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‘The Fuggin’ Russian’
Harrowing Transport Tale #2 from Mescaline Franklin with Crackpot Advice: 6/18/2022
“James, happy Father’s day. You’ve brought more men into the world than a dozen women.”
-Mister Saffrono, 6/19/2022
“The fellow that brought you to the house [repeats name] I think he scared my wife more than you did, James! If I didn’t know you the shotgun would have been out when I saw you walking up the driveway. He’s a nice guy though. Do you know what the tattoos mean, what they say, it looked like another language. I’ll ask him next time—seems like a real solid guy. Can he fight?”
“Good, good, James. Maybe he can train with Brett and help him while you are hoping trains around the country and living the life. James, let me ask you, are there any women out there on the Amtrak, attractive women, women who might be desperate enough for an old buzzard like you?”
“That’s nice, James. I’ve noticed that too since The Vid, that women once again appreciate a man holding a door, helping her out. It’s a shame it took the world going to hell for it to come back.”
-Man in The Hat, 7:15 A.M., 6/21/2022, Gun Bunker, Maryland
Main Monologue by the Tattooed Man Referenced Above
I was on the train, headed to work, not headed home. Maybe that is why it went this way, because I wasn’t tired. The train wasn’t packed, wasn’t empty, pretty much everybody sitting by themselves. One thing about New Yorkers, is you know you don’t want to sit next to another New Yorker, because we’re all shitty people.
[harsh laughter, drinks of his beer out of a tall hour-shaped glass and smacks lips]
There is this nice little Chinese lady, a cute woman and this fuggin’ Russian, this lowlife, this scum, this fuggin’ criminal piece-of-shit, starts on her. This guy is saying suggestive things to her, like he wants to do this and that to her and she is terrified, she is shaking. And of course, none of these tough New York people are goin’ ta do a thing!
I think Ligoti is right, that humanity is an accident, and out of bounds DNA replication cycle. The meteor needs ta hit this fuggin’ place! Anyways, let me calm down and enjoy this beer—our slave drink. At least we have our slave drink, something good came of grain, can drink this and kill a little pain.
Now, this woman is small, defenseless, and she’s not some negro beast, not some white Kunt! So I’m not having it. I stand up and look at this guy:
[stands from chair and glares into the unjust past like Conan blazing eyes at a sorcerer, face contorted in a snarl]
“Hey buddy! Whad da fuck you think yer doin’! Ha? Cut it out—now!”
Bro please don’t write this the way it sounds. I hate the way I sound, like some guido galoot!
[Sorry, Bro, good material is good material!]
So, this Fuggin’ Russian starts flexing on me, mugging like he’s gonna make it a thing en he ain’t makin’ shit. I’m gonna break a piece off a dis motherfucker. He ain’t black, he ain’t rich, he ain’t some fucking [Chaldean], I can taste it, I’m wreckin’ his world!
So we’re about ta go. I gotta give it ta da Russians, they ain’t bitches like American men, dey ain’ all show en no go like niggers. This guy was good for it even though he was wrong.
So this older working guy stands up and backs me up and says, “Yeah buddy, what da ya think yer doin’! Back off. Get lost, pal!”
I guess it was a good thing, like the old New York you’d see in some movie.
Now, what would James LaFond have done?
Should I have done any different?
Crackpot Comments
I would have watched the threatening of, terrorizing of and abduction of that Chinese woman and have done absolutely nothing, unless she asked me specifically for help and made eye contact with me. Now, if she gave me the impression that she would have sex with me in return for protection, I would just use my empty hands to spear, rake and gouge his eyes and then escort her to the nearest cheap motel. I can take out most men with dirty tactics without a knife, so long as he is alone and not a superior specimen.
My main reason for preferring the knife is my hatred of The World and wanting to afront it and afright its demonic meat sticks. To me, lethal combat with the damned is just a way to flip the finger to Satan one last time before escaping his prison. But if there is pussy to be had, an Asian at that, well, I might behave more reasonably, but never heroically, as you did. I would never ever say a word, but strike from silence.
At my age, unless I thought she’d have sex with me, I would demand payment, knife the man, scalp [1] him, and then pretended to have a heart attack and curl up so I could stab at least one of the responding cops in the neck before they put me down and sent off this miserable planet into Eternity. As a younger man I would have knifed him and run off and hid from the police.
Barring any specific challenge to my honor I would have simply used her as a writing subject in fiction and nonfiction. I did this with an Asian woman who I knew was being trafficked against her will on the #7 train headed to Portland 3 years ago. I did nothing.
Now, if the Russian saw me observing and threatened me, I would butcher him. But it would not come to that. Savages, like dogs, “know.”
I am convinced that the reason why hundreds of Negrodon tribesmen have hunted me and then backed off when my usually unseen hand found the cold steel in the pocket, that their subhuman dog-like instincts informed them of what was intended in my mind. Dogs, likewise, when attacking me in Baltimore, have backed off when my hand went to the knife its lover.
So, I think the Russian would have fled as soon as my hand found its lover and I would not have given vent to my deep desire to butcher the deserving. I believe that we live in Satan’s realm and that its denizens deserve our monstrous attention when they place us few surviving souls in extremity. In my mind most people are zombies, meat without souls, mere cackling, heckling marionettes of their evil master.
What you did was perfect and, unfortunately, socially acceptable. In a just society he would have been strung up from a rope at the next train stop and left hang for the crows.
Notes
-1. In order to sell books posthumously for Miss Lockhart. “Hobo Historian Scalps Man” would make national news. I have recently decided that if I am forced to use a knife to maintain my honor [autonomy] that I will scalp the attacker as a final publicity stunt. It is supposed to make a popping sound.
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posted: November 28, 2022   reads: 61   © 2022 James LaFond
Hither Tarnation 1
The Lone Knight: Act 5 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
“Inside a grove of leafy shade he steps…
No pagan there says anything.”
-First Jest, First Chant
Before him stood, next to the farrier’s anvil, a sergeant, a sallow, thin, scarecrow of a ranger, who shook slightly as Brawn leveled his saddle gun with one hand.
At his feet, was a ranger, his face just branded with the gunpowder 'R' on the cheek, shackles recently riveted by the farrier sergeant, who was thin, pale, and hang-faced, holding a horsewhip which had just been used to open the back of the ranger at his knees, a ranger that seemed all of sixteen, as thin as the rest of them.
Behind him and above turned the rangers at the gate, skinny and pale, unwashed clothes grimed with charcoal.
There were no scouts, dead or alive.
Those were the only five souls alive in the yard or upon the catwalks. Some score of less fortunate souls hung by necks in chains, branded on the cheek, whipped upon the back and hung from the neck until dead. Brawn had ridden into the tail end of what seemed a mass execution.
‘But what mutiny of twenty and one is put down by four, four such as these sorry souls?’
‘There are no nobles present.’
He heard The Knights Brass behind him enter the gate and spread out behind him and preempted his Lord, “Where are your masters, the Lone Knight, his Squire, Factor, his paige?’
The scarecrow sergeant pointed at two of the hanged men with distinctive knightly haircuts of a flat, spiked nature, shaved around the ears, the rest of the dead owning the bowl cut mops of the ranks.
The sergeant’s voice shook, as Brawn noticed that there were no horses, no livestock whatsoever in the station, “The paige he be locked in da root cellar, by order o’ 'is Lone Knight, who be above.”
'He says the Lone Knight is above but does not believe his own words.'
The gate closed behind The Knights Brass, to the furious shouts of Saddler to “leap da walls fro’ ‘orseback en gut da traitors.”
The ranger wretch in fetters peed his naked thighs, wearing only a rag about his loins, and the two sergeants went to their knees in prayer—prayers fronted with tears and wrought with pleas.
As Brawn turned to look at The Knight’s Brass for direction, thunder split the sky and wracked the yard as the culvern atop the tower above, charged double from the sound of it, belched fire and turned The Second Knight Brass into a gory puppet of utter ruin, blown in half, his top part and head bouncing from the gate and his bottom part trailing guts and spilling off the saddle of his bucking destrier, a gunbarrel beast that erupted in fury, knocked the First Knight Brass from his saddle, to dash his head against the gate post, a head that was helmeted in a brass war hat, or else death would have been the likely fortune of the crusader.
Brawn heeled Wake and Ready through the tower door, which was half open and soon rang half off its hinges as he ducked through.
Leaping from the saddle to the fifth wooden stair, Brawn charged upward with saddle gun in left and sword in right. The hatch to the second floor. Was barred from above. It was pandemonium outside as the Rangers clamored over the walls and the few men of Hinter Station moaned like the damned.
He saw where the four-by-four beam was latched over the hatch above and blew it apart with the left barrel, wood splinters and smoke scorching his face. Bulling open the hatch with his shoulders, he shoved the hatch back with his sword pummel and was in an empty quarters for Squire and Factor.
It occurred then that there was no Stone Deacon accounted for. He dashed up the short stair to The Knight’s quarters and blew open that hatch with his right barrel, discarding the saddle gun on the floor as he heaved open the hatch with his shoulders and drew his issue, unhooding and cocking it.
Up he looked and saw and heard two sets of booted feet tramping about the culvern, reloading it, not in a hurry like rangers under orders, but almost slow, in an odd, strict—yet prancing hesitant—way like someone was then being showed something for the first time and taught to do it.
‘Knights make sorry gunners, I bet!’
Brawn charged up the stair, placed the muzzle almost against the latch base, and blasted, a splinter flew back into his nose to stick, powder scorching his face. He bull ran up through the hatch, bashing it with his big hard head and left shoulder in a hurry so as not to be cut down right off the get.
Emerging on the roof behind two tall, naked, yet stately figures who turned to regard him, Brawn was taken aback as the men turned on him. The Stone Deacon, holding the ramrod-swab, was a tall strong man with a big jut of jaw. The Lone Knight, who he assumed was the Lone Knight, as he wore nothing, was naked as the other, with no cods or penis, all genitalia absent on either, like it had been sucked up inside the body. Thus stunned, Brawn was near numb when the Lone Knight Nude spoke with the clear air of command, “Put aside arms, Fresh Knight.”
The voice sounded so clear, so true, and so far away.
The Lone Knight then kissed the Stone Deacon and whispered something, to which the Stone Deacon bent, set aside ramrod-swab, picked up the smoldering rod from the bucket of coals over the battlement brazier, and stood to prime the culvern for another blast.
Then it occurred, that what he had heard as boots were not—for the men were naked entire. As The Lone Knight walked towards him and a hard footfall sounded, Brawn saw that instead of human feet, that both fiends had goat hooves, hooves of the size of a great billy.
Dropping his issue and drawing his toothpick in his left hand, Brawn charged with a scream, an inarticulate holler that sounded like deviltry itself. The culvern boomed, shaking the tower and a crackle of muskets and saddle guns came from below as brawn back-hand slashed with Shamishar, a slash that The Lone Knight, naked and with his skin now transparent like glass showing the workings of muscle and even bone underneath, ducked the slash easily that would have shorn off his head.
This was the attack the Knight Brass had advised him on as a toothpick man new to the sword, the back hand sword slash to the throat followed by the overhand thrust to the body with the toothpick, a gambit that worked as it had been told, plunging that toothpick to the hilt into that weird purple-lunged chest, the organ seen from behind the ribs pumping its air.
The Lone Knight smiled seductively, something like Alissa, and then pressed his hand, with something of the aspect of a gaunt paw, to Brawn’s heart.
A cold chill iced into Brawn’s chest, and The Lone Knight inhaled deeply like a bellows, sucking Brawn’s breath from his mouth from arm’s reach.
Some wooden sounding man moaned in his heart as a silver-voiced woman wept and her tears tinkled like glass there in his ice afflicted chest.
There was no breath to draw this close, so he shift stepped back out to his right with a long pivot that dragged his unachored left foot as Shamishar struck down and cleaved that left goat hoof from its owner—borrower more like.
The releasing blade of the toothpick clung with purple gore as the see-through parchment skin of the fiend closed up and stopped bleeding even as the hoof gushed. Brawn backhanded up and across and sent The Lone Knight’s increasingly pale-faced head hurdling out over the battlement.
The Stone Deacon loomed over him, with an arrow feathering his neck to no effect and two rounds having ripped through his chest, gaping wounds that were closing before Brawn’s eyes. Brawn’s wide-open posture invited, quite naturally, the unnatural strong kick of what used to be the Stone Deacon, that drove the wind from Brawn. The hard hoof, as broad as a pony and awful cold hard, sent him skidding across the ponderosa planks to bruise his shoulder on the far battlement.
As he gained his feet in a crouch, the fiend leaped 15 feet to the battlement, leaped over Brawn’s backhand slash. He then billy-goated as far as a cougar might leap out to the catwalk, knocked a ranger into the yard and leaped out over the lodge pole wall to run like a great two-legged goat up the north face of the mountain at their back. A’Quah was out there on horse and went on the hunt, putting two Comanche arrows feathered deep into that ever-more goatish back by the time the fiend was lost up in the crags, as sure-footed as any goat.
Saddler was up out of the hatch with his blunderbuss at the ready, looked at Brawn with concern, then looked to the headless ruin at their feet, “Well gut me runnin’ Son, we gots stallion-dicked apes from up high and dickless goat-fuckers from down low where da Devil go!”
Brawn breathed a heavy sigh and felt a woman weeping in his chilled heart as the warmth of life returned.
Saddler was then patting him on the back, “Datz twice ye saved ‘is brass ass, son. He’ll be as right as a knight might—da otha’ dough, whad a danged mess—in here comes da danged night in a blink o’ God’s good eye.”
"Torches, cressets, forge, lamps—light this station up rangers,” Yelled the voice of The Factor.
Brawn stopped before Saddler and said, with his hands full of bloody steel, “I’m taken’ dat bitch out to the bridge Sarge.”
He could tell that Saddler loved him then, and didn’t want him to go. But the old cuss recovered, “Good on ye Knight Brass—da gates blowed ta hell anyways,” and recalling his command, bellowed, “Long muskets to da catwalks—Farrier Sergeants to dis roof en culvern, snap en to’er or ye dead men fo da moon do rise!”
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posted: November 27, 2022   reads: 108   © 2022 James LaFond
Hinter Station 3
Act 4 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
A thrill was his, as sharp and cold a thrill as Alissa’s adore had been soft and warm.
No part of him felt any part the boy. He could not, if asked, have answered his age—never a sure thing for the lowly in any case. Lowly still, he was at least the lowest of the uppity.
‘Will I catch their noble insanity—become a lunatic as The Factor says?’
