Milt Seebaum followed Pat Ireland into her little apartment, noting the soft smell of womanhood as it rose to greet his nostrils. His own place never smelled like that, he thought bitterly. Inside, the refuse of an over-intellectual woman that had sublimated her femininity in a pile of boring course work, lay scattered around the dim room. Text-books lay half open, revealing diagramatical constructions that were as perplexing as the inside of Pat Ireland’s head. Mountains of papers were stacked precariously upon a flimsy computer desk. A few dirty dishes rounded everything out. It was a normal, boring, compact place; the place a thirty-three year old faculty member might be expected to live. There were framed posters of The Beatles, and a screen saver of Stonehenge. There was the regulation poster of the Eiffel Tower bought in Paris. It was bourgeois chic. “Make yourself comfortable Milt. Want something to drink?” He felt the first few stirring of excitement grip him. How long had it been since he had been offered a drink by a young woman? “Sure,” he said as evenly as possible. He was getting a little nervous now. What was she expecting him to say, “hell no”? “How about a beer? It’s what’s handy.”
Twas the night before Hallowmass, and all through the keep,
Strange creatures were stirring, to trouble your sleep!
The corpses were hung by the hearthstone with care,
I have swallowed a fabulous draft of poison! Three times I sought the councils of the wise! My guts are burning! The violent venom contorted my members, stretched me, and I was thrown to the floor of the terrace! I am thirsty, my breath stifled;--I cannot cry out! It's sheer Hell, eternal pain! You see the flames? How they RISE! --I burn for my transgressions! Onward, demon!
Note: The following is the first third of my novella "Strib," based on recollections of my late grandfather, concerning a real-life criminal outlaw, who was a distant relative. Everything related herein is based on material Granpa found in the book A History of Bath County Kentucky by John Adair Richards, published 1961. Both Strib Tencher and Ruben Fields really lived, and really died.
“ Where in the fuck is he? It’s eleven-thirty. I could kill that little twerp!” Gary sat in the upstairs office of Delcino’s Sports Bar, brooding. Tanner Benjamin had, predictably, decided to take the entire evening off. That was not the agreement. That was not the plan. That was a serious breech of the mores and folkways established between himself, and that little ogre. He looked out the long two-way mirror at the crowded floor. It was Saturday night, it was party time, and they were one man short in the kitchen. That made an already hot, miserable environment that much worse. It was the hostility factor. Every time he had gone downstairs and into the back he could feel it: unhappy employees. It was not what he needed. It was serious violation of--- “The mores and folkways...Tanner Benjamin, you are in serious violation of the folkways.” Three hours from now, Rachel Wasserman would be choking on his monster cock, drunker than a dorm full of sorority sisters, and he would forget about the dickless wonder with the ho-hum expression that had no-showed and left him one man short in the kitchen. He saw this phrase in his mind as if it had been lit up like a Las Vegas sign: ONE MAN SHORT IN THE KITCHEN. It made him want to shit on somebody’s head. He put his palm out and punched it with his curled fist. Daddy had always said you couldn’t trust short guys. “They’re just a tad more vicious, a little sneakier, and psycho. Watch out: they’ll hit you when you’re not looking, sport.” And Daddy was always right about these things.
Just got done re-watching the classic 1980s exploitation horror flick Mausoleum, starring ex-evangelist turned actor Marjoe Gortner, and the delectable Bobbie Bresee, a sadly short-lived scream queen of drop-dead gorgeous Eighties glamour...and demonic tits; in this movie at least. If you can believe that.