Butter

JACK: It's cold. Damn cold. But I've got to make the squeeze. Iggy's been wracking my nerves lately, seems to be making a habit of it. He'll snap out of it. Even if I have to sock 'em once or twice. Damn it's cold.... And how did I get looped into pullin' this wagon around town in such frightening conditions? Well, someone's gotta do it. Not to mention that the pretty penny that comes along with the duties. The fool would say that it makes the task worth doing. It may be worth the pain in the side, but it's certainly not worth the consequences of getting pinched. A while back a friend of mine got sniffed out. Whether it was quality work by those detective cats or just top of the line tattle tailing, they sure took care of him.  He's not exactly a fish but send him a prayer if you've got the time, he needs it.

[Jack suddenly becomes alert, looks around sharply, re focuses]

Iggy included, people have been tellin' me I shouldn't be gettin' so wound up. Throwing around words like paranoid. But as far as I'm concerned they don't know for nothing. Next time you're carting around enough hooch to get you locked up for the rest of your good years, if I see you relaxing, I'll shine your fuckin' shoes.

[Iggy enters, with cart, just three barrels remain on it.]

IGGY: Done! Gone! Joe cleaned house, fourteen barrels!

JACK:  Fourteen barrels?

IGGY: Fourteen barrels. I was shocked too.

JACK: Iggy, that's a lot of booze to sell to one establishment.

IGGY: I done good!

JACK: No, you done bad, ya oil can!

IGGY: Whaddya talk?

JACK: All I'm sayin' is that is a lot of booze to sell to one establishment.

IGGY: What happened to "You can never sell too much booze?"

JACK: What happened is we have a quota to meet, Genius. We can't be slipping full shipments to flat wheelers like Joe!

IGGY:  Joe's no flat wheeler!

JACK: Well he's not on the level.

IGGY: Sure he is.

JACK: Iggy, you just shorted half of our locations.

IGGY: So What!?

JACK: So What? You're asking me "So What?" These are our customers you're hanging out to dry, Iggy!

IGGY: We've still got three barrels! Listen, Jackie, trust me, you know I usually don't budge easy.

JACK: Usually?

IGGY: Jackie- Joe paid a steep cost in consideration of the size of the order.

JACK: ... How steep?

IGGY: Barely slanted.

JACK: Just level with me Iggy!

IGGY: What's eating you, Jackie?

JACK: Level with me.

IGGY: I couldn't pass up that kind of cash. You wouldn't have either.

JACK: Cash? Upfront? How much?

IGGY: Let me show you! I'm tellin ya Jack, big money is big money and you can't deny that.

[Iggy presents cash. Jack begins counting, hiding awe, Constable Seymore Enters]

SEYMORE: Evening, boys.  Something interesting in that briefcase of yours?

IGGY: Well...

SEYMORE: Better yet, what's in the barrels I've been watching you guys cart around all night?

IGGY: Well... Y'see-

JACK: Butter.

SEYMORE: So you've been dropping off Butter all night?

JACK: Correct.

SEYMORE: I see. Mind telling me exactly why one location needed fifteen barrels?

JACK: A pal needed some Butter.

SEYMORE: Fifteen barrels?

JACK: Fourteen, sir.

SEYMORE: Fourteen barrels of butter?

JACK: Freshly churned.

SEYMORE: Mind if I take a look?

JACK: Be my guest.

IGGY: Yeah. Be our guest!

[Jack shoots a glance at Iggy]

SEYMORE: Don't mind if I do, Jack... Y'know, if I had a clam for-

[Jack shoots Seymore in the back]

IGGY: Nifty shot, Bimbo. Think I could bum a ciggy?

[Jack shoots Iggy. Throws them onto the cart. Opens up bottle of shine only to tip it on it's side. Reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a match. Lights his cigaratte and tosses the match on the bottle. Blackout.]