The horn blared revelry, lacking most of the musical alacrity of the bugles that served this purpose in the King’s Ranks:
‘All the better for the blare. I am down here waiting—with your twice-bred bitch, you big white booger.’
The Knight Brass and he waited for the Point Troop under the ranger banner and the Forte Troop under the station banner, to file out, and then led off.
Brass: “Saddler says we arrive at Hinter Station an hour before sunfall. What is your thought of the enemy?”
Brash: “The Indian woman, as I slept, she painted a cross with Mary crying for Our Lord at its base, over my heart.”
Brass: “She is quite heartbroken over your coming separation. On her Lady’s request, I have deputized My Brother Knight Brass to escort them and King A’Quah to Castle Blake to form an alliance and to assure the security of Vale Bernie. The Lady Blake bore witness to the perfidy of Don Silver and has pledged to intercede. Brash, we must put away Christian wars and crusade as true men of Christ!”
Brash: “Yes, Sire—the enemy?”
Brass: “Oh, yes—the hairy foes of hell!”
Brash: “As I slept and the girl etched, I dreamed.”
Brass: “Like Charlemagne before victory over the Moors?”
Brash: “I dreamed that the beasts rose this morning from their lairs with the thought—no, the urge—to overtake us just as darkness falls.”
Brass: “Good, damn their paws! The Archangel Michael has come to you on our behalf. This will be marked in the Journal Brass, Aye Good Factor?”
Factor: “Writing as I ride, Sire!”
Brass: “Man, what drudgery! You should have become the Third Knight Brass! Why the paige would then be consigned to scrawl like a monk ahorse!”
Factor: “Sire, we all suffer according to our kind In Christ.”
Brass: “Yes, and some of us get to cry, ‘Mount Joy!’” [1]
Brawn thought as he felt the awesome power of Wake and Ready beneath him, ‘I suppose I’m now crazy too.’
He felt Her eyes on him, felt Her Beast’s, eyes on them both, pained from a distance, saw nostrils expand before his eyes like flares of a heaving stallion, and silently addressed a patron devil shade, ‘Thank ye Ole Billy Ree.’
All the day they marched along the high meandering valley dusted with snow in the meadow, crusted with ice on the heights. They kept the saddle and ate dry rations and watered their horses, filling their canteens by swinging down in the saddle and plunging them into the cold Colorado.
Brass: “Good Factor, is this hell’s hand, bringing winter in summer, or is it God’s punishment for being off our guard—or perhaps a warning from Gabriel Archangel of Care?”
Factor: “Sire, I have pondered this these last ten winters as the cold grew deeper, and the springs and summer’s cooler, noting that the sun in the sky is of a slight wane. I cannot credit Satan with power over the sun. Recall that God kept night at bay so that Charlemagne could catch the Saracen hosts. Quote then, under God Almighty Judge, the suggestion that God in Heaven has dimmed the sun by day, as a warning, and as a preparation, for the war me must fight by night.”
Brass: “Yes, yes my good Naymond!” [2] as he looked in wonderment at the ice-cloaked mountains and the cloud-shrouded sun. The north-facing southern peaks grew right up from the river in most places. They followed the river west on the north side, under those soaring south-facing peaks.
With an hour of light to spare The Sword Brass, near on thirty souls, approached Hinter Station, home of The Lone Knight in his simple square tower such as the signal tower on Lookout Mountain, surrounded by a 40 foot square stockade of lodge pole. This station had various outbuildings, barns, hay sheds, sculler huts—everything but the smith’s forge. These had been scorched by Don Silver obviously, as the siege flag of defiance, a bold red banner, flew under The Lone Knight’s plain, unadorned banner.
There was no gatehouse, but a simple catwalk all along the stockade fence, to include a catwalk over the gate. The one distinguishing aspect of Hinter Station, was the lone culvern [3] mounted atop the narrow tower.
Hinter Station was built above the river on the high south bank and guarded an ancient stone bridge that lead directly to the gate. This bridge had been built by the Spanish, hundreds of years ago, before they were driven south by the Comanche. This bridge enabled the settling of far Vale Bernie as it was and marked the furthest post of The Knights Trace. On the craggy slopes of the south-facing mountain north, was Hell’s Door West, a sulfurous spring where alchemists and sorcerers were said to come and consult The Devil and his vile minions.
Glancing at the slight seep of smoke behind them, as they prepared to cross the bridge, The Knight Brass, intoned, “Hell’s very Dark Door. There the fiends will drag our flesh where to dine and their souls will return as they fall in the battle line.”
Brawn turned in the saddle of Wake and Ready, a saddle that had surely cost Don Silver, or whoever he stole it from, as much coin as all the yearly wages of the rangers and scouts of all the stations he had visited. His eyes were keen, as youth was in full bloom his. He was able to see a trace of dots moving across the south face of the mountainside, threading from among pines to an outcrop of craggy boulders. The Knight Brass followed his gaze and softly said, “Spyglass,” and it was placed in his absent open hand by The Factor.
The Knight looked through the glass and whistled, “What horrid beasts of Hell!” and handed the spyglass to Brawn, who, as a boy would have been thrilled to a song over the chance to gaze through this knightly device. But bloody-handed manhood was upon him already. He calmly counted the panting figures squatting on all fours, or on their haunches, ice caking their bearded snouts, some lazing on their sides sharpening their black fingernails. The round window of close-looking finally settled on one especially surly beast, all white of hair, mane and beard, a third again as large as the others, scars by the score gouging his lustrous coat, where those by his sides were patchy and mottled, spotted and mean. The creature seemed to see him, and he heard, in his mind, a calmly intentioned threat, “I will take your one mean eye.”
He handed the spyglass to The Knight Brass, “They are thirteen. The shaggy white chief signed a challenge to me. I will spend the night on this bridge.”
“Huzzah!” bawled The Knight Brass. “We are so blessed by God—Spanish rabble mumming Saracens and now Grendel pawing for worth!”
The Factor, took the spyglass, “Easy Sire Cousin, greeting the Sons of Cain might affront The Lord and earn a dragon for a hungry bane.”
“Yes, you are right Good Factor Cousin—please confess me tonight and place my heart firmly in The Lord’s sight.”
The Factor nodded informally, being their pastor, seeming in this instance more of a close and old friend to Brass, who Brawn gathered would be lost without him.
He then turned in his saddle glancing at the gate manned by two dull slouch-hatted fellows, and drawled, “What tardies The Lone Knight. This is odd to rude, Underknight Brash.”
“Yes!” and his urgent need to please his master brought a growling down from the crags, “Dog of men, hound underfoot—we prowl free, you, you…”
He adopted a fury in his mid, summoned her from some ancient clime and the beating of her ravening wings drowned out the monstrous rantings cast from above and felt within.
Brawn rode across the bridge and up to the gate, noting that the men there were sallow-faced, fearful, and branded on the cheek with the runaway R. He made eye contact with both of them and they blinked in a watery was, so he bawled, sounding something near as arrogant as a knight, “Raise the gate for The Sword Brass. We are your relief.”
The gate raised and he rode through impatiently when it was half up, swinging side line in the saddle, almost getting hung up by the buckskins in his hurry, and found himself in a slaughter pen.
His sword rang out right and his saddle gun came up in his left hand, like it had been born there, the click of the left hammer sounding like the trumpet Brass in this place aghast.
“Pappa Doc say:
‘Howling nort—come Wendigory,
Calling west—come Walkery,
Chriseman east—slump sleepy,
Macheteman sout—some Voodoory.’
Chriseman sleep.”
Notes
-1. The battle cry of Charlemagne, Emperor of France, who slew the Moors in revenge for the death of Roland.
-2. Charlemagne’s elderly advisor.
-3. A light swivel cannon.
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posted: November 26, 2022   reads: 155   © 2022 James LaFond
‘Out There’
Harrowing Transport Tale #1 from Mescaline Franklin with Crackpot Advice: 6/18/2022
My host, My Brother, had just returned from a drive thru New Jersey to into New York at diner time, just as dusk covered the green Pennsylvania hills. He sat at the bistro table in the kitchen and decompressed over a beer.
Monologue
New York is hell. That place is almost back to what it was when I grew up there—home boys and insane homeless black guys jigging people with knives, fuckin’ chimping out. I stop at Jimmy’s [Deli] in Flushing for my favorite, baloney on a bagel. I ask him, “Hey, Jimmy, how’s the neighborhood?”
He say’s, “Oh, its changed.”
He doesn’t describe any more, doesn’t have to. These three mob guys come in and give me hard looks. I eat and go—fuck this place. I’m like the last guy that even speaks the local dialect even after moving out three years ago, and these fuckers are going to grill me when they should be standing up to the niggers and the invaders.
I leave, walking down that street I lived on when you came to visit. This one young dude, a big man, a savage, has a pit bull. He has to take up the entire sidewalk and make me walk around. Hell no! I walk past him, real close to the dog, and the nigger says, “He bites.”
That’s a threat. So I stop, ready to tear into this guy, and snarl at the dog, “He better not,” and that fucking four-legged negro knows his place and I go. I had more respect for that dog that should be thrown into a furnace than its owner who should be swinging from a rope.
So, I get out of that shithole—I understand you not liking that I go there and that you won’t be going back. Part of it is just being stubborn. The people I have there, three of the four, they don’t want me coming back because they know I’m a target, that the place I was born in is now totally against me and that the niggers or their allies—the fuckin’ dog-face PIGs—are lookin’ to get anybody that looks like you or me.
But that’s not the worst thing about the trip.
[Looks up in amazement at an unexpected development.]
People are fucking with me on the highway in Jersey. I know it never happens when I have you with me and would never happen if I had some of the man weekend guys in the car. But now, when you’re alone, people fuck with you on the parkway, on the turnpike.
Four Mexican guys in a work truck kept speeding up on me, yelling at me, cussing me, giving me the finger, really trying for a response. I just ignored it, followed your advice, said nothing back and drove evasively, put some distance.
[Ideal response. When a pedestrian in Baltimore, this happened to me regularly. Making hard eye contact or signing or talking back to a group feeds into their pack validation complex and makes the attack on you not only justified in their simian mind, but a positive bonding experience. And if things go wrong, the uninjured members of their group become witnesses that put you in jail or prison.]
The one that really freaked me out was this guy drives up on me at night, on the parkway, and beams a flash light into my eyes. He is driving and has the light in his left hand [how cops are trained to use the flashlight] and trying to blind me, keeping up with me. I slow down, he slows down and beams me. I speed up and he speeds up and beams me like he’s trying to make me wreck or stop or something.
I was thinking that he might be trying to pull off a shooting, just pop me for fun, so I didn’t want to just ignore him and let him ride beside me beaming that light in my eyes. I pulled off at an exit and this guy tries following me and I eventually find a dark spot and turn the lights off and lay low and lose him.
[God job.]
Bro, what the hell do I do with that? It’s like people are going crazy out there.
Crackpot Thoughts
Listening to that last story sent a chill up my spine. Generally, with the gaslighting of the retarded American mind by the media for two solid years I have seen much more insanity across the country. He could just be a nefarious nut job. Both of these driving incidents are similar to pedestrian incidents I had in Portland this year and last year. People have been forced to be alone and have been taught to frame other individuals as hazards and heretics. During social unrest, such as in Europe during famines and plagues, lone strangers are routinely and instinctively preyed upon just because they are alone. This activity will increase much, very much.
My instinct is that this single actor with the light was a cop: probably a private security contractor, or an off duty or out-of-jurisdiction cop [like the cop that threatened me for not letting him steal from the store I managed after hours in 2009] who was trying to manufacture an event that would permit him to call back up on you. The fact that you have tattoos and wear sleeveless shirts, and are a paleface, will increasingly make you the target of the sadistic police impulse to pick fights with lone men of whatever social class or race are currently hated by society. Your skin and your ink make you a target. If you dress in a button shirt and suit jacket this will stop.
Additionally, your sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts attire, basically all you have worn for the 20 years I have known you, suggests you are armed with a knife and not a gun. This works great for our traditional hunters, the Negrodon primate, who fear the knife. But cops hate the knife, and your appearance suggests a Latino gangster without a gun—making a manufactured incident with you a potential joint joy killing for cops.
The PIGz can no longer go after the Negrodon. They must go after someone, must start shit with somebody. They are what we are and we are all that is left on their menu. We have to alter our appearance to survive. That is what I did with the nasty white beard, which makes it more likely that Negrodon packs will want to mug Saint Nick and that the tweakers out west might victimize me as a decrepit member of their kind. But, it broadcasts to cops that I’m probably too old to fight back and give them their joy kill. I have reinforced this by wearing Teamsters gear while traveling and it has worked, with cops and other uniformed authority figures treating me with more respect then before.
Also, you wear mostly camo pattern clothes, even in cold months. This is code, for “I hate the government” and is seen as a challenge by cops. Again, it has served you well as a Negrodon ward, for the Negrodons fear militia types with a deep dread—but what the Negrodon fears, the PIG hates. You should update your wardrobe to invite the Negrodon who is easily dispatched. You dropped two of these savages in Reading a few years ago when they ran up on you.
Keeping in kind that PIGz and Negrodons are the two main arms of American Anarcho-Tyranny and share the task of driving we palefaces to extinction, you should adopt a look that diverts the PIG Eye. They are the two faces of our enemy in the battle space. Do you want the one that runs at the first sign of resistance or the one that calls in a paramilitary hit squad at the first sign that you are not going to kneel and beg?
The choice is yours.
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posted: November 25, 2022   reads: 381   © 2022 James LaFond
Stephan Michael Sechi
Honoring a Neglected Mentor: Utah, 10/18/2022
I recall, in the late 1980s, receiving hand written letters on blue, Bard Games, stationary from Stephan Michael Sechi. I forget who made first contact. I did recall, that Bard Games had wonderful perfect bound role playing game source books that were distributed at Walden’s Books and another mall book store chain. I had seen these books while buying mass market paperbacks and recalled the high quality art work and the unique rather than derivative, J.R.R. Tolkien fantasy work.
I must have solicited Stephan after noting that we both advertised in White Wolf Magazine. Stephan demonstrated an interest in publishing my Tribes series and even wrote a forward to the book, Tribes, in which I charted an odd ancient future as a guide book. I did not have the ability to write a story and was trying to develop that through these source books, since they contained the character sketches and setting information a story would be based on.
Stephan was bought out by Wizards of the Coast just as fantasy game publishing was changing drastically due to the advent of collectible card games. He did introduce me by letter to Mark R. Hagen, the new editor, who was not interested in Tribes.
