Posted by NL on March 11, 2005 at 16:21:46:
Revelations-- Part 2
It does seem strange that the mystery of my putative Uncle Max Woe's complete and utter hysteric psychotic nervous breakdown, death, and subsequent resurrection-- the usual ho hum crap made tedious by ages and ages of repetition, and all to no avail-- would be revealed to us in the form of a moldy old comic book, but that is in a way a great convenience for I myself "enjoy to look at picture", as a Latvian might express it, or a Slobovian or Vulgarian, and I'm sure that even a genteel Vulgarian of the refinest sort can get his rocks off on and appreciate the significance of even a crude picture of a pile of shredded meat, a nude female with big knockers, dead, dead, hacked so cruelly as to be beyond recognition. Maybe I'd better go back to the first page. I've looked at that picture long enough. (Editors note: Gimme a break-- it's just sucky stick figures, and it's stoopid!!)
Max Woe was a prophet of the pure, or so I gather, and just as the crooked and gnarly face of Senator Estes Kefauver (spelling?) was thrown into some kind of uninterpretable rictus by the sudden, startling, presentation to him of an engine-powered model airplane with aluminum wings, as embodying the sort of thing american youths should be fooling around with in their spare time, so, too, was Max Woe all caught up in the wholesome enchantments of model aeronautics, and the blissful stinks of dope, banana oil, toluene, acetone, xylene, castor oil, nitromethane and their combustion products, all carcinogens by the way, but what the hell. And he carried this enthusiasm into adulthood, into a time when the manly preoccupations of sex-murder and making a cool million ought to have been predominant. Thick glasses kept him out of the draft, and his mother's small fortune and his father's humble small engine repair shop, when both parent's died in the blazing crash of their '52 Hudson Hornet, set him up well in life, well enough to attract the attention of Humdinga Boyinginton, a lass who figured for reasons not made clear in the comic book that Max Woe would be a good enough catch and naive enough to and dull-witted enough in his boyish way to fuck over and torment and cuckold with impunity, for she was a buxom sadist in skintight pedal pushers, truth be told, and detested that innocence shit and truly looked forward to the day she would be able to kill Max and set fire to his model airplanes and cherished copies of "Airtrails" and "Model Aviation", as well as the various fanzines and Science Fiction magazines he read constantly. Meanwhile, she could at least fuck Mr. Foooms who lived next door and drove Mack Trucks in tandem and had a massive skull like a tank turret with aluminum vibrating teeth that he loved to wiggle around in her butt crack when no one else was about, making exotic and VERY exciting "ratchetting" or staccato "rat-shitting" noises with his pecs as they expanded and contracted, macerating tendon-like processes, that, like enveloping steel bands or braided whipcords of inconel -X girded his loins about. Now that was a man. But I digress...
The pictures in the comic book:
Max, in the late summer evening, felt his blood zing. It flew so well, the flying saucer shaped airfoil powered by nothing less than a McCoy .60 "Redhead"! It spiralled up out of his hands, hardly needing a launching push, gently rocking or bobbing side to side as it climbed, up and out, way out above the Skankytown Sr. High parking lot, out across the stadium bleachers where the Skankytown "Killer Arsewipes" played their home games, and then almost out of sight before the engine completed its run, exhausting the meager dole of castor laced nitro he'd given it, and the descent began. OOOOOO! AHHHHHH! Max couldn't help himself! It was all so beautiful! He figured, why, maybe that was sort of how the flying saucers worked, on a similar aerodynamic principle, but powered by a McCoy .60 "Redhead" far evolved beyond the Duke's consummate invention.
It landed, apparently, on the roof of the gymnasium. He could not see it up there. But Max was no fearer of heights! He'd just scale the metal ladder stapled flimsily to the bricks.
At the top, the shadows were getting long, and the first stars were out. He met his colorful friend, old, Slimey "Slimeball" Stoat, the school custodian. OLLA, Slimeball, Max called, grinning. He would have an interesting conversation, he reckoned.
Yeh, goddamn you goddamn motherfucker! Caught me jackin' off you did, Slimeball exclaimed, breathing out the heady fumes of cheap Vodka, a potation he sipped from a large metal flask, or canteen.
Heh, heh-- Max chuckled. Awe, he said, watcha up to you colorful old coot, really? Lookin' at the stars, eh?
Fuck you goddamn mother fuckin' stars! Say, stick you star up you fuckin' ass, motherfucker. I been drinkin' gin and pissin' in the vents up here and jacking off, and trying to catch a sight of the Virgin Mary's rearend from where I sit up here, man, when this here model airplane comes down like a flyin' saucer and shit fire I get scared, man, and squeeze meself too hard and then the gizm comes flyin' out and say, that weren't too bad! Can you like scare me with that goddamn mother fucker model airplane again someday?
(Editor's note: To be continued...)