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Home of the Dead (Patrick Lives Here)

By 1922-1993 at 2007-11-03 | Drama, Horror, Romance | Printable version

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Home of the Dead (Patrick Lives Here)

Channel three, my most dreaded channel. I change to channel two-o-one...this channel is deadly. Souls of unborn chickens live in the mother hen's gut-pouch. She shields these worried ghosts from a society that eats meat, national geographic. It is April, it is April now. The seasons fall down like a woman in a walker falling down the stairs, or like a woman falling out the window. She dies, the funeral is in August. It is April, it is now April. In procession, tears pour from the woman's husband's nipples, he is dead also. He is not really dead but he wishes to be buried alive with his wife, who smells as a fresh kill should. Every now and then I go and talk with the man who is buried alive. I sneak him snacks through a small PVC pipe. The snacks go first six feet under, next into the man's belly. I do not know his name. I call him by the name on the tombstone, 1922-1993. 1922-1993 is a person who enjoys many different kinds of snacks. But he only gets to taste what will fit through the PVC pipe. It is not very wide or big at all. One time, 1922-1993 made me very mad. I tricked the man and told him I was sending down some snacks. 1922-1993 put his mouth around the pipe. I unbuckled my pants and told him to think about his wife. With force, I sent a few pieces of dump crumbling down the PVC. But the PVC wasn't wide enough in girth, so I just dropped some more raisins and birdseed down to 1922-1993. There was dump all over me.

Part 2
For years, me and my homeboy, 1922-1993, were inseparable, like Rick Springfield or a Swedish fish. We lived in a cave. I remember nights when 1922-1993 would beg for his life. Regardless, I would blast his chest like I owned it. Today was to be the day that old freedom would suck our dicks bone dry. The military was shockingly helpful when it came to stealing money from has-been prostitutes - which is often a theme that reoccurs in my writings. Perhaps I have myself psychologically figured out. Like I said before, we are all children of this age of song. We drink wild cherry pepsi and show each other our manhole wives, our inspiration. I smoke my pipe and condemn our nation for buying the car I drive (huffy). I'm made of cyber-sex and I love teddy grahams, those things are so freaking good.

Part 3
I remember one time 1922-1993 and I were playing spin the bottle with two beetles. It was my turn, and I spun on the beetle with the brown shell and the mustache. The worst pain I ever felt in my life was when that beetle tore my face off. All's I remember is 1922-1993 rolling in his grave. That echoing laughter always takes me back to the '86 World Series. We had dugout seats. 1922-1993 kept complaining about how Milwaukee never got the respect it deserved as a solid ball club. Promptly, I punched 1922-1993 in the side of his head; he instantly disintegrated. Those were some fast times for Patrick and I, though the next ten years would prove to be unforgettable.


Part 4
It was Thursday, my night to make dinner. It was Thursday, it was the last day of my life. I rolled out of bed, which was composed of plain white sheets with yellow stains from the time I pissed, and I landed in the kitchen. A fork sliced through my bicep muscle and my gluts. I pulled myself up with the aid of forty-three stitches...and I baked. I chose the main course, fried mozzarella. When it was finished, I called it "one nation called rage." This is how I made it: first, I boiled the cheese till it was creamy and flaky. When I sampled the cheese with my teeth, it was so heavenly that my teeth cut through the cheese the way my teeth cut through butter. After the cheese was cooked through and through, I wrapped the sog in a blue napkin. With the bundle warm in my hand, I proceeded down the hallway to the 3rd door on the left. This door is my daughter's room (she is the oldest daughter). I tip toed to her bedside and I slammed that little son-of-a-bitch with the wet cheese so hard she farted and bled profusely at the same time. Then, I rolled the cheese in breadcrumbs. Then, we stuff. As the years ticked by, 1922-1993 grew skilled and I grew an extra hand. The future looked promising for 1922-1993 and I, it sure did...