As my work life and family life were put under extreme pressure by the hunt for the extinction of palefaces like me across Baltimore, with PIGz assisting the Young Gawds in driving me into ever deeper poverty, Stephan remained a friend by phone, counseling me on writing, and on life. I gathered he was a good ten years older than I was. I valued and respected his opinions and experiences and some things he told me still ring in my ears.
In the late 1990s, as I battled injuries, hid from cops, tried to get close enough to stab my Gawdly hunters, started The Violence Project and even left that house vacant for the bank, where the phone would be taken out of service that I called Stephan on, and where he would mail the occasional letter, I lost contact with him and most of the folks I had known up until that time.
This was by design. I had failed at EVERYTHING to which I had ever set my hand.
I became a much different, much worse, and much more dangerous person and had no desire to stay connected to anyone who had known the intellectual or creative part of me. I re-engineered myself into a weird stain on the underside of the place that had devoured my better nature—had eaten every goddamned angel that had once gestated in my rancid soul; the dark fiends, the slobbering, lip-smacking, slouching, hooting and howling devils who had once terrified me had infected me, had turned me into one of them.
As much as I might want to take credit for this survival as some kind of adaptive genius, a man who once threatened me at Erdman and Belair, a big man who lunged at me from a doorway one Saturday, and roared, “Give me money!” he would name me for what I was.
When I backed him into the doorway, with my hands on the razor I would use to cut his throat, and declared, “I have $617, if you can take it…”
He retorted, “Yo, Tarazan, I was just aksin’…”
That story is in When You’re Food as something of boast. But it hurt, hurt that I had been shaped by my environment, had given up all creativity, had been willfully complicit in my own devolution into something subhuman, something even worse than the subhumans who had dragged me down to their level—something that Stephan, older and wiser, had warned me about over the phone as my economic and married life shattered into chaos.
I recalled this, his deep voice, and his keenest piece of writing advice as I edited Confessor. Confessor is the sequel to Supplicant’s Song, both short novels set in Oth, the world I had outlined in a manuscript I sent to Stephan. He may have one of only 4 copies in existence. Hagen certainly trashed his. I lost one. Another was given to Mister Gray, with my blood splashed across the binder, which I think has hole punched letters from Stephan in the back. I had suffered from a severe sleep seizure while trying to write Supplicant’s Song and shattered my nose into 7 pieces in December 13 2017. Actually, I think it was a demonic attack, and I worked this and the surgeon who rebuilt my nose into the completed book in February 2018, while recovering.
Writing that novel was a delayed expression of a piece of Stephan’s advice from 1992, when he encouraged me to write a novel based on a wandering character I had used as an oblique narrative device. So, when Confessor begins posting on January 15 and 21, I thought I should at least thank Stephan in some way.
I do not know where he is, what he is doing or how to contact him. But I see, when Duck Duck Going his name that he has put in much creative work over the years and has many books and a collection of music to his name. I thought that the least I could do was introduce some of my old fantasy writing mentor’s work to you, the reader.
So, I am scheduling this ode to post on Thanksgiving Day, when I recall Stephan and his friends once played a rough brand of unarmed football called the Turkey Bowl, I think.
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posted: November 24, 2022   reads: 381   © 2022 James LaFond
Guido & Rico
Two Ethnic New Yorkers Recall Public Schooling in the World’s Most Evil City: 6/18/2022
Guido and Rico entertained Nero the Pict and I over beers for a few hours last night, recalling enough urban insanity and negrology to fill a zoological treatise of immense size. Below I attempt to recall only stories they told concerning the system for scourging souls for Satan presided over by the Lizard Kings of Modernity in its acridly beating heart.
Guido: New York was so fucked up. I’m glad you turned out somewhat normal. It wrecked me.
Rico: If you didn’t have a gang to run with you were fucked! I had my cousins and other Porto Ricans.
Guido: The Guidos hated me because I was only half Italian, half of my fights was with those people, my father’s fucking retarded people.
Rico: But we all had the same fucking enemy, those fuckers that the government bussed in to every school, even the schools like we went to where we had to pass tests to get in and they didn’t!
Guido: The fuckers who would rape you in the bathroom come screaming in packs and sweep down on any lone person—like me and the Chinese—and then when you fought back the Chaldean [0] teachers come down on you.
Rico: Miraculously, as soon as a handful of blacks get bussed into the school, there is all of this violence and crime.
Guido: It’s the same now—I’m done—I gotta rope for these motherfuckers if they come out here after me.
Rico: Hey, how long does it take a black woman to take out the trash?
Guido: I don’t know—who cares?
Rico: Nine months! Now you care!
Guido: Yeah, and thank God for abortion—if it wasn’t for Roe versus Wade we’d be overrun, like Zulu Dawn.
Rico: And then there’s the Domicans—those motherfuckers, what pieces of shit. The only kind of Spanish person I can deal with is Cubans—somewhat human. The fucking fat head Mexicans, get outta here!
Guido: You know, when I worked in that hospital in Flushing, every Mexican that came in there drunk, with his post fight injury or from whatever dumb shit he did, pissed himself—everyone without fail! How many times have I been drunk and never pissed myself!
Rico: No shit!
Guido: Thank God none of that! There was this one Fat Head who pretends to be asleep on the gurney and waits for me to leave the room. Then he gets up and pisses on the floor at my work station. I comeback and this motherfucker is pissing on the floor—which does make him the only Fat Head who never pissed his pants in the hospital. But I gotchyou wit da Domicans. Dats what dem two mystery meat fucks who attacked me in Reading a few years back were—couldn’t throw hands for shit, dropped em both with jabs...and they had some bogus gang handle back in New York.
Rico: DDP, Domicans Don’t Play, fucking retards. We had those in our school. The Guidos were tough—give em that. The whites were just fucked. The first thing the blacks did when they bussed in was throw this white kid down the stairs and almost kill him. There was so much blood they had to rope off the stairs. Nobody saw nothin’. So, I see a Spanish dude and these fucking gorillas are walking the halls and I’m like, “Hey, what’s up?” and he’s like, “Fuck you, I’m Dominican.” So its like that right? Well, a few weeks later this guy he’s headed out with his boys to take care of some beef they got with the blacks and he asks me to help out, and I’m like, “No, man, I ain’t Dominican, have fun with all those niggers!” Right, fuck him!
Guido: Dude, it would have been great to have somebody to stand shoulder to shoulder with against all those niggers. There was always at least three on you, and even when these five came after me during the black-out one has a knife. It was the same in school and the Chaldean teachers always seemed to take their side, like fuckin’ Karen owns a pitbull and its harmless, right.
Rico: A course those Chew [1] motherfuckers had their own schools for their kids and had their own security thing.
Guido: Yeah and at least I wasn’t no Chino.
Rico: That’s right. We always called Asians Chino for Chinese, whether they were Korean or whatever.
Guido: The Chinese, I got along with them, they were at the bottom of the food chain and didn’t mess with nobody. But they weren’t any help either against the Black Beasts, they called em.
Rico: Bro, being Chinese in New York, that’s like being a mouse at a cat convention! Talk about fucked!
Guido: What about that school—they had the big brain school for all the math kids—which, to be frank, meant it was nothing but Chinese in there.”
Rico: That’s right! And the school across the street was for the dummies—which means its full of blacks! So school lets out, and these nice neat little Chines kids start to leave and its on, fucking rolling chimpout and army of niggers just swooping down on all these poor Chinese kids who are actually carrying books! Like Custer’s last stand times ten! This shit was like every day, sometimes we’d just go and watch—and the black bitches what dey’d do to the Chinese girls—oh no!
Guido: Raaaah, Queen Kong, raaaah!
Rico: These fuckers have been like that since Jesus left Chicago. You know it man, and you know it makes sense that the Chews [1] brought all these fuckers in. They go to their schools protected by their security, them with their thing. But we can’t have our thing. We gotta share everything with—
Guido: Home Erectus, high time preference crawling up out of the Old Stone Age ta get your ass!
Rico: ...and us, we have to be like the warriors and pack up and just fight for survival—not like you gonna learn shit around these animals.
Guido: We had this one teacher who was cool, a Vietnam Vet. I’m sitting near the back of the class and these two home boys are out patrolling the halls, looking for whites and Chinese to beat up—I think he was telling us about how the U.S. supplied the Soviet Union with its grain, and I’m like, “What? But they’re the bad guys. Why would we do that if we’re the good guys?”
Rico: Let me guess, there was a black chick in the class and these animals were so thirsty for that ass that they had to try and get some of it during class!
Guido: Know your enemy! They’re chatting up this girl in the back of the class and the teacher tells them to move on and the big one, fuckin’ gorilla in training, threatens the teacher and he goes by me to get them to leave and the big one whips the teacher across the face with a jacket he has in his hand and then hits him with hook. The teacher eats it, then kicks the kid in the gut and charges him with a karate chop while doing some battle cry and...
Rico:… of course, anytime a creature with no soul has shit go against him he’s goin’ to run right.
Guido: And how much of a bitch is the white man to run from these cowardly fuckers for sixty years and then set the fucking PIGz on any man who defends himself against these savages?
Rico: Well, the Chews run the show and that’s what they want.
Guido: They ran it back in school too. Half the teachers were Chaldeans. This one motherfucker, big faggot, he was standing in front of class one day like he was high, just standing up there in a daze. I had not finished my paper on time and I took it up to him and said, “Mister [redacted 2], I didn’t finish my paper. And he turns around, carresses my chin real disgusting like, and says, “That’s okay,” and I put my dukes up and jumped back and said, “What’s da matter with you, you gay or some shit? Keep your hands off me!”
He did not say anything back, just went off back in his daze, and when I went back to my seat I saw that the whole class was like stunned, horrified at this shit, mouths and eyes wide open.
Rico: Oh, he was high. I came up later than you did, I think I was four years behind you. By that time everybody was high and drunk in school, teachers too. And we had this one teacher hitting the bottle in class, openly, we’d see him sitting there at his desk drinking.
Nero the Pict: No wonder. Imagine him dealing with all that? Damn, Baltimore was bad. But listening to you guys talk about New York makes me feel lucky.
Guido: Don’t even get me started on New York!
Nero: Started?
Rico: Yeah, like those big Irish cops that fucked with us and checked your bus tickets!
Guido: Oh those shanty Irish mick motherfuckers!
And the night war on in like wise…
Notes
-0. Ancient Chaldean astronomers from Hither Asia who are known by names which, if printed here, might cause great problems for my web master.
-1. slang for Chaldean
-2. This guy can remember the names of all of his school teachers from some 30 and more years ago. It makes sense to take super smart working class people like this and lock them in prisons with animals so that it keeps them from excelling in school work while they defend themselves like apes, reserving higher economic rungs for the sons of the elite.
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posted: November 24, 2022   reads: 435   © 2022 James LaFond
Hoboism
Ephretta, Pennsylvania: 6/18/2022
The timer still works in my head for getting up. Guido is to wake at 7:30, so I wake at 7:18, start coffee and clear the single bathroom.
A serene music rings from his smart phone from the main room were he lies flat on his back, dreaming, I suppose, about his youth being hunted by packs of savage ebony man-hounds across the Five Barrow Mounds of the grinning metropolis of evil he escaped four years ago and returns to twice a month like Charlton Heston in The Omega Man to resupply the few stranded natives he left behind in the swirling shithole that is America’s purest distillation far beneath Heaven’s disapproving eye.
“Hey, Bro—you sleep okay, everything okay, bed comfortable enough...need anything while I’m out?”
“No man, I’m good. Nero is coming to get me today. I’ll take out the trash when we go.”
“What a good dude. It was so nice to hang with him and Rico last night. You been productive enough here? A good enough writing spot? Anything I can do?”
“Everything was perfect. I’ll be back a week in July and in August.”
“Yeah, man—en I’ll be down ta Baltimore to spar with you en The Brick Mouse en drink with Big Ron...it ‘ill be a good summer—fuck this world!”
“A much deserved sentence, when finally passed. I like the navy blue on this uniform better than the other uniform from the last job.”
“Yeah, man that other job, they had me in Caribbean blue, anything to worship the ebony god.”
He puts on his shoes and grins wickedly, “You stayin’ with Nero and Cutie tonight?”
“Yeah, since my dumbass lost your spare door key, that seems to make the most sense.”
“Yeah, I wont be out until ten tonight at least.”
Stands and grasps right hand and does a shoulder hug, before grabbing his work bag and he says, as he opens the door and looks out into the just risen sun, “Have a good day, man—hope you get to see Erik’s new place, and you don’t have to go through the air lock and the UV light spectrum.”
We laugh at our memory of Brovid Jiveteen quarantine rituals from the last time we visited our mutual friend.
“Hey man, you have fourteen hours to save Boomer America from sloth, gluttony and misspent leisure!”
He grins and shakes his head, “Fat, whining America, here I come!”
He salutes the outer world, winks over his shoulder at me at the coffee pot, and out the welcome door and off to pointless work he goes.
America.
Thanks, Brother.
See you soon.
PS: Here I write at the bistro table, having taken the other chair to his work table where he composes music, draws comics and reads rare and weird books. The dryer finishes my clothes in the background and a cup of coffee remains in the pot. The rucksack yawns empty in the back room, waiting to be filled with the used clothes donated from found friends across the country.
This completes the search for Juju Quartermaine.
As I travel in three stages down to Baltimore, to Lancaster, then to Shrewsberry, then down into the guts of the beast, I will try only to finish writing Cox & Swain: once there I am scheduled to meet Captain Drake at a Timonium diner and discuss training with knives, then meet Jason the esoteric writer and a “half Vietnamese martial artist who wants to meet you,” at Orchard Market Cafe in Towson, and as I drift towards The Brick Mouse House meet a reader, a Baltimore native I have yet to meet, somewhere near, perhaps the Raven Inn in Towson or Racers in Parkville, who texted me the following two days ago when I sent my arrival date:
“Someone finally threatened to shoot me last week. So I feel like my Baltimore experience is complete.”
Here’s to a life incomplete.
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posted: November 23, 2022   reads: 478   © 2022 James LaFond
Patrimony
Flip Gotz Fans en Planz: Aspirations of a Flip Phone: 6/17/2022, Denver, PA
[Flip’s actual comments, now that I have discovered that he is possessed by the spirit of Juju Quartermaine, are in bracketts.]
Dammit, James. You should have said something. I could have taken you to a Verizon store fifteen minutes away and bought you a new flip phone.”
