friends aren`t forever in

FRIENDS AREN’T FOREVER IN
DEADTOWN
n the road to Deadtown there used to be a handcarved sign that read: “Frank and Chachi’s Place:
Visitors Get Dead.” Outsiders rarely thought twice
about the warning, assuming it was just some
adolescent prank. That is, until they witnessed Chachi’s
square fists pummeling a camera-draped tourist into
a loose sack of guts and bone while Frank robbed
his wife and kids; or before they caught sight of the blood-soaked
clothing strung up like party decorations in the town square. Then
they started to believe. Those of us who lived there, however, always
knew better. We’d empty our wallets and purses each week in a big
wooden barrel outside Frank and Chachi’s office, a filthy brawler’s
bar called the Shit Shovel. If we paid our protection money on time,
we only got beat once or twice a day. It was a fair arrangement
considering the alternative.
That all changed though when Frank and Chachi had their falling
out. The pair was no longer seen beating up old ladies together,
stealing from the collection basket each Sunday at Our Lady of
Misery, or turning a fire hose on orphans every chance they got.
No, things were different. Chachi had less hate in his punches, and
killing pigeons with a hammer barely mustered a smile out of Frank.
Nobody dare say it out loud, but the town had turned soft. When
Frank and Chachi ran into each other it was always awkward.
“How’s the raping?” Chachi would ask in his deep and milky voice,
eyes fixed on the floor. “Not so good,” Frank would say, twiddling his
plump and hairy thumbs and doing anything to avoid eye contact. As
the silence grew each man would usually light a cigarette and storm
away, often punching a child or dog as a way to break the tension.
32
TAXIDERMY
AT THE DINNER TABLE
Where family therapy had failed, taxidermy
succeeded. It had been years since the Gores recalled
such peaceful living conditions in the house. Gerald
and Genevieve had stopped fist fighting in front
of the kids, and were even talking about sharing
the same bedroom again. Ginny,
the Gore’s teenage daughter,
no longer extinguished cigarettes on her
father’s forehead, or called her mother
a “trifling hoe” each time they passed in
the hall. And Galen, the couple’s 10-yearold son, had stopped cutting himself to get
attention. An eerie calm had fallen over
the family. “Can you please pass me the
gimlet Ginny? I need to bore a hole
in this little varmint’s skull,” Gerald
would say, a wide smile stretched
across his blood-speckled cheeks. “No
problem dad,” Ginny replied, elbowdeep in the bowels of a recently deceased
groundhog. And when Galen had trouble using
the bone cutters, Genevieve didn’t quickly lose
her patience with him as she often had in the
past. Instead, she helped him identify where
to make the best cuts on the squirrel skeleton
he’d been laboring over, the type of motherly
advice Galen longed for. As the smell of hair
slippage prevention agent filled the air in
the dining room, everyone appeared happy,
at least for the moment.
4
HARD TIMES IN THE
BOROUGH
OF BEARDS
hen the heat wave struck it came down hard in the
Borough of Beards. Not since The Great Perspiration of
1898 had temperatures reached such sweltering heights.
Men of all shapes and sizes immediately took note of a
dramatic physiological shift: Their faces were hot, and
worse yet, itchy.
Some found relief by planting their face in an open icebox. Others just
cried. Many hid from the sun beneath parasols purchased at Urban
Beardfitters, a local retailer that had been exploiting the crisis while
at the same time attempting to reignite a 19th century fashion trend.
An alarming number took to shaving their beards off and wearing
prop facial hair purchased at a local costume shop. Women joined in
too, bearding up because they wanted to. No longer was the instant
indie credibility of haggard facial hair reserved for boyfriends and hip
dads. The cry “Beards for everyone!” was chanted a couple times, then
quickly died out.
As temperatures climbed, desperation set in. The sound of breaking
glass could be heard and car alarms droned on in the distance. One
young man attempted to uncork a fire hydrant with the bottle opener
from his keychain. When it didn’t work he sat down on a curb and
sulked, occasionally looking around to see if anyone had noticed. A few
entrepreneurial types wrung the sweat from their beards into Dixie
cups and sold it to parched tourists. When the tourists got sick, the sweat
salesmen were carried away on the shoulders of an angry mob.
6
Next came the blackouts. Electricity
faltered, then disappeared. Citizens
panicked. Women and children fled.
The Beardos who remained did their
best to adjust, but life had become
increasingly difficult. Cafes and
bars closed. Organic food stores were
looted. Mopeds sat neglected. The black
market thrived, however, selling ice
blocks and air conditioners, generators
and gasoline siphoned from the
tanks of abandoned Vespa scooters.
Resourceful Beardos powered their
smartphones with car batteries, but
screamed in frustration when none of
their apps would load. Some still tried
to blog, staring at blank laptop screens,
typing until their fingertips hurt. One
young man stood on a newspaper box
and proclaimed: “Typewriters are the
new computers!” He was then quickly
subdued. The phrase “No Internet, No
Fun” was spray-painted on billboards,
subway walls, and the homeless.
Tensions boiled over though when
one man, a borough elder with a great
flowing beard screamed, “Let’s eat the
young!” That’s when the rain came, and
the heat finally broke.
8
GLENN KILOWATT’S
GOLDEN
OPPORTUNITY
The 24-karat-gold invitation was
hand-delivered to Glenn’s apartment
by a butler wearing limited-edition,
hazard yellow G-Boats. When Glenn
opened his door, the butler knelt
down on one knee and bowed his
head as he raised the coveted invite on a silken
pillow embroidered with the Fresh Feet logo.
The color drained from Glenn’s face and sweat
bubbled up on his forehead as his eyes zeroed in
on the envelope, which read: “Glenn Kilowatt,
Sneaker Aficionado.” He had been waiting
years for this opportunity, even dreamed
what it might look like if it ever came to pass.
But having Fresh Feet’s famed “Butler” at his
doorstep was too much. The envelope was sliced
open using a rare fossilized Peruvian llama
bone, and handed to Glenn like the cork from a
vintage wine. The invitation stated that Glenn
had been granted the opportunity to try on a
one-of-a-kind pair of Tico Sweats, the ultra-rare
lifestyle sneaker assembled by infants in the
jungles of Costa Rica.
8
11
From what Glenn had
read, it was the only
sneaker brand that
actually bottled the
perspiration from its
sweatshop workers
and used it to tan and
cure the leather for
its product. It was
also rumored that the
stitchwork on each
sneaker was so tight
and ornate it could
only be executed by
an infant with small
hands and malleable
bones (i.e., premature
babies). Glenn squealed
with delight at the
once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. He kissed
the invitation and
hugged the butler
before a look of fear
washed over him: “Oh
my god, I have to figure
out what to wear.”