We Like To Party!

O brother, where art thou? Come back to us Mr. Six! Come back! We miss you ever so much. We miss your tuxedo, your fancy shoes, your suspenders, the classy red bow tie. And, of course, those ever so stylish glasses.

Your weird, creepy face though? Not so much.

The summer is nigh and this country needs the kind of solace and respite only a withered, insane old, over-dressed man can provide. Speaking of which, why are you wearing a tuxedo in the summer bruh? And even more so, why are you wearing a full tuxedo at a WATER PARK, my dude? You don’t see me wearing jams and holding a boogie board at weddings. It’s called decorum.

Anyway, I like to imagine a typical muggy D.C. area summer’s morning with people melting on the sidewalk like ice cream cones in the sun, when all of a sudden, a dated, gaudy red-and-yellow bus pulls up and a snazzily-dressed homunculus jumps out and proceeds to have a Grand Mal seizure set to bad 90s music. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? Doesn’t that just scream summer?!

This is why we need you Mr. Six! You embody summertime fun. Also, there have recently been less maimings and accidental deaths* at Six Flags’ 31 amusement parks than one would expect. Less than 50 people have been precariously trapped on roller coasters for several spine-chilling hours over the last decade. Less then two dozen children and senior citizens have been violently tossed from various rides only to land on the hard, unyielding concrete in the same time frame. Only around ten or so guests and trainers have been attacked and/or gored by tigers, elephants and other safari inhabitants.

I mean, some park workers have been killed by roller coasters, but they knew what they signed up for, so nuts to them.

Compared to that waterside in Kansas that decapitated an 11-year-old boy, (I almost included a link, but decided against it, you’re welcome) Six Flags (Motto: Would You Rather Waste Your Money At Disney?)  is doing pretty well. Who wouldn’t want to be associated with such a great safety track record?

But you don’t have to take my word for it, just listen to these true responses when I went to a local playground to ask kids if they missed Mr. Six.

“Who?”

“No, I don’t want any of your candy mister!”

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“Baba Booey.”

“Help! Police!”

Ha ha ha! Those wacky kids. Truly, children are our future. But as you can tell, not only are you missed, but there’s an entire new generation of America’s youth that needs to be introduced to your manic and off-putting physical hijinks. You need to come back to inform and entertain (yeah, entertain is a pretty strong word for what you do, but I mean it!).

So until the glorious second (third?) coming of Chri…I mean Mr. Six, I’ll maintain a heart full of hope and keep the home fires burning.

HAVE A SUMMAH!

*Or were they…purposeful murders?

Please Inquire in Spain (or, Nobody Expects it!)

Seville, Spain, 1579

Even in the early hours of the day the people could tell that the day would bring sweltering heat, thanks to the lazy, late summer sun. The people did their best to escape the sky’s light. But deep down in the castle’s dungeon, the stone blocks that made up the slightly moist walls kept the atmosphere cool.

Two figures walked along the cramped quarters of the sepultural corridors. One was short and carried a sheath of papers. The other was tall and foreboding, dressed in red garments as deep as blood. The figure in red began to speak.

“Okay Bruce, what do we have going on today?”

“Well sir, we have the usual poor, deluded souls to force to confess…”

“Convince, Bruce. We convince. Don’t use the ‘f’ word anymore. PR was really insistent on that. Turns out we’re giving the wrong impression about what we do down here. Lord knows it matters. Haaa! *Ahem* Carry on Bruce.”

“Yes sir, besides the usual amount of…eager converts, Eduardo the Extra Holy is supposed to be stopping by to inspect the iron maidens. You know, the same old thing. Checking if the hinges are properly oiled and the blood collection trays are empty and clean.”

“Ughhh. Eduardo. I hate that guy! He acts all holier-than-thou…”

“Well sir, it is kind of in his name,” Bruce ventured.