-Sean, by text, 6/16/2022
[Juz like dat, a perfectly good, dough long in da tooth, camoonicador get a lille ole en Da Man ready ta sell ole Flip down da river—trade ma ass in fo some young buck?]
Before the next text is read, I would like to point out that those fine ladies at The Bar in Portland, had, not knowing that Flip was an actual sentient being, thinking him to be some soulless smart phone, said such hurtful things while trying to see Flip’s quaintly old school postage stamp sized grandchild photo gallery as:
“Flip sucks! I hate Flip! Flip can’t see for shit!”
[Alright, ya’all gurls be fine enough en Flip ‘ill sure ‘nough take aride in you bra, Lootenant Ugoora...but check diz out…]
“Absolutely love Flip the Hero Phone! Been laughing about it since reading last night. I hope I get to see you on Saturday. I have to work and then have dinner plans with my soccer mom friend from Balti visiting for her sons soccer tournament. You’re welcome to spend the night tomorrow and we can drink rum like pirates.”
-Cutie Homesteaders, 6/17/2022, 11:18 AM
[Let me dee-cipher dat. Well, she cute, idz in da name even. En in case ya don’ know, she white! En, don’ ya know, dat the very first thing when she wakes up firz ting in da moanin’ is Flip! Not only do diz fine white woman—blonde on tap a dat—invite flip ova fo da night, but gonna get da drink on too. Dis goes ta proove the mystique of Flip fo all you Doubting Tories out dare. You don’ tink she actually wants dat eye-patch cracka what can’t keep ‘iz one eye off a her even while her Honey Cracka man tryin’ not ta take offense en loogin’ bag at the stove like it did sometin’ wrong? Oh, no. It is clear, crackers and jackers, Flip has got the mystique. It’s called, ‘Old School.’]
Sorry, serious readers, for entertaining my flip phone’s flights of fancy. But, when I was in that strip club in Jersey and Cutie was sending me a text hoping that I’d get a big ass lap dance, Juju Quartermaine materialized in the flesh, a three foot African midget dancing in the aisle with a six foot Hindoo criminal with a hand hookah casting wisps of smoke about like dancing devils. I think that perhaps Juju affected a possession of Flip at this time, an act which I opened myself up to by unwisely naming Flip and giving him an identity.
Also:
“Flip and Poppy. Good combo.”
-Land O’ Lakes Butter Babe, 6/17/2022
[See, like a Hennessey commercial!]
So, Flip has a plan, based on The Six Million Dollar Man TV series of my childhood. Flip has suggested that he be upgraded, made stronger, better, faster than he was before. Also, to his credit, once his dark soul has been cast into a more worthy vessel, he still wants to be black. He has also suggested larger keys, so that I don’t keep mixing the texts to the two babes who show up next to each other on his contact directory…
Thank you all for putting up with Flip. He makes me feel like Captain James T. Kirk of the United Federation Ship Enterprise, marooned on some weird planet that somehow went sideways in ways that could have only been predicted by a science-fiction writer.
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posted: November 22, 2022   reads: 532   © 2022 James LaFond
Visions of Decay
Overnight Conversations with Working Americans: Lancaster, Pennsylvania 6/19/2022
Three monologues while drinking beer and rum
Becky, Nurse:
The usual insanity as health care continues to fail. We lost five patients from strokes already this month. Once the fourth booster was administered they started dropping, one, two, three, four, five—totally predictable. The vaxx is just thinning them out. They are elderly. But still, it bothers you when you know they’re going to stroke out over this and we just keep rolling. Sorry, I’m hoarse, but my patients are elderly and I have to wear a fitted N-95 mask, which means they can’t hear me unless I yell.
Emmy, Physical Therapist:
I haven’t been boosted yet and my Supervisor is telling me that if I don’t get boosted with this shit that has done zero to protect the νаϲсіոated that I’m going to have to wear a fitted mask and a face shield and get tested. The entire thing is such bullshit and we just keep rolling onto the end of healthcare. We’re trying to keep people alive forever and they are miserable.
Steve, Maintenance Technician:
Bert, you know Bert is a brother and his entire mind is dedicated to pussy. He has an attractive African American wife who seems to like him.
We have to pull over so he can meet some chick and I’m like, “Why?”
“Bitch is bringing a sandwich and a blow job.”
“You mean the Spanish bitch?”
“Mexican, Dominican, whateva the fuck she is; she bringin’ a sandwich en a blow job or she in trouble.”
So we’re driving down the highway, and in the far lane, on the other side of Bert who is in the passenger seat, is this ugly land whale, an immensely fat bitch whose shocks are about to break in that little car. She is making eyes at Bert and Bert puts up his phone umber on a piece of paper and this woman texts him. Look, I like big girls, but this is like a five hundred pounder—very unappealing and I say something as Bert is texting and he’s like, “Big bitches need love to, en I dare fer ‘em.”
The texting develops and it turns out that this bitch is married and has a kid and the kid has some kind of terrible terminal disease and she needs to have sex and Bert is going to nail this land whale while her child is dying for whatever reason.
Downs syndrome, Bert is there. He says, “I love dem big fat pussies cuz dey so wet!”
This is the man that can do no wrong, that is born a saint and will ascend into Heaven based solely on his innate racial perfection!
Dianna, the dispatcher is calling him, getting drunk and calling him while she’s drinking wine at eleven at night. Dianna has sex with many of the contractors, drivers and technicians. She’s almost 50, was the high school cheerleader hottie, and is the only woman in an all male work place loaded with losers: drug addicts, skeevy types, dirt bags, coke heads, pill poppers, most of them straight up idiots. She is a sweet lady with terrible taste in men.
Jerry the coke head and her go down to the Ocean on vacation and he beats the shit out of her, gets arrested for it, and that comes back to the work place, all that drama.
She starts fucking Alvin, a contractor who runs half the crews, and you can tell he is doing it to get more bookings and working her and then leaves her in the lurch. We are at a meeting and she’s bubbling, her little feet tapping, tapping, tapping and she just explodes, an eruption of dramatic insanity, she starts to scream, “Fuck you, Alvin! You think you can fuck me, and then fuck me over! It’s not happening—get the fuck out of here—blah-blah-blub-blub-blub…”
He calls HR and we get audited and it’s a total pain in the ass…
[Author says, “Bert should be running HR.”]
[laughter]
Yeah, right, he’d get a complaint from a female and would be like, “Baby, you be comin’ in hea’ dressed all fine…”
[laughter]
Now it is a matter of time before Dianna fucks Bert and then more drama. Bert is already starting to go off on customers about perceived racial slights. He’s like a one-man reparations social debt finder, everything is about him being owed because of those ancient racial wrongs. On top of all this, he’s, well...he’s stupid.
We get to a job site to repair a roof leak and the man on site is like, “OSHA is here, you have to tie off, anchor the ladders,” the whole nine yards—shit we would never do.
And Bert is all indignant, “Fuck OSHA, I don’t know no OSHA—dat bitch can go back where she come from!”
The guy is just trying to let us know to come back tomorrow. There is no way you can do work when OSHA is there. The safety rules are off the chain and they’re out to fuck you. I say, “Bert, we have to go. We can’t play with OSHA.”
“Fuck OSHA, who da fuck dat bitch think she is!”
“Bro, OSHA is the FBI of this shit, fucking Federal Government, they can arrest us, fine us out the ass”— ‘Even raise your child support,’ says the smartass Emmy—“we have to leave or we could do time, man!”
This is the quality of men—and one woman—that I work with, putting the scotch tape, across the back of the bandaid, that my half-ass, shady company is trying to apply to the bone bleed of American infrastructure. And its only getting worse—parts are drying up and I’m saving units I’m supposed to scrap and salvaging parts, which mind, you, as the supply chain fails, is against company policy!
Emmy: And the heroin addicts down at Nora’s house are pissing on the sidewalk and passing out on Steve’s car...our taste of Baltimore keeps getting stronger…
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posted: November 21, 2022   reads: 626   © 2022 James LaFond
Hinter Station 2
Act 4 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
“A wiley Moor crept upon Roland,
having hidden among the dead.”
-Jest 2, ? Chant
Dark shadows ran on all fours in his dream, leaping down from the dark throne where they gnawed upon human bones, trundling like bears, malformed muscles rippling under their hairy hides—upward they ran, out of cave, through crack and into crevice…
He stood, looking longingly out over the Colorado River, heaving blue here and running white there, a wonderful ocean-seeking beast without a care that would wear its way where. He, wanting to howl for his lost lover, slathering to rip throats from those who so cunningly took her. He saw them there, down in the meadow meandering as if ants along that wintry drink of summer. Nostrils flaring, groans aching, he rose on his hind haunches and howled, howled to the unseen moon hidden in her luminary cave, howled so sorrowfully that his furious fellows forgot their hunger and howled with him, tears streaking their cheeks as dawn streaked the east.
His hips, they were stiff, not made for standing was he, and he eased back down on his front knuckles...and she was under him, pulling him into her, a knife held at his heart—‘What?’
She was licking up the blood that swelled there on his chest, her legs wrapped around his hips, a little thing like a factor’s stylus in her small brown hand, his blood mussing her pouting lips.
“What,” he started languidly.
She kissed his bloody chest, his first hairs glistening in blood under the half-light of dawn, filtered into the canvas tent. She pulled him close with her legs and licked more blood from his chest as she poked with that thing in the half light—“I am almost done, lover, do not stop—fill me.”
Spent, he lay on his back as she bent over him and applied oil to the cross she had poked into his skin, a mourning hump in nunnery robes at the cross’s foot, her face his left nipple. He was calm beyond calm, not tired, but somehow felt new like an old shoe. He realized that another, a wendigo, lurking and gnawing in a cave up high, yearned for her like a lost soul.
She was now dressing him, “Revelry is in mere minutes, Brawn—soon to be Brash.”
The men were bustling all about. There was a heavy tramp of hooves and of feet, jangling spurs and sliding leathers.
She looked up at him, fearful for the first time since he had known her and he saw there, her fear and realized she was weak for all of her wiles. She made to look ahead and he grabbed her by the hair and forced her to look into his eyes. “Your wendigo, did you etch a cross over his heart too?”
A tear escaped her left eye, the other glared icily dry.
She regained her composure with a blink and hissed, “I marked the one whose heart I wish to keep. You breed on us and then fight over us like meat. To Mother Mary and Her Child on the cross I pray that the human-looking one is the strong, his daughter to nurse. If the first to take me proves the stronger, his son shall be my curse.”
He was detached as she continued to dress him and tried to frame her words and his dream through his limited capacity, “Like a bitch got bred by a wolf invites the hound in hopes she’ll bear no wild seed en ‘er master displease?”
“Yes,” she shot him a pained glance, “I am that wolf-bred bitch and you the best hound that could be found.”
He smiled at her and she cried—both eyes, honestly—as she dressed in one motion on her knees and tossed her hair, “Beast that he is, he loves me more than you.”
He agreed, feeling suddenly like a risen star, “Yes he does, woman. Now my socks and boots before you leave.”
She whimpered like a kicked puppy. But went to her work she did, on her knees, dressing his feet, looking up into his uncaring eyes through a tearfall of pain only a woman—he somehow knew—could understand.
She made to leave the tent in a hurry and he grabbed her hair and kissed her cheek and whispered, “Take your blood pen and lantern. I won’t trust ye ta share my bed after I slay ‘im—go.”
For emphasis he slapped her on the butt as she scrambled for these things, her tears coming loose in a blubber, her whole being running from him as he somehow knew she had not run from her beastly lover.
He recalled the gross proportions of the Wendigo—who were all male, those they had seen, like a bull and a stallion, and he became coolly focused, walking in his mind—not raging or fuming—but hunting to kill her beast.
‘Up with you cuckold to a monster. Face the dreadful day.’
‘Who are you inside of me?’ he mused as he gathered his belt and weapons.
‘What part of me is he that Ole Billy Ree let see?’
Saddler and Penny Breed stood to Attention, the entire camp already geared, saddled, at attention, The Knight Brass grinning in haughty joy, smiling wide at the crying, flying squaw, thundering, “And a rake to boot!” slapping him hard on his back and facing the circle of men as Alissa ran crying to the softly curved lass meant for her brother, who Brawn now wanted for his own.
The Knight Brass fairly roared, “Men—all of you, not a boy here, every one a ranger, a sergeant or a knight—I give you, The Knight Brash!”
The brass trumpet blared and the men cheered and The Squire Brass brought Brawn Don Silver’s war sword, a great sweep of steely edge, crossed crooked wise in the Hindoo fashion rather than cupped. The Squires whispered, “A Sikh Shamishar of Fabled Hindoory—the best blade made beyond Toledo and Damascus.”
The men cheered and the horn blared as he took the sword in its silver scabbard.
Then, The Knight Brass took the hand of his squire and bellowed, “The Knight Brash is hereby raised to that rank, by The Two Knights Brass. We are three, whole of heart and thirsty for battle and committed to driving back the devils of Wendigory!”
“You who live with victory shall each be a sergeant raised!”
Brawn looked at The Factor Brass, who grinned that he was not idiot enough to accept the knightly post, yet stepped down off of his mount, as tall as the other two noble men, but lank, and entered a huddle hug with them. As the men cheered The Factor, by far the smartest man in Sword Brass, hissed, “Do not expect me to play Archbishop Turpin to your Roland, Oliver and butchered Ganfree—I intend to live to see civilization again. But cheers to you three Knights Lunatic!”
They grinned and hugged, slapped backs, and turned to salute the men. The ranks all raised their weapons, in cheer, happy to have now three meat shields committed to leading from the front and soaking up the maximum quantity of bullets, arrows and strokes.
The Factor then said to Brawn, “You will not command, until your betters have fallen. As Underknight, your duty is to Second The Knight Brass, to preserve his life. This you have done once. Once you have done it thrice, only then will you be a full knight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Factor patted him on the back with a hand that said, “Trust me, for I know the way.”
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posted: November 20, 2022   reads: 280   © 2022 James LaFond
Hinter Station 1
Act 4 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
“By my right arm I pledge,
and by the beard that flutters down my breast…”
-Said Old Blancendrin, First Jest, First Chant
The Knight Brass himself brought the Indian seductress masquerading as the maid to The Lady Blake to their humble ranger fire, where they played a game of cribbage—Brawn and Saddler—a three way game, with them taking turns playing Stock Issue’s hand. At other fires, hands were played for Can’t Jew and the Station Sergeant.
They made to stand at attention and The Knight said, “No, play your man’s last hand.”