Part 5
"Shut your muttontrap you muzzle-sucking son of a Navajo." The Man of Grapes was really P.O.'d now. 1922-1993 was only slobbering when he said that the Man of Grapes was cherry. He was referring to his obvious lack of morals. "I will puncture your heart with my goof-rod!!!" the Man of Grapes was screaming, waving a forked, y-shaped stick like a pike. "I'll open your throat like a bottle of rc cola!"

"Please quiet down, Man of Grapes," I told the Man of Grapes. "You will ruin the State Fair."

However, the Man of Grapes was more rockin' than Dick Clark's New Year's Eve, and he was approaching 1922-1993 with his goof-rod raised high, as if he were a sorceress of yore about to plunge her crooked, brittle dagger deep into the forehead of some primordial demon. POW. He jabbed that morbid sucker with that branch so freakin' hard, I couldn't help but giggle. I stared at the Man of Grapes intently. He was made of translucent red grapes. I think they were Thompson's Seedless. He turned his cockeyed mush toward me.

"You want me to speak my Portuguese?" the Man of Grapes asked me.

"I am sure you can concoct a better query than that," I replied.

"Perhaps," he said, and he began pondering. He suddenly began helping himself to a red hot masturbation. The long, painful seconds became not so painful hours, and after March shot the lion and bit the lamb, he finally assaulted me with his output.
Now the years blew by like Toyotas flipping over the guardrail at Blind Man's Bluff. Older and wiser we were, but 1922-1993 and I were uncharacteristically jacked. I mean we were huge. So we went South looking for some Hindu thuggees and a bottle of stolichnaya (which means Aussie Butt Water). 1922-1993 and I were unable to find either of these things, but we did suck down a few bottles of heinz 57.
Well we came across these big fellas riding some purebred stock; they called themselves Jose and Hose B. I called themselves queers on steers. That's where the pushing came to shoving. 1922-1993 whipped out his rigid epee. I took out my bone. It was a real saber-tooth, but it was a buffalo. I promptly bashed Hose B across the nipples with my buffalo bone, crushing his upper ribs. 1922-1993 was a lousy fighter. He kept trying to slice me ear to ear. "Not me, him," I shrieked (more like moaned), all the while pointing at Jose. Jose was a ghastly bloke, about 4'6'', Chinese, with long black hair and tight jeans. Light blue jeans. 1922-1993 and I came to a consensus, and decided that we were not going to kill Jose. This turned out to be a fallacy, however, as we ended up burying him alive under some stained mattresses.

"Don't kill me," he begged.

"Enough of your red herring arguments and your lies!" I cried. That live sucker started moaning some sort of muffled denial. "How do you think I feel?!" I screamed. My mouth was practically wrapped around the top mattress, to the point where I could barely breathe. "How do you think I feel when you rape me with your lies?!" I was now bleeding from my nose. The blood was dripping onto the mattress and mixing with the several layers of stains already present, and this new foamy grime was collecting at the corners of my mouth as I sucked in the precious air that filtered through the mattress. "Why did you kill me?!" I cried. "Why?!" At this point there were no more muffled anythings, so after a few seconds of silence I hopped up and put on my purple shades (which I didn't have before), and 1922-1993 and I headed for Rio. We had to keep one step ahead of the po-po. It wasn't the double homicide charge I was scared of; Orenthal Simpson didn't have to tell me twice that I should kill whomever I please. But that heinz 57 belonged to a local joint known as One-Eyed Dick's Lazy Nuthouse. We arrived in Rio, no questions asked. 1922-1993 had gotten sea sick on the way and, therefore, made quite the scene during Carnivál. Needless to say, I was disguised as a young Japanese boy at the time, keeping busy by shoveling a large mound of dirt back and forth across some field. The field was full of tombstones. I thought that in an environment such as this, I could raise a family. And not just any old family, I'm talking a Perfect Strangers family, only with guns.
My gun wasn't real, unfortunately. It was given to me by John Wilkes Booth some time back. Sometimes I'd wish I had a real gun. Like that time I was in my room, trying to sleep. The room was black, empty like all the voids of space from which nothing, not even light or brainstorms could escape. There was only one light. It was from the microwave. It was green and it said, "CHOW," for some reason. I just focused on that light, and everything around me seemed to spin and spin. Then my bed started to move and hover, but I dared not remove my eyes from that precious, torturous light. My bed was picking up speed, going up hills and around bends, but the light was now past my eyes and in my brain. I could finally see now, and I saw that my bed and I were heading straight toward an avalanche. That's when I wished I had a gun, so I could stick it in my eye and end the suffering once and for all. Instead I just stuck a big curved Arab knife in my eye. God bless those Arabs, they really help their fellow man...