Chicken Wrath

                                            CHICKENS MURDER FARMER

The wrath of the chicken is a very uncommon but extremely deadly occurrence. In the past, many have experienced small lashings out of the farm bird, and many feel they may be familiar with the creatures temper... but they are wrong. Only one man has ever truly fallen victim to this bird of prey's full power. It was midnight and the heavy fog ominously floated above the ground in a meager country subdivision, miles away from miles away from a small town located somewhere near Wichita, Kansas. Far from modern civilization, just as Hank McCurdy had always planned. Farmer Hank took pride in his work, to such an extent that he actually introduced himself as and preferred being called Farmer Hank. Raised to be a diligent worker, Farmer Hank found solace in these isolated acres that he considered to be his kingdom. Here, he couldn't be bothered by anybody except his clueless son and his decrepit father, both of which he had more or less learned to put up with. The reason he chose this plot near the hamlet that's near the village that's somewhat near the town which is quite close to Wichita, Kansas is quite simply that it was the only spot he could find that accommodated his need for privacy and peace. Farmer Hank was a chicken farmer. A damned good one too. He always hesitated to call himself the best but nobody else in the business would even give it a second thought. To them he was a living legend. The quality of the chickens he raised was simply outstanding. These chickens were the pinnacle in livestock that every farmer strived for... lean, intelligent, and incredibly strong. Making his way to the Chicken Pen with a bag of feed, Hank was deep in thought and hardly noticed the fog. Upon entering, the energy of the barn completely shifted, as if something had abruptly stopped. Halted. After a close inspection, Hank decided that the chickens were just doing their usual routine. Sitting, sleeping, strolling leisurely... Seemingly, there was nothing to be alarmed about. Hank brushed this vibe away without a second thought and began filling their feeders with his special solution. But merely moments into this chore he began to feel the feeling of eyes. Watching him. Staring at him. Whose eyes could they be?
He called out "Whose there?"
Silence. Not a motion, movement, or sound. Not a breath. "Nobody?"
With some contemplation Hank gathered his wits and brushed it off once again. Eventually he refocused on mixing his Chicken Solution. Hank was rather good at keeping chickens. Every chicken farmer in the industry wanted to learn exactly how he did it. How he was so good. The thought of this made Hank laugh just a little bit. They would never know. He would never tell them. This laughter evolved until Hank was bent over and barely able to catch his breath.  Not even his father had realized what was truly going on, how Hank was creating this Super Chickens. Suddenly, the eyes came back. The ensuing silence was penetrated by the slow, tedious, creak of the barn door. Though not a word was spoken, the word Revenge filled the space as if the air itself was speaking in Hanks ear. Gulping, he turned around to pull the light bulb string that dangled from the ceiling and saw just what he feared. There they were. Hundreds of small, victimized, fierce chicken heads appeared in the light. Lining the walls of the pen and emerging from the fog. As Hank was about to learn, they didn't think he was the best at all. They didn't appreciate the solution, they didn't appreciate the solution, and they certainly didn't enjoy the genetic modification. During one final inhalation he contemplated screaming, apologizing, sobbing, laughing in what must have been all at once. What came out instead was one last groan as the mob of chickens attacked this cruel, tyrannical leader who had trained them all to be so very strong and intelligent. Hank did what he did for a reason. As a boy, there was nothing he wanted more than to be famous. He would seclude himself so he could sing the songs he'd hear others sing at the market or in the theatre, dancing joyously, without refrain. When his father caught wind of what happened, he tried to smash his glass bottle of moonshine over his queer sons head. Telling him that if he were to be ever to be famous, it's not going to be for some 'tooty fruitie queer song and dance routine' but for following in the family foot steps and farming chickens. From that moment on, Hank began researching the bird, taking notes on their behavioral patterns, and he came to one conclusion. That chickens are rather weak and not intelligent in the least. Using this theorem Hank starting operating on their brains, using vitamin supplements to create potions that could enhance the chicken until one day after years of tedious, passionate work, he finally got his wish. A Chicken Solution that would make him world renowned. Internationally recognized as the ultimate farmer. Indeed, Hank did receive his wish. Super Chickens... Smart enough to stage a revolution, strong enough to kill.

Way Of The Beef

The Way Of All Beef.

"It's not fair, it's just not fair!"
He was right, it wasn't fair. Not fair in the slightest. After a small taste of freedom, the two slabs of fresh beef were forcibly laid on the steel grating over a vicious, roaring pit of flaming heat.
"I can't believe it's all over..." the first patty, who we'll called Chester, stuttered through tears, "There's so many things left unsaid and unseen. I only wish to say goodbye!"
The second beef patty, who we'll called Karl, interrupted.
"Kid, I hate to tell ya, but your farewell wouldn't do much. That beef is suffering the same fate as we are... Come on, you know what they always say about the moment your cow gets taken down. 'You either end up in a stomach or end up rotting in a garbage can. It's just the fate of all beef.'"
"Not ALL beef" explained Chester, "I've been told that in a time of crisis, beef will often be saved and brought to this wonderful place, a meadow where Beef coexists with other select meats. A place where the hills roll and the water falls. A Place where peace and love are constantly refreshing themselves in the rain, in the dew, the condensation. A paradise where the sun is always shining, but the temperature remains slightly cooled as to ensure that we stay fresh..."
Karl couldn't listen any longer, "It's a fallacy!" he bursted out, "Look kid, I don't know what kind of Fairy Tales you've been told, but it's not going to happen. It's over. It's over for you, it's over for me, it's over for your friends, family, it's the way of all Meat.. Now get off of it and enjoy the fire! It's not often we get to experience this kind of warmth and not worry about!"
After a few moments of enjoying the warm fire on their backs, what had just been said finally registered in Chester's brain. All of the sudden he was absolutely overcome with emotion and loudly complained.
"Well that's not fair!" And he was right, it wasn't fair. Since being saved from the cows' rump Chester had barely been given the chance to take advantage of his freedom, as he didn't expect it to be over so fast... So fast that he wouldn't get to see the wonders of the world that he had only ever vaguely heard about. So fast that he didn't even get a chance to enjoy the simple beauty of his surroundings... So fast that he had barely lived at all.
"Here's the funny thing about life, kid. It isn't fair. Now stop rambling about your rights and freedoms and enjoy the fire."
The two slabs sat in silence until it was time for them to be flipped on the grill, which made Chester vocalize a sound that combined sheer terror with acceptance. The remarkably large and unpleasant looking man who had flipped them was dressed in a ketchup stained wife-beater and horribly aged jeans that had clearly already lived well past their life expectancy. The Man said no words, but his perverted grin and hungry eyes spoke volumes as to how he planned to devour these nearly finished burgers.
"Karl, What do you say we make a break for it?"
"And how exactly would we go about that?"
"...Good point."
As the burgers were taken off the grill and placed onto a paper plate that had been used far too many times, a pool of grease formed in between a long, black, wiry hair and a grease stain from a previous meal. But in this pool of Grease was a river of tears. Tears shed from a victimized piece of meat tricked by an illusion of freedom, who had such a newfound zest for life that he deserved everything except for death. Regardless, The Man lifted the double cheeseburger, his mouth watering, his fingers forcibly clasped, his eyes full of lust, and brought it towards his yellow-black stained teeth. The two patties stared into the abyss and saw nothing but the abyss staring back at them. As the multi-shaded teeth began to near contact with the bun their whole lives suddenly began flashing in front of their eyes. All the memories... Being part of a cow's rump, The Meat Processing Plant where they first awoke, being in a box at the well priced and extremely well organized M&M Meats. It had all led up to this moment, and after what seemed like hours the man finally clamped his odd teeth fully down on the burger...  Multiple times. But in those last moments Chester realized what Karl had known all along...  He learned that the life of beef really just isn't very good. Nor was being part of a cow. As a matter of fact their entire life was full of agony and annoyances. Chester and Karl may have passed away, but their story lives on. It's the way of all beef.