They tipped their hats and The Knight, motioned to the gray destrier taken from the camp of Don Silver, “I have named this horse after Archbiship Turpin’s steed, Wide Awake. He is yours Sergeant—as is the maid Alissa, until she is needed for her lady’s breakfast and tea in the morning.’
Brawn made to rise and thank in a single motion and the Knight gave him the staying hand, “You fight by my side—I’ll not play at King with the brave.”
And the weird knight walked off into the fading light.
The woman, now named to him for the second time, his first to remember, dismounted and tended to the horse like a mestizo demi-scout what knew his business from the papoose. She then came to them in her blue dress, dragged over the heavy saddle before Stock Issue’s losing hand and took up his cards and said, “The poor man-murdered boy should at least win this hand,” and she commenced to murder the both of them in the game as sure as The Sword Brass felled the rabble of Don Silver. Her peg passed them by and left them in a distant gaggle fighting for second place in the elliptic peg race.
“Well I’ll be good en goddamned,” quipped Saddler; “The Lady here knows her cards, she does.”
Her eyes regarded them both, and when she slid them sideways left to glance at Penny Breed, that worthy savage ducked his head under a pilfered poncho. Returning her eyes to Brawn, she batted them and soothed, “You have finally remembered my name, Lover.”
He licked his lips as he regarded her hips absently, and, as Saddler snorted, “I’ll be a lusty brute’s uncle—ye know she’s Uppity Mighty o’ New Spain—clear to me en The Factor, too, dough Our Brave Knight Brass only sees a princess in dat fair milky lass.”
Alissa regarded Saddler and smiled, a smile that was the very simultude of womanly wile, “Compliment’s Sergeant, on not compounding your crudity with stupidity.”
“Lady, yer secret’s safe wit me.”
“Yes,” she said, “for you wish to leave these soon-to-be-dead to serve my Father, Don Blake—a ruse I might recommend.”
“A caper o’ arms, Lady?”
“No,” interjected Brawn.
They both regarded him harshly and he continued, “We need Saddler against the Wendigo. I have no leadership and the Knight, ah, he’s optimistic.”
Saddler regarded him for a fool and she pursed her lips and slid her hand down the unseen bruised expanse of his inner right thigh where his horse rolled him when this dead day was newly born. She then stretched out on her knees and kissed him.
Reclining back upon the dead man’s crib saddle, she collected the cards and said in sultry tones, “We cannot leave until the hell-beasts are fought—either up Heaven’s Stair or by parley. If victory, I’ll name my escort to The Knight Brass as Saddler.”
She then patted her belly, “Though I didn’t have a name in his heart until now, I have what I need of surly Brawn—who may, Sergeant, as you guess be too high-minded to be your spawn.”
Brawn had an urge to grab her and drag her into the tent.
Noting his abrupt twitch and his regaining of poise, she laughed like the morning spheres, “Please, do, Future Knight Brash.”
Such a light and well-knit thing should not be so self-assured while she was dragged by her lustrous hair into the place of her use. But she purred in brazen contentment as Saddler warned Penny Breed, “Breed, keep dis unda heed en I’ll name ye me secon’ fo dat fair land o’ fair women—wondrous wanton as ye see, even dem datz High Uppity.”
Night fell in a sensual fury. Before the moon was risen Alissa, produced a mini-lantern from her purse, lit its wick, and produced the deck of cards she had taken from them.
“Do you want the cribbage board?”
“No, Love.”
She then sorted the deck and mused, “A game of faces, Lover. This is not the deck which I typically consult, though it will do.”
Alissa was sorting through the cards, setting aside all of the numbered cards, except for four. From those, she produced one after the other and pointed to the symbol, obviously for him to answer:
“Three of diamonds.”
She smiled, “Pentacles,” darling, sorcerers, alcemists and such, schemers who have only become associated with precious stones due to the assent of conspiracy over decency.
“Ten of hearts.”
She smiled wider, “Cups” my dear, the noble class, the knightly class who drink and sing and fight lustily but with little brains—your beloved Roland being paramount.
Her hair brushed his still barren chest and thrilled him...but to her game… [1]
“Eight of spades.”
“Her eyes narrowed, “Swords, My Love, royalty, kings those who seize and hold power, even if for a mere day, a battle, or for crusade.”
Hesitant he asked, “Three of, clubs?”
“Ah, so glad you do not reckon us cudgels. This is the clover, the magic of the earthly folk, the native people, the scent of this hair you like so. My mothers and my grandmothers all; Indio, squaw—a few even princesses. Don Blake the First was as fair as you, in 1807 when he took service with Spain. After 234 years we never see blond hair and rarely blue eyes—our noble blood flows thin. This is why I came for your love—or one like you.”
She then pulled out a joker, shown in his comic cap and collar spilling cards.
“The joker?”
“Try Jester, like the composer of The Song of Roland you know so well. All of these other cards are his pawns, strings to his harp, rhymes in his story. The jester among cards supplants Lady Fortune and the scheming Norns and Furies—he is the poet in time.”
She then shuffled the face cards on his chest and blew a kiss across his belly, “So strong, so much Brawn, so worthy of a hero song. You will die before you let the wendigo take me, this true I know. This is why I stay so long...besides you make my shadowed heart sing. I’m not so strong as I seem.”
“I draw, you guess, who or what among the Three Knightly Awes or among the Dons of New Spain, is:
[ace of hearts]
“I don’t know.”
“Brawn, soon to be The Knight Brash—you lover, with the heart to help and the wit to win.”
“I’m getting it.”
[ace of spades]
He grinned, “The Factor Brass!”
“Yes, Brawny love…”
[king of diamonds]
“Don Silver!”
“Yes, the fallen conspirator.”
[ace of clubs]
“You, Alissa!”
“Of course,” she smiled widely.
[jack of hearts]
“One-eyed jack, sharp spying, loyal...Praying Trigger Tim!”
She winked seductively in agreement, “You are so smart, Lover.”
[king of clubs]
“Don Blake, your father.”
She blew him a kiss and dealt:
[queen of spades]
“Ah, why, I have no idea.”
“They say, Lover that she summons swords with song in a northern Wester English convent.”
“The Rose Lady of Whitefish Nunnery, she would be, have heard it said she purified Knights Trace there with song unseen—sings to rangers even who ride back from there transformed.”
[king of hearts]
“The suicide king—The Knight Brass for a certain.”
She smiled and dealt:
[jack of spades]
“The black one-eyed jack—gots ta be Sarge!” he whispered... and she grinned and dealt:
[queen of clubs]
“Yer ma, I’d say.”
“Thank you, Lover...it is true and she has eyes as sad as this careless wrought depiction.”
[queen of hearts]
He scratched his head, “In the spirit of the game, I’d say your fair maid.”
She hissed, “Of course, but she is not for you! Not, for, you, Lover! She will be bred by my brother, has the hip and breast to make me an auntie ten times.”
[jack of clubs]
“I don’t know.”
“Could be anybody, the next promotion, the Squire maybe distinguishing himself at last.”
[queen of diamonds]
“Can’t say.”
“She remains unseen but not unfelt—perhaps a witch of Voodoory?”
[ace of diamonds]
“Ole Billy Ree?”
“Maybe,” she frowned and dealt:
[king of spades]
“The Comanche Chief, A’Quah for a certain.”
She agreed and dealt the final card:
[jack of diamonds]
“A traitor sergeant of some kind, or the paige turned coward?”
“Possibly,” she agreed as she stacked the cards and put them away, tweaking her own nipples hard, “I hope I milk up enough. I don’t want a mestizo wet nurse choking our baby with her thick slurry, and Dear Ellen will not be pregnant until two months after me—this will be my only baby and I want blue-eyed milk for her.”
She mounted him, kissed him and whispered, “This is our last love to make—I don’t want you to forget me.”
“Slim chance there,” he said huskily. “But why me, why choose me?”
She kissed him, “Because you thought yourself too good for love, too good for me by far, even too good for fair milky Lady Blake of golden-haired fantasy.”
She bit his lips slightly and hissed, “You have your horse, your gun, your knife and now a sword to be presented to you at revelry. Little Alissa only has these lips, these eyes, these hips, these kisses to magic thee. Don’t forget me, young Knight Brash, when you fight the Oldens of Night.”
Since she put it that way, he rolled her over and fell into yet another box canyon of desire.
“Take me to Hinter Station now!” she growled as her arms threaded about his neck and pulled him closer into her night-haired net.
He woke in the night, with her pouring warm wax over his heart and kissing it, and then anointing his private parts with oil and praying over his manhood, holding and counting on her rosary, and kissing the emblem of Mother Mary, like a nun before a cathedral altar.
‘Uppity ups are insane, and women are insane, so, what can a ranger expect this far from the reasonable light of day then the two sorts of branded lunatic are one in the same?’
Notes
-1. Ace, Standard Face playing cards with English-Spanish label, used for this writing.
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posted: November 19, 2022   reads: 320   © 2022 James LaFond
Call of the Wile
Man Weekend Pre-Invitations for 2023: 6/15/2022
Sean’s Man Weekend on his East Tennessee Homestead was the first of its kind in three years and was by far the best attended and most useful to the knuckle-dragging aspirations of those who gathered in a bid to elevate gruntdom above the prevailing National Faggotry. On Sunday morning before Mescaline Franklin and I departed for points east, the few remaining men discussed points of innovation for next year.
Keeping in mind that Sean did the cooking, and fought the most, and that I wrangled the gear and sanitizer and that he was close to heat stroke and my brittle ass could have at any moment broke, and the fighters need to concentrate on their performance and improvement we need:
-More lead time, which Sean will provide, maybe even getting the invitation posted before this goes up in the autumn.
-A long weekend:
...Friday arrive
...Saturday spar and train with a morning and afternoon training clinic
...Sunday Grunt Church—the fighting
…Monday departure
Refereed and scored bouts:
...The 1 minute round is perfect for mixing up matches and for reflecting a realistic survival situation.
...Fighters both select a referee from among the fighters and when the round is over, the three decide whether it was a draw or if there was a winner
...Blade rounds will no longer be timed but be best of three clean strokes
-Non-Combatants:
-Photographer/videographer
-Cook [so that Sean could coach during down times] who would also be the hydration natsy and medic
-Matchmaker/time keeper/score keeper and gear wrangler
Battles
The men want to have group fights.
My idea follows:
...This is done with boxing gloves, with the caveat that an ungloved hand just grabs. This makes three types of human chess pieces: two fists, two hands or hand and fist.
...That we fight by state contingents or alliance combinations in groups of 3-5, 6-8 or 9 plus.
...That we do this on the mat, which is about ten feet wide, lining up along the wide or narrow axis depending on the number of fighters
...That this is a timed bout of 1 minute for small teams, 2 for medium teams and 9 for the big brawl.
...We should have a lot of fun ideas and the non combatant observers, as with the news, should assign victory and defeat via vote, just like the media does.
Pre-Invites
For the men who did not make it or were not invited due to the short notice, Sean is interested in knowing if more like-minded knuckleheads would be willing to attend:
Pennsylvania
-Erique
-Nero the Pict
-Guru Rick
Jersey-New York
-Banjo
-Crux Cross
-Mister Saffrono
-Any mates of Backfist Mick and Marcus Mickus?
Maryland
-Brett
-Incognegro
-The Arborist Next Door would considerably beef up the Brick Mouse House Team
Great Lakes
-Electric Dan
-Dexter Devil Hand
-Their Big Goon Escrima Instructor [sorry, I forget the names of really good looking men who tower over me...its a self-esteem preservation theme]
-Richard Barrett
Rocky Mountains
-Bob [recommended cook]
-Zack
-Jon Grace
-Pen Dread
Pacific Northwest
-Yeti Waters
-Portland Joe
-Capoera Eric
-The Captain
-The Colonel
-British National
Appalachia
-Juan Stabone, we need a rain check for our wrastle
...
Southwest
-Bart Maney
-Sam Finlay
Backpack Republic
Hey, if there are any homeless knuckleheads out there, I’d feel a little less lonely at brawl time.
Webmaster's Note
As it says in Man Weekend 2023, the date is currently set to May 19-20.
11.20.22   Clued — If something goes on in the great lakes region I could probably make that
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posted: November 18, 2022   reads: 678   © 2022 Clued
Post Fight Roster & Awards
Man Weekend 2022: 6/13/2022
This is a unilateral knucklehead award with a committee of one presiding.
Classes
Bigg Fooger = 265 pounds plus [1]
Goons = 200 pounds plus [3]
Meat Shields = 170 to 199 [8]
Twerps = under 170 [2]
Roster
Fighters by State
Home Team
Appalachia: it is Mega State
Sean Glass: Goon
Andrew “King of Dogs” Edwards: Meatshield
Maryland: People’s Republic of
Cory: Bigg Fooger
Brick Mouse: Twerp
Mister Tony: Meatshield
Black Metal: Meatshield
Pennsylvania: Plantation of
InTheseGoingsDown AKA Mescaline Franklin: Meatshield
Kieth: Meatshield
Dennis! Goon
Man of Mystery: Meatshield
New Jersey: Shithole of
Backfist Mick: Meatshield
Markus Mickus: Goon
Missouri: Meth State of
Paul Bingham: Meatshield
Rucksack Republic
James LaFond: Twerp
Awards
-1. General Custer’s Ghost
For the man who went in over his head the most, pro-rated for lack of experience
Black Metal, who was smaller than everyone he fought, except for Little Evil runner up, James, who this guy fought in a machete duel, after getting dissected with the training knife.
-2. Little Evil
For the small fighter who most bedeviled the meatshields, goons and bigg foogers
The Brick Mouse AKA Bad Smitten who dropped a goon in boxing and also beat the only other twerp there in a vicious stick fight.
-3. Conan
For most upbeat, muscled-up, enthusiastic, barbarian
Hands down, Dennis for gorilla wrestling and gorilla ghost boxing, applying power-lifting to combat with a wry grin
-4. Marcus Aurelius’ Bodyguard
For most stoic participant:
Paul “Yes Sir” Bingham
Runner up: Mister Tony
-5. Daniel Boone
For the man who left behind the woman most in need [who by associate wins the Rebecca Boone Award] to go do man stuff
Hands down, Andrew Edwards, who was nominated by Dennis
-6. King of Pain
For the man with the most pain tolerance
Cory, who ate sick kicks from Sean and took cruel stick strokes from James without a wince.
-7. Gentleman
For the fighter you would most want as a brother-in-law or son-in-law or chaplain if you were going to war
Kieth, who went to church as his last Man Weekend act—say what, paleface?
