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  #26  
Old 11-22-2015, 12:28 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Well, dear, to be honest, your Dee Dee is a real drip. I'm just trying to put some "pizzaz" in your story. So I made her into a psychopathic knife-wielding killer who made a Smoothie out of her own grandmother and drank her. Can you name one other character in the history of literature that did that?
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  #27  
Old 11-22-2015, 03:33 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Dee Dee got up from the lounger and went into the kitchen. She made herself a Rum and Coke and took it back to the lounger. She sat down with her drink in her hand.

The mood was perfect. She was ready to celebrate. She held the drink up as if in a toast and said “Here’s to Life.”

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  #28  
Old 11-22-2015, 07:20 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Dee Dee got up from the lounger and went into the kitchen. She made herself another Rum and Coke and took it back to the lounger.

She looked at the clock and it was five minutes to three. She still had a half hour. She put another Dizzy Gillespie cd in the stereo. She got up from the lounger and went to the window. The Sun was bright and very warm. She saw that there were clear, blue skies.

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  #29  
Old 11-22-2015, 07:20 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

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Originally Posted by bobsavegan View Post
Dee Dee looked at the clock and it was only 9:00. It was still too early to call her mother and her girlfriend Sue.
This town is stuffed with lazy-assed piece-of-shit slugabeds.

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She would never see Dennis again.
I was gonna call that a blessing in disguise, but fuck the disguise part; it's just a straight-up blessing.

See, Dennis was a self-absorbed moron who didn't use condoms because they're not natural, whatever the fuck that means. Thus, when he removed his pathetic little pecker from Dee Dee's hoo hah, he left a little "present" behind, a load of his vile, loathsome jizz.

Dee Dee did not get pregnant. Lucky for her, because according to Dennis, men who impregnate ladies with their loathsome jizz are under no obligation to support their child unless they can afford to do so and they feel like it. Compulsory child support isn't natural, ya see. Dennis being a lazy, intentionally underemployed fuckhead and spectacularly selfish jerkoff, he wouldn't have contributed a single goddamn dime to support a child.

Yes, Dee Dee didn't get pregnant that time, but had she kept letting Dennis plant his itsy bitsy flag, it would have happened eventually. That would have been very bad indeed for Dee Dee.

On the morning after Dennis and Dee Dee bumped uglies, people the world over awoke feeling better and more refreshed that usual. They had more spring in their step than was common. The air smelled cleaner. The warmth of the sun felt more comforting. Plans came together, and random events always seemed to work out well.

People knew they were having a fine day, but had no idea why. The reason, of course, was that Dennis was DEAD AS FUCK. Dennis was a skid mark on the tighty whities of humanity, and the world was a palpably better place without him.
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  #30  
Old 11-22-2015, 03:16 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

You an Flo have forced me to give away the next chapter of the book.

The Chapter is titled "A Pleasant Surprise." Dee Dee finds out she's pregnant and feels it is great. She tells her family and they also feel it is great.

The child will be a living memorial to Dennis.
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  #31  
Old 11-22-2015, 05:52 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Why are you having her drinking all that rum? Is the baby going to have fetal alcohol syndrome? Is that part of the memorial, because the guy was a drunk driver?

They drank all night at the bar, then he drove them back to her apartment, then they did all that falling in love, and he still managed to leave at 6AM. He was still drunk. He drove drunk twice on just his first day of legal drinking. I'll just assume that the other guy, Henry Stewart of Quail Street, was also drunk because of Occam's Razor.

The baby should be named Dipsomania.
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  #32  
Old 11-22-2015, 06:39 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

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Originally Posted by bobsavegan View Post
After she finished talking to Sue, Dee Dee was feeling pretty good.

She looked at the clock and it was quarter to 11. She decided to make herself another cup of coffee and watch the local news on TV. After she made the cup of coffee, Dee Dee sat down at the table and turned on the TV with the remote.

The TV was on but Dee Dee only had Dennis on her mind. When would she see him again and be held in his arms and kiss her. He had her phone number and said he would call this afternoon. She was excited and couldn't wait.

The TV news broke its monotony to report an exclusive. Dee Dee perked up and she was all eyes and ears.

There was an early morning crash involving two men at the intersection of Quail and New Scotland. Both men were taken to Albany Medical Center for treatment.

According to an eye witness at the scene a Volkswagen driven by O'Day was traveling up New Scotland when a Chrysler driven by Steward darted out of Quail Street, running the red light, across New Scotland. According to the eye witness the Volkswagen hit the Chrysler broadside.

The driver of the Volkswagen was identified as Dennis O'Day of Lakewood Avenue. The driver of the Chrysler was identified as Henry Stewart of Quail Street. The Police are investigating.

According to the latest report from Albany Medical Center, O'Day was dead on arrival and Stewart is listed as being in serious condition.