“We all went to the same seminary and we all learned how to ‘convince’ Jews and Muslims to confess their sins the same way.” Bishop Carocchio said with a sideway glance. “I don’t get how he got a promotion nickname before I did! Alright Bruce, get the slaves, or whatever we call the minions these days, to clean everything. But not too clean, because then it’ll look like we don’t use any of the equipment, (like the annual budget isn’t small enough). Knock the dents out of the thumb screws, make sure the ropes on the racks are taut and throw a new layer of straw on the floor to soak up the excess blood.”

“Yes master.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Ummm, oh, today is Antonio’s birthday, we’re going to have fortified wine and some bread in the break chamber, and it’s also Mauricio’s last day.”

“Wow. No shit. Already? Seems like Mauricio came to us just the other month, dewy-eyed and eager to put the hurtin’ on some heathen Jews.”

“It was just the other month sir. Turns out that he stubbed his toe on one of the dissection tables and managed to get a nice workers’ comp deal.”

“I swear, these new workplace rules are killing me! I remember the days were you’d go home with an accidentally severed arm and you were grateful! These days, a novice gets a hangnail and he goes home with a fat sack of doubloons.

Alright, we’ll celebrate the birthday and the retirement at the same time. Give Mauricio the cheapest hourglass we have as a farewell gift.”

Suddenly, a man runs up to Bishop Carocchio, out of breath and panting heavily. After a few moments, he catches his breath.

“Your semi-holiness! There’s been a…”

“Ah, ah, ah. Try it again and say it correctly this time, lowly swine,” Carocchio said, rolling his eyes.

“Yes sir. Sorry. Oh Bishop Carocchio, He-Who-Has-God’s-Ear (and a God-sized dong), The Scourge of Barcelona, Monsignor of Mayhem, Mr. Brooks…”

“I’m still not entirely sold on that last one,” the Bishop said hesitantly.

“Give it time sir,” said Bruce. “You’ll warm up to it. The guys in marketing said that it’s really testing well in Toledo.”

“Toledo? What a Godforsaken shithole. I can think of no worse place to inhabit or visit in all of Spain!”   

“…may I continue sir?”

“Proceed.”

“The prisoners are attempting to revolt and escape sir! They mean to win Wimbledon!”

“Not entirely sure what that means, but this is bad timing. Besides today’s inspection, Torquemada is in town. If he hears about this, we’re all screwed! Deploy the guards! Get them some pikes and swords and shit! Stab whatever they can, then hide the bodies in one of the rear cells before the inspection! Go man! Go!”

The Bishop shakes his head as the little man runs away to follow out his orders. “These people wouldn’t know how to tighten their bodkins without me. Also, Bruce, can you check to make sure that bodkins is a chronologically correct reference?”

“I’m sure it is your holy-ish. You make nary a mistake.”

“True. True.” He said with an authoritative nod. “By the way, where are with this month’s quota of converts?”

“We have reached 84% of the expected converts and 134% of the confessors/corpses.”

“Oh dear, sounds like the ‘convincing artists’ (honestly, who in PR comes up with this stuff?) are getting a little feisty again. Go out into the back alleys and hire a few of the vagrants and wastrels to stand in as converts for the afternoon. Offer them some bread and a few alms. Then just chuck their dead bodies into the river after Eduardo leaves.”

“Of course master.”

“Alright. Looks like things are good to go out here. I’m going to retire to my chambers to fast and pray to the Lord, our God….Just kidding! I’m going to molest some young boys and make an offering to Ba’al. The floor’s all yours Bruce!”

Schnietz Marphis

There it was. Right there on the curb. Who would abandon such a beautiful thing? It was all black and about six feet long. The cushions cradled your buttocks as you sank into a position of pure, unparalleled comfort and optimum television watching.

It was the couch of couches, and his name was Schnietz Marphis.

He called to me that bleak October morning. As I walked to classes (Physics of Ren & Stimpy 204) I felt a pull, a force drawing me to an alley. I didn’t know it then, but I know now. It was the presence of Schnietz, compelling me.

Thoughts of attending class immediately vanished from my mind. There was only The Couch. With infinite care, I managed to drag, pull, carry it back to my apartment. The going was easy, The Couch wanted me to take it. It needed a home, a host, a vessel. I would be the caretaker of The Couch I and I alone was worthy to own and sit in such majesty.

