Tuesday and the Day After Christmas
Up in mah room; hadda a smeared lipstick whore fer money but finished quick.
Her sayin, "You not gonna try again with thet miserable wilted little thing?” Lookin at my privates, laughin, “you gotta midgetdick big boy.”
Damn bitch, so I jest slapped her, made the blood spurt, for the extry time I already paid. If a man don’t have respect; life ain’t worth shit.
Jones fired me off the farm after 22 years.
"Dumb farmer hillbilly," whore screams, blubberin and scramblin, spittin red blood slime bubbles, "wearing dirty manure bib overalls in the bed, stupid hillbilly."
And me never missing a day’s work in 22 year.
I pulled out a dresser drawer thowed it at her.
"Ignorant hillbilly,” she shriekin, crawlin under the bed, "big hillbilly ijut with a midgetdick."
Bam, bam landlord’s doorbangin' yellin,’ “too much noise inna roomin' house, “you gotta git out!”
I said, " I’m paid til the 26 after Christmas."
I jumped up onna bed. whore hidin under, yellin, “this crazy dickless hillbilly; umph! umph! save me lord!” Me jumpin up an down squashin her under there.
Landlord yellin, "That’s taday, Tuesday…"
"No, 26's Wednesday--says so on this here wall calendar." umph umph
“That’s last year’s calendar."
“Whut’s last year?” umph, umph
“That’s a old calendar in there's 1999.”
“It’s still good fer the day not bein' but two year old. I’ll smash yer whole house down…”
“Police comin, putting ye out.” Him, blonk blonk runnin his fool ass off down a hall.
So kicked out roominghouse's damn flimsy door, busted flinders flying evrawhere, then kickin out banister slats goin downstairs.
Busted the front door off the hinges. Blam inta the street.
Didn’t hear no sirens out here, just a terrible preacher racket outside onna street. Hurting m'damn ears, “Jesus loves ye!”
Me studin’ given this here yellin preacher here a head slap but a little killin’ud would be nice too if they’s no police.
“Shut up preacher, it’s Tuesday, by the room calendar,” but that fool kept yellin ‘Jesus loves ye,’ so I slapped shit out of him, makin his holy hat fly, him flyin onto his face and stayin there-me bustin up his bibletable in splinterwood an smashin his wood chair.
"Tuesday," I tol the preacher, "don't care about no year."
Him still lookin’ up—if they was no police be nice ta stomp im, but I jest kicked him in his head.
“Room calendar’s right,” I said.
Security car pulled up--not a police, “What’s goin' own here?”
“26th,” I said n'folded over Security’s rollup winder, bustin it ta cracks--him reachin’ fer somethin’ so I right quick grabbed his thoat and kindly banged his head 'gainst the roof so it bubbled up on top.
What the hell jelloheaded dead people know about the 26th anaways?
Then went over to the Trailways, only place open.
They was sausage cart on Bus Station Hill and a feller sellin red sausages at tha toppa that steep grade by the Trailways with only a puny wood wedge keepin it from rollin'–I give that fool sausage man with his mustard spotted apron a whole damn dollar.
He says, “What ye wont own it?”
I said “Own it?”
“Tha hot dog.”
“I own it when I paid ye yer dollar—on one a them buns.”
He said, “Don’t want nothin’ own it?”
“Goldernnit,” ah sayed, “they a dollar er not?”
”They a dollar,” he says
I slapped my trousers’ dollar on his shiny steel wagon, was gonna slap’im–I hate a fool.
Settin onna trash can eaten mah sausage.
He says, “Don' sit own mah traish, people caint thow they hot dog wrappers init.”
He needs killin, but here comes a Cadillac at th’corner was honkin, yellin ‘4 hot dogs with mustard and onions’. Sausage man grabbin up buns and sausages, runnin—me sticking mah foot out, him blind runnin –fell on his own winnies inta the gutter with tamata red minstrition all over his foolself.
Lord God lets a fool live, so, right quick, I kicked his cart wedge out; cart starts rollin, then a brown UPS truck's comin’ up the steep Bus Station Hill--sausage wagon’s rollin beautiful, pickin up speed, jumpin off the curb, halleluiah, an' smashin inta tha UPS–yeller mustard n’ buns and sausages come spurtin’ up in tha air—I grabbed up ½ dozen, UPS honking.
Best dern sausage I ever had; but, I swan, I left my purty pliers in that derned roomin house, with soft rubber handles, cuttin' jaws a'chrome? I reckon the police came back there now and got’em.
So I went down to the hardware. Walked to the pliers part. Derned if they wasn’t a yella handles paira Stanley’s . I purely love a Stanley plier. Smart Alec yells out, "I’m closin you intendin' ta pay fer those?"
"Sure," ah sa-yed, "how much it come to?"
"Well, I already closed up the register closed; but those are three dollar Stanley pliers."
"I understan," I pushed his cash registers off the counter to smash, kindly in’is lap jinglin and crashing, "take it outta thayet."
Some people kin spawl a good time. Money coiens was layin all over on toppa that fool.
Anaway, next day, I went out to Mama's.
"Mama said, "Not comin out fer Christmas an a poor widder woman what raised ye up by hand to be left alone own Christmas? Ye big ox, go over ahind thet door and git me a switch, ye need a whipping, Thou Shalt Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother."
"Yes’m, the calendar said a different day an didn't have Christmas right.”
Mama sayin, "Evera blighted fool knows when Christmas is."
Told her I even gotta Christmas present for her and took out my new chrome handle hardware store pliers.
BIO: Pierrino Mascarino lives on a dangerous street, Montecito Drive in LA, that has been largely abandoned by the local underpaid and undermanned constablary. Montecito connects two suppurating-crimial-pus societal sores on the Los Angeles Landscape, El Sereno and Highland Park. Bullets fly nightly. Garbage is nocturally ejected by passing barely amubulatory, rattling pickups. Screams and helicopters populate the night and sometimes dayscape. His neighbors are persecutory liars, psychopaths and dope fiends. He is currently publishing in The Beat, The Linnet's Wings, Barnaby Snopes. He played the title role in the Movie Uncle Nino that is being released on video in April and lectures frequently to those who will listen. Runs the writing group, Writers Helping Writers and appeared on the Budweiser Superbowl Commericial.