Part 6
After we defeated those Curds, 1922-1993 and I took some time off to mend each other's wounds. But a soldier's work is seldom finished and thoughts and nightmares of the war plagued my R.E.M. nightly. One dream in particular stands so vivid in my psyche that every time I see the color tan, I collapse. The dream begins innocently enough, with 1922-1993 and me imprisoned in a concentration camp. This camp in particular is a fenced-in city (perhaps Delaware), guarded by Chinese mercenaries (suited in magenta camouflage and velvet berets). Realizing our execution is scheduled for the rapidly approaching afternoon, 1922-1993 and I plan our escape. Collaborating with us is a woman with strawberry blonde hair named Elizabeth. In order to escape, we place a large cardboard box over all three of our upper torsos and sneak in unison. Midway through our escape, the alarms sound and fires start everywhere. We lose the box and make the proverbial break for it. Suddenly, the city completely bursts into flames and turns into suburbia. The Chinese men in pink camouflage are now riding motorcycles and toting machine guns. At the site of this, 1922-1993 informs me that we are dealing with "Cyclecrackers." I climb over a chain-link fence into a backyard and meet a Cyclecracker face to face. Panicking, I turn back for the fence to meet another cracker - only this one is Irish. As I am gunned down I wake up. The nightmares continued for the next 2 days. I forgot all about the war when 1922-1993 brought home a new dog. We named him Uptown Girl and trained him to die. After he did his trick we sold him to a journalist. The journalist wrote many bad columns and articles about the dead dog he bought in Seattle. He even wrote a novel...he called it "I Bought a Dead Shit in Seattle Motherfucker."

Part 7
It wasn't too long before 1922-1993 began getting in trouble with the law. We were in the produce section, and one of those humungous bins which holds varieties of potatoes was empty. After taking a quick look around the aisle, 1922-1993 decides to concoct the largest tossed salad in the history of salad. He begins ripping apart whole heads of lettuce like they were infant redskins. I watched mesmerized as 1922-1993 emerged from the condiment aisle pushing three hundred bottles of Russian dressing. Patrick was two-thirds through the dressing and knee-deep in Mother Russia's discharge when the sheriff arrived and placed 1922-1993 under arrest. Court did not go very well for poor 1922-1993. The judge was a lesbian, so she sentenced the defendant to sixty years in prison. Luckily we killed her. The cops could never track us down because 1922-1993 didn't have any form of identification. We told them his name was Larry Shakespeare and he had just come overseas to paint a house.

Part 8
Things were beginning to come to a head. We won a war, we broke a world record, and we beat the judicial system. Something big was going to happen soon, and both 1922-1993 and I knew it. In preparation, we began preparing. We made flashcards with pictures of every species of domesticated cats; we wanted to be prepared. I could never remember the Mainecoon, while 1922-1993 always confused the British Short-Hair with a saxophone. But we studied and studied. In order to prepare our bodies we did three sit-ups, 1922-1993 did a cartwheel. For lunch we ate steel and misery. For breakfast we ate cinnamon toast crunch, the greatest cereal of all time. 1922-1993 wondered what happened to the other two bakers. It was apparent to me that Wendell had murdered them, and baked them into the very cinnamon and sugar squares that made them famous. But I didn't want to break 1922-1993's little heart, so I told them they died in an explosion.
1922-1993 was like a man possessed during the weeks before our next challenge. He would stay up for days talking to the wall; claiming all the while he could see a nude woman taking a shower. I told him that he should not make spy holes in the walls so he could watch his sister bathe. The one thing I will never forget about 1922-1993 was the way he used liquid hand soap excessively. He used it to wash his hair. He used it to wash his body. He used it to brush his teeth. One time, I returned home to find 1922-1993 shampooing the carpet with a squirt bottle of soap and a sponge. Needless to say, I bought him a prostitute that night.

