seen anything like it. Any chance you could pick him up and give us a lift? She won’t stop shitting all over the place…”

He arrives and we make the drop. One good Samaritan recognizes another and we are freshly fueled — ready for takeoff.

File this satisfied customer under “Repeat Business.”

“See, Brenda? See how the universe treats you when you show a little reverence to your planetary experience? I’m not going to be here forever. You need to figure this shit out.”

“Why, Glenn? Why does it still smell like farts?”

…

The alarms have been long sounding by the time we reach an entrance to the lot.

Facial recognition must have picked me up me a mile back.

Noticeably shaking from nerves is a youthful booth attendant, right now wondering if a job in Designated Parking is worth it. His fear is understandable, considering my history.

A dozen suits with cookie-cutter haircuts rush from the center building in a weak attempt to secure the complex. I watch the lead raise a cuff to his face and mouths the words I hear crackling from a radio mounted in the booth. “That’s a no-approach, son. Repeat, no-approach. Let it through and report for debrief.”

“Been here before?” Brenda knows the routine.

Memories of a time long past slide into my DM’s .

…

Life was easier as a simple accordion lead for cartel-mariachi in Sinaloa.

I failed to reacclimate to the suburbs following my years abroad committing unspeakable acts.

War-torn countries don’t just rebuild themselves. As one-of-six left behind to engage in the high-pressure confrontations that come with establishing reliable information networks, I was a necessity.

You’ve heard stories from soldiers who made it home, and you thought they had it tough. Well, after three tours of door-to-door magazine sales in the bush, my description of Hell is a little more accurate.

I came home to open-arms missing, and, instead, found a crooked and bitter man of the law. He failed to understand that removing a man from the wild jungle means nothing to the wild jungle living in a man.

Things went bad.

The same day that Hollywood picked up the story and took some liberties, I woke up drugged and concussed, knowing only two things for certain: The potato sack I was hogtied up in had been doubling as my pajamas, and the speed of a still-moving train multiplied by the degree of shift in my cerebral star chart equals me stranded deep in southern territory.

Months were spent drinking from mud-puddles and fighting for back-alley scraps in a city better left unpronounced.

By the time he found me, I was desanimado and farmacodependiente — peeling like a banano in the desert sun. Like an angel of redemption, he pulled me up from the filth I was drowning in. I’ll never know what he saw in me, but it was certainly something I couldn’t see for myself.

In taking me under his wing and curing my cursera, he saved my life. And then he made me his brother.

“Pastelito,” I remember him saying, “You are the only person con deficiencia en el desarrollo I have ever known. I am safe with you. I must insist, you will stay and play for me accordion.”

I served Jefe for what seemed like ages — hunted by the contraterrorismo for every minute of that time.

Our days were spent staying two moves ahead of multi-national taskforce operations. Their armies may have lucked into finding and burning the occasional villa of coca, but they could never find a way to prevent us from harvesting the people’s admiration.

We were untouchable. We were loved. And these bastards took him from me.

…

Dropped off in front of the building, I’m surrounded by their emergency response team.

Brenda’s pickup backfires pulling away. Somewhere calls a referee: False start, tight end! My underwear accepts the penalty and we’re both down by a safety.

“What brings you in from the cold?” says the designated douchebag in charge.

“Just here to warm my mitts and enjoy my timeshare. You don’t see a problem with that… do you, Waymon?”

“You don’t get to walk away, Zamboni. That’s not how it works. You’re in too deep!”

“I’ll decide. And it’s best you don’t forget, Way-way: I’m the reason this program still exists.”

My visitor’s pass feels more like a badge of irony: this was my house before it ever was theirs.

The building once offered cover to a small, elite unit of abstract problem-solvers. A set of uniquely-talented individuals blended with civilian workers and utilized their respective skill-sets to accomplish high-priority, covert tasks. These operators were responsible for the rise and fall of my Jefe.

After six months of zeroing in on the city, four hours off the the train was all it took to locate the facility.

It goes like this: Black-ops require funding. Funding requires creativity. Creativity means nothing is on the up-and-up. To uncover an Operation Control Center such as this, set your headings to the scent of large-scale fraud. When you find the nickel and diming of your average American’s hard-earned tax dollars, it’s game-on.