-8. Savage
For the most all-around tenacity, including distance traveled and conditions beyond the ring endured
Markus Mickus, who drove while drinking from Jersey to Tennessee, slept on three inch gravel and mixed it up the most in grappling, which was the hardest event, and competed in more types of fighting than any other novice.
-9. Stud
For the man who fought in every event, kicked the most ass and would be most likely used as breeding stock for aliens seeking to domesticate humans as war slaves
Hands down, Sean, victor in the first sjambok duel, who put in more rounds than any fighter.
-10. Old Bull
Fighter over 50 who did the most to crush the hopes and dreams of the young bucks
James by default, being the only fighter over 50. Let’s change that. These young bucks need to be humbled!
-11. Hard to Kill
For the fighters that were most difficult to cleanly dispatch with edged weapons
-Knife: Mescaline Franklin
-Steel: Cory
Match Awards for Best Fight in Category
-12. Technical
Backfist Mick vs Sean in Boxing
Runner-Up
Marcus Mickus vs Sean in Grappling
-13. Sickest Fight In Category
Exotic Weapons
Sean vs James with Sjambock
Stick
Brick Mouse vs James
Knife
Brick Mouse vs Mescaline Franklin
Wrestling
Dennis vs Cory
Boxing/Kick Boxing
Sean vs Cory
That is all this old knucklehead can think of in the way of awards. Thanks to Sean for cooking and Mister Saffrono who could not make it and The Man of Mystery for their generous patronage of the Knucklehead Arts.
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posted: November 17, 2022   reads: 669   © 2022 James LaFond
Dancing With the Brick Mouse
Man Weekend 2022: 6/10-11/2022
Written from memory on 6/16/2022
The Brick Mouse contacted me through The Myth of the 20th Century podcast in May 2018. In June, 2018, just as I became homeless and return from a vacation with two lusty ladies, I was fat and bloated and agreed to train this man and some of his fellows.
Four years later three remain, of the ten, and they came to fight in Tennessee, which is what young bucks among seasoned bulls must do. This was the least experienced fighting contingent. While the more experienced fighters came mostly to socialize around the fighting, these guys came to fight.
They broke out the boxing gloves on the gravel driveway and sparred as soon as they got into out-of-town on Friday evening. I think that God put us all together for this one, that men from three generations, with fight and combat training experience ranting from 48 years down to a year, gathered to bring in knew fighters to the knucklehead fraternity of tried chins.
I had sparred with all three. The Brick Mouse had much improved in our training this spring, but I had not spared with Mister Tony or Black Metal for almost a year. After the gun range and the stick training, I spoke with the heavy hitters, the four guys I could not deal with in the ring if they really turned up the hat, and let them know what was needed, that these Maryland men were in over their head on a great adventure and needed to get punched in the face and keep coming until they clicked into knucklehead gear.
The three acquitted themselves well and The Brick Mouse dropped a goon with a sneaky off-beat right cross. After the fight he said to me, “Was I off base there? Did I take advantage of him?”
“Bro, you’re the twerp here. Your job is to be Little Evil and pester the hell out of the rest of us. You are supposed to take advantage of us—especially the big ones!”
“Okay, but what about our stick fight. I sprained my instep and need to wear shoes.”
“Tell Sean. When we fight I’m not going to try and break your leg like I did in 2019 to horrify that karate class and see what you were made of. That is done. This is going to be a high speed technical bout. We will hit as fast as we can, but will not be looking for maximum power. We don’t need this to be a test of who has thicker forearms, but who moves better, who would win with a cutlass.”
The man I originally called Bad Smitten, because he leaps like Peter Pan with a taser to hand and has applied his racket [can’t spell the French version] sport mechanics to stick work is quicker, taller, lunges better, and is a lefty. I have better offbeat timing, footwork, am a whole lot tougher and a little heavier. By taking power out of it and not just wading in and trading, this becomes a pick-em fight.
First, he tries to smash my big toe [I’m barefoot] and gets a piece of it—argh—and its on!
This was such a quick fight and he was so fast, that I can’t remember the sequence. But at one point, after some trading, which he got the best of with inside and outside strokes, I felt the spring go from my legs and backed against the wall and told him to finish it. He doesn’t have a killer instinct yet, and that is what he needs. This is not a work, but a fight that I want to be decided on technical terms, not based on me taking and delivering harder strokes and having a killer instinct while he is still a thinker.
The term of the fight was that it was to be technical—a test of applied skill. He did not know I was slipping. So I let him know that it was time to go for the kill. In this way, the fencing mask permits the more experienced fighter to be an opponent and a corner man, since you can talk behind the mask without getting your jaw broken. [1]
He then pestered my with whipping shots, cavorting like a demon at the brink of the Abyss, to the point where I charged him and he caught both of my wrists with strokes [2] and knocked my stick free—which he went for as I tackled him and he rolled me over into a reversal as time was called—a savage minute of which he was victor, with more strokes scored, a disarm scored and a take-down reversed. I would have scored that fight 10-8 on boxing’s 10-points must system.
Up at the house, The Brick Mouse, and Black Metal were discussing improvements to the gym with Sean and how they could help with their trade skills. The subject came up of forced νаϲсіոation in trade unions. I will paraphrase the Brick Mouse’s dissident comedy heroics below, trying to recall his monologue.
“James told me that Big Tony in Portland had gotten a homeless man to take his νаϲсіոe shot. I wanted to avail myself of this, because I absolutely know that this MR&A stuff is experimental at best and possibly a bio-weapon. Unfortunately, I’m in my late twenties, and look like I’m in my early twenties, and homeless people, well, to be charitable, they age quickly.
[laughter]
“I find this one guy, and he’s in his sixties and looks old as dirt. Also, I’m not paying $20 for my guy like in Portland where there is an army of homeless. I’m paying Baltimore rates based on scarcity of the homeless supply and have to give this guy a hundred! And of course, I’m not a big gorilla that can just drag a guy around.
“The first place I take my homeless guy to, I’m standing back there and he has my I.D. and takes it to this no-nonsense female clerk who says, ‘Sir, it says here that you are 29?’
“The guy does not miss a beat, ‘Well, hun, you know, I’m from Middle River—and life’s been hard!’
[We were laughing so hard I forgot if this bum got the shot or they beat a retreat, I think the latter.]
“So, I get this other homeless guy, younger, less worn down by the years and living conditions, and a good deal more savvy. My guy is 40 but looks 50, so I’m sweating it. Again, he has my I.D. he quickly gets the read of the place and sees that there are two parallel intake lines. One is being processed by a no-nonsense Asia Woman. The other line is being processed by this very young person with the shaved side of the head and the mop-headed do, and he takes that line.
[laughter]
“My guy gets up to the counter, and minds you he looks twice as old as I look and he’s significantly taller, and the kid behind the counter looks at him, and at the I.D. and then back at him, and openly laughs—and passes him right through...did not give a shit!”
[laughter]
“I must say, that I am worried about getting my booster—an increase in the homeless supply would be helpful.”
Even when Mother Civilization does Her best to wax ugly, she wanes beautiful... even atimes in the folds of Her most graceless crows feet.
Well done, Young Sir!
Notes
-1. The full beard helps keep the fencing mask stable, cushions chin shock and reduces spinning of the mask and protects the throat with extra padding. I had to do this [tell him to come in and finish] with Portland Joe in March as well. This is an important developmental hurdle for the technical fighter, to begin developing instinctive aggression.
-2. Bruising the left flexor tendon of my checking hand and somehow knocking my stick from my hand, perhaps through pressure on the nerve behind the thumb, as the base of my thumb is still a bit numb, though there was never a bruise, arguing that he might have hit my stick while in an umbrella block or used a pen block beat to catch the butt of my stick and eject it. It will be interesting to see the video.
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posted: November 16, 2022   reads: 749   © 2022 James LaFond
Masculine Brutalistics
Man Weekend 2022: 6/11/2022
Written from memory on 6/15/2022
“Same man. Had a great time. Glad to know all of you savages.”
Really great thing. I saw for instance that dude Anthony [1] gain real life confidence.”
-Backfist Mick, 6/15/2022
“You are such a savage beast.”
-A Lady friend I sent a picture of Sean’s machete bruised leg to
Here I will try to recall what I experienced fighting with various men. Much of the boxing I cannot remember as I was in over my head trying to keep up with better men. I do recall in my bouts with Sean and John and the two with Paul, that I felt like I was moving and jabbing fine, and then when I got hit, it all went to hell and I ended up standing in front of them.
After Sean hit me in the body there was no sense in even trying to stay away. So I just trusted him not to bat me out of the park and tried to be a decent sparring partner. I do recall deciding to foul him with a lateral hammer fist, which I am told scored.
Going glove to glove with Backfist Mick I tried southpaw and ate a text book lead rear hand right on the chin and discovered why boxing commissions do not allow these Nordic beards—they soften the blow. Seriously, the punch was less stunning than it should have been. Mick later caught me in a glove bind with the cuff of the glove and was turning me so well that I stumbled and went to my left knee hard. I do not know if I ever hit the man. Comically, when I swept and mopped the ring after the event I found 7 long, curly silver hairs on the black canvas, who died defending their home base!
I will cover boxing Paul in its own article, because he is a novice and gave me some breathing space to hit the black box recording.
With Andrew I decided to do a self-defense drill round, where I came at him open handed and tried to clinch as he boxed and moved and counter clinched as Sean coached.
With knives, I basically butchered the men I went against through triangle movement, except for Mescaline Franklin who it was almost impossible to get a clean cut or stab on. Some of the knife stuff had to be slowed down for novices so they would get something out of it. Marcus Mickus, Black Metal, Paul and Andrew had their first real goes with blunt knives, and as usual, by the end of their first round ever, were easily twice as fit for a knife fight as at the beginning.
Black Metal scored a cut on me with machetes in our best of three cuts duel.
Cory and I drew in a gladiatorial kill bout in which he broke my right ring finger with his steel shield and we went the minute distance.
I bested Sean 2 cuts to one, with the final cut at the bell a chop to his tendon above the left thigh that left a deep six inch semi-circle bruise. That would have been a crippling and possibly mortal blow with sharps.
The stick fight with the Brick Mouse was sick and will have its own article.
For my stick fight with Cory I had him select the weapons and he chose two heavy rattan sticks each. His footwork was good and his high line defense was tight. I could not get his leg so went for that big belly to get him to drop his guard so I could smash his head. I thought I was missing his belly or not hitting hard enough for he never dropped his guard or even winced. Afterwards Cory lifted up his shirt and showed three or four 8 inch long high velocity bruises. Good job!
In the end, Sean and I did a stick and Sjambok duel. Since he is a lefty, and we could not use our sticks to defend outside gate strokes, this turned into a battle of attrition, with us trading three times. On the third trade I lashed his shoulder blade laterally as he whipped mine vertically. I remember going to my knee in shock and saying to myself, ‘I’m going to get up and make him quit.’
Then, as I meant to rise, some part of me quit and the other part laughed at the baby inside that managed to steal victory from its fleshy cage once again.
Later that night as we spoke in the house, Sean recalled my stories about his prison guard job, that not only had I remembered the facts after one late night conversation to write them accurately a year later, but that I had done a composite of his two female coworkers that was perfect. Also, he wondered, “How did you know that the transport officers were egging these guys on to fight me? Because I didn’t know until I quit and one of them told me that they always encouraged the felon to fight the intake guard, even telling them that if they beat me they would release him!”
“Well,” I mused, “if grocery clerks do it in a supermarket with new hires, I figured cops did it with new inmates.”
It’s been an honor to be associated with Sean now since 2015.
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posted: November 15, 2022   reads: 829   © 2022 James LaFond
Masculine Kinetics
Man Weekend 2022: 6/11/2022
Written from memory on 6/17/20220
The concept behind Modern Agonistics is developmental combat function through experimental training and competition. In this segment, discussion of training, this year and next year, at Man Weekend [1] is the theme.
Very few of the men attending wish to compete at a high level in a combat sport. Most simply want to be able to defend themselves if attacked and to be able to get together with like-minded knuckleheads and go at it in the ring or on the mat, to be able to reach deep within and see what is there, hopefully to find and pluck forth a savage shard of rough wash-rock.
Our developmental training was in two stages:
In the morning while the gun range was active, I worked with Paul Bingham on his boxing, using movement drills in the ring with him slapping my shoulders and learning time, measure and motion. This guy’s hands are so thick and strong that I had to change shoulders and then change the drill from the heavy-handed slaps to push-touch. If he can lighten those hands and make them whips, then a year down the road they will be many times heavier in fight.
I determined there that if he fought Sean bare knuckle it would be a one-sided beating and advised against it. I will continue Paul’s combat story in the next piece.
Next Paul and Andrew Edwards took turns doing light stick coach-sparring with me in the ring while Cory watched. I then detailed Cory to go over fundamentals with Andrew. Latter on I showed Andrew the forearm conditioning exercises used for developing power, as Cory had covered the range of motion.
The next developmental phase of the day was Sean boxing with each man who needed work or was a novice. Afterwards, Andrew spoke to me about the concept behind boxing that he had earlier held, based on the technical points I had given on making the man miss and then hitting him well with a counter based on how closely you made him miss, to Sean’s post contact assertion, that boxing is all about domination. I will paraphrase below my ringside confirmation as men moved in the ring behind me:
“To a boxer, the man who is trying to score the hard telling blow, to get the ‘one shot, one kill’ epon of Karate, or the unanswered flurry of Gung Fu, or the submission of grappling or kill stroke of dueling, is not called a boxer, but a puncher, a man with the puncher’s chance of ending a fight at any moment. The men that boxers call boxers, are the men who have developed the ability to use movement, rhythm, time-and-measure and various skills, to coolly control their interaction with a dangerous man that cannot simply be knocked out. In this way boxing is closest to stick fighting, where a battle of psychological and physical attrition is conducted over a fixed period of time, a battle in which two men try and use their fists and associated skills to dominate the combat space.
“This has great utility when generalized too self-defense and survival situations. For the common ‘serious’ military style martial arts usually focus on rendering the attacker unconscious, which means possibly dead. Since the law in such situations assigns the attacker role to he who injures the other party, regardless of who actually launched the attack, then the puncher’s chance or karate ‘kill’ strike presents a great legal liability and puts the autonomy we ultimately fight for in jeopardy. We will see with the knives and sticks how that domination of the combat space that is key to boxing is expressed on more lethal terms.”
