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The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso
Wednesday March 22, 2006
Wink Finstermann sat in the chair, twiddling his thumbs, admiring his side profile in the wall sized mirror. His stylist, Effie, held up the small mirror, spun his chair around so he could see the back of his head, and asked, "How do you like it?".
"It" was the appropriate description, because, you see, Wink had only one hair, a single, healthy, growing hair, right on the top of his shiny bald head, a full four inches of pampered pride.
A few years back, he and four drinking buddies had made a wager that the last one to go completely bald would be the winner and recipient of an account into which each participant had put one thousand dollars. Then, Wink had a full head of hair, and had no idea that time would conspire so badly against him and his curly locks.
Of course, once the hair started to fall, it continued at an even greater rate, creating stress that caused even more hair loss.
He tried every baldness cure he could find, every miracle pill that existed, even went to Nepal, looking for a tree whose leaves were rumored to restore a healthy head of hair. He never found that mythical tree, but he did convert to Taoism and released the stress that was the cause of the majority of his hair loss.
It was just in time, too. He was down to the last hair now, and was on an intensive haircare campaign to baby the single remaining follicle.
"I like it."
Effie fussed with his collar, tickled his neck with a soft brush. There weren’t any visible clippings, really, except the quarter inch she had, with great fanfare, trimmed from the hair. First, though, the hair had been colored, (a light sandy brown), washed, conditioned, blow dried, and styled with a forward leaning curl.
A final spritz of uv protector, hair net in place, Wink stood, walked to the front, pulled a fifty from his wallet and threw it on the counter.
"Thanks again, Effie. Great job."
"You’re welcome, Mr. Finstermann, same time next week?"
| | Posted by Edward at 1:04 AM - | |
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Sunday March 19, 2006
Email me, lpcoonce@aol.com and I'll send you all 32 Bergen Bugles, the newsletter front page that features some of these stories, in pdf format.
Thanks for reading, I appreciate it.
Ed Coonce
Encinitas, CA
| | Posted by Edward at 5:07 PM - | |
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Ten Feet Tall? Made of Metal? Wearing an Afro?
It’s a Brobot, All Right!
A silver teardrop rolled west, down Route 77, the last leg of the notorious Slingshot Highway. An angry desert sun paused in its descent, sitting on the horizon ahead, then sank from view. The air turned noticeably cooler, and the birds of twilight took wing, crying, flitting here now, then there.
Only a few more miles to Dustbarrel Springs, where the two men in the car could stop and rest, stretch their legs, start their work.
RadioRama Salsa jangled from all seven speakers in the Luxo. The insistent rumble of "Disco Cucaracha Mambo" had the driver twitching from his toes to his tiny sombrero.
The man in the passenger seat shuffled a handful of pictures, eight by ten glossies, the unbelievable visual records of an invasion robbery at the AM-PM Minimart in Pottstown, now two thousand miles behind them. The photos were grainy security camera black and whites, but they were astonishing.
Detective Ted Krumpnik threw down the pictures and picked up the two day old Bergen Bugle, rereading the story that screamed its bold headlines from the front page, "BROBOTS ATTACK!". The accompanying photo was bone-chilling, a ten foot tall sinuous armed robot crowned with the largest ‘fro ever seen, was gently strangling Ted’s uncle, old Karl Mannfredrickson, the owner of the Pottstown AM-PM.
Evidence found at the scene suggested that the metal robbers had been brought in from elsewhere, here in Nevada, to be exact. Ted had found one of the rented delivery trucks that had transported the Brobots, and in the seat was a signed rental agreement from the Dustbarrel Springs Steal This Wreck franchise. He recognized the crazy cramped handwriting immediately. It was the signature of Professor Hanover Klingst.
Within hours of the invasion, Mayor Tony Crandall had contacted Krumpnik and Reynoso, going over Chief Dove’s head, assigning them the duty of solving this case. Klingst had been wanted for several months, and this looked like the perfect opportunity for Ted. Bring in Klingst and these Brobots and his future was secure. He could already see that Chief’s badge on his chest. He already had one major case under his belt, the Cookies and a Nine-Millimeter caper. Those brats were doing hard time in juvie, thanks to him, and he proudly displayed the citation over his office desk. So far, so good.
El Pinche was worried. Chimps with enhanced intelligience was one thing, giant robots was an unknown factor. Lesmerelda was beside herself when she saw the photos.
"Sweetie, please don’t go." She had spoken softly, eyes downcast.
"My love....", El Pinche began, but he couldn’t quite get the words out. The pain in his face told Lesmerelda what she already knew.
