37 - Rastam pumps and Grinding Mechanics

Twigs Marsenitic rolled up to the Carl's Jr. drive through with a break through thought: to order a light meal of food and take it directly to work to eat rather than to eat it in parking lane #3, which was his usual location. He looked up at the scoreboard and thought for a moment, then rattled off his usual order: 3 piece fried chicken meal with extra gravy. He drove on by the greasy face parking lane and headed straight for the lair.

Today was a different day, unlike any other for Twigs. Today his boss had died in the back room at ten to 9, and being that he was the only one to work with his boss, nobody would ever know. He could, for example, eat his chicken off of the old man's desk without giving two shits or a handful of pineapple as a tithing. Yeah, that's right, old Mr. Cleverard wasn't getting the last laugh today. His boy, whom the shop was named after (Rastam) was away at sea at the moment, and didn't care much for his old man anyway. He generally despised the seemingly meaningless pastime of developing better pumps and grinding techniques, which was a Cleverard specialty. Rastam ran off with two homosexuals at the age of 19, one of them being a priestly type tied to the heads of the evangelical movement.

Today Twigs would take special delight in his new found strengths. Eat chicken, smash some bearings into some things, and grind away the table top corner. Things that were extremely disallowed under the old regime. He had time to consider times begone and read the latest issue of People magazine. He was pleased ultimately.

How long would he have though? How long could this continue without somebody finding out his ways? Ray Hulderson and Wade Brabock would be by soon with a delivery of grease guns and torque amplifiers. Would they think to ask? Twigs would cancel all future orders immediately by explaining sadly that business was poor. Luckily Cleverard had no friends that cared, owed to his ceaseless work ethic and him generally being an asshole. Granted, last quarter he did sell $100 thousand worth of pumps, but look where his exploitative and cut-throat capitalist practices got him: dead and bloated in the back room, not a soul crying for his revival.

Twigs threw his copy of People on the floor and crushed up a chicken leg on the desktop. Grease was slicked everywhere. He downloaded porn and a computer virus and scented victory in the air. He used a pump to pump old oil onto the shop floor and never looked back. To cover his tracks he ground up old Cleverard into bits. He put the remains into the oil drum and went home for the day. In his remaining life, he sold a pump now and again and ground down a few steel plates on contract. He always ate wherever the fuck he pleased and stopped reading People magazine, as he learned it was crass, voyeuristic, and mostly boring. He no longer cared about the lives of celebrities.

Capitlizing in Bubbly Creek fashion

Chicago: 1900. The year the black deaths entered the working stockyards. As Upton Sinclair indicated in "The Jungle," the horrid conditions and workings of the slave-wage system were well under way. Beef blood flowed in stagnant, slow moving rivers and animal carcasses floated about undisturbed. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children ate garbage and froze in poorly built shacks as their stomachs sat empty, or maybe filled with chemically enhanced animal byproduct.

Now flash to 2010. The former Union Stock yards are home to the Home Depot and several prominent dry-cleaning businesses. Much better. Bubbly creek is STILL bubbling as the remains of 100 year old carcasses decay and give off gas. The beef of old was served to your forefathers. Your forefathers ate it, and now you're left to resolve how things have changed for the better in Chicago - the city built on the dangerous edge of advanced exploitation (actually, A city built on this edge). Things haven't changed much in this city. The robot capitalists left when things turned sour and the city filled with modern slave drivers. They seek to concentrate wealth and leave you on one wounded knee. They hide in the reflective clad towers and breathe fire down by Dunkin' Donuts. They ride the Metra and spin stories into political favors. They gather at north side Caribou Coffee houses and plot their next move to push you into the torrent. They still send lake Michigan water into the Mississippi. And they still rule by the rule of corruption (RE: Rod Blagojevich). They separate the races and sweep the filth under the rug. If you die in Chicago your soul is sent directly to the top of the Sears Tower where it is sold to sightseers. They never knew your name. The cold hard steel still takes a life now and again under its own volition. These bodies are highly sought after, and are used for filling lake Michigan in order to fund the next lakeside condo (even though law prohibits building east of Lakeshore Drive, it does NOT limit building on fill east of Lakeshore Drive). Welcome to Chicago.