Dee Dee was in shock. She kept repeating "dead on arrival", "dead on arrival", "dead on arrival". She would never see Dennis again.
:shakewave: of :gore: Alternative Ending:


The TV news broke its monotony to report an exclusive. Dee Dee perked up and she was all eyes and ears.

There was an early morning crash involving a single car. According to an eye witness at the scene a Volkswagen was traveling north on New Scotland when it drove straight through the guardrail and plunged 300 feet into the ocean. Authorities recovered the vehicle, but the driver of the Volkswagen, identified as Dennis O'Day of Lakewood Avenue, had been thrown clear of the vehicle. Police believe he was killed instantly upon impact.

Dee Dee was in shock. She kept repeating "dead upon impact," "dead upon impact," "dead upon impact." She would never see Dennis again.

:sadcheer:

Later that day (or was it the next? He couldn't tell) Dennis woke up, laying across a makeshift platform of plastic debris and the rear seat of his Volkswagen that had somehow been welded together by the chemical reaction of seawater and sunlight. His head ached terribly and he was thirsty. He pulled his phone out; apparently the Otter case had protected it after the crash. According to Google Earth, he was drifting towards the Northern Marianas. To the west on the horizon, Dennis could see the outline of a mountain rising over the waves...

:wave:
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  #33  
Old 11-22-2015, 07:23 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Thank You All for your suggestions.

However, I consider this book to be an individual effort and not a group effort. This is a creative endeavor of a work of fiction and not a science project that requires peer review.

If you wish to continue making suggestions, of course you may do so. But it only diverts the thread.
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  #34  
Old 11-22-2015, 08:56 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

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The child will be a living memorial to Dennis.
Sufferin' shitballs. The kid's going to have enough troubles thanks to its booze hound of a mother. Why can't the child be a human being in its own right? Why must it serve as a mere living memorial to a piece of shit whose death made the world a better place?
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  #35  
Old 11-22-2015, 09:21 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

No, this is going to be one of those narratives in which the retroactive plot twist is revealed gradually, as you realize that Dipso is not a living, breathing child at all, but a teratoma that homeless alcoholic Dee Dee has recast as a child, much as she imagined her apartment and her extensive collection of snappy scarves, in the fevered convulsions of her death throes.

Now stop making us reveal spoilers, Matlock.
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  #36  
Old 11-22-2015, 09:38 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

The Edge* of Forever

By Bobsavegan and Flo Jellem (COLLABORATION!1)

It was the worst of times, and it was the worster of times.

It was a little burg in the American South. It teemed with THIEVES and SLUGABEDS.

Its mayor was Mr. Livius Drusus, a TRIBUNE of the PLEBIANS.

Its vice-mayor was Ms. Vicious Mammaries, who had tits as big as COLORADO crowned by nipples that SPAT VENOM.

The town’s name was FREETHOUGHT-FORUMISTAN, and these days it is completely controlled by MOOSLIMS who have instituted SHARIA LAW!

Alas!

It was just that kind of town
.
This town was a SKID MARK on the TIGHTY-WHITIES OF HUMANITY!

In this blighted burg (or stan, if you prefer), Dee Dee was born and raised.

Dee Dee’s grandmother never tired of telling the INCREDIBLY BORING story of how some American serviceman in World War II, eschewing a condom, knocked up Dee Dee’s mother (who was a whore), and then later died at Normandy on D-Day. To this day a white cross marks the Normandy grave of Dee Dee’s dipshit dad.

Dee Dee’s Grandma told the story so many times that a FED-UP Dee Dee gutted Grandma with a carving knife, and then put granny’s body parts in a blender and made Grandma Smoothies.

Then Dee Dee got knocked up by her own personal dipshit, Denny O’Day, a drunken driver who also refused to use protection. Dee Dee was so thrilled by the pregnancy that she spent all nine months of it knocking down rum and cokes when she wasn’t drinking 620,000 cups of coffee. The baby, Diablo Dipsomania, was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

When he was 16, Diablo cut his mother’s head off with a carving knife, an ironic bookend to Dee Dee’s murder of her own grandmother. Then Diablo joined ISIS in Syria.

THE END

*Notice, dear, the subtle allusion to knives in the title. Flo learned all about allusions, foreshadowing, digressions, metaphors, similes and other good stuff during an adult-education Creative Writing Class she took at the local VFW Community Center.
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  #37  
Old 11-22-2015, 11:29 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

No Flo and Stephen. Mine is a Love story.

Dee Dee is going to raise the child herself and shower it with Love, just like her Grandmother did with with her child, Dee Dee's mother.

Dee Dee's Grandmother's situation was similar to Dee Dee's.

Here's some Spoilers... Dee Dee's child is going to be a girl and her name will be Dawn. The title of that chapter will be "The Dawn of Creation." It will be a Creation because the sex act was free and spontaneous, without contraceptives.
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  #38  
Old 11-23-2015, 12:12 AM
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Originally Posted by bobsavegan View Post
No Flo and Stephen. Mine is a Love story.