I identified the target’s potential by their hiring policy: felons facing the threat of recidivism should management report to their parole officers an inadequate sales performance, only. Leave it to the government to shield themselves by “providing opportunities to the disenfranchised” one fraudulent phone call at a time.

A deeper inspection identified classical propaganda: the business name insisting it was completely American, the selling Mom and Pop businesses advertising space on high school sports posters to help the children, the sociopathic sing-song voice used by brainwashed civilian recruits to deliver their captor’s message while lulling you into a false sense of security…

Bullseye.

The things that bring you home…

The setup: basic and easy to infiltrate. I followed their protocol. I earned their trust. It took two months to reprogram half of their civilian workers. There was nothing I could do for the other half. The men would have to go it alone.

Quota was required, but I could do no harm to innocents. Hacking their call-monitoring system using my own proprietary algorithm allowed me to coast under-the-radar.

Assets’ behaviors, activities and success ratios were monitored by computer. A program tracked operators’ call averages with the duration of time spent live on the line — after a call has been answered.

I kept a list: lunch hours, business hours, vacations, etc. The computer was stupid and couldn’t detect high volumes of repeat-calls. Utilizing this blind-spot allowed me to surf automated directories for long transfer times. And by surfing switchboards all day, I honed the skills necessary for navigating sketchy waters.

There were no preventions in place to protect from my methods. The closest they came were sounding the alarms against workers trying to victimize corporations. “It’s easier to sucker money from hard-working, struggling middle-class proprietorships,” they would say.

A good operator knows certain liberties need taken when deep undercover, and ransoming precious moments of time from goliath, corporate bullies was a gift of mine. I wouldn’t call me hero, I tend to think of myself more as a victim of awesome mutations with an interest in justice. Either way: I didn’t find the high road, I built it.

This little side-gig was responsible for siphoning one-percent resources into the millions.

The ships I channeled were all the same: manned by a captain with a delegation assigned to prevent casual interference from scavengers. Strictly accustomed to barking protocols at deckhand clones, the chain-of-command operates blindly.

Using a patent-pending process dubbed “Climbing the Corporate Ladder,” I’d pass undetected through several levels of these biometric safeguards.

Requiring patience, this procedure could take an entire day. Sometimes weeks were submerged attempting to reach the first mate keeping gate. But, from there, a “Hey, Janet! Glenn, with publishing. Rough day, today. Need an executive decision real fast. Can you put Anne on? I’ll make it quick, lord knows she’s busy…” was all it took to summons the commander.

Unaware and unwilling, the commandant assists the heist: One part trying to understand how I made it past the buffers, one part trying to convince me the international chemical conglomerate being overseen can’t justify spending a buck-ten on my square-inch of advertising space. They would hold firm despite us “talking featured on a high school badminton poster with guaranteed window-optimization in over seven local-to-Parma, Idaho business locations.”

The amount of money corporations pay their CEO’s for thirty minutes of haggling bullshit is nothing short of sin.

A few weeks of dismantling these monsters from the inside and management spotted me as talent. They studied my techniques, adopted my methods and brought me in with full artistic control.

It was a working op before I walked in. By the time I left it was an Elron-a-don Hubbard magic show.

Watching Waymon call security to assist with the last set of doors leading to the lush cubicle acreage of my old stomping grounds, I know what to expect. They won’t respond to his request. The voice-confirmation code I designated him when I left is obviously still a hit.

He is sweating now.

He has no choice.

He leans into the speaker.

“You’re listening to DJ Way-way — from Way-Gay’s I-8-6.9 — serving you a hot one with the Liquid Turd’s, “Holy Spokes, I’m Deep in Your Love.”

The doors open.

I don’t normally displace time for my fans. Slow motion feels gratuitous when you share genetic ancestry with six species of panthers. Nonetheless, they’ll expect it.

Finger-pistols, ready: it’s time to tell the kids that Daddy’s home.