Once we reached my abode, I quickly pushed aside all other furniture. My old, unworthy couch was tossed out the window in haste. It landed unceremoniously on the lawn, where it disintegrated onto pieces. My apartment was on the tenth floor, it was quite a fall.

I sat down in an ordinary, nameless chair across from my new acquisition and studied it. Who knew what adventures it had encountered? What lives it had changed? What mysteries were woven within the threads of the seat cushions? I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of what my new relationship with Schnietz.

A knock on the door drew me away from my flights of imagination. It turns out that it was my friend Frost asking where I had been for the last three days. I looked down and realized he was right. I was still wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing when I first met Schnietz Marphis.

He asked me who that was and I pointed to The Couch. Frost looked appalled. He asked me where I got it and expressed disgust at its condition.

I was shocked by his questions and observations. Who was he to cast aspersions at my dear new friend? And why did he want to know where I got it? Was he jealous? He must be! He wanted a couch for himself, to show off. No, even worse. He wanted mine! He was going to steal my beloved and keep it for himself. 

I eyed him wearily. His facial expression betrayed his intentions. I knew his schemes now, there was no hiding them. And for Frost, there could be no escape.

Wait. Who said that? Was that my idea? Frost was my friend, he had no use for a new couch. Why would I think otherwise?

Then Frost’s eyes grew wide. I followed his gaze and saw that The Couch was pulsating with a deep black glow. It was a shade of black I had never seen before. A shade I’m sure nobody had seen before. It was too black. It hurt my eyes and I began to feel nauseous looking at it. The glow bore into my skull and my brain throbbed with an incredible pain. But I was trapped, unable to look away. I doubled over and started to retch. Near to me, I could hear Frost doing the same thing. Then my legs buckled. I collapsed on the floor. Dead to the world.

I woke up sometime later, not entirely sure where I was. Then I felt the fabric beneath me and immediately knew where I was. I jumped up with a shock and fell to the floor. At Schnietz’s base. I had no idea how I had ended up on The Couch, or where Frost was.

With no warning (but to be fair, what kind of a warning can a couch give?) one of the seat cushions raised up and a limp arm partly fell out. Crawling over, I looked under the cushion and there was Frost, staring back up at me. I say at me, but it was more like through me. Lifelessly. Whereas I had been passed out, Frost had not been as lucky.

I stood up on shaky legs and leaned over to pull Frost’s body out of the couch and figure out exactly what had happened. Maybe he was still alive and I could get him to a hospital.

That’s when the cushion snapped down, severing Frost’s arm. It fell to the floor, blood lazily seeping out. A little club soda would take care of that stain, I thought. With a bit of a manic giggle. I couldn’t believe I was making jokes while my friend’s arm lay on the floor, his body lodged somewhere in the bowels of a piece of furniture.

I tried raising the cushions. They lifted easily. I was scared to look inside, but I had to see. With my eyes half-closed I warily looked in. It was empty, save for a few pennies and a cheeto (which tasted extra stale). There was no Frost.

Out of nowhere the front door burst open in a cloud of splinters. A man ran into the room yelling at me and brandishing some kind of gun in his hand. He kicked me away from The Couch and aimed his weapon at it. A flame shot out and engulfed (such an overused word when paired with fire and flames, in my opinion) Schnietz completely. Still yelling, the man dropped the weapon and began to awkwardly drag me out of the apartment. I got to my feet and ran out of the door as the fire spread around the room. Everything was burning, even my copy of Requiem for a Dream, starring Jennifer Connelly. I could swear that I could hear a high-pitched scream coming from within. With a last look, I saw The Couch shake and twist in ways that were physically impossible, almost as if it were bending in and out of this reality. And then my view was obscured by smoke and I was outside, coughing my lungs out.

I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. Looking over, I saw that the man had stabbed me with a needle. That’s when I passed out. Again.

I (again) woke up woozily. I looked around and saw that I was back in my apartment. Or at least a duplicate of it. Standing over me was the man who had randomly burned down my place. Or so I had thought at the time. He was standing over me with a smile. He identified himself simply as Chester and helped me to sit up.