"I know." She kissed him hard and then helped him prepare.
Dustbarrel Springs, Nevada, had become an epicenter of alien and UFO sightings in recent months, so it wasn’t any surprise to El Pinche and Ted when they discovered where the Brobots were from. Darkness was settling when they saw the lights of the town, half a mile ahead, spread out over the desert valley. A blanket of brilliant pinpoints stretched overhead, cold, bright, unfamiliar, deep. By the time the men parked the car in the LoBall Inn’s gravel lot, the full moon was peeking above the mountains, overpowering the stars that surrounded it.
"Room for two, please."
The hard faced woman behind the counter put down her cigar and pulled a key off the wall, tossed it on the counter. Room 101.
"That’ll be fifty bucks." Her voice sounded like claws on a hard wooden floor.
El Pinche handed her his Whipmaster Credit Union Visa. "Receipt please."
She looked at him through suddenly interested eyes, checked out his small sombrero and the Revenger X slapping his right leg.
"I know you." She shuffled through her desk, handed El Pinche a magazine. "Have your autograph?"
"Si."
He signed the cover picture on the Whipmaster issue number two, and handed it back to her.
"Who’s yer compadre?" She addressed El Pinche, barely looking at Ted.
"I’m Detective Krumpnik, ma’am. We’ll be here for a few days." Ted turned and headed out of the office.
"My name’s Raybelle, let me know if you need anything, Mr. Pinche, anything at all." Her face cracked into a smile, she fussed with her hair.
"Thank you ma’am, I’ll keep that in mind."
The dry canyon road was barely visible, running a couple of miles between treacherous cliffs that shed their rock sides regularly, obliterating the truck trail below. Black-eyed men in white uniforms would come then with bulldozers and remove the fallen boulders, keeping the path clear and open to what lay at the road’s end.
The rented Studebaker pickup chugged down the trail, exhuming a cloud of sandy dust and exhaust smoke. Ted wrestled with the steering wheel, guiding the heavy vehicle along the twisting switchbacks. Merciless sun beat down, the ground radiated visible heat upward.
"How much farther?" Ted was uncomfortable, impatient, scalp sweaty. His shirt was soaked, holster strap bit into his shoulder.
"The map says we are almost there." El Pinche checked and double checked his Revenger X. The hi-impact exploding unidirectional tips were loaded, batteries for the aggression scanner were fully charged. He tried to relax, but this place really wouldn’t let you. Best to be on alert anyway.
Rising ten feet above the flat sand at the abrupt end of the road was a concrete dome. An opening was cut into its smooth front, revealing steps that descended to a heavy steel door. Behind the door, hidden in cool darkness, lay an army of silent metal creatures, waiting for the electronic satellite signal that would activate them.
Dim ruby crystals pulsed, hard drives hummed, white noise crackled from hidden speakers. A command center at one end of the vast room stood empty. Maps of the USA were mounted overhead, green flags pinpointed North Bergen, Las Vegas, and Cleveland.
The locked metal door was going to be a challenge. No visible handle, only a pinpad.
| | Posted by Edward at 5:00 PM - | |
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Monday February 6, 2006
Superbowl Forty, halftime, and I’m marvelling, scarcely believing what I see. Sharp jabs of memory punch my brain, and I see both then and now tumbling through this space where I sit.
Jagger and company scarcely break a sweat as the infield crowd jumps in rhythm, hands lifted skyward.
I can see the wrinkles in Ron Wood’s neck, he plays with a continuous half-smile, spilling noise into the vast surrounding air. Keith Richards stumbles across and down the stage, grubby hipster who saw it all and didn’t let it kill him.
Mick, still saying he can’t get no,..can’t get no satisfaction. We know otherwise.
Ron Wood’s nose. Damn. He plays down to a pretty girl with starbursts for eyes. She laughs, and I can feel, here in my chair, that hot flash on her face.
Hell, was I ever that young?
Why, yes I was.
Still am, dammit.
I could perform. I could thrill an audience, couldn’t I? Lucy tells me I could, and I believe her.
Today, after half a lifetime of disconnect, I found the Rolling Stones. True, their lyrics didn’t change my life’s direction, their personalities weren’t what I aspired to, but now,...now I know about purpose. About strength. About continuing on in the face of loss and self doubt.
As long as these guys can still prowl that stage, enmeshed in spirit, then my generation will be all right, we will still have our vital roots. We are the Rolling Stones generation, and don’t you forget it. | | Posted by Edward at 12:13 AM - | |
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Saturday January 21, 2006
Larry Leviticus held up his flabby right hand, second and fourth digits raised, the signal for liquid refreshment. His glass was instantly filled and a napkin tucked into his buttoned collar. His sunglasses were snatched from his face, spritzed and dried, then replaced, balancing atop his porcine nose.