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 3

I wake up stiff and dehydrated, with questionable bruising — telltale signs of a drunken battle the night before. My feet find ground and close the distance to the bathroom so I can fix the leak that woke me up. Sleepy hand-eye coordination is no match for that stubborn spigot. By the time the leaking has stopped, my socks are soaking in a puddle made fresh on the floor.

The cat box will provide cover to inquiring noses until it’s discovered that its asshole owner left with its asshole owner. Meanwhile, the commercials say if this thing lasts longer than four hours I may have an emergency. I’ll keep that in mind, but for now I’ve got bigger problems.

Over to the coffeepot for round two of yesterday’s brew. I’ve said the same thing for four days now, let’s not get into semantics. Also, fuck math. It’s better we don’t talk about it.

What we should discuss is how my jezebel wife won’t sign the Leviticus papers, even though she is now a He that insists on my calling him Tank. I’ve taken more shit from lesser men. That’s something that happens when you can’t fight.

Tank’s parting gift was this angel-deucin’ seven-gallon Brewmonster that requires power tools and computer literacy to put in fresh grounds. Hence, my being forced to drink a matured version of what he left me with six days ago. I can’t imagine him leaving it at all if it wasn’t media equipped to play that stupid video every time it turns on. It’s the one of Tank doing sixty-pound curls while psycho-eyeing the camera and snarling, “Zip it up faggot, it’s time to put in work!”

The friendly reminder serves to inspire my productivity so I’ll make maintenance payments on the pair of Cambodians we went halfsies on while we were still in love. People tend not to run numbers into the future when the single adoption agency willing to work with them calls with a one-time-only, buy-one-get-one-free special — good for the next six hours. Stupid fuckin’ math!

The business I’m in carries more dilemmas than trying to earn a Tumbling Patch from a Catholic Boy Scout Leader before your body loses the limber edge that it was gifted by adolescence. And similarly, I’m forced to navigate a gauntlet of dicks end-over-end, for weeks at a time, to remain in my parents’ good graces and continue receiving an allowance. It’s also not uncommon having various forms of starter kits and contraband knuckled deep in my anus, depending on the task at hand. Not that I’m one to complain.

…

Our paths meet at a quaint little hole-in-the wall with a sign on the entrance illustrating Shotgun Tacos. Waiting in line for the Korean behind the counter to call my number, she catches my eye as a crack appears from the door to the crapper. She’s washing her face when a goliath emergency squeezes past her, forcing her to evac for safety.

I know she has me in that first exchange.

“Funny,” I say. “And here I thought this joint got its name because of how quickly they serve the food.”

“No, sugar,” from between the freshly moistened lips of a cracked smile. “It’s because it leaves the barrel with a wide spread and high gauge at mach velocity. I would know, I use to be a physicist.”

“Tell me then, in your professional opinion: Should I be concerned that I just ordered the Number Two, extra risky?”

“Oh darling, you may need a friend. It just so happens I’m in the friend business. I suppose I’ll get us a booth. Find me when you get your food.”

A tray full of tacos arrives wrapped in advertisements for an emergency medical service of the unusual sort. Thoughts drift from pictures of a gerbil wearing tights and a stethoscope to the fact that it’s not often I walk with confidence to a table seating the sexiest lady in any establishment. It crosses my mind that this is a setup. I’m not on anyone’s bestie list this month. I have to further consider this possibility.

Proceeding with an old interrogation technique that involves the element of surprise, I sit down with a smile, cut a fart and get right into it. “So, care to tell me who sent you?”

“Oh, my! Cautious and carefree — I didn’t think it could be done. How do you do it stranger?”

I cheese again. “You’re either a daydream or a nightmare, lady. I’m looking to pass the bullshit and get to the nocturnal emission. What’s your story?”

“But what if sharing my little secrets encourages you to get up and walk away, leaving my tender heart all broken?”

“Look doll, number one: My wiener doesn’t pass judgement based on back story. And two: Those farts weren’t exactly carefree. Believe it or not, I have some major concerns going on back there lately. As far as I’m concerned, we’re in this together now.”

“And suppose I trust you enough to let you in on my being in some kind of trouble?”