Dee Dee is going to raise the child herself and shower it with Love, just like her Grandmother did with with her child, Dee Dee's mother.

Dee Dee's Grandmother's situation was similar to Dee Dee's.
Yes, dear, I know their situations are similar. That’s why, in my version of your story, both Dee Dee and her grandmother get WHACKED with carving knives. :stab: What goes around comes around.

I’m sorry to say, dear, but your story in its current form, uncorrected by Flo, is boring. Nobody gives a fart in a high whirlwind, you’ll pardon my French, about all this “love” horse feathers. Good fiction depends on conflict, and especially on bloody mayhem. Land o’goshen, dear, haven’t you ever read Shakespeare or Dostoevsky?

Or that nice Mr. Stephen King and his lovely story “Lunch at the Gotham Café.” That’s the one in which the wigged-out maître-de has a bad hair day and – right in the middle of the mid-day lunch rush – whips out his ax and commences to go a-swingin’! There’s the stuff! One drop of blood landed in the narrator’s water glass and left a filament behind, making it look like “a bloody tadopole.” How good is that? Kudos to that nice Mr. King!

Dear, you simply must put some blood in your story. What if we have Dee Dee pop a daughter out of her quim instead of a son, and then one day – Oh, snap! – Dee Dee simply loses her fucking mind and locks her daughter in a microwave? I can write that scene for you, if you’d like.
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  #39  
Old 11-23-2015, 02:05 AM
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No Flo and Stephen.
Yes, Bob. By posting it here in installments, you've made your story the collective property of everyone at :ff:. It's the law. :yup:

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Mine is a Love story.
Oh Bob, you silly, simple, just-barely-sentient little creature. I'm afraid you wouldn't know love if it walked up to you, introduced itself, shook your hand, whipped out its Johnson, and urinated all over your shoes.

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Dee Dee is going to raise the child herself and shower it with Love,
Love don't feed the bulldog, Cochise. Dee Dee is an unemployed drunk, remember? I'm sure the child will be very appreciative of all that love right up to the moment she starves to death.

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Dee Dee's Grandmother's situation was similar to Dee Dee's.
Granny was an unemployed drunk who boinked a loathsome moron and got pregnant right away too? Imagine that!

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Here's some Spoilers... Dee Dee's child is going to be a girl and her name will be Dawn.
I'm sorry, but no. The child's name will be Fistula. Either that, or Otay, a la Eddie Murphy's impression of Buckwheat. That way the young 'un's name will be Otay O'Day.

I vote that we make St. Patrick's Day the youngster's birthday. That way Dawn can give birth while sitting in a puddle of her own green vomit in the grimy alley behind the bar at which she's been giving handjobs for drinks all night.
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  #40  
Old 11-23-2015, 03:01 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Otay O’Day was born on St. Patrick’s Day, a living memorial to a moron who drove while under the influence of alcohol and played unprotected “hide the sausage” with a stranger that he picked up at a nightclub. Dee Dee gave birth while sitting in a puddle of her own green vomit in the grimy alley behind the bar at which she had been giving handjobs for drinks all night. Dee Dee couldn’t tell whether the child was a boy or a girl, so she referred to Otay as an “it.”

When Otay was two, it went on an extended crying jag after Dee Dee neglected to feed the child for three days. While the child caterwauled from its crib, Dee Dee changed clothes. She put on an indigo flannel shirt and black slacks, along with black flats. Now she felt more comfortable. But the child continued to make a racket.

She put on a Dizzy Gillespi CD, and made herself a rum and Coke. While Otay screamed from hunger pangs in the bedroom, Dee Dee made a gesture with her drink and said, “Here’s to life.” She reminded herself to put on a festive scarf later.

When the Gillespi CD was done, Dee Dee’s mood had shifted. Now she put on a different CD: “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads.

I can't seem to face up to the facts
I'm tense and nervous and I
Can't relax
I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire
Don't touch me I'm a real live wire

Psycho Killer
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho Killer
Qu'est-ce que c'est
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better
Run, run, run, run, run, run, run, away


Now she felt better, although her mood darkened at yet another nerve-jangling scream from the bedroom. She made herself another rum and Coke to relax, and wondered what it would take to calm down Otay. There was just no pleasing that cantankerous little rug rat. As much as she loved Otay, sometimes she regretted having it. She would have liked to consult her grandmother about Otay, but could not do so because years earlier, Dee Dee had butchered her grandmother, put her body parts in a blender, and made Grandma Smoothies.

She hesitated at the phone, wondering whether to call Mom. Finally she decided to do so.

“Hello,” her mother said.

Dee Dee replied into the phone: “I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax. I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire. Don't touch me I'm a real live wire.”

“Dee Dee? Dee Dee! Is that you?”

Dee Dee hung up the phone.

Without really thinking about it, she strolled into the bedroom to collect the caterwauling Otay. It was dinner time.