My confusion over what had just happened kind of had most of my attention. I tried to ask what was going on, but my mouth was dry, full of smoke and useless. Seeing my trouble with words, Chester decided to speak. He told me that he worked for a man named Mr. Brooks. He said that they had been tracking The Couch for months in an attempt to destroy it. With a straight face, he told me that it was possessed by a being known as Roseus, who enslaved and killed men. She seemed to really have a thing against people born with penises. He also said that once The Couch has been consumed (there, that’s much better than engulfed, right?) by the fire, it was gone, along with all the damage done to my place. Unfortunately, Frost had not reappeared.

With that, Chester left and I was on my own. Everything back to the way it was, minus two couches and a best friend. Also, I had missed a week of classes as well as showers. I was failing and smelly. I sat on the floor and wondered if I’d ever see things normally again.

It’s been five months and shit is not normal. I swear that Schnietz keeps showing up in random places. And I don’t mean that I’m seeing it out of the corner of my eye (although I have), but places it shouldn’t be, like TV shows, movies, (including movies that came out decades ago) books, magazines and even blogs. I have no idea when or where I’ll see it. But the sightings are becoming more and more frequent. It’s only a matter of time. See, Schnietz Marphis is still in my head, like a comfortable seat with plush cushions. And I can just feel my mind sinking deeper and deeper. I have a new sofa. I think I’ll go take a nap now.

Josh vs Death (round 1)

It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday.
The regular crowd shuffles in.
But I’m sitting at home in my underwear
playing with my navel again.

Suddenly, I hear a noise from the kitchen. The loud clattering of pots and pans, followed by muffled cursing under somebody’s breath.

As far as I knew, I was home alone, so I was a little confused about who was in my kitchen at this time of night and whether this intruder was polite enough to have made me a sandwich. So I slowly got up (still only in boxers, to potentially scare the intruder with my impressive physique) and made my way to the kitchen, where an odd sight awaited me.

Sprawled out on the floor was a large figure, completely covered by an extremely dark, hooded cloak. Looking closer, I noticed that the cloak wasn’t black, it was much darker and richer, almost like if you looked at it too long, it’d suck up your soul. Next to the figure was an old school scythe. As far as I know, only one person wanders around in a black cloak with a scythe.

“Oh great,” I said. “How’d I die? Poke my bellybutton too much? It’s not my fault, that place is like an archaeological dig!”

“Shut up, you’re not dead. Not yet, at least. But you should be for this damn unevenly-tiled floor. I stubbed my toe!”

“What do you care, you’re dead anyway.”

“I may be dead, but I still have feelings,” he said with a pout.

“Okay,” I said, rolling my eyes. “So what can I do for you… Death?”

“Just turn around so I can make a proper entrance and muster what remaining dignity I have, please.”

I rolled my eyes again, “drama queen” I mumbled. Then I turned around. Suddenly, I felt the static electricity of lightening and heard the crash of thunder. Inky smoke curled around my feet and ankles, like a cat who just heard a food can being opened. A deep and echoing voice boomed at me, reaching to the marrow of my bones. I turned back and saw an eight-foot-tall skeleton, shrouded in black, floating in the air in front of me.

“Joshua! Son of James and James before him. You have led a slothful, wasted and evil life…”

“Well, I don’t know about evil,” I said in meekish defense.

“Silence! You have been judged and found wanting. You drown in your sins!”

“Yikes.”

“But there is still a chance to redeem yourself. You must best Death in a challenge of your choosing.”

“Wait, so I pick a challenge and if I win, I get to live?”

In a flash, the theatrics, including the reverb, vanished.

“Yes,” he sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Any challenge, competition or game. Geez, why doesn’t anybody ever get that? It’s pretty straightforward. You just ruined the moment and took the wind out of my sails. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even bother with this job.”

“Relax, relax. Okay, so I get to choose. Hmmm… How about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? Best of three, five-minute rounds, no cheating or using IMDB.com.”