Andrew was mostly interested in the weapons as an observer and learning attendee. We got him out there with the knives to get the feel of the linkage between pugilism and survival with a weapon that has an identical range to the fist. The stick round, which almost everyone avoided fighting in, but many were interested in trying at a slow pace, put an idea in my mind. Typically, when sparring with The Brick Mouse or Portland Joe, lean athletic guys like Andrew, who train for self-defense, I will finish the final round of sparring by casting aside my stick or sticks and trying to clinch with them while they check and beat. The mask affords a way for me to talk to him while he is hitting me in the head and checking my shoulder. We did this drill which was videoed and hopefully goes up. In such a drill I am trying to touch his hips [take down or clinch] check his shoulder [shirt grab] and touch his face with my extended fingers [eye rake, razor slash] or palm [punch].
Sean wants to do an entire training camp the day before fighting, next year. Here are the sessions we hope to cover, [noting likely coaches in brackets], suggesting a time length for each, in an order that is progressive, both behaviorally and mechanically. Having a non-combatant match maker, maybe an older man who used to fight, observing training and sparring and suggesting good matches for the next day might be a bonus in linking te training progression with the fight registration at the end.
-0. 7:30-8 AM: Warm Up
-1. 8-9 AM: Boxing fundamentals: movement, bag, shadow, partner [James, Sean & Backfist]
-2. 9-10 AM: Boxing sparring [James, Sean & Backfist]
-3. 10-11 AM: Weapon Fundamentals [James, Brett, Cory, Sean]
-4. 11-12 AM: Blade Sparring [James, Brett, Cory, Sean]
Lunch
-5. 1-2 PM: Stick Sparring [Brett, James, Cory, Sean]
-6. 2-2:30 PM: Surviving stick & blade attacks [Sean, James]
-7. 2:30-3 PM: Canes, bats, shields, jackets, umbrellas, machetes [James, Sean]
-8. 3-3:30 PM: Kicking [Sean]
-9. 3:30-4:30 PM: Grappling basics [Sean, Backfist & other grapplers assisting]
-10. 4:30 Event Entry, signing up for participation in the following the next day, match maker recording coaches advising.
Fight Day Events
-1. Boxing is mandatory, the first event, 1 minute scored by ref and the 2 fighters [kickboxing and LPR rules included [2]]
-2. Blade dueling [blunt &/or steel] best of 3 clean strokes
-3. Stick Fighting [least experienced fighter picks stick types] 1 minute
-4. Gladiatorial exotic weapon bouts, to a kill
-5. Grappling, 1 minute
-6. Brawling, team fights with boxing gloves or wrestling-hand by state/region, timed 1 minute, scored by non combatants
Any attendees who would like to coach in first day segments, like if we could get Dexter to do an on point blade sub-clinic, or Juan Stabone a Judo grappling sub-clinic as part of the training day, please contact Sean.
Any ideas are appreciated in this ongoing venture to be better Paleogenic Beastmen.
Paleogenic Notes
-1. Man Weekend is the invention of Sean Glass and preceded his taking over of Modern Agonistics after he fought me at my first Man Weekend experience in 2016.
-2. LPR rules should be done with MMA gloves, saving bare knuckle, if any, for last, and doing that under gypsy rules. I would look to do a real LPR bare knuckle event in 2024.
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posted: November 14, 2022   reads: 843   © 2022 James LaFond
Don Silver and The Knight Brass 2
Act 3 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
“A dozen of Spain’s wickedest men,”
-First Jest, Second Chant
At mid morning the troop of The Knight Brass affronted the musketeers, men at arms and demi-ranger mestizos of Don Silver, 70 mounted men glaring at each other across the shallow spring creek than drained from the north into that proud miles-high river to their south, flowing west to some mysterious destination.
The Knight Brass called Brawn to his side for the parley, to match the burly mestizo man-at-arms, so large he rode a draft horse for a destrier beside his lord, a man far outranking The Knight Brass, a man who was a baron in New Spain.
Brawn slid the hood from his issue lock, knowing this could go sideways, what with nobles on both sides and their patron the moon nowhere in sight.
“Don Silver,” spake the Knight Brass, “what is your need in Awes West, and how might I serve you?”
The Don, was older, not as broad, not as tall—but thrice again as ruthless as Brass. “I would hire your men of Hinter Station—and these as well if you do not mind, to put down a revolt of a certain fief.”
“Don Silver, we are on crusade against the wendigo and the skin-walkers and hoped to ally with you against they, to put aside Christian feud for holy war.”
The Don barked a short laugh as he glared at A’Quah, “The skin-walkers worry our Comanche foes—wendigo, I do not know this tribe. Skin-walkers are merely Navaho sorcerers against which a pious Christian has no fear.”
“You accuse me of impiety, Don?”
“I accuse you of foolery, a charge a man of your young years would do to heed from his elder.”
“This is my charge, to drive back the menace into Hell and thence to withdraw from Awes West our garrisons in Colorado to put down a Voodoo rising.”
“So I shall be rid of you in any case, my fanatic fellow. I might as well bar your passage here, with my superior force and assume command over Hinter Station, no blood drawn, nor offense given—we too men of war avoiding our calling for the better concord of our distant masters.”
The jaws of The Knight Brass clenched, which Brawn knew, after training with him and this week on the trail, that he was about to go all in.
“Make Way and turn about, Don Silver, from the Lands of Awes West, in the name of The Knights Trace.”
The big brute drew his pistol quicker than he seemed able and leveled it at The Knight Brass full at that breast plate, without cocking the hammer, saving that for emphasis.
‘I was the wrong second, Saddler had scorched this turd.’
“My daft Knight Brass, the better part of valor is yours, should you heed it.”
“Knave of New Spain,” snarled The Knight Brass as Brawn drew his issue pistol with his right hand and swung side ways right off the saddle, his mare taking the man-at-arms’ musket ball in the head and reeling over onto Brawn as he leveled and cocked and fired his flint lock, blowing the knee away from that big bearded man.
All was shouting, firing, screaming and chaos as his mare rolled over him and got to her feet, minus only an ear and stood stammering and in a quick sweat, as Brawn seized his saddle gun from the scabbard.
The Knight Brass, upon his awesome destrier, had bowled over Don Silver, trampling man and horse—for the Don had a fed-up and pampered Arabian palfrey as a mount—drawing his sword and running through a mounted man at arms as a mestizo demi-scout drew a bead on him to fire and Brawn leveled his saddle gun and blew the head from that poncho covered body.
Cocking the left hammer, Brawn spied the Don’s squire riding in to restore order among the dismounted musketeers being cut to pieces by the rangers, and dropped the round ball into those rarified guts, tumbling that uppity up around and down.
It was all slaughter: The Knight Brass rampaging across the field running his straight saber through the Spanish men at arms wielding curved sabers and having spent their pistols in the first panicked volley. In his wake rode Saddler, shooting any man still brandishing a gun with his collection of firing irons.
Brawn tramped up to the brawny henchman holding his blown apart knee together and smashed in that snarling face with the butt of his saddle gun.
Don Silver was trying to rise and Brawn stepped over the horse and swung the saddle gun like a club, mashing his lightly helmeted head to a pulp.
Stock Issue rushed up to Brawn with two loaded pistols—his and Dog Ear Mud and Brawn shouldered the saddle gun on its strap and continued across the field, stepping over bodies, shooting those who fought, stomping in the brains of those who begged and continued to be handed loaded pistols by Stock Issue, as the pony boys had declared for him their champion and pulled all of their know-how to load and reload for him, following him about in a gaggle, all out of their order, having abandoned the Station Sergeant, who sat with a musket ball in his guts on the creek bank, numbly staring at his soaked hands.
Tim and the scouts were circling some musketeers who were trying to reload, feathering them with arrows.
A’Quah and The Factor were screaming, one as Indian as the next, and riding down fleeing men-at-arms headed for the river, feathering and shooting the backs of the broken men, turning the river red in spots.
The Squire was stabbing praying musketeers through the back of the head as they begged Mother Mary to save them.
The Stone Deacon had his face shot off by a musketeer, who was then dragged down by three scullers and beat to a pulp.
A sculler was run through as the sheep dogs and the shepherd dragged down the sword wielding musketeer. The musketeers screamed in English, some of them, that they were for hire. One such looked up at Brawn, who clubbed in his teeth and stomped his neck to a broken twig.
The guns were all empty and the toothpick and scalping knife did the work of butchering the rest.
Some Englishmen moaned and cried—there were more down than the few he had seen.
He could here Can’t Jew bawling for Enoch to take him.
He saw The Knight Brass ride down two men flying on one horse and run them both through with a stroke.
Saddler was wheeling from his horse under the stroke of one horseman’s saber slash, ducking it smartly, and then cutting off the fellow’s arm with a back hand and kicking him gushing from the saddle.
A gut shot Spaniard musketeer speaking some gibberish like German was crawling down the creek to the river, on some aimless errand. So Brawn staked him to the creek bottom with his tooth pick and scalped him, holding up the scalp and screaming, “The Knight Brass!” for he quite liked the rash man.
“Stock?” he turned to see Stock Issue dead from a musket shot that tore away half his head, a musket shot from some prone musketeer playing dead. Brawn stalked over to the man, who stood and turned to run, only to have Penny Breed the half-scout ride by on his little pony and put an arrow through his head.
‘It’s a shame we have to lose friends, for the rest of this is all good.’
The woodchucks were in a brawl with two musketeers, ax against saber: one loosing a finger and another an ear, both musketeers losing their heads complete.
The Trumpet of The Knight Brass sounded like a peel of glassy triumph as the paige, seated on his horse between the two women, declared victory and blared the wrath of his master across the bloody mountain meadow.
Brawn turned to witness the paige blast that brass trumpet and saw her there, looking at him with a desire that the distance or two bow shoots could not dampen, her lovely blond maid seated next to her, the woman that was more like he, owned, the both of them by her dark-eyed wiles and her rousing will.
From the Journal Brass: Quake Wednesday [1] Morn, July, A.D. 2031
Battle of Winter Meadow
Decorated and promoted to Station Sergeant, One Brawn Brash, called Hellbane, to command station troop
Promoted to Brash Scout, Penny Breed, attached to station troop
Promoted to Ranger: former boy Rum Weasel Tin, for slaying a mestizo demi-scout with knife, to fill Cant Jew’s rank
Laid to rest:
Stone Deacon Brass
Brick Hill, Station Sergeant
Can’t Jew, ranger
Stock Issue, Sergeant of Boys
Goatherd, Jose
Don Silver, a noble rogue
twenty & nine Spanish rabble
Hung for the white-tailed flippant crows called magpies:
Ten dastard runnagate English and German rogues, mercenary traitors all
On the field christened By The Knight Brass, Stone Deacon Meadow.
Stinkman swamp, wade,
little boys staked fo stinkman ate,
Stinkman slink, follow, meat-price paid—
piney way run, machete boy come lame, stinkman ate.
Run, machete boy run stinkman hunger wake—
Run to you Chriseman gate…
Stinkman come, ‘cause he no wanna go home!
Notes
-1. Next to last Wednesday of the month.
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posted: November 13, 2022   reads: 419   © 2022 James LaFond
Don Silver and The Knight Brass 1
Act 3 of The Knights Trace in New Spain
“Their reigns are gold,
their saddles plated silver…”
-First Jest, First Chant
Brawn fell asleep with the mysterious Indian woman kissing his chest.
He woke with her riding him again.
He fell asleep with her rubbing his chin, as if imagining the fresh whiskers sprouting into a flutter of beard.
He woke with her pulling him over onto her, as she wrapped him with surprisingly strong legs and opened his back scars anew with her hard little nails.
‘Is she wendigo?’ he wondered, as he passed out on top of her.
Dawn streaked the tent as she crawled away from him and then yanked him close and backed up to him, snarling like a little lynx. Booted feet sounded outside the tent and he began to pull out, and she grabbed his hip with hand and hooked her legs around his knees and snarled, “No, please, don’t stop!”
The noble voice of The Knight Brass inquired of Saddler, as the camp-ware began to ding, thump, slap and jangle, “Sergeant, where is my Brash Hellbane?”
Saddler slapped the tent with his belt, “Ye see, Good Sire, Lady Blake’s injun maid came a questing after that young fella with such feminine adore that I felt compelled to give ova the tent here fo da conjegetorial rites o’ companionship.”
She was getting to that exultant state she always seemed to seek just before demanding his release, and she moaned, to which The Knight Brass, paused, and then laughed, “Huzzah! Sergeant, have this half-scout here play a drumming tune upon Ranger Brash’s saddle, for modesty’s sake!”
Penny Breed then began to caper with his little brown hands as The Knight Brass stalked off with a jolly jangle of spurs, laughing heartily and rousing the camp to Penny’s tune, insisting that song was the cure for the hell they had in store.
“Take me, Brawn,” she hissed. “You know the way—please, don’t make me beg the more!”
Saddler then began to sing something about the time he mated with a she cougar in a high cave, and “must satisfy her heat or become meat,” and Brawn became angry at the bitch under him and seized her in his gripes. Only then did she purr like a kitten and stop her furious grind…
‘How could I pass out again?’ he mused as Saddler dragged him buck naked from the tent. As the rangers all around laughed down at him all weak and spent, he watched the pleasing form of that woman sashay between their ranks, holding her belly like smug, wiggling as she walked barefoot in the light snow, the touch of which began to rouse Brawn.
As he looked for his clothes he was soon pelted with snowballs and jeered, his pants being tossed from one man to the other as he pleaded for modesty’s sake and Saddler slapped him on the back and roared, “Told ye’all coons dis was ma boy true bred on a good ‘ore!”
Staggering to his feet naked, pelted with snow, Brawn was jeered one last time and then pelted with his own wet clothes. As the circle of bad-wishers broke up and saw to their gear, Saddler opined, “Now, if she were a real squaw, she’d be glued to you, drying them duds right. If’n she were a whore, she’d be worrying me for a shilling. Question is, wit a figure like that en a will like some uppity brat, who da hell be she?”
Brawn shrugged his shoulders and Saddler continued, “She ain’t got da utters of a bred bitch what ta milk some lady’s sprat en wouldn’t let me come to in ‘er.”
Brawn looked up at him stunned as he stood on one foot and pulled on a sock and Saddler’s eyes grew dark and then sparkled to life, “Well gut me runin’ if she ain’t got serviced fo stud—son, dat wicked breed owes me a stud fee! Da ent-ire worl be spun right-side down…”
Saddler then shoved Brawn absently over into the outer mud of the campfire as he mused, “If’n we win dis scarecrow crusade, we could ask leave down New Spain way and get a bed fo a pasture en gather pay fer bratt babes sired what ta grow inta rangers en hunt Injuns fo dem Dons...”