As she carried the screaming child into the kitchen, she thought: This child is nothing but skin and bones. How can a pile of skin and bones SCREAM so LOUDLY?

Above Otay’s screams, the phone rang – likely her mother calling. Dee Dee did not answer it. She had to prepare dinner.

She opened and shut the microwave oven, and set the timer.

“Just three minutes,” she said aloud, as the phone rang continuously, sounding louder and louder.

Dee Dee burned dinner. She had to spray air freshener around the house. Then she changed her clothes again, and felt more comfortable. She remembered to put on that festive scarf.

THE END
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  #41  
Old 11-23-2015, 04:14 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

I do like everyone else's version better than Boob'savegan's, much more interesting, not such boring tripe.
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Old 11-23-2015, 12:42 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Everyone's version keeps changing. You'll never finish your book if you are writing one.
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  #43  
Old 11-23-2015, 01:21 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Dee Dee sat down in the lounger and slid off her shoes. That felt good.

She took a drink and laid back on the lounger. She started thinking of her Grandmother and her Wisdom about Life. It will be good to see her again tonight.

Dee Dee’s Grandmother lives at the same house she has since she raised Dee Dee’s mother. When her mother got married she gave them the house on condition she could continue living there.

The house had three bedrooms so Dee Dee’s mother agreed. Dee Dee was raised with her Grandmother always there. Growing up she always had her mother, father, and Grandmother to give her counsel whenever she had problems.

Dee Dee had a very happy childhood.

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  #44  
Old 11-23-2015, 07:45 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Wow, she really doesn't care what will happen to her fetus. The drink takes priority over everything. She needs to hit bottom and soon.
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Old 11-23-2015, 07:57 PM
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Dee Dee sat down in the lounger, and unbuttoned her indigo flannel shirt. She undid her bra, took a razor blade from the pocket of her black slacks, and cut her breast.

That felt good.

She took a drink and laid back on the lounger as she bled. She started thinking of her grandmother, and her Wisdom about Life. It would have been good to see Grandmother again tonight, were it not for the fact that several years earlier, Dee Dee had butchered Grandma with a carving knife, cut her into little pieces, put the pieces in a blender, and made Grandma smoothies.

Dennis was dead now, but Dee Dee was still thinking about his dick. Eyeballing that erect Johnson before Dennis had planted it in her hoo hah, Dee Dee had guesstimated it to be three inches long. Having never been with a man before Dennis, she now asked herself: Were all male Happy Flags about that size? Or was Dennis exceptionally big?

She resolved to ask Grandma about this, but then she remembered the Grandma smoothies.

Dee Dee went back into the kitchen and made her 42nd rum and Coke of the morning. She settled back into her lounger, and with her razor blade she carved a three-inch-deep gash into her belly.

That felt good.
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  #46  
Old 11-23-2015, 11:04 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

OK, boys, Flo is going to write a :airquote:serious:airquote: short story, now, based on Bob's vapid ramblings. It's not for nothing I took an adult-education Creative Writing Course at the local VFW Community Center, led by a man (who shall go nameless) who was a professional writer of gay sadomasochistic porn.

Flo has not decided on a title for the story yet. I'll post it in installments. Feedback is welcome, boys, especially on a nice title for this bitch!

STORY BEGINS NOW


"Gus's Bar and Grill," the sign said, in chipped and faded gilt on the window. It was a serif font, overly elaborate, as if its creator had hoped to gussy up Gus's dive. The effort had been futile, like someone putting lipstick on a pig and naming it Marilyn Monroe.

Dee Dee Edmonds blew on her balled hands as snowflakes spiraled lazily downward. The darkling January sky was indigo, the color of her favorite shirt. She pushed open the door, and a little bell rang. The bell reminded her of the final scene of The Sopranos. In fact, "Don't Stop Believing" was playing on the jukebox.

She took the midnight train going anywhere...

Instead of taking the train, she took a corner stool at the bar.

Ian, who was Scottish, was at the ready with a rum and Coke.

"How you been, Dee Dee?"

"Same ol', same ol'," Dee Dee said with a sigh. She twined a strand of hair around a finger and sipped her drink. "Another day, another dollar."

"I hear that."

Don't stop believing...

"I believe I'll have another rum and Coke," Dee Dee said, after knocking back the first drink. Ian poured it, and then shuffled off to confront some loudmouth at the far end of the bar.

"I'm Dennis O'Day," the loudmouth was saying, amid a gaggle of drunken, glossy-pussed pals, their eye shining with inebriation. "I'm Dennis Fucking Dale O'Day, and I'm fucking twenty-one years old today! Twenty-one! Now I'm legal." He was thumping a finger on his puffed-out chest.

"Keep your voice down, kid," the even-tempered Ian said. A bouncer named T-Bone sat in a chair by the door, eyeing Dennis and his pals speculatively from beneath the brim of a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

"Champagne!" Dennis sang out. "Champagne for the whole fucking bar! On me!"