He looked at me nonplussed, in that way that only a talking skull can. “Well, I’ve heard stupider, but not since that extremely pale guy who smelled like fish wanted to play me in chess. Very well, let us proceed.”

Instantly a bag appeared next to him. “Pick a name out of this sack and let the first round begin!”

 “Alright, first name is Mel Gibson.”

We sat there in utter silence, for the next five minutes. By the way, what’s the opposite of utter? Unutter? Nontter? Otter? Before I knew it, five minutes had passed and I was still trying to figure out an antonym to utter. Curse you ADD!

“The five minutes are up. I can connect Mel Gibson to Kevin Bacon in two moves,” Death said. “Mel Gibson to William Devane in Payback and Devane to Bacon in Hollowman.”

“Alright Death. I got it in two moves as well. Gibson to Gary Senise in Ransom, and Senise to Bacon in Apollo 13.”

“The first round is a draw. The game continues. The next actor is…” he stuck his decrepit, bony hand into the bag. “…Shirley Temple?”

Death and I awkwardly stared at each other for a few seconds, (I mean, I was staring awkwardly, Death could have been constipated, as far as I know.) Then, the slip of paper just caught fire and fell to the floor.

“Oops,” Death said. “Ummm, there seems to have been a technical error, let’s try that again.” He pulled out another slip of paper (or were those pieces of human skin? Best not to think about it.) 

“Jonathon Lipnicki. Start now!”

I shut my eyes in concentration, determined to not be distracted. But for real, were those pieces of human flesh? Unsavory. Anyway…

“The five minutes are up. I can connect the actors in five moves. Jonathon Lipnicki to Geena Davis in Stuart Little, Davis to Madonna on A League of Their Own, Madonna to Piece Brosnan in Die Another Day, Brosnan to Denise Richards in The World is not Enough and Richards to Bacon in Wild Things.”

“Wow Death, seems like there should be an easier way to do that. Oh wait, there is. Lipnicki to Beau Bridges in Jerry Macguire, Beau Bridges to Jeff Bridges in The Fabulous Baker Boys and Bridges to Bacon in (and I hate to admit that I saw this) R.I.P.D.”

Death became deathly(?) silent. “After two rounds, the advantage is you, with one tie,” he said. “Let us begin round three.”

“Woah, woah, woah Death. Hold on a minute. We might be here for a little while. Why don’t we get comfortable? We can have a drink or two and I’ll go put on some clothes,” I said.

He ruminated and scratched his chin. “I suppose that’s not a bad idea. Especially the part about you putting on clothes. Your body is so sad that it made me want to kill myself. And that’s saying something. But I can’t stay too long, I’m supposed to meet up with Mr. Brooks later for a night on the town.”

I returned to the living room a few minutes later. Death was splayed out on the couch, with his feet on the coffee table and a highball in his hand.

“This wasn’t a bad idea,” he said. “I rarely get to mix pleasure and business.”

“Yeah, about that. You don’t seem to be too into this whole playing mortals for their souls thing. How’d you get into this gig?”

“That’s actually a funny story. It used to be my uncle’s job, but he was fired after he was arrested for inappropriately fondling the corpse of a sheep. Both my father and my brother were in the family business of glass-blowing and were unable to take over the mantle, so the task fell to me.”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” I said. “Is being the Grim Reaper what you wanted to be when you grew up?” (Do skeletons grow up? The whole concept was breaking my brain.)

“Do you really want to know? Promise not to tell anybody?”

“Hell man, with my luck, you’ll be leaving here with my soul and I’ll never tell anybody. Go for it.”

“I always wanted to style the fur of poodles and wiener dogs.”

“Josh don’t judge. In fact, let’s toast to that! We can always pick up the game in a bit.”

“Ehhhhh,” Death said hesitantly. “I dunno…”

“Dude! Reapmiester! It’s time to do some shots bro!”

“Okay!”

Three hours and two bottles of tequila later, the Grim Reaper was totally passed out on my couch. Dead to the world. So I soaked my house in gasoline, set Schnietz Marphis on fire and drove away to a place where Death would never find me. The Bermuda Triangle of the Midwest.

Toledo.