Brawn was dizzy, weak in the legs to a trembled foot and found himself full of shame, looking longingly at the Banner Brass, where he knew that the woman that just lassoed his once cold soul now petted it like a fostered wolf cub in her wileful lap.
The high meadows were good passage, like as if the people of Moses trekked along the roof of some imponderable world. Small herds of bison and great herds of elk grazed in the light summer snow on pastures unusually green. A moose cow and young were seen up on the green-spired mountainside—mule deer browsing all about. The herd of sheep, cattle and goats seem to have put the wild critters at ease that they were not today’s man-feed.
A full day’s ride brought them to a grand meadow so fair that the camp was like some field out of fable, strung along the broad, clear cool river.
A Council of War was held before the tent of The Knight Brass. Praying Trigger Tim had located a Spanish encampment of some forty strong, arrayed about a certain silver banner streaked in red, two meadows to the west. It was decided that the company would meet this force on the intervening meadow and there parley in hopes of allying against the wendigo-skinwalker menace.
Before the sergeants were dismissed, The Knight Brass looked at Brawn, “Ranger Brash, are you fit to fence?”
“Yes, Sire.”
"Before the men then, show your adore for war."
Leathers were donned and wasters held on guard, and thirty bruising falls or humiliating points later, Brawn was declared not to suffer from “Lady Legs.” As The Knight Brass helped him up from that last beat and leg sweep he chuckled, “I shall release the maid at moonrise, as soon as she has seen to Lady Blake.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“No thanks, Brash? My, what a woman she must be. Now go be a decent sort and bathe in the river shallows.”
‘Must they all live through me? Or perhaps, this is a plight assigned by the master of Ole Billy Ree?’
Controlling this woman was not easily done; not by hips, wrists, shoulders or hair alone. Brawn did discover why the Lord decreed that a woman’s hair must be long, so that she can be muzzled with it before the night was done.
‘Is this woman insane because she is a noble of some Spanish house—are all nobles insane?’
Her head lie on his chest and she spoke, “You think much, and almost aloud. Was it always like that, or because of the wendigo touch?”
“Always Sarge says my face has been easy to read.”
“You have not asked after me—you are not curious.”
“No, you are lovely, and soon to leave. Ole Billy Ree came to me in dream and told me that you used him to hunt me. You will kill me or leave.”
He felt her tears on his chest, then her sniffled breath.
“I’m sorry, Lady.”
“Don’t be, Brawn; I do not deserve your pity.”
He cradled her slim body, realizing that when she had been his age he was but ten.
“Take me again, Brawn—I want a daughter, not a son taken by war.”
He did as she bid, and then she held him and cried, he drifting off to dream in the deep Altar Grotto as the walls said mass and the whisper of Billy Ree gasped, “Tomorrow brings no need of wendigory.”
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posted: November 12, 2022   reads: 463   © 2022 James LaFond
Masculine Logistics
Man Weekend 2022: 6/10-12/2022
Recalling while drinking 12:30 AM, 6/16/2022
Sean’s wife, before escaping like Israel across The Red Sea in the wake of the coming testosterone deluge, bought lots of bacon, eggs, burgers and dogs and made a few trays of cheesy pasta and chicken for the first night. The bagels, rolls and bread on the table would have had Guru Rick in high dungeon. The chickens received my portion of bread. For dinner on day one I sliced up a cold stick of unsalted butter and ate it with strawberries, civilized like with knife and fork. A child was confused and Kieth assured her that Mister James was merely clogging an artery.
While Mescaline and I arrived on Thursday in time to help set up and finish some fencing on Friday morning, the rest of the folks arrived from 3 P.M. until midnight, mostly depending on how far they had to travel. In the future, I would highly recommend traveling in three’s. Fighters coming alone across long distances, like Paul, should bring a wife or other non combatant who drives. Eventually, someone is going to get hurt doing this—that’s why we do it in large measure, to enjoy taking that chance. In amateur boxing KO victims are not permitted to drive themselves home. Concussions happen.
I had planned on drinking a lot on Saturday night, Andy Edwards even walked me back to the house after our podcast so I could get drunk—and I just drank 2 beers. We did not do much drinking, I think due to all the sweating.
At the house we had three gathering areas, The dinning room table, the living room and the porch, which flowed nicely. We had a shortage of coffee mugs, which I think I can fix. There was no shortage of coffee come mornings, with two pots on. If we are set to get ore people next year somebody needs to bring an Alcoholics Anonymous size gravity pour coffee maker.
Cory slept in his car, at his size, basically a hammock with wheels, one night, and the other night slept in the actual hammock.
Marcus slept on the gravel driveway the first night—savage—and on the wrestling mat the second night.
Backfist Mick slept two nights on the mat.
These men and most of the others brought a sleeping bag and a foam pad.
Andrew slept in a stealth camping hide that was all of three feet at the head, with a bug net.
Mister Tony, Kieth and Mescaline Franklin set up a tent row.
The Brick Mouse, perhaps slept in a tree. Where else would Peter Pan with a tazer sleep?
Black Metal slept on the mat, picking the best spot, Marcus wondering if he marked his perimeter with piss to keep me in the poorest spot by the door…
Paul slept with His Woman at some hotel in town.
Our Man of Mystery also dwelt in a hotel, and was nice enough to take me back there for a shower. The logistics of showering on a small well-fed hot water heater was military. Sean is planning on running electric and water to the gym, which was powered for the event by a six hour gas generator. Some of the men attending work in trades and offered help with this. [1]
Since Dennis! has to eat every 2 hours to keep up his massive muscles, I suppose he never wandered far from the fridge or the toilet in the house.
This old hoodrat slept on the mat the first night and in the ring the second night.
In the future, I recommend sleeping in the ring, it is off the ground, the guys on the mat will be eaten first by the werewolves and boogermen... And besides the ring is actually more padded than the mat.
Sean set up a bucket and saw dust toilet in a vertical tent and plans on setting in an outhouse next year.
The gym is as hot in the late afternoon as any prefab structure is. At night and early in the morning, it is softly lit by the moon directly and then by the rising sun obliquely, and with the side door nothing but magnetic mesh and the main door a roll up affair left open, the ventilation is great and the fans are not needed.
After sharing gas costs and driving, some of the men gave Sean food money on Sunday, which was much appreciated, as we ate $100 in chow at least.
Sean is considering a large gravity cooler for next year. Since we all got into fighting, if it had been ten degrees hotter half of us would have been down with heat stroke. Next year we need some big coolers of ice and sports drink and some busy body making sure we drink.
Some of the machetes had to be discarded until next year due to deep nicks and the fact that the only file available was rusty, which is not what you want filing the edge of something you are about to rip into your mate with. Next year, we need fresh files.
Paul brought a horse liniment that turned out to be just what the knucklehead doctor ordered for our bruises. The horse foot doctor did note that one of my toes is not attached to the right place on the foot...oops.
Marcus, Kieth and Andy stepped up to time many of the fights when organization broke down. So, I really want a match maker-time keeper for next year.
Also, next year, when we register, men who are willing to coach, either as fighters or non-combatants [2] should note this. One thing we did not have, was debriefing coaches, Sean did some of this on the side, letting a man know what he needed to work on for his next bout. Ideally we have a coach from each state-region, for each event.
Overall, the crucial aspect of this event was the mix in age and experience, that allowed regular guys in their twenties, thirties and forties to mix it up in boxing and weapons with fighters with serious experience and discover that stepping up is what it is all about. I came with a real aversion to boxing more than one time, recalling how easy I am to hit now. But I did five rounds and didn’t get my reconstructed nose reconfigured. Boxing seems to be the keystone to this experience.
Next year I’d like to see some novice grappling with the experienced gorillas that rolled this year cornering fresh meat. If the next factory made plague doesn’t get me this winter, I’d like to roll with some new grapplers, and, if Juan Stabone can give me a rain check, grapple with him.
I noted how I get hit less damaging blows since I have lost weight and know fighters who started to get neck injuries when sparring over their natural weight classes. Sean is adamant that fighters scale at an athletic weight, 265 or less being ideal, largely for their safety. In 2023, we will do weigh ins on training day to help match making, put a focus on fitness and practice making weight for men who have their eye on sanctioned events.
Andy and I stood on the first night looking at the fireflies and he said, “I had always sworn that I would not live east of the Mississippi. But here I am, and I never even knew that these fire flies existed.”
We used to call them lightning bugs in Baltimore and would catch them in glass canning jars with holes punched in the lids to illuminate our rooms.
Notes
-1. Any men who plans on attending next spring, who have relevant logistical skills, such as electrical, HVAC, Carpentry, please consider ringing Sean about helping out in advance.
-2. For instance, if Backfist Mick’s back had been much worse it would not have been safe for him to fight. But he could have come as a coach and gear-wrangler and been a huge asset for the novice boxers.
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posted: November 11, 2022   reads: 1019   © 2022 James LaFond
Boxing With Paul Bingham
Man Weekend 2022: 6/11/2022
Written from memory 6/18/2022
Video coverage is patchy when it is left to men to arrange between their own fights. I invited Leanna, Paul’s woman, to accompany him in order to video the boxing and also, in case Paul got hurt, as he was scheduled to do bare knuckle with Yeti Waters and would otherwise be driving alone. [1] The drive from Southwestern Missouri to Eastern Tennessee took 15 hours, I think.
The couple stayed in a hotel nights and Leanna filmed the boxing at ringside on Saturday morning and wall-flowered in the evening. She is a fight fan, so knew when to sit and stand as the fighters moved about the ring. I’m interested in the footage angle, as we gave her the angle that still photographers, commentators and judges are given in boxing events, not the high angles used for TV broadcasts.
Paul has spent his life since childhood, seeking out older experienced men as mentors. His friends range from 1 to 3 generations beyond his own tail-end Gen-X age, 34 I think. The man who taught him horse shoeing was thrice his age. As a home school teenager he gathered folk tales of the Ozarks, including an old timer telling him about being attacked by a panther that dropped down upon his horse’s neck from an oak limb above on a wooded road and then watched the animal eat his horse, as he “had no weapon.” Paul used to hunt armadillos with a knife, killing some fifty in the last decade when it was still warm enough for them to be pests. Now, with long winter coming, he sees no more of these critters.
Like raising livestock, farming, farrier work and folklore, Paul wants to learn boxing from old hands before he is too old to execute this sort of young men. Still in his mid thirties and having spent a couple years sparring at a karate-based MMA club, he has a plodding gait under a tentative guard. With only one training session with me in Missouri the day they drove me to Saint Louis two months back, Paul needed work and knew it. A knucklehead in the rough.
Intelligent fighters like Paul, no matter their build, tend to be too tentative with their jab, to prob with it in a reaching way rather than stabbing with it. As Paul sparred with Sean, we noted this and Sean took him aside for some words afterwards. Paul is very attentive to instruction and advice and, with keen wide eyes, said, “Yes sir, understood” [2] and patiently waited to be gloved for his next round.
He has a well designed skull for impact, and Injun-thick skin that doesn’t look like it cuts too easily. I was mainly worried that he’d get the right experience and was so busy gloving and ungloving the others for the one minute rounds that I saw little of his work. I did note that when getting hit hard Paul dropped one knee slightly, a good braking tactic that can also be combined with counter punching by sinking the knee and hence some of his weight into the target.
The men were getting tired and Sean and Mick were giving tips for men fresh out of the ring, so, standing there with a pair of gloves, feeling like a wimp, I decided to put on a pair and get into it. I recall sparring with Backfist Mick, Paul, Sean and Paul and doing a clinch-vs-boxing round with Andrew. Being manhandled by Sean and Backfist did not leave a lot of information imprinted in my sloshing brain.
I recall more the rounds with Paul because he is slower [and hence needs to be a counter puncher and invite that first shot] and newer to the game. I really like Sean couching my man at ringside while I box him so that I can feed into the advice being spent. If the coach says, “Don’t let him do that,” after I score something, I will feed it again, so he can work on that.
I remember Paul’s face being easier to reach visually than physically as his hands are strong and he seems to keep them open in his gloves, developing a lot of drag on punches going narrowly through and over his guard.
His jab was pestering and made me move more and afforded me to work my own. In the future Paul, with that first jab, step in and aim for my eyes or forehead to blind me, bring your fist only halfway back, step again and jab for my nose or chin or chest.
Once we were in punching range it did not go good for this old silverback hoodrat. It took no coaching for Paul to sink a rear right lead counter under my jab whenever I boxed from a left lead. I think I ate three in the two rounds we did and the left ribs above the spleen and below the heart still ache a week later. I quickly switched back to a southpaw against Paul.
We had minimal time to discuss the ring work and did mix it up with knives later on. In knife work Paul has an offbeat sense for getting his opponent to contract when he should be adjusting forward or to the side and drawing you to lunge a bit too far. I actually sprained my left ankle trying to get to him at one point. A lot of knife sparring will help your boxing.
When we were done he noted that the small toe on my left foot had been utterly ruined at some point in the past in some combat [thinking, I suppose, of The Brick Mouse smashing my big toe in the stick round] but I had to admit that this toe has often run afoul of coffee table legs and been snapped in that fashion, while getting a slice of pizza during a History Channel commercial after work in one case…
Sean was stepping up yet again with another fighter and Paul looked at me and said, “Sean is impressive, everything you’ve written and more. I’ve got a lot to learn here. I’m already looking forward to next year. Also, though I would have done it, I had no desire to go bare knuckle with Sean. I wanted to challenge Yeti Waters to a bare knuckle bout, the winner of which gets to have you live with him longer.”
“Like two Romans fighting over a Greek slave poet,” I mused.
“Yes, Sir, exactly,” said he and we laughed.
Next year I suspect that Paul will not be the only man coming east in American retrograde from the Transmississippi to contend at Man Weekend 2023.
Paul, when I am in Missouri next we should spar every day, weapons one day, boxing the next, for 20 minutes to an hour.
Notes
-1. I discourage serious fighters who plan on really going at it, to travel alone to Man Weekend or any other such event.
-2. If I had met Paul 20 years ago and trained him then, he’d be a monster in the ring now, as his kind of stoic patience and high pain tolerance is rare among prospective boxers, with the lack of patience a key obstacle to coaching many otherwise promising boxers.
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posted: November 10, 2022   reads: 994   © 2022 James LaFond
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