Dee Dee looked around. Apart from Dennis and his pals, only about a half-dozen other people were around. A couple of them sat at the bar, their heads slumped down in their crossed arms. At a table, a Catholic priest nursed a brandy. He was with a boy who couldn't have been more than twelve years old. The boy was drinking a Coke.

"Champagne for the lovely lady in the corner!" Dennis said, and Dee Dee's eyes met his.

Ian poured the champagne.

Holding two glasses, Dennis weaved unsteadily from the far end of the bar, to the corner where Dee Dee was sitting.

Some will win, some will lose …

Dennis planted the glass of champagne at Dee Dee's elbow. "You look lonely, darlin'. What's your name?'

Some are born to sing the blues ...

Dee Dee smiled sadly and said, "The blues."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is 'The blues,' as in, 'I got 'em. The blues, that is."

Dennis smiled crookedly. His eyes shined, and his blond hair was askew. His tie was unknotted, and there were stains on his suit coat. "Well," he said, gesturing at the glass of champagne he had planted at Dee Dee's elbow, "Let's turn that frown upside down, darlin'" Then he hiccoughed.

Dee Dee looked down at the champagne. Then her gaze drifted to the right, and her eyes got big. She saw that under the table against the far wall, the Catholic priest had insinuated his hand inside the boy's pants. The boy sipped his coke with a dull, simian expression.

"This burg," Dee Dee said with a shudder, tearing her gaze away from the priest and the boy, and again staring down at the champagne. It looks just like urine, she thought weirdly. "This fucking burg."

"Tell me about it," Dennis said, adding with tipsy conviction: "It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap. Just like The Boss said."

"Cheers," Dee Dee said, and she and Dennis clinked their glasses of champagne. They drank.

A local newspaper lay on the bar. Dee Dee snatched it up and scanned the headlines. "Look at this," she said. "Another edict from Mayor Drusus. You'd think he was a dictator instead of a mayor. Like someone out of ancient Rome."

"And that vice-mayor, what's her face, Mammaries," Dennis said with a grimace. "A total bitch. But tits to die for." Seeing Dee Dee's nonplussed expression, Dennis offered an insincere apology for his crude language.

"Freethought-Forumistan," Dee Dee said hopelessly. "What the hell kind of a town is named 'Freethought-Forumistan?'"

"Rush Limbaugh said on his program that pretty soon we're going to be under Shariah law," Dennis said. "It's all those Syrian refugees moving in."

"Sometimes," Dee Dee said, now alternately sipping her rum and Coke and her champagne, "I think I'm living in a dream, punctured with nightmares. "It's like … like …"

"The Matrix," Dennis offered.

"Exactly," Dee Dee said. "Sometimes I feel like I'm living, not in the real world, but in … in a message board. I feel like I'm living inside of an Internet message board. Does that make sense, uh …"

"Dennis. Dennis Dale O'Day."

"That's a nice name."

"And what's your name? Your real name, I mean. I'm sure you're not really named 'The Blues."

"I'm Dee Dee. Dee Dee Edmonds."

"Cheeer, Dee Dee." They clinked glasses again. "Let's drink."

They drank.

"Thieves," Dee Dee said with a wistful sigh. "Thieves and slugabeds."

"Beg pardon?" Dennis farted.

Dee Dee waved at the air with her hand, and knocked back her champagne. Setting down the glass, she said: "This town. This goddamned town. It's full of thieves and slugabeds."

"Tell me about it," Dennis said, for the second time. Dee Dee judged him none too bright, but he was sort of cute in a grotesque sort of way. For the first time, she wondered how big his dick was.

"If I ever have a child," Dee Dee suddenly announced, apropos of nothing, "I'm going to name him or her, 'Otay.'"

"Otay O'Day," Dennis said with a crooked grin.

"What?" Dee Dee, startled, looked at Dennis.

"Otay O'day," Dennis said with suave, drunken aplomb, an exudation of saliva visible on his lips. "If he were my child, the first and last names would rhyme."

Dee Dee laughed nervously, and then glanced furtively down at Dennis's crotch in the khaki trousers that he wore. She noticed that the pants were wrinkled, and fantasized taking them off of him, stretching them out on an ironing board, and smoothing those trousers out under hot, flat, steaming metal. Hot, flat, steaming … Dee Dee looked away nervously, and found herself studying, for no apparent reason, a Pearl Jam sticker affixed to the wall next to her. She could no longer look at Dennis, but she felt the pressure of his gaze upon her, hemming her in like a physical force. Suddenly she felt like Dominique Francon in the novel The Fountainhead, with Howard Roark standing next to. Only Dennis had blond hair, whereas Howard's hair was carrot-red. In addition, Roark, in the novel that Dee Dee so loved, was an architect, whereas this boy, Dennis, appeared to be little more than a drunken, self-important dufus. But, Dee Dee thought, he's awful purty.