A poem based on Whispering Pines-The Band

If you find me in a gloom, or catch me in a dream

Inside my lonely room, there is no in between

Whispering pines, rising of the tide

If only one star shines that's just enough to get inside

"Isn't it one of those things that is just out of our hands?"
I wondered aloud while walking down the street
There was no one around so the words fell through like sand
Scattered and became obsolete
But still the thoughts continued in ways too complicated to understand.
Rafting up and down this ideological stream
Unpredictable paths differ, to the deepest depths of the oceans floor
Or sometimes to the most wondrous peaks
So don't wake me with your roar
If you find me in a gloom, or catch me in a dream

I sit and struggle just as One would do
Thinking in ways easier resolved by two
And maybe these shivers might give a clue
That it's time to find what warms me up from blue
Then, I sit, and wonder and ponder
And figure, why do I even care?
To much independence is depressingly rare..
The richer the poorer, so the poorer the richer!
Life's just a ball and I'm just the pitcher
Inside my lonely room, there is no in between

Endless moments occur outside
A frown turns to a grin,
The wind is my guide
And it plays the violin
Words completely tied
Her touch on my skin..
Mother Nature, the only worthwhile bride
Shares her beauty, her companionship, despite where you've been
Whispering pines, rising of the tide

Another night,
The millionth shiver,
I'm losing the fight,
But I'm still a winner,
Another night, outside,
The moon leaves with the tide,,
But at my lowest, I ask whoever for this to subside
Wish for the warmth and Wish for the high
If only one star shines that's just enough to get inside

New world

It's a brand new world where people talk for real when I let myself pretend
looking past the vacuums and the vampires
building bridges from dead ends
Construction is so damn inconvenient
but everyone's so damn obedient
all afraid to tip the scale
to say a word
to blaze a trail
Who made all the lowly spirits that act so dumb
empty eyed gaze
thick minds numb
Who created such a tidy mess
of oblivious unhappiness

Fucking Toasters

Loneliness does strange things to the socialized man. It was like any other day. I arrived home from work around quarter to six as usual, only to find an empty fridge. Disappointed and hungry, I began to drink wine. And then more wine. Before I knew it I was dancing around my apartment. Jumping on couch cushions, flipping tables and chairs, all the while singing and having a good ol' time. Then the room got very dark so I lit a candle and the romance was overwhelming so I had some more red and started speaking words of love to no one in particular. Romance turned into lust and masturbation had grown stail months before, so I opened my mind. Explored my options, so to speak.
"Beautiful toaster" I said, "you do so much for me, you hot hunk of steel. You toast my bread, you make my morning" I said, "you make my morning so much better and yet I do so little for you. I never think of your needs, your wants, your desires."
I began stroking the toaster softly, sensually. The mood was set, and my pants had been off for hours. I wriggled in and penetrated.

"Well" said the doctor, "I don't know what to tell you, Phil."

"I understand."

"Apply this at least twice a day. No more than six times. Cleaning will be painful, and rather difficult."

I understood.

"Why'd you do it Phil?"

I shrugged. He understood.

Dogs.

She may be a lost cause
but I track her like some stupid dog
Drooling from a distance and sniffing at her door
Shit on the floor because it's been so long since she's fed me
Touched me
Seen me
But the dog doesn't stray
Sad eyes stay fixed on the door
Waiting for that knob to turn, that lock to click
Starving in my own shit
now she plays with pussycats
(Go next door and beg for scraps)