Part 9
The way I remember it, it was a dreary October morning. I had just finished typing up 1922-1993's resume, and I was on my way to the post office to buy stamps.
On the road, a red pick-up truck pulled out right in front of me. I tried to hit the brakes, but my bicycle could not stop in time. CRASH! By the time I came to, the driver was
standing over me.  He was saying something, but I was still under the influence of a car accident.

"Is your name Gus?" I finally heard the man say.

"No," I said. "But you just made me very paralyzed."

With this information, the driver of the red truck immediately lit up a cigarette.  He asked me if I wanted a smoke.

"No," I declined. I wanted to move. I was used to a lifestyle of action. A paraplegic would not make a good janitor. I asked the man if he would prop me up against a nearby street sign, and he obliged me. By nightfall, the driver had gone home, and I was left all by my lonesome at the corner of Ditch and Shank. My eyes were growing tired but I knew 1922-1993 would never forgive me if I forgot to mail out his resume. I mustered up my bravery and took a step toward the post office(which was only about 100 yards away). From there, my next move was a face-plant into the spacious shoulder of Ditch Rd. As I lie motionless on the asphalt, I thought about my new life as a cripple.

Part 10
So many nights I would awaken in a cold sweat and discover 1922-1993 with a huge grin on his face, submerging my hand in warm water. He would do this one magic trick that would always make me feel better no matter how paralyzed I was. For effect,
1922-1993 would dress in a San Diego Padres uniform: he would take a bread knife from the kitchen and saw his ring finger off. It was a mighty task taking 1922-1993 to the
emergency room, but he was good about it. He would sit on my lap and bleed the whole ride there, which took about six hours by motorized wheelchair.

Part 11
My disability prevented me from participating in my favorite pastimes. Making fig newtons from scratch and kicking brick buildings could no longer fill the void in my life. I would have to find a new hobby, one that did not involve movement from the neck down. That's where 1922-1993 really came through for me. Every night, he would sit bedside and read me stories written by Tom Selleck. I have opted to include one such story:

There once was a boy named Len. Len was an honors student with a bad attitude and a smelly rip in his twinklin'. No matter how much dinero Len acquired, he could not satisfy his crunch for fine Canadian horseback. His shoulders were broad, his moniker spelled doom, and his nips were as whole wheat as they come. What was once a boy, was now a man. And as Len grew old, he grew tired of his baked potato of a wife(who always knew how to rub Len the wrong ways). One day, Len looked over to his spud woman and experienced a brainstorm. When Len leant in to deliver that fatal kiss she felt loved for once. But the moment proved to be brief, as Len split her crispy brown skin right down the middle with his razor sharp fingernails. The steam seeped from her hot hole of a face. Later, Len and his filthy children ate that poor bitch with sour cream. Mrs. Potatohead had become what she always wanted deep down, a piping supper.

Stories like these, and I know why the Caged Bird Sings, gave me the strength to rise and fall everyday. My heart-felt gratitude goes out to 1922-1993 - Without whom, I would be a sandwich right now! As for my remaining days, I choose to paint. I study my canvas of pain. I choose the color red. I will paint a pretty picture of a man molesting a six-year-old child. I will call it "Fraggle Rock." I was once a ball player with a shortstop pointy enough to give that bitch, Gwen Stefanni, a ground-rule-double in her bunghole. Now I rest at home, paralyzed from my days of the big league. I can only move my eyes. My name is Nolan Ryan.

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