Larry sat in his stadium box seat, scowling, a phony fatass with an exaggerated air of omnipotence, a bizarre caricature in his robe, pajamas and sneakers, greasy thin blond hair straight down his back. Three shmutz whores in red satin hovered nearby, ready to assist him in his slightest exertion of energy, slaves to his most insignificant whim.
The Third Annual Alternative Martial Arts Division Championships was about to begin, and the stadium was filled to capacity. Of course, the crowd was handpicked and under orders to attend and have a good time. A person in that huge venue had to be careful, though. If somebody said or did the wrong thing and one of the security agents hidden throughout the crowd picked up on it, things could get nasty and out of control. The attendees were subdued and unsmiling, little chatter or cheering broke through the monumental dullness of the pre-competition military ceremony, and people reluctantly straggled to their feet at the scratchy invocation of "The Star Spangled Banner." As the anthem played, the huge DigiCell MegaCam screens at either side of the arena displayed a waving flag with cross superimposed.
This was just how Larry Leviticus, the Caesar of North Bergen, liked it. After all, the town and everything in it was his to do with as he liked, because he owned it all. His empire was a vast controlling entity, and his hungry fist was felt throughout commerce, the media, property and law enforcement. He had acquired, through any means necessary, almost every major business that produced anything of value in North Bergen. There were a couple of restaurant owners and a community newspaper, that goddamn Bergen Bugle over in Quaintsville that were holding out, but his plan was to eliminate those problems next week.
God, this ownership society was great! He could buy all the public property he wanted for next to nothing, and in most cases just steal it, privatize it, and nobody but nobody could do a damn thing about it or tell him "no". Tell Larry Leviticus "no" and you could well be disappeared, or sent to fight for the Feds, an automatic ten years service in the Oil Wars.
He was already a con man with his mitts deep in land development when the US Constitution was rewritten to his liking and his fellow neo-fascists began to force those without adequate financial means to quitclaim property and move or else. If you couldn’t afford it you couldn’t be part of this new society.
Assisted by a draconian volunteer police militia and an impotent and toothless federal judiciary that did not intervene, the neo-fascists had stolen carte blanche the old USA. The revolution by the rich, the new ownership society, was run by the people who believed that money was all that mattered To display a semblance of legitimacy, Larry had organized a group of fervent fundamentalist Christians, The New Covenant Patriots, to parrot his pronouncements and rally behind his actions, no matter how deadly or murderous, as the will of God.
This new alternative martial arts champion, Luther Longjohn, was standing center ring, hands pointed skyward, face staring up in rapture at apparent nothingness. Representing the North Bergen Greater Metropolitan Area in the Division Championships was the culmination of years of hard work. A lifelong rubber ducky bolo fighter, he had introduced and perfected the techniques, and had opened his own chain of alternative martial arts training centers, all operated from his own rubber ducky dojo in North Bergen.
Rubber ducky bolo was a fighting style that employed a woven cord with deadly rubber duckies attached to each end, whose tails and bills were coated with immediasleep toxin. The fighter whirled the six foot long bolo around his head, while leaping, in a series of short pas de deux’s, around his opponent, who would be armed with either hydra blasters, rubber mallets, or as in today’s matchup, a high tech bullwhip. Points were won of course, for costume, spectacle, and ticket sales.
Luthor Longjohn had been discovered a couple of years back when he appeared on a segment of the reality show "DumbAss". Three of the show’s regulars had invaded his back lot in an attempt to ride his pet hyena. The poor old toothless animal, distressed, raised a noisy ruckus. Seeing what was happening from his kitchen window, Luthor burst from the back door, cameras rolling, and rubber duckied the dumbasses into a snoring heap.
Larry Leviticus had been in his penthouse suite watching the live show as he always did, and was visibly impressed. He held up a fist with one finger, which clearly meant that he wanted to talk to Luthor Longjohn. His slaves were on it in seconds.
Talk he did, without any refusal from the other party, as usual.
He had his man entered into the Alternative Martial Arts Championships today, and the order to the stadium crew was "Luthor Longjohn will win his match". Larry knew that there was a good chance that this....this goody two shoes El Pinche Reynoso, could walk away with the trophy and a couple mil. He hated this Reynoso. That asshole and what was left of the NBPD were all that stood between him and complete control of North Bergen.
Larry had his men in the crowd, the fix was in, and he was mentally salivating at the prospect of a fat new cash flow, once Reynoso was dead.]