I take a moment of careful deliberation to consider the kind of trouble she’s capable of: Possibilities of a pimp or estranged boyfriend, credit card or bank fraud, maybe some kind of high-dollar theft…

Never underestimate the situation. This I’ve learned over the years. It also helps to refrain from putting people in boxes. Asians don’t all know karate, bleached buttholes don’t all belong to women, heterosexual powerbottoms do exist and the woman of your dreams might just end up being a psychotic, steroid fueled, gender-revising rape artist searching for the perfect victim to marathon mindfuck.

All this considered, I know I’m in before I know what I’m in.

We finish the tacos and let the tears dry while the Korean proprietor grows anxious for us to leave.

Standing up to walk her out, my guts are alerted they have access to legs. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve shit myself in excess of any number of times. It’s a lesser-known fact that an underwear derby is classically underrated as a defense mechanism, typically good for many types of situations. My instinctual ability to perform rapid assessments informs me this is not one of them.

Never underestimate a woman’s need to test a man. It would simply be odd if my grimacing behind a waterfall of sweaty tears didn’t provoke an, “I just need a minute with the Lady’s Room to collect myself.”

My wanting to clarify it is actually a unisex free-for-all shitter lying twenty-seven paces from the booth she picked — knowing damn well as a messiah-crippling physicist this moment would arrive in the future — somehow translates into the puckered screeching of, “It’s no problem, I can handle danger”

I dismount the throne still partially blinded by what I thought was Heaven’s welcoming light and realize only as the Korean is demanding an additional fiver that I have been “Splash Mountained.” His camera’s ability to recognize the precipice of pain and fear while cresting above a heart-wrenching drop — cushioned by open water’s smooth sailing — is uncanny. Never underestimate the business acumen of a diversified entrepreneur.
…

The asshole cat showed up around the same time as our little Cambodians. The day after we brought them home, I found Fister trapped in the tiny hand-me-down barbecue we use to moodlight our romantic encounters. The timing of his arrival and location of his discovery rang bells of suspicion. Tank’s downplay noted that I should be thankful Fister didn’t find a way into the microwave, the fork in his head could have spelled disaster.

Keying in the code to the front door, I’m plagued by intuition a fickle one-eyed monster is lurking about. My instincts are confirmed before the door has finished rolling up. He’s pissing nonchalantly on my favorite childhood blanket while drinking from the bowl of cereal I had locked in the cooler. Under normal circumstances, I would be pissed, but home has been lonely, lately. In truth, I’m just happy to see him.

“Hey Tank, you’re looking good. Say, is Fister with you?”

As a married couple, our communication was always lacking. Anymore, despite being generally used to elicit a plea for mercy, my ears perk up at even the slightest grunt of aggression. When you stop appreciating the little things, it’s time to walk away completely.

I’m fortunate in that picking up on the subtle cues of body language is a necessity in my craft. The skill comes in handy when navigating the minefield of a dysfunctional marriage while trying to decipher the degree of your partner’s homicidal intent. Currently observing one hand rubbing a fist straight into his eyeball and the other finger-pistoling our makeshift table, I assess it’s best to appear nonthreatening from a seated position.

I pull up a milk crate to the big neon “N” I adopted after the family business was court-ordered to undergo sensitivity training and make a minor adjustment to our DBA. I brought it home and found it could “do business as” a six-seater if laid on it’s side. That kind of resourcefulness in my trade is also a necessity.

Tank leans against the stack of crates he has prepared opposite of me — a move to establish my inferiority from an elevated position — smiles, breaks wind and snarls, “Who is she?”

“Baby, I…uh, tacos,” is punctuated by the hard slap of a man resenting being called “baby” on account of it crossing the lines of gender neutrality into a feminine leaning danger zone.

A long silence performs measurements of my being I can’t begin to comprehend. No more grunting. No more words. I’m left to be alone in my feelings again, and without the hope of my wife seeking reconciliation.

…

Nothing mends a broken man like the comfort of a reasonably medicated mother figure.

My folks should be up moving around as soon as the sun has fully set.

Right now, Mom is likely to be lining up her dailies in order of granule size, color and drip bite. Dad is probably waiting for Mom’s mix to take before stepping out of a sensory deprived, meditation chamber and going right into a Texas Ranger kata.