TO BE CONTINUED ….
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  #47  
Old 11-24-2015, 01:59 AM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

Quote:
Originally Posted by livius drusus View Post
She needs to hit bottom and soon.
I picture Dee Dee being such a lush that government takes notice and intervenes because the bottom is question is just too goddamn low for the fetus's sake.

Let's say that Freethought-Forumistan is located in Mississippi, Louisiana, or Southern Ohio (somewhere in that nightmarish stretch along the Ohio River between Stuebenville and Cincinnati). You know, somewhere that time forgot -- a ravaged teabilly hellscape where brainless, toothless, hee-hawing, stump-jumping hicks gather at the local post office on their Hoverounds to collect their government checks and complain about the evils of government.

I'm imagining a state law criminalizing all abortions regardless of circumstances, cuz ain't no robe-wearing Jew and Catholic sissies in Washington gonna tell us what to do. Some 12-year-old is pregnant after her sociopathic father raped her? Tough titty! Nothing happens without God's say-so, which means that God wants the kid to carry and give birth to her own half sibling, then spend the next 18 years raising her precious gift from heaven.

But then the legislature gets wind of habitual drunkard Dee Dee, her unfortunate liaison with micropenised douchebag Dennis O'Day, and the resulting pregnancy. Realizing that the little bundle of joy is spending its formative months wholly immersed in 150 proof amniotic fluid, legislators decide that the young 'un stands not a snowball's chance in hell of avoiding fetal alcohol syndrome or the nightmare of having Dee Dee as a mother.

Having determined that every rule needs at least one exception, the legislature unanimously passes, and the governor immediately signs, a private bill rendering abortion mandatory, but just for Dee Dee.

The path between passage of the private bill and Dee Dee giving birth while sitting in a puddle of her own green vomit could be quite entertaining. I can't wait to read about how the chronically inebriated Dee Dee manages to stay one step ahead of the dumbfuck hicks of Freethought-Forumistan law enforcement charged with tracking her down and enforcing the state legislature's mandate.
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  #48  
Old 11-24-2015, 08:18 PM
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Reading Re: The Light of Love

FLO'S STORY CONTINUES...

They drank in silence for a time. Dennis's friends had congregated around a video game in the rear of the bar. They were all drunk on cheap beer and champagne, and were slapping buttons and thumping joysticks, heehawing and guffawing like the buffoons that they obviously were. The priest had slipped out of the bar with the boy in tow, headed God knows where -- perhaps to the confessional booth. Dee Dee glanced out the window behind her. It was already dark, and the short January days depressed her. She saw the snow whirling down, illumined by flashing neon signs from nearby storefronts. There was a junkyard across the street, and, next to it, a Walmart Superstore -- where, she knew, the zombified employees who had been indoctrinated since birth to adore Jesus and vote for Republicans and who toiled for sub-minimum wages were chattering away like wind-up toys: "How may I help you? How may I help you? How may I help you?"

"God," Dee Dee said, finishing her rum and Coke. Banging down the glass, she gave Ian the high sign for another.

"What's wrong?" Dennis asked.

"The question isn't, 'what's wrong.' The question is, 'what's right?' I don't even …." Her voice trailed off, and she nodded resignedly at the window and the big-box suburban wasteland beyond.

"I don't think I even know what state I'm in anymore, except for a state of confusion. I mean, I live in a town called Freethought-Forumistan. How crazy is that? Where are we? Is this … I don't know … Mississippi? Louisiana? Southern Ohio?

"Southern Ohio? Don't talk nonsense."

"Yeah, southern Ohio … somewhere in that nightmarish stretch along the Ohio River between Stuebenville and Cincinnati … some place like that, some place that time fucking forgot. Not just a place of thieves and slugabeds, horrible as that is but … but a ravaged teabilly hellscape where brainless, toothless, hee-hawing, stump-jumping hicks gather at the local post office on their Hoverounds to collect their government checks and complain about the evils of government. … What? what's wrong? That look on your face."

"What you just said … about the ravaged hellscape and all, and the stump jumpers."

"Yeah?"

"You make it sound like that's a bad thing."

"It's not?"

Dennis banged down his glass and said, "Listen, Dee Dee, I am a teabilly stump jumper. So's my pap. And while I'm not toothless yet, my grandpap is, and he's an old John Bircher who fought against the fluoridation of water and cheered when JFK was shot. Look, I know I quoted Springsteen earlier, about this town being a death trap, and a suicide rap. And today I'm twenty-one with my whole future in front of me, and I ought to get the hell out of here while I'm young. Only, I won't. I know exactly what's in store for me. And it ain't pretty. But there ain't a goddamned thing I can do about it, either. Character is destiny … bartender! More champagne, for me and Dee Dee."

Ian shuffled over and poured the drinks.