He couldn’t be seen by anyone in the stadium, he was sure. This tight crawlspace above the stadium lights was hot and uncomfortable as hell, but anybody looking up toward him would see only retina-searing blued brightness. He rested the rifle barrel on the ledge and sighted through the powerful lens, adjusting the scope until the crosshairs framed the shapeless hulk looming in the skybox window.
As if he didn’t know who Larry Leviticus was.
Lars Gilhooly had been dispossessed by Leviticus and his henchmen. Lars, a red faced Irish Swede, had run the rackets in Gypsytown for eleven years, then everything began to fall apart. Leviticus had moved in on him. Him. Lars Gilhooly. Murdered his trusted crew, Badfinger Bloquette, Cramps, and Turk Merkle, cold blooded, all of ‘em.
They had served him well, but Leviticus took them all out one bloody day, forcing Lars underground.
Funny, underground the underground.
He watched closely, peering through the scope, around the stadium. Beautiful view. He looked at the grim faces in the crowd, up close.
Fuckin’ robots.
Shit, he just might just do society a favor. Yeah, that was it. Who the hell would come after him? Nobody would have the balls, once he got rid of fatass, now looming in his sights.
Lars was near the end of his mission now, and oh, had he ever been meticulous in its planning and hopefully soon, its execution. He’d roamed the stadium for weeks, disguised as a maintenance vendor. He needed a high place to carry out his revenge. The metal stairs were an easy climb, they ran right up the outside walls of the stadium. If you weren’t afraid of heights, you could scramble up quickly and slide back down to the ground in seconds.
He watched that fat bastard slug parked in the skybox until the bile rose in his gut, sickening him. Leviticus was a disgusting creature, not even human, even by Lars Gilhooly’s low standards. Why somebody hadn’t offed him by now was a mystery to Lars.
The Star Spangled Banner came to a close, the crowd sat down on command, and the match announcer mounted the stage in the center of the stadium floor. Lars could see the sweat on the announcer’s face. He swung the scope around the perimeter of the stadium once more, and stopped on a spot above Leviticus’ suite.
God dammit! There was some shmoe with a rifle laying on the top of the skybox. Had they known Lars was there? No...no, it couldn’t be. Shit. His heart sped up, skin crawled, pre-combat jitters.
Wait, the guy had his rifle trained on the door to the dressing rooms.
Hell, it looked like ol’ Larry Leviticus was gonna off a contestant. This could be very interesting, indeed.
Indeed.
Darkness had enveloped the hills that surrounded The CurryCorp Arena. The air was cool, still. Small sounds became bigger when they spilled over the stadium walls.
Once upon a time, you could hear the crowd ten miles away on a quiet night like this.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Third Annual Alternative Martial Arts championships." The crowd was silent, and the announcer paused momentarily, scanning the multitude of pale faces. For our first match, we bring you the first contestant, the current World Alternative Martial Arts Champion, El Pinche Reynoso!.... Reynoso!"
The crowd showed some life then, shouting as a translucent cloud rose from an unseen source in the ground by the dressing room entrance, glowing, changing color, first pink, then green, then pulsating silver.
The stadium crowd stood as one, applause exploding, excited now, watching the cloud as it moved slowly toward center field and the raised stage, concealing the form that moved with it, enfolded in its silver center.
Shit. This can’t be happening.
Lars watched the enraptured crowd, tried to calculate how long it would take for Reynoso to reach center stage.
Not long enough.
Sweat blurred his vision.
Gotta think. If I take out the gunman, I might not get another chance at Leviticus. I got nothing against Reynoso. Maybe I can get off two shots. Hell yeah.
He zeroed in on the gunman on the skybox, pumped a round into the chamber, took a deep breath and thumbed off the safety. Leviticus sat behind the window just beneath the sniper, who was now crawling closer to the edge of the skybox roof, lifting his rifle, sighting toward the flashing silver cloud that had now stopped. The fans held their collective breath.
He was committed now, this was how it was supposed to be.. A potential rival and one of his lackeys gone, if he was lucky. His finger tightened on the trigger, a hair at a time, squeezing tighter, tighter, till the hammer slammed home and the first angry bullet sped to its target.
Lead sizzled, made a mess of the sniper’s skull, then tumbled, pierced the skybox roof and ricocheted into Larry Leviticus, jagged hot metal burning into his thigh. He looked up, eyes dull and uncomprehending as the second bullet caught him in the forehead.
Eyes still open, the immense mass that was Larry Leviticus swayed, then sank into that sweet pink darkness where senses disengage. | | Posted by Edward at 12:29 AM - | |
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