Living together on opposite sides of unknown spectrums, my procreators call home the house attached to my apartment. Even though they continue to run the same skip-trace outfit they started in another time, I worry of their ability to function at full capacity. We agreed it couldn’t hurt if I kept an eye on their well-being from the French studio that came with the house. That gives them the space they need to escape the embarrassment of having a live-in babysitter, and, for the last nineteen years, it’s an inconvenience I can tolerate.

Tending to them daily can be a fulltime job. For that reason, I’m careful not to let other responsibilities tie up my schedule. After the name-change, Pops suggested I switch occupations from lead consultant at Run Bigger, Run! to CEO of a secret philanthropy operation. It’s completely off the books. The official job description my parents have outlined is to “do good things that can never be traced back to the family business.” Wayne Enterprises does the same thing with Batman.

“Hi baby! How’s Karen?” is the first thing I hear from my mother.

“Why? What did you hear? Am I in danger?”

I hear my father’s footwear approaching before I hear the sound effects he adds to all of his upper body movements. He says the gear fell off of a Swiss army truck, but hints of their origins speak more towards Nigerian arms dealer. The ankle purse and shin rack are made from Superbowl jerseys proclaiming a losing team has championed.

“Boyo! Come give your old man a hug. I knew I heard you weeping. Shew. Shew. What have we told your mother — fwit, fyeeew — about calling her Tank now, huh?”

Just two strong men embracing.

I don’t correct his improperly pronouning the wife because the time one gives to details is always better used elsewhere.

I quickly deduce Mother hasn’t any new signs of stroke. Evidenced by Dad’s not wearing pants is his keeping jungle instincts sharp.

Straight to debriefing the need-to-knows: I’m doing “good”, I need money and tech, please pick up if the phone rings.

…

Waiting to see her for the second time today, I reminisce of the last time I went to an evening circus.

I know the choice of venue is of significance relevant to her recent troubles.

A good rule of thumb is to always take extra precautions in the event an emergency extraction is required. There is no problem too big or small to ask for help running away from. With this in mind, I feel no shame having asked Dad to lend me a handcuff key and emergency beacon for Mom to index in my hole-a-dex. In fact, this has been something of a family ritual since I was a free-range seven-year-old. And, unless your captors get off by watching you sit in your own filth, they’re easier to access than one might imagine. With a little extra creativity, one can even work around the “unless.”

I followed her instructions to a back entrance and have been waiting under a sign suggesting “Performers Only” will be permitted access.

Another rule of thumb is to dress appropriate to the occasion. While I have a plethora of apparel and nuances to match, I felt it wise not to change out of what I woke up in. Reaffirming this decision is an Amish tollbooth signalling groupies into the tent, “You too, cockholster. The freak show is starting without you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not here as a sideshow attraction.”

“Really? Because the dickhole you got burnt into the back of your trousers tells me you’re the slide-bone stash-magnet.”

“Not today,” thinking quickly, “I’ve been promoted.” It’s obvious I’m dealing with a professional.

Tollbooth bites the line.

The scents and sounds of wild animals being held captive has awoken my primal instincts. Knowing this is strictly a recon mission, and not in any way meant to be romantic, I can’t help but consider how the thrill of a shared adrenaline rush might offer potential for a well-crafted segue into a parking lot tryst.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” is the first thing she says walking up, “The swing was the closest thing I had to any kind of performance gear at my house. Grab the stirrups, we’re tandem trapeze artists.”

We begin to make our way through the tent and notice the smell of horseshit and hay bales transitioning into hard liquor and burning tobacco. We find a poorly lit corner stacked with holding cages and assume it to be where the little people are kept.

Something is wrong. A poker game has been recklessly abandoned with a cigarette still smoldering in an ashtray, a lipstick-stained meth pipe lay freshly puddled by an exercise wheel, the wheel still spinning as if haunted by the ghost of a massive tweaked out hamster.

I watch her heart break as she states the obvious, “They must have known we were coming.”

Nothing makes a man feel vulnerable like an inability to take action. These are the moments when you have to re-evaluate the situation and focus on maintaining morale. I do my best to salvage the integrity of our mission, “Why don’t we go back out to the parking lot and talk this through while the adrenaline settles?”