"Listen, Dee Dee," Dennis said. "Let's get shit-faced drunk right now, to forget who and where and what we are on this cold January night. Afterward, I'll drive you home. Deal?"

They clinked glasses. "Sounds like a plan to me," Dee Dee said. But here voice was strangled with misery.

They drank.

A few hours later they left the bar, the little bell above the door ringing as they stepped out into the frigid January gloom. As soon as the bell rang, Dennis blacked out and slumped to the snow-covered pavement. Dee Dee slapped him awake before The Sopranos credits could roll.

"God, you must weigh a ton," Dee Dee complained as she dragged Dennis to his feet, his legs rubbery. She draped one of his arms around her shoulders and the two of them weaved and staggered and shambled out to the parking lot, the ice-slick macadam looking positively lunar under the sodium-vapor lamps.

"I don't think you're in any condition to drive," Dee Dee said, her breath coming out in alcohol-tinged plumes. "I took a cab here, and I can take one back home. You should take a cab, too."

"Bollocks," Dennis roared, though he slurred his words now, and what he said sounded more like "bald locks." "Where do you live?"

"Tbat's another thing," Dee Dee said gloomily, as the two of them staggered arm in arm like misfired robots toward Dennis's pickup truck with the Confederate battle flag hanging limp from the antenna. "I live in a neighborhood called the Sexuality Forum. What the hell kind of name for a neighborhood is that? It's embarrassing. Why can't I live in a normally named neighborhood, like Edgewood or Kenmare or Pleasant Valley? Something inoffensive and soporific."

"Sexuality, sexuality, sexuality," Dennis muttered with a drunken leer. "Yeah, I like that. I like sexuality. … Well, that's only a few forums down. We're in the Philosophy Forum now. I'll get you home to your forum lickety-split."

"But you're drunk!"

"Bald locks!"

At the driver's side door, Dennis fumbled in his coat pocket for his keys. Fishing them out, he promptly dropped then. They glittered tantalizingly in the snow. Dennis lunged downward for them, but tripped and fell, landing on his hands and knees. His tongue rolled out of his mouth like something unhinged. A snowflake landed on it, and he ate it. "When I was a kid," he said, "I always enjoyed eating snowflakes. I wish I were a kid again, instead of a legal adult." He burst into tears.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dee Dee murmured, pulling at her hair in frustration. "Get up." She grabbed him by his coat shoulders and laboriously yanked the weeping degenerate to his feet. He kept sobbing and flicking out his tongue to catch more snowflakes. "Sexuality and snowflakes," Dennis sang out, "make the fucking world go round!"

Dennis grappled open the door and slumped behind the wheel. Dee Dee entered through the passenger-side door. "I don't know about this," she said, looking dubiously at the drunken Dennis as he tried, but failed several times, to insert the key into the ignition.

Finally he managed to start the truck. He put it in reverse, and stamped down on the accelerator. With a squeal of rubber, the truck lurched backward at a high rate of speed. The rear bumper bunted aside a garbage can. The can flew through the air, disgorging its contents and strewing the macadam with rubbish.

"Jesus Christ!" a big-eyed, frightened Dee Dee yelled.

"Yee-haw!" Dennis rejoined, putting the truck in drive and thumping a fist on the dashboard. "Here we go, baby! The Stumpjumper Express!" He stamped down on the accelerator again and the pickup lurched out onto the street, the high beams turned on and punching double holes of light through the swirling snow. The bobbing lights landed fleetingly but with premonitory vividness on the wrecks in the junkyard across the street. Then Dennis yanked the wheel violently to the left, and the truck screeched down the road, the Confederate battle flag on the antenna snapping to attention and waving crisply in the frigid January gloom, the snow coming down heavier than ever now, coming down in slow, lazy death spirals. Dee Dee gasped. Her soul swooned slowly as she heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

TO BE CONTINUED
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  #49  
Old 11-25-2015, 07:19 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

FLO'S STORY CONTINUES …

It is a recurring dream, and in it she even dreams that she is dreaming, with dreams all the way down, like nested Russian dolls made not of dolls but of dreams, dreams, dreams …. She is in her grandmother's house, which is spic and span, not a mote of dust anywhere, with Louis XiV-style furniture and the sun amazingly bright, pouring through the slats of Venetian blinds, illuminating the house with an almost radioactive brilliance … Grandma is ensconced upon an ornate divan, but as usual in the dream, Dee Dee does not recognize her. Unlike her own grandmother, this woman is rail-thin, her silver hair tied back in a fastidious bun, and she wears huge, wire-frame, pop-bottle-bottom glasses that magnify her limpid blue eyes to terrifying proportions, like the eyes of a demented alien that has teleported itself to the earth from the other side of the Milky Way. Her lipless mouth is as expressionless as the slot of a mail box, her cheeks are sunken, and her earlobes are distended by ear rings that seem as large and complex as chandeliers. Most disturbingly of all, she is petting a toy poodle that sits in her lap. But it's not a poodle, not really. It's just poodle-like, but it's evil. Dee Dee senses this intuitively. As she slowly approaches through a gauze of hyper-white light this stranger seated across the room, the stranger posing as her grandmother, the stranger petting the poodle says, "Dee Dee. Take a chance on love."