Rolling in the lard tank

I loitered in the back of the bookstore for awhile. The ceiling was falling and the children were all in the back room waiting for dawn to come. They were the children of the books of course, no where to go but down. The bookstore was, as they are, dark, damp, and smelling of mold. Two cats lingered near the mystery section. Two older dudes were clinging to a moldy chair arm. Great stacks of books had lost their balance and had begun to shift to the south. A small arm at the end of the 100 foot aisle was propped against the wall to prevent ultimate disaster. This still didn't bring the stacks up to compliance with local codes. This was no place the weak or the severely allergic, or the claustrophobic, or the generally sensitive.

After filing away several of the cats into a large net-type bag, we left unscathed. The book cats were later found lazily sleeping on some piles of clothes in the second bedroom.

D&D and Diamonds

I bumped into a former child star
They always fly on planes rather than drive cars
I watch the world go by from a 3 inch drum
At this point in his life he would kill you for a crumb

Over the carpet and into a chair
So quiet now he disturbs not even a hair
He eats string cheese at will
And calls you by your first name, Bill
He squirms and he writhes
Public anxiety, even when he flies

He has the look of a father
But not him would you bother
For he's a former child celebrity
And he has a name too
He is named Screech, and he's just like you.

We blew out the tires on the Buick Regal. I blew out my knee. Rails of steel rule again.

Generation x, generation y. I guess I am technically a member of both generations, at least according to Wikipedia. This fact is not important. It's definitely not impressive. Both generations have disallowed history's venom to grow into an immunity. That's okay though. Just think about what the future might hold. Hold on for one more day they say. Break free right from the chains they say. As envenomed as history might be, it amazes me that it actually is absorbed so slowly over time. I guess this is the ultimate truth. The ultimate truth is right outside your front door they say. But, as history has proven repeatedly, we fail to exercise our right to walk out there and look. Instead we listen to Jack Lamprey albums and play Twister with Carrot Top videos playing in the background. They were $1.99 at Goodwill. I saw a chair there for over $500. Wow.

Oil spill racks cleans up local shores

I really don't like to encourage doom prophecy, but am I the only one who has recognized the growing appeal Jack Van Impe? Soon the water will breathe fire! The robot army will arise from the flaming demon pit and seize mankind. Immigrants will be free to cross the nearby border (subsequently, you won't be enjoying your favorite Denny's meal anymore white people, or your cleaning service, or your having your car fixed, or having your house remodeled...)! In the end, things will fall into disrepair, lose value, and we'll all die. The fuckin' apocalypse motherfucker! The end times. The seventh seal or some shit! Armageddon it (armageddon it). Come on Steve!

Obeying the signs of the android covenant (#36)

A small patch of ants crept towards the accumulated leg hair that sat in the corner. It contained sugar for all he knew. This type of science did not, and would not, appeal to him.

He had other aspirations. Big time aspirations. They were forced upon him. A life that he thought he might be able to attain, but would some days rather escape if possible. This was not possible. He had been on the train developing a universe altering principle. For now he did not think about it and smiled to himself in the corner as he sat on his head beanbag chair, filled only with old pillows and even older circus peanuts.

He put on his suit. He got a suit probably a long time ago for a couple of bucks. Just a couple of bucks. Probably. Now he wears it more than proudly. He feels the ants stinging him and cares very little. He doesn't care so much now that he wears this proud suit. Also he has, as was previously stated, a maverick principle up his sleeve that he can pull out at any time to level himself up, or down as it may be.

He was forced to cut his teeth young. He was born into it. A kaleidoscope dungeon wall was used on him to bring him into the current realm that his father occupied. His father was T.Z. Cromwell.

Are you hypnotized yet? Fuck. Stand still for a moment. Take a look around next to the wayside and put your cuts away. Bleed out on the kitchen table. This is standard. This is part of the principle in fact. The Cromwell extermination principle was forced brutally among all of existence long ago. Take a look at any magazine ad. You'll see. A fabricated pestilence born unto Cromwell Jr. for the sole purpose of disorganizing your universe. Live it and let die.

Cromwell thought briefly about what it all meant and meandered to the kitchen sink for a drink of cold water. He reflected upon himself and realized that no logical conclusions could be made. He recognized the feeling of water sliding into his stomach.