…

Five. Six. Seven rings.

“Topper,” my uncle, Glen. Twin of my father, brother-in-arms.

Over the years, Glenn “Hightop” Zamboni has been my Alfred. That is, if Alfred is capable of combat ribbon dancing reservation-drunk, or able to perform under the pressure of having to place in a Wilt Chamberlain sexathon being held in ISIS-controlled territory.

“I’m in need of assistance.”

“To whom is the party of which I am speaking?”

“It’s your nephew.”

“Name, please?”

“Not applicable.”

“Still haven’t decided, eh?”

“I’m in no rush. You have the same Pappy as my father, you know that’s how the government gets you. Besides, Mom says names are cages that define the space of our being and it’s more fruitful to exist in multiple states simultaneously.”

“Fucking Heisenberg. Look, I’m kind of busy. Between Shark Fest and Shark Week… hell, I got sharks all up in my asshole! Also, the box sitting next to an entire cast of circus freaks is getting checked today. I almost missed a tandem trapeze artist last night. She’s super vulnerable right now and in desperate need of Uncle Topper’s Zamboni Service.”

Coincidence. The universe is trying to tell me something.

“That’s perfect. I’m going to need you to use your new connections and gather some intel. Call me when you come up for air.”

…

I took the nephew out a couple of nights ago to get Terry-Bradshaw-wasted. I’ve been turning his confidence up by having him snort boner pills while he’s black-out drunk. A couple of minutes in an industrial dryer and a bullshit story the next day keeps him walking on air between visits from that monster he married. It’s the very least I can do, and the most I’m willing to.

I saw him again last night at a traveling circus.

Hanging up the phone with him this morning, I was already apprised of the situation.

My returning the bearded lady was suppose to be the final send-off to a show of strange and unusual performances running from my bedroom this last week. Dropping her off, I spotted the two of them crying uncontrollably in the parking lot. Historically speaking, this was a sure sign they had just put their clothes back on. As an uncle, I was proud he finally scored some vag that wasn’t scientifically refashioned to fit inside his butthole. As a wild jungle cat competing for territory in the bush, I was relieved to overhear the tandem trapeze girl wasn’t crying from sex. I waited until she was out of his peripherals and one well-timed glide that toed the line of dance-walking was all it took.

I’m not the World’s Greatest Uncle, but I’m no heartless douchebag, either.

After careful deliberation, I ruled it would be irresponsible of me not to properly vet my nephew’s new love interest. I find it unlikely other justices would present dissenting opinions, in light of all we’ve been through with Karen. It’s no secret the boy has a knack for finding himself in trouble. He’s as lucky as Lois Lane to have access to my hear-and-see-all supernatural capabilities. The court has moved to uphold my motion and will allow me to proceed in treating the witness as hostile.

It took multiple hours of appraising the asset to discover, in intricate detail, two items of concern. The first was the people she mixed it up with. Having dealt with counterfeiters before, I know for a fact people dealing in bootleg midgets are a different kind of criminal. Generally speaking, they possess the brains to network black-market contacts and iron out logistical wrinkles accompanying traditional human trafficking operations, while also packing the brawn used to equalize any threat presented by a clan of angry little powerhouses who have been cornered into psychotic states with their sole purpose maintaining survival. Lucky for her, this won’t be notch one on my belt. On the unfortunate side of things, there is nothing I can do for a puffy vagina.

The underworld and Glenn have had an arrangement for some time now. It doesn’t show up on my doorstep trying to collect a down payment on child support, knowing I only ordered the bearskin rug, and I don’t advertise the fact that a whole library of Zamboni’s greatest hits are three feet from surfacing at any given time while I continue to learn more about this so-called Internet every day. It’s safe to say the calls I make don’t got unanswered.

As a prospect for eleven separate street gangs, three different motorcycle clubs and several miscellaneous chapters of the Anonymous variety, it’s seldom that I make my own coffee or go without a ride. I have contacts. It’s a thing.

Say ol’ Topper can’t get ahold of his brethren from the Falafel Dusters or Shinobi Stingrays? My personal roadie has a very helpful girlfriend. Together, they have no problem backing me up.