The toy poodle's head ticks up. The old woman on whose lap the dog sits is scratching the malefic little beast under its chin and on top of its head. In the faux-heavenly radiance that bathes the room, the toy poodle's comma-shaped black ears suddenly inflate upward, and resemble a pair of tatterdemalion pompoms marinated in manure. The brute fixes Dee Dee with an eerie orange stare, its eyes pulsating like embers. It begins to chuff, like a locomotive getting up to speed: chuff-chuff-chuff. Then it begins to growl. Its withered gray lips curl back a little, revealing a single dagger-like fang that glistens with saliva. Dee Dee stops and stares with terror at the dog, who stares back at her with its glowing orange eyes.

"Dee Dee," the matronly woman with the oversize blue eyes behind the granny glasses says primly, in the manner of someone lecturing a recalcitrant student, "take a chance on love."

The dog is continuously growling.

"That dog," Dee Dee says, a note of awe in her voice. "That's no ordinary dog."

"Of course not, dear," the old lady says tartly. "This is The Pood."

"The Pood?"

"My dear nephew davidm has written an entire novel about The Pood, and I'm in it. But the novel's not really about The Pood, or even about me. It's a parody of Dante's Inferno, and also of the works of Jorge Luis Borges and Fyodor Dostoevsky. He's written five other novels besides. In one of them, Abraham Lincoln comes back to life and runs against Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump for president in 2016. But Lincoln's not like the Lincoln in the history books, especially when he gets into the gay stuff. Look for those novels next year on Amazon and Kindle, and please try to write positive reviews about them."

The Pood suddenly vanishes in a puff of black smoke, leaving behind nothing more than a sooty patch on the enormous hoop skirt worn by the dotty old broad on the divan. The old woman's busy, bony fingers keep scratching and petting, but they are playing over thin air, now.

"What the hell is this that I'm in? A work of fiction, or a commercial for your repulsive nephew's nauseating novels?"

"It's both, dear. This is pomo fiction. In pomo fiction, all the rules go out the window. "

"Who are you?"

"I'm your grandmother, dear."

"No, you're not. What's your name?"

"Flo Jellem."

"Flo Jellem? What the hell kind of name is that?"

I din't evolve, dear. I was made. I'm Flo Jellem. I'm irreducibly complex."

"I think you're irreducibly insane."

"Did I ever tell you the story about how your father and mother met?"

Dee Dee tears at her hair in anger and frustration.

"Yes, yes, yes! About a million fucking times! About how my mother was a whore who got knocked up by some idiot soldier who didn't use protection, who then later got killed in Operation Desert Storm in Kuwait. I don't want to hear it again."

"Let me tell you the story about how your mother and father met. Your father was a soldier who…"

Dee Dee bolts into the kitchen, opens a drawer, rummages around inside of it, and pulls out a carving knife. She gallops back into the living room and lunges at the prattling old broad, plunging the blade deep into her belly. The old woman makes a quite "oof" sound, and her eyes somehow get even bigger, as big and round as dinner plates. She slumps back on the divan, the granny glasses now askew on her nose, her pupils rolling up in their sockets, and Dee Dee runs the blade buried in the old broad's gut straight upward, producing a noise like fabric ripping. Blood lavishly spills out of a widening rent in this ancient flesh. Dee Dee spends the rest of the day chopping up the old broad, throwing her body parts into a blender, adding some strawberries and bananas, and making Grandma smoothies.

Then Dee Dee wakes up.


At first, Dee Dee didn't know where she was, and she felt momentarily paralyzed. She had a fleeting impression that little gray people with tiny limbs and enormous black oval eyes were standing over her, preparing to penetrate her with ghastly devices for secret motives. But then, in the dawn light just starting to filter in through the window, she saw the Winnie the Pooh stuffed bear on one of her shelves, a cherished keepsake of her childhood, and she sighed with relief, though she was drenched in sweat. She was in her own bed, safe at home, the recurring dream -- the nightmare -- safely behind her, though she knew that she was destined to have another rendezvous with faux Grandma and the wicked toy poodle, perhaps as early as tonight when she went to bed again.

Then she realized that she was naked, even though she always wore pajamas to bed.

Then she heard a snore, like a bandsaw cutting through tin. She looked down and saw him, naked, lying on his chest, head resting on folded arms and hair askew. He produced another jagged snore and Didi, snatching up bedsheets to cover herself, leapt out of bed and screamed.

TO BE CONTINUED …
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  #50  
Old 11-25-2015, 09:06 PM
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Default Re: The Light of Love

See there, Bob? That :^: is how it's done!
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