Did I fail to mention I’m a fill-in drummer for thirty-six equally amazing bands?

I wouldn’t say I run these streets, because leaders that brag aren’t sexy.

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 2

Once upon a time, in a perfect valley of perfect trees, an ugly, clumsy creature crawled out from a cave to be under a perfectly shining sun.

He saw the sun and wondered why it shined so bright. He saw the flowers and trees and wondered how they could be made to look so nice. He saw the butterflies flutter and birds fly high and wondered if they knew of their charm.

Every morning, crawling out of his cave, he’d wonder why he ever woke up. Every night, while going to sleep, he’d wonder if the day was even there. When he dreamt he wondered if dreams were real. When he didn’t he wondered if he was.

He wondered, with all of his wondering, how he’d in any way find time for the answers.

During an afternoon of wondering and wandering, he discovered the prettiest flower sweetly singing the happiest song. Because he didn’t know what else to do, he ran away and hid. He waited for the moon to become a blanket before using its cover to aid his escape.

Again came dawn and he found his path leading in the flower’s direction. He was awkwardly cautious to not come into view, worried she may scare at his sight and fold her petals to hide forever. He looked long from as far as his eyes allowed before running his fastest back to the cave.

Sitting in the cave, he wondered how long the flower had been there before he found it. He wondered how long it might stay. He thought of a million words to say she smells pretty and more that described how it feels when she sings. Dancing alone and singing her songs, he tried to build up his courage.

The days were passed watching her glitter and, with meticulous motion, rehearsing his words. His nights were spent waiting for days, and the songs that they carried with them.

Then came unexpected, and with lovely surprise, a melodic request for, “Hello.” She was singing that this she wishes whenever he’s dancing, “So, pretty much, all of the times!”

His tune didn’t carry an abundance of sugar when he answered, “Oh, how I really, wholly, truly want for us to be friends, but my wondering how much you won’t like me is always holding me back.”

The flower got giggles and asked him, “Why?”

“Because I’m ugly and clumsy and far too different from all of the other things, I imagine you won’t like me a lot!”

The flower got giggles and asked him, “Why?”

He explained how everything he sees is so perfectly pretty and, surely, he felt, he is not. He told her that all he does is wonder all of the time and of all the things he wonders about.

She asked him why he would even need a reason for any of those things.

That was the last thing he ever wondered about.

It felt so nice to sit next to the flower that he decided never to go back to the cave.

He sat with the flower for all of summer. They never stopped laughing all through the fall. He kept her warm while she slept when winter came, patiently waiting for her to awake.

He waited. And waited. And waited…

Her rising in spring came with a fright from the way all the trees had sprouted around her. When asked, “What’s the matter?” she said she couldn’t see the sun shine through. With the trees in the way, she will not be able to grow.

It hurt his feelers to see his most favorite thing in the world be sad. It was only right for her to be as happy a flower as she could be.

Because of his clumsy, he couldn’t try to move her. He didn’t trust himself handling something so fragile. He was going to need an idea.

His idea came at night while she slept and he worked hard until the morning arrived…

She woke up, surrounded by sunshine, to see his smiling face. Quietly asked the flower, “And, what did you do?”

He told her how he couldn’t risk moving her, so he moved the earth around her, instead. “First,” he said, “I just gathered enough dirt to make a mountain, and when that mountain was ready, I spoke to all of the trees.”

“But what did you say?” she wondered.

“I asked if they might better like that mountain for being closer to the sun. They liked that much,” so he had moved them one by one.

He was so happy to do something nice for the flower that he didn’t notice the splinters in his hands when he was finished, or the fact that he had built a perfectly beautiful mountain. He was too busy watching the flower sleep while he worked to have paid attention to anything else. In all of his excitement, he never even considered taking a break.

Sharing their fresh new breath together, he questioned, “Is all this okay?”

She has yet stop singing long enough to give a “yes” or “no”.

Fin.

Best enjoyed with the following:
1. Sigrid – Dynamite (Acoustic) 3:51
2. Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats – I Need Never Get Old 4:14

A Rando Mand Irving